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“We might need your help on a case soon,” Red says, as they sit on the roof of a crumbling facade. His words are all business, gaze set on the small pad he’s typing on. The light coming off it accentuates his ghoulish pallor.
“Yeah?”
He nods absentmindedly. “Murder that happened in your territory. B thought it was connected to the Bowery ones, but it’s not adding up.” He looks up and the mesh white lenses lock on her with precision. The sudden undivided attention makes her skin crawl. “Well, I don’t think it’s adding up, and someone else needs to intervene before he also sees that and goes off the deep end.”
“Why is it off?”
“It’s too clean. No footage, no DNA, kill doesn’t even seem retributionary — almost clinical precision in the cuts, just enough to bleed out. The guy took forever to find, too.” He pauses, letting the details settle over both of them. She wonders how odd it is that two teenagers can discuss a murder so casually. If it’s fair that this is the kind of thing she thinks about all day. “The other murders are clean, sure, but there’s still little things here and there for us to catch onto. This guy’s got it down cold.”
“Maybe he’s getting better. Figuring out his blindspots and adjusting accordingly. That’s a real possibility, especially if he realized that you guys are onto him.” Her gaze flits down to escape his attention. Her gloves are dirty.
“That’s what B thinks –”
“Great minds think alike.”
“— but, the victim doesn’t fit the guy's MO perfectly. He could just be branching out, but I don’t know. It just feels different.”
He goes quiet. There’s a distant horn in the background of a train passing, but not a single honk from a car. It’s that odd time of night — too late for the night owls and too early for the morning risers.
“So, why can’t you?” she asks. The seconds tick by without a response. He’s back to the pad. “Rob, why can’t you?”
“Why can’t I what?” His boots scuff against brick as they dangle off the ledge.
“Deal with the big guy.”
He laughs. “I’ve filled my quota for dealing with his neuroticism this month. It’s someone else’s problem now.”
She tosses her head back and groans. The glittering smoggy sky is as expansive as ever. “God. Fuck this job.”
As predicted, he chuckles and tilts his head. The longest strands of his hair fall into his face. “Fuck this job.”
—
There’s an alarm going off in the kitchen. Mom walks over to take out the casserole, but fumbles as she searches for her oven mitts. The TV blares loud and golden sunlight spills through the windows. Stephanie soaks in the school-free summer afternoon, relishing in the way time stretches around her like taffy.
She jolts when the door handle starts shaking. Before she can get up to look through the hole, the door swings open. Arthur steps in and slams the door behind him. In her periphery, Mom flinches.
Steph and Mom’s eyes lock onto each other. The air between them sits stale as they hold their breath.
“Hey, Stephie,” Arthur calls.
She can’t look away from her mom. The way her eyes go dead, how her face smoothes over into something blank. The kitchen timer beeps on, the cartoon characters talk over one another easily. Steph tries to memorize the way mom looks in this moment — head clear, hair and clothes neat. She pointedly doesn’t glance at the top left cabinet in the kitchen. At what lies behind the extra flour.
“Steph!” Arthur calls, and it isn’t a suggestion.
She turns. “Welcome back, Dad.”
“You’ve grown so much, Stephie. Looks like you’ve got my genetics after all, huh?”
The air unfreezes. Mom frantically stumbles to the oven. Arthur takes off his coat and shoes, leaving all his extra belongings in a pile they all know he won’t be cleaning. She springs into action when he gestures for her to grab him a drink; Mom still keeps the beers in the fridge stocked, despite Steph’s complaints. Once she hands it to him, he slumps into the couch. Stephanie and Mom both take their first deep breath in minutes.
Dinner goes painfully slow. Mom breaks out the nicer plates and sets the dining table, an unfamiliar sight for Steph. At her questioning glance, Mom quietly confesses, “It doesn’t feel proper when all of us are together.”
Arthur all but collapses into his seat and digs into his food immediately. Her parents maintain a steady stream of passive small talk, nothing deep enough to land onto the hard things — the things that keep Mom on the pills, the things that take Arthur from them for months at a time. Mom must think it’s easier for Steph this way — if she never has to see the real fights. Steph doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s wrong.
The steaming meal in front of her is indiscernible from mush once in her mouth, and she does all she can to choke it down quietly. She answers questions about school — “Starting middle school soon, eh?” — and friends — “You really ought to get out more, Stephie!” — until Arthur seems satisfied, and blends into the background when he and Mom start talking again.
