You could cut the tension in the room with a pair of safety scissors.

But at least the Bats were finally back in their element.

Quiet room, undisturbed evidence helpfully labelled by little numbered yellow cards. Not to mention the bold yellow ribbons of crime scene tape strung over the whole thing like party streamers. No one allowed in but costumed vigilantes and a few authorized G-men milling around trying to look busy or at least somewhat productive. Some of them were moderately successful—most of them just glared suspiciously at the newcomers wandering through their scene.

But despite the FBI's growing annoyance, the Bats kept up their search, reveling in the relieving sense that maybe, finally…

…they were getting somewhere.

Batman and Red Robin commanded the crime scene with a stone-cold confidence that not even the most fearless Federal Agent seemed willing to contest. Strolling in and announcing their presence had been easy enough—they'd taken Conner and Wally along, both of whom were more 'recognizable', 'PR-friendly', and 'less of a security breach' than the pair of somber Bats. It had taken the four of them all of ten minutes to completely case the crime scene, before moving on to the nitty-gritty details.

Well, Dick and Tim were looking into the details. Conner and Wally could only stand by and nod as they watched. Chatted with the FBI men skittering around. Offered silent moral support from the sidelines.

Tim was weaving through cubicles, now. His eyes crawled across spilled pencils and paper clips, scattered reports and computer screens. The wreckage was interesting in that it was a winding trail—

—most likely indicating a chase.

The spots of blood that indicated where bodies had fallen were disheartening, but the FBI had put most of their focus there. So Tim put his focus on the surroundings.

They knew that there were at least two assailants. One with a gun—and possibly some sort of heat-based projectile weapon—and one with sharp instruments like knives (Tim's money was on 'Talon'). They knew that close to fifteen people had died in this massacre. They knew that those people were not the initial targets, but had likely been killed to eliminate witnesses and loose ends. Any security footage from that night had also been removed or corrupted for the same reason.

The identity of the real target was an enigma—at least to the FBI.

Batman's working theory was this: his Batwoman was last seen the night all of this went down, so more likely than not, she was the real target.

This crime scene was their only lead, aside from the families of Steph's newfound 'friends' at school. But they were currently under observation, and so far, none of them had made so much as a suspicious comment.

There was the fundraising gala tonight for Lincoln March's political campaign, hosted at the Vanavers' estate. But Tim already had that covered.

Dick was standing by the shattered remains of one of the office's plate glass windows. It hung open and empty like a gaping mouth, lined with needle teeth. Tim paused to watch his brother's gloved fingers trail over the sharp edges, his eyes shift towards the carpet of glass on the floor.

It was probably for the best, putting him on the Cormorant investigation. When the Team and the Bats had split up, they'd left Jason and M'gann in charge of interrogating John Grayson, and sent the rest of the girls to the Clocktower just a few streets away from Batman and Red Robin's assignment. (The other members of the Team had been called away on urgent League business. Damian had school.) Dick had wanted to stay at the Cave—wanted to wring Barbara's location out of his not-so-deceased cousin. But it had taken the rest of them about three seconds to figure that leaving Dick alone with the Talon wouldn't be the healthiest decision for anyone. So now, he and Tim were investigating the office massacre. Wally and Conner were there to offer security, build rapport with officials, and keep Dick on task. If he showed even the slightest sign of sneaking off to the Cave, they were there to drag him right back.

Out loud, the Batman asked, "Did you find out why this window was broken?"

"Our first thought was that bullets might've hit the glass," one of the agents proposed, putting a frown on Tim's face.

'Oh, really?' he thought, 'Then, what? The glass just decided to shatter in the opposite direction?'

"But that wouldn't have made much sense, since there would've been glass all over the sidewalk outside," another, more official one added. "So, we're thinking now that the perps were more sophisticated than we'd previously thought. Instead of coming through the door, they must've come through the window."

Dick seemed unconvinced, fingers stroking over what was left of the pane. He didn't have to say it out loud for Tim to know exactly where his head was—blood on the carpet, shattered glass on the 14th floor—a height that was perfectly accessible by grappling gun…

Barbara must have fallen through this window. Likely during a chase. And the creeps that were after her must have followed.

Batman's boots crunched over the glass as he stepped away. A few of the FBI's people cried out and lunged forward, screeching things about crime scenes and contamination.

"Don't," Red Robin told them. "Just watch."

Dick turned towards a cubicle that had a burned hole in one wall. Nodded briefly at it, then continued his march through the rows. Past upturned desks and overturned chairs, eyes taking in a grim scene with an even grimmer expression. He was following the trail, trying to see things how the hunters and the hunted must have seen it.

Batman paused across the room, towards the edge. Leaned down out of Tim's line of sight, before straightening to full height.

"And you have all the evidence catalogued?" he demanded.

The Agent In Charge looked downright affronted. "That's right."

"Then what was over here?"

Tim scurried through the rows of cubicles. Even Wally and Conner surged forwards, necks craning to see what Dick's stiff finger was pointing towards. All they saw was another cubicle, this one virtually untouched.

"There," Batman instructed his Robin softly, and Tim leaned down to take a look.

Debris had been scattered under the desk from the cubicle across the way—the one with the bullet holes in its side. Paper clips and thumbtacks were scattered over the carpet like confetti—

—except for one spot, where a small trail had been cleared by something small and round rolling through. Like a ball… Or maybe…

Tim wasn't sure, but he nodded to Dick.

"We need the names of the survivors and cleaning staff," Batman announced to the room, "As well as a complete list of all personnel who have entered this crime scene since the massacre."

The Agent In Charge spluttered a few things about protocol, but Tim already had his wrist computer at the ready, gathering the data before the FBI could even utter a single protest. With a small chime, he smirked, and glanced over at his older brother.

"Done," he muttered.

"Good work."

Dick's praise fell flat, and Tim faltered. Usually, Batman's face would light up in a proud smile. His tone would be bright and smug—in a chipper 'I knew you could do it' sort of way. But now his voice was dull and grating (like Dick was developing a sore throat). His frown was cold and indifferent.

He almost sounded like…Bruce.

"Now," Batman urged. "I want you to sift through their internet histories. I need every website, forum, and search. Every single detail of their online activity during the past few weeks."

Tim's fingers fluttered over the holographic keyboard balanced against his wrist. Data streamed over his screen, and he let his eyes twitch over the scrolling words and letters. Nearby, Conner frowned.

"Why's he doing that?"

"Something went missing from the crime scene, SB," Wally supplied. "There's a big demand out there for items taken from the scenes of tragedies like this. Huge market popped up after the Newark shooting and the wreck of Flight 325. Remember those?"

Conner looked solemn. "Yeah, but…why?"

"Morbid fascination," Dick muttered darkly. His eyes were glancing over Tim's data critically. "People are drawn to the macabre. I'm thinking that someone might've taken something from this room to sell on a black-market forum."

"At any rate," Tim added. "We've got an incomplete crime scene. Without all the pieces, how are we supposed to—well, hel-lo, what's this?"

An entire profile of information appeared on the holographic screen, and Tim's eyes darted quickly over it. A picture of the man in question—Howard Jemison, the office manager—showed a frowning, cleanshaven man with squinting eyes and a receding hairline. Aged forty-eight. Divorced. Joint-custody of two kids with his ex-wife Moira Fletcher. And—

"Three past misdemeanors," Tim muttered, squinting at the text. "One for public drunkenness, and two for shoplifting. And, here—apparently, he was fired from his last job for stealing supplies from work. Guy's a regular klepto..."

"So he's our perp?" Wally lifted an eyebrow.

Tim's fingers flew. The man's internet search history was more than a little concerning—he had a collection of…shocking interests to say the least. White supremacy forums and misogynistic discussion boards were the tamer items that came up in Jemison's history. There were even a few… Tim flung the images out of his feed with disgust. This was definitely the sort of character that would frequent the Dark Web.

"Whether he is or not…" Tim's voice was low. "I vote we nab this guy, either way. Now…"

His eyes snagged on a particularly interesting result, and he tapped his middle finger against it cautiously.

A webpage filled the screen, advertising items and articles of clothing for sale at shifting prices. The others regarded it with stunned silence. It might have looked like any other online store—but the clothing this one sold sported holes and bloodstains. Other items were cracked, shattered, or splattered with gore.

"See, this's what I'm talking about," Wally mumbled, planting an elbow in Conner's side. Superboy grunted and shrugged the speedster off.

"Is he buying or selling?" Dick demanded dully.

"Buying, looks like." Disappointment swooped in the pit of Tim's stomach as he glanced over his data. Howard, apparently, was a collector. He even seemed to have a particularly morbid obsession with Gotham Rogue crimes—he'd purchased a bloody shoe from a Riddler attack (Whether fake or real, Tim wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure that it mattered) and a few spent bullets that were supposedly from Black Mask's favorite handgun.

Tim was about to close out of Jemison's profile when something else caught his attention.

And he stopped short, hand hovering above the keys.

Tim's voice was monotone. "This is our guy."

"And how do you know that?" an FBI man growled from his post nearby.

A word that would've made even Jason Todd blush scarlet burst out of Tim's mouth, and the others jumped. He twisted his arm towards Dick, showing him the screen.

"This is our guy," he insisted through his teeth.

Dick's entire frame went rigid. His cowl's white lenses went wide as his frown pulled tighter. The others crowded around, straining to see the words on the screen, and Tim watched their jaws drop.

Because, right there on the second page of this shifty website, there was a listed item that Jemison was boasting—for the affordable price of five hundred grand.

He was claiming to have 'killed the 'Ginger Batgirl''

—and her cowl was up for grabs.

#######

#######

"Now, ladies. I'm sure we'd all love to kill each other right now. But for the sake of keeping the floors clean…how 'bout we lower the guns, huh?"

Stephanie's hands were in front of her, tamping down the tension in the room like she was trying to put out a fire. Her nerves were already frayed; they'd only been here about ten minutes—and everyone had threatened an all-out brawl almost as many times since they'd walked through the door. And from what she was seeing, there was no sign of either side backing down any time soon.

The Team's women—Zatanna, Artemis and Roquelle (Of course, Jason got to keep the one lady who could put everyone down with a calming psychic link, the lucky duck) were in formation, crossbow raised, hands glowing, and ready to throw down at the slightest provocation. They'd left their uniforms at home, hoping that civvies would be enough of a 'show of goodwill' to get them through the door.

However, 'through the door' was about as far as they'd gotten. The Birds of Prey were surrounding them on all sides, and Stephanie Brown was properly intimidated. Babs and Dina had added a whole new cast of characters to their little team's roster since Steph had left the Birds Nest to go and kick it with the Waynes. There was that Fire lady and her girlfriend, Ice, who were both waiting for the chance to spit roast or flash freeze the intruders respectively. There was a lady covered in tattoos who looked harmless enough—if you ignored the pair of gleaming Glocks she had pointed at your face. Vixen bared her teeth, Roxy Rocket cocked her shotgun and narrowed her eyes, and there was even a ten-foot-tall lady who looked like she could snap a Stephanie like a toothpick and use her to scrape between her teeth. There were even a few new bodyguard-type chuckleheads standing around—Steph recognized Creote and Savant, Babs's first pair of hired guys, but there were a few more that she didn't.

And, noticeably absent, of course—was Dina.

Helena was pointing a crossbow at Artemis's crossbow (which seemed a little bit redundant, but hey, whatevs) and growled out a stiff, "We're not lowering $#!^ until you tell us what the big idea is, little BG."

A murmur of assent went up from the other Birds. Zinda's frown pulled tighter, and Dove's grip on her staff tightened.

The three League ladies she'd brought were looking to her now, and Steph swallowed.

"Okay." She lowered her hands to her sides. Then brought one up to scratch nervously at the back of her neck. Then settled for crossing both arms over her chest. Because nothing says 'I know what I'm doing' like a bunch of nervous twitching, eh, Steph? "Right. Okay. Well. Full disclosure? We…um…" She cleared her throat into a closed fist. "…we think something happened to Babs."

There was no need to mention the Court of Owls. That'd open up a whole other can of worms and explanations that Steph wasn't exactly over-eager to start digging her hands into.

Besides, how could they say that the real reason they were there was to confront Dina? Talk about opening a can of worms in a room full of Birds.

"Explain," Helena barked, at the same time that Dawn perked up, and said, "What happened to Babs?"

Steph faltered. "Well, uh, see…that's the thing…"

Artemis came to her rescue with a tight, "We don't know for sure. That's why we're here."

Weapons and glowy-hands all around the room dipped down. Confused frowns twisted at the Birds' faces, and Steph watched most of them exchange sideways glances with quirked eyebrows and narrowed eyes. Even Huntress seemed skeptical, but the point of her crossbow's bolt wavered..

"Wish we could enlighten you," Helena said dryly. "But Babs hasn't exactly been…forthcoming, lately, you know?"

"Nothing new," the tattooed lady snorted.

"Has she…" A line appeared between Dawn's immaculate eyebrows. Her throat bobbed with a quick swallow. "Has she been in contact with any of you? At all? How do you know something's…? Is she…is she hurt?"

The concern on her face was as readable as an open book, and Steph felt an unexpected twang at her heartstrings. She wasn't exactly…supposed to know about the brief fling her older sister had shared with the white-haired woman in front of her. Officially? It had never happened at all. Babs and Dick had been on one of their 'breaks', and while Dick sulked off to spend some time with a girl he met at a bar (some chickadee named 'Bea') Babs had wheeled herself down the hall and knocked on Dawn Granger's door. Whatever they'd had together, it only lasted a few weeks before they called it quits. But it was pretty easy to see that both women still carried a bit of a spark for the other. And the panic in Dawn's eyes right now was almost enough to match the Bats' ongoing anxiety, ever since they'd watched Dick storm down into the Cave the other day, practically breathing fire.

It wasn't in the original plan—break into the Birds' Nest, confront Canary, get out—to say anything about the phone. But the look on Dove's face gave Steph cause to change her mind.

"The truth is," she said softly, "We thought she'd been in contact with us for weeks. But then we had…reason to believe her phone had been compromised. So we used a code phrase to check. Just to be sure. And…whoever texted us back…wasn't Barbara."

Dawn's eyes went wide. Helena's frown froze on her face.

The other Bird's shifted, murmuring softly between twitching gazes.

"Whaddya mean?" Zinda breathed. "You don't think she's…?"

"Her phone's been compromised," Steph affirmed. Her fingers rubbed at her elbows nervously. Her heart hurt. "To be totally honest, we're not sure if she's been compromised or not. For all we know, Barbara could be captured, or injured, or—"

She cut off sharply.

But it didn't matter; the unspoken word was so loud, Stephanie was positive that everyone in the room could hear it ring in their ears like a gong. The buzz of confusion and skepticism fell brutally silent as everyone stopped. Stared over at Batgirl with incomprehension. Disbelief. Denial.

The idea of Barbara—tough as nails, smart as a supercomputer Barbara—being gone was…

Well, Steph didn't want to believe it, either.

But the possibility was very real. Yesterday had been October 31st—to the rest of the world, Halloween, and to the Bats, the anniversary of Barbara's accident. Anything could have happened. Stephanie knew from very real experience just how visceral and horrible anniversaries could be for someone with PTSD. Every year leading up to the day she'd finally, mercifully, died after weeks of torture, Stephanie had nightmares. Flashbacks. Jason or Dick or Alfred had caught her outside more than once, weaving through the dark hedges in the middle of the night as if they were burning streets and towering skyscrapers. In her mind's eye, they were—and Stephanie was retracing the long journey from Black Mask's basement through war-torn streets of Gotham. On the day itself, she often curled into a ball on her bed, shaking until the feelings of terror and vulnerability subsided.

More than once in the last several hours, Steph had caught herself wondering if her sister was experiencing something similar. Was Babs wandering the streets in Cormorant or Gotham? Or was she lying in an alley somewhere, on her back and paralyzed as she stared up at the sky, visions of trauma prowling around in her mind?

"Halloween," Dawn gasped. "$#!^, Helena, what if—?"

"Stephanie?"

All eyes flicked up to the woman standing at the railing of the Clocktower's second level.

Dina Lance was draped in a silvery dressing gown, the bottoms of her blue pajama pants peeking out underneath the hem. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and Stephanie surmised that she'd just woken up. It was only 8 a.m., after all.

Dina's fingers drummed at the railing impatiently as she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"We wanted to see if you knew anything about Babs," Steph called out, tipping her chin a little higher. "She's missing, and… We were actually…hoping she'd be here."

Her voice died out at the look on the Black Canary's face. Her brow was lowered over narrowed eyes, and a scowl curled at her lips.

"Well, she's not," Dina clipped out. Both her hands dropped off the railing like the metal was hot, and she swung both arms up to fold across her chest. "But I have an idea as to where she might be. Care to chat?"

Steph hesitated, watching the woman angle her body towards her bedroom door in silent invitation. Then nodded. "Right."

Starting up the stairs, she suddenly paused at Dina's searing gaze. But it wasn't directed at her—the poisonous look was aimed squarely at the three women following her up. Zatanna, Roquelle and Artemis all glowered right back, but the Bird above them didn't seem fazed.

