The wind was softer tonight. Still biting, still Gotham, but it carried less sting than the night before.

He was already sitting when she arrived, boots planted like he'd been there a while. Helmet on. Arms draped loose over his knees. Watching the skyline like it owed him an answer he hadn't figured out how to ask yet.

Io approached without flourish, the dark of her scarf shifting gently in the breeze, and held something out as she reached the edge of the rooftop.

A 36-ounce thermos. Matte black. Sleek. Practical. Optional cup screwed to the top, thick enough to keep heat for hours. A comfort grip handle he wouldn't admit looked kind of perfect in his glove. She offered it like it was sacred.

"I brought you something," she said quietly. No smile yet. Just calm honesty. "It's black, just like you asked. I chose the thermos myself. Durable. Travel-friendly. And, perhaps, slightly dramatic."

Jason stared at it for a beat. Then took it—slowly. Heavy. Warm in his palm. Real.

"I don't mind if you take it and leave after your answer," she continued, voice gentling with each word. "Or stay with me. But I must request—" she tilted her head a little, almost formal "—that you let me know if I've held up my end of the bargain. Whether or not I've managed to brew coffee good enough to impress you."

That part, oddly, felt more serious than anything she'd said last night.

Jason didn't answer. Instead, he unscrewed the lid, cracked open the cup, and pulled a slim, collapsible metal vial from a compartment on his belt. A little shake of powder into the coffee. He waited.

Io blinked once.

Jason watched the coffee. Watched the powder. It fizzed faintly, settled.

She raised an eyebrow. "A poison test?"

He shrugged like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "I've had worse gifts. One guy handed me a muffin full of razor wire once."

"…Did you eat it?"

"I ate around it."

Io covered her mouth, but laughter still leaked out.

Jason waited one more beat, then removed the test straw tucked near his helmet's jaw seam. Slotted it in, and took a sip—short, thoughtful, from a special port from his helmet.

He paused.

"…Not burnt," he said. "Not battery acid. You didn't go weak either."

Another sip.

"…You spiked this with cardamom?"

"I did," Io said, pleased. "I thought you might appreciate warmth that lingers."

He screwed the lid back on and rested the thermos between his palms. He didn't get up. Didn't deflect. Just sat there with it.

"Alright," he said finally. "You win this round."

And Io—graceful as always—sat beside him again, her own cup tucked in her hands, a quiet satisfaction in the way her shoulder brushed his when the wind shifted.

No further praise was required.

The gift had been accepted.

And he'd stayed.
"So-" she starts. "Would you like the funny story from way back when?"

Jason glanced sideways, the thermos still warm in his hands.

His voice was low, dry, but the edge of something wry tugged at it. "You mean this wasn't the funny story?"

Io smiled, slow and amused, sipping from her own cup like this was exactly the reaction she'd expected. "No, this was the bribe. Entirely separate ritual."

She turned slightly toward him, letting one leg dangle over the edge, the other folded beneath her. "The story, however, is from, 1928. It involves an elephant, three counterfeiters, and one very ill-advised game of poker."

Jason blinked. "That sounds—"

"Unbelievable?" she offered. "Because it is. But I swear to you on every plant in my greenhouse that it's true."

He exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. The kind that tried to hide itself in steam but didn't quite succeed.

"Alright. Let's hear it."

Io's eyes sparkled faintly in the dark, catching just a hint of starlight. "Very well," she said, settling in, "but you may not interrupt until after the bit with the monocle. That part deserves its dignity."

And as the city pulsed beneath them—violent and vast and unknowingly cradling this quiet moment—she began.

Io leaned forward just slightly, her tone conspiratorial, like she was drawing him in with a secret too good not to share.

"So. Picture it.Gotham BoardWalk, 1928. Fog thick enough to chew, the kind that clings to your coat and makes the gas lamps flicker like they're nervous. I'm trailing a counterfeiter ring through the docks—low-rent smugglers, bad forgers, worse gamblers. Think they're clever. One of them has a habit of bragging to dockworkers about his 'untouchable' operation. I find this charmingly stupid."

Jason shifted slightly, the thermos still in his hands, helmet turned toward her like he was trying not to be interested. He was.

"Well, one night, they move their little operation to the back room of a traveling circus—because nothing says stealth like performing elephants and fire-breathers." A pause. "You'd think that would be the most chaotic part of this story. You'd be wrong."

She took a sip of her tea, letting the tension build with a practiced pause.

"They're running counterfeit poker chips to test how well the press is doing. I slip in pretending to be an illusionist's assistant—cape, stage glitter, the whole thing. They don't ask questions. Men like that rarely do when you bring confidence and the threat of violence."

Jason's brow lifted under the helmet.

"They get suspicious when I start winning, of course. But I'm not there to clean them out—I'm there to find the press plates. Unfortunately, the elephant—Matilda—develops a particular fondness for me. And she is very protective of her favorites."

Another beat. "So when one of the men gets handsy and tries to drag me away, Matilda intervenes."

Jason gave a low hum, like he was already guessing where this was going.

"She flips the table. Full stampede. Three forgers covered in brandy and playing cards, two of them locked in a closet by circus performers for their own safety. I'm trying to salvage the plate, my hair's full of sawdust, and then…"

She lifts a finger, solemn. "Then comes the monocle."

Jason snorts.

Io smiles.

"One of the smugglers had worn a monocle to look more 'respectable.' Matilda steps on it by accident, then sits on him. Entirely unhurt, but very offended. The man never forgave me. Claimed I 'weaponized the elephant.'"

Jason gave a low, sharp laugh that surprised even him.

"Did you?" he asked.

Io sipped her tea again. "Wouldn't dream of it. Matilda had excellent instincts."

He chuckled again, then shook his head. "That's the dumbest story I've ever heard."

"But did it distract you from whatever dark cloud you were brooding under tonight?"

"…Yeah. A little."

"Then it did its job." She smiled, soft and a little proud. "That's one. I've got about… oh, eighty more, if you ever need them."

Jason turned back toward the skyline, steam curling near the edge of his helmet.

Jason was quiet for a few beats. Long enough that the wind had time to shift, brushing over the rooftop and tugging at the edge of her coat.

Io didn't press.

She never did.

She just sat there, thermos cradled in her hands, warm in the quiet.

Then, just when she'd settled back into the silence—

"…Alright."

His voice was reluctant. Gruff. The kind of sound someone made when they were trying to talk themselves out of saying something even as it was already leaving their mouth.

She glanced over, curious.

"I've got one," he said, the edge of his helmet angled toward her like a dare. "You laugh too loud, I take the coffee back."

A flicker of a smile touched her lips. "Understood."

He shifted where he sat. Like the memory itself made him uncomfortable.

"So—few years back. I'm tracking this arms dealer through the docks. Sleazy guy. Shaved eyebrows, smells like glue and expired cologne. He's using a cargo warehouse as his front, right? But he's got a tight schedule—every Tuesday, like clockwork, he meets with his buyer in this sketchy side alley."

Io gave a small nod, listening intently.

"So I decide I'll get creative. Slip in early, rig one of the crates. I tag the buyer, mark the car tires, prep the exit. Whole thing's tight. Precision. Like Bat-level precision."

He paused. "And then. I step around the corner to make the grab, and—"

He held up a gloved finger.

"Six raccoons. In a trench coat."

Io blinked.

"…What?"

"I am not joking. Six raccoons. In a full-length trench coat. Arms dealer used 'em as a distraction when he saw me coming. They scattered. I tripped over a trash bin. He got away on a jet-ski."

Io blinked again. Then covered her mouth with the back of her hand, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

"You tripped—over a trash bin—because of raccoons."

Jason sighed, the sound deep and long-suffering. "I landed in old fish water. For nothing. My comms were on. Nightwing still brings it up."

Io was properly laughing now. Not mocking—just deeply amused, her laughter like soft bells struck with a grin.

"You were outmaneuvered by raccoons."

"Strategically deployed raccoons," he corrected, deadpan. "Weaponized. Just like your elephant."

That made her laugh even harder.

Jason shook his head and leaned back against the rooftop ledge, shoulders a little looser than before.

"…Guess that makes us even," he muttered.

Io turned her head toward him, her smile still warm. "Not even close. But it's a start."
There's another pause, another beat of silence between them.

"You mentioned NightWing, is it true he likes to do random flips during patrol. That's my only question regarding him" She asks with a hint of caution, she knows they don't really get along.
Jason let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, tilting his head back like the sky might have the strength to answer for him.

"God. Yes."

He gestured vaguely with one hand, like he could physically illustrate the absurdity.

"I've seen that man do a double backflip to answer a phone call. Lands perfectly, presses one button, says, 'Nightwing here' like he didn't just defy gravity for absolutely no reason."

Io blinked, then gave a soft hum, entirely unsurprised.

"That does sound like him. Theatrical, but coordinated."

Jason snorted. "Theatrical is one word for it. Sometimes I think he keeps count. Like there's a tally in his head. 'Patrol route: four flips, two front rolls, one dramatic landing.'"

She smiled, gently amused. "Well, I only had one question about him. That answered it perfectly."

Jason shook his head, a little of the exasperated fondness slipping through. "One day he's gonna roll an ankle doing a flourish and I'll never let him live it down."

She raised her cup. "To justice, and unnecessary acrobatics."

He tapped the thermos lightly against hers. "Cheers."

She chuckled into her tea after the cheers, the sound low and warm, and took a sip before murmuring—just loud enough for him to catch it—
"Heh. Harley owes me five bucks."

