I crossed my legs, adjusting my position on the sofa. Bruce's eyes were on me—I could feel them, but I did not look. Instead I was glaring holes into the side of the stranger's head, the stranger sitting three feet to my left.
I'd been told his name but I refused to utter it. Finally, I turned my head to reposition my heated glare. It landed on Bruce's face seconds before I uttered the words, "This is a sick joke."
"No joke," Bruce shook his head calmly. "We need to get back to business as usual."
"And if Dick comes home?" I questioned, raising a brow.
"He won't. We're wasting our time waiting. The only thing we can do is move on with our lives."
Moving my eyes to my lap, I scowled, "He only left because of you."
"What did you just say?"
Bruce's voice was low, and I knew then i'd pissed him off. But I honestly didn't care. Not in the moment. My head snapped up to see his expression puzzled—not because he was confused, but because he obviously didn't understand why I was saying this.
Anger was clenching my jaw, tightening my crossed arms. "Have you even tried to reach out to him? Tried to make things right? Maybe if you did, Dick would come home-" I glanced left, at the stranger now staring at me. "-and we wouldn't need a cheap knock off."
"Patricia, please-" Bruce sighed.
The stranger spoke up, interrupting, "Bitch, you don't even know me."
"I don't need to, to know you're a waste of time," I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Fuck off."
"Get out of my house."
"It's my house, too, now," he leaned toward me in an expression, mimicking my narrowed eyes. "In case you haven't noticed. Maybe it's because you're a blonde?"
Every inch of my face contorted into spiteful, irate disgust. I opened my mouth to retaliate when Bruce's voice cut between us like a hot knife. "That's enough," he said, in frustration. "This is final, Trish. We're moving on."
I stared up at him also with disgust, but instead it was mixed with sorrow. He wasn't even going to try to mend things with Dick so he could come back. A part of me expected it, but the rest of me was incredibly disappointed.
Bruce was one of the three men that raised me. I'd never looked at him in such a negative light than I did right then, even after thirteen years. I uncrossed my arms and pushed myself up from the sofa, then exited the sitting room without another word.
I'd gone to my bedroom and stayed there. Cleaning, cooking, gardening—other tasks always helped me to relax after becoming upset. They helped me focus on something else and gave a momentary reprieve.
So I put one of my Pink Floyd records on and started cleaning my bathroom. It had been cleaned already this week but I didn't care. Once I'd scrubbed the tub, toilet, and sink, I scrubbed myself beneath the shower head.
I did my best to wash off the urge to cry and scream, and the urge to call Dick and tell him and try to convince him whatever life he'd made for himself since leaving wasn't worth it. Somehow I always felt my most emotionally comfortable in the shower.
No bad day could stand up to the calming nature of the hot water and dim lights. Comfortably Numb could be heard through the open bathroom door, creating a melancholy ambiance. It helped—but it didn't cure anything.
After my shower, I dressed in my cotton pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. It was the first one I grabbed out of the top drawer of my dresser, and it just had to be my only Wayne Enterprises shirt. I only kept it as a sleep shirt.
Or a shirt I could rip up if necessary. With wet hair, I dropped backward onto my bedspread and laid there a minute, listening to the song. I didn't know just how to process whatever I was feeling, and I didn't think I ever would.
It's not something you learn. You just work it out eventually. One day you wake up and suddenly you don't feel so bad. There's no secret trick. At least, that's what Dick had told me. Even still I would trust him over Bruce.
And yet, I thought, you're still here.
I got up with a huff and stopped the record player. The melancholy was not at all what I needed. Instead, I opened up my stereo and placed a CD inside, closed the lid, and pressed play. A vibrant, sultry voice filled the room and I felt a pang of nostalgia.
Selena was one of Savannah's favorites. At least, it was when I knew her. The last time I saw Savannah Syren was the last day of her trial. Bruce did not want me involved in it whatsoever but, thankfully, Dick snuck me out to go.
If he hadn't done that, I might not have ever seen her after the last time she left the Manor, weeks before her arrest. She was like a sister to me in some ways. I looked up to her. My eight year old self wanted so desperately to be like her.
