. (spacecowboys) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-09-02 04:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *narrative, selina kyle |
Narrative
Who: Selina
What: Narrative: Safety
Where: Gotham
When: After Ra's delightful delivery
Warnings/Rating: Um, mention of hands? Temporary loss of sanity?
Hands.
She saw them whenever she blinked, and who they belonged to changed like changing lights at intersections. But there were no lights, and they still changed, and she saw the hands whenever she blinked.
Her chest hurt, and she remembered lying. She wasn't so out of it that she forgot lying. She wouldn't apologize for it. Apologies didn't suit her, and it had been the right call. If Ra's was waiting at the end of the line, blinking lights at intersections, Bruce couldn't be distracted. Hands or no hands, Ra's was Ra's, and he loomed twelve-feet tall and breathed fire. His army was shrouded in black, in shadows, and they were in every dark place. They lived behind her eyes, and how could Bruce afford to be distracted? She wouldn't be a liability, and that thought echoed in her mind, louder than her fears.
The bottle in her pocket didn't jangle anymore. Empty of little circles that brought momentary peace, and that last shot of adrenaline, outside the loft and after the hands (because she couldn't sleep, she couldn't, he was following), made her feel like there were ants in her veins. She scratched, but they didn't leave.
Candles flickered in windows, and it was quiet in Robinson Park. No power there yet, not now, but the surrounding neighborhoods had come to life earlier. She'd watched out the windows and watched, and it had been like Christmas lights hung on houses. She wondered what that would be like, Christmas lights, a tree, presents and normalcy. She wondered, but all she could imagine were bright silver ribbons, red paper, and hands inside. Hands and hands and hands, all in boxes beneath a tree.
Hands.
The night was warm, still holding onto summer, and her lounge pants and tanktop were thin enough to keep her cool. Bare feet, and her arms were branches of scratch-red. She had her comm, because she wasn't so out of it that she forgot. If someone looked and she didn't answer? They'd waste time trying to find her. They couldn't waste time. Every single person they had needed to go after Ra's. Every single one. Or they'd fail, because the shadows were everywhere. She could see them.
She headed toward the light, away from the loft, and she knew the hands didn't mean Ra's knew where she lived. Safe. The loft was safe, but the hands were there, and she didn't want Ra's finding it. So she'd left, box upended and hands bleeding and rotting on the kitchen floor. The door wasn't locked, ajar, but Eddie's security would slide into place if she didn't close the door. Safe. The loft was safe, and her moving far, far, far away made it safer from the hands and the shadows that were chasing her, and she didn't want them there.
It was habit, the East End. Habit and her youth, Crime Alley as the backdrop of her life. There were lights there, scattered, and she had the momentary thought that she should go to the clinic. But, no, no it was safe there. There were women and girls and there couldn't be hands, not there.
She just needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to ride out the panic. Somewhere without shadows, and that led her to an old Egorovs brothel. Familiarity, and things were restored enough that the place was in business. She knew the pimp's father, and he let her in, no questions asked. She wasn't the Cat, not just then. She was Селайна, and that was all.
Hands.
She blinked them away, and they stopped reaching for her from the doors in the narrow hall. The backroom was filled with women, sardines in a can, and there were too many of them for shadows. They spoke the language of her youth, and there was no way Ra's was coming here.
She found a corner, mattress on the floor and her back to the wall. No shadows, nothing that moved when she wasn't looking. Everyone's hands were where they should be. She tried not to blink. She tried to keep the shadows from moving behind her eyelids. Safe. It was safe here, and she'd made the right choice.
Now, she'd wait. It would pass. It would. Like zombies. Like Crane. Like every panic attack before this, this too would pass.