"If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint."
Edward Hopper
.
.
.
3rd of August
The weather had grown kinder as the August month arrived, but Fay hadn't really paid much attention to the sunny days and warm breeze. The last Bad Day had left her feeling particularly exhausted and she'd been struggling to eat more than a couple of fruits and biscuits without vomiting. Throughout her fourth and fifth week there she had had at least four different panic attacks and she no longer remembered the last time she had more than three hours of sleep per night. She'd lost weight, which was not good given she was already gaunt as it is, but she tried to hide it as best as she could under layers of clothes even though people around her walked around in tank tops and shorts. The bracelets did an effective job at keeping the marks glamoured away but it was a temporary effect - whenever she'd get emotional, they'd always resurface just like the runes. They never really disappeared, she could always feel them.
Dana must've noticed the growing bags under her eyes and the even quieter attitude she had, because she'd been cutting Fay's shifts shorter and asking her to take more breaks. Fay appreciated her efforts and lied about feeling better afterwards.
Things took a turn when Robby asked her if she wanted to go with him to the museum that afternoon. With a renewed anticipation, she had allowed Robby to lead them to the Gotham Museums, which apparently had been closed temporarily for several months while undergoing major renovations. The Arts and Antiquities Museum, the main building which faced Gotham Boulevard was six stories tall and stretched so long that it was hard to spot the other museums nestled behind it in an enclosed campus lined by tall fences. It contained over nineteen period rooms spanning several thousand years of world culture and another three interactive rooms designed to cater to different age groups. An entire wing of the museum was dedicated solely to some of the greatest artists of that world, along with information where their paintings could be found across the world.
From the Arts and Antiquities Museum, visitors can access the History Museum, a smaller but just as fascinating build towards the left-hand side of campus. On the right-hand side, the new Science Museum had yet to be unveiled, having been rebuilt from scratch and expanded with additional floors and exhibit rooms. It was scheduled to open on 1st of October.
They spent four hours at the museum that day but it felt like minutes only and for the first time in four days Fay had forgotten how unwell she felt, mentally and psychically and had gorged herself on the large source of information available before her eyes.
Children generally had to enter accompanied by an adult, but when Fay returned the next day, nobody stopped her when she stepped through the revolving doors and into the grand hall. The guards asked to check her backpack as they did with everyone that came through but didn't really bat an eye at her otherwise. Bag unfortunately had to stay outside, because like many other places there, animals were prohibited. He wasn't unhappy being parted from her while she wandered the maze of halls alone and she didn't enjoy him being treated as a lesser being, but the museum visits were not just to satisfy her curiosity. They would help her become more knowledgeable of that world. The more they knew, the better they'll be prepared for the long journey ahead of them in a few months' time.
The museum rapidly became a powerful coping mechanism. It had a way of making her feel comfortable in her body and stimulating her mind in forgetting everything else that had nothing to do with what was in there (even when she came across works of art that they had taught her about). Except Bag, of course. She'd always keep him at the back of her head, reminding herself to regularly check on him every couple of hours even if it meant her going and back forth those halls and cut into her visitation time.
Entrance was free, but she splurged on an annual sixty-five-dollar VIP membership because it gave her access to exclusive exhibits and discounted food and events. She'd also learned the days and times when it was best to go to avoid the crowds which could trigger her anxieties and to be able to peacefully examine the exhibits without people pushing around, chattering incessantly and photographing themselves instead of admiring the beauty of that place.
.
.
.
12th of August
That day the newest exhibit on the third floor was open to VIP members only, at three o'clock in the afternoon. Determined to make the best of her membership and potentially reduced crowds, Fay had wandered in the museum an hour before the start of the guided tour, relieved to know Bag had found a spot to hide behind a tree in the small park next to the Arts and Antiquities building. Unfortunately, not long after her entrance she had started feeling sick and she had ended up doubling over the toilet in the nearest bathroom. Her first proper meal in days and it went all down the drain.
Emotionally frayed, she had ended up balling her eyes out for no reason other than she felt sick of being sick. When her small breakdown finished and she had left the bathroom with a pounding headache and aching eyes, she realized she had been in there for almost an hour. With far less interest than originally, she had walked up to the third floor where the meeting point was for anyone who held a VIP membership. Nobody was there but she found the group and guide in the exhibit room down the hall.
It took her a few moments to understand where exactly the art pieces were because the arrangement of random objects and non-descript canvases looked out of place. It wasn't until she observed how the thirty-odd group of people leaned enthusiastically to examine those objects that she realized they were part of the new exhibit. Nobody paid her any mind even though she seemed to be the only minor there as she slid through a few people to look closer, thinking perhaps she was missing something.
What did a blank canvas with three dots even mean? Why were there spaghettis glued onto another? Why was there a cheese grater painted blue and just left on a table? Why were the canvases so large yet so deprived of subjects?
Why was the guide looking enthusiastic when he turned towards a canvas and pointed that the splashes of orange colour had been regurgitated by the artist? That world was strange in many ways, but she hadn't felt that much confusion since her first few days there. She'd never thought she'd see coloured vomit being appraised in such a manner, but the guide looked particularly convinced when he described it as an 'original, shocking way of expressing youth disgust with capitalism'. …What? She had vomited several times in the bathroom, and she was quite certain it had no meaning other than well-sickness.
Maybe…maybe I should really get some sleep.
There were some art pieces – if random objects could be called that - that seemed more interesting than others, although they did not hold her attention for long. In some ways that 'modern' art was remarkable, in the sense she'd never expect to see it in a museum and it certainly stood out, but it had no positive connotations otherwise for her. Seeing so many people push and pull to take pictures, ascribing them more meaning than they deserved evoked a mixture of puzzlement and indignation and amusement. Oh, how mortified her uncle would be if he knew this is what outsiders called art. His reaction would have been funny though (he rarely ever lost his composure but when he did his body never seemed to know how to deal with it).
She ended up breaking away from the group a few minutes into joining it and drifted across the room where a scandalously small space had been reserved for twenty-odd paintings drawing inspiration from more traditional art movements: impressionist, realism, surrealism, Art Noveau. The territory felt familiar there; she recognized the techniques that inspired those paintings and that familiarity grounded her. Seeing other people's vomit did no favours to her already upset stomach.
