Monday, October 27th, 2008, 23:15
New Jersey
Gotham City
Theatre District
The Majestic Theatre had been dead for fifteen years, another casualty of Gotham's slow decay. Its marquee hung crooked, letters missing like broken teeth, and the front doors were chained shut behind sheets of plywood covered in graffiti tags. But the basement entrance around back had a lock that yielded to patient work with his father's tools, and the space below ground stayed warm enough to survive Gotham's approaching winter.
Malik had been calling it home for a week now.
He'd made himself a nest in what used to be a dressing room, using old costumes and drop cloths to create something that almost felt like a bed. The pipes overhead leaked occasionally, but he'd positioned his sleeping area to avoid the worst of it. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness beyond his small circle of candlelight, a steady rhythm that had become oddly comforting.
The photo of his parents sat propped against a paint can, their smiling faces watching over his makeshift camp. His father's lock picks lay beside it, cleaned and organized the way Marcus had taught him. "Take care of your tools, and they'll take care of you," his father used to say.
Tonight, Malik was practicing. He'd found an old trunk with a complicated lock mechanism and had been working at it for hours, trying to apply the lessons his father had drilled into him before everything went wrong. The picks felt natural in his hands now, extensions of his fingers that let him feel the subtle clicks and tensions inside the lock's mechanism.
"Not bad technique, but you're rushing the third pin."
Malik spun around so fast he nearly fell over, his heart hammering against his ribs. A woman stood in the doorway to his makeshift room, and for a moment his brain struggled to process what he was seeing.
She wore black leather that clung to her like a second skin, the material catching candlelight in ways that made it hard to look away. A mask covered the upper half of her face, but he recognized those green eyes immediately. The costume had a zipper that was pulled down just far enough to reveal the curve of her chest, and Malik felt his face burn with embarrassment as his gaze lingered before snapping back to her face.
"Selina?" His voice cracked on her name, eyes still transfixed on her form..
"In the flesh." She stepped into the room with the fluid grace of someone who moved through shadows for a living. "Took me three days to track you down. You're better at hiding than I expected."
Malik's hand moved instinctively toward his backpack, where he kept his few possessions ready for a quick escape. "How did you find me?"
"I have my ways." Selina glanced around the room, taking in his careful arrangements. "This is actually pretty smart. Most street kids go for the obvious places. Abandoned buildings that everyone knows about, storm drains that flood when it rains. But an old theatre basement? That takes imagination."
"Are you going to turn me in?"
"That depends." She moved closer, and Malik caught a scent that was part expensive perfume and part something wilder, more dangerous. "How attached are you to this place?"
"What do you mean?"
Selina crouched down to his eye level, the leather of her costume creaking softly. "I mean you've got two choices, kid. You can keep playing hide and seek with social services until winter really hits and you freeze to death down here. Or you can come with me."
"Come with you where?"
"My place." She reached out and touched the photo of his parents, her gloved fingers gentle against the worn edges. "I'm not talking about adoption or any of that legal nonsense. I'm talking about a warm bed, regular meals, and someone who understands what it's like to survive...alone."
Malik stared at her, his mind racing. Three weeks on the streets had taught him that adults who offered help usually wanted something in return. And this wasn't just any adult. This was a woman in a costume that screamed criminal, offering to take him to places unknown.
But he was also cold, tired, and slowly starving despite his best efforts to stay fed. The deli sandwich Selina had bought him was the best meal he'd had since his parents died, and the memory of that warmth, that feeling of safety, called to something desperate inside him.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"Smart question." Selina smiled, and even behind the mask he could see genuine approval in her expression. "The catch is that my life isn't exactly conventional. I work nights. I travel sometimes. And I have enemies who might try to use you to get to me."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that pays very well and doesn't ask for references." She stood up, pacing the small space like a caged cat. "I won't lie to you, Malik. Coming with me means stepping into a world that's dangerous. But staying here? That's dangerous too. At least with me, you'll have backup."
Malik looked around his basement sanctuary, weighing his options. The smart thing would be to say no, to stick with what he knew. But what he knew was hunger and cold and the constant fear of discovery. What she was offering was unknown, but it came with the promise of warmth and food and someone who seemed to understand what it meant to be alone.
"I keep my stuff," he said finally. "My parents' things. Nobody touches them."
"Deal."
"And if I don't like it, I can leave?"
"Your choice. Always." Selina extended her hand toward him. "But I think you'll like it just fine."
Malik hesitated for one more moment, then reached out and took her gloved hand. Her grip was firm, strong enough to pull him to his feet without effort.
"Good choice." She watched as he gathered his few possessions, stuffing clothes and his parents' photo into his backpack. "Oh, and kid?"
"Yeah?"
"You might want to get used to seeing me in costume. It's kind of a work requirement."
The trip to Selina's apartment took twenty minutes through back alleys and rooftops that she navigated like highways. Malik found himself clinging to her back as she moved across the city with inhuman grace, leaping gaps between buildings that should have been impossible. The leather of her costume was warm against his arms, and he could feel the controlled power in her movements.
Her apartment building was in the Fashion District, the kind of upscale neighborhood where doormen wore uniforms and lobby floors were made of real marble. But Selina led him around to a fire escape that brought them to a window on the fifteenth floor.
"Home sweet home," she said, pushing the window open and stepping inside.
The apartment took Malik's breath away. It was elegant without being flashy, furnished with pieces that looked expensive but comfortable. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city that made Gotham look almost beautiful, its lights twinkling like stars against the darkness.
But what caught his attention were the photographs scattered around the room. They sat on side tables and hung on walls, images of people who weren't there anymore. A man with kind eyes and graying hair. A woman with Selina's smile but different bone structure. Groups of people laughing at parties or gathered around dinner tables, all of them sharing the particular intimacy of family.
"You hungry?" Selina asked, pulling off her mask to reveal features that were sharper and more beautiful than he'd expected. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in waves that caught the lamplight.
"Always," he admitted.
"Good answer." She moved toward the kitchen, her costume still drawing his attention in ways that made him feel awkward and young. "I've got leftover Chinese food, or I could make something fresh. Your call."
A small sound drew his attention to the corner of the room, where a sleek black cat emerged from behind a chair. It approached Malik with the cautious confidence of an animal that had never known hunger or fear, rubbing against his legs with a purr that vibrated through the apartment.
"That's Isis," Selina called from the kitchen. "She's particular about who she likes, so consider yourself honored."
Malik reached down to pet the cat, feeling the soft warmth of its fur against his palm. Isis arched into his touch, and for the first time in weeks, Malik felt something inside his chest start to unknot.
Maybe this could work. Maybe, for once in his life, something good could happen without a terrible price attached.
He looked around the apartment again, taking in the comfortable furniture and the warm lighting and the photos of people who had mattered to someone. This was what safety looked like. This was what having a home felt like.
And if it came with conditions he didn't understand yet, well, he'd figure that out as he went along. He'd gotten good at adapting to new situations.
After all, what choice did he have?