Polly Solves the Riddler

Part 1

He's gone, she thought. He's left me.

Rolling onto her back, Polly closes her eyes. That stupid kiss wasn't her first mistake. His discomfort and inability when it came to intimacy of the sexual nature had been abundantly apparent. They'd never done anything beyond first base, her being too nervous that she'd scare him off and him being, well, whatever he'd been. But maybe that bit she'd sought and received was still too much.

As she lies there, her shoulder blades aching with discomfort and legs bent at the knees, she tries and fails not to recall the last time they were together. He'd been stressed - more so than usual. When she touched him with the intention to comfort, he shrugged her off.

It hurt.

A lance through her chest that made her lips droop into a frown and her shoulders slump.

But then night fell. The plans were set, or as set as they would be, and he came to her. She laid in his bed, swaddled under the blanket and head covered. He inched in behind her and pulled the covers away. Her hair was a mess, it fell upon her face and in her vision. He swept it aside to dip his lips into hers. Rolling onto her back, she pressed both of her small hands against his cheeks. She got lost on those lips.

She got brave, though. Foolish and greedy. After a moment of impassioned kissing, she parted her lips for him. His movements stopped for a moment, prompting her to drop her hands from his face so he could flee if he wished.

He didn't.

Slow and cautious, he met her halfway. Their tongues danced and her head swam. He tasted sweet like gummy bears, syrupy like Coke-a-Cola.

She brought herself to her elbows, never breaking from him, and shoved the blankets completely away. The sudden rush of cold sent tingles up her bare legs. Heart thudding and hands shaking, she cupped his big hand within hers and dragged it along her abdomen. Down. Further till it met her warmth.

Now he truly stopped. Ceased all movement and trembled. He breathed heavily, his fingers motionless against her. She didn't want to move from him, to ruin this progress, but the longer they remained like that, the more she needed to look upon his face. To see what he thought but did not say.

Soon she gave in to this need.

His brow creased and his eyes were still shut when she laid back. She let go of his hand and cupped his cheek, hooking her other hand behind his neck. When his eyes opened, she saw it. For the first time, his deep brown eyes set ablaze with fear. With defeat. So she swept his hand away and brought the blankets back up to cover herself.

A chink in his armor, in his façade that scared her.

He began to apologize and explain, but she shook her head. She pulled him down against her; embraced him. They spent the night sleepless and intertwined till the morning penetrated the evening, bright slats of gold pooling on the shag carpet till it reached them.

Polly slams a fist into the fridge again, causing more shivers to shake up its ancient frame. She should have made him. He wanted to, she knew that. The way he looked at her and how he spoke to her now. That smirk. His desires matched hers; he just lacked courage. She needed to push him.

A second wave of anger is unleashed against the fridge followed by a tink like a pen dropping. Rolling onto her side, she squints under the metal beast. With nothing but neon to guide her gaze, she's uncertain if there's anything underneath. She pushes up her sleeve and digs blindly. Aside from more grease-laced dust and who-knows-what-else, there's nothing.

With a grunt she doubles her effort and shoves her arm in up to the shoulder. At this point the fridge may actually come down on her with how much it teeters.

But her fingers graze whatever fell before she's pancaked.

Going to the window where the neon is brightest, she inspects it. A key. Square base with a question mark etched into one side. The other side has a number: 7.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? She squints at the key, turning it over and over, studying the only two clues. Drained and tired, she doesn't have the energy to even begin deciphering what this means. Or even to just figure out whether it means anything at all. She shoves it into her pocket and slumps for the door.

Pausing, she produces the tracker and stuffs it under a corner of frayed carpet. Let Batman follow her here and find what she found, what was left for her: Nothing. He'll think himself victorious and clever - far cleverer than either of them. But he'll only be a fool - like Polly.

Clenching her jaw, she pulls the door into its frame and heads for the stairway.

Polly doesn't notice the hulk of a man in black clothes and a ski mask before it's too late. He's on top of her, pulling a thick bag over her head and shoving her forward. She tries to resist, shoving and kicking and hitting, but he's massive and strong.

Her wrists are caught in his big mits as he ties them together. She's pushed to the floor so he can tie her ankles together as well. Her lungs burn with a scream, with some sort of noise to alert her neighbors, to bring help, but she remains silent.

Out of habit or because the fight is knocked out of her, she's not sure. Besides, who in their right mind would come to the aid of someone like her in a city like Gotham?

The masked man tosses her over his shoulder like a sack and descends the steps.