A Good Traveller

The superhero thing was never really her game. She sort of preferred roller skating and boys and binge watching sit-coms – you know, normal things. Normal things that definitely did not involve time travel.

Authors Note: Oh, hi, I'm new here *waves*. I want to apologise firstly for any foolish errors I make with continuity. Frankly, I prefer to be well informed and up-to-date with the events of fandoms I write for but, in this case, I am woefully below my own personal standard. The only excuse I can offer for this is that I've been devouring fics and fanart for Teen Titans recently, but haven't yet watched all the cartoon episodes (much less read the comics) and yet I felt so very compelled to write - this piece and others - that I sort of threw my own self-imposed caution to the wind? Oops. So please forgive me for stupid things.

Also, I know you've probably got the message on this from any and all fandoms by now but, I'm one of those backwards Aussie fools who spells words differently. Just roll with it.

Chapter One: Can't Get Away With Nuthin'

"...to journey as a ewe that is a good traveller."

There was a popular saying in Jump City that a good superhero was always prepared. It was one of those things people liked to throw about in general conversation without ever really thinking through. Sometimes it didn't matter how prepared you were, what mattered was that you were around when you were needed. Someone had once told her that the most important element to being a superhero was simply playing your part. After sixteen years of passive observation, the only clear conclusion she'd come to was that heroes never took days off.

And taking days off was something of her own personal specialty.

It was appropriate, then, that she wasn't a superhero. Though, not for lack of certain persons trying. There were few things in life that she cherished and the burden of her genetics was not among them. She'd never wanted to be a hero, not for anything, and all the pushing in the world hadn't made her budge. Instead, she was a nothing; the wiry local adolescent with the curiously abnormal skin-tone. Nobody ever truly remembered her existence- not in the way they remembered, say, Carter Stone - and her greatest claim to fame was within the awkwardly-knit family of her fellows to whom she was the once-prodigal daughter and current long-term disappointment.

It didn't mean people wouldn't ogle, which proved most irritating when attempting to retain a low profile. That very afternoon had been a prime example. If she'd been any closer, the sudden rambling inquiry about her most interesting complexion might've risked her chances of navigating unseen to the rear schoolyard fence. And as it was she'd wasted precious and sensitive time trying to make an irritating member of the public aware of how unpleasant she found their conversation. Yes, she had the ears, the eyes. Yes, she had the skin-tone, the hair. Did she know Nightwing? Yes, she did.

And no, she would not have Uncle Dick sign the tattered, half-torn receipt they'd subsequently produced from the depths of their purse in their desperate search for the nearest scrap of paper. Could she have been any more clear? Get lost.

It was times like this, anyway, that she became most irritated at the hand she'd been dealt in life. Escaping the prison of her weekdays, very similarly to returning to it unseen, required the utmost of her possible abilities. And that utmost came from superpowers. Usually, she ignored possessing them entirely. If she forgot the power brimming beneath the volatile surface, then she was just like any other teenager. She was a dark-haired girl who liked roller skating in the park. Something that, admittedly, she most preferred on warm weekends when the whirring of her bright green bootlaces were the last thing to whizz by unsuspecting walkers and picnickers before they were toppled over. Outside of that she merely enjoyed her solitude. And she enjoyed it most whilst devouring entire seasons of her favoured sit-coms in the comfort of her bedroom.

Like any normal teenager.

Unfortunately, that was a harder charade to play when hovering over the local high schools incredibly tall courtyard fence. It was a place almost entirely devoid of life during lesson-time, which made it perfect for slipping out unnoticed. The only problem was the tricky layout. Besides perhaps undertaking a serious crash-diet in order to squeeze through the steel bars - there was simply no conceivable way for an ordinary teenage girl to escape. And her sweeping landing proved her anything but normal. This time, as she eased to the ground on all fours, she disturbed a collection of leaves in her wake. They rustled softly in the midst of the surrounding emptiness.

"Miss Logan."