"If it's all the same to you," Dina told them through her teeth, "I'd rather keep the League out of this."

"Well, that's tough," Artemis snapped, her sneer dripping with venom. "'Cause we're already in."

"Oh?" Dina's lashes batted innocently. "Well, Barbara wouldn't want the League stepping in on her mission, now, would she? I'm talking to Batgirl—and only Batgirl—or I'm not talking."

Steph bit her lip, but waved a hand at the others. She tried for her best reassuring grin, but wondered if it came off as forced as it felt. Softly, she said, "It's okay, guys. Really. I'll only be a few minutes, and then I'll tell you everything." Turning to Dina, she added a "Be right up."

Her feet dragged like she'd strapped fifty-pound weights to her ankles, but she somehow made it up the stairs and into Black Canary's room. Like all of the apartments at the Clocktower, it was equipped with a bedroom that doubled as a living space, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette with a miniature fridge and sink, and even a little microwave. Unlike the other apartments, Dina's room was decorated with calming simplicity (Steph knew for a fact that Huntress had her equipment hanging everywhere—like arrows and bowie knives made good wall décor—and Zinda's had enough frills and cushions that her room looked like an old Shirley Temple movie had thrown up all over the place). When she'd lived here, Steph's room had been painted a cheery lavender, and had posters hung everywhere to add a little character. But here, the only decorations were a few bubbling fountains resting on shelves or tables (each only about the size of Steph's head) and some metalwork art hanging above the silvery blue silk sheets on Dina's bed. The only colors in sight were creamy whites and deep blues, with some dark oaky brown swirled in between. The feel of the room was fresh, clean, and most of all, totally calming—

—at least until Dina shut the door behind her with a soft click.

She padded across the room with bare feet, gesturing at the small dining table. "Have a seat?"

Steph didn't get the sense that she had a choice. The chair squeaked a little as she pulled it out, then sat, frowning all the while. Dina, though, busied herself at the kitchenette, hips swaying a little as she moved. Her fingers floated around her as she grasped at cupboard doors, the sink's faucet and finally, the microwave door.

"So…" Stephanie tapped her fingertips against the table. The woodgrain was rough underneath her skin, and she picked at it a little with her nails. "About that place?"

Dina set a little white cup on the microwave's glass plate. "Mm?"

"Where you said you thought Barbara might be?" she prompted slowly, enunciating each word as she dipped her head a little.

"Right."

Steph watched her shoulders and back, noticing the way the older woman didn't even twitch. All she did was stare down at the humming machine, watching the cup pirouette through the little window. "Dina…?"

"I know, I know. I'll get to that." The microwave beeped, and her hand sought out the release button. Gingerly, Dina pulled out the little ceramic cup. "Would you like some tea? I always have some in the morning—you wouldn't believe how often I wake up with a sore throat."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "…sure thing."

Small wisps of steam coiled through the air as Dina swept over with the cup and placed it carefully in front of her.

"Is it herbal?" Steph's voice was flat. She gazed down at the little tea bag submerged in the steamy water, eyes tracing the string up and over the rim of the cup. "'Cause I already had my coffee…don't want to have too much caffeine this early, you know?"

"Mm-hm," Dina affirmed, sliding into the chair opposite Stephanie's. For a moment, all she did was sit, watching with a cold sort of intensity that would have caused Steph to squirm under any different circumstance. This time, though, all she could do was match Dina's quiet, narrowed stare. There was something…off…about her eyes…

Finally, Black Canary spoke.

"Figured you'd come asking questions." One flawless eyebrow lifted, as her mouth pulled into a thin frown. "Well, if not you, then maybe one of the others, at any rate." She shrugged. "Makes sense. I was with her the night she went missing."

Steph's thumb edged at the curved handle, feeling the smooth, cold glaze under her skin. "So you know when it happened."

"I have a general idea."

"Ideas are always helpful," Steph muttered under her breath. Then, a little louder, added, "If you know when, then can you tell me where? Were you with her when it happened?"

"We were patrolling here, in Cormorant." Dina tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully. Then laid her arm down on the table. "But, if we're being honest? You know about as much as I do, Stephanie."

She frowned. Her finger stilled on the handle of the cup. For the first time, she noticed—really noticed—the look in Dina's eyes. They were glazed, unfocused. Dead. Staring glassily ahead while the rest of her face conveyed…almost forced emotion.

There was nothing there, behind them.

She'd noticed something similar when Dina had brought the other Birds to the Manor. Add to that the cruel tone in her voice, the way she spoke, the way she'd blatantly attacked Dick. It was how Steph had known that something was up. Something very wrong with the Black Canary that no one else—not even the Birds—had picked up on. She wondered briefly if Babs had noticed…before she'd disappeared…

"Not thirsty?" Dina nodded to the steaming cup. "I wouldn't have bothered if I'd known you were—"

"If you know as much as I do, then how come you wanted to talk?"

The interruption seemed to jolt Canary a little. Her face twisted. "I was hoping we could have a heart to heart over a cup of tea," she said sarcastically. Then, "No, Steph. I wanted to talk because I know you. If anyone could figure out what happened to Barbara, where she'd been taken, and who took her—it'd be you."

"You think I know?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you have your guesses." Dina's chin tipped up. "I'm serious, though. Have a drink. Don't let it go to waste."

Time itself seemed to pause as a slow, creeping chill started to spread through Steph's veins. It prickled at her skin, needled at the back of her neck. "Waste?" she asked coolly, spine pressing against the back of the chair.

"Yeah, did I stutter?"

"No," Steph frowned down at the still suspiciously-clear water in her cup. "You must have been running low."

"Yes. I was."

"Nice of you, then, to share your last bag with me." Steph's finger slipped over the rim as she pretended to consider the cup's contents. She fingered the string, flicked the tag at the end up to the light. There was no label. "I mean, I'm just guessing it was your last one. Since you didn't make yourself any."

Dina's left eye twitched ever so slightly. "It's not my last. Just didn't feel like opening up a new box."

"Oh. Okay. Well, in that case—" Steph eased the cup forward by a fraction of an inch. The bottom of it scraped at the tabletop, and she could feel the squeak in her teeth. "You should take this. For your sore throat, and all. I wouldn't want to…" Her eyes flicked up to meet Dina's dead gaze. "…impose."

"You're not imposing, you're—" Dina's impatient frown melted. The remnants cooled into something akin to realization. She nodded slowly, with a soft note of approval. "—catching on."

Steph's fingers curled around the cup's handle. "Catching on. To what?"

"Oh. I think you know." Dina's mouth twisted into a smile. She leaned back a little lazily in her chair. "You always were a smart one, Stephanie. A little too smart for your own good, hm? Babs was always that way, too. Which…" She tipped her head a little to the side. "…is why we had to take her out of the running."

Steph froze, lips pressed together, nerves singing.

She really did hate it when she was right.

"What did you do to her?" she whispered numbly. "Dina? Where is she?"

"Right now? She's probably dead, honey." Dina's fingers curled around the edge of the table. "Which is where you'll b—eeyhah!"

Steph threw the scalding contents of her cup into Dina's face, and flew out of her chair. It crashed to the floor, and she danced over the flying legs. With barely enough time to catch her breath before Dina lunged over the table, and flew into her.

Both blondes hit the floor, and Steph felt a jolt of pain in her back. When her eyes flew open, she saw Dina, overhead. She straddled Steph, knees pressing her into the hardwood floor, and raised one skull-cracking fist.

Dripping hair falling half into her face, she smiled. But it was the sort of smile with nothing behind it. "What's the matter? Didn't like the tea?"

Dina's knees dug into her the meat of her shoulders, and Stephanie resisted the urge to cry out. Instead, she bared her teeth. "I mean," she grunted, "Call me a snob, but I live with a Brit, and they really hate microwaved tea. Must've rubbed off."

"You and your blabber mouth," Dina sighed airily, her fist never wavering. "Be sure you use it to tell Babs 'hi' from me. But while we're on the topic—are there any other last words you'd like me to pass on?"

"Nn. Yeah, actually."

Steph's legs swung up. Her ankles crossed over Black Canary's throat. She could feel Dina shift, expecting backwards force, but Steph sharply twisted her hips to the side. She threw Dina off with one quick movement, and rolled over and away. As soon as she popped to her feet, Batgirl raised both fists and said, "'Look who's talking'."

Dina's head jerked as she flipped the hair out of her face and wobbled to her feet. She laughed dryly. "Speedy little Spoiler. Not many people can get the best of me, you know."

Steph went on full autopilot, and her body adjusted accordingly. Both fists guard the chest, spread your feet, find your grounding—but if she screams, you are royally screwed.

"Oh, I know, Di," Steph snapped, brow furrowing into a glower. "But you know me—I'm always full of surprises. And questions. What was in the tea?"

"Why?" Dina bared her teeth in a savage grin. "Worried I'd try to roofie you like your big bro?"

"Shut the #$%% up."

"Not if you want the answer, sweetie." Dina took one step forward. Two. Her body was loose, her posture liquid, as she crouched into a ready stance. She was a stalking panther waiting to spring, and Stephanie squared her shoulders. "No, I wouldn't drug you. Tempting, of course—the Court could use you to break your sister in half—"

Stephanie's fists dipped slightly. "So she's still—?"

"—I can imagine watching them tear off little pieces of you would be enough to drive Babsy just the right amount of insane for their tastes. But I asked—they said 'no'. We just need to 'off' you sweetheart. Before that intuitive little nose of yours pokes into the wrong places and blows the wrong whistles."

"So. Poison, then."

Dina's hand dipped into the pocket of her dressing gown. When she drew it out, there was a little plastic baggie the size of her palm pinched between two fingers. Inside, Steph could see a powdery white substance clinging to the sides. With her free hand, Dina brought a finger up to her face. She tapped a finger against the tip of her nose with a growing smirk. "Right on the money, babe. Odorless. Flavorless. Painless when diluted in a drink. I'm sure you know the drill." Dina gave the baggie a light shake. "It's a special blend used by the Talons, and it leaves no trace. With the dose in that tea, you would have been gone in a few minutes. But when I stuff this packet down your throat, it'll be a long, agonizing ride, Steph."

Batgirl twisted her body and took another step back, edging towards the door. "They'll know I was poisoned. How are you going to explain my dead body to a tower full of superheroines? Or better yet—my hyper-paranoid detective family?"

"Do I need to define 'leaves no trace' for you?" Dina advanced, face twisting into a sharp grin. "All I'd need to do is stage a little accident. Poor Steph choked on her drink. Fell off the balcony. Was attacked by ninjas coming through the window. Take your pick."

Steph's fists tightened. "They won't buy it."

"Maybe not for long. But by the time they get you back for an autopsy, it won't matter, anyway."

Now that sounded suspiciously like the beginnings of an evil scheme monologue. "Why's that?"

Dina shrugged, teeth bared as she growled, "Don't know, don't care. Now c'mere, sweetie!"

She launched herself at Steph, just in time for the door to fly open.

Helena's boot hovered in midair, her scowl as heavy as any battering ram. A few very ticked-off ladies stood behind her, and all eyes widened when they saw Dina and Stephanie rolling around on the floor.

Artemis dove under Helena's arm. "Steph!"

Stephanie opened her mouth to give an answering cry, but Dina's fist plowed into her jaw. There was a puft of air, and a cloud of white. Steph's mouth was filled with a taste like dry cotton and laundry lint.

Whatever happened next, she didn't really see. Her vision sparked with flashes of light and pain as she took blow after blow. There was a flash of green—Artemis's tshirt—as the other woman tried to pry Canary off of Batgirl. A flash of purple as Helena dove in for the kill. She heard Zatanna scream out a nonsense word, and Dina flew back into the wall with a crash.

"What the #$%% is wrong with you?" Helena screamed from a million miles away. "Dina, how could—"

Artemis gasped. "Wait, her ear! Huntress, there's something in her ear!"

Steph's own ears were pounding. Something fizzled on her tongue, sharp and searing.

There came a mighty crash, and Dina screamed. The entire room shook with pounding waves of sound. The floorboards creaked and the furniture rattled. But at the end of it, Steph heard Dina fall to her knees with a gasp. She blinked through her suddenly bleary eyes and watched the Black Canary gape up at the other assembled women in the room. Heard her say, "W-what's…what's going on…?"

Huntress's fist opened, and a small device clattered to the floor. Then crackled and buzzed as Helena ground it underneath the heel of her boot.

"It's one of Roulette's earpieces. How did it get—Steph? Stephanie, what's the ma—Oh my &*#!"

The burning feeling in her mouth intensified. It was so hot that Stephanie gargled, hands flying to her throat. Every eye in the room snapped to the Batgirl as she tumbled to the floor. She saw sparks when her skull clacked against the ground, and tasted venom and iron.

Her body convulsed. Shook like a flag in a hurricane.

"Steph!"

"Dina, what the #$%%'d you give her!?"

"I—I don't know! What's—can anybody tell me what's going on?"

"She's foaming at the mouth!"

"Zee, can you—"

"I can't, she's too far along. Ro, we need to get her to Cormorant Central. How long—?"

"Five minutes. Tops."

"Take her—now!"

A hand brushed against her cheek, and Stephanie let out a choked, gargling scream.

"Hey! Hey. You're going to be fine, Steph. Just hold on for us, okay?"

Hands slid beneath her. The world was washed in scarlet.

Steph let her eyes roll back into her head.

#######

#######

Blissful darkness. Then blinding light.

Barbara winced, burying her face in her arms to hide from the glaring fluorescents. Her eyes ached, and her muscles shivered as she pulled herself into an upright fetal position. Knees pressed to her forehead, she gasped shallow breaths into her lungs.

Three hours of sleep.

It was less than the night before, but definitely more than the night before that.

They loved keeping her on her toes—alternating between peaceful, uninterrupted nights, and flipping the lights on or blaring alarms every thirty minutes or so during others. Just one more way to keep her weak, make her vulnerable, get inside her head.

Barbara hunched her shoulders. A whimper leaked through her pursed lips.

Then, when she felt a little more ready to face the light, she tipped her head up and pressed the back of her skull against the cold concrete wall of her cell. The sensation was almost more painful than the glaring brightness behind her eyelids.

Don't know how much longer…how long I can…

Barbara swallowed dryly, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

Okay…okay…focus…fine…my name is Barbara Del—my name—Barbara Delphi—I am twenty-four years old and five-foot-eight-inches…I am the Batgi—no, I'm Ora—Batman? Batwoman…it…has been roughly three and a half weeks…that long…the date is…the date—

She stumbled over that step. In this place, in this little dungeon underneath Harbor House, time didn't seem real. Without any hint of natural light, and without the slightest glimpse at a clockface, Barbara had no way of knowing what time or even day it was.

And yet…

There was a familiar ache in her chest. Her nerves sang with panic, and she could feel goosebumps pricking at her skin (though that might have been the work of the chilly temperature in her little stone box). The wave of anxiety was drifting just below the surface—a riptide ready to tear her away from the safe shores of her own sanity if she chose to venture in too close.

So. Barbara had a feeling she knew the date; she could feel it in her bones.

But she steered her thoughts towards a more pressing concern.

She wet her lips with a papery tongue, and spoke with a rusty voice.

"Come to gloat?"

At first, there was no reply. The Talon crouched in the corner watched her through the honey-colored lenses and blinked lazily. He seemed settled—could be that he'd been watching her for hours, now. Waiting. And the fact that she'd only just now noticed him was another barb in Barbara's already prickly predicament. Bruce would've had her head for being so blind. So unguarded. So…off her game.

Barbara's fingers curled into fists, settled in her lap. No other part of her would move.

Eventually, the Talon decided that their little staring contest had gotten old, and said, "No. Quite the opposite, B-girl. I'm here to warn you."

"Don't you %*&$^& call me that, Cal." Her voice was drained of all its venom, so the warning fell flat. Barbara's head lolled, sliding down the wall to land on her shoulder. The bare skin against her cheek offered a small scrap of grounding. "And—warn me 'bout what? That a bird cult's gonna stuff me in a box and make me run rat races every day until I die and die and die and die…"

A deranged giggle burst out of her, and she pressed the back of her fist to her lips.

Cal's eyes twitched a little wider behind his mask. "I see the anesthetic is still lingering in your system."

She only wished she could blame the outburst on the anesthetic. But she'd been dosed and drugged too many times before—enough to know that her rising hysteria had nothing to do with the amount of narcotics in her system.

"How long've you been sitting there, anyway?" Barbara demanded, letting her hand fall back down. She watched the Talon through lidded eyes. Clicked her tongue. "Watching people while they sleep. That's a whole new level of creep, even for you."

"I have been waiting for you to wake. The procedure went well, although Gordon accidentally overdosed you." His clawed fingers drummed anxiously against his knee. "You lost two days. We feared you might not make it."

"So?" she snorted. Smiled into her shoulder. "You know something, Cal…sometimes I wish I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't…" His eyes narrowed. "I would not let that happen. You are far too valuable to our cause. You must live to fulfill your Grandmaster's wishes."