So, logically, I learned Spanish and wore mostly the color red. The Spanish was for times like these, when Selena would randomly sing through a stereo and it was a necessity to be able to sing along.
Even now I found myself whispering the words to myself as I straightened up a few things around my bedroom—reorganizing my desk, picking up clothes or fallen items. I didn't feel anything but stark and saddening nostalgia until a belted note signaled the start of Savannah's favorite.
It was mine, too, if only because it was the one we sang along and danced to the most. "Cada vez que lo veo pasar. Mi corazon se enloquece. Y me empieza a palpitar," I sang along unapologetically, twirling once to match the music as I went from my desk to the closet.
The music was rather loud, and so was my singing, but I didn't care. I pushed in my dresser drawers and tidied up the closet a bit. During all of this I only left my room once to go down to the kitchen and retrieve a cup of tea.
When I ventured to the downstairs of the Manor, I didn't see any strangers lurking about or brooding playboy philanthropists, so I wasn't forced to put on a sociable face. I was able to scowl all the way from my room, to the kitchen, and back again.
It was fairly freeing. I came back to my room with a steaming mug and went straight to Percy's cage. Percy, my small Chinchilla son, perked up when I opened the cage door. He was always eager to come out and hang with me.
I pulled him out of the cage and brought him—and my tea—to my bed, and got comfortable with a random book i'd picked up from the floor. Percy sat in my lap while I read, gnawing on a treat I gave him. The randomness of my activities was alarming.
At this point, I was doing things to pass the time—at least, enough of it so that most of the Manor would be asleep. Wayne Manor at night, when it felt completely empty, was much easier to travel through than during the day.
There was something about daylight that made it ugly. But the night, it made it feel intriguing. I knew all the secret spots, I knew this place better than the back of my own hand. Yet there were always new places to explore.
After a while, I decided to put Percy away for the night and attempt to get comfortable enough to sleep. He was tucked away in his cage and I put my book away. Then I heard it—a soft knock at my door. My eyes almost—almost—rolled.
It would be just like Bruce to come crawling with his tail between his legs after icing me for the rest of the day. I begrudgingly pattered to the door in my pajamas and pulled it open with a sigh. An unreadable emotion traveled up my spine at the sight of Jason Todd.
I'd sworn never to say his name but, well, it was inevitable anyway. He wore a loose, casual smirk, leaning his left shoulder into the door frame. "What?" I questioned, tiredly.
"I think we got off to a bad start," he pulled a hand from behind his back, revealing his hold on a small container of gelato. "Wanna help me fix that?"
My shoulders slumped, a small huff of air slipping through my lips. Did I, I thought, want at all to mend a terrible first impression? The first instinct in my chest was to decline, shut the door, and trap myself below the blankets where he could not find me.
There I would hide until eventually he blew away with the wind, after it'd been realized he was just what I had expected—a cheap imitation. But that was awfully bitter and mean. I mentally reprimanded myself for that thought.
I reached out and snatched the cold container from his hand and stepped out from the safe confides of my bedroom, then walked down the darkened hallway toward the staircase. There was no way I was going to let him in my room.
Not yet or not at all—I wasn't comfortable with that idea. So the staircase was the next best thing, it being wide open and out in the public view of the rest of the Manor. I sat on the top step and Jason mirrored my position three feet to the right.
He'd brought a second container for himself, popping open the lid after handing me a silver spoon from the kitchen. "Bruce put you up to this, hm?" I spoke rhetorically, digging the spoon into the ice cream.
Jason wrinkled his nose at me, "No."
"Then," I paused, glancing at him sideways. "How'd you know I like pistachio gelato?"
"Well, Alfred told me that—only 'cause I asked," he smirked smugly.
I nodded then, pursing my lips. Leave it to Alfred to spill my secrets and leave me completely vulnerable to attack. "So, tell me how getting me fat is going to 'fix' this morning," I said, before spooning gelato into my mouth.
The boy huffed an airy chuckle, the sound lingering in the form of a loose smile on his lips. My eyes narrowed, analyzing him, as his replied. Jason propped himself back against the railing of the staircase, stretching out a leg on the lower step.