Or, perhaps, what she'd believed was emptiness. The triumphant and prideful feeling at had previously accompanied her descent to perceived safety was abruptly replaced with a burning horror. Without even needing to raise her eyes from the paved surface, she knew very well the school principal was looming over her. She resolved to stare at his unfashionably brown loafers instead.

"How do you want to play it this week?" he asked humourlessly. "Are you going to avoid another trip to my office and tell me where you were today? Or are you looking to add a suspension to your list of achievements this semester?"

There was no hesitation in her response. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

It might have been disappointment that echoed through him as she spoke. Or, maybe, it was well-disguised irritation. Whichever it was, she was no stranger to displeasing authority figures. And it was unlikely to be the last time she crossed the brown-clad administrator. It also failed to be of any serious consequence to her, as proven by the calm silence that filled the courtyard.

"Nobody in this school has seen you since homeroom."

The silence resumed. Her expression was unmoved.

"Fine," he continued curtly. "You know how this goes. My office, now."

The Administration Block was hardly far from the courtyard but the walk always seemed longer than it should. Perhaps that was because the only occasions she ever made the journey were ones identical to this. They began across the pavement, one before the other, with a thick sense of agitation in the air. And briefly - just for the smallest of seconds - she wondered at how many times she'd done this in her life.

"Don't drag your feet."

It was a habit.

If there'd been a time in her life in which she'd walked without dragging the soles of her shoes against the ground, she couldn't recall it. Almost as though she needed desperately to prove herself grounded; she scuffed her shoes as she moved. Within the emptied courtyard, the friction of the rubber-based grip against the rough pavement made a particularly satisfying sound. Especially when it prevailed even after she'd been demanded to stop. Though he didn't immediately repeat himself, the principal twice-over snapped his gaze back to her in reproachful surveillance.

They'd almost crossed the courtyard entirely when she sensed his intention to reiterate his demand. Instead, his intended directive was interrupted by a sharp flash of blue that seemingly careened across the pavement. The sprinting teenager only stopped long enough to be identified after almost colliding with an adjacent bench and executing an awkwardly mistimed roll to regain composure. His body ended up facing directly toward them by the time he'd regained his balance. His immediate reaction to the situation was an uninhibited grin.

"Hey, Pips," he called, louder than really necessary. "Watchya in trouble for this time?"

Their principal was unamused. "Should you not be in gym class, Mr. Stone?"

Quickly remembering his tardiness, which was likely the reason for his earlier pace, his grin effectively faded. Having combined this with the present company, the tall boy quickly became a little flustered in an attempt to explain himself. Across the courtyard, his words weren't entirely audible but they definitely involved a few jumbled mutterings about grabbing gear and attempting to be swift. The most definitive element of his explanation was the jerk of his brown duffle bag into the air, as though it counted as unassailable evidence. She returned her own gaze to the principal, who had responded to the antics by merely pressing his mouth into a tight line. This delivered the message well enough to her tall and effusive friend, however, who did little to mask the roll of his eyes before jogging away toward the school gymnasium.

His departure left them in further silence. It continued as they travelled the ground-floor corridors with haste. The rows of painted lockers passed them by slowly, her own included. And consistently, her shoes trailed loudly over the concreted ground. Only once they'd reached the first staircase did the principals shoulder tilt slightly backward, so as to make it clear he was addressing her.

"What lesson are you scheduled to be attending right now?"

She stopped on the first step.

"Home Economics."

Maybe it was the tone she'd announced it in that caused him to also pause. Nonetheless, the distaste on her face was clearly evident. That much was proven by the fleetingly amused look he cast toward her from three stairs above.

"Not much of a chef, Miss Logan?"

He didn't wait for a response, which was fortunate, because she wasn't intending to offer one.

"Do you have a friend in Home Economics who might lend you notes for what you've missed?"

This was uttered only after they'd exited the stairwells and stepped through toward the heavy double doors. Temporarily, given the lapse in discussion and the utter lack of prelude, she'd almost struggle to comprehend the reason he might be asking. The realisation was quickly followed by a heavy sense of suspicion, derived almost entirely from the absent manner in which he'd posed the question.

