I'm going off the headcanon that Barb never properly revoked her wish at the end of the movie. I do really hope to see her return in future installments of the DCEU.
I have been working on this piece (not continuously) ever since January 2021. It was a challenge, but a fun one. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
If you get all the mythological and academic in-jokes, I will give you 9000 brownie points
Barb Minerva sauntered down Easy Street. She had left her old gig just recently, gotten a new job here in Star City at a historical society. It was prestigious, and she was starting out in a high-status position. They'd just opened up an Egypt exhibit, and here she'd be, right in the middle of it. It made her feel like Bastet a little bit. Or maybe Sekhmet. Either was fitting.
She was a goddess. She knew she was. The wishing stone had given her abilities beyond that of any human, like Wonder Woman. Like Herakles... no, Atalanta was more appropriate. Undefeatable, unconquerable.
And with the beauty of Helen. (Or Madonna, if you preferred a modern metaphor.) Barb was a real head-turner now. It made her smile to see the men gawk as she passed them by, in her black-and-white leopard-print blouse, her tight pleather pants, her silvery faux-fur jacket, her white stilettos, her black hoop earrings. A figure like Venus, but in a Greco-Roman way, not a primitive-headless-idol way.
Barb got to the museum, checked in with the security guard, touched up her makeup in the ladies' room (one could never wear too much eyeliner), and proceeded to her office. There was a stranger sitting at her desk.
The woman wasn't young but wasn't quite old. She had an ageless sort of face, distinct smile lines but a good complexion. Her hair was dark and flowing. Her clothes were stylish in a timeless way. She wore a violet cloak, the sort you might find on Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother, and a simple gray dress with a gold cord around her waist. She wore no jewelry aside from a plain gold ring. Something about her reminded Barb of Diana, but she couldn't put her finger on what.
Barb approached the lady. She assumed she was lost. The lady set down a copy of "Chariots of the Gods?" that she had been thumbing through and looked up at her with shockingly blue eyes. "Good afternoon, Dr. Minerva. You have just the prettiest name, and it suits you! There's such an intelligence about you, and a craftiness, too." She stood and proffered her hand, and Barb shook it.
"Ma'am, the secretary's desk is at the start of the hallway, first door on the left. There's a big glass window. You can't miss it."
"Oh no, I'm not the secretary. I just wanted to talk to you, young lady."
Being called a young lady vexed Barb. She abandoned all pretense of politeness. "How did you get past security, old lady?"
The woman was unfazed. "You can call me Terri. And that doesn't matter. I'm here to talk about you." She gave Barb a knowing look. "More specifically, how you've changed."
Barb was afraid (though she'd never admit it). Her first thought was to grab this chick and chuck her into the security guard's lap. But as her hand flew towards her, Terri grabbed her wrist. Her fingers were delicate, but her grip was like iron.
"Who sent you?" she hissed, staring the lady down. "Was it Diana? Maxwell?"
Terri's hand held firm against Barb's struggles to free herself. "I sent myself. I just want to talk, Barbara." Her gaze softened.
"And what, pray tell, makes you think I want to talk, Terri?" She spat out the last word as if it were a bad chunk of meat.
Terri released Barb's wrist, stood up, and closed the door. Barb's claustrophobia acted up. "I'm worried about you. I'd like to help you."
"Then why are you trapping me?" She tried the window. It was locked.
"Because you wouldn't give me the chance to help otherwise." Terri pulled a keyring out of a filing cabinet and slid it into her pocket.
Barb narrowed her eyes. "You're helping me by trapping me? That's counterintuitive."
Terri rested her elbow on the filing cabinet. "You've conflated the cause and effect. I am causing you to be trapped so that I can affect you by helping you, not the other way around. It's the principle behind interventions. You wouldn't receive the aid you need if it weren't imposed on you." She chuckled. "Welcome to Cheetaholics Anonymous, Ms. Minerva."
Barb was sick and tired of the weird lady's blathering. She reached into her dark heart and turned herself inside-out. Within a moment, she was the Cheetah, the apex predator. A single swipe of her claws was enough to slice through the window lock like a knife through butter.
She had one paw out the window when Terri said, "If you'll pardon my interruption..."
Like an idiot, Barb waited.