Jason stilled, brows drawing together beneath the helmet's edge.
"…Which Harley?" he asked slowly, with the wary suspicion of someone who'd lived in Gotham too long to take a name like that lightly.

Io didn't hesitate. "Harley Q," she said, casual as if she'd just mentioned a neighbor borrowing sugar. "And I made a bet to find out if Nightwing is as flippy as we've been led to believe."

There was a beat of silence as Jason processed that—really processed it.
"You and Harley Quinn made a bet about Dick's parkour problem?"

Io nodded, utterly unbothered. "We had a rather spirited debate after watching some grainy rooftop footage. She claimed it was a one-time flourish. I, having seen him mid-battle, mid-conversation, and mid–grilled cheese bite all while upside-down, disagreed."

Jason barked out a laugh—quick and rough, like it had snuck up on him. "What the hell were the stakes?"

"I bet five dollars and a pressed violet from 1947. She countered with five and a Polaroid of one of her hyenas in sunglasses. It was a very official wager."

He leaned forward slightly, helmet tilted toward her. "I don't even know what to do with half of that sentence."

"You can help me collect," Io offered easily. "She'll try to weasel out, but I did say, quote, 'confirmation from a known vigilante source.' That's you."

Jason laughed again, the sound softer this time. "Jesus. You two betting on Dick Grayson's aerial showboat tendencies. Gotham's officially broken."

"The heart wants what it wants," she said, deadpan.

"And yours wanted a hyena Polaroid?"

She nodded, serene as ever. "Oh yes. Full scientific method. Observation, witness accounts, at least one civilian retelling, and—if fortune smiles upon me—a Polaroid. I see Harley tomorrow, so…" She gave him a look over the rim of her cup. "I suppose we'll find out if I win."

Jason barked a laugh despite himself, shaking his head slowly. "You people are unreal."

Io just sipped again, eyes twinkling over the steam. "We're enthusiastic."

She pauses again to let silence sit between them for a bit to let it all soak in before she brushed it away.
"Oh, question. What's the weirdest thing you've fallen into? I fell into an entire tub of lube in the mid 70's. I couldn't get out of the tub for five minuets, it was awful" a small shudder runs up her spine.
Jason paused mid-sip through his helmet port, visibly caught off guard. He turned his head slowly, the servos in his helmet clicking faintly.

"…You fell into what?"

Io gave a slow, solemn nod, as if confessing a great burden. "An industrial vat. Mid-70s. It was supposed to be glycerin. It was not." She lifted her tea as if in toast, eyes distant with the memory. "Five full minutes. Couldn't get a grip on anything. Like being reborn in a nightmare."

Jason blinked. "That's horrifying."

"It was a logistical tragedy," she said with great dignity. "And I smelled like artificial cherries for three weeks."

He let out a strangled noise—half laugh, half groan—and rubbed a hand over the front of his helmet like it might clear the mental image. "Okay. You win. I was gonna say I once fell through a skylight into a vat of ball bearings during a stakeout. Thought I broke my ribs. But that's got nothing on Cherry Slip 'n Slide."

She gave him a pleased, almost regal nod. "As it should be."

"…I'm never letting you live that down."

"I have already accepted this," she said, eyes twinkling. "Now—your turn. Top your own story. I dare you."

Jason let out a low, amused huff—more breath than sound—and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. The skyline glinted off his helmet, but even without seeing his face, the shift in his posture said everything: challenge accepted.

"All right," he said, voice warming with that telltale edge of mischief. "You wanna play dirty, huh? Fine."

He angled his head toward her, like this was sacred intel. "Couple years back, I was chasing a smuggler through the old aqueduct tunnels—real nasty setup, tight turns, no light. I'm catching up, right on his tail, and I go for the leap—vault this broken pipe—and I don't realize the ledge is covered in algae." He held up a hand for dramatic pause. "Next thing I know, I slip, bounce off the opposite wall, flip backwards, and land ass first in an old barrel of expired cologne. The fancy kind."

Io covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

He pressed on. "And not just on me. No. It soaked into the suit. Everywhere. I couldn't go within a city block of a mission without giving us away. Roy couldn't stop laughing for a week. My mentor at the time grounded me just out of pity."

He leaned back smugly, arms crossed. "So for three days, I was a walking bottle of Eau de Regret."

Io was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, trying desperately not to spill her tea. "Did you keep the barrel?"

He tilted his head, mock-offended. "I launched that thing off a cliff."

She grinned. "Understandable."

He let the moment stretch, pleased. "So. Lube tub or cologne barrel?"

Io made a thoughtful hum, swirling the last of her tea. "Hard to say. Yours had a flair for irony. But mine had existential dread. I say… we call it a draw."

Jason nodded solemnly. "A truce among the tragically slippery."

She raised her cup. "To unfortunate containers."

And, after a beat, he reached out and clinked the thermos against it. "To the ones we survive… and never, ever speak of again."

Io suddenly gasped, like someone had just whispered a forgotten truth into her ear. Her eyes lit up, an almost childlike thrill flashing across her face.

Jason straightened a little. "The hell was that?"

"I just remembered," she said, leaning in like she was letting him in on a secret. "I have something super illegal and virtually impossible to get in my closet."

"…What kind of 'illegal' are we talking?" His tone was wary, but intrigued.

She looked him dead in the eyes, a slow grin blooming like the most elegant kind of chaos. "I have a moon rock. In my closet. From Apollo 11's landing zone."

Jason stared. "…You what."

"I went and grabbed it a few weeks after the astronauts came back," she said with unrepentant pride, brushing a curl behind her ear like she'd just mentioned picking up groceries. "While everyone was still celebrating and their eyes weren't focused outward anymore… I slipped in. Just for a moment."

He blinked under the helmet. "You stole from the moon."

"I borrowed," she said sweetly.

"Jesus Christ."

Io just sipped her tea, pleased as a cat in the sun. "It was lonely. It wanted company."

He barked a short laugh despite himself. "You're insane."

"And yet here we are," she replied, eyes twinkling. "Rooftop pals. One of whom owns lunar contraband."

Jason leaned back on his palms, still processing. "You're lucky no one's invented space cops yet."

She tapped the side of her cup thoughtfully. "If they come, I'll offer them tea and show them the rock. Everyone loves a story."

Jason just shook his head. "You're not real."

"Oh, I assure you," she said lightly, "I'm very, very real. Just… inconvenient to explain."

Io hums softly and happily as she sips from her tea before she asks another question. "Do you have anything illegal stashed away, Red Hood?"
He snorts, the sound low and amused behind the helmet. "You're gonna have to narrow that down."

A beat.

Then, with mock thoughtfulness, "Technically or morally illegal? Because if we're going by federal standards, I'm probably a walking warehouse of contraband."

He leans back on his hands, glancing her way. "But I don't think even I can compete with moon rock in the closet level felony. That's next tier."

A pause.

"…You didn't lick it, did you?"

"Oh heavens no, I saw what that dust did to their machines. Wasn't risking it … You got a question for me? I'm a decently open book" she sips once again as she gazes at his crimson helmet.
He tilted his head, considering her for a long second—longer than he meant to. The kind of look that wasn't suspicious, just… trying to figure out how someone like her existed in a city like this.

"…Alright," he said, voice quieter now. "Why Gotham?"

He didn't mean it like most people did. Not why are you here, not why would anyone stay.

He meant: With all you are, all you've seen—why this cursed, beautiful, broken place? Why make it yours?

And somehow, she'd know that.

Io's voice was steady at first, but soft—measured like each word she pulled up had weight behind it. Words she'd said before, maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe these ones had been tucked away for too long, finally allowed out under the hush of night and the watchful hush of Jason's silence.

"Because it's where my father 'human mind you' decided to settle down," she began, eyes turned toward the distant skyline like it held the memory in trust. "It was toward the end of World War II, when it became obvious the Germans were going to be defeated. My father fought tooth and nail—legally, formally, with everything he had—to get me out of the American government's grasp."

She drew a breath and Jason could hear the tension, the catch in the memory.

"I was almost of human drafting age. Almost done with training. And they were… very reluctant to let go of a nearly finished product."

That word hung heavy in the air—product—and Jason hated how easily it could be true in her world. The way people like her were seen by people like them.

"But I matched every box," she continued, lifting her chin slightly. "Every legal definition of what was considered a sentient being at the time. It was enough."

The breeze ruffled her scarf as she turned her gaze downward, watching her hands instead of the horizon.

"He grew up here," she said more quietly. "Park Row. Before it became Crime Alley. He used to run errands for the shops with a stick of candy in his cheek. When he won the case, when we were finally free, we spent nearly everything he had to get the bar up and running. Our place."

Jason didn't speak. He could feel her settling into the memory, letting it guide her, letting it say what she couldn't always say aloud.

"Then Prohibition hit." A wry smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. "We adapted. It became a café, and it stayed that way. Safer. More honest, at least on the surface."

She glanced at him, brief but searching.

"I've thought about opening it as a bar again on off-nights. Not every night, just when I'm not working the café the same day. But… the kind of crowd it might draw worries me. I've spent a long time making that place feel safe."

Her gaze drifted again, somewhere far, farther than Gotham's lights.

"My father grew up here," she repeated, quieter now. "And I do what I can to help it heal. I've been living in the same building for about—" she paused, blinking. Her mouth opened, then closed again, and for a moment she looked almost stunned. "Oh… for a century now."

She let out a breath, half-laughing in disbelief. "That's insane…"

She stared off, dazed by the weight of her own years like it had just hit her all at once. The sheer span of time, and how it had shaped her—layer after layer.

