Nyssa Raatko, although she has gone by the pseudonym of Afya for many years now, glares at her father. Her eyes are cold steel as she stands, hands clasped behind her, facing him. She has changed out of the clothes she was buried in. A single white lock of hair runs through along the left side of her face, framing it: a present from the Lazarus Pit.
"How long has it been?" She finally asks, her voice sharp and cutting.
Ra's al Ghul's smile is patient, but his eyes are cruel as he observes his eldest daughter. "Six years."
She doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, shows no emotion as she stares at him. "Why did you bring me back?" Her voice is dangerous, and it carries an edge that is nearly as dangerous as her blades. For many people, it was the last thing they ever heard.
"Talia betrayed me," he said, steepling his fingers together as he sat down at the table. It was long and narrow, made of elegant mahogany. It is ancient, and has seen Ra's al Ghul order war crimes, heroic efforts, assassinations, and plot against the greatest heroes of the ages. It is scarred by time, just as he is, by blades of would-be-killers. "She sent her son to the detective—out of my reach."
"If you brought me back to move against her, you made a mistake," she said coldly, her eyes flashing dangerously, despite her calm exterior, inside, she roars with fury at the suggestion that she would turn against her sister on her father's command—it has been a long time since he commanded nearly that kind of loyalty from her.
"You would support her over me?" He asks, leaning forward. He scans her face, searching for something. His cold, calculating eyes sweep over her, and his mouth turns up knowingly.
She does not bother to answer the question. She merely stands still, her face impassive and her stance steady. She controls her breath, keeping it even and steady, appearing completely calm to even the most trained eye.
"The detective is dead," he continues, as if her small defiance never happened. "Grayson has taken up the mantle, while my heir stands beside him."
Nyssa cannot help but smile slightly at his clear disapproval of who now wears the Cowl and protects Gotham City. He sees this, and he frowns, his brow lowering dangerously, bringing out every line on his ancient face. She wonders what he is planning, what possibly purpose he has for bringing her back from her eternal blissful peace, but says nothing, his lips a thin red line, stubbornly set.
"I have not punished Talia for this," he says, getting to his feet. She scorns at the term punished, as if Talia al Ghul was a willful child instead of a deadly and powerful woman backed by an army of assassins. "I cannot prove that she sent him away, and that the boy simply didn't leave on his own free will."
"You sound so sure she has," she mocks sweetly, wondering how long his temper will hold. His eyes dart to her, his brow furrowing in rage. Her half smile doesn't fade, and she wonders how long it will be before she finds herself dead in the ground again. She half welcomes the fate—being in his presence is painful, like a knife being drawn against her skin repeatedly.
"She has already deceived me," he says, raging radiating from him in toxic waves despite the smile. The wrath of Ra's al Ghul is nothing trivial. His is an anger that levels cities and forces regime changes. Few dare to court it, let alone to mock it as blatantly as Nyssa. Nyssa internally laughs at his fury, allowing it to crash over her, as it means that she has forced her father to lose his control, which he values so highly. "You recall Amoret?"
"Yes," she says, wondering what Stephanie Brown, the girl who cried at night and thought no one else knew, who shook when she slit a throat, has to do with anything. She then remembers. It has been six years. The girl is now a woman, nineteen years old. Far enough time to warp even Amoret, who smiled and laughed and played in the corridors, who smiled at even Afya, into a hard and cold killer.
"Three years ago, I was informed that Talia had her killed." Her father's eyes are hard, his words dripping with acid as he says them. A part of Nyssa reels at that idea, but she does not let it show on her face—she is certain Talia would have a reason for killing a girl so young, and it was not as if the girl was innocent.
"However," Ra's is practically shaking with his anger. Talia's betrayal—whatever it was—has hit him close to home, more than he wants her to realize, "A month ago, I received word to the contrary." He placed a photograph on the table, glossy and brightly colored. Nyssa picks it up, examining it.
She sees Stephanie, dressed in a purple dress, standing next to Damian, who wears a small suit and a scowl, his arms crossed petulantly as he stares right at the camera. She nearly smiles at the image of her nephew so disgruntled, but she knows better than to actually permit herself to do so. The photograph was clearly recently taken—the date on the bottom right hand corner is proof enough of that.
