"Stand up." I glanced up. I don't know if it was because suddenly Bart learned to walk a whole lot lighter or I was really distracted, but I hadn't noticed him before.

My head jerked up instinctively at his voice. "Huh?"

A smirk crossed Bart's face and he didn't try to deny the smile. "you're apart of our team now," he stated. "So stand up. I want you to start taking apart in things."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, standing anyways.

"I know you don't have powers," Bart began. "And unless we can cause some major life altering accident that just might end in your death, you probably won't ever get powers but I think you should still be assimilated into this team. So I am volunteering to teach you some of the things that Vic teaches us."

"What good will that do?" I asked pessimistically.

"Tim has no powers," Bart said. "But what he does have is reflex and skills. And neat little gadgets too. All you have to do is learn a few things about the art of Martial. And I wanna teach you them. Do you object?"

I shook my head. Fighting would be effectively useful, even if I never do end up helping out the team. I'd never feel insecure again. "Alright. I'm up for it, if you are, Bart."

I know, in the few months I have lived here, that most of the team figures Bart to be a bit impulsive, a bit immature. I know they probably have great reasons for their opinions, because he is all those things, and they have known him far longer than I have. But as it turns out, Bart is a rather efficient teacher. He demonstrates quite well, and then he almost grills me until he's satisfied. Until I have the moves right. He has little activities to help my reaction time, like video games. My reflexes are shot to hell because I've been living in the dark for too damn long.

Bart knocked my feet out from under me again and I fell hard. Evidently Vic thinks repetition is the way to success. Evidently he doesn't know me because success is practically impossible in my eyes. "Dude -" Bart began, bending down to help me up again.

Cyborg poked a head into the room. "Hey," he said. Bart jerked his head up, pulling me to my feet all the way. "What are kids doing?"

"I'm teaching her how to fight," Bart answered. He was honest. I haven't met many humans, but I'm pretty sure out of all of them -- Bart is the only completely honest person I've ever known. I'm not sure if that's because he's actually concerned or because he doesn't care at all. Hell, it could be both.

"Why?" Cyborg asked.

"Because she's a team member," Bart answered defensively. "And we all know how to fight - now it's her turn."

Cyborg nodded. "Alright. Fine. Just clean up when you're done in here." Cyborg nodded his head in my general direction before going back up the stairs. That is right. We were in the 'basement' of the tower - in one of the many training rooms.

"Let's go at it again," Bart said right after Cyborg had closed the do. I shrugged, bending my knees and parting my legs - trying to brace myself for the onslaught of physical violence. I lifted my hands the way Bart had showed me the first day we began this. Bart did the same. He came at me first, because evidently it was best to let the opponent strike at you first. Bart was giving me the benefit of the doubt. He threw an easy punch, the first one he'd ever taught me to defend. I lifted both my hands, blocking his strike.

Bart had this unique style of fighting. He was smooth but blunt too. A street fighter. Tim was more calculated, not quite so…I guess impulsive. I twisted my hands as quick as I could, to get a grip on Bart's now vulnerable outstretched arm. I grabbed his wrist. He said you should never let an opponent get more than a few feet from you, because the further away they go - the more force their hits acquire.

Bart pulled back when I pulled him forward. He lifted his leg just as I lifted mine and he blocked the knee I was going to send to his gut. When his foot touched the ground he hooked it around my ankle and quickly pulled it forward - sending me to the ground once more. But this time I was still holding Bart, and he fell too. He landed on me, his elbow digging painfully in my ribs.

"Sorry," Bart said immediately, quickly (and I mean in a flash) climbing to his feet. He didn't help me up this time but I dragged myself to my feet. "Wanna have another go?"

"No," I murmured. "My body hurts, Bart. I've never exercised this much ever. It's going to take time but tearing down my muscles over and over again is getting a bit excessive. I'm going to go take shower." I said heading for the door.

"Want me to come too?" Bart called as I left through the door.

