"We need a name," Duke says, carefully examining the crossbow he's carrying.
"We all have names," Cass points out. She's standing on one hand while Tim tries to balance a sword on her foot. "You're Duke, I'm Cass—"
"Haha," Duke says. "No, I mean like a team name. Like how our school is the Knights."
"Ooh, are we coming up with code names?" Harper says, eyes lighting up. "I call Bluebird!"
"… that's the least intimidating name ever," Duke tells her flatly.
"Says you! I think it's awesome."
"Fine, then Tim can be Robin, if we're doing a bird theme," Duke says, eyes narrowed as he tries to call Harper's bluff.
"I can work with that," Tim says. "Like Robin Hood. What are you going with, Duke? How's Lark sound?"
"Do we have to do birds?" Duke says. "I always thought The Signal sounds totally badass."
"Nope," Harper says. "You gave Tim Robin, you're Lark. We're sticking with the theme."
"Listen, we can always workshop it later," Tim says. "Hey Cass, what are you feeling?"
"Bat," Cass says, her eyes closed.
"… a bat isn't a bird, Cass."
"Bat," Cass insists.
"Ooh, I've got it," Tim says, holding up his hand. "Batgirl. And then we can be… Batgirl! And the Birds of Prey!"
"… you know bluebirds, larks, and robins are just about the furthest thing from birds of prey that you can get, right?" Duke says.
"Batgirl is a cool name though," Harper says, unwilling to completely betray Tim.
"What's wrong with just Bat?" Cass says, not opening her eyes.
"Batgirl sounds like a superhero," Tim says. "Which you totally are!"
"I'm the Slayer."
"The Slayer is like a superhero," Duke says. "C'mon Cass, you're totally a superhero."
"Hmm," Cass says, but there's a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Batgirl."
"We're not calling ourselves the Birds of Prey though," Duke says to Tim.
"Why not?"
"Because those aren't birds of prey names, they're songbirds!"
"How about the Flock!" Harper says, flapping her arms dramatically. "Caw caw, mother—"
"The Flock? Really?"
"Nothing wrong with a flock of birds," Harper says. "Stronger in numbers, overwhelming our enemies—"
"Did I miss an adventure where you guys got turned into birds, or is this a hypothetical conversation?" Steph's voice says from behind them.
Cass falls over flat onto her back.
"Hey guys," Steph says, awkwardly waving. "So… I'm back?"
There's a lot of shouting, which yeah, Steph probably deserves. She left a note, but she was gone for longer than she necessarily expected.
But it is what it is, and they're all glad to see her. At least, she surmises this from the vice-like grip that Cass has on her ribcage.
"Don't do that again," Cass says.
"I'll try?" Steph says, because really, they're in a pretty high-casualty profession, it's not like she can promise that nothing will ever happen, as much as she might like.
She thinks about Sineya, with her grey hairs and wrinkles, and wishes, desperately, that it was still possible.
She'll tell Cass all about Africa later—about the Slayers and the origins, about the things that Leslie said.
She's not sure if she wants to tell Cass about the pool of darkness and power, about how she'd been given the chance to become stronger, about how she'd turned away from it.
Cass already thinks Steph is weak, thinks that Steph isn't a proper Slayer. What would she say, if she knew that Steph had rejected a well of strength unlike any Slayer had been offered in… centuries, maybe, in favor of keeping this, the overwhelming joy in her heart at the sight of her friends, the feeling of them pressing against her?
Worse, would Cass hate her because Steph had been given that opportunity and Cass hadn't?
Leslie had said things about Cass's journey, how she wasn't ready, but there's no way that Cass will take that well. Cass is a better Slayer than Steph could ever hope to be, but, for some reason, Leslie thinks Steph is further along in her journey than Cass is. She's got to be wrong, because Cass is Cass, and Cass is amazing and perfect and everything that a Slayer should be.
"We've got to go find Bruce," Tim says, finally. "He and Babs and Dick have been looking for you everywhere, where have you been?"
"Ethiopia," Steph says.
"… how did you get there?" Duke says.
"A powerful good demon said I needed to go on a spiritual journey in order to figure out my destiny."
Harper looks offended. "If you don't want to tell us—"
"… you're being totally sincere, aren't you?" Tim says, sounding vaguely dizzy.
"Yep," Steph says. "Her name was Leslie. She wore fuzzy cardigans."
"I—I don't know what to do with this information?" Tim says.
"Neither do I," Steph says, slinging an arm over Cass's shoulder. "So, how long will Bruce yell at me for?"
"An hour," Cass says immediately.
"I was thinking two," Duke says.
"Split the difference, ninety minutes," Harper says, nodding.
"I bet you can cut it down to seventy if you lead with the magic spiritual journey thing," Tim offers.
"Oh this is going to suck," Steph groans.
In the end, it's sixty-five minutes, so Duke and Harper end up paying up to Cass and Tim, because Steph did indeed lead with Leslie, and that seemed to throw Bruce through a loop.
Bruce sighs. "I expect you to write up a full report on what you saw in Ethiopia. I'll have to tell the Council about this."
Steph frowns. "Wait, they don't—"
"I've never heard of any connection between the Slayers and Ethiopia," Bruce says. "And I've made it a point to study the history of Slayers. Our earliest records go back to the ninth century, although we know they go back further."
"But—" Steph closes her mouth.
"As much as we might be loath to admit it," Babs says, steepling her fingers together. "The Council doesn't know everything. Not even about Slayers."
"But I thought you guys have been around as long as Slayers!" Tim says, staring.
"Watchers have been," Bruce says. "We have evidence of Watchers as long as we've had evidence of Slayers. The Council, however, is another story."
"What's the difference?" Duke says with a frown.
"Not much, honestly," Dick says. "The Council's just the latest form of things. It's evolved, over the years." He frowns. "What's this version date back to, Queen Victoria?"
"Yes," Bruce says with a nod. "She issued the Charter then. The one before that was re-issued by Oliver Cromwell, because he felt like it was important that the supernatural wasn't the purview of the Crown."
Steph wrinkles her nose. "Weird," she says. "Politics."
"Everything's political, Stephanie," Bruce says with a sigh.
"Sure," Steph says, doubtful. "But that doesn't mean I have to like hearing about a bunch of old rich people squabbling about who exactly gets to decide what city I die in."
Bruce, Dick, and Babs all look guilty at that.
"You've already told your mother that you're home?" Bruce says, clearly forcing a change of subject.
"My first stop," Steph says, giving a thumbs up. "Hey, am I still expelled?"