"She lied?" Why would she lie about that? Nyssa frowns internally, wondering what Talia's motivations were. Lying to their father is nothing to be undertaken lightly, since moderation in retaliation was a lesson that Ra's al Ghul has never learned. What is Stephanie Brown to Talia al Ghul? Why is she important?
"Brown has been active as a minor nuisance, codenamed "The Corsair"," Ra's al Ghul's distaste at the name is clear. Another photograph is placed on the table—this one of a girl wearing an obnoxiously purple cape and body armor, with a black mask that hides the lower part of her face. Long blonde hair hangs out, flowing freely in the wind. She holds escirma sticks that glow blue with electricity in her gloved hands, and appeared to be fighting… is that Superboy? The background is a park of sorts, with a clear blue sky and a skyline that looks like San Francisco.
"And what does this have to do with me?" She challenges, keeping her tone even as she set the two photographs back on the table, face down.
"I had been intending to take Brown into my own organization," Ra's says, folding his hands neatly on the table. "However, clearly, the window for recruitment is past. However," the Demon's Head leans forward, his dark eyes gleaming cruelly, a smile emerging on his face that was serpentine in nature. Nyssa tenses up on instinct, not trusting his expression or his demeanor. "She has a daughter."
"What?" Nyssa blinked, shock winning over her calm facade. "She's only nineteen!"
"She was fifteen when the child was born. The child was given up for adoption when she was born, and Brown never sought her out." He placed a final photograph on the table. "David Cain lost my last candidate for the One Who is All. I believe the daughter of Maxim and Amoret will do for a replacement."
"Why would I do that?" She demands, her voice low. Her mind races, trying to remember who Maxim was, and more importantly, his age.
"Because," he looks at her knowingly. "I am willing to return what you have lost to you."
Nyssa can't breathe. She's frozen in place, disbelieving the offer in front of her. He smiled patiently, clearly enjoying the look on her face. She clenches her fist tightly at her side, and grabs the photograph from the table.
A smiling, adorable child beams up at her, bright red hair in a ponytail. She wears a Batgirl shirt and bright yellow leggings, her face sticky. Carrie Kelley is written neatly on the bottom of the picture, in an unfamiliar handwriting. She turns it over, knowing that her father is thorough. 31 Miller Street, Gotham City.
She looks at her father, and nods just once, abruptly.
Carrie Kelley wakes up in her bed to the sound of her mother shouting at her father about something that she can't quite make out. Carrie, hands still sticky from last night, pushes her faded Wonder Woman blanket off her bed and walks to the bathroom. She climbs up on her step-ladder (an upside down re-appropriated bucket) and washes her hands.
Carrie Kelley is four years old, and she crawls down from the stool, listening as her father and her mother leave the house. She doesn't know where they go when they do that, but they never come home very soon. She goes back to her room, grabbing the story book that had been left on the floor of her room, and flips through it, examining the pictures.
She sees men with horse-faces and fairies and kings and queens and swords and cups. She looks at the familiar pages, soaking in the pretty clothes and hair, imagining what it would be like to live in a world like theirs.
There's a knock on the window, and she leaps to her feet, dropping the book carelessly on the ground. Colin Wilkes, twelve years old, is at her window, grinning broadly. He stands on the fire escape, his freckles gleaming and his red hoodie pulled over his bright red hair. He pushes open the window from the outside, and Carrie clambers up to meet him. "Colin!" She yells joyfully, wrapping her arms around him. He pulls her through the window, closing it behind her, and swings her up. Her arms go around his neck and she locks her legs automatically, secure in the familiar position.
"Hey squirt!" He grins at her. "C'mon, Nell and Harper are waiting for us."
"Cullen too?" She asks, squinting at him.
"Cullen too," Colin promises, tramping down the rickety fire escape two steps at a time. "We'll have a blast."
Carrie holds on to her best friend and beams as the two of them escape into the streets of Gotham.
Stephanie Brown sits on a rooftop, staring over the expansive skyline. All around her is the creeping fog and the thick, expansive cloud cover, which is lit only by the golden glow of the Bat Signal.
