searchingfordistraction

She runs through a similar chain of logic in her head, then nods.

"Good plan."

As much as Matilda wants to be the one to rescue Jenny, there are two jobs here and she'll be better at the other one.

"You'll need to be ready to knock her out," he says. "We don't know exactly what she can do."

It's best all the way around to ensure that she not be able to do it.

(And, he doesn't say, once she's safely unconscious, he can take it from there.)

"Also a good plan," she acknowledges, although she doubts it will be that easy.

No, very likely it won't.

"All my plans are good," he says airily.

That actually gets a small smile out of her.

"Statistically unlikely, but given who's talking, I'm not gonna tell you you're wrong."

"Statistics," he tells her, "are for ordinary people."

Jim never did get the hang of being statistically likely.

"They so are not."

When was the last time he met an ordinary person who knew any statistics? Real statistics, not the ability to quote made-up percentages on the spot.

"Oh, dear," he says, "aren't they?"

And if he's deliberately dangling the distraction, well . . . what of it? They can make all the plans in the world, but none of them will be of any use if Matilda ends up making herself too tense to focus.

That's his story, anyway.

She shoots him a look.

Then she snickers.

He gazes innocently ahead, keeping his eyes on the road.

He's sure he has no idea what's so funny.

It's a quiet, subdued giggle by Matilda's usual standards, but it's still a giggle.

The hotel, when they eventually find it, is medium-tall and unremarkable-looking. No surprises about the layout. No surprises about anything, really. They have the room number—fourth floor, single room. Now all they need is an immediate plan of attack.

"Shorting out the power to the room, perhaps?" he suggests. "Can you do that without being able to see it or will you have to take out the whole thing?"

That he could do himself easily enough, but unless Matilda needs visual contact with the power controls, she can do it faster.

Matilda frowns slightly.

"I can't do it without knowing where it is and what it looks like," she says at last, shaking her head. She's not sure she could do it even so—she's had limited success manipulating objects not in the same room—but at least she'd know how to try.

"I can take care of that, then," he says. "She'll come down to complain before long, then you can keep her busy while I smuggle Jenny out the back door."

Firmly: "Good."

And while she can't cut power to a room she's never seen, she can open a locked door without touching it. She leads him in a side door, to avoid having to deal with hotel reception.

They may not have blueprints, but there's nothing in the layout of this building he hasn't seen countless times before.

It's not very long before the power on the fourth floor blinks out and Jim is quietly on his way upstairs.

Matilda, for her part, waits in view of the stairs closest to the front desk but not in view of the front desk.

Miss Trunchbull is the kind of person who goes by the most direct route.

Indeed she is.

She's also the kind of person who tends toward tunnelvision; staying out of her sight hardly requires Jim's level of genius. The moment she's left the fourth floor, he's at the door of her room, picking the lock. It's a standard lock - no keycard system in this hotel - so it's more time-consuming than it is challenging.

Even so, it's only a few minutes before he's pushing the door open.

Jenny has been standing behind that door, virtually motionless, since very shortly after Agatha left. The moment he moves past it, she swings a cast-iron table lamp up toward Trunchbull head level.

(Meanwhile: the unmistakable heavy stomp comes down the stairs, and Matilda realizes she doesn't really know how to knock out Miss Trunchbull. So she throws her down the hall as hard as she can and hopes for the best.

It doesn't work.

In fact, as the dust clears, she suspects it did more damage to the wall - which is now severely dented - than to Miss Trunchbull's head, which isn't.)

Much as Jim would be loath to admit it, his irregular diet and worse sleep pattern in Gotham didn't do his reflexes too many favors. He's still quick, still hits the floor and rolls into the room to get to his feet again with time to spare, but it's just possible that his height plays a role in his skull not being currently dented.

He's smiling when he stands again.

"Not much for the role of damsel in distress, then? No, I suppose I should have seen that coming."

Jenny stares.

She doesn't drop the lamp, doesn't relax.

But she does say, slowly, as though she doesn't quite believe it: "...Jim?" A breath. "Jim. What the hell?"

(Miss Trunchbull comes up snarling, sprinkled with chips of paint that parted company with the wall when she hit it. For a moment Matilda can hardly breathe, she's so scared.

There's a glow rising around the Trunchbull's clenched fist, the red of imaginary fire. She stalks forward, saying, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Matilda presses herself back into the space between two vending machines. It's not a feasible hiding place in the long term. She is going to have to change something about this situation, and fast.)

"We came to get you."

Obviously.

"Matilda's keeping your aunt busy. I'm sure you'll have noticed by now that a baseline human being such as myself is no longer qualified for that task."

Because he knows she'll waste time arguing if he doesn't explain. Not that he doesn't expect her to anyway, but it's worth at least trying to nip it in the bud.

"Yes, I—I did notice that," she says, somewhat distantly, and then shakes her head and focuses on him. "All right. Let's get out of here."

(Matilda steps out of her hiding place.

"You," says Miss Trunchbull.

"Me," she agrees. She's nothing like steady, but she's still capable of lifting Miss Trunchbull off the ground.

The red glow flares; off-balance without a floor to brace on, the Trunchbull nevertheless rears back and throws a crimson fireball with pinpoint accuracy at Matilda's head. Matilda ducks, dropping Miss Trunchbull in the process; she lands and throws another one.)

Good, she's going to be sensible about this. Jim brightens.

Then he pauses, cocking his head to listen.

Fireballs make a lot of noise.

"The back way, I think," he decides.

From the sound of things, the lobby is occupied.

"Was that—an explosion...?"

Jenny shakes her head again and sets the lamp down carefully on the floor. (It takes more effort than it should to let go of it. Her fingers are uncooperative.)

She can't help Matilda right now, and if Jim could she has to think he wouldn't be here. The important thing is getting out of Miss Trunchbull's reach (if that is even possible anymore). Then they can decide whether Matilda needs help, and if so, how on Earth to provide it.

(She rolls out of the way of the second fireball. The wave of hot air in its wake presses her down against the floor.

"You little witch," the Trunchbull spits.

The click of sudden understanding is almost a physical sensation. Witch. Magic. The common element. All powers are the same powers, expressed differently. How?

Another fireball roars toward her. She throws up her hands and it halts in midair. Behind her, she can hear the fire spread, smell the carpet burning. She risks a glance back and stops that too, holding the flames in suspended animation.)

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