Jason watched her in silence, something in his chest tightening. He'd always known she was older than she looked—older than anyone had a right to be and still move like light—but hearing it like that, in her voice, stripped down and open, made it real in a new way.

He imagined her as a girl—trained like a weapon, almost drafted, almost erased before her life could begin. He pictured the courtroom, the desperation in her father's face. A man already hardened by war, now battling a government to prove that his daughter was human enough to be free.

Jason couldn't say anything at first. Just breathed in the sharp city air and looked at her—really looked. Her fingers were resting on her thermos like it was an anchor. Her shoulders curled in just a little, not in weakness, but the way someone curls around something precious.

He shifted, finally, just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. Not a word. Not a joke. Not a sigh.

Just a presence.

After a moment, his voice rumbled low from under the helmet.

"You've been here longer than the bricks," he said, not unkindly. "And you still care more than most of the people who've been here five minutes."

Io smiled, faint but genuine.

Jason looked away again, but not far. Just far enough to let her breathe. "If you ever do open that bar," he said, "I'll help watch the door."

And he meant it.

He glanced over at her again, more curious than cautious now. "So… your dad. What was he like?"

It wasn't just small talk.

He was trying to understand the man who'd raised her.
She stared into the steam rising from her thermos like it could pull the memories back in clearer pieces. It twisted and curled in the air, catching the pale rooftop light, and for a moment Jason thought she might not answer.

Then—shoulders shrugged, a little breath through her nose—and she took a drink of her tea like it burned going down. Like she was steeling herself. Like someone saying fuck it without saying a word.

"At first," she began, quiet but unwavering, "he was inattentive. Didn't even want me as his charge—let alone to have a charge at all. The field medics and nurses raised me, really. They called me 'little phantom' back then." She glanced at him, a ghost of humor in her expression before it softened again. "But then… peace came. Or at least, a pause. And he didn't have anywhere else to be. No more missions. No excuse. He had to be with me."

She took another slow sip. Her pause this time was heavier. "I think he caught what he feared in those first few months," she said. "Affection. Attachment."

Jason felt something shift in his chest. He didn't move—he didn't dare—but it was there. That same thread she'd plucked before, tightening again.

"World War II changed him," she continued, voice growing steadier the deeper into memory she went. "He started hoarding every scrap of money he could. Quietly. Carefully. To hire the best lawyer he could afford. And he won. He won me."

That line. He won me. It landed like a soft hammer, heavy in all the right ways.

Jason's jaw tightened.

"And from that point on, he started to shine," she said. Her lips curved in a small, aching smile. "He opened the bar. Defended me when people had something cruel to say about how I looked. I worked the floor with the others and he never treated me like anything less than his own."

Jason exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like he was absorbing each piece of the man through her words. Respect was building in him like pressure behind a dam.

"He taught me how to be kind. How to make someone feel seen. How to run a distiller like it was an instrument." Her tone warmed at that—like she could still hear the click of copper pipes and glass seals. "He backed me when I fought to get my medical degree. Sat beside me in court. Six years later, I had the degree… and my first clinic."

She didn't look at him. She stared into the distance, across the skyline, caught somewhere between then and now.

"It took a while. But the elderly trusted me first. I worked from there. And then…" Her voice trailed off, softening like the end of a lullaby. "He passed in his sleep."

The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It held something.

Jason didn't speak right away. He let it linger with her, sat in it with her like it was sacred.

When he finally did speak, it was low. Reverent.

"He sounds like a damn good man."

Io nodded. "He was."

Another quiet beat.

"I'd have liked to meet him," Jason said. Not because he felt like he had to—but because he meant it.

She smiled faintly, eyes still far away.

"I think he would've liked you too."

—--
They'd been quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that was intentional—shared, but weighty. The skyline blinked its slow rhythm around them, soft light rolling over rooftops like a tide that never quite reached shore.

Jason hadn't touched his thermos in minutes like the storm cloud from before had returned, then he broke the silence like it had betrayed him.

"Do you ever feel like someone expects you to be... better than you are? Like whatever you've clawed your way through doesn't matter, because it doesn't fit their version of who you're supposed to be?"

He didn't raise his voice, but it carried like something cracking at the edges. Frustration in his jaw, in the stiff grip around the thermos.

"He looks at me like I'm still a project he can fix. Like I'm wrong for not letting shit go just because he did." A bitter huff. "And every time I try to say something, I'm the asshole for not being grateful enough. For not smiling through it."

He didn't offer names, but he didn't have to. The kind of anger in his voice—it had history behind it. Expectations that hadn't fit. Wounds still raw underneath patched armor.

Io was quiet for a moment, then exhaled softly. Her hands curled around her own cup of tea, not for the warmth, but for grounding.

"My father once gave his last week's wages to a woman who spat at me."

Jason's head shifted slightly toward her. He didn't interrupt.

"She came into the bar drunk, called me names—things I won't repeat—and broke two glasses before stumbling out. A few days later, he found her sleeping in a collapsed alley stairwell during the first snow."

Io's eyes were distant now, but not cold. She was there again, just enough to taste the memory.

"He bought her a coat, paid for a week's food, gave her my old gloves. I was furious. I said, 'Why give what's precious to someone who would've taken it from me if she could?'"

Jason held still. Watching.

"He said—'Because that's the point. Either we change the world by example, or we become what we hate trying to survive it.'"

She let the words settle between them.

"I didn't understand at the time. I still don't always agree. But I watched him do it again and again—kindness not because it was earned, but because it was needed."

Her gaze flicked over to Jason then, steady and clear.

"You don't have to forgive people who hurt you. But if your fire becomes your shape, not your tool… you'll forget what it was meant to protect."

The wind moved between them, softer now.

Jason let out a long breath. His shoulders dropped just enough for it to show. The thermos steamed faintly in his hands.

"…Your dad sounds like a pain in the ass," he muttered, almost too quiet to catch.

Io's smile was small and true. "He was. And brilliant."

Jason took another drink. Still no names. Still no resolutions. But for the first time tonight, his voice dropped into something almost calm.

"…Thanks."

Just that. Grudging. Honest.

The silence between them lingered, easy and companionable in the hush of the rooftop, until Jason broke it with a low, gravel-laced voice. The modulator warped his tone into something that might have sounded menacing to anyone else—but not to her. It never had.

"You mentioned that you run a Neutral Party…" he said slowly. "How does that work?"

Io tilted her head, considering the weight of the question. Her gaze drifted out over the Gotham skyline—soft with fog and distance, a strange kind of peace over a city that never truly slept.

"It's very… intricate," she said at last, voice thoughtful, measured. "But I suppose this story explains it well enough."

She let the memory stir, pulling from deep, deliberate corners of herself.

"It's the early 1940s. The Mafia had hit its peak, power consolidated in bloody handshakes and whispered threats. I'd secured neutrality—not fully, not the way I wanted it yet, but enough to build from. My clinics were serving the underbelly. I took poison requests, healing commissions, antidotes, diagnostics—anything to keep my presence there alive and seen. The families paid me for my discretion and results."

Her hands moved as she spoke, painting the air with fragments of the past.

"One day, I get contacted by one of the larger families. They're trying to meet with a rival faction—violent, impulsive, young. Too much testosterone, not enough sense. They want a mediator. So I listen. I get both sides' issues. I offer plans. Terms."

Her brow furrowed.

"Meeting day comes. A warehouse on the southeast end of Old Gotham. I arrive and they're already arguing—loud, heated, guns near drawn. Like children who've been handed arsenals."

She pinched the bridge of her nose with a tired exhale, the gesture worn and familiar.

"I step in. I project my voice—not my normal tone, something deeper. Sharper. Enough to slice clean through the chaos."

Her voice shifted as she echoed her younger self, louder now—still controlled.

"Gentlemen! You have already agreed to the terms of this meeting and you are close to voiding the contract! With the current conditions and the heat of it all, BOTH of your street cred will be destroyed!"

Jason's brow arched under the helmet.

"They stared," she continued, "but as men do… they ignored me."

A dry, weary chuckle left her.

"Of course they did."

"Pistols and tommies came out. Tension spiked like a gunpowder fuse. I could see it happening before it did—so I moved. Threw myself between the factions. Brought up my shields left and right. A pistol round got past me, clipped me in the cheek and leaving a dark purple and cracking bruise. Knocked my head sideways. Still have a faint mark from it."

Her fingers traced just beneath her eye, a small ghost of pain, quickly gone.

"The shields held. Every round after that hit them. Sparks and heat and a roar of metal, until they ran out of bullets and realized I hadn't gone down."

She made a soft sound.

"When I dropped the shields, the bullets hit the ground like hail. Loud, final. And I let them have it."

Jason could see her then—bloody, radiant, furious. Standing between men twice her size like they were schoolboys caught in a tantrum.

"I shouted, 'I am trying to help! No one dies tonight! Not under my watch! Any of you want your mama's to see you in a body bag? Do any of you have families… a wife… a child? Do you really want to return to them dead this night, simply because you couldn't hold a civil conversation!?'"

Her voice dropped again. Gentle now, not tired, but resolute.

"I told them it was their last chance. That the contract would be voided, and their reputations would crumble. That I wasn't going to let them burn the world just because they couldn't manage their tempers."

She paused, breathed in the quiet.

"They listened. They talked. It took hours, but they signed the deal. Held to it until their dissolution. No one died that night. A few of them even got to be old men. Some tried to do better. Others didn't. But fewer widows were made. Fewer children grew up with empty chairs at the table."