"%*& you," Barbara retorted, curling in on herself just a little tighter.

"I suppose I deserve that."

One of her eyebrows quirked up as she dared a glance at the Talon. He reached up slowly, and slid the mask off his head with one fluid stroke. As he brushed his shaggy mane out of his eyes, Cal let out a shaky sigh.

"No matter," he continued. He met her eyes and frowned deeply. "Onto more pressing concerns—you must abandon your delusion, Barbara."

She huffed, digging her fingernails into her skin. "Oh, I'm the deluded one? Are you serious?"

"As the grave," he retorted, sounded like he sincerely meant it. His glower darkened into something fierce. "You are holding onto the belief that someone will come for you. Your lover, siblings, butler, comrades—someone. But you are mistaken."

Barbara looked up, letting her hand fall away from her face as she shot her former friend a death-glare. Deluded? To think that the best detectives and heroes the Earth had to offer would find a way to dig her out of this #$%%-hole? Please. The phrasing of the code message Slade had so cavalierly botched was the only proof she needed.

"I know my family, Cal. They're already on their way."

He watched her face carefully for a few seconds, and then, when he didn't see a crack in her resolve, said, "Your faith in them is…admirable. But the Court has taken precautions. The Light has taken even more—"

"What the #$%% is the Light's game, anyway? What do they want with—"

"Time is short, so shut your mouth," Cal snarled. He leaned forward on his haunches, his already imposing posture heightened by the gargoyle-like slope of his shoulders, with the matching sneer to boot. "I know you think that our incorrect answer to the Gray Son's coded message spells your salvation. But we are monitoring his activity, as well as the activity of your entire 'family'—" He spat the word out like it was bitter on his tongue, and carried a regretful aftertaste. "—and by the time they pinpoint the location of our stronghold? By the time they muster the numbers to do battle with our forces? We will already have everything we need. We will have won, Barbara."

Her eyes narrowed sharply as she growled, "Wanna bet?"

"You are hardly in a position to bet anything," Calvin reminded her with an equally poisonous sneer. "Which brings us back to my original business here—a warning."

"A warning that I'd better kill you first when my family busts me out?" Tears pricked unexpectedly in her eyes as she spat, "Consider it done, old chum."

The Talon continued on as if she hadn't spoken. "Take a good look at your surroundings, Barbara. You are sitting right in the belly of an impenetrable fortress. And you have been for almost a full month, now."

Barbara didn't need to inspect her cell too closely. She'd practically memorized the cracks in the stone and the spots of mildew in the corners these last few weeks. But she could still see Calvin's point—she'd been here long enough to know every Talon and Courtier by name. She knew the sweep schedule for patrolling security, she'd nearly put every twist and turn in the Maze to vivid memory…#$%%, Barbara even knew the &*#% rhyme by heart, now.

Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time…

But the watching had been mutual. She only wished that she had the strength to do anything about it.

"Did you know that the average Talon is only able to hold out for three to four days during the first stages of the conversion process, Barbara?" Calvin straightened his spine and fixed her with a cold glare. "You've lasted longer than any of us. Far longer than any member of the Court would have expected."

"Do I smell a compliment?" she muttered dryly.

"Hardly. As I said, time is short."

Barbara raised her chin and pulled herself a little further up the wall. She could look at the Talon full-on, now, and let him feel the full wrath of her scowl. "Meaning that all I have to do is wait you out. Sooner or later, Cal, they will come back. That's what families do."

At that, silence soaked into the room. Her words hung in the air, ringing in both their ears. She could see the effect it had on her old friend, though it was subtle. A sudden crack in the stiff mask of his expression. The slightest twitch of his jaw, the small flinch at her tone. Barbara could feel her own jaw slacken at the sight; seeing just a glimpse—a sign—that there was still some shred of Calvin Rose's soul underneath the monstrous exterior.

For a moment, the glassy sheen in his eyes seemed to clear. His mouth fell open.

"B-girl," he whispered, "I'm sorry I didn't—"

But he stiffened, head cocking bird-like to the side as a small groan leaked past his lips. When he looked back up at her, the savage gleam in his gaze was back.

"Time is short," he repeated meaningfully, "And so every day you hold onto this delusion—every day you drag your heels and continue to fight—is just another day they sink their claws deeper into you, Barbara. You stall nothing. The only thing you manage to do by fighting them is ensure that when you fall—and you will fall—you may not be able to pick up the broken pieces again."

"This isn't the first time I've been tortured, Cal."

His eyes flashed. "But it is the first time you've dealt with mind-seizing technology."

Barbara froze. Lifted on arm and let her fingers trail over the back of her neck. There was a raised bump there, right below the base of her skull. Right above her other implant.

"That's right," Calvin sneered. "You may not realize what it is you've been gifted with by our mutual enemies, Barbara. But I do."

Her mind flew back to the other day. Being held down and strapped to a table. Anesthetic gas pumped into her lungs while she screamed and fought. Everything going dark. But not before Strange and Kuttler laid out the purpose of the little implant—how it was meant to 'curb her impulses'.

It sounded suspiciously like mind-control, but Barbara suspected there was more to it than just that.

She'd read Cal's file. And he had one just like it.

"Do all Talons have the implant?"

He shook his head. "No. Just the more…difficult cases."

"Were you difficult?"

"I was…unexpected." His expression darkened just a little more. He turned his head to glare ruefully at the moldy stone wall. "The Talon serum—the mixture of chemicals that create the Court's warriors—has been…diluted over time. Without ample supply of DNA from the Grayson line, it has lost most of its integrity. The Court was planning on one Talon, but was instead faced with two candidates. The serum had to be divided between myself and Talon Grayson, and so the compound's already compromised structure resulted in…"

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "It didn't completely work, did it? This serum. Which means…"

"I am not a full Talon, no. And neither is Johnathan."

"But he had the 'Grayson DNA'. Why didn't the Court use him to…" Barbara shook her head, the words twisting up in her mouth. She still didn't fully understand all of this. "…I don't know. Fix the serum?"

Cal's frown twisted. "Talon Grayson possesses a rare genetic disorder. I don't know much more than that; I don't have the clearance."

"Does he have an implant too?"

"No."

"Why?"

Calvin turned his head, looking at her now through lidded eyes. "During our time in the Maze…Johnathan was not as strong as I. They broke him. They were not able to break me as easily."

Barbara took a good look at the man in front of her, seeing in her mind's eye the scrappy little rogue he'd been as a kid. So defiant and stubborn. Always picking fights, and coming out the victor. Never able to back down from one of Dina's dares. More likely to swear at the cops then run away from them like any other street kid.

"Cal," she whispered. "How long…did you last?"

For a moment, he didn't reply. They both stared carefully, watching the other's micro-expressions with cold calculation, and waiting for the other to break the silence. But finally,

"I held out for ten days, B-girl," he said quietly. "On the eleventh, I was dragged into an operating room and pinned down. They put a chip in my neck, and I felt it slowly leeching away everything—every emotion, impulse, or thought—that the Court disapproved of. Until there was nothing left."

His words flowed into Barbara slowly, leaving cold pricks of ice in her veins, on her skin. She drew in a small breath and held it. She let it all sink in, and felt the waters of terror she'd been struggling to keep at bay start to rush in.

"Think carefully," Calvin prompted. "How desperate are you to escape, now?"

Her blood chilled, and her fingers grasped at her arms. Barbara searched her thoughts, her mind, her feelings, and found…a cold, still chunk of indifference. In the place where her ambitious desire to run, fight, and claw her way out of this hole had lived, she now felt…numbness.

"I…"

"Try to feel it. Try to want it." Calvin urged.

Barbara did.

I want to escape…

I want to run…

I…

But at every nudge, every attempt…there was nothing. Her muscles went slack, shivering a little as they finally relaxed. Instead of the motivation she'd been digging for, all Barbara could feel was tired. Running away only to be dragged back in pieces every single time seemed like far too much effort, far too much pain, with far too little return. What was the point?

Her brow furrowed as she stared at the ground.

"You can't, can you? It doesn't matter how much you grasp for it, Barbara. It's gone."

A crushing sense of loss hit her in the chest like a battering ram. Especially as the implications started to sink their talons in a little bit deeper.

"This isn't just to keep me from running away," Barbara muttered. "Is it?"

Calvin's chin dipped. "No."

"Other…other things are going to go…"

"Yes."

Her eyes flicked up towards his. For the first time, she felt a needle of fear pricking at her resolve, and the wound was starting to bleed panic through the rest of her system. "Cal," she breathed. Her voice broke like a thread. "What can I do?"

The Talon leaned forward, insistent. "You have to surrender, Barbara. Kneel at the Grandmaster's feet and pledge your loyalty. Perhaps then, when they see that they've broken you, they can be persuaded to deactivate the device."

Her fear ebbed a little bit, replaced by a growing twinge of distaste. Barbara could feel her lips curling into a grimace, the thought of bending to Vanaver a bracing reminder. She felt her spine straighten a little bit as her mind returned to her family.

They were coming.

She was sure of it.

"I want you to listen carefully, Rose," Barbara said softly, slowly, iron lacing her words and bracing them up. As she leaned forward, her grimace turned to a sneer. "I don't care how long it takes. I don't even care how much of me goes down the drain. If my family finds me, and all that's left is a brainless, catatonic zombie, so #*&!$^% be it. But I will never get down on my knees and beg like a dog for Vanaver, do you understand?"

His eyes flashed dangerously, the golden irises glowing for a moment before the surge subsided. He sighed heavily, shook his head, and let his bangs fall back over his face as he bowed his head.

"I strongly suggest," he growled, "That you learn to beg, sit, and roll over. That is my warning. I took the time out of my rounds, disrupted the security feed, and came to give it to you before your morning trials, because I…"

His throat bobbed, like he was trying to swallow a brick.

And when the Talon looked up, his gaze was mournful. That crack in composure was back, and it allowed a few trickles of the real Calvin Rose to stream through one last time.

"I care for you, little sister," he growled, eyes squeezing shut as he clenched his jaw. The words seemed almost agonizing. His clawed fingers dug into the stone beneath him, seeking purchase. "I am…I…am…terrified for you."

Barbara sat up straight as a pained wheeze leaked past Cal's lips. A whimper followed quickly behind.

She reached out, fingers grasping at his wrist. "…Cal?"

Panting, he gasped, "I love you, sis."

Like a blade had pierced through his chest, he let out a sharp cry. His body slumped forward, hands slapping against the ground to steady himself, and one quick gasp seemed to re-inflate his lungs.

"Cal!"

His head shot up, hair flying away from his eyes, and Barbara could see them glowing a cold, quiet gold. The black veins swimming beneath his pale skin seemed darker, one bulging in his neck and forehead as he clenched his jaw impossibly tight and swallowed.

"Remove your hand or I will cut it off."

The ice in his tone washed over her, and Barbara shrunk back, eyes wide. The ridges of her spine clicked against the wall as she pressed herself back, cowering away from the Talon as he rose to his feet, claws fully extended and his eyes threatening murder.

"I have given you your chance," he said dully. "And you have chosen not to take it. But you may mark my words that by the end of this day, that choice will be taken from you along with everything else. Enjoy your trials, Barbara."

He turned to leave her, and Barbara sat up, glowering. "Calvin—"

"You will address me as Talon Rose." His head pivoted, metallic eyes flashing over his shoulder. "'Calvin' is dead, and if you forget that fact again, I will tear out your tongue."

Barbara's mouth clamped shut.

"Farewell," Talon Rose snapped as the door slid open for him. He stepped out deftly, and the stone panel rumbled and clicked back into place, leaving Barbara in solitude.

She let out a staggered breath. A panel mounted on the opposite wall blinked to life, showing a flashing set of digits, counting down, down, down. One quick glance at the screen told her she had two minutes.

Barbara braced a hand against the wall as she dragged herself into an upright position. Straightened. Stretched. Rolled out her shoulders and her neck and glared at the grout between the stones on the floor. Every single movement made her nerves wail, but she knew better than to stay seated, by now.

So, with a weary sigh, she threw herself into the process of stretching. The familiar burn of her muscles as they slowly warmed was a steadying reminder—this was just another training exercise. Just another run. Just another spar set. Nothing to worry about.

She pulled one arm across her chest, holding it tight with her other elbow. The numbers on the screen ticked to ten, nine, eight…

Okay, guys, she thought, Whenever you're ready to move, I'll be…

Barbara's eyes fixed on the screen as it hit zero, and the wall rumbled away, revealing a starkly white corridor beyond.

Her throat bobbed.

Here.

#######

#######

Howard Jemison wasn't one for variety. His days consisted of structured routine—wake up, breakfast, commute to the office, work, commute to his dingy apartment on the West Side, microwave dinner or order takeout, spend a few hours surfing the web or watching the game, and conk out on the crusty pile of cushions he called a sofa.

Of course, after the 'incident' at work a few weeks back, routine was kind of out the window.

Which meant an extra hour or ten on his laptop. Currently, the thing was balanced on his lap as he switched his gaze between the hypnotic videos streaking across the screen, and the Gotham Gators game on the tv across the room.

Turned out, 'not working' was much more lucrative than 'working'. All Howard had to do was claim 'mental distress'—a totally understandable reaction from the company's senior assistant manager who'd bravely gotten everybody out before himself, and witnessed the full scope of the carnage—and the higher-ups gave him all the paid leave he needed until he quote-on-quote 'reached a more stable state of mind'. (In truth, he'd been the first sucker out of there, but everybody else was either too dead or too scared to tattle.)

Ah, yes. It was a good night. The Gators were up by ten, and he had a whole collection of files on his laptop to keep himself entertained for hours.

But his peaceful evening was shattered with the sharp sound—

Tap-tappa-tap-tap…tap—BANG

Howard's door flew across the room. It crashed into his flat screen, and the shattered, screechy noise was deafening. He launched to his feet, laptop sliding onto the couch, and whirled around. Just in time to take a fist to the face.

Sparks flashed across his eyes as Howard hit the ground.

"Unngh," he groaned, pressing a hand to his jaw, and looked up at the four intruders.

Capes. &*#% it.

"Batman," the one in the red tights warned through his teeth.

But the big Bat himself snagged the front of Howard's t-shirt in his heavy fist, and dragged him to his feet. His white eyes were narrowed to slits. His teeth were bared in a snarl. Howard could feel the dark knight's breath clouding against his face as he leaned in close.

"You," Batman growled. "Start talking."

#######

#######

Not for the first time that night, Tim wished desperately for a psychic link. If for no other reason than to tell Dick to dial it back a few (hundred) notches without losing face in front of the perp. But M'gann wasn't here, so he had to settle for watching the Batman go full-feral on this scumbag's #$$.

His brother slammed their perp against the wall so hard that the furniture rattled. In the adjoining kitchen, Tim heard something fall and shatter against the floor. With eyes blazing, Batman shouted out variations of "Now!" until the pathetic little man started shedding tears of panic.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about, I s-sw-swear!"

"Yes you do, you slimy son of a &!^$#," Dick growled. His hold tightened, and his volume only rose with every word. "Where is it? Where the #$%% did you get it?"

"G-get what?" Howard's eyes bulged impossibly wide as his fingers scrabbled over Dick's glove. "You want the money? It's under the couch! It's under the couch, just please—"

Batman threw him to the ground, and the man crumpled like a ragdoll.

"Ti—Red Robin," Dick growled through his teeth. "Check the computer. SB, Flash, case the apartment."

Conner frowned. "I don't think we should leave y—"

"Now!" Batman roared, eyes and teeth flashing up at them.

Wally took off in a blur of red, and Superboy only grumbled a little as he stomped away. That left Tim and Dick standing in the poor man's living room, staring each other down like two gunfighters gearing up for a duel. Tim's eyes narrowed to slits. Dick followed suit.

But neither of them drew their weapons, even though Tim was tempted. He wanted to open his mouth—to tell his brother that losing Babs was no excuse to scream at friends and beat up suspects.

He wanted to demand an explanation for the soft golden glow he could see shining through the cowl's white lenses.

To do…something.

Calling out the Batman, though, was not that something. Not right now, at least. There was a longstanding rule when it came to dealing with baddies on patrol: do not undermine the Batman's authority in the middle of an interrogation. If Robin started questioning the dark knight, the suspect would sense weakness and close themselves off even tighter. Any hope of digging the information out of Jemison would be out the window, and now, Dick was staring him down, daring Tim to toss their whole investigation out. There was something like a threat on his face.

So, Red Robin didn't say a word. He reached for the laptop—never breaking eye contact with Batman—and closed out of the explicit files their man had been perusing through. His fingers flew blindly across the keys, running a search program on the system.

"What am I looking for?" he asked flatly.

Dick didn't answer. Instead, he planted the sole of his boot into Jemison's stomach. Bent down and snarled, "I'll give you five seconds. Where did you get the cowl?"

"Cowl?" Howard whimpered and curled in tighter on himself. "What the #$%% are you—"

"Four."

"I don't—! What cowl!?"