Steph leans back, holding herself up by her fingertips. She angles her head up, squinting as she tries to see if Batman and Robin are in the jet tonight. She sees no sign of them, so she shrugs and pulls a cellphone out of a belt compartment, checking the brightly glowing digital readout for a text message. She's dressed for Gotham tonight, with layers of Kevlar on her tunic and leggings, the color scheme more black than eggplant. Her mask is a black cowl that stops just short of her mouth, with white lenses covering her eyes, filled with more types of vision alternatives than she knows how to use. A belt is slung across her waist, with a smaller one on her leg, filled with weapons and tricks of her trade. Well… her new trade. The toys for fighting crime are a little different than the ones for causing it. Luckily she's spent enough time with Tim over the past few years to know how to use them. She shoves the phone back in her belt, enjoying the slight breeze that hits her face.
"What are you doing?" The voice from behind her is soft and lyrical, each word spoken slowly and clearly. Steph turns her head, shoulders tense and her hands clenching into fists on instinct. She doesn't relax as she sees Batgirl behind her, tattered cape blowing in the wind. The full face cowl with its stitched mouth stares at her, and she wonders how much Cassandra Cain knows about her.
"Sitting," Steph says lightly, although she feels her heart racing in her ears. Cassandra Cain is not a threat to be dismissed lightly, and Steph doesn't know what the other girl wants with her. The other girl has been in Hong Kong for the past few months, apparently following Bruce Wayne's last wish for her, which doesn't make sense to Steph, since as one would think that the original Batman would want his most competent fighter to be in Gotham when the chaos of Batman being dead began. But apparently not.
Batgirl tilts her head slightly, staring at Steph, and Steph resists the urge to fidget under the younger girl's gaze. Cassandra raises her hand, and pulls off her cowl, revealing short black hair that's unevenly chopped into a crude bob, and a pretty face with features that are surprisingly delicate for a fighter of her caliber. Her skin is tanned and clear of acne, and her eyes are dark brown in color. She smiles at Steph warmly. "Hi."
"Ah… hi," Steph responds uncertainly, but she smiles back anyway.
"You are the Corsair?" She speaks English as if it's her second language—which, according to Tim, it kind of is—clearly annunciating "Corsair", as if afraid she's saying it wrong.
"That's me," Steph says, relaxing and shooting a more genuine smile in Batgirl's direction. "Lemme guess," she points at the bat symbol on the other girl's chest with her left pointer finger. "Batgirl?" She lets out a laugh.
Cassandra Cain laughs too, her laugh a soft, quick giggle, but she nods nevertheless. "Cass," she says, extending a gloved hand to Steph.
Steph blinks, surprised by the show of trust—both the name and the handshake—but she shrugs. "Steph," she introduces herself, shaking the offered hand.
"Tim tell me," Cassandra—Cass, that is—says. "He like you." She grins widely, and Steph can't stop the warm feeling of happiness that unfurls in her chest when she hears that.
"He's sweet," she says, tilting her head to one side. Cass sits next to her, her battered cape falling over her knees.
"Damian likes you too," Cass says conversationally, although her eyes are curious as she looks at Steph. Damian is fond of Cass, in a strange way, referring to her as "competent" and "efficient" in her crime fighting, and "not as annoying as Drake" in terms of her company, which isn't saying much—Tim and Damian's rivalry is incomprehensible to Steph, not to mention incredibly irritating.
"I used to look after him," Steph says with a shrug, tilting her neck the other way, cracking it pleasantly. "When he was little."
"You… worked for Talia." Cass's voice was soft, but Steph could feel the judgment layered in her words. The challenge. She'd certainly heard it from Dick often enough. She hadn't asked to see her file, but Jason had shown it to her anyway two weeks ago. Apparently, someone—probably the terrifying and all seeing Oracle who everybody seems to respect and fear in equal measures—was annoyed that Steph had slipped through the cracks in their research previously, and so had redoubled their efforts to learn more about Stephanie Brown. The file doesn't have everything about her, but it comes awfully close, and it makes her skin itch to think about. The Corsair had always been an enigma, and now anyone can learn about her in an instant.