Jason hadn't moved. Not much. But his hands were clenched around the edge of the rooftop, knuckles pale against his gloves.

"My goal with this system," she said softly, "is an attempt to make sure husbands can go back to their wives. That one less person dies in the long run. It's not perfect… but it works more often than not."

She looked over to him then. Calm, centered.

"So I keep going."

Jason let out a sharp breath, almost a scoff, but it didn't carry his usual edge. More disbelief than mockery.
"You're insane," he said, not unkindly. "You know that, right?"

He turned his helmet slightly, the reflective red catching the light. "You could've been killed. Just… caught in the crossfire, another casualty no one would've remembered right. And you did it anyway."
A beat. Then another.
"That's the kind of story people make up when they want to believe in something better. Not the kind that actually happens."

His voice dipped, quieter now, like it was meant more for the fog and her ears alone.
"You got in the middle of a war, and instead of picking a side, you made them both lower their guns. That's not neutral, Io. That's... that's something else entirely."

He shook his head slowly, like he didn't know what to do with the image of her standing alone with bullets raining down, light shielding lives that weren't hers to save.

"I've seen what happens when people try to play the middle. Most get swallowed up. The rest get corrupted. But you? You've been at it for how long now?"
He let out a low laugh, something like awe buried in the sound.
"I don't get it. I don't know how you do it. But… damn."

There was a pause, then he added, softer:

"I think the city's still standing because of people like you. Not people like me."

The silver haired woman with clothes that don't match the weather sips at her tea and he watches her gaze out to the skyline before she turns to meet his gaze with a question. "Why did you decide to clean house of the BlackMask and the others?" Tone curious and genuine, like she was trying to understand him more than she already did.
He doesn't answer right away. Just sits there, watching her—this strange, unbothered woman who wore silk in the dead of winter and fought like light sliding through cracks in a wall.

The question shouldn't rattle him. People had asked before. Cops. Criminals. Even Bruce once, though not directly. But none of them had asked the way she just did. Like it wasn't an accusation. Like she wasn't looking for justification, just him.

His jaw worked under the helmet. Then finally, slowly, he leaned back and stretched one leg out, like this wasn't about to be a confession with edges.

"…Because they deserved it." His voice was low and flat, but it wasn't cold. Just tired.

"I could dress it up—talk about justice, balance, making Gotham safer. But that's all bullshit people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. I didn't do it for the city. I did it because I was angry."

He looked down at his hands for a second, still gloved, still stained in ways no detergent or redemption arc could clean.

"Black Mask, Penguin, the Maronis… they kept feeding off the weak. Kids getting sold, whole families wiped because someone missed a payment. Wayne played the long game. Tried to cut deals, push reforms, scare 'em straight. And it never stuck."

His voice dropped a little lower, scraping the edge of something personal.
"Me? I stopped asking nicely. I knew the names. I knew the places. I made a list and… started crossing them off."

A pause. He looked over at her again, the lenses of the helmet unreadable.
"Doesn't mean it fixed anything. New assholes always crawl out of the woodwork. But for a while? Things were quieter. People stopped disappearing off the street. Some of the worst ones—gone. And yeah… I could live with that."

Another beat passed.

"Guess I wanted to be the storm that scared the real monsters. That's all."

He shrugged one shoulder like he hadn't just peeled a layer off himself and handed it to her with steady hands.
"Not noble. Not clean. Just necessary."

And then, softer, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud—
"Didn't expect anyone to ask that without flinching."

He turned his gaze back to the skyline, as if the weight of it needed somewhere else to rest.
But he didn't armor up again. Didn't throw walls.

Just let her sit there with him, in the truth.

She hummed in thought, then sipped her tea as if bracing herself for something heavier than the heat it offered.

"It did do something good, your rage," she said softly. "It brought me back."

Jason didn't interrupt. He didn't when someone started like that—like a story was being unearthed from the marrow.

"The café I run—it's a neutral zone. You follow the rules, you get treated like any other person. You could be the Joker—"

She practically spat the name, the word curling in her mouth like poison. Jason's shoulders tensed instinctively, but she didn't notice. She was too deep in it now.

"—and walk into my café. I've got food drives in the area. Food and drink are cheap. I offer free winter gear to the homeless. Hell, I'm currently working on buying the apartments nearby to renovate and turn into low-income housing. And as long as you follow the rules and pretend to be civil, you're served. You get warmth. Shelter. Kindness."

She blinked, then scoffed. "Not that he would ever be civil."

Something inside her shifted. The glow of her skin dimmed a fraction as her posture hardened, her voice sharpening at the edges like glass under pressure.

"I hate that man as hot as the fires of hell burn," she growled, quiet and bitter. "I've treated Killer Croc. The Penguin. Black Mask—once. I don't like him either. Riddler. Scarecrow. Even Captain Condiment for stars' sake." She gestured with one hand as though tossing them all into a pot. "And I have never once thrown out and banned a patient as fast as I did the Joker."

She seethed in silence for a breath before muttering, mostly to herself—but not quietly enough for him to miss it.

"I hope a bullet finds that man's skull and makes a cozy little nest in his brain."

For a moment, there was only wind and the soft clink of her teacup against the saucer.

There's a flicker of something behind the helmet—quiet surprise, and something far heavier. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't speak over her. Just lets her go.

Her words aren't just anger. They're history. Fire and grit and compassion twisted into a single, seething shape. And for once, it wasn't him at the center of the storm.

When she finally winds down—still bristling, still muttering curses that sound more poetic than foul—he lets the silence hang for a few seconds.
"…You don't miss."

Jason's voice was rough as gravel, quiet and weighted like a verdict.

It wasn't a compliment. It was understanding.

There was something nearly amused under his next breath, a grim laugh that didn't quite make it past the edge of his helmet.

"I've wanted to kill that bastard more times than I can count. And I've lost count a lot. People always dance around it—'don't stoop to his level,' 'be better,' all that crap. But you? You said it plain." His jaw clenched slightly, the shape of him carved sharper by the streetlight glow. "No one ever does that."

He leaned forward slowly, bracing his forearms on his knees. It wasn't guarded now, wasn't defensive. Just tired. And real.

"You're out here running a soup kitchen, giving sanctuary, trying to build something decent—and you still hate him. Not in some abstract justice way. You hate him the way only people who've been touched by his chaos can."

A beat passed. Then two.

"You know…" he said, quieter now, "it's easy to forget, with guys like us, that rage can actually build something. Not just torch it all. You—" He shook his head, like he couldn't believe the words as they left him. "You're proof of that. I didn't think I'd ever see it up close."

His helmet turned toward her, head tilted like he was trying to see through her.

"…Thanks. For saying it out loud."

There was a pause, then a huff of dry amusement from deep in his chest.

"And if your bullet finds him first?" he added, wry and bone-tired. "I won't be mad. Save me the trip."
She huffed, the sound sharp as scorched sugar, tinged with reluctant amusement. "I wish," she muttered. "Hippocratic oath keeps me from doing so. I've never had someone piss me off so much before…"

Her hands curled tighter around the teacup. "I threw him out mid-procedure. Not recklessly—close enough to done that he'd survive if he had even an ounce of sense in caring for himself." Her voice dropped to a flat simmer. "And he did."

Jason didn't answer at first. The red eyes of his helmet glinted in the low light, angled toward her, unmoving. When he did speak, his voice was low and rough—honest in the way most people weren't brave enough to be.

"…I've never heard anyone hate him like I do," he said. "Not in the way that matters. Not someone like you." He tilted his head slightly, incredulous. "You're a doctor. A professional. You took an oath to save lives. And you still threw him out mid-surgery."

He let out something that might've been a huff of laughter, if it wasn't so full of bitter respect. "That's… probably the most honest response to him I've ever seen."

Then, softer, wearier: "He always lives. Always walks away. And most people just let him. Call it mercy, or justice, or some bullshit like fate." His voice sharpened. "But you didn't. You didn't play nice. You kicked him out like the garbage he is."

He leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his knees, and his voice dropped lower.

"And for what it's worth… that doesn't make you less of a healer. Doesn't make you bad. Makes you real. You already do more for this city than anyone in a cape. You just… don't lie to yourself while doing it."

A pause. Then, quieter still, almost like he wasn't sure he meant to say it out loud:

"You're not alone in wanting him gone."

A grin crept across her face, slow and sly, the kind that didn't quite reach the surface of calm but flickered in the eyes like embers catching wind.

"If one of us finds the slimy, two-faced good-for-nothin'," she said, voice light with venom-tinged amusement, "call the other."

Jason glanced at her, eyebrow lifting just slightly behind the mask.

"I'll paralyze him with pressure points," she continued, like she was offering him a casual weekend plan, "and you can fill him with holes. Hell—" she leaned back with the satisfaction of a woman with a plan filed and labeled—"I've got one specific bullet I've been saving."

That caught his attention.

"He was going to use it on my chief of staff—my right hand, back then." Her expression darkened for the barest flicker. "It's sitting in a box at home. Labeled. Waiting."

She paused then. A breath in. Another, steadier. Her posture shifted ever so slightly, as if she was smoothing a wrinkle in her own soul. The fire simmered back beneath the surface, and her voice returned to that composed, deliberate cadence.

"So…" she looked to him again. "What do you think?"

Jason stared at her. No words at first—just the long, heavy beat of someone who'd spent years expecting others to talk him down, not offer him ammo.

And then, finally, he let out a low, rough laugh—short, sharp, and real.

