Chapter Text
ALL THE GLAMOR: Imposter Syndrome #1
These days, Barbara mostly just runs off imposter syndrome and a lot of audacity. Tonight, it’s the outdated social class type imposter syndrome running around her brain. It’s wine red cocktail dresses and the glittering chandeliers and the clack clack clacking of high heels and those shiny black shoes that men wear on glazed marble floors.
The dancing lights swallow Barbara piece by piece until nothing remains but barely-tamed red hair, a dark green suit probably not nearly high-quality enough for this gala, and a pair of black heels that Barbara wobbles around in confidently. Like she said, it’s all about audacity. The key to success, in every field she’s ever tackled, is sheer audacity.
Speaking of audacity: the green pantsuit hides a bad bit of bruising on her right leg, courtesy of her night work as Batgirl. Another field she entered through guts, grace, and bucket loads worth of audacity.
She almost faked a sickness to get out of attending this gala, but she knows that her dad is just as uncomfortable in these spheres as she is. When he’s done rubbing sufficient elbows and saying the right words, he’ll find her and they’ll hang out by the cocktail bar until it’s time to go. She can put up with a little injury until then.
Barbara shifts her weight to her left foot again, trying to relieve pressure from her injured right leg. The bruises don’t hurt unless she presses something against them, but Batman still insisted that she take at least a one-week break. Actually, he said ominously that he better not see her for at least a week, which Barbara is pretty sure means he cares. Given how Robin responds to similar warnings, she’s concluded that ominous statements are his way of expressing concern.
Not that it even matters. Batman isn’t her boss, and he’s certainly not her dad. She’s just using his symbol. If she needed his permission or approval, she wouldn’t be a vigilante at all. Robin says that he just didn’t like the idea of a middle schooler fighting crime, but a) Robin exists, and b) Robin clearly doesn’t respect much of anything, much less her, either. It’s whatever. Barbara doesn’t even care. She’ll continue using the image of a guy who doesn’t want her using it, or her help in any capacity, and maybe eventually he’ll get over it and start appreciating her.
(Ha. Speaking of imposter syndrome).
She’s only here, fidgeting with a mocktail underneath a chandelier the size of a piano, because it’s a charity gala fundraiser for first responders. Barbara is always willing to support first responders. She’s of the opinion that Gotham City should shift some of the police force’s budget to other first responders, though she has yet to share this opinion with her father, the chief of police.
His position as Commissioner is the reason why she was invited. As police chief he’ll give a speech to encourage the wealth walking around Barbara right now to donate. As a speaker, he gets to bring a plus one, and the Gordon family is a party of two. It was always going to be Barbara. Because of its subject, she said yes. Even though she’s regretting it now. She’s just a high schooler whose father has the right job. What business does she have being here? How does her presence help in any way?
“Hey! Babs!”
Speaking of imposter syndrome. Dick Grayson, or Grayson-Wayne, or Richie Wayne, or whatever he prefers to be called, comes walking quickly in her direction, and oh no, is that a frown on his magazine-cover face? It takes a lot to make Dick drop his gigawatt smile.
Barbara wishes that the sight of someone her age, especially someone who goes to her school, could bring her relief. She also wishes they could be friends, but alas, on September 5 of last year, Dick made it very clear that was not to be.
THE MELODRAMA: Imposter Syndrome #2
Barbara first met Dick about one and a half years ago, on the first day of their freshman year at Gotham Academy. She was wrestling a textbook out of her backpack, which hung in her locker because back then she still used her locker, and into her arms. It was in the middle of this struggle that Dick approached her from behind, tapped her on the arm, and said, “Smile!”
When she turned around, he took a selfie of his goofy grin, her confused face, and a textbook mid-fall. The book landed on her toes, as did the rest of the notebooks and objects in her arms as her hand shot out, reaching with deadly aim for his phone.
“Hey!” Even then, Dick was noticeably taller than her, and had fast enough reflexes to keep his phone out of her reach. The wounded look he gave her probably would’ve been cute if not for the invasion of privacy and his subsequent inability to rub two brain cells together. “We’ll laugh about this later!”
