Author's notes: I've been trying to post this chapter for hours, but Tumblr seems to want to censor me. Jokes aside, I hope you like it. We're starting to heat things up.
Let me know what you think. Until the next chapter ≽^•⩊•^≼
🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ
"The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me."
— Any Rand
The wind was blowing reasonably strong that wee hours.
[Name] felt the cold breeze lashing her body, but she didn't shiver — Mavi had really thought of everything when building her suit. The fabric was soft, flexible, and kept her temperature stable: it kept the cold from reaching her, but it also didn't let her overheat.
Her civil clothes were safely stored under a ventilation duct, secured with web in a tight bundle. She hoped they'd still be there when she got back.
Returning to the view that graced her, she sighed in admiration. Gotham, at night, lost its tedious gray color, because along with the almost solid gloom that covered the city like Nyx's mantle, there were countless neon lights that dissolved like random smears. Nightclubs, clubs, 24-hour stores, and many other kinds of entertainment were born on every street as the day crumbled.
From the top of that 4-story building, [Name] had one foot on the edge and her heart pounding erratically. She had trained in some acrobatics with Gwen and Miles, plus spent hours swinging around with Hobie, but every time she was about to leap, those seconds of transition between feeling the ground under her feet and then feeling nothing always made her hesitate, the paranoia taking root like a corrupted seed.
What if her webs failed?
What if she missed the target when she went to shoot her web again?
What if…?
Before the thought could complete itself, the ground vanished. It was as if she could feel Hobie's touch on her back, the gentle, almost brotherly push, encouraging her to just go.
"Don't overthink it, baby spider…" He would say, his voice a whisper, the laugh rough and patchy. "The sky is ours."
That's how he had taught her. Miles had named it a 'leap of faith'. [Name] still didn't fully understand the concept, but she was almost there.
The wind against her body was violent, breathing was difficult, but thanks to the view she had of the sky—starless, mind you, thanks to the pollution—her breath was stolen. She turned against the lashing wind, stretching her wrist as she aimed at the building next door.
Soon, the characteristic pull made the muscle in her arm burn in a familiar and pleasurable way. A laugh bubbled in her throat, coming from her chest, coming from deep within, when the web hit its target dead-on, making her whole body jolt from the sudden stop. She was now gliding agilely through the air, like a hawk in full flight.
Her body moved as if this were her normal, her routine. [Name] slid through the air with grace, spinning and zigzagging between buildings, heading towards her meeting with Gwen. Dodging obstacles, gaining momentum off walls. She was made for this, she could feel it in every muscle, every fiber of her being.
In these moments, [Name] felt a little fear, not of falling, not of failing — when she was in the air, she felt unstoppable — what truly terrified her was not wanting to come down. The freedom, the liveliness that took hold of her, something she had never felt when her feet touched the ground.
The laugh that escaped her lips was swallowed by the wind, a sound of pure, wild joy that she would never dare to unleash within the oppressive walls of Wayne Manor. Each swing wasn't just a movement, it was an affirmation. Each thwip and the subsequent pull on her wrist was a heartbeat, proof that she was alive and free, far more than the neglected bastard daughter of Bruce Wayne could ever dream of being.
She was no longer thinking. The buildings became her steps, the neon signs her shimmering landmarks. That initial fear, the corrupted seed of paranoia, had dissolved, replaced by an intoxicating confidence that burned in her veins.
It was in this state of near-transcendental grace that she spotted the meeting point. There she was, an elegant, ghostly silhouette against the faint, cold light of the moon, perched atop one of the art déco buildings on Third Avenue. The Ghost-Spider, or Spider-Woman, aka Gwen Stacy.
A smile that [Name] didn't even know she was wearing stretched even wider on her face beneath the mask. She gave one last push, launching herself in a high, dramatic arc over the street, before letting go of the web and dropping in absolute silence, landing in a crouch on the granite parapet, just a few meters away from her friend.
The noise of the city — the distant sirens, the buzz of traffic — rose up to them, but there on the rooftop, there was only the sound of the wind and the rapid rhythm of [Name]'s own heart.
