Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The graveyard is quiet, as graveyards tend to be. It is a cool summer night, silent and still. The crescent moon hangs in the sky, gleaming and silver, barely providing enough light to see by. The stars are scattered in their constellations, bright and shimmering and bisible in a way that tells that the graveyard is nowhere near a city.

The graves are all identical, simple white marble slabs with names carved into them in plain block lettering. The names are rarely in English, the lettering ranging from Arabic to Russian to Japanese in origin. Sometimes there is only a first name, sometimes a Christian name and a surname, sometimes only a title. There are no dates of death or of age, no epitaph to give a glimpse of the life of the occupant of the coffin below.

If a scholar were to walk through this graveyard, they would be astounded. Some of the names here are famous, or, more often, infamous. Some names belong to people who were never seen, only whispered of. The names belong to knives in the back, of arrows to the throat, of bullets through foreheads, of poison in a wedding champagne.

This is not a resting ground for the peaceful dead. This is the place where the killers go to rest.

Four men walk through the cemetery. They will one day be buried here. Their appearance is similar to one another, indicating shared genetics, if not parents. They carry shovels and their motions are muted. They are afraid.

They stop in the newer part of the cemetery. The grave in question is less than a decade old, although they do not know that. The name carved into the marble is Afya Raatko.

The Lazurus Pit is the stuff of legends for those who have never seen one work, and the stuff of nightmares for those who have had the misfortune to.

There are different types of Lazurus Pits, confusingly enough. There are the common enough, use once and then useless forever types, that are generally scattered around the Earth, and supposedly other planets, although that is a manner of great debate of xenohistorians. Those are generally protected and horded by Ra’s al Ghul, and their affect is treasured. Although using one of those is more painful, general consensus seems to be that the negative effects of the Pits (more on those later) are decreased in those.

Then there were the seven Great Lazarus Pits, Ra’s al Ghul’s treasures. There was once a Great Pit on each continent, but then Bruce Wayne destroyed the North American compound as a message. Ra’s al Ghul’s fury had known no bounds on that day. For those interested in the al Ghul family history, it might be of some note that Damian al Ghul-Wayne disappeared from his mother’s compound on that same day, under mysterious circumstances.

The Lazarus Pits are a creation of magic, although their exact origin is a subject of mystery.

Lazarus Pits are able to heal any injury, (although they cannot regrow  limbs or organs, but they can reattach them under certain, very confusing , circumstances). They usually go for vital damage first (such as restoring life) and then move down from there. The last thing that heals are the scars; those stay longest, defying the Lazarus Pit’s magic. The Lazarus Pit also marks its own, bleaching the hair and warping the mind. People call it Lazarus Madness; it causes anger and bitterness and pain and pure and simple irrationality. The more a Lazarus Pit is used by a single human, the more the person is affected. Ra’s al Ghul’s hair is now the color of snow, and his anger is a force comparable a hurricane. His hatred is immense, his bitterness about the world of old is even greater.

The Great Pit of Asia is in the place that once was called the Fertile Crescent. In those days the man who would be Ra’s al Ghul was born, and had a son. The son died. The father lived. The father buried his son, weeping. It would be centuries before the man would discover that the Pit of his, his prize, could restore life to the dead. Some speculate that this realization is what drove the man, who once was a doctor, who once saved lives and helped build civilizations, over the edge. Others claim it did not happen until the early Medieval era,  where the man was eventually linked to the Great Plague. It does not matter though. Not for this story.

The four men carry the coffin into the great chamber. The coffin is simple, made of oak. There are no decorative carvings; no indication of who this woman was in her life.

The cavern which contains the Lazarus Pit is humongous. Stalactites and Stalagmites made out of pure crystal hang from the walls and the floors, glistening eerily in the light of the Lazarus Pit. The ceiling of the cavern is fifty feet tall and domed beneath the tear drops of crystal that hang from it. The floor has been smoothed by centuries of wear. The Pit itself is a perfect circle, a ten foot diameter. It is eight feet deep, with barely an inch from where the edge of the cavern floor ends and where the not-exactly-water begins. The rough black stone shines brightly in the luminescence of the Pit; the liquid within the Pit is a strange, light green that bubbles and churns randomly.

Ra’s al Ghul, the Master of the Lazarus Pit, waits for the four men by the edge of his treasure. He wears black robes with embroideries the same color as the Lazarus Waters, and a sword hangs by his side. His face is the kind of blank that only comes with great practice or true boredom. His keen eyes look at the men and their burden. There is something in his face, despite the deliberate lack of emotion shown, that is cruel.

The men set down the coffin with the slightest of noises, and they step back. Ra’s speaks, his voice poisonously soft, echoing throughout the cavern. “Open it.”

The men do not even flinch; they do not fear the dead. Carefully, almost reverently, they pry open the lid, revealing the occupant.

The woman called Afya had been beautiful in life. Her features are part Arabic, and part something else that is more difficult to place. Her hair is short and black; it once shone in the sunlight, as bright as the blades she wielded. Her face has become sunken, her skin sallow, her hair dull, although she is rather well preserved, for a corpse as old as hers. Nothing but the best for the body guard and friend of Talia al Ghul, after all.

“Place her in the Pit,” Ra’s commands, his eyes hard as they gaze upon the woman. She appears to have been in her thirties when she died.

But then again, looks are deceiving things.

Without ceremony, without care, the men remove the assassin from her final resting place and toss her into the Lazarus’s belly. Her lifeless form hits the surface with a tremendous splash, and then is rapidly pulled to the bottom, as if the Pit’s floor was a child grabbing a toy that was dangled in their face.

For a moment, there is no noise. The waters of the Pit are still as glass.

Then a hand emerges from the Pit, and a scream, muffled by liquid and choking, is heard. The hand is rapidly pulled under again, the Pit refusing to release its victim so soon. The Pit begins to churn and boil, steam hissing in the air, noxious fumes of mossy green that smell of death and decay.

Things float to the surface, awful creatures and plants that grow on dead things and cause decay and rotting. They float to the surface, having been expelled from the corpse. The rising steam catches them up and carries them away, deeming them unworthy of remaining in the healing liquid.

The head breaks free, eyes wide and mouth gasping for breath. A scream breaks lose, a plea for help, but the waters catch her up again and force her down.

Her bones knit back together, her cuts seal themselves up, the gash in her heart is mended. Blood cells are recreated at a far-to-rapid rate, filling her entire being with pain as years of healing is done in moments. Calloused, scarred hands claw at the surface, attempting to break free and seek precious oxygen. She knows, deep down, in what little part of her that is still rational, that she cannot break free, and that the Pit will only release her when she is deemed healed enough, but her lungs burn for lack of air and her waterlogged screams choke her, nearly killing her again.

This is even worse than the last time, she thinks dimly, as her leg moves into a more natural position with a sharp stab of agony. She’d been alive last time.

Finally, finally, she breaks free, her fingers scrabbling at the smooth stone as she pulls herself away from the cursed waters. It tugs at her legs, trying to pull her back in, but although she is exhausted, tortured and drained, she is still strong, and she tugs herself away from the Pit, freeing herself entirely from its gasp. She coughs, forcing the foul liquid from her lungs, gasping and savoring the polluted air. But it is air, nonetheless, which is more than the dead have.

She finally looks up, her eyes darkened with hatred.

She looks at Ra’s al Ghul. She gets up onto her knees, and spits Lazarus Water in his face.

“Hello Father,” she growls, her tone scornful.

Damian dreams.

This is not an unusual thing. Most people do, after all, dream. Even if they aren’t remembered, even if they aren’t sensible, people dream. Whether they relive their own worst memories, prophetic scenarios (that actually aren’t actually prophetic most of the time; but people only remember the ones that do are), or odd, nonsensical things like men who dress up as Bats and patrol a crime ridden city alongside cheerful, colorfully clad children. Who are usually assassins.

Damian’s dreams, unfortunately, usually fall into the first category. Only, like most revisits to traumatic experiences, it is even worse in his mind.

He stands in a hallway, a sword in his hand.

Traitor, he thinks, numbly. The sword moves without another thought, searching for his target.

The target wears a purple silken shroud and a white mask with lips painted gold. Her hair is soft and gold and her eyes are piercing blue and kind.

She doesn’t hate him, he realizes, as he slices through her stomach, feeling the way the blade pierces her organs and slices through her spine with an awful familiarity. Her eyes are loving as she looks at him, even as the blood starts to seep into her black silk shirt.

“Damian,” she says, and she reaches for him, but he does not let her speak. He has his orders. He is a good son. He pulls his sword out of her abdomen and strikes again, this time slashing for her throat.

Damian has watched Stephanie Brown die a thousand times over; even if, as he now knows, it wasn’t actually her. But he has seen her die, in his mind. This is not how she died. She died quickly, cleanly, a sword through her stomach, and another through her chest. 

But here, now, in his dream, she is still alive, and still reaching for him. Her mask falls off, revealing her face, twisted in concern. “Damian,” she reaches for him.

He stabs her throat, sending a splash of blood everywhere, coating himself in the familiar sticky substance, but still she does not go down.

She is the enemy, he whispers to himself in the dream. She is an enemy to the house of Ghul.

She wraps her arms around him.”Damian,” her voice is kind. “You’re better than this.”

He cries, and then he stabs her again in the stomach. Why won’t she stay down.

“Macushla,” the nickname falls, and Dream-Damian doesn’t flinch. “Please. Don’t.”

She is not afraid. Her eyes are steady, despite the pool of blood gathering at her feet. She is worried for him, not for herself, and Damian hates her irrationally for that.

He strikes out, his sword slashing through her chest. She falls, finally, broken to the ground. Her eyes are glazed over, not seeing him anymore, a smile on her lips.

Damian wakes up then, soaked in sweat and terrified.

He gets up and strides into the halls of his father’s manor, seeking the room that Grayson and Pennyworth had allotted for Stephanie to stay while she was in Gotham, on the condition that she “reformed”. Steph had agreed, commenting that she had been thinking about it anyway.

Her room is three doors down from his. He pushes the door open, cautious. He still remembers his time in his grandfather’s fortress, where Stephanie could go from asleep to lethal in instants.

The room has been painted pale lavender. The carpet is a soft cream, as are the curtains. The bedspread is deeper purple, the shade that Steph so fondly calls eggplant. The throw pillows and sheets are a bright, almost blinding yellow, but Stephanie has always hated subtle colors.

The room is also empty. His stomach plunges down in disappointment.

Warily, he checks the room across the hall, which belongs to Drake, where, although it disgusts him to even contemplate it, he knows Steph sometimes spends the night. It too is empty.

He closes his eyes, ashamed of how much this upsets him. Steph must have gone to her apartment in the city after patrol. She doesn’t like the Manor overly much. Despite her and Grayson’s similarities in personality, they don’t get along very well. Damian suspects it has to do with the fact that she was one of his teachers. Assassins and heroes aren’t supposed to get along, after all.

He wonders where that leaves him, a boy caught in between the two worlds.

A hand falls on his shoulder. It’s Grayson.

“Bad dreams?” The older boy… his older brother’s voice is kind.

Grayson is not Steph. He did not keep watch while Damian slept, he did not hollow out a closet so he could sleep without fear, he did not sing Damian lullabies or give him a ridiculous Irish nickname.

But Grayson is here, and he means well. So Damian nods.

“C’mon, Lil D,” Grayson says, and he leads him away.

Steph is not dreaming. She is… other ways occupied.

“Don’t go in there!” She screams at the screen. Tim jumps slightly, jostling the popcorn wedged between them.

“Steph,” he complains.

She nuzzles his shoulder, grinning shamelessly. “Not my fault these movies are stupid.”

“You wanted to watch them,” he reminds her, his arm a warm and comforting presence around  her shoulders. Her arm sneaks around his waist, and she rests her forehead against his.

“Doesn’t mean they’re good. Haven’t you heard of Mystery Science Theater, Boy Blusher?”

Tim laughs softly, and then kisses her gently. “What would I do without you?” He says softly.

“Go insane probably. Also work yourself to death,” she informs him matter-of-factly, resting her other hand on the back of his neck, keeping him close.

“Death and insanity,” he says, eyes laughing despite his solemn tone. “Better keep you around then.”

“Definitely,” she replies. “A good nemesis is hard to find. A good girlfriend even more so.”

“Still haven’t dropped the nemesis title?” He grins.

She smirks. “Not completely reformed yet,” she says. “Give it time.”

They kiss, and the character in the film dies a horrible and gruesome death. 

Chapter Text

Nyssa Raatko, although she has gone by the pseudonym of Afya for many years now, glares at her father. Her eyes are cold steel as she stands, hands clasped behind her, facing him. She has changed out of the clothes she was buried in. A single white lock of hair runs through along the left side of her face, framing it: a present from the Lazarus Pit.  

“How long has it been?” She finally asks, her voice sharp and cutting.

Ra’s al Ghul’s smile is patient, but his eyes are cruel as he observes his eldest daughter. “Six years.”

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, shows no emotion as she stares at him. “Why did you bring me back?” Her voice is dangerous, and it carries an edge that is nearly as dangerous as her blades. For many people, it was the last thing they ever heard.

“Talia betrayed me,” he said, steepling his fingers together as he sat down at the table. It was long and narrow, made of elegant mahogany. It is ancient, and has seen Ra’s al Ghul order war crimes, heroic efforts, assassinations, and plot against the greatest heroes of the ages. It is scarred by time, just as he is, by blades of would-be-killers. “She sent her son to the detective—out of my reach.”

“If you brought me back to move against her, you made a mistake,” she said coldly, her eyes flashing dangerously, despite her calm exterior, inside, she roars with fury at the suggestion that she would turn against her sister on her father’s command—it has been a long time since he commanded nearly that kind of loyalty from her.

“You would support her over me?” He asks, leaning forward. He scans her face, searching for something. His cold, calculating eyes sweep over her, and his mouth turns up knowingly.

She does not bother to answer the question. She merely stands still, her face impassive and her stance steady. She controls her breath, keeping it even and steady, appearing completely calm to even the most trained eye.

“The detective is dead,” he continues, as if her small defiance never happened. “Grayson has taken up the mantle, while my heir stands beside him.”

Nyssa cannot help but smile slightly at his clear disapproval of who now wears the Cowl and protects Gotham City. He sees this, and he frowns, his brow lowering dangerously, bringing out every line on his ancient face. She wonders what he is planning, what possibly purpose he has for bringing her back from her eternal blissful peace, but says nothing, his lips a thin red line, stubbornly set.

“I have not punished Talia for this,” he says, getting to his feet. She scorns at the term punished, as if Talia al Ghul was a willful child instead of a deadly and powerful woman backed by an army of assassins. “I cannot prove that she sent him away, and that the boy simply didn’t leave on his own free will.”

“You sound so sure she has,” she mocks sweetly, wondering how long his temper will hold. His eyes dart to her, his brow furrowing in rage. Her half smile doesn’t fade, and she wonders how long it will be before she finds herself dead in the ground again. She half welcomes the fate—being in his presence is painful, like a knife being drawn against her skin repeatedly.

“She has already deceived me,” he says, raging radiating from him in toxic waves despite the smile. The wrath of Ra’s al Ghul is nothing trivial. His is an anger that levels cities and forces regime changes. Few dare to court it, let alone to mock it as blatantly as Nyssa. Nyssa internally laughs at his fury, allowing it to crash over her, as it means that she has forced her father to lose his control, which he values so highly. “You recall Amoret?”

“Yes,” she says, wondering what Stephanie Brown, the girl who cried at night and thought no one else knew, who shook when she slit a throat, has to do with anything. She then remembers. It has been six years. The girl is now a woman, nineteen years old. Far enough time to warp even Amoret, who smiled and laughed and played in the corridors, who smiled at even Afya, into a hard and cold killer.

“Three years ago, I was informed that Talia had her killed.” Her father’s eyes are hard, his words dripping with acid as he says them. A part of Nyssa reels at that idea, but she does not let it show on her face—she is certain Talia would have a reason for killing a girl so young, and it was not as if the girl was innocent.

“However,” Ra’s is practically shaking with his anger. Talia’s betrayal—whatever it was—has hit him close to home, more than he wants her to realize, “A month ago, I received word to the contrary.” He placed a photograph on the table, glossy and brightly colored. Nyssa picks it up, examining it.

She sees Stephanie, dressed in a purple dress, standing next to Damian, who wears a small suit and a scowl, his arms crossed petulantly as he stares right at the camera. She nearly smiles at the image of her nephew so disgruntled, but she knows better than to actually permit herself to do so. The photograph was clearly recently taken—the date on the bottom right hand corner is proof enough of that.

“She lied?” Why would she lie about that? Nyssa frowns internally, wondering what Talia’s motivations were. Lying to their father is nothing to be undertaken lightly, since moderation in retaliation was a lesson that Ra’s al Ghul has never learned. What is Stephanie Brown to Talia al Ghul? Why is she important?

“Brown has been active as a minor nuisance, codenamed “The Corsair”,” Ra’s al Ghul’s distaste at the name is clear. Another photograph is placed on the table—this one of a girl wearing an obnoxiously purple cape and body armor, with a black mask that hides the lower part of her face. Long blonde hair hangs out, flowing freely in the wind. She holds escirma sticks that glow blue with electricity in her gloved hands, and appeared to be fighting… is that Superboy? The background is a park of sorts, with a clear blue sky and a skyline that looks like San Francisco.

“And what does this have to do with me?” She challenges, keeping her tone even as she set the two photographs back on the table, face down.

“I had been intending to take Brown into my own organization,” Ra’s says, folding his hands neatly on the table. “However, clearly, the window for recruitment is past. However,” the Demon’s Head leans forward, his dark eyes gleaming cruelly, a smile emerging on his face that was serpentine in nature. Nyssa tenses up on instinct, not trusting his expression or his demeanor. “She has a daughter.”

“What?” Nyssa blinked, shock winning over her calm facade. “She’s only nineteen!”

“She was fifteen when the child was born. The child was given up for adoption when she was born, and Brown never sought her out.” He placed a final photograph on the table. “David Cain lost my last candidate for the One Who is All. I believe the daughter of Maxim and Amoret will do for a replacement.”

“Why would I do that?” She demands, her voice low. Her mind races, trying to remember who Maxim was, and more importantly, his age.

“Because,” he looks at her knowingly. “I am willing to return what you have lost to you.”

Nyssa can’t breathe. She’s frozen in place, disbelieving the offer in front of her. He smiled patiently, clearly enjoying the look on her face. She clenches her fist tightly at her side, and grabs the photograph from the table.

A smiling, adorable child beams up at her, bright red hair in a ponytail. She wears a Batgirl shirt and bright yellow leggings, her face sticky. Carrie Kelley is written neatly on the bottom of the picture, in an unfamiliar handwriting. She turns it over, knowing that her father is thorough. 31 Miller Street, Gotham City.

She looks at her father, and nods just once, abruptly.

Carrie Kelley wakes up in her bed to the sound of her mother shouting at her father about something that she can’t quite make out. Carrie, hands still sticky from last night, pushes her faded Wonder Woman blanket off her bed and walks to the bathroom. She climbs up on her step-ladder (an upside down re-appropriated bucket) and washes her hands.

Carrie Kelley is four years old, and she crawls down from the stool, listening as her father and her mother leave the house. She doesn’t know where they go when they do that, but they never come home very soon. She goes back to her room, grabbing the story book that had been left on the floor of her room, and flips through it, examining the pictures.

She sees men with horse-faces and fairies and kings and queens and swords and cups. She looks at the familiar pages, soaking in the pretty clothes and hair, imagining what it would be like to live in a world like theirs.

There’s a knock on the window, and she leaps to her feet, dropping the book carelessly on the ground. Colin Wilkes, twelve years old, is at her window, grinning broadly. He stands on the fire escape, his freckles gleaming and his red hoodie pulled over his bright red hair. He pushes open the window from the outside, and Carrie clambers up to meet him. “Colin!” She yells joyfully, wrapping her arms around him. He pulls her through the window, closing it behind her, and swings her up. Her arms go around his neck and she locks her legs automatically, secure in the familiar position.

“Hey squirt!” He grins at her. “C’mon, Nell and Harper are waiting for us.”

“Cullen too?” She asks, squinting at him.

“Cullen too,” Colin promises, tramping down the rickety fire escape two steps at a time. “We’ll have a blast.”

Carrie holds on to her best friend and beams as the two of them escape into the streets of Gotham.

Stephanie Brown sits on a rooftop, staring over the expansive skyline. All around her is the creeping fog and the thick, expansive cloud cover, which is lit only by the golden glow of the Bat Signal.

Steph leans back, holding herself up by her fingertips. She angles her head up, squinting as she tries to see if Batman and Robin are in the jet tonight. She sees no sign of them, so she shrugs and pulls a cellphone out of a belt compartment, checking the brightly glowing digital readout for a text message. She’s dressed for Gotham tonight, with layers of Kevlar on her tunic and leggings, the color scheme more black than eggplant. Her mask is a black cowl that stops just short of her mouth, with white lenses covering her eyes, filled with more types of vision alternatives than she knows how to use. A belt is slung across her waist, with a smaller one on her leg, filled with weapons and tricks of her trade. Well… her new trade. The toys for fighting crime are a little different than the ones for causing it. Luckily she’s spent enough time with Tim over the past few years to know how to use them. She shoves the phone back in her belt, enjoying the slight breeze that hits her face.

“What are you doing?” The voice from behind her is soft and lyrical, each word spoken slowly and clearly. Steph turns her head, shoulders tense and her hands clenching into fists on instinct. She doesn’t relax as she sees Batgirl behind her, tattered cape blowing in the wind. The full face cowl with its stitched mouth stares at her, and she wonders how much Cassandra Cain knows about her.

“Sitting,” Steph says lightly, although she feels her heart racing in her ears. Cassandra Cain is not a threat to be dismissed lightly, and Steph doesn’t know what the other girl wants with her. The other girl has been in Hong Kong for the past few months, apparently following Bruce Wayne’s last wish for her, which doesn’t make sense to Steph, since as one would think that the original Batman would want his most competent fighter to be in Gotham when the chaos of Batman being dead began. But apparently not.

Batgirl tilts her head slightly, staring at Steph, and Steph resists the urge to fidget under the younger girl’s gaze. Cassandra raises her hand, and pulls off her cowl, revealing short black hair that’s unevenly chopped into a crude bob, and a pretty face with features that are surprisingly delicate for a fighter of her caliber. Her skin is tanned and clear of acne, and her eyes are dark brown in color. She smiles at Steph warmly. “Hi.”

“Ah… hi,” Steph responds uncertainly, but she smiles back anyway.

“You are the Corsair?” She speaks English as if it’s her second language—which, according to Tim, it kind of is—clearly annunciating “Corsair”, as if afraid she’s saying it wrong.

“That’s me,” Steph says, relaxing and shooting a more genuine smile in Batgirl’s direction. “Lemme guess,” she points at the bat symbol on the other girl’s chest with her left pointer finger. “Batgirl?” She lets out a laugh.

Cassandra Cain laughs too, her laugh a soft, quick giggle, but she nods nevertheless. “Cass,” she says, extending a gloved hand to Steph.

Steph blinks, surprised by the show of trust—both the name and the handshake—but she shrugs. “Steph,” she introduces herself, shaking the offered hand.

“Tim tell me,” Cassandra—Cass, that is—says. “He like you.” She grins widely, and Steph can’t stop the warm feeling of happiness that unfurls in her chest when she hears that.

“He’s sweet,” she says, tilting her head to one side. Cass sits next to her, her battered cape falling over her knees.

“Damian likes you too,” Cass says conversationally, although her eyes are curious as she looks at Steph. Damian is fond of Cass, in a strange way, referring to her as “competent” and “efficient” in her crime fighting, and “not as annoying as Drake” in terms of her company, which isn’t saying much—Tim and Damian’s rivalry is incomprehensible to Steph, not to mention incredibly irritating.

“I used to look after him,” Steph says with a shrug, tilting her neck the other way, cracking it pleasantly. “When he was little.”

“You… worked for Talia.” Cass’s voice was soft, but Steph could feel the judgment layered in her words. The challenge. She’d certainly heard it from Dick often enough. She hadn’t asked to see her file, but Jason had shown it to her anyway two weeks ago. Apparently, someone—probably the terrifying and all seeing Oracle who everybody seems to respect and fear in equal measures—was annoyed that Steph had slipped through the cracks in their research previously, and so had redoubled their efforts to learn more about Stephanie Brown. The file doesn’t have everything about her, but it comes awfully close, and it makes her skin itch to think about. The Corsair had always been an enigma, and now anyone can learn about her in an instant.  

“Yes.”

Cass stares at her hands thoughtfully, biting on her lower lip. “You hated it.” Steph blinked in shock. No one has ever asked her that before. The questions are always “how many?” or “why did you leave?” No one has ever thought to know how she felt about it, and she wonders just how similar she is to the other girl. She looks at Cass, meeting her large brown eyes, and nods once, a quick jerk of her head.

“You changed,” Cass smiles widely, her eyes alight with excitement, her face glowing. “You changed!”

