Chapter 5
Everything is cold, and Thea’s starting to think she made a mistake.
Water rushes past her, through her, pulling her in a thousand directions at once. She doesn’t know up from down. If this was death, it fucking sucked.
She thrashes violently, and accidentally inhales a mouthful of icy water. Knowing Gotham, she probably just drank enough radioactive material to give herself a third arm.
Her flailing arms smack into a hard mound of something , and she kicks towards it.
She grasps the river bank, and with what little strength she has left, she hoists herself up and out of the water. She immediately vomits, expelling most of the contaminated water from her stomach.
There, on the side of the river, she curls up into a shivering ball.
She wants nothing more than to sleep, but unfortunately, that’s not a luxury she can afford. Sleep means leaving herself vulnerable. Where anyone can find her. Where he can find her.
Maybe the cold shock of the river was good, because she’s starting to think clearly.
She’s also starting to think about what just happened, about who she saw. But that makes her feel like her heart is being carved out with a dull blade, so she crams those thoughts into a tiny box and locks it shut.
Thea’s always been a planner.
When she was Robin, she wasn’t the first one, the funny one.
She wasn’t the tough one, the caring one.
If she’s being honest, she was probably first known as the ‘girl one’. But after that, she’d like to think that she was the smart one.
Thea’s always been a planner. But right now, she’s unsteady. She doesn’t have a plan, because she stopped believing she’d get out alive.
The world might be a little less fuzzy around the edges, but it’s still too much. She needs to run. She needs to hide. She needs everything to stop.
She sits up, and notices that she’s stopped shivering.
Wow. That’s probably not good.
She’s slightly hysterical right now, but her mind is already long gone, so that doesn’t matter much.
Stand up.
Walk forwards.
She’s pretty much on autopilot now. She’s not sure how long she’s been walking along the bank of the river when she reaches a concrete pathway, leading out of the ditch. She knows exactly where she is. Gotham’s been her sandbox ever since she was a little girl. Even with so much time away, she knows it like an old friend.
The river had left her downtown, on the outskirts of Crime Alley. She paused in the relative safety of the river bank.
‘If you’re ever in an unfamiliar location, or stranded without backup, the most important thing to do is prioritize. Never go anywhere blind, always have a plan.’
What were her priorities?
First things first, she needs to treat her physical wellbeing. She can’t do anything if she’s incapacitated.
Realistically, there’s only so much she can do. When she was in that cell, she avoided thinking about her damaged body, and pain turned into a humming constant. Now, she finally took stock, and oh boy did she have a laundry list. ‘ Robin, report’ traitorously echoes in her ears.
She’s bruised to hell and back. A minor nuisance.
She’s covered in a variety of cuts and gashes, in various stages of healing. They’re not debilitating. She can worry about infections later. Although she probably does need to find shoes for the cuts on her feet.
She has several broken ribs. She could tape them, but that would be a hassle. Time would heal.
Several of her bones are misaligned. They didn’t heal properly when they broke. That could be dealt with later.
She’s weak, and malnourished. Again, not much she can do about that immediately.
She’s currently soaked in ice cold water, after being gently dipped in the radioactive poison otherwise known as Gotham’s one and only river. That one’s easy. She just needs to get warm, and ignore any and all symptoms of hypothermia.
Her wrists and neck are encased in large rings of metal, the skin underneath raw and delicate. That one gives her some pause. Even though they don’t really hurt, she needs to get them off, for a number of reasons. The sight of them makes her want to throw up. She panics anytime they knock into something. It’s just not practical.
Probably the most pressing issue is the knife wound in her right shoulder. It’s a few days old, and she has to swallow a scream anytime she lifts her arm above her waist. So, bandages, and stitches if she can swing it.
She is well aware that she is missing and even purposefully ignoring numerous other injuries. But if she thinks about it anymore, she might scream. So she doesn’t.
Best case scenario would be a mild B&E. Find a convenience store, take only what she needs, and then retreat.
Which brings her to priority number two, shelter. Gotham quite literally has the highest crime rate in the world. So finding a safe place to stay is pretty self explanatory. Still, it’s easier said than done.
She glances towards the direction of Crime Alley. While it might seem a bit contradictory, it might be her best bet. Might be, because Jason hates her. If he finds her, especially in his territory, being executed on the spot would probably be the best case scenario.
