A/N: Okay okay, revamping this fic 4 years later... sorry but not really cause i decided to switch direction a bit since its conception. Anyway, read on and i hope you enjoy!
The battlefield looks familiar, the Jokers surrounding them even more so. Gotham's iconic duo stand back to back as they assess their surroundings: at least a dozen Jokers are sneering back, all knowing this is their best chance to finally take the legends down.
"The plan?" Batgirl asks.
"The usual," Batman replies, knowing they've been in this predicament enough times for her to understand his meaning.
"Then it's your move," she replies before the bravest Joker rushes at her with electric brass knuckles in fist. "Heads up," she warns just as the Joker gets close enough to her.
She ducks under his swing before she rams her shoulder into his gut and lifts him off his feet. Batman, quick to react, grabs the Joker being thrown back by his partner and hurls him towards the group in front of him. The Joker collides into three other members, accidentally shocking them and himself when the knuckles make contact.
The assault triggers the rest of the group to charge, closing the circle the two Bats are in. Before they could be tackled to the ground, Batman drops three pellets that almost instantaneously fill the area with blinding smoke, concealing the heroes well. They both know that they have a few minutes before the smoke is lifted by drafts blowing through Gotham's buildings, so they have to work quickly and efficiently to knock out as many offenders as they can. They split up, each one sneaking up to confused Jokers and using a few well placed blows to render them unconscious.
Batman is having an easy time with this, his calculated punches and kicks land successfully each time, while Batgirl struggles. By the time the smoke dissipates, Batman had already taken down six clown-clad criminals while Batgirl is still trying to knock out her third one. Frowning with dissatisfaction, Batman leans against a car parked beside him and crosses his arms as he waits for Batgirl to finish up.
"Harder," he coaches when a blow to the Joker's jaw leaves him unaffected.
When she goes to try again, two other Jokers leap on top of her, pushing her off balance. Once she hits the ground, the two Jokers pin her down while the third pulls out a switchblade. Batman, showing no intention of helping her, sighs with disappointment and hopes she'll pull herself out of this mess without being sliced open. Luckily, with her legs still free, she kicks the knife away before it touches her. She knocks back the Joker still looming over her with both feet before she turns her attention to the other two Jokers pinning her down. With flexibility on her side, she lands another kick on the side of one Joker's head and punches the other with her freed fist.
Finally able to leap to her feet, she quickly knocks out the Joker she just punched; she takes a quick look around to make sure everyone on the ground will stay there before straightening up with a tired sigh. However, as she takes a step towards Batman, an arm wraps around her neck before a blade dives deep into it.
"Dead," Terry sighs as he pulls off his mask. "Again," he adds, straightening up and walking towards Batgirl.
She groans as she pushes away the Joker's hand holding the retractable blade to her neck. "Come on, I did what you told me," she complains as the background dissipates to reveal the cave's rocky walls. The cynthoid Joker who had "killed" her steps back and sets itself to sleep mode.
"No you didn't. He's the one you kicked back earlier; clearly you didn't hit him hard enough."
"If I had hit him any harder, my feet would be making friends with his lungs," she argues, removing her mask and pushing her sweat-soaked bangs to the side.
"There you go overestimating things again," Terry replies, rolling his eyes. He hops off the simulator and walks towards the control panel. "I've told you a million times: when fighting a large group, you have to give it your all; otherwise, you end up dead like the last three times."
"I did give it my all; you probably just upped the juice on these cynthoids making them undefeatable or something," she says as she takes a seat on the edge of the platform.
"They're all set to Joker mode, Jazz; weak, wimpy Joker mode, which is exactly what you'd expect from the real deal," he explains as he flips switches and presses buttons. Groaning again, Jazz lies back and spreads her arms out as she stares at the stalactites on the cave's ceiling. "And that performance wasn't even close to what you can do. Look, you have to start pushing it 'cause I can't keep checking on you when we're fighting like this."
"I know, I know," she replies, unintentionally sounding disheartened.
Terry lifts curious eyes, the discouraged tone she used suddenly making him feel guilty for being too harsh. He remembers what she had shared with him that afternoon on the mountain three months ago, the panic he heard in her voice when she told him about her fear of losing control and accidentally killing someone. She had never seemed so vulnerable before, so afraid; and even though her decision to return had a positive outcome, her performance has not been the same. He could tell she's weighed down by her worries, and he can't help trying to figure out a way that would relieve her concerns. Before he can think of something, she suddenly sits up and hops to her feet before moving away from the simulator.
"I need some air," she sighs, never looking back at Terry as she makes her way through one of the cave's many tunnels.