"Three."

"You can't just come in here and—"

"Two."

"Please just—aaugghh!"

Batman grasped Howard's hand, and twisted hard. Tim heard the small snapping pops of the bones breaking over the man's screams. The sound went up in both pitch and volume as Dick bent their perp's arm behind his back and pressed in. One wrong move, and he'd dislocate the shoulder. And Dick seemed very close to making that move.

Wally walked in, then, and stopped short. The speedster's jaw clenched, and he swallowed thickly.

"Batman."

Dick didn't answer. But he did look up. His eyes seemed to lock onto the object Wally was cradling to his chest like a baby, and they widened sharply. For a moment, all that Batman could do was gape at the thing silently. Then, he pointed his free hand at it emphatically. "What cowl? &*!$#*^! Now tell me how you got it or I swear to &*# I'll tear your arms off!"

"Batman," Flash insisted.

He clutched the helmet in his arms a little tighter.

Howard twisted his head around to look pitifully up at Wally. When he saw Batgirl's cowl, dark and gaping like an empty skull, both his pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks, and Tim heard his breathing hitch sharply.

"That's…not mine…"

"&*#% right it's not," Dick barked. He pressed down harder on Jemison's arm until there was a small click. The man yowled. His shoulder wasn't disconnected just yet, but it was a close thing. "It belongs to someone else—someone who went missing—and we think you know where she went."

"Who, Batgirl?" Howard spluttered. "That's…that's crazy! I didn't even know she was there!"

Tim caught the twitch in his expression and the shift of his eyes.

"Lying," he supplied helpfully, still frowning at his older brother. "He knows. You saw her, didn't you? You called her the 'Ginger Batgirl' in your advert."

Dick pressed harder still, and their perp's face drained of all color. His breathing began to stutter, coming in short pants of breath. "I-I just…I just…yeah, I saw her."

"Who was she with?" Batman demanded.

"T-two guys…T-tall, bulky guys. One was all in black and had these…these eyes that just—"

"Talon," Red Robin supplied.

"I dunno," Howard gasped, straining against Dick's grip. "But he stopped the other one from sh-shooting her in the face—"

"Other one," Batman pressed (literally), "Who was he? Describe him."

"D-done up in…in black and orange. Kinda like Two Face…if Two Face was something out of Assassin's C-creed…"

The three heroes tensed. Shared a wide-eyed look. Only one baddie they knew fit that description, and if they were right, then that was very bad news. Especially for Barbara. And especially if they'd had any hopes for a neat resolution to this case.

Dick shook his head erratically, then managed to compose himself. The shift was subtle, but Tim got the impression that his brother was filing that bit of information away for later inspection. Right now, all he cared about was getting more.

"How'd you get the cowl?" The level of his tone rose dramatically. "There's—there's a locking mechanism on the sides! Impossible to get off unless you dial a specific combination! So how did you get it?"

"On the floor—it was just on the floor!"

"Was it damaged?"

"N-no. I mean, a little scratched up, but—"

"Robin." Dick whirled on Tim, the look of his wide lenses wild and manic. "Plug it in and pull up the security footage."

Tim's eyebrows twitched up. "You think—"

"Now!"

He scowled, but yanked the USB cord from his gauntlet and held out a hand to Wally. As the speedster hesitantly placed the cowl in his waiting palm, Tim could feel the familiar weight of it settle against his fingers. How many times had he done this same thing, when running diagnostics and updates on everyone's cowls and masks? One common routine was syncing the hardware to the Cave's systems—allowing them to stream footage gathered by their lenses' microscopic cameras straight to the Batcomputer. Filming patrols and missions had become protocol during Dick and Barbara's Batgirl and Robin days. The practice was supposed to help Bruce go over their techniques and allow him visual aids for feedback during training. But, as with everything the Bats designed, there was more than one purpose to the recordings.

Tim plugged the cable into the small port inside the cowl, and let his fingers skitter across the holographic keyboard at his wrist.

Howard was rambling into the shag carpet beneath his face. "I—I swear, I was just—I just found it! I was gonna return it, I swear—please—!"

"Shut up!" Dick's teeth snapped. "Anything, Red?"

Tim's eyes shivered over the stream of data that came up on his screen. There was…a lot. Leftover files from Barbara's Batgirl run, a few stray transmissions between her and the others from the same time period… But his attention snagged on the timestamps of a few stray parts—these were newer.

Dating back to three weeks ago.

Tim opened the first with a quick tap of his finger, and Barbara's voice flooded over his speaker.

"This is Batwoman calling in—requesting backup, Cormorant C—"

"Catwoman, this is Batwoman, requesting backup, Corm—"

"Red? Red Robin? Please respond—urgent need of—!"

Her voice got thinner and thinner with every passing recording. Tim could hear the strain in his sister's tone, and it reminded him of the heroine of every slasher flick they'd ever watched together—he could even feel the familiar chill running up his spine. With every transmission, Barbara seemed to grow more and more and more desperate. She tried everyone. Anyone. Calling—begging—for help.

Tim looked up and saw the tense pull of the others' shoulders. Their drawn frowns. Conner walked in, then, and froze at the sound of the tinny recorded voice, hissing and crackling over the line.

And then Barbara's voice got quieter.

"…Wingnut? Wingnut are you there?"

Dick's entire body went rigid at the sound. Jaw slackening, white eyes going wide, his grip on Jemison loosened.

"Please, Wingnut, I'm sorry. But if you can hear this…I need help. They're getting closer, and I can't—" There was a choked whimper of frustration. "&*#% it! Who's blocking the sign—"

A choked whine bubbled from Batman's throat. Tim winced.

There was one final message—this one on a broader broadcasting spectrum. Which meant that it was open to anyone in a five-mile radius with a car radio or walkie-talkie. That is—it would have been. But Tim's records showed that the transmission had never even left the room it had been sent from.

Barbara sounded on the verge of panic as she gasped out, "Please, if anyone's out there—this is Barbara Delphi requesting immediate backup—Hostiles closing in, armed and extremely dangerous—I repeat, please—gyah!"

The recording cut off with the sound of Barbara's scream, and all four heroes lurched.

Dick's eyes were a thousand miles away, but he managed a mechanical, "What else?"

Tim's hands were shaking. The roof of his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth, so he shook his head by way of reply. There was more…but it was security footage. Tim wasn't sure he wanted to see what it contained.

"Red, what else?" Batman's voice cracked on the hard words.

Wally opened his mouth to say something—probably a warning to back off of Tim—but Red Robin beat him to the punch with a few deft keystrokes. The video file appeared in full before their eyes, glowing in the dingy apartment's sparse lighting.

The first-person perspective of the footage was disconcerting at first; Barbara's movements were smooth as ever, but just erratic enough that the others could sense her urgency. She ran. Twisted. Dodged. Fought. Crawled. Jumped. Dove away from her opponents through the obstacle course of the abandoned office. They heard the messages she'd desperately tried to send once again, and saw the cause of her scream. Her battle with Deathstroke and the Talon.

They watched the creature in black and bronze stalk towards her. Lift his hands and unclasp the cowl from Barbara's head.

The feed fizzed and crackled as the headgear was tossed carelessly to the side. Rolling so that the view was of the softly glowing exit sign. Now, the boys could only hear the sounds of a fight. Grunts of pain, cries of fury, and the sound of a smoke pellet's hiss.

A few minutes later, they saw the two fighters appear one last time. Barbara limping towards the exit, with a hand clapped over her shoulder and hair falling over her bloody face. One of her hands reached for the knob, shaking a little from the effort. But she paused at the sound of a click.

There was Deathstroke. Aiming a gun right for her.

They watched Barbara whirl, hair flying in an auburn arc to reveal her face. She licked her lips. Lifted a hand streaked with scarlet in warning. The only hint of her edging terror was the width of her eyes and the tone of her voice. "Slade…Slade, don't—"

"You know what? Screw this."

Everyone flinched hard at the bang.

The sound of the gunshot uncurled Dick's fingers from the man beneath him. The sight of the spraying blood sent him staggering. Barbara's body fell to the ground, and so did his. Wally hurried to Batman's side, hand on his best friend's shoulder as Dick let out a strangled gasp of pain.

"No." Dick heaved for air. "No…"

The sound of blood pounding in Tim's ears was deafening. Almost enough to cover the sound of Dick screaming into a clenched fist.

"She's…" Conner slumped against the wall.

Wally's voice trembled. "She's been…she was dead this whole time…"

Tim's free hand shot out. Snagged the arm of the crusty sofa as he felt his knees shiver under his weight.

'Can't be true…' he thought, 'It can't be…she can't…'

But the recording wasn't over, and Tim listened numbly.

"The Grandmaster demanded she be delivered in pristine condition-Tell me, assassin, does this look pristine to you!?"

Barbara was dead. She was—

"Did you get the phone?"

"Did I—? Yes! Picking her pocket was child's play! But a lot of good it does us, now!"

They took her phone. Probably lifted it from her corpse. Used it to fool everyone into thinking that she was still—

"Cain, come take care of it."

Oh. Oh &*#.

"Are you listening to me!? The Grandmaster will have your head. You truly have no idea what you've done, do you?"

Tim was going to collapse. His head spun like a yo-yo on a string.

"Tsk, tsk. Nothing that can't be undone, Big Bird. Trust me."

"Our mutual partner has supplied me with the means to make sure that this is a dance we can have again, and again, and again, if necessary. So, relax; our agreement is still in force."

Red Robin's eyes flicked back to the screen as a fourth figure appeared. A shadowy girl who lifted Barbara's corpse like it weighed nothing. He turned his head to stare closer. Watched Deathstroke's nonchalance and the Talon's visible confusion.

Slade Wilson was a mercenary—and as such he followed a certain code of conduct. Talon said something about a Grandmaster demanding that Barbara be 'delivered', but not this way. That implied a kidnapping. And, as any thug-for-hire worth his salt knew, when you were commissioned for a hit, you took care of the target. When you were hired for an abduction, you abducted.

Deathstroke had killed Barbara without a second thought.

And he seemed to be taking his failure…eerily well…

'Supplied with the means to make sure this is a dance we can have again, and again…and again…'

Tim felt his veins ice over and his jaw slip loose.

Over Dick's broken sobbing, he whispered,

"No. She's still alive."

But even as he spoke the words he knew...it was so much more complicated than just that.

#######

#######

Barbara stumbled out of her cell, heart racketing in her ears and chest like a machine gun.

She was still alive, but in all honesty…it was hard to be excited about it.

As soon as the wall in front of her had fallen away, she burst out of the room like a shot. The trade from dark stone to white marble had her eyes spazzing out, but she ignored the flash of blinding light and skidded across the slick floor.

Barbara began her sprint through the Maze's corridors. Loosening her shoulders, pacing her steps, filling her lungs, she had to remind herself that stamina was key over speed. Her head was already swirling from the stretches, and the edges of her lungs felt tight.

She'd lost track of how long it'd been since she'd last savored the taste of solid food or had a sip of cool water, and her body had long ago started to show symptoms of severe dehydration and malnutrition. In the 'uniform' they'd dressed her in—black sports bra with the matching pair of skintight shorts—it was easy to see her ribs beginning to poke through.

According to Calvin, the clothes were standard issue for all Talon initiates. Bodies that were uncovered were more vulnerable to torture, injury, uncomfortable temperatures, etc., etc. It made the Court's job of breaking down their new recruits all the more convenient.

And it made her daily trials—the length of time she was forced to run the Mazes beneath Harbor House and engage any Talon she came across—all the more agonizing.

But it was better to focus now on the run. If she stopped to think too hard, she'd short-circuit. If she stopped to take a breather, she might not get going, again. Besides, by now, the route was memorized. The way was clear. Right, right, left, right, left, left, straight for about fifty yards, then another left…

Her eyes twitched over the floor as she ran. Searching, scanning, looking for—there.

A tattered gauntlet was propped up against the side of the maze, looking like a dismembered hand waving up from the ground. Its bronze talons curled against the palm, sharp, gleaming, savage-looking—

—and exactly what Barbara needed.

She didn't stop, didn't even pause, as she reached for the weapon. Her feet slid on the floor as she dipped and snatched up her prize. Barbara slid the gauntlet over her right hand even as she continued to run, chest heaving from the effort.

Every morning, the Owls were kind enough to leave her a little present. Some deadly weapon to aid Barbara on her hunt through the Maze. Sometimes, she found it before she found trouble, but other mornings…

Well, those mornings weren't exactly a 'fun time'.

The next corner she turned revealed her first obstacle of the day: pieces of shattered glass laid across the floor like a spiky carpet. Some of the shimmering shards jutted up like bristling icicles, and looked almost beautiful enough to be tempting.

Barbara paused, and felt the fatigue start to nibble at the corners of her awareness. Golden sparks spun and swirled and swam along the edges of her vision, and she sagged against one of the chilled marble walls. But she stopped to glance down at her bare feet. One of her toes wiggled, as if emphasizing the impossibility of walking over this path.

Okay. Best to consider her options—there was nowhere to turn but backwards, and backwards meant trying to retrace the route she'd already concocted in her mind. (And Barbara's mind wasn't exactly up for 'reverse mode' at the moment.) Going backwards meant getting lost… Going backwards meant wandering aimlessly, and the Courtiers got bored when she wandered or slowed down... (Even taking this short pause to think was dangerous enough…)

Barbara might have removed a little clothing to wrap around her feet, if she weren't wearing the bare minimum already. It wasn't like the Owls hadn't seen her naked already, but Barbara wasn't all too eager to give them another show. She shot a glower up into the darkness above her head. Where she knew the Owls were watching her behind their placid white masks, even if she couldn't watch them back.

She knew what she could do—the same thing she'd done over the bed of coals, and the pit of spikes and the nest of scorpions... But did she have the space? The energy to pull it off?

There was a low rumble behind her. Barbara had taken enough time; she had to move now.

With a sharp intake of a breath, she jumped.

The angle of her momentum let her touch one wall with the sole of her left foot. Barbara kicked off hard, and launched her body at the other side of the corridor. Right foot hit the rough, grained marble with a slap. Lightning fast, she kicked off and kicked off, side-leaping over the shimmering pieces of glass below. With a huff, she finally landed on the other side—just before her head spun out of orbit.

She clapped a hand over her face, head floating above her shoulders like a balloon. Her legs went wobbly. Ankles rolled as she sharply veered sideways into the wall. Hands clapped to the smooth surface as her fingernails dug to find purchase.

But it was no use. Barbara collapsed, tumbling to the floor.

As her skull cracked against the stone, and sparks burst in her vision, tears streamed down Barbara's cheeks, cold and damp against her feverish skin.

She couldn't even control her own movements anymore. Too weak to even jump, now.

&*#% it.

Barbara's teeth clenched as a sob cracked through.

&*#% it!

She was grateful when the blackness mercifully arrived to take the nausea away.

But, as with everything else, it was short lived—Barbara woke after what seemed like seconds to a needle in her neck, and Strange leering above her. She registered the smell of his breath, hot against the back of her head, and let her eyes flutter shut again. What was the point in fighting it? Whatever else he wanted to do—

"My dear," Hugo Strange crooned. "This is no time for a nap. We have so many entertaining surprises for you today…"

She felt his hand in her hair, stroking through and massaging her scalp. The sensation simultaneously made her want to either lean into the touch or vomit. She was so tired…why…

"You wouldn't want to miss them, would you?"

"Nnmmm," Barbara groaned into the ground.

And then, the contents of the injection hit her bloodstream like a sledgehammer. Her eyes flew open.

Before all this, Barbara hadn't known it was possible to feel your own pupils dilate. Hadn't known what kind of buzz a cocktail of drugs could send dancing down her nerve connections. It was so, so invigorating. Exhilarating.

She was gonna crash like a jet plane when the high wore off, but for now?

Bring it the %*&# on!

Like a rocket, she launched to her feet, and swung a taloned hand in the direction Hugo Strange's fat head. But he'd already disappeared back into the safety of the wall. Which left her alone to look for signs of life—and stamp those signs out like a cigarette butt beneath her heel.

Barbara's head twisted erratically, eyes jumping over the bouncing corridor around her.

A faint noise—the clisp of metal against stone—caught her ear and she twisted—

—just in time to duck beneath the sweeping blow aimed at her skull.

Barbara's hands slapped against the ground, her belly up, as she glowered up at the trio of Talons standing over her. As per the usual, they didn't wait for their victim to catch a breath before they lunged. Barbara pushed down. Swung her body up. Ducked below Talon Carver's arm. Not hard to do—it was already raised to plunge a dagger into her chest. Barbara rolled, and came up on the other side of her opponents. Every nerve in her body screamed for blood.

A week ago, she would have fired off a rapid stream of quips as she took them down hard. A week ago, she would have had the strength to land a few kicks to their skulls, a few strategic hits to knock them out of this sadistic game.

But there was an easier way, with these Talons.

Barbara flexed her gloved hand and heard the satisfying shlink of the claws extending to their full length. Wicked points gleamed in the white light.

And she whirled.