“I tried,” Steph hedges, confused by Cass’s enthusiastic reaction. The other girl grins, and holds out a hand.

“Spar with me?” She asks, her smile taking on a mischievous tilt.

Shit. “Why not?” Steph says, getting to her feet. “I could use some more bruises.”

Cass pulls her cowl back on, and Steph reflects on how creepy it is, with the stitched-on smile and the wide, blank lenses that are sewn into the cowl to hide Cass’s eyes—and provide her with a visual link to Oracle, of course. Steph doesn’t doubt that the mysterious Oracle is watching now—from what Jason has told her, Oracle is always watching.

“You first,” Cass says, clearly amused. Steph shifts her shoulders slightly, spreading her legs into a firmer stance, and centers her gravity carefully, leaning on the balls of her toes, reading to move in an instant. Cass stands still, hands casually hanging by her side and standing to her full height. It’s casual, it’s confident, it’s a challenge, and Steph wants to laugh at how hopelessly outclassed she is compared to Cassandra Cain.

She leaps forward anyway, going for a simple nerve strike, something she’s done a thousand times before, on metahumans and humans alike. There was a blur, and then Cass was behind her, kicking her in the back, sending her sprawling towards the pavement. Steph turned in the air, tucking her head down, and managed to land in a crouch on her feet. She springs up, twisting her body into a kick, aiming for Cass in general, already knowing that Cass wouldn’t be there when she landed. Cass was fast, and Steph had fought Kid Flash before. Steph lunges again, a combination of a punch and a kick, and finds Cass flipping over her, using her shoulders in order to launch into the air, perform a perfect somersault, and land on the nearby chimney.

Steph falls to the ground, laughing until her sides ache. “You’re good,” she says, smiling so widely that she feels like it’s threatening to fall off.

“You are too,” Cass says, crouching on the chimney, her cape fluttering in the wind.

“Aw, you’re sweet,” Steph says, waving her hand lazily in the air. “I probably should go now.”

Cass tilts her head, strangely resembling a bird. “Why?”

“I’m supposed to meet Jason soon,” she says. “He’s grounded—he broke his leg last week, did you hear about that?—and he’s grumpy, so I’m keeping him company. I’ve got a bag full of Disney movies stashed near his apartment, and enough popcorn to choke a speedster, so it ought to keep him out of gloomy-zone for a little while, at least.”

“Disney movies?” Cass asks, curious.

“He secretly loves them,” Steph assures her. “His favorite’s— ” Her phone rings, the sound ofchirping birds audible. She holds up a finger to Cass. “Just a sec. Hello?”

“Steph?” It’s Damian, and he sounds uncertain on the other end.

“Yes Macushla?” She asks, frowning, wondering why he’s calling.

“Grayson has declared me unfit for duty tonight,” he’s sulking, she realizes. She can hear the pout in his voice, and knows he’s glaring furiously. “Do you want to train with me tonight?”

She pauses for a second, mentally adjusting her schedule so that she can spend tomorrow night with Jason instead, and nods to herself. “Sure thing, Dami. I’ll be at the Manor soon.”

“Thanks,” Damian says, voice small. She wonders why Grayson would bench Damian for the night, and she runs her fingers through her hair absently.

“No problem, Macushla,” she says fondly, smiling at him, even though he can’t see her. “I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.”

“Bye.” Damian hangs up, and Steph stows her phone in the pouch again.

“What is ma-cu-sh-la?” Cass says, right behind Steph, and Steph pivots, instinctively, lashing out, her hand aiming for what would normally be a throat, but is instead Cass’s hand catching hers, gripping it firmly by the wrist. “Sorry.” Cass does look sorry, hunching slightly in guilt, her eyes wide.

Steph releases a long breath through her nose, her heart still racing, instincts blazing. “It’s fine,” she says, carefully pulling her hand back. “Instincts.” She shakes her hand slightly—Cass’s grip is like steel. “Macushla’s Irish,” she says. “It means “darling”.”

“Why—” Cass looks perplexed, her eyebrows squishing together in an oddly adorable manner.

“My—my mother.” Steph looks down. “There was this song. She’d play it sometimes. It was her favorite.”

“What happened to her?” Cass asks, expression soft.

“She died,” Steph said quietly. “They killed her when they killed my dad.” Pain flares in her chest, a long forgotten mourning. She wonders if she should search for the grave, where they’re buried. Pay respects, maybe, or something. Try to get closure, even. Closure for how Arthur’s dirty dealing has scarred her and transformed her into this—not a hero, not a villain, but something stuck in between. She never had learned what Arthur had done to earn the ire of Talia al Ghul, and she’s never had the courage to search for the answers. Her childhood in Gotham was separate from the rest of her identity—she likes to pretend it was a happier time, but she remembers the closet well enough, and the fear that Batman would come and take away her parents and leave her alone.

Cass looks at her sadly, as if she could read all of Steph’s thoughts—which, if the rumors about Cass’s abilities are true, she probably could. Steph gives a quick grin to the Batgirl, and then beats a hasty, and only slightly dignified, retreat.

She finds Damian in the Batcave, curled up in the gigantic chair by the computer. She walks up to him, fighting down the rush of concern. Surely, Grayson or Tim would have told her if Damian had been hurt.

He turns around, and Steph grins at him. He grins back, despite himself. He has a bruise on his cheek, but otherwise he looks unharmed, so Steph sweeps him up into a hug. He struggles slightly, protesting in a muffled voice about the assault on his dignity, but gives in and hugs her back.

“What happened?” Steph says, letting him go.

Damian looks… sheepish. Steph mentally prepares herself, wondering what could make Damian sheepish.

“A-chooo!” Damian squeaks, falling backwards into the chair. That’s when Steph notices that his nose is red. Bright, cherry, dripping, red. She swallows down every urge she has ever had to giggle at Damian’s adorable duck-like sneezes, and plasters a look of sympathy on her face.

“Cold, huh?” She says, scooping him up in her arms. “Okay, let’s get you to bed, Macushla. I’ll see if Alfred will make you some soup.”

“I am not sick,” Damian says, but his nose is clearly stuffed up as he says it, so Steph doesn’t believe him one bit.

Steph sings softly, cradling him against her chest. He was warm to the touch, and his eyes sunk slowly shut as she whispers the old familiar lullaby.

“Macushla, Macushla, Your sweet voice is calling, calling me softly, Again and again…” Her voice, warm and gentle, washes over Damian, and he falls asleep as she ascends the staircase.

She pushes open the door to his room carefully, trying not to disturb him. She knows he doesn’t sleep enough as it is, which is probably why he got sick. Alfred appears in the door, efficient as always. She smiles at him, shifting Damian in her arms slightly. “Can you help me get him into bed?” She asks. The elderly Oxford Man nods and smiles back at her, pushing back the bright red coverlets and cream colored sheets. She carefully sets Damian down, pulling the covers up to his neck. She then holds her finger up to her lips, looking at Alfred, before ducking down into a crouch and removing the stuffed robin toy she’d given to Damian all those years ago from its hiding spot. She tucks it in next to Damian, smoothing his hair back and dropping a kiss on his forehead before silently leaving the room with Alfred.

“I was not aware that anyone else knew about the bird,” Alfred says, looking at her with a knowing expression and a kind smile. Steph hasn’t spent much time with Alfred, without one of the boys to act as a buffer.

“I gave it to him,” she says quietly. “He would get upset when I left for missions, so I’d bring him back presents to try to make it up to him.”

“Did you leave often?” Alfred asks.

“No,” she replies, closing the door to Damian’s room carefully. “I looked after him more than anything, so we stayed at the compound most of the time. We only left when—” She paused, remembering who she was talking to and where. Everything in the Manor was recorded, she knew this. Even if it wasn’t, Alfred would surely tell Grayson and Oracle everything. She considers where her loyalties lie. Protecting Damian was all that was left of that life. She owes Talia nothing. “When we had to go visit Ra’s.” She swallows, recalling the pile of bodies—her kills, bloodied throats and foaming mouths—outside of Damian’s door, gone every morning before the sun rose.

“How old were you, when you were first assigned to look after him?” Alfred asks. He isn’t judging her—his eyes are kind, and he doesn’t even have the uncomfortable look that Tim gets when he’s reminded of her past.

Steph pauses, trying to remember. “Thirteen,” she says, eventually. She’d been thirteen, and Damian had been five—scared and determined, with a stolen poison spike, fighting beside a girl who he didn’t even know.

Alfred places a gentle hand on her shoulder, and there’s something sorrowful in his look, but kindness as well. “Thank you for looking after him, Miss Brown.”

She smiles at him, and she feels lighter, somehow, with his approval. “He needed it,” she says quietly. Alfred nods in agreement, then steers her towards the kitchen with the promise of a nice cup of tea.

Tim finds her in his room that night, curled up on his bed watching Netflix on his laptop. “You left patrol,” he says, sitting sideways on the bed, angling his head so he can look at her. She’s wearing a Superboy shirt that he’s pretty sure she stole from Kon, and she watches the animated figures on the screen with great interest.

“Damian was sick,” she says, clicking the spacebar to pause her show—it’s a rather disturbing close up of intricately detailed eyes. Tim wonders what she’s watching. “I was going to hang out with him, but he fell asleep.”

“Ah,” he says, awkward. His relationship with Damian is still… spotty. He’s trying really hard to get over the whole “attempted murder” thing, but he finds himself holding a pretty bad grudge. He’s trying though, for Steph’s sake if nothing else. She’s made it pretty clear that she loves the demon brat, and it’s oddly obvious that Damian cares for her too. It’s strange, that despite all of his and Damian’s difference, that they have that in common. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Steph rolls her eyes at him. “You two,” she mutters disgustedly. “You will be the death of me.”

Before Tim can tell her to not even joke about things like that, she kisses him, and it’s hard to talk when that’s happening.

“I met Cass,” she says, putting his laptop on his dressing table, grabbing the charging cord and plugging it in, then closing it. “She’s fun.”

“She said the same,” Tim replies. “Said you fight well.”

Steph laughs, and Tim can’t help but grin. “I couldn’t touch her!”

“No one can,” he reassures her, grabbing her hand. He rubs his thumb along her knuckles, feeling her callouses and scars. “Not even Bruce—” He breaks off, the familiar ache of Bruce’s disappearance remerging. He thinks about the data, lingering in the cave downstairs, and about how he really needs to process it. If he starts now, he should be done by his 9 AM meeting with Lucius…

Steph cups his face, quickly redirecting his attention away. “You found something.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me,” she says, not quite an order, but far away from a request. Her mouth is a hard, firm line, and her forehead is marked with lines, concern etching her skin.

“I… I think I can bring Bruce home,” he says, desperately, unsure if even Steph will believe him. “He’s alive, I know it, I—”

She kisses his forehead, still holding his face. She traces his features with her fingertips, cooling down the heat that has risen to his face. “Okay,” she says. She smiles at him. “When you find him, let me know. I’ll come with you.”

“You believe me?” He can’t believe it, Babs didn’t believe it, Jason didn’t believe him, Dick refused to even hear him.

“You’re the smartest person I know,” she says, smiling. “I think you’d probably be right about this.” Then she gets a suspicious look, and she tugs him down, gripping his hands tightly. “And you can work on it tomorrow,” she insists.

“But the data—” he protests, despite recognizing that stubborn expression and the determined set of her eyebrows.

“Can. Wait.” Her voice is dangerous. “Don’t make me break out the booby-traps. I’ve got a camera, and Jason would love to see the blackmail photos.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, horrified.

“I’m only partially, reformed, Boy Wonder,” she tells him flatly, smirking. “I so would.”

Chapter Text

Barbara Gordon watches the video feed with folded hands.

On her screen, Stephanie Brown spars with Damian Wayne. Now that she can see them both, she can see the mirroring of their fighting styles—Stephanie’s style has influenced Damian’s techniques greatly. They are fighting with staves, but the way they fight tells Babs that they’re just a substitution for naked blades.

She glances at her compiling list of information on “Stephanie Brown”—which she is still fairly sure is an alias. Stephanie is remarkably closed-mouth about her life before she’d been recruited by the Shadows, only stating that her parents were dead and that she’d been taken to repay the debt they’d owed Talia al Ghul. After her arrival in Talia al Ghul’s European Compound—where Damian had been raised, according to all accounts—Stephanie revealed a lot more.

Amoret. Babs hadn’t known much about her at all before Stephanie Brown had emerged into their lives as the Eggplant Corsair. A minor Shadow, disappeared years ago, never seen or heard from again, flagged as probably dead.

But now that Babs knew where to look, she found more bodies. Whispers of a protector of the Heir—and that certainly fit the bill.

Steph knew Jason—Jason was vague on the details, referring to her as one of his “acquaintances” from his travels in Europe. Tim had mentioned, quietly, to her that the time Jason had spent in Europe was one where Stephanie had been absent from the San Francisco area. She’d then put in a few appearances while Jason returned to Gotham, and then disappeared again after the big blowout with Bruce. He then appeared in San Francisco, egged the Titans Tower, and then returned to Gotham and began working on repairing things with Bruce and Dick.

And Tim… Babs rubs her temples as she thinks about Stephanie Brown’s relationship to the former Robin. Nemesis, girlfriend, friend, teammate… Stephanie and Tim have played a game of cat-and-mouse that almost reminds Babs of Bruce and Selina. She cares about Tim; that much is clear, but she hadn’t told him about Damian, or her past as a Shadow. There are holes in Stephanie Brown’s life, and Babs doesn’t like that.

Stephanie Brown throws Damian to the ground, and tilts her head, as if she is laughing. Damian scowls, but Stephanie reaches down and pulls him up, propelling him into a headlock, and proceeds to muss his hair. Damian squirms and scowls in her grasp. Stephanie wraps her arms around him in a hug, propping her chin on his head. Babs changes camera angles so she can get a better look at Stephanie’s face.

“You’re doing well,” Stephanie is saying. Then she says something that Babs can’t identify. “Grayson is teaching you well.”

“Your style changed,” Damian says, remaining in the hug with an expression of tolerance that looked completely faked. He is enjoying the contact—he’s clearly missed Stephanie a great deal. “Who taught you?”

“Everyone.” There is the word that Babs doesn’t know again. “I had to figure things out to fight metas, and I met a lot of people, running around San Francisco.”

Babs taps her fingers against her chin. Stephanie’s contacts out west are difficult to pin down—she is fairly sure that the girl had been in contact with Slade Wilson at the very least, but she can’t prove it. It’s aggravating, in a way, how much of the “reformed” assassin’s life is escaping scrutiny.

Babs sighs and left her search algorithms running. There are many Stephanie Browns in the world, but none on the missing person’s list. Stephanie’s accent is impossible to place—a touch of everything that gives her a cosmopolitan sound, making it difficult to narrow down. Not to mention, it’s entirely possible that English isn’t even her first language—Stephanie converses with Damian in Arabic at times, and Tim has reported her speaking French, Spanish, and German as well.

Babs sighs as Stephanie leaves the Cave, Damian following her.

Stephanie knows many things about her family, because of Talia, because of Jason, but Babs has managed to keep her own identity under wraps. She doesn’t want Stephanie to realize just how closely Babs is watching her.

Steph had been hired on as Damian’s tutor—Stephanie had produced her own set of brilliantly forged paperwork that sets Babs’s teeth on edge. She is also publically dating Tim now, throwing her into the spotlight.

Babs has met the girl only once, at a party. The girl she had met had set her teeth on edge. She’d been too real. It was as if she’d become the persona she was presenting. The girl she plays to the public was hauntingly real—more real than Brucie Wayne, more real than Tim Drake, junior CEO. And yet it is fake, just as fake as the other two.

There is a slight noise from her computers as the perimeter alarm went off. She glances at it, and smiles slightly when she sees the familiar car. Dick Grayson himself, calling on her. She presses the necessary keys to let him through, rolling herself over to the coffee machine to get herself another cup.

“Hello Babs,” Dick says, stepping into the main room. He’s removed the cowl, revealing that his hair is caked with sweat and pushed out of his eyes. He needs a haircut, Babs thinks, sipping from her mug. He isn’t injured, she’s glad to see, but she is surprised that he is alone. It’s rare that he patrols alone these days, with Gotham practically bursting to the seams with vigilantes. She glances at her feed, where she can see Cass and Jason fighting their way through a large group of Two-Face’s mooks, back to back. Dinah, Zinda and Helena are out of town on a mission, and Renee and Kate are taking the night off. And with Damian still benched after his cold, with Stephanie staying behind to look after him…

“Hey,” she says, glancing back at him.

“How’re things?” He asks her, leaning against the edge of her table. It is odd to see him in the Batman outfit, doing things like that—things that are so Nightwing that she is caught up in a wave of nostalgia.

“Good,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “The Birds are on their way home, Arkham’s secure, my dad’s having a good night… everything’s fine.”

“That worried, huh?”

“It’s never this quiet, Dick,” Babs says. “It’s… it’s the calm before the storm. We’re about to be hit. I don’t know if it’s going to be another crisis or what, but something’s about to happen.”

“And you think Stephanie has something to do with it?” Dick asks, glancing at one of Babs’s monitors, which was displaying the blonde’s file.

“We still don’t know so much about her, Dick,” Babs says, tapping the arms of her chair. It’s an old habit now, beating out the soothing rhythms.

“I know Babs,” Dick slumps. “She’s… she’s so important to Damian though.”

“And he’s important to her,” Babs says dully. “But she just… left him. And Talia made her? That… that doesn’t feel right to me, Dick. Talia loves Damian, why would she hurt him like that? It makes no sense.”

“I know,” Dick says grimly. “I can’t make sense of it either. But Damian believes it.”

“Damian believed his mother killed her for years,” Babs says softly. “This is probably easier.”

“Probably,” Dick agrees, sounding tired.

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“A little. It’s… complicated. Stephanie was practically his sister,” Dick says, running his hand through his hair, pushing it back again. “Talia was… Talia cared for her, from what I can gather.”

“So why send her away?”

“Stephanie claims it was because she was too close to Damian.”

“As good a claim as any. You don’t believe it?”

“She certainly landed on her feet for someone who was thrown out of the Shadows, didn’t she?” Dick says. “She made herself a whole new identity, had a lot of money, managed to keep under the radar long enough that no one connected the Corsair and Amoret…”

“You think she wanted out?” Babs tilts her head thoughtfully. “Wanted to get away from the Shadows?”

“And maybe, being cut off from Damian was the price,” Dick says grimly.

“Have you talked to Tim about this?” Babs turns to look at her screens, checking to see that nothing major has occurred while her back was turned.

“No,” Dick says. “It’s just a theory, there’s nothing to substantiate it. She could be sincere, after all.”

“She could,” Babs agrees mildly.

She doesn’t believe it any more than he does.

“Where’s Tim?” Dick asks, shifting away from the table. He starts removing the Batsuit, stripping down to his boxers and undershirt. Babs keeps her eyes firmly on the screens in front of her.

“He’s breaking into LexCorp to gather some data,” Babs says, glancing at the screen dedicated to keeping an eye on him. He’s leaving LexCorp now, looking grim as ever. Bruce’s death has hit him hard—and Babs doesn’t know how to broach the subject of his denial with Dick. It worries her, seeing Tim refuse to see the truth that’s before him. This isn’t healthy, and it can’t end well.

“Think he’s heading back to the Manor?” Dick asks, and Babs hears him go into the bathroom to take advantage of her shower.

“That’s where his GPS says,” Babs says, switching feeds to check in on Cass and Jason. They are now sitting on a rooftop, talking quietly, their comms switched off so Babs can’t hear what they are saying. She doesn’t have eyes on them, and that annoys her as always. She wants to be able to make sure they’re safe, dammit. She settles for checking their vitals, which are, of course, stable.

Stephanie and Damian are sitting in the drawing room of the Manor, playing on the piano. Stephanie seems to be singing, while Damian stares intently at the music, trying to keep up.

“I didn’t know Damian played piano,” she calls to Dick, who is now using up all her hot water.

“He didn’t like it very much until Stephanie came back,” Dick yells back.

“She taught him?”

“Probably!”

Babs changes feeds again, glancing at the Birds from her on-plane cameras before switching again to the Arkham feed. Most of the major players are locked up—Two Face is out, as is the Penguin, but apart from that it’s at acceptable occupancy levels.

Suddenly, she hears the noise that meant she’s received an email. She glances at it, and feels her eyebrows climb when she notices the conspicuous lack of sender address. She quickly throws up some protective measures, then opens it.

Her stomach clenches.

“Dick?” She yells.

“Yeah?” He emerges from her shower, toweling his hair. He’s wearing fresh sweatpants and a white tank-top, and smells of her body wash.

Babs doesn’t say anything else, simply gesturing. He stares at the screen.

“Call Tim,” he says quietly and grimly.

The storm has hit.

“It’s a fake,” Tim says flatly. His back is turned to the screen, his arms crossed, his hands wrapped around his biceps to keep them from shaking. “It’s a fake.”

“We’re not sure of that,” Babs says, sounding utterly exhausted. Tim swallows another wave of nausea as the video continues to play behind him.

“It has to be—it can’t be real!” Tim insists. On the screen behind him, trapped in a terrifying loop, the video feed plays on. Stephanie Brown, standing in the center of a room, a sword and a dagger in her hands. She’s mask-less and wears only black body armor, no sign of any of her trademark purple or smile. Her face is blank. She stands perfectly still for exactly fifteen seconds. Tim’s counted. Fifteen seconds, just standing there, as if waiting for a signal.

Then, she moves.

The first kill is fast, her dagger flashing across the jugular of a bulky man. He goes down fast, and then she jumps over him as he falls, jamming her sword into a woman’s shoulder, spinning where she stands to slice another man’s stomach open with her dagger. She pulls her sword out of the woman’s shoulder and then decapitates the man next in line.

By the time the video ends, twenty bodies litter the floor.

Twenty.

And there had been no hesitation, no remorse. She had killed them all, and had stood in their blood as it pooled at her feet, and bowed. As if it was a performance, instead of a slaughter. Tim fights down vomit and bile, refusing to believe that it is real. Steph would never… never.

She’d been an assassin, but… but this is more than assassination. This was a game, a sport. How could Steph do something like that, and not even flinch, even though she was covered in blood? 

It has to be a fake.

Nothing else could make sense. It’s a trick—maybe Talia had sent it, to screw with them, as revenge for Steph re-entering Damian’s life.

“It’s fake,” Tim insists again.

“I’ll check,” Babs says softly. “But Tim…”

Tim storms out, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t need to listen to this.

The Gotham air is cool and crisp, and Tim can see his own breath as he stands there, breathing heavily. His face is damp. He swats at the tears, irritated.

He can’t… he caan’t look at Steph, not after that.

He goes to his apartment to look at the data instead.

Nyssa hates Gotham. She hates the way that it smells—the smog and the sludge, the waste in the river, the asphalt and the sewage. The city is a reminder of how much humanity destroys everything they touch—there is nothing clean, nothing good, about this place, and the people in it tend to be the worst that humanity has to offer.

Unlike her sister, she has never been won over by this city. Or the people in it.

Talia had never known that their sisterhood had been more than just a bond of comrades and friends. She had never known that the same blood ran through their veins. Nyssa had been her sister’s friend, companion, and confidant, but if Talia had ever suspected, she had kept quiet.

Nyssa feels her heart ache as she thinks about Talia mourning her. She had done her best to protect Damian on that fateful day, but she had been cut down as if she was nothing. The ambitious fools had slaughtered so many in their quest to kidnap Ra’s’ heir. Stephanie Brown had been forced to step forward—a mere child, a girl who cried after her kills, safe in Nyssa’s arms, after the blood had been washed away. Stephanie Brown had fought for Damian, and she had won. She had won, where Nyssa and the others had lost. She had survived, and Damian had survived, and for that, Nyssa would always be grateful.  

And now Nyssa is to betray Stephanie, who had practically been her protégé. Nyssa and Talia had been fond of the girl—she’d had a certain quality that was admirable, a stubbornness and a determination that was endearing.

She shoves away her guilt—her children, this was for her children. Her beautiful boy, her clever, clever daughters. They had been so young when they had been taken from her—screaming as she was pulled away, as they were lead to the slaughter. She will have them back, all for the price of a girl. The little girl, born of a mother who had been far too young.

The girl with bright red hair and dark blue eyes, with sticky fingers and a soft giggle. Eyes so much like her mother’s—eyes visible through the white, smileless mask.

“I hate this mask!” The girl screamed, tears running through her face as she knelt in front of the toilet, heaving out the contents of her stomach as the guilt and shock continued to run their course.

“It will keep you safe, little one,” Nyssa whispered, carefully braiding Stephanie’s long blonde hair so that it would be kept safe and clean. She rubbed soothing circles on the girl’s back, and tried to remember if her own reaction to her early kills had been so visceral, so raw.

The girl sobbed as she heaved again, but there was nothing left to come up. She clutched at the sides of the toilet with shaking hands, spluttering and spitting and crying.

