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Stephanie Brown is back in business. After her time away recovering and reinventing she is glad to be home. Despite the days far out of town Stephanie’s vigilante spirit has not waned: she’s ready to hit the road again.
With a handcrafted purple cape and a shoddily clipped bat symbol pinned to her chest, it’s like nothing has changed. Unofficial and homemade. Does that make her a bootleg bat?
Stephanie pulls her mask up and secures her hood. She spits out her chew and pops in a stick of gum before sliding the mask back down. 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 night.
She’s been advised (firmly told) to stay away from the East End and its warehouses tonight. Still, so what if she keeps toeing the skirts of the area tonight. It’s in her nature to ignore orders. Besides, there’s always someone in need of a save. Or a butt-kicking.
That’s why Steph finds herself throwing down with a crowd of arm’s dealers in a riverside warehouse. A Bay adjacent warehouse. A mid-Hood-bust warehouse.
Stephanie never got a proper Red Hooded welcome. Compared to everyone else, her encounter was lame. There was no pizazz. Comparatively. Stephanie always has pizazz. Her signature flavor is spunk. Spunk and grape. Grape candies are part of her personality at this point.
That’s to say Little Red’s presence isn’t a deterrent. A caution sign, maybe, or a deer crossing warning, but not a dead in turn back or else sign.
Eager to make a better impression, Stephanie enters the fight with a signature cartwheel face kick. She dodges a punch and counters with another kick. Throwing her weight forward, she surprises her opponent by toppling him. Any advantage she may gain doesn’t last long, because now her head and torso are open to stomping. Jokes on these goons: Spoiler keeps her head well protected. She rocks her body. Her momentum swings her vertical with minimal effort.
The fight resumes its cadence. Punch, kick, wail, slap, surprise gymnastics, repeat. Stephanie throws in a headbutt. She instantly regrets it.
“Wow, I got to say boys, the warehouse gets you a solid zero out of ten on the creativity scale, however the blood and guns are a nice touch,” says Spoiler between punches. “I’ve seen it a thousand times, but still, dramatic flair. I dig it.”
The guy she’s wailing on grunts as he falls. Spoiler hits him across the head with her staff and spins to strike the charging gunman behind her. He loses his grip on the gun. She kicks his shoulder and drops into a roll, launching his gun across the room. The first man lumbers up and lunges toward her. She interrupts him with an elbow to the stomach and a jab of her staff in his crotch.
“Oops!” she jeers.
And then a third man grabs the scruff of her hood and slams her head on the concrete ground. Stars explode behind her eyes. He throws her down again and again and before he can continue he’s tackled by a leathery red blur. The blur – Red Hood – takes him down and finishes off the rest of the arms dealers in quick succession.
Stephanie stumbles to her feet and looks at the hard-cover man. “Thanks for the assist, Big Mac,” she says.
“Big Mac?” he asks, caught off guard.
“Yeah, you know?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Applejack’s big brother? From My Little Pony? He’s red.” She waits for a response and gets none. “Fine,” Steph says, scolding herself for the failed joke. She huffs as she trots beside him. “Next time I’ll go with Lightning McQueen.”
The mask makes it hard to read Hood’s expression (not that she’s good at that type of thing in the first place) however, Stephanie gets the distinct feeling the man’s searing her with unholy judgement. The two stand still in silence.
Until Red Hood breaks it with a reluctant, “Kachow…”
“Aha!” She claps and cheers. “I knew you’d be fun!”
He walks away, but she slinks through the shadows after him.
“I told Bats to keep his people away tonight,” Red Hood condescends.
Stephanie cocks her hip and snorts. “I’m no-batty’s person. I still have business here.”
She’s not even linked up with the Bat-squad at the moment. Not that it matters, because she spent her time without them just fine and she’ll do it again if she must.
“Your help is neither needed nor wanted,” Hood grouses. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Then I’ll go and stop muggings or break-ins.” She smiles mockingly, her mask twitching, then carries on, disclaiming: “I’m not a turf-abiding girlie. If I see or hear something in ‘your territory’,” she says with air quotes, “I’m gonna jump in. Capiche? You people think you can be everywhere at once. Stuff it and let someone else help.” With that, Steph leaves with a flourish of her cape. Or she would have, had Red Hood not grabbed her and held her in place.
She tries to move, but he fists her cape and tugs her in place.
“Wait,” he cautions, head cocked.
She would scoff and leave his grip, if not for the faint murmurs out on the docks. She clicks her tongue. They’re faint to her, but they must be obvious to Red Hood. Unobservant was not on the list of impressions she wanted to make.
“So, now you want me,” she jokes under her breath.
Red Hood is silent for a second. He recovers and grumbles, “Shut up.”
“No need to be rude,” Stephanie replies while moving to crack her neck (and failing). She changes her stance. Bouncing on the balls of her feet she bends her knees and prepares to rumble.
After all is said and done, Stephanie stands alone in the empty, junk riddled street, glaring red tail lights fading in the horizon. A final wink of light and Red Hood’s helmet disappears too. She was only seconds behind the man, kindly covering his back, and what does she get? She gets left behind.
Whatever, the motorcycle was probably illegally commandeered anyways.
Stephanie kicks the flattened takeout container in front of her. She won’t be able to catch up with the Red Hood (not that she thinks he wants her to) so all that’s left to do is call the authorities and wait.
She adjusts her right glove and crouches down to collect the trash lined up the curb. She looks for a trash can, groaning upon finding all three stuffed to the brim and beyond.
Stephanie walks to the nearest twenty-four hour convenience store and browses longer than she should. The woman ringing her up gives a weird, reproachful look before scanning each item with a colorful mumbled narration. Once all is said and done, Stephanie is armed with gloves, wipes, trash bags, and spray to clean with.
The next hour, Stephanie spends clearing the street with proper tools. Her second drooping trash bag is already half full, despite the penny of headway she’s made thus far. Her hands ache and her back twinges. Stephanie doesn’t mind, but is discouraged by the mountain left to haul away.
She considers a metaphor for the crime-addled city, and muffles a snort, because while ridiculous and accurate, the comparison is also discouraging.
The nightly encounters with crime, curbed or not, are discouraging as well. Cut off a head, yadda yadda, three more loons with a gimmick on the street. Still, she thinks, regarding her staff with a curious look, the never-ending slough is the battle she chose to always fight. Why not bust the city’s reappearing litter with the same gusto?
Gotham is her home. She’ll help it in any way she can. If that help entails cleaning up soda cans with a metal stick, so be it.
She’s forwarding the night’s expense to the Red Hood. It’s what he deserves for ditching her to ride off into the moonlight like a 1950s Western hero.