Talon Henley's throat was ripped out with one savage swipe—an arc of black tar blood spattered against pale marble in a thrilling Pollock-esque picture. The warrior slumped to his knees, gurgling helplessly as his trachea spurted out onto the stones beneath their feet.

Barbara flexed her talons, and smiled wildly at the spatter of ink that was flung off their tips.

Her victim's mate, Talon Welsh, screeched with a vengeance and dove in for the kill. Barbara hit the floor, just barely escaping the vicious claws going for her own jugular. Twisting between the Talon's legs was simple; bounding to her feet was a little harder.

She stood behind Welsh, now. Her bleary eyes flicked over his body, and found the softest, weakest part she could reach—his belly.

Barbara's arms looped around the Talon's middle, almost like an embrace, and she dug the claws into the soft flesh of his abdomen and slashed. The tips tore through fabric and skin, muscle and organs. A sickening thrust, squeeze, twist, pull, that didn't bother Barbara as much as she knew it should have. Just like she knew that if she had more strength, more energy, at her disposal, she could rip out a heart just as easily.

Blood spurted, soaking her hand and spraying the floor at their feet with liquid tar. She hopped back and spun into the momentum, her leg kicking up and slashing through the air. The blow landed on the side of the wailing Talon's skull, and he toppled like a house of cards.

She let Welsh hit the floor next to his fallen partner, and whirled out of the way of Talon Turner's jabbing blade.

It made things easier—the fact that Talons felt no pain and healed quickly from almost any wound or death—to dispatch them without mercy. To finally put the lethal half of Bruce's 'do's and don'ts' to use. The ones she'd been tamping down for years.

And now? All that pent-up rage, the pent-up brutality she'd always been capable of? It could come out of the darkness and shine in all of its horrific, brilliant beauty.

She was efficient. She was skilled.

It had surprised her, at first, just how easy it was for her to adjust a strike, tweak a blow, adapt an attack, and take it from one level to a deadlier tier entirely.

It even surprised a few of the Owls.

But a few of them—the Grandmaster, her torturers, and a few of the inner-circle of grim courtiers—seemed unperturbed. Almost as if they'd always expected this of her.

Barbara put Turner down in two seconds, flat. The Taloness's neck snapped like a dry twig, and it only made her stomach twist a little to think just how easy it had been.

There'd been one time—near the start of these macabre training sessions—when Barbara had refused. She'd been thrust out of the safety of her enclosure, and made it three steps before sinking to the floor. Unwilling to move, to play their game, to do the things they were asking of her.

It had taken them all of twenty-five stretching minutes to send the Butcher after her—their biggest, strongest, and most monstrous Talon. And he'd eviscerated her so thoroughly that it had taken days for the Pit waters to piece her back together.

Barbara winced, shaking off the memory of ripping claws, and dashed onward. Drops of ink blood dripped and slid from the claws on her hand. They splashed dark against the white tile in her wake.

One more corner. Then another. Another. Another. Another…

On the next turn, her eyes detected movement and she whirled. Her mouth fell open into a roar, hand raised. Talons flashing. Eyes wide. She was ready to strike. Ready to take another Talon down, feel the heat of their blood on her hands and—

"Wait—no!"

A surprisingly shrill scream froze Barbara solid. She blinked away the animalistic rage, and looked down.

There. Quivering on the floor, pressed against the wall for a semblance of protection, and pleading up at her with wide, watery eyes—

Was a little girl.

Barbara released the breath she'd been holding. As she felt her ribs expand again, her vision jilted a little. But her hearing was just fine.

"Don't kill me," the child whimpered in a breathy whisper. "Please. I'm sorry…I don't know why I'm here…I don't know what I did…I…"

Barbara's hand lowered shakily at the sound of broken sobs. The girl curled tightly in on herself, shaking. Barbara could feel her own muscles shaking as sweat trickled down her temples and the effects of the drug—supposedly just enough to get her going again whenever she passed out—chewed at the edges of her composure.

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice drawn and breathy from exertion.

The girl continued to weep. Her head was buried in the crook of her shoulder, and her shoulders shook pitifully. At the sight, Barbara could feel the panic and paranoia begin to seep away. They were replaced by something much more familiar, a warmth that Barbara had almost forgotten existed entirely. Unless she was alone in her cell, free to indulge in thoughts of her family, her little siblings…

Her skin scraped a little painfully down the wall as she sank to the ground, sitting right next to the shivering child. Barbara let her legs stretch out in front of her, and her shoulders loosen a little as she reached out for the girl's shoulder.

The touch earned a sudden flinch. Glistening green eyes gazed up at her.

"Can I rub your back? Would that be okay?"

After a brief pause, there came a small nod.

Barbara started to rub gently, soothingly, at a spot on the girl's back as she said, careful to keep her voice low, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

The girl breathed in shakily, breath catching on another sob.

"Oh, sweetie," Barbara hushed, "It's okay—"

"Pleasehic!...don't hurt me..."

Barbara's hand stilled, and she felt tears spring up unexpectedly as a lump lodged in her throat. She felt her free hand curl into a fist in her lap, the sharp tips of the Talon's scraping across the metal plating on the palm. The sound of it made the girl's whimpers increase in pitch, and Barbara hurried to hide the gauntleted fingers behind her back.

"I won't," she promised. Managed a tight smile. "I thought you were someone else. Someone bad—"

"One of the monsters," the child gasped, her eyes haunted.

"Yeah." Barbara's hand began its gentle massage anew. She wondered how long this kid had been trapped in here, how many horrors she'd seen. Clearly she knew about the Talons. It was just a wonder that she'd managed to survive this long. "One of them. My job…my job is to stop the monsters."

"Oh." Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she leaned into Barbara's touch. The gentle circles Barbara made between her shoulder blades seemed to have the desired soothing effect. Then, to Barbara's surprise, she slumped over completely, falling almost completely into her lap as she locked her tiny arms around Barbara's waist. "You're not going to let them get me?"

Barbara's eyes twitched a little wider.

"Of course not," she breathed. Her fingers floated up and began stroking the girl's blonde curls carefully. "I promise."

"Okay. Then…I won't let them get you, either."

A shocked little chuckle burst from Barbara's chest, making the girl look up with wider eyes.

"What's your name, honey?" Barbara said through a soft smile. She continued to card gentle fingers through the kid's hair, and watched her eyes flutter shut. For a few minutes, they sat there, as Barbara waited for the child to speak, and the child waited to trust.

But after a few minutes of silence, the little girl looked up and said, softly,

"Christina."

Barbara's smile stretched a little wider. "Well, Christina, you're with me, now. Let's get going, shall we?"

#######

#######

For a nine-year-old kid, Christina was a quick runner.

She easily kept pace with Barbara as the duo pressed on towards the end of the Maze. In Barbara's experience, all she had to do was make it to the center chamber without dying. In that room, there was a stone fountain with crisp, crystal water to drink, and enough food to see her through to the next day. It was difficult to eat and drink while ignoring the marble statue of a barn owl staring down at you, but the brief relief from the painful pinch that accompanied starvation made it worth her while.

"Whuh…what's your name?" Christina gasped, lungs heaving. Her breathing was getting more and more labored as they continued, but her footfalls never lagged.

"Barbara," she clipped back. Her eyes scanned the edges of the corridors, ears pricked and listening for any tell-tale sounds of oncoming Talons. "But I like Babs better."

"Okay…hh…Babs…"

Something like a smile flung at the corners of Barbara's lips. They turned a corner—

—and immediately ducked beneath the sweeping claws of the morning's next Talon. This one, she didn't recognize. He was wirier than the others, a little on the short side. But what he lacked in size, he made up for in enthusiasm as he streaked forward and swiped for Christina's throat.

Barbara slammed against the smaller girl, sending her careening to the side. Instead of slashing out Christina's larynx, the wicked claws raked over Barbara's side. She let out a quick hiss. Her eyes flicked briefly to the parallel weeping wounds before she ducked, slid on the stone tile, and extended her own talons with a sharp schnik. "Christina," she snapped, "don't look."

"What?" The girl pressed her spine to the wall.

"Christina, close your eyes."

The girl stubbornly stared down her potential murderer with very wide, very open eyes.

Fine. At least she'd tried.

"Wait—!" Christina cried.

But Barbara's hand shot up. The force she threw behind the blow caught the Talon off guard. The feeling of shattering bone—the snap, crackle and pop of it—made her wince as she punched through his sternum and squeezed her fist.

Something was beating frantically against her palm in quick pulses. Barbara tightened her grip, twisted, and tugged.

The Talon collapsed with a screech as Barbara withdrew her bleeding gauntlet.

A quivering human heart was clenched between her bronze fingers.

She released a breath and watched it pulsate with a creeping sense of horror. A horror which slowly swirled down the drain of her mind as fascination grew in its place. She noted the veins, the blood, the ventricles and valves. Under Bruce, she'd studied the heart extensively. It required care, caution, and protection. So much depended on the still-beating organ in her hand. Odd, since it was so vulnerable, so fragile—

Christina's scream snapped her out of her daze.

"What did you do?"

Barbara blinked. "I—what?"

"You killed him!"

He was going to kill us.

The voice in her mind came unbidden, and the sound of it made Barbara wince, eyes darting to the side.

"What was—?"

"Babs!" Christina's hand was on her arm, now. Tugging and pleading for attention.

Annoying.

No. Not annoying. Christina was scared. She needed attention. She needed comfort—

"What?" Barbara whispered, eyes still fixated on the vital organ she held cradled close.

"Babs," Christina sobbed. "Look at the blood. Look at the blood."

Barbara blinked hard, swallowing. Then opened her eyes and saw with a fresher view and a clearer gaze—

The blood pooled on the stark white stone beneath their would-be-assassin. The drips sliding down Barbara's wrist. The syrupy liquid pooling in her hand and spilling off her fingers to hit the floor in droplets. The droplets that flecked her own chest, flung out from the force of her blow.

All of it a deep, dark, inky, red.

At first, it didn't compute. Barbara's mind refused to make the connection. Horror mounted slowly, layer by layer, until it lit up like a firework in her consciousness—destructive as it was explosive.

"Hkk," she gasped, hyperventilating as she collapsed into the wall. She slid down, the dead heart tumbling from her fingers and flopping across the floor.

Her un-taloned hand clapped over her mouth as she felt tears well up, hot and stinging.

"Nn," she groaned into her fingers. Then cried, "Nno…n-no—"

Christina hesitantly crept forward, a hand reaching for the Talon's mask. Before Barbara had the presence of mind to call out, no, tell her to get away, Christina pulled it from the man's head.

A set of unseeing blue eyes stared back at her, rolling down towards the floor. Matted black hair clung to the young man's scalp, draped over pronounced cheekbones and delicate features. A string of foam dribbled off his lips.

But at the sight of his face, Barbara choked out a gasp. Then dissolved into hysterical sobs. Her hand pressed deeply into her mouth until she felt her skin split on the edges of her teeth.

It wasn't Timmy. It wasn't. She knew it wasn't Timmy. The build was too wiry, height off by a good foot or two, wrong eyes, wrong mouth, wrong nose…

But the meaning behind this Talon was clear. A message from the Grandmaster.

You're a killer, now. It was only a matter of time before you killed somebody real. Only a matter of time before you kill your own little brother. Only…

The choice in victim, with his similar Japanese leanings…and something—likely drugs—that had induced such unchecked aggression...

But it was the fresh wound curling along the edge of the young man's mouth that sealed the deal. It was newer—her brother's was a thin white scar, now—and clearly made to make sure the victim looked as close to the Court's twisted vision as possible.

It could have been Tim.

This man…this boy…had his own life. Before the Owls scooped him up and dropped him into a death maze with Barbara, who'd learned to kill without mercy or hesitation, but hadn't yet had the nerve to practice her newfound skills on anyone but immortal Talons, and now there was this boy, this innocent civilian boy, lying in a puddle of his own blood on the floor, and Barbara had done it, Barbara did that, and she hadn't even hesitated, the sight of crimson instead of black hadn't even fazed her—

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done what have I done whathaveIdonewhathaveI—

Christina's hand cracked across her cheek, and Barbara saw stars.

"Babs!" she cried.

Barbara blinked away the bleariness and looked up into Christina's piercing green eyes. Tears of her own were streaking down both cheeks, making trails in the sweat, and blood and grime on her face. Her shoulders shook in a shiver as she glanced from Barbara to the body, back and forth, again and again.

"It's…" Christina hesitated. "It's okay. Babs, it's okay. We just have to keep moving, now. Can you stand up?"

Barbara's chest was heaving as her head spun. Her eyes drifted back to the murdered man and she felt something strangely numb bloom in her chest.

It began to spread through her like spilled ink. Crowded out the panic, dampening the noise of it with a thick layer of silence. Barbara's shaking slowed. Then stopped.

She licked her lips, and looked up at the little girl. The one she was supposed to be reassuring.

"You're…you're right. Let's g…go. Okay."

Pathetic.

Needing a little girl to snap some sense into you.

Barbara's breathing hitched.

A hand drifted up to the side of her head as she whispered, "Did you hear that?"

She wasn't sure what response she expected. She was almost certain it was some kind of voice in her head. This was it; crossing the line had thrown her over the edge of sanity completely. The only people who heard voices were—

Christina nodded.

"I did." Her eyes were wide. "It sounds like you. It feels like you. I…don't understand."

"Feels like me?"

"In my head. Feels the same as when you're talking out loud."

Barbara shook her head listlessly back and forth. "What? What are you talking about? That doesn't—"

Wait.

You can hear me?

Christina nodded again. "I…yeah. Who are you?"

Barbara, still shaking, tapped her head against the wall erratically. What was happening. What the #$%% was happening…?

Easy, sweetheart. Don't damage yourself.

Barbara froze. Rested her head gently against the stone. Waiting.

What the #$%%?

That's my girl.

Now.

Sorry to answer your question with another question, but…

What do you get when you cross buried childhood trauma with an unsafe, inescapable situation?

Dr. Harleen Quinzel might have a better name for it, but Barbara knows, don't you?

Barbara's clawed fingers raked through her hair, other hand going to the weeping wound at her side. Any breath left in her lungs had petered out, and she was left to the deafening ring in her ears as the realization hit her like a crowbar to the gut.

"What is she?" Christina's voice was tiny and unsure.

Oh, right. You're still just a child.

Let me use easier words, sweetie.

Ever hear of Jiminy Cricket?

Barbara swallowed, eyes wide as she stared up at the ceiling.

I'm the Jiminy Cricket inside Barbara's brain.

Here to make sure both of us survive this fresh little patch of Hell.

But you?

I could care less about you, little girl.

I know what you are—

A meta.

Barbara's jaw went slack as Christina's eyes widened.

"That's not true! I'm—"

Special?

Able to hear and see people's thoughts?

Just 'cause?

Yeah, right.

I recognize you from the circus, little acrobat.

Barbara wouldn't, poor thing.

She's a little out-of-sorts at the moment, but that's fine.

That's why I'm here.

"Circus…?" Barbara's hand dug deeper into her skull, pressing hard as if she could banish the mysterious voice bouncing around inside. "Meta…"

Just look at her, Christina.

Hardly in the right state of mind to handle anything.

Thanks to a little chunk of biotech they stuck inside of us, Babs's emotions are easily controlled.

But that doesn't stop her from being weak physically.

Or, more importantly, mentally.

So I'll sort this whole situation out for all of us, m'kay?

Youare a metahuman child with the aforementioned capabilities to make my job a lot harder.

You're the Court of Owl's chosen initiate for your generation, but they don't know your little secret, do they?

Christina's lower lip quivered as she took a hurried step back. Her throat bobbed as she glanced down at Barbara, then away. As she confessed to the silent halls around them.

"They promised Raya they wouldn't take me if she did what they said. She was supposed to put poison in a drink and give it to Dick, to make him sleepy. Nobody told me what was going on, but I still knew because…" Christina winced, eyes squeezing shut as her lips pursed into a grimace. "I could hear them, inside their heads, planning it. They wanted to make him sleepy. And I tried to stop him from drinking it, because I knew what was going to happen, but—"

She cut off with a choked sound, eyes flying open.

Tell Babs why, Christina. I don't think she's worked it out, yet.

Why did they want him to be sleepy?

"Because…" Christina's arms hugged over her chest.

Barbara thought she knew the answer, and something curdled in her stomach.

Not that it made hearing the words out loud any less heart-wrenching.

"They wanted him and Raya to have a baby."

To keep the Grayson line alive and thriving, right?

Of course, they want owls.

And Raya was just too chicken.

Christina bit her lip and shared a glance with Barbara.

It was unclear, just how much she knew about Dick's connection to Barbara and vice versa, but it was clearly written on the younger girl's face; she could feel the waves of agony rolling off of Barbara in waves.

But as much as I'd love to dissect all of that with you, ladies…

We've got bigger concerns at the moment.

Namely?

That syringe Strange jabbed us with—

It had an extra ingredient.

Barbara's fingers tightened in her hair. "Explain," she growled to her own head.