A few people had moved around the room, taking pictures and casting their eyes on those paintings as well but they eventually returned to where the majority stood by modern art pieces. The silence in that end of the room was welcomed however and she was grateful nobody could see how one painting had ended up rattling her. Painting number twenty-three had no author and no title, and it was dwarfed by bigger paintings on the wall, but she found she could not tear her eyes from it. Objectively it did not hold the brightest colours or eye-catching subjects, nor it had an interesting frame, but to her all the other paintings had faded in the background.
She wasn't sure how long she'd ended up staring at it, but no matter how many times she went over it with her eyes, she'd find she missed additional details. The artist was a master of deception and it made her wonder whether the artist even wanted to capture the viewer's attention since it required her some time to decipher all the elements.
At first glance, it was an impressionist rendering of a night starless sky with a moon in the middle, reflecting in the rippling surface of a dark body of water below. There was a bare tree that unfurled on the left-hand side of the painting, its branches painted with the typical short, quick impressionist strokes. The dark choice of colours stood out compared to other impressionist paintings she knew about, but the ethereal glow of the moon had been painted in such a way that she could easily imagine standing in that dark setting illuminated only by the moon. There were very few hard edges across the painting and the author had given depth by manipulating the moon's light to his or her advantage, enough to allow the viewer to distinguish the various subjects if they paid close attention.
It wasn't until she had looked closer that she realized the sky had not been painted just black and dark blues; there were violent brush strokes of red and violet as if the sky secretly carried a secret fire that swallowed all the stairs.
The birds on the tree were also very interesting: most of them stood huddled on the lower branches, staring at each other, or at the audience or facing left and right. They weren't all identical though, discreet brushstrokes having been applied differently to each bird. Like thumbprints, they looked identical but when examined closer, one could see how unique they were from one another.
There was another bird that stood on the highest branch, staring at the moon, its back turned to the viewer. It was such a peculiar way of positioning the bird compared to the rest that it could not have been done on a whim or accidentally. It had to have a meaning because its feathers were painted more closely with the sky, making it difficult to understand where it started a finished. The bird felt darker than the others, even though the moon's glow should have made it the brightest. None of the other birds were remotely interested in looking at the moon or their peer standing so afar from them. They seemed too busy with one another or themselves.
She knew why that painting called to her. She could not put it in words, not really but it felt as if someone had dipped their paintbrush into her emotions then put them on the canvas. Her emotional state may have been clouding her analysis, but it did not matter. Art was subjective. Its power lied in the emotions it evoked in its viewer and in that moment, Fay felt as if she was staring at a deconstructed, abstract version of some of her deepest parts.
There was a part of her that felt affronted by that painting; by seeing emotions she kept to herself being put on view for anyone to see. However, there was also that part of her that wept because she had never really found a way of acknowledging everything she felt, because there were emotions she had buried so deep that she would forget about or she'd refuse to acknowledge. She had to, because last time she had underestimated what lay beneath her grief she had ended up having to wear the bracelets on a permanent basis.
Or perhaps she was just tired, and she was overthinking everything as she usually did.
"You're crying.''
It was a shameful display, but she did squeal loudly when the male voice – far too close – penetrated her thoughts and broke the trance-like state she had entered. She jumped too, and she could only imagine what that must've looked on the camera footage. She was not a graceful creature.
"W-what-?'' Blinking rapidly had caused a few more tears to slid down her face.
Wait…. tears?
She reached to dab cheeks with the back of her sleeves and with no small amount of mortification she realized they were damp again. She really had been crying, again. Had she not been in such a humiliating situation she would have perhaps admired the incredible effect of art on the psyche. Alas, the harsh voice in the corner of her mind criticised her for being so weak to allow herself to be vulnerable in a public space.
It was all the boy's fault, she thought meekly although she agreed she had been making a fool of herself. He looked around her age (perhaps younger given he was a couple of inches shorter than her) and he was dressed in a dark red jacket and a pair of dark trousers. He looked slim, but not in the unhealthy way she did underneath the oversized clothes. He had dark hair which seemed slightly overgrown but not unkempt and his eyes-
-bright, green eyes. No, no just green. She could see threads of golds near his irises blending in with various shades of green, even as she stood a few feet away. His eyes stood out like jewels against the warm tones of his skin, and there was an intensity to them that reminded her of a, well, something wild and untamed and quite possibly very dangerous.
The jungle. They reminded her of the jungle.
And of…. her.
She had green eyes too. A darker shade, but just as bright. Fay remembered the joy those eyes brought her because they held promises adventure and safety and unconditional love. The boy's eyes made no such promises; his were harder, colder and they reminded her more of a predator's eyes. Her spine tingled and she realized that as innocuous as he may have looked, there was something about him that made her instincts go haywire. Like when one can't see or hear the threat, but they can feel it in their muscles and bones.
He was not safe. Rusting but never forgotten teachings told her that she should never trust a person at face value; when your body screamed something was off, you either fight or run. She was really not in any shape to fight (the fear and exhaustion and neglected body ensured that) yet she found herself rooted on the spot, kind of like that rabbit she had once watched Bag hunt down (it wasn't pleasant but it was survival and such was the nature of food chain).
She took a few steps back, though, hands instinctively clenching as she lowered them to hold onto the straps of her backpack. She did not like the boy, she decided. There was an irrational part of her that thought he had no right to be there, to look at her when she was in such a vulnerable position, to scrutinise her with those green eyes of his and remind her of beautiful things in her life that were worlds away (and some dead and gone and never to be seen again).
"Painting number twenty-three. You've been staring at it for fifteen minutes.'' He's been watching her for fifteen minutes and she hadn't even realized that? Wow. She reached new lows every day, didn't she? "I want to know why you were crying.''
-he demanded it. Not asking politely, not even close to apologising for scaring the daylights out of her and imposing in on her personal moment. She stared at him speechless for a few moments before snapping herself out of it. "Why—I don't know.'' She didn't even know she had been crying. How could she possibly tell him why?
There was a why, of course, but she did not want to disclose such information to him. Or anyone for that matter.
Hands in pocket, the boy analysed her in a way she's seen others do it many times before. It was the kind of look that made her feel as if the other person was trying to pry her head open to see what was inside. It made her uncomfortable and the nausea returned with renewed strength.
He would not appreciate some modern art spilled on his shoes, would he?