"I hate to pull this card on you, Barbara, but although the HR personnel here didn't make the connection between you and the news from DC, I did."
Barb's blood turned to ice. No, it was ice already. Her face went stony. "You wouldn't dare."
"I would." A corner of Terri's mouth turned up. "I believe I'd be far more acquiescent than your employers, or the judicial system, would be."
Barb slowly pulled herself back inside her office. Her eyes were slits. "You think concrete walls and iron bars can hold me back?" she snarled, prowling towards Terri. "You think you can chain me up with handcuffs of paper and ink? You think there is any lock I cannot break? Any bullet I cannot dodge? Any cop I cannot kill? Then think again! For I am the Cheetah! I have all the strength and speed of a goddess! I am more than a match for Wonder Woman at her best! I am immortal, invincible! I-"
Terri clamped a hand over her mouth. "Am being too loud," she finished. "This is a museum."
Barb grabbed her wrist and yanked it away. "Don't tell me what to do," she snarled more quietly.
Terri threw off Barb's grip as easily as if she were swatting a fly. "Please don't touch me."
"Did you not hear what I just said?" In the blink of an eye, Barb's hands were at her throat, claws digging into Terri's thin skin.
The older woman was startlingly calm, like the ocean before a storm. There was a sharp spark missing from her eyes, a well of ages in its place. She wasn't simply unperturbed; she was bored. The smile in her eyes was not there to disguise the ennui. The depth of her detachment was dizzying.
Barb was so shocked by Terri's sudden shift in demeanor that she barely registered being thrown into her desk chair. It bumped gently against the bookcase.
The lady dusted herself off and smiled, her old self once more. "I did. Did you?"
Barbara was cowed. (Perhaps Sekhmet was too fitting of a metaphor.) She lost her grip on her dark heart and became human again.
"Who are you?"
"As I said, you can call me Terri." Terri gave her a dazzling grin.
Barb squinted, suspicious. There was something off about this old hag. "Your real name. You haven't given it to me. Tell me it."
"Oh, there's so much power in a name. Wasn't it Shakespeare who said, 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other word would smell as sweet.' But would it still be a rose?"
"It wouldn't. It would go by a different name."
"True, but would it still be essentially the same thing as a rose?"
Barb pondered the question for a moment. "Yes. It's the same flower, isn't it?"
"Would it be, if it warranted a different name?"
The confusion must have shown on Barb's face, for Terri explained, "Most, if not all, names mean something, whether in the namer's language, in a different language, or in no language in particular. For instance, the English word 'polymath', referring to one who is learned in many disciplines, comes from the Greek roots 'poly', meaning many, and 'math', meaning learning."
"How could a name mean something if it's named in no language in particular?" asked Barb.
"Well, names are still assigned based on how they sound, and oftentimes how they sound is a reflection of the thing being named. The skibbledegip of Dr. Seuss's books is similar to but distinct from the skobbledegop, after all. And to take an onomatopoeic example, the word 'murmur' sounds very much like the thing it describes."
"Okay."
"And so it stands to reason that when the name of something changes," Terri rambled, "that change results from a change in the thing. That change might be how the thing is perceived: when a domestic cat is referred to as 'Felis domesticus', it is being perceived as an end branch of taxonomic evolution. When it's called a kitty, it is being perceived as an adorable fuzzy clump of fur. The change might also be a change in the thing itself, like with-"
"Slow down there, genius," Barb interjected. "What does any of this dictionary jiggery-pokery have to do with me?"
Terri gave her a look. "I'm getting there, Barbara. Be patient.
"I'm sure you know that as the Romans (curse them) appropriated the Greek deities, they changed their names. But that wasn't all that changed; their-"
"Yes, yes, their personalities changed, too. I took Mythology 101, lady. I have a doctorate in archaeology, for crying out loud!" Barb bared her teeth. "Get. To. The. Point."
"The new deities's names changed because their personalities, their essences changed. Like in the case of the rose." The old lady winked. She sported a prize-winning smile befitting a Miss America contestant. "And thereupon lies the point. Get it?"
Her pun was the opposite of amusing. "Unfortunately, yes."
"Athena became Minerva," Terri continued. "And since you've taken Mythology 101, could you explain how her essence changed from one culture to the other?"