"You wish," I called over my shoulder. This whole joke system really threw me off - in the beginning. I don't know what happened in the time between then and now but I think I like it. I like feeling what I assume is laughter beneath my surface. I don't laugh though. I don't remember how. But Bart laughs. He laughs enough for the both of us. I've never seen such a joyous creature before.

Back at the orphanage we were allowed showers but somehow here, in this tower, it was different. When I came out of the shower I actually felt cleaner, refreshed, relaxed. It was almost blissful. When I returned to my room Bart was laying on my bed, flipping through a magazine.

He glanced up when I entered the room, closing the door behind me. "Think you took a long enough shower?" He asked, returning to his magazine."

I shrugged, slowly sinking into one of the chairs the titans had given me. "Yes, the shower was adequate in legnth," I answered seriously.

Bart looked up again and smirked. "You're like a foreigner," he said suddenly. "Y'know. Like the titans have introduced you to all of these American customs that has been around for decades. You were barred from the world for sixteen years, Bronwyn."

I nodded. "I never minded it before."

"You weren't ever bored?" Bart asked. It was a question, something that Bart would ask. He was always distracted, always doing something. Bart hated sitting around, he hated being bored.

I shook my head. "In the orphanage, I didn't know what boredom was. I liked to keep busy though. I read a lot. All the books in the orphanage, in the town. Everything piece of paper I could find. And after that was done, I was introduced to boredom."

Bart nodded. He stared down at the magazine but his eyes weren't moving. He wasn't reading. "Tim told me about you mom," he said.

"Oh," I murmured. "Why?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me about you mother?" Bart asked. I couldn't identify the emotion that distorted his facial features but it was unfamiliar -- on his face. "When I was unloading on you about my family, why didn't you ever mention your own?"

I shrugged. I hadn't ever thought about telling him about my mom - about how I dream about her every night; and the words she'd whisper to me every single night, forcing me out of a dead sleep into the morning light. Those thoughts were tucked too tightly within my head, they never even crossed my mind in consideration of telling him. "I don't have a mother. That's all you need to know."

"Do you remember her?" Bart asked.

"I wasn't even a day old, Bart," I told him. "To remember her is impossible."

"Are you sure?" Bart asked, pressing harder against me with his eyes.

"Alright, Bart," I sighed. "She's in my dreams. So what?"

"How'd Tim dream about her, Bronwyn?" he asked, but I knew he'd already figured out the answer.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "I was dreaming about her and…" I shook my head, looking away. "Everything he told me - all the things he described in his dreams…I knew he'd dreamed what I'd dreamed. I don't know how."

Bart shook his head. "That's not normal, Bron..."

I tried to force the smirk that had crossed my face to my eyes. "Are you calling me a freak?" I asked.

Bart shook his head then paused. "Yeah, I guess I am," he admitted. "But what if this is like…I dunno, some kind of power. What if this is your gift."

"What are you talking about?" I asked seriously. "Nice gift - dreaming about dead people. Real swell."

"Is that all you dream about?" Bart asked. "You dream about your mom -- every night?"

I nodded. "She is in all of my dreams."

"But are the dreams about her," he pressed.

I thought back hard, raking my brain hard for past dreams. "No," I answered honestly. "Very few are actually about her."

"So this is like, I dunno, premonitions then?" Bart asked. Somehow the smile he'd conjured happened to reach his eyes.

I shrugged. "Sometimes.," I admitted. "I dreamt about that war, back in town. I dreamt about it for five years before it ever happened. I could see the bodies that littered the streets even before the orphans started gossiping. I could see the flesh and hear the screams as that flesh was being burnt off of them…"

Bart's eyes narrowed. "After these dreams, don't you ever feel compelled to do something. To stop it?"

I shook my head. "I'd never dreamt about something I felt I could stop. That war was inevitable. Those people were starving, they would've died anyway. A mere child of six couldn't possibly understand it, let alone stop it. Humans make up for failed attempts at crime with successful attempts. It is an endless deadly cycle."

"But people," Bart began. "People like us, we put dents in those cycles. We make a difference, Bronwyn."