"Tragically, it was discovered that Principle Cobblepot was embezzling, so he's been fired," Babs says, her glasses flashing ominously in the light, making her look like a supervillain from an anime. "And given that everyone has sworn up and down they were attacked by a guy in clown makeup, not by their friend, Principle Valley has decided you're not expelled."
"Oh. Well that's cool."
Bruce sighs. "You should go home, Stephanie. All of you should. It's been a long night."
The Flock-or-Birds of Prey-or dubiously named group of teenagers filters out slowly, with Steph lingering.
"Bruce?" Steph says, hesitating in the doorway, with the others out of hearing range. "Dick?"
Bruce looks up. "Yes, Stephanie?"
"Jason said he's sorry. And that he loved you both."
She turns and flees, just in time to avoid the tears that start to pour down Bruce's face.
Jason stumbles out of the mansion.
Everything hurts, the weird golden blood is staining his hands, his head is full of pounding, swirling images, of memories of everything that he's done, of the flickering heat of flames against his skin in the hell dimension.
He needs to find—he needs to warn—
Who?
He can't—
"It's him!"
"That's impossible, we heard—"
"Who cares? Grab him! You know the boss will be interested in this."
Hands—not human hands, but not the hands from hell, either—grab him, and he tries to fight, tries to run, but he's too weak, and he's not sure where he'd go, anyways, and the sun is rising, the painful rays starting to pour over the horizon.
So he gives up.
His limbs go limp, and he lets them pull him into the van with tinted windows, lets himself be thrown to the floor, and he only thinks to struggle again when the taser is pressed against his ribs and the electricity arcs through him, sending him into a deep, nightmare ridden darkness.
The motorcycle cuts across the quiet highway, the brightness of its headlight flashing in and out of sight faster than is safe for most people. Each turn taken is a pinpoint turn that should send the rider flying, each hill crested at a breathtaking speed.
In the darkness, the rider continues, comfortable in her solitude.
But despite the way that her riding defies nature and physics and gravity itself, even she cannot control the fact that the dial on her bike is telling her that she needs gasoline.
With an irritated flick of her wrist, she turns off the road, down a ramp, where neon lights and the repugnant smell promise the fuel that she will need to get to her destination.
Under the harsh fluorescent glow of the station's shelter, the few men who are gathered around turn to stare.
Despite state laws, she is not wearing a helmet, nothing to protect her waist-length, pitch black hair from the elements, instead allowing it to whip around her as she pulls in. She is not particularly tall, but she holds herself in a way that makes her seem like a giant, her long black leather duster fluttering around her as she dismounts. Her mouth is curved with a disdain that seems almost elegant as she surveys the gas station, finds everything about it wanting, and then turns her attention back to her sleek, red motorcycle, still humming.
One of the men, braver, drunker, or more foolish than the rest, approaches her. "Never seen you around here before," he says.
"You wouldn't have," she says, her voice clipped and brief, her accent speaking of the Midwest. "I'm just passing through."
"Too bad," he says, leaning forward. "It's a nice town."
She finally turns to look at him, her amber eyes flickering over him with a detached, appraising look.
"Oh?" She asks, her voice still disinterested.
"Yeah," he says, taking a step towards her, proving once and for all that some men don't know how to read signals. "The beach is gorgeous here."
"Hmm," she says, as he steps into her personal circle. "I doubt it can compare to the things that I've seen."
"Aw, don't be like that," he says. "How will you know until you come see it?"
She sighs, replacing the nozzle back in the pump, then walking towards the store, as if to pay for her gasoline.
The man follows her, dogging her footsteps like a man confident in his ability to wear her down.
"Can I get you anything?" He says, darting in front of her to hold the door open. "Are you thirsty?"
"Yes," she says, stepping past him, past the counter, into the rows of snacks and supplies.
"What do you want?" He says, following her away from the cashier's line of sight. "My treat. I insist."
"Hmm," she says again, turning her eyes back towards him for the second time that night.
He takes a step back abruptly, seeing something different in her eyes, beyond that disinterested, dismissing look that he had been so interested in pushing past.
Now there's something dangerous there, lurking behind her mask.
"Well," she says, her face twisting into a demonic visage of wrinkles and fangs. "Since you offered."
He doesn't have time to scream. She's too fast for that.
She leaves him among the aisles, next to the potato chips and candy bars. She picks up a candy bar she has no intention of eating and takes it with the man's wallet up to the counter to pay for her gas.
The cashier is bored and doesn't even notice that the man's obnoxious gibbering has stopped. He scans her candy bar and punches in the number of the pump she filled from, barely even glancing at her, his eyes continuing to dart down towards his phone, not-quite hidden beneath the counter, where some sports game is playing.
It would be easy to kill him, but he isn't worth her time. Humans rarely are.
She is so, so bored.
Immortality is boring, stretching on for endless stretches of time.
This is what so many humans had driven themselves to the brink for? The monotony of humanity, the blandness of their emotions?
She has not found a human worthy of turning in so long, has not had a battle worth fighting in almost as long.
The monotony of it all, the fact that it will continue and continue unless someone who delights in pain and suffering finally manages to trigger one apocalypse or the other, is nearly as infuriating as the snickers of the men, still gathered outside the gas station, waiting for their compatriot, who they assume has been rejected.
She pulls away from the gas station, her hair trailing behind her like a comet trail as she goes faster than any human would dare, and she finally finds herself smiling as she passes a sign, illuminated for only the briefest moment by her headlight.
GOTHAM CITY
5 MILES.
Finally, a challenge.
Senior year means a lot of things—Homecoming, college applications, quotes for the yearbook—but most horrifyingly of all, it means the ACTs and SATs.
"You don't have to take both," Bruce says, handing her the practice booklet.
"Given how likely it is that I'll miss one of them due to Slayer-age, I think it's better safe than sorry," Steph gripes, flipping it open.
"Well, Babs has been tutoring Duke at my place in the evenings, and Cass has volunteered to increase patrols, so you'll have plenty of time to study," Bruce assures her. He pauses, looking at the pile of boxes next to her. "What are those?"
"Candy bars," Steph says with a sigh. "Mandatory fundraiser. We need to sell forty of them to buy textbooks."
"Textbooks?"
"There was a thingy on the ballot to increase property taxes so we could buy them normally, but apparently people don't like taxes or students having an education, so no-go," Steph says. "So we're selling candy."
Bruce shakes his head. "I can't understand this system," he mutters.
"And that's how you can tell you were a private school kid," Steph tells him. "What were you even like as a kid? I bet you were a perfect little angel. Wearing suits and following orders and—"
"Stephanie," he says, exasperated. "I was going to say I'll buy those off you."