No. Probably not (he'd probably deserve it though).
"You don't know.'' She'd heard that tone before too. She despised it because it had a way of making her feel small and pathetic and-another emotion she dared not name. "You are staring at it and you don't know why it makes you cry?''
She didn't know him, but she couldn't help but dislike him rather intensely already. Why did he want to know why she was crying? Did he just go up to every single person and ask them why they made faces, or did he just saw her as an easy target? (she was an easy target, truth be told).
"I—I know why—I just-''
"Don't stutter.'' Did her face twitch? She felt it twitch. "Just speak clearly.''
"I—know why.'' She spit out. "I just…. don't want to tell you.'' Whoa, Fay. Nice one. The dark voice at the back of her head was rather adept at using sarcasm it seems.
A dark brow lifted, and he did not seem particularly impressed with her answer, as if what she wanted was not of any consequence. The small rush of adrenaline that moment of defiance triggered helped her feet dislodge from the floor allowing a quick, hurried exit, sliding her way through the group of people that had started following the guide out into the next room. She ended up running at full speed all the way down to the third floor, past the grand hall and to the security check out where the routine check felt like an eternity. Her palms felt disgustingly sweaty and she kept glancing down the hall, terrified at the prospect the boy would just show up out of nowhere.
She had grabbed her backpack so quick from the guard's hands she made him stumble after, but she didn't stop, not even when she was past the revolving doors and running down the streets. She called out for Bag, whom jumped out from behind the tree like a shadow and easily caught up with her.
She ended up running the entire two miles back to the soup kitchen and when they were finally in the attic, she ended up crashing immediately after feeding everyone and changing out of her clothes. Dark birds and bright moons and mysterious green threaded through her thoughts before the darkness consumed her.
.
"Tt.'' Damian Wayne knew he was capable of instilling fear in others, but in that moment, he would have preferred if she had answered his question before running off.
It doesn't really matter. Judging by her nervous disposition and the red, swollen eyes she was already in a frail state of mind even before laying her eyes on the painting so she could have been easily triggered by anything. She was, however, looking at the painting when it happened: not spacing out, lost in her own thoughts. He saw the way her eyes moved over every inch of the painting, dissecting it and if it wasn't for the tears that had started streaming down her face, he would have just walked away albeit somewhat unnerved by the attention she was giving it.
What did she see in that painting that made her react in that manner?
Damian considered himself a connoisseur of human psychology, even at his young age, but he needed more data to draw accurate conclusions. It is not uncommon for people to be enraptured by art, but she was an outlier. She was young, perhaps not much older than him and the way the clothes hung on her figure indicated a very gaunt figure underneath. She did not seem homeless – clothes creased and oversized but clean-; poor. The worn-out backpack looked heavy, too big for someone so small to be wearing it, but she did not think to lower it on the bench behind her, nor sit down herself although he saw her shift from foot to foot and her hand instinctively touch her lower back.
She had already been upset when she came in, and she caught his attention because she was the only other minor in that room full of tasteless fools. She came in later than most too, her uneven fringe and shirt collar damp as if she had just splashed her face. She looked confused by the crowd and even more so by the modern pieces, before deciding to walk across the much quieter part of the room. Her face lightened and she considerably relaxed as she perused the wall but then she'd stopped in front of painting number twenty-three. He had concluded she had either drifted away in her own thoughts or was pretending to be interested (as some would) but when he'd approached to stand almost parallel to her, he saw that was not the case.
Damian knew he was an excellent artist; he knew his painting would stand out against the others, which ranged from subpar to adequate and some few acceptable exceptions. The group across the room may have been temporarily enamoured with art they probably had little understanding of but when that exhibit room will open to the wider public, he knew painting number twenty-three had the potential of garnering equal amounts of attention (certainly even more). It was a point of pride although he did not care much if the common masses liked it or not; they could admire his technique and give it the right credit, but they'd never its true meaning or how it came to be.
If it had been by him, that painting wouldn't have made it on the wall of the museum. Pennyworth had insisted, mentioning it would be a temporary donation and that his art should be displayed even if anonymous. Damian regretted the moment he said yes and should have chosen a different painting from the many that he kept in his bedroom. Paintings that had been completed in a far less emotional moment as much as he despised thinking of himself in that manner. However, going back on his commitment would mean admitting he had a sentimental connection to it and that he had fallen for Pennyworth's schemes.
(The moment it was back in his possession, he'll burn it down before it even had a chance to be displayed again).
.
.
.
13th of August
She wanted to go the museum again. She did not want to meet the boy with green eyes again though. She had no way of knowing if he'd show up again.
It was a large museum, so what were the chances of meeting him again?
After some deliberation, she did return two days later and although she knew she was being silly, she still felt on edge the entire time there. The boy hadn't done anything to warrant such paranoia from her end. He had been abrupt and rude and rather invasive, but he had not stepped into her personal bubble, not asked her any other questions and did not go after her. Her instincts were trying to communicate something she was too anxious to perceive fully; sometimes it was hard to distinguish what was nerves and what is intuition.
She did return to the painting, all the while wondering if she had summoned the boy by staring at it for too long. Improbable (but not impossible). He did not appear out of thin air to question her however, nor did she cry this time around, but she did end up spending an hour in front of that wall.
.
.
.
14th of August
Wandering around Gotham Academy at night, when the guards usually slacked on their patrolling duties, made her feel unfettered. With Bag guarding her closely she could take longer in the showers, allowing the soothing pressure of water to relax her muscles. Wandering around the city all day or spending hours in the kitchen made her feel disgusting but she couldn't always afford to use the gym despite it being closer than the academy. The five miles were worth it if it meant she did not have to wash while being afraid a gym staff member might discover her.
Her paladin would also be more relaxed, because he found it easier to guard her there. He'd instigate her to chase him around the halls, or he'd prank the guards into checking out false alarms or he'd throw himself in the pool (much to her horror as he'd smell of chlorine for days).
That night he was in a mood of hide and seek. He was a naturally playful creature, but Fay knew he often acted in that manner because he wanted to cheer her up. Because he probably missed the old Fay, the one he'd partner up in causing mischief (she missed that old Fay too). She'd indulge him often because how could she not when they were everything to each other?
