This serves as a companion piece to Guardian Angel. This can be read on its own, but reading that first may help provide some context.

Title is from the song Spectres, by Aviators.

Warning: Major character death (occurs before the story). Teenage pregnancy and placing a baby for adoption (Stephanie's section). Mentions of non-consenting drug use (Cass's section).

Gotham feels so empty without Dick. Barbara knows the city has always been the definition of corrupt, but there were light spots too. Hope was carried in gentle laughter and playful smiles, in a little bird and the lives he saved and the compassion he spread. All that's gone now. Gotham has stolen the brightest and the best, extinguished a brilliant flame between her cold, merciless fingers. Shadows are the city's only protectors now, and try as Barbara might, no shadow can come close to replacing the hope his light had brought.

She doesn't like to swing by the manor anymore. Too many memories. Too little solace. Too much heartbreak, lurking around every corner. She'll walk into a room, and she can't help but think of him kicked back on a chandelier over her head. She'll turn a corner and remember bumping into him and he'll be blushing and apologizing and laughing sheepishly. She'll enter the Batcave and instinctively turn to look for a young man, lounging at the computer, waiting for her with an easy and carefree grin.

The only thing waiting there now is a man buried in his grief and a lonely memorial.

In memory of Dick Grayson.

Nightwing.

Robin.

A good soldier.

The first time Barbara lays eyes on at the inscription, the words elegantly carved into an expensive plaque, an indescribable rage blazes to life inside her. It's so — impersonal! Dick was so much more than his sidekick, his clay soldier; he was his son. How dare he put something like that on his memorial? Dick deserves better than this, better than yet another display of excessive wealth in place of love.

She storms off to find Bruce, just as he comes down the stairs to the cave. He's dressed in a crisp business suit, and he pauses when he sees her, his eyes carefully blank of emotion. He doesn't get a chance to say anything before Barbara launches into a fury-driven rant.

Bruce takes it stoically at first. All that does is add fuel to the inferno. Then as it goes on, his face starts crumpling, just a little. Something like emotion glimmers in his eyes. Barbara's chest heaves, vitriol spewing from her mouth, spurred on by the explosive feeling inside her. She's not even sure what she's saying anymore, only knowing that she's furious and grieving and how could he just treat Dick like a casualty of war in his pursuit of justice?

And when her anger is spent and she feels drained and numb and she's closer to sobbing than she is to screaming, Bruce pulls her close and they cry together.

It never stops hurting, doesn't falter for a long, long time, but eventually it starts getting better. Bit by bit, piece by piece. One day, one hour, one second at a time, she and her broken heart heal.

Sometimes, she thinks she can even see Dick, lounging in the corner of her eye. It's a very clear sign of not being mentally healthy, and for all her disapproval of Bruce's coping methods, it's hard for Barbara to care, so long as she still has her best friend. But she forces herself to go to counseling anyway, to recover some semblance of a life, because she knows that's what Dick would want for her.

And some days, his loss is bearable — painful, but bearable. Barbara will smile or laugh, and it won't feel like a horrible betrayal of his memory. She can look at a bird in flight or sit beside an empty seat and not be about to dissolve into a sobbing mess at a moment's notice. She'll get home after a night of patrol and something suspiciously like hope will be filling her chest and Barbara will know that someday, it will be okay again.

Still, other days, that hope vanishes and his loss is a black hole in her heart. His absence aches fiercely inside her, like she's missing a part of herself. It's as if she's lost a leg — no, both her legs. Those days, it's a struggle to get out of bed. Tears will spring to her eyes without warning, and she can't stop thinking about how much agony he must've been in. Those days, despair claws at her heart like a wild tiger and it's impossible to imagine tomorrow will come.

In time, the good days become more and more frequent, and the bad days slowly fade away to little more than memories. And life goes on.

Two years after Dick's death, Barbara learns about Jason Todd. She can hardly believe it at first. Bruce took in another kid? More importantly, he gave that kid Robin? That's Dick's name!

