For years to come, everyone on the Team, the Titans, the League, and the Bat Family would remember where they were and what they were doing before they heard the news at approximately 2:36 in the morning, November First.
Flash was helping Green Lantern with Watchtower duty. There was nothing worth noting being recorded on the sensors or systems. No natural disasters, no major coups or revolutions. Just the average, everyday little bits of crime.
Cassie Sandsmark and Jaime Reyes were making out behind the marble statue of Superman.
Batman was sending the Riddler off in an armored Arkham truck, his latest plan (whatever it had been) foiled before it had even been put into motion. Tim Drake had sneaked out of the party to be by his side.
For years to come, no one knew who called the police to Wayne Manor. Their best guess? Maybe one of the thugs that had been with the Joker had had a change of conscience. Maybe a passing jogger had heard the screams of the victim inside, though that seemed doubtful.
But when Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake emerged from the grandfather clock at 2:14 a.m., Commissioner James Gordon stood there to meet them. Shoulders slumped from an impossible weight, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn trench coat, and eyes glancing over them solemnly.
Tim startled back, covering his face with his hands. Bruce only nodded to the Commissioner.
"It's alright, Tim."
Tim removed his hand, his expression full of curiosity, and maybe a little bit of disdain.
"Who else knows?" he demanded. "How did he find out?"
"It's just me and Bullock."
"I told him," Bruce said to his ward. Then, to Gordon, "Good Evening, Jim. But with all due respect, why are you in my home?"
Gordon's face sagged. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the hallway.
"Jim?"
"So you don't know?" he asked softly. "I thought…"
He released a deep sigh. Something like panic mounted in Bruce's chest. Where was Alfred? Where was Barbara?
"Jim? What happened?"
Gordon pulled his glasses off, and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt. The Commissioner wasn't young, but he rarely showed his age. Right then, Commissioner Gordon looked a hundred years old.
He held the glasses up in the dim light and squinted, before placing them back on his face.
"We received an anonymous tip that someone had broken into Wayne manor. Took a Taser to a Mr. Alfred Pennyworth."
Bruce sucked in a breath.
"Is he alright?" He demanded. The Batman façade slipped. He was all Bruce Wayne, and the man who had raised him was… "Alfred. How is he?"
Gordon planted his hands in his pockets and jerked his head as a signal for the other two to follow him down the hallway. Their footsteps made soft sounds on the carpet. They passed the bronze bust of William Oscar Wayne, but Tim didn't even make a sound, let alone a move to rub the statue's head.
"Please, Commissioner," Tim said, "Is Alfred okay?"
Gordon stopped at the end of a branching hallway. To their left, police officers and detectives scurried around an open door. The library.
"Mr. Pennyworth's fine. Paramedics took him to a hospital a few moments ago, but I think they'll release him fairly quickly."
Two women dressed in paramedics' uniforms pushed past them in the hallway.
"Commissioner," one of them said. She and her companion held a stretcher between them.
"Just in there." Gordon pointed to the library door. Bruce turned sharply to Gordon, and the panic raced back, full force.
"If the paramedics already took Alfred to the hospital, then-"
Gordon was stone faced.
Bruce's eyes widened. "No."
Tim jumped. "Bruce?"
"No."
Bruce shoved past Gordon and the paramedics. Two police officers tried to bar him from entering, but he bellowed and pushed through.
The library was tagged floor to ceiling in dripping purple and green graffiti. It covered the spines of books on his shelves, it plastered the walls. Wide stretching grins and one repeating word:
HA HA HA
"No," he said. Then, he looked down at his feet. A large red stain pooled then smeared over the wood panels of the floor. Spatters, drops and smudges painted the polished flooring. One large smear streaked away from his toes, stretching on and on like a horrible red ribbon. It led to the fireplace, where on-scene paramedics were crowded around something. Bruce's attention focused on the pile of bloodstained clothing at the edge of the hearth rug. Gray skirt. One of Dick's blue dress shirts... He recognized those clothes. They belonged to… His attention returned to the fireplace.
He was vaguely aware of Tim standing next to him. The boy was shaking, and he was quite possibly reliving the night he'd gone home and discovered his father lying in a pool of his own blood. Bruce knew it because his own mind was following a similar pattern.
The next thing he saw was the hearth rug. It was saturated red. The paramedics were spreading out, now, making way for the two women bearing the stretcher.
And Bruce saw what was on the hearth…
Who was on the rug…
"Tim," he snapped, "Don't look."
Tim was frozen, staring in shock at the pale and bloody heap.
"Timothy Jackson Drake, close your eyes!"
Tim turned, and vomited onto the wood floor.
#######
At 3:31, just thirty-three minutes after the GCPD had arrived at Wayne Manor, the Watchtower's Halloween Party was still in full swing.