She tries to stay present, but her eyes keep getting caught on the big window, the way night falls on the city. Lights come on in apartments one by one and the polluted sky remains a bleak gray-black. What would it be like to stand out on the street in the middle of the night? When the roads are empty and the air is crisp and cool. With only the lights in open windows and flickering streetlights to greet her. Nothing but goosebumps and the occasional siren. Or, what would it be like to stand on a tall roof? To be so close to the sky that you can touch it — to feel the presence of no one other than yourself. The night sky isn’t as dark as people like to believe. It’s gray, a reflection of all the golden light in the city. She could sit there forever, stare at the swirling smokey clouds until the first streaks of sunlight break through.
They finish their meals eventually, and she’s almost surprised at how unscathed they are leaving that table. Mom takes all the plates, and Arthur marches into their bedroom. Steph starts drying the dishes as they’re washed. Once everything is cleaned, Mom turns to her and reaches for her hand. Stares into her eyes as she runs her other hand through Steph’s golden hair. She pulls away and walks off quickly — so instantly that the moment seems more hallucination than reality. Steph feels something bittersweet settle in her anyways.
This is the closest Mom will get to an apology.
—
Stephanie collapses onto the mat, chest heaving as she tries to catch up with her heart. Nightwing appears in her field of view, face drawn into something just short of disappointment, and she wants nothing more than to shove a batarang into his stomach. Not fatally — just enough to maim.
“That was sloppy. You can’t get distracted like that out on the field.”
“Wasn’t distracted,” she manages to get out.
“If that was you at full attention, you need to rethink this. Awareness is crucial, Spoiler.” Robin. He never calls her Robin.
Her eyes slip closed and she breathes over the roaring in her ears. The cave’s damp coolness settles on her skin. Stephanie has barely gotten started, and they’re already thinking about booting her.
She feels rather than sees him sit down next to her, and tenses without even knowing why. He takes a large breath in, and she braces.
“Listen, I get wanting to do this,” He starts. “But, it’s just – it’s hard, you know? You have to train like crazy, sacrifice sleep and free time, and the stuff we see — it gets to us. Sometimes, the best you can do is leave things in someone else’s hands. Let us take care of Cluemaster for you. You can go home. Rest.”
She sits up abruptly. “I can’t,” She hisses, and the venom in her voice is foreign to even her. “He’s there. I can’t go home or sleep or eat because he’s there, and — and I just have to watch!” She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t stop.”
He stares into her, gaze firm in a way that makes her unravel. This is the person Tim has worshipped for all his conscious life. The golden child, the team leader, the guy everyone goes to when they need anything at all. Stephanie has no clue what she has done to be stuck with this version of him. She doesn’t see a hero. Just poorly masked apathy and vague distaste.
“If you can’t get up to speed, you’ll just slow us down.”
“If I leave this in Batman’s hands, he will do nothing.” Her eyes burn. “He doesn’t give two shits about stopping people like Dad! All he cares about are the people that interest him — the ones that are fucked up enough to grab his attention and give him a real puzzle.” She lies back down, ponytail pressing against her sweaty back. Scrunching her eyes closed, she quietly admits, “If I don’t do this, you guys will keep ignoring every kid like me.”
When she opens her eyes next, he’s already gone.
—
He’s not hard to find when you know what you’re looking for. Inky black cape, blank white eyes, the sound of a grapple hooking onto a ledge — he’s always darker than the city around him. She catches him passing by sometimes. Just a flicker of a figure here and there, on the roof across from home or streaking through the street in that slick black car of his. The folks on the news never seem to know what to think of him. Man or myth, legend or monster. And that boy of his, they say, what is he thinking?
She understands. There’s something rotten inside her too. A dark thing that twists every time she catches Mom’s distant gaze or hears Arthur and his friends. Something that aches and pulls at her, keeping her up with clenched teeth. At her core, Stephanie thinks she might be monstrous, too, and she doesn’t know what to do with it. How to atone.
Then the new Robin, the one that talks and laughs like her, disappears, and suddenly Batman is more violent than ever. He hospitalizes the traffickers and doesn’t seem to care. The news anchors lament the change in character, but she can’t find it in herself to feel upset. One night, she sneaks out when Arthur’s friends are over, and she accidentally catches him in the middle of a fight. She watches the way he punches and punches and punches far after the men lose consciousness; she runs before he can catch sight of her.
As she climbs up her rickety fire escape, Steph hears Arthur’s friends laughing. Secretly, she hopes this version of Batman is here to stay.
