For the past hour and a half, all Odette had been listening to was the sound of a keyboard, typing away in the lobby. Click, clack. It echoed in the small room. There was almost no other sound. Aside from the receptionist and herself, Odette was alone.

She had never felt this way before. 

Odette sat in the center of the bench on the far wall, staring at the floor. The carpet was thin, once probably a nice green color had it not faded over years of behind walked on by thousands of kids before her. The lobby was small, gray, quiet — like the carpet, a little old, a little faded. The ceiling light at the far end of the room flickered three times every seven seconds. There was one receptionist, behind a glass window, typing away at her keyboard.

Click, clack, click, clack.

In front of her, on the coffee table, were a pile of out-of-date magazines. They were mostly geared towards her age, or younger. Seventeen, Metropolis Cheerleader, Teen Beat, MTV, Young Woman’s Journal… their covers were limp, pages thin. Most were at least a year old, if not more. They lied neglected, waiting for someone to pick them up again, entertain themselves.

Odette kept her hands to herself. 

The air was cool. Cooler than Odette was used to. She shivered, pulled her jacket around her tighter. There was a vent near the receptionist’s desk, up high, rattling at periodic intervals as the air conditioning system struggled to keep the room at a level temperature.

She reached down, scratched her ankle beneath her skirt. There was still a bit of sand left, sticking to her skin.

Odette ground it between her fingers for a moment, almost awed. It had been nearly three days. Three days since they took her from Egypt. And somehow a part of it managed to travel with her, over land and ocean, a thousand miles away.

She sighed through her nose, setting back in her seat. A ragged canvas backpack was tucked to her stomach, containing all her worldly possessions. A pair of sunglasses, some clothes, an old sketchbook or two. She hugged it to her chest — it still smelled of her father, the old cologne her mother loved.

Tears pricked her eyes. Odette squeezed them shut.

“Miss Sandoval?” the door on the right opened with a sharp rattle.

Odette lifted her head, startled. A blonde woman, who Odette vaguely remembered introducing herself as Miss Keenley (or was it Kensey? Kenson?), beckoned to Odette. She was tall, curvy, all bun and a pencil skirt; almost too pretty to work in a place like this, she thought to herself. 

Miss Keenley gave her an encouraging smile. “Odette? Your ride is here.”

Her heart skipped a beat — for a single moment, Odette was excited, expectant. Then she remembered why she was here, and the moment ended. Her shoulders slumped. Without a word, she rose to her feet and followed Miss Keenley out the door, down a long hallway filled with offices with gold names on the door. 

Outside, the sky was heavy with purple clouds. They were downtown, black sentinels of skyscrapers all around them, everything muted by the weather. It hadn’t begun raining yet, but Odette could sense the tension in the wind, a storm about to break. 

They stopped on the grand steps of the courthouse — at the curb rumbled a sleek black limo, tinted windows, a silver winged hood ornament glimmering in the dull air. While impressive, it wasn’t the car that caught Odette’s attention, but rather the man standing in front of it. Tall, with broad shoulders, a tailored navy suit, his back facing them. As Miss Keenley approached, he turned, shook her hand. Odette studied him from afar. Dark-haired, a strong jaw, straight nose, prominent brow, pale but not unusually so — A polite smile on a handsome face.

Miss Keenly, unable to miss this, giggled nervously through her next words. 

Was this the venerable Mr. Wayne? In the fog of her mind, Odette was mildly surprised. He was not as old as she expected. Maybe late-thirties at the most, although he seemed younger than that somehow. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, easy, relaxed, hands in his pockets. But there was an underlying power there, befitting a man of his wealth, confident and self-assured with his position in life. 

Not a man to cross lightly. 

Odette remained several feet back, up the steps behind them. She watched the exchange without really comprehending it. Their words were nothing more than muffled nonsense in her head. A cold wind picked up her coat, her hair, tossing it about, and she hunched her shoulders, turning away. She wanted nothing more than to be warm again.

But this was Gotham. It had never seen a warm day in its life.

The two adults turned to her at the same time. Odette realized her name had been called, but hadn’t heard it until too late. Now both of them were staring at her. Miss Keenley was starting to look concerned, her smile failing. The dark-haired man tilted his head, perhaps curious, expression neutral. 

