At that moment, the object of the two rogues newborn rivalry and somewhat dubious affections was arriving home without anyone trying to kill her along the way—or at least, actively trying to kill her. Gotham traffic was chancy even when Batman wasn't hogging the road. Adele's thoughts were not of either villain and nowhere near love or romance. She was wondering whether she had chosen rightly in taking her story proposal to the Gotham Gazette rather than her first idea, Gothamite Magazine.
Gothamite Magazine is targeted toward households with an income of two hundred fifty thousand a year or more…the Gazette's Sunday magazine is read by everyone from Bruce Wayne down to the homeless who then fold it up and tuck it into their coats for extra insulation. It will be read by more people on that one day than over an entire month. That's what it comes down to in the end…but then again, it will only be out there for a day, and then it's on to the next. Always, there was a trade off.
Yet the superprison was not due to open for more than a year, and the article was only the opening salvo. I'm sure there will be other opportunities to get our plight out there in the news. Provided I can get Dad to hold still for another interview, that is. I may have to get creative…and speaking of which, what am I going to get him for Christmas this year? He already has seven sets of shirt studs and cufflinks, including those two penguin themed sets, and I think Christa's planning to get him another—Christa being his latest assistant. Cigars? Not when I want him to stop smoking! Such thoughts occupied Adele all the way to Lacey Towers, where she thanked her bodyguard before getting on the private elevator to the Balcony Suites.
After some eleven weeks in residence there, the Towers still felt more like a hotel than like home. Well, she had lived in her Bowery flat across the street from the Institute for nearly six years, since she left the University, and for all that the building was old, shabby, too hot in the summer and rather cold in the winter, it had a definite life about it. She was always aware of her neighbors, what with babies crying, people laughing, dogs barking, stereos blaring, brownies baking, pot being smoked—not all positive, but they knew who she was and left her alone.
Lacey Towers was too quiet, too tasteful, too inodorous, too polite. Her old apartment was small, dark, and cramped, but it was right across the street from the museum, and that was what mattered. Here, with more than twelve hundred square feet of living space, as opposed to five hundred odd—she felt oppressed. Solitary confinement, expertly restored and professionally decorated. I want life around me.
What did that mean to her, having life around her? Was it more than a vague feeling that there wasn't anyone at the breakfast table with her, and that wasn't right? She unlocked her door, locked it behind her, and froze while taking off her coat.
Something was wrong. Quiet, still and dark as the place was, she was not alone. Yet the inhabited dark was not so much dangerous as it was familiar.
"I am going to get a puppy," she said, aloud. "One of the small breeds, something short haired, and above all, very alert and loyal. Something that will raise hell when yousneak in, Batman. Probably a Boston Terrier, because they're adorable even when they're full grown without being floofy." And that would solve the issue of being lonely in her new apartment, too.
A piece of the night detached itself from the curtains and stepped into the light. "You play a dangerous game, Miss Chester."
"Do I? Which one?" she quipped. "Just because you are…who you are, doesn't mean this isn't breaking and entering, Batman, not to mention that you're stalking me. Don't. It bothers me. It bothers me a lot."
"You have nothing to fear from me…yet."
"…Yet." They said the last word in unison, he with menace, she with tired derision.
"I don't trust your temper. You are brutal. You have beaten up my father more than once, a man who is significantly older than you, with a congenital deformity of the spine and a bottle embedded in his face which cannot be removed for fear of killing him. Have you ever considered what would happen if you landed a punch in the wrong place? Yes, I know, he's a monster," she said, again with mockery.
"And you're the hero, or at least the protagonist. That's one of the things I like least about you. All you have to do is enter a room, and you become the most important person in it. Everybody else is relegated to a secondary role. It's happening right now, in my own home, in my own life. Who am I? I refuse to be the damsel in distress, I'm not powerful enough to be your nemesis, and I'm sure as hell not your love interest. What does that leave? A minor role for an actress who mostly does independents."
"You need therapy," he rasped.
"After you," she snapped back, looking at the wall instead of at him. "Face it—you go out, hunt down criminals and beat them up because you can't beat up the person or people you most want to. Probably because they're already dead. Accept that, grow up and get over it."
Odd—she'd looked at this wallpaper every day for weeks, at the refined, subtle tracery of matte silver and gold peacock feathers against ivory, and never seen the touches of color here and there, amethyst and tanzanite, lapis and turquoise, peridot and emerald. How very pretty it was!
She could feel him frowning at her. "You met with Riddler today. Why?"
"It was a blind date. Father wants to see me married before I'm thirty," Adele lied fluently, studying the repeating pattern of colors hidden in the feathers. "I'm turning twenty-eight in April."
"…so he set you up with Edward Nigma?" He sounded incredulous. There, she had succeeded in cracking the cast iron.
"He'd rather see me with Bruce Wayne, but that's only because he has a hate boner for him," she commented, throwing out a casual vulgarity to rub in the shock while the window was open. "Hardly a good basis for a relationship and a horrible one for a marriage. For a while there he was struggling with himself over whether he hates Wayne more than he loves me, but love did win. Eventually. Batman…"
"Yes?" he replied, once the silence had dragged on too long.
"Some people have to find their own way to heaven or to hell. Think for a moment about how we met. Try and save me, and you'll end up looking the fool…again."
She was not watching him, but after a moment, the silence was emptier. Alone in her apartment, Adele drew a deep breath. She felt small, insignificant, and so very, very ordinary. And yet I succeeded in bluffing him out with no cards in my hand…
A/N: So, should Adele get a puppy? I'd love to hear your opinions!
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Museum Studies
FanficPre-Arkham City. Open a superprison on the Penguin's turf? Not if he has anything to say about it. Strange isn't as invulnerable as he thinks. For this, you need some specialists to stop Arkham City from ever opening. With his daughter Adele master...