Should be taking effect any second now.

A compound I'm sure you're familiar with.

We've been dosed before.

And before Barbara's thoughts had a prayer of jumping to fear toxin or Joker gas, something else hit into her consciousness. A train wreck of emotion, a whirlwind of images, a crushing gale of vertigo. Barbara doubled over with a gasp, both hands flying up to cradle her head against the spinning. Pain bloomed exquisitely white behind her eyelids as she let her mouth fall open in a silent scream. There was so much sensation. So much noise, mounting and mounting, and mounting—

Until it stopped.

Eyes still squeezed shut against the pain, Barbara let out a choked sigh. Her ribs compressed beneath the weight of it.

Christina's small gasp split the ringing in her ears. "What—?"

Take a good look, Babs.

The real torture's about to begin.

On command, she cracked open her eyelids. The expectation of the blinding white halls had her wincing, but it was to no avail. Darkness had replaced the light. Cold white marble had been scrubbed away, leaving dark wallpaper and rich carpet in its place.

They were in a living room, or at least what looked like one.

A fire crackled in the hearth at the far side of the room, the only illumination to the proceedings taking place in a ring of couches at the center.

Barbara and Christina watched a couple cling to one another desperately. Firelight caught the bands around their fingers with a glint, and the wife buried her face into her husband's chest.

"Please," she gasped. "She isn't here!"

"Liar," Another voice snarled through the dimly lit parlor. It came from the figure silhouetted against the flames as she leaned against the mantle, watching the flickering tongues below with cold interest. "You claim she's yours, brother dearest? Then where else would she be? After all, you've probably seen enough on the news about the psycho on the loose, haven't you? Not safe to let your little girls walk around alone in the dark."

The figure turned, her dress glittering almost as brightly as her eyes.

Light caught the curls that draped over her shoulder, a dark copper that shone identical to the flames. Barbara saw her heavily shadowed eyes, the cruel snarl of her lips, the way she stood so still and regal, like a queen about to deliver a death sentence.

And she saw the gun in her hand, glinting like a warning.

Barbara's eyes widened.

Ring any bells for you?

Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth.

Because the woman at the fireplace was a face she'd only seen in pictures and databases. And then, only once in person, a long, long time ago…

"So I'm going to ask you one more time," Barbara Kean crooned, waving the gun flamboyantly. "Keep in mind, this is your last chance, Davie. Piss me off again, and I'll blow your &!^$# wife's brains out on the cushions."

David Kean held his wife a little closer. Barbara watched a bead of sweat trace his temple.

"Let's try to save on the dry cleaning tonight, mm?" Barbara Kean's smirk twisted into something far more sinister. Far more predatory. "Where's my daughter?"

David's face contorted. "For the last time, she's not—!"

"Daddy?"

The man's voice cut off sharply. All eyes in the room fastened on the adjacent doorway. A little hand curled around the doorknob, bare feet sticking to the floor. A little girl in a white nightgown that hung to her ankles rubbed tiredly at her eyes as she blinked up at her parents on the couch, and the woman at the fireplace.

Her own curls matched Barbara Kean's coppery glint exactly.

"—here," David wheezed.

"Mommy?" The little girl's brow knit in confusion.

Eileen Gordon-Kean eased herself out of her husband's embrace as she pulled into an upright position. One hand curled over her very-pregnant belly.

"Oh, baby." She kept her voice level and soothing, eyes flicking up once to Barbara Kean, before fastening firmly on her little girl. "What are you doing up?"

"I had a bad dream," came the timid reply.

Barbara Kean's breathing hitched in a gasp, and she lowered the gun slowly. "Hi, doll," she breathed. "Long time, no see."

The small child's lower lip quivered. "Who are you?"

"Didn't they ever tell you?" The mob queen's eyes flashed as she shot a quick glance at her brother and her sister-in-law. "When you were just a baby, your mommy got sent to jail, sugarplum. And the big, bad Commissioner Gordon sent you to go and live with somebody else." Her voice dripped with honey as she said, "But now I'm here, baby! Mommy's come to take you home!"

The real Barbara felt something in her own chest lurch painfully.

"What is this?" she whispered. "What's going on?"

Christina could only shake her head, eyes flicking back and forth between each person in the room. "None of them are thinking anything. They're all…quiet."

That's because they aren't real, hon.

At least, not anymore.

Everyone in this room is dead, now.

All except for that little girl over there.

"Barbara," David snapped. "Don't do this. Please."

Kean's eyes flashed again. "Why? Because you always wanted kids, Davie? That's the line you fed Jim, at least. But look at Leenie—she's almost ready to pop. Keep your whelp, and I'll keep mine. You have no idea what it's like to lose a ch—"

The mob queen halted, lips pursing. One shapely eyebrow twitched upward, as a thin smirk curled at her mouth.

"Hmm," she mused, one hand curling over her hip as the other hefted the gun. "Now, there's an idea."

The color drained completely from the other two Keans' faces.

"Barbara?" David muttered. His eyes stayed fixed on his murderous sister's weapon, but this time, he spoke to someone else. "Pumpkin? Go call your Uncle Jim's friends."

"Daddy?"

"Please, sweetheart. You remember the number, right? 911?"

Kean let out a wicked laugh, high and clear. It sent a shiver down Barbara's spine as she recognized the sound. It was the same savage laugh that had burst from her throat the night she'd confronted Penguin and Riddler at the Iceberg Lounge.

Maybe…it was something that ran in the family…

"You really think they'll get here in time?" Kean sneered, as the little girl scampered out of the room. "Please. This is Star City, baby bro, not Gotham. The coppers here actually do spend all their time eating donuts on their #$$*$. By the time they shoot up their insulin and come knocking, I'll have already shot your &*^$# right through her big belly."

David roared and flung himself from the sofa. Arms outstretched to seize the gun.

Kean didn't even flinch.

With a bang that made Christina yelp and Barbara go limp, David Kean slumped to the floor.

Eileen let out a piercing scream. She slid off the couch, knees thudding against the hardwood as she shook her dying husband's shoulders.

"David," she wailed, "David, David, David."

The man choked, blood-soaked fingers curling around his wife's wrists. A spurting hole in his throat made Barbara's stomach turn somersaults.

"Too bad, so sad." Kean tsked. She stepped forward as David's eyes glazed over and his body went slack. She gave the corpse an experimental jab with the toe of her shoe and rolled her eyes. "He always was such a drama queen."

"You &*^$%," Eileen snarled through her tears. She hugged her husband close, sobbing through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, I never liked you either, Leenie." Barbara Kean ran her tongue over her lower lip and grinned. Tenderly, she jabbed the muzzle of the gun beneath her sister-in-law's chin, tilting her head up to the firelight. As Barbara leaned in closer, she bared her teeth in a demonic smile. "Always had to take everything from me, didn't you? My brother, my parents' inheritance…even my baby girl. But she's not yours, Leenie. Never was. And now, I'm going to—"

"Daddy? Mommy? I—"

Both women looked over at the little girl, standing once again in the doorway. Little Barbara Kean's eyes were eerily wide, taking in the scene of her dead father and sobbing mother, her aunt's gun jammed against her throat.

Eileen heaved a shaky gasp. "Barbara, please. Not in front of her."

The mob queen's face twisted into something indecipherable. "Go to your room, baby doll. This'll all be over soon, okay?"

The child blinked slowly, eyes filling with tears. "Mommy, I called Uncle Jim."

"Good job, pumpkin," Eileen breathed.

Another voice filtered in through the doorway behind Little Barbara, making everyone in the room stiffen.

"She did a very good job. Lucky for you, we just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Barbara Kean's breath hitched as a man and a boy stepped into sight, flanking the girl like guardian angels. One dressed in emerald green, the other in red and yellow, both held raised bows, arrows nocked and ready to fly.

"Ollie?" Real-life Barbara choked out, making Christina whirl around. "Roy?"

"Who?" the younger girl demanded.

Barbara Kean's sneer pulled tighter. "If it isn't Robin Hood and Little John. What's the matter, boys? Did all the gay bars in town close up shop for the night?"

"Ha, ha." Roy's tone was downright venomous. His gloves squeaked a little as the grip on his bow tightened. "Hilarious. You from Gotham? I hear that's where all the clowns live."

Ollie cleared his throat, side-eyeing his partner. "Alright, alright, let's keep things civil. Ma'am, we're going to ask you to put down the gun and step away. No one else has to die tonight."

"That's where you're wrong, Kevin Costner." Kean's finger twitched on the trigger.

"Mommy?" Little Barbara cried.

"It's okay, pumpkin," Eileen gasped, gritting her teeth against the painful angle of the barrel. "It's all going to be oka—"

The ring of a shot shattered the scene like glass. Barbara and Christina watched the sharp fragments of it fall around them like rain, pinging against the floor until all that was left was the white hallway they sat in. David Kean's body was replaced by the mortal Talon's corpse, blood still pooled on the tile beneath him.

Barbara's nails raked over her scalp.

"What the #$%%?" she demanded. The question was directed to the voice in her head. To the Owls watching up above them. "What the #$%% was that?"

Want the simple answer?

A memory.

"Bull. $#!^," Barbara snarled, ignoring Christina's flinch at the strong language. "That never happened. My parents were killed in a car wreck!"

Were they?

Or is that just what Bruce told you?

"He didn't tell me squat, I found their death certificates myself!"

Through what source?

"The…Cave's systems…"

Hmm. Interesting.

Buckle up, the next one's coming on.

"What? You—"

There was no time to process. No time to think before another scene blinked into existence around them.

They were in a police precinct; Barbara was familiar enough with the GCPD's Bullpen by now to know it on sight. Flickering fluorescents lit the room in green, as officers shuffled through. Papers fluttered from the slight, chilly breeze that filtered through the cracked windows and revolving doors. Chatter from a dozen radios muttered in the background as Christina and Barbara huddled up against one of the heavy wooden desks.

"Screw this," Barbara spat, launching to her feet. "Not happening. Conscience…inner voice…whoever the #$%% you are—can't you make it stop?"

Wish I could.

But Strange injected us with enough serum to have us hallucinating for hours.

Minimum.

"Oh, fantastic," Barbara groaned, turning to get a good look at the room.

Christina pulled herself upright, and gave the paperweight on the desk an experimental poke. "Weird. So these are your memories?"

"No." Barbara shook her head. Fists clenched at her sides, she snapped, "They're not. Just some hallucinations the Owls are trying to shove on me, some new trick to get me to lose my mind, some…"

The sight of a little girl hunched over on a bench nearby made Barbara choke on those words. Her gaze was haunted, devoid of all expression as she stared at the chipped green and white floor tiles. Speedy sat next to her on the bench, his bright costume sticking out like a beacon in the room of drab whites, grays and greens. He was busying himself draping a shimmery shock blanket over the girl's tiny shoulders. Voice lowered, he said,

"Hey, I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but it's all gonna be okay."

The girl shook her head robotically.

"Yeah, it sucks." Speedy's shoulders dropped. "But the lady who did this is going to jail for a really long time. Probably for life. And my partner says your uncle's coming any minute to pick you up."

"I don't want Uncle Jim," came the whispered reply. Little Barbara's voice was thinner than a thread, and her eyes filled with glistening tears as she croaked, "I want my mommy and—hic—daddy."

Ollie emerged from the sea of cops and detectives, face drawn. "Speedy," he said. "Commissioner's here—"

"Where is she?"

Everyone in the room stopped at the sound of the voice. All noise cut out as conversations halted, people stopped moving, and a blanket of silence draped heavily over the room. There, at the entrance to the precinct, stood a dilapidated and much younger version of Commissioner James Gordon, leaned against the door handle like it was the only thing keeping him on his feet. He wore no glasses or mustache, so Barbara almost didn't recognize the man until he looked up with teary eyes, opened his mouth and rasped, once again,

"Where is she?"

The room whirled again, like a tornado, and Barbara stumbled on her feet, landing on her backside. But she didn't feel the cold tile beneath her. Instead, she found herself sitting on a leather car seat. Christina was situated on her lap, shivering from the sudden cold that the small, ancient heating vents in the car did little to combat. The windshield was streaked with city lights and dripping splatters of raindrops as the engine purred in Barbara's bones.

Her lungs heaved for air as she looked to her left, and saw Jim Gordon with eyes faced front and staring glassily at the squeaking windshield wipers as they swept aside the water droplets. On the wheel his knuckles were white. On his face, his tears glistened.

Barbara looked into the backseat, neck craning.

Two redheaded kids were buckled in snugly. One with a shock blanket still wrapped around her shoulders and clutched in her fists as if she never, ever wanted to let go. The other had a softly glowing Gameboy in his lap. But his eyes weren't on the game—they were on the girl.

He leaned closer.

"Did you see it happen?" he whispered.

Little Barbara's teary eyes blinked once. Twice.

"W-what?"

"Did you? I hear that when bullets go through your head, it makes your brains splatter everywhere. I hear that it looks all gray and lumpy, like cauliflower. And there's bone fragments. And blood."

Little Barbara's face went white. Her breathing turned to ragged little gasps as her shimmering eyes bulged impossibly wide.

"Was there blood?" the boy leaned in closer. "How much?"

"James!" Jim Gordon's voice cracked like a bolt of thunder. "Leave her alone. She's been through—she's…"

His voice broke like glass as he rolled up to a red light. The whole interior of the car was bathed in the rosy glow, and Barbara watched James's eyes glimmer with it. Shining malevolently as his face drained of any excitement or pleasure that had been there before. A blank slate. An empty page.

"Of course," he said flatly. "I'm sorry, father."

Barbara lurched, she and Christina crying out as they fell through the air before they landed on a carpeted floor with a dull thud. Both of them groaned, rolling onto their knees with fingers grasping at the ground for some semblance of stability. There was barely enough time to register the pain before they heard soft crying, and looked up at the darkened room.

It was a child's bedroom—but it seemed as though it had recently been something else, like a storage area of sorts. There were still cardboard boxes piled along the walls, and shadowy exercise equipment stacked in one corner. But a bed had been set up underneath the window, and a few childish touches—posters in bright pastel colors and stuffed animals—had been added as the room made its hasty transition.

Little Barbara was sitting up in the bed, covers bunched around her legs. She pulled them closer, the tears that streaked down her cheeks glowing in the soft streetlight that streamed through the dusty window. Her cousin was perched at the foot of the bed, pinning a moth to the glass with a pencil's sharp tip.

"Stop it, James!" Little Barbara pleaded in a sharp whisper. She buried her chin in her arms and gazed at the boy with undiluted horror. "Let it go!"

James reached up with two fingers, and pinched one of the papery wings between them. The poor insect thrashed against the window, its body beating out a rhythm of hopeless taps.

"Please," she whispered.

James ripped the wings off anyway. And when he was done, he smashed the creature under the pad of his thumb. Barbara flinched at the soft squelch.

Then he reached for a little cloth bag sitting on the bedspread beside him. Reaching inside, he drew out a soft little gray lump. At first, Barbara wasn't sure what to make of it—and neither was her younger self. But when their cousin relaxed his fingers, they could see the small yellow triangle of a beak, the sparse, downy feathers, and the squinted slits of the eyes.

Christina gasped.

"Look what I found this morning." James sneered. "I've been saving it. Just for you."

The baby bird let out a soft peep of confusion.

Little Barbara choked out a whimper.

"What do you want from me?" she begged. "I'll do it! Promise! Just don't—"

"Shh, shh." James leaned forward, letting the bedsprings creak below his shifting weight. The hand that wasn't occupied with a small feathery hostage clapped over Little Barbara's mouth. Her eyes flew wide and she squeaked behind his pressing fingers. "Don't want to wake up the Commissioner, now, do we?"

Little Barbara's blue eyes darted towards the door—like she wanted to do just that. But, slowly, she shook her head.

"Good." James pulled away, and sat on his haunches. He cocked his head to the side, regarding his cousin with indifferent calm. His voice betrayed no emotion as he said,

"I want you to jump off the fire escape."

Barbara's fists grasped at the carpet's fibers below her. Little Barbara's already wide eyes grew impossibly wider.

"W-what?" she breathed.

"Are you deaf and stupid?" James's fist tightened ever so slightly. The chick let out a panicked squeak.

"No!" Little Barbara cried, reaching for the baby bird.

He pulled his hand away, keeping the infant just out of her reach. "Then do it. What are you so afraid of?"

"I don't…I don't want…" she swallowed thickly, voice squeaking with renewed tears. "Please, James. I don't wanna…"

"Die?" James was unmoved. "Well, what have you got to live for, anyway? You're just an air-headed little girl with dead parents. You don't have any friends. And my dad only took you in because he had to. Can't you see he doesn't really want you around?" His eyes narrowed. "He thinks you're a monster, you know."

"N-n-no…he…"

"He does." James nodded, knowingly. "Trust me. And when you're gone, he won't even look for you."

Little Barbara whimpered, curling back. "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why do you…do you want me to…?"