Barbara, quietly shoving down embarrassment from her failed first attempt to get the phone, stepped out of the pile of fallen books and addressed him politely. “What?” And confusedly.
“Maybe tonight,” he added, winking exaggeratedly, which Barbara maintains has got to be in the top ten worst ways to ask someone out on a date.
“Not interested,” Barbara said calmly, and then made another swipe for the phone. “Please delete that photo.”
“What?” Somehow he had the audacity to act all shocked and confused that she didn’t like random guys walking up to her and taking photos of her. Maybe he really did think that girls were into that sort of thing. “No, I didn’t mean–I don’t want–uh.” He fumbled for words even as he effortlessly kept the phone out of reach.
Barbara tried not to lose her temper just because she was embarrassed. She was Batgirl, had been for a year, how could she fail at something as simple as getting a phone from a high school freshman?
“Is that your phone, Richard? What’s going on here?” Barbara’s savior came in the low tones of Ms. Calbourne, the chemistry teacher.
“Yes!” Richard cried.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Calbourne,” Barbara said sweetly, “but he was taking pictures of me without my permission and I was just asking him to delete them.”
She’d turned away from Richard so she could make her entreaty to Ms. Calbourne, but a side glance of his profile coupled with the revelation of his name finally made something click: this guy was Richard Grayson-Wayne, adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Or legal ward, or whatever.
So that was a great thing to find out halfway through her sentence. Barbara glared at him and privately hoped that he wasn’t one of those billionaires that had million-dollar tantrums anytime they felt slightly insulted.
“Not like that!” Cried the son of one of the richest people in the world when Ms. Calbourne turned disapproving eyes on him, silently asking for his side of the story. “I meant–ugh, fine, whatever.”
He made some quick swipes on his phone, then shoved it in her face, showing his camera roll, then deleted the photo of her from Recently Deleted too.
“It was gonna be funny,” he grumbled as he slouched off to class, a feat made doubly impressive given that he was taller than both Ms. Calbourne and Barbara.
She would later come to learn that Dick Grayson had a remarkable ability to present himself as whatever type of person he wished, whether that person was short, funny, a mathlete, a gymnast, a natural performer, a high school romance type protagonist, or a complete and total asshole. And people ate it up.
Ms. Calbourne sighed and sent Barbara off to class too, which turned out to be her most hated class of the year, exacerbated by her tardiness to the very first class, and the teacher’s habit of locking the door at 9:40 am exactly so that all late students had to knock and endure the walk of shame to their desk while the teacher mocked them for being late and everyone else stared in mixed pity and exasperation. Barbara spent an alarming amount of her time in that class thinking up ways to get that teacher Title IX’d.
Barbara is pretty sure that Dick Grayson has hated her ever since that incident, which is too bad because it would be nice to be friends with him. Their school isn’t very big, and they’re both mathletes as well as regular athletes, though he does gymnastics outside of school and she’s been getting into computer programming. They cross paths in a lot of social spheres at school; why wouldn’t she want to get along with him?
In any case, Dick’s hatred or lack thereof for her hasn’t stopped him from bothering her at every opportunity. Case in point: tonight. One and a half years later, at a gala for Gotham’s first responders, no less, and he still finds time to annoy her.
AND THE LIMELIGHTS: Imposter Syndrome #3
“You shouldn’t be here.” Dick Grayon’s opening words, everybody. Truly a master performer. Really helping with Barbara’s imposter syndrome. Practically alleviating it.
Inwardly, Barbara rolls her eyes, and ignores the rolling of her stomach. Her confidence is not so easily soured by popular rich boys. Not today, not ever. Outwardly, she narrows her eyes. “And you should?”
“Great job, Dickwad,” mutters the smaller boy by Dick’s side, whom Barbara has just noticed. Robin would make fun of her observation skills if he knew about this. Then again, Robin enjoys mocking everything about her, so whatever.
