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THE FOLLOWING LINE — October, 2020
Stephanie’s bone tired. She pushes so hard to perfect her place as a Gotham vigilante. Yet, nothing is ever good enough. She doesn’t work for Batman. She doesn’t answer to Oracle. Her only crime is having Cluemaster for a father. Last she checked, she didn’t choose her father. Still, Batman refuses to give her anything but a hard time and Spoiler orders as tall as Everest.
Cassandra trusted her, gave her Batgirl, when no one saw Stephanie for who she truly was. Though Cassandra left, she handed Stephanie a legacy of responsibility in good faith. So she built herself up from the ground, brick by brick, stone by stone, and she grew, she flourished. She continues to.
She has the eyes, the attention, the respect of her peers. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but she knows she has support when she needs it.
She flees to Dick’s house. At least there the Gothamites know how to appreciate her as herself, unlike a certain batty buzzkilling blueprint.
She slides in through a back window, the one overlooking the laundry room. He keeps it shut with a padlock, the code to which he’s shared with a lucky few. Out of courtesy, she shoots off a text notifying him of her arrival. He responds with a thumbs up and Stephanie makes her way into the house.
It’s more of a townhouse, the size of a vacation home a middle-class family would rent in the Gulf, only vertical. It’s recent, not new. Not that anybody would know with the way the floorboards creak.
She thinks it’s intentional. That Dick would choose a house that squeaks at every step screams calculated. In the kitchen, Stephanie sits on a stool at the counter, fingers drumming the wooden counter. After a few minutes, Dick walks in the dim lit room. He smiles at Steph and pulls her into a hug.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” she sniffs.
Dick gives her a squeeze before telling her, “The truth this time.”
“It feels like too much.” She breathes, her shuddering pitch a whine from her soul. Her eyes pierce with every ounce of mule-headed strength she can give.
Making a sympathetic noise he pulls her into a sideways embrace, consoling her until the tears stop falling.
“Do you want to talk about it now,” he asks, petting her hair, “or do you want some cocoa and rest?”
“Hot cocoa.”
She separates from his arms and settles as Dick prepares her drink.
Stephanie’s come so far, done so much good, and yet she stumbles again and again and again. It hurts a little less, like knives to spokes, each time. Even still. She’s almost twenty-one balancing college, career, and crime-busting. Then again, real nettles sting from the start.
“Do you think I’m in over my head?” Stephanie questions.
“I used to,” he admits. “I thought you were too cocky for your own good, that you didn’t take things seriously, that you were loose-lipped. You’re not, I know that now. My point is I judged you wrong. I know better now. You’re strong, capable, and resourceful.”
“But do you think I’m in over my head?”
“No,” he says, firm until wavering.
She ruminates on his response before prodding, “Do you?”
Dick hesitates and responds, “Sometimes. Do you feel like you’re in over your head?”
“I don’t know,” she says with honesty. “It could be easier.”
“Do you want it to be easier?”
“No,” she snaps. Stephanie sighs, rubs her forehead, and apologizes. She sips her cocoa then explains, “It’s more that I’ve been thinking about changing my major. It’s more time, though, and sometimes it feels like I’m doing too much.”
“I don’t think you’re doing too much. What’re you considering changing it to?”
“I’m thinking about doing something like journalism.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want to do good in this world without the mask.”
“I think you’re already doing a lot of good without the mask,” he consoles. “You volunteer for crisis cleanup, you donate a lot of your time and money to local charities, you… you’re able to see the good in people where the rest of us can’t.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me,” Stephanie reveals, eyes smiling along. “I don’t think I told you how much being Robin meant to me, but it meant a lot and still means a lot. I never got to say thank you. You were a symbol. You were proof I could stand up and fight back. I think you were proof of that to a lot of kids.”
“I’m glad Robin had that impact.”
“And still has it.” Stephanie grins and tells him, “I rescued a little girl from a chemical fire and she recognized me as ‘blonde Robin’ and asked for my autograph. It made me so happy to have that impact on a kid. Dude, I think I cried.”
Dick quietly snorts. “The Robin kids keep me going. They’re worth fighting for.”
“They are,” she agrees, tearing up in overwhelming passion.
“Okay, maybe you need to get to bed,” Dick suggests, gently removing the cocoa from her hands and setting it on the table.
“No, I’m fine. I just do think about quitting sometimes. This isn’t a lifetime job. It can’t be, I don’t want it to be, but every time I think about the people I’ve saved I feel so guilty. Then I think I’m already too deep to quit and feel guilty for that, too.”