“Shh,” Nyssa whispered, pressing a glass of water into Amoret’s hands. Her mask had been thrown across the bathroom, but it had not broken. The shroud that Talia had given Stephanie lay in a crumpled heap by the door, dropped when Stephanie had sprinted for the toilet.

Stephanie rinsed out her mouth and spat, her breathing ragged and her eyes red. “Does it get easier, Afya?” She begged, leaning back against Nyssa. Nyssa removed a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped Stephanie’s face. The girl’s face was pale, but her forehead was cool to the touch.

“Yes, little one,” Nyssa promised softly. “It gets easier with time.” She kissed Stephanie’s forehead. “I am very proud,” she said truthfully. “You did well.”

Stephanie let out another sob, and wrapped her arms around Nyssa’s neck. Nyssa ought to stop this show of weakness, but she does not have the heart to do so. So she holds the girl, and wonders what the girl means by the whispered, “Why?”

She put the girl to bed, and called Talia to report their success.

“How did she do?”

“She is soft,” Nyssa said. “But effective. Do you truly believe this is necessary, my friend?”

“Yes. She will be great, Afya. Do not doubt it.”

“I do not doubt, my lady. I merely wonder if it is necessary.”

“Ah, Afya. Growing soft in your old age?”

“Perhaps, my lady,” Nyssa laughed softly. She had been friends with Talia since the woman was eighteen. She had held her hand when she had her son, she had carried reports of her son to her while he grew up away from her. Around her neck she wore a small packet containing Talia’s last wishes, to be delivered to Bruce Wayne along with their son upon the events of Talia’s death. An event that would, hopefully, never come to pass. 

Nyssa touches the waterproof pouch that she still wears, beneath her Kevlar and her spandex. It looks as if the latter part, at least, would never need to be carried out, while the first part never could be. Talia has, despite all her predictions and fears, outlasted her Beloved. He is dead and buried, while Talia lives, and her son is far away from her, out of her reach.

And yet, Nyssa can’t bear to part with the pouch. She might be betraying Talia, but she will not give up those old orders. No doubt another has been chosen to carry the letter now, since Afya Raatko has been buried for years now. Nyssa wonders if Talia had ever visited the forsaken graveyard, or if she had mourned privately instead. It seems likely—no need to expose herself to attack for the sake of grief. Grief is weakening enough without taking foolish risks.

She shakes her head, laughing at herself for being so nostalgic. There is so much still to do that night, her work not even halfway done.

Nyssa strides towards her goal with a gun in her pocket and ice in her heart.

She will have her family back. Nothing else matters.

Arkham Asylum is supposedly built on cursed ground. But then again, all of Gotham is supposed to be cursed, so maybe that doesn’t mean anything. That’s what the doctors and owners of Arkham always will insist at any rate.

The halls of Arkham are dark and dank. Mold and mildew grow freely, the floorboards creak, and the lights always flicker. Storms rattle the windows, and the air is always just cooler than it ought to be. It had once been magnificent, with high vaulted ceilings and chandeliers, with a grand ballroom and beautiful furnishings. The ballroom is now a nurses’ station, the chandeliers have been removed after one of Killer Croc’s escapes, and the beautiful furnishings have all been sold or destroyed. The ceilings remain, but now they are filled with cobwebs. What had once been fashionable and grand is now ugly and terrifying. It is a place worthy of Gotham, people like to say.

Arkham Asylum is home to only the highest risk, most volatile, most dangerous patients. Years ago, successful campaigning from the Wayne Foundation had managed to get all safer, less violent patients transferred out of the city, away from the influences of the more volatile, dangerous elements. Rogues who the law classifies as criminally insane and costumed are placed here, much to the anger of the protestors who regularly gather outside the wrought iron gates, demanding they be brought to justice properly.

The security at Arkham has greatly increased over the past few years—Bruce Wayne has poured money into it, attempting to keep the patients in, ending the infamous revolving door. The security systems are top of the line, the guards are competent and well-paid, to try to make them less prone to bribery. Doctors, aids, and nurses are rotated between patients, to try and prevent a rapport being built with any particular patient, and there are a great deal of emphasis on humane treatment and medication.

None of this seems to matter that night.

The doors are flung open, and the patients pour out, uncaring or unaware that they are supposed to be well on the road to recovery.

The alarms begin to sound, and the Joker laughs, still locked tightly in his cell, the only one not freed by this break-out. “Why won’t you let me out, dearie?” He grins widely, giggling to himself. “I’ll make it fun!”

“Not interested,” Nyssa murmurs, watching him with dull eyes behind her mask. She wants to kill him—her gun has enough bullets left that surely she could spare one for the monster lurking in this cell. But her father has been clear—the Joker is to live. Why, she doesn’t know, but he wants the man alive. She swallows her revulsion and leaves the Joker to his own amusements.

Arkham echoes with every step she takes.

The occupants now flood the streets of Gotham.

Chapter Text

Jason Todd can remember knowing Stephanie Brown for almost as long as he’s been alive for the second time.

She hadn’t been there when he’d come out of the Lazarus Pit, or in the days that followed, wandering Europe and murdering his instructors, but he met her the minute he left Gotham City, still seething with anger over the events that had unfolded after he revealed himself to Bruce.

“So you’re the one who’s been causing all the trouble,” the Eggplant Corsair had never caught his attention before that very moment—she’d only been active for a little over a year by that time. A small time crook with a ridiculously petty record and a fondness for playing games with heroes. It was odd that she’d sought him out—he was obviously way out of her weight-class.  

“What do you want?” He demanded, wary and angry in equal parts.

She shook her head, tutting at him. “And now I’d have thought Talia would have taught you manners, Jason.”

He froze up at the mention of Talia and at the casual knowledge of who he was. “Who are you?’

She’d grinned. “Now isn’t that the question of the hour?”

“I’m not in the mood for games.”

She grinned at him. “No, but I think you need some anyways.”

Now, three years later, his leg in a cast, he glares at her again.

“You better have brought popcorn as well.”

“Of course!” Steph pretends to be offended, the plastic bag full of DVDs dangling from her fingers.

“Toss,” Jason stretches out his hands, and she throws the bag at him.

Steph goes into the kitchen to put the popcorn in the microwave.

He sorts through her selection, only occasionally pausing to mock her taste. “You’re a gigantic marshmallow, for an internationally wanted assassin! Do you think the FBI would want to know you like princesses?”

“Stop lying, you love Disney,” Steph says idly, sitting down next to him on the couch, offering him the bag. He takes a handful of popcorn. “Sorry I ditched you yesterday.”

“The brat okay?” Jason asks, pretending not to care.

“He’s fine. Just a cold. He’s already feeling better.” Steph pushs her a strand of hair behind her ears, and Jason pauses to examine her.

When he’d first met her, she’d claimed to be a former employee of Talia’s, which Talia had confirmed later, when Jason had called her up. “Stephanie is hardworking, and very diligent. I understand that she has taken up an interest in the Teen Titans. Don’t underestimate her, Jason. She is very dangerous.” But in all the years he’s known her, he is still unsure of why Talia had warned him. Steph is cheerful, almost abrasively so at times, and, while competent, not nearly as dangerous as half of the people Jason has trained with over the years.

She’s sweet and laughing, with a fondness for practical jokes and small children. She talked him down from his more violent plans, encouraging him to find other methods. He’d egged Titans Tower instead of killing Tim, like he’d planned to. He hadn’t known about Steph and Tim at the time, but things make a lot more sense now that he does.

She’s been his friend. She watches shitty movies with him and gets incredibly drunk and plays ridiculous pranks on the Titans with him. She always refused when he’d ask her to visit him in Gotham, but he’d put that down as one of her quirks. Most people hate Gotham, and honestly, Jason can’t exactly blame them for that. It’s a pretty shitty place.

When he’d gone back to Gotham, intending to talk with Bruce, Steph had grinned at him and told him he wasn’t making a mistake. She’d called him once a week, and listened to him bitch and moan about his psychiatrist, or about how much of an ass Bruce was being. She laughed at him when he complained about the state of the public libraries, and sent him new books and movies to watch in care packages that never had the same return address twice.

Stephanie had also never mentioned Damian. Not until she’d broken into his apartment to demand the name of the new Robin, desperately dropping the name. He’d been so surprised he had told her the truth, and hadn’t even been able to question her before she’d vanished. He hadn’t learned the whys until that night, when Dick had called him to tell him about the encounter.

She doesn’t like to talk about herself, which is something Jason hadn’t noticed until later in their acquaintance. To hear her talk, back in those days, her life began when she became the Corsair. Now, with her secrets at least partially exposed, it seems to have started the day she met Damian.

He’d always assumed that Steph had been a low-level guard, one that Talia had released from her service as a favor, or because of her age. The truth, at least according to Damian and Steph, is clearly more complicated. He isn’t sure if he believes the story that the two of them have spun about Talia’s jealousy. Talia is protective of Damian, he knows that much, but he doubts that Talia would have hurt Damian like that. But he hasn’t called them on it. Not when he doesn’t have any proof.

But all of Dick and Babs’ investigations continue to turn up nothing except dead ends, while Steph relinquishes only a handful of details about her past before she’d entered into Talia’s employment. Even Damian isn’t sure how long she had worked for Talia—he hadn’t met her until she was thirteen, but Babs could trace Amoret back at least two years further.

They know that Steph is likely of Irish descent, judging from her nickname for Damian and the fact that she’d told Cass that her mother had sung her an Irish lullaby. They know her mother and father are both dead, and that Steph had been poor. But Steph’s accent roves far and wide, evolving to match that of the people she’s spending time with. They aren’t even sure if Steph is her real name, let alone Stephanie Brown.

She’d been eleven years old and already an assassin in Talia’s employment. Dick and Babs had already floated the idea that Steph might have been raised from birth in the League, before Cass had managed to learn about Steph’s parents. Jason hadn’t been sure he believed that, even before Cass had justified his skepticism—he found it hard to believe that she would have left, if that had been the case. She isn’t like Cass, who had overcome years of conditioning and brainwashing the minute she realized what she had done. Steph had stayed, killing for at least five years.

And yet here she is, sitting on his couch, chatting about Disney movies, keeping him company as he sulks about being benched.

He likes Steph a lot, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is just a little creepy. He knows she’s done horrible things—she’s admitted to them, at least now that she can’t hide them. And he’s never seen her falter even once. He’s never seen her look guilty.

Who is Stephanie Brown? That question seems to be coming up more and more as the months pass, since the truth had come to light.

Their phones both go off at the same time, freezing them in place.

“Of course,” Steph says, pulling out her phone. She freezes, staring at the screen. “Fuck.” She scrambles to her feet. “Sorry Jay, it’s all hands on deck tonight!”

“What is it? What happened?” Jason can’t reach his phone; halfway across the room as it is, and him with a broken leg.

“Arkham breakout. Everyone but the Joker.” Steph grabs the bag which contains her costume and lunges for the bathroom.

“Everyone but?”

“I don’t know! That’s what the message said! Turn on the news!” Steph’s voice is muffled as she changes clothes.

Jason flips on the television, and sure enough, it’s on. He clenches his fist as he watches the footage. Batman is fighting Two-Face on national TV, Robin at his side.

“—and we’ve just received word that Scarecrow, AKA Johnathan Crane, has just been spotted raiding a chemical lab downtown, let’s go to the scene, where Red Robin has been spotted—”

“Steph! Tim’s fighting Crane!”

“Fuck,” Steph says, exiting the bathroom. She’s wearing skintight Kevlar that is completely black. Her mask is a metallic piece that covered her entire nose and mouth. Her hair is tightly braided, and Jason sees the signs of the spike that she has braided in it to stop people from grabbing her hair. Her belts are already in place, and he sees the grapple gun in her hand. “Where?”

“Downtown. Check my bag, you’ll want to coordinate with other people tonight. And don’t worry about Tim. He’ll be fine; he’s a big boy.”

For a second, she hesitates, but she grabs the communicator that he offered her anyways.

“This is the Corsair, I’m just leaving Hood’s location. Where am I needed?”

Crane is always a tricky opponent, and, to make matters worse, he’s had time to prepare. The thick haze of his fear gas is already oozing through the building, and Tim is only counting himself lucky that he’s built up an immunity, because the civilians are panicking. It must be a milder dosage, because no one is turning on each other. Yet. The air tastes sour, and Tim’s nose wrinkles as he makes his way into the laboratory.

He doesn’t want to know what Crane has been crafting in these labs before deciding to reveal himself with the explosion—and Tim knows it would have been a decision. Crane has been in this business too long to make mistakes like drawing attention on a night like this if he doesn’t want it.

He ignores everything else—the screams of the civilians, the whir of the news helicopters, and just focuses on Crane. There are dozens of criminals loose tonight, and they can’t afford to spend too long on any single one of them.

How this had happened is still a question that hasn’t been solved. Babs had reported that the security system at Arkham is shut down—everything but the Joker’s cell. The aides had been attacked—if anyone had bribed their way into Arkham, they hadn’t spared the people whose pockets they had lined. No deaths, but plenty of injuries.

Whoever had done this has planned this deliberately. They’d unleashed serial killers and mass murderers and terrorists upon the city without thought, but had stopped at the Joker. Whoever had done this wants the Joker contained. Which is smart, Tim has to admit. The Joker is an unpredictable piece in any given plan. But they also clearly aren’t afraid that the Joker will get offended that he’s been left out. That’s also a risk, when it comes to the clown.

Tim needs to be able to sit down, to think. He needs to map this out, to see who would gain what by this chaos. But he doesn’t have the time to do that. People are going to die, and he has responsibilities. Detective work can come later. Right now, he just has to save people and stop Crane.

Tim pulls out his air filter as he ran up the staircase, and slips it over his face. A little fear gas won’t harm him, but as he gets closer to Crane the less predictable the concoctions will get and the less likely Tim will be immune.

Johnathan Crane is waiting for him. The room’s floor is on fire, explosions pepper the air around him, and Tim has to work to stay alive. Crane has booby-trapped the entire lab, preparing for this.

“What? I don’t even equate a visit from the Bat?”

Tim can’t respond around his air filter, but he rolls his eyes anyway. Once he manages to get close enough, the fight is quick. Crane is a decent fighter, but he mainly depends on his gasses and psychology. And Tim doesn’t give Crane the chance to get into his head or in his system.

He calls it in, and then freezes as he hears Steph’s voice in his ear.

“This is the Corsair,” He shakes his head. Comms. She’s on the comms. “I’m just leaving the Hood’s location. Where am I needed?”

Where did she get the communicator? Babs doesn’t trust Steph with a communicator. She has a private line to him, and that’s it. But Steph is clearly broadcasting on all channels. Had she known them all along? It wouldn’t be unprecedented. She’d known who he was, the whole time, back when she had been a villain and he had been a Titan. She knows plenty of things that she’s probably never even considered telling him.

Like slitting the throats of twenty people on camera, and then bowing afterwards.

Does he really know her at all?

Being one of the good guys is weird. The Eggplant Corsair hadn’t been a notorious villain, or a very well-known one, at that. Her move to the lighter side of the costumed spectrum had gone un-noticed, uncommented on. But the people of Gotham are more aware of their heroes than most other cities. Already people are beginning to know her name, and even though her costumes change regularly, they still are usually able to recognize her on sight.

The regular criminals of Gotham are taking advantage of the breakout in order to do some normal petty crime. Steph stops a few minor incidences on her way to the location where the Oracle has directed her—Jane Doe has been spotted in a warehouse, and the Oracle apparently thinks that Steph is capable of that, at least.

Steph’s feet pound the rooftops as she races towards the street in question. She has quickly been filtered out of conversation that aren’t addressed to her, which is fine by her. She doesn’t need to hear everything. Damian talks to her enough, and that’s what matters.

Tim has rounded up Crane, and is hunting Killer Croc in the sewers with Batgirl’s help. Steph is alone, but Huntress is poised to help if something goes wrong.

Below, on the street, Steph can hear people shout, pointing at her, trying to guess who she is, if she’s a hero or one of the escaped villains. She can’t help but grin as she hears a little girl shout excitedly.

“It’s the Eggplant Corsair! She’s my favorite!”

Steph laughs to herself. How far she has come since she was sixteen.

Her hair was too short. She’d gone overboard, in trying to reforge her identity. When before it had almost touched her wait, it now was cropped into a pageboy. She winced at the image in the mirror. She hated the way she looked. It felt wrong to see that much of her face; it felt wrong to have so much color.

She wore only a domino mask and an armored bodysuit in bright purple. It was the same shade as Amoret’s shroud, but that was the only part of this that was nostalgia. The rest of it was new—there was no connection to the assassin. 

But it felt so wrong not to be Amoret.

She swallowed. Amoret was dead. This new identity had to be hers, it had to be something that she made for herself. Talia al Ghul no longer controlled her, no longer pulled her strings—she was free; the cage door had been flung wide open. She could spread her wings and fly.

It was everything she had ever wanted.

Except that it had come at such a cost.

She forced herself not to think about Damian, and instead put on her gloves. She had checked a hundred times, and the Stephanie Brown that she had been was buried. Talia had been thorough; even her footprint records at the hospital she had been born at had been switched out. Stephanie Crystal Brown had been reported dead years ago. Her description matched no missing persons case from Gotham. Her fingerprints had no match on record, her name had no criminal past attached to it.

She glanced at the journal, sitting at the kitchen table. She’d started keeping it only recently, trying to dig into the depths of her memory, to record everything that she had ever done in Talia’s service. She was counting her sins. But none of that mattered at that moment, not when she was in costume.

This was a clean start. A new beginning.

She grinned, slowly.

She had met Slade on a job, years back. Talia had killed Amoret, but Steph had managed to reach out to Deathstroke as she adjusted to life in the States. After getting the mercenary to agree to secrecy, he had asked her for a favor.

She was to distract the Titans for a week or two while he prepared to make his move.

Steph was perfectly prepared to do that.

Steph took a deep breath, and looked in the mirror one last time.

She didn’t recognize the girl standing there. But then again, maybe that was a good thing.

She put one hand on her hip and displayed her widest grin. “Everyone beware! It’s the Eggplant Corsair!”

The night is long, and tough, and by the time that Steph stumbles into her apartment, all she wants to do was sleep for about a year.

She climbs in through her bedroom window, and sees Tim’s costume scattered all over the floor. She grins, and changes into a lavender turtleneck and a pair of tight black jeans before plodding out into the living area, where she sees that the lights are on.

Tim is watching something on the television as he waits for her. His face is grim as the light flickers across his face.  

“Hey,” she says, moving in to kiss his cheek.

That is when she sees what was playing on the screen.

The dagger was unfamiliar in her hands, the grip so thin that she felt as if she could break it in half. The blade was as long as her forearm, and sharpened to a point so sharp that Steph didn’t dare test it. The sword was at least her own, but the dagger was important.

Her mouth was dry and her heart raced, but she kept her face as blank as possible. She went and stood in the center, and waited for Talia to give the symbol. They all surrounded her, standing with her in silence. They too, showed nothing, even though they knew what was to come.

She stumbles backwards, her gorge rising as the loop continues. “Where did you get that?”

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” Tim says quietly, not looking at her.

“I—”

“You’re supposed to say it’s not real!” Tim turns to her, and he is livid. Steph has never seen him so angry. He is shaking with rage, and, for the first time, Steph is scared of him. He looks as if he’s about to attack her, his gaze is so intense and angry. She hadn’t noticed that his belt wasn’t on the ground with the rest of his costume, but he is wearing it still, slung across his chest like a bandolier.

“I—I—I can’t.” It had been real. She can’t lie to Tim. She looks away. He’d known that she was a killer, but she supposed it’s different to see on the screen. And knowing she was an assassin isn’t the same as seeing her do that.

On the screen, Steph bows.

He seems frozen, paralyzed by her admission. “You did that?”

“Yes.” The loop starts again.

“It isn’t fake?”

“No. I did that.” The first kill. His blood had soaked her from head to toe.

“I thought you said you were an assassin!”

“I was an assassin among other things!” Steph throws her arms out wide. “Tim, please.”

“You’re a monster,” Tim says, turning away from her. Steph recoils.

“Yes,” Steph whispers. She’d known this was coming, she reminds herself. She’d known it since she’d come for Damian. She’d known that revealing herself would have this cost, that he’d realize who and what she really is. He’d stop seeing the smiles and the sweetness, and see the dirt and the anger and the bitterness instead. And she had promised herself that it would be worth it.

And maybe it is, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling like the world is falling apart around her.  

“You just—you cut them down as if they were nothing!”

Steph bites her lip. “Tim, it’s complicated—”

“Like hell it is!” Tim whirls to face her. “You’re a murderer, and a liar, and you’ve been lying this whole time! I trusted you!”

“Tim—” Steph tries to take a step towards him, but he pushes her away.

“You used me!”

On the screen, the last person falls over dead, and Steph bows.

“I never—Tim, you’ve got to believe me—”

“Get out. I don’t want to see you again.”

Steph freezes. And there it is. Her chest feels too tight—she has never realized that heartbreak is physical as well. She stops the tears from welling up. She won’t give him that. No one has gotten to see her cry except for Afya, and Afya is dead. She doesn’t cry anymore.

Steph is a very good liar, even to herself.

She turns around, and leaves.

Tim slams the door behind her, locking her out of the apartment that they had shared.

It sounds final.

Chapter Text

There is a moment where Steph just stands there, blankly staring out into the world.

This is what happens when you get attached, she reminds herself furiously, biting her lip as she scrambles to think of something, anything, to do.

She has a safe house not far from here that no one knows about. That’s a start. She’s left her costume in the bedroom—that’s fine. She has plenty of others. She doesn’t have things. Her life has been uprooted far too often for objects to be allowed to tell her story. Her story is people. Her mother and father. Afya. Talia. Damian. Tim. She’s lost all of them now, but she still has herself. She can keep moving, as long as she’s alive.

She makes her way to the house, and only when she arrives there, past its layers of security and locks, does she allow herself to shatter into a thousand pieces.

She falls to the floor, on all fours, shaking as she holds back tears. She doesn’t cry. She can only cry in front of Afya, and Afya is dead.

“You’re stronger than you think, young one,” Afya said, voice oddly warm as she stood next to Steph. “You did well.”

“I puked,” Steph said dryly.

“You’re young yet, child. You’ll get better.”

She screams instead, a loud, high pitched noise that echoes through the house, rebounding back towards her, crashing over her ears.

She rolls onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She can see all the bumps and patterns in the plaster. She tries to see shapes in them, to try to clear her mind.

Their blood was sticky on her face and in her hair, and her limbs ached.

“You did well, child,” Talia said, placing an elegant hand on Steph’s shoulder. She was dressed in a black silk dress, and had observed the occurrence with all the emotion of a statue. “How do you feel?”

“Horrible,” Steph managed, her mouth dry as a stone.

Talia smiled slightly at her. “I understand. Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

It doesn’t work. Her mind keeps circling back to Tim’s face, to the tape—who had sent that tape? Steph had thought that only Talia would have it, but it didn’t make sense for Talia to send it. What would Talia gain from that? Nothing about this made sense.

She needs space. She needs to be apart. She’s been too close to Amoret, let herself fall into patterns that are familiar even though they are so different.

She has a disposable cellphone in the house, and she rolls to her feet, picking it up. Damian’s number is programmed in already—thank God she thinks ahead, sometimes—and she dials.

He’s asleep, so it goes straight to voicemail.

“Hello, Macushla,” she says, closing her eyes and pushing down everything dark and cruel and tainted about herself, letting the warmth and kindness that he brings out in her come to the forefront. “I’m just calling to let you know I’ll be out of town for a few days. Something’s come up. Nothing dangerous, but I’m going to be gone by the time you wake up tomorrow. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush.” Tim’s face flickers behind her eyelids for a moment, and she feels her breath hitch. “I’ll call you again tomorrow, Damian. Be safe.”

She begins dismantles the phone, realizing halfway through that the Oracle will probably find this safe house anyways. She keeps doing it anyways, needing something to do with her hands.

She begins to pack a bag, grabbing costumes and books and civilian clothes. She opens the safe in order to get the valuables that she’ll want to bring with her, especially if the Bats are going to come knocking on the door tomorrow.

Her journal sits on top of a stile of fake IDs and currency.

She pulls it out gingerly, staring at it. She’d almost forgotten about it, it’s been so long since she’s written in it. She flicks it open to the first page, seeing her own spider-like handwriting crawling across the page in her familiar cypher. She’s used it often enough that she can translate it in her head, and she reads her own words, written in the airport after her departure from Talia’s compound.

Is it bad that I’m happy? Everything is terrible, but I’m free, and so I’m happy.

She swallows painfully. She’d bought the journal at a kiosk by her departure terminal, intrigued by the warm brown leather cover and the cheap brass lock that doesn’t even require lock picks to force open.

She flips to an entry halfway through, finding what she’s looking for eventually, tucked in at about the halfway point.

It was the night I killed the most people at once.

It’s also one of the only things that I did as Amoret that I would do again.

She closes the journal, and gets to her feet. She still has packing to do.