She chooses to thoroughly research Jason before confronting Brice. She may not be Batman, but no way will she allow someone to take the name Robin if they don't deserve it. What she finds is not encouraging. Jason's a street kid, apparently, with spotty school attendance and a history of getting into fights. His mother is — or rather, was an addict who overdosed one day; she died a few years back. His father is missing, probably dead. He'd been hired muscle for Two-Face and had messed up an assignment, a certain death sentence. All in all, Barbara digs up very little evidence that Jason is a good pick for Robin. Suffice to say, she's not happy.

But the first time she meets the kid, her anger withers and dies. She can certainly see the scrappy street kid in him. It's obvious, from his thick accent to his defensive posture. Beyond that, however, Jason has a fierce determination to him and a sharp look in his eyes. He's distrustful of her, but he hides it behind a cocky smirk.

She can practically see Dick standing behind the kid, one hand on his shoulder, a delighted smile stretched across his face, his eyes already alight with fondness.

I've always wanted a sibling, he'd told her once.

"Don't tell me that B-man has a secret daughter" is the first thing Jason says to her.

And maybe Dick will never meet Jason, but who is she to deny him a little brother?

Barbara can't help the laugh that bubbles out of her throat. She extends a hand. "No, I'd call him more of a weird cousin or uncle. Barbara," she introduces. "Batgirl."

After a moment, Jason shakes it firmly. "Jason," he replies. "Robin."

It takes awhile, but eventually Barbara and Jason forge a powerful bond. She starts seeing him as a second little brother, and the pain in her heart softens further. Jason is very different from Dick, no doubt about that, but still, every night on patrol, Barbara sees the same protectiveness of the weak and innocent. He's far from perfect; still Jason makes a good Robin.

All that doesn't stop her from letting loose on Bruce. She never lets that anger seep into her relationship with Jason, though. As angry as she is at Bruce for handing another kid the Robin mantle, she can't hate Jason. Not with his wide toothy grin, his rambunctious laughter, his rough edges but big heart.

Barbara forgives Bruce, eventually.

Roughly a year later finds her studying for her college's midterms. She doesn't really need to study — with an eidetic memory, she's got this in the bag — but it's not a bad idea to skim through a couple times to make sure. If being a vigilante has taught her anything, it's that it's good to double-check things. She's alternating between studying and talking to her dad on the phone.

"I'll be home soon," he promises. "Just had a bit more trouble than usual. With Joker loose, we're having to put in more hours, you know?"

The doorbell rings, followed immediately by three knocks.

"Coming," Barbara calls, glancing up. To her dad, she adds, "Don't worry. I understand. The sooner he's caught, the less people die." Bruce's face when he returned from Ethiopia with only a broken corpse flashes through her mind. The grief of losing her first brother swells inside her, thick and viscous. She chokes it back down. "Just... take care, okay, Dad?"

"Of course. Love you, sweetie."

"Love you too, Dad."

She hangs up and stretches her arms out as she walks over to the door. Probably just another friend, dropping by to get help for the big tests. Ah, the pains of being the smartest person in her classes. Yet for some reason, her spine tingles apprehensively as she approaches the door. Barbara ignores the feeling, turns the lock, and opens it.

"Can I help — "

Her voice dies in her throat.

Joker laughs. He looks up at her, glinting eyes shadowed by his hat, a wicked grin painted on his face. He has a gun pointed right at her.

Barbara's eyes widen.

There's a resounding bang. Something flashes in front of her, just a quick flicker of blue.

Then a bullet buries itself in her stomach and Barbara's world explodes into agony.

She topples backward, collapsing on the floor, her hands uselessly clutching at the wound. Blood pours out around her fingers. Distantly, she sees Joker and his thugs moving around the apartment.

"He's not here, Boss," one says.

"When he hears about this, though, I just know he'll come running like a good little dog. We'll get him then." Joker grins and kneels down beside Barbara. "It really is a shame you'll miss your father's debut, Miss Gordon. You would have loved it. Sadly, our venue wasn't built for the disabled in mind."

