Her return was simple and unannounced. The few civilians she was friendly with greeted her with a nod and a wave, as if they were merely neighbors passing each other on the streets; their expressions lacked the astonishment of Selina's initial reaction which led Susan to believe that her comrades had not been given all of the details of her disappearance. She could understand Selina's desire to keep the panic and general sense of hopelessness at bay.

The only one of them who welcomed her back with any enthusiasm was Violet. As soon as she had entered the courtyard of the complex, Susan had been bombarded. The girl's fingers and face were sticky with chocolate, an exceptionally rare treat, but Susan could care less as she surrendered herself to the curious pokes and prods and the gummy fingers twisting in her hair. There was nothing quite like the admiration of a child and Susan basked in it. Of course there had been questions. Endless questions. Violet patiently received a lengthy, entirely false and fantastical explanation for Susan's absence; Selina, however, was made privy to the truth shortly thereafter.

Selina had requested to see the wound and Susan had obliged, if not with a little hesitation. She couldn't allow her to notice the green in her veins. It was bad enough that Bane knew. Until she could say for certain if the mutation was a strength – or a weakness – she wouldn't chance at Selina's reaction. But it had been a useless apprehension. After her brief inspection. Selina had decided a shot to the heart was no reason to idle for any longer than the week Susan had been allowed. They got back to work immediately.

It only took a few days to catch up entirely. In fact, it took only ten minutes to refresh Susan on the progress that had been made in her absence because, truth be told, very little progress had been made at all. The entire operation had slowed and had very nearly come to a standstill. Susan would have been flattered by their obvious dependence on her and her power had she not been so anxious to make up for lost time. The crops she had planted at the border, she was surprised to learn, had not been destroyed. In fact, not one of Bane's soldiers had even attempted to approach the giant wall of vegetation that continued to tower and flourish over the concrete. More importantly, the people living in the most dilapidated areas of the city had benefited greatly from Susan's sacrifice. The plants kept putting forth fruit and vegetables and the people were kept satisfied, if not a little mystified.

In short, the operation had been a success.

Susan's pride felt as if it could split her in two. It kept her buoyant in the following week of work. The only thing – or person, rather – that actively dampened her spirit was John Blake. When it came to the detective, Susan was caught between virulent frustration and a genuine interest. Her curiosity and baiting was more often than not met with biting, dismissive remarks but Susan did not relent; she considered her unwanted sociable behavior as a form of retribution for his continued open suspicion. She couldn't blame him– but she could at least bother him for it.

She had been informed by Selina that she and Blake had a bit of a history. Namely that Blake had tracked Selina to an airport and arrested her shortly before the breakout at Black Gate and Bane's takeover. After Selina reclaimed her freedom, however, she like many other far more dangerous inmates skipped off the grid. The police, or what remained of the force, had themselves dipped under the radar in order to ensure their survival in the new hostile environment. Even fewer of them actually continued to serve out of uniform. Blake was one such individual.

He patrolled the streets when he could, breaking up skirmishes here and there. With the judicial system in shambles and the police force all but eliminated, petty crime was rampant. The violence and theft in the streets in no way resembled the chaos that had nearly split the streets on the day of Bane's exodus, but there was still good to be done and Blake took the responsibility upon himself.

It had been on a circuit of the city that Blake had spotted Selina. She had been stealing several boxes of nearly expired chocolate bars from the hull of a freight truck that the soldiers had commandeered. The sheer quantity of her loot inspired Blake to follow her and she had led him to the apartment headquarters. Blake would admit later that he couldn't believe how easy it had been to tail a woman of Selina's reputation in broad daylight. Selina assured him that she had meant to be followed. She knew Blake would be valuable, especially in the wake of Susan's absence.

And he was. It didn't take much persuasion to get Blake behind Susan's cause and although he disappeared for hours at a time – to where, no one knew – he took up residence with the rest of civilians in the complex and dedicated himself to the commune. He was helpful and kind. And the people trusted him for it. Blake had gotten comfortable with his duty and purpose at headquarters. And then Susan arrived.

His efforts, needless to say, paled in comparison to Susan's power, a fact that he openly resented. Not because of some superficial glory, but because he never for a second waivered in his distrust of Susan and her intentions. He could not trust her and he never would. Even for her brief, benign attempts at conversation, even on the rare occasion that she actually made him laugh or they agreed on a point of action, there it was – the mistrust, simple, plain, and solid in his eyes. Susan understood that this was one line that Blake could never cross. And she, despite her discomfort, reserved a profound respect for him because of it.

Blake made himself useful when work resumed, despite his initial reactions to the plan and its obvious risks, joining Selina and Susan on their trips to the border. He would sit in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and keep his gun trained on the soldiers standing on the rooftops of the nearby buildings. However, Bane's men made no move to attack and hadn't since Susan had returned. They only watched, their guns slack at their sides; it made them all apprehensive.