Kon opens the door to the Tower, eyes blurry with sleep. He yawns, listening to the familiar heartbeat as he punches in the security code (seven digits—Tim really believes in overkill).

The rest of the Titans are sprawled out on the couch, asleep, limbs akimbo and overlapping. Rose leans against Cassie, mouth agape as she snores softly, her snowy hair falling into her face. Cassie herself is snuggled against Jaime, her arms wrapped around him as if he is a teddy bear. Jaime and Bart lean against each other, Jaime’s head on Bart’s shoulder and Bart’s head on top of Jaime’s. M’gann is collapsed against the arm of the couch, the bowl of popcorn upturned next to her, the kernels spread everywhere. Gar is stretched out over a large section of the couch, his head in Raven’s lap. Raven’s head lolls back, her face perfectly smooth in sleep, even though Kon has no doubt that her nightmares are raging wild again. The menu screen of a movie flickers on the large screen TV; muted, fortunately.

The door swings open, and Kon squints sleepily, trying to identify the new arrival.

“Uh, hey,” He blinks suddenly, feeling more awake, and rubs at his eyes. The Eggplant Corsair, the nemesis of the Titans, and Tim’s girlfriend, is standing there. She’s wearing a tight black catsuit, with a hooded cloak in her typical shade of purple, the hood down. Her mask is a piece of thick black material that covers her mouth and nose, but she’s pulled it down around her neck like a scarf, revealing her face in its entirety. She looks slightly bedraggled, her hair hanging loose and wet around her face, and her eyes are surrounded by smudged makeup.

“Corsair?” He blinks, staring at her. “Um, you know Tim’s not here?”

“I know,” she coughs slightly, looking sheepish, like he’s never seen her before. She tugs one lock of her gold hair, her fingerless gloves gleaming slightly with metallic studs that are designed to make her punches sting. “How much did Tim tell you?”

“The reforming thing?” He asks, feeling stupid, and not entirely certain if this isn’t just a dream. “Yeah, he said you’d moved to Gotham.”

She gives him a small smile, some of the lines that had been marking her face clearing away as she does so, and some of the worry lifts from his chest. They had seemed out of place on her usually cheerful face. “Yeah, um,” she glances at the others, eyes alighting on the dozing Titans. “I’m back in town for a few days and my apartment’s kinda…”

He steps aside, not letting her finish. “C’mon in.” Ma Kent has taught him manners, so he adds. “Need anything? Toothbrush, cup of coffee—”

“This is great thanks,” she says, grinning at him, her carefree smile returning to her face, the awkwardness of her manner evaporating. Kon grins back at her, leading her into the Tower.

“So, why you back in town?” He asks, leading her through the hallway, hoping this is not some setup for an elaborate prank.

She takes off her cape, revealing that she has a messenger bag slung over her shoulders. Her combat boots make soft thudding noises against the cream carpet of the hallway, enhanced by Kon’s hearing. “I have some business stuff,” she says, wrinkling her nose. He hears her heart speed up slightly. She’s lying. He doesn’t call her on it. “I really should have done it ages ago, but…”

“Procrastination’s all the rage,” he assures her, pushing open the door to one of the guest bedrooms, one with pale violet décor. She grins at him as she sees the color scheme, and he grins back.

“If you need anything, let me know,” he says, smirking at her, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis.

Her smile turns predatory, and she wiggles her eyebrows back at him. “Oh, I will,” she says, her voice low and sultry, her long eyelashes lowered. The two of them stay like this for a second, then burst out laughing.

“I’ve missed having you around,” he says honestly. “We should team up, now that you’re with the good guys full time.”

“Maybe I will,” she replies, grinning up at him. He’s an inch taller than her, even with her boots, which have a slight platform built into them. She reaches up and hugs him, much to his surprise, her arms around his neck, hooking her chin on his shoulder. He hugs her back, glad, despite all the inevitable chaos; that the Eggplant Corsair is back in San Francisco.

“She’s where?” Dick demands, looking at Babs with wide eyes.

“Titans Tower,” Babs says, mouth a thin line. “She booked a flight as Annie Black, rented a car, and then managed to make her way to the island.”

“Titans Tower is one of the most secure places on the planet,” Dick says, frowning. “She can just break in?”

“Oh no, they let her in,” Babs replies, her green eyes flashing. “She knocked on their front door.”

“What?”

“Apparently her relationship with the Titans is a lot more amiable than I thought,” Babs says, glowering at the world in general. She never likes it when there are gaps in her knowledge.  

Dick ran his hands through his hair. “Do we know why she left?’

“The only clue we have is this,” Babs jabs a key on her computer, and a recording comes up.

“Hello, Macushla. I’m just calling to let you know I’ll be out of town for a few days. Something’s come up. Nothing dangerous, but I’m going to be gone by the time you wake up tomorrow. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush. I’ll call you again tomorrow, Damian. Be safe.”

“That’s it? What does Tim have to say?”

“Tim hasn’t been responding to my messages,” Babs admits, drumming her fingers against her armrest, her frown deepens. “I’ve sent Cass to check in on him.”

“You don’t think—”

“I don’t think she would have hurt Tim,” Babs says, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “But I think it’s odd that she leaves and we can’t contact him, that’s for sure.”

Dick nods in agreement. “I better head back to the Manor. Damian will probably be upset about that message.”

“Oh, he is,” Babs says, pulling up a surveillance video of Damian in the Batcave, viciously sparring with one of the training dummies.

Dick winces at the image, trying to think of a strategy to keep Damian occupied while they figure out what exactly is going on. “Better get going then.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Keep me updated?”

“Always,” Babs says, turning her attention back to her exploration of Annie Black.

“Hey Eggplant,” Cassie greets Steph in the morning. Steph grins at her from across the kitchen table, eating from a plate laden with eggs and potatoes.

“Hey Wonderchick! How’s it going?”

Cassie smiles. Steph’s never been as close with Cassie as she is with some of the others, but the two of them get along just fine. Cassie was usually the one to remember that Steph would be willing to help in many a tight situation, including the one that ended up with Tim in Steph’s apartment.

“Doing well. What brings you back to town?”

“Oh, business,” Steph says airily, taking a sip from the glass of orange juice

“Uh-huh,” Cassie folds her arms. “And the real reason?”

Steph sees Tim and Bart pretending not to eavesdrop, and she sighs. There’s really no point lying. Kon probably already knows thanks to freaky alien powers. And they’ll probably learn soon enough, if Tim realizes where she is. “Tim and I had a fight. I needed to skip Gotham for a couple of days.”

“How bad is it?” Cassie wants to know. Her mouth is a thin line of concern.

Steph winces as she vocalizes it for the first time. “I think we’re broken up.”

It hurts to say. She wants to take it back, to say it’s a joke, to laugh it off. But she keeps circling back to the expression on his face, to the slam of the door. And even if that wasn’t the case, he’s seen what she did. She can hardly ask him to trust her again, after that.

She realizes, with a sinking stomach, that even if he does change his mind, she should end it herself. Everything they have is built out of lies and illusions. He’s fallen for the mask, for the smiles and sunshine and waffles. He didn’t sign up for a girl with bloody hands and a checkered history.

She’s pushed her luck too far, too long, and it’s hurt Tim. She can’t let that happen again.

“You think?” Cassie’s voice pulls Steph back to the present.

“We probably are. But I’m waiting till he changes his Facebook status to say for sure,” Steph says, forcing a smile onto her face.

“What did you—” Cassie begins to ask, before cutting herself off. “You know what? Never mind. It’s none of our business.”

Steph grins at her, more genuine this time. “Thanks blondie.”

“Hey, we’ve got to stick together in this world of black hair and blue eyes,” Cassie says, smiling as she slips into her seat next to Steph.

“Seriously, there must be some sort of genetic code for heroics attached to those genes,” Steph complains, pushing Tim out of her mind.

“I don’t pretend to understand it,” Cassie says, and the boys fall into place around the table. The other Titans are out for the day, leaving just the four of them. Steph’s glad—she’s acquainted with most of the others, but she would hardly call them her friends. Honestly, friend is probably a stretch for these three, but at least it’s closer than with the virtual strangers who had been napping on the couch last night.

Steph laughs, and Cass slips her arms around Steph’s shoulders, and Steph can’t help but lean in, just a little, soaking in the physical comfort.

Steph laughed, releasing a handful of sticky grenades that exploded with a loud bang. There were shouts, and civilians panicking, but that was probably more out of habit than actual fear. The worst Steph had done so far was set fire to a tree.

Which she felt bad about, in all honesty. It had been a genuine accident. She’d make a donation to a rainforest later or something.

Superboy charged her, looking absolutely ridiculous in his outfit. She wanted to laugh, and then she did anyway, elated at the realization that her mask couldn’t stop her from doing so. She leapt to the side and then threw another sticky grenade at him, trapping him in place.

“Ah, c’mon!” She placed her hands on her hips, frowning at him mockingly. “I was promised a challenge, not a fashion disaster!”

“Ah, c’mon violet, you’re hurting my feelings!”

Steph sniffed dramatically. “It’s eggplant you heathen! I am the Eggplant Corsair, ne’er-do-weller and maker of mischief!”

“Nice title,” a voice said from behind her. She turned, already grinning in anticipation. “But I’m not sure it will fit on your mugshot’s placard though!”

“Well, well, well,” Steph said, examining the boy in front of her. He was her age, with short dark hair and an outfit that was painfully familiar. His face was closer to pretty than handsome, with a fine bone structure. She knew that if she took his mask off, his eyes would be a greyish blue. She knew his name, his face, and his psychological weakpoints. Damian, if only you could see me now . “If it isn’t the Boy Wonder himself!” She pulled out her bo-staffs, grinning at his expression. “What? I did my homework. Shall we dance, pretty boy?”

He grinned at her, clearly amused, despite her trail of chaos and the fact that his best friend is trapped in bright purple goo behind her. “Let’s.”

He ran at her, swinging, and Steph countered neatly, meeting him blow for blow. It’s odd, fighting with these weapons. Even in her practices with Damian, she usually used blades. For showing him the most dangerous moves, she would use dulled ones.

But she was not an assassin anymore. Now she was a petty criminal, motivated by selfishness and a need for amusement instead of by Talia’s grand designs. Now she could fight and never kill. No more names to weigh down her conscience, no more corpses for her nightmares.

Now it was a dance instead of a deadly match, and Steph was enjoying every second of it.

She laughed out loud, startling Robin. She spun him around and pushed him into the mud, grinning. Her watch started beeping, letting her know that Slade had used up the time she’d allotted him.

She could keep fighting anyway, but honestly, she can’t be bothered. She’d had her fun; the Titans knew her name now, and she had other things to do.

“Well, I’ll just leave you two here then,” she said, faking a sigh. “I really hate to leave such strapping young men on such short notice but I’m afraid I have another appointment, so…”

She gave them a little wave. “Until next time!”

“Next time?”

“Oh, there will definitely be a next time,” Steph grinned, before running away, smiling the whole while.

There’s a knot of worry in Cass’s chest as she races towards Tim’s last known location. Babs had said that Tim isn’t answering his phone, which isn’t a good sign. Tim always answers his phone.

The apartment is in a nicer part of Gotham. It’s actually in Steph’s name—or one of Steph’s names, at least—but Tim has been living there fairly consistently for the past few months.

Cass hasn’t been here before, but she’s on the approved visitor’s list. She smiles at the doorman as she shows her ID, and he lets her through with a nod.

She’s dressed in nicer clothes to blend in; they’ve got labels that she’s not supposed to remove. Everything is sleek and clingy, and Cass honestly doesn’t like them very much, except for the orange cashmere scarf knotted around her neck. It’s very soft.

Cass mounts the steps; they live on the second floor. She finds it quickly, and knocks.

There isn’t an answer.

She frowns, and tries the doorknob. The door is locked. He must not be in.

She’s about to go away when she hears Tim’s muffled voice in the kitchen.

Her brow furrowing, Cass sets about picking the lock. It’s a good lock, but Cass takes her time, working the pins with a careful hand, constantly checking over her shoulder to make sure she’s not being observed by any nosy neighbors. The door swings open.

She finds Tim in the middle of his apartment, ripping it apart board by board.

“Tim?” She asks, confused. He’s pulled the stuffing out of all the cushions, the fluff and foam littering the floor. The walls are broken in places, and all the picture frames are dissected on the kitchen table. Now, he’s methodically pulling up the floorboards, frantic. His entire body screams distress and anxiety.

He whips towards her, and she sees suspicion flare up in him, much to her confusion.

“What are you doing here?” He demands, surprisingly harsh.

“You didn’t answer the phone,” she tells him, realizing why that was a moment after she says that. His phone is in pieces on the ground, crushed nearly beyond recognition. The landline has been smashed with what Cass is pretty sure was steel-toed boot.

“They could be listening,” Tim mutters, not looking at her. “Couldn’t risk it.”

“Who?” Cass asks, confused. “Where is Steph?”

“Gone!” He snaps, glowering at the floor. “Leave me alone!”

“Babs wants to talk,” Cass says, trying to take control of the conversation.

“Why?” He’s suspicious and hostile, and Cass is at a loss. She’s never seen Tim like this before. Her eyes narrow slightly.

“She said… you were in trouble.”

“Well, I’m not!” He finally makes eye contact with her.

His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils are dilated, darting everywhere even as he finally looks at her. She takes a step closer to him, and inhales slightly. He hasn’t showered since last night, and he still stinks of chemicals.

Crane, Cass thinks, furious. “We need to go to the Cave,” she says. “Come on.” She reaches out for him.

He jumps away. “No! I’m not going there!”

“Then the Tower?” Cass asks, hoping her voice is soothing. “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” He’s still wearing his belt, and he throws smokebombs into the air. Cass lunges forward, but she’s not quite fast enough, and he’s out the window before the smoke clears.

Cass growls, and gives chase.

He doesn’t even get to the roof before she grabs him. He might be good and fast, but she’s better. She catches him on the fire-escape, grateful that neither of them are in costume, or this would be quite a spectacle.

“Let me go!” He yells, twisting in her grip.

“Nope,” Cass begins to apply pressure to the write places. She doesn’t need him unconscious, but dragging a fussy, screaming brother to the Batcave might attract the wrong sort of attention.

“Stop that! You can’t do this to me! You don’t know what they’ll do!” He cries, clearly realizing what she’s doing.

Cass frowns and holds him as he falls unconscious. She places her hand against his forehead. He’s warm to the touch. She sighs, and drags him towards the car that Dick had given her for her birthday.

She just hopes it won’t take them too long to synthesize an antidote for whatever Crane’s cooked up this time.

Tim wakes up and his mouth feels like something died in it. Like a mouse. Or maybe a whole nest of mice.

“He’s awake!” Dick’s face fills vision. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible,” he croaks. Dick helps him up, offering him a glass of water once he’s propped up against the pillows.

Tim takes it with fingers that feel weaker than they should be, and quickly drains the whole thing. He feels a little more human after that.

“What happened?”

“You were an idiot, that’s what happened!” Babs is there, and she looks furious. “You didn’t put your mask on early enough!”

“I’m immune!”

“To the normal stuff, maybe!” Babs jabs him in the chest with her finger. “But this wasn’t the normal stuff. It was a low grade paranoia gas! It feeds off your anxieties and fears, causing you to act irrationally and suspect everyone.”

Tim freezes, a terrible thought flickering into his head as he remembers the events of the night before. “Where’s Steph?”

Babs and Dick look at each other, communicating silently. “She caught a plane out of town. Why do you ask? Did something happen?”

“I asked her about the tape,” he mutters, mouth suddenly dry again. He wants more water. “She told me it was real.”

Babs and Dick look stricken. “Tim,” Babs begins to say.

“She tried to explain, said it was complicated, but I didn’t let her. I told her to go. I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

She left. It couldn’t have hurt more if she had stabbed him. He doesn’t know what to think.

But he did tell her to go. He’d told her she was a monster, accused her of using him. Why would she stay, after everything he’d done?

“Where did she go?” He asks quietly. Cass appears out of nowhere, holding another glass of water. He drinks it gratefully.

“San Francisco. She’s staying with the Titans,” Babs says, and Tim blinks, surprised. He’d been sure that Steph would drop off the map entirely, vanish like she had so often back when she had been his nemesis instead of his girlfriend. She’s always been good at leaving without a trace. But for whatever reason, she’s decided to not disappear this time. He’s bizarrely grateful. He can go and talk to her, tell her—

Tell her what? That it doesn’t matter, that she killed twenty people? Tell her that he didn’t mean it? He had. He’d been angry and hurt and horrified, and while the gas had brought those thoughts to the surface and made him harsher than he would have been, he couldn’t deny that the thoughts were his.  

He’ll work it out. He has to. He owes her this much.

Dick places a hand on his shoulder. “You should rest more,” he tells him, gently. “You can think more about it in the morning.”

Alfred helps him make his way to his room in the Manor. His legs feel like they’re filled with lead, they’re so slow and uncooperative. Tim leans more on Alfred than he should, and his cheeks heat up with shame.

There’s a package on his bed, as well as supplies that Cass has recovered from the apartment. Babs has given him a new phone, and he picks it up.

His contacts have imported, so he selects Steph’s icon.

SENT TEXT MESSAGE

To: Eggplant Wonder

Can we talk?

He waits.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE

From: Support Services

The number you are trying to reach is not a valid number. Please check that you have entered it correctly and try again.

He throws the phone and buries his face in his hands. Of course she’d ditch her phone. He should have thought of that.

He sits on his bed, nearly jumping back up as his leg brushes against the package.

He glances at it. It’s rare that he gets mail at the Manor. He doesn’t recognize the return address. He reaches into his desk to pull out the small knife he keeps there, and slices through the tape.

Newspapers. Yesterday’s newspapers. He pushes them aside, wondering who would have gone to all this trouble to send him a speed-delivery package like this.

He blinks as he comes to the actual contents of the box.

It’s a leather-covered book, embossed with the image of a bird in flight. There’s a cheap lock with a key in it, indicating that this is some sort of journal. He opens it, frowning.

It’s in cipher. Tim realizes that with a single look. He flips through it, hoping to find an explanation.

A piece of notebook paper falls out.

The top line only reads AMORET. The key to the cipher.

He keeps reading.

The letter falls to the ground.

“Steph,” he whispers.

He gets to his feet. He needs to talk to her. He can call the Tower from the Batcave, that’ll be better than nothing. There’s no way—she wouldn’t just—

He nearly collides into Damian in the hallway. The younger boy is wide-eyed and shaking, running for the Cave.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Someone just snatched a kid in broad daylight.”

“A costume?”

“Yes.”

“Do we know them?”

“Hey Eggplant!” Rose Wilson stands in the doorway to Steph’s guest room. Steph likes Rose. The’ve met before, not that either of them are actually willing to admit it.

“What’s up?” Steph asks. Her muscles ache from sparring with Bart.

“There’s a call for you.”

“I’m not really up for talking with Tim right now,” Steph says, frowning.

“It’s not Robin,” Rose says flatly.

Curious, Steph gets to her feet. “Where do I take it?”

Rose tosses her a phone, and Steph catches it nimbly. She places it to her ear. “Hello?”

“I don’t suppose you have an explanation for why the assassin known as Amoret killed two people and kidnapped their daughter this evening?” Dick Grayson’s voice is dangerously low.

“What?” Steph yelps.

“Get back to Gotham. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

Steph stares blankly at the phone after he hangs up.

“Everything okay?” Rose asks, clearly confused by what she’s just seen.

“Apparently I’ve been replaced,” Steph says, feeling an icy calm settle over her. “Well. We’ll see about that.”

Chapter Text

Steph watches the video three times on her flight back to Gotham from San Francisco.

Grayson has sent a Batplane, piloted by none other than Cassandra Cain herself, wearing her Batgirl outfit without the cowl, allowing Steph to see Cass’s concerned expression. Steph nods to the other girl as she slips into the co-pilot’s seat, and picks up the tablet that was laying there.

Cassandra says nothing, simply takes flight, and Steph is grateful for the silence as she tries to put the pieces together.

The little girl has red hair and stands several feet behind her parents, who seem to be preoccupied in their argument. She doesn’t look at the camera, so Steph never sees her face, but the girl isn’t the important part.

The important part is the shrouded figure that falls from the sky.

Whoever the new Amoret is, they are shorter than Steph is now by three inches—almost the same height as she was before Talia’s declaration. She supposes she ought to be grateful for both the height difference and the extreme amount of cameras in Titans’ Tower—otherwise, they might have thought she was the one committing the crime, instead of realizing that there was a new player in the game.

The costume is perfect in detail. The mask is the same, blank eyed and smiling, although the camera doesn’t get close enough for Steph to examine the eyes. The shroud is unsettlingly familiar; she knew Damian had the original burned, but Steph cannot see a difference in the one that Amoret wears and the one that Talia had draped over her shoulders, all those years ago.

Who are you? She wants to ask the person in the video. Why are you doing this?

She can’t think of why anyone would want to be Amoret. Amoret was a quiet figure—she had virtually no reputation outside of Ra’s’ and Talia’s inner circles. And even then, there were plenty of other legacies to take, ones that wouldn’t risk Talia’s wrath.

Unless Talia did this? Steph pauses, turning that thought over in her mind. It doesn’t settle right, doesn’t click. No one has heard from Talia in ages; it’s been long enough to be worrying. There are rumors, whispers, sightings, but information is scarce. Most people believe she has plans of some sort; some even whisper of her and Ra’s being at war, but Steph has seen nothing to persuade her of that. If Talia and Ra’s wage war, Steph is certain that the world will know. Steph has seen the aftermath of small skirmishes and arguments, she would hate to see the destruction outright war would cause.

“What do you think?” Steph asks, looking up at Cassandra, finally setting the tablet down on her lap.

Cassandra glances at her out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t take her attention of the flight controls. “She is worried. She is unsure. But she acts with purpose. She believes in the goal, but is concerned about the process.”

“The process being the girl?”

“Maybe,” Cass frowns, fidgeting slightly. Steph wonders how often the older girl has had to fly a plane before this.  

She wonders why Grayson chose Cassandra to bring her back.

“Why did she kill the parents, do you think?”

“Spite.” The words are quiet, a condemnation. Steph blinks, surprised.

“Spite?”

“She hated them,” Cass confirms, nodding. “It wasn’t calculated. It was angry.”

“Why would she be angry at them?” Steph wonders, more to herself than to Cass. She watches the video again.

Amoret’s movements are fluid and sure, a trained precision that Steph knows that she still lacks, even after all her years of training. Whoever Amoret is, she’s better than Steph. It’s a chilling thought. Steph is good at what she does. She was very good at being Amoret. But whoever this is, she’s better than Steph is. Which only makes the fact that she’s taking Steph’s old name even more confusing.

Steph feels an itch in her mind, telling her that she should recognize this woman—surely she’s heard of her before, if she’s that good or known her if she’s out to get Steph. But she can’t think of anyone, and that worries her.

She’s not seeing the forest from the trees—this game is too personal, too close to home. Steph needs to pull back, she needs to assess, but she can’t. Her emotions are a mess and her head is all over the place. Tim’s accusations ricochet through her mind, and Steph doesn’t know what to do.

Her fingers itch for her journal, but she gave it to Tim. She needs to pause, to sort herself out, but she needs all the pieces before she can do that.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Gotham’s skyline is finally visible, and Steph braces herself for what is to come.

“Carrie Kelley,” Babs declares, turning her chair around to face the group.

Stephanie stood there with the rest of them. To her credit, she hadn’t reacted to Babs revealing herself as the Oracle, although she had reacted with enough genuine surprise that Babs was confident that she had at least managed to keep her identity a secret.

“She’s four years old, thirty-six pounds, three-feet-five-inches, and lives at 31^st Miller Street in the East End. The people killed by the new Amoret are her parents, Frank and Lynn Kelley. I’m still digging, trying to see why anyone would target them or their daughter.”

“It says here she’s adopted?” Dick asks, flipping through the physical file that he had gotten from her father.

“Yes, although it was a sealed adoption, and I haven’t had any luck finding the names of her birth parents yet. I’m running her DNA through my database, maybe I’ll get lucky and get a hit, but I’m not holding my breath. Renee’s digging into the parents, maybe we’ll find something there.

“Anything on the new Amoret?” Brown speaks up for the first time, crossing her arms.

“We didn’t get anything for the crime scene, and I lost her on the cameras quickly.” How the new Amoret had given them the slip so quickly while dealing with a child is a question Babs will have to deal with later, but right now what matters is

Brown scowls, but doesn’t say anything.

“Any possibility this is related to you? You have enemies, don’t you?” Dick asks, raising an eyebrow at Brown.

“Plenty. Most think I’m dead. And a lot of them are dead.” Brown stares at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Talia’s probably not happy with me, but I don’t think she’d drag a kid into this...”

“Doubt it,” Jason agrees. He’s not in costume, his leg still in a cast. “C’mon, there’s got to be more.”

“Small names, usually people working for Ra’s or Talia,” Steph snaps. “I was pretty insular! Take care of Damian, pop out to kill whoever Talia wanted dead, and then back!”