"Why... are you... doing... this..." she gasps out, clenching her eyes against the pain.

Joker's voice is low and silky. "To prove a point. Here's to crime."

Then Joker is gone and Barbara is alone, bleeding out on the floor of her apartment. Agony crashes over her and she tries to reach for her phone, to call Bruce, her dad, Jason, anyone, but she can't even move without the burning in her stomach turning into an inferno.

"Hold on," someone whispers, and she thinks she should recognize the voice but it's all she can do to stay awake. Somewhere through the haze of pain, a gentle hand squeezes her own. "You'll be okay. Help is coming. Just hold on."

"Dad..." she whispers, and then consciousness slips away from her.

She doesn't really expect to wake up again. But she does, with a steady beeping in her ear and stiff hospital blankets wrapped around her. Her eyes flicker open to bright lights and sterile white walls. Bruce and Jason stand at her bedside, both in uniform. Bruce is typing something into his glove's computer, while Jason is fiddling with a batarang. He perks up when he sees her.

"Babs," he greets cheerfully.

"Joker!" Barbara's eyes shoot wide-open and she speaks urgently, looking around in panic. "He — "

"We know," Bruce interrupts calmly. "He's already taken care of."

"B-man totally whooped his butt," Jason declares proudly.

"Dad?" she asks.

Jason points to her other side, where her dad is dozing lightly in a chair. Relief washes over her.

"Dad," she calls, louder.

He jerks awake with a snort. He blinks blearily; his eyes fall on Barbara and then he's scrambling to his feet. His appearance is disheveled and messy, with bandages wrapped around his temple and running underneath his shirt. One arm is in a sling.

"You're awake! How are you feeling, sweetie?"

"Are you okay?" she asks instead, too focused on his injuries.

Her dad pats her hand. "I'll be fine. Some bruises, couple cracked bones. Managed to get off lightly this time, and Batman arrived before he could move on to anything really serious."

Barbara nods, and her eyes flick down to her stomach. She can still feel her legs, so that's something, but who knows what else might have been damaged? She's not going to be able to focus on anything else until she knows. "How bad is it?"

He sighs and sits down. "Pretty bad. It was a close one getting here. Really close. But it could be a lot worse. Doctor said you were extremely lucky. Bullet just missed your spine. A little more to the left, and..."

He trails off, and Barbara knows what he was going to say. A little to the side, and I would've been paralyzed. A hard stone settles in her stomach when she realizes how close she had been to never walking again.

Her dad squeezes her hand in silent support. She squeezes back gratefully.

"And Joker?"

"In Arkham," Bruce answers.

Barbara purses her lips but nods. Considering Joker's track record for escaping prison, it's not much consolation, but that's a worry for another day.

"Right," she murmurs. Now that she knows everything will be alright, she can feel sleep tugging at her mind. She glances at her dad.

He smiles. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Barbara's lips curl up.

As her eyes slide closed again in exhaustion, Barbara thinks she catches a glimpse of a familiar, long-gone face, hovering above her. When she opens them a few hours later, there is no one there.

Stephanie's dreams swim through her mind, images floating past her eyes. Vigilantes dropping into her backyard, a fight breaking out, her father's smirk. She feels disorientated, off-balance, her mind horribly blank. She has no idea what to do, floundering helplessly in the face of her father holding her child, of his taint infecting her sweet, innocent baby.

Catch! he calls carelessly, cruelly. He tosses the baby in his arms toward her and throws himself into the fight, not looking back once. The child tumbles through the air.

Panic thrums through her veins and then she's lunging forward, arms out-stretched. No! My baby!

She's not going to make it. She's not fast enough, not good enough. She's not Batman or Shrike or Robin or Batgirl and no matter how hard she tries someone always dies and now its baby on the line and she's still not good enough and it will be all her fault —

"Steph?"