"Oh. Well, I'm not exactly going to say no to that. Only Mom already bought half, so you only get twenty candy bars."
"I can live with that," Bruce says. "I'll even take the rest of them over, if you want. Your mother and I are meeting to work on your and Cassandra's schedules."
Steph pauses in flipping to the next page in her practice book. "Really?"
He sighs. "Really. Stephanie, I want you to succeed. I want you to go to college, if that's what you decide you want. I want you to have a good life." He puts a hand on her shoulder. "I can't protect you from everything. But I can make sure that, at the very least, you have people in your corner."
Steph smiles at him. "Thanks Bruce," she says, softly.
He picks up the candy. "I'll go talk to your mother now. When you're done studying, patrol the St. Cloud cemetery's recent burials. I expect it'll be a quiet night."
Steph nods, and goes back to her math.
Three hours later
"Oh my God," Steph says, shoving a seventeen-year-old Crystal Brown, a seventeen-year-old Bruce Wayne, an eight-year-old Dick Grayson, and a twelve-year-old Barbara Gordon into the car. "Get in the car, buckle in, oh my God, this is a disaster—"
"You're not in charge of me," Bruce says, glowering at her, radiating teenage angst and anger issues. "You're the Slayer, that means that your Watcher's in charge—"
"You're such a—no offense, Dick," Steph says, getting into the driver's seat, with a very anxious looking Harper already in the passenger seat.
"Please tell me Tim's found a cure, or at least a location, because I just saw my teenaged mom and equally teenaged Watcher making out while sitting on a police car, I'm scarred for life,"
"Yep, it's a distribution center," Harper says. "I've got the GPS going, just—try not to crash?"
"On it," Steph says, gritting her teeth.
"Where's my dad?" Babs says, which is, admittedly, a pretty sensible question for someone who's twelve to be asking. "Who are you people?"
"I'm the Slayer!" Steph yells, turning the corner sharper than she would normally, because what looks like a child version of her science teacher running around with a dart-gun, screaming obscenities.
"What's a Slayer?" Dick Grayson asks.
"Aren't you Watchers?" Harper says, confused.
"Don't be stupid," Bruce says. "They're American."
"You're American!" Steph feels obligated to point out.
"I'm adopted. And a special circumstance," Bruce says, looking uncomfortable.
"It's dreamy, that's what it is," teenaged Crystal says, looking like she's seriously considering resuming making out with Bruce again, even though Steph had specifically placed Dick between them to prevent exactly that.
Bruce preens, and Steph sighs. "So someone drugged the candy to make everyone younger? Is this what we're looking at?"
"Looks like it," Harper confirms, still looking at Bruce out of the corner of her eye. "Some sort of fountain of youth spell? Maybe?"
"I doubt we'd be so lucky," Steph says, finally pulling up to the building. "Keep an eye on them!" She takes off towards the big double doors.
A tall, broad, white man in dress slacks and a buttoned up shirt with the sleeves rolled up is smoking a cigarette while bragging on his phone call about how the town is totally vulnerable, so Steph at least knows how to punch.
"Oh, you must be the Slayer," the man says, lowering his phone when she approaches him. "I've heard you were around." He grins. "I always love that the Council sends children to get their work done for them."
"Maybe that's all you merit," Steph says sweetly.
"Oh please," the man scoffs. "You're outmatched, little girls."
"Tommy?" Bruce calls. "What are you doing?"
"Damn, he's at his most infuriating age, isn't he?" "Tommy" says, something strange and red glowing in his hands. "Oh well. It won't be quite as satisfying to kill you in front of him at this age—"
Steph punches him in the throat.
One curb-stomp and one spell reversal later, Bruce is an adult again eying the man distastefully.
"And here I heard the Council had locked you up," Bruce says, his clothes rumpled, but somehow it didn't diminish the look of extreme loathing and distaste.
"Ah, c'mon Dark Knight," Tommy says. "You should know better than to think they'd waste a resource like me."
"What, a third-rate warlock?" Bruce says, eyebrow raised.
Tommy bares his teeth. "You didn't think I was third rate when you were that age," he says.
"When I was that age, I also believed you were a good man," Bruce says. "I was mistaken on multiple accounts."
"Aw, hush now," Tommy says, smirking, but the effect is diminished by the fact that he's missing teeth. It had been very satisfying to dislodge them, Steph has to admit. "No need to get snippy in front of the children."
"Can I punch him again? He's so punchable," Steph says. Dick is carrying Babs, because when she had left the library, she hadn't needed her wheelchair so, she didn't have it with her. Crystal is holding the door of the van open, and Babs's face is blank fury at the situation. "He deserves it."
"Probably. But you shouldn't. Go help Babs. I'll take care of Mr. Elliot."
"Doctor," he insists. "It's—"
Steph leaves, and the next day, Bruce tells her that Dr. Thomas Eliot, a dangerous warlock with Watcher training, has been taken into custody by the Watcher's Council.
She doesn't ask any more questions.
Especially not about what he and her mother had been up to before she had found him.
Jason struggles into consciousness, his stomach heaving, despite being empty.
A cool cloth is placed on his head.
"Shh," a voice whispers. "Rest."
He's lying on a mattress somewhere, scratchy sheets like needles against his skin. Everything is hot and sensitive and pain, and he gasps, sick with the pain and the nausea.
"Bruce—" He calls, his voice scratchy with disuse.
"All will be well," the voice says. Hands press against his shirt, trying to keep him lying down.
"Who—where am I?" He says, forcing his eyes open. He sees a single, bare bulb, swaying in some breeze that he can't feel against his skin, sees a blurry form leaning over him, sees windows papered over to keep the deadly sunlight out. "Who—"
"Jason, you're not well," a woman says, brushing his damp hair out of his face. "Drink."
She presses a cup against his lips, and he drinks greedily.
The blood is human, and fresh, and a part of him recoils, wondering where it came from, but the rest of him takes over, and he is hungry. He can feel the life flowing back into him, giving his limbs a little more strength, giving him a little more of his voice back, and when he opens his eyes as the cup lowers, he recognizes the woman kneeling by his bedside, holding the ceramic cup.
Talia al Ghul, wearing a loose flowing white shirt and a long, pleated skirt, looks tired and unhealthily thin, dark circles resting beneath her eyes like bruises. He's never seen her like this, but there is no mistaking her for anyone else.