"Jump?" James ran a stiff finger over the little baby's downy head, frowning down at it disinterestedly. "Maybe because I find death to be such an interesting concept. I suppose I want to watch someone die…for real. And I want you gone. You're a usurper, Barbara. My father's pathetic attempt to replace his 'defective' offspring with a perfect little angel…like you. So. Two birds with one stone, I guess."

On cue, he squeezed. The chick screeched in pain and panic.

Little Barbara bounced to her feet, hands in the air imploringly. "James, please! Please don't hurt it!"

Tears poured down her face, nose streaming and lips gasping for air. But still, her cousin was unmoved.

"If you don't," he mused. "I'll crush it. Like a Styrofoam cup—though it'll definitely be…juicier."

"N-no…"

"And then, sweet little cousin…I'll throw you off, myself. Your choice."

Barbara could only watch in horror as her younger self's face twisted in determination—and she reached for the window latch. She was a child. How was she supposed to know the dangers of dropping out of a third-story window? Death wasn't a reality for her—just a scary word to throw around in the dark. Six or seven (if she had to guess, since remembering the age was impossible when Barbara couldn't even remember this event) was far too young to understand that human beings were painfully, excruciatingly mortal, and—

She leapt to her feet, and threw out a hand.

"Barbara," she begged herself, "Stop!"

"What's happening?" Christina gasped, unbelieving as Little Barbara stepped out the window and onto the fire escape. Tiny hands wrapped around the railing, and she dared one last look back at her cousin's unyielding expression.

"Well?" James demanded, making all three girls flinch. "Don't stop on my account."

The child whimpered once more as she maneuvered one leg over the iron rung; another.

Then her fingers came unraveled from the rain-slicked metal.

And Little Barbara fell.

#######

#######

No…no. No? No, it doesn't…nothing about this…it doesn't make any sense…

Barbara staggered back as the scene faded like static. She gasped raggedly. Pressed her nails into her scalp. The feeling of the gauntlet's claws digging into the sensitive skin was both painful and somehow grounding. But it wasn't enough to stop the swirling maelstrom in her brain.

What she'd just seen—those were memories of some kind? She picked her brain frantically for the monologue Strange had delivered yesterday—something about the injections he'd given her at the asylum. They were some sort of test run. Right? Right. There was something else—a device they'd put in her neck. Right above her other implant. This one had…nanotech? Similar, if not identical, to the kind Strange had tested on her before.

So. If that was the case, she was seeing…memories.

(But they weren't even hers!)

Right?

Barbara's eyes twitched around the hallway—now back to its solid white marble—and breathed out a shaky groan.

I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't believe me.

These are your memories.

"That can't be possible," Barbara retorted.

"Well…" Christina's voice was tiny, and she jumped when Barbara whirled on her.

"Tell me," she pleaded.

And so Christina gulped, pressed her back against the wall, and sheepishly replied, "When a person is remembering something, it feels different, like…singing feels different than talking. And when they're seeing things that aren't really there, it feels like the difference…between red and blue?"

Barbara squinted. "What?"

"I don't know how to explain it!" Christina threw up her hands. "It just…it's different! You're remembering things you don't even remember, Babs. That's all it is."

She's right.

These are memories that have been suppressed so deeply that your conscious mind doesn't even acknowledge them.

And you have Bruce to thank for that.

"Are you telling me that Bruce wiped out my whole early childhood?" Barbara snarled. Her head spun with the implication. "Try for something a little more believable. He wouldn't."

Wouldn't he?

"I'm hallucinating."

Then explain Christina.

Barbara shot the child a sideways glance, then shook her head. "If she really is a meta, and she can see my thoughts, then she can see my hallucinations."

"Didn't you listen to me?" Christina demanded with a huff. "I can tell they're memories!"

She's right.

So let's prove it, shall we?

Next memory's coming up.

And this time, it's real.

Because not even the Court knows what happened in that alley.

Barbara's fingers dug deeper into her skull as she backed into one of the walls. She slid down, feeling the cold marble scrape against her bare skin until she felt her tailbone crack against the floor. She had to think—had to get her bearings. Some instinctual little corner of her brain was screaming at her to get up, get going, get out of here! Hurry, before something big and bad comes to rip out your large intestine!

But another, calmer, part was whispering that this? This was probably exactly what the Owls wanted. Maybe this was just another ploy to get her to slip up—to lose her grip on whatever sanity she'd managed to maintain during these last few weeks. They might've gassed her—(they'd done it before)—to make her hallucinate these horrible un-memories…

Yet another piece of Barbara's mind—a more rational piece, not the foreign voice—was pointing out the obvious. Those times had been different. The hallucinations were all about things that hadn't happened (yet?). A burning city. A laughing clown standing over her bleeding siblings. Barbara's hands coated in sticky, bubbly blood as she laughed and laughed…

But no, these…these were…these were not like those.

(Maybe they were right, Christina and the voice?)

Wait.

She could fix this—easily. All she had to do was remember the last thing she could remember. Right? What really happened to her parents. Something from her earlier childhood, to offset whatever these last few hallucinations had been.

Her grip loosened, claws unsticking from her scalp as she lowered her hands. Tipped her head up against the wall behind her and let her eyes fall shut.

"Babs?" Christina whispered.

Barbara thought. And thought. And thought.

But no matter how hard she thought, she couldn't get past a certain memory—the one of laying in a dumpster, limbs flung out to the sides and body tangled on top of a heap of stuffed black garbage bags. Everything had hurt. Nothing would move. All she could do was flutter her eyes and lay there watching the smoky night sky overhead until it started to glow with morning sunlight. By then, her eyelids had started to grow heavy…

(Was that really her earliest memory? Barbara couldn't even remember how she'd gotten there. Just what happened next.)

The morning breakfast sweep. Gotham street kids never really got breakfast, but a lot of them tried. Conning tourists, snatching something from the corner bodega, picking pockets—whatever they had to do to fill their bellies first thing in the morning, when the hunger pangs hit hardest. The most popular option, though, was dumpster diving. It was free, it was (technically?) legal, and there was almost always something to find.

Barbara couldn't remember how she'd gotten into the dumpster. Only that she was lying there as still as a corpse when the two street kids had found her.

"And I'm telling you, Cal, if you don't stay off my turf, we're gonna have a problem!"

"Ooohh, look at you, talkin' all big n' tough like some big-shot boss! Well, lemme tell you somethin', sweet'eart. I'm jus' lookin' for a little grub, and I don' give a rat's—holy $#^&!"

"What? What are you—HOLY $#^&! Is that a body!?"

"Keep it down! You wanna tip off every copper from here to Timbuktu?"

"Oh my &*#, she's just a little baby! What do we do? Do we report this? We gotta tell somebody—"

"You're off your rocker if you think anybody's gonna believe we didn' do this! Safest thing to do's to jus back up nice and slow. Nobody has to know we was here unless—you didn' touch her did you?"

"No, I didn'—wait, wait, I just saw her move!"

"You've lost it. You've actually lost it."

"No, no, I'm serious! Look!"

"Dina, don't touch her! You're gonna—"

Barbara squinted, the back of her skull digging into the stone. She remembered a finger jabbing into her side. She could remember the way she'd let her eyes flutter open, and the moment when she'd seen two kids standing above her, perched on the edge of the dumpster like gargoyles, their eyes bulging out of their sockets like they'd just seen a ghost. There was a boy—scraggly and unwashed with a patchwork of freckles and shaggy brown hair. And there was a girl—matted blonde hair sticking out from a hooded sweatshirt she wore like a suit of armor.

Dina and Calvin.

The second they saw her open her eyes, they both froze. Cal let out an 'eep!' and Dina let out a colorful string of words that had Barbara blinking in confusion.

"Who're you?" one of them asked after a few minutes of an impromptu staring contest.

Barbara had licked at her lips. And said one word.

"Help."

The rest was history. They helped her out of the dumpster, dusted her off. Found her something to eat (a moldy cheeseburger that she'd turned her nose up at until Dina's disapproving frown and her own rumbling stomach had persuaded her). And, little by little, Dina, Calvin and Barbara had become the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all—inseparable. They never asked about why she was in the dumpster that morning, where she'd come from, or why she didn't ever want to go back there. Barbara had never told them.

And years later…she'd never really thought about it, had she?

Was that really her earliest memory?

Barbara concentrated harder.

What about… There was the… Or the time that…

"Babs," Christina whispered again, this time a little more insistent. "Babs, there's nothing there."

No? Nothing?

Something like panic was mounting in her chest, rising to her throat. How did she get into the dumpster? Where had she come from? She had parents—she knew she had parents! She knew their names and everything!

Oh, my &*#.

Don't pretend, Barbara. You know exactly what this is.

I…

There was a voice in her head, new and yet so similar to her own. And it whispered into her ear all of the suspicions that were beginning to grow like mold in the corners of her brain. Dark and creeping. And yet, unavoidable.

We jumped out that window because James made us. That's how it happened.

Our parents didn't die in a car accident. They were murdered.

And Uncle Jim? He took us in to soothe his own guilt over what happened to his sister. But in the end?

He never really looked for us. He was relieved when we disappeared.

No. It doesn't make…it doesn't make any sense. I would remember if…I should be able to…

But we can't, can we?

Why do you think that is?

Who do you remember first telling you about what happened to your parents?

Who let you find their death certificates in his system?

…Did Bruce do something to my memories…?

Let's think real hard on that one. We knew him better than anybody, right?

So.

Would Bruce Wayne—the Merriam-Webster's definition of 'paranoid'—stoop so low?

To wipe our memory?

If there was something he didn't want us to see?

No. He wouldn't. Barbara dragged in a deep breath. He couldn't. I'm being irrational. I'm exhausted, malnourished and dehydrated. I was just forced to watch what was either past memories or vivid hallucinations made to look like past memories. And now I'm talking to myself. Trying to compensate for…for… This is just them…doing what they always do. Trying to get in my head… I won't let them.

That's right.

I won't let them.

We won't.

I won't.

Don't pretend we aren't in this together, babe. I mean, really…all you've ever had is yourself.

I—

Shh. It's starting.

Barbara's eyes shot open at the sound of shouting.

The marble room had once again shifted into something…else. The whitewashed walls were gone, replaced by crumbling brick and dirty, smudged concrete. Trash was heaped around Barbara's and Christina's legs. There were scrawls of graffiti above both their heads in eye-piercing neon.

And this time? Barbara didn't even need to question, or second-guess herself.

Because she knew this alley. She recognized the little girl dashing into it from the street, her weak panting and rapid footfalls the only sounds that could be heard above the city's ambience. She broke through the clouds of steam wafting up from the vents, slipped in the gleaming puddles of standing rainwater left over from the last storm. It was all as familiar as her own name.

And Barbara also knew the group of men that followed like a pack of slavering wolves. Their grins were beaming, eyes hungry, and hands grasping. Involuntarily, she tensed up at the sight—muscle memory from a time long past.

This was one memory she did remember. All too clearly…

"Heyyy, little miss Barbie," one of the men called into the alley.

The girl made it to a dead end, and pressed one hand—and then a closed fist—against the brick wall before letting out a clipped curse. She slid her back against the stone as she turned. Stared through her mess of matted red hair at the advancing thugs. Her sneer was downright vicious.

"You don't wanna do this," Pre-teen Barbara growled.

"Oh, 's that right, baby doll?"

"Look at 'er. Bet she's a real piece under all the gutter slime."

"Guess we'll have to find out." The leader clicked his tongue and crooked a finger. "C'mere, baby. Keep nice and still, and I'll let you sit on my lap and be my good little b—"

Barbara's small knuckles raked across his jaw.

He spiraled, staggering from the blow. There was a surprising amount of power behind the fist of such a small girl, and the others could only stare at her, slack-jawed, as their leader spat blood on the rain-slicked concrete. And when he straightened up, swiped a hand over his lips and growled, Barbara raised both fists in front of her chest, just like Cal and Dina had taught her to do.

"Oh." A chuckle ripped from the leader's chest in a dry heave. "You're gonna hurt for that one, baby girl." Blood dribbled off his bottom lip. And the look in his eye was a dangerous gleam—when she saw it, Barbara knew she'd dug herself into a hole she wasn't likely to come out of in one piece. The words he'd spoken were a promise; she was well and truly trapped, now.

So Younger Barbara showed her teeth, like any cornered animal.

And like any cornered animal, she fought tooth and nail.

Christina gasped and winced, but Older Barbara could watch with a sense of detachment. The flying fists, the sprays of blood and howls of pain. Now, it didn't mean much to her—it was over and done, and she'd survived it, anyway. So, she was free to observe.

Back then, her form had been sloppy. Undisciplined. Slapped together from every rough-and-tumble fighting technique she'd encountered in the Narrows, and every hit-'em-'til-they-stay-down trick she'd seen by the tracks. Considering her lack of experience and skill, Barbara was just surprised she'd lasted as long as she did.

But the men were taller, stronger, meaner and…overall, better when it came to the fine art of street-fighting. Pre-teen Barbara was knocked to her knees in no time.

The leader leered. Grabbed a handful of her hair and tipped her head back.

"Open your mouth," he commanded.

She spat in his face. The gob of saliva landed on his shirt.

"Gonna be a brat about it, eh? Alright, baby doll. Then let's try this." With his other hand, he drew out a small boxcutter from his pocket. It clicked as the blade extended, rusty and filthy with grime, but just as sharp as the day it was made. The point of it pressed against Barbara's cheek, and began a long, slow slice down the side of her face.

The man's sneer was triumphant as Barbara's mouth fell open in the beginnings of a scream.

But a shadow fell over the alley.

A noise like beating wings flapped through the air in one swoosh.

There was a powerful thump, like something heavy had hit the ground and cracked the concrete.

All eyes turned, slowly, back towards the way they'd come. The lights of the city at night were still there, but this time—this time—there was a shadow standing in the way. A silhouette ringed by a halo of neon. Younger Barbara's face went slack at the sight of the behemoth, and the thugs tensed. This time, they were the cornered animals.

Older Barbara stared slack-jawed at the pair of spikes on the dark cowl, the sweeping cape, that cold frown. And Christina let out a sharp gasp. She may not have been a Gotham native, but everyone knew the Bat.

She turned to Barbara, green eyes wide and disbelieving.

"That's…"

Barbara nodded.

"Wait. Then, that…are you…?"

Barbara nodded again. Then turned back to her origin story with cold disinterest.

The shadow regarded the thugs with even more ice. "A bit young for you, isn't she?"

The men offered up no reply.

"I'd advise you to pick on someone your own size…" A step, a single step closer, and every other person in the alley stiffened. And still, the low warble of the shadow's voice spoke on. "But tonight, I'm feeling generous. Leave right now…and I'll forget I saw you here."

Back then, Barbara had thought he was being too 'generous'—dogs like these men would only tuck their tails for so long before they went back on the prowl—but now that she could watch from a different angle… She saw the cut on her cheek, weeping beads of blood. Caught sight of the bruises and the way her breath was staggered and rapid. And she knew Bruce, where she hadn't then.

Barbara had been his priority—the kids always were, weren't they?

But the thugs weren't in the mood to accept any offers of mercy. Their prey was forgotten as they lunged for the Bat.

And Bruce put them down hard like the mangy mongrels they were. The men scurried off, whimpering into the night. The Batman watched them leave, made sure they were gone, then turned carefully to the young girl huddled against the wall.

She stood. Squared her shoulders and her jaw and glared up at her dark rescuer with malice.

Barbara had been on the streets long enough to know that the Bat wasn't one to be messed with. But she'd had just about enough bullying for one night.

"That was brave of you." He took a step toward her, voice going soft in the way it always did when he'd crossed paths with a child in need. "Fighting back like you did."

Barbara had thought he was being patronizing. So, swiping quickly at her face with the back of her hand, she glowered up at the man in black. And laid hard on the Bowery accent she'd picked up from the others. "It was nothin'. They's jus' tryin' to scare me off their turf. Wanted somethin' I didn' wanna give 'em so they got out their shivs. That's all."

The Batman frowned, raising an eyebrow beneath the cowl. A thought seemed to occur to the small girl, and she continued.

"You's been flyin' over the city a while, yeah? Takin' creeps like them to jail? You gonna take me to jail?"

He said nothing, and she sniffed, the bloody stream from her nose bright against her pale skin. Batman reached into his belt and brought out a tissue. Barbara snatched it from his hand and pressed it against her nose, eyes glaring above her fingers. "Well?" came her muffled demand.

"Well," Batman replied, lowering himself to his knees so that he could look her straight in the eye. "I'm not going to take you to jail. But I do have one question for you."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Did you run away from home?" his eyes narrowed. "You're using a Narrows accent, but your inflections are all off—you're faking. I can tell that you've had some education."

She stuttered, eyes bulging as she stepped away from the man in the Bat costume. "I don't—"

"What's a nice girl like you doing out on the streets? Where is your family?"

Her composure seemed close to cracking, but younger Barbara pasted on a brave face. Sticking her chin out, she snapped, "None of your business, creep."