Gwen didn't turn immediately. She kept her eyes on the urban landscape, her posture relaxed, but vigilant.
"Looks like someone's getting the hang of it," said Gwen, her voice a soft, familiar tone, laced with a hint of pride. "Or just trying to show off."
[Name] straightened up, still feeling the adrenaline singing in her blood. She pulled up her mask, revealing her face, sweaty and lit by a genuine smile, a rare thing.
"I had good teachers," she replied, her breath still a little short, but the smile now confident. "And maybe... just a little to show off."
Finally, Gwen turned, pulling her own mask up as well. Shimmering blue eyes met [Name] with affection, pride, but a bitter point of concern.
"'Traffic' must have been light tonight," she commented, the corner of her mouth curling into a knowing smile. [Name] felt heat rise in her cheeks at the memory of the quick lie she'd sent via the pager. She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.
"Something like that. You said it was important. So... I'm here."
Gwen's smile faded, the concern becoming more evident, her tone growing more serious. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
"And I appreciate it. Because I think we found something. Something big. And... scary. It's affecting your reality, that's why I called you so suddenly."
Her tone made [Name]'s euphoria drain away almost completely, replaced by cautious anticipation.
"Scary like a 'video game final boss' or scary like 'Hobie tried to cook again'?" Gwen let out a short laugh, but it was quick.
"The first one. Definitely the first." She pointed east, towards the docks, where a strange, iridescent mist that [Name] hadn't noticed before seemed to hang over the water, swallowing the lights of the piers. "Let's go. Miles and Hobie are already on watch. You'd better see this with your own eyes."
[Name]'s heart, which had just been roaring with freedom, now beat to a different rhythm. It was the call to adventure, yes, but also to responsibility. She pulled the mask back down, the outside world once again filtered through the white lenses of her eyes.
"After you, Ghost-Spider," she said, and the two figures launched themselves into the night's abyss once more, heading into the unknown.
In another part of Gotham, a dark figure dressed entirely in pitch-black observed the city with a fixed scowl. The night had been quiet, with only a few situations requiring his interference. A few robberies here, some of Falcone's thugs there, nothing that had really tired him out.
Just as he was almost convinced it would be a mild, uneventful night, Batman felt a shiver run down his spine, his instincts screaming the opposite of the serenity the night pretended to have.
It wasn't a sound, a smell, or even a sight. It was a change in air pressure, a subtle tremor in Gotham's frequency that only his subconscious, trained by the city's madness, could pick up. His eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"Oracle." The call was a harsh noise in the silent commlink.
"I see it, B." Barbara Gordon's voice was clear and immediate, filling his ear. "Or rather, I don't see it. I'm getting a series of phantom energy readings at the docks, Sector 9. Nothing concrete, but the seismic sensors in the port district are registering... high-frequency vibrations. Inconsistent. They're not machines."
"Investigate." The order was laconic.
"Already tracking it." Tim's voice cut through the channel. "Pattern doesn't match any known vehicle. Seems almost... random. But the energy spikes are real. Something's there."
From his observation post, Batman didn't hesitate. "Robin, with me. Nightwing, you and Flash are in the east sector. Stand by to converge on the docks. But stay in your sectors until my order."
From the top of a nearby gargoyle, a smaller, more agile silhouette rose. "Finally, some action," Damian grumbled, his tone euphoric even as he tried to sound bored and curt.
On the other side of the city, Dick – or Nightwing – exchanged a look with Wally, who appeared at his side in the blink of an eye. "You heard the Bat," he said, already vibrating in place, giving the other a wide smile. "Try to keep up, Dickie-bird."
Meanwhile, on one of the less conventional patrol routes — a roof full of TV antennas — Jason listened in on the conversation, not deigning to show he was also on alert. It wasn't officially his day to patrol with the birds, but he wasn't in the mood to spend the early hours reading or with his feet up in his apartment. He scoffed. "Docks, huh?" he murmured to himself, aiming a grappling hook at a taller building.
