contritumella | [ open post ]

She blinks hard, startled that she made such a simple mistake - but that's always been the nature of it, hasn't it? She can plan and she can plot and she can keep secrets but she can't stop herself from becoming Cassandra's granddaughter the moment she opens her mouth.

Well. "And it helps, and it hinders. You're too smart for a simple sleight of words. She doesn't mean what she says, she doesn't say what she means because for that to be untrue, the logic states something impossible. But to reach the impossible is a jump, a double-tap, curl your spine in and reach out, but that won't do for a traditional walk in the park. So you're walking, but you're only pretending to look at your phone, you're walking but you look up.

People don't look up."

While she speaks she takes certain items out of the kit. Gloves, hand sanitizer, alcohol wipes, iodine swabs, gauze. A small sewing kit, which she beams at before setting aside.

It's got a sad excuse for a pair of safety scissors in it, though, so that won't do.

"She's an investment, a tool, a task made nearly perfect. Nearly." Quickly she pops into a standing position on the table before - sorry Bruce - yanking down the pants of her scrubs and turning around, dropping her head and shoulders to look at him upside-down between her own legs.

She points to a small incision scar on the back of her left thigh.

There's some strange sense to her explanation. It's a bit like listening to the lyrics of a song for the first time and trying to decipher the meaning.

He watches her get to her feet on the table, his eyes tracking the drop of her pants for a moment before decency catches up to him and he lifts his gaze, surprised. "She's a tool. She-- you mean, you. Please excuse me."

He offers that last sentence before his fingers trace the scar, an apology for invading her personal space, for touching her. First his fingers ghost over the knotted skin, and then he presses, here and there, feeling something buried beneath.

"What the hell is that?"

She knows - she thinks she knows - but maybe she just knows what it does and not what it is, what it looks like, how it got to be there even if she fully understands why. It'd be better if he saw for himself.

It'd be better if Simon were here. Simon would get angry, and hold her, and understand, but Simon isn't can't won't ever be here again and River moves her head from side to side, closing her eyes. He is kind, like Simon. A sense of the righteousness that burns like a candle with a flame on both ends.

"The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows." A sigh through her nose and she opens her eyes again. "You can't just let your tools get stolen. Something sharp, and then you can see who comes to collect."

This time--he thinks--he has enough context to comprehend, and he curses under his breath. "A tracking device," is his best guess, as he gently palpitates her leg with his thumb again, getting a sense for where it is. A tracking device and he needs to cut it out, carve away what's there to reveal what he needs to know.

He drops into a crouch, fingers disappearing into his boot; when he rises he flips open a folding knife with a deft flick of his wrist. He grabs an alcohol swab from the first aid kit, liberally rubbing her thigh with it, then going over the knife's blade.

He glances up at her, because she's right, for all the toughness, for all the scars that drove him and made him into a man racing across rooftops and trading punches in dark alleys, he is kind. "I'm sorry," he says softly, and the blade digs into her skin until it gives way.

She doesn't hiss or flinch; her muscles don't even contract under the blade. She just keeps her eyes on him, breathes in and out. In the larger scheme of things the pain is pretty minimal anyway, so it's not like it's a struggle but River is half-sure that not reacting at all is not the thing the normal girl her age would do.

Since there aren't any around to ask or imitate, she'll have to do her best with what she's got.

"Not your design or intention." As he pries the device out of her skin, River closes her eyes. "What should she call you?"

She's pretty sure 'Bruce' is not on the table, and that's fine, but it's not a bad name.

She's right, it's not what a girl her age would do. The lack of reaction alarms Bruce enough that he steals a glance up at her, the tip of his knife briefly stilling.

His attention goes back to the task, though he lifts his gaze properly at her question. "Zhihao," he replies, his voice soft, and it's not his name but it is his name in that he chose it, carefully considered characters and meaning (heroic will) in crafting the name that cloaks him, the way he imagines his mother might have had she had more of a say in his name.

He will always and forever be Bruce Anthony Wayne to the city, the entire world. He's proud of that, proud of his family, understands the drive to assimilate. But he can also have heroic will in his more private life, the one where he does just as much good as his family's money and connections do in the public eye.

