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PROLOGUE / MOTEL ROOMS.
♠
THE STOLEN CAR, kidnapped from a rundown gas station about three counties over, smelled like beef jerky and whiskey. It hadn't been Vincent's first choice from the slim pickings the gas station parking lot had had to offer, but the tidier–looking sedan had a baby seat in the back and he felt like most parents had enough on their plates without having to track down a stolen car. It could have been worse, he supposed. At least the car smelled like expensive whiskey.
Vincent drove 78 miles in the stolen car until he felt safe enough to find somewhere to sleep for the night, and then another 4 miles before he found a motel with the reception light still on. He parked the car as far from the moonlit highway as he could, a spot in the back of the parking lot hidden from view by billowing shadows and a tall oak tree. He killed the engine and took in a deep breath of beef jerky and expensive whiskey before climbing out. The cold night air greeted him like an old friend, wrapping its arms around his neck and squeezing until he could feel it in his bones.
The receptionist at the motel was half–asleep at the desk when he pushed open the door, jumping so high at the sound that she almost fell out of her chair. Vincent sent her a small shrug in lieu of an apology, striding forward to linger awkwardly just on the other side of the desk. "Sorry to wake you. Do you have any rooms available?"
With a dismissive but not unkind laugh, the receptionist waved a sweeping hand in the direction of the empty parking lot. "Completely dead." Vincent flinched. The air grew colder. She seemed to not notice either of those things. "It doesn't get too busy this time of year. Take your pick, hun'."
"I'll take the one furthest from the road, thanks." Vincent's lips twitched up in something close to, but not quite a smile. "And, uh, just the one night."
"Heading home from college?" The receptionist asked, rummaging through the desk drawers for the key. "I thought Thanksgiving break wasn't for another few weeks."
"Just passing through." Vincent answered simply, clenching his teeth to keep the almost–smile from faltering. There was nothing he could think of that sounded worse than going home, for dozens of reasons—starting with the fact that home was Gotham City, and ending with the fact that home was Gotham City.
The receptionist hummed in that polite way that meant that she didn't really care, before reaching over the desk to hand him the key. "Room 10. We don't do breakfast, but there are plenty of cute little cafes along the main street. You can check out any time you like after 9."
Vincent took the key with a grateful nod, lips still pulled tight in an unnatural stretch. "Thank you, ma'am. Have a good night."
She laughed at him, before curling into her chair once more. "You too, hun'. Sleep well."