"Bag?'' she called tentatively, her voice little more than a whisper, more out of reflex than a need for him to hear her. She clutched the straps of her backpack as she leaned to glance around corner of the wall she was hiding behind. The long hall was dark and silent, and she tried not to let it remind her of other dark hallways from the past, because those were filled with blood and debris and unmoving bodies. As she quietly stepped down the corridor dim motion-activated lights flickered to life above her head. She had seen him make his way in that direction, but he was also a predator that could blend in with the shadows so if he really wanted to hide, she'd have a very difficult time to find him.
He didn't though. He knew how anxious she could get so he would never make the game too hard.
She found him hiding in canteen at the end of the hall, whose door he had purposefully left swinging slightly, hiding under the tables. It did temporarily delight her as he made her chase him between the tables, refusing to allow her to touch him and call the game off. He'd even made her chuckle when he tripped her with his tail, making her fall over him starting a roughhousing match.
Her paladin was balm for her aching soul and weary mind.
.
Father had not been happy with his refusal to stay with the Teen Titans, eight months into joining them. While he…. tolerated the undisciplined rag tag of superheroes slightly more than he did in the beginning, Damian still felt Gotham's pull, its wretched darkness calling him back to the city. He did not need to be present at the Tower to be able to impart his knowledge or input and he also decided he'll only to do so when the cases warrant it. Starfire was an adequate substitute in leading them in the meantime.
He had heard rumours of a new criminal making waves on the black market, one that provided 'game-changing weapons' to the highest of bidders from a bunch of crooks they had arrested in San Francisco. He had been on the lookout to validate those claims, but it appears some testing of such weapons has already started taking place…in Gotham. None of the crimes reported in the last six months had been out of ordinary, not for that city anyway but Damian identified seven different blackouts as having taken place in the same timeframe. Again, not entirely unusual given the natural chaos that permeated Gotham City.
The blackouts had taken place in low-income areas so the authorities would have not paid them any mind; even if the affected residents had reported it to the city council, nobody would have cared. Their reports would have fallen at the bottom of a very tall pile of complaints, already backlogged due to ineffective bureaucracy. None of the complaints had even be inputted into the system yet and although it did require some manual digging, he had found some of those neglected forms.
The blackouts were sudden and irregular, and they never lasted more than twenty to forty minutes but they had caused many electronics to stop working altogether, some which never recovered after. The council would have blamed those issues on the neglected, old wirings that characterised the affected blocks, even if the complaints would have ever been looked at.
Interestingly, the radius of the affected areas increased two blocks to five; they always took place in the poorer areas of Gotham and never in the same location.
Hm. He certainly had something there.
If the power cuts were a result of testing, nobody would have chalked it up to something unusual and even if they did, they would have assumed it characteristic of those types of neighbourhoods. There were also no CCTV cameras in that area, which meant the police would have yet another excuse to wipe their hands off it.
The most recent power cut took place two weeks prior to his return in a neighbourhood near East End Gotham. The two complaints issued in relation to it placed the inhabitants at a mile one from another. The blackout lasted between seventeen and twenty minutes and it took place between eleven and half past in the evening. A jewellery's shop camera three streets down, did register a dark hooded figure that stood amongst the other inhabitants in the area, leaving at a rather quick pace from one of the blocks that were later affected and Damian managed to track the car they used to get away using the partial capture of the licence plate.
John Finnegan. Heroin addict; spent most of his life in and out of prison for dealing and some minor robberies. He had been released two months earlier for good behaviour and is known for hanging out with another D-class perp named Terrence Wyatt. The car is registered to an elderly woman named Hannah Walker, whom was founded dead in her apartment a week earlier.
Gunshot wound to the head.
The assailants filmed themselves breaking in the apartment, vandalising it and then frightening the poor woman into a crying mess. Then they shot her in the dead. The footage was uploaded onto a dark website and auctioned off for money from a sick and twisted audience. Wyatt had done that; he was the one who roughed up the victim and slapped her around and then shot her after falsely telling her they'll leave her alone.
Wyatt will never walk again. He'll live for the rest of his life with chronic panic and a damaged vision. Damian had ensured of it, even if it warranted his Father's fury for days and even if he ended up being taken off patrol. He had considered exacting 'justice, not revenge' had the imbecile not started to mock Walker's death, going as far as expressing regret he hadn't had 'some fun' with the victim because 'for someone her age, she looked like she could still take it'. Damian did not want to kill him. No, of course not. He wanted to make sure instead Wyatt lived the rest of his miserable life in his own personal hell (he knew exactly how to apply just the right amount of damage to leave someone wishing they had died instead).
Finnegan was the other man Wyatt broke in the woman's house with and he was currently nowhere to be found. For now. Damian will find the worm sooner than later, regardless his father forbidding him from doing anything Robin related for at least two weeks.
Father had no place to lecture him on the rage he's felt; as if he had never crippled a criminal before. Yet he insisted on seeing Damian just as Mother's blunt tool, her homicidal genetically perfect creation, someone he'd never trust.
(The birds were too busy on their own branches to see what the other bird saw, whom they allowed to sit close to them but never quite on the same branches).
.
.
.
15th of August – 21:57
Had the CCTV cameras worked on the streets around apartment block B, on Bromsgrove Road, they would have shown the moment a violent outburst of energy pushed itself from inside, tearing its way through scaffolding, walls and unfortunately, the homes of unsuspecting residents living there. They would have not, however, captured the terror and desperation many felt that night.
If the explosion did not kill those who were loitering around the old building, the debris did. Those who managed to move in time to avoid the giant of brick and metal fall on them, could have been considered lucky, if one saw ruptured eardrums and blast lungs as a blessing when compared to death. Block B was not close to other buildings for the explosion to affect their structure, but the shockwaves tore the glass of windows and balconies in the adjacent blocks, forcing residents in A and C to evacuate immediately.
The explosion had been quick and devastating. The aftermath was worse: it felt like an eternity to those caught in what was left of the building, it felt like a race against time for the rescue services yet time slowed for those whom found themselves separated from their families and friends during the chaos of it, not knowing if they'll ever see them again (alive or dead).
It only took seventeen minutes for the first responders to arrive on scene. Seventeen minutes too long for those whom found themselves stuck under the debris and trapped in the unsteady, burning building.
It was incredible easily hell could manifest itself on Earth, changing and twisting people's lives irrevocably.