Back at the docks, when both spiders landed on a nearby building, the atmosphere changed. The iridescent mist seemed to thicken, like a fluffy blanket muffling everything around them. It was with surprise that [Name] realized she could hear the colors now—a sharp, dissonant buzz that grated on her senses. Gwen was rigidly alert by her side.
"Hobie? Miles? Where are you?" Gwen whispered into their comms.
Miles's response came through strangely muffled. "We're in a container in sector 9. You're gonna want to take a look at this."
Hobie's casual voice entered the channel, but it was strangely tense. "This is worse than we thought. Is our baby spider with you?"
[Name]'s heart jumped against her ribs as she saw Gwen's posture become even stiffer with the response she got. "She's with me," she whispered back. "What did you find?"
"You'd better see this with your own eyes. Sector 9, Pier 12. And... whatever you see, don't touch anything," Miles's voice sounded grave, the tone he used only when the situation was critical.
The exchanged look between Gwen and [Name] was enough. Without a word, they launched themselves once more into the night's void, swinging towards the indicated location. The mist seemed to close in around them, and that buzz of colors became a dissonant symphony throbbing in [Name]'s temples. It was as if the city itself had a headache.
They both landed silently on the edge of a rusted container. The door was wide open, and the view from above was confusing: it looked like the inside of a junkyard, full of broken furniture, old rugs, and knick-knacks piled haphazardly as a disguise. But the disguise was imperfect. Way in the back, there was an empty, organized space that contrasted with the mess; marks on the dusty floor and scrapes indicated that something large and rectangular—a crate or a piece of equipment—had been recently removed from there.
Miles and Hobie, both in their respective uniforms, were crouched near a pile of junk, illuminated by the faint light entering from the pier's lampposts. They were looking at something on the floor.
"What have you got there?" Gwen asked, landing beside them.
[Name] landed right behind, and the air escaped her lungs. In the middle of a pile of old newspapers and wood splinters, a glass vial had broken; it seemed made to fit into some kind of slot. From it oozed a liquid that wasn't quite liquid. It was a reddish-brown substance, shiny at the edges, that seemed to glitch, like a corrupted image. Wherever those "splashes" touched, reality simply... switched off.
A chair leg touched by the substance didn't break or rot. It disintegrated into particles of colored light, like a glitch in the matrix, before turning into absolute nothingness. A piece of the newspaper simply ceased to exist, no smoke, no ashes, just a clean, silent void in its place.
"We know this effect…" Gwen whispered, pale, taking an instinctive step back. "It's what happens to us without the dimensional watch. It's... reality unraveling."
Hobie, who would normally face chaos with a sardonic smile, was serious, his eyes fixed on the small point of nullity slowly growing on the container floor. "Someone's bottling a kind of dimensional collapse," he grumbled. "This isn't a weapon, it's a crime against existence."
Before [Name] could say anything, the spider-sense of all of them—which had already been unsettled since they learned of the substance—made them turn towards the newly arrived figure.
"Did you call for backup?" Gwen said sarcastically. Hobie scoffed. Miles replied, "I thought he was with you."
[Name]'s mouth went dry as she recognized the features of that figure. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, holding a crude metallic device that looked like a rough cross between a grenade launcher and a leaf blower.
"Curious little spiders…" his voice echoed, distorted by a voice modulator. "Snooping where you weren't invited. I think I'll have to use my best insecticide." Miles started to make a joke about spiders not being insects, but [Name] cut him off upon noticing the trigger being pulled.
"SCATTER!" And with that shout, each of the spiders jumped to a different side, escaping the cloud that was probably fear gas. "DON'T BREATHE IT! GET AWAY FROM IT!" [Name] shouted again, sticking to the wall of a higher stack of containers, out of the gas's reach.
The fear gas, a hypnotic, greenish poison, filled the air where they had been seconds before. Gwen and Miles clung to the sides of opposite containers, while Hobie, with a grunt of disdain, simply jumped onto the container they had been investigating, also keeping out of the gas's reach.