On the other hand though, Crime Alley’s easy to hide in. Most vigilantes tend to avoid it when they can, and there’s a plethora of abandoned buildings. No one would notice one more street kid. Besides, the monster, Joker , tends to stick near the docks, which are on the other side of the city.
And as terrified as she might be of Jason, the monster is infinitely worse.
So, problem solved. She’ll wander around Crime Alley until she finds a place she can squat, and in the meantime, hope that she doesn’t get gutted like a fish by a random street thug.
Priority number three is sustenance. Which… honestly she doesn’t care too much about right now. She can go days without food, she knows that now. Besides, she doesn’t have much of an appetite. She probably should, given that she hasn’t had anything besides bread and the occasional apple in a very, very long time. But the thought of eating makes her stomach turn.
Still, she’s not an idiot. She’ll pick up some non-perishables at whatever convenience store she decides to lightly rob. Same goes for some bottled water. Any native Gothamite knows that if the water hasn’t been poisoned at least four times before Tuesday, it’s because there’s an alien invasion or an apocalypse, and with everything going on, Scarecrow just hasn’t found the time yet.
Her priorities are firmly set in her mind, and she makes her way up the river bank. She sticks close to the buildings. Based on the position of the moon, it must be around three or four a.m. Besides the odd car or passerby, Gotham is eerily quiet. Even criminals have to sleep at some point.
She limps forwards, and passes a couple stumbling home drunk from one of the city’s many bars. They pay her no notice. An injured and disheveled girl is hardly a novel sight.
Even though the city might be quiet by its own standards, she feels overwhelmed. The vastness of the uncontained space is too large. There’s a car loudly honking a few streets away. Sirens that used to serve as background noise make her jump, and a cop car races past her and turns the bend. The streetlights, or at least the ones that work, are too bright. The smell of sewage wafts up as she walks over a manhole cover, and she has to stop herself from coughing.
She feels weak, and off-kilter, so when she spots the padlocked doors of a CVS, she almost cries in relief. How embarrassing.
Getting in was ridiculously easy. The padlock was a standard one, and when she put pressure on just the right spot, it popped off.
She slips inside the store, quietly shutting the door behind her. While there were cameras, the red light that should have been emanating was absent. They were broken, and no one bothered to get them replaced. Large corporations never did care to take proper safety precautions. Morons.
Priority number one was her physical health. Luckily, CVS has a surprisingly good selection of miscellaneous items. No small part of it probably has to do with the fact that living in Gotham is like living in a warzone. She grabs a blanket from a nearby shelf, and wraps it around herself. She’d dried off a bit on the walk over, but the cold had persisted, especially with the weather conditions. No worries, cold is a mental construct. She’s made hypothermia her bitch.
The blanket is unimaginably soft. It feels foreign, and she shivers as it touches her skin. One hand keeps the blanket around her neck, the other grabs a cheap backpack off a rack. It’s Paw Patrol themed, but she finds that she doesn’t mind. She shuffles further into the store, and first stops at Aisle 3, First Aid.
Hallelujah.
She grabs three first aid kits, a mega sized bottle of rubbing alcohol, and four packs of bandaids. Then, very gracefully, in an attempt to sit on the floor, she falls on her ass in the middle of the aisle. Her mouth opens, a swallowed scream caught in the back of her throat, as almost every part of her explodes in pain.
Mother.
Fucking.
Shitballs.
Son of a two-dollar whore, this is exactly why injuries are priority one.
When her consciousness finally starts to resemble something other than an amalgamation of curse words and white-hot pain , she carefully sits up, slowly exhaling through her nose. Upon confirming that the fall hadn’t left her any worse off than before, she unwraps the blanket from her shoulder area. She’d been stabbed several times in that damn cell, but she got lucky. Most of them were relatively superficial.
Unfortunately, this stab wound is deep.
Fortunately, she found a needle and sterile thread in one of the many first aid kits sprawled around her.
Unfortunately, she did not find any painkillers.
Which was totally fine. Her pain tolerance was high, it had been ever since she was a kid.
That hadn’t stopped the monsters from finding new ways to make her scream. Make her cry. Make her beg. Sadistic fucks.
Still, stitches are stitches. Thea glances at her blanket, and mournfully stuffs a large portion of it into her mouth.
