CHAPTER 15 – BASE OF OPERATIONS
The first thing I notice is that the heater is working too well.
St. Mary's bunk room feels… swollen. Warm air pushes against the ceiling and slides down the walls, trapped with eighty-something bodies and their breathing and their dreams. The blankets are thin, the mattresses thinner, but the heat doesn't care; it's turned the whole room into a slow, damp exhale.
This is technically my fault. I fixed the boiler. It works now. That was the point.
I lie on my back in my bunk, eyes on the cracked plaster overhead, and listen to what "fixed" sounds like.
Snoring. At least four different rhythms. Someone grinding their teeth. A kid whimpering into their pillow. Metal springs complaining on each shift. The fluorescents overhead humming like they're chewing on ice.
Every cough gets logged automatically: wet, dry, sharp, deep. I can tell who's getting sick and who's just choking on dust. I know who will snore themselves awake in three minutes. I know when the heater will cycle, by the tiny stutter in the pipe three seconds before it happens.
I know too much.
The bed is warm. That used to be the only metric that mattered.
Now there's this other thing, pressing under my ribs — a stretched, tight feeling that doesn't go away when I swallow. The same feeling I had in the apartment yesterday, standing in that cleaned corner. It's worse here.
On the other side of the aisle, someone flips over hard enough to slam their elbow into the wall. The bunk frame shudders. A boy down the row mutters, "Sorry," into his blanket and gets a sleep-heavy curse back for his trouble.
I track it without turning my head. Position, force, echo. Where the weight landed. How the bunk shifted in response.
There are too many bodies in this room. Too many hearts beating in one box. Any one of them could become a problem in under a second. Any one of them could need something. Food. Help. Space. Me.
My fingers curl around the edge of my blanket. The fabric is rough, cheap; the kind that leaves lint on your clothes if you look at it too long.
Technically, I'm safe here. That's what everyone keeps saying.
I force my eyes closed and try to make myself believe it.
Warm air. Human noise. Staff at the desk outside. Locked doors, mostly. If something starts, there are adults trained to step in.
Also: if something starts, there are eighty people in one place who can't move quickly. One bad mood, one knife, one fire, and this whole room turns into a problem you can't fix with a wrench.
My brain won't shut up about it. It keeps sketching ugly arrows on the ceiling: fire exit here, bottle neck there, where the kids stack, how long it would take to drag someone to the stairs.
I let it run for a while, out of habit. Then another map pushes up under it.
Shelter → alley → ladder by the cracked brick → first roof with the crooked satellite dish → metal bridge over the side street → laundromat vent → two more rooftops → ruined building stairwell → apartment door.
It's not a list. It's a shape. I can see the whole route at once, like a little wireframe model in my head, lines brightening and dimming in different colors as I imagine different threats.
Red if cops sweep the street. Yellow if Marrow Boys are cruising. Blue for weather. I don't know when I started color-coding routes in my head. It just… shows up that way now.
I blink. The ceiling doesn't change. The map does.
I trace the path again mentally, this time adding in timing: how long each segment takes at different speeds. Walk. Jog. Flat-out run. How long until my lungs burn. Where I can hide to catch a breath.
Numbers float up automatically—thirty seconds, forty-five, a minute ten. I don't have to calculate them. My brain just hands them to me along with the path, like it's been precomputing while I wasn't looking.
That's new.
"Stop," I tell myself, silently. "You're supposed to be sleeping."
My heart doesn't listen. It's beating just a little too fast for someone lying still.
A kid two bunks down lets out a muffled cry. Night terror or memory; hard to tell. Harris's voice rumbles from his corner, low and drowsy.
"Easy, kid," he mutters. "You're not there. You're here. Breathe."
The crying eases. The room breathes with it.
Harris shifts, the old springs under him squealing. In the half-light from the exit sign, I see him roll onto his side and look my way. His eyes catch just enough glow to show he's awake.
"You're running in your head again," he says quietly.
I didn't think I'd moved. I probably did something — jaw clench, fist, shoulders tightening. He reads people the way I read pipes.
