4274/To Be Determined

To Be Determined
Date of Scene:	02 December 2020
Location:	Hospital Room - Seventh Floor - Gotham Memorial Hospital
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Bruce Wayne, Sandra Wu-San

---

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The violence in the Narrows the other night added a few people to hospital beds in Gotham. It added even more to slabs in the morgue of course, but it was limited almost entirely to LoBoys and these so-called Paw of the Beast types. The local vigilante set managed that much at least. No random civilians payed for the latest criminal scheme and while that might be cold comfort to some, it is far, far better then the alternative.

Of course, at least of one the survivors might almost have preferred the alternative. While he may have given the name of Donnally to his attacker with the utmost reluctance, he has given nothing to the authorities that have him in custody. And while they might like to push him hard to give them something they can use, he currently has a pretty good out to avoid the interrogation room. Mainly because he is in a hospital one instead. Handcuffed to the bed, monitors around him beeping and humming quietly he lays immobile and in pain, even with the morphine drip nearby. He flinches at every shadow that moves through his room, every hint of motion coming from outside his hospital room door, sits in the darkness and studiously avoids looking at the window despite being seven stories up.

Unlike most thugs in Gotham it isn't any Bat vigilante he fears. No, it's someone far worse.

So he drifts in and out of consciousness, his waking moments passing with frightful little fits and starts. Not because of the pair of uniformed officers of the GCPD outside his door. That might be the only reason he rests at all. No, his fear is all saved for the woman who took him down like he was a helpless infant. Or perhaps for the man he works for and what he, she, or they might do to him for failing.

Either way, Donnally is not having a very good time. Chances are that his evening is not going to improve any time soon.

Sandra Wu-San has posed:
(drift out)

The phone was a dead-end. The vans were turned into nausea-inducing repair bills without her ever bothering to search them. The egress lookout, unconscious.

Which left just one thread for the weapon who walks like a weapon to tug, curious as she is to see just how this new element introducing itself to the world is composed.

(drift in)

He's only given her his name; in turn, Lady Shiva's not the sort of woman for whom an internet search is the first recourse for anything. All in all, a level playing field-- just as she prefers.

(drift out)

The sheer amount of mayhem unleashed in the Narrows plus geographical necessity constrict the field: short of mutagenic exposure, or something similarly in need of specialized care, survivors of a mass casualty event on that scale could only hope to find themselves in the nearest possible hospital-- no matter HOW hard a particular perp might try begging for a bed somewhere else, preferably across the city.

(drift in)

And from there, it was just a matter of walking through the halls of Gotham Memorial after midnight, a wandering ghost--

    -- a prowling nightmare--

        -- a shadow stalking the edges of life and death.

(drift out)

When she wants to be, she's a difficult person to notice.

When she must be--

(drift in)

-- she's the kind of woman who'd barely be seen sitting in a chair half a dozen feet from one's bed, barring a stray cough or scrape.

The kind who leaves still bodies and bad thoughts in her wake.

The kind that few who know her would want to see; notice.

(*klk*... *klk*... *klk*... *klk*...)

That fewer still would want to hear:

"Donnally,"

cold and unperturbed, rich with mezzo tones.

"Don't scream."

(... *klk*...)

"Don't thrash."

(... *klk*...)

"Look at me."

Up at cool, brown eyes set in a face partially veiled in late night shadow, peering down from just above his bed as if he's a side of beef and she's menu planning; at the empty line of her mouth and the arms folding loosely across her chest.

"Hello, Donnally. You and I are going to have a conversation; it will be a private one. When it's finished, I will leave; am I clear?"

She doesn't wait; that burner phone's fetched from a duster pocket and tossed onto his sternum.

"If I'm satisfied with the outcome of said conversation, you'll leave with me."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
In the end he stirs to consciousness moments before the silence of his hospital bed is broken, a chill running through his body, blotting out -- at least for a brief moment -- those waves of pain that tend to follow so quickly after. A little gurgle escapes him and he shifts a little, restless, on that hospital bed, staring up at the bland ceiling up above, not quite sure just what woke him up. Perhaps just a memory? The memory of that night. Perhaps.