The first time the needle passes through her skin, she almost passes out. She elects not to look at what she’s stitching, which is probably a stupid idea. But in life, one learns to take pleasure in the small things.
The next few rows of stitches are a little easier, but not by much. By the time she’s finished, there’s tears streaming down her face, and she’s shaking. She pulls the blanket out of her mouth, and leans against the aisle shelves, catching her breath.
She allows herself 30 seconds, and then it’s back to work. About a quarter of the rubbing alcohol is poured on her shoulder, and she sees stars. Again. She’s getting real sick of it. Then, she wraps the joint with an entire roll of gauze. The pressure helps to soothe the throbbing. A little bit.
Next, she disinfects the various scrapes and gashes all over her body. The bigger ones get bandaids, and she wraps each of her feet in more gauze. Then, she methodically packs the leftover supplies into a single first aid kit, and places it in the bottom of her Paw Patrol backpack.
Carefully, very carefully, she stands up. It’s awkward walking in her bandaged feet, but she shuffles over to the clearance/donated clothing bin.
The clothes she’s wearing currently could hardly be described as such. She’s been wearing them for months now, and they weren’t in great condition to begin with.
The t-shirt she has on is about three sizes too big. It’s got several holes, and it’s missing a sleeve. It’s also almost completely covered in stains. Most of it is blood. She doesn’t want to think about what the other stains are.
Her shorts are the same. Oversized, ripped, and covered in blood.
She wasn’t given much for underwear, a thin cotton bra and a pair of briefs.
Her Robin uniform was one of the first things to go when she was captured, quickly followed by her dignity. He cut it off with a knife, laughing the entire time.
She rifles through the clearance bin. Most of it is for little children, and won’t fit her. She does find a shirt, but when she sees the Metropolis logo embroidered on it, she elects to toss it in the trash instead of back in the bin and keep digging.
Eventually, she finds a plain, grey, long-sleeve top, and a pair of jeans. They might be a bit big, but they’d do the job. When she manages to pull out a hoodie, she’s unexpectedly overcome with emotion. It’s dark green, and reminds her of the clothes she used to wear. Before. Simple, slightly baggy, with lots of pockets.
She swallows the lump in her throat, and manages to dig up a sports bra and a pair of boxers from the bin. She doesn’t find socks, but that’s ok. She’ll make do.
Shivering, she quickly strips and redresses. The new clothes feel strange. They’re dry, and they’re pretty warm. She marvels at the sensation of being covered in clothing. The way her pants go all the way down to her ankles, the way her sleeves reach her wrists. It’s so… comforting .
She almost can’t stand to look at the clothes she was wearing before, and leaves them in a pile on the ground.
Although it’s less than before, she’s still shivering, so she picks the blanket up off the floor, and wraps it around her neck. She glances down at her bandaged feet. Shoes. She needs shoes.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t found any in the clearance bin, but she does spot a rack of crocs next to the cash register. Not ideal, but if she puts them in sports mode, she can probably run with them. The only color options are neon green or baby pink. She takes the pink.
Next, she browses the make-up aisle. Concealer, lipstick, eyeshadow, all go into the bag. In a pinch, she could pull off a disguise. Her mother taught her to be good with make-up. She also snags a hair tie, and using her good arm, pulls back her hair. It’s long, longer than she’s ever had it before. It’s also extremely tangled, and very dirty. Her impromptu swim in the river helped a bit, but other than being occasionally doused in freezing cold water, she can’t remember the last time she’s had a shower. She’ll fix that. Later.
Right next to the make-up aisle is Aisle 7, hardware. Gotham stores are weird.
She grabs a pair of bolt cutters. Then, a bit frantically, she starts to carve away at the cuff on her wrist. She’s going to get this damn thing off, and she doesn’t care if she has to chop off her own hand to do it.
It feels like hours, but she finally gets it off. The cuff clatters to the ground, making her jump slightly. She raises her now bare wrist, shaking slightly. The skin underneath is red and raw, heavily indented. Her arm feels too light.
The other cuff goes, just as slowly. When both of her wrists are finally, finally free, she takes the bolt cutters in her trembling hands, and places them against the collar around her neck.
She cuts, and she cries. She’s having a hard time breathing, but she knows that nothing is more important than getting off the collar.
It’s silent, it’s all silent. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to make a sound again.
