Chapter Text
If Mallory Stone closed her eyes, she could still remember the summer day when she first saw Mrs. Wayne. It had just stopped drizzling; Mallory was sitting by the window in the playroom, watching over the younger kids in St. Monica’s Home for Young Girls. Sister Isidora came in, tapping the door as she did. Mallory could recall the nun’s gray habit, her small wooden cross, the way the sound of jingling rosary beads were louder than her footsteps.
“Mallory,” she said softly, “do you remember what we talked about yesterday?”
She looked up from the chess board in front of her. Mallory had been trying to teach Natasha how to play, but the six year old got bored quickly and was making elaborate stories about how the white king and black queen were secretly in love with each other.
“Yeah.” Mallory stood quickly, trying to not knock over the chessboard. “Is the test today?”
“Yes, dear,” Sister Isidora smiled. “Let’s go and plait your hair, so that you look neat and tidy when you meet the psychometrician and Mrs. Wayne. You understand why it’s important to keep yourself looking neat, don’t you?”
“It’s a sign of consideration for others and respect for yourself,” Mallory said, parroting one of the nun’s favorite teachings.
“Very good, dear,” Sister Isidora said. “Now, let’s get you a comb.”
Even at eight years old, Mallory found it funny that Sister would bring a comb with her since she kept her hair hidden. The pair sat in front of a mirror as Sister Isidora fished a pink plastic comb from her pocket.
Mallory looked at her reflection as Sister Isidora deftly separated her curly blonde hair into three piles, braiding them neatly and quickly. Mallory sometimes liked to imagine one day realizing that Sister Isidora was related to her, in some way– but that was impossible. They were too different. Where Mallory had blue eyes, Sister Isidora had dark eyes that looked almost black. Though they both had curly hair (Mallory peeked under her habit, once), Mallory was blonde and Sister Isidora had coarse black hair. Mallory had papery skin, while Sister Isidora always looked like she stayed under the sun for days and days. Once, Sister Isidora had pointed out a small cluster of islands below China, called it the Philippines, and said that she came from that country, that she had once worked as a nurse.
Sister Isidora always referred to her time before the habit as her ‘old life;’ Mallory wondered if she herself was on the cusp of a ‘new’ life.
“There,” Sister Isidora said softly, tying the end of the braid. “You look ready. Do you feel ready?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Mallory asked. This was just another test, and she loved taking tests.
“Not for the test,” Sister said, chiding her gently.
Mallory didn’t understand, but decided not to push the matter. She didn’t like it when Sister Isidora chided her for being a smart-alek; her lips would purse and her right brow would raise.
The other kids in the playroom didn’t budge as they gathered in small groups, playing with second-hand toys and drawing in second-hand books. Mallory had to step over plastic figurines and building blocks. A fight began somewhere, but ended with a sharp look from Sister Isidora.
When they got to the hallway, Sister placed a warm hand on Mallory’s shoulder.
It was meant to be reassuring, but Mallory squared her shoulders. She liked taking tests and she was good at it, and whenever she got good results, Sister Isidora would pat her head and smile. The corners of her eyes would crinkle and it looked like the sun peeking through the blinds on a beautiful spring morning.
The corridors were once white– they were now a sort of non-committal gray, as though they had forgotten what they once were. It peeled in certain places, even though the younger sisters, especially Sister Maria, tried to even out the color by using some of the donated acrylic paints. The Sisters could ask for donations to repaint the orphanage, but food was more important, clothes were more important, warm blankets and new boots were more important. Cleanliness and neatness, Sister Isidora would tell the children and the younger sisters, reflected the glory of the Lord just as much as beauty did. So, they made do with peeling, graying paint.
The neatest room was Sister Isidora’s office. It had a row of filing cabinets with the documents for every single girl that ever lived in St. Monica’s, an old wooden desk, a creaky chair, and a round table with four chairs. It had a window overlooking the vegetable patch, and the girls could sometimes see Sister Isidora diligently working whenever they had to water the tomatoes.
The older girls would often crowd in Sister Isidora’s room, sitting at the round table and talking about the boys at school, period cramps, or college admissions tests. Sister would continue with her work, chiming in every once in a while with a gentle reminder, a joke, or a Bible verse. There were no raised voices in Sister Isidora’s office, only a single raised brow whenever something fell beneath her standards.