“Don’t feel guilty for that.”
Stephanie looks him in the eyes and asks, “Do you ever think about quitting?”
“Not as much anymore. I’ve tried, but it’s never stuck. Why? Are you thinking about quitting?”
“No, well maybe, in the future.”
They sit together in a moment of pause.
“Why do you ask?” he inquires.
“I just…” she pauses, searching for words. “I have this theory that no vigilante can completely leave the mask behind. I think we’re all adrenaline junkies,” she muses, playing with the pen cap in her hand. “We’re maybe addicted to the… the high of an adrenaline rush and the hurt of physical pain. It can be a form of self-harm, or a power trip.”
“I think you’re somewhat right. My dad always said ‘Graysons are born to fly’ and my daj that I was a climber. Every time Bruce grounded me I felt like I was going crazy without an outlet. I’ll say that practicing my acrobatics and going for a run scratches the itch.”
“The first time I quit I didn’t… there was a woman that… let’s just say I learned how far people would really go to get to Bruce,” Dick explains, deep in his mind. “I didn’t take it seriously at the time, quitting and running away. Every time I try to seriously hang up the mask, I get drug back in.”
“‘Back in’ as in you’re itching for the thrill or ‘back in’ as in you don’t want to let anybody down?”
“As in I’ll always have someone to fight for,” he announces, pleased in his realization.
“Maybe that’s what life’s about,” Stephanie posits, “standing up for the future.”
She finishes her hot cocoa and walks to the kitchen to rinse her mug. Dick organizes the room as it was before. He watches her scrub the lip over and over before he takes the cup from her hands and pulls her into another hug.
“I’ll always be here for you, okay?” he tells her.
As Stephanie lays in bed, as she drifts to sleep, she reflects on the conversation. She’s never had a friend like Dick. He’s been a mentor to her for years. After all the time he’s stood by her and all the lessons he’s taught her, he’s become a brother to her. She’s glad they met. She’s glad they’re family.
THE CHILDREN’S IDOL — May, 2012
Stephanie’s twelve the first time she meets Nightwing. It’s pouring, echoing off the dilapidated dumpsters and neglected fire escapes. She’s huddling under a side door awning. She’s got frizzy, bleach blonde pigtails, and a busted magenta backpack. Tears stream down her face, framing her babbling, bloody mouth.
Her teeth are fine, but her lip’s busted. She coughs and wipes her face. The blood from her nose pools over her upper lip. She sniffs back her tears and halts her crying.
It’s around this time that Nightwing, on his rarer Gotham patrols, runs by the hysterical middle schooler. He rushes from the roofs, settles on the ground, and approaches the girl gently. He inches closer, until Stephanie flinches and looks up at him.
“Hi, are you okay?” he asks, already reaching for his limited first aid supplies.
Her eyebrows scrunching, Stephanie stares, unresponsive. She gives zero indication of understanding him. Nightwing frowns. It could be the shadows obscuring his face that makes the girl cautious to trust him, but he thinks it’s more than that. To be sure, he leans further into the dim streetlight.
At the continuing lack of response, he opens his hands in peace and crouches to her level. He begins with a level tone, “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
She stares at him before fumbling with her bag and withdrawing a set of busted hearing aids. She holds it out to him and says through shakes and blood, “My hearing aids broke.”
Nightwing straightens his posture, makes sure his hands are visible, and starts simultaneously talking and signing. Stephanie perks and reaches through her memory for her American Sign skills.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, finally getting a look at Stephanie’s split lip.
She nods slightly, signing back, “My mouth, my nose, my knee, and my stomach.” She winces when she adjusts her seating. Swiping her face again, Stephanie stares at the smear on her knuckles, and notes it’s lighter than earlier.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I woke up and went to get a glass of water,” she starts to explain. “Walked in on my dad’s poker night and got beat.”
Nightwing winces, heart squeezing, and asks her, “Your dad did this?”
“No, one of his friends did.” She scoffs, then continues, “He didn’t stop them. Just waited till he was done and I was out the room to get onto him. My dad’s not the best, but he doesn’t let anybody get away with hurting his people.”
“Okay. Let me check your injuries? Or, I can take you to a clinic,” Nightwing offers, eyeing the drying blood on the girl’s bruising face.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” She wags a hand before clarifying, “I just wanna go back to sleep.”
“I get it, but you understand why I’m hesitant to let you go home?” he petitions.
The girl rolls her eyes and grills, “What else can I do? Find some newspaper and snuggle up in the sewer?”