There was routine. There was order. There was the possibility of progress and of creation. All the things Susan needed, the foundation upon which she thrived. But the palpable, all-consuming dread did not cease. It lingered within the center of her chest, a glacial mass of tense agony; her blood felt cold, her bones brittle. Briefly after she had resumed her place in the operation, Susan had been able to invent, but with a considerable amount of effort; her trips to the border and between the communes left her exhausted and aching. But now she was fading fast. She was growing worse, dying in the dead of winter.

The power she had relied up for so long the life which had restored her, saved her – was killing her.

It had been sudden. And it would be inevitable.

She hid the truth even from herself. She kept herself warm and the others unburdened with her secret. And she would continue to do so until all of her other options, her excuses, had been exhausted.

It was late afternoon when the three of them gathered for a trip to the nearest border. The sun had finally emerged after a few days of a bleary forecast and Susan wanted to make the most of the last few minutes of sunlight and the warmth it allowed. The car ride was quiet. Selina and Blake upfront, Susan in back. No aimless chatter. The radio hummed with white noise and the occasional whining notes of a pop song fluttering between the frequencies. When they arrived, Selina turned the radio off and put the car in neutral, not daring to kill the engine. The two women nodded to each other and Susan stepped smoothly from the car, glancing around briefly before turning to lean in on Blake's open window.

"Care to escort a girl to the border, detective?" she cooed, grinning playfully.

"No," he spat automatically, but a soft swat from Selina made him reconsider. He sighed, shaking his head bitterly. "Fine."

Susan turned, not bothering to wait for him, and moved toward the line of crops growing along the border. Out of habit, she cast a cursory glance at the surrounding rooftops. Not a flicker of movement. She advanced unafraid, examining each plant with a patient and loving gaze. Her touch lingered over the vegetation and the spores reached back, their energy, their life humming beneath her fingertips. She examined the flowers, the fruits, the vegetables. Each of them beautiful. Each of them succulent, bursting with life.

"You…made this?" Blake murmured, walking after her as she moved down the line, continuing her careful inspection. "You created this?"

"I'm not a monster, detective," she replied coolly, pausing to push at the soil with the toe of her boot.

"I never said you were," he protested and she raised an eyebrow at him. His blush only reached the tops of his ears this time. He straightened, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I said you were a terrorist and a criminal – not a monster."

"Oh."

They walked on in uncomfortable silence, stopping every now and then so Susan could inspect the plants. Their footsteps echoed along the empty pavement and their ghoulish shadows followed after them, distorted and elongated by the setting sun.

"Would you show me?" Blake asked suddenly, "I mean…would you show me how you do this?"

Susan stopped short, turning on him. "You watch the news don't you, Blake? Surely you've seen enough Youtube footage to get a good picture."

"I have a picture," he explained, shuffling idly beside her, "But it's not very clear."

She chuckled. She found his boldness endlessly amusing. "Touché."

Susan chose a particular sparse spot and readied herself. She was foolish to be proud, what with the strain on her health, but it was something about Blake, his pride, his zeal perhaps, that pushed her. She clasped her cold hands together, feeling a feeble energy begin to build, yielding to the hope struggling within her. She closed her eyes as the spark grew, she raised her hands, and then –

The flame sputtered and died.

She could hardly stifle her gasp as she felt the life and the heat leave her so violently. The familiar dread, cold and tremendous and horrible, stole over her like a shadow and suddenly she felt the cold, felt it in her bones, the same dull frigid ache intensified. She felt it like a slow knife, stinging, twisting in her gut. It felt like death. She felt like death. She tried to contain the dry, broken scream waiting to explode from her throat; she tried to compose herself, remembering only then that Blake was standing beside her, waiting.

"On second thought," she declared, a little too loudly, clearing her throat. "I'm not one for exhibition. However," she touched her palms briefly. A little bit of heat, just enough– she managed to produce a flower. A pale, weak daisy. But it was enough. Enough to distract Blake. "A teaser."

Blake stared at her, obviously taken aback by her sudden change. He blinked numbly and accepted the flower, scowling at it briefly before shoving it briskly in the pocket of his jacket. "Took the word right out of my mouth, Ms. Isley." With that, he stalked back toward the car leaving her alone with her foliage. A few seconds later the empty street rang with the slam of the passenger side door.

Susan remained for only a minute more, stunned, frightened. But the sun had set and the heat that had warmed her face moments before, had waned and was gone. She returned to the car, feeling Selina's eyes watching her through the smudged, frosty windshield.