Instead of teenage girls seated around the wooden table, today it was two adults. One was a graying man with wire-rimmed spectacles; he looked like a hawk, with his sharp nose and thin face. He was quietly speaking to his companion as he took out stacks of white paper from his briefcase.
His companion was a stunning woman with a head of glossy black hair. Her eyes were a piercing blue, like a clear summer sky. She was wearing a navy blue blouse and dark brown slacks, pressed to perfection. There were pearls on her ears, and a simple gold band on her ring finger. Despite being so sparsely decorated, the woman oozed wealth in a way Mallory could only ever imagine. It was in the way she sat comfortably but confidently, as though she wasn’t out of place in Sister Isidora’s threadbare office.
The lady stood when Sister Isidora entered with Mallory in tow.
“Good morning, Sister,” she greeted with a smile. “And I’m guessing this is little Mallory Stone?”
“Yes, our one and only Mallory,” Sister Isidora smiled. “Go ahead and greet Mrs. Wayne and Dr. Schultz, dear.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Wayne,” Mallory said, “good morning, Dr. Schultz.”
“Such a confident young girl,” the doctor noted.
“We raise young girls into self-sufficient ladies who are productive members of society,” Sister Isidora said.
“How modern,” demurred Dr. Schultz. “I can see why this is one of your favorite charities, Mrs. Wayne.”
Mallory felt Sister Isidora’s annoyance– if the doctor wasn’t a guest, then he would have been subjected to The Eyebrow. Sister Isidora resented the thought of the girls as charity cases, as though they were to be pitied. Mrs. Wayne must have felt the sister’s disdain, because she chuckled awkwardly.
“I believe in Sister Isidora’s faith in these girls,” Mrs. Wayne said, redirecting the conversation, “which is why we’re here. Do you know why we’re here, Mallory?”
“I’m going to take an important test, and then it will help me get to a good college, but only if I work very hard and keep consistently high grades in middle school and high school.”
Dr. Schultz nodded. “That is the gist of it. This is a standardized test, designed to measure not only your IQ, but your problem solving skills as well. It has a chess portion, and if you reach a certain score, you’ll be enrolled into formal chess training.”
“And then I can get a scholarship through chess?”
“Yes, Mallory,” Mrs. Wayne smiled. “My husband and I look all over Gotham for smart little children just like you, and we try to see what you might be good at and enjoy, and then use that as a way to get you into good schools.”
Mallory looked up at Sister Isidora, who smiled gently at her. “Go on and take a seat, dear,” she said. “Remember what I always tell you girls.”
Sister Isidora always said a lot of things, but Mallory knew what she meant.
“Study like you didn’t pray, pray like you didn’t study,” she recited. It was exactly the Sister’s brand of humor.
Mallory had done so well on the test that Mrs. Wayne recommended her to a private girl’s school for middle school on the condition that she join the chess varsity club. Mrs. Wayne stopped by St. Monica’s every month to have tea with Sister Isidora, who updated her on Mallory’s adjustments at the new school. Sometimes it was to report that someone had made a mean comment on Mallory’s big socks, sometimes it was to relay that the reason why Mallory was sent to the principal’s office was because she punched Cecily Johnson, who placed a cockroach in Megan Temple’s water bottle.
Mrs. Wayne always had a quick chat with Mallory, sometimes giving her new pencils and notebooks. Mallory soon learned the tell-tale signs of when someone saw her as a charity case– the pitiful looks, the condescending tones, the casual dismissal of her presence mid-conversation. Mrs. Wayne never made her feel pitied, and sometimes Mallory wished that somehow, in some way– maybe through distant relatives– she was related to the beautiful Mrs. Wayne.
It was a wonder that such a kind soul created an asshole like Bruce Wayne.
Twenty-four more years of living was what it took for Mallory to learn that the playboy billionaire was nothing like his mother– sure, he was also involved in his parent’s charities and foundations. Mallory would even admit that he had the same easy charm as his mother, if she was held at gun-point. But– he wasn’t Martha Wayne. Mrs. Wayne was warm, sincere, and considerate. She never looked down at Mallory, she had faith in what she could accomplish. Martha Wayne would never say that Mallory needed a nose job, was a reclusive nerd, and insinuate that she got lucky that she even won the election for Deputy Mayor– all because the other candidate was killed by a rampaging Joker a few months ago, during campaign season.
