I know, another "Bruce's daughter" and "Martha" story. But it's for a reason, of which you'll know soon enough. It's also an allusion to Flashpoint and the plot will play on another Batman universe.
"Alfred's promise" refers to the promise he'd made to the Waynes to protect their son, and it'd carry on to Bruce's children as well.
Please let me know if you'd like me to update asap. I'm not sure when my next chapter will be otherwise, because I have proctor tests coming up this month. I don't own Batman or affiliated characters or any lyrics I use, though I do own the plot and OCs - and anyone inspired by this work is definitely free to use parts of this (with references to me).
"You need to get up!"
Something hit the floor. A door slammed, shaking the house from foundation to attic.
The voice was failing to sound kind. It snapped like a whip. "It's time to leave. Get your things packed up."
A woman panicking. Her head taking turns between the new stains on the carpet and her teenage daughter stumbling through the house. She held the front door open, teeth clenched shut. It was too late.
She didn't know why she bothered fighting the fight. If it isn't late, it's another thing. Three days per week at the least. Her husband was too busy commissioning the force to police the household. And their son Jimmy Jr., not unlike his father, had left early with coffee to his empty stomach.
"Barbara! Please." Although it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change a missed alarm, a chugged breakfast, or the fact she didn't know what had been stealing her daughter's sleep every damn night.
Fortunately, it was the only insanity that robbed her foster daughter, Martha, of sleep. Martha's eyelashes - or what was left of them - flew open. She was indecisive whether to groan, or sigh in relief of being woken up by her foster mother's coaching instead of another wild dream.
It made her press her pillow over her ears, however she wouldn't opt for any change. Some days she'd wake to her foster mother coaching Babs, or a shoulder pat followed by her foster father's voice persuading her to come out of her bedroom. And that's how it should've been, always. But sometimes even the mundane things go differently than planned, and it's chaos.
"Sorry, Mom!" Barbara was calling out. Her cider orange hair was probably crimped and asleep along her shoulders. The blue of her eyes taking focus away from her distressed face. Odd bruises being stubbed on furniture as she raced the clock. That's how mornings had been since Bab's 15th birthday, and she wouldn't be getting any younger - or become any more normal anytime soon.
Outside Martha's bedroom window, Barbara was finally stumbling onto the very patient school bus. Outside her bedroom door, her foster mother would be knocking at any moment. Or maybe she wouldn't this morning, being almost 8 am; she'd leave a cheesy reminder to remember her lunchbox.
Martha shuffled her blankets around her bed, to keep them from hanging on the floor. She moved the pillows from the middle back to the headboard. It was a half-ass compromise that kept both her and the parents happy.
When she brushed the sleep from her eyes, her palm caught something sharp.
She didn't understand how it went unnoticed for so long. It was a playing card, plastered into her cheek, like a fingernail hanging from its bed. How it got onto her pillow for her to fall asleep upon, she couldn't say. It was sharper than the typical Bicycle cards the Gordons use for rummy. It was blunt, like an army knife. Warm as if it was alive.
Despite being able to recall what was on it, she felt a need to look at it.
A child's fear was hiding behind yellow frills, a puffy blue romper and a large cocky smile. It wielded a woman's head impaled on a bloody sword, of which Martha easily imagined as her own. Blood dashed off the sword like cayenne and pointed to a word that she was forbidden to read. Her eyes followed it down the corner of the card, as each letter spelled it closer towards Hell. Joker.
The minuscule bumps on the card stabbed every nerve ending in her thumb, yet each bump seemed to fit perfectly within the ridges. The bumps on her arms made her tiny pubescent frame slightly bigger and more adapted to the outside world, but they didn't protect her from the coldness of the cocky grin.
A blur of purple within the blue made her stomach pound and head on the card made her hungry for insanity. The way her ribs almost escaped her belly told how much she'd been starving, and how little food she could down.
She rubbed the redness from her cheek. Her fingers came back as oily as the blonde hair that peered from her scalp. The musky green locks pouring to her shoulders was still clean from last week's shower, which was too ironic.
A gentle knock on the door sent chills down her spine. As silly as it sounds. She tossed the card in her rainbow-painted dresser, through the slot where the purple drawer had been removed. Not responding, hoping her foster mother would assume she'd somehow fallen back asleep.
Her foster mother said through the door panel, quieter than a whisper, "Are you awake?"
No, Barb, Martha's mind preached, I'm not. Just go to work now.
"Might I come in?"
Martha shot her face into a pillow, and whisked the blanket over her chest.
The door opened. "You have to get up as well. Maggie said to be ready by 8:40. She has a lot to do today so she'll have to take you in early."
The acoustics of the small bedroom were stained with Barb's drawling. Her hangover helped conceal the fact that Martha had a mild one as well.
All Martha said was, "Alright." She couldn't comment on how much it strayed away from usual plans. She wasn't in a position to worry.
Despite Barb's hand tickling her arm, Martha's face stayed down. Suffocating was better than getting questions regarding the red rectangle on her face. Or, rather, seeing Barb's already distraught eyes trying to avoid the faint red marks that made Martha smile from ear to ear.
Then Martha realized, where would Barb's eyes be? As anxious as she was, the woman wouldn't just wait on a sleepy body. She'd look around, and she'd see that damn card like a sore thumb. Martha couldn't tell Barb about the card, and Barb definitely couldn't stumble upon it. It'd only feed her anxiety, and put them both in position to worry.
Barb pushed oily auburn strays from her forehead. "She'll be here soon. And you'll probably want a quick shower first. Do you-"
Martha sprang up from the bed before her foster mother could go searching for an outfit. "I'm up. No, I'll be alright." She started towards the door without glancing anywhere but forward. With her feet in the hallway, she slowed down and let Barb naturally follow her out.
Barb strung out information that Martha had heard millions of times. If illnesses could write scripts. Maggie is going to get you there safely./You'll do great on the test today./Jim will get you at 2, or if you're not feeling well./Jim's planning on take-out, unless, for some reason - of which we do understand - you'd prefer something else.../I know you love it, but I still don't think it'd be safe to wear your necklace to school today.
Martha let Barb continue to naturally follow her, down the staircase, past Barbara's attempted breakfast and Jimmy's coffee-glossed college mail. Then to the door, where Barb snapped back and remembered she had to leave for work.
"And your lunch, Mar."
The thing that kept her from groaning was the fact that, beyond the cute Animaniacs splayed across the tin, had likely been a roll of quarters. The energy drink or some cigarettes guaranteed she'd last yet another day.
She took a kiss at forehead level. She broke into a true smile, when Barb forced a grin for her sake. Barb would give her a look, and Martha's seen it from others plenty of time to know what it means. She's even given it enough times to know. Barb related to her and recognized a brightness in her. Barb was scared for her, scared of her even, but also scared to imagine life without seeing her happy. It was strange, though it made sense.
Martha shut the door behind Barb. She almost forgot what she had to do as she watched out the window. Through the pink and black brush of petunias in the window box, Barb was rushing into her car. She'd sit in the unstarted car for a moment, thinking about how to maneuver out of the narrow cul-de-sac with Officer Maggie Sawyer's car coming in.
Martha turned towards the stairs. Something sharp hit her face. The Joker card was hanging on thin black fishing line, with actual blood dripping from the impaled cartoon head, and a smudge of crimson concealing the shades of purple.