"Is that all you've got, scare-crow?" Miles's voice echoed, trying to sound confident, but [Name] could hear the tension behind it.
The Scarecrow laughed, a harsh, distorted sound. "Presumption precedes the fall, insect! Remember: fear isn't the weapon… it's the stage!"
He fired the device again, but not at them. The jet of gas hit the pier's lights, plunging the area into deeper gloom, dotted only by the distant neon reflections and the ghostly light of the mist itself. The goal was clear: to create chaos, confusion, and delay them. He was playing his part as a distraction masterfully.
It was then that [Name]'s instinct pulled her to look away from the fight, towards the dark docks. And she saw. Not with her normal eyes, but with that strange sense that deciphered Gotham's chromatic soul. Two points of a completely new color—a dead, metallic gray, wrapped in a cold, greedy orange—were moving away rapidly in unmarked trucks disappearing into the web of port roads.
"GUYS!" she yelled, pointing. "He's not here for the fight! It's a distraction! Something's leaving the port!"
The piece clicked for Gwen too. "The liquid… They were transporting something. It could be a shipment of that stuff."
And it was at that exact moment that the logic of Gotham, relentless and predictable to its protectors, imposed itself.
A silent Batarang cut through the air and smashed into the Scarecrow's device, shattering it. A second one exploded in a blinding strobe light, dazzling the villain.
From above, two silhouettes descended like avenging angels. Batman and Robin. Tactical order and brute force had arrived once more to contain a crisis. [Name] felt her spider-sense blaring loudly again. Waves rippling and distorting around her head.
"Crane." Batman's voice was the final sound of a cell door closing.
Robin, without hesitation, charged at the Scarecrow, his staff a whirlwind of lethal precision. "Your performance is over."
In response to the voice and the figure dressed perfectly in black, a violent wave of memories hit [Name], almost making her falter in her posture.
[Name] must have been around 12 years old, and the world was still a place too big and noisy for her bones. Especially on the nights when Gotham roared with the fury of the sky, with thunder that made the windowpanes of Wayne Manor tremble in their frames.
She hated storms. Well, not storms themselves, but the overly loud noise of the thunder that tore the skies like the roars of beasts. Her mother would usually calm her with lullabies that distracted her from the painfully loud booms.
It was on one of those soaked, violent nights that she woke up to a clap of thunder that seemed to split the universe in half. Her heart beat erratically against her ribs, a frightened little bird in a cage of bone. Her fear of thunder was a shameful secret, something she hid from Alfred and the others. She was a Wayne, supposedly made of sterner stuff.
But that night, fear was greater than pride. She needed a glass of water. Or just the silent proof that someone else was awake in that lonely fortress.
She slid out of bed, her small feet sinking into the thick carpet of the endless hallway. The manor was a labyrinth of dancing shadows, each lightning flash illuminating portraits of ancestors with severe gazes. She shrank into herself, moving towards the main stairs, the part of the house that, at night, seemed to belong more to Bruce than to anyone else.
That's when she heard it — not thunder, but a muffled, metallic sound coming from the east wing, near the study. A click, followed by a groan of pain, so low she almost mistook it for the wind.
Curious and fearful, she approached, peeking through the crack of the heavy wooden door.
And she saw.
Bruce was there, his back to her. He wasn't wearing an impeccable suit, much less one of his expensive, soft-fabric pajamas, but a black suit, tight against his body, soaked with rain and... with something darker that glistened in the firelight from the hearth. Blood. He was hunched over the table, with an expression of concentrated pain she had never seen on his face, as he tried to reach a wound on his own shoulder with a pair of tweezers.
And then, he moved, and she saw it. Tossed casually over an armchair, as if it were a simple jacket, was the cowl. The hood with the pointed ears. The yellow and black symbol, a stylized bat, staring back at her from the fabric.
The world stopped. The next clap of thunder seemed to happen inside her own skull.
Batman.
Her father was Batman.