Seeing her, it all flows back to him. Reconciling with Bruce in a kitchen, gasping for air that he doesn't need, Steph's hurt face, Jack Drake's panic, a cigarette, lit in a graveyard—
"Talia—" he grips her sleeve, even though his fingers are so weak that he thinks they might snap. "He knows, I told him about Steph, about her baby—"
"I know," Talia says, and he thinks he sees a tear fall down her face, tracing the curve of her cheek. "It's taken care of. I promise."
Relieved, even though he has no idea what she could possibly mean, Jason lets go of her sleeve and falls back onto the pillows, back into the oblivion of sleep.
Cass can still feel it, rolling beneath her skin, so close to the surface.
The darkness. The essence of a Slayer.
She can feel her father's hands on her shoulders, guiding her into the darkness, showing her how to command it, to pull it into herself to make her stronger, faster, better than any other Slayer had ever been.
It had saved her life, back when she had fought the Joker, when her limbs had been heavy and useless under his gaze, when his nails had sliced through her skin, and her blood had poured out freely.
It had changed her, changed her blood. It had been viscous and dark, flowing sluggishly through her veins, and that was the only reason she still lived, the only reason why the next Slayer wasn't being called to Gotham to continue the work.
How can she hate it, this darkness, when it has done that for her?
It's strange, realizing that, despite everything she has been raised to do, everything she knows about herself and her own destiny… this realization, that she doesn't, in fact, want to die.
She wants to live. She has made mistakes, but she… she wants to be the Slayer. She wants to keep living, wants to keep fighting by Stephanie's side, wants to keep doing puzzles with Duke and keep studying with Tim and listening to Kon's band and helping Harper with her research.
She has never wanted anything so badly before. She was not raised to want. She was raised to be the perfect Slayer, was raised to be her father's loyal soldier, his honed and sharpened weapon. Despite all of his bragging and boasting, there had never been a guarantee that she would be Called. It was a random process, and there were hundreds, if not thousands of Potentials all over the world, and plenty of girls like Stephanie, who were never identified by the Council, besides that.
But he had been right, somehow, either through sheer luck or something darker, and now Cass is the Slayer.
A Slayer.
There has never been a Slayer who was not the only one, before.
Cass is the only Slayer who has never truly been alone, except for those few, awful weeks when Steph was in Ethiopia.
Steph has told her all about it; about the first Slayer, the pool of darkness, the battle against a demon-god.
Steph hadn't said, but Cass knows something changed in her while she was gone. Seeing the pool, speaking to the spirit of the First… it changed.
Stephanie feels stronger, more present, than she ever has before.
She is not strong like Cass—the darkness does not flood her veins with the power, a power that Cass now knows is that of a creature whose skull still resides in a cave in Ethiopia.
A power that a girl named Sineya had embraced to save her people, a power that Cass had been thrown into by her father, a power in which Cass is desperately swimming.
She nearly tells Stephanie this, when the other Slayer sits besides her and describes Sineya to her; a woman, so old that it has to be a lie, eyes dark and ancient and powerful, a smile full of kindness and wisdom.
The confession presses against her teeth, bubbling under her tongue, but she bites down and forbids it from escaping.
Even Steph can't understand. She stood in front of the pool of power, she saw into the darkness, and still, Cass knows she can't understand, what this power means. What Cass did to get it.
So Cass closes her eyes and tries to tame the roar of the darkness within her, and she says nothing to Stephanie Brown about it.
By now, Steph knows the cemeteries and back roads of Gotham better than she does her own bedroom.
St. Cloud Cemetery, where Jason's old crypt was, is the hardest to visit, but she still forces herself to patrol it, passing through the recent graves, searching for any signs of disturbances.
She's patrolling with Harper today; Cass and Duke are on the other side of town, while Tim and Kon are having date night.
Bruce texts Steph, asking for an update.
"Harper, get over here!" Steph calls.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"
"Nope," Steph says, snagging her arm around Harper's shoulder. "Say cheese!" She snaps a selfie, angling the phone so that the graveyard is visible in the background, and then immediately texts it to Bruce. "Bruce wanted a check-in."
"So you're… sending him a selfie?"
"Oh yeah," Steph says. "If he really wants, he can track me on Snapchat."
"… Bruce has Snapchat?"
"Oh well, he thinks it's the worst but Jason—" Steph pauses for a moment, and Harper watches as the realization hits. She knows that grief, that kind of subtle, sneaking up kind that makes you feel bad for having fun, because they're dead, and how dare you. But Steph must know that grief as well, because she forces a grin onto her face, and keeps going. "Jason and I stole his phone and installed the app."
"He probably just uninstalled it," Harper points out.
"Nope!" Steph says, looking incredibly satisfied with herself. "He checks my story. I haven't told him I can tell."
Harper opens her mouth, and then closes it again. "You're ridiculous."
"Yep!" Steph says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Harper's throat grows a bit tight, and she forces herself to look away.
It's not her fault that Stephanie Brown is unfairly gorgeous, that her smile is perfect, that her hair manages to look great even when she's splattered with blood and gore, that she's sweet and nice and—
Absolutely, positively, heterosexual, Harper reminds herself.
"Harper!" Steph calls, and Harper looks up, just in time to see a vampire barreling towards her.
Harper throws herself onto the grass, feeling it stain her jacket, while Steph cartwheels forward, her stake in her hand.
"You okay?" Steph says, helping her up. There are callouses on her palms, tiny splinter scars across her fingertips from making stakes, and Harper just wants to hold her hand forever.
But Steph withdraws it once she's up, and Harper is reminded yet again, that crushing on Stephanie Brown is a horrible idea.
"I'm fine," Harper says. "Although I'm going to have to do an extra load of laundry this week."
"Hey, at least it's not blood!" Steph laughs, her head tilting to one side. "Mom and I are still trying to get that demon ichor out of my favorite jeans."
"Is it better? With her knowing?"
"Easily," Steph says. "It's—I missed her, you know? She wasn't gone or anything, but when I was talking to her, she wasn't listening, not really." She shrugs. "It's not perfect now, or anything—there are still things I'm not telling her—"
"Like what?" Harper says, curious. "I thought she's being understanding about the monsters and things, and she and Bruce are even working on your schedule."
Steph looks like she's hesitating for a moment.
"C'mon Steph," Harper says, cajoling. "You know you can tell me anything."
Steph's expression turns soft and fond, and Harper's heart speeds up in her chest.
"I—okay." Steph says, straightening her shoulders. "You're right. You're my friend. I can tell you anything."
Harper grins at her, expecting—something about Ethiopia, maybe, or one of those prophetic dreams she has that she doesn't like talking about—
"I have a crush on Cass."
—not that.
"What?" Harper says.