Dick managed to corner Jaime by Jason's DJ table. The Blue Beetle had a dreamy expression on his face, and Dick thought at first that the Titans had spiked the punch bowl again. But then he noticed the streak of lipstick at the corner of Jaime's mouth.
"So," Dick said, leaning against the table. "My little brother happened to sneak off somewhere. I thought I asked you to keep an eye on him."
Jaime reached back to scratch his neck.
"Heh, um. Sorry about that, man. I was…a little busy."
"I'm sure."
Bart materialized by Jaime's side. His eyes were wide open and scared.
"Dudes," he said, "What time is it?"
Dick raised an eyebrow. "How come? Barry didn't give you a curfew, did he?"
That was doubtful. Superheroes didn't have curfews. Especially not the Flash Family. Still, Bart looked petrified.
"What. Time."
Jaime and Dick exchanged a confused glance, and Jaime flipped his phone on.
"It's 3:36, Hermano. That's about five minutes after the last time I gave you. What are you so worried about, anyhow? The night is still young, as a wise man once told me."
Instead of whooping and racing back into the crowd, Bart's pupils contracted. His fingers twitched.
"Oh, man. Ohmanohmanohman…"
Dick's phone buzzed. He picked it up and turned away from the boys, one hand over his ear.
"Bruce," he whispered. "Why are you using phones? Are comms down?"
His mentor's voice came out husky and rushed. When he'd finished, Dick's entire body buzzed with adrenaline as his mind struggled to process the words he'd just heard.
Manor…attack…Joker…gunshot…Barbara…
He pressed the end call button. The phone clattered against the floor, and the screen shattered.
"Jason!" he bellowed. "Jason!"
The music quieted, and Jason's face appeared in the crowd, as everyone turned to stare at Dick.
"Jason!"
His brother was at his side in a second, one hand on Dick's shoulder. His eyes were narrowed, probably with irritation. It wasn't like no one knew his real name—especially after his funeral—but Red Hood didn't like having it publicly announced. "What?"
Dick grabbed him by the shoulders and hurriedly whispered the words in his ear. Jason stepped back, eyes wide. He swore. Loudly. He kept repeating the word over and over.
Both bat brothers turned and raced out of the forum. It only took a second to enter the coordinates, but to Dick, it felt like too long. The zeta tube whirled and roared to life, and the two men leapt through without a moment's hesitation.
The music was gone now, and a dull roar had settled over the room as everyone turned to each other to ask what the # %# was wrong with the bats.
Jaime turned to Bart. "What's going on?"
Bart's eyes were wide. Artemis raced over and wrapped her arms around Kid Flash's shoulders. Bart suddenly looked very small.
"Something happened," she said breathlessly. The room quieted down as Aqualad mounted the steps of the DJs podium. He held up a phone-like device. Whatever was on it had caused him to turn an ashen color that was reminiscent of a corpse. Then, wetting his lips, he spoke.
"The League is initiating a mandatory lockdown."
"How long?" someone shouted.
Aqualad's expression was solemn. "Until further notice."
There was an outcry as everyone complained about being locked in. Some of them had school in a few hours. Some of them had families to get back to. One of the Titans was complaining loudly about a midterm she had. A Team member shouted something about his parents flipping out.
All talk ceased when Aqualad cleared his throat.
"The League is initiating a mandatory lockdown," he repeated. "Batgirl has just been shot. Out of uniform."
There were several screams. Artemis and Jaime both looked at Bart. Artemis started to cry.
"History books…" Bart muttered. " #%^ it.
Artemis sobbed.
######
Batman stood guard at the bedside. The doctors had been reluctant to let him in; costumed freaks tended to cause trouble. But Commissioner Gordon whispered into a few ears. This girl was a friend of the dark knight. He needed to be by her side until she woke up, so that he could ask her a few questions about the…the incident.
Bullock and Robin had insisted on being present as well. The wizened old captain was nearly beside himself.
"I should've done something," he kept muttering. "I saw her, like, and hour before it happened…"
In the hospital bed, Barbara was sleeping soundly. She was stuck full of IV's and wrapped in a thin hospital gown. A kindly nurse had cleaned her up after the surgery and brushed the blood out of her hair.
"Poor thing," she'd said, sadly, "Girl didn't deserve nothing like that. But, who does?"
In the meantime, his partner remained asleep. Tim sat at her bedside, holding her pale hand between his two gloves. Carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking her. Bruce worried about that, too. Barbara was ghostly pale—most likely suffering from the effects of losing so much blood—and almost appeared to be made of glass.
One of the Doctors eventually stepped into the room and brushed them to the side. He selected a pointed metal needle off a waiting tray, and pulled back the sheets covering her feet. He pressed the point against the sole of her foot, and glanced up at her face. There was no reaction. Not even a twitch.