The hero who hunted monsters in the shadows was the same man whose presence was a silent shadow in his own home. The protector of Gotham was the same man who couldn't protect her from the deafening silence at the dinner table, nor from the icy emptiness of her gigantic room.
He let out another grunt of pain, and her instinct was to run to him. She wanted to help him, get a cloth, anything. But her feet were glued to the floor.
And then, the truth hit her with the force of a punch to the gut.
Was this why he avoided her so much? Was this the reason for the huge wall built between them? Was it that… She wasn't even good enough to know this detail about him?
He dragged himself home injured, night after night, and never, never a single word. Suddenly, another thought: Robin. The first one must have been Dick, his "first son," the second Jason. Oh, her heart sank as she remembered Jason. That had been his fate and premature death.
The pain in her chest intensified, she gasped, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. Bruce was too lost in his troublesome wound to have noticed. This wasn't for her protection. It was pure and simple exclusion.
The message was as clear as the glass that separated her balcony from the city below: she wasn't worthy. She wasn't strong enough, good enough, Wayne enough, to be part of this war. She was the mistake of a single night, since even the non-blood Waynes were part of Bruce's personal army. She was the stain on the family name, confined to the shadows of daily life, deemed too fragile even for the shadows of the night.
A hot tear streamed down her face, followed by another. It wasn't fear of the thunder. It was the pain of a final, absolute rejection.
She retreated silently, disappearing into the dark hallways before he could sense her presence. She went back to bed and pulled the covers over her head, smothering the sound of the thunder and the crying that finally came.
The next morning, Bruce appeared for breakfast with a discreet bandage on his forehead and an excuse about an accident in the Wayne Enterprises lab. [Name] just nodded, her eyes fixed on her plate.
She never told anyone. She kept that secret like she kept all the others — alone. And on that day, her fear of thunder was replaced by something much colder and more permanent: the certainty of her place. She was the daughter Batman didn't want.
While Bruce's heir neutralized the villain with brutal efficiency, Batman remained standing, analyzing the scene. His eyes passed from the small void on the container floor — which still shimmered and corroded reality slowly — to the four unknown vigilantes. His gaze, laden with calculation and distrust, landed on each of them, but seemed to weigh a little more on [Name], or the costumed figure she was at that moment, as if his mere instinct screamed that there was something wrong with her there.
It was then that Jason Todd, the Red Hood, decided to make his dramatic entrance, dropping from a nearby crane with a thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
"Nice mess, huh?" he grumbled, looking at the hole in reality. "Found the main hideout. Empty. Just marks left from something big being moved and… a weird smell in the air. Sweet and metallic. Like that liquid there."
Confirmation. They had been too late.
Batman didn't waste a second. He turned to the group of spiders, and even with the mask, you could feel the weight of his judgment.
"You." The word sounded like an accusation. "Who are you and what do you know about this?" Even though he asked the group in general, his gaze never left [Name].
"We're… visitors. And we found this by accident. We believe it's an interdimensionally unstable substance," Gwen was the one who replied, only then pulling the attention to herself.
"Interdimensional?" Robin paused for a second, the Scarecrow already incapacitated at his feet. His tone was pure skepticism.
"Those are extraordinary claims," Batman concluded, his voice a low growl. "And Gotham has no room for tourists with power. You're coming with me. Now."
The net was closing around [Name] in a way much worse than any fight. She was about to be taken to the lair of her own father, a complete stranger, to be interrogated as a threat. The spiders' mission had failed, the real villain had escaped, and all that was left was the unexpected consequence of catching the Bat's attention.
"You know what, that's not gonna happen, batboss," said Spider-Punk, his relaxed posture now charged with a dangerous, challenging energy. [Name] knew it was the tone of voice that could make Mr. O'Hara snarl.
It was the spark Batman needed. His hand went to his belt in a fluid motion, but [Name] was faster. A thread of neglected anger, of nights alone in that opulent mansion, galvanized her instincts. This wasn't just an escape plan; it was an opportunity.