"I—I've got a—I like Cass," Steph says, her smile fading, nervousness pouring in.
"I—but—you're gay?" Harper says, floundering—and she knows better, she's done this before, she's talked with Tim and Cullen and half a dozen kids at school through this, through coming out, she should be better than this.
"Uh," Steph looks more and more uncomfortable. "Bi. I think. I mean I'm not sure, at first, I was thinking it was a Slayer thing, but I'm… I'm pretty sure? I mean I guess I haven't really looked into all of the labels—"
Harper, panicking, does the only thing she can think of.
She hugs Steph tightly.
"I'm happy for you," she says, hooking her chin over Steph's shoulder so Steph can't see that Harper's eyes are watering.
Because she is! This is great, this is wonderful, another person has figured themselves out, and that's always a good thing.
Steph isn't straight. Steph has a crush on a girl.
And it's not Harper.
The Slayer is a young woman, her hair dyed a brilliant shade of red so strong that he can smell it in the air, even as her fear radiates off her.
Her Watcher lies dead in a pool of blood, and he moves towards her, savoring the way she scrambles for her weapons, tries to remember that she's supposed to stand up and fight, but without her Watcher, she doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if she should run or stand her ground.
She's not a bad Slayer. She's lived, oh, six months or so, so she's probably killed a hundred vampires, stopped an apocalypse or two, maybe even rewritten a law of magic or two.
But she's not good enough to stop him.
He lets his face come out as he takes another step towards her, and she panics, going for the crossbow rather than the stake.
Her Watcher can't have been very good, if he's taught her to rely on her distance weapon against someone like him.
He closes the gap before she can get more than one shot off.
He doesn't play with his food.
"Please!" She cries out, before he breaks her neck.
The Red Hood traces her face, impressed by the scarring, at everything this little Slayer must have survived, and then he places his mouth against her neck and he—
"Drink, Jason, drink," the voice says, and he does, opening his mouth and letting the blood pour into him, giving him strength enough to open his eyes again, and when consciousness comes, he pushes away Talia's arm.
"No—" he says. "Not—"
"You must drink," she says, her face stubborn.
"Not—human—"
"It's mine, foolish boy," she says, smoothing down his hair. "Human blood restores you better than an animal's, and you need it badly."
"But—"
"You dream of Slayers, of Potentials," Talia tells him. "Your body craves blood with magic in it. My blood is not that of a Slayer, or even a Potential, but I am a witch."
"But—"
"I work with enough demons and the like that I set it aside at reasonable intervals." Talia's face is stern, but fond. "You're not drinking any more than I can give."
Wjth his arguments gone, he clumsily takes the cup from him and drinks again.
"How long?"
"Weeks," she says.
"Bruce?"
"I'll get you to him as soon as I can," she says. "I promise."
He hands her the cup again. "How did you know—about the dreams?"
"You talk in your sleep," she says, guiding him back down. "You're getting stronger, Jason. I promise, you'll be home soon."
He believes her, and he lets the darkness take hold of him again.
There's a new girl at school.
Everyone talks about her, the words buzzing through the school like idle chatter, but Harper ignores it, pushing through everything, trying hard not to…
Well, she's not sure what she's trying not to do. Cry, maybe? That seems reasonable, and maybe she would if she wasn't at school.
But as it is, she's at school, and Steph keeps giving her looks that are very concerned, and Tim has a look that's just a little too knowing, which makes Harper wonder if Steph's told him, because Harper certainly hasn't.
In history class, Harper can't focus, even though it's Ms. Bertinelli, who's the best teacher ever, and who Harper would normally die for.
She just keeps staring up at the front of the class, where Steph is sitting, the wave of blonde hair hiding Steph's face from her view, and she just keeps wishing.
"Harper? I was wondering if you could show your new student around today," Ms. Bertinelli says after class finally ends. Her lips are angled in a slight frown, which means she's probably aware that Harper hadn't absorbed a single thing from today's discussion about the effect of colonization on the Pacific Islands.
"Sure," Harper says, shrinking a little under that gaze. Ms. Bertinelli is six feet all, coaches the softball team, and, if the rumor mill is to be believed, has muscles of pure steel. Disappointing her is, in fact, every student's nightmare.
"Carrie," Ms. Bertinelli says. "This is Harper. She'll show you around today."
Carrie is short, with her bright red hair in a pixie cut, cartoonishly large blue eyes, and gigantic 80s style glasses. She's cute, in a kind of way that makes her look like she fell out of a period romantic comedy. Even her clothes seem a little… off, from the wide shoulders of her jacket to the bright, neon green of her pants. She's wearing a necklace, a long golden cord with a green stone dangling around it, and she tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, beaming at Harper.
"Nice to meetcha," she says, and Harper half-expects her to blow a bright pink bubble and pop it. She follows Harper into the hallway. "Sorry to end up hanging off you like this; it seems like you're having a rough day."
"You have no idea," Harper says. "Mind if I stop by my locker? I need to grab my Calculus book for Mr. Dent's class."
"Sure thing!" Carrie says agreeably, flashing her teeth in a bright, cheerful grin. "So, you're a senior?"
"Yeah," Harper says. "You?"
"Same," Carrie says, fiddling with her necklace.
"Where did you transfer from?" Harper says, forcing herself to not stare down the hallway, where she's heard a burst of Steph's distinctive laugh. "It's—it's gotta suck to transfer in during senior year."
"I'm from Gotham, originally," Carrie says. "It's… I don't know. Guess it's nice to be home."
"I bet," Harper agrees, distractedly.
Math class is worse than history class, only this time, Carrie is at her elbow the entire time, and whenever Harper catches herself staring at Steph, who is doodling and looking out the window, she thinks she can feel Carrie looking at her.
"Who's that girl?" Carrie asks, after class. Steph has already run off—she's got to drop something off for Bruce, or something.
"Who?" Harper says, deflecting.
"The blonde. You keep looking at her."
"I—just a friend."
"Yeah, but… what's her name?"
"Steph," Harper says, her throat heavy. "She's Steph."
"Huh," Carrie tilts her head to one side, thoughtfully. "So why do you keep looking at her like she murdered your puppy?"
"She didn't—it's not her fault," Harper says.
"Well, that doesn't mean she didn't murder your puppy," Carrie says, fiddling with that necklace of hers again. "What did she do?"
They're alone in the classroom now, and Harper probably should be trying to focus, get them to Psych with Mr. Strange, but…
"She broke my heart," Harper says, finally.
"Oh damn," Carrie flinches sympathetically. "That sucks." She pauses, looking thoughtful, and pulls her necklace off. "Here. I think you need this."