Prick. Nothing. Poke. Nothing.
The doctor let out a heavy sigh, and replaced the sheet over Barbara's toes. The slick, sliding sound of the fabric set Bruce's teeth on edge. There was a finality to it, like a grim announcement. Then, sure enough, the doctor wet his lips and said, slowly, turning to a hovering nurse,
"I'm afraid that our initial diagnostic was correct. It appears that the bullet severed the patient's spinal cord upon contact."
He shut his eyes for a moment, and looked at Barbara's resting form.
"I'm very sorry to tell you this," he said, this time to the Dark Knight. "But she'll never walk again."
Bullock swore under his breath and turned away. Bruce looked to Tim. His face was a mask of horror. He held Barbara's hand more tightly and whispered,
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Batman himself felt like putting his fist through the wall. He could have screamed, flipped the hospital equipment across the room. Anything but stand there like a stone gargoyle. But that was what he did, because that was all that he could do.
The more selfish part of him had a more selfish thought. He'd spent years—years—grooming this girl to take up the mantle when he retired. She was skilled, she was brilliant, and without a doubt, she would have surpassed even Bruce one day.
But one shot. One shot. One bullet had taken all of that away forever. Because now, Barbara would never even be able to don a cape again. Let alone leap from skyscrapers and soar into the night.
What had he done?
"Captain Bullock," he said. His voice rasped like steel on gravel and a lack of sleep. "Doctor Simmons. Nurse Strong. A moment please."
"Of course."
" Yeah... Yeah. I need to go tell the Commish."
The door shut with a metallic click behind them, and all was silent. The only sound was the steady beeping of the EKG monitor next to the hospital bed, and the steady humming of the machinery.
BEEP…BEEP….BEEP…
"I can't believe it," Tim said. He stared at Barbara's closed eyes. Both mentor and protégé stared forlornly at their wounded partner for an eternity, listening to the steady beat of the EKG. Bruce still couldn't process the idea that his daughter would never again step over to his side and offer him a mug of cocoa after a long night of patrol. She'd never be there to watch his six in a fight, or match his stride on a rooftop…
Tim finally spoke, interrupting Bruce's thoughts. "This is my fault."
Bruce placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "The Joker did this, Tim. Wh—"
"No, Batman," he said, "You don't understand. Before she left the party…" he gulped a breath of air. His hands shook around her limp one. "We had a fight. I told her that it was her fault…her fault for Stephanie. I…I told her that I wished she was dead."
Bruce shut his eyes. "Tim…"
"I made her cry," Tim croaked. "Somehow, I-I jinxed her. Maybe I messed her up too bad…made her lose focus. If I hadn't said those things, she could have stopped Joker."
"It isn't your fault, any more than mine. I'm the one who told her to go home. She never would have been there otherwise."
Tim seemed to ignore him, and fixed his gaze on the EKG monitor.
BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…
"I'm a curse, aren't I?" he muttered. "Everyone I love, everyone I care about…"
"Robin."
"Mom, Dad, Stephanie…now this."
Bruce had been about to lecture his ward on the concept that had kept him up many a night. The classic 'sometimes bad things happen to good people' bit that Alfred had force-fed him over and over throughout his childhood. But just then, Barbara sucked a breath in through her nose. A sharp breath, just enough to make them both jump.
Under her lids, her eyes twitched, then blinked. Then, slowly, opened.
"Mmmmmm…" she groaned, squinting in the light, "B-Bruce? Timmy?"
"Barbara," they both sighed. Tim reached up to embrace her, but Bruce quickly stopped him. No touching, the nurse had said. They still weren't sure how far the damage extended.
"Where am I?" Barbara asked softly, squinting as she surveyed the room. Bruce watched her eyes go to the vent, then to the door, automatically cataloguing it in her mind as a possible escape route. He'd taught her that, too. "Why…? Am I…"
"How much do you remember?" Bruce asked her. She stared off into space, and was silent. Then, she said.
"I was…I was reading. Alfred was making cookies. I heard a knock on the door, and—"
Her breath hitched like she'd been hit with a lead pipe, pupils contracting. Her fingernails gripped the edges of the sheets.
BEEP..BEEP..BEEP..BEEP..BEEP
"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, no…"
.
"Barbara," Bruce said, rushing to her side. "You need to calm down. Please, just—"
"I remember," she cried, her voice cracking, "H-he—"
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
The EKG monitor sped up. Barbara began to scream, loud and shrill as her eyes looked up at the ceiling, seeing something that Bruce and Tim could not. She thrashed in her bed and screamed with renewed intensity.
"Robin!" Bruce shouted, "Go and get a doctor!"
"No!" Barbara screamed, "Let go of me!"
Bruce realized that his hands were on her wrists, but he kept them there in the hopes of keeping her in the bed.