Fay knew a thing or two about how easy it is to lose everything quickly and suddenly, even if at the time of loss, one does not quite register it entirely, because there's still that wishful thinking it was all just a nightmare. Hearing the confirmation someone you love is dead consolidates that the nightmare is there to stay, but it is the after that kills a person, slowly, inside out even though their heart keeps beating and the world moves on around them.
She had been raised with the knowledge that there'll be a time when she'll see horrible things; things that will inevitably break down the innocence and naivety and things that will either harden or break her character. Before the night it all happened, she used to think those events will harden her. Because there was no alternative; she was who she was, and she was their daughter, and she was Fay of Maysoon. Live long enough to become as harsh as the world or bend under its cruelty and it was only natural to think she'd come through on the other side victorious.
She had been ignorant. She had underestimated the horrors of the world because she had only ever read about them in books or; she had been a fool to think that just because she had glimpsed into the darkness, she understood how tenebrous and consuming it could be. They had cast a far too bright shine around her, and she had soaked up in it, thinking when the moment finally came for her to become a woman, a warrior, they'll guide her just like they always did. They'll share the darkness they carried in their hearts and the secrets to taming it and they will teach her how to not let it change the fundamental parts of herself, those values and morals that they instilled in her.
Whatever primordial forces ruled the universe, they must have thought she deserved punishment for being so naive. So, they took away that light and left her with all the shadows, testing her mettle. She did not grow stronger; she did not come out on the other end a hero. She broke. If they died, the people who should have never died, then how could she possibly even survive that world? Whose other people lesson's she could listen to if not theirs.
The grief had managed to eat its way through her psychical and mental strength, but some values were so deeply ingrained in her that they might have as well been a part of her cells. No matter what a coward she may have been in many aspects of her life, no matter how weak she thought of herself, there were situations when their teachings shined through still, so bright and powerful that it'd leave her wonder how come she couldn't find the strength to tap into them all the time. Those moments reminded her of the person whom she used to be, of whom she wanted to be but they also filled her with deep shame because she could not find ways to hang on them, to use them to fight her fears and traumas. Those values sometimes felt like broken pieces of herself she did not know how to glue back together properly, and she feared it was because she was all wrong now, like a vase that'll never look the same as it used to be. Those teachings and values and principles would eventually trickle out through the cracks like water would in a damaged vase.
So on that fateful evening, although Fay wasn't close enough to be affected by the blast, she had been close enough to feel the ground shake underneath her fear, to hear the sound of matter breaking and car alarms going off and screams and to smell the acrid, foul scent.
They were all triggers. Of course, they were. She's seen and heard and felt worse and it wasn't the explosion itself but the reminders of that night that triggered her to throw up the dinner she had eaten that day. The panic attack was a tsunami of fear and terror that assaulted and conquered her mind and body and it felt much, much longer than its actual duration of a few minutes. She was only vaguely aware of Bag grabbing her by the sleeve and dragging her back down the street they come from, into a small alleyway away from the people running away, the clouds of dust and the acrid scents.
When the world came back into focus, she first became aware of how the bracelets had scorched her skin, the runes branding burns in their shape onto her skin. Her skin felt two sizes too small, and the marks resurfaced from under the concealment of like fresh tattoos, making her wonder if they would start bleeding too. It hadn't happened before, but she had learned to never say never to anything.
The back of her neck and her back were drenched with sweat, and the clothes stuck to her skin uncomfortably, the soft cotton feeling raspy against her sensitive skin. Out on the street people were running in both directions: those who were trying to get away and those who wanted to help or morbidly watch the aftermath of the explosion. She heard sirens echoing in the distance, but her mind felt too foggy to distinguish to which services they belonged to. Ambulances maybe?
With shaky hands she had pulled out her bottle of water and cleaned her wrists, grimacing at the sight of blisters already forming which hurt like hell. She applied some of the cooling gel mixed with salve she kept in a small jar, before wrapping them in fresh gauze. The bracelets fell to her wrists and they brushed against the area uncomfortably, but it was a manageable pain. She used the rest of the water to wash the foul taste in her mouth.
Bag stood by watching her intently, concerned. Fay leaned in to kiss his head and thank him quietly, her mind swirling with self-castigating thoughts and ugly memories.
You do not deserve him.
'What are you without your paladin, you loser?'
I'd be dead without him.
She tied her hair up and removed the loose button up shirt, after raising unsteadily to her feet, leaving the long-sleeved dark top on.
When they stepped back on the street, the first thing she saw was the crowd of people gathered a few hundred feet down to her left staring at the destroyed building. She had to get closer to see it herself, and she understood their shock when she finally saw the extent of the damage. It looked as if a giant had taken a messy chunk of it, and there were flames devouring what was left of the top of floors, thick rings of dark smoke raising in the air. Firemen had arrived already, their bright yellow uniforms standing out as they lined around the building with hoses in their hands.
She saw a few other firemen trying to help survivors evacuate using tall ladders on the side of the building that was still standing. The flames were spreading quick, but even if the firemen could quell the fire, the tell-tale deep cracks in the building indicated it was not stable. The structure kept shaking intermittently, each movement deepening the cracks and adding to its instability.
The building was going to go down.
The pragmatic – cowardly – side of her screamed that she shouldn't get involved. Incidents like that happened every day, across the world. Not everyone gets to be saved. It's life.
"Please-please you have to let me in! My son-my son went back in for his dog and I don't think he came out!''
She glanced over to her side and watched as a middle-aged woman was being held back by one of the police officers that had cordoned the crowd using yellow tape. Her body was bent in grief and she was crying hysterically while the officer looked reluctant to hold her back, likely disturbed by the screams that erupted from her throat. Amongst the crowd there were men and women holding their cell phones, filming the tragedy before them while journalists had also taken their microphones, already reporting the incident in front of the cameramen in front of them. The world was already watching, and nobody but the few men in yellow jackets could do anything about it.
No. No, wait.
She saw a tall, dark figure sway through the sky before somersaulting in the air looking as light as bird, before landing gracefully near the area where the firemen were. They did not look surprised by his sudden presence, but instead welcomed the newcomer as he climbed inside the damaged balconies and helped people evacuate, much faster than the firemen did.