"What?" Harper takes it, noticing with surprise how heavy the stone is.
"It's a good luck charm," Carrie says. "Someone gave it to me years ago, when I felt like you did now. Like… like I'd do anything in the world to stop the hurt, you know? When everything was about how I could have avoided it, what could have changed the path of history." Carrie grins at her, shyly. "It sucks, I know it does. But… I think it'll help."
Harper laughs, and puts on the necklace. "Hey, I've heard of weirder things."
Carrie's smile is wide and blinding and Harper feels something strange twinging in her stomach.
They go to Pysch, and then Carrie ends up joining Harper and her friends for lunch. They're eating outside today, so Cass joins them, and Harper watches as Steph's face lights up with pure joy when she sees Cass, and Harper has to turn away, something hot and bitter and angry welling up in her throat.
"What's wrong?" Carrie says. "We can go sit somewhere else if you want."
"My friends are there," Harper snaps. "I'm not going to avoid my own friends because she's there!"
"But she hurt you," Carrie says, her eyes so, so wide behind her comedy glasses.
"Yeah but—" Harper realizes she's crying, and she quickly raises her sleeve to scrub them away. "God, sometimes… my life's gotten so much more complicated since she showed up."
"Oh?" Carrie whispers, and something about the way that she says it means that Harper doesn't care anymore, and she lets the words just flow.
"Everything's different and dangerous and now I can't even sit next to my best friends at lunch without wanting to cry and I—sometimes I just wish Steph had never come to Gotham!"
Carrie reaches up and touches Harper's face, and Harper stares at her, realizing in horror that her eyes are glowing.
"Done," she says, and Harper screams.
Harper is standing in the courtyard, only there's no one else here.
"Harper?" Tim says, and she turns, frowning in confusion. He looks smaller, somehow, like he's doubled over himself, and he's wearing a bland grey sweater, rather than Kon's bomber jacket that Tim likes to steal.
"Tim?" She repeats.
"I thought you stopped dying your hair?" He says, gripping her arm. "You know it attracts attention, it's—"
"Tim, I'm fine," Harper says, frowning at the frantic expression on his face. "What's—"
"We need to get inside," he insists, and she lets him drag her there, frowning.
Everything's different, inside. Lockers are ripped open, hanging off their hinges, and there are… there are so many fewer students, and the ones who remain are pale and terrified, wearing bland colors, staring at Harper, with her blue hair, with terrified expressions.
"Tim?" Harper says, quietly. "Where's Duke?"
Tim stares at her. "They got him two years ago, Harper," he says. "You know that—we were at the funeral."
Harper feels her stomach drop out from under her.
She thinks about Carrie, thinks about the glowing eyes, thinks about that stupid, stupid wish, and she knows exactly what's happened.
The library is abandoned, and none of the right books are there, because why would Bruce become a librarian if there wasn't a Slayer? Crap, she's really screwed this up.
Duke is gone, Tim doesn't know anything, there's no sign of Cass, Kon is missing…
Harper takes a guess, and breaks into Bruce's apartment.
A crossbow nearly goes through her shoulders.
"I'm human!" She yells.
Bruce emerges from the shadows, tall and with a bad case of scruff, with the circles under his eyes as dark as bruises.
"Who are you?" He demands.
"I'm Harper Row!" She says. "I'm from an alternate world!"
He lowers his crossbow and looks at her considering.
"Tell me what happened," he orders.
So she tells him; tells him about Steph, about their friends, about the Bat Kids, as Duke had declared them, about Carrie and her weird eyes and her necklace, and then she shows him the necklace as proof.
"A Wish Demon," Bruce says, grimly. "They find people who are upset and hurting, and use their wishes to create new versions of history. Usually for the worse."
"No kidding," Harper says, staring at that creepy green stone dangling from Bruce's fingers.
"You say the Slayer's name is Stephanie Brown?"
Harper nods.
Bruce closes his fist over the stone. "I'll make some calls." He looks at the clock. "Board up the windows, it's almost sunset, and I'm expecting there will be retribution tonight."
"Retribution?" Harper says.
Bruce smiles grimly. "I staked the Black Mask's second-in-command last night."
"Who… who was it?"
Bruce shrugs. "Some teenager. I didn't catch his name."
Harper shivers. She doesn't like this Bruce, with his empty house and his beard. She goes to do what he says.
This world is wonderful.
Carrie wraps her jacket tightly around herself—her new, sleek leather jacket that Harper was wearing earlier that day—and wanders through the streets without fear.
Harper Row's wish was so much stronger than she'd expected. One girl arriving in Gotham had done this? How was this possible?
Carrie had selected Harper because of the delicious teenaged heartbreak. It wasn't meant to be anything serious, just a quick world change to fill her quota for the month.
But this… with this, she might be able to fill her quota for the decade.
The Hellmouth below her feet is open, and all the darkness pours out of it like a beautiful fountain of death and chaos…
Oh yes, her bosses will be very happy with this one.
She hums to herself, and goes to investigate the heart of all of this.
It's that dancing place that the teenagers of this town love so much; The Cave, or some nonsense like that.
The world hasn't settled yet; the wish too new, and as such Carrie slips through unnoticed, not real herself yet in this beautiful world.
A vampire lounges in a hideously convoluted chair that's meant to look like a throne, drinking blood out of a wine glass.
Duke Thomas, one of Harper Row's friends, a vampire, stands behind him, in a position of power as he learns forward to whisper in the Black Mask's ear.
Hundreds of vampires drink and fight and dance throughout the club, blood flowing freely from a source that she can't see. Towards the far wall, away from the Black Mask's throne, a version of that Red Hood boy that Harper's heard so much about sprawled on the ground, bound with blessed silver chains, all of his precious blood leaking out of his nose while the vampires around him cheer.
She tilts her head, examining him, and sees that he still has his soul. That must have made him quite a few enemies. And now, he's paying the price.
This world is wonderful. Her bosses will be so very pleased. Maybe she'll even get time off her contract for it.
Satisfied, she goes to find Harper Row, so she can retrieve her necklace and seal the wish in place.
Bruce Wayne is a man who's lost everything. He lost Jason when the Hellmouth opened, Barbara and Dick when the Council declared Gotham a lost cause. He lost any sway with the Council when he wasn't able to locate the Potential he'd been sent to Gotham to find.
He has no allies in this doomed town, no one except possibly the exhausted teenager passed out on his couch. That's at least in part by choice—for now, the Black Mask seems content to lounge, to drink the town dry, gathering his strength from the Hellmouth.