“Could it be the family of one of your victims then?” Dick asks.

Steph pauses, contemplating. “Maybe,” she admits. “But those people would probably think I am dead. Talia’s people might have pieced it together by now, but my identity wasn’t exactly common knowledge.”

“So, no suspects. Back to square one.”

Damian goes to stand by Steph, reaching out and grabbing her hand. Babs doesn’t stare, but it takes effort. Seeing how Damian behaves around Stephanie is unnerving, especially when Babs compares him to the child she had initially met.

Steph glances down at him, and some of the lines on her forehead fade. She smiles at him slightly, ruffling his hair.

Tim, standing as far away from Steph as possible, looks like someone kicked his puppy. Babs frowns, wondering what is with that. She still hasn’t managed to get a full story out of Tim as to the conversation with Steph that led to the former assassin getting on a plane to San Francisco. She’ll figure it out, but whatever it is clearly has Tim anxious and guilty. She makes a note to herself to talk to him.

Her computer makes a ding, and Babs feels her eyebrow rise in surprise.

“We’ve got a DNA hit!” Tim leans forward, excited.

“That was fast,” Jason comments.

“Guess we got lucky,” Babs says, turning around so she can access the keyboard. “And our Carrie Kelley is…”

Carrie Kelley’s face appears on the screen, and the words PARTIAL MATCH flash over it in bright green letters. Babs hits another key, and the match appears.

“That can’t be right,” Tim says blankly. “There has to be a mistake.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Babs sees Stephanie Brown stumble, hands clasped tightly over her mouth. Next to her, Damian seems to be counting back on his fingers, brow furrowed.

“Steph?” Jason leans forward. “Tell me we’re being very wrong here, please.”

Steph shakes her head, sitting down. “She’s my daughter,” Steph whispers, and Babs thinks, for the very first time, that she is actually seeing Stephanie Brown.

Steph can’t believe she’s been so stupid. Marcus is staring out at her from the photograph. His green eyes, his red hair, his freckles. Of course, it’s not just him. She sees a dimple in the little girl’s smile that is the same one she sees in the mirror. Crystal Brown is present in the curve of her nose. Steph can name most of the little girl’s features, pick them out like parts of a puzzle.

She hadn’t thought about the girl; her concern had been on Amoret. Guilt swamps her, making it hard to breathe.

“She can’t be your daughter,” Tim says, breaking the silence that follows her confession. “She’s—you’d have been—you must have been—”

“Fourteen,” Steph says. It sounds so much worse, now that five years have passed. She had thought she was so mature, so old. Now it makes her reluctant to even look at Tim. “I was fourteen. Fifteen when she was born. I gave her up. Talia said she’d take care of everything.” There’s a pause, as she considers how much she should tell these people, how much she should give them. “I didn’t even know she was a girl until now.” 

Damian nods, and Steph wants to cry at the expression on his face. “Mother let me name her Carrie,” he says quietly, and Steph’s head snaps up at that.

“She did?” Steph asks, and she hates herself for sounding so small and vulnerable.

Damian nods again, and Steph smiles at him fleetingly before Grayson captures her attention again with a clearing of the throat.

“Could the father be behind this?”

“Marcus?” Steph thinks, remembering the sweet boy, older than her, old enough to know better, of red hair and laughing smiles. She remembers kisses in alleys and the way he called her bella. “Maybe? I haven’t heard of him since before I knew I was pregnant. I sent him a message, but I don’t think he ever got it.”

“Who was he?” Jason asks, practical as ever.

“My partner on a mission in Rome. Maxim, I think was his code name.”

The Oracle—Barbara, that is—pulls up a file. “He was killed in some sort of territorial dispute two years ago,” she announces. A part of Steph is sorry to hear that, but the rest of her is cold. That summer spent in Italy was so long ago, and so much has happened since then. She doesn’t feel like the girl who had giggled when kissed and had scattered fake IDs and wigs across a city, full of hopes that she would one day fly away, not realizing the cost that freedom carried.

“So he’s not behind it,” Grayson says, and she knows they’re all looking at her, probably judging her for not falling down again in grief at Marcus’s death.

She’s falling to pieces, barely holding herself together, but she refuses to let them see it. She knows it would soothe them to know, but she’s not here for their comfort.

Her daughter. Amoret. An imposter. The tape. A plot. The pieces are in front of her, but she can’t put them together. It’s a convoluted puzzle, one that she hasn’t yet been able to solve. She has to figure it out, but it’s eluding her so far.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a kid?” Tim’s speaking, and Steph freezes, remembering that, yes, more lies stand between her and Tim. But this one…

“It hurt too much to think about,” Steph says, exhausted. “I didn’t ask to give her up.”

“What?” Damian’s voice is loud, and Steph freezes.

She’d forgotten about that lie.

“Macushla—”

“You said that you didn’t want her!” Damian looks at her, and he’s angry. Oh, he’s so angry, and Steph hates herself for hurting him like this.

She doesn’t know how to explain this, doesn’t know how to tell him about how much she had hated Talia during those months, and how afraid she was of him learning it from her. Better he hate her than Talia, she had thought back then, fifteen and stupid. She hadn’t thought that, maybe, instead, she’d teach him to hate both of them.

Steph buries her emotion, forcing her expression to be soft and kind. “Your mother said the compound was not place for a child, macushla.”

“She—” Damian’s heart is breaking in front of her, and Steph reaches out for him, but he steps away, avoiding her hands. “You lied to me!” He runs from the room, his cape flying out behind him, and Steph gets to her feet, every instinct she has telling her to chase him, but Grayson’s arm is in her way, holding her back. His scowl is worthy of the cowl, and Steph finds herself scared of Dick Grayson for the first time.

“I’ll handle this,” he says roughly, and Steph stumbles backwards. Grayson sweeps from the room, following her former charge, and Steph stands there, numb.

Has she lost Damian too? Even after Tim, she hadn’t stopped to consider this. She’d lost Damian once, but she’d gotten him back. He hadn’t hated her for leaving him… but this? Steph was suddenly less sure of everything she knew.

She stares after them, and she feels so, so small.

“I think,” she says, finally. “I think I need to lie down for a bit. Excuse me.”

“Hey Little D,” Dick finds Damian in a tree on the Manor grounds.

“Grayson.” Damian’s knees are drawn up to his chest, and he looks his age for once.

“Steph wanted to follow,” Dick says. He’s not wearing his costume, unlike Damian. He leaps up, grabbing one of the lower hanging branches and uses it as a bar in order to flip up to Damian’s level. “I told her I thought you’d need some space.”

“Ttt.” Damian mutters, but he allows Dick to sit next to him, which means that he’s welcome at least.

Dick places a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “So. How are you doing?”

Damian looks at Dick. “I… I don’t know.” He sounds like he’s waiting to be reprimanded.

“Okay,” Dick says simply.

They sat in silence for a moment.

It’s early morning, and the fog is only just receding. The ground is covered with a fine, shimmering frost that glistens in the sunrise. Dick watched his breath and Damian’s make smoke clouds in the air. He’s glad he stopped for his jacket.

Dick looks at Damian out of the corner of his eye as they sit there, waiting for Damian to say something. He doesn’t want to push him.

Damian has been at the Manor for almost a year now, and Dick knows how much it means for his youngest brother. He’d met Damian when Talia had brought him to Gotham, only briefly. It had been a mess. After that, Damian had disappeared along with Talia, and he didn’t see him again until after the Crisis.

“She lied to me,” Damian whispers, and Dick wonders again, just how important was Stephanie Brown, that she has had such an impact on Damian’s life. “I knew Mother… I knew Mother lied. But Steph lied too.”

“Yeah, she did.” Dick says. “But Damian… giving up a kid probably was very hard for her. And you would have been, what, seven? That’s not something that’s easy to explain to a kid. Maybe she shouldn’t have lied, but would her have telling the truth been easier?”

He’s seen a picture of Steph at that age, and the thought of that little girl being pregnant makes him nauseated. He knows she was a killer already, but that doesn’t make it right.

He feels sorry for Stephanie Brown, that she lived a life like that, full of hard decisions and responsibility for a little boy only eight years younger than her, blood on her hands and decisions about children to make.

He thinks he’s beginning to understand her, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Damian doesn’t say anything, but he uncurls slightly, leaning against Dick, and Dick hugs his younger brother.

“Steph?”

She looks up, and sees Tim poking his head into her room. Not now! She wants to scream, but she forces herself to smile vaguely at him.

“Can I help you?” She says.

“Listen,” Tim shifts slightly, nervous. “About the other night…”

“Forget about it,” Steph waves a hand. “I’m fine.”

“Steph—”

“You made your position perfectly clear, Tim,” Steph snaps, unable to help herself. “I really am not in the mood for this. My daughter has just been kidnapped by someone who wants my attention, and I’m going after her.”

Tim rocks back on his heels, clearly shocked by her pronouncement. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’m calling up old favors, I should have a starting location by midnight,” she gets to her feet. “I know I said I would go with you on that trip to find Bruce, but I think you should go without me. This might take a while.”

Tim flat out flinches. “What?”

“I’ll be gone a while,” Steph says calmly. “I know you’re in a rush to find Bruce, so you should go without me.”

He looks at her like she’s betraying him, and the worst part of her is gloriously delighted, singing about sweet revenge. She shoves it down, and smiles at him in the most meaningless way she knows.

“I—that’s—that’s not what I came here to talk about!”

“I don’t see what else there is to say,” Steph says, but then her eyes land on what he has in his hands, and she realizes what’s about to happen.

She’s an idiot, she should never have given into her flight of fancy. This was too much, too personal.

He has her diary in his hands, and she feels like she’s just placed her neck on the chopping block.

“What is this?” He demands, waving it at her.

“My diary,” she says blankly, trying to think of a way to get out of this. My confession, my life, my truths, the answers you’ve wanted.

“Why did you give me this?”

“You wanted to know,” Steph says, tilting her head to one side. Honestly, she doesn’t get him some times.

“This is—Steph. Why would you give me this? This is your diary.”

Because I love you, and you deserve the truth.

Steph shrugs, pretending to be careless, although the knot of anxiety and fear in her stomach refuses to come undone. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. I was in a bit of a rush as I was leaving. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go rescue my daughter.” She got to her feet, intending to leave, but he blocked her.

“And that! Why didn’t you tell me about having a kid?”

Steph’s face hardens, “What, can’t I have any secrets? Believe it or not, Tim, I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“I—that’s not what I meant!”

“Yes, you did, detective.” Steph spits out Ra’s al Ghul’s title for him with more venom than strictly necessary, but she’s livid. How dare he? “You’re right, I’m a monster, and I’m a liar, but I’m still allowed some fucking privacy. Now leave me alone. I’ve got a kid to save, and you’ve got to find your dad.”

“Steph!”

She ignores him, and strides out of the room at what couldn’t really be called a walk, but wasn’t yet a run either.

She goes to the Cave because she left her bags down there, but the last thing she expects to see is Dick Grayson, holding her duffle bag in one hand, and a USB drive in the other.

“Hello Stephanie,” he says, all cheerful ambivalence that reminds Steph unnervingly of herself.

“Hello Richard!” She responds, smiling widely.

“We need to talk, I think,” he says.

“Alright,” she says calmly, “What do you want to know?”

“Tim says you said this was real,” he dangles it from his fingers. He doesn’t want to play it again, but he might if that’s what it takes. “But, given that he was high on paranoia gas at the time—” He sees shock flicker across her face; she hadn’t known? “—I think you can understand my skepticism.”

“It is real,” Brown says flatly. “Come on, Grayson, I was an assassin. What do you people think the job involves, hugging puppies?”

“There’s a difference between assassination and slaughter!”

“Is there? I hadn’t noticed one,” Steph snaps.

“You see, it’s that kind of comment that makes me wonder about who, exactly, it is that we’ve been letting near an impressionable ten year old!”

“Stephanie Brown. Nineteen years old, five feet eight inches, a Leo, codenamed Amoret and the Eggplant Corsair!” She turns away from his, as if preparing to leave.

“Very glib, but that’s not what I’m looking for!”

“What do you want me to say, Grayson?” The blonde snaps, whirling around to face him, her purple cape flaring out behind her. “Do you want me to say that I knew all of them?” She points at the screen, hands trembling slightly. “Because I did. The second one who died was my friend Thea. She was my roommate, and I slit her throat.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “Or do you want me to tell you about what they planned to do? About how they planned to kill Talia and take Damian far away and pump him full of toxins that would make him age too quickly and grow until he was barely even human, but he’d be strong?” Brown jabs her finger towards him, stopping just short of poking him in the chest. “Or do you want me to say that they all begged to be in that arena?” Her voice is low and soft.

Dick stirs himself out of his shock. “You’re ridiculous if you think I’d believe that,” he begins to say.

Brown throws her head back and laughs, a hysterical edge marring the otherwise charming sound. “They did!” She grins at him with too many teeth. “Why do you think they didn’t fight back? They submitted themselves to Talia’s mercy—a fast death in exchange for information.”

“A fast—”

“Talia has a poison. It takes six months to kill you. There’s no cure. You spend the first month losing feeling in your limbs. Then it all comes back, but you wish it hadn’t, because everything hurts. You don’t know what’s real and what’s not. By month three you can’t even walk anymore, the pain is so severe. They start begging to be killed by month four, usually. Month five if they’re tough. But once she’s administered it, no one’s allowed to kill them. But she lets them plead out sometimes, let’s them die quickly instead. Misericordia, she calls it. Mercy killing.” Steph’s expression is so flat that Dick believes her. For once, he’s almost certain that the words coming out of her mouth are completely true.

“I killed them to spare them that. Twelve of them didn’t take misericordia. The entire compound had to listen to their screams.” She crosses her arms, and Dick is struck by how young Brown is. She’s barely nineteen and with her hair loose, she looks it. “So yes. The tape is real. No, it’s not the only time I carried it out. I was Damian’s guard, Grayson, and I did my duty. And I would do it again if I had to.” Her chin juts out, and Dick sees Damian echoed in the expression. How many times has he seen his youngest brother make that same expression, and not realized that it was him imitating his old babysitter? “You can judge me all you want, but he’s ten years old now. You have no idea how close he came to never making it that far.”

With that, she turns her back on him and leaves the Cave.

Dick sinks down in to the chair, and starts to think.

Steph arrives at the last of her Gotham safe houses. She’ll need to set up more. She’ll do that after she finishes this mission.

She still hasn’t heard back from Slade, but she knows he’ll get back to her. He owes her, and he’ll pay up. He’s good at that, even if he’s a pretty terrible person generally.

She draws a bath in the meantime. She needs to think.

Everything is crashing together in her head; emotions and thoughts overlapping. The edges where Stephanie Brown ends and Amoret begins are beginning to blur.

Daughter, daughter, daughter, daughter. She can’t think over that mantra, can’t see anything without seeing Carrie Kelley’s face superimposed over it.

She strips out of her uniform and sinks into the bath, letting the warm water sink over her.

Everything is too much. The hurt is too close, too real. She can’t function like this. She can’t deal with any of it right now. Not when her daughter needs her. She needs to be at top of her form.

She’s gotten lazy. She’s allowed Amoret and Stephanie Brown and Steph the Bodyguard to cross over. She needs to fix that, needs to compartmentalize. Just like Afya taught her.

She holds her breath, and sinks beneath the water.

She just lays there for a moment, feeling herself slowly relax.

Tim. Sweet, well meaning, smart, condescending. Boyfriend, nemesis, partner, friend. Hurt, betrayal, heartbreak, love.

She shoves that firmly into the box for Stephanie.

Her eyes itch with tears, but she ignores them. That’s why she’s doing this here and now. She can’t cry underwater.

Damian. Angry, adorable, loving, kind. Brother, charge, Robin. Protection, love, missing.

This is familiar, she’s dealt with this before. She moves him back into bodyguard. She will protect him, keep him safe. Just as she has always done.

She surfaces, takes a deep breath, and plunges herself back down.

The new Amoret. Unknown enemy, rage, fury, bloodlust. 

Amoret. She’s left the persona alone for too long. She’s tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it isn’t a part of her.

But it is a part of her. Her hands are covered in blood. And she’s going to need to become Amoret again, if she is to save her daughter.

She places her enemy in the box.

Carrie. She knows so little about her. She’s read the file, but she’s four. There aren’t teacher evaluations, there isn’t an internet trail to search through. All she knows is that Talia had mistrusted the system, and her daughter’s parents were horrible.

She doesn’t know what to do with Carrie Kelley. What box does her daughter belong in? She prods her emotions, trying to sort through them.

Regret. Anger. Protection. Longing.

She hesitates, and classifies her daughter within bodyguard. It works with Damian, surely it can work here?

Her lungs are burning. She’s been underwater too long. She raises her head, and gasps for air.

She reaches down, her fingers brushing her phone. Slade’s left her a message; a photograph of a masked woman, carrying a red-haired child. A location.

Steph takes a deep breath in order to steady herself, and gets out of the tub.

She’s getting dressed when there’s a knock at the door. Steph reaches under the bed, grabbing her sword, and checks the door.

Cassandra Cain is on the other side, wearing civilian clothes and a patient expression.

“You followed me?” Somehow, she’s not surprised. If any of them could follow her, it would be Cassandra.

Cass nods. “I… you’re leaving, right?”

“Yes.”

Cass smiles at her. “May I come in?”

Steph steps aside, and Cass walks into the safe house, glancing around with eyes that probably don’t miss very much. Cass’s movements are so fluid, it’s almost hypnotizing to watch. Steph wonders why she’s here. She keeps the sword nearby, just in case.

“You’re going alone?”

“Yes. I… I need to do this myself.”

Cass nods, as if that’s what she expected to hear. “Good luck,” she says, and Steph is surprised to realize that she meansit. “Will you come back?”

Steph pauses. She hasn’t even thought about that. Damian. “Yes,” she says honestly. She couldn’t leave Damian. She isn’t sure what the future holds, but she refuses to abandon Damian.

Cass grins at her. “Good.” Then she hugs Steph.

Steph freezes in confusion. “What?”

Cass releases her and steps back, still smiling. “You’re not as bad as you think, Steph,” she says quietly. “I hope you figure that out.”

Steph stares at the older girl. “This is a body-language reading thing, isn’t it?”

Cass laughs at her, tilting her head slightly. “Yes. I’ll leave now. Stay safe.”

“Will do,” Steph says, and then Cass is gone, and Steph doesn’t know what to think.  

Under the bed, Steph finds a mask. It was exactly as she had left it, after finding Damian again.

White with gold edging around the eye holes and edge. The lips are painted too, a serene, small smile that promises nothing but death. The eyes are blank spaces, willing to show the eyes of the wearer to the intended victim. Slowly, she raises the mask to her face, and presses it on.

She allows herself to slip into Amoret once more, feeling the familiar cold sweep over her.

The child is asleep. Nyssa breathes easer, now that they are out of Gotham.

Carrie Kelley looks very much like her mother, and Nyssa shakes her head as she wonders what, exactly, she is doing, sending Stephanie Brown’s daughter to undergo the same fate that Stephanie suffered.

Stephanie had hated the training, hated the life. Even after Nyssa taught her everything she could to maintain her balance, to compartmentalize, the girl still struggled.

Nyssa glances back at the child, and hopes she will do better with the training.

 “You summoned me, my lady?” Nyssa bowed to Talia.

“Yes. I have decided that one of the newer recruits is to be trained properly,” Talia said. “Have you met Stephanie Brown, Afya?”

“The young white girl who works in the kitchens?” Nyssa frowns.

“Yes. I realize it’s late to start combat training, and young to start field work, but I believe she has potential. She killed an intruder last night.”

“And you wish me to train her?”

“Yes. She needs a mentor, and it can’t be me. And I wouldn’t dream of entrusting her to anyone else. She needs… a gentle hand.”

“Lady, very few people have called me gentle.”

“They haven’t seen you with my son,” Talia laughed, the edges of her eyes crinkling in mirth.

My nephew, Nyssa thought. He looks so much like my own boy, sister. May you never lose him. Avoid my curse.

“Where can I find her?”

“She’s in the garden,” Talia said. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“I think I’ll meet her alone, my lady,” Nyssa bowed again. “She’ll be less scared that way.”

Talia laughed again, but this time Nyssa didn’t get the joke. “Oh, she’s not scared of me.” She pauses, then amends. “Well, she doesn’t let that stop her anyways. You’ll see when you meet her.” She waves her hand, and Nyssa bows yet again, dismissed.

She finds the girl sitting under a fig tree, cross legged. She sees the girl’s hands are still slightly pink. Talia’s gauzy purple shawl rests over the girl’s shoulders, which the girl has wrapped around her like a security blanket.

Her hair is long and gold in the sunlight, and Nyssa is struck by how young the girl is.

“Stephanie Brown?” The little girl looks up, and Nyssa wonders if the girl will hate her, after all is said and done.

“Yes?”

“My name is Afya. Lady Talia has sent me to begin your training.”

“I’m already trained,” the girl said immediately. Nyssa blinked, surprised. Usually a member of the household was in awe of her. She knew the rumors that flowed through the kitchens, she knew how they gossiped, saw how they always flinched when she was nearby.

She looked into the girl’s eyes, and saw the fear there. But the girl’s mouth was determined, and her chin was firm.

She saw what Talia had been talking about, and she smiled.

“Perhaps. But this is further training. Come. We’ll get you cleaned up, and then we’ll go to the armory.” She held out her hand.

The girl looked at it for a moment, and then held out her own, bloodstained one, and placed it in Nyssa’s.

Chapter Text

Her bags are packed, and her flight is booked under the pseudonym Mae Lyle.

She slings her duffle over her shoulder, and prepares to go, when she hears the door burst open. Steph reaches for her sword, but she freezes when she sees it is Damian.

He stares at her accusingly, taking her in. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, an armored shirt beneath her baggy green hoodie her sole protection. Her mask is packed in her bag, and her weapons are all to be left behind. She has plenty stashed away where she is going.

Damian wears a sweater in the Robin colors and khaki pants that look far too formal to be worn by a boy of ten on an ordinary occasion. His hair is windswept and his cheeks are flushed; he has run here, Steph realizes, and she knows Cassandra probably told him that she was packing.

“You’re leaving?” He demands, and Steph spends a moment to be grateful that she had sorted out her head, because she has no doubt that those words could have caused a complete collapse if she had heard them earlier.

She takes a moment to force herself out of Amoret’s mindset, kneeling down to Damian’s level. “I need to go after whoever took Carrie, macushla,” she whispers, looking right into his eyes. “I need to leave while the trail is still warm—”

“I’m coming with you!”

“No!” There is no doubt in Steph’s mind what kind of mission this will be, and all of her instincts scream against letting Damian near it. Damian has seen Steph to terrible things, this is true, but they had all been in the name of protecting him. This will be something else entirely; a mission for Amoret the assassin, not Stephanie Brown the bodyguard.

Steph has taken great pains to keep him separate from that aspect of her life; she will not falter now.

“You can’t. You’re needed here.” She tries to say this soothingly, reaching out for him, but he still won’t let her touch him, flinching away, still angry at her for her lie.

“I need you!” Damian bursts out. “You can’t just leave again!” His eyes are wide and wet, and Steph feels her heart cry out for him.

“I’m coming back,” she tries to promise, tries to coax her voice into being sweet and reassuring. “I’ll come back, and I’ll have Carrie, and things will go back to normal.” The lies feel natural, and she can almost believe it herself for a second. She knows things will never be the same, not after what she’d told Grayson in that moment of weakness. Not when her secrets are sitting in Tim Drake’s room, ready to all be read whenever the mood strikes him.

“You said that before you left last time too,” he whispers, and Steph flinches at the reminder.

“I’ll be back soon,” she told Damian. The chess game was still in its early stages, only a handful of pawns moved around the board. Damian was very good at chess; he had played against his grandfather and mother since he was dexterous enough to hold the pieces, and was well-learned. Steph wasn’t nearly as good, but she did know how Damian played.

She followed the guard out of the room towards Talia’s office, leaving her shroud behind on her chair, not realizing she would never walk into that room again.

“I—” Steph falters, unsure of what to say. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Mother and the baby?”

Steph looks at him. “Damian, how much have I told you about my mother?”

Damian falls silent. “Not much,” he finally says. She’s barely told him anything about her past; her old life in Gotham feels too delicate to even voice, most days, as if it would blow away at a moment’s notice.

She remembers only a little: containers that held pills, a closet, her mother’s voice, a lullaby. Snatches and pieces, blurred by time and pain.

“She died when I was a child,” Steph whispers, gunshots echoing in her memory. “The same time my father did. I didn’t care about him. But I missed her every day for years when I came to live at the compound. I’d give anything to have had more time with her.” Her eyes close, remembering. “If you were going to fight with your mother, I needed it to be with something for you. Not for me. I couldn’t be the cause. I’d rather you hated me instead of hating her because of me.”

“That’s not fair,” Damian says.