"Yes."
Cass stares at her hands thoughtfully, biting on her lower lip. "You hated it." Steph blinked in shock. No one has ever asked her that before. The questions are always "how many?" or "why did you leave?" No one has ever thought to know how she felt about it, and she wonders just how similar she is to the other girl. She looks at Cass, meeting her large brown eyes, and nods once, a quick jerk of her head.
"You changed," Cass smiles widely, her eyes alight with excitement, her face glowing. "You changed!"
"I tried," Steph hedges, confused by Cass's enthusiastic reaction. The other girl grins, and holds out a hand.
"Spar with me?" She asks, her smile taking on a mischievous tilt.
Shit. "Why not?" Steph says, getting to her feet. "I could use some more bruises."
Cass pulls her cowl back on, and Steph reflects on how creepy it is, with the stitched-on smile and the wide, blank lenses that are sewn into the cowl to hide Cass's eyes—and provide her with a visual link to Oracle, of course. Steph doesn't doubt that the mysterious Oracle is watching now—from what Jason has told her, Oracle is always watching.
"You first," Cass says, clearly amused. Steph shifts her shoulders slightly, spreading her legs into a firmer stance, and centers her gravity carefully, leaning on the balls of her toes, reading to move in an instant. Cass stands still, hands casually hanging by her side and standing to her full height. It's casual, it's confident, it's a challenge, and Steph wants to laugh at how hopelessly outclassed she is compared to Cassandra Cain.
She leaps forward anyway, going for a simple nerve strike, something she's done a thousand times before, on metahumans and humans alike. There was a blur, and then Cass was behind her, kicking her in the back, sending her sprawling towards the pavement. Steph turned in the air, tucking her head down, and managed to land in a crouch on her feet. She springs up, twisting her body into a kick, aiming for Cass in general, already knowing that Cass wouldn't be there when she landed. Cass was fast, and Steph had fought Kid Flash before. Steph lunges again, a combination of a punch and a kick, and finds Cass flipping over her, using her shoulders in order to launch into the air, perform a perfect somersault, and land on the nearby chimney.
Steph falls to the ground, laughing until her sides ache. "You're good," she says, smiling so widely that she feels like it's threatening to fall off.
"You are too," Cass says, crouching on the chimney, her cape fluttering in the wind.
"Aw, you're sweet," Steph says, waving her hand lazily in the air. "I probably should go now."
Cass tilts her head, strangely resembling a bird. "Why?"
"I'm supposed to meet Jason soon," she says. "He's grounded—he broke his leg last week, did you hear about that?—and he's grumpy, so I'm keeping him company. I've got a bag full of Disney movies stashed near his apartment, and enough popcorn to choke a speedster, so it ought to keep him out of gloomy-zone for a little while, at least."
"Disney movies?" Cass asks, curious.
"He secretly loves them," Steph assures her. "His favorite's— " Her phone rings, the sound ofchirping birds audible. She holds up a finger to Cass. "Just a sec. Hello?"
"Steph?" It's Damian, and he sounds uncertain on the other end.
"Yes Macushla?" She asks, frowning, wondering why he's calling.
"Grayson has declared me unfit for duty tonight," he's sulking, she realizes. She can hear the pout in his voice, and knows he's glaring furiously. "Do you want to train with me tonight?"
She pauses for a second, mentally adjusting her schedule so that she can spend tomorrow night with Jason instead, and nods to herself. "Sure thing, Dami. I'll be at the Manor soon."
"Thanks," Damian says, voice small. She wonders why Grayson would bench Damian for the night, and she runs her fingers through her hair absently.
"No problem, Macushla," she says fondly, smiling at him, even though he can't see her. "I'll see you soon. Goodbye."
"Bye." Damian hangs up, and Steph stows her phone in the pouch again.
"What is ma-cu-sh-la?" Cass says, right behind Steph, and Steph pivots, instinctively, lashing out, her hand aiming for what would normally be a throat, but is instead Cass's hand catching hers, gripping it firmly by the wrist. "Sorry." Cass does look sorry, hunching slightly in guilt, her eyes wide.
