~YJ~
025. Memory
Rated: T
~YJ~
The last thing I remembered when I woke up in the Bialyan desert, dehydrated and with a massive headache, was sparring with Barbara in the gym at Wayne Manor. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it was six months later and I was on the other side of the world, and the most recent memory I had was of getting my ass kicked by a girl; not that it was just any girl, it was Barbara, and that was all that salvaged my pride. She could hold her own in a fight and she was just as good with computers as I was, so that made me feel slightly better; it wasn't the first time she beat me and it wouldn't be the last.
I blocked the kick by grabbing her foot; I jerked it towards me, her leg rubbing against my side as it went pass, and she lurched forwards into my fist. She saved herself from a nasty bruise by rolling with the punch, but I could feel her cheekbone under my knuckles. I wasn't as lucky, taking the full brunt of her uppercut; I felt blood explode in my mouth in a flash of pain, and I tasted the sharp tang of copper. I let her go and she stepped back, looking satisfied. I spat a loogie on the mat, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Nasty. I glared at her. "Cheater. You let me catch your foot; you sucker punched me," I accused angrily. She smirked impishly; sometimes she could be such a bitch, not that I would ever say that to her face.
I charged and swung a roundhouse punch at her. She bent backward and I felt my knuckles swish past her nose. Damn. She went with her momentum, twisting her body and falling into a back handspring, vaulting out of my range. Her pale blue eyes, shades lighter than my own, narrowed and her lips twisted in a frown; her chest was heaving as she gulped in air. Her vibrant red hair was anchored in a ponytail, pulled back from her face, and I could see the perspiration on her forehead; I could feel the sweat beading on my own forehead. Her eyes locked on something over my shoulder; I can't believe I fell for that, but I turned to look. Nothing. I whipped back around to face her just in time to see her hurl a batarang—where was she keeping that, she's wearing a sports bra and shorts!—and flung it past my face. It lodged itself in the control panel on the wall, shorting out the lights. We were plunged into darkness, and I froze.
I stood still for a moment, eyes closed, listening for any hint of movement. There. The whisper of footsteps against the matt to my left; I turned on my heel and lashed out blindly. My fist impacted with flesh, likely her stomach; I heard a soft "oomph" and a thud, and I grinned widely. Down she goes. My triumph was short lived, however, as a vice-like grip clamped down on my ankle and she pulled my leg out from under me. My back let its discontent be known, protesting when my spine connected with the training matt. I gasped with surprise when a soft but muscled body climbed on top of mine; a slender hand grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the floor, and its partner pressed against my throat. The back-up lights kicked in and I was staring up at Barbara. She was smirking again, looking incredibly pleased with herself; some of her hair had escaped from her ponytail and hung in her face, tickling my nose. She leaned in close and said, "I win, little birdie."
As I staggered on under the hot sun, I clung to that memory, because the only thing I was sure of was that it was real and she was real, and if I let myself forget that, I would never get out of the desert. Even when our group was reunited and our memories restored, I still kept that one memory clear in my mind, with one thought:
I want a re-match.