"How do we look?" she asked and Susan was quick to note the forced nonchalance in her tone. She avoided her gaze, twisting in her seat to face the window and burying her hands under her thighs for a bit of warmth.

"Fine."

Her answer was enough. The vehicle gave a lurch as Selina threw it into gear and began the trip back to headquarters. No one spoke. No one even bothered to turn on the radio. When they arrived, the three made their way down the main foyer toward the courtyard. Susan focused the pace of their footsteps to ignore the feeling of Blake's eyes on the back of her neck. And then, before she could even register what was happening, she was being pulled into one of the many empty offices. If Selina had noticed, she did not stop to intervene. Susan had half a mind to cry out to the woman but the look in Blake's eyes, and his hands, forcing her still against the door, made her reconsider.

"How long has this been going on?" He was stone-faced and Susan could feel the pulse of his hand against her shoulder, thrumming fiercely. "How long have you been sick?"

"S-sick?" was all she could manage for the lump in her throat.

He shook his head, sneering. "Don't play stupid – you're better than that. Besides…I saw your hands."

Susan balked. He knew. He knew something was wrong. That she was sick, withering from the cold or from the trauma of her transformation or both. It startled her how easily he had seen the truth. At the mention of her hands, she absently ran her fingers over her palms. Dry. Faded. Her skin was yellowing around the edges of the palm, like a leaf in decay. Only a matter of time now before it spread…

"You're sick or tired or something," Blake continued and looked her over, up once, down, and again, "I don't know. I don't know what it is or what it could be, but that's not my concern. My concern is when you're going to tell Selina."

His question forced her violently from her thoughts. "She can't know," she started, blinking at him in alarm.

"She has to know," he insisted, pressing firmly at her shoulder to emphasis the point, "Are you telling me you're going to keep her ignorant of the fact that her one defense is failing, rapidly?" He scoffed at her as she nodded firmly, slowly, somber. "Unless this is part of your master plan." She stared at him as he leaned towards her, eyes intent upon her face. "Seems pretty sick to me. Destroy yourself in order to destroy an entire city. Sick…but conceivable."

Susan barked with bitter laughter, snarling at him and shoving him aside. "Careful, Blake. You're paranoia is showing." She put space between them, moving to the center of the room, turning away from him so she could breathe.

"Then what?" he continued, his voice cracking with impatience. "You'll keep quiet until when? Until you…?"

Susan closed her eyes. Blake stopped himself.

"You could tell her."

"This isn't mine to tell."

She turned to face him then, sighing shakily. "Then we have our answer…it's settled."

He didn't flinch. He only stared at her, hard, as if waiting for her to crack and concede to her obvious defeat. But she only stared back, resolute in the fate that nature had chosen for her. In control of her own chaos, as it were.

Finally, after a rancorous few moments, he seemed to resign. He broke his stance, he glanced away. "How long?"

She knew exactly what he meant. He seemed embarrassed by the question, afraid of it, although she couldn't understand why. "I have no clue. But it shouldn't matter to you. Or to anyone else for that matter."

"Does…he know?"

No. And the suggestion alone terrified her. She shoved it forcefully from her mind and looked away from Blake, her eyes flickering towards the window just as a streetlamp outside flickered on. She stared into the sickly, strident orange light, wanting to burn the tears away, wanting to soften the stone in the back of her throat.

No answer was enough of an answer for Blake.

"Well," he began, rubbing idly at the back of his neck. A nervous habit. "I suppose you're right. It doesn't matter. And maybe," he laughed and it was a bitter, angry sound, "Maybe in a few weeks, nothing else will matter either."

Susan frowned at his rankled expression. "What are you talking about?"

Blake drew pause and let his hands fall down by his sides. "The bomb. I'm talking about the bomb."

She blinked, her mind falling short, her racing thoughts plucked from the tracks. "Bomb?" She turned slightly, angling herself toward him. "I don't understand."

The expression steadily bleeding across Blake's face was one of absolute disgust and confusion. The revulsion was immense, glinting in his eyes like the iron-black barrel of a gun; the force of it was enough to make Susan take a minute, cautionary step back and the click of her boot-heel was enough to break his stare.

"You don't understand?" He stepped forward, countering her retreat. "How could you not understand? The bomb – I am talking about the bomb! Bane's bomb! The whole reason we're in this mess, the whole reason for rebellion!" He was shouting now, filling the tense space between them with volumes of hateful noise. "How could you not understand? How could you possibly not understand?"

He rushed towards her then to clasp her shoulders, possibly to shake her, maybe even to harm her; Susan couldn't tell. But as soon as she felt his hands upon her, she exploded with a force that she thought was long dormant, an unreserved fury. She swung fiercely, bringing her right hand up to land a blow directly across his face. Blake groaned in surprise and pain, stumbling back, and she gripped the lapels of his jacket long enough to shove him aside. There was the crash as the desk lamp toppled to the floor but Susan was already gone, throwing the door open and immediately breaking into a run.

