Chapter Text
Location: Watchtower – Lunch Hall
The lunch hall was abuzz with the usual hum of conversations, the clinking of trays, and the faint electronic whirring of the Watchtower's automated kitchen system. The room, an expansive space lined with towering windows that revealed the stars beyond, always seemed a little too bright, a little too open, for Shayera. She had never quite gotten used to the feeling of being surrounded by so many people at once, and the artificial light made her skin itch. It wasn’t the most ideal place to eat, but sometimes she didn’t have much of a choice.
She hesitated in the doorway, observing the usual dynamics. The League members were scattered across the room, forming their own little circles, rarely mixing with anyone outside of their preferred groups. The original seven, who once stood united against every threat the world had thrown at them, now operated like an exclusive club. The unspoken hierarchy still weighed heavily on her. She was part of the group now, but not truly. Not in the way they were.
With a deep sigh, she decided to push past it. She wasn’t here for small talk or posturing. She just needed something to fill the silence.
Her gaze swept across the room. There was a single empty table in the corner. A little too close to the window for comfort, but it would do. It would be quiet, and it would be hers. Without hesitation, she made her way toward it.
As she sat down, the familiar weight of solitude settled around her. She unwrapped her meal, the slight metallic scent of the food mixing with the sterile air of the Watchtower. She didn't care. Her appetite had always been secondary to the need for peace. The thought of the League, of being so close to everyone and yet so separate... it grated. But she had chosen this. This was what she deserved.
Shayera had just taken a bite of her food when a voice suddenly interrupted her solitude.
"I never did get the chance to formally thank you for saving my life that night with Grundy," the voice said, smooth and steady. "If it hadn't been for you, he would've broken my back for sure."
Shayera’s grip tightened around her fork, her shoulders stiffened. Her gaze flicked up, and she saw Vixen standing beside the table, a soft smile playing on her lips.
Shayera didn’t return the smile. Instead, she just nodded curtly. "Anyone else would have done the same."
Vixen didn’t seem put off by the cold response. She pulled out the chair beside Shayera, as if the invitation to join her had been understood, even though Shayera had made no such gesture.
Vixen settled in with an easy grace, glancing at Shayera’s half-eaten meal. "So, do you have a hobby?" she asked, her voice light, probing.
Shayera raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. She glanced around, hoping to see if someone else was going to step in and interrupt. But no. This was happening.
"Excuse me?" Shayera replied, her tone sharp.
"A hobby," Vixen said, drawing out the word as if it should be obvious. "You know, something to do in your spare time."
Shayera thought for a moment, tapping her fork against her plate. "I read. I play chess," she answered, already growing weary of the conversation.
Vixen’s eyes brightened. "John did say you were a great chess player," she remarked, her voice light, almost teasing.
At the mention of John’s name, Shayera’s muscles tensed involuntarily. The mention of his name always seemed to have that effect on her these days. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the surge of emotions rising in her chest. She didn’t have time for this—she didn’t have time for any of this. But there was something in Vixen's voice that made her uneasy, a hint of something sharp behind the casual words.
“Well,” Shayera said, pushing her plate slightly away from her. "It's just something to do. No big deal." She grabbed her fork and picked at her food, doing her best to keep the conversation from turning into something more personal.
Vixen raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “So... is that it? Reading and chess?” She let the words hang for a moment, then added, “I thought someone like you would have a more... interesting answer.”
Shayera’s grip on her fork tightened, her gaze flicking briefly to the bird dishes she’d passed over in the buffet line. The strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort filled her again, and she couldn’t push the thought of her people—their culture, their rituals—out of her mind. Vixen’s question felt like a strange echo, as if the silence between them was meant to highlight just how much Shayera had lost.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Shayera snapped, her voice suddenly cold. She stood up abruptly, pushing her tray aside. “I think I’ll eat in my room instead,” she said, as much to herself as to Vixen.
But Vixen wasn’t finished. “What are you doing here, Shayera?” Her voice sliced through the noise of the cafeteria, causing the chatter to pause.
Shayera stopped mid-step, her hand on the door to the hall. She didn’t turn to face her.
“I’m eating,” she said, her voice low but sharp.
“No.” Vixen’s voice was insistent now, and her footsteps echoed as she approached, standing in front of Shayera. “You’re here pretending to be a hero. Pretending to be one of us. But you don’t belong.”
Shayera’s stomach clenched at the words. Her pulse quickened, and she felt the anger building up inside her. She opened her mouth to respond, but Vixen kept speaking.
“You betrayed us,” Vixen said. “You gave away our secrets. You put us all in danger and then you just left.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at Shayera. “You came back, acting like everything’s fine, but it’s not. Things have changed. And you’ve changed with them.”
Shayera’s fist clenched at her side. Her knuckles turned white. “I didn’t know,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “I didn’t know what would happen.”
Vixen's eyes glinted with a bitter smirk. “You didn’t care,” she said, her words deliberate, “and now you want to pretend you’re one of us. You’re not.”
The words felt like a slap. Shayera stood frozen, unable to move, the weight of the past crashing down on her all over again. The familiar burn of betrayal, of guilt, of self-loathing—a feeling she thought she’d buried—rose back to the surface.
Before she could respond, Vixen’s hand shot out, slapping her hard across the cheek.
There was a collective gasp from the rest of the room, but no one moved. No one came to Shayera’s defense, nor did they intervene on Vixen’s behalf. It was as if the entire room had become a theater, everyone watching, waiting to see what would happen next.
Shayera’s breath caught in her throat. Her head was spinning. The sting of the slap was nothing compared to the sting of the words, and yet it felt like everything—every wound—was reopening in that one moment.
"You don’t belong here,” Vixen said, her voice like venom. “You should just leave.”
Shayera blinked, her eyes burning, but she refused to let the tears come. She straightened up, brushing herself off, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. She didn’t say anything, didn’t look back. She just walked away, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silence of the cafeteria as she made her way toward the door.
This was a mistake, she thought bitterly. I should have stayed with the Fates.