Steph releases a long breath through her nose, her heart still racing, instincts blazing. "It's fine," she says, carefully pulling her hand back. "Instincts." She shakes her hand slightly—Cass's grip is like steel. "Macushla's Irish," she says. "It means "darling"."
"Why—" Cass looks perplexed, her eyebrows squishing together in an oddly adorable manner.
"My—my mother." Steph looks down. "There was this song. She'd play it sometimes. It was her favorite."
"What happened to her?" Cass asks, expression soft.
"She died," Steph said quietly. "They killed her when they killed my dad." Pain flares in her chest, a long forgotten mourning. She wonders if she should search for the grave, where they're buried. Pay respects, maybe, or something. Try to get closure, even. Closure for how Arthur's dirty dealing has scarred her and transformed her into this—not a hero, not a villain, but something stuck in between. She never had learned what Arthur had done to earn the ire of Talia al Ghul, and she's never had the courage to search for the answers. Her childhood in Gotham was separate from the rest of her identity—she likes to pretend it was a happier time, but she remembers the closet well enough, and the fear that Batman would come and take away her parents and leave her alone.
Cass looks at her sadly, as if she could read all of Steph's thoughts—which, if the rumors about Cass's abilities are true, she probably could. Steph gives a quick grin to the Batgirl, and then beats a hasty, and only slightly dignified, retreat.
She finds Damian in the Batcave, curled up in the gigantic chair by the computer. She walks up to him, fighting down the rush of concern. Surely, Grayson or Tim would have told her if Damian had been hurt.
He turns around, and Steph grins at him. He grins back, despite himself. He has a bruise on his cheek, but otherwise he looks unharmed, so Steph sweeps him up into a hug. He struggles slightly, protesting in a muffled voice about the assault on his dignity, but gives in and hugs her back.
"What happened?" Steph says, letting him go.
Damian looks… sheepish. Steph mentally prepares herself, wondering what could make Damian sheepish.
"A-chooo!" Damian squeaks, falling backwards into the chair. That's when Steph notices that his nose is red. Bright, cherry, dripping, red. She swallows down every urge she has ever had to giggle at Damian's adorable duck-like sneezes, and plasters a look of sympathy on her face.
"Cold, huh?" She says, scooping him up in her arms. "Okay, let's get you to bed, Macushla. I'll see if Alfred will make you some soup."
"I am not sick," Damian says, but his nose is clearly stuffed up as he says it, so Steph doesn't believe him one bit.
Steph sings softly, cradling him against her chest. He was warm to the touch, and his eyes sunk slowly shut as she whispers the old familiar lullaby.
"Macushla, Macushla, Your sweet voice is calling, calling me softly, Again and again…" Her voice, warm and gentle, washes over Damian, and he falls asleep as she ascends the staircase.
She pushes open the door to his room carefully, trying not to disturb him. She knows he doesn't sleep enough as it is, which is probably why he got sick. Alfred appears in the door, efficient as always. She smiles at him, shifting Damian in her arms slightly. "Can you help me get him into bed?" She asks. The elderly Oxford Man nods and smiles back at her, pushing back the bright red coverlets and cream colored sheets. She carefully sets Damian down, pulling the covers up to his neck. She then holds her finger up to her lips, looking at Alfred, before ducking down into a crouch and removing the stuffed robin toy she'd given to Damian all those years ago from its hiding spot. She tucks it in next to Damian, smoothing his hair back and dropping a kiss on his forehead before silently leaving the room with Alfred.
"I was not aware that anyone else knew about the bird," Alfred says, looking at her with a knowing expression and a kind smile. Steph hasn't spent much time with Alfred, without one of the boys to act as a buffer.
"I gave it to him," she says quietly. "He would get upset when I left for missions, so I'd bring him back presents to try to make it up to him."
"Did you leave often?" Alfred asks.