The collar falls off unceremoniously, and she yanks her head backwards, hands flying up to rest on delicate skin. Her chest is heaving.
Thea sits there for a little bit, and she doesn’t think about anything. She rests her hand against the pulse on her neck. She’s alive. She might not feel like it, but she’s alive.
She walks forwards, a bit stronger this time. Her arms move in stilted motions by her sides, and her neck feels like it’s on a bobble. But she’s stronger.
Her last stop is priority three, sustenance. The entire back half of the store is filled with food. She stops, and looks around.
When she was in the cell, she ate nothing but bread and apples. Now, the thought of having options, the thought of eating at all, makes her stomach start to turn.
She averts her eyes, and grabs a few cans off the nearest shelf, stuffing them in her bag without looking. There. Crisis averted. She snags a six-pack of mini-water bottles as well.
She starts to walk back towards where she entered. She passes a mirror on the way there, but doesn't bother to look. Still, she knows she makes for an odd sight. She’s covered almost head-to-toe in bandages. She’s dirty, her hair is a mess. She’s wrapped in a blanket, and she’s wearing pink crocs. She’s also carrying a backpack likely meant for a nine-year old boy. Luckily, this is Gotham, and no one will give a shit.
She walks out the door, and re-fastens the padlock on her way out. Just because she robbed the store doesn’t mean others get a free pass.
Put in the work and do it yourself, loser. She worked very hard for her B&E skills, thank you very much.
She wanders deeper into Crime Alley, sticking to the shadows. In the soft morning light, no one notices her. She’s always been good at hiding.
After walking for about ten minutes, she comes across an abandoned apartment building. Bright red caution tape marks it as condemned. The yellow skull-and-crossbones stickers covering the windows also mark it as a biohazard. Jackpot.
Officials just slap on the label to keep out squatters. Most of the time, it works. Not on her though. She ran the math once. Only about half of the buildings marked as so-called “biohazards” actually are. She’ll take those odds.
She’ll have the whole place to herself!
She circles the back of the building, trying to find an easy way in. Avoiding the needles and fast food wraps decorating the empty alley, she makes her way to the fire escape. The fire escape which currently is pulled up, just out of her reach.
If Dick or Jason were here, they’d jump up over her head and grab it. They’d laugh and tease her.
‘What? Too short Baby Bird?’
She stares at the decrepit structure resentfully, her left eye twitching slightly. Nothing is ever easy.
That’s ok, she’s used to it. Assessing her surroundings, she takes note of the large dumpster at the far end of the alley. It’s heavy, but it also has wheels. If she can push it underneath the fire escape, she can climb up.
Tightening the straps of her backpack, she marches over to the dumpster. It’s old, and clearly unused. The lid is padlocked shut. It’s omitting an odor vaguely like Satan's asshole, but she’s too busy to worry about trivial things, such as the continued usage of her sense of smell.
Hopefully there’s not a body in there. You can never be too sure with Gotham.
Thea braces up against it using her good shoulder, and pushes.
She’s about ¾ through her mental dictionary of swears when she finally reaches the fire escape. She stops, and leans on the dumpster for support, panting. At the mouth of the alley, she sees pedestrians, starting their days with the rising of the sun. Businessmen with briefcases, students sporting messenger bags and beanies, retail workers dressed in uniform. She even sees a cop.
None of them pay any attention to her. The little girl in her, the one all too used to being ignored and left behind, cries out in anguish. She is viciously stomped down.
We don’t want to be seen, Thea reminds her. It’s better this way.
She hoists herself on top of the dumpster, avoiding putting too much weight on her bad shoulder. She stands, and grabs the fire escape now easily within her reach. She pulls.
The bottom of the staircase falls down onto the dumpster with a loud clang. She’s expecting it, but she doesn’t quite manage to suppress her flinch.
She climbs, and slips into the building through a half open window.
The room she finds herself standing in is completely bare, the floorboards half-rotted. There’s a few sections of peeling wallpaper, sporting a pattern of sailboats. Maybe it was once a child’s bedroom.
She could care less. She’s running on fumes, and she just needs a place to crash. She picks a section of the floor she deems least likely to fall out from under her, and curls up into a ball.
She tightens her backpack around her shoulders, in case she needs to run, and tucks her blanket in around her.
Then, finally, Thea sleeps.