For warnings and disclaimers, see Prologue.

Chapter 1

"People say that what we're all seeking is a meaning for life… I think what we're really seeking is the experience of being alive."

-Joseph Campbell

Barbara's eyes fluttered open and, despite the lingering sleep, she knew exactly where she was. It was part of her training to be instantly aware of her surroundings in case she had been moved by her opponents as she slept. It was ironic that her instincts still worked for her when there was nothing left to defend.

She stared straight up at the same ceiling she'd been staring at for the past few weeks. On her left, six feet to the wall that held the only door to the room. On her right, five feet to a wall with two windows. One of the windows had a tree branch within jumping distance, so that made two possible entries and exits. There was a chair in the corner on her left, only a few feet away.

Barbara wondered if her father was there, but she didn't have the strength to look just yet. Maybe he'd be gone; Alfred and Dick had both promised her that they'd try to get him to go home and get some rest. He always looked so guilty whenever he looked at her. She wished more than anything that he'd never look at her again… even as she knew that she needed him.

Maybe that was the reason she didn't want him there anymore. Maybe with her father gone, they'd just allow her to waste away.

But Barbara didn't have any power in the hospital. The routine was completely out of her control, from when she was fed to when her needs were taken care of.

She'd been a basket case at first and had needed others to do everything for her… needed others to make all her decisions. Then, after the first couple of weeks, she'd hated that the hospital had stripped the last remaining semblances of independence from her.

Now she didn't mind as much.

This was slowly killing her father. That had bothered her at first… but who was she kidding? If he wanted to break, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Especially not… now.

Not like this.

'Oh, God, please don't let him break.'

The prayer slipped from her without any conscious thought. It was raw and desperate, the type of plea she had given routinely before her parents had been killed and James Gordon had taken her in.

She was a child again.

She wanted to rage at something, but she was too tired.

In an almost disconnected curiosity, she wondered if the drugs were causing her fatigue. And then she wondered if she'd ever have any energy – any strength – ever again.

That made her want to cry again, as the raw emotion choked her.

She went to sleep instead.

"I want you to know that I understand, Helena. I really do."

Like hell he did.

Helena crossed her arms and sagged further into the seat, looking straight at the ground underneath Mr. Castillo's desk. She guessed that the principal had gotten too sick of her so he'd sent her to the guidance counselor instead.

The office wasn't as nice. The carpet really needed to be replaced; there was a hole worn into it right underneath the desk. Helena smirked. That was probably why he put the desk there.

"Have you listened to a word I've said?"

Helena finally made eye contact with him and raised an eyebrow.

Mr. Castillo ran a hand through his hair and took three deep breaths to calm himself.

Helena wondered if she had accidentally given him a heart attack. That would be really funny. She couldn't really get in trouble for that, right? Wasn't that the thing in the movies that the murderers always did to get away? Make it look like a heart attack?

"I know you've been through a lot," Mr. Castillo finally said in a whiny voice that he thought made him sound sympathetic. "But, Helena, you have to think about your future. This isn't about your mother-"

The teen's smirk instantly vanished and her jaw tightened. She KNEW it wasn't about her mother. Her mother was dead; nothing would ever be about her ever again.

"-you need to do this for you."

Wordlessly, Helena grabbed her backpack and stormed out of the office.

Gibson was standing out in the hall with the rest of his nerdy friends, probably talking about video games or something equally stupid. She really wasn't in the mood to put up with him. Unfortunately, he looked up when he saw her and began walking towards her.

She picked up her pace and hoped he'd get the message.

"Hey, Helena-"

Nope.

"-you weren't in English. Are you okay?"

Better make the message louder. Without slowing, or even looking at him, she ground out, "Piss off."

Gibson slowed and then stopped, staring at her wide-eyed. 'Finally', she thought, gripping her backpack strap tighter. People she knew scrambled to get out of her way as she continued to pick up her pace.

She was running by the time she got to the big double doors at the front of the school. Her throat was tight and tears were threatening to spill over, so she slammed open the doors and kept right on walking.

Past the entrance. Past the field. Past the edge of the block.

Still not far enough. Still not home.

Never home again.

Tim watched from a window until she was out of sight. Sighing, he turned to find Gibson slowly walking back to him and Bert, valiantly trying – and failing – to pretend that what had just happened was no big deal.

"Ouch," Bert commented, his head turned to watch the entire scene, giving Tim a great view of the cowlick at the back of his head. Poor guy never could get that red hair to lay down like it was supposed to, but he was wicked at chess… which really only made him more of a nerd, when you thought about it. "Thought you said you guys were friends?"

"We are," Gibson said, his voice cracking.