“I know, Damian,” she uses his real name for once, and it feels heavy. “I know. But I am—I was—your bodyguard. It is my job to protect you. Whether you want to be protected or not.”

“What are you protecting me from now?” He demands, his voice high and loud.

Steph pulls him into a tight hug, and he lets her this time, feeling the brush of his hair beneath her chin as she holds him close. “Me,” she whispers in his ear, before she flees, the door closing behind her.

Damian doesn’t move fast enough; she is gone before he can recover from her words.

Well.

Word.

He can’t figure it out; why would she need to protect him from her? She’s Steph, she sang him lullabies and protected him and watched Disney movies with him.

She would never hurt him. This is something that Damian knows deep down to his very bones. She has always put him first, always thrown herself into danger in order to protect him. She keeps him safe, no matter the injuries she accumulated or the scars she collected. She did it long before it was her job, teeth gritted and covered in blood, the words forever echoing in his memory.

“Don’t. Touch. Him.”

But she’s left him again, and his hands clench into fists as that sinks in.

The door is closed, and he doesn’t know if she’ll be coming back. He doesn’t know what is going on, but everything feels dangerous. This new Amoret wants something from Steph, and he doesn’t know if Steph will be able to stop her from getting it.

“Fine!” He snaps to the air. “I’ll figure it out myself!”

Carrie Kelley has to have friends, doesn’t she? He’ll talk to them. Maybe they can help him put the pieces together.

He doesn’t need Steph in order to help Carrie.

Steph arrives in Budapest early in the morning.

Slade’s information say that the new Amoret should be making a stop here, which means that if Steph might be able to pick up her trail in this city.

Steph hasn’t been to Budapest in years; the city is breathtakingly beautiful, but Steph is in no mood to admire it. Instead she grabs a taxi and asks in her slightly accented Hungarian for the driver to take her to the address near one of her weapons caches.

Steph breathes a sigh of relief as she presses a 5000 forint note into the driver’s hand. “Tartsa meg az aprót,” She says with a smile, and the man nods at her briefly before driving away, far faster than the speed limit.

The storage unit she rented years ago is inside of a large warehouse. Steph strides through the concrete hallways, grateful she thought to rip out the page in her journal that had all of her stashes locations and protections.

She pauses outside of the red garage door #647, and grabs the combination lock. 59-126-65. The dial slips aside, revealing the thumb print scanner, and Steph presses her thumb against it, tapping her foot slightly as she looks over her should, wondering if she was followed.

She doesn’t see anyone, but that isn’t necessarily a comfort, given the kind of people Steph knows.

Inside of the unit, everything is as she left it. Covered in dust by now, but things are intact.

The unit is about the size of a small room, and she’d filled it to the brim with emergency supplies. First aid kits are stacked on a table, and there are trunks full of old versions of her costume. There are boxes of MREs towards the back, suitcases of currency, and even old surveillance equipment.

She is lucky that Amoret has chosen Budapest as her pit-stop; there are only a few other cities where Steph has caches this thorough.

But with this, she can bring the fight to Amoret.

On the shelf closest to her are weapons, and Steph makes a beeline for it. She feels bare without her weapons—the only thing she had managed to smuggle through security were a pair of wooden staves, and that won’t be enough to fight Amoret.

She grabs a leather case that holds one of her knives, and opens it.

She nearly drops it.

“Of fucking course,” she mutters, slamming the lid shut again, and reaching for a different one.

Her misericorde.

The blade was almost as long as Steph’s forearm, but it was remarkably thin at the edge. It was meant to go through gaps in armor to grant a fast death to the wounded. Talia had repurposed it, but that didn’t change the design of the blade.

The misericorde had been one of Talia’s first presents to Steph after making her Damian’s official guard. It had, Talia had told her, belonged to Afya before her.

Steph paused, then opened up the case again.

It was a good blade, after all.

And it might be nice to have something of her old mentor’s with her as she went to rescue her daughter, no matter the purpose she had used the blade for in the past.

She selects a sword and three more daggers, all of them going into her duffle to join the misericorde. She grabs a purple cape from her costume storages, as well as a heavy cloth mask that covers her entire face. She swaps her cute canvas shoes for a pair of heavy steel-toed boots—they look trendy enough to be a fashion statement instead of a combat choice. She can’t switch into full costume yet, but she can at least get ready.

Slade’s information isn’t complete, and Budapest is a big city. She’ll need to do a lot more digging before she can find her daughter.

A part of her wants to pull out the picture of Carrie again, but she stops herself, instead focusing on making sure the supplies in the first aid kit aren’t expired. Some of them are—it’s been three years since she’s refreshed this stash, but enough are up to date that it will do. The MREs are still good, so Steph throws in a couple of those.

She saw how Amoret moves—this woman is good, whoever she is. Probably better than her. This chase might take a while still, and Steph has to get ready for that fight.

She checks her burner phone—no messages from Slade or any of her other contacts. She’s put her feelers out, but her network of contacts in Europe is greatly diminished, since she still doesn’t dare contact anyone who she knew as Amoret, Slade being the exception.

She picks up her duffle bag—far heavier now that she’s added the weight of several pounds of steel and Kevlar, and heads out to look for her daughter.

The part of town that Carrie had lived in was a crowded, unpleasant area.

Damian perches on the rooftops above, eyes scanning the crowd.

There’s already no sign at all that a couple were just murdered and their child kidnapped in broad daylight. No one seems concerned, and Damian frowns.

“You’re looking for Colin Wilkes,” Gordon says in his ear, refocusing him. “Carrie’s next-door neighbor. If you can’t find him, Nell Little or Harper Row will do. Nell Little lives down the hall, Harper Row is the babysitter.”

“Noted,” Damian says, distracted as he spots a hair of bright red hair. “Found him,” he says, leaping over to the next rooftop to keep following the boy.

“Be gentle, Damian, he’s your age.”

“Tt.” Damian growls. “I know.”

Wilkes goes home, and Damian gives him ten minutes to make his way to his room before he lands on the windowsill with the slightest of thuds.

On the other side of the glass he sees Colin Wilkes stumble back wide-eyed. Damian quickly raises his finger to his lips to signal silence. The other boy pauses for a second, before scrambling for the latch to let him in.

“You’re Robin!” He lunges forward, grabbing Damian’s arm. “Is Batman looking for Carrie? Is she alright?”

“We—he—” Damian struggles, trying to decide how to explain it. “We don’t know. We’re still looking.”

Colin deflates slightly, but he rallies himself, determined. “Why would anyone take Carrie?”

“Do you know how she’s adopted?”

Colin frowns. “She’s adopted?”

Damian nods. “Her mother… her birth mother… is an ally of Batman’s. Someone must have discovered this.”

Colin goes so pale that if Damian had the time or inclination, he could count every freckle on the boy’s face. “Will they hurt her?”

“We don’t think so. But I need to know—have you seen anyone suspicious following Carrie lately? Superheroes included.”

Colin pauses, trying to think. “I mean, not really? It’s mostly just Carrie going from her place to mine to Harper’s to Nell’s. She really doesn’t go anywhere else.”

“She must have been keeping an eye on Carrie before taking her,” Damian growls, clenching his fists. “Is there anywhere she could have set up surveillance nearby?”

Colin’s eyes light up. “Yes! There’s an empty loft right across from our building, someone could have probably watched from there!”

“What’s the address?”

Hopefully he would get lucky. He turns to leave, but then pauses. “…I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“Thanks Robin!”

Damian makes his way to the loft, and he grins smugly.

Whoever was supposed to clean up after Amoret hasn’t arrived yet; the room is covered with signs of a surveillance set up.

The camera is gone, but the tripod still is there, and there are photos pinned to the wall. There’s signs of leftover food. There aren’t weapons or any sign of who has been here, and Damian knows better than to expect DNA or fingerprints, but he can work with this.

He starts rifling through the papers left on the desk.

He’s so focused he doesn’t hear the window open.

Cassandra raps him on the head with her knuckles, frowning. “Pay attention,” she reprimands him.

“What are you doing here, Cain?” He asks, curling his lip slightly and clutching the photos and papers to his chest.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m here to help. Steph can’t do this on her own.”

He deflates slightly. “… thanks,” he mutters quietly.

She smiles at him, ruffling his hair. “Show me,” she says.

Walking the streets of Budapest is an interesting experience. It feels like it hasn’t changed at all since she’d last been here, and it puts her on edge.

It doesn’t help that she’s pretty sure she’s being followed.

Steph moves quickly, flowing through the crowd without running. Her jacket goes off, a hoodie goes on. Her hair goes up. She sticks to crowds instead of ducking into the allies, like she would in Gotham. She doesn’t know Budapest well enough; she could easily run straight into a trap.

Her burner phone gives a quiet buzz, letting her know that she has a message.

It’s from Slade.

Found someone willing to talk to you. Go to the café on Nagy Diofa u.

A quick GPS search tells her where to go, and she weaves her way through the crowd to the spot. She’s lost her follower, and she sighs in relief.

“It’s been a long time,” a voice behind her says, and Steph freezes.

“Shiva,” she whispers, terror flaring in her stomach.

Lady Shiva steps into her view, smiling slightly in a way that would look innocuous on anyone else. Her hair is long and loose, and she wears a tan trench coat and jeans. She looks like any ordinary tourist, her body language casual.

But there’s an edge to her smile and a gleam in her eye, and Steph can only pray that Shiva wasn’t sent to kill her or hamper her progress to her daughter.

If Shiva tries to stop her, there’s nothing Steph can do about it. Steph could barely touch Cassandra, who holds back and doesn’t go for the kill. Shiva could kill Steph in an instant; snap her neck and then fade into the crowd before Steph’s body even hit the ground.

Steph is afraid of Shiva in a way she has never been afraid of anyone else. She’s only met the other woman once before, but it’s stuck with her.

“Hello Amoret,” Shiva’s voice is silk, and Steph is struck by her resemblance to her daughter.

“I don’t go by that name anymore,” Steph manages to say.

Shiva smiles slightly. “That’s right. I’ve heard there’s someone new using that name.”

“You’ve heard about that?”

Shiva tilts her slightly, as if signaling Steph, and starts walking away. Steph pauses for a moment, weighing her options.

She’s going to kill Slade.

“Lady Shiva,” Steph bowed low, sweat beading on her forehead.

She’d been fighting all day. The mission had gone wrong, and the target had been prepared, and surrounded herself with guards upon guards.

Her sword felt heavy in her grip, and she struggled to keep her breathing even. Why was Shiva there? Her mouth was dry, and Steph struggled to try to keep her face calm as she straightened.

She was a tall, well-muscled woman, with long, flowing black hair. She wore a black coat over red armor, and her steps were somewhere between a prowl and a swagger, and she projected confidence. She carried no weapons, and Steph wondered, panicked, if she was about to die.

“You compensated well,” Shiva said. “You do better against a group than in single combat, don’t you?”

Steph swallowed. “So I’ve been told.”

Shiva looked at her, her gaze speculating. “You will be interesting to watch, Amoret.”

She turned and swept away, and Steph tried to breathe again.

She sits down in the café with the deadliest woman on Earth, and doesn’t order anything.

Shiva orders a coffee. Steph forces herself to remain patient. It’s not like she can make Shiva tell her anything, so she has to play her game. Whatever it is.

Shiva’s keen black eyes examine her, and Steph can’t help but feel that Shiva knows everything that there is to know about her.

Her coffee arrives, and Shiva takes a sip. “So. You have questions.”

“Who took my daughter?” Steph asks immediately, relieved that Shiva isn’t making demands before offering the information.

Shiva smiles slowly. “Right to the point, I see.” She sets down her cup, and looks Steph in the eye. “The Demon’s Head put out an order for her capture.”

Steph rocks back, shocked. “Ra’s al Ghul? But why?”

Shiva is positively smirking now. “Supposedly he is planning on handing her over to Cain as part of his new… training program. He believes your daughter is an excellent candidate for the position that Cassandra left empty.”

Steph splutters. “What? But I’m… I’m me. And Maxim was no Cain, any more than I’m at your level!”

“Of course not. I never said it was expected that the child would succeed at replacing my daughter. But both you and Maxim had potential. I’ve heard that Cain had requested to work with you shortly before your… death.” Shiva’s eyes are intense as she looks at Steph, and Steph freezes as the implication of her words sink in.

“Why would he want to work with me?”

“I don’t know. I only heard rumors.” Shiva places down her cup. “They might not be true. But that is what the official word is. The child is supposed to be trained. The next one ‘Who is All’.”

 “And the new Amoret?” Steph asks, gripping the edges of the table.

“Whispers only. Dead women and no-names mainly, although one man swore up and down to my face that it was me.” Shiva examines Steph carefully, this time more sympathetic. “You better hurry, things move quickly.”

“Wait!” Steph says, standing up. “Why are you telling me this?”

“A favor for an old friend,” Shiva says.

“Talia?” Steph whispers, unsure what to believe. But who else could it be? Who else would the deadliest woman in the world stoop to playing messenger for?  

Shiva smiles ambiguously, then turns and leaves, and Steph finally relaxes, although her mind races, trying to put everything together.

Somehow, Kon isn’t surprised when Tim shows up in much the same way Steph did.

“I think I can get Bruce back,” is what he says. There are circles under his eyes and his skin is several shades too pale. He looks sick and miserable, and the rain is still pouring down.  

“Dude, you’re soaking wet, come in.” Kon manhandles Tim onto the couch.

“Did you and Steph sort through that fight?” Cassie asks Tim, crossing her arms.

He blinks, confused. “She told you about that?”

“Sort of. It was alluded to.”

“Did you really break up with her?” Kon asks him. He’s having a hard time believing that. He’s seen the way they look at each other; he can’t imagine any petty fight stopping that. But then again, what does he know?

Tim groans. “She thought I broke up with her?”

“So you didn’t?”

“I—” He paused. “Well. Sort of? But there was fear-gas involved. And she wouldn’t really talk to me, and then she had a mission, and she told me to go find Bruce—”

“Ah,” Kon nods, looking like he was going for wise. “So you’re on a break.”

“What?” Tim yelps. Kon grins to himself, taking a moment to savor the expression on his best friend’s face.

“I think I know exactly what is needed in this situation,” Bart chimes in, grinning broadly.

“Road trip!” Kon yells, which makes Tim jump.

“To find Bruce?” Tim asked, his expression somewhere south of confused, heading straight for bewildered territory.

“Absolutely. But we’re stopping at the biggest rubber band ball. It’s mandatory.”

“That’s in Florida!” Tim protests.

Of course he knows that; he’s such a nerd. He probably has a secret road trip plan already made, with all of the big landmarks highlighted.

Well, screw it. They’re going to wing this. While dealing with whatever Bat-Family bullshit they’ve gotten into this week. Kon’s just glad that Tim’s letting them help on this one.

“Detour!” Cassie says, hands on her hips, grinning widely.

“You’re in on this too?” Tim asks her, his expression somewhat pleading.

She fixes Tim with a look. “Like hell am I letting you three go off on your own.”

“It’s settled then!” Kon claps his hands together. “Let’s go find a car, and then we’re hitting the road. Go get some civvies, Rob!”

“I’ve got it!” Bart disappears and then a pair of briefs, a shirt, and a pair of jeans are all thrown in Tim’s face. In that order.

“Why did I come here again?” Tim says blankly, staring at the three of them.

“Because you wanted to snoop about Steph,” Cassie says, smiling widely. “Go get changed.”

“So, what do we have?” Cass looks at Damian.

“These,” he hands her the photos.

Carrie Kelley smiles up at the photographer, waving. The resemblance to Steph is uncanny, and Cass frowns as she wonders who took the photograph. Carrie’s name and address are written on it.

The second one is a glossy version of a photo Cass has seen in newspapers. It’s of Steph laughing with her arm around Damian, who frowns and glares at the reporter. There’s a date scribbled on the bottom.

The next handful are surveillance photos, and a chill goes up Cass’s spine as she examines them. There are shots of Carrie hanging out with the children Damian interviewed, the girl Harper watching over them carefully. There are pictures of Carrie through her bedroom window, reading books and playing. There are some of her parents, but those… Cass frowns, looking at those.

The edges are crumpled and sometimes even torn. Whoever held these photos hadn’t cared about the damage they were causing.

They really hadn’t liked the parents, for some reason.

Cass frowns, and continues going through the photos. There’s a few of Steph, usually in transit. She’s having coffee with Damian, sitting on a park bench with Tim. There’s more of Carrie. A lot of surveillance, for a kidnapping of a four-year-old. Cass frowns.  

At the bottom of the pile is a combat shot of Steph fighting Kon. Cass presses her fingers against it, wondering why. This photo is old; Steph looks young in the photo.

Cass stares down, her mind moving at a thousand miles an hour.

Steph wanted this child. Someone knows this.

This child was taken to lure Steph somewhere.

Steph doesn’t realize this.

Steph is walking right into a trap.

Cass takes a quick breath.

“We need to go to Steph.”

“How?”

At that moment, Cass’s phone buzzes, letting her know that she has a message from Babs. She checks it, frowning, then her eyes widen.

A picture. Babs has managed to find a picture of the new Amoret.

The woman is tall, with thick, dark, curly hair that’s cropped short. She’s wearing the Amoret shroud and armor, but not the mask, only half-facing the camera as she gets into the car, which, presumably, she used to transport Carrie.

She whirls around to show it to Damian. “Do you know who this is?”

She doesn’t have to tell him what it is. Damian takes her phone and stares at it, his brows knotted in concentration. Suddenly, he jerks back as if shocked. “Afya! That’s Afya!” He looks at Cass, looking dazed and confused. “But she’s dead.”

“Not if Ra’s brought her back,” Cass’s skin shivers instinctively as she remembers the sensation of the Lazarus Pit against her skin.

Damian looks ill. “Why would he—Afya taught Steph. Why does Grandfather want Steph dead?”

“Talia lied to Ra’s, yes? This would… teach her a lesson.”

Damian looks sick. “We need to help her!”

Cass clenches her fists, and nods in agreement.  

Finding Ra’s al Ghul was the easy part.

She puts on her armor, weighing the better protection is worth the sacrificed speed and mobility. She’ll need to be able to take hits; this Amoret is good, whoever she is.

Her misericorde still fits comfortably in her hand. She pauses, running her fingers along its length, remembering.

The funeral was brief. There were many to be had that day, and not much time could be spared, even for Afya.

Steph felt hollow inside; there were no more tears left in her. She couldn’t cry, not without Afya. She didn’t know what to do. She felt adrift, and she was struggling to keep her head above water. Everything was so different, and it had only been a day.

So many were dead.

Steph had killed quite a few of them.

“I miss you,” she whispered to the open coffin, before it was closed for the last time.

It wasn’t fair.

They buried the coffin, and people began to file away, but Steph lingered. She’d been ordered to.

Talia had not attended the funeral; it was too risky, so soon after the attempt on her son. She was regal in black silk, and she left cyclamen flowers on the grave.

She turned back to face Steph. “Your duties as Damian’s new bodyguard will begin tomorrow, Amoret,” she said, her voice crisp and cool, and Steph averted her eyes, not knowing how to handle seeing the red rims to Talia’s eyes.

There was a pause, and then suddenly there was the familiar ring of steel being drawn. Steph quickly took a step back, and looked up.

Talia held out a familiar sword.

“This was Afya’s,” Talia said, her voice almost kind. “She would want you to have it.”

Steph hesitated, but took the blade. She knelt, bowing her head in a show of obedience.

Talia pressed her gloved fingers against Steph’s head. “She was very proud of you, Stephanie. I believe you will continue to make her so.”

“Thank you, my lady. I will not let you down.”

“As long as my son lives, you have not.”

“Are you kidding me ?”

“They stole the Batplane,” Babs sounds incredibly irate. Dick resists the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall.

“They stole the Batplane and went after Steph. Who, they say, is running into a trap that has something to do with a dead woman and Ra’s al Ghul, as well as her long-lost daughter. Meanwhile, Tim is about to embark on a cross-country road trip, while looking for Bruce, and we still have no idea who sent us that video and what their motives are.”

“That basically sums everything up.”

Dick sits down. “Do you remember when things were simple?”

“No. They never were,” Babs says, but there’s a smile on her face.

Dick sighs, glancing at the screen that still has their file on Stephanie Brown. “I don’t know what to do, Babs,” he admits.

She places her hand over his. “That’s okay, Dick,” she says reassuringly.

“Is it? I feel like Bruce would have had this whole thing solved in minutes.”

“Bruce is gone, Dick,” Babs’ voice is quiet. “And we don’t know that he would. We have to figure these things out for ourselves.”

“I feel like I’ve been out of my depth ever since Stephanie introduced herself.”

Babs smiled faintly. “But just think of how much easier Damian’s been to  handle since she’s been here.”

Dick couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess! And Tim’s happy.”

“She’s friends with Jason. And Cass likes her.”

“I guess it’s just us holding out, then.”

They look at each other for a long, poignant moment.

“We’re going to need answers when she comes back,” Dick says.

“She’ll give them to us.” Babs says it like fact.

“I guess if anyone could get them out of her, it’s you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Always.”

They turn their eyes back to the screens, and wait.

It’s the only thing they could do, for now.

Chapter Text

Nyssa bows before her father’s throne, waiting for further instructions.

“She comes,” her father’s voice is perfectly calm.

“You said she wouldn’t,” Nyssa’s grip is tight on her sword; her white knuckles betray her emotions. She hopes her father doesn’t see them.

“It seems that our Amoret is determined,” there’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but also… frustration? Whatever his plan is, Stephanie is threatening to derail it. “It seems as though you will get to see her skill up close after all.”

Nyssa grinds her teeth together, and moves to pick up the Amoret mask that she discarded after leading the child to the small room her father had set aside for her. It’s too close to a cell for comfort, and Nyssa tries not to think of what will become of the young Carrie Kelley, whose eyes are so like her mother’s.

It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself. She’s doing this for her children. She will see them again. She will have no regrets when she gets to hold them in her arms once again.

 “Don’t,” her father says, and she sees him smiling now, and it’s cruel and wide. “Let her see your face.”

Nyssa buries her emotions, keeping her appearance serene.  

She turns to face the door, and tries to pretend she is not betraying Stephanie in every way by doing this.

The room is dark, lit only by an eerie green glow that sends shivers up her spine. Steph tightens her grip on her sword, and keeps going.

The steps that lead to the room are old and made of stone that’s been worn smooth by thousands of footsteps over the years. Steph isn’t sure what exactly she’s going to find at the end of these stairs, but she’s sure it isn’t going to be good.

She can’t hear anything; not that it means much. She probably has set off a hundred alarms on her way down. They know she’s coming.

Good. She readjusts her grip. Maybe then Carrie knows someone is coming for her. She hopes she does.

She remembers all too well being hopeless and alone; captured by strange people for strange reasons. No one had come for her. She will not let the same thing happen to Carrie.

She steps into the main room.

The first thing that catches her eye is, of course, the Lazarus Pit. Her eyes widen slightly, realizing immediately what it is. It can’t be anything else; it matches the descriptions of every story she’s ever heard. It’s something straight of a nightmare, glowing and green and bubbling ever so gently, emitting the same pale green light that she had seen all the way from the top of the stairs.

She wrenches her eyes away from the Pit, and narrows them as she spotted Ra’s al Ghul.

He looks older than Steph has ever seen him; his face is covered in wrinkles and his hairline is further back than she is used to. She wonders how long it has been since he’s used his Pit—maybe that was why he’s here, instead of any of the other strongholds and fortresses he has all over the world.

There’s a figure in the shadows next to the raised dais on which Ra’s al Ghul sits. In the dim light that the Pit provides, Steph can see a hint of purple.

Amoret.

Steph grits her teeth and steps forward, giving the Lazarus Pit a wide berth as she approaches. “Where is she?” She demands.

“None of your concern, child,” Ra’s al Ghul says. “You should not have come.”

Steph rolls her eyes, and takes another step forward, wondering how long it would be before Amoret would move to defend her master. It won’t be long, surely—no servant of Ra’s al Ghul will allow her to get too close.

Steph keeps moving. She’s past the Pit now.

The movement is so fast that, if it wasn’t headed right towards her, Steph might have missed it. The figure races forward, bringing her sword down to meet Steph’s own in a clash of steel. Steph moves backwards automatically, releasing the sword from the parry, and attacks. The other figure also uses two weapons, and blocks with her second one. They stand there, blades and eyes locked, and Steph feels her breath leave her.

She knows that face. She knows it very well. She remembers that face better than she remembers her own mother’s.

“Afya?” She can’t help it. The words escape, and it’s as if she’s fourteen years old again.  

There is a flicker in the dark eyes, but only slight.

It’s her; without a doubt. She looks almost exactly as Steph remembers her; the only difference being the outfit she wears and the long streak of white hair that frames her face perfectly, leaving Steph with no illusions about how Afya can be standing here in front of her.

Ra’s has resurrected her for some reason.

The moment breaks, and Afya moves again, slamming her swords down against Steph’s, trying to break through her guard. Steph parries automatically, but she is on the defensive, giving ground to her old mentor.