Barb suddenly understood what the old hag was getting at. "Hold on. Are you tr-"
"We'll get to it," Terri interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Why don't you share your knowledge with me? I'm sure you're sick and tired of my self-effacing prattle."
She had just been about to say something to that effect. "Fine. Athena was a goddess of warfare, but she personified the strategic aspect of it, where Ares encompassed the bloodlust. She was also the goddess of wisdom, as Zeus's counselor, and the goddess of handicrafts, particularly weaving. When the Romans stole Athena and made her into Minerva, they took away her status as a warrior goddess and gave the role of strategic warfare to the newly-renamed Mars.
"Given this historical context, I assume you're saying that I, like Minerva, am intelligent and crafty, but I am most certainly not a warrior."
Terri applauded. "Precisely! The name suits its bearer."
"But my full name is Doctor Barbara Ann Minerva." The name sounded strange on Barb's tongue. "What of my first and middle names?"
"Well, I'm no expert in linguistic etymology or nomenclature, but I have substantial theological and mythological knowledge."
Barb stared at her blankly. "Pardon?"
"I'm more of a Campbell than I am a Tolkien," Terri clarified.
"Ah."
"So I'm focusing on your surname, for it's the one I can speak of with the greatest expertise."
"Fine. Fine. But you're missing two-thirds of the picture, then," Barb retorted.
"Perhaps I am," Terri mused, "but perhaps you can consider that part on your own."
As if.
"All right," Barb continued, "so you're saying I'm not a warrior. At least, my name means I'm not a warrior. And yet I am one. I'm the Cheetah, gifted with godly strength and speed!" She laughed. She was victorious, as she was meant to be. "You're wrong, then!"
"Not quite. Your name no longer matches who you've become." Terri tilted her head to the side. "Again, Athena's nature changed, so she had to be renamed as a result."
"Then perhaps I should change my name to fit the new me better. Would the name Barb Nike work better?"
Terri shook her head slowly. "No, because although the new name would suit who you have become, it wouldn't suit who you are."
Barb crossed her arms. "And who are you to say who I am?"
"I'm nothing special, just someone who's had a very long time to learn why people are who they are and why they do what they do." The old lady's face was filled with compassion. "You will, too."
Barbara looked down at herself and, for half an instant, saw Diana in her stead. Odd. Barb shunted the thought from her mind.
"And why, if I've become something, is it not who I am?"
"Because it is not all of who you are. It only half explains you. Like Janus, you have two sides."
Barb raised an eyebrow. "Do I now?"
"You do." Terri didn't sound sarcastic. "Your two sides are more distinct than they are for most people, thanks to the wish giving you your so-called dark heart."
Before Barb could ask how she knew that, the old windbag yammered on. "When I look at your good side, Barbara Ann Minerva, I see a good soul. I see a sweet young lady who has been deprived of the companionship she deserves. I see a shy young lady who wants nothing more than to be loved. I see a kind young lady who thinks she needs to tamp down what makes her good, what makes her herself, in order to find acceptance."
Good Lord, it was obnoxious how optimistic she was. Barb chose to focus on that and not on the gnawing sadness in her chest. "Your cheerfulness is going to make me sick," she remarked, punctuating the statement with a gagging noise.
Terri shrugged. "I try my best. Then let's speak of your bad side, the more recent of the two. It's always been there, the nagging sense of jealousy, the envious longing to belong, but it's grown many times worse ever since you gained your dark heart."
"And what's so bad about my dark heart?"
"For one, you calling it that. It's an obviously evil name, like Skeletor or Mordor or Darth Vader."
Barb sighed. "That doesn't necessarily mean it's bad. I mean, Darth Vader wasn't all bad in the end."
"True, but we must consider that his internal struggle was between being Anakin Skywalker or Darth Vader, and Anakin won in the end. So the good name, corresponding to the good side, ended up victorious." Terri shrugged. "But I'm getting sidetracked. You do raise an excellent point, but again, the name suits what it names. More often than not, it does so in an unironic manner."
Loath as she was to admit it, it felt great to engage in philosophical discourse again. Barbara hadn't done that since... she shook her head to clear it. It didn't matter. Barb didn't care.