"Ghost-Spider, the gas! Spider-Man, Robin! Spider-Punk, Hood! I've got the big one." Her voice was a sharp whisper, loaded with newly discovered authority and a touch of sweet vengeance.
The reaction was instantaneous and choreographed.
Gwen stretched her wrist, firing at the ventilation pipe of a nearby container, shifting a residual cloud of the fear gas; her goal wasn't to contaminate, but to obscure vision.
Miles, anticipating the move, was already in action. The moment Robin advanced on the group, he used a minimal bio-electric shock discharge, not to hurt, but to cause a brief, irritating paralysis in his limbs, making the boy prodigy freeze. It was enough for him to use Robin's own momentum against him, grabbing him by the arm and, with a graceful spin, hurling him towards Batman, forcing the father to stop to cushion the fall of his young partner.
Spider-Punk, with a wide, anarchic smile, didn't go for Red Hood. He kicked a trash can full of wet debris in the anti-hero's direction. It was an irritating delay, perfect for holding the attention of the most unpredictable of Batman's birds.
And [Name], she didn't hesitate. While Batman was momentarily off-balance, catching Robin, she took aim. Not at his chest, not at the ground. Directly at the visor of Batman's mask.
Thwip.
The sound was satisfying. The white, sticky web hit dead-on, completely covering the white lenses and part of the cowl. He took a single step back, one hand going instinctively to his face to tear the obstacle away, a muffled, furious growl escaping from beneath it, because the more force he used to pull, the tighter the web seemed to tense. It was a symbolic blow, a small humiliation. You can't ignore me now, she thought, with triumphant fury. Even if it's just for a second, your attention is on me.
She didn't wait to see more. "WITHDRAWAL! NOW!"
It was as if a single organism with four bodies moved. They turned and launched themselves into the night's abyss in unison. Four thwips echoed almost as one. Four bodies launched in perfect arcs, swinging with a synchrony that was almost an art, disappearing into the darkness over the black waters of the river.
Red Hood, dodging the trash, fired a warning shot into the sky. "Damn agile bugs!"
Robin, back on his feet, shook his tingling arm. "They will pay for this affront!"
But Batman said nothing. He tore the webbing from his visor with one final, brusque pull. His breathing was controlled, but the line of his jaw was rigid as steel. He hadn't just been outsmarted; he had been disrespected in a visceral, personal way.
His eyes, now free, fixed on the river, but his mind recorded every detail: the tactical precision, the fury behind that final act.
"No," his voice came out like the slam of a coffin lid. "They are not our priority. But they are now a known variable."
He turned. "Oracle, I want a profile. Movement patterns, abilities. Red Robin, analyze the residue. Someone brought a war to my city, and we're fighting over crumbs."
He looked at the river once more. Their escape was a fact. But that final act, the web to the face... that was a message. And Bruce Wayne, above all, was a decoder of messages.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, the four spiders landed in silence on the roof of an abandoned factory.
Spider-Punk was the first to break the silence, a low whistle of admiration. "Incredible, girl. Literally spat in the Bat's face."
[Name], panting, pulled off her mask. Her eyes shone with a mixture of terror and a deep, forbidden euphoria. She had led. She had gotten them out. And she had made her mark.
"He... deserved it," she said, her voice a little shaky, but without regret. "Wish I could've done it without the mask."
Ghost-Spider put a hand on her shoulder, an understanding smile on her lips. "That's gonna put a giant target on our backs, you know?"
"Let him try," [Name] replied, her gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of Gotham. "Now we know there's a bigger game. And we're going to find who's pulling the strings."
The hunt, indeed, had only just begun. But now, [Name] was no longer hiding. She had declared war. On the Bat and his brood. And on those scheming under the radar.
The roof of the abandoned factory smelled of mold and rust, a harsh contrast to the adrenaline still singing in their veins. Spider-Punk scanned the shadows, on guard, while Ghost-Spider worked quickly on her dimensional watch. The glowing digits painted dancing shadows on her serious face.