It doesn't take long for her to find her way out into an open clearing shadowed by the night; she finds herself at the base of the hill the manor is set on, glad the wide-open space is helping lift the heavy shadow shrouded over her. The few apple trees that were once part of a small orchard have already shed their leaves for fall, making the gnarled and crooked branches look ominous in the shadows, as though begging the crescent moon to lend them some of its beauty; but Jazz isn't intimidated by the scenery. Instead, she's grateful for it since the absent sound of leaves rustling in this slight breeze allows the silence to remain unbroken. She moves towards an old oak tree a few yards away and pulls herself up on one of the low-hanging branches. Climbing a few feet higher, she perches herself on a thick branch, letting her legs lie across the length of it and leaning her back against the trunk. A deep sigh escapes her as she turns eyes up to the sky, seeking comfort in the stars speckled above her.
She's not sure how burning balls of gas millions of light-years away can help her reach the relief she prays for, but those jewels in the sky never fail to at least quiet her mind. Worries to live up to expectations fade away, leaving behind emptiness that resembles the dark expanse defined between the stars. With her mind wiped clean, she takes the opportunity to start over again without chaotic emotions cluttering that space.
She doesn't understand why she didn't perform up to par during training tonight, or since her return for that matter. Terry has been working hard to rebuild her confidence in the past three months, but his patience is clearly starting to wan. She doesn't blame him for that; hell, she's even surprised he's been patient this long. But it's the disappointed responses she elicits, particularly from Bruce, that make every training session worse than the next. She's glad he wasn't there to watch tonight's abysmal performance, but even so, she could still hear his criticizing remarks in her head. At least tonight she won't be assigned some grueling strength training as means for her to improve.
He doesn't seem to understand that fifty reps of pull-ups with weights attached to her ankles does nothing to that hesitation growing within her. Terry may have helped her understand that her soul isn't a monster waiting to spring, but the fear of losing control wasn't calmed. She doesn't have to be a monster to make a fatal mistake, a miscalculation that could make Terry doubt the belief he so generously and irresponsibly puts in her. That pressure to perform is getting to her and only grows worse as time passes.
The sound of leaves crunching underfoot peels Jazz's eyes away from the sky and down to find a shadow approaching. She watches him quietly walk up to the tree, the red insignia on his chest growing clearer with every step before he stops at its base.
"How'd you find me?" She asks, remembering the tunnel she had taken is riddled with several misleading forks.
Instead of replying, Terry tosses an electrolyte drink up to her, which she catches and sets in her lap. He pulls himself up in the same manner as she did and keeps climbing until he reaches the branch a foot lower and almost parallel to hers. He settles himself in much the same manner as her, clasping hands that rest on the top of his raven head.
"On your right," he finally replies without turning to her.
She brings her eyes to search the trunk over her right shoulder and finds numbers carved into the dry bark. Taking a closer look, she reads the date 11/10/2049 before turning back to Terry with the understanding that he has used this tree as his perch in the past and most likely came out here to sit in it rather than in search of her.
"It's the day my dad died," he explains before she could pose the question. "I carved it in there a month after I started here. I needed something solid to remind me why I do this every night."
"I take it you come out here often?"
He shrugs. "I need a way to stay sane," he replies, remembering the tough nights years ago when doubt filled his mind.
"And it helped?" She asks, her tone unintentionally sounding desperate and making Terry look up at her.
"Yeah," he sincerely replies, studying her face in hopes of learning which direction she's trying to move the conversation.
A moment of still silence passes before she lowers her eyes from the bejeweled sky to the drink in her hand. "I'm really trying, Ter, but I'm still afraid," she quietly confesses, nervously fingering the wrapper that's peeling off.
He can tell she's been punishing herself, that her strength is crumbling away like a wall of bricks beaten by a sledgehammer for too long. Soon she'll be nothing but a pile of rubble too unrecognizable to be put back together.
"Look," Jazz continues in a hopeless tone. "If you'd rather not have me out there, I'll understand."
"Wait, what? No one said anything about pulling you out," Terry replies, watching her shoulders slump forward with defeat.
"You said you can't keep checking on me when we're out in the field."
"I was just frustrated."
"You wouldn't have said it at all if you weren't thinking it."
"Fine," he sighs, bringing his arms down to his lap before continuing, "yeah, you're right." Jazz whips her head in his direction, surprised by his agreement. "It may not be a good idea for you to be by my side with the way you keep messing up; but it doesn't change the fact that I need you, so I'm not giving up on you."
She scoffs at that. "How exactly do you plan to help? And don't say more training."
"Then we'll find another way. I'll do whatever it takes, Jazz."
"Whatever it takes, huh?" She repeats, bringing her eyes back up to the sky.
"Just name it."
"Can we skip the simulations?"
Terry can't help but crack a smile. "We'll just call it a night," he replies following her gaze in time to catch a shooting star speed by. "Anything else?"