Barbara has learned very little about Jason Todd since he was adopted six months ago. Dick doesn’t speak about Bruce Wayne’s eccentric adoption tendencies in public, and she is not close enough to him to know what he says in private. But she does know that he’s starting high school next year. Hey, seeing as he’ll undoubtedly attend Gotham Academy, maybe he’ll join their mathletes team and then she can have a minion, ahem, mentee that can join her in making fun of his older brother.
But seriously. Just because Dick’s father has more money than God and throws some of it at Gotham’s first responders doesn’t make Dick more worthy of being here than her. Maybe if she keeps repeating this to herself, it’ll sink in.
“That’s not what I meant,” Dick splutters. One hand reaches up unconsciously and tugs at his bright blue tie. It matches his blue suit coat, which stretches uncomfortably over his broad shoulders. Despite the adjusting, Dick doesn’t look any more comfortable when he says; “I didn’t think the police–uh.”
Jason snickers and knocks back his mocktail like he’s taking shots. He even grimaces afterwards, like the bitterness or the burn is getting to him. What a funny little man. Barbara already likes him more than his older brother. Not that Dick is much competition.
So Dick’s problem is with the police, then? That’s understandable. Especially since it wasn’t the police who solved his parents’ murders, it was Batman. Another reason why Barbara goes out at night. Not that her father or Batman would ever understand that.
Dick keeps looking Barbara up and down, but in a frantic, furtive sort of way, not in an objectifying sort of way. So she very graciously offers him the benefit of the doubt and asks: “Is there something on my clothes?”
Called out, his head shoots up, gelled black hair flopping, blue eyes wide and a little panicky. “No! Just…just admiring the colors.” He gives her two thumbs up, flashing a very expensive watch which must be very uncomfortable given how clearly it’s been moved and abused.
It’s a little comforting to think that Dick is also uncomfortable at this gala, in these stiff, ten thousand dollar clothes, drifting from socialite to millionaire.
“Very…Christmas-y.” Dick follows this joke up with a weak smile, not the charming smile he gives all the teachers at school.
Ah yes, red hair and green suit, she’s practically Santa Claus, ha ha ha, how original. Barbara actually really liked this dark green color. Now she’s having second thoughts. “It’s not dyed,” she says flatly, and turns in her heels. (Flat heels, because she might be attending a gala with an injury, but she’s not a masochist).
Barbara stalks away with all the dignity she can muster, which is quite a lot even though it’s purely an exercise in presentation, not identity. She does not limp, because her leg does not hurt, not even a little. She also does not think about Dick Grayson saying you shouldn’t be here as she seeks refuge by the bathrooms, because his opinion doesn’t matter to her, not even a little, not at all.
She hears the boys whispering furiously to each other behind her back, but they’re quiet enough that she can’t pick up on any specific words. She doesn’t really want to know what they say about her behind her back anyways. (Ha. That’s a lie).
The chandelier lights spin on. Her right leg throbs. Barbara wobbles off in search of finer imposter syndromes in which to lose herself.
She finds her next conversation partner by the bathrooms, when she hears an awful retching noise coming from the single-user bathroom.
“Is someone in there?” Barbara pounds one fist against the door. “Are you okay?”
More retching, and Barbara almost breaks down the door when: “I’m okay!” A thin, weak voice filters through the cracks between the door and its frame. A child’s voice. What is a child doing here, without their parents?”
“Are you sure?” Barbara presses. “I’m a certified lifeguard, I can help.”
She holds her breath as the kid’s sniffling and other sounds drop to zero. Quiet footsteps shuffle across the bathroom’s tiles, and the lock clicks open. The door swings out two inches or so, revealing a sliver of face; the third black-haired blue-eyed boy Barbara’s spoken to tonight. That’s two too many. A worrying red puffiness splashes across his pasty white face. Perhaps the retching sounds she heard were actual retching.
“I’m good,” the boy rasps. “I just had a ‘llergic reaction to–oh my gosh. Are you Barbara Gordon?”
Of all the people that she expected to recognize her tonight (none), a small pint-sized child was not on the list. “Yes?” Barbara answers.