And then the silence is broken, the stillness of the night shattered and Donnally no longer has any question about just what it was that woke him up. As his gaze darts frantically about the room -- first to the window and then, desperately, to that closed door where a pair of uniformed police officers wait outside, oblivious -- he does not gibber. Not because he doesn't want to. That's pretty much all he wants to do. More because he can't make a sound. Like a child, terrified of the dark, suddenly discovering that their worst imaginings of the monster in the closet or under the bed are very much true, his breath, his voice is simply stolen.

Again, he doesn't want to but that voice leaves no room for defiance and so his gaze does immediately dart her way, his obedience instinctive now -- ingrained after just one meeting. When the burner phone is tossed his way his breath is finally loosed -- far more explosively then is deserved by the simple weight of the device. He flinches away, as if he's been struck and a little whimper slips from his mouth, eyes wide.

"What do you want?" he whispers.

He could yell. He could scream. Assuming that she did not come through the door leading out into the corridor, to the nurse's station beyond there are still armed police right there. Just feet away. But it never even occurs to him. Or maybe he just knows it would do him absolutely no good.

Sandra Wu-San has posed:
"While you raided the LoBoys' compound, you were accosted by a mysterious attacker with no apparent affiliation to either them, or the vigilante presence on the scene," Lady Shiva softly intones.

(The window is closed.)

Maybe he remembers the brown leather duster from that night; maybe the way her boots click along tiles conjures memories of brisk movements along concrete.

Maybe the movement of her eyes - faintly curious, nakedly predatory, as if cross-sectioning him by sight alone - along his cast reminds him of what it was to be utterly helpless at another person's hand.

"Your arm was broken.
"You were arrested.
"However:
"Your dedication to your employer refused to be bound by such petty obstacles. The moment you felt well enough..."

*klk*... *klk*...
*snp!*

Her hand blurs; the chain between one wrist and the bed breaks.

"... you slipped your restraints."

*snp!*

"You overpowered the men guarding you. You dragged yourself out of this hospital, into an alley where an escape vehicle awaited your arrival."

*snp!*

"You would not -- could not -- be denied,"

*snp!*

"from warning your employer of the unforseen dangers awaiting them."

Now on the other side of the bed after her circuit around it, the Goddess of Destruction flicks her eyes pointedly towards the phone, then towards him.

"Its only stored number is dead; however, it's still a relatively secure line... and unless you were simply turned out to succeed or die, I'm willing to guess that you have some means of making contact with your employer, regardless of your ignorance about their person."

What just might be the longest second of Donnally's life passes as Shiva - still staring, arms crossed - stares down at him.

"Do you understand?"

Bruce Wayne has posed:
If there is a way that this ends well for him, Donnally really doesn't see it. But that doesn't really matter. It is human instinct, the drive of evolution to survive. It is an urge that is nearly impossible to overcome really. Even here and now when his only choices seem to be to die at the hands of the demon that has haunted his drug-addled dreams for that past few nights. Or to die later, at the hands of his employers. Nothing about them suggest that they are the forgiving kind afterall. Now or later. Neither alternative is very good. But there's only one choice that he can make. It's hardwired into him.

He flinches as the handcuffs that bind him in place are snapped with casual ease and he slowly, painfully lifts that freed limb, letting it fall across his chest, reaching up to rub at his wrist -- the steel cuff still circling his flesh -- and rub at it. But that is the only motion he makes, staying otherwise still, only his eyes darting here and there hopelessly, as if seeking an escape that he knows will not present itself.

"The phone's worthless," he finally says, already wincing as if fearing her reaction. "One use only, at least on their side. But they'll send another," he quickly interjects, almost tripping over his words in that rush to assure her that he is still useful. "When we were done with the LoBoys we were supposed to meet up at a motel on the edge of town. Wait further instructions. If they hear I escape, if they see that I check in they'll reach out. They'll send another phone," he promises, eager to please.

Of course the smart thing to do would be to cut their losses. In police custody, in the hospital and then suddenly freed? Kinda a long shot no? Sounds like someone who was probably turned by the police, who sold out to save his skin.