She could not remember what the hero's name was, but she remembered seeing him in a newspaper. He had blue wings stylised across his chest and arms, the only splash of colour on his otherwise dark attire. Robby was a big fan, because he served as the protector of Bludhaven, the place where he and Dana lived for years before moving inner city.
More reason she shouldn't get involved. That world had its heroes and they were clearly ready to act when needed. They certainly did not someone like her to get involved. She'd only get in the way; she'd only end up worrying Bag and she'll likely end up needing to be saved.
"Rggg…'' Bag stepped forward suddenly, ears perking up and she glanced at him, before following his gaze to the side of the building that was burning. For a second, she couldn't see anything through the smoke, but then she saw it. A small shadow moving behind the doors of the balcony on the third floor. Fire had not yet reached there, but it was only a matter of time before it did. If the building didn't crash until then.
Fay glanced at the crying woman. What if….?
"It's a boy, isn't it?'' Fay murmured. He growled curtly. The woman's son must've been the one on that floor, trapped without exit, scared out of his wits. If the firemen or the Bludhaven protector did not reach him on time, the woman would never be reunited with her son again, just as many other residents there will never see friends and family that were with them at the time of explosion. He'll die alone in that building, scared, just because he wanted to make sure his pet was not left behind.
Fay looked back to where the firemen and the masked hero were working tirelessly on evacuating everyone. She could alert one of them; the man with wings on his chest was a protector, wasn't he? It was what he does. She had no idea how warriors there worked like but surely the principle was the same? Risk your life to save the innocent ones? (Not that's what all warriors were like in her world).
She did try to alert one of the police officers but as soon as he laid his eyes on her he just barked her to step back because it was dangerous.
Perhaps she should have tried harder, screamed at the top of her lungs until someone paid attention.
But instead, she and Bag discreetly slipped away from the crowd, and past the authorities, heading straight for the building.
.
Well. He found Finnegan.
The pathetic loiter-sack of a man was drugged out in the run-down apartment on the seventh floor when Robin burst in through the window, running any thoughts that he may have gotten away. He wasn't alone, surrounded by his fellow junkies, most high out of their minds as they laid around in a pigsty of used syringes, dirty clothes and white lines drawn on hard surfaces. Everyone stumbled away as soon as he came through and Finnegan, in his desperation, had tried to use his own girlfriend as a shield, pressing his knife to her throat.
Now that's not where things took an unexpected turn. Damian had easily incapacitated him, allowing the woman to run away. It was what happened next, in a matter of seconds. It was all it took for Finnegan to swallow whatever he had placed in his mouth and for his body to start contorting into something decidedly not human. His strength and agility were amplified significantly by that sudden metamorphosis and he became-unhinged, feral. There was no logic to his movements, just a desire to tear the Robin apart.
Damian had dodged and ducked easily, and they ended up tearing their way through the apartments on that floor, scaring the poor families and other junkies to evacuate immediately. Finnegan's eyes were black like saucers and his mouth was foaming just like a wild beast; dark, bulging dark veins ramifying over his face and arms. His senses had been heightened and he had temporarily left Damian alone when he sensed a little boy hiding in a small closet clutching his dog, jaws unclenching inhumanly. He was going to tear the boy apart with the hunger of a lion, but Damian ended up toppling both through the wall and out onto the hallway and then-the high-pitched sound.
Finnegan must've been carrying the bomb on him all along and in his demented state hadn't even realized it had started going off in his trousers; he had pushed Finnegan towards the window towards the end of the hall, before he moved quickly back into the apartment to grab the boy whom was just left standing in the bedroom, clutching his equally upset pup.
There was no time to get out and while they were not caught in the blast, that part of the building came crashing down like a house of cards. The room where the boy had been was no more, but thankfully Damian had pulled him into the next room over, shielding both with his cape.
The last thing he remembers before blacking out was holding the crying boy, whom couldn't have been older than five, while he clutched on his small howling dog. They living room was enclosed around them although the balcony would have been an effective, easy exit had he not been rapidly losing blood and consciousness.
Even someone in a peak condition such as himself, could not stop the darkness gathering at the edge of his eyes.
.
The shirt wrapped around her mouth and nose was useless in keeping the intoxicating fumes away once they were inside the building which felt about as stable as a cardboard box. Dust scattered from the walls with each tremble, and when Fay glanced up the staircase, she saw the fire spreading at alarming speeds down to that floor.
She pushed the emergency door closed, although it was bent out of shape, so it would have not stopped the oxygen from fuelling the fire, but it will have given something to eat through first spreading onto the hallway. The building was tilting to one side and the exposed apartments towards the end of the hall looked as if someone had chewed them up then spit them out. She only caught a glimpse of the crowds on the ground over where the floor abruptly ended before Bag warningly pulled her back just as a few more pieces of the wall crumbled away onto the space below.
"Lead me to him, Bag.'' Between the absence of lights and the smoke, there was little visibility on those halls. All she could see where shapes, and she tried not to linger on the ones that looked like limbs.
Walking in the opposite direction from where the building abruptly finished, Bag sniffed the air, ears moving like antennas on his head as he tried to pick a lead on the boy. The apartments down that hall looked deceptively untouched but Fay could feel the tremors when she touched the wall.
Apartment 17N.
That's it. That's where Bag felt the boy's scent. The door was blocked, and they couldn't risk destabilising the structure even more by having Bag trying to push away the rubble. The next apartment over, 19N, however was in a better state, so they stepped inside through the door, the small dark hallway that led into the living room. The wall to their left had crumbled down, and she could see glimpses of the room belonging to 17N.
"…hello?'' A small voice whimpered. Fay's heart skipped a breath and she stepped closer to the rubble, trying to speak as close as possible to it so the boy could hear her. "Hey-'' She suddenly felt like crying, not sure if out of fear or relief or a combination of both. "Are-are you okay?''
The boy sobbed. A high-pitched whimper, then small howls. The dog. He had the dog still.
"I-I w-want my mommy!'' The boy suddenly wailed. "I don't—I don't like this. Where is my mommy?''
Fay leaned against the rubble, mouth trembling and breath hitching, as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. That's how the children that night cried like too.
That's how she cried that night too even though she had been older than that boy.
"Ple—please hold on.'' Fay managed, trying to contain herself. It would not inspire much faith if the boy heard her start bawling harder than he did. "I—I will get you out.'' Was she now?