Even underneath the rash discoloring his face, a pink blush blooms. “Oh my gosh,” the boy whispers again. “You’re so cool.” Then he physically slaps his hand over his mouth. It’s kind of endearing.
“Thanks, I know.” She flips her hair a little. Listen, she doesn’t often get compliments, she’ll celebrate what she gets, okay? Even though she’s a little worried how this random kid heard about her. “What’s your name?”
“Tim.” The boy pushes the door open a little wider. “Can we be friends?” Tim asks shyly.
Aw! He’s adorable!
“Of course,” Barbara says, because what else is she supposed to say? No, fuck you, small child? She didn’t expect that between the teenager, the pre-teen and the tiny tot here at the gala, only the tiny tot will want to be her friend. But she’s not going to break this kid’s heart by telling him that she doesn’t have anything in common with someone who hasn’t even started middle school yet.
Maybe all boys go through a phase when they turn evil at age twelve and pop out of it at age eighteen, a normal, real person, like a beautiful butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Which makes Dick Grayson a larvae. Barbara isn’t too upset about where this metaphor is going.
Tim’s puffy little face lights up like a firework. He fully slips out of the bathroom, revealing an epipen in one hand, and attempts to shake her hand formally. It’s kind of endearing, a little worrying, and a lot weird.
“So, Tim,” Barbara says, trying to subtly wipe her hand on her pants (turns out that boys are weirdly greasy at every age), “where are your parents?”
Just like that, Tim’s face falls. His nose scrunches and he rubs tiny fists against his poor abused skin. “I dunno.”
“Okay, um.” Barbara offers her hand to the greasy little munchkin. “Why don’t we go find them?”
Tim shakes his head furiously. “Don’ wanna bother them,” he mumbles.
“I’m sure they want to know about your allergic reaction,” Barbara insists. “Come on, it’ll be like an adventure.” That’s something he’ll like, right? He isn’t too old for that yet, right? She hopes not, because that’s really not her area of strength, it’s Robin’s.
“An adventure?!” Tim squeaks. “Can we play Batgirl and Robin too?”
“Sure,” Barbara agrees, surprisingly flattered considering that she’s actually Batgirl. Tim is probably just naming local heroes, but still. He immediately thought she could be Batgirl! Sometimes Barbara doesn’t feel like she can be Batgirl, so validation is nice, even if it comes from a tiny allergen-prone child who has no idea that he’s talking to the actual Batgirl.
Wow, Tim mouths, then accepts her hand with his own small, sweaty hand. Barbara has to stoop a little as Tim leads them out of the quiet, though large and still grandiose hallway, and back onto the gala floor. With the blinding lights, and the polite laughter, and the people as shallow as puddles, dotting the shining marble floor like Louis Vuitton and Versace gutter water.
“Look, Batgirl!” Tim’s squeaky voice goes all hushed and determined as he points Barbara to a redhead man in a green suit coat, leaning slightly on a cane. For a moment Barbara fears that Tim is about to introduce her to his dad as Batgirl. “That guy fits the profile of… the Riddler. D’you think it’s him?”
Barbara hides a laugh in her wide smile, which she directs far above Tim’s head. She’s not mocking him, she loves this kid. But she’s not going to laugh in his face either. “Maybe. What about that guy?” She guides Tim’s finger to a squat man in a black waistcoat, with a little bowtie and a black hat. “Could he be the Penguin?”
Instead of playing along, Tim yanks his hand out of her grip. “I know he’s not,” the kid scowls, all the hero-worship scrubbed from his voice.
What did Barbara say wrong? Did she play the game wrong? Can she not even play at Batgirl correctly? I better not see you on the streets for at least a week, Batman growls in her memories, and two days later, Barbara blinks those headache-inducing chandelier lights out of her eyes. Her vision still does not clear.
“‘Cause last night Batman an’ Robin an’ Batgirl interrupted the Penguin’s shipment of something and they beat him up but he got away and you–I mean Batgirl got injured, but he’s really really injured so no way would he show up to a gala when his face probably looks like a wrinkly prune, so I’m sure you’ll get him next time!” Tim’s pouty little scowl grows more and more concerning as he continues not breathing. “But once you put the Penguin in prison then I–”
“What’s this about punching a penguin into prison?”