Steph’s mind runs in a hundred directions at once. She doesn’t understand. Why is Afya working for Ra’s? Her loyalty has always been to Talia.

Steph feels herself be pressed back further. Afya is not going to show mercy.

Afya had kidnapped Steph’s daughter. Nothing else can matter now.

Steph’s sword meets Afya’s with a clash of steel on steel. She grits her teeth, and pulls back, going low to avoid the swipe of Afya’s blade.

She wonders if Afya recognizes the sword Steph’s holding.

She wonders if Afya cares.

Afya has always been great. It’s been years since Steph has sparred with her, but it seems that the years haven’t taken the edge away from Afya’s abilities. Even dying, it seems, couldn’t slow her down.

Steph thrusts forward again, which Afya parries easily. Her face is completely blank. Even her eyes show no sign of life now.  

Clang. The swords meet again, and Steph struggles to breathe. Everything is twistedly wrong. She had thought that once she found the new Amoret, she would understand what was happening. She had thought she would find answers in this hidden place.

But nothing makes sense anymore.

At least Cassandra lets him fly co-pilot, unlike Grayson, Damian consoles himself, glancing over at the girl who is, legally at least, his sister.

He isn’t sure if she considers him her brother, and he realizes that bothers him. He knows Grayson does, even if Drake and Todd do not. But Cain… he is less sure about her.

“Tell me about Afya,” Cain says, not looking at him. She isn’t relying on the auto-pilot, instead actually flying the plane herself. Maybe she is worried Gordon would override the controls? Damian frowns, curious.

“She looked after me sometimes. Before Steph. She was Mother’s friend.” He pauses, trying to remember anything important about her. “She taught Steph—she uses two weapons, like her. She, she would give me these candies? I think they were from Russia. She used to speak to me in Russian.”

Cain frowns. “Did she like Steph?”

“Yes,” Damian says automatically. Afya hadn’t been his primary bodyguard; he hadn’t really had one before Steph. Before, he had many of them, most of whom also protected his mother. Afya had been his mother’s right hand, he remembered that; always moving around, taking care of her business. Steph had accompanied her fairly often, although he hadn’t really known that at the time. Afya had never mentioned her to him, but then again, Afya didn’t like talking about her duties with him. She’d tell him when he demanded it of her—he often did, clambering into her lap and tugging at her shirt until she would tell him stories, the best of which, in his four year old mind, were about Afya and his mother.

Afya was a good storyteller—possibly better than his Mother, although Damian would never have admitted that. She had looked after him and cared for him. He had been fond of her.

“Why do you work for Mama?” He had asked her once, when he was five.

She laughed, and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “Because your mother saved me from myself. I will follow her until the end.”

He squirms in his seat, remembering. “She worked for my mother,” he says, quietly. “I think…” He pauses, trying to see if he can find a way to make the words not true. “I think she might be working for her.”

Cass’s head snaps towards him. “Why?”

“She was loyal to Mother, not my grandfather or anyone else,” Damian says.

Cass taps the controls of the plane absently. “What was important to her?”

“Mother,” Damian says, frowning. “And, um…”

He remembers something.

“Ah, Damian!” She scooped him up in her arms, laughing. “Ah, kotyonok, before you know it you will be taller than my—” She stops, and Damian sees sadness on her face.

“Is something wrong, Auntie?” He rarely calls her by that name anymore, but it worked wonders at getting what he wanted out of her.

“It is nothing Damian,” she said soothingly, but she was lying. Damian squirmed.

“Tell me!” He demanded, stomping his foot. Or at least he tried to, since she was still holding him.

She looked at him sadly. “Fine,” she said, setting him down and holding his chin very firmly in her hands. “But you must promise never to tell anyone, you understand?”

“I promise!” Damian said.

“I had a son once,” Afya said, her voice very quiet. “He looked just like you. And then I lost him.”

Damian frowned. “Do you miss him?”

“Every day,” she said, and her eyes looked very, very old.

“Why don’t you ask Mama? She’ll let you bring him back in grandpa’s pit!”

Afya flinched. “There are rules about the Lazarus Pit, Damian. Ra’s al Ghul… he would not just place anyone in one.” She looked like she was about to cry. Damian frowned, and patted her face.

“You have me,” he said, and sure enough, she smiled at him. But her eyes were still sad.

“Yes,” she said, laughing slightly, scooping him up in her arms. “I do have you, my little kotyonok.”

“She had a son,” Damian says, slowly, as he tries to put the pieces together in his head. “But he died. I think—I think she asked Grandfather if she could bring him back, but he said no.”

Cass’s eyes close for a second. “So he tells her he’ll do it, if she does what he says?”

“But why Afya?” Damian demands. “Why her? Grandfather has an army who will do whatever he says!”

“Dead women can hide easier?” Cass suggests, but she’s frowning.

“But then he has plenty of dead assassins of his own!”

“He wants to hurt Steph?”

“But why? Why does he care about Steph? None of this makes sense!”

“Talia,” Cass says. “He wants to hurt Talia.”

Damian pauses. “But what does Steph have to do with this?”

Cass frowns. “We’re missing something.”

“Apparently,” Damian crosses his arms and huffs.

Cass reaches over, and squeezes his shoulder. “We’ll get there in time,” she says, reassuringly.

 Stephanie has improved greatly, but it won’t be enough. Nyssa strides forward and slashes again. Stephanie keeps trying to go on the offensive, but Nyssa has her on the run anyways.

She moves forward slowly, her eyes raking over the girl.

She’s taller than Nyssa expected—puberty and growth spurts have given her inches that give her a more threatening presence than she had possessed as a child. Her face is clear of scars, which is a relief, but Nyssa knows better than to think that the girl has survived all these years without new ones.

She can’t think about that now, can’t afford to dwell on the years of Stephanie’s life she missed while lying in a coffin. She has the girl on the run—now it’s time to finish this.

She wonders, idly, when Stephanie picked up the misericorde. The weight was different than the girl would have been used to, back when she had been Nyssa’s student, yet Stephanie holds it with practiced ease.

Nyssa takes a deep breath, and buries her emotions deeper. She cannot afford weakness.

This is for her children.

Nyssa’s movements are fluid and rapid, their weapons meeting with the familiar clash of steel. Stephanie is sweating, and her focus is on the verge of breaking. Seeing Nyssa alive is fraying her concentration.

Nyssa felt a stab of pity, even as their blades locked again.

That will cost Stephanie the fight.

The angles of their swords are just so, the way that Nyssa has—had—always taught her to avoid, precisely because of what comes next. Nyssa flicks her wrist with an expert twist, and Stephanie’s misericorde flies across the room, clattering to the ground. Stephanie’s eyes go wide, and Nyssa kicks her against the wall, dazing her.

Nyssa grabs her and throws, sending Stephanie sprawling towards the throne of her father. Stephanie barely is coordinated enough to block the fall, and by the time she’s scrambling to her feet, Nyssa is there again. She kicks her down, and rests her sword against Stephanie’s neck. Stephanie stills instantly. The neck of her outfit is armored, but they both know that won’t make a difference if Nyssa wants to slit her throat.

“Yield,” she says quietly to the girl, whose eyes shine too brightly, even in the dim light of the Lazarus Pit.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, sitting across from Stephanie on the train. “It’s alright to cry now, I’ve told you that.”

It was only Stephanie’s fourth mission. At least the girl hadn’t thrown up this time, but she still was pale and sweating and miserable.

Her words worked like magic. Stephanie tucked her legs up against her chest and hugged them, tears flowing fast and freely, but still not making a single sound.

“You did well, Amoret,” she placed a hand over Stephanie’s. “One day, you will be great.”

“I don’t want to be great,” Stephanie said, her voice cracking. “I… I just want…” she broke off, as if she didn’t know the answer.

“It gets easier,” Nyssa reminded her, a simple mantra, a familiar one, and a true one. Stephanie gave a quick, jerky nod, and then buried her face in her arms, still crying.

Nyssa sighed softly, and moved to sit next to her.

“It will be alright,” Nyssa said softly, wrapping her arms around the girl. “I promise.”

“Good,” her father says, his smile cruel. “Now kill her, and end this. There is still much to be done.”

Nyssa freezes.

“What?”

Ra’s seems almost exasperated. “She’s useless. A pawn. Dispose of her, and then we will move forward.”

“I did my part,” Nyssa keeps her voice low and calm, despite the fact that the hand not holding her sword is shaking. “I brought you the child.”

Her father’s lip curls. “That is the beginning of our deal, child, not the end.”

Nyssa wants to scream at him, wants to throw her sword at him and end this. Kill him and scatter his ashes, then dig up her children’s graves and bring them back. Cut him away and all of his manipulations and cruelty, but one thing and one thing alone stays her hand; keeps her sword at Stephanie Brown’s throat.

He’s the one who buried her children. While she had recuperated, her scars fading and the days blurring, he had gone and found the bodies of her children, and placed them in graves. Them and her husband, kept away from her. Punishment, he told her, for her failure. She had left him then, and wandered for years, staying alive more out of spite for him than anything else.

He’s buried her children, and if she kills him she will never find them. She’s spent years searching, and found nothing.

She closes her eyes, and takes a breath.

For her children.

Stephanie looks at her, and her eyes are resigned. She knows exactly what is about to happen, and Nyssa almost wishes that there was hate in those familiar eyes.

But she only sees pain.

She looks at her father again, and wishes she hadn’t.

Her father is smiling.

Carrie Kelley is four years old and scared. She doesn’t know where she is, her arm hurts where the scary lady had grabbed her, she really needs to go to the bathroom, and the room she is locked in is dark.

Above her, she hears fighting. People are shouting and there’s a lot of noise that sounds like fighting on TV and also like the noises outside of her apartment at night.

Carrie fumbles in the dark, trying to see if there’s anything that can help her, but the room is empty.

There’s not even a window. How can Colin come get her if there isn’t a window?

She doesn’t know what’s happening; one minute she was following her parents to meet their friend at the corner, when the scary lady came. She made Mommy and Daddy bleed and fall to the ground, and then she picked up Carrie and ran. She didn’t stop, even when Carrie screamed or hit her.

The Scary Lady hadn’t talked to her at all.

Carrie kicks the door and yells. She wants to be let out. She wants to go home. She wants Colin and Nell and Harper and Cullen. She wants to look at her books and sit on the fire escape and watch Harper make things.

She doesn’t like this at all.

She’s scared, and she can’t even sneak into her parents’ bedroom and curl up between them and pretend everything is okay. Colin doesn’t know where she is; the scary lady has taken her far away. Carrie remembers a plane, and an ocean, and Colin can’t cross oceans or fly.

She curls into the corner of the room and cries until she doesn’t have any tears left.

The worst part, Steph thinks, fingernails digging into the palm of her hand, is that Carrie is going to be like her. She could probably have handled anything else, but that failure stings worse than the knowledge that she’s going to die. Even worse than the realization she’s going to break her promise to Damian, to Tim.

She’s going to die here.

Afya moves the sword slightly, moving the point so that the cut will be quick and relatively painless. Steph is thankful for that, at least.

Afya turns to look at Ra’s, and Steph almost shouts at her to just finish it. She’s not going to change her mind; Steph knows better than to think that.

“Stop!”

It has been a very long time since Steph was so happy to see Talia al Ghul.

“Talia,” Ra’s says, his voice a growl. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” Talia says, her voice a whip cracking, “Stopping you from killing one of my agents, using another one of my agents.” She strides into the room, and Steph is relieved to see that she’s flanked by four warriors, none of whom Steph recognizes, but it doesn’t matter, they stand a chance.

Afya moves in a single fluid motion, wrenching Steph up to her feet and pinning her arms to her sides, pressing her knife against Steph’s throat, her sword clattering to the ground.

“Do not come closer, my lady,” Afya says, but Steph doesn’t think she’s imagining the tremor in her voice. Steph swallows slightly as she feels the knife prick her skin. She’s bleeding, but it’s only slightly. Afya wants her alive as long as possible.

Talia stops, her expression heartbroken. “Afya—”

“Leave,” Afya says.

“He will not give you what he’s promised!” Talia says. “He’s lying, Afya!”

“Now, Talia, you are getting over excited,” Ra’s says behind them, and there’s a rustle, indicating he’s now standing. One of the warriors has a bow out and an arrow knocked, aiming it right at the Demon’s Head. Steph spares a moment in between fearing for her life and complete and utter confusion to be amazed at the loyalty of Talia’s choice of guards. It takes a lot of loyalty to threaten Ra’s al Ghul.

“Afya—” Talia reaches out a hand, as if expecting Afya to take it. “Please. You don’t know what he has planned. What he intends to do.” She pauses, then adds. “Sister, I beg you; listen to me.”

Afya’s breath hitches, Steph can feel it.

“You name a common servant your sister?” Ra’s asks, but there’s something off in his voice.

“I name Nyssa Raatko of the house of Ghul my sister,” Talia snaps, her hand still outstretched. “Did you truly think you could hide the truth from me forever, Father?”

Afya—Nyssa, whoever she is—hasn’t moved. “He’s promised me my children back,” she says, her voice faint.

“He can’t deliver. Their bodies are burned, Sister! And we both know that what is ashes remains ashes!” There’s something that Talia isn’t saying, but whatever it is, it’s enough. Afya’s grip loosens slightly, and Steph tenses, preparing to make a break for it if she has to.

“Enough!” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “You are both more trouble than you’re worth!”

A bell rings.

A door opens, and guards pour in.

“Kill them all,” Ra’s orders. “And quickly.”

Afya releases Steph and spins, as if intending to kill Ra’s right on the spot.

Three arrows fly through the air, one of them striking Afya in the shoulder. She stumbles, and it’s enough. Ra’s moves swiftly despite his old age, and he’s in the midst of his warriors in a moment.

Talia presses a sword into Steph’s hands. “I am glad I made it in time,” she says quietly, even as all of them move into position, back to back. “Damian is still in Gotham?”

“Yes,” Steph says.

“Good. Then there is still hope.” Talia raises her scimitar in front of her, her expression grave.

“My daughter?” Steph can’t help but ask Afya, who moves to stand on Talia’s other side.

“Safe, in the rooms below.” Afya’s mouth is tight. She sees what they all do.

They’re outnumbered ten to one, and heavily at a disadvantage.

But it’s better odds than Steph was facing earlier.

She has Afya at her side now, and Talia is here.

She shifts her stance, and Ra’s al Ghul’s army charges.

Chapter Text

“Macushla, Macushla, your sweet voice is calling. Calling me softly again and again, Macushla, Macushla, I hear it so plainly. Macushla, Macushla, I hear it in vain.”

“What’s that song even mean?” Damian al Ghul was an exhausting child. Stephanie had only been his guard for three days, and she wanted to scream. He wouldn’t sleep. All he wanted to do was run around and play. At one point, Steph was pretty sure he was actually bouncing off the walls. And if he didn’t sleep, she couldn’t sleep. Her nerves were shredded, and all she wanted to do was go to her room and cry for a lifetime.

Afya was dead, and instead of being able to mourn her, she was stuck babysitting a spoiled brat who wanted to break into the kitchens instead of go to bed.

“Macushla. It’s Irish. It means darling. My mother used to play it for me when I would go to sleep.”

Damian frowned. “Afya used to sing to me,” he said quietly, and Steph felt a wave of guilt crash over her as she looked at the boy. Damian had loved Afya too. He had lost her just as much as Steph had.

“I’ll sing the rest of it for you if you go to bed,” Steph bribed, doubting it would work, but desperate to try anyways.

Damian paused, as if considering the offer. “Very well,” he said, as imperiously as any king, and he crawled into bed at long last. Steph sighed a relief; she didn’t even care that he was still wearing his day-clothes. She’d deal with that later.

She wasn’t Damian’s only caretaker, but she seemed to be on track to become his primary one, which worried her.

She perched on the edge of the bed, feeling incredibly out of place, and began to sing, her voice warbling slightly, uncertain of the words. It had been so long since she had heard the song, and she was never particularly good at singing. “My lost love, Macushla, Let them find me and bind me, Again, if they will…”

Steph fought a yawn as she finished the song. The bed was ridiculously comfy, and she hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.

“Just for a few minutes,” she muttered to herself, leaning back slightly, across the foot of the bed. “Then I’ll go to my room.”

She was dead to the world before her head hit the mattress.

Steph can’t remember a fight this long or this hard.

She’s rusty. Every muscle in her body aches; fighting with staffs and escirma is nothing like fighting

She’s been trying to pull herself back, instinctively going for non-lethal blows, but Afya—no, Nyssa, her name is Nyssa—grabs her hand and hisses.

“You’re going to die, fighting like that. Just do as I taught you.” Her eyes are hard and desperate, and her lips are thin, and she’s covered in blood, but Steph thinks about the list of names in her journal and she fights the wave of nausea that floods her.

No. Not again. She’s moved away from all of that, and if it means she’s going to die here, then so be it. If she becomes… that again, she doesn’t deserve to be Carrie’s mother.

She is not Nyssa, she is not Talia. She is Stephanie Brown, who listened to her parents die through a closet door, who kissed Tim Drake on a couch and told him her name, who ran back to Damian the minute she saw him in a newspaper.

She is Stephanie Brown, and she is the Eggplant Corsair, not Amoret.

It was a mistake ever thinking she could ever be that again.

“Mother!”

Damian’s voice caries through the room, and Steph and Talia both jump. Identical spikes of fear course through them. She spots him, descending the staircase, eyes locked on Talia, staff in his hands.

“At last,” Ra’s says, and Steph catches a glimpse of him again, for the first time in a while. Her heart leaps to her throat, and she tastes fear.

“Do not touch him!” Talia cries out, and Steph glances at the desperate expression on Talia’s face, and wonders what Ra’s al Ghul has planned.

“Damian, get away from here!” Steph yells, but she knows he will never run—he’s too stubborn, just like her.

“Seize him!” Ra’s orders, and half of the warriors turn to face Damian and charge as one.

That is when Cassandra emerges from the shadows, blocking Damian from sight. Her mask is on, but Steph has absolutely no doubt that Cassandra is smiling, taunting the assassins. Her fists come up, and she falls into a defensive stance

“Try,” she says, simply, and now Steph is sure she is smiling.

“What does he want with Damian?” Steph demands of Talia, as the other half of the warriors descend on them with renewed fervor.

“His body is failing him!” Talia says, blocking a cut from a hulking man with a broadsword. “The Lazarus Pit—he’s pushed himself past its limits. His body cannot withstand it anymore!” 

“And Damian?” Steph slams a foot into the chest of a tall woman with hook swords.

“He intends to transfer his consciousness to Damian’s body,” Talia hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously as she catches a glimpse of her father, and Steph has never been more afraid of Talia than in that moment.

“What?” Nyssa breathes, pausing for a moment to stare in horror at Talia. “But that would kill him!”

Talia’s face says the rest.

Before she can respond, though, Steph finds herself pushed forward. The warrior of Talia’s who was on the opposite side of the circle had fallen, and landed against Steph, propelling her out of the circle of warriors and onto the stone floor. Steph leaps to her feet immediately, but already there’s a wall of Ra’s’ soldiers between her and Talia. She’s surrounded on all sides, and they press in.

Steph spins, blocking with all her might; there is no room for the offensive, not now, maybe not ever. She doesn’t want to die here, she can’t die here, not with Damian watching. He’s seen her die once, and she knows he has nightmares about it, and she refuses to die while he’s here. Not again.

She’s caused him enough pain.

Her blade locks with a tiny woman with a terrifying smile, and Steph realizes, a moment too late, that she’s made the same mistake for the second time that night.

Her sword goes flying through the air, but this time, Steph rolls with it.

She punches the smirking woman in the nose. She’s better with blades, and she’s certainly no Cassandra Cain, but she is trained in hand-to-hand combat at the end of the day. She can make do.

“Steph!” A staff flies through the air, and Steph catches it, blocking an incoming cut quickly, barely having the time to spare a glance to make sure Damian has a backup weapon. She flashes him a grin, and then falls into her old patterns.

When she switched to the staff, she’d never thought she’d miss it. But now, it feels right in her hands, in the way that the misericorde doesn’t, and she doesn’t know what to think about that, doesn’t have time to think about that, since she’s still surrounded, and she can’t even see Talia anymore.

The fight is desperate and bloody, and it’s dragging out, but Steph sees what’s happening. She can crunch the numbers, even now, and her heart lifts.

They’re winning.

Ra’s might have them outnumbered, but he’s outclassed. They have Cassandra Cain and Nyssa and Talia, and even Steph is better than most of the people he has here. And given how long Talia’s people have survived, she’s fairly sure Talia’s warriors are more skilled than the ones Ra’s brought.

She wonders where his more skilled assassins are; surely he has better people than this?

Then she glances at Talia, and realizes, in a moment of dizzying clarity, that this is what Talia’s been up to, these past few months. She knew her father was going to move against Damian, and she’s been drawing away his support, his power base. Steph doesn’t know what she did—lure them away maybe, or even steal their loyalty, or even just remind them that Ra’s’ victory is far from assured, and fighting on his side will mean a vengeful Talia al Ghul, but the real power in the League—the big names, the Shivas, the Cains—are staying away from this family feud.

And maybe that’s why he brought back Nyssa; an agent he could control, or at least he thought he could, or maybe he really just was cruel enough to resurrect her just to hurt Talia, but it doesn’t matter, because Talia is going to win this.

She realizes this, and then she smiles.

Someone else must have come to the same conclusion, because suddenly the sea of enemies parts, and Ra’s al Ghul is charging towards her, murder in his eyes.

“You meddling child,” he snarls, bringing his scimitar down towards her head. Steph barely gets her staff up in time to prevent him from splitting her skull in too.

“Are you seriously trying to pin this on me?” She asks, incredulous. Surely, his anger should be redirected towards Talia, for orchestrating all of this, or Cassandra, for making his victory impossible?

“You were not supposed to come here,” he growls, slashing again. Steph blocks, her arms aching with the force of his blows. “The boy was supposed to come alone, eager to prove your innocence of the kidnapping.”

Steph blinks, confused, but she has no time to think any further, since he’s driving her backwards, his attacks so fast that she almost doesn’t have time to think.

“I should have killed you when you saved him the first time,” he says, and Steph looks into her eyes, and she doesn’t see an empire builder and mastermind that she has always known Ra’s al Ghul to be. 

She understands what Talia was saying about the Lazarus Pit—it’s destroying him inside and out. His body might be decaying, but his mind is gone too. And she doubts even Damian could save him from that fate.

“Talia protected you then—and made you guard him. But she will not protect you this time, and you cannot save him!”

Steph slips in that moment, and she spends a moment to curse gravity, even as she cries out.

As her head hits stone, causing her to see stars, she also catches a glimpse of something terrifying and green. And she also sees the gleam of polished steel, out of the corner of her eye.

A plan begins to form in her mind. She braces her hands against the floor.

“Maybe not,” Steph says, forcing her mouth to form a grin as he towers over her. “But you’re sure as hell not going to get anything from it!”

She pushes upwards, grabbing her misericorde where it had fallen after Nyssa disarmed her the first time, and parries, twirling as she goes, forcing him to turn with her.

Their blades lock, and this time, Steph is the one who has the advantage, flicking her wrist, sending Ra’s’ scimitar flying.

“You dare—”

“Go to hell,” Steph snaps, unwilling to listen to another rant, and she kicks Ra’s right in the chest, sending him stumbling into the Lazarus Pit.

There’s a moment where he cries out, before he falls in, completely submerged in the waters.

And then, there’s silence.

Ra’s al Ghul does not re-emerge from the Pit.

Steph feels her breath stutter as she waits, almost unsure of herself. Is he…

Talia’s voice cuts through the doubts. “Anyone who fought by my father’s side… I suggest you flee, before I take note of your faces.”

Steph has never had the pleasure of watching a small army of assassins run away with their tails tucked between their legs until that moment.

It’s a sight she will treasure forever.

Once the room is empty of enemies, Steph decides that collapsing is a perfectly acceptable idea.

Her legs give out before she can even finish that thought.

“Steph!” Damian cries out as she collapses like a rag doll, right in front of the Lazarus Pit.

By the time he reaches her, Mother and Afya are already there.

“She’s exhausted,” Afya says, placing a hand on her forehead. “I doubt she’s rested in a while.”

“She hasn’t,” Cassandra replies, kneeling across from them. “Not since Carrie.”

Afya’s flinch is barely noticeable, but they’re all looking for it.

“Why did you take Carrie?” He demands, crossing his arms.

“Damian,” Talia says softly.

“Talia,” Afya says tiredly. “It’s alright.” She looks at Damian, and he sees grief in her eyes. “He promised me my children back. I’m sorry, kotyonok.”

Damian can’t help but reel back slightly at the old nickname. “Oh,” he says, looking down at Steph, whose eyelids are fluttering. “Then—”

“He lied,” Afya whispers, brushing Steph’s hair out of her face in a way that is definitely affectionate.  “They’re gone beyond my reach.” Something bright and wet slips down her face, and Damian looks away, uncomfortable.

