Here I am starting a new story when I haven't even finished my old ones. This ones just been floating around in my head for too long to stay there anymore so here it is.


It is up to us to live up to the legacy that was left for us, and to leave a legacy that is worthy of our children and of future generations.

-Christine Gregoire


The world was normal. Somehow, with costumed vigilantes and super powered teenagers running around it was normal. Magic was real, superheroes were seen in almost every major city and anomalies like worm holes and time travel were practically expected to happen now and again. Brightly clad figures soared through the air and as-seen-on-TV was proven by every major news agency on the planet.

This was normal, expected, it was what she had been born and raised with, in a way that even the other children her age, those born just in time for the rise of superheroes, was not.

Oh certainly she watched Superman on the news and read about Wonder Woman's exploits in the papers. Without a doubt she followed the Justice League's official Twitter. She went to school aware of the possibility that it might not be there or that the road might be closed and she'd have to call in with her excuse and that of her sister.

It was the same with everyone she knew.

She doubted highly that other kids her age were the grandchildren of these same heroes that they watched on TV. Even more unlikely was that they suited up on the weekends with their grandfather and little sister and ran along rooftops, jumping down and beating muggers.

Yes, for her this life was normal. It was what she had known since she had begun a childs war on bullying, starting when she beat up a boy in the second grade for spitting on girl out the bus window. She'd been suspended for three days and during recess on her first day back the boy had tracked her down with three of his friends on the playground, out of the view of teachers, and hit her with everything he had.

She had fought back with literal tooth and nail. They had won, having number and size on their side and Alison had been suspended again, the boys running to the teachers before she could.

"Boys will be boys," her teacher had said, "You should have come to get one of us."

When she got back on the bus the same boy had yanked down the window as they stopped at a light, the same girl as before next to it, balancing a bike next to her mother. He had spit again, with disgusting aim, and laughed as the bus started driving away again, shouting a word that the seven year old didn't know but knew was meant to be mean. For the second time she launched herself out of her seat, tackling him and ripping his cheek open with her nails.

The principal, the child's aunt, had sat her down in her office after he had cornered with his friends again.

"You shouldn't provoke him," the woman told her, "Boys will be boys. You should know better."

It happened again.

And again.

And again.

He spit, she fought, they found her at recess, she was suspended. 'Boys will be boys'.

After she came home with a broken nose her father had very nearly torn their curtains into shreds before he had made the call that had changed her life. He'd called her grandfather, his father, Theodore Grant.

To the public he was someone else though, more than an ex-boxer and the sire of two bastard sons and just as many granddaughters.

To the public he was Wildcat.

Ted Grant had shown up on the doorstep of their apartment in Brooklyn a few hours later, looking no older than his son despite being almost eighty three. The man had stepped in, shedding his jacket and looking around until he saw Alison sitting on the couch, tissues stuffed up her nose.

On the floor was her four year old sister, Christine. They were exact opposites even then, in very strange ways. Christine was blonde haired and blue eyed, with the face of a doll and the fashion sense of a truck driver. She refused to have her hair at all long, instead demanding that it be short 'like tinkerbell!' from Hook. There were no skirts nor any pink, only pants and shirts.

Alison, on the other hand, had complexion a few shades darker, black hair thick and straight paired with brown eyes. She preferred lighter clothes, skirts and pretty things. She was louder than her sister, more out there and confident.

Right then though she had looked much more timid, admonished, berated, chastised and quiet.

Dark eyes peered up at her grandfather as her mother, Lucy, picked up her sister, carrying her to the other room while her father took a seat at the living room chair and her grandfather went to crouch in front of her. The girl hunched her shoulders, clearly expecting to get into trouble.

Ted, who had had only a minimal roll in both of his sons' lives, looked over at Thomas Grant awkwardly, who gestured for him to talk to her.

"So," he began, clearing his throat, "I hear you got in a fight at school."

Alison nodded silently.

"Well?" he prompted, causing the girl to look up, confusion furrowing her brows.

"Huh?" she asked.

Ted stared at her. "Aren't you goin to tell me why?" he questioned. Children were normally quick to tell about why it wasn't their fault that the fight had started, right?

"They spit on her, and called her re-retarded," the girl said quietly, a contrast to her normal nature, "So I hit him, and bit him, and scratched him."

Ted listened, a frown forming as he digested her words. "Well there's your problem!" her head snapped up to stare at her grandfather and her father groaned, standing up and fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket before walking out of the apartment.

"My problem?" Alison asked, curiosity in her eyes.

"You were bitin and scratchin him. Don't you know, kid? Fists are nature's problem solvers," said the superhero to the seven year old.

Alison straightened up in her seat, all her attention now on the man. "Fists?" she repeated.

"Fists," he held one up in demonstration, crashing it into his opposite palm.

"You know how'ta fight, right Grandpa?" she asked, scooting closer on the couch.

"Yeah," he agreed, somewhat wearily.

"Then, can you show me? So next time I can solve the problem? 'Cause I'm not gonna stop. As long as he keeps bein mean to people," the girl told her grandfather, jaw set stubbornly.

For a second Ted laughed.

"You sure aren't your dad's daughter," the man stated, standing up. "I'll show you how to fight, but you've got to be careful. Only pick 'em off of school grounds, and only ones you know you can win."

Alison smiled, hoping off the couch and bouncing on her feet.

"When do we start?"