Luck must really not be on Barbara’s side tonight, because her sworn enemy Dick Grayson pops out of the throes of well-dressed foes. At least he’s still accompanied by Jason, who has a new glass of strawberry sorbet and the same old look of total boredom on his face.
To Barbara’s horror, Tim immediately drops his scowl and breaks into a wide grin. Of course he gets a hero crush on Dick just as he loses all interest in Barbara. No, she’s not salty about losing the admiration of a small child she doesn’t know to a classmate she doesn’t like. Not at all.
“We’re playing Batgirl and Robin!” Tim tells him excitedly. Despite his obvious enthusiasm, he hides partially behind Barbara, sticking only his head out so he can continue talking to Dick. “She said I can be Robin do you think I can be Robin d’you think I’d make a good Robin?!”
Dick blinks a few times as he parses this wealth of information. Then, Barbara’s and Tim’s horror, he bursts into laughter. Barbara thought he’d at least have the sense not to laugh at a prepubescent child, even if he doesn’t have the decency to not laugh at her. So either he thinks the idea of her being Batgirl is laughable or that Tim being Robin is funny. Which is better?
Tim’s tiny little baby-cheeked face screws up into a picturesque image of misery; lips quivering, eyes shiny and big, voice small and precious when he asks: “You…you don’t think…?”
“Hey.” Barbara glares at Dick with eyes that say, to the best of her ability, asshole. “What’s wrong with him being Robin?”
Abruptly, Dick stops laughing. So he has a sense of shame after all. “Nothing!” He lies, right to poor Tim’s face. “I’m sure you’d make a great Robin.” He directs his next excuse to Barbara, meeting her glare with only a little wince and apologetic air. “It’s the Batgirl part, I thought it was funny, ‘cause… ‘cause…you’re obviously taller than her!”
Of all the possible bullshit excuses Dick could have spun on the spot to make her and Tim feel better, I thought you were taller has got to be in the bottom quartile. Barbara genuinely has no idea what to say to that. Jason clearly shares similar sentiments, because he slaps the right side of his face with a hand and groans. She’s definitely going to make him into her little minion.
“Uh-huh,” Barbara says flatly.
“Yeah!” Dick reclaims part of his signature smile and grabs Tim by the shoulders. “Kid, you have my official blessing to be Robin,” he says imperiously, like Dick Grayson’s permission to play at being Robin is worth anything. What a self-centered narcissist.
Despite Dick’s ego, his words do the trick; Tim’s entire body leaps into bright enthusiasm again, a wide grin threatening to split his baby face right in two. Apparently Dick’s opinion is worth a lot to this kid. Barbara will have to teach him how to not care like a true professional.
Unexpectedly, Tim goes for a hug, pushing out of Dick’s grip only to wrap his little arms around Dick’s waist. To his credit, Dick flails for only the smallest of moments before he hugs the kid back. It’s pretty cute, even to Barbara, who dislikes their entire situation. As touching as it is, she would like for this gala to be over.
THE TERROR: Imposter Syndrome #4
Then the ceiling explodes. The monkey’s paw curls, answering Barbara’s bitter wish. Chandelier bits, burning sparks and sharp glass, shower the gala guests like dazzling, deadly rainfall. The gala is over, but the night is only just getting started.
Barbara and Dick both grab a smaller child to protect. Due to their current circumstances, the nearest child for Dick is Tim, who still hasn’t let go, so Barbara shields Jason’s head with her arms despite his wriggly protesting. Given their proximity to the bathrooms, all four remain remarkably unharmed from the falling glass shards.
Elsewhere, the destroyed chandeliers give rise to small fires, exacerbating people’s panic. Guests stampede for the doors, creating dangerous bottlenecks. Stuck in her civilian identity and responsible for the three civilians/children in her immediate vicinity, Barbara mostly thinks very hard about what Batgirl could be doing for the first minute or so.
