she does not know her name. she does not need it on the streets of gotham. she has more use for her knives. they ensure her a hot meal. a name cannot do that.
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I DARE YOU
SHE DOES NOT KNOW HER NAME. It is one of the many things she seems to have lost, replaced by the knowledge of where best to kick to hear the crack of a bone. She has no need for it, so her mind lets it wander away, and she watches it leave, fascinated. The man looks at her like that now, thinking. Always thinking, but never saying. He wants her to explain, but her mouth does not know how to speak. Even if it did, she has nothing to say.
He was not supposed to be here. The woman did not often have guests, and he was not one of the regulars. His appearance was both puzzling and inconvenient. The woman is dead, and he found her sitting by the corpse, delighted by the wonderful shade of red she spilled on the carpet.
She enjoys the red, before it fades and turns a murky shade of brown, akin to the grime lining her face and fingernails. It used to make her squirm, but she has long since accumulated to dirt. The man is not as fortunate. He grimaces when he meets her eyes, and he inches away slowly, as if it makes the movement unnoticeable.
He is wrong. You do not survive on the streets of Gotham if you ignore movement. You must be aware of everything and everyone at all times, or a split second of rest will turn into eternity.
He rolls his eyes, giving up. He flashes a badge in her direction. "My name is John Payne. I am a police officer at the GCPD." Shit. "I need you to come with me to the station, just to answer some questions." Fool. No one walks freely into their own cage. He may have taken her knife, but she is accustomed to fighting with nothing but her small body, and she will claw her way to victory, clinging to life like a child to a new toy.
She takes a tentative step towards him, and just when the corners of his mouth begin to lift into a smile, that for once something in his job is easy, she lunges. She is a ferocious, rabid little thing, and she knows her stuff, so she aims for his eyes, drawing first blood. She relishes in her success, and as adrenaline pumps into her veins, she charges. She is a flurry of attacks, of hits and snarls and kicks and scratches and claws and she hears something snap. He has fallen to his knees, cradling his leg. She smiles, and she knows it isn't pleasant. Her teeth are stained with dried blood.
She is winning, and then she is not. He has not moved from his crouch, grunting in distinct sounds of pain, somewhere in his leg is definitely broken, but he is not scared. Past the pain, he does not look alarmed, or worried. He looks in control of the situation. But he isn't- she is the victor! She has injured him. Why is he not scared of her?
He reaches into his j- gun. He has a gun. He has a gun. How do he have a gun? She checked for a gun. He did not have a gun. She was not usually stupid enough to engage with an armed officer. She has miscalculated. She is no match for a gun. She is not trained. She screams at her body to survive, but it does not move. She does not have muscle memory to call back on. She hisses at the man like a wild animal, as he locks the handcuffs and leads her to the back of his car. She screams.