"Do—do you promise?''
No.
Because everyone dies.
Nobody is invincible.
Because the world is cruel and unforgiving, and it doesn't care.
Because she's not a hero and not a warrior and not someone who can save anybody. She can't even help herself most days.
"I promise.'' Fay wiped her face and stepped back to assess the rubble. There was a small gap on the right-hand side corner; too small for Bag to get through. But she might. She exchanged a look with her paladin, and she could sense he wasn't comfortable with her going through that hole, but they had no choice. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the vibrations growing more intense. She wasn't sure how long they had before the building collapse, but they had to move fast.
There was no time to doubt herself.
She took off her backpack before carefully climbing over the rubble and through the hole. Climbing and crawling and getting through tricky spots is something she has done all her life, and even as weak as she was, she still had muscle memory. The jungle could be a difficult terrain even for those who had grown up learning it like the back of their hand, after all (and she had been particularly good at it).
When she was finally on the other side, she saw the boy – he looked what? Five or six – clutching a small, white curly dog, perhaps no older than a few months. The boy's tiny face was dirt, his cheeks wet and his eyes puffy and filled with tears. He stared at her with fearful big brown eyes and Fay wasn't sure how to react when he suddenly rushed to attach himself to her waist.
Well, she felt like crying again. But she didn't. That boy was counting on her, he had looked up at her as if she was his lifeline and she was.
She had to do everything she could to get them out of there. At all costs. Her fears did not matter in that moment, they could torture her after all they wanted once she knew the boy was safe and sound.
"Ngn…'' Startled Fay glanced over her shoulder, at the other body with them in that room. Greens and reds and yellow—the boy's suit had them all, albeit faded under the layers of dust and grime he was covered in. He seemed to be struggling to remain conscious and when he tilted his head slightly to the side, Fay saw the wet, matted hair. Drops of blood mixing in with the dust on the floor. His head was injured.
No, not just his head.
He had a deep cut the left-hand side of his hip, bleeding profusely, staining his peculiar outfit and gradually forming a pool underneath his waist.
Green, red and yellow. A yellow cape. He was too a protector.
Batman's partner…. what was his name?
Robin.
That was Robin? A child?
So what? She was no stranger to people becoming soldiers early on in their life. Why would that world be any different in that regard?
"He—he saved me from the bad man.'' The boy sniffed, following her gaze, but refusing to let go of her.
Fay wasn't sure who the 'bad man' was but she encouraged the boy up the rubble and through the small gap. Fay reassured him the 'scary dog' was there to help when the boy almost backtracked upon seeing Bag stand on the other side.
"Bag.'' Fay called towards the hole, knowing he could hear her perfectly alright, even if she hadn't. "There's someone else. They're injured-I am going to try to move him.'' He chittered in response, and she heard his claws scratch onto the rubble on the other hand. Hurry, he was likely trying to convey. She couldn't feel his emotions in that moment, but she knew him well enough to understand the noises he made.
Fay stepped over to the boy, careful not to trip on anything and after some hesitation, she kneeled behind his head. She saw his forehead crease as he tried to lift his head up, but to no avail; the mask hid his expression but judging from the gritted teeth, he had to have been in a lot of pain.
"I—I am sorry.'' She wasn't sure what she was apologising for, but she didn't want him to think she was attacking him. It's dangerous to startle a warrior when they're in a vulnerable state, after all. She had no idea how dangerous he was, but she didn't want to risk it. "I am going to help you stand up.'' She said softly, before she reached under his shoulders to wrap her arms around his chest. She had no time to check for any other injuries and desperately hope she wasn't causing him more damage by moving him around.
He was slim but between the lean muscles she felt underneath her arms and his armour, he was rather heavy. It did not help he could not keep himself upright, although to his credit, not for a lack of trying. He was rather determined the way he kept trying to steady himself with that head injury and the amount of blood he had lost from his side. Many other people would have already blacked out entirely or would have given in due to the pain.
He wasn't most people, though, was he? Although she did not know anything about how a person became a warrior in that world, it would have had to include many the elements in the training in her world. Including developing a higher resistance to pain.
Not everyone gave up as easily as she would.
She was able to wrap one of his arms around her shoulders while she slid one of hers around his uninjured side, before pulling him toward the hole. Her lips pursued as she regarded the hole – getting him through there in his state was going to be difficult if not impossible. She could end up worsening his injuries. She glanced towards her left, where the balcony doors were, blocked by tall shelf that had fallen on its side. The boy must have been trying to move it when Fay spotted him earlier. He wouldn't have had the strength, but she might. She had to.
Still propping the protector against herself, she called out to her paladin. "Bag! I am going to use the balcony. You-'' She licked her lips. "You need to get the boy out of here.''
Bag whined. Absolutely not. Of course, he wasn't going to agree to leaving her behind. Fay did not want to part ways with him, either. She certainly could not navigate her way back without him but if he waited on her, none of them might not make it out.
"Please.'' Her voice was raspy, and her vision blurred, whether because of the smoke or new tears gathering in her eyes, she wasn't sure. "Please, Bag. I-I promise I will be fine.'' The paladin started pacing, she could hear his heavy paws going back and forth. "We can't move any of the rubble here, not when the building is so unstable. If you wait on me, none of us-none of us will get out.'' She hated her how her voice trembled. "If you get him out-I can call for help. From the balcony.''
The paladin fell silent, but she heard him pace back and forth behind the wall.
It was settled then.
"Hey-Hey, little boy.'' Fay called to the boy, feeling awkward for not having at least asked for his name. "My-my dog will get out of here, okay? He will take you to your-your mommy.''
"W-what? No-I can't—please. Don't leave me alone.''
"Everything is going to be alright.'' Fay said through gritted teeth, ignoring the tears that insistent on falling down from her eyes. "My dog is very good at helping people. You want to get outside, right? To see your mom again?''
"…yes.'' The boy sniffled again. The dog in his arms whimpered again. Both, such young innocent creatures, the darkness of the world trying to devour them.
"Okay.'' Fay nodded, although he couldn't see her. "So, get on his back, okay? Hold on tight, on both. You'll be out of here in no time.''
"W-w-what ab-about you?''
"I will be just fine. I need to help Robin, okay?''