"Get off!"
"Barbara—"
She screamed at him, face red and strained. Eyes wide, mouth stretched open.
"DON'T TOUCH ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!"
A doctor rushed into the room, followed by a harried nurse and a very worried Robin. They instructed Batman to stand back while the nurse prepped a syringe. He let go of Barbara, but that was a mistake. She shrieked and rolled herself out of the bed. Her body hit the floor with a slap, and everyone fell silent. Barbara gasped like a landed fish, and Bruce saw her face. Her eyes were wide, blue and red, with tears streaming freely in rivulets down her cheeks. Her mouth hung open as she gasped shallowly.
"No," she muttered. "No…why…my…my legs…"
The nurse bent and inserted the syringe into Barbara's arm, depressing the plunge. Barbara shuddered, then fell silent.
"That will sedate her for a while," the doctor said. "She needs rest. The sudden shock…well, she needs to come to terms with what happened slowly. When she wakes up again, we'll let you know. In the meantime, we're going to ask you to wait in the lobby."
The sheer ridiculousness of asking Batman and Robin to sit in a waiting room was bad enough. But the implication in the doctor's voice that it was their fault…it was too much. Bruce cast Barbara one more regretful glance, then turned and followed Robin and the nurse out of the room.
As they stepped into the waiting area, they came upon another scuffle. Three orderlies were holding Nightwing back, and struggling to do so. Red Hood stood nearby with his helmet under his arm. He argued with a nurse, gesticulating wildly.
The orderlies holding his oldest son were gasping and straining. Bruce was surprised Dick hadn't laid each of them flat on their backs as of yet.
"No, I don't think you understand, ma'am," Jason growled, "That's my sister in there. She's been $#% ! shot by the % #$*%!?% Joker!"
Jason's face was red, but Bruce thought that he was holding himself together fairly well. He hadn't shot anyone yet, at least. Both boys stopped when they saw Batman and Robin enter the room. Jason dismissed the nurse with a wave, and the orderlies carefully let go of Dick, after Bruce shot them a withering glance. The two vigilantes rushed over to their mentor.
"Is she going to make it?"
"What the %* !$ happened?"
"Will—"
Batman held up a hand and said,
"She's going to be fine." At the same time Robin moaned. "It's horrible."
They exchanged a glance, and turned to the concerned elder bat brothers.
Bruce let out a heavy sigh. It was the kind of sigh that released a long night's worth of worry and panic, and the acceptance that everything was not okay.
"The doctors," he said, "They say that the spinal cord was severed by the bullet. She'll…she's paralyzed from the waist down."
Both boys' faces went slack with horror. Jason staggered over to a chair and sat down with a slump, staring off placidly into space. Dick's eyes leaked tears as he stumbled backwards.
"No," he muttered. "No."
A passing nurse stared them down shamelessly. It wasn't every day, after all, that Gotham's vigilantes were all gathered in the hospital waiting area. When she saw Nightwing's tears, her gaze softened, and she stepped over to put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You're all here for Batgirl, then?" she asked softly.
Batman started. The nurse nodded and held up her other hand in a calming gesture.
"The Commissioner told some of us who we were treating, since there don't appear to be any records of her. At all. We were told that she had falsified papers, though?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Good. That will satisfy the public and the hospital board." She paused to look at the bat boys' drawn and teary faces. "It doesn't seem fair, does it. After all you people do for this city…"
She sighed.
"At any rate, they sent me to tell you that she'll be sleeping for the rest of the day. But…really, they just want you out of here. I can sneak one visitor in. But the rest of you may need to wait until tomorrow."
They glanced around at each other. All of them wanted to be at Barbara's side. Batman cleared his throat.
"Robin," he said, "You and I were already in there."
Tim nodded sullenly, and Dick and Jason looked to each other.
"Nightwing," Jason sighed. "It should be you. She'll want to see you."
Dick nodded and stood. The nurse quietly led him out of the room.
#######
Barbara could feel the drugs beginning to wear away. The steady stream of painkillers in her IV was starting to taper off, and she could feel…oh, #$% , she could feel.
The hospital room was empty and sterile and smelled of ammonia. Machines beeped, the air conditioning hummed. She surveyed her surroundings and noticed a vent in the upper right-hand corner—
What was she doing?
Why did she even bother?
Barbara looked down and pulled back the sheets, slightly. Underneath the hospital gown, she knew, there were stitches and bandages and blood…she looked farther away to see her legs. Slowly, she reached forward and pinched her thigh, right where the hem ended. Hard. Harder. A teeny drop of blood welled under her fingernail, a red crescent moon.
Nothing.
Nothing.
She leaned back and concentrated. Just one toe. She could wiggle one toe. Nothing
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
She wasn't sure whether to cry or scream or laugh.
Laugh.