"As I was saying, your dark heart made your bad side worse than before," Terri continued. "Normally, the two sides to a person contrast and cancel out, but in your situation, there's more of a Jekyll and Hyde effect. When he took the serum, the good side of Dr. Jekyll's personality was tucked into a back corner of his mind, giving Hyde the reins. Likewise, your dark heart has taken your good side and locked it away. I fear that, as happened in the book, your dark heart may usurp it and destroy it utterly. Or perhaps your situation is more comparable to that of Anakin Skywalker, and your good half will win in the end.
"All the same," she sighed, "I fear for you. I fear for your safety, and for that of those around you. I fear that you, if you have not given in already, will lose that about you which is good, which makes you who you are, which makes you a person worthy of love. I fear that you will deserve to be Barb Nike, and not Barbara Minerva. I much prefer the latter."
A long moment. Barb wondered what was so great about being Barbara. Barbara wondered what was so great about being Barb.
"Yeah, and?" she retorted.
The older woman cocked her head. "I beg your pardon?"
"I don't care."
Terri took a moment to compose herself before speaking.
"Do you care about anything?"
A long silence.
"No," Barb said sullenly.
An even longer silence. Terri stared down at her folded hands.
"And why should I care?" Barb asked, to add noise to the room.
"Why don't you care in the first place?"
"Well," she sputtered, "why do YOU care?" She sounded childish, but again, she didn't care. Terri had started it, after all.
To her surprise, the old lady thought for a good, long while.
"I care, but..." She hesitated. "It's not easy."
Terri let the gleam in her eyes go out again, letting the lack show through. She bored her gaze into Barb's. Barb was again struck by how alike she and Diana were. It was as if Diana was destined to become her one day.
"I have to force myself to care, too. When you've lived for as long as I have, the unceasing tumult of society fades into background noise. The hustle and bustle of day-to-day life seems unimportant when you remember our world is a microscopic wrinkle amidst the folds of Chaos."
Barb was pleasantly surprised. "Yes! And because the lives of others are meaningless, especially compared to ours, shouldn't we always look out for number one?"
Terri shook her head slowly. "No. The lives of others might be meaningless on a cosmic scale, but so are ours. Even gods can die, Barbara. And yet, although time goes by and all lives return to dust, their impacts linger on. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?"
"I don't think so." Barb wondered how a god could die - it seemed antithetical - but didn't ask.
"Simply put, a butterfly flapping its wings in Nepal can cause a hurricane in San Diego. Plucking one strand of spider silk shakes the entire web. Every action, no matter how minute, has myriad consequences. Every life, no matter how insignificant, reshapes the dust of the world. The humblest hobbit can topple the greatest tyrant, even by mistake."
"Yeah, but the dust is still dust. Maybe we made it fall differently, but, you know, entropy continues as always."
"Entropy is undeterred, yes, but we can affect the pace at which it works."
"Yeah, sure we can," Barb scoffed, "by speeding it up."
Terri raised her eyebrows. "That is still an effect. And even if it didn't matter in a cosmic sense, even if the cosmic dust would come to rest in the same way whether Earth existed or not, that doesn't mean it can't matter to us."
"What?" Barb furrowed her brow. "How does that make any sense?"
"Because meaning is a construct," Terri explained. "Nothing matters, even cosmically, unless we want it to. We have a preconceived notion that, on so grand of a scale, what matters is vastly different. Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. It's hard to know; the gods haven't said anything yet.
"The point is this: We make our own meaning, and we fixate on it with all our soul and all our mind. We think that the economy matters, and so it does. We think that religion and art matter, and so they do. And it is so hard to convince us otherwise. As Geertz said, 'Man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun'. Why do you think more people aren't nihilistic? Why do you think these systems are still in place?
"Take an analogy. Ants are so very concerned with their own lives. They scurry about, finding food, fighting enemies, having children. They don't need to. They could all choose to stop living. After all, whether they try to avoid it or not, they all will die."
"Well," Barb interjected, "couldn't you say that they do need to keep living? After all, the death of an entire species, especially one so widespread, would have serious ramifications on our planet's ecosystem."
Terri took a moment to think. Barb smirked. A little victory.
"That is true," the old woman acceded. "But, what of the ramifications on the solar system, or the galaxy, or the universe? In a cosmic sense, it doesn't matter what happens on our planet, whether the ants live or die.
