A/N: Okay, so this is sort of a window into a 'verse that mainly exists inside my head, so it might be kind of confusing. I've often thought of or even planned to write the complete chronicles of this verse, but time and attention to one project are never things that I've had a lot of. Maybe one day, I will write what I'd call the Tamara Caulder Chronicles, and then this would sort of be spoilers (to channel River Song). But in all likelihood, I'll never get that written, so I'm going ahead and publishing this. This does follow Fine, the very first of the (told and untold) Tamara stories. Plus, crossovers with Static Shock.
When she was in fourth grade, they had to write an essay on what job they would do in a circus. Half the class chose clown, because this was Dakota, not Gotham, and clowns were still harmless and funny.
She didn't want to be in a circus at all, but the teacher said that wasn't acceptable and she had to choose something. She chose tightrope artist.
She is a tightrope artist now. The line she walks is her sanity.
When she was in fifth grade, Bobby Nieses took her Poogly and called her a baby when she cried. He threw Poogly into the sewage drain. She threw him into his worst nightmare.
After that, the kids didn't call her a baby anymore. They called her a freak.
No one calls her a freak. They may mutter it to themselves when she is out of earshot, but never to her face. They don't dare. Only her mirror dares, and the dark thoughts that whisper in the back of her mind.
After that, she had weekly sessions with the school counselor. They talked about moving to new cities and adjusting to new schools and danced around the word meta-human for almost an entire semester.
They don't talk about it. They all know. The whole city knows, it seems, or at least her circles, but no one says it out loud. But sometimes when she looks into their eyes, they flinch, and she knows they know.
When she was in sixth grade, she met Marley. Marley was eighteen that year, about to head off to Metropolis for college. She was tall and skinny, like a supermodel, only completely not, and the beads in her hair clinked when she walked. She had come to talk to her mother, and Tamara had a way of being invisible sometimes. She barely squeaked when Marley shut the door behind her from halfway inside the room.
Tamara had only lived in Dakota for two years, but she knew who Elastique was.
Marley was mortified and horrified, and Mrs. Evans was philosophical. "Consider it a lesson better learned now than later," she said calmly, and then introduced them.
Your secrets are never safe, she knows, and she never takes off the paint, except each morning before she puts it on again, even though she knows, each times she rubs the white over the long, ugly scar, that it's too little, too late.
The good part was, she got to talk to someone older—but not old—about having powers. Marley was pretty cool, and even gave Tamara her number—for emergencies, she said.
When it's a real emergency, no one comes. You can call whoever you'd like, but they won't come. It's just you and your nightmares, over and over again, and everyone pretends they didn't hear you scream in your sleep.
The better part was, Mrs. Evans no longer thought she had to act like she was clueless about meta-powers, and instead acted like someone who had raised a meta-human daughter and maybe—if Tamara had caught that part about a brother right—a son too. And then Tamara realized that Mrs. Evans really could be trusted to keep her secrets. She told her everything, about the Brain Trust, and Batman, and not being able to control her powers when she got really angry.
She remembers screaming. She remembers how the "No" got caught up and snarled in her throat and came out as a wordless roar. She remembers closing her eyes, and then opening them, and seeing only red.
The best part was, Mrs. Evans hooked her up with a "Bang Baby," as Mrs. Evans called her who could help her with her powers. Tamara liked Mirage instantly. Their powers weren't quite the same, but the basic principles were close enough.
Know your limits. Know what you can't do, and what you won't do. Control. Focus. Responsibility.
When she was in seventh grade, she took tae kwan do, like Mrs. Evans and Mirage had suggested, and met Katie. Katie had big blue eyes, a slice-of-melon smile, and no powers at all. By the end of the year, they were best friends.
The sound of breaking glass and breaking bones and the screaming that was her own and the screaming that wasn't.
In eighth grade, Tamara suddenly found herself well and truly popular. Katie had plenty of friends and was more than happy to share them with Tamara. No one called her a baby anymore—Poogly stayed at home now—and no one called her a freak, She hadn't temporarily blinded anyone or given them visions of their greatest fears in years. The school declared her well-adjusted, but allowed her to keep her weekly counseling sessions anyway, just in case.
The taste of blood in her mouth, and bile, and her costume all slick with sweat and blood and she doesn't even know whose it is and she knows she doesn't want to.
One day, she was startled to realize that she was happy.
And the voice in her head screaming at her, screaming and screaming, and the tears that she can't stop, and the whole world is spinning, spinning, and it won't slow down.
In ninth grade, her family moved back to Gotham.
She hated it at first, with every fiber of her being. But it had Batman, and then it had Matt, and for a while, that was enough.
She remembers screaming his name, over and over, in her head and out loud. It made no difference. He didn't come. He didn't care.
Matt was the first boy she ever liked. He was the first person she ever voluntarily told her secret to. And he was the first person ever to know her other secret. One day, when she gets older, Tamara wants to work with Batman.
Through the shadows, she can barely make out his dark shape and she shakes away the ghosts of the past. "Looks like we've got some company," she grits out.
Matt was thirteen, same as Tamara, and he thought Batman was the schway-est thing since VR. It didn't take them long to form their own little private Batman fan club. Sometimes, they even called each other Batgirl and Robin.
"What's the sitch, Miss M?" Patches peers into the darkness, trying to see what she senses by instinct.
The summer before tenth grade, she wondered why they couldn't do something now. They couldn't be Batgirl and Robin, but they could be something. They could do something. Matt wasn't as eager, but he wasn't hard to convince.
His costume was grey, shot through with black streaks. Hers was black, accented with white. His was just sports pads with spray paint and hers was just a leotard with gloves and boots, but somehow, when she wore it, she felt invincible.
"Looks like we've got Bats in our belfry," she says, grabbing a canister of spray paint and unloading it in Batman's direction. The transparent blur becomes a greenish blob and the gang suddenly comes alive.
That summer was magic. She'd never felt so alive, so whole and complete. She wanted to do this forever, with Matt by her side.
Dollface leaps onto Pickles' shoulders, hefting her silly putty shooter, while Ragtag swings his rubber chicken, Lollipop at his back.
When the end came, it was sudden and swift.
A batarang slices through the air, hurtling towards her face.
She'd forgotten the lesson she'd learned all those years ago as a child: Gotham is vicious, cruel, ugly. If you give it half a chance, it will rip you apart.
At just the last minute, she plucks it out of the air.
She'd left herself wide open.
Their eyes connect. One heartbeat, two, three…
They'd left her alive, but then again, they hadn't. They killed what mattered most. They killed the best parts of her and left the scraps that remained bloodstained and tainted.
They both look away.
She'd never get to be Batgirl.
Batman had rules, a code. Batman stood for justice and hope. Batman didn't kill people.
Under her long black gloves, her knuckles clench white.
She'd never be a heroine, not now. She'd never be anything but a sad, broken, little girl.
Beneath the thick white pancake makeup, the long cruel streak on her face burns like fire.
When she had cried so much that her tears dried up and left her soul as parched as a desert, she found the only thing left was laughter.
There is another batarang in his hand, poised to strike, but he doesn't throw it.
So she laughed.
The streets are empty now and the night is silent. Still, she looks up, hoping to see a flicker, a shadow, something. But there's nothing. She's alone. She's always alone.
Because after all, if you fall off the tightrope, what's left but to be a clown?