"That was an excuse to get you talking," he explained, facing me now. "The next part to this plan involves shaking hands like we didn't do this morning. We start over."
My left eyebrow rose as my amusement contorted my lower features, "Then what?"
"Then we get to know each other," he shrugged, still looking smug.
"Sounds like a shitty teen rom-com. And I don't make out with douchebags."
"Fuck, you've got some vocabulary."
I snorted, "Coming from the guy who just said 'fuck'."
"Come on, throw me a bone," he jumped to the previous topic, seemingly ignoring my comment. He set his container aside as he sat up, retracting his leg as he held out his hand in my direction.
My eyes rolled from the container of gelato chilling my hands to the hopeful and expectant expression of Jason's face. Even in the dark of the hallway, odd shadows cast with the only light coming from the lower level, his features were clearly visible.
I really did not want to touch him—like, at all. But, then again, I've shaken many hands belonging to people I never wanted to touch. Shaking hands was what you did when meeting someone. Everyone knows that.
The common sense filling my brain caused me to groan. Finally, I slid my hand into his and shook it, swallowing the bitter pill. "Jason Peter Todd—nice to meet you," he smiled at me.
"Oh, middle names, too? We're going there?" I quirked an eyebrow.
He nodded sarcastically, playing along with ease, "Yep, we're going there."
"Alright, then. Patricia Adeline Yorkford-Pennyworth, at your service," I introduced myself, purposely using my complete legal name in the hopes of gaining some kind of outward reaction.
"Hot damn," Jason's face lit up, loosing a chuckle.
Shrugging as I retracted my hand, I pulled my feet up to perch beneath me, bringing my knees to my chest, "It's a family name."
"I like it—it's unique. Sounds real vintage," he commented, before leaning back into the railing. The words caused me to chuckle once, quietly, as I glanced away. "So, Bruce says you're Black Sparrow. That must be cool."
I had assumed Bruce wouldn't waste any time replacing Dick in general—but I hadn't exactly expected him to be so quick to give away all our family secrets. My back straightened a little as I leaned to the left, looking at Jason skeptically.
"Yeah...it's amazing," I replied, slowly. "I'm guessing he hasn't started training you yet."
"Nah, that's tomorrow—but I can't fucking wait. It'll be so cool, kicking ass side-by-side with Batman. And you, of course."
My eyes instinctively squinted, "Of course."
He spoke so enthusiastically about kicking ass with the Bat, and the addition of me was obviously an after thought. Though, that was reasonable. Everyone loves Batman. Everyone loves Robin. At this point, it seemed Gotham loves me as much as Batgirl when she started.
In other words—barely one percent of the city remembers my name. That didn't really matter, though, in the grand scheme of it all. As long as lives were saved, what does it matter whose name is in the headlines?
If I only could've convinced Dick of that sentiment. I sighed internally at the thought. "How'd you end up here?" Jason inquired, eyes full of curiosity as he jutted his chin at me to emphasize his words.
"Bruce didn't tell you?"
He shook his head, making a facial expression to match his brief shrug. This time my sigh was external. "Alfred was close friends with my mom so, when she died, he adopted me," I explained, shortening the story drastically.
"How old were you?"
"Five, when she died. I was seven when I got here, though."
I reached beside me to pick up my container of gelato. My fingers worked the spoon through the substance quickly to put a spoon full of it in my mouth before I could say more. Sharing personal details made me uncannily self-conscious.
It wasn't something I enjoyed. In fact, I loathed it. Silence carried the time for a moment. The quiet was a little perplexing, considering he seemed unable to shut his mouth. But I could feel his eyes on me—and I couldn't help myself.
Turning my head a little, I glanced up at him from my gelato curiously, "What?"
"Aren't you gonna ask why i'm here?" he questioned, staring at me with perplexed features.
"You'll tell me your tragic backstory when you want me to hear it."
I gave a soft shrug, delivering my answer calmly and simply. Dick was never one to openly talk about certain topics regarding his family—neither was Bruce. They'd answer some things, depending on what I asked. But after a while I got into a habit of not asking.
I felt the questions becoming insensitive the older I got, finally becoming aware of it after my innocent youth. By the time Dick left us I had adopted a policy of not asking. If what I wanted to know was available information, it would come out voluntarily later.