"So… what? That kind of thing happens often?" Bert asked, disbelievingly.

Gibson opened his mouth and then shut it again, and Tim almost laughed. Helena hadn't been all that fond of Gibson even before her mother had been killed.

"I don't know why you put up with that, man," Bert said after the silence had become long enough to be painfully obvious that Helena cussing at Gibson did happen often. "A real friend will always be there for you."

"She's going through a hard time," Gibson insisted, gesturing uselessly to the space Helena had just vacated.

"True enough," Tim said sadly.

It was worse than Gibson or Bert knew. Not only had Helena's mother been killed, but she had been told that her birth father couldn't be reached. Tim knew that wasn't the truth. Alfred had found Bruce and told him about Helena, but Bruce…

Tim silently gritted his teeth and finished the thought.

Bruce had already been broken. He wasn't up to being a father.

Tim wasn't supposed to know any of that, of course, but being a good detective was how he got the job of being Robin in the first place. Drooping, Tim sighed. He'd become Robin because Batman needed the balance… a little more light to his dark. But what was Robin supposed to do when there wasn't a Batman?

"Hey, Tim…" Gibson frowned and did that thing where he squinted just a little right before saying something Tim was going to regret.

"Didn't your mother pass away a few years back?"

Tim nodded, and then realized Gibson was still looking at him pointedly.

"No," he said firmly, shaking his head emphatically.

"But you know how she feels," Gibson insisted.

Tim sighed, wishing he knew someone that life wasn't sucking for. It just seemed like it would make things so much easier if he just knew one person who was okay.

"She doesn't need someone to talk to her," he finally said. He paused for a moment and looked at Gibson pointedly. "She needs someone to be there for her."

Gibson nodded, but his shoulders hunched down just a little under the weight.

Tim sagged against the locker and hoped Alfred would be at the manor later. He could really, REALLY use some of his famous oatmeal cookies.

When Barbara woke up again, sunlight was streaming in through the window on the side of the room and all the lights were on. There were flowers spread throughout the room, from the small table next to her bed to the floor against the far wall and everywhere in between. Maybe the nurses would make her father take some of them away.

Jim was sitting in a chair right next to her bed, watching her, so Barbara tried to give him a smile.

"Good morning, princess. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, daddy." It was a lie, of course, but what did it matter? What did he expect her to say?

"The nurse'll be by soon with breakfast."

As if that mattered. The food was awful and, even if it had been fit for a king, she wasn't hungry. But it seemed as if her father was waiting for a response so she finally said, "Okay."

"Dick stopped by earlier. And a young man named Tim. Was he a student of your's?"

Barbara blinked. "He's a friend of Dick's."

Jim smiled and leaned forward. 'Finally a full sentence!' Eager to keep his daughter talking, he continued. "Oh. Seemed like a nice young man… very mature for his age. How old is he, anyway?"

Barbara shrugged and looked away.

Jim slowly eased back into his chair. After a few seconds, he added hopefully, "He doesn't look a day older than sixteen."

This time Barbara didn't even shrug.

Jim hated seeing her like this. He hated seeing her hurt at all, but this… Barbara had been a gymnast. She'd had real talent, even if the coaches always said she was too tall. She used to go dancing all night long. She had actually enjoyed working out, had taken pride in her strength. And when she had started taking judo classes, well, he'd just encouraged that one for her own safety, but the rest…

But it wasn't the physical injury that killed him the most. Barbara had always been so vibrant. Even just a couple of weeks ago she'd still seemed herself. Jim had expected the nights of weeping for what she had lost and the stark fear from the nightmares. He had expected the outbursts of rage at the Joker, or the unpredictable anger from her frustration that she couldn't protect herself.

But this… this fading away…

It was as if she had died that night.

Jim's eyes were burning again, and his throat felt suddenly swollen and raw. As he blinked away the tears, he wondered if keeping the lawyers away was a mistake. Maybe that girl could have been the thing he needed to wake Barbara up. But as he turned to look at his baby girl so frail in the hospital bed, the last of the IVs still in her arm, he knew he had made the right choice.

Still… he could feel himself growing increasingly desperate to get some sort of rise out of Barbara. Time for the big guns. He took a deep breath and a moment to mentally prepare himself.

"The doctors say it's almost time to start to look for a clinic for rehabilitation," Jim finally said. "Alfred, Bruce Wayne's butler, came by earlier and left a bunch of pamphlets. Do you want to look at them now?"

Barbara looked back at him with such a look of sheer panic that he was immediately sorry he'd said anything.

"I'm sorry, honey. We don't need to look at anything right now. We won't have to make any decisions for a couple of weeks… there's plenty of time."

But, as Barbara looked away again, he wondered if there was.