"Nonetheless! Would you go to the ants and tell them, 'Hey! Your lives don't matter! You'll all be eaten or killed before long, so why bother?'
"Would it make a difference if you did? Would they listen to you? Would they understand? Even if they did, would they all sit down and wait to die? Or would they go on with their lives?"
Barb contemplated the questions. "They'd probably keep doing what they were doing. Inertia comes into effect."
Terri nodded. "And what makes you think that humans wouldn't do the same thing?"
Barb responded, "Well, because we're rational, intelligent beings, and ants aren't."
"What if I told you that we already are doing that?"
She blinked.
"Pardon?"
Terri explained, "There are stockpiles of atom bombs all across the world. Should they go off, Earth as we know it would be destroyed, and humanity would go extinct. Do we know that? Yes. Do we know we're going to die whether or not the atom bombs explode Yes. Do we care about that? Yes. But!" She stopped Barb from interrupting. "Don't we go on with our lives nonetheless? Despite the pointlessness? Even because of it? Working to make meaning from nothing?"
"Meaning from nothing?" Barb parroted.
"Creation!" Terri spread her arms wide. "Art, literature, sculpture, song! The little things we do to make this niche of Chaos our own, if only for a little while. Like the decorations you've put in your office." She gestured to the cheetah-print penholder on the desk, the carved giraffe from her doctoral trip to Africa sitting on the filing cabinet, the Kitten of the Month calendar hanging on the door. "You won't work here forever, even if you live that long. Then why decorate your space?"
Barb shrugged. "Cuz I wanted to?"
"Precisely! Because it's fun to make, to personalize. Every little thing you do leaves a mark on the world, and it does so whether you care or not. And, perhaps more importantly, it leaves a mark on the lives of others." The spark shone in Terri's eyes, all the stronger despite the storm. "And that's why I care. Because it does matter, in the long run or the short, to somebody. And because it feels right."
Barb cut her off. "Being the pinnacle of evolution also feels right."
"Do you really believe that's what you are?"
Barb was stunned for a moment. How dare that old coot question her greatness! But...
Time to think logically. Barbara knew that evolution was a slow, constant force, honing its champions little by little as they bred and thrived. She was the latest in a long, unbroken line of animals, from her parents to her grandparents all the way to the ancestors of humanity and even to the first life. The wish that had made her this "pinnacle of evolution" was assuredly not an evolutionary process. And was it likely that the change would pass to her descendants? Most likely not, as Lamarck was wrong.
However, if she was the pinnacle, that would mean evolution could only go down from here, that nobody would ever match her level of perfection. And that was true! Take that, Mary Poppins! The Cheetah was perfectly perfect in every way! Nefertiti, eat your heart out!
On the other hand, it wasn't correct to conflate her glorious nature with evolution. It didn't cause her to be the way she was. So the phrase "pinnacle of evolution" was flawed, although Barb was the pinnacle, of course.
But was she?
She was a photocopy of Diana… right?
What did that mean?
"Yes," Barb finally said, forcing out the words with all the conviction she could muster.
Terri blinked slowly. "I see." She put a maternal hand on her shoulder. Barb swatted it away. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
Barb was confused. Had she convinced her? What was there to apologize about? "What are you talking about?"
Terri looked distraught. "Oh, you poor thing, with such a low self-esteem..."
"Wow, project much?" Barb spat, hoping she would believe her lie, hoping she would believe her own lie.
"Self-effacement is not found in defacing others. Hurting others does not help yourself. And neither does hurting yourself help you, or others for that matter."
"Why don't you write a self-help book?"
"Would you read it if I did?" Terri laughed at her own not-a-joke.
"I wouldn't."
"And that's why I'm staging an in-person intervention." Terri looked deep into Barb's eyes. "How are you feeling?"
"About what?" Barb said stupidly.
"About this. About the intervention. About me."
"It's stupid. Useless. You said it yourself, humanity's hard to convince when it comes to meaning. So am I." She put her hands on her hips.
"I'm not talking about logos, Barbara. I'm talking about pathos. How do you feel?"
Barb stared Terri down. "I don't. I am dark of heart. I am the Cheetah, the Apex Predator. I am not burdened by such trivial concerns."
She sighed. "Don't lie to yourself. You're still human. You can't erase that about yourself. You have two sides, remember? Yin and yang. Dark and light. Strong and weak."