Jason stared at me in the dark—the corner of his mouth upturned and his eye lines crinkled in an expression I could only name as intrigue. I found myself staring back as I read the expression. Then, once done, seemingly unable to remove my irises.
The muscles holding my eyes on his face were unapologetic and absentminded, tracing the line of his jaw and brushing over his cheek bones. His strikingly blue eyes flitted quickly between mine for a beat before dropping low to my chin.
No, not my chin. My lips. There was no offense felt from this action—because I was doing the same thing. Something about the way he looked at me was alluring, it was magnetic. And my innocence shone through in my curiosity.
I found myself wanting to know what the skin of his face felt like, what would happen if I simply reached out and touched it. Then realization ran through my body in a sudden jolt, causing my torso to lurch back the few inches i'd absentmindedly leaned forward.
He'd done the same a second later, sitting upright and blinking a few times as though he, too, were just coming out of a dream. Heat flared in my cheeks with the drop of my stomach as a smirk slowly crept its way onto his lips.
The ones i'd just been staring at. "Thanks for the olive branch," I spoke quickly, gathering myself together as I rushed to stand, hopping up onto the hallway from the second step. "Goodnight."
I am convinced my feet never truly touched the ground when I pattered back down the hallway to my room. "Wha-" Jason cut himself off with a huffing sigh as I reached my door. "...goodnight."
My hand turned the knob and I pushed through into the safety of my warm bedroom, a place easy to escape from whatever hypnosis was taking place on the staircase. Immediately I closed the door, flopping my back against the wood, exhaling.
To appear unattainable, I reached out and pushed down the light switch. Percy's night light was the only light in the room then, a blueish-white hue that only lit a corner of the room. The tactic seemed to work just fine.
In the morning I was gone from the Manor before anyone else but Alfred had woken up. It was a big day for me. Savannah had started a small dance group for a charity show at the school many years ago when she attended.
After that, the group became popular simply by word of mouth, Savannah's name bringing it more popularity than it could handle. And then the group was being used for different charity events around the city.
It was a neat idea but it died when she was arrested. Since then, I had resurrected it with the help my best friend in the whole world, Daya. She was arguably the best dancer in the city, but she was an even better singer and friend.
I didn't want to be the center of attention, I didn't want to be the star—so Daya filled the role of lead singer and performer for the group. There was no way I could be the lead with Daya's voice so readily available.
Today was the final, in-costume rehearsal before an important event. So I'd driven to the venue to meet the girls and we got to work. The other members were all secret heroes of mine. Not because they were famous or anything.
They were my heroes simply for existing. Aaliyah, Rebecca, and Tiffany were goddesses of dance. They were strong, confident women of color, their talent only making them more beautiful. We'd joked many times that I was the 'token white girl' of the group.
Surrounded by such talents whom were also my closest friends, I didn't mind being the odd girl out. Their level of skill and professionalism was something I strove for.
We rehearsed until we needed to leave the venue so the crew could finish setting up, with only a couple of hours before the event was scheduled to start. So Daya and I went to the Manor to get ready—mostly because her outfit had been dry cleaned with mine and hung in my closet.
I pushed through the door, holding it for Daya. "The outfit looks so good on you, though," I was saying, as we entered the Manor. "It contrasts with your skin tone perfectly—I just look really pale and it's gross."
"God, Trish, you're gorgeous in gold!" Daya laughed at my words, almost as though she found the stupidity cute.
My eyes narrowed in a disbelieving expression, the front door falling closed behind us as we crossed the room to the staircase, "Says the literal goddess walking into my house wearing Gucci like it's her job."
"Okay...you got me there," she said, as we started up the steps.
The humorous, sarcastic nature of her tone and the expression her features made caused me to laugh, and Daya laughed as a reaction. She threw her arm around my shoulders, the two of us laughing together up the staircase.
We'd just reached the top step, moving into the hallway, when I heard a familiarly smug voice. It was Jason, I knew. "Yo, where you been all day?" he asked, walking toward us from the other end of the hall.
I stopped walking with a heavy sigh, causing Daya to retract her arm from my shoulders as I turned to see the incoming male. "Yo?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.