Batman's low tone was gentle. He held out a cautious hand, as if he were hoping she'd take it, but guessing that she'd hit it away. "I just want to take you back home. I'm sure your parents are worried sick—"

"My parents are dead." Barbara's voice snapped like a broken guitar string, and her back hit the wall. "They're dead. I don't have a family,anymore, but even if I did—" She hiccupped, pressing the tissue against her face as hard as she could, and blinked slow and long before her eyes shot open, wide with poison and heated with vengeance.

"Don't talk about taking me back," she snapped. "I'm not going back."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"No, you're not. You're just sorry I got in the way of whatever you were busy doing tonight." She lowered her tissue and Older Barbara could see her own mouth twist into a snarl. "So listen. I'm all I've got, and that's the way it's always been. So I'm not worried. But—I have a question for you, 'Mr. Batman'."

Despite her tone, Bruce managed to keep a straight face. "Oh? And what's that?"

"You…You scared off those guys like it was nothing." She paused. For the first time, the brave mask she'd slipped on cracked a little, showing something soft and scared underneath. "Can you…can you show me how to do that? I'm tired of—"

Tired of fighting. Tired of losing. Tired of being beaten up and tossed around, and left for dead and forgotten like…

Present-day Barbara shook her head. Dug the tips of her fingers into her arms as she crossed them over her chest. The movements were mirrored in her younger, hallucination-self.

"Teach me how to fight," Little Barbara demanded.

"I can't do that."

He stood, cape falling around him like a shroud. And he turned away—took that first step out of the alley. The next words Batman spoke were dismissive. He'd done all he could, and now it was time to move on. "You should run along. This is a dangerous part of town."

"Wh—no." Barbara stepped after him, brow furrowing. Her voice sounded sharp, desperate. Then, her face cleared like a blank slate. Thousands of tiny micro-expressions swept over her features in the space of a second, until finally—

—Barbara spoke the words that would seal her fate.

"I won't do that…Mr. Wayne."

Christina looked like she was about to pass out.

Just like she'd done back then, Older Barbara watched the Batman's shoulders stiffen. His whole frame went rigid. And then, quickly, he smoothed over and turned back towards the scrappy little street kid.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

He did. Of course, he did. The way he'd frozen like a deer in headlights had given him away.

"Want me to shout it a little louder?" Barbara's eyes narrowed victoriously. "I can tell. The way you stand…and your 'inflections'. Or am I wrong?"

"You're wrong."

"Maybe. And maybe I'll go and spread my little guesstimate around, see if anybody else takes me seriously?"

The white slits of his eyes narrowed dangerously. "What's your name, then?"

Barbara blinked. That hadn't exactly been the reaction she'd expected. But she wet her bloody lips and said her first name, in the barest sound above a whisper.

And she'd watched him freeze again. Maybe he knew the name, like everyone else on the streets seemed to. Which was odd; 'Barbara' usually went over well, but 'Kean' always raised eyebrows. And made people stiffen up like the Batman did, now. Only…she hadn't even said—

"Well then, Barbara," he said, carefully. "I suppose you'd better come along."

She blinked up at the man in black, who turned on his heel, and began stalking out of the alley. "Wait. R-really?"

He turned his head, and a smile flashed at her briefly, disappearing almost as quickly as it had come.

"If I were you," he said gruffly, footsteps beating a harsh staccato against the pavement. "I would follow before I change my mind."

Barbara watched herself blink away sudden moisture, brimming eyes going wide with surprise. She wiped away another trickle of blood.

And dogged his steps all the way to the Batmobile.

#######

#######

Did you really think it would end there?

"Shut up."

No, thanks. Let's take a good look around and ask ourselves—

Why?

So, Barbara did. She and Christina were sitting in a plush red booth, elbows balanced on top of a cold tabletop. The lighting was dim and cozy, giving the diner a feel of good old-fashioned hospitality—

—the kind that Stella's was famous for.

There was no one else in sight except for a strange pair sitting in a booth next to them. Barbara spotted the dark bat ears, and the tuft of snarled red hair.

She bit her lip.

This is a special kind of torture, isn't it?

"What's the point?" Barbara whispered. "Thumbscrews and scalpels do the trick—why bother with all this?"

"Well! Good evening to the both of you!"

A woman in her late thirties popped up at the other table, notepad in hand with the pleasant curve of her smile fixed in its usual place. Fannie didn't have as much gray in her hair, and had a bit more of a spring in her step, but that seemed to be the only difference between the woman as she was in the present day, and as she was in this hallucination.

The Batman looked up, already taking the menus out of their box by the window, and smiled a little at the bright woman. "Good evening, Fannie."

The waitress's eyes flicked over to tiny Barbara and her eyes lit up like fireworks.

"Ah! And who, might I ask, is this sweet little thing, here?"

At Batman's expectant glance, and Fannie's enraptured gaze, the girl ducked her head and murmured out her name.

"Barbara!" Fannie gasped, and placed both hands (still holding the notepad and pen) over her ample chest and fluttered her eyelashes. "If that isn't the most darling name! Well! What can I get for my best customer and his new friend tonight?"

Younger Barbara shot the Batman a look that was two parts confusion and one part panic. She hadn't really known what to make of the exuberant waitress at first, after all. Batman could only smile, and give his order to the woman in the yellow uniform.

"I'll just have an order of boardwalk fries and a strawberry shake."

Fannie clicked her tongue, and scribbled that down. "Same as always, I see. He's such a creature of habit, honey, don'tcha think? Now, what'll it be for you?"

Younger Barbara jumped a little, surprised at the sudden shift in attention. Then, she dared a glance at the dark knight, and peered at her own menu.

"You payin'?" she muttered.

At that, Fannie let out a boisterous laugh. "Ah! Well, I should hope so, honey! A gentleman always pays, isn't that right, Bats?"

"Of course." Bruce's smile was tinged with amusement. "Order whatever you'd like."

In hindsight, Bruce probably should have phrased that a bit differently. If you take a kid off the streets and offer to buy them whatever they'd like at a fancy-schmancy little diner like this…well. Needless to say, Barbara—unsure of what or when her next meal would be—ordered a little bit of everything.

Fannie's eyes grew wider and wider and wider as she wrote down the lengthy order. Bruce's face betrayed curiosity, but not the panic that anyone else might have felt at seeing such a hefty price mount right before their eyes.

"Y-you're sure?" the waitress asked, blinking. "Maybe I could grab you a kids' meal and—"

"It's fine, Fannie," Bruce assured her, waving a hand. "I'll take care of it."

And so she turned, muttering under her breath about eyes being bigger than stomachs, and wallets being bigger than they should. Before they knew it, she disappeared to the back, leaving the Bat and the urchin alone at the table. No one could see, now, (except for Barbara and Christina) and so Bruce reached up. Undid the combination lock on his cowl, and slid it off with a low hiss.

The real Barbara felt her heart stop in her chest as she looked into the eyes of her surrogate father. A thousand emotions rose up within her, causing painful tears to prick at her eyes.

"Bruce," she whispered, and Christina shot her a frightened look.

"Are…you okay?"

Barbara smiled ruefully. "Fine," she breathed. "Just…that's my dad. That's the man who raised me. Right there. Alive. And I just…"

She trailed off as Little Barbara gaped, then smirked.

"Looks like I was right, after all," she crowed.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Looks like you were bluffing, mm?"

"Doesn' matter. I got a free meal. And you…" She trailed off, turning her face to the window. Wondering what the next step after this little escapade would entail. Would she eat her heart out, then wind up back on the streets with a fun story to tell the other kids? Would Batman put her in jail or take her somewhere she'd never be able to tell his secret? That last one seemed a lot more likely, at the time. In fact—

"You're probably wondering what comes next."

Bruce's voice jarred Little Barbara out of her thinking. "Hm?"

"Well. You know my secret, now. I can't just let you go back on the streets—I may as well have painted a target on your back."

Little Barbara deflated, sinking low in her seat.

"And you're injured. Not severely, but enough that you'll need medical attention. Probably, we should get you a tetanus shot, as well. That blade was not exactly a medical scalpel, after all."

"I'll be fine."

His eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"

"I've had worse."

"And that," Bruce said, tucking both their menus back into their little box. "Is unacceptable. Do you have…anyone that can help you? Anyone that looks after you?"

The girl looked away, biting her lip.

"Barbara?"

"I did," she snapped. Turned her gaze on the man in black and narrowed her teary eyes. "But lemme tell you something, Bats. Everybody who ever cared about me's either dead or…decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Okay?"

Bruce's face registered shock. Then sympathy. He laid a hand on the table, and said, softly. "No. It's not okay. I'm sure that must have been…terrible."

"Everyone always leaves, Mr. Wayne." Her shoulders slumped. "Everyone."

Bruce frowned. Blinked. Then opened his mouth to say something, but never got the chance before Fannie burst through the kitchen doors and appeared at the table with her tray. "Here you go!"

The Batman covered his eyes and looked down at the table, but Fannie wasn't even fazed. She tittered as she set down the food, and Barbara watched her younger self's eyes go wider than quarters at the sight of all the steaming baskets of wax paper and French fries. Plates with hamburgers and corndogs, and two tall fluted glasses of thick milkshakes topped with enough whipped cream to induce diabetes in a marathon runner.

"That's about…half of what this little sweetheart ordered," Fannie apologized, "And the rest'll be out in a jiffy. But in the meantime—enjoy!"

Once she was gone, Bruce lowered his hand. His smile was hesitant as he picked up one of his fries.

"I seldom indulge in this sort of thing. But…let's just say that Stella's is a family tradition."

Barbara watched with a tight, teary smile (and younger Barbara looked on in horror) as Bruce proceeded to dip the fry into his strawberry milkshake, scooping up some of the sugary pink slush, then popped the whole thing into his mouth. A satisfied hum rumbled from his throat.

"What." Little Barbara's jaw fell open. "Was that?"

His eyebrows twitched up once again, and he glanced down at the French fries as if surprised to see them there. "Oh. Um…what do you mean?"

She waved a hand. "Fries and ice cream? What are you, some kind of maniac?"

Bruce cocked his head.

"I mean," Little Barbara went on, "I know you're crazy, cause you run around in a bat costume and punch people in the face, and all. But like…this is a whole new low."

For a second, the Batman was actually at a loss for words. He gazed at her for a long stretch of silence that had the young girl shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Later on, Barbara would learn that he was shocked at her sense of humor—and was already wondering what it would be like to introduce her to Dick. But at the time…well, the silence had been very unsettling.

But, even more shocking, was what came next.

The Batman tipped back his head and let out a hearty, gut-busting laugh.

The sound of it made Fannie, Jimmy, and Stella (who at this point, was still the very spry eighty-something year old who ran the diner in her spare time) poke their heads up to gape through the window behind the counter. Bruce, still choking on his own breath, had just enough presence of mind to turn his head away, even as he doubled over the table's edge.

It took five entire minutes for the laughter to subside. And by that time, little Barbara had stopped quaking in her boots, and got up enough nerve to scowl up at the dark knight and demand,

"What the #$%%'s so funny?"

"You…you just…" Bruce straightened, huffing for air. Then he coughed, nodded to himself, and settled for a slight smile. "I apologize for my outburst. It's just…of all the crazy things to happen tonight…French fries in ice cream is really what set you off?"

"It's disgusting?" Barbara snorted.

Bruce's lips twitched. "Well. Don't knock it until you try it."

"I will not."

"Not, what? Knock it? Or try it?" The smug smile returned to the Batman's face. "Don't you trust me?"

She snorted again, this time turning her nose up at the loaded, dripping French fry he offered her across the metal tabletop. "Not in the slightest, old man."

"Please?"

Barbara watched the pair—her old mentor and her old self—go back and forth for a few more minutes, until Little Barbara finally tossed up her hands and groaned out a fine! Unceremoniously, she stuck it in her mouth and chewed. Slowly, her scowl gave way to a slackened expression.

"See?" Bruce taunted wryly. "Not so bad, is it?"

In reply, Barbara scooped up a handful of her own French fries, and dunked each and every one of them into her own chocolate shake. Bruce let out another burst of laughter.

They went on eating, devouring the contents of the endless plates that Fannie brought to the table (her face showing more and more bewilderment with every trip). Eventually, Bruce polished off his fries and started helping Barbara tuck into the burgers and chilidogs and funnel cakes and scrambled eggs and chicken tenders she'd ordered. The two made short work of the food, never pausing to talk until all that was left between them were a few stray boardwalk fries in the last paper-lined basket.

Little Barbara was licking her greasy, salty fingers while Bruce studied her carefully.

At last, he said,

"I…have a proposition for you."

The girl's pinkie popped out of her mouth. "Don'tcha think I'm a little young for you?"

His eyes went wide. But then he chuckled. "Not that kind of proposition. I was thinking more along the lines of a…job."

Barbara put down her hand, still on her guard. "What sorta job are we talkin'?"

"Just…" The Batman settled back into his seat, eyes lidded as he considered his next words. Gloved fingers reached up to drum against the table as he said, "You asked me if I could teach you to fight. To defend yourself. What if I agreed to do just that—on the condition that you use what you learn to defend the innocents of this city?"

The girl's face went slack with shock. "You mean…?"

"I'm sure you've heard of Robin?" Bruce asked her with a small smile. "My partner. And, should you agree to this proposition…you would fill the same role."

The girl's shoulders smacked against the back of her seat, and she slid down a little. Present-day Barbara smiled a little as she watched her past self's eyes bulge.

"You could choose a name for yourself, just as Robin did. Perhaps something like…I don't know. Robinette? Batgirl?"

"That second one," younger Barbara mumbled. "has a nice ring."

Bruce blinked, a look of delighted surprise lighting up his face. His smile was fond as he said, "It does, doesn't it?"

"Like, Robinette's just stupid. I'd sound like something from an 80's pop group."

"Hn. I think you're absolutely right."

"Batgirl, though—that's better. Buuuut…maybe not quite as 'better' as Batwoman…"

Bruce raised an eyebrow and smirked. "You're how old, again?"

"Eleven."

"Then I'd start with 'Batgirl'. You'll have to earn your way up to Batwoman."

"Tt."

"And," Bruce shifted a little in his seat, eyes darting from the table, to Barbara, to the empty condiment-splattered plates, and back to Barbara. "If you would like…this isn't a requirement for the position, just a suggestion, or an offer—that is—"

"Huh?"

"Barbara. I would like to…" The Batman cleared his throat. "Offer you a home. With me. And Robin. And our friend, Agent A…if…that's what you want. You'd have your own room, as much privacy as you'd like, ample supply of food, adequate facilities, and free run of—Barbara?"

The girl across the booth had gone very still as her wide eyes filled slowly but surely with tears. They spilled down her dirty cheeks, leaving little tracks on her skin where they fell.

She sniffled, and Bruce was out of his seat in an instant.

The caped crusader knelt by Barbara's side, a hand resting gently on her shoulder.

"Are you alright? Is that…if you don't want to, Barbara, you don't have to say—"

"I—" The girl's voice squeaked. She turned her watery gaze on the man beside her, and present-day Barbara got a full-on view of her pitiful past self's sheer…vulnerability.

In a breath above a whisper, "You don't really mean that."

Bruce's head tilted. "Of course I do."

"N-no, you—" Little Barbara took a shaky gasp to compose herself, and hugged both arms around her chest. "You feel sorry for me. That's all."

"I want to help you. There's a difference."

"No. You'll…eventually, you're going to see…" The girl's head shook back and forth, and she held her hands in front of her as if she could see something written in the whorls and swirls of her fingerprints. "Batman. Bruce. It's like there's something wrong with me. Something that I can't see, but everyone else can—and it makes them run. Leave. And I can't—"

Barbara mouthed the words to herself, even as the little girl said them.

I can't keep hoping people will stay.

When I know they can't.

When I know they won't.

Christina was staring up at her.

Unexpected tears pricked in her own eyes, as her fists balled in her lap.

Tell me again, sweetheart.

That this isn't torture.

Bruce took the girl's hand in his, squeezing softly.

"Barbara," he said. "Those feelings are completely valid—no child your age should have to go through what you've gone through—but…sooner or later, you need to let them go."

Barbara's eyes stung.

"Letting go of the hurt can be difficult. Maybe even excruciating. But once you do…something better can begin. I…I promise you that if you come with me tonight, that you will have a home. A family. Everything you've never been given can be yours—and you'll never be alone ever again."

The real Barbara tilted her chin to the ceiling, let her eyelids snap shut as she grit her teeth. She couldn't see the hallucination around her, anymore, but she could still hear it perfectly.

"And I promise," Bruce said earnestly, his voice husky and soft. "That I will be the one who stays."

The tears broke loose as Barbara's lips trembled. She felt their warm wetness slip down her cheeks, trailing down her throat. Her eyes were still stubbornly shut.

"You promise."

"I swear it."

And yet—

Barbara lurched to the side, and tipped out of her booth. With a smack, she hit the floor. But no one reacted—no one saw. This was only a hallucination, and Barbara was the only witness. Her, along with the voice in her head, and the little girl calling out to her from her side of the booth.

So, there on the cold linoleum floor, Barbara curled in on herself.

And sobbed.