Miss Keenley approached her, gesturing to the man as he followed behind. “Odette, this is Mr. Wayne. You might remember him, he’s a close friend of your father’s…”

Odette frowned, disbelieving. Her father, David Sandoval, hadn’t been to America in over ten years. This was the first time she’d even met Bruce Wayne, and she didn’t see how her father, an eccentric man at the best of times, would ever run in the same circles as one of the Waynes — practically Gotham city royalty, and far too upper-class for the likes of the Sandovals.

Up close, Bruce Wayne towered over her. She craned her head up to look at him. Their gazes met. Blue to blue. His eyes were inscrutable. 

She swayed on her feet. Odette had to resist the urge to step back. 

She had nothing to say. Or rather, she couldn’t find the words. If she had, Odette might admit to being rather intimidated by this man. She felt dwarfed in his presence, rendered from teenager to child. She wasn’t very big to begin with; at only fourteen, Odette was about 5’4’’, her arms and legs too long for her body. Her black hair, already a little curly, was starting to frizz in the heavy wet air. Most would raise their eyebrows at the sight of this unkempt little girl in the presence of a man in a three-thousand-dollar suit and a sharp-trimmed haircut. Feeling smaller than she already was, Odette just wanted to disappear altogether. 

A long moment of silence had passed. Odette had missed her opportunity to speak. Miss Keenley cast Mr. Wayne a strained smile. “Sorry, she hasn’t said a word since she arrived. We’ve tried to get her to talk, but I’m not sure if she’s even listening —”

“It’s fine,” Mr. Wayne said. It was the first clear words Odette had heard from him. His voice was deep, but soft, slightly amused. He was not nearly as frustrated by Odette’s behavior as her current caretakers. “It’s not a problem. We’ve, ah, never actually met before. I believe this is a new experience for the both of us.”

To Odette, he said, “I’m glad to finally meet you, Odette. I’ve heard so much over the years. Your father loved to talk about you.”

His tone was diplomatic, almost kind. Odette wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was he just putting on a good face for social services? Or did he truly mean what he said? A part of Odette was surprised; she had no idea her father talked about her to anyone aside from her mother. What had he told Mr. Wayne?

Odette eyed his offered hand. Miss Keenley shifted awkwardly on her feet, watching the interaction closely. She threw Odette a probing look, as if she could compel Odette to do anything she didn’t want to; the next moment may dictate the future of their relationship. 

A moment passed. Finally, Odette took his hand.

Mr. Wayne’s hand practically engulfed hers; his grip was strong, surprisingly rough, callused for a member of high society. Odette didn’t make much of an attempt to hold, couldn’t summon the strength. She just wanted her hand back. 

———

The limo’s engine was so soft Odette might have thought it wasn’t even running, if not for the scenery passing outside. Rain pattered against the glass, turning the black and silver streets into a marbled abstract painting. People darted to and fro under dark umbrellas, boots and shoes stomping through puddles, rivers pouring into sewer grates.

“I need to make a few stops on the way home,” Mr. Wayne’s voice broke the silence within the cabin. Odette lifted her head. They sat diagonally opposite each other — the farthest she could sit by herself. If Mr. Wayne noticed, he made no remark. “I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” Odette murmured. She didn’t consider herself to be in the position to complain. Inconvenienced? That ship had sailed long before she even arrived in Gotham. At this point, everything that happened now were events in a life she was no longer in control of, traveling along a path that seemed to get only dimmer and dimmer the further she went. Odette had no energy to fight it.

“If you’re hungry, we can get some food on the way.” 

“I’m fine,” Odette repeated. This was untrue; she hadn’t eaten in over a day, but since Odette lacked any appetite whatsoever, she had no desire to remediate it.

“Well, if you change your mind, just let Alfred or myself know.”

Odette nodded, slumping back in her seat and sighing in relief. Ever since she arrived in Gotham, people had been pushing food and other amenities on her like she had suddenly gone terminal. Miss Keenley had been especially persistent, asking every quarter hour if Odette was hungry, or thirsty, or if she needed anything, anything at all…?

But Mr. Wayne didn’t push her. The drive continued and he said nothing more. His attention refocused on the files in front of him, quietly flipping through what looked like graphs and finance reports.