Her thoughts flashed and she gripped the sheets in her fists until her knuckles turned white and her head hurt.
Don't think about it, Babs. Avoid the L word at all costs. Just—
The door cracked open, and the nurse appeared with a smile. It was the nurse that was in charge, she knew. The one that had helped her during surgery, holding her hand, telling her to breath in the anesthesia that would make all of the pain melt away.
Behind her was a hunched form that was lost in shadow. As he stepped into the room, she recognized Nightwing immediately.
Dick. He was here.
He looked up, and a new expression flashed over his face. It was impossible for her to read, but maybe her mind was still a little addled by the meds.
"I'll leave you two alone," the nurse said, gently, "Just in case you say something that isn't for my ears."
Just in case we slip and call each other by our real names, Barbara thought, but she only nodded to show her gratitude.
When the door clicked behind the nurse, Dick came and sat down in an upholstered chair next to the bed. His fingers found hers, and he wordlessly removed his eye mask.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, but Dick said,
"Hey. Don't worry. I hacked the cameras. They're seeing something very different."
"How different?"
"You trust me, don't you?" His small smile withered and died. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the bed. Barbara's hand was held firmly between his palms.
"I should have been with you," he said sadly, "I'm so, so sorry. We could have—"
"Stop that, Grayson," she said. "Don't start in on the ifs. It'll drive us both crazy."
They sat together for a few moments, listening to the other breathe in and breathe out. Finally, she said,
"Dick? I know I was shot. I know I was…" she couldn't finish that thought. The Joker's torture—the whole extent of it—needled at the edges of her recollection. But if she started down that particular path, she might lose it completely. "Listen, Dick…I can't move my legs or my toes."
Dick knew her well enough to know that she meant the statement as a question. What, why and how. He sighed and gazed at her with those big sad blue eyes.
"They didn't tell you, did they?"
"What?"
"Babs. The bullet…it severed your spinal cord."
A cold feeling washed through her veins, though she'd suspected as much. The lack of sensation or movement. The pitying glances the doctors and nurses kept shooting at her. The eventual numbness as she lay on the hearth rug after…after being shot.
"So," she said. Her voice trembled. Against her will. "I'm paralyzed."
"I'm so sorry."
Before she could stop them, tears welled and streamed down her face. She let out a sob, and Dick pulled her closer to him, wrapping her up in the safety of his arms. She buried her face into his chest.
He held on to her, and she to him. She sobbed and gasped until her head ached and felt the silent wet drops fall onto her hair.
It wasn't fair.
Oh, # $%, it wasn't #$^%$& fair!
#######
Dick held her together as she shook, and some alien emotion stirred inside of him. A grandchild of helplessness. The product of a union between sorrow and fury.
This was Barbara. Batgirl.
She had always been tough as nails, confident, bright, fearless. Many of Gotham's horrors had tried and failed to break her in half, and she'd always bounced right back, fists swinging and smile wide.
The girl in his arms was beginning to crack and shatter. For the first time in his life since a mob boss had murdered his family before his eyes, a horrible feeling flared up inside of Dick. He wanted in that moment to find the Joker. Beat him with a crowbar. Break his legs in half like popsicle sticks. Take his own pistol and shoot him through the head.
No.
He'd been taught better than that.
But, for the first time, he truly understood what Bruce meant when he had tried to explain what it was like to stare into the abyss.
What it felt like to want to kill.
#######
The League, the Team and the Titans came and went. They were all dressed in civvies. After all, the hospital had barely managed to handle the entire Gotham city bat family. The nurses might actually collapse if Superman or Flash strolled in through the front doors.
They brought her flowers and cards and well wishes. All of them empty. Every time someone came in, group or individual, Barbara shut her eyes and pretended to sleep soundly. Entirely at the mercy of the medicine pumped through her veins.
Green Arrow told her that it would all be okay. Speedy—er, Arsenal—assured her that she would make one heckuva fighting machine. Maybe they could get her a hovering weaponized wheelchair?
Haha. No.
Wonder Woman vowed that she would be avenged, a promise that was appreciated, but not taken very seriously. Cassie cried, and told her she'd be okay. Barbara wasn't sure she believed that, either.
Jason didn't talk much. He only sighed and squeezed her hand. And muttered obscenities about the clown prince of crime under his breath.
When Zatanna and Artemis came, it was difficult to feign sleep. But Barbara did it anyways, knowing one thing for certain: her friends had already seen her cry once; it wouldn't happen again. Zatanna kept apologizing, and blamed herself for letting Barbara leave the party that night. Artemis cried at her bedside, and wondered aloud if she was some kind of curse. First Wally…now this.
The last visitor was Kid Flash. Bart Allen pulled up a chair to Barbara's side, and leaned back. He cleared his throat several times, then spoke.