"Can't sleep," I answer, same volume. No point denying it.
He snorts, soft. "No one in this damn room really sleeps. We just shut down in shifts."
A beat of silence. The heater ticks. Someone coughs behind us.
"You got that look," he adds. "The one you get right before you decide you ain't staying where you are."
I don't answer.
Because he's right.
Because the map in my head is bright enough now that closing my eyes doesn't make it go away.
Because when I picture "sleep," my body doesn't put me in this bunk. It puts me on that cardboard-and-blanket stack in the apartment corner, back against cold plaster, rig within reach, door under my control.
The thought lands heavy and sharp and simple: I'd rather be there.
There's no reason to say that out loud. It would just sit between us, weird and fragile.
I peel my blanket back instead.
Harris watches me swing my feet to the floor, silent. The concrete is cold even through my socks. I pull my boots on without lacing them all the way, then stand and roll my shoulders, testing for noise. The bunks around me creak once, then settle.
"You heading out?" he murmurs.
"Can't breathe in here," I say. It's not a lie. "Gonna walk it off."
He grunts, a sound halfway between worry and acceptance.
"Don't get dead," he says. "We're low on smart mouth kids as it is."
A corner of my mouth twitches. "I'll bring it back with me."
"See that you do."
He closes his eyes again. Whether he actually sleeps is his business.
I move between bunks, angles pre-calculated: where it's safe to step, which frames scream the loudest, who to avoid brushing against because they wake swinging.
This room used to be all I had. Warm, noisy, crowded safety. Now every step toward the door feels like leaving less and less behind.
The exit sign paints everything in red. I let it.
The hall outside the bunk room is cooler, quieter. Just one overhead light buzzing, one staffer hunched behind the desk, scrolling a phone with the screen turned way down.
She glances up as I pass.
"Bathroom's the other way, hon," she says automatically.
I nod like that's where I'm going. It's easier than explaining that I'm stepping out to cuddle with a condemned building.
"I'll be back," I say. Not sure if that's for her or me.
"Curfew's still a thing," she warns, but her tone is soft. "You get locked out, you wait 'til morning. I'm not opening the door for your frozen carcass at three a.m."
"Won't be late," I promise.
That, too, is a lie I hope is true.
Outside, Gotham slaps me in the face with cold.
The shelter door clicks shut behind me and the night swallows the last of the rec room light. Breath turns visible right away, a cheap special effect. The street's mostly empty—late enough now that even the loudest people have found somewhere to yell indoors.
I shove my hands into my hoodie pocket, fingers wrapping around the Micro Tool Rig automatically. The little pouch is warm from body heat, its weight perfect and familiar. Screwdriver shaft, pliers, blade, needle. The brick is in my other pocket, dense and reassuring against my thigh.
The map unfurls again, sharper this time.
Shelter side door → narrow alley with the overflowing dumpster → broken fence panel → back lot with the tagged delivery truck → rusted fire escape.
I move.
Silent Shoes grip wet pavement, cloth and tape soaking up the worst of the sound. The alley stinks of old grease and colder trash, but there isn't anyone here to smell it with me. My eyes flick from shadow to shadow, checking corners by habit. Nothing moves except a cat that decides I'm uninteresting and goes back to rummaging.
The broken fence panel is exactly where I left it. I slip through, careful not to snag my hoodie. The lot beyond is a dead rectangle of cracked asphalt, framed by warehouse backs and brick walls. One sodium lamp buzzes overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow.
The rusted fire escape bolted to the nearest building groans when I put weight on the first rung. That's fine. I know how loud it can get before anyone inside cares.
I climb.
Hands, feet, hands, feet. The metal chills my palms even through the gloves. Wind picks up as I rise, threading under my hood, cutting through layers. My lungs burn in a way I've learned to read as good—working, not failing.
From the top of this fire escape, a small hop puts me onto the first roof. Tar, gravel, a broken satellite dish listing like a sinking ship. Two chimneys, one wheezing out thin heat, one dead.