“Do you have any friends or family you can stay with?”
She considers lying, but decides it’s better to tell the truth. It can’t hurt being honest with the vigilante. “No…”
Stephanie scuffs her foot against the pavement and absently twirls the straps of her backpack. Nightwing tracks her movements. He shifts in his crouch to tuck his leg under and sit in a position allowing him to quickly snap into action.
“I can see about getting you a hotel room?”
“It’s fine.” She fiddles with her fingers, then adds, “I’m fine just going home. Used to it.”
There must be something off with Stephanie, perhaps a tenseness in her posture, because Nightwing looks at her like she’s set off all his alarms. She stares him down like she’s challenging him to stop her from something.
“You brought a backpack with you,” he points out. “Were you planning to run away?”
“No. I just figured I’d bring snacks and a book and stuff just in case.” To prove her point, Stephanie withdraws a pouch of fruit snacks.
“Does your dad hurt you like that?” Nightwing urges her. “Please be honest.”
“He doesn’t hurt me much. He hurts other people,” she explains, thinking about the people she’s heard her father screw over. She thinks about the babysitter from her childhood, the one she’d rather forget, and the karma her father swears he didn’t carry out.
“How so?”
She squints at him. “Does it matter? The cops don’t believe me,” she grumbles. “Plus, it’s not all bad.”
“I’m not a cop,” he assures, though he nearly enrolled in the academy, not that the girl needs to know. “I promise, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
Stephanie mumbles a foreign saying, decidedly non-English, her pronunciation unsure.
Nightwing perks and cocks his head, signing, “Say that again?”
She clarifies, “My mom says there are lies more believable than the truth.”
Nightwing looks pensive. He swears, “I promise I’ll believe you.”
“Sure, whatever. My dad’s a crook.”
“All right.” Nodding, he asks, “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t gotta think. I know. He doesn’t really have poker nights. He invites these men over and plans crimes and stuff. I know he’s a criminal and probably a villain cause he’s got a real ugly orange costume he wears to the meetings.”
“Tell you what,” posits Nightwing, “how about I patch you up, get you something to eat, and have my friend look after you tonight. You can go home tomorrow, I just want to be sure you’re safe. I’ll start investigating and I’ll get Batman involved. Deal?”
“Who’s your friend?” Stephanie asks, expression furrowing.
Nightwing turns his hand palm up, beckoning her to take it. He tells her in a whisper, “Catwoman.”
She squints in consideration, shakes her head, and tells him, “I just want to go home.”
“Okay, that’s all right. I’ll walk you.”
Stephanie takes his hand and follows Nightwing down the sidewalk. She directs him toward her home, eyes fluttering, trying to participate in their conversation to no avail. While waiting to cross one street, Stephanie nods off and wakes when Nightwing hefts her into his arms.
Two days later, Stephanie comes home to a discreet package on her bed. She opens it to find a new set of hearing aids alongside a burner phone with Nightwing’s tip number.
THE INAUGURAL FLIGHT — August, 2016
Stephanie knows what it means to be underestimated. She’s been underestimated her whole life.
Spoiler is brave. Spoiler is tough and sure and ardent. She steps on the scene to the surprise of the newest Robin. They will-they won’t-they, less because Stephanie’s in love with him, and more because the freedom from her stifling boyfriend Dean is a feeling she won’t ever stop chasing.
Red Hood pops up, threatens Tim, and Steph volunteers to take over as Robin.
She can be Robin, but according to perfect-boy Robin, she’s practically a peacock. Batman calls her unskilled, immature. Batman turns his concrete cheek. If Nightwing watches her fight for the right to try, he could give her a chance.
A pep in her step and a prayer of good luck fuels her journey off home turf. She spends the ride over busy scripting her proposal and munching her dinner — a precarious job given the merciless jostling Gotham University’s cross-campus bus does — and before she knows it she’s on the streets of Bludhaven.
Finding an alley is relatively easy. It’s finding an unoccupied alley that’s tricky. Once she’s found one with a stealthy spot to change, she does just that, donning the uniform in record breaking time.
Stephanie pulls her mask up and secures her hood. She does a quick stretch on the fire escape, before heading out. Her boots pound the rooftops, the impact of her toes a drowning rhythm in the chaos of the evening.
The Bludhaven crazies turn out early. At least, she assumes, thinking of the Gotham crazies, who are up all night every night. Then again, maybe she just doesn’t know what to look for yet.
She lands on a building, buffeted by the wind, and jumps on an HVAC unit to look around. When she spots a lean figure flipping through the sky she waves until she’s sure he’s heading her way. In time, Nightwing stands across from her.