"Meds got you moded, huh? That's good, Oracle. There's some stuff I gotta say."
Oracle?
"First off, that little plan you had? To send me back into the past? It worked. I saved Flash and Blue. And the Earth. But I lost Wally, and now I'm stuck here. I don't even know how that's gonna work for the future and such.
But listen. I don't get it. Your brilliant plan, your scheme to get everything back on track. It worked, mostly. But why save everyone except you? The accident happened exactly like the resistance archives said. Date. Time. Perp. Not crash. Not even a little. I could have stopped it, O. Why didn't you let me? I know you said that you're meant to be Oracle, the great and powerful and yada yada. But is it really worth it? Really?"
He let out a heavy sigh, and Barbara opened her eyes. He jumped. "Ah!"
She smiled weakly. "Heya Bart."
"You heard all of that, didn't you?"
"Mmm hmm."
Bart's face lost all of its color. He licked his lips and said,
"That…that means that we may have just been moded. Crap."
She sat herself up a little in the bed, making the sheets crinkle beneath her. It was hard to sit up just using her arms to pull herself upright, but she managed. It was just one more thing she'd have to get used to, after all.
"Tell me," she said. So he did.
The human race had been enslaved during the Reach apocalypse. Most of the League and Team had been hunted down and systematically executed, with only a few 'useful' members kept alive for slave labor. Curfews and restrictions were enforced, inhibitor collars were worn by all. The entire world lived under a Nazi-esque regime, and no one dared to resist.
Except, of course, the resistance.
"They took me in when I turned twelve. Needed a quick little guy as a runner. Their leader, see, she knew how to deactivate the inhibitor collars everyone was forced to wear. The resistance stole Reach secrets and sent covert teams out to undermine their operations and rescue slaves. We…we were sent out one day because two former heroes had been captured by the Reach. They'd managed to evade the beetle warriors longer than almost anyone, surviving on their wits and helping the resistance. You'd probably know them. Dick Grayson and Tim Drake."
Barbara's eyes widened. "You didn't learn their names in a history book. You knew them."
Bart nodded and continued. "Our leader, the Oracle, sent a team out to save them. But the whole mission failed. The extraction squad was compromised, and Grayson and Drake were both executed. Our best fighter, Red Hood, was on that squad. He was tortured until he gave up the location of the base. We lost almost everyone in the Reach's attack, but I found Oracle laying in the ruins of the initial explosion. I picked her up and ran to safety before the big bads could finish their job.
"We realized pretty quick that it was just us left, and she told me her story. How she fought under Batman, my gramps's old buddy. How she was shot and attacked one night by her mentor's arch foe, leaving her in a wheelchair the rest of her life. She said that we were alike. She'd lost her whole 'family' in the Reach wars. I lost mine. And she said that she had a plan.
"She gave me a blue pellet. She provided the parts I needed to get back to a time before the Reach ever invaded. Oracle also made sure to tell me that I was supposed to save a few people, but not her. She didn't want that night to go any other way, she said. 'Things I need to do.' 'Stuff I gotta learn'. All that jazz."
Barbara nodded, still processing everything. "So. I'm Oracle, aren't I?"
Bart nodded, smiling a little.
"It is nice to see you when you're still…you know. Young. And, ma'am, it was an honor serving under you as Batgirl. Totally crash."
She managed a smile. "Oracle. It does have a nice ring to it. I come up with that all by myself?"
"Yep. Well, I guess. Is it cheating if I told you?"
"Nah. But who else knows? Why you're here, all that?"
"Nobody. Well, Blue and Gramps know a few things. But I never told anybody about Oracle before."
She stared at the wall of her hospital room and thought. Oracle. A wheelchair bound superpower. Bart had given hints as to how, probably without even realizing it. A hacker. An information broker. Info made the world go round, and if she could control it, she could do so much good.
Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't completely broken after all.
Tears welled up in her eyes at the thought.
"Thank you," she said. "You don't know how much that…thank you."
He wordlessly patted her shoulder and stepped out of the room. Once the door had shut, she turned to the laptop computer sitting on her tray table.
She had a few ideas.
#######
"Here, Tim, grab the door."
"Ouch! Grayson! You just ran over my foot!"
"Well excuse me for—"
"Guys. Seriously." Barbara groaned. The four men were struggling to get her chair up the front steps. She held on to the arm rests with white knuckles and gritted teeth, hoping and praying that they didn't dump her out onto the concrete. Again.
"We'll put in a ramp," Bruce assured her. As soon as they got up to the door, Alfred was there waiting with a hug and a huge plate of sugar cookies. The poor man had been convinced that the whole ordeal was his fault. If he had looked before answering the door, he could have called for Batman and the incident would have never happened. Barbara was quick to assure him of the opposite.