Talia's spell was holding, at least. Her sacrifice had not been entirely in vain, even if it had failed to prevent Mask from opening the Hellmouth at all.
He forces himself to call Clark, the number familiar.
"Bruce?" Clark's voice says, surprised. "What are you—"
"Is the Slayer there?"
"I—yes. But Bruce—"
"Find her Watcher, tell her that we need the Slayer in Gotham, immediately."
"Bruce—"
Bruce turns the wish stone over in his hand.
"The barrier is cracking, Clark," he says. "The world is going to end."
He hands up the phone.
Harper Row is not in her home. Frowning, Carrie walks over the unconscious body of Cullen Row, who's clinging to a crossbow like it's a teddy bear.
Where would she have gone? Perhaps she's still at school.
Carrie sighs, when she realizes the sun is rising. She hasn't rested in a week and granting this wish had cost her a lot of energy.
Well, one more day between won't hurt anything, Carrie decides, before going to find an abandoned house to make a nest in.
Steph crosses her arms tightly over her chest, and slinks low.
"Why are we leaving Metropolis?" She asks.
"End of the world, baby girl," Arthur Brown says. His face is a mess of scars, from the time that Steph had tried to throw him out the window, before she had been taught better. "You're going to be a proper Slayer."
Which means die.
"Oh," Steph says. "Can I—can I call Mom?"
He rolls his eyes, and sighs, digging his cellphone out of his pocket, and handing it to her.
Steph calls, and presses herself as far as she can against the door of the vehicle, even though it makes no difference.
"Steph? It's not Wednesday!" Mom's voice is terrified.
"We're—we're leaving Metropolis. Just for a little bit. Dad said I could call."
"Why—where are you going? Steph, baby, don't do anything dangerous—"
"I'll see you soon, Mom," Steph says, even though it's a lie, it's always a lie, but it's a lie she needs to tell herself. "I love you."
"I love you too," Crystal says, before Arthur yanks the phone out of her hands.
"You two always go on forever," he complains, before putting it back in his pocket.
Steph's fists clench at her sides.
She's stronger than him. She's so much stronger than him, she could put his face through the windshield, break his nose against the steering wheel, shatter his wrist with a simple flex of her hand.
… but then she'd never get to see Mom again. She'd never find her, she knows this, she's tried.
And Mom had paid for it. Mom always pays for Steph's mistakes.
She pulls her jacket up as high as she can make it, and pretends to go to sleep, leaning against the rattling car window.
Harper wakes with a crick in her neck from sleeping on the couch.
"Have you found anything on Wish Demons?" She asks.
"No," Bruce says. "I went hunting last night." She sees the crossbow leaning against the door, sees a row of stakes lined up on the table.
"You did?" Harper says. "But I thought you were a Watcher!"
"Not much use Watching when there's no Slayer," Bruce says, his voice practically a growl. "I'm one of the only defenders this town has, besides that van full of suicidal kids."
Harper's heart leaps to her throat. "Kids?"
"They call themselves the Robin Gang," he says. "They're untrained, only getting themselves killed."
"Then why aren't you helping them?" Harper says, confused. "If they're willing to fight—you've got weapons, you've got information, you could be—"
"I work alone," Bruce snarls.
"You do?" Harper blinks. "But what about Jason?"
He freezes in place.
"You know about Jason?"
Harper frowns. "Well, yeah? He was my friend."
Bruce turns to look at her slowly. "Was?"
"He—he died. Saving the world." Having a moment of inspiration, Harper takes her phone out of her pocket. It still has some charge, even though she hadn't charged it last night. She pulls up a photo she sent herself ages ago, one of Jason and Steph, making faces behind Bruce's back. She shows it to Bruce.
Bruce stares at it for a long, painful moment, before turning away. "I see," he says, his voice so soft she has to strain to hear it.
"What happened—"
There's a hammering at the door.
"Wayne! Listen, you night crawling freak, if it's not the end of the world I'll let my Slayer break every bone in your body!" An unfamiliar voice calls.
Bruce glowers. "Brown."
"Wait—Brown?" Harper says, something horrific settling in to her skin.
But Bruce doesn't notice her terror, opening the door, and Harper stares in terror as she sees a man that Steph never talks about, tall and broad and blond, standing next to what looks like a beaten down, exhausted version of Stephanie Brown.
Her hair has been roughly chopped to her shoulders, and there are scars on her face, neck, and hands. Her eyes are sunken into her face, and she looks for all the world like there's no spark left in her.
"What's this about the end of the world?" Brown says, dragging Steph into the house by the shoulder, which she takes without protest. "You know we've got a goddamn Hellmouth in Metropolis to deal with, right? I'd like to see you—"
"The Gotham Hellmouth has been open for eighteen months, Brown," Bruce says, fury radiating from him. "As I've reported to the Council multiple times."
Brown looks unconcerned about that. "So, what do we need to close it? Virgin sacrifices? Blood of babies? We're a bit short on both of those, aren't we kid?" He elbows Steph, and for a moment, Harper sees rage flare up in Steph's eyes, before she quickly realizes Harper's looking, and looks down at the floor.
Bruce looks like he'd like nothing better than to put Brown's forehead through the table. "We have a Wish Demon in the area."
"What, and you want to make a Wish? Change the world?" Brown snorts. "You can't make a Wish Demon choose you, Wayne, you've got to be the exact right cocktail they're looking for—"
"I know," Bruce says. "But, on the other hand, I have reason to believe that this apocalypse is the result of a Wish."
"What?" Brown says, staring at Bruce.
"I made a wish," Harper says. "I think—I think that started it, somehow."
"Yeah?" Brown says, snorting. Steph, meanwhile, has lifted her head enough to examine Harper, as if trying to decide if she's a threat. It's a terrifying look to be on the receiving end of, even if it's from this weirdly quiet, subdued version of her friend. "What did you wish for, little girl? Your toy pony back?"
Harper nearly tells him exactly where he can shove his questions, but Bruce gives her a look, so she straightens up.
"I wished that the Slayer had never come to Gotham," she says.
"What, a different Slayer?" Brown says, frowning.
"No," Harper says. "Steph."
Steph's eyes widen.
"Impossible," Brown says. "I'd never move to this garbage heap of a city."
"Uh—you weren't her Watcher?" Harper says. She points at Bruce. "He was."
Brown's lip curls. "Of course he is. Bet he lets her get away with anything, too." He shakes his head. "If she made the wish, does that mean you've got the stone?"
"Yes," Bruce says, picking it up.
Brown holds out his hand, and Bruce pauses.
"What's the plan?"
"We've got to keep it safe," Brown says, with exaggerated patience.