—
Spoiler hears a child crying. She pauses on her route and looks down at the dark alley, but she doesn’t see any sign of a fight. The wailing gets louder, and she finally finds the source: a small girl on the roof across from her. Making her way over, she attempts to soften her look and transform herself into something nearing a comfort.
“Hi, I’m Spoiler. What’s your name?”
The girl just sniffles and folds into herself further. Spoiler takes her hood off and tries again.
“Hey, kiddo. You had a bad day?”
Silently, the kid nods.
“Yeah, me too. I woke up late for class and — you won’t believe this — ran into a street lamp when I was hurrying! Red Robin – you’ve heard of him, right?” The girl nods again. “Yeah, well that jerk had the gall to say it was my fault ‘for not being aware of my surroundings at all times.’ But, I’m telling you, that pole had it out for me. I swear it wasn’t there yesterday.”
The girl finally seems to relax a little and begins giggling. “Poles don’t move!”
“Yeah? Tell that to my bruised nose. I think this was just the universe's way of bringing me down a notch, you know? I was just too perfect looking beforehand.”
“No way.”
“Wow, you’re taking Red’s side? I’m so hurt. I might actually cry,” She makes a show of wiping fake tears. “To make me feel better, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you?”
The girl looks up, and Spoiler has to physically stop herself from reacting. Her cheek is bruised and swollen, tear tracks running down freely. Voice barely above a whisper, she says, “I don’t wanna get them in trouble.”
“Don’t worry about that – just think about getting it off your chest, and we can worry about the rest later.”
The girl starts telling a story that Stephanie knows inside out. An unstable home and no way of escaping. Piling bills and long nights trying to calm down enough to fall asleep. She carefully catalogues the girl’s injuries as she talks. There aren’t any signs of broken bones, bruised ribs, or anything else that could get seriously ugly. These are bruises meant to solely hurt. Oddly, Spoiler’s eyes keep getting caught on the girl’s hair. It’s a dirty blonde, reflecting dully in the darkness of Gotham night. Slightly longer than her shoulders, pin straight as it sways in front of her face. Spoiler almost reaches out — almost gathers the locks and combs her hands through them – but she’s able to catch herself and focus.
“I could help you. Get your dad away from you guys.”
The girl looks up at her with a shocking amount of bitterness. “How?”
“What he’s doing to you guys — there’s a name for it. It’s abuse. People can get arrested for that.”
A broken whisper, “I know what abuse is.”
Spoiler leans closer. “You’re a smart kid. You deserve better than this.”
But, the words don’t have the effect they should. The girl recoils and tenses. Spoiler feels her mind fumble. Before she can do anything, though, the girl starts rambling, “I knew I shouldn’t have told you, I knew it. Everyone says not to, but I thought you would know, everyone says you're ours and that you get it but they were lying!”
“Woah, come on, I’m not going to do anything yet! Just explain what’s wrong with what I said.” When the girl clams up, she says, “Please. I just want to help.”
“You can’t send him to jail! You — you’re just as bad as Batman.” Spoiler reels back, heart beating faster beyond her control. Just as bad as Batman, just as bad as Batman, just as bad as Batman, just as bad as—
“Why?”
“You know why!”
“Humor me,” she huffs, aiming for an expression far lighter than she really feels. She places her gloved hands on the roof, attempting to ground herself in the unyielding force of the cement.
“‘Cause they always get out,” The girl mutters, voice hushed. “And they’re always more mad than they were going in. Everyone knows that. You know, right?”
Spoiler feels like she’s a million miles away from here. She is five and twelve and nine and thirteen and she thinks she hates Batman as much she reveres him. She stares out her window in the dead of night and shakes her head because he never does what the kids like her need the most. Maybe he’s naive, maybe he’s optimistics, but she doesn’t care anymore because she has that rotten thing inside her too. And she can’t understand why he doesn’t use it to help her. She’s fifteen and sick of the way he skirts around the consequences of his mercy, and she is swearing she will do what he won’t. She’s some age she can’t even keep track of anymore, and she is tired.
“Right,” She says blankly. “Right.”
Spoiler wonders if this girl has ever stood on her tiptoes here and tried to touch the sky. If she’s realized that even Batman can’t reach it.
—
“Hood.”
“It is.”
“No, just you, ASAP.”
“I’m not saying it over comms. Figure it out.”
“...I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know, I just felt like I needed to say it.”
“Ok. Yeah, see you soon.”
