CHAPTER 1: ORACLE

Barbara Gordon crouched down on the rooftop, scanning the streets below with a pair of night-vision binoculars. It had been a quiet night so far, she'd broken up a couple of muggings but nothing too crazy. The Bat-signal had gone up earlier, Scarecrow was holding some charity gala hostage, but Bruce had insisted that he and Tim had it under control. Typical boys club.

Suddenly she heard the tell-tale sound of sirens nearby and she panned her binoculars around to West 66th St. There she saw two patrol cars in hot pursuit of an old Mustang, a thug in a balaclava hanging out the window trying to shoot out the cops' tyres.

"Showtime," she smiled.

She tucked the binoculars back into her utility belt and stood tall, the wind grabbing her cape and flapping it about in all its glory. Her long, auburn hair piled out from beneath her cowl, in stark contrast to the pitch black tactical material that comprised her suit.

Her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, a hint of excitement in her smile. She was Batgirl and she was doing what she loved.

She took her grapnel-gun from her belt and aimed at a building across the street, fired and felt it take hold. She tugged it a couple of times to test it, then she took a few steps back, ran forward and jumped. Her strong legs hurled her through the air flawlessly before gravity took her and she swung down on the line, feeling it become taught in her strong arms and pointing her feet outwards in perfect formation.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the wind rushing over her, the sounds of the city distorted by the deafening cacophony. But when she opened her eyes, she wasn't greeted by a building, but rather a man with pale skin and green hair, wearing a purple hat and Hawaiian shirt, grinning as he pointed a gun at her.

She gasped in shock and confusion.

The gun fired.

She flew backwards, not as Batgirl, but as librarian Barbara Gordon, her coffee flying in an arc out of its mug.

She yelped as she sat up in her bed, breathing heavily, her chest glistening with sweat.

Even after two years, she was still having nightmares.

Two years and every time she closed her eyes, she could still see his face.

His cold, maniacal grin.

She was breathing heavily, her body heaving with panic. She looked down at the shape of her legs beneath the covers, barely visible in the dim light. She tried to move them. Nothing. No sensation whatsoever. Of course not, how could she forget?

She plopped back down on the bed, her breathing slowing back to normal. She turned her head and looked at the time: 3:54AM. She sighed as she rubbed her hands down her face.

She knew there was no way she was going back to sleep, but she gave it another twenty minutes before working through the frustrating but familiar routine of hoisting herself out of bed, grabbing her legs one at a time and sliding them over the edge of the bed so that she could transfer herself into the wheelchair that waited for her. She took her glasses from the bedside table and then wheeled herself out of the room.

She flicked the radio on for a bit of background noise as she poured herself a cup of coffee. It sounded like she'd tuned in right in the middle of a news broadcast.

"…news, another victory for Gotham's resident superhero, as both Batman and Robin apprehended disgraced former District Attorney, Harvey Dent, more infamously known as Two-Face. The deranged super-criminal had planned to detonate two bombs simultaneously – one in Gotham City Hall, and another in the town hall of Gotham's sister city of Osaka, Japan. Fortunately, thanks to the efforts of our local heroes, the plot was thwarted and there were no casualties. The Dark Knight has of course faced renewed criticism recently from parent and child-welfare groups, over his frequent partnering with underage sidekicks. More after 6."

Barbara rolled her eyes as she poured the coffee. Bruce had been copping that kind of flak for years.

"Thanks Jess," said one of the DJ's. "Hey man, speaking of Batman and his sidekicks, you know who we haven't heard from for a while? Batgirl!"

"Oh man, Batgirl!" chirped his co-host.

Barbara's ears perked up as she took a sip of her coffee.

"Oh man, now she was alright, you know what I mean?" They both chuckled. "I mean, if she were still around, I'd just call myself the Riddler, because she could pin me down and slap the bat-cuffs on me any day of the week, know what I'm saying?"

Barbara glowered as she switched the radio off. She'd grown used to dealing with those comments over the years, but they still got to her sometimes. She downed the last of her coffee, put her earphones in and started up her work-out playlist.

It might surprise some people to know that Barbara was still incredibly physically active despite her condition. In fact, her work out regime had probably become more intense since Joker had put her in the chair.

There weren't a whole lot of disability-friendly gyms in her neighbourhood, so she'd put together her own little set-up in her apartment. Both Bruce and her father had helped out with that.

She started out with some physiotherapy, working to keep her leg muscles from atrophying. It was her goal to keep muscle-loss in her legs to a minimum and so far she'd managed to keep it in check pretty well.

Next she'd do some cardio and weight training – it wasn't just her legs that she wanted to keep toned. She was pretty proud of the fact that her abs were still as defined as ever and she'd made a point of upping her arm and back training, given that she was dependent on them now more than ever.

Finally, she'd finish off with some combat training – mainly eskrima, which was well-suited for a paraplegic, but also a sprinkling of some other martial arts, as well some boxing and weapons training. She could still throw a Batarang with the best of them.

The whole workout took the better part of two hours, but she wasn't exhausted when it was over. If anything she felt energised; alive. After a five minute cool-down, it was off to the shower.

As with everything, it had taken some time for her to grow used to showering without use of her legs. But as with everything, it was now all just a standard part of her daily life. She undressed and transferred herself from her wheelchair to the bench in the shower. Once she was done, she reversed the process, dried off and wrapped towels around her hair and body, before wheeling into her room to get changed.

All in all, her morning grooming took less than half an hour and she was soon dressed in a light orange business shirt, a grey skirt and stockings, with her red hair tied up high in a messy bun and her glasses perched on her face. She threw a coat on to combat the cold and grabbed her bag, then she was out the door.

Her apartment building had great accessibility and it was only two blocks away from a stop where she could catch a wheelchair-accessible bus – one of the reasons why she'd picked it.

It was a fresh, brisk morning, which made her grateful for her coat, and despite the earliness of the hour, the street was already fairly busy. Thankfully she managed to wheel her way to the bus stop without too much difficulty, save for some inconsiderate pedestrians too busy listening to music to take notice of the woman in the wheelchair trying to get by them.

She'd become used to the awkward stares and people trying to rush past her with their heads down. It didn't really bother her. People found it difficult when confronted with things – and people – that made them uncomfortable. It wasn't their fault.

Soon though, she was on the bus with her head resting against the window and a true crime podcast emanating from her wireless earphones. You'd think she'd have had her fair share of true crime, but who wouldn't want to listen to a six-part series on the rise and fall of Oswald Cobblepot?

As the bus pulled out into the traffic, the glass vibrating against her head, she closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the fact that for the next twenty-five minutes she wouldn't be the only one stuck in a chair.