"…I think I've finally met someone more prepared for this shit than I am," he said.

He leaned back, the tension in his shoulders easing into something looser. Trust, maybe. Or the bones of it.

"You've got a bullet saved. I've got the route mapped to every gutter that bastard likes to crawl through." He tilted his head toward her, voice cooling into something quieter, more sincere. "So yeah. You find him, call me."

He shifted forward again, forearms braced on his knees, the city glowing like coals behind them.

"And when the day comes, I'll make damn sure your bullet gets the last word."

"Mmmm, beautiful, It sounds like a plan. However, sense we're on the topic of villains, whats your thoughts on Two-Face? I treated him the other week for the first time... he's ... interesting".
Jason gave a low, thoughtful grunt at the name, like something sour had settled in his mouth. He leaned back again, fingers drumming once against his thigh before going still.

"Two-Face," he echoed, eyes narrowing slightly beneath the helm. "That one's... complicated."

He said it like it annoyed him to admit it.

"Used to be a damn good man, back when he was Harvey Dent. Idealist. Bright. One of the few people Bruce actually liked, if that tells you anything. But then... acid, trauma, a coin flip later, and now we've got this split bastard who's equal parts mob boss and moral roulette wheel."

He exhaled, the sound heavy with wariness. "He's not like the others. Joker wants chaos. Penguin wants control. Scarecrow wants fear. But Harvey? He wants to do the right thing—sometimes. And when that side wins, he can actually do good. Hell, he's saved people before. But the second he flips back…"

Jason gestured vaguely toward the skyline, like it might explain the mess of Gotham in a single sweep. "Boom. Chaos. Blood. Half a city block in flames because the coin landed wrong."

He glanced at her, jaw tight. "It's not that I hate him. I just don't trust him. Can't. You never know which side you're talking to."

Then, a short pause.

"…How'd he treat you?" he asked, more curious than skeptical now. "You're not exactly easy to rattle, but I know that look. He got under your skin a little, didn't he?"

She leaned back, the ceramic of her teacup cradled between pale fingers, still warm but mostly forgotten. Her voice was low, steady, as if saying it aloud made the weight of it real.

"He didn't really get under my skin, per se," she said, brushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear. "And I'm not really supposed to talk about patients—confidentiality and all that. But…" Her lips curved in a reluctant line, like she was breaking her own rule. "I guess I can give you a basic rundown."

Jason didn't move, but she could feel his attention sharpen beneath the helmet.

"He came in the other night. Alone. Usually it's his goons who come in bleeding or begging, but this time it was just him. The scarred eye was shut tight, like it was asleep. The other one was wide open and lucid. He looked around, real slow, and told me to be quiet."

Her gaze flicked up to meet Jason's.

"Said the other guy was sleeping. Didn't want to risk waking him."

Jason's posture didn't shift, but the weight in the air shifted subtly. She could tell he knew exactly what that meant.

"He came for my sigil work. Heard I was good at it. I don't use it for anything too fancy—just things to promote healing, good air, a little peace. But he wanted more." She frowned, absently tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. "He asked if I could remove the other one. The scarred side. Said he'd pay anything. Do anything."

A long silence followed that.

"I told him I couldn't. That it's not what I do. It goes against every principle I've ever stood on. But it's been sitting with me ever since. He didn't threaten me. He was… desperate. Quiet. And for a second, I wasn't sure if I was looking at a patient or someone about to self-destruct in front of me."

She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"I wanted a second opinion. Someone who knows him. Really knows him. And I figured that's either one of the vigilantes… or Bruce Wayne. They were friends, once. I thought maybe they'd understand what I don't."

Jason stayed still for a long moment. The city lights played off his armor, reflecting faint patterns across the red of his helm. When he finally spoke, it was that low, weary tone again—one that always carried the weight of someone who's lived too many lives in the span of one.

"…Harvey's been fighting that war inside his head for a long time. I don't know if he even can win it. The good half—Harvey Dent—it's still in there. Sometimes it breaks through. Sometimes it tries. But even that part's not innocent anymore."

He looked out toward Gotham, voice quieter now.

"If he's asking for that… to be freed from the other side… that's not a mob boss talking. That's a dying man whispering through the bars of his own skull."

Jason shook his head slightly.

"But you were right to say no. You're not a weapon. And what he asked for… that's not healing. That's a mercy killing. Only Harvey can make that call."

He glanced back toward her, voice firming.

"If he ever comes in again and that side's talking, you call me. I mean it. If there's still something left to save in him, I want to be the one who decides if we bury it—or help it stand."

Then, after a beat, he added, almost gently: "You were right to bring it up. This kind of thing? You shouldn't have to carry it alone."

Io's voice took on a lilt, a kind of distracted wonder as her thoughts spiraled ahead of her words. "But… I want to at least try."

She leaned forward, teacup forgotten, elbows on her knees, her fingers beginning to gesture in the air with the kind of abstract precision reserved for those who lived in both the arcane and the scientific. "I've never used my sigils this way before. They work like… like coding, kind of. Little lines of influence embedded into reality. They don't force things, they nudge. Make sunlight fall just right through a window. Protect someone just enough to miss a nasty cut. Mini body-shields, really."

She paused mid-sentence, eyes lighting up like a fuse had caught. Jason didn't interrupt. He knew that look—he'd seen it in the tech nerds in the Cave, and once or twice in Tim when he forgot the world existed. Io had entered her version of nerd mode, but it didn't lose him. Not this time.

"What if," she said, sitting up straighter, "instead of killing the other side, I find a way to suppress it. Temporarily. Something subtle. Gentle. Like putting it to sleep."

Jason tilted his head, intrigued despite himself.

"A full-time suppression might backfire—build pressure, cause a bigger explosion. But what if it's cyclical? Controlled. Scheduled." She was pacing now, her eyes bright with a dangerous sort of hope. "Like… like letting your dog out to pee. You can't stop the instincts, but you can control when they're allowed to roam."

She turned, her silver curls catching in the breeze, her whole face alive with the spark of an idea. "And since my sigils run off of star energy—sunlight, basically—it would naturally activate during the day. Controlled exposure. Maybe even weaken the other side, make him less volatile. Trainable, even."

Jason exhaled slowly, arms crossed, watching her with a mix of incredulity and guarded respect.

"I have been working on a sigil automaton," she added with a grin, like she'd just remembered. "Tiny, quiet, discreet. It could hold the sigils and release them in a rhythm, sort of like… a caretaker. Or maybe a gatekeeper." Her eyes met his, open, eager. "Maybe if I pushed it into that automaton, it could become… I don't know. A leash? A filter? A kindness?"

She took a breath. "Thoughts?"

Jason was quiet for a long moment. Then he chuckled, and the sound was low and dry, like gravel sliding down a rooftop.

"You know," he said, "every time I think I've got you figured out, you do something like this."

He looked at her—not just the surface, but the conviction behind her eyes. The refusal to give up on people, even the broken ones.

"Alright, genius," he said, finally uncrossing his arms. "Let's say you pull this off. Let's say it works. You suppress the monster and let the man have his life back. What happens if the monster wakes up in a bad mood?"

Io blinked, as if she hadn't thought that far yet—but she had. He could see it.

Jason stepped closer, voice low and even. "You're talking about balancing the personality equivalent of a bomb with a hair trigger. You sure you're ready to be that fuse?"

She didn't flinch.

He huffed again. "You know what? Doesn't matter. You already decided you are."

He tapped his helmet lightly. "Keep me looped in. If you really try this? You're gonna need someone who knows how Harvey thinks—and someone who knows how to stop him if it all goes sideways."

A pause. Then, softer: "You've got a good heart. Even when it's got teeth."

Io froze mid-step, one foot still lifted before it touched the rooftop again. Her gaze drifted to Jason, steady and searching.

"I do plan to go through with it," she said, the words clear and even. "So… how would I reach out to keep you in the loop? I doubt you'd use your actual phone number for it."

There was a small pause, and then she frowned—only slightly—but it felt more vulnerable than anything she'd said yet. "And I'll be honest, I'm not great with modern tech... still." The last word slipped out like a bruise, soft and self-directed. Her arms folded loosely across her stomach, fingers curling against the fabric of her jacket. "I carry a flip phone," she added, voice lower, tone more sheepish. "It... makes calls."

Jason blinked behind the helmet.

Of course she carried a flip phone.

He didn't laugh—he wouldn't—though his mouth twitched slightly, something between amusement and exasperation. But he didn't write her off either. Not entirely.

"Figures," he muttered, shifting his weight. "You can outthink me in sigils and universal pressure point voodoo, but T9 texting throws you into crisis."

She gave a pointed look that said she could, and would, use pressure points on him if he kept teasing.

Jason's amusement didn't reach his posture. He was still, arms crossed again, the way someone stands when they don't know if they'll be hit or handed something fragile.

"I don't give people my number," he said finally, voice even. "Not unless I've known them longer than one weird rooftop conversation and a half-decent apocalypse prevention plan."

The words weren't cruel—but they weren't soft either. Just honest. Honest the way someone is when they've had too many knives in the back to stop checking the weight of the next handshake.

"But…" He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulled out a sleek black earpiece—older, utilitarian tech, the kind that worked with burner phones and didn't trace easily. "This one's untagged. Secure. You charge it like a USB and it'll auto-sync to the frequency I'm using if I ping it."

He held it out, but didn't step closer. "You'll only get one bar's worth of signal at a time. No chatter. Just enough to get my attention."

Io stepped forward slowly, accepting the device with both hands like it might be important.