When the ceiling stops falling on top of them, Barbara risks a look around and sees the ceiling still firmly on top of their heads. So, just the chandeliers then, and maybe some sections of the roof? It is difficult to tell with the small fires and all of the screaming.
She pulls away from Jason just as the boy finally stops trying to wriggle out of her protective hold. But surprisingly, Dick moves just as fast. He untangles Tim’s arms from himself and shoves him in Barbara’s general direction.
“Take care of him Imma find out what happened okay bye!” Dick sprints off in the other direction, leaving Barbara wordless but furious.
“Unbelievable,” she rages as she brushes glass dust off of the boys’ shoulders and her own. Turns out she has a few words to share. “What does he think I am, a babysitter? What does he think I can do?”
She can do a lot, actually, but Dick doesn’t know that. Neither does Tim, but he still pipes up with, “But you’re so cool! You can do anything!” Which is awfully sweet of him.
Barbara scoffs and steers both Jason and Tim towards the exit. “Well, what does he know?”
Belatedly, it occurs to her that regular civilian Barbara Gordon should be acting more scared and concerned about all the fire and explosions. But in her defense, she was preoccupied with being mad at Dick, and also Jason and Tim seem to be handling the situation just fine.
As they near the exit, a dozen people come running in the opposite direction. Most of the guests fled when the fires started (understandably); it was only Barbara who stood around complaining for a minute before realizing that she ought to get the children out even if she can’t help as Batgirl. She directs them to the exit furthest from any fires, which will hopefully get them out onto the street.
“We can take an Uber to my place,” Barbara instructs them, trying to project Batman levels of calm. “My dad’s the police commissioner, he’ll get in touch with your pa–”
The people emerging from the smoke and the dim lighting (only the lights on the walls survived) are not firemen, as Barbara had expected. They are children. Armed with guns, dressed in ridiculous card-shaped costumes. As they near Barbara, she notices that their pupils are no longer black but a spinning mix of green, blue, and purple.
“Oh boy,” says Jason.
Barbara pulls Tim and Jason in a little closer. “What’s going on here?”
Across the gala floor, gunfire breaks out. Barbara risks a glance, but she can’t see anything save for blurry figures. Is it Dad? Is he in trouble? Is he hurt? She can’t run with Tim and Jason to take care of, and everyone else got out just fine. Dick ran like a coward and abandoned his little brother. Likely the only person left trying to help is Jim Gordon.
When Barbara looks back, a man in a purple suit and purple top hat has joined the semi-circle of armed kids (what a nightmare). He greets the trio with a cheshire grin and tip of his hat. “Just the children I was hoping to find!”
“Why are you looking for children?” Barbara’s voice cracks like a whip as she pushes Jason and Tim behind herself, eyes darting from the child dressed as the seven of hearts and fumbling with an AR-47 much too big for him to the Mad Hatter.
She really hates Batman’s villains. They’re all crazy, like off-the-walls insane, and they never get original names. The Riddler wants to be clever. The Joker wants to be funny. The Mad Hatter wants an Alice and a tea party.
“You sick fuck,” Jason adds, a shout that goes nowhere in particular but makes Barbara feel like she has back-up.
Soot singes Barbara’s emerald pants. She shifts in her heels and tries to ignore the gunshots from the other side of the hall as she thinks up a plan. Batman would’ve taken out the goons by now, children or not. Robin would’ve snapped them out of the hypnosis somehow, or at least thought of a plan. But Batbara is surrounded by a dozen kids with guns and a crazy guy with no morals and she just doesn’t know how to get all three of them out of this safely.
“Now, now,” admonishes the Mad Hatter. “Where are your manners?” To Barbara, he explains; “My poor Alice has been so lonely lately, so I thought I’d get her a playmate! But a dear, sweet girl like her deserves a prince. Now I heard that our very own prince of Gotham had taken in a second boy. So I thought, one of them ought to suffice!”