Mother reaches over, and places a hand on Afya’s shoulder. “I am sorry, sister,” she whispers, and Afya lets out a sob.

“Mother,” Damian says, quietly.

He hasn’t seen her since he fled the compound, the bag of his belongings shoved into his hands by her. Her eyes had been wet and desperate and her hug had been too tight, and she begged him to run, and never come back, and not to tell anyone she had said that.

He’d told everyone he’d left on his own, that he had sought out his father. But although he had been thinking about it, his mind hadn’t been made up before his mother had appeared in his room and told him to come with her.

“Why?” He asks, and he knows there’s so many things encompassed in that word.

She looks at him, and her eyes are so, so tired.

“Alright,” she says, and she straightens up. Her dress is splattered with blood and her hair is matted with it, but she looks as regal as ever. She leaves her scimitar on the ground, and holds out a hand. “Let’s talk.”

She leads him slightly away from the group, and looks at him.

“You’re taller,” she says softly, brushing her fingers against his face.

“Yes,” he says. “A whole inch,” he adds, because he can’t help it.”

Talia smiles faintly. “When you were five, it was the first time my father had people try to take you from me. That was when you met Stephanie.” She glances over at Steph, who’s struggling to her feet. “I chose her to protect you because I thought she would be underestimated. She was. Over and over again, your grandfather sought to take you away so he could take control of your body. He came to the conclusion, after a while, that if he removed Stephanie from the equation, he would have an easier time. So he ordered me to send her to his court.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I could not see a way out; and yes, perhaps my method was crueler than necessary. I told my father that she had failed me—do you remember that bombing, that day I took you to the marketplace?”

Damian nodded, unable to speak.

“I faked her death, even to you. I forbade her to contact any member of my court or my father’s—I didn’t know who I could trust, and even those I trusted could be compromised. I surrounded you with new guards as best I could, and I tried to uncover what my father was doing. I knew he had plans, but I didn’t know what or why. I bided my time. I thought we had time. But then your father destroyed the Lazarus Pit.”

“Because of me,” Cain says, eyes keen. “Because of what happened with me.”

“Yes, your… excursion with the Lazarus Pit and your mother influenced Bruce’s decision.” Damian’s eyes widen, and he turns to Cain. He hasn’t heard this story. She shakes her head, telling him later. He frowns, but turns his attention back to his mother.

“My father was near the Pit when it was destroyed. He was drenched in its waters one last time, and it destabilized him. He’d had time, before. But he became desperate. So I sent you away. I knew Stephanie would come to you, and I knew that my father would uncover my deception, so I began to prepare.”

“You sent the video,” Cassandra says suddenly, staring at Talia as if she’s the answer to everything—which, Damian supposes, is exactly what his mother is.

Mother actually smiles. “Father hoped that Grayson wouldn’t trust her, and would believe her to be guilty, preventing her from pursuing herself, so Damian would go in her place. I had to make sure she was already being observed when it happened.”

“Talia,” Afya says, frowning. “That was incredibly risky.”

Talia shrugs. “The Oracle redoubled her efforts to keep an eye on Stephanie once presented with concrete proof that she was a threat, and no one believed her responsible. It worked.” She looks at Damian. “I am so sorry, my son,” she says. “Can you forgive me for the pain I have caused?”

Damian doesn’t answer.

Instead he hugs his mother.

Steph finds the room without too much trouble. She doesn’t have the key—she forgot to ask Nyssa for it.

“Screw it,” she decides, too tired to even care that she’s talking to herself, and breaks down the door.

“Carrie?” She calls, suddenly realizing how dark the room is. There’s a flare of anger—they left her in the dark—but she squashes it down.

“Who’s there?” The voice is so small, Steph nearly collapses just hearing it.

“My name is Stephanie,” she says. “Colin sent me.” She hasn’t earned mother; maybe she won’t ever earn it. But she is going to bring this little girl out of the dark; she’s going to bring her home, and then she’ll work the rest of it out.

“Colin?”

A little girl appears slowly. Her face is red, and there are faded tear tracks on her face, and she looks so like Marcus that Steph’s heart stops for a moment.

“Yes, he’s very worried about you,” Steph only knows about the boy from the file that Oracle gave her, but she’s sure of this much.

“Can I go home?” Carrie asks, shaking slightly. Steph reaches out, and picks up her daughter.

“Yes, of course, sweetie,” she says quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of Carrie’s head. “Let’s get you home.”

“Why did Colin send you?” The girl asks, looking up at Steph.

Steph stares at the child, surprised. “I was coming anyways,” she says slowly, then she makes a decision. “Carrie, did you… did anyone ever tell you that you were adopted?”

“Yes,” she replies, tilting her head slightly. “Mommy and Daddy yell about it sometimes.”

Steph’s heart aches as she realizes that Carrie is still using the present tense. “I’m your birth mom, Carrie,” she says, and it’s almost impossible to say those words. Steph waits for the girl to pull away, waits for her to start screaming, but Carrie surprises her.

Carrie’s eyes get very wide, and then she leans in close to Steph’s face.

“Your eyes are like mine!” She exclaims, nearly poking one of them out with an over-enthusiastic finger.

Steph laughs, and hugs Carrie close. “Yes they are, baby. They are.”

Maybe, Steph dares to hope, hugging her daughter for the first time, maybe things will work out.

Cass takes a turn holding Carrie while Steph and Damian with Nyssa and Talia. Carrie is clearly unhappy at Nyssa’s presence, so Cass tries to distract her from the assassin.  

Talia asks Damian if he wants to come back.

He says no. “I’m Robin now,” he says, and there’s a note of pride in his voice. Cass smiles. “I have a responsibility.”

Talia laughs, and hugs him. “I love you. And you tell Grayson to let you visit, understand?”

“Yes Mother,” Damian says, but he’s smiling.

Cassandra steps to the side, and calls Oracle.

“Where have you been?” Babs’ voice is high and furious.

“Saving Steph. Everything’s okay now. We’re coming home.”

“Thank God,” she hears Dick say.

Carrie tugs on her sleeve, curious. “Who are you talking to?”

Cass smiles. “Batman.” Carrie’s eyes grow wide. Cass reaches into her ear and takes out her communicator. “Say hi to Batman, Carrie.”

“Hello!” Carrie chirps, and Cass can’t help but laugh slightly. The girl’s resemblance to her mother is clear.

“Batgirl did you—hello Carrie.”

Carrie grabs Cass tightly. “Batman knows my name!”

Cass does her best to keep a straight face. “Yes he does.” She takes her earpiece back from Carrie, but she doesn’t put it back in. She’s sure Babs and Dick will scold her plenty when they get home.

Steph stands near Nyssa, and stares at the Lazarus Pit. “I promised myself I was done killing,” she says quietly.

The guilt has settled in her stomach like a stone. Even holding Carrie in her arms for the first time can’t lift it.

Nyssa’s hand rests on her arm. “He was dying,” Nyssa says softly. “I doubt he had more than a month left. It was a mercy, Stephanie.”

“Misericordia,” Steph whispers, but she doesn’t quite believe it. It feels too easy; like giving herself an out.

Nyssa sighs. “You never did learn to kill easily. I would have hoped you’d outgrown it.”

“Never,” Steph says truthfully.

Nyssa smiles, then looks over to where Cass is holding Carrie. Her daughter. Steph feels her heartbeat speed up just thinking about it.

“I am sorry, Stephanie,” Nyssa says quietly.

“For which parts?” Steph asks.

Nyssa looks away. “For all of it, I suppose. But mostly for leaving you alone.”

Steph feels herself stiffen. Her breath stops. “I—”

“I taught you many things, Stephanie,” Nyssa still isn’t looking at her. “But I taught you them under the assumption I would be there to help you.” She glances over to Talia, who is still talking with Damian. “I don’t know exactly what happened to you after my death… but I fear my sister forgot how young you were when she told you to protect Damian.” She finally meets Steph’s eyes, and Steph can’t believe that she’s taller than her old mentor. “And for all of that, I can only beg for your forgiveness.”

Everything wells back up. Everything Steph has buried, everything she’s hidden; it rushes back to the surface at once, and Steph doesn’t know what to do.

She can’t cry except in front of Afya, but Afya is dead. Except she isn’t. She’s here, and she’s alive, and Steph can feel the tears sliding down her cheek before she realizes what’s happening.

“I just—I can’t—” Damian isn’t looking at her, but Carrie keeps sneaking glances over Cass’s shoulder, and Steph doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t want to fall apart here, but she’s shaking like a leaf and she doesn’t know how long she can hold it in.

Nyssa understands her, even though the words won’t form. She takes Steph’s arm and quickly guides her away from the others, pulling her towards the hallway that led to where Carrie had been locked up.

The minute Damian and Carrie are out of sight, Steph shatters into a thousand pieces.  

She collapses, sobbing openly for the first time in years, and Nyssa’s arms are around her, holding her tightly.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, and Steph grabs her.

“I thought Carrie was going to be like me,” she whispers desperately. “I thought I was going to die.” She thought Nyssa would kill her, she thought Damian would watch, she thought Carrie would grow up with blood on her hands. She sobs again, burying her face in Nyssa’s lap, like she was thirteen years old again.

“Shh,” Nyssa whispers, stroking her hair gently. “You’re alive. And your daughter will be fine. She’ll be brave and strong and clever, just like her mother, and there is nothing wrong with that. She’s safe, Stephanie.”

Steph shakes in Nyssa’s arms, and doesn’t say anything. She just lets Nyssa hold her until the tears run out.

Talia watches Stephanie re-emerge with Nyssa, leaning slightly against her for support. Damian runs up to her in an instant, and Stephanie scoops him up in her arms like she would when he was a child.

“Macushla,” Steph says, holding him so tightly Talia thinks she might bruise him. The look on her expression is pure relief as she searches him for injury. There isn’t any of course; Cassandra didn’t let anyone harm a single hair on his head. “I hope you understand just how grounded you are.”

“We came to save you!” Damian protests, looking horrified that she would even suggest such a thing.

“Grounded,” Talia agrees, moving towards them.

“Very grounded,” Nyssa nods, still hovering by Stephanie.

“I will send Grayson appropriate instructions,” Talia says, lips twitching slightly at Damian’s expression.

“I think Alfred and I should be able to keep him inside,” Stephanie says, smiling mischievously.

“What about Cass?” Damian demands.

“I’m an adult,” Cass smirks. “Can’t ground me.”

Damian sticks his tongue out at her.

Stephanie laughs, ruffling his hair. “Why don’t you go prepare the jet?” She asks him quietly, glancing at Talia. Damian looks over his shoulder towards her, clearly understanding.

He runs towards her, and wraps his arms around her quickly. “Goodbye,” he whispers, and Talia hugs him back.

“Farewell,” she says. And, because she’s not sure when she will see him again, she adds. “I am so proud of you, Robin.”

His smile is bright and brilliant, and Talia feels her heart cry at the sight of it. It has been so long since she has held her son, since she has seen that expression on his face, and she hates herself for letting him go now, after coming so close to losing him.

But this is what he wants.

And after everything she has done, she will give him anything if it means that he will look at her like that again.

Cassandra and Damian take Carrie and head back up the stairs, leaving Nyssa, Talia, and Stephanie behind.

Talia watches Nyssa brush the white streak out of her face. She looks exhausted and old and incredibly sad. She lost her children again tonight, Talia knows this. She will give her sister space, even though all she wants in the world is to hold her and learn everything that she never knew because of the façade. She wants to know her sister truly, and she prays that the world will give her this.

Stephanie has grown so much since Talia has last seen her. Her dark blue eyes are clear and cool, but the skin beneath them is still irritated enough to reveal that she had been crying. Her back is straight, and she holds herself in a way that reminds Talia of the day in her office, sentencing Stephanie Brown to a life of freedom and anonymity.

Talia has many regrets.

Despite everything, she cannot make herself regret that decision; only the pain it caused.

“Thank you for looking after him while he was in Gotham,” Talia says simply.

Surprise flickers in Stephanie’s eyes. Clearly, she expected something else. “I suppose I should thank you for sending the video,” she says reluctantly.

“I apologize for any inconvenience it might have caused,” Talia replies easily, as if her actions were locking a door behind her instead of ruining whatever it was that Stephanie had been building in Gotham. “Unfortunately, I was pressed for time. My spies within my father’s organization were unable to realize what was happening until very late in the game.” She hopes the girl will forgive her, but if she doesn’t, it hardly matters. Talia has committed many worse sins that Stephanie can hold against her.

Stephanie stares at her, before smiling. “You haven’t changed at all,” she says, marveling.

Talia raises an eyebrow. “Regardless. I also apologize for keeping you in the dark about the reason behind your separation from my son.” Stephanie’s face freezes. “I hope you see now how it was necessary.”

Stephanie nods slowly. “That doesn’t mean it was right, what you did,” she says.

“I know.” And she does—she remembers the pain in her son’s eyes all too well. If Talia lives a thousand lifetimes, she will never forgive herself for causing it.

She had once vowed she would never destroy her son like she was, watching her mother burn in her father’s garden.

She hadn’t realized that watching the girl who was his sister in all but name die on his mother’s orders would have a similar effect on her son.

“I release you from my service, including all vows of silence and loyalty you have made,” Talia says. Stephanie and Nyssa both stare. “My secrets are yours to decide what to do with at your discretion, without fear of retaliation.”

“My lady—” Stephanie says, and blinks, realizing. “Talia,” she starts again.

“I do not deserve either, after all I have done,” Talia says, inclining her head. “Please, look after Damian.” She knows the girl will—the relationship between Stephanie and her son has been more than one of duty for a very long time.

Stephanie bows. “I will.” She turns around, and begins to walk away.

“One more thing!” Talia calls. Stephanie stops. “You haven’t visited your mother yet.”

Stephanie turns around in the blink of an eye. “What?”

“Your mother, Crystal. She still lives in Gotham, doesn’t she?” Talia asks, confused by Stephanie’s reaction.

“My mother—she’s alive?” Stephanie’s mouth is open, gaping.

Talia frowns. “Of course she is. My quarrel was always with your father, never with her.”

Stephanie stares at Talia as if she’s never seen her before.

She runs towards Talia. Nyssa reaches for her weapon, instinctively, but Talia doesn’t move. Stephanie is unarmed—whatever blow she has for Talia is undoubtedly deserved.

Stephanie hugs her tightly.

“Thank you.”

She lets go and runs towards the plane, where her daughter, charge, and friend are all waiting for her.

Chapter Text

Steph is surprised to find that the feeling she gets stepping off the plane is close to coming home. She doesn’t have a home; home isn’t a place for her, it’s been people ever since she was dragged out of her apartment, all those years ago.

But standing in the Bat Cave, Carrie on her hip and Damian holding her hand, Cassandra—Cass, she’s been telling Steph repeatedly—at her side, she feels it.

Tim’s not here, and Steph feels her throat close up slightly at the sight of it. She needs to fix that—needs to see if she and Tim can still fit the pieces back together.

“So,” Gordon says, looking at them all with bright green eyes that give Steph the eerie impression that she knows everything. “You’re all alive.”

Cass laughs, and quickly kisses Babs on the cheek. “Yep!”

Steph shrugs. “Talia’s declared Damian grounded for life,” she informs Grayson. Carrie’s asleep now, and drooling slightly, but Steph can’t find herself able to care. She’s holding her daughter, and that’s worth all the damp patches on her clothes.

“Nice to know Talia and I agree on something for once,” Grayson says, and Damian begins to shout his protests. Steph laughs, and so does Cass, at least until Gordon grabs Cass’s sleeve.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this, young lady,” Gordon says to Cass. “You’re grounded too.”

Cass looks like someone kicked her puppy. “You can’t ground me!”

“Oh yes I can,” Gordon looks rather terrifying, which makes Steph oddly grateful that she doesn’t have any adult-figure invested in her safety to the point that they’d ground her. Which, she reflects, is slightly messed up.

Steph starts to look for an escape, which she finds in the form of Alfred Pennyworth.

“Is this Miss Carrie?” He asks her quietly, looking down at the sleeping girl.

“Yes,” Steph says, trying to shift the position she’s in without waking her. She’s not used to kids this size—Damian had already been older by the time she met him, and she has no idea what to do.

“I have a room prepared for her upstairs, if you would like to put her down.”

Steph feels her throat tighten. “You—thank you,” she says.

He smiles at her, and shows her a room adjacent to her own, with a small bed. “I took the liberty of arranging to have Ms. Bertinelli investigate Carrie’s bedroom at her old home, to see what might help make her more comfortable.”

Steph wants to hug the old man, but instead she sets the little girl down on the Robin-patterned quilt, and tries to tuck her in without waking her up. Alfred helps her remove the shoes, and Steph wants to linger, wants to sit by her daughter’s side and sing every lullaby she’s never been able to, but she has to face the music. She’s sure that Cass has told Grayson and Gordon what she did in the chamber, and she’s sure they have questions.

“Stephanie,” Grayson greets her as she exits the room.

“Grayson,” she responds.

He shakes his head, eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles. “Call me Dick,” he tells her. She nods, closing the door behind her.

“So,” he says, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms. “What are you planning to do now?”

Steph frowns slightly, surprised. “I’m going to try to see if I can get guardianship of Carrie. I think it was a sealed adoption, but I probably could get custody, especially if I can dredge up my actual birth certificate somewhere.”

“You think you can?” He raises an eyebrow.

Steph shrugs. “Talia told me some things. About my old life. I should be able to track down some documents. I think I’m legally dead, but I think I know a guy in Central who should be able to get that fixed.”

“Babs can do it,” Dick says. Steph bites her lip, not wanting to admit she’s not sure if the Oracle would do it. Good guys get very tetchy when it’s implied they might not do something for reasons they might perceive as petty. Steph doesn’t think that her being an assassin is petty, but…

“And after that?” He prompts her.

Steph shrugs. “I figure I’ll try to be a mom for a bit. Raise Carrie. Find my mom. Try to fix things.” With Tim. With Damian. She’s left so many scars on so many people, she doesn’t know where she could start.

He frowns at her. “You don’t have to give up being a hero to be a mom,” he tells her.

Steph shifts. “You think?”

“My friend Roy manages the single father and hero balancing act,” he says, shrugging. “I’m sure you could manage it. If you want to. Alfred certainly wouldn’t object to helping with the babysitting. He misses having kids around the Manor, I can tell.”

“He already has Damian,” Steph says, but she finds herself smiling slightly.

“Damian only acts like a kid half the time. The other half he’s a thousand year old man in a ten year old body.” They both flinch once he finishes, thinking about what nearly had happened.

Dick sighs, looking at her. “You really worry about him.”

“He nearly died today,” Steph whispers.

“But he didn’t.”

“Only because Cass happened to be there when he came to the conclusion I needed saving,” Steph says. “If she hadn’t come along—”

“Hey, you can’t always focus on the ifs,” Dick reminds her. “There’s just no point. All you’ll do is drive yourself in circles. You don’t get anywhere that way. And eventually you’ve seen all the scenery there is to see.”

“I doubt it,” Steph says. “I have a pretty active imagination.”

Dick laughs. “I’m sure.”

Steph sighs. “Well. I guess if the Eggplant Corsair is going to moving to Gotham full time, I better start figuring things out.”

He smiles at her. “You have time.”

Bruce Wayne has no idea what’s going on. He barely remembers arriving in the correct time—the details are vague, but he remembers Tim being there, and a lot of shouting.

He’s in the Cave now—he feels it in his bones, the rightness and familiarity. He can hear the others too. There’s a lot happening.

“I’m sorry,” he hears Tim say, and he tries to raise his head slightly to see what’s happening, since he doesn’t recognize the figure Tim’s talking to.

“Easy, old man,” Jason’s by his side, leg propped up and covered in plaster. “That’s just Steph.”

“Steph?” Bruce rasps—his mouth is dry. Jason picks up a water glass and hands it to him.

“The Corsair?” Jason raises an eyebrow at him.

Bruce frowns. The Corsair. A minor villain, an enemy of the Titans, although he’s noted that she’s perfectly willing to help out heroes in times of need. Tim’s used her as a resource before, but that doesn’t explain why she would be in the Batcave.

“You’re an idiot,” the unfamiliar voice says, and this time Bruce manages to catch a glimpse of her.

He almost wishes he hadn’t—he’s just in time to watch her grab Tim by the cape and reel him in for a kiss.

“Steph!” Damian protests from his seat by the computer. He’s holding a toddler. Bruce’s head hurts.

Cass is laughing, but her eyes are on him. She winks at him, clearly enjoying his confusion.

“I’ve missed you,” Tim says to the girl, who’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Missed you too, you giant nerd,” she says, leaning her forehead against his. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to Carrie.”

“Ah, Master Bruce,” Alfred appears at the edge of Bruce’s vision. “Good to see you’re awake!”

Suddenly, all attention in the room is on him.

“Bruce!” Dick is the first one there, with Tim and Damian right behind him. Damian is still holding the toddler, who has bright red hair, and is looking at him curiously.

Cass strolls over casually, clearly struggling not to laugh at him. “We adopted more while you were gone,” she tells him conspiratorially, patting his arm.

“I noticed,” he says as dryly as he can, glancing at the Corsair, who has rescued the toddler from Damian’s grip.

“So you’re the famous Batman, huh?” She asked, propping the little girl on her hip as if she weighed nothing. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“Steph!” Damian hisses at her, seeming to be embarrassed.

“I thought he was Batman,” the toddler complained, straining her neck to look at Dick.

“There’s lots of us, Carrie,” Dick says patiently.

Carrie frowns, as if considering this. “You’re Dami’s dad?” She asks him, as if reserving judgement.

“Yes he is, baby,” Steph tells her.

Carrie nods, as if this is the only qualification he needs to be Batman. “Okay.”

Cass and Jason both are laughing at him.

“We’ll explain later,” Jason promises him.

“Maybe,” Cass adds.

“I have a briefing ready for you,” Babs says, clearly taking pity on him. “A lot’s changed since you were… away.” He sees her looking at Tim guiltily.

“Just take it easy, Mr. Wayne,” a woman with blonde hair shot with silver streaks, wearing a nurse’s scrubs says to him. “Doctor Leslie has you on some heavy medication, but it should wear off soon.”

“Thanks for helping, Crystal,” Dick says to her.

“No problem at all, Dick,” she says, looking at Steph. She can’t seem to take her eyes off the blonde, or the child in her arms. Bruce frowns, noticing heavy similarities between the woman and the girl. Definitely related, probably mother and daughter, he decides.

Tim’s doing an admirable job trying not to panic now that Carrie has taken an interest in him, and is trying to converse with him.

 “You’re Mommy’s boyfriend?” Carrie asks him. Bruce blinks, a bit surprised. None of his records on the Corsair indicated she was a mother.

“Uh, yes,” Tim responds, before flat out yelping as Steph deposits Carrie firmly in his arms.

“You two could use some bonding time,” she grins.

“Steph!” Tim cries.

“Read to her! She’s a nerd like you,” she says, raising her hands into the air to stop him from giving her back.

“Don’t call your child a nerd!” Babs scolds Steph, but she’s fighting a smile. 

“Nerd is affectionate! I’m encouraging her!” She moves over towards Crystal, who instantly takes her hand, laughing at Steph’s antics.

“I like books,” Carrie agrees happily, managing to find a comfortable position in Tim’s arms. “Do you?”

“Alfred?” Bruce says quietly. “I think I’ll need that briefing packet soon.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

It’s been six months.

“Carrie!” Colin’s face lights up as he spots her. She’s holding Steph’s hand, but she lets go of it instantly to barrel towards Colin. He scoops her up in his arms, and grins. “Hi Ms. Brown! Hey Damian!”

“Hey Colin,” Steph says. She’s given up on trying to get Colin to call her Steph. It’s a lost cause.

“Hey Nurse Brown!” Colin says to Crystal, who’s on Steph’s other side. “C’mon Damian, Nell and Cullen are here too!”

Damian tries not to act excited, but he follows Colin into the apartment slightly faster than necessary. Steph laughs, turning to face her mother.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Steph,” Crystal says, her eyes bright and happy.

Steph ducks her head. “I missed so much of her life. I just want her to be okay.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Crystal’s mouth is twitching, and Steph blushes slightly, but doesn’t respond.

Things were tricky sometimes, negotiating her time between patrol, her mother, her daughter, Damian, the Titans, and Cass, who seems to spend more and more time with her as the months wear on.

“Nell!” Damian yelps, as Nell tackles him to the ground, laughing. Steph grins, proud of him for not retaliating or throwing Nell, unlike the past few times.

“You’re it!” She says.

“Can’t catch me!” Carrie yells, ripping her way through the Row apartment. Harper pokes her head out of her bedroom.

“You kids better behave!” She shouts. She waves when she sees Steph, and then goes back into her room. She’s probably working on something today.

Damian starts chasing Carrie, being heckled by Cullen and Colin the whole time.

Steph leans against the wall, and laughs.

Stephanie Brown is twenty years old, a single mother, a girlfriend, a daughter, a mentor, a friend, a superhero, and a master assassin.

And she is happy.

The End