The propellers made an awful, clacking noise above the city, loud and militant that pounded in her head. Cold, grey buildings shot up into the sky, dagger-like, choking the blue of all splendor.
There was no watery horizon. There was none to be seen for miles, and it irked her, irked her in a way that there was nothing even vaguely conducive for a peace of mind in this place. Water was clear, transparent, flowing. Water was there to provide when darkness and silence couldn't.
And now, none of these seemed to be present here. And she hated that, hated that rising, sinking feeling in her stomach, those bothersome emotions whirling in her head. She quirked her mouth in distaste as she watched the helicopters scan the city.
This was Gotham City, in its state of eternal, languid turmoil.
Taking a solemn breath with her nostrils, she gathered enough power. The chakra stone on her forehead blipped, shone, then faded into nothingness. In its stead, slowly, a purple headband materialized in the tufts of her hair, bearing the crimson diadem.
She was standing on the sidewalk, beside a red-bricked building about five stories high. The building housed several residents, some she came to know, whether directly or gratuitously. Some, she had known by their turmoil, keeping her awake at night, staring at the dilapidated ceiling, listening to the beat of their hearts. But that wasn't important now.
Something vibrated in her pocket, a secondhand phone she acquired when she first - when they first - moved to Gotham. She picked it up. "Here."
A feminine voice was at the other end. "Watching you from the window, darling. You know those 'copters won't disappear like magic."
She snorted. "Like you can't make them disappear yourself." She could feel the smirk from the other end of the line. "All right, all right, I'm coming in. It's all ragtag and gloom here, anyway."
"I thought you liked ragtag and gloom. But then again, I'm just drawing from what I've been told."
"No, not this kind," she said, eyes scanning the surroundings. The copters were still hovering, still searching, still keenly silent. The people on the streets looked like muted images from a vintage screen. "Something about this place wears me down. And I would've appreciated you coming down in person instead of calling me. Or teleport, or whatever."
"Alright then. Remember, we've got an act in one hour." The call ended.
With a sigh, she tucked it back into her pocket, and scrutinized the sky once more. The heavy fabric of her striped sweater still felt strange to her, as with the roughness of her jeans. Her mother once told tales of such fashion encounters, telling her how she had grown up in Gotham (her name was Angela Roth) and wore the same items.
Entering, she moved briskly though a flight of stairs, carefully counting all floors past. Finally, at the fourth, she headed for 417 and gave it a steady knock. "I'm here," she said, unenthused. "Now stop badgering me."
The door opened, revealing a rather shapely woman. She was wearing those high-waisted shorts this time, with a yellow shirt that curved around the shoulders. Her hair, although often loose, was in a low pony this time. She smiled knowingly.
"Thought you'd probably ignore me even if I called you from the window. A magician can't work without her assistant."
She groaned, clearly displeased. "I hope this mess ends soon enough. I was never fond of live magic shows."
The woman laughed. "Well, well! Aren't you a debbie downer? C'mon, let's go through one last round of rehearsing."
That was a normal day nowadays, in the weeks that followed the incident. She still thought about it much, somewhat obsessed, until Zatanna (the woman she was living with now), in a fit of frustration, declared that she'd snap out of it in the risk of brooding like the Batman or his (ex-) sidekick. She'd counter-protest and appeal that she'd always been that way, ever since she was born, but the woman wouldn't stop on her case. Eventually, her obsession died down, but she still thought of it in idle moments.
That incident left the Tower (and the one in Steel City) in emergency lockdown, unaccessible to even them, its inhabitants. That incidenthad scattered them, split their group and that in the east, in places far away from their bases. It was the one thing that - Heaven forbid - had sent them fearing for their lives. In desperation, they had called out help from the Justice League (JL), which helped placate them from further harm and provided them with needed protection.
After all, they were young. After all, they were just teens - and yet, in their tender age, had gone through wear and back.
It was an incident she would never forget.
She, after some negotiations with the JL, would be Zatanna's ward until a unified strategy was formed. Zatanna was ideal - after all, like her, she had knowledge of the mystical. However, they had different temperaments, and her lively spirit at times was too exhausting to keep up with. Not to mention the hoarding, how she hovered over her like an overprotective mother.
Although Zatanna was her guardian, she knew ( to which Zatanna herself confirmed later on) that the woman had her doubts about her young ward, especially with her demonic heritage. Thus the overprotectiveness was not out of an extreme manifestation of quasi-maternal love, but of apprehension - which fortunately died down slowly over the course of her stay.
"Not bad," the woman said, after the girl performed another feat of levitation. She gave the girl a proud smile. "You know, I had my reservations about you, but you've proven me wrong once again."
"I get that a lot," she said plainly, putting back the pieces of shattered glass together. Then, with her eyes closed, she chanted with a slow breath. The pieces merged together, almost gracefully, back into a pristine glass vase. Zatanna clapped in amazement.
"Wonderful! Almost perfect, just a little polishing on the merge."
"Thank you," she said, letting herself enjoy a little smile.
"Raven, isn't it?" the woman said, pondering. "Or do you prefer the other one?"
"Team protocol," she said, firmly. "We go by our alternate names."
"Rachel it is then," said Zatanna, smiling. "Though this arrangement's technically for protection, I'm glad I got such a gifted ward."
Another vibration was heard, to which the sorceress excused herself. "Sorry, darling! Gotta take this call." Then, conjuring a phone, she paced to the other side of the room and took the call.
"Yes, Zatanna speaking. Oh, hey, nice to hear from you as well. Yes, she's with me... mm-hm, mm-hm... oh, drats, does it have to be now? I have - we have - a show in thirty... oh, you're impossible. Fine, fine. We'll be there in a jiffy. Oh yes, goodbye." Shutting the phone off, her high spirits seemed a little dampened. "Guess we'll have to cancel our show, Rae. Say, how long have you seen any of your other teammates?"
Rachel thought, mildly surprised. She hadn't thought about that in a while - it seemed like only weeks - and realized, in the midst of all the lives shows and getting used to her guardian, she had seen none of them at all. Somehow, something heavy settled in her gut as she recalled those days of pondering over the incident, but no the people she loved the most.
"Months, I think," she replied promptly, concealing any traces of her true feelings.
Zatanna smiled. "Well, deary, you're in luck! You'll be seeing one of them soon enough."
Her eyes widened. Somehow, the prospect of seeing an old teammate seemed to put more vigour in the slowly moving vessels of her body, her eyes widening more than usual. She concealed such physiological enticements.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean to say is," she said, before elapsing into the playful, booming tone of a performer. "Wayne Manor awaits, my dear!"