Stephanie groggily opens her eyes, feeling utterly and completely exhausted. The pain of giving birth has stopped, blessedly, though the panic from the dreams lingers in her veins. It takes her several seconds to realize where she is, then several more to realize that someone has spoken, then several more beyond that to realize that she's expected to respond. It takes a lot of effort to manage the simple task of turning her head. Her eyes find a familiar mop of black hair and boyish features and eyes hidden by a green mask. It's a welcome sight.

"Robin?" she rasps weakly. "You're here."

"I've been here the whole time," Robin replies, his voice gentle. Her muscles relax unconsciously at his voice; secret identities aside, he's always been someone she can rely on, and his presence is comforting. Robin's mouth twitches up into an amused smile. "I had to duck out when your mom kept asking me questions. I ran out of excuses for keeping the hospital scrubs on."

Stephanie blinks slowly, processing his words one at a time. Her brain is sluggish, and it's tough to think clearly.

"I'm so tired," she murmurs.

She desperately wants to know about her baby, but she's scared to ask. She's scared that if she hears a single thing about it, she'll change her mind. She can't change her mind; she can't subject her baby to the hardships of her life, the absolute crap she'd be at motherhood, the difficulties of being raised by a teenager. Not to mention her father. The remnants of her dream come to mind again, and a wave of horror crests at the thought of her father ever interacting with her child.

Instead of all that, she tries to focus on something else, something good. "My mom still here?"

Robin sits down on the edge of the bed and even though she can't see his eyes, his attentive gaze feels warm on her. "She never left. She's taking a break down in the cafeteria."

Stephanie blinks once in acknowledgement, unable to muster the energy to nod. One hand creeps up to her stomach, where only hours before there had a baby waiting to be born. It's flat and empty under her palm now, and the reminder leaves Stephanie feeling hollow in more ways than one.

"So," she asks, "are you back for good?"

Robin shrugs uncertainly. "I don't know," he admits. "I'm gonna have a lot of explaining to do when I get home."

He reaches out a gloved hand and she takes it immediately. His fingers are a reassuring weight around her own, a quiet promise that he's there for her. His idle comment piques her interest, but as curious as she is about his other life, she's not about to pry. Identities are secret for a reason, and after everything he's done for her throughout her pregnancy, not pushing him is the least she can do.

Him being here is more than enough.

"I won't ask who you'll have to explain to."

Robin gives her a grateful smile. "I'm working on getting back to Gotham heights permanently," he assures.

"Cool." It comes out as a whisper, and they're quiet for a long moment. Stephanie's not sure where to take the conversation next.

Robin does, though. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, then hesitates. She knows what he's about to bring up.

Please don't, she silently begs him.

But he still swallows, seems to steel his nerve, and tentatively says, "Stephanie? You haven't asked about the baby."

Stephanie averts her eyes, emotion clogging her voice. The mention of the baby is enough to tear at her heart. She tries to force herself to look back at Robin and can't quite manage it. It's a struggle to even get words past the lump in her throat. "I've... I've been afraid to."

The smile comes back, reassuring this time. There's a hopeful tint to it, and he clearly isn't picking up on the implications of what she's saying. Or he's intentionally ignoring it, hoping he's mistaken. She can feel that hope in Robin's tightened grip. "The baby's fine. A healthy little — "

Stephanie weakly lifts a hand and places them on his lips. A gentle interruption. A silent affirmation.

"Stop. I don't want to know."

Robin's face falls, and his shoulders slump ever so slightly. Now he clearly understands what she's saying. He takes in a shaky breath and when he exhales, both air and hope leave him. "Then you've decided to go through with the adoption?"

Adoption. The mere word sends an avalanche of emotions tumbling through her. It's such a huge decision she's making, and for all she's refused to know about the baby, she already loves the child with everything she has — mind, body, and soul. She wants to keep the baby so bad, wants to cherish it and watch its first steps and see it grow into a wonderful person... but that wouldn't be fair. Her kid deserves much more than an irresponsible teenager who puts herself in danger every night. Who was stupid enough to let herself get knocked up.

"Yes."