I don't think about the ground much once I'm up here. It exists as an abstract: places not to fall to.
The rooftop map slots itself into place: this building, then the gap where the old billboard used to be, then the slightly taller brick with the blue graffiti, then the narrow, one-step jump to the block where the laundromat lives.
Each jump has a number in my head now. Distance. Angle. Margin of error.
It wasn't like this the first week in Gotham. Back then, every leap was a guess, every roof a surprise. Now my brain runs probabilities in the background without asking permission. I know I can clear this alley with room to spare. I know if I slip, there's a drainpipe halfway down robust enough to take my weight.
I don't know when that knowledge turned from "lucky guess" to "certified fact," but it has.
I take the jump.
Tar to air to tar again. My knees bend to eat the landing. The Silent Shoes whisper. No one shouts from a nearby window. No lights snap on. The city doesn't notice. It rarely does.
I skirt the edge of the laundromat roof without looking down into the alley. The vent's doing its job; warmth and steam puff up in a slow, regular heartbeat. Somewhere below, kids will find that pocket again. The thought relaxes something in my shoulders.
Another roof. Another gap. One more set of stairs, this time inside a building that still pretends to be occupied.
The side alley to my building is as empty as I left it. The leaking pipe by the wall has grown a new fringe of icicles. They glitter in the dark like teeth.
The side door is still just a side door to everyone else — paint peeling, no handle, nothing special. To me, it's a checkpoint.
I slide my fingers along the frame where I left yesterday's marker: a sliver of plaster resting on top of the molding instead of on the floor.
Still there.
No fresh scratches around the latch. No new scuff marks on the concrete. My chest loosens by a fraction.
"Okay," I whisper. "Still mine-ish."
I catch the door's edge with my fingertips and pull until the latch stutters past the strike plate. The brick wedge I used earlier keeps it from sticking shut completely; I nudge it aside, slip through, then drag it back into place behind me. From the outside, it's the same old stubborn door. From the inside, it listens to me.
The stairwell is dark and colder than the street. That's the kind of thing that would bother normal people. For me, it just makes the edges of things sharper.
Step, step, step. I don't have to think about where my feet go. The pattern's burned in: outer third, skip one, hug the rail, avoid the crack that rings hollow. I could do this sleepwalking now, which is either a good sign or a terrible one.
At the top floor, the hallway sits in the same suspended, dusty quiet. The little piece of paint I propped above my doorjamb yesterday is exactly where I left it. No footprints, no new trash, no sounds behind any other doors.
My door looks back at me: blank, number plate missing, edges taped with cheap light.
I hesitate for one heartbeat.
This is the last moment where I can pretend it's still optional. Where I can tell myself I'm just checking on the place, not moving in.
Then my hand closes on the knob and turns.
The door opens. The lie closes.
The apartment air hits me with cold and dust and something else — a faint, unfamiliar smell that my brain takes a second to label.
Me.
Yesterday's sweat in the blanket, skin and breath from when I tested the bedroll and sat in that corner. It's faint, but it's there. The room remembers.
I step over the bad board in the threshold without looking. My boots land on the safe strip with practised weight. The door clicks shut behind me, and the wedge slides into place with a small, satisfying thunk.
I stand still for a second and let my eyes adjust.
The sheet and trash bag over the window dull the city glow into a smeared rectangle of color. My taped seams along the frame are holding; the draft is a low, sulky leak instead of a howl now.
The cardboard-and-blanket nest in the corner waits exactly where I left it, a weirdly precise rectangle on the floor. The plastic tub of glass glints quietly in its exile. The dead cabinet leans against the wall in its new life as a table; the couch frame crouches over the weakest floor patch like a big, ugly brace.
Nothing's moved. Nothing's broken itself more in my absence.
The room is still a ruin. But it's my ruin, and it recognizes me.
I shrug the small pack off my shoulder and carry it over the safe boards to the cabinet-table. Today's cargo is not impressive: an extra pair of socks, a half-stale bread roll wrapped in plastic, a bottle of water, a scavenged candle stub, and one of the less-shredded towels from the shelter's laundry misfits pile. Technically, I'm supposed to bring it back. Practically, no one will notice it's missing.