Everyone blamed themselves. It was starting to get old, hearing the same exclamation every five minutes. No. There was only one person at fault, and it wasn't the Joker. It was her.
She'd been the one to open that door so trustingly, had been the one to stand there frozen like a scared little girl. She'd been trained. She knew how to disarm a gunman. How many hundreds of times had she done it before?
She'd been off her game, just like Bruce had warned her. And, after Black Mask, maybe karma had finally payed her a visit.
So, no. It was her fault. And she would own that.
"Why don't I get cookies?" Jason whined. Tim elbowed him sharply.
"You know, when you get shot, Jaybird," Babs quipped, "I'll make you a whole batch."
Barbara thanked Alfred for the cookies and balanced them on her lap, ignoring the winces from her family members. They hated it when she cracked jokes about her condition. But if they wanted to be squeamish about this whole mess, let them. She, on the other hand, was going to make the best of it.
Barbara insisted on wheeling herself into the mansion, and into the guest room. Bruce followed her inside, shutting the door behind him.
"Barbara," he said, "I know that this last week has been a…a horrible experience for you. I want you to know that if there is anything you need, anything at all, I'd be more than happy to help."
She tried to turn herself to face her mentor. This chair was difficult; it would take some figuring out.
When she was able to look Bruce in the eyes, (well, kind of. When she'd been able to stand, she stood five inches short of her mentor. Now, she had to crane her neck to look up at him) she smiled.
"Actually, B-man, it's funny you should ask."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I'm not sure if I like the sound of that."
She grinned. "Well, for starters, I want to buy the Charles B. Clark clock tower in Cormorant city."
"What?"
"I have an idea, Bruce," she said, "Of a way to still be in the game."
He shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.
"Barbara, I'm sorry…but you need to accept the fact now that you have…limitations."
Her blood boiled at that, but she shoved the feeling down and laughed.
"What do you mean?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Bruce sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
She held up both index fingers. "So, let me try to understand what you're saying. I'm stuck in a chair for the rest of my life?" She gasped a little, like the realization had just come to her. Totally ironic.
Her mentor nodded slowly, like it should have been obvious. But he still wasn't getting it.
"And…you just want me to sit around the house and do nothing while the boys all get to go out and play? Well, maybe not nothing. I could take up knitting. I think the manor needs a few tea cozies and doilies. Ooh! Maybe I could make some cute little sweaters for all of you to wear on patrol!"
"Barbara—"
Bruce's tone was derogatory, patronizing. She would have none of it.
"While we're at it, why don't we just stick me and my new friend here," she smacked the arm of her chair, "in a little glass case down in the cave? The plaque can say 'failed little cripple female protégé'. Something catchy like that."
Bruce winced at the word 'Cripple'. She only laughed.
"Barbara," Bruce said, "That's not what I mean, and you know it."
"Well let me tell you what I mean. I have a plan, and I think you'll like it. But to start off with, I'm going to need the tower, a computer system similar to the cave's, and access to, oh say, three million dollars?"
Bruce choked. Whether from shock or laughter or disdain it was hard to tell.
"Is that all?" he deadpanned.
"For now," she said. She folded her hands in her lap and smiled. "Besides, that's pocket change to billionaire Bruce Wayne, isn't it? Two of the three million will be invested in a few companies of my choosing, and I estimate that I can quadruple it in just a few weeks. Days, if I choose right. The tower will be a good place for my new base of operations, and the computers will let me get into places I never could as Batgirl. As for the other million, it should help me get started."
"With what?"
Barbara smiled.
#######
Dina stirred her cocoa with one long finger. It had stopped being hot a long time ago, so Barbara didn't bat an eye when the vigilante stuck her pinky into the chocolatey beverage.
"So…" she said, glancing up at Barbara through heavily done lashes. That was the thing about Dina; she was always wearing makeup. Obsessively. She didn't even take it off to go to bed, or even shower. It was all waterproof. "I guess I should be asking you how you're doing. But…I gotta say, I'm a little confused."
"Oh?" Barbara took a dainty bite of her scone. They were sitting outside at a fancy little outdoor café. Downtown Cormorant. Dina's favorite.
"Well. You missed our lunch date, and I don't hear from you forever, then I find out you're in a wheelchair…no offense."
The scone left little crumbs on the table. Barbara dusted off her fingers and hummed. "None taken."
"And now you're telling me you want to start…what was it again?"
Barbara smiled and leaned forward. "A secret organization. Based here, of course, but we'll do work all over the world. Helping people. Remember that girl in the alley? What if we had the chance to help people like her? And actually succeed?"
Dina sipped thoughtfully at her drink. Her eyes darted up, tracing the skyscrapers and streetlights. Then, she met Barbara's eyes.
"So you want me to be your legs. No offense."
She shrugged one shoulder in response.
"Yeah. And others. All women."