She hesitates for a second as she lowers her gaze to her fiddling fingers before she timidly asks, "can you just sit with me for a little bit?"
His smile eases when he hears the fear in her tone and looks up at her to find her hugging knees drawn up to her chest. He sympathizes with her strife, knowing from experience how difficult it is to feel so doubtful, so unsure, so untrustworthy. Getting to his feet, he lifts himself over to her branch and sits facing her with one leg dangling and the other pulled closer to his chest so he can rest an arm on his knee.
They sit in silence, close enough for their feet to barely touch; Jazz absorbs the comfort Terry's presence gives her, and Terry patiently watches her, waiting for her to say something. When he notices the tension in her finally start to give way, his fist gently bumps her knee, bringing her shadowed eyes to stare into his. Their locked gaze fills Jazz with a sense of safety, reassured that if she ever decides to lean on him, he'll be there to hold her. She smiles at him as she holds out the unopened bottle that was originally his.
He shakes his head, declining the offer. "It's yours," he explains, in turn confessing that he had come out here in search of her after all. Before she could call him out on the fact, he leans back to lie on the branch and turns his eyes skywards, cradling his head on interlaced fingers. "So why stargazing?" He asks, quickly changing the subject.
She bashfully shrugs as her eyes turn up to the twinkling sky. "You remember that summer night we spent filling the pool?" She asks.
"Yeah," he replies, lifting his head slightly to shoot a curious look her way.
"It was the first time I saw stars over Gotham," she quietly confesses.
"No kidding," he smiles before bringing his head back down.
"Yeah; I mean, usually I'm in the city where it's too bright to see anything cause of the lights. So when we were lounging that night and I finally got to see them, it was… comforting, you know? It's like, you can always count on them to be there, that reliable constant in the sky, the one thing you know won't change anytime soon. Time just stops and I feel like I can breathe again," she sighs.
"My dad used to take me and Matt camping over the summer," Terry recounts. "He was a nature buff and loved doing all that out-doorsy stuff. I wasn't a fan, so it was the most miserable week of my life; but the only reason I let him take me was for the nights. After we put out the campfire, my dad would set up the telescope and spend the night teaching us about stars, planets, galaxies. He was like some endless vault of astronomical info, knowing the answer to every question we asked."
The smile Jazz hears in his voice as he reminisces brings her eyes down to study whatever she can see of his face, amazed to find him content rather than bereaved. It's as though talking about his father has the same effect the stars have on her, and the realization makes her glad they share the same soothing experience the indigo sky offers. When she brings her reassured eyes back up, a shooting star careens across her field of vision and brings her to gasp with awe.
The two suddenly and simultaneously ask, "did you see that?"
Terry lifts his head to reveal an amused grin before he straightens up, letting both legs dangle on either side of the branch. "Give me your hand," he orders, making her frown.
"Why?"
"When we were camping, Matt and I used to count shooting stars and whoever had the most before bed got the good sleeping bag. If we saw the same one, we thumb wrestled." The quizzical glance she gives him makes him roll his eyes. "Fine, never mind," he sighs, ready to lay back down, but Jazz stops him when she straightens up and holds her hand out.
"Gloves off," she says, straddling the branch as she scoots closer until their knees touch. She pulls her glove off and holds her hand between them.
"Gloves off," he agrees, doing the same and curling his fingers into hers.
"Best two out of three. Winner gets the last piece of pie in the fridge."
"Deal," he nods, then starts the countdown that leads to Jazz giggling as her thumb wiggles around and Terry calling her out whenever she tries to cheat.
The grateful smile that she gives him for easing her worries is short lived when a squeak of disapproval escapes her as he pins her thumb down and wins the game she hasn't played since she was nine.
Meg is considered one of those very average names, lacking the uniqueness that clings to memory or catches attention, and it seems to fit its owner too well. Her bored, brown eyes roam over to the classroom's clock mounted just above the door, a nefarious piece of technology that seems to cast invisible bars across the room's only exit and keeping her locked in. She grimaces at the digital face telling her seventeen minutes are left of algebra class, seventeen very long minutes that tick by too slowly as if to mock her imprisonment. Stuck in a boring high school math class and surrounded by teenagers who never seem to see her, she groans inwardly as she rests her cheek on a fist and envisions the life she plans after this grueling period of her life is over.
She dreams of finally escaping Smallville, moving to a place where the art of ballet is revered rather than mocked or scoffed at. She wishes a letter would arrive in the mail, surprising her with an acceptance to the American Ballet company, an invitation to tour with the most renowned dancers and join them on stage. She wonders if she should change her name to something unique and memorable like Misty or Natasha; after all, who ever heard of a famous ballet dancer called Meg?