But he hasn't played his last card. "If that doesn't work, I know where the next crew is going to strike. I shouldn't, they've kept everything compartmentalized so no one knows that whole plan. But I worked with one of the guys in another of the units. We've been trading notes in secret," he offers up, still whispering, still tripping over his own words. "I'll tell you where, when. If you promise to let me go. Even if they don't send another phone, let me go and I'll tell you," he offers.

A dying man, clinging to a life preserver in a storm tossed ocean.

Sandra Wu-San has posed:
In police custody, in the hospital, then suddenly freed? That would be a long shot, wouldn't it?

"Alright," Lady Shiva replies without hesitation. "Tell me where, and when."

She glides away from the bed, then, leaving him unbound. That lying to her - or worse, setting an ambush for her - would lead directly to her finding him again is left unsaid; she trusts him to make the necessary leap himself.

"How were you hired to begin with?" she continues, getting within a foot of the door then leaning in for a peek through the glass. "Why were you sent to the LoBoys' compound?"

Pacing away from the door, she briskly searches for any personal effects of his that he might've been allowed to keep; if any are found, they'll be tossed onto the bed.

"You understand," she casually remarks at one point, pausing long enough to glance his way with a barely arched brow, "that I won't be carrying you; yes?"

Whether he's got anything to bring or not, Shiva's eventually at his bedside again, leaning back against an end table with both palms resting on the edge.

Looking at him.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Whatever loyalty he might have had to his employers, whatever mercenary code he might have believed he followed, clearly it died during the raid on the LoBoys compound. There is no cleverness there, not even animal cunning in his eyes. Just fear. And a desire to live. Of course that desire could prompt him to say anything to continue another day, another hour, even another minute. But there is also awareness there. Crystal clear awareness that any lie he might tell will surely be the last one.

"Where anyone goes to hire mercenaries. There are always people in the underworld, on the Dark Web. Word got out. Someone was putting together a group. A big one. Wanted a piece of Gotham," he offers up, a shudder going through him as he tries to sit up. It's clearly an effort but Donnally doesn't stop. This might be his only reprieve. "The money was good even if the mission didn't make a lot of sense." Ahhh greed. He will hardly be the first man that was doomed by it.

He hesitates now, to give up the last of the information he has. Maybe the only little bit of leverage he has left. But any port in a storm, right? Even if it looks like nothing but jagged reefs ahead. "There's going to be a meet. Three days from now. Right on the edge of Chinatown," he offers up, forcing himself to slow down, to make his words a little more steady. That stream of info ceases though as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, a gasp escaping him as soon as he does so. Even before he plants those feet, before he tries to stand he is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "It's bullshit. They've offered to sell high end, military grade arms to the Ghost Dragons. They also reached out to the Street Demonz. Told them that they had a peace offering for them. They just want both groups there. Make 'em fight, make 'em weaken each other so we can just roll in and take over their territory," he says, spitting out the specifics, the street, the time as he tries to push away, to stop leaning on the bed and stand. His face is a white sheet, his jaw clenched to keep from crying out.

Sandra Wu-San has posed:
Shiva doesn't move a muscle until he's standing on his own two feet.

"Then this group - whatever its name - wants to carve a place for itself in the hierarchy of Gotham's underworld from the bones of those too weak to resist it," the empty-eyed woman concludes as she returns to the door; returns to leaning, and peering.

"Curious..." she whispers. For the first time tonight, her tone flutters ever so slightly upwards towards the beginning.

"You're free to go," she then reiterates, glancing over her shoulder and raising a hand to beckon him, "but that doesn't give you leave to forfeit your life. Do you understand?"

Whether he does or not, Shiva doesn't care. Shiva is opening the door, first a crack;

    then a slit;

        then a hole wide enough for a slender arm to slither through, so that two fingertips can sink in against one guard's neck.

As burning, stinging numbness sweeps through the officer's body, Shiva at least does Donnally the courtesy of a fleeting glance - a wordless invitation to follow - before her eyes slash forward, her arm retracts, then all of her lunges through the door, right arm snapping right back out to catch the second officer square in the chest with a palm strike strong enough to send a shudder through the wall behind him if it lands.

If suddenly being set free from custody is suspicious, then how might escaping over the broken bodies of the GCPD look?