Dina's eyebrow quirked at that. "All girls, huh? And we'll all live in your tower?"
"Right."
"No rent?"
"No rent. Free dental, and a monthly stipend."
The cocoa mug clinked on the table top. Dina's eyes were bright with excitement.
"Well, I'm sold. No more living in dingy apartment buildings and motel rooms? You had me at 'no rent', babe!"
The girls laughed. Passerby gave them curious looks, the platinum blonde and the cripple girl, an unlikely pair. Barbara dug out a few bills from her purse and set them under the plates. Dina offered to push her, but Barbara adamantly refused. She gripped the metal ring around each wheel and pushed down, propelling herself out onto the main sidewalk.
Dina walked along beside her, humming some show tune or another. Finally, she said,
"So. What are we gonna call ourselves, this little group of feminists?"
Barbara had been debating back and forth for a while between different names. Different kinds of call signs and codenames. She'd finally settled on one. It was a name that inspired fear and respect alike. A group. A good name for a global organization—once she and Dina got it up and running.
"I was thinking," she said, "The Birds of Prey."
Dina mouthed the words to herself, eyes narrowed.
"Hmm. Not bad. Okay."
"But we're going to need recruits. It's not fair if it's just you running around with me in your ear. We'll need more help."
Dina's eyes drifted down the street, lost in thought. They strolled down the avenue together past the boutiques and shops with mannequins modelling the autumn's latest fashions. They seemed to be mocking her, all of them standing, running in place, or striking daring poses. Not one of them was in a little mannequin wheelchair. Finally, Dina cleared her throat.
"You know," she said, "I think I know a gal."
#######
Black Canary adjusted her leather jacket to cover her chest. The bar was loud and noisy and close. Too close. She could feel the breath of a thousand drunk men on the back of her neck, and it sent chills up her spine.
Remember, she thought, walk tall, walk purposefully, walk proud. A confident girl who looks like she knows how to knock heads will not be a victim.
Some of the men whistled at her over the rims of their beers, catcalling and laughing at her.
She threw her shoulders back and sat down in a decidedly unladylike way at the counter. The two burly men on either side of her chuckled into their drinks. The bartender leaned over the counter, sending her a conspiratorial smile.
"So, sweet cheeks," he said. His voice was high and nasal, like a weasel's. "What can I get for ya?"
Dina forced herself to lean over the counter and smile back.
"Well, I don't know," she crooned, "I'm looking for something with a bit of a kick. Let's try…a Ladyfinger shot. Neat, please."
She hoped she'd gotten the sequence right. But when understanding seemed to flicker in the bartender's watery eyes, she knew she had. He straightened and poured a glass of purple liquid into a shot glass.
"One Ladyfinger shot, neat," he wheezed, "I hope you enjoy it. Be sure to visit the back room when you're finished."
With that, he turned away and attended to another patron in a biker jacket. She sighed and tossed back the drink into her mouth. The burning liquid gushed down her throat and set her tongue on fire.
"The back room," she mumbled into her empty glass, "This is uncomfortable on so many different levels."
[Be patient. You said that this was the place to find her. That was the code to find her. No biggie.]
"First off, never say 'no biggie', like, ever again. Second, I know. I've just never tried to find her on her home turf before."
[You mean Gotham, right? That's my home turf, and I've never heard of any-]
A sharp elbow cut into Dina's side. Hot breath blasted her face.
"Well, baby," the man on her right said, "I would've got you a drink for free. You didn't have to cozy up to old Perkinson there," He nodded at the bartender's turned back.
"Well," he said as an afterthought, sidling up close to her. Too close. "Maybe not for free—"
He whispered something in her ear, and she slammed the glass down on the table. Even Dina had her limits.
With one quick jerk, she seized the man's Adam's apple in between her fingers. His eyes flew open wide, mouth gaping like a fish's. Then, she jerked her arm to the side and flung him across the room. He slammed with a rattling thunk into the wall. A couple of other men stood, looking ready for a fight.
Dina threw her shoulders back.
"Oh, boys," she said, "I wouldn't recommend that. Not at all."
But the bikers and thugs didn't listen. The fight was over in two minutes flat, when Dina had sufficiently humiliated the men into submission. She cast an apologetic glance at the bartender, then sauntered towards the back room.
Her hand paused on the cast iron doorknob. But she breathed in a heavy gasp of air, and pushed the door open.
The back room was dark and dank, with only a little light streaming in through a filthy set of blinds. There was an obvious lack of occupants. Dina heard a click, and whirled around. The glinting tip of a crossbow bolt touched her nose.
As she lifted her hands up into the air and stepped back, she met her assailant's dark eyes. She sighed. In relief and frustration.
"Helena," she said.
The woman lowered her crossbow slightly.
"What?" Huntress snapped.