Friday, October 24th, 2008, 14:23
New Jersey
Gotham City
Downtown District
Three weeks of living like a ghost had taught Malik Anderson things no twelve-year-old should know. How to sleep standing up in subway stations when the benches were taken. Which dumpsters behind which restaurants got emptied when. How to make himself small enough that adults looked right through him, their eyes sliding past like he was just another piece of city furniture.
The art of being invisible.
He'd gotten good at it. Too good, maybe. Sometimes he caught his reflection in store windows and barely recognized the skinny kid staring back, all sharp angles and hollow cheeks beneath a mess of dark hair that hadn't seen scissors in months. His clothes hung loose now, the jacket his mother had bought him last year swimming on his frame.
The tourist with the expensive purse wasn't paying attention to anything except her phone. She stood outside the Wayne Foundation building, probably waiting for someone important, tapping her foot in that impatient way that screamed money and schedule. Her purse dangled from her shoulder like low-hanging fruit.
Malik had learned to read people the way his father read locks. This woman was distracted, confident, the kind of person who'd never had to worry about someone taking what was hers. She probably carried more cash than he'd seen in months.
He approached from her blind spot, the technique he'd perfected on a dozen other marks. Get close, bump into them with an apology, grab what you can, and disappear into the crowd before they even realized what happened. Simple.
"Excuse me, miss?" He put on his best lost kid voice, the one that made adults want to help instead of chase him away. "I'm looking for my mom. She said she'd meet me here, but I think I might be at the wrong building?"
The woman looked down at him, and Malik felt his carefully planned approach stumble. She had green eyes that seemed to see right through his act, the kind of gaze that stripped away pretense and found truth underneath. Her dark hair was pulled back in a way that suggested professional competence, but there was something else there. Something that recognized another predator when she saw one.
"Your mom, huh?" Selina Kyle smiled, and it wasn't the patronizing expression adults usually wore when talking to kids. It was knowing. Amused. "And where exactly did she say she'd meet you?"
Malik's hand was already moving toward her purse strap, muscle memory taking over from his brain. But her question threw off his timing. Most adults either ignored him completely or gave him directions and walked away. This one was actually listening.
"She said... uh..." He scrambled for a believable lie, but those green eyes were doing something to his thoughts, making them fuzzy and uncertain. "The Wayne place. But there's a lot of Wayne places, right?"
"There are." Selina shifted slightly with a smirk, and Malik realized she'd moved her purse to her other shoulder without making it obvious. She knew. Somehow, she knew exactly what he was trying to do. "Tell me something, kid. What's your mom's name?"
The question hit him like cold water. His mom's name. Joan Anderson, who used to wake him up by singing circus songs off-key. Who made pancakes shaped like animals on Sunday mornings. Who was dead and buried in a grave he couldn't afford to visit.
"I..." The words stuck in his throat.
"That's what I thought." Selina's voice gentled, losing the sharp edge that had made him feel like prey being circled by something larger. "You're good, kid. Almost had me convinced. But you hesitated just a little too long when you bumped into me, and your hand moved wrong when you asked your question."
Malik took a step back, ready to run. Three weeks on the streets had taught him that when adults figured out what you were doing, bad things followed. Police. Social workers. Questions he couldn't answer without admitting he had nowhere to go.
"Relax." Selina held up a hand, not moving to grab him or call for help. "I'm not going to turn you in. Professional courtesy."
"Professional what?"
"Let's just say I recognize talent when I see it." She studied him for a moment, taking in the too-loose clothes and the careful way he held himself ready to bolt. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a garbage can?"
The question caught him off guard. Adults usually asked where his parents were, or why he wasn't in school. They didn't ask about food with the kind of understanding that suggested personal experience.
"I eat fine," he lied.
"Sure you do." Selina looked at her watch, then back at him. "I was about to grab lunch anyway. You know a good place around here?"
Malik blinked. "What?"
"Food. You know, that thing people need to survive?" She started walking toward the corner, not checking to see if he followed. "There's a deli about two blocks from here that makes sandwiches the size of your head. My treat."
He should run. Every instinct screamed at him to disappear into the crowd and find another mark, someone who wouldn't see through his act so easily. But something in her voice stopped him. Not pity, exactly. More like recognition.
"Why?" he asked.
Selina paused, glancing back at him. "Because I used to be where you are. And because someone did the same thing for me once."
The deli was warm and smelled like fresh bread and roasted meat, scents that made Malik's stomach clench with hunger he'd been trying to ignore. Selina ordered without looking at the menu, the kind of casual confidence that came from having money to spend on food whenever you wanted it.
"Pastrami on rye, extra pickles. And..." She looked at Malik. "What do you want?"
"I don't have any money."
"I said my treat. Pick something."
He stared at the menu board, overwhelmed by choices he hadn't had in weeks. Turkey, roast beef, ham, things that existed in a world where meals came from stores instead of dumpsters. His mouth watered just reading the options.
"The turkey club," he said finally. "And... soup?"
"Soup too." Selina paid without flinching at the total, counting out bills like they were nothing. They found a table by the window, where Malik could watch the street while they waited for their order.
"So," Selina said, settling into her chair with the fluid grace of someone completely comfortable in her own skin. "What's your real name?"
"Malik." The truth slipped out before he could stop it.
"Malik." She repeated it like she was testing how it sounded. "That's a good name. Strong. I'm Selina, how long have you been on your own?"
"Three weeks." Another truth. Something about her made lying feel pointless, like she'd see right through whatever story he tried to tell.
"Three weeks." Selina nodded like that explained something. "That's about when the shock wears off and the real learning starts. You're past the panic stage, starting to figure out how things actually work out here."
The food arrived, and Malik had to force himself not to attack it like a starving animal. The sandwich was enormous, layers of turkey and bacon and cheese that required strategic planning to eat without making a mess. The soup was hot and rich, warming him from the inside in a way he'd almost forgotten was possible.
Selina ate more slowly, watching him with those knowing green eyes. "You're not bad at the street thing," she said eventually. "But you're thinking too small."
"What do you mean?"
"Purse snatching, picking pockets. That's survival theft. Gets you through today, maybe tomorrow. But it doesn't build toward anything." She took a sip of her coffee, considering her words. "You've got good instincts, good reflexes. With the right training, you could do better than just getting by."
Malik paused with the sandwich halfway to his mouth. "What kind of training?"
"The kind that turns talent into skill. That teaches you to think three moves ahead instead of just reacting to whatever's in front of you." Selina leaned back in her chair, studying him. "But first, you need to survive long enough to learn anything. Where are you sleeping?"
"Around." He wasn't about to give up the location of his subway tunnel hideout to someone he'd just met, no matter how kind she was being.
"Smart. Never give away your safe spots." She finished her sandwich and checked her watch again. "I have to go. Business to attend to. But I want you to think about something."
She pulled out a business card and slid it across the table. It was simple, expensive-looking paper with just a phone number embossed in gold.
"That's my number. You call it if you need help. Real help, not just a meal." Selina stood, pulling on the kind of coat that probably cost more than most people made in a month. "And kid?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you try to lift someone's wallet, make sure they're not already watching you before you make your move. Dead giveaway."
She left before he could respond, disappearing into the crowd outside like she'd never been there at all. Malik stared at the business card, turning it over in his fingers. No name, no company. Just a number that might lead to more kindness or might be some kind of trap.
He pocketed the card and finished his soup, savoring every spoonful. Outside, Gotham continued its relentless pace, millions of people rushing toward destinations that mattered to them but meant nothing to him. But for the first time in three weeks, Malik felt something other than fear or hunger.
He felt possibility.