Bruce's hand closes over it. "Then I believe that I'll keep it."
Brown snorts. "Stephie, get me that necklace."
"Steph, no!" Harper lunges, grabbing Steph's arm.
Steph turns to her, looking helpless. "I—I've got to," she says. "He's my Dad."
"And what about your mom?" Harper demands. "Where's she?"
Steph's face grows shuttered, and she pushes Harper away, hard enough to bruise. She leaps over the couch with the kind of easy grace that only a Slayer can have, and Bruce is crying out in pain before Harper can even be upright again, the glowing green stone dangling from her hand.
"Great job," Brown says. "Now we need to find the Wish Demon, and you put a sword through her heart."
"Aw, there's no need for that," a voice says, and Harper spins around, and sees Carrie.
"No?" Brown says, eyes sharp. "Well, I can't say I'm a fan of the world ending."
"I can twist the wish," Carrie says. "Keep it contained to Gotham. It's more fun that way anyways," she says, holding out her hand. "Just give me my amulet back, and it'll be done."
"But people have died!" Harper says. "You can't just—"
"I'm dead, in your perfect little world," Brown says. "I don't see why I should do anything to help it. Better all around, right Stephie?"
"Steph!" Harper says. "You don't—you don't have to listen to him. You're a hero, Steph."
"No," Brown says, with a smirk. "She's a Slayer, and she does what she's told."
"You're full of shit," Harper says. "Steph is the bravest, most brilliant person I know. She's saved the world time after time, and even when she's scared, she doesn't stop. She cares about other people, about her friends. Even when she loses, she gets back up again, and she keeps fighting, because she knows that me, and our friends, and her mom, and her real Watcher are there to help her get back up."
"You've got a lot of faith in a pathetic little girl," Brown sneers. "But I know my daughter, kid, and believe me—"
"Destroy it," Bruce calls, wheezing from the floor. "Stephanie, you need to smash it."
"But I—"
"Steph—" Harper starts to say, before Arthur Brown slaps her across the face, sending her to the ground. "Steph, please," she says, from the floor. Blood is trickling out of the side of her mouth.
"Give me my pendant!" Carrie yells, and her face is getting less and less human, her eyes glowing brighter and brighter. "Give it to me, I—"
"Stephie," Arthur growls. "Do it now, or I swear to God you'll never see your mother again."
Something shatters in Stephanie Brown's eyes, and Harper gasps, every inch of her in pain.
"You can't stop me in that world," Steph yells, and then she smashes the wish stone onto the ground, and the last thing that Harper hears in this awful, twisted world of her own creation, is Carrie screaming in pain, and Arthur Brown's shout of fury.
"Harper! Harper, are you okay?"
Steph's face appears in front of her, and Harper blinks.
Her hair is long, and her eyes are kind, and it's her.
Harper throws her arms around Steph and hugs her tightly.
"Harper?" Steph says, hugging her back.
"Just—I don't even know what just happened. Magic. I think." She looks around and can't see Carrie anywhere at all.
"Okay?" Steph says, baffled, but she keeps hugging her, patting her back.
She is so, so lucky to be Stephanie Brown's friend.
Jason is finally strong enough to stand again.
"You need to warn them," Talia is saying, packing him a bag. "I'm sorry, I didn't intend my people to kidnap you, but when they found you, I knew I had to help, and my father has stopped me from being able to contact Bruce."
"So I'm your only hope?" Jason says, going for levity.
"You must warn them," Talia says, fervently. "I don't know all of his plans, but I know they're in motion, and you need to tell Bruce that we have less time—"
"Now, Talia?" Ra's al Ghul says, from the doorway. "Again, for this boy?"
"Father!" Talia blanches, throwing herself between him and Jason, as if she could protect him from the wrath of Ra's al Ghul.
He throws her aside with a wave of magic, and then freezes.
"Clever, daughter," he says. "If I move to hurt him, he is transported back to Gotham. Very clever."
"You can't undo it," Talia says, quietly smug as she pulls herself to her feet.
"No, I can't. You always were good with your tricks," he says. "Well. I suppose I'll have to let him go back to the Watcher and his little friends."
For a moment, Jason thinks that might be it—Ra's is unpredictable at the best of times, and maybe he's in a good mood, maybe—
"But not with that information." Ra's curls his hands into a claw-shape, and he pulls it backwards towards him.
Talia screams, and Jason buckles, as his memories flow out of his mind. Not all of them, not the most precious, the most important ones—just these past few weeks, healing under Talia's care, every whispered secret, every desperate confession, and his own, terrifying betrayal in a graveyard.
Stephanie Brown's baby.
He forgets it all, and he falls to his knees, staring up into Ra's al Ghul's inhumanly green eyes, and, for the last time, he lets the black come up around him and pull him down into its grasp.
After Harper's done telling them all about that other world, she shows Steph the photo she showed the other Bruce.
She sends them to Steph, and gives Steph his spare leather jacket, which Steph folds carefully over her arm, and then… she goes to the mansion.
She's got a book that Jason lent her, his jacket, and a small candle.
It'll have to do.
She owes him this, a little memorial. She's put it off for too long, telling herself that she's okay with it.
But then Harper had shown her those photos, and something in her had shattered, and she knows.
She's still grieving.
She'd done this for her Dad, back before they'd left Los Angeles. There was no body, of course. And it was different then. She'd hated him, as much as she'd loved him, hated herself for killing him as much as she'd known she'd done the right thing.
If she'd been able to do this for Dad, whose life had been vividly painted for her by Harper, even if Harper hadn't known everything, hadn't understood all of the words that she'd heard him say…
She can definitely do this for Jason.
The statue is gone—Bruce moved it somewhere, for protection, or something. She doesn't really care.
The sword is on the floor, and Steph carefully puts it behind the candle, the book, and the jacket.
"I miss you," she whispers, sitting cross-legged in front of it. "I—I'm so, so sorry—"
"For what?" A voice behind her says.
She stops cold.
She turns around slowly, and—
Dark hair striped with white. Six feet tall and broad as a house. A red hoodie beneath a black leather jacket.
And a cocky smile, turning into something more real as he looks at her.
"Hey Steph," he says.
Her heart practically stops.
"Jason," she breathes.
That's all there's time to say, before the two of them both charges forward, meeting in an embrace halfway.
"You're alive," she says, gripping his jacket tightly, while he squeezes her so hard that she can feel her ribs pop. "You're—how?"
He pulls back. "I—I have no idea, Blondie." He frowns, both of them realizing at the same time that it's probably not a good thing. "I've got no goddamn idea."