Jason watched her, cautious. Still unsure if she was someone he should be arming with access, even something as small as a radio ping. Still unsure if trusting her, even halfway, wouldn't bite him later.

But there was something in the way she held the comm—like it mattered—and in the way she met his gaze again afterward, hopeful but not expectant, like she'd survive either way.

He sighed and glanced out over Gotham.

"You get one free call," he said, voice lower now. "Make it count."

A beat passed. Then, like it was already a habit forming: "And next time I see that flip phone, I'm throwing it off the roof."

She gasped, clutching the little earpiece to her chest like a pearl-snatching grandmother. "Excuse me?" she said, eyes wide with mock offense. "That flip phone is a loyal companion. It's been through a lot with me."

Jason just gave her a flat look, though the corner of his mouth twitched again.

"I'll only allow you to throw it," she continued, lifting her chin with stubborn dignity, "if you teach me how to use my smartphone. Properly. No laughing."

"Can't promise that," he muttered.

"Then I want snacks," she said dryly. "Fair trade."

Jason huffed a short breath, something almost resembling a laugh. She watched him, that quiet, teasing fire still in her eyes—but there was purpose behind it now. A steadiness.

"Noted," she said at last, her tone softening. "One call. One try to reach you."

She glanced back at the skyline, then down at the roof beneath them. "Do I meet you here when the time comes?"

Jason's gaze flicked over the rooftop. It was quiet, high, hard to access unless you knew how to scale walls like a bat or walk like a shadow. He didn't like repeating locations. But something about the idea of her being here again… It didn't itch the way it should.

He turned toward her again. "If I don't answer the ping, come here," he said after a moment. "But only if it's actually time. Not if you just have more villain medical gossip."

She raised a hand like she was swearing an oath. "Scouts honor."

Jason gave her a long look, half-skeptical. Then, grudgingly—almost like it hurt—he added, "And I'll show you the basics on the smartphone. Tomorrow. Bring it."

"Deal," she said with a grin.

And for a brief second, under the weight of war and wounds and unspoken things, they just stood there—Red Hood and the woman who carried the sun in her bones—on a rooftop that had seen too many ghosts. Sharing something fragile. Something real.

The next day rose slow and silver, overcast and the threat of snow in the air. Io slipped out of her café before opening hours, a handwritten note left for her staff with a neatly drawn sketch of the menu for the day—chalk illustrations and all. She wore a linen blouse with rolled sleeves, wide-leg trousers, and a faded green scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. Her curls were soft today, faintly luminous from a good night's charge.

But there was a weight around her throat that hadn't been there before.

Earlier that morning, she'd pulled an old, dust-covered lockbox from the back of her closet. Beneath dried lavender and scraps of silk sat the bullet. The one Joker had meant for her second-in-command. The casing was still marked by those painted green letters—Ha Ha Ha—as if mocking her from a past she hadn't entirely left behind. The bullet head itself was dipped in that same poisonous green. Even now, years later, it made her throat tighten, anger lodging behind her ribs like something sharp.

Io didn't destroy it.

Instead, she swallowed down the fury, let it burn low and slow inside her chest, and turned the thing into a necklace. A Reminder—one meant for her terms. She slipped it beneath her scarf, where it rested cold and quiet against her sternum.

Later, when she reached the east edge of Gotham where the sidewalks were cracked and the graffiti had been painted over three dozen times, she spotted Harley Quinn before Harley spotted her—standing on a corner like she owned the street, one hip popped, her hair in twin buns, and a pink jacket bedazzled with chaotic pride. Lou and Bud were lounging behind her like two oversized lap dogs, each wearing a pair of sunglasses, one crooked and the other hilariously oversized.

Io smiled as she approached. "Good morning, Harley."

Harley turned, squinted, and grinned. "Sunshine! You came! Thought you might be too busy running your little celestial café-slash-neutral zone-slash-John Wick safehouse."

Io reached into her satchel and pulled out a folded five-dollar bill, waving it. "I believe you owe me something."

Harley scoffed. "Oh, please. No way you proved that."

Io's smile sharpened just enough to be dangerous. "You mean about Nightwing's acrobatics? I recall a certain blonde doubting me last week."

"Because he's not that flippy," Harley said, crossing her arms. "You exaggerate. Nobody somersaults that much on rooftops unless they're auditionin' for Cirque du Soleil."

Io's expression didn't change. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and retrieved her flip phone—battered, slightly scratched, and stubbornly analog. With a flick of her thumb, she pulled up the audio file and hit play.

Red Hood's modulated voice crackled out:
"She was right, Harls. Nightwing has the flips."

Harley blinked. Once. Twice. Then squinted like she could will the sound away.

Io just sipped her tea, as smug as the sunrise. "Would you like me to play it again?"

Harley groaned theatrically and pulled the Polaroid out of her jacket pocket with all the grace of someone surrendering their soul. "Fine! Here's your stupid adorable picture of my babies lookin' fly."

Io took it delicately, admiring the photo with real warmth. Lou and Bud, lounging like little kings, sunglasses askew and tongues out. "It's perfect."

"And here's your five bucks," Harley muttered, handing it over like it physically pained her.

Io tucked both treasures away, smiling with something gentler now. "I told you. Red Hood has his moments."

Harley eyed her, suspicious. "And how exactly did you get him to say that?"

Io's grin returned. "I asked."

"…You're somethin' else, Sunshine."

"I get that a lot."
_

Harley's apartment was exactly what you'd expect from a former psychiatrist turned chaos gremlin. Bright mismatched furniture, neon pink curtains over bulletproof glass, and a giant glittery mallet leaning next to a shelf of romance novels. The smell of popcorn and strawberry soda hung in the air like a permanent perfume.

Io was curled up on the shag carpet, legs tucked beneath her, one hand absentmindedly stroking Bud's thick fur as he laid half on her lap and half across a beanbag that definitely wasn't rated for his weight. The hyena huffed contentedly, his tail thumping every few moments. Lou lay sprawled across the nearby couch, tongue lolling out as Harley sat beside him, braiding bits of tinsel into his fur.

A record player crackled in the background, something old and jazzy, while they flipped through a tabloid magazine together, pointing out which villain looked like they dressed in the dark and which hero needed better PR.

"That suit does nothing for his shoulder line," Io murmured, shaking her head at a photo of Captain Boomerang in a crocodile vest.

Harley cackled. "Right? Thank you! I said he looked like a gas station mascot, and Ivy told me I was bein' mean."

"You were right," Io said, sipping her tea. "But in a nurturing way."

A beat passed, filled only with Lou's soft snoring and the scratch of tinsel.

Then Harley glanced up at her over the edge of the magazine. "So… if you and Hoods are such buddies-buddies, what's he like?"

Io blinked once, then let her gaze fall to Bud, who yawned and rested his heavy head on her thigh. Her fingers didn't stop moving, gently scratching behind his ear.

"He's like a storm," she said quietly, eyes distant, "the kind that trails slow and imposing across the horizon. Heavy. You can feel him coming before he speaks—like thunder in your chest." She paused, her expression softening just slightly. "But there are times where the rain stops. And he's surprisingly… grounded. Like the air smells clean again."

Harley tilted her head, listening with surprising attentiveness.

"He's angry. Mad at everything. The world. What it did to him. What it didn't do when it should've. But it doesn't rot him. He's still hurt… on the inside. And still…" she exhaled, gently brushing Bud's cheek. "Still tries. Still fights. Even when it hurts. Even when no one's looking."

Harley watched her for a long moment, lips pursed thoughtfully.

"…Damn," she finally said, flopping back into the couch cushions. "You like him."

Io arched a brow. "He's tolerable."

"You're petting my hyena and monologuin' about storm metaphors. Sunshine, that's more than tolerable."

Io chuckled quietly and didn't deny it. Bud nuzzled deeper into her lap.

Harley grinned. "Well, if he breaks your heart, I know a guy who knows a guy who owns a rocket launcher."

"I'll keep that in mind," Io murmured, amused. "But you'd have to beat me to him."
Io won't admit it, but she does find Red Hood charming in a certain way that's hard to explain. "So, what's new with you Harley? You ask Ivy out yet?"
Harley gave her a look so flat and so full of you know better that Io nearly laughed before the other woman even spoke.

"Ugh, no," Harley groaned, dragging a throw pillow over her face. Her voice came out muffled through the fabric. "I keep almost doin' it, but then I see her and my brain just goes bzzzt—system error, no thoughts, only hot redhead with killer thighs."

Io smirked behind her tea cup, the rim hiding most of her expression. "Understandable. But for someone who once hijacked a parade float and crashed it into a courthouse for love, you're surprisingly shy."

Harley peeked out from under the pillow like a sulking cat. "That was different! That was crazy, stabby, co-dependent love. This is like…" She waved her hand vaguely in the air. "...real. I like, respect her. She deserves flowers and poems and one of those fancy glass teapots with the little flower bombs that bloom in hot water."

Io raised a brow. "You've looked into teapots?"

"No!" Harley said way too fast, then muttered, "...maybe."

Io smiled, the kind of warm, patient smile she rarely offered to most people. "So ask her out. You're Harley Quinn. Gotham's chaos queen and secretly a giant romantic."

Harley dramatically threw herself sideways onto the couch, arms spread wide. "If I ask her out and she says yes, what if I explode from happiness? You'd have to mop me off the floor like glitter slime."

Io sipped her tea with all the serenity of a woman who has seen war and still knows the battlefield of love is trickier. "I'll keep a mop in the hallway. But you're asking her."