—
“Do you ever regret staying with him?”
“All the time,” Her mom sighs. “But — and I don’t know why – I can’t manage to leave him.”
“He just makes you sad. All the time,” Steph keeps her head still as Mom works on the right hand braid. “We’re so happy when he’s gone.”
“I know, Stephie. I just can’t do it.” Her hands freeze for a moment. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be better for you.”
“I just don’t get it.”
Mom ties off the braid and turns her around. Every day, Steph looks more and more like Arthur. It feels like she’s counting down the years until she looks in the mirror and only sees him. Him, and his anger, and his spite. She doesn’t know how to stop it. The best she can do is not look. Let the time pass unacknowledged. Is it ever hard for Mom to look at her?
“It’s like — you know how even when someone younger than you grows up, in your head, they’re still young?”
“You think they’re still a baby?.”
“Sort of.”
“That’s weird.”
Mom laughs. “Maybe a little. Ask any of your friends with younger brothers or sisters. Logically, you know that kid is all grown up and capable, but in your feelings and thoughts, you can’t stop thinking of them as that little kid. Every time you see them, all you can see is the traces of that little kid in their face. You keep catching bits and pieces of that kid in their laugh. And, you know they aren’t that kid anymore, but you can’t help but see them like that.”
Stephanie looks away from Mom. “Yeah?”
“Yup. I know it isn’t right, Stephie, but when I look at your Dad I keep seeing the person he used to be when I met him. That isn’t who he is anymore, but I can’t help it. I’m sorry.” She pulls Steph in close, buries her face in the freshly braided locks. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“It’s ok, Mom. I forgive you.”
Mom just holds her closer.
—
Batman dressed as Bruce is sitting in his study, eyes scouring something on his computer. Stephanie knocks once then walks in like she owns the place. The brown leather couch is easily the most comfortable seating option in the room, so she beelines for it, draping across the cushions in a dramatic fashion. Batman doesn’t even glance her way. Sometimes, she hates Nightwing and Hood for desensitizing B to basically any form of theatrics.
“Hey, boss.”
Nothing. She notices the ice bucket on the side table by her — probably to put in drinks. Steph has a different usage in mind. She grabs an ice chip and chucks it full speed.
“I’m busy.”
“I know, big guy. That’s why I’m here.” She throws another one. It lands in his hair.
“I need to concentrate.”
“You need a shower, a real meal, and — this one might sound crazy — several consecutive hours of sleep. Think you could concentrate on that?” Two more. One hits his nose and the other lands on his keyboard. He swipes it away without hesitation.
“This case – it isn’t making any sense.”
“Talk to me about it. Maybe that’ll help.”
“A murder in Crime Alley. Male, 34, had a wife and a daughter. Previous record of domestic violence, but nothing as far as the kind of criminal activity that would warrant this. The wife and daughter have been compliant but given us nothing of substance to work with. Clearly unaware of any illegal activity.”
“Red says you thought it was part of a string of murders.”
“It isn’t. Too clean.”
“Yeah, that’s what he told me.”
She stares out the ornate window to the right of them while she gathers her thoughts. The manor grounds reach out in every direction, a boundless expanse at B’s fingertips. It’s too quiet here. The rooms aren’t high enough, and the dark is too dark. People say that Gotham is shrouded in darkness, but she’s never seen it that way. There’s always light in the city, via the light polluted sky and dimly lit lamps in window sills. The store owners that keep the open sign on just a little later and the distant sparkling sheen of the Diamond District. Batman couldn’t function alone because he doesn’t understand that. He doesn’t know how to love and hate something at the same time. She feels sorry for him, sometimes, because that is what will ruin him.
“What’s really making you freak out?” She asks, and the part of her that knows better doesn’t expect an answer. He casts his eyes to the ceiling, as if deliberating, then turns them to her.
“It’s too neat. Like they knew how to hide everything we would look for.”
“You’re scared they know too much about us?”
He nods and puts his head in his hands. “Several groups have been ramping up their efforts in incapacitating us. Me. This could be a sign.”
“You think someone’s trying to send you a message? Keep you on your toes?”
“Possibly,” He murmurs, and he rubs his face. He looks more like his age than usual at this moment. There’s an uncomfortable truth in the way the orange-yellow lamp light casts shadows on his marred face.
“B,” She starts, softer than she normally allows around him. “Take a break. Get some rest and talk to your kids. You’re not solving anything like this.” She stands from the couch. “Damian’s been asking to go to this art workshop that happens on Saturdays. Take him.”