Grounding her floating mind, she blows a puff of air upwards to get the stray lock of brown hair out of her eye… average, brown hair… frizzy, average, brown hair, she criticizes. She glances over at Jennifer's soft, golden curls spilling over her shoulders, and finds herself envious of how it always stays perfect no matter how high the humidity levels spike. Oh, what she would give to trade her frizzy locks for Jennifer's golden mane. A sigh escapes Meg's lips as she turns her eyes back to the equations scribbled on the touch screen black board.
"Chris?" Her teacher asks looking at the boy snickering with his neighbor in the back row. "Care to answer?"
'X is less than 3/7y + 9,' Meg mentally calculates, trying to telepathically send the answer into Chris's head. She knows there's no way he'll get it; algebra just isn't his forte, but who gives a crap if you have looks like his? Meg stops herself from swooning over her crush so no one would notice the way she melts when he speaks.
"X is less than 7y?" He finally asks, making Meg's head drop onto her desk with disappointment. If only he is as good at math as he is at swimming.
The final bell rings, releasing the grateful students from their classes and bringing Meg's eyes to shoot up just in time to see Chris's red head walk out the door. She quickly collects her things and rushes out hoping to "accidentally" bump into the sixteen year old and say her goodbyes before the weekend can deny her of his presence until Monday morning.
She pushes her way through the crowded hallway and ignores the many shoves she receives when students bump into her shoulders, proving her invisibility theory right; she reaches her locker just as Chris, coincidentally her neighbor, shuts his.
"Have a great weekend, Chris," she breathlessly wishes just as he turns away to meet his friends.
Her voice, however, doesn't seem to reach his ears since he strides away while laughing with his group of friends. At least she caught a glimpse of his pearly white smile before he left, Meg tries consoling herself.
The look of boredom that vexes all teenage faces conquers hers once she takes her seat on the yellow bus. She plugs her earphones in to escape the noise of students chattering and laughing, and counts the minutes until she's home, sitting at her desk to write a new blog entry about the levels of superficiality some female teenagers have reached.
"Kent," Bruce stiffly greets the superhero, who has taken the liberty of letting himself into the manor.
"Thanks for meeting me, Bruce," Clark replies as he enters the living room.
"Not like I could have stopped you," Bruce quips. A smile dimmed by worry crosses Clark's lips before he settles in the couch. "Not that I mind your visits," Bruce starts, the sarcasm never getting lost on Clark, "but is there a reason you couldn't make the request over the phone?"
"I think my identity's been compromised," Clark begins, cutting straight to the point. "I'm not sure how it happened, so I thought an in person meeting is the safest bet until we've got this issue handled."
"Compromised?" Bruce frowns, finding it strange how a high profile identity like his would go unnoticed in the media world for this long.
"I received this video," Clark tries to explain, pulling out his phone to play it.
A figure shrouded in shadows fills the screen before his accented voice speaks. "We know who you are, Clark, and we are coming for your family." Barely a second later, the screen goes black again.
"I don't supposed you've been dabbling in some high-profile investigative journalism," Bruce says, taking the phone and replaying the video.
"You know that was Lois's department, and even if she was, this threat is clearly meant for me."
"When was it sent?"
"Last night. I haven't told anyone yet, but you know I'm worried," he says, keeping his hands interlaced with one another as he knows anything else in his grip right now would just disintegrate from a single squeeze. "It's one thing to threaten me, you know. But my family?"
"I understand, Clark," Bruce tries reassuring. "Your kids alright?"
"Last I checked, yes," he replies, but there's a hesitation in his tone.
"What?"
"I don't want to involve the League, not until I know how deep this compromise goes; until then my kids," he wavers a moment. "The girls can take care of themselves, but Greg…"
"Unlike his sisters, takes after his mother."
"I want to make sure he stays safe without raising suspicion. If it's true, if they know everything about me, about my family, then he'll be their target."
The anxiety vibrating off of the Man of Steel seemingly causes the room to buzz, and Bruce can understand why. Clark has a fierce love and devotion when it comes to close friends and family, which is the reason why he still checks in on Bruce now and again, though Bruce doesn't make it easy. Any threat towards them, whether real or perceived, would elicit an overprotective Clark to hover until he's sure their safety is secure again.
"I'll send the girl," Bruce decides, hoping his confidence will restore some of Clark's peace of mind.
"Jasmine?" Clark frowns instead. "Are you sure?"
"She's capable if that's what you're worried about," Bruce replies, raising a brow at him. Clark has never met the new recruit, but he doesn't have a habit of doubting Bruce's decisions, so he isn't about to start one now.
"Of course," Clark gives him a reassured nod. "Thank you, Bruce. I appreciate it."
"We better get to work," Bruce replies as he stands, leading Clark down to the cave to prove his talents have not been lost to time.
-to be continued-feedback welcome-