Jason rolled his eyes, "Bruce's looking for you. Said something about a show tonight?"
"Yeah, tell him it's at the hotel on Green Street. It's a black tie event so i'm not sure hoodies and wife beaters would blend."
Yesterday he'd worn a thick cotton hoodie. There wasn't much to say for that. But today Jason wore a loose black wife beater that clung to sections of his torso, his exposed flesh visibly coated in a layer of sweat. Swallowing hard, I kept myself back.
There was no desire for a repeat of last night. So, using all my self control, I simply did not look away from his face. Though, that wasn't much better. But it was the lesser of two evils. Or was it?
"I've worn a tux," he wrinkled his features in a spiteful expression.
I laughed once, patronizingly humorous, "Okay, Jump Street."
"You must be Jason," Daya sidled up next to me, leaning into me with her forearm propped on my shoulder. My eyes instantly snapped to look at her face, questioning silently—what are you doing? Don't talk to him! He's literally cancer.
Jason smirked smugly just about all of the time, it seemed. It was almost like he didn't know how to make any other expression. But his crystal eyes lit up when they moved to Daya, and my blood almost boiled. "In the flesh," he replied, emitting visible testosterone through his pores.
Daya gave a small chuckle, looking over him in disbelief. "You are a cocky one, aren't you? You're lucky you're not ugly, sweetheart," she told him. Then she turned to me, "Let's go, babe."
A devilish thought entered my brain. Calling each other 'babe' was common for Daya and I, and it meant nothing romantic. But Jason didn't know that. I smirked confidently at him as I slung my arm around Daya's neck.
"She's mine, asshole."
I pulled Daya with me as I turned around and the two of us began to walk to my room. It was incredibly hard not to start laughing—my chest was filled with an insatiable urge to burst with triumphant laughter.
But I held it in until we got into my room, the door securely shut behind us. Daya continued toward my bed but I stopped immediately after shutting the door as the insatiable laughter began to consume me.
It was audible at first, then the laughter was too deep and too strong to be heard. I was choking on it, thrust back into the closed door, my face wrinkled painfully tight. The implications of what I'd just started stretched far and wide.
This didn't end at Jason Todd—no, it would continue to Bruce and to Alfred. It only made me laugh harder, the image in my head of Jason telling Bruce I was a Lesbian or, at the very least, Bi. He would be so confused.
And for some reason it made me laugh so hard my stomach muscles began to ache. I could hear Daya laughing at me from the bed, and I forced my eyelids open to look at her through teary eyes of joy.
"Are you gonna get in trouble?" Daya asked, looking at me seriously through her chuckles.
Shaking my head, I pushed off the door and walked toward the bed, "No...but I've just given...myself so many...opportunities to mess with that shithead."
I answered her question through remainders of laughter. Daya crawled across the bed and slid off the side, then went to the record player on my dresser. I'd dropped onto the end of the bed, rubbing the water from my eyes, while she put a record on.
We had only a couple of hours so we tried not to waste time taking turns using the shower, then getting dressed. All the makeup was splayed out on the bathroom counter. Flecks of glitter were everywhere.
Daya finished with her press-on nails while I worked on my eye shadow. It had to match as closely as possible with hers, so I took many glances at her artistry when trying to do mine.
At this point, I'd gotten pretty good with my makeup. But that didn't stop me from being nervous when putting it on. There was a knock at the door just before we were to be leaving. We were running a little late.
I hurried to the door, having just finished my final outfit check, and pulled it open without thought. Alfred stood just outside the bedroom. He smiled proudly at me, holding a beautiful bouquet of lilies—my favorite flower.
My head tilted as a soft smile spread across my glittery gold lips. "Thought i'd wish you luck now in case I don't get to see you before the performance," Alfred said, and held out the bouquet.
I took it gratefully before throwing my arms loosely around his neck, "Thanks, dad."
"Aw, that's so sweet," Daya said, as I stepped back from Alfred. "Loving the supportive dad look, Mr. Pennyworth."
"Thank you, Miss Franklin. I believe if we don't leave soon you both are going to be terribly late," Alfred said, glancing at his wrist watch even though I knew he didn't need to.