"I didn't talk you into anything, did I?" Robin asks anxiously. His brow creases with worry.

"I made up my own mind."

He's quiet for a minute, his expression solemn. His next words come out haltingly. "Do you even want to see the baby?"

Yes.

"No."

Tears prick at her eyes and roll down her cheeks. Stephanie rolls over onto her side to hide her face and clenches her eyes shut in a futile attempt to hold back the pain. She ignores Robin's concerned gaze and brokenly whispers, "It's better this way."

Robin doesn't say anything at first, but she can practically feel his hand reaching for her. He doesn't get the chance to do anything more before they hear the door opening. Then her mom's voice is calling out.

"Stephanie? You're awake?"

Stephanie quickly rubs her tears away and returns to lying on her back. Robin has abruptly vanished, and she sees the flutter of his cape just before it disappears through the window. She tries to force a smile, but it comes out weak and shaky. Her voice isn't much better.

"Sorta! You been here the whole time, Mom?"

Her mom comes forward and sits on her bedside, unknowingly taking Robin's spot. Her eyes are soft, and it comforts Stephanie in a whole different way, the way only a mother can comfort her child.

A comfort Stephanie will never be able to give her own child.

"The whole time, dear."

They only talk for a minute before exhaustion brings the conversation to a stop. Stephanie lays there for a long time, tired but mind unable to settle. Despite her best attempts, she can't stop thinking about her baby, and the awareness that she's not going to know anything about it, nor it her, rips her heart to shreds.

It's better this way, she tells herself, and hopes that in time, the knowledge of that will dull the grief.

Eventually, a doctor enters the room. He's all kind but distracted smiles. He turns to her mother and says they need to talk about the health and future of her child. Her mother glances at Stephanie and asks to take the discussion into the hall. The doctor is surprised; he agrees nonetheless.

She wants to ask after her baby.

She doesn't.

Her mom and the doctor disappear into the hallway, and Stephanie is left alone, staring after them, ears straining against her wishes for snippets of their conversation.

Only then she's not alone. There is a man in the room with her; tall, lean, graceful. He glides forward with silent steps. It's hard to make out any clear details of his face, for some odd reason, but what she can see doesn't seem familiar to her.

For some reason, instead of stirring panic like it should, his presence is a soothing balm. It fills the room like the warm light of a candle, soft and whispering of calm nights and happy days. She relaxes back into the hospital bed and watches him come around to the side without protest. She's too tired to argue anyway, even if she had wanted to.

The man kneels down so their faces are level. A hand rests gently on one of her own, and the touch is light as a feather and just as soft.

"She'll be okay," the man whispers. "She'll want for nothing. She will grow into a marvelous woman, free from pain and trauma. She'll be happy and carefree and her foster parents will cherish and adore her. Her mother will be devoted and nurturing, her father reliable and kind. She will have a normal life, without vigilantism and all the dangers it brings. She will be okay."

She. Her baby is a she. Stephanie has a daughter. The assurances assuage the last of her doubts and she closes her eyes in relief. Now she knows she made the right choice for certain — for whoever he is, something whispers that the man's words are truth. Her daughter is going to have a better life than Stephanie could ever give her. Her loss still fiercely aches inside her, but as long as her baby is happy, Stephanie can bear it.

She smiles faintly at the man, and mouths, Thank you. The man's eyes crinkle warmly and he sits with her until her mother comes back.

Cass can still hear her victims' cries. The sensation of bones snapping under her grip. If she looks at her hands, she'll see the phantom blood staining them. Whenever she strikes an enemy, she can feel the way flesh and bones gave way beneath her fist. Can feel how easy it would be to go just a little further. Add just a little more force. Take it that last step. Snuff out a life. Just like that.

It frightens her. But as afraid as she is, it pales in the face of her anger. The fog that had been muddling her mind has lifted, and in its place is an ice-cold fury.