I line each thing up on the cabinet surface.
Tools on the left. Food in the middle. Water bottle at the back. Socks and towel folded in a neat stack on the right. The candle goes dead center for now, like a pathetic little sun.
This isn't a pile anymore. It's layout.
My brain likes that more than it should.
I pull the Micro Tool Rig out and check it over, fingers moving in a rhythm they've learned by repetition. Pliers: no rust creep, pivot smooth. Screwdriver shaft: tip still sharp, no chips. Scissor blade: tape intact over the handle, edge clean. Needle and thread: coils untangled, point capped in a bit of cork.
Every piece has a slot in the pouch. Every slot has a muscle memory. I lay them all out on the cabinet for a moment, just to see the full spread, then tuck them back one by one.
"Base," I think, watching my own hands like they belong to someone else. "This is base. Shelter is… auxiliary."
A part of me flinches at that, like I just insulted someone who fed me. I wince and adjust the thought.
"Shelter is people. Apartment is work."
That feels slightly less like betrayal.
The room is colder than the bunkroom by far, but the air moves on my terms. No stranger snoring, no random coughs, no staff door opening whenever. Just pipes, wind, and the faint creaks of a building settling into itself.
I cross to the door and crouch near the bottom, checking my blanket draft-stopper. Still wedged tight. I press my palm along the crack and feel only the faintest breath of hallway chill.
The brick wedges the door at the base of the frame. I nudge it with my knuckles, testing the give. It holds. If someone jostles the handle from outside, the door will budge an inch and stop. If I need to leave in a hurry, one sharp kick knocks the brick free.
System stable.
I stand again and test the window covering the same way, fingers sliding along tape, listening for loose corners. A small bit of sheet has peeled away near the top; I smooth it back and press until adhesive warms and sticks.
Once the checks are done, there's nothing left between me and the corner.
The bedroll looks smaller than I remember. That makes sense; last time I only sat on it for a minute. I didn't let the image of "me, here" settle very deep.
Too late for that now.
I step onto the cardboard, feeling how it spreads my weight across a wider area, smoothing out the worst of the floor's dips. The blanket on top is still creased in the shape of my body from before, faint lines running from shoulder to hip.
I lower myself down slowly, back to the angle where two walls meet, knees up, arms draped loosely over them. My spine slots into the groove in the plaster like it was carved for this exact shape.
The cold presses in from the walls and the floor and the air, but it's one pressure instead of eighty different ones. I know where every draft is. I know how to block them if they get worse. I know how long the candle will burn if I light it and how many matches I have and how easily they'd catch the wrong thing on fire.
My head tips back until it bumps the wall.
The ceiling above is a patchwork of hairline cracks and water stains. I can't help it; the lines start turning into routes again.
Not streets this time. Systems.
From this corner, I mentally trace wires behind the plaster to the hallway, down to the building's main panel, out to the street box three buildings over. Pipes from the bathroom up next door, down to the basement where I haven't gone yet. Vents I haven't opened. Access points I've only glanced at on the outside.
Paths, everywhere. Like the city's skeleton has finally come into focus, bones glowing faintly under rotten skin.
It feels… clear. Too clear.
Before Gotham, if I had to picture something like this, it took effort. I had to stand there, stare, imagine each segment piece by piece. Now the whole structure pops into my head at once, like someone switched my brain to a different rendering mode.
It doesn't feel like magic. There's no dramatic surge, no headache, no weird ringing. Just this constant, low-grade hum of awareness. Like I've been working the same muscle quietly for days and only just realized it got stronger.
My heart speeds up in a way that has nothing to do with fear. It's more like standing on a ledge and realizing you can see farther than you thought.
"That's not normal," I tell myself, but the thought doesn't land quite right. Normal compared to what? I've never had a control group.
I drag my focus back to the basics.
Shelter vs this.
Crowded warmth vs cold control.
If something goes bad at St. Mary's, I can help, but I can't stop it. Too many variables. Too many people. Too many doors I don't own.