The implant slides out from under her skin, and though the urge to examine it and deal with it is clear in him, another urge burns more brightly. He sets both knife and implant down on the table, reaching again for the first aid kit, for more alcohol swabs, for a suture kit.

"What's your name?"

"Jianghe," she answers, letting her arms swoop around her head, cradling in them while upside down, eyes sliding shut. The adrenaline from the fight and ensuing flight is finally wearing off, and she's getting tired, feeling distant from the reality of her life. "It's like a story, isn't it?"

It's hard to tell from her tone if she's speaking to him, or to herself.

"They named her River." That's derision, clear as day. "Lazy. Boring. White hippie kinda name," she imitates in a perfect British accent, an overheard conversation between an early family tutor and her own family far away on a telephone many years ago. "They think she's dead.

Just as well if not simpler for all."

What the hell kind of name is Bruce Wayne?

The words in Mandarin are sharp, disapproving, but not spoken aloud in this warehouse. They're a memory, summoned without conscious effort, at her words. Two years ago, he'd finished school, multiple degrees with honors despite his youth, he'd done well, worked hard, done what was expected of him, and he'd run. Run all the way back to the other side of the world, one he knew only from books and family tales long handed down.

His expression remains inscrutable as the suture needle cuts into her skin, though he spares her a glance because his kindness will always, somehow, win out. His focus resettles on the task at hand, the golden thread connecting his parents, his city, his flight, his training, tonight fading as he closes her wound.

"Your family." Is his conclusion after he considers her apparent train of thought. "They think you're dead?"

"Her family is dead, her family is buried, her family made the ultimate sacrifice; they lost their first born son. What's a second born daughter in the face of that tragedy? What is goodbye when the photos were already packed away?"

Her eyes remained closed and River breathes in, out. Feels the pain associated with the new wound, wonders about the scar.

"She had a brother and he's gone. She had parents on paper but they were never interested in the dirty work."

"I'm sorry about your brother."

About her family, fractured, apparently uncaring--but he doesn't say that. He's not sure how she feels, doesn't want to impose his own ideas and feelings about broken families where they may not be welcome. He's lived it for nearly twenty years but that doesn't make him any kind of expert on what's right or wrong, sad or acceptable.

He stitches as carefully as he can without lingering; given his preference he'd want to take a little more time with this but there's still a tracker on the table. Once the wound is closed he cleans it again, swift strokes with another alcohol swab.

Out comes his phone, one, two, three photos snapped of the tiny device before he reaches for his knife. Folded closed, it's not a blade anymore, but a blunt instrument, the tracker shattered with a single blow. Two more photos of the resulting mess and he sweeps it all into the packet the suture kit came from.

"Jianghe, do you have somewhere safe to go?"

The first apology anyone has given her about Simon. No one even told her, but she felt the life slip and she knew what was in the box next to her as she traveled. No one said "he's gone" no one said "I'm sorry" even if they thought it, even if they felt it.

Somewhere deep in her mind are the details on how her brother lost his life but she doesn't want them, won't keep them, refuses to access them. Instead she pulls her pants back up and folds herself onto the tabletop.

"He would have liked you," she says quietly. "He had a soft spot for heroes."

At Bruce's question she shakes her head, once. She could flee. Hide. But she has no papers, no accounts, no finances or access to them, and no ability to really go anywhere without those things.

"She's a homeless ghost."

Edited 2017-09-29 17:25 (UTC)

She could probably see the wheels turning in his head even if she couldn't do... whatever it is she does. He has some sense of something unusual, superhuman, but for the moment it's beyond even his imagining let alone his comprehension.

It's a terrible idea, logically. He can already hear Alfred's arguments, and the man doesn't need more things to trigger his disapproval. God knows he's irritated enough over whatever this is Bruce is trying to do-- be a hero, maybe, in his own way.

But there's logic, and there's compassion, and as much as he's his father's son, full of grand ideas and the capability and courage to actually pull them off, made of brilliant mind and singular vision... his mother's big heart beats within him still, her values, her warmth, her concern for the people around her shaping him as much as his father's qualities.

And maybe he sees enough in this girl sitting on the table not to turn away. Set adrift after the violent loss of family. Unsure who she is or what she's doing. A lyrical name converted to a sharp roadblock by disapproving mouths lacking the proper practice to let them flow.