The purple-riding-hood bounces up to him and yells, “Oh my gosh, it’s an honor to meet you Mr Nightwing, Original Robin, sir!”
“Ah. Thanks?” Nightwing startles, even though he expects the greeting. Hopefully. She did ask tall-dark-and-brooding Batman and her richboy Robin to pass on a message.
Stephanie laughs before she says, “I’m kidding. Well, I mean, it is an honor, but I was acting all goofy about it.”
“Oh, trust me, I get it. It’s an honor to meet the Spoiler,” he embellishes as he bows.
“Awe, give a girl a warning, I’m practically swooning,” she says, mock fanning herself. “Anyways, Silver Spoon has to step back from Robin for a while — really, just a hot second — because his father found out and Hood’s on his ass like some wild dog, and he — Baby Warbucks — ‘sall insistent that Batman needs a Robin or he’ll out-emo us all or something.”
After stopping to emphasize her point, she adds, “The guy acts like Batman owns depression or something. I think it’s just a Gotham trait. So, but like, basically, Richie Rich asked me to be Robin while he’s in time-out and I said hell yeah, but Robin’s your thing first, so before I made it official or something, I wanted to get your blessing,” she ends, tapping her foot in dissatisfaction at her word choice. “Permission? Seal of approval!”
Nightwing looks at her like he’s simultaneously dissecting her soul and entering the void, which, holy multitasking Batman!
“Also, is there a Robin bootcamp or something, because that sounds epic and if so, sign me up!” the Spoiler cheers.
“There’s not,” her head falls, “but,” and it’s back up again, “there’s self-defense classes you could take. Batman likes to put Robins through the wringer, but it’s mostly on the job learning.”
“It’s in the water one learns to swim,” she chimes, posing cartoonishly with a finger to the sky.
Nightwing bobs his head and adds, “Hopefully, one’s in the water with a life vest and some training.”
“Well, I took gymnastics classes for a few years and I know you don’t point when you kick. So, I’d like to think I’m pretty good at rolling with the punches,” she boasts with a wink and a finger gun.
He groans performatively, lips quirked, and says, “That was awful. You’ve got this in the bag.”
“Hell yeah!” she pumps her fist and cheers. “Cue training montage,” quips the Spoiler as she flourishes her cape. “This means a lot to me, Robin Senior. You’ve always been like an inspiration to me. Fun fact, you actually saved baby me from the freakiest field-trip and then from a mini crisis when you were starting out as Nightwing.”
“I, wow, I wish I could say I remember you, but I don’t really,” Nightwing says, like he’s letting her down gently.
“That’s okay! I hardly remember what I ate last week. I was the girl you gave the new hearing aids and the phone to. Oh yeah, sorry I never called, my mother broke the phone ‘cause she thought I was being groomed by some creep.”
“Oh! I do remember you. I’m sorry about that, by the way. Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah, totally! He went to jail for other stuff and got out quick so I went Hobby Lobby on my curtains and voila,” she says, pulling her cape around to show Nightwing. “By the way, it’s Brown. Stephanie Brown.”
“Let me guess, middle name ‘Spunk’?”
“Ooh, I like that. Stephanie ‘Spunky’ Brown. I think I’m going to add that on my business card.”
At the sound of a siren, shrill in the background, the pair lift their heads and search for the origin. Nightwing moves to respond, before looking back at Stephanie and waving her to follow.
“Come on, I want to see the ‘Spirited’ Spoiler in action,” he calls with a wink.
Stephanie jumps to action. She hits the ground running, pounding a beat in spry, renewed vigor. There’s nothing holding her back. She’s chasing a string from her heart, burning with desire to make the world a better place. She will climb every wall, jump every fence, leap every hurdle it takes, because nothing can stop Stephanie Brown from fighting for a brighter future.
Robin or not, she’ll leave her mark.
THE VIGILANTE’S RENAISSANCE — January, 2018
There is a ghost on the streets of Gotham. The ghost moves under a shroud of black. Her body bears a purple and pitch suit. The first night she flies across the city’s smog-hidden skyline, so do the rumors of Spoiler’s return. The second night leaves a trail of bodies beaten and bruised. The third turns up a beat no-good cop. The fourth a cuffed tom with-a-record and his latest victim’s days-old body. The fifth and sixth are much the same, but the seventh and so-forth are silent.
Between the ghost’s mute demeanor and calculated moves, the public decides the ghost is not Spoiler, and puts her to rest once again. The criminals the ghost haunt relax in her absence. They grow bold, stupid and sloppy.