If something goes bad here, it's either on me or at me. Fewer bodies, fewer wild cards. Just me, my tools, and the systems I've marked out.
It should be an easy decision, if survival is the only metric.
It isn't.
Faces flicker through my mind anyway. Harris, grumbling at kids to shut up and sleep. Tina trying not to smile when her shoe stopped falling apart. Rae calling me Hoodie MacGyver and pretending I'm more interesting than I am.
This room doesn't have their voices. It doesn't have anyone's.
There's a part of me that misses that already.
There's another part that wants to wrap this silence around myself and never take it off.
"Control," I remind myself, under my breath. "You wanted control. Here it is."
The word doesn't fix the tightness in my chest, but it gives it a label I can live with.
I kick off my boots and line them up neatly within arm's reach of the bedroll. The Micro Tool Rig goes just above them, pouch flap closed, but loose enough I can grab it in the dark. The water bottle settles beside my head against the wall; the food stays on the cabinet for now.
I slide down until I'm fully stretched out on the blanket, shoulders and hips and heels finding their places on the cardboard.
The floor creaks once, quietly. Then holds.
I listen.
Pipes mutter. Wind needles the window covering, rattling it faintly in its tape harness. Distant, muffled noises drift up from below—TV, someone laughing, someone yelling at someone else, all several floors away and none of it my immediate problem.
No one coughs right next to my ear. No one rolls into my bunk. No one calls my name.
My body doesn't quite know how to relax into that. It keeps waiting for impact. For staff to flick on the lights and yell about curfew. For a fight to break out in the next bunk.
Nothing happens.
I realize at some point that I've been counting my own breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. The rhythm slows without me telling it to. The map overlays fade to dim lines, then to faint impressions. I could call them back if I tried, but I don't.
I am not going to sleep here, I tell myself. Not all night. It's just a test. Just seeing if it's viable. If it's too cold, I'll go back. If it feels wrong, I'll go back. I'm not choosing anything permanent yet.
The lie is comfortable enough to pull over myself like another blanket.
I let my eyes close.
They open again to a pale line of light cutting around the edge of the sheet over the window.
For a second, I forget where I am and my hand shoots out for the bunk rail that isn't there. My fingers smack the wall instead. Paint flakes under my nails. I freeze, listening for a chorus of kids groaning about being woken up.
Silence answers.
Then the building's slow morning noises drift in: water rushing through pipes as someone below flushes a toilet, a radio playing faintly through too-thin walls, the distant clatter of something dropped on a kitchen floor.
Not shelter. Apartment.
My chest loosens on an exhale I didn't know I was holding.
The blanket is cold where it's slipped off one shoulder, but the air around my face is warmer than last night. Body heat trapped in this little corner, protesting the morning a bit.
I push myself up to sit, back against the wall, and rake a hand over my face. My fingers find dust instead of someone else's elbow. The cardboard under me creaks, then settles.
I slept.
Not in snatches between other people's noises. Not with one ear open for staff and strangers. I slept all the way through, long enough for the light to change.
I don't feel rested, exactly. Gotham doesn't give that freely. But I feel… less frayed. Like the edges of my thoughts have been sanded down.
My brain immediately tries to fill that smoothness with more maps, more systems, more planning.
I let it have one.
Shelter, St. Mary's, is still a node. So is the vent alley, and the bodega, and the church, and every place I've fixed something that matters. But when my mind tries to sketch "Where do you run if everything goes wrong?", the arrow lands here.
Four walls. Bad floor. Door that wedges for me and no one else.
I stare at that thought for a second.
"If anyone chases you tonight," I tell myself quietly, "this is where you run."
The words feel like a promise and a threat at the same time.
Then I swing my legs off the bedroll, plant my feet on the cold floor, and start getting ready to move.
The city's still broken. The heater still needs monitoring. The vents and pipes and kids and shelters still exist.
But now, so does this.
A base of operations.
Not "home." Not yet.
The word lingers anyway, like heat in a brick wall after the sun goes down.