dark places | wayne

twenty :: liquor

9:00 pm
The Warehouse

She sat at her bar, alone. The house was empty. The girls ran through their dances without an audience to throw money at them.

She slammed the glass of liquor onto the countertop and they all winced at the same time.

"Go home!" she yelled. When they didn't move, she yelled again, "Go!"

They scattered backstage and she pinched the bridge of her nose. She said to the bartender, "You too."

He left quickly.

She forced the glass away from her and it crashed onto the ground, spilling shards as well as the remainder of the drink.

She heard the back door open and, moments later, close. She was alone.

She stood and gathered her things. She sat at a middle table and pulled out paper, beginning to map out an escape plan for Jack.

She wrote and drew and planned and measured, every possible known route.

The large door directly behind her slid open.

She drew a knife. In one swift motion, she brought her arm up and turned towards the intruder. She threw the knife.

It stuck into the door, inches away from Bruce's ear.

"You could've killed me!" he exclaimed.

"Did I? No."

She stood and waltzed over to him. She placed her fingers, scarred over the years with numerous nicks, around the smooth handle of the dagger. She pulled it out.

She tossed it onto the bar and poured two drinks.

He sat in a stool and looked at her over the bar.

"Why're you here?"

"To talk."

"About?"

"Us."

"There is no us. There never was. There never will be," she turned and placed a cold glass into his gloved hand. He was still wearing his coat, scarf, and gloves. "Anything else?"

"You know that's not true."

"Which part?"

"That there never was. And still isn't."

"Well we aren't a thing anymore."

"Ah, anymore. So you admit we were," he implored. She took a sip.

"Of course we were."

"You're playing games, Winnie."

"I'm the best at playing games, Bruce."

"I hate games."

"I hate you," another sip. He watched her. She was sculpted; porcelain or marble, almost.

She was a masterpiece and yet a work in progress. She was a mess and again a simplified problem. She was Winnie Quinn, after all.

"No you don't. You hate Batman."

"And you're Batman," she threw knives with every word. He was the target, always.

"I am Bruce. I am the man you fell in love with, the man you still love. I am a businessman, a son, a partner. I love you."

"Correction: I don't fall in love. I do not love."

"Yes you do, everyone does."

"I'm not everyone," another sip.

She refreshed her drink. He hadn't moved the glass in his hand, it simply stayed there.

"Batman is a symbol. He's a knight, a vigilante, a savior. He is hollow, he is a character made to extinguish the bad-"

"The worse. Batman is bad. He exterminates those worse than him," she stated. "He has bad judgement. He has an ego."

"And what about you? Where is the line drawn between Winnie and the Spade?"

"Winnie died when you didn't save her," the words rang out. They shook him to his core. She didn't regret it, they were true.

She downed the rest of her drink and set it on the counter. She went to the table and pulled on her coat, placed the papers into a brief case, and went to the still-open door.

"Goodnight Mister Wayne."