Years ago, Cass made a vow to never kill again. Then they did this. Deathstroke and her father, they made her murder people. They injected her with that drug and made her compliant in a way she'd never been before, not even as a child, and they'd made her kill. She can remember how she didn't even care then; all she had felt was an apathy towards their deaths and a powerful loyalty to Deathstroke.

Some of them had fought to the end. Some of them had given up. Some of them had begged for their lives.

All of them had died, nothing but terror-pain-please in their last moments.

And those are only the ones she remembers. The drugs they had injected her with makes her memory fuzzy; there are large swathes of time where she can barely recall what she had been doing, let alone who she might have killed. It's worse in many ways, not knowing. She's left mourning for the unknown lives she's stolen.

And as she shakes away the last vestiges of the drugs, she decides that she's going to break her vow once again and make her captors pay.

Barbara keeps her from killing Deathstroke that day, looking at her with shock-concern-wariness. They defeat the Titans East, and then she and Tim bring Cass back to Gotham. Back to Wayne Manor. Back to what's supposed to be home.

It doesn't feel like home anymore.

Home is supposed to be clean and happy and safe, and every moment she spends there now, she can't help but feel that she's infecting it with her taint. She walks through the halls and feels little better than an outsider, an intruder.

Upon returning to Gotham, Alfred smiles at her, and though she can see a hint of caution in the set of his shoulders, he welcomes her back with open arms. It's not quite the same care-concern-love from before, but it's close, extremely close.

He's the only one. The others watch her as if she's a ticking time bomb. As if at any moment, she'll explode and take them all out with her. Their distrust lurks in the hallways, stifling and heavy.

She can see they want to trust her. They do. But whenever they look at her, their shoulders stiffen and she knows they're thinking how she had wounded Kara, how she left countless injuries in her wake, how she had come close to killing many innocents as well. Their bodies scream betrayal-suspicion-broken-trust. Even knowing what Deathstroke did to her, broken trust is always hard to repair, and this family has never been one to forgive quickly. One of many things they have all picked up from their father.

Bruce tries to keep her on a short leash. She grows restless quickly, the desire for retribution a cold fire inside her. Cass is going to kill Deathstroke, and she can't do it cooped up inside the Manor. She won't let what him hurt anyone else, but Bruce and the rest of the family keep standing in her way.

Still, she's been trained by the best of the best, and it's not long before she's slipping out, searching for leads. Hunting down the world's most dangerous mercenary and the man who sired her but was in no way her dad.

Cass is all too aware that she doesn't have anyone to hold her back now. She's walking a fine line here, and no one will be close enough to catch her if she falls. Deathstroke must be stopped, though, and if that means slipping over the line...

Well, he won't be able to hurt any more people. That makes it worth whatever this is going to cost Cass.

And if she's lucky, then maybe, just maybe, Bruce and the others will understand why she had to do it. Cass knows without a doubt that any trust in her will be shattered, possibly beyond repair. Maybe, though, she won't lose everything. Maybe, Bruce won't turn his back on her.

But she knows better.

Bruce, for all that he loves his family, still has rigid rules and a straightforward view of justice. It is doubtful that he will see why she killed, only that she did. He will not accept her after her mission is complete. Cass will be alone again; she'll lose her place. Her home.

Her family.

After another night out in the streets — where she's hopefully picked up a lead — Jason catches her in the Batcave alone. He's deeply suspicious of her intentions. He doesn't outright accuse her of being a traitor; his tone, however, is carrying sharp implications. The don't come to blows, but it's a close one. Jason almost punches her, before he pauses, his gaze briefly flicking behind her, and tries very obviously to restrain himself.

Bruce and Tim intervene before it can escalate again. Bruce and Jason get into another argument, before the latter storms off angrily, unconvinced that she's truly on their side. The other two leave almost immediately after. Despite their firm defense of her actions, there was a telling skepticism in their eyes.

Cass is left with standing alone in the middle of the Cave, Bruce's parting words echoing in her ears.

"Don't make me regret this."