The ghost has not quit, never, she has learned patience and planning.
She spends her weeks scouting a trafficking ring. New management has taken advantage of all the exposed children with creative and cruel methods.
Steph fights for the little man. She fights for the scared little girls locked away in closets and the shivering little boys thrown out on the streets. For the children hurt and ignored. For the parents trapped in turbulent marriages.
But most importantly and above all else, Stephanie Brown fights for herself. Stephanie Brown gets knocked down? She gets the hell back up and hits back thrice as hard. She’s tough. She’s grit. She’s nails on a chalkboard and diamond to the glass.
Her bark is far less worse than her bite. Have mercy on those unfortunate few who have witnessed her bite.
Her father’s girl is painted weak, a coward, stupid and gullible. Her mother’s girl is painted timid, pliant, whiny and naive. She kept her head down when needed and mouth shut when told. Children may be moldable, easily shaped, but Stephanie was always more than a child.
The Spoiler is not the opposite of her father’s Cluemaster, but on the far end of the same spectrum. Yin to yang. Where Cluemaster is orange and gaudy, the Spoiler is purple and reticent. Cluemaster’s cocky, showy, attention-seeking. The Spoiler is, at times, quite literally invisible.
She screwed it all up and she got back up. She picks herself up and makes her world better, tooth and nail.
The ghost does not reuse her old pattern of attack, but her new one is born one part caution and one part trauma.
The ghost slides into a crouch, heels raised, eyes tracking, tiger to her core. A man fires his gun and the ghost is on the move. She winds her way between opponents, quick-footed, weaving a confusing spell among her foes. She slips from every grasp and methodically strikes the mens lower bodies. Knees. Thighs. Groin. Shins.
Bullets fly and bodies fall. The ghost keeps on dancing.
The metal clangs, brute-force-bleeds scent the air, but the ghost does not stop. She hits hard and harder. The hallway goons rush in with guns blazing, eager to join the ghost’s failed dance partners.
The ghost strides forward as the last man falls to her relentless attack.
She thrusts the door open and knocks out one of the men inside. A second one intercepts her attack, wraps his hand around the offending section of the staff, and yanks with the force of ten bulls.
The ghost stumbles into his range and he hits her over the head. He pulls the sectioned staff from the ghost and tosses it aside. He tightens his fists and lays hit after hit into the ghost. A man and woman join the assault. They stomp and kick on her arms and head. The ghost gasps out. She might beg if she could risk a voice to cry with. She prefers to fight back.
She raises her head up and yanks down, throwing her legs up and out at her attackers. As one stumbles away, the ghost rolls into the other’s legs with her full weight. When the third lands a hit to her head, the ghost repositions herself in a single fluid motion, rising and charging.
Fist. Hit. Jaw. Crack. Thunk and the body hits the floor. Thunk thunk and so do the remaining two. Thunk and the ghost does too. Only, the ghost lunges toward her discarded staff and whips it up in turn to block the fifth thunk.
She races from the room and up to the rafters, ducking and dodging her relentless tail. She stops mid-stride and spins, whipping her staff into the man’s ankles. He drops, controlling the fall of his weight, springs up, and punches at her chest.
The two grapple toward the edge of the roof. The ghost bucks against the man’s hold, twisting side to side. Hitting the ledge on the northern wall, the ghost panics and jerks her weight to force the man off her.
They stumble back. Recovering with a comfortable distance between them, the ghost gets her first proper look at her opponent, and her opponent at her.
The masked intruder with the sleek boomerangs stops in recognition of the face before him.
The ghost keeps her hair platinum blonde. It hides the white strands. Going gray at eighteen is so not her style, but it makes her criminally green eyes pop. Apparently, really pop if the guy staring into them like she’s the second coming of Jesus is anything to go by.
To call him ‘the guy’ is a disservice. She knows who he is or at least who he plays at being. Gotham’s new Batman. He’s shorter, less broad, and lighter on his feet. If she didn’t know better, she’d guess that he’s—
“Spoiler?” the man, no, not just the man, asks.
“Nightwing?” the ghost volleys back.
The ghost — it’s the Spoiler — watches his smile and mirrors it with her own luminous grin.
“It’s Batman now.”
“And it’s great to be back,” she says with a salute. “Good luck!”
Stephanie steals a breath and leaps. It’s her and the wind. Her cape fans behind her, completing the Bat silhouette. She gives all her faith and all her trust, convicted heart steady in the fall, and the rise.