When he says nothing, she starts to shuffle back out the door.
“Stephanie,” He says, as she reaches for the handle.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” He pauses. Always one to weigh every word on his tongue. “I know I can be… difficult. So, thank you.”
“Of course,” She smiles. “What else am I here for?”
—
Stephanie has never been afraid of blood. She has a nurse for a mother and a villain for a dad. Blood, gore, it’s all par for the course. As a kid, she sliced her thumb open while cutting fruit once. Mom had just taken her hand and run it under water, silent as she washed it out. Steph watched the water take all the spilled blood with it, painting the sink red for a moment before draining. After, Mom had just calmly wiped the cut and applied a bandaid. Then she washed all the bloody equipment and cut more strawberries.
Stephanie hasn’t ever been scared of blood — not even her own. Sometimes, when Red gets injured badly, he can’t look at the gash. He has to stare straight ahead until it’s been bandaged, face pale and clammy. She can look. See the way the blood spills out of her body, hot and thick. Robin had commented on it once, a backhanded compliment about how she wasn’t weak like the others. She’d just rolled her eyes then. Her and Robin aren’t so different, she thinks. She sees herself in him. The way his anger wraps around his throat and squeezes until he’s uncontrollably desperate to make it stop. If she’d been raised the way he had, she might have turned out worse than him. Because at her root she is depraved, and he is not. He fights against it, even when no one is making him. He works so hard to escape that vice clamp on him. If Steph was in his shoes, she wouldn’t have the strength to even try.
Spoiler certainly doesn’t fear blood. Not when it’s seeping through deep purple fabric, and absolutely not when it stains her blades. She is unfazed in the wake of violence, a pillar of safety in the midst of destruction. She isn’t even scared when she clutches at a victim's wounds, pressing them together as she prays for someone to get here faster. Someone who has slender hands like her mom, who can deftly stretch and sew skin back together, who can run fingers through hair and say it’s ok and mean it. Spoiler isn’t scared of blood at all, she reminds herself. Never has been, never will be.
For some reason, her hands — in gloves painted scarlet — dripping and dripping and— for some odd reason, her hands— they shake anyways.
—
Mom has dragged Stephanie up to have a picnic on the roof of their apartment building. The sun is just beginning to set despite the late hour, another reminder of summer. Of the way everything is slipping past her.
Steph’s old enough now to know what Mom does when Dad is home. She doesn’t like it much, but she doesn’t know how to tell her. Instead, she lays her head in Mom’s lap and lets the last vestiges of sunlight warm her skin.
“Do you ever wish you could see the stars?” Mom asks.
Steph hums. “What d’you mean?”
“In less crowded places – towns and rural areas — people can see stars all across the sky at night. Don’t you want to see them?”
“Have you?”
“Yup,” She chuckles. “They’re amazing. So little yet so bright. It makes you feel small in comparison.”
“I don’t wanna feel small,” She grumbles.
“Maybe not now.” Mom starts combing through her roots. “But someday, you’ll want it. When everything gets to be too much, and you need to see how silly it all is.”
“I already know everything’s silly!”
Mom pinches her cheek playfully. “I know! But later on, it’s easy to forget.”
—
“I’m sick of this!”
“Spoiler–”
“Robin! Call me Robin! That’s who I am now, asshole!”
Batman looks at her wearily, cowl off but suit still on. It makes him look insanely bulky, like he could break her in half without even meaning to. He doesn’t need to do that, though. His words are enough.
She laughs hysterically. “I can’t understand how Tim put up with you. You’re such a condescending piece of—”
“If you don’t respect my authority, you can leave. No one asked you to do this,” He rumbles. “Go home. You’re done.”
“You’re insane! All you do is contradict yourself and speak in code — admit it, you’ve been finding reasons to kick me out the entire time.” Her breathing is loud, she notices all the sudden. There isn’t enough air in here and he’s just looking at her. Those pale blue eyes that track and catalogue everything, all the time. Filing things away to be used later, for cases or in arguments. Steph is being picked apart by a vulture, and she can’t do it anymore. Every breath and moment of hesitation, she can feel him watching. She can’t breathe.
“No, Stephanie, I’ve been trying to do my job.” His voice is icy. “I can’t do that when I don’t trust my partner.”