"Fiiiine," Harley groaned. Then, after a beat, "You gonna tell your stormy vigilante that you think he's charming?"

Io didn't answer right away. Just looked down at Bud, who blinked slowly up at her with lazy trust, and muttered into his fur.

"...No."

Harley snorted. "Coward."

"Hypocrite," Io returned without heat.

They clinked their cups a moment later like a pair of troublemakers teetering on the edge of something good.

Harley wasn't letting up. "So what was it then? The voice? The mask? The whole dramatic 'gunsmoke and shadows' thing?"

Io muttered behind her teacup with a soft blush. "It was an accident. I met him yesterday."

Harley nearly launched out of her chair. "Yesterday?! You're this flustered after one day? What'd he do, look at you sideways and call you 'ma'am' in that gravel-tone growl?"

Io stared hard at her tea. It wasn't quite like that, but still.

Harley gasped. "He did! Oh my god, he voice-thinged you!"

"There was no voice thing," Io insisted. But her ears did a tiny flick. The traitors.

Harley grinned like she'd just cracked a case. "You got hit with the full rooftop treatment and now your circuits are all scrambled. You're smitten, babe."

Io gave her a long look. Flat. Betrayed. Slightly pink.

Harley winked. "Accept your fate. It's terminal."

"I do plan to visit him again," Io admitted, straightening a little. "He agreed to show me how to use my smartphone."

Harley blinked. "That brick you keep in your drawer for how long now?"

"I've decided it's a strategic move," Io said primly, preening like she'd invented fire. "I'm leveraging my technological shortcomings to… build rapport."

Harley clutched her chest, eyes gleaming. "Strategic tech helplessness? You minx. That's some first-rate Gotham flirting. Subtle. Vintage. Deadly. Smitten."

Io set her cup down with quiet satisfaction, brushing her fingers through Bud's fur.

"I wouldn't say smitten," she said, calm and measured—though the faint curve at the edge of her lips betrayed her.

"I would say… charmed."

Harley waggled a finger at her. "Charmed now, smitten later. That's how it starts. First it's 'show me how to use the texting app,' next thing you know you're sharing earbuds during stakeouts and threatening people in sync."

Io gave a slow blink. "That… doesn't sound bad."

Harley laughed so hard she nearly choked on a grape soda. "Oh my stars, you've got it bad. Look, I support this. Just promise me one thing?"

Io arched a brow.

"If you two fall in love and go all vigilante power couple, let me help plan the outfits. Matching scarves. Maybe with little ammo pockets. Something tasteful."

Io sighed through a soft smile, tugging one of the hyena's ears gently. "You're absurd."

"And you're crushing. It's beautiful." Harley grinned. "Now. Spill. Did he do the dramatic cape swish? Or was it more of a brooding rooftop lean?"

"Brooding rooftop lean, oh. He liked the coffee I made him, and yeah he used the poison test. But I think he was impressed with it, he stayed … so I'll take the compliment". She rubs Buds ears like he was a dog and not a feared predator. She stops and look Harley in the eyes, "Harley, he's built like a mountain. I swear my stomach did a flip when he stood in front of me for the first time" there's a slight dreamy quality to her voice.

Harley squealed and immediately rolled off the couch onto the floor like she was melting into the very fabric of juicy gossip. "Built like a mountain? Girl, you're doomed! That's a Greek tragedy with biceps!"

Io tried to hold onto her usual calm, but the soft, airy laugh that escaped her ruined the act. She shrugged a little, the dreamy glaze not quite leaving her eyes. "He really is. All broad shoulders and broody silence. And that voice—like a growl wrapped in gravel."

"Ugh, stop it, you're killin' me," Harley groaned from the floor, dramatically kicking her feet. "You're out here getting coffee-tested by Gotham's angriest heartthrob and I'm over here trying to get Ivy to text me back without sounding clingy."

Io leaned over to rub Bud's belly, who lazily let his tongue flop out, perfectly unbothered. "He stayed, Harley. After tasting the coffee. After hearing me ramble. He stayed. For someone like him... that's not nothing."

Harley sat up like a puppet on a string, eyes wide and serious now. "No, that's not. That's huge. That boy doesn't stay anywhere unless he thinks it's worth staying for. If he stayed, he sees somethin' in you."

Io blinked, looking a little overwhelmed by the weight of that, her hands stilling in Bud's fur.

"And if you see somethin' in him... then you better keep makin' that coffee, starshine," Harley added, softer this time. "'Cause even a mountain needs somewhere safe to rest."

Io smiled, small and secret and maybe just a little hopeful. "...I'll keep the kettle warm."

"So, you need some help looking at tea pots? I offer you my century of wisdom and knowledge to aid you in choosing". She smiles "You help me with Red Hood and I'll help you with Ivy. Deal?"

Harley sprawled across her couch, legs dangling over one armrest as she flipped through a collection of clippings and notes Io had brought. Her eyes caught on a picture of a beautifully aged teapot—curved like a crescent moon with a spiraled spout and handle shaped like blooming ivy.

"This one's gorgeous," Harley said, tapping it with a grin. "What's the deal with this little beauty? Looks like it belongs in a museum... or like, a witch's wedding registry."

Io leaned forward, her eyes warming as she traced the image with a fingertip. "That's a Tavari Bloom pot. From the Tavari region—an old culture from the Eastern mountain valleys, long gone now. Their people were gardeners and warriors both, so everything they made held double meanings."

She paused a beat, letting the history hum beneath her words.

"The Tavari Bloom was given either as a love offering or a warning, depending on how it was presented. If the spout pointed to the recipient's left when handed over, it meant 'my roots wish to intertwine with yours'—a gesture of affection, even romantic intent. But if the spout pointed to the right…" Her voice softened, but her meaning sharpened. "It was a declaration of offense. A sign that peace had been broken and retaliation was coming."

Harley sat up, suddenly more alert. "Wait—this cute little pot is like, 'date me or die'?"

Io laughed, but there was something fond beneath it. "In a manner of speaking. The Tavari believed beauty could be used for both love and vengeance. It depended on intention."

Harley looked down at the clipping again, a slow smile curling on her lips. "...Think Ivy would like it?"

"If you give it to her with the spout leftward, and you brew something sweet and floral inside," Io said gently, "you're not just giving her tea. You're telling her: 'You are the garden I want to tend.'"

Harley blinked fast. "Okay, rude. You can't just say things like that and expect me not to cry into my stupid oat milk."

Io offered a soft smile, then tapped the picture again. "I think it's perfect. Just make sure you hand it to her with care. The ritual means nothing if it's rushed."

Harley sniffed dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear. "You're a menace, you know that? Like a really classy, emotionally intelligent menace."

"Only for the right people," Io replied, already sketching a sigil in the air, "and always with the proper cup."

The afternoon slipped away in a haze of laughter, stories, and affectionate teasing. By the time Io realized how late it had gotten, Harley was curled up with one of the hyenas snoozing beside her, and the last cup of lavender tea had long gone cold. With a fond farewell and a promise to keep her updated on "Operation Love Teapot," Io left Harley's apartment feeling a little lighter.

Back at her own place, the door clicked shut with a soft chime of bells she'd enchanted to warn her of any energy disturbances. Everything was still. Quiet. The silence after company was always a strange lull—neither lonely nor full. Just still.

She hung her coat by the door, slipped off her shoes, and gently set down the Polaroid of Bud and Lou wearing sunglasses on her mantle. The photo was ridiculous—one hyena was mid-yawn, the other looked like it was plotting a poker heist—but it brought a smile to her lips. It stayed.

Io rolled up her sleeves and set to work. She took out the thermos Jason had used—still dented slightly at the base, still carrying the faintest scent of the last dark roast she'd brewed for him. She cleaned it carefully, every motion deliberate, almost meditative. Then she filled it with a fresh batch—a smoky blend with hints of chicory and bitter chocolate, rich and sharp like the man himself.

Her own thermos got a refresh of honeyed white tea, laced with star anise and hints of citrus peel. It was calming, softening. Something she could sip through long hours without fogging her mind.

The smart phone sat untouched for a moment. Still factory-set, untouched by personalization. It looked awkward beside her fountain pen and hand-bound ledgers. But Io sighed and picked it up anyway, thumbing through its blank screens until she found the contacts. She stared at the empty list.

"Strategic move," she reminded herself aloud, tapping it against her palm. "Besides, you said you'd learn."

Jason's voice echoed in memory—low, dry, and amused. "You get one call, Oracle-style. Make it count."

She rolled her eyes and set the phone aside—for now.

Coffee dripping. Tea steeping. Her fingers found the edge of her desk just as the screen lit up with another task she hadn't wanted to see—an email from Star City's satellite hospital. A critical piece of diagnostic equipment had blown during a power surge. She'd need to replace it quickly. Io exhaled slowly, already skimming medical inventory lists and supplier contacts.

But as she typed, her eyes flicked to the photo of the hyenas again, and her lips twitched into a small, private smile.

War, medicine, ancient rituals, and gods-damned smartphones. This was her life now. And strangely... she was beginning to like it.

The city's breath fogged faint in the cold, rising in wisps from chimneys and sewer grates, wrapping the skyline in a quiet hush that only winter could bring. The rooftop beneath Io's boots groaned softly with the shifting cold as she settled in, cloak fluttering gently with the breeze.

She'd arrived early. Predictably. Comfortably.