And the desire to do the right thing.

He extends an arm, beckoning. "Come with me. We'll figure it out."

It's a huge risk, to her, to him, to what he's building. But he sees no other way. He can't just leave her.

"Get back on the bike with me. I'll take you somewhere safe."

He hopes it's safe, that it will remain so for a long time.

Edited (I'M SORRY I'M DONE FIXING IT NOW LOL) 2017-09-29 22:18 (UTC)

She hears it, sees it, doesn't believe it. It's too good to be true, it's too dangerous for them both, and so she just kind of blinks at him before throwing her arms around him and squeezes, briefly. Then she nods.

"Okay. Okay. She promises, it will be...she'll listen, and be careful, and you won't be sorry. She won't be the albatross."

She can say that all she likes, but the likelihood she says something too forward at a dinner party full of stuffed shirts is high.

Either way, she does what she's told for now; gets back on the bike and holds on, humming a lullaby as he drives them through town.

Like so much else this evening, the hug, however brief, is a surprise. He manages to squeeze her shoulder before she pulls away to stride toward his bike.

This will work. He'll figure it out.

And, honestly, his life could use a little saying something too forward at a stuffy dinner.

There's a short detour on their way out, closer to the water, where he lets go with one hand long enough to pitch a tiny package into the water--the remnants of her tracker, the suture kit, the alcohol swabs, all the evidence of them being in the warehouse tonight.

Then it's back on the road, through the outskirts of the city, then beyond. Quiet residential streets give way to quiet wooded roads. Eventually he turns onto a dirt road, little more than path through the trees. It comes out near a rock outcropping, a small cave mouth visible.

The entrance to the cave held in his mind, the one she glimpsed earlier.

They ride down and down and down and then there's a door, an archway hewn in the rough rock. He slows the bike as they roll out into a cavernous room, a natural cave buried far below the ground.

"Ah, you're back," calls out a voice from the interior. "How did-- what on earth?"

A man steps closer, a man with a stern face and confusion writ large across his features in this moment. He looks old enough to be Bruce's father. He may as well be even if he isn't in blood.

"What have you done?"

Bruce holds up a hand. "I had to. Alfred, I can explain, just give me a minute."

It takes a lot of self-control not to lean back as Bruce drives, not to throw her arms open wide and feel the freedom of the night air whip between her fingers. Simon would be proud of her, she thinks, flexing her fingers into the material of his jacket. She made a friend, found a safe refuge, escaped.

He wouldn't be thrilled that she killed a man to do it, but. It is what it is.

So instead of doing something unsafe and dangerous, she shuts her eyes during the ride, listening to thoughts and heartbeats and wondering about the future, ignoring the drop of drugs in her bloodstream or the way her vision doubles when she does open her eyes, once Bruce has stopped. Her self-control hits its limit, there, once the bike has stopped; River gets off and opens her arms, twirling in space.

"It isn't what you think," she intones as she comes to a stop, looking Alfred dead in the eye. "No. No. Closer. Yes."

Alfred does not look pleased or amused, honestly.

"She was sent to kill me."

Alfred just about loses his composure, but it at least gets his attention refocused on Bruce, which was his intent. He needs to explain this.

"She didn't, obviously."

"Master Bruce, your deductive powers grow more impressive by the day."

"Alfred." Bruce climbs off the bike with a sigh. "She killed her handler. I pulled a tracking device out of her leg--I smashed it but I took photos that I can study later to try to find out what the hell is going on here.

She had nowhere else to go. What was I going to do, leave her out there to be found and dragged back?"

At that, at least, Alfred's expression softens. A degree or two.

"She's good at keeping secrets and keeping quiet and keeping. You're worried that he needs more friends, more people to care for; she can be perfect for that."

Alfred gives River a look, takes a breath, and intones: "It would do the young lady well to stay out of my head."

"That's the problem," River responds. "She can't."

Bruce shoots Alfred a look, half you really think I need more friends? and half you see why I couldn't just leave her?

It does raise another question, though.

"I gather you've figured out who I am?"

River bites her lip in apology. "Always known the names others call you, wanted to know what you wanted her to call you. Zhihao is a good name!" They're both going to be upset, now, she can tell but she can't help it.

"She had a real name once too."

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