The thing was– Mallory shouldn’t have heard those things. It was an awkward position. Instead of mingling with Gotham’s elite in the ballroom, she hid behind a suit of medieval armor, listening as Bruce Wayne badmouthed her to Charles Beaufort and Lawrence Rhett.
“Not that important anyway,” Rhett said around his whiskey, no doubt a rare Macallan. “Who sits as Deputy Mayor, I mean. But between Marky and Stone? Stone wouldn’t have had a chance if Marky never died.”
“The old fucker wouldn’t have been very good at it,” Beaufort said, “but at the end of the day, it’s about the name at the end, no? Who would vote for a Stone, when the Claphams have sat as Deputy Mayor for… what is it now, sixteen years?”
Twelve, Mallory thought bitterly. Twelve years of twiddling their thumbs, sitting around and doing nothing.
“Twelve years,” muttered Bruce Wayne. “It was a good twelve years.”
“Quite annoying to see her face pop up in posters,” Rhett said. “She’s not really that much of a top performer in the looks department. But allow me to defer to your expert taste, Bruce.”
The man was silent for a moment, as though pondering the statement seriously. “Her nose,” he finally said. “If I had to change anything, it would be her nose.”
Attorney Mallory Stone was the Deputy Mayor of Gotham, worked at the office of the District Attorney, graduated at the top of her law class, was a champion in the junior chess league and entertained the idea of going pro when she turned eighteen. Bruce Wayne got into a drunken car crash on his own property the other day– Mallory should be the one looking down at him, making derisive comments, tearing him to pieces when he wasn’t within earshot.
Storming off in the opposite direction, Mallory blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. She had been to the ballroom of the Gotham Plaza Hotel before, and knew where the restroom was. She took to the backrooms, choosing to stay close to the walls, trying to blend with the waitstaff– people that the likes of Bruce Wayne undoubtedly regarded as a species that was worthy of only his passing pity. People that had to live from paycheck to paycheck, who had to count pennies in order to see how far their money could take them– literally. Adding the kilometers, computing how much train tickets could cost, how far they would have to walk. Bruce Wayne would never be able to understand that kind of struggle– the small kind of struggles that piled up and up and up, until they were finally enough to drag you down.
Mallory finally reached the ladies room and locked herself into one of the stalls. She grabbed the roll of tissue a bit too aggressively, dabbing at her mascara. With fumbling fingers, she opened her purse and pulled out her cellphone, going to her contact list and finding the number of her best friend, the only reason why she decided to ditch work and come to the Wayne Gala.
Mallory: At the ladies room. Pride hurt, mascara running. SOS. I told you that I shouldnt have come.
Samantha: And do what? Waste your flirty thirties in a dingy government building?
Samantha: Coming, btw.
Samantha: Champagne?
Mallory: Vodka. Or the beating heart of Bruce Wayne.
With a shaky breath, Mallory dropped her cellphone back into her purse. She tucked her head in between her knees, breathing deeply. It was quite a feat, considering how skin tight her dress was– something she had borrowed from Samantha.
Mallory tried to focus on the lavender velvet of the dress, tried to focus on her breathing. In-one-two-three-four. Out-one-two-three-four-five. Her therapist called it box breathing. Apparently the Navy Seals practiced it. Mallory wondered if that was actually true, or a tactic to make her feel less weak for needing to count her breathing.
She could still hear the voices of those men. The boy’s club. The rich boy’s club– an exclusive club, where the invitations were given during conception, available only to those with XY chromosomes. Mallory would talk shit about the rich boy’s club to Samantha whenever they would go out for Mojito Night, and Samantha would only roll her eyes and say that Mallory was only bitter because she wasn’t willing to play the game.
Easy for Samantha to say. Everything, in fact, was easy for Samantha.
There was a knock on the bathroom stall. “I’ve got you a vodka cran, Mal.”