Alison had been learning from her grandfather for almost two full years when she met her 'aunt' Dinah Lance. She had been walking along a balance bar on her hands when the old man had come walking into their training area, the private back room to a gym that he ran, teaching amateur boxers on the official paper, and training a nine year old to knock people at off the record.

The girls gymnastics teacher had advised her to start practicing more in her off time, so she had asked her grandfather to install some equipment she could practice one. He'd set up a balance beam and a bar for her to practice on when he wasn't having her run drills on the punching bag or playing a strange version of dodgeball, one that mostly her running from tennis balls that he send at her.

So when her grandfather had told her to warm up without him she had stretched out, jogged around and chalked her hands before starting to practice on the beam. It was when she was upside down, her dark hair yanked back in a ponytail, that the door to the room opened and her grandfather called her name. She had swung her legs, bending over her back before her feet touched the cloth and he straightened up, turning to face the door.

Ted Grant stood there with two women, one with blonde hair that was threatening to grow darker roots and another with hair as black as the Grants'.

Ted waved his hand at his granddaughter, motioning for her to go to them. "C'mere for a second Ally, I've got some people for you to meet."

Alison had obeyed, hopping gracefully off of the bar and crossing the room barefoot. The tile was cold against the soles of her feet, though she paid it little attention. Cold rarely bothered her much anyways. The child stopped just shy of the three adults, looking up at the two women.

"Grandpa?" she asked curiously, tilting her head as she looked up at them.

"This is Dinah Drake, an old friend of mine," Ted introduced, "And this is her daughter. Dinah Lance. She'd goin to train with us for a while."

Alison frowned, squinting up at the younger Dinah before looking at the older one.

"Isn't naming someone after yourself kinda narcissistic?"

The woman stared at the girl in shock before her face lightened into a smile. "I guess it is. Where'd you learn such a fancy word though? You can't be more than eight."

Alison huffed, insulted. "It was vocabulary two weeks ago… and I'm nine!"

"Sorry, that's a very important distinction," Dinah agreed, watching the child's face scrunch up in confusion.

Distinction?

"Difference," Dinah II offered.

Alison pouted. "I knew that."

"Alright, that's enough chit chat," Ted decided, turning from the three women to the training room.

"I'm goin to see what Dinah can do, you can keep doin what you were when we got here Alley Cat," Ted patted her hair in passing and the girl whined, reaching up to try and guard her hair.

"Grandpa!" she objected, swatting at his hand.

"Show Dinah your flip!" he called over his shoulder as he led the younger woman to the boxing rink in the center of the room.

"Already setting up her ID Ted?" the older Dinah asked, crossing her arms over her chest and watching as the man hopped over the red ropes, the black haired woman climbing in behind him.

"Aren't you the one that just brought your daughter here?" he asked, handing the woman, who really had to be a teenager, a pair of gloves.

"Yes, but she's already seventeen," the older woman pointed out.

Alison wasn't listening anymore, trotting back to her bar and hopping onto it before she started a basic routine she'd been taught. Cartwheel, cartwheel, splits, cartwheel, ninety degree bend at the waist. She straightened, spinning on the side and taking a quick start. She spun suddenly, both feet leaving the bar as she twisted in the air, tucking in before she straightened for the landing.

She missed, catching the side of the bar instead of hitting it straight on.

The girl gave a startled cry as she was sent flying to the ground, her rear end striking the matt placed under the bar for just that reason.

Alison sat up, muttering fowl words that her mother would never know she had learned while the adults tried to hide their snickers.

Red in the face the girl stood back up, climbed onto the bar and started again. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the younger Dinah learn how to throw a punch and almost scoffed. She'd known how to do that since she was seven!


Snow fell around them, gathering in corners and crunching under foot. Between the ten year old and the eighty five year old walked the youngest of the family, now six. Lights of red, green and white gleamed above their heads, wrapped in intricate patterns around trees and buildings. On street corners men in red suits stood, ringing bells and standing next to suspended red boxes.

Alison kept her left hand shoved into the warmth of her blue parka, the other hand holding one of Chris's as they walked down the street with their grandfather, who had been put on baby sitting duty whilst their parents went in search of Christmas presents.

The dark haired child watched the window, eyes on the toys and clothes that were displayed while her she talked with her grandfather and sister, pausing when something caught her eye in the window.

There, gleaming behind the glass with beautiful curves and perfectly carves hand holds. Alison actually slowed as she watched the light catch on the cold steel, reflecting her eyes back at her.

"Al?" Chris asked, poking her head around her sister.

"Hey grandpa," Alison called, eyes never leaving the display, "What do you know about knives?"


She was eleven when she was first allowed to go on patrol with her grandfather.

She'd been given a make-shift suit, which was really just a Kevlar shirt under a hoodie. A mask snapped over her nose and around her head, keeping the hood up around her head and hiding her identity. Leggings and combat boots had her dressed all in black and ready to go. A knife was strapped on her right thigh.

It was a make shift costume, nothing fancy for her dry run.

Her grandfather's hand was a comfort on the top of her head as she crouched at the edge of a rooftop, dark eyes fixed on the ground bellow and heart thrumming rapidly in her chest.

"Ready to get your feet wet Alley Cat?" Ted asked, his costume true.

The girl nodded ad on the night of June 18th, 2004 Alley Cat leapt from the roof tops and dropped, feet first onto the muggers bellow.