“You’ll never be able to trust me if you refuse to listen when I say anything! I told you we should wait because I knew that there were more kids that we had to find. You were being shortsighted because you’re a privileged ass who can’t see past his own biases — and I was explaining myself, but you didn’t —”
“Your explanation didn’t give me sufficient reason to believe that was the case. I make the call at the end of the day, not you.”
Bats flit around the cave above them, likely disturbed by all the yelling. Alfred is nowhere to be seen — he tends to make himself scarce during their fights. Neither of them know how to stop until someone breaks.
“That’s one hell of a way to describe a partnership,” She ignores the way her eyes burn. “I think I finally get why both Robin one and two ditched — you’re impossible!”
“Stephanie,” He booms. She knows mentioning Robin two is a nuclear option, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed to see him flinch too. Make him confront that he isn’t as logical — as infallible — as he likes to pretend. “You are done. Leave the suit. Move on.”
“Great timing, because I’m quitting. Fuck you!”
He shakes his head. “One day, you’re going to cross the line, and you will have to realize that I’m right.”
“No,” She laughs. “One day, I’ll finally cross the line, and I’ll have to realize you were wrong.”
—
She learns how to braid her own hair eventually. Mom isn’t present the way she used to be. Steph hates her a little for it, even if she understands. So, she goes online and tries until her arms burn and tries again when they get circulation back and she figures it out somehow. The twin braids sit slightly uneven, but they do the job regardless.
The internet helps her out a lot, really. It teaches her how to cook some basic meals, what detergent is, how to factor, the signs of overdose. She sits at an empty dining table and eats Mac and Cheese, wondering when she got tall enough for her feet to touch the floor. Time used to feel ceaseless. Hours and days running like honey, sweet and slow. When did she become old enough to babysit her neighbor’s kid? When did she learn how to paint her nails? When did she stop making excuses for Arthur? When did she realize she was just like Mom in forgiving her? Stephanie doesn’t know. It just happened in the blurry moments between childhood and this.
Stephanie is sitting at a table alone. For a moment, she thinks she understands why Mom takes the pills. She goes out on patrol before she can get too tempted.
—
“Could you ever do it?” Tim asks. They’re laying on the roof of the manor. It’s far enough from the city grit that she can catch a hint of stars. How much higher would she have to go for them to blind her?
“Hood’s a psycho. That’s why he can do it.”
“I know, but haven’t you ever thought about it? What it would be like if you killed someone — not by accident either. Like, intentional murder.”
“You got something to tell me?”
He giggles. “Depends who’s asking. But really, could you?”
“Physically or mentally?”
“Mentally, obviously. All of us are physically capable.” He laughs. “You know, Bruce would go ballistic if he heard this. Have you ever considered what it would be like to do it?”
She hums. Too often, she can’t sleep. That something in her keeps her up, turning and sweating until she gives up on rest altogether. Arthur was a violent man, but not a cruel one. She wonders where she got it from. She sees kids, women, bruised and beaten down, and her guts twist so painfully she can’t breathe. There’s something rotten in me, she keeps thinking, and I can’t stop it. She isn’t even sure if she wants to. Stephanie used to wait for Batman to show up at her window. To come in and do what she and mom couldn’t. He never did. What would her life be like if someone had saved her? Maybe she’s rotten so that others don’t have to be. So that the next little girl won’t have to let that thing in her fester.
“No. I’ve never really thought about it.”
—
Stephanie can be efficient when she wants to be. As Spoiler or as Crystal’s daughter. When the world is falling apart, she feels steady. That’s why being a vigilante called to her so much. There’s a calm in the center of the storm, when you can see and control everything at its source. She can’t get that in her room, wasting away.
Her boots squelch as she rises. She turns her head up, letting the rain pelt her face and wash her sin away. The city is never as dark as Batman thinks, and she lets the dull lights shine on her doings. On the second highest fire escape, she sees a small figure stare then fold back into the window, as if they were never there. The rain is picking up now. She can’t tell if it’s a punishment or reward.
The body beside her lays still, and she doesn’t check for the pulse. Instead she breathes the fresh rainy air in and gets to work.
Stephanie can be efficient when she wants to. Stephanie can be secretive when she needs to. She is the calm in the middle of the storm, gentle as she cleans the scene and closes the man’s eyes. He doesn’t need to see what comes next. Stephanie holds her hands out in front of her, wills them still. They don’t quite manage, but it’s good enough. She connects her comm to the secure line Oracle doesn’t know about — yet. She always finds these things, but it’ll be too late by then. She presses a button.
Who do you call to hide a body?