Mallory opened it. Samantha Vanaver stood in front of her, short blonde hair in an effortless chignon. She was wearing an ice blue dress. It had a slit in the front, and no back to speak of. It was exactly the kind of dress that Sister Isidora would raise a right brow at, and Samantha looked perfect in it.
“What happened, Mal? And why are you out for the blood of the only eligible Wayne in the world?”
Samantha offered her the vodka cranberry, and Mallory took it gratefully. She took a few big gulps first before answering.
“He was with Beaufort and Rhett,” Mallory said. “He said that I should have a nose job, and that I’m lucky that I won.”
“The boy’s club?”
“The boy’s club.”
Samantha sighed, crossing her arms. “And that’s why men like Wayne exist to only look pretty, not to speak. I swear, some men are dumb as rocks. Present Stones excluded, of course.”
Mallory smiled back. “I would have handled that a lot better if it wasn’t true,” she mused. “I must be PMS’ing. This kind of bullshit shouldn’t have made me cry.”
“Maybe it’s because you haven’t slept in the past forty-eight hours, and haven’t partied in like, what? Ten years?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Mallory huffed. “In two years.”
“Two years of back breaking work, doing everything for our dear District Attorney, but getting none of the credit.”
“ Some,” Mallory said. “I got my name on the paper a couple of times.”
“We’ll make a politician of you, yet,” Samantha smiled. “Are you feeling better? You look like you’re doing better.”
That was the thing with Samantha, Mallory mused. Everything had to happen according to her timeline, done precisely as she decreed. She believed the world revolved around her, and she was rich enough to make it true.
“Give me a few more moments to reflect on some stuff,” Mallory said. “Therapy things, you know.”
Samantha nodded. She knew about Mallory’s therapy, had been the one to help her look for one that she got along with.
“I think,” Mallory said, “it really hurt because I thought that Wayne would have been like Mrs. Wayne. And she hoped that I would achieve things one day, myself. And this whole Deputy Mayor thing… If her son doesn’t believe in me, then who does?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Samantha chided softly. “Plenty of people believe in you.”
Mallory looked at Samantha. They both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Samantha’s hair was always polished, always a light shade of blonde. Mallory’s hair was darker, nearly auburn in dim light. Samantha’s eyes were a light baby blue, while Mallory’s eyes were a dull bluish gray. Maybe there would be a life where Mallory was as polished as Samantha seemed to be born as. Mallory highly doubted that.
She had only one life, one reality. It was useless to imagine a different timeline; she had to make do with the one she had.
“I’m going to leave,” Mallory said, standing. “I know you want me to be the kind of Deputy Mayor that hob-nobs with Gotham’s elite effortlessly, but honestly, we both know that I’m too abrasive. Hell, my nose is probably too abrasive for Wayne.”
“If ever you want it fixed, just text,” Samantha said. For a moment, Mallory didn’t realize that she was joking until the other blonde woman chuckled. “But for what it’s worth– you’re brilliantly abrasive. Delightfully argumentative. A terror to have in class.”
Mallory snickered. Mrs. Porter, who had been their English Teacher in highschool, always tried to find ways to disqualify Mallory in debates, citing her as a “terror” and “destructive to the esteem of others around her.”
“Fifteen year old Mallory would have given Bruce Wayne a taste of his own medicine,” Mallory muttered. “Damn, I’ve gone soft.”
Samantha only hummed in reply. Mallory knew why she didn’t say anything.
It was the same reason why Mallory decided to pursue law, even when it used to be her dream to travel the world and play chess. It was the reason why she didn’t have any friends outside of Samantha. It was the reason why she would sometimes zone out, the reason why she regularly experienced sleep paralysis, the reason why her nightmares were always repeating, the reason why she suffered from infrequent panic attacks.
Samantha didn't bother bringing up how quickly Mallory had changed from a fifteen year old argumentative chess prodigy into a bitter and reclusive sixteen year old. Everyone saw the change. No one knew the reason for it. But Mallory did. It was all boiled down to one summer camp.
One summer camp, between her junior and senior year–- the one where she went into the woods with her high school friends– Nadine, Cecily, Megan– and came out without knowing where they were, what happened to them, nor why the only thing she could remember was Nadine saying a single phrase:
“The Court of Owls.”