"No," she replies, closing the door to Damian's room carefully. "I looked after him more than anything, so we stayed at the compound most of the time. We only left when—" She paused, remembering who she was talking to and where. Everything in the Manor was recorded, she knew this. Even if it wasn't, Alfred would surely tell Grayson and Oracle everything. She considers where her loyalties lie. Protecting Damian was all that was left of that life. She owes Talia nothing. "When we had to go visit Ra's." She swallows, recalling the pile of bodies—her kills, bloodied throats and foaming mouths—outside of Damian's door, gone every morning before the sun rose.
"How old were you, when you were first assigned to look after him?" Alfred asks. He isn't judging her—his eyes are kind, and he doesn't even have the uncomfortable look that Tim gets when he's reminded of her past.
Steph pauses, trying to remember. "Thirteen," she says, eventually. She'd been thirteen, and Damian had been five—scared and determined, with a stolen poison spike, fighting beside a girl who he didn't even know.
Alfred places a gentle hand on her shoulder, and there's something sorrowful in his look, but kindness as well. "Thank you for looking after him, Miss Brown."
She smiles at him, and she feels lighter, somehow, with his approval. "He needed it," she says quietly. Alfred nods in agreement, then steers her towards the kitchen with the promise of a nice cup of tea.
Tim finds her in his room that night, curled up on his bed watching Netflix on his laptop. "You left patrol," he says, sitting sideways on the bed, angling his head so he can look at her. She's wearing a Superboy shirt that he's pretty sure she stole from Kon, and she watches the animated figures on the screen with great interest.
"Damian was sick," she says, clicking the spacebar to pause her show—it's a rather disturbing close up of intricately detailed eyes. Tim wonders what she's watching. "I was going to hang out with him, but he fell asleep."
"Ah," he says, awkward. His relationship with Damian is still… spotty. He's trying really hard to get over the whole "attempted murder" thing, but he finds himself holding a pretty bad grudge. He's trying though, for Steph's sake if nothing else. She's made it pretty clear that she loves the demon brat, and it's oddly obvious that Damian cares for her too. It's strange, that despite all of his and Damian's difference, that they have that in common. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Steph rolls her eyes at him. "You two," she mutters disgustedly. "You will be the death of me."
Before Tim can tell her to not even joke about things like that, she kisses him, and it's hard to talk when that's happening.
"I met Cass," she says, putting his laptop on his dressing table, grabbing the charging cord and plugging it in, then closing it. "She's fun."
"She said the same," Tim replies. "Said you fight well."
Steph laughs, and Tim can't help but grin. "I couldn't touch her!"
"No one can," he reassures her, grabbing her hand. He rubs his thumb along her knuckles, feeling her callouses and scars. "Not even Bruce—" He breaks off, the familiar ache of Bruce's disappearance remerging. He thinks about the data, lingering in the cave downstairs, and about how he really needs to process it. If he starts now, he should be done by his 9 AM meeting with Lucius…
Steph cups his face, quickly redirecting his attention away. "You found something." It wasn't a question. "Tell me," she says, not quite an order, but far away from a request. Her mouth is a hard, firm line, and her forehead is marked with lines, concern etching her skin.
"I… I think I can bring Bruce home," he says, desperately, unsure if even Steph will believe him. "He's alive, I know it, I—"
She kisses his forehead, still holding his face. She traces his features with her fingertips, cooling down the heat that has risen to his face. "Okay," she says. She smiles at him. "When you find him, let me know. I'll come with you."
"You believe me?" He can't believe it, Babs didn't believe it, Jason didn't believe him, Dick refused to even hear him.
"You're the smartest person I know," she says, smiling. "I think you'd probably be right about this." Then she gets a suspicious look, and she tugs him down, gripping his hands tightly. "And you can work on it tomorrow," she insists.
"But the data—" he protests, despite recognizing that stubborn expression and the determined set of her eyebrows.
"Can. Wait." Her voice is dangerous. "Don't make me break out the booby-traps. I've got a camera, and Jason would love to see the blackmail photos."
"You wouldn't," he says, horrified.
"I'm only partially, reformed, Boy Wonder," she tells him flatly, smirking. "I so would."
A/N: The book Carrie's reading was one of my childhood favorites. It's "My First Shakespeare" or something like that, and it was my mother's before I got my hands on it, so it's pretty old. The pictures were fantastic, if slightly disturbing at times.