In the few seconds it would take for me to toss out the dying flowers from the vase on my desk and replace them with the lilies, I did. Then we were completely ready to go. Daya and I hurried down the staircase to the foyer.
Bruce and Jason stood in the general vicinity of the front door, most likely awaiting Alfred. We made it to the bottom of the stairs, walking fast for the door, when Bruce noticed our approach. Unfortunately, it alerted Jason as well.
The rat gave a low whistle, pausing his struggle with with the suit jacket cuffs to follow us with his eyes. "Damn, Pennyworth," he commented, appreciatively. "You look-"
"I don't care, Jason."
I'd interrupted as Daya and I walked beyond him to the front door. I pulled open the door and held it as Daya rushed through the exit, heading straight for my car in the driveway. In the glance I'd spared over my shoulder I noticed something off about Jason's appearance.
For a split second, I couldn't tell what it was. But then I noticed it. Before following after Daya, I said, "Your tie's crooked."
Jason immediately looked down to his tie and I left the Manor wearing a small smirk. I've worn a tux, I thought. Yeah, sure you have, Jason. My feet carried me so quickly to the car that I thought for a moment that I might actually be levitating.
Daya and I arrived at the hotel on Green Street, the venue for our performance, only a few short minutes after we were supposed to. So, at least we weren't so late that the other girls started panicking. They only did that when it was after fifteen minutes.
Even then, it was a controlled panic.
We were in the women's restroom—the informal 'backstage' area for the night—preparing to go on at our specified time, when I received a phone call. My phone vibrated wildly in my gold clutch. It nearly bobbed right off the marble counter top.
But I quickly grabbed the clutch and shoved a hand inside, pulling it out with the cell phone in my palm. A familiar name that drove a railroad tie into the left side of my chest appeared on the screen. Dick.
There was only a rough estimate of five minutes before it was time to get on stage and perform. I didn't have enough time to stay and talk like I would want to. So, instead of answering as I yearned to do, I rejected the call.
I slid the phone back into my clutch with a hard swallow just as we were told to get to the stage by a hotel staff member. That was it. That was the opportunity I prayed for, the one to turn this all around, and I let it go.
Good or bad, I would have to live with it.
The girls and I made it to the moderately sized stage area in the purposely dimmed lights of the hotel ballroom. We moved into our proper positions as we'd rehearsed earlier in the day. And then the music began and Daya's voice filled the room.
She wore a small headset, making it easy for her to continue dancing in the parts that it was required. Tonight we were performing two songs, as it was a long event, which were approved by the event coordinator.
Our most popular and requested routine was to Bruno Mars' song 24K Magic. So we were to perform that routine first, then work in a second set to Ariana Grande's song Side To Side.
Though we didn't always use completely original choreography, we did always use original voices. It made the performances more interesting. There was a pound of glitter on my face to match the glitter on my sleeveless top.
It was solely gold glitter, matching the white fishnets that sparkled on my legs beneath the leather shorts on my hips. Tiffany was typically in charge of deciding costumes—and her fashion choices were always perfect for the songs.
Since 24K Magic was first, she chose gold glitter and black as the theme. It was only reasonable.
We didn't do much of an intro. The performance started into the verse, and the four of us dancing all moved in sync to the beat of the instrumental, guided by Daya's lyrics. I knew for a fact that all three other residents from Wayne Manor were in the audience.
But I didn't let that stop me. I'd pushed it from my mind as I always did. If anything, knowing they were watching only drove me to perform better.
The song hit a very important lyric for the purpose of this performance—spend your money like money ain't shit—and the five of us, hands on our hips, leaned toward the crowd and flipped our hair, and then leaned back to point at the donation banner to the right of us.
It earned applause and some laughter from the audience. That part always made me smile, laughing a little as well as we continued the choreography. Did the hundreds of faces staring at me and bright lights make me nervous? Of course.
Though, it never hindered my performance. For us it was all about having fun and raising money for good causes. If it was so stressful we couldn't function as a group, what would be the point of even being together?
We transitioned smoothly into the second song, applause coming from the audience from the end of 24K Magic. Now the opening music from Side To Side began to play and Daya was singing new lyrics.