Not long after, Cass finds herself on a rooftop in a quieter part of town, with nothing for company except the whistling wind and the sourness of guilt curdling on her tongue. Stars twinkle high above her, half-hidden in the city's smog but still visible.

When she escaped from her father years ago, after her first kill, she had loved to star gaze. Every chance she found, she would go outside and look at the night sky, drinking in the beauty of the silver-speckled expanse. They had been reminders of her freedom. Reminders that there is more to the world than death. The stars had been her only company back then, young and alone and lost.

Now, staring at the scattered lights she can still see, it feels like the stars are all that will be left for her.

Cass can't explain what prompts her to glance over her shoulder right then, but she does anyway. Instincts are not something she ignores. There is a man behind her, his blue gaze steady. He glides across the rooftop, his strides long and graceful and silent. His form is just the slightest bit hazy and indistinct, like the smoke of a campfire, but as he draws closer, it solidifies. Cass watches curiously as he settles onto the roof edge beside her. She can't find any malicious intentions from him, so she lets him without protest.

He looks vaguely familiar, but she can't place his face. She's sure she's seen it somewhere, though. Cass waits patiently for him to speak, but when he doesn't, she turns her attention back to the stars. In the corner of her eye, she sees the man doing the same.

"They really are beautiful," he muses finally. "I never properly admired them like I should have. Always too busy with this and that.

His voice is light and contemplative. She makes a vague noise that could be interpreted as agreement.

"Moments like this... they make me think of life. How precious it was. How we should treasure it, because we don't know how long we might have left. I'm lucky every time I get to see the night sky. Death really can be a cruel punishment, to take something this simple, this beautiful, from someone."

Cass looks at the man, understanding immediately what he's getting at. His eyes initially stay locked on the distant lights, but a moment later, he lowers his gaze and meets hers calmly, solemnly, sadly.

"I know you're angry at them. I can't blame you; I would be too. But are you sure you really want to kill them?"

"He made me kill," she says. "Deserves it."

"Maybe," the man replies noncommittally. "But an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. I can't deny that the world would be better off without them. I can't deny that they don't deserve punishment. But you don't deserve it. You deserve a better life than one with their deaths hanging over your head."

"Why care? I don't know you."

"No. But I know you. And I know that to kill them will leave a heavy weight on your heart. You're always going to be tormenting yourself over the lives you chose to take, even more than the ones they made you take. I want you to let it rest, and pursue them for justice, not vengeance. If you feel they truly deserve death, then nothing I say will stop you. In that case, all I can ask is that you don't do it. That you leave the deed to one who will be able to sleep at night with that weight."

Cass tips her head back to gaze at the stars contemplatively. He's not wrong. She already sees the faces of her victims whenever she closes her eyes. The guilt is an ever-present stone in her stomach, a constant reminder of the lives she's extinguished. She hasn't found the chance to get retribution on either of them yet. And in the weeks since then, her initial rage has had time to cool, and her grief has settled in.

To knowingly and willingly choosing to kill someone now, even if those someones are Deathstroke and her father...

"Think on it, if nothing else. I want what's best for you, but only you can truly decide what that is. Whatever you choose, just know that I will stand by you. No matter what other people may think of you, I will always do my best to be there for you."

"Why?" She slants her eyes at the man and reads compassion-worry-honesty. Why is he here? Why is he trying to help her? Why does he care? Her one-word question is all of those and more.

He shrugs.

"Because that's what family is for."

Unbidden, a smile flits across her face. The man's lips curl up, and when he breathes, the wind breathes with him.

They watch the stars for a while.

The silence is a soft blanket around her shoulders, a gentle embrace of love. When she finally looks back over at the man, his form has vanished; but his comforting presence lingers long into the night. Something heavy in her chest relaxes, and the ugly stone of guilt sitting in her stomach begins to dissolve little by little. When Cass looks down at her hands again, she doesn't see the death they have wrought anymore.

She sees the future they can shape.

A future with her family. All of her family.

Cass looks back at the stars and murmurs, "Family," and the night hums softly in return.

Thoughts? Questions?