Barb stood abruptly. "How dare you call me weak!"
"We all are."
"I'm not like everyone else."
Terri sank her head into her hands. "What will it take for you to accept that even with flaws, you're worth something? What happened to you that you need to achieve a superhuman standard of perfection just to feel good enough? Is this the end goal? Is this our future? We've failed our children," she lamented.
Barb gave her a look. "That was dramatic."
"It was, but the sentiment deserves attention. Too often in this cult of personality do we ignore one's character hidden beneath. Your worth is an aquifer, and society only looks for the lakes. You are not only skin deep."
Barb scoffed. "You think you're sooo clever with your inane bits of wordplay and your misused buzzwords and this stupid rehashed idiom, don't you? Well, you're not. You're just a crazy old broad who doesn't know when to shut up and leave well enough alone!"
Terri watched her, her face impassive. "There's value to you beyond that which the world assigns you. Society assigns you your worth based on your looks and your sociability and commands everyone to worship the worthiest. Your dark heart has fallen for that falsehood hook, line, and sinker."
"Did you not hear what I just said? Shut up!" She stood. Terri did not move.
"You have to quiet down and listen," the old bag said, as infuriatingly calm as ever. "Don't try to drown me out. You're only lying to yourself."
"Shut up, shut up, shut up shut up shut UP SHUT UP!" Barb hollered. Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. Water beaded at the corners of her eyes. She sat down, relenting.
Terri approached her and tried to lay a hand on her shoulder. Barb pushed it away.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," she said. "The truth hurts, but it's worse to live in ignorance, especially if the ignorance centers around your self-worth."
Barb said nothing.
"It's horrible, what the world can do to you," Terri lamented. "Many, many people - too many - will not care about you if you be yourself. But there are many others who will. You've met such people before, Barbara."
"Such as?"
"Well, when's the last time you talked to your dad? Or hung out with one of your college friends?"
Barb tensed her shoulders. "I didn't have any friends in college." She felt a pang of shame, shame at having been so uncool. Not anymore.
"That's not true and you know it. What about Priscilla Rich?"
She gawked. "How on earth do you know about her?"
Terri waggled her eyebrows. "I have my ways. Remind me how the two of you met again?"
"Well," Barbara began, "it was the second semester of my freshman year. I'd seen a flyer in the student union about a scavenger hunt that the Classic Lit book club had set up around campus. The first clue was written on the flyer, so I copied it down and worked out the cryptogram. Long story short, I finished the scavenger hunt and got the prize, a $20 gift card to Bookland. The girl who gave it to me, Priscilla Rich, was an exchange student from Britain studying linguistics.
"I ended up joining the book club and became good friends with Priscilla. We had a shared love of puzzles and history, and it was thanks to her that I became a cryptozoologist. But after she moved back to Britain, we stopped talking. We had maybe one or two phone calls a year, and eventually… radio silence."
Barbara stood in solemn contemplation for a moment.
Terri began, "Do you like being friends w-"
"We're not friends," Barb interrupted.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you like being friends with Priscilla?" she amended.
To her own surprise, Barbara nodded.
"Do you think that, if you were the sort of person then that you are now, you would have been able to befriend her?"
Barb scoffed and looked at herself. "No, of course I wouldn't. I'm far cooler than her now. I can make whatever friends I want."
Terri nodded. "Well, who do you prefer: the friends you have now, or Priscilla?"
That question shut Barb right up. She knew she had liked Priscilla far better than she did any of the chuckleheads with whom she was acquainted at present, but was the company of one person ever superior to that of many? Perhaps if the quality outweighed the quantity. But what defined the quality of a friend? Was her memory of Priscilla's friendship tainted by nostalgia?
"I'll let you come to your own conclusion on the matter." Terri smiled and stood. "After all, I had best get going. I keep a busy schedule." She pulled the keyring out of her pocket and tossed it to Barb. She opened the door and backed into the hallway. "It was lovely to meet you, Barbara. I hope you'll give due consideration to what we've discussed. Have a wonderful day!"
She strode away. Barb poked her head out the door, wanting to say something, but there were no words left. And she was at the end of the hall, anyway. A swish of a blue cape, and she was gone.
Her wish hung heavy in her heart.