It didn't matter if she didn't fully believe those words, or if she wasn't going to be alright. The boy would be reunited with his mother. She would not have to spend the rest of her life mourning. Bag would be alive too. He'll be devastated and lost and alone in that world, but he'd be alive. She heard the boy shift, likely on the back of her paladin, whose emotions she could feel reverberating even through that wall much clearer now. He was purposefully projecting and underneath the frustration and concern, she felt his affection. She didn't say anything because she couldn't trust herself—if she had opened her mouth, she would have ended up begging him to stay and that would have been unacceptable.
He was silent when he left but she heard the boy squeals as the paladin carried him out of the apartment; he must have been startled by just how fast her 'dog' was.
She hadn't noticed the boy regaining consciousness briefly before blacking out again, but she did set him gently against the rubble. Bag would have taken her backpack, so whatever first aid kit she had inside was now gone. She should have thought of that. Idiot. Using the adrenaline rush in her veins, she had moved the fallen furniture away and tried to open the balcony doors. They were jammed.
If I had been stronger as I used to be, that wouldn't have been an issue.
With the shirt from around her mouth and nose, wrapped around her right hand, she had punched the glass. It was humiliating how many times she had to do it, how the criticising voice at the back of her head was right. In the past, getting out of that building wouldn't have been such a difficult task. She could have helped more than just a person (she didn't count the boy, because that was all Bag).
The glass shattered and her knuckles ached, and sharp fragments stuck to her uncomfortably, but she paid it no mind. Throwing the shirt away on the floor, she turned towards the boy, to see him up on his feet, albeit unsteadily, one hand clutching his injured side and the other his head. When he started swaying on his feet, Fay rushed to support him, grabbing his arm again to sling it around her shoulders.
The floor started shaking violently under their feat and objects clattered, dust fell down their heads and the building creaked ominously; she moved both towards the balcony and outside. A helicopter was circling above their heads, shining its light above the crowd below, the firefighters and near to where they were standing. Nobody would see them with all the smoke and fire that had now moved just above their heads; she could feel the heat beat down and the fumes starting to clog her eyes and lungs.
With some relief however, she saw Bag's shadow move into the courtyard before, approaching one of the firemen with the boy clutching his bag. He was carrying her backpack in his teeth and as soon as the boy unmounted, he had glanced up at them. She could not see his expression or feel his emotion, but she imagined the terror and concern he felt at seeing her trapped up there.
The boy shifted with a small groan, and he reached with his free hand to tap onto the round yellow patch on his chest which Fay realized, acted as a communicator.
"Nightwing. Third floor, balcony.'' He said gruffly.
"Copy that.''
A few moments later the dark-suited man – Nightwing, that was it. That's what Robby had called him too – had appeared hanging from the side of the building. He was wearing a mask like Robin, but his expression was easier to read; he smiled at her kindly when he saw them.
"Um,…hi.'' Bravo, Fay. Bravo.
Robin pulled his arm from around her shoulders and stepped aside, as Nightwing gestured her to grab onto his hand. She reluctantly did so, and he pulled her against him; then they were flying. Not quite, no. But he moved through the air as effortless as she had seen him earlier, as if her weight meant nothing, even as little as she weight. She wasn't scared of heights, but she had instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist. He was warm and solid and-safe.
That was dangerous. Perceiving someone as safe.
They landed on the rooftop of one of the adjoining buildings and she almost immediately broke apart, not liking the way he had suddenly reminded her of him. He must've thought it was because she had been scared from the way he swayed them from one building to another, because he smiled at her again – what a charming, blinding smile – and asked her if she was okay.
"What-what about—''
Robin landed a few moments later next to them using a similar grapping hook and wire that Nightwing had with her.
"Are you okay, Robin?'' She could hear the man's concern as he turned to regard the boy, whom sneered in return. "Just worry about the people in the building. I will be just fine.'' He did not look fine. As soon as his partner jumped away again, Robin's legs buckled under him and he ended up kneeling, spine arched and one fist propping him up.
"I, um,-'' She fidgeted. "Is there anything I can do?''
Of course not. I stayed to help him, and his partner ended up helping me.
The boy seemed to share that same irritation she felt suddenly with herself, because he glanced up at her and even with his domino mask on, she could tell the look he was giving her was not a nice one.
"That was stupid of you.'' He hissed. "You could have died.''
"Um, I—'' her hand ached. Looking down she saw the skin already purpling around her knuckles, the blood crusting beneath her fingernails. "You could have died too.'' She mumbled nervously.
Her life did not matter more than his.
A howl.
Fay jerked, heart soaring at the sound of her paladin. She would have recognized that sound anywhere and it was coming from around the building they'd been left standing on. Robin's partner would surely make sure he got the medical attention he needed, Fay thought as her eyes fell down the fire exit staircase on the side of the building, behind them. She couldn't stay there. They might start asking questions she could not respond; or ask the healers to look at her.
With one final glance at the boy, she turned on her feet and started running towards the fire exit.
"Wait-!''
Once at the edge of the building she climbed down the stairs without looking back, before landing on the metallic staircase not unlike the one that she used every day to get to the dance studio. Bag was waiting for her at the bottom of those stairs, backpack hanging from his mouth which he let fall in favour of rushing up to meet her halfway.
She couldn't help the sobs that left her throat when she finally was able to hug him and nuzzle him. His fur was coated in dust and he smelt of smoke, but he had no injuries other than perhaps the one she'd caused by asking him to leave her behind.
"I am so sorry.'' She gushed. "I am sorry I had to ask you that.'' Pulling away slightly she kissed his forehead. "Thank you for saving him, Bag. Now, let's get out of here.'' She grabbed her backpack and then they took off down the streets, with no real direction but a burning desire to put as much as possible between them and the masked protectors and the burning building. She only stopped temporarily when she heard the building collapse in the distance and watched as a cloud of dust and smoke rose high up to the sky with renewed strength.
Bag growled at her. He didn't want them to stop, not yet. So, they started running again.
Together, side by side. As it was meant to be.
.
Damian didn't go after her.
He didn't need to. He had recognized her already. It was the girl from the museum.
It shouldn't have mattered. He had no business with a civilian, especially one that caught him in such a revoltingly weak moment.
But.
She risked her life for him, even as recklessly as she did.
'My life doesn't matter more than yours.'