The shadow had settled in for the night and the cold felt sharp and keen in her lungs as she sprinted along the city streets. John Blake's blood was still warm in between her fingers and all she could think was that Bane had taught her how to swing like that. Bane. Her thoughts were crashing into one another, crossing wires, catching fire, as she flew over the pavement; she found the way by memory in the dark and when at last she arrived at the steps of city hall, her muscles were screaming and her lungs prickled with every gasp of frigid air. Standing at the bottom of the stair, she glanced up and along the face of the massive marble building, her eyes climbing, leaping across its elegant crags until her gaze stopped at the uppermost set of windows. The lights were on.

Susan yielded to the sob building in her throat. But only for a minute. She swallowed it sharply and kept running. By the time the elevator doors finally parted, delivering her at the mouth of the apartment foyer, she had collected herself.

The light was spilling in from the kitchen without invitation and without warmth and the fluorescence hurt her eyes as she stepped into the room. The sight of him nearly rattled the cry still nestled in the hollow of her chest. He looked up as she approached and suspected nothing. The light in his eyes was warm and inviting.

"Susan."

"The bomb – tell me about the bomb."

He seemed genuinely surprised; Bane nimbly pushed aside the folder before him with the tips of his fingers. He rested them gently on the table before he spoke. "What is this about?"

"It's about the bomb," her voice shook with the effort to control her emotion. Susan watched the still-sentient features of his face ripple with worry and confusion while the cold, mechanic maw of his mask continued to snarl at her where she stood in the doorway.

"Could you have forgotten so easily?"

But she had forgotten. Susan was the farthest thing from ignorant. It was her panic and her shame that had caused her to lash out at Detective Blake and also what had stirred her emotion so violently. Perhaps she had forced herself to forget; perhaps the knowledge of it had been buried beneath the trauma, beneath the grief, beneath the blood and the soil, and left to ferment, left to reap something awful. But she could remember now.

"How long?"

The question held in the quiet air like a note of music, begging an answer and yet fearing it. Susan felt the cold dread begin to pool in the pit of her stomach, knowing and waiting.

"Two weeks until detonation."

Her steps were slow, measured, and the kitchen chair sighed beneath her as she assumed the empty space beside him. He watched her as if waiting for her to crumble beneath the weight of his admission. But she kept still, kept solid, and kept her eyes on the dull metal of the table top. The cold ebbed within her, bleeding into the bottoms of her feet and the tips of her fingers. She shivered but when he reached for her hand, she wrung her fingers out of his grip.

She glanced up in time to see the hurt pass over his face. "And you're not going to do anything about it?"

His head tilted curiously. "You want me to play the hero?"

She couldn't reply, not at first; she was so overcome with a dazed ferocity. "No," she murmured, her voice breaking with exhausted emotion, "N-no, I wanted to be wrong. I suppose I wanted to believe that it couldn't be possible."

"You wanted to believe that things had changed. You wanted to believe that I had changed. That I could be different."

She swallowed hard. His honesty relieved her; he had said what she couldn't and her silence only reassured him. Now, they had only to face it.

"I cannot remove the threat of the bomb," he began slowly, "In two weeks, it will detonate and Gotham will be destroyed. The plan will proceed without interference."

She smiled grimly. "You sound so cold."

His brow furrowed. "Did you really for a minute believe I was anything more than what I am?"

"Yes," her grin widened and she felt her throat swell, "But I'm not a fool. I never once allowed myself to believe that you were anything but what you are. But you are more. You're a force of nature. You know your purpose. And it just happened to collide with mine."

He stared at her, unblinking and this time when he reached for her hand, she let him quietly yielding to the warmth of his skin. He unfolded her palm to the light and it was then he saw what she had tried for so long to keep hidden. Susan couldn't understand the precise reason for her surrender; perhaps it was that her own mortality had just been reassured. Whatever the case, he understood immediately. He traced the brown, fading edges of palms with the rough pad of his thumb.

"And what is your purpose, Susan?"

The question struck her like a cold wind, rattling the dry and dying within her, stirring up a fierce wretchedness that had long been dormant; that had long been buried beneath the bones of a life that had fallen apart, beneath her grief and her apathy and her will to survive. Purpose…was no longer the question. The question was not what, but when, but where. Nature had robbed her of choice and decided her fate. She had no answer for him.

But when she looked at him, she did not find so dissimilar a creature. A force of nature. The intention of that force and the scion of its fallout. His purpose had been decided for him and his redemption denied because of it.

She wondered if he realized this. Or if it was something he had chosen to forget.

She wondered too if there would be time left for him to remember.