She participated in most of the beginning choreography for this song because it was easy to do while singing. When the beat of the verse kicked in, and the moves got faster and more focused, she changed steps to only sing.
Her dance moments had to be carefully placed in order to keep her voice steady. You can't sing a straight note while doing jumping jacks very well. It was the same concept.
The whole performance ended with each member in a different pose, yet still connected to each other either by lean-on or a hand placement. It made us look like total divas but it sold the act too well not to use it. So we kept it.
Everyone watching the performance seemed pleased with it. The audience applauded at the end and as the five of us exited the stage. Aaliyah hollered as we entered the women's restroom, "That was amazing! We were so good out there."
"Beautiful job, girls," Daya nodded in agreement, smiling at all of us in turn.
My chest was pumping faster than normal with the hard work and adrenaline, but I managed to smile back as I breathed heavily, leaning against the counter. "Your voice was incredible, D," I said.
The others commented their compliments of agreement and Daya waved it all away, chuckling a little as she stepped up to the mirror. She never took compliments well. And I never understood why—not when she was so deserving of them.
After we fixed our makeup and wiped away any sweat, we made our way out into the crowd of event goers to mingle and talk people into giving money. It was the custom at these things.
All five of us went in different directions to cover random areas of the crowd. I was met with compliments and bright smiles from Gotham's elite as I walked into the ocean of people dressed incredibly more fancy than I was.
I'd left my rhinestone covered leather jacket in the bathroom, leaving me in my gold top and leather shorts, with black Converse on my feet. It wasn't much compared to the gowns and diamonds on the guests. Still I waded in and created opportunities to talk about the charity.
There were many people whom said they were already committed to donating, and there was a handful of others I was able to persuade to donate.
And then my heart lurched into my throat from a sudden voice close to my ear, the vital organ sinking into my feet once I realized who it belonged to. "That was pretty cool," Jason said, sidestepping up in front of me.
Sighing, my bare shoulders dropped, "Yeah...sure."
"No, I mean it," he assured, causing me to squint. There was something genuine about what he said next that surprised me, "That was amazing. You're really talented."
My head tilted a fraction of an inch as I eyed him curiously, trying to analyze his features for the punchline. But there wasn't one. And that only confused me. Bruce walked over to us from an ended conversation with some other guests then.
He stepped up beside Jason, a loose smile on his mouth as he gave me a nod. "That was an excellent performance, Trish," he commended me, a gleam of pride to his eyes. "You and your group never fail to put on a good show."
"Thanks, Bruce," I nodded a little, smiling with my mouth closed.
Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the sound of a shrill scream, the blood racing sound followed by a string of loud gunshots. My body jolted from the sudden, loud sounds, ducking a little instinctively.
The guests all started to scream and move rapidly in random directions. A hand on my arm pulled my attention to Bruce. It was easy to read the words written in his eyes—get your suit. I gave a singular nod and charged into the crowd.
I'd tucked my suit under the counter in the women's restroom in case I needed it during the performance. At this point, bringing it along and stowing it somewhere easily accessible was an incredibly strong habit.
It was done without much thought. It was muscle memory. I elbowed my way through the crowd and slipped into the women's room. Quickly I found my case under the far end of the counter and pulled it out, placing it atop the marble.
My suit was always easier to put on than Dick's. We joked about it constantly. The Robin suit was a little complicated, though Dick had putting it on down to an exact science. His method made it a hundred times easier to get it on fast.
The Sparrow suit was simple—step it and zip up. The only extras were the boots and the utility belt with a holster for my staff. It was in its two-part state to fit in the holster. But once I had it on, I pulled it out and connected both pieces.
Bruce Wayne was always being watched in such a public setting. But Patricia Pennyworth? No one cared. It was easy for me to slip away and reappear. I slipped out of the bathroom without notice and went left, toward the front of the ballroom.
Gunman wearing poorly constructed masks stood near the door, collecting jewelry and valuables from the patrons. I snuck behind the stage and continued on the other side, reaching into my belt for my bird-shaped batarangs.