Her mid-length fleece cloak was pulled snug around her, the fur-rimmed hood framing her features like something out of an old storybook, all quiet elegance with the faint shimmer of star energy clinging like frost to her skin. She pulled the thermoses from her bag and set them beside her in a neat little line—his marked with a small, barely-there sigil she'd etched just under the lid, for protection, and maybe… just a bit of quiet luck.

The city stretched out before her like a sea of slow-moving light. Gotham was still breathing, bruised and restless as always. But from up here, it didn't look so angry.

From her bag, she drew out the small custom box—the moon rock resting on velvet, a piece of time sealed in glass. She brushed her fingers over the lid once, then set it carefully beside her tea. The Polaroid came next, peeking out from the front pouch like a secret joke between friends. And finally, the smart phone. Powered. Untouched.

She tapped the screen. Blank.

Io folded her hands in her lap and let herself breathe. She wasn't usually nervous—but Jason Todd made things different. Not in a way that rattled her. More like… weight. Substance. The kind of presence that made you want to get it right the first time.

And then—there was that sound. The faint scuff of boots on the edge of the roof. The wind didn't bring a warning—just that shift in the air, like the city had inhaled sharply.

She didn't turn immediately. Just smiled softly to herself and murmured, "Took you long enough, Mountain."

Then she turned her head, eyes catching him in the darkness like moonlight.

The seat beside her was already warm.

Jason's boots landed with that quiet, heavy finality he always carried, the kind that didn't demand attention but made silence tighten around him anyway. A gloved hand brushed the hood of his helmet up just enough to free his mouth, the faintest curl of condensation escaping from his breath as he sat beside her, movements methodical and spare.

He picked up the thermos without a word at first, unscrewing the lid like it was a ritual. The scent hit him immediately—rich, dark, smoky. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took the first sip.

"…Smoky blend," he muttered after a beat. "Chicory. And bitter chocolate?" A second sip confirmed it. "Sharp. Kinda like drinking a knife. I like it."

He said it like a man giving a rare compliment—gruff, casual, but laced with sincerity in the pause that followed.

Io simply smiled to herself, letting the quiet stretch. He was always like this—needing a beat before conversation. She never rushed him.

Once she felt that subtle shift—his shoulder relaxing a touch, the way his hand set the thermos down instead of keeping it—she reached into the folds of her cloak and passed him a small square of Polaroid paper.

"I won the bet," she said, calmly, almost smug.

He blinked, took it without thinking, and angled it toward the skyline light.

There, in all their blurry glory: Bud and Lou. Sunglasses cocked just a little sideways. One of them mid-snarl. The other with his tongue lolling. And somehow, both looking like they belonged on the cover of a chaotic pet magazine.

Jason blinked again. Then—very quietly—he huffed a laugh, just a breath through his nose.

"I can't believe you got her to give this up," he muttered, but there was the edge of something wry behind it. "What'd you say? Blackmail?"

Io tipped her head. "Proof. You said it yourself."

Jason narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Wait. You recorded me?"

She leaned her weight against her hand, expression unapologetic. "Flip-phone. Very old-school. But useful when one needs to collect evidence."

He looked down at the Polaroid again, then shook his head slowly.

"You're trouble," he said, but this time—his voice wasn't quite as gruff.

"Oh course I am. And I brought my evidence for my one truly illegal item" she reaches into her bag again and pulls out the small box with the rock stagnant on display. She passes it to him, "I figured you might want to see it sense I mentioned it" after a few moments of him looking at it she says "If I was caught with this particular item, I could get up to 25 years in prison"
"Only Twenty Five? I've seen felons go fo more time than that",
She huffed in amusement, "For someone who has yet to be in an actual prison, twenty five is quite a lot, even with my lifespan".

Jason stared down at the small wooden chest, the velvet interior cradling the pale grey moon rock like it was a relic. Which, in a way, it was. But what got him wasn't the rock—it was the brass plaque set into the velvet lining.

Retrieval from Moon: Io
Curator: Io
Creator of Box: Margaret Wilson
Landing: 7/20/1969
Retrieval: 8/13/1969

His eyes snagged on the name—Margaret Wilson. He blinked. That wasn't a name people threw around. He'd heard it once. Maybe twice. Alfred's mother. Jason remembered Alfred mentioning her in passing once, with the kind of rare softness he usually reserved for old music or English breakfast.

"My mum was a jewelry box-manker. Never rich, but brilliant with her hands."

Jason had barely clocked it at the time. Now the name hit like an echo in his skull.

What the hell?

He looked at Io, who wasn't offering anything, just watching him watch the rock. Proud, sure. But calm. Like she knew what he'd seen. Like she was waiting for him to catch up.

His gaze drifted back to the date. 8/13/1969. A few weeks after the moon landing. Close enough to be significant, but off enough to itch. It tugged at his brain—like a tune he couldn't name, or a number he'd seen in a file somewhere long ago. Something about that date was important, and not just for the rock.

But Io didn't explain it. She just let it sit there. Like bait. Or a key.

And Jason wasn't sure if that made him more annoyed—or more intrigued.

He closed the lid gently, then passed it back with a quiet mutter:
"…You're really gonna make me dig for the story, huh?"

Her smile, sharp and smug, said exactly what he already knew.

Yes.

She sips from her tea thermos and raises an eyebrow as she peers over the thermos. A silent prompt for him to ask.
He sighs softy through his mask, "What's with the date Cherry Slick?" An obvious nod to the lube story she had told him the other night.
Io, however, seemed to crack and has to turn her head to cover her laughter, but the shaking of her shoulders was a pretty dead giveaway and the twitch of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips.

As the quiet laughter simmered down and Io's back straightened, a quiet flicker of excitement pulsing through her posture like a rising tide. She cradled her thermos with both hands and gave a small, knowing smile, her voice soft with memory.

"I'm glad you asked."

Jason tilted his head, a barely perceptible shift, but he was listening closely now. His elbows stayed planted on his knees, that usual tension in his shoulders softened—not gone, but quieter.

"August 13th, 1969," she began, voice calm, deliberate. "The first stop of the Apollo 11 Great Leap tour. They held a ticker tape parade in New York. 38 Day World Tour with Twenty-four countries and Twenty-Nine Cities on the itinerary… but that was the very first. I positioned myself near the start of the route, high up, rooftop vantage. I still needed to fetch my souvenir before things calmed down and the most distracting event of the century was over."

She gave him a conspiratorial glance. "And I didn't plan on getting caught."

Jason snorted under his breath, smirking under the mask and straw in the drinking port. "Shocker."

She chuckled and continued, "The music was so loud, even that high up. The crowds, the cheers—it all vibrated through the building beneath my boots. I stayed through the first half. Then, once no one was looking…"

She paused, eyes flicking up to the stars above them as if retracing the path. "I left Earth."

Jason's hand stilled on the thermos. The way she said it—casual but reverent—made something tighten in his chest.

"You actually flew there," he muttered, more to himself than her. "What was it like?"

Io's lips parted in a soft exhale, the memory warm in her chest. "It's quiet. That kind of quiet where your own heartbeat feels too loud. The moon doesn't echo—doesn't hum with life or machines or thought. Just stillness. And distance. You can see Earth like it's a marble suspended in ink. Blue, swirling, impossibly alive."

Jason didn't speak. He didn't move either.

"I'd been to the moon before," she said, folding her hands atop her knee. "I was curious—curious about what it felt like to stand somewhere so desolate. But this time was different. That day, I was looking at the landing site. Not just a place anymore, but a symbol. You made it there. You—humanity. You did something miraculous. And I stood there with my souvenir in hand, and I remember thinking…"

Her voice dipped lower, full of quiet reverence. "You came so far in so little time. While I was trapped in cages or running from wars, you were building rockets and writing dreams into blueprints. I realized I'd live long past the people who built that ship, who made that first leap… but I felt proud. I still do. For all of you."

Jason's brow furrowed. He shifted forward again, slowly, until he was leaning just a little closer, elbow to knee, like he was trying to read something subtle in her expression.

"You talk about people like… like you're not one of them."

Io didn't flinch. "I don't always feel like I am," she admitted quietly. "Not because I don't want to be. But because I'm watching centuries pass like seasons. And people I care for…" She hesitated. "They change. They go. And I keep going."

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. There was something brittle in the set of his jaw, something unsaid, but he let it hang.

"And the box?" he asked, after a long beat. "That date… you chose it for a reason."

Her smile was soft but firm. "To make people ask," she said. "To start a conversation."

Jason huffed a dry breath through his nose, the barest echo of a laugh. He looked at her again, steadier this time. There was something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, maybe even a touch of awe—but he didn't name it.

Instead, he lifted his coffee and muttered, "Hell of a conversation starter."

He looked back at the rock again, studying it in a silence that made the air feel still. Then, with careful fingers, he closed the lid and passed the box back.

"This is the one from the Apollo 11 site, yeah?"

Io nodded, proud as anything, her hands wrapping around the box like it was sacred. "Mmhmm."

"I've been meaning to ask—" Jason rubbed the chin of his helmet, the motion tight and suspicious. "—how the ever-living hell did you get it from the Apollo site? 'Cause I don't believe it."

She smiled slowly, knowingly. "Oh, I flew there."

"…Wut?" He blinked behind the visor. "On what? A rocket? 'Cause that was super expensive back then when the moon landing happened, yeah? So how?"

Io's smirk turned feline. Wicked. "Watch."

She stood, stepped onto the ledge, and when he didn't move to stop her, she simply… leaned forward and dropped.

"Wait—what the—Cherry!" Jason was already swearing, his body tensing to leap after her. "You crazy—"