"Ari will."

"Good," he said simply, corralling her into the Administration Block. "You'll want to see her about it later. You're not going to make it to lesson."

Inside the sharply lit building, the sound of a phoneline ringing - and being ignored - assaulted her ears. Their entrance was thereafter noted by the unpleasant woman that constantly occupied the space behind the tall counter engraved with the school motto. Neither adult paid the least bit of attention to the increasingly bitter look working its way across her face, nor the way her arms tightly crossed.

"I'll be in my office with Miss Logan," the principal informed his receptionist. "And - do me a favour, would you - check the system. Find her parents' contact number for me."

Whilst he missed the put-upon and harried look from the woman behind the desk - as phones continued to ring unanswered - she did not. It was with the shadow of a smirk that she followed the brown-suited man to his official and almost clinical office-space. Another brief lull in discussion occurred as he settled into his chair. She remained standing. Her arms remained crossed.

"You may want to ask Miss Greyson how she feels about taking notes for you for the next two weeks." he commented abruptly. "Otherwise you may fail to catch up."

Her eyes immediately darted to his face.

"What?"

"Sit down." he said seriously.

Although her first instinct was to follow the instruction, the more self-determined of her manners prompted her hesitation. There was a hard glint in his eyes in response to her apparent refusal. And even she knew when to stop pushing her luck. So, she sat, though she fixed her eyes solely on the stark white wall behind him.

"I'm suspending you from school for two weeks."

Her jaw clenched tightly.

"Miss Logan," he warned. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

He cleared his throat in a pointed manner. "Very well," he said, reaching for a pen. "Then you understand that your absence today has cost you two weeks of your education?"

Removing a stack of books to his right, he unearthed a bundle of stamped paper slips.

She exhaled heavily. "For one missed day."

Halfway through poising his pen to write upon the topmost slip, he paused and raised his eyes.

"You and I both know very well that this is a repeat offense."

Abandoning his pen entirely, he had quickly opened a desk drawer and begun rifling through files. The sounds of rustling paper within thick sleeves filled the small space. Determined to refocus on the wall, she caught only a flicker of the unattractive beige folder that bore her name. Still, she heard as he flipped it open and moved quickly through the initial pages.

"This, today," he said sternly. "Is the seventh unexplained whole-day absence of yours this school year."

"That's not a lot." she murmured.

"I think you'll find that it is," he countered immediately. "Considering that we're talking about a period of only two months."

Entirely devoid of any further counter arguments and rapidly becoming agitated, she settled again for focusing elsewhere. Her eyes sought the wall. His pen scribbled across her suspension note. She focussed harder on the paintwork and muttered swiftly beneath her breath. Eventually the scratching sounds of pen to paper dimmed and her concentration faded long enough to glance across at a snippet that read: poor attendance, poor attitude.

"Now, obviously, I'll contacting your mother about this-"

Unintentionally, he attacked the limit of her carefully maintained indifference. The facade slipped dangerously and a heavy snort escaped her so loudly, her shoulders jumped with the effort.

"Sure," she said bitterly. "Good luck with that."

Setting his pen down, he leaned forward with a probing look. "And what might you mean by that?"

"Not as if she's ever around."

"I see." he conceded, almost delicately. "Who should I contact instead? Your father?"

"Fine. Whatever."

This was delivered as easily as anything else during the conversation. Returned to an earlier semblance of silent composure, she relaxed back into the chair with a casually detached expression. Her actions met with a furrow of the principals brow.

"Yes, very well," he repeated. "I will contact... someone, then, about your behavior. You've got thirty-five minutes before the final bells sounds. You'll spend it in the waiting area of the office, am I clear? At the final bell, and not beforehand, you may leave the building. Then you may take your usual bus."

Only when she was halfway out the door, eyes briefly catching the slow movement of the official school clock, did she turn to correct him.

"I don't take the bus." she said dully. "I fly."