At the end of the stage, behind a bar counter a few feet away, I perched myself. Then it was open season. I pushed down on the bar counter and swung my legs up, thrusting myself over the counter as I threw the birds.
They whistled through the air, each bird finding a home in various parts of each gunman. Then there was screaming—but it wasn't from the guests. A gunman who appeared to be the leader of this crusade yanked the bird from his wrist and charged.
He fired multiple bullets from his assault rifle that I leapt to dodge, coming up with the end of my staff as I landed, the weapon slamming into the under side of his chin.
The man was thrust backward, gun clattering to the ground. I swung the other end of the staff at the side of his face. Blood speckled the white flooring as the man hit the ground. My thumb grazed over the center button of the staff, separating the pieces.
With one in each hand, I leapt, rolling forward to reach the others. I swung as I stood, one half of the staff hitting a gunman in the side of the head while the other smacked the gun from another's hand by hitting his wrist, causing a loud crack.
There was only two left. One was already on the floor, writhing with a metal bird stuck deep into his thigh. The other dropped his gun and held up his bloody hands in surrender. Taking steps toward him, I slid the pieces of the staff back together.
"Hey, hey, hey- I surrender! I'm done!" the man shouted in his panic.
Of course, he had a right to be panicked. I twisted, spinning the staff around to aim the other end, before slamming it into the side of the man's head. He dropped to the floor, unconscious.
These were obviously not very experienced robbers.
Typically they at least tried to put up a fight. It made me suspicious, just how easy it'd been, but I kept the thoughts to myself as I turned my head to look at the stunned yet relieved guests.
Slowly, they began to clap for my—little did they know—second performance of the night. I gave a sure nod, glancing around at the thankful faces. But I was searching the crowd for Bruce and Jason, I was searching for Daya and my friends.
It didn't take me long to find the only guests wearing gold sleeveless tops. They looked shaken up but unharmed. Then, finally, my eyes caught sight of Bruce. He was visibly trying to hide a smug look to his face, clapping with the rest of the guests.
Bruce gave a single, slow nod—quietly giving me his approval and cuing me to leave at the same time. So I gave a final nod to those clapping and made my exit.
I waited in the alley behind the hotel for what seemed like at least an hour before Jason came through the side door with my clothes. That was to be expected, though, when you considered the arrival of Police officers.
The cops would want to question everyone at the event and get statements, which meant waiting longer to get civilian clothes, but the Sparrow suit was actually quite comfortable. I'd spent many, many hours in it as it was.
"That was intense, man," Jason said, giving me my clothes from the bathroom. "I mean- the way you dodged those bullets? Fuck, that was incredible!"
"Don't go becoming a Black Sparrow fan now," I titled my head in an expression.
Jason snorted, "Like I wasn't one before. I've never actually seen you fight before."
I held up one finger while he as talking, twirling it to make a turn around gesture. And he did without question, turning his back to me mid-sentence. While he was faced away I unzipped the suit and put back on my gold outfit.
The red and blue lights from the cruisers parked along the front and side of the building reached the shadows all the way back here. Jason made a sound of disgust, mumbling under his breath, "Fucking cops."
"It's common knowledge most of them are dirty-" I said, leaning back against the side of the building in order to tie my shoe laces. "-but, what's wrong with cops? In your own words."
"They're all a bunch of useless assholes. They don't even do their jobs."
"It's Gotham."
I'd said it as though that should be enough of a reason—because it should. This city corrupted and manipulated the kindest of souls and made good people into something they were not. It had a perverse effect on its residents.
Bruce had said Jason was from Gotham, but he talked about the Police here like he wasn't. I was used to the blatant inadequacy of the Gotham Police Department. Nothing shocked me anymore.
Hiking up my other leg to tie my second shoe, I looked up at Jason curiously, "I thought everyone was as used to their bullshit as I was."
"Yeah, says a girl who was raised in the lap of luxury, living in big houses and driving expensive cars," he grumbled the words in irritation. "Out there, on the streets? The cops did nothing but kick my ass every night."
My foot slipped off the brick of the building, dropping to the pavement below from a jolt of surprise. I stared at the back of his head, waiting—hoping and praying—for him to say he was joking. That he was just messing with me.
But he never did.