Barbara’s attention flickers to a boy with a black diamond printed on his right cheek and a nine on the left. He drops his gun as the bright swirling lights temporarily dissipate from his eyes. Quick as a blink, the Mad Hatter throws his cane out and does something, and the neon lights burn brightly in the boy’s pupils once more.
“Where are your manners, assuming that Alice wants a boy?” Barbara shoots back, stalling for time. She slides towards a boy about Tim’s age, whose hands are most unsteady on his gun. Jason and Tim shuffle behind her without needing to be told.
“Yeah, get with the times!” Jason shouts. “Mad Hatter? More like…more like…Mad Hater!”
It’s stupid as hell, but it makes Tim giggle and Barbara crack a smile. Making jokes in the middle of a burning ballroom whilst surrounded by armed enemies is no easy feat. Jason would make for a good Robin.
“Oh, no, do not get any untoward ideas, this prince will only be a playmate for my dear Alice,” the Mad Hatter says, genuinely offended. “The darling girl is much too innocent to think of such things.”
“You’re a creepy sicko freak,” Jason yells from behind Barbara’s shoulder. His hand has fastened on Barbara’s forearm in an iron-grip, which won’t end well if Barbara needs to fight.
The Mad Hatter purses his lips. “I am beginning to think that I should have chosen different children. Perhaps I shall abandon this and come back later for Richard.”
On his command, the hypnotized children all raise their guns.
“Oh no you won’t,” Barbara says quickly, keeping the nine of diamonds boy in her peripheral vision. “Because…he goes by Dick! You don’t want your precious baby girl Alice to be saying something so uncouth, do you?”
The Mad Hatter looks absolutely devastated by this information. He waves for his slave army of child soldiers to lower their weapons. “Does he really?”
“Yeah!” Jason ducks behind Barbara only to pop up from her other shoulder. “Dickface, Dickhead, Dickwad, Saint Dickolas, Dick-o-meter, Dickie, Dickles, the Dickless Wonder–”
“Enough!” The Mad Hatter raises his cane. “That is quite enough of that, young man.” He sighs dramatically. “Very well. Perhaps this world is simply too impure. I shall have to make it anew.”
Once again, he wordlessly commands the child soldiers to raise their guns. Barbara is so close to the nine of diamonds boy now that she can knock it out of her hands. What she can’t do is protect Jason and Tim in the carnage to follow.
“Oh no you won’t,” Barbara says again, adrenaline making her think a thousand thoughts per second, most of which are useless. “Rule number one of villainy, don’t monologue your plans to your victims. You need us alive, you’re not going to kill us. If you let these two go and only take me I’ll tell you where you can find a boy worthy of your Alice.”
The Mad Hatter chuckles. “How intriguing. You are quite a clever girl.”
Tim grabs Barbara’s other arm. “Don’t go,” he pleads softly.
Barbara braces herself. She’s gotten the Mad Hatter’s attention, for better or for worse. “So do we have a deal?”
“Oh no.” The Mad Hatter breaks into a cheshire grin again. “I’m afraid not,” he says, though he motions for his hypnotized children to lower their guns again. “But never fear, dear girl, you have sufficiently piqued my interest.” He raises his cane and–
The world slides into deep, sickening green.
Barbara? Hey, what did you do!
She needs to play her part and please her master she needs–
Protect Jason and Tim where’s Jason where’s Tim protect–
Emerald green and the seven of spades and shades of blue and purple and so much fire, red hair and very Christmas-y and hasn’t she heard enough–
We’re on your side! Snap out of it!
Put me down!
She needs to serve she needs to protect she needs to. Needs to. Serve her master. Protect the kids. You shouldn’t be here. She needs to belong. She needs to fight.
C’mon Barbara you’re Batgirl, you’re a good guy, you’re–don’t–
Smokes chokes the air out of her lungs and her face burns and auburn hair whips across her vision and blue eyes beg for mercy or understanding or maybe just peace and the world ought to be red, why isn’t it red, where is the red, where is Dad, where is the gunfire and the limelights and the firefights and the splendor and the trauma–
Instead, the world burns itself out in shades of neon green until everything goes black.