"You're not gonna like this, but we need to go straight to HQ," she announced, her hands hovering over the watch's controls. A vortex of color and light began to materialize in the empty air of the rooftop, a portal to a place [Name] had only heard about in stories.
A place that was the antithesis of Gotham.
Miles was the first to move, a decisive step towards the kaleidoscopic light. He stopped at the edge, where the realities met, and looked back, noticing that [Name] hadn't followed him. She was frozen, a few meters away, her eyes fixed on the portal as if it were the mouth of a monster.
"[Name]?" Gwen's voice was soft, but urgent.
"I... I can't." [Name]'s voice came out as a breath. The fear was palpable, a knot of anxiety in her stomach. She looked at Hobie, remembering the same dialogue they'd had weeks ago. "What if I go in and... don't want to come back? Gotham is shit, it's gray, it's suffocating... but it's my home. If… If I go, I won't come back. I know I won't come back." It was the deepest secret she kept: the fear of her own desertion.
It was then that Miles moved. He didn't pull her, or insist. He simply walked over to her and, with a calm that seemed impossible in that scenario, took her hand. His glove was rough against hers, but the grip was firm and reassuring.
"Look at me," he said, and she obliged, meeting his serious eyes behind the mask. "This is way past a matter of choice now. That liquid... that stuff isn't just a weapon. It's a cancer. And it's here, in your reality. In your home."
He paused, his voice carrying a weight that [Name] recognized—the weight of someone who had already had to carry the world on his shoulders. Someone who'd had to make choices and sacrifices beyond imagination.
"I hate Miguel. I hate the way he runs things, I hate his obsession with 'canons' and 'absolute events'. But he has resources. He has data on thousands of realities. If anyone has a clue what this reality-eating liquid shit is and who's behind it, it's him. We're not going to ask for permission. We're going to get the tools to save your city."
Miles's hand squeezed hers tighter, a grounding wire in the storm of her fears. "Gotham needs you. And we need you to come with us so you can come back to it."
[Name] looked at the portal, then at Miles's hand intertwined with hers. She looked back, in the direction of Gotham's distorted profile against the night sky, a city that devoured light, but which, for the first time, felt truly hers to protect.
She took a deep breath, the cold night air filling her lungs like a promise.
"Okay," she whispered, the fear still there, but now overshadowed by determination. "Let's go talk to the dictator, but… If I refuse to come back, just throw me into a return portal, please," she joked.
With one last look at the city that raised her in darkness, [Name] stepped forward, pulled by Miles's hand, and plunged into the portal. The light swallowed her, and the factory roof was left empty and silent once more, guarding the secret of her departure.
"this fic uses em dashes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans use em dashes.
"this fic has long paragraphs with overly described details and scenes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans can write like this.
"this fic has inconsistencies, so it must be ai-generated" real humans make errors and mistakes. that's why we have this thing called plot holes. sometimes writers are tired and they don't remember what they wrote in the last sentences or paragraphs, let alone chapters.
"this fic sounds robotic and unnatural, so it must be ai-generated" not every writer writes in their native language. sometimes they can sound 'robotic and unnatural' if they wrote in their second or third or fourth language (and kudos to them).
"this fic has a prompt left in it that the author forgot to delete, so it must be ai-generated" the 'prompt' the author accidentally left in their fic could actually be a part of an outline that was meant only for them, so they could keep track of what they would write.
"this author posts too often, no human writes this fast, so they must use ai" 1.) you don't know how fast someone can or can't write, how much time a person has in a day or how motivated/skilled they are. 2.) the frequent updates you see could be something that has already been finished and sitting in the author's drafts for god knows how long. just because it's recently posted doesn't always mean it's recently written.
my point? no, you can never know if a fanfic is 'ai-generated'. unless the author says they use ai, you're just assuming, suspecting and witch hunting. chances are that you're not going to 'stop ai fics from being created', you're just going to wrongly accuse genuine writers of using ai and ruin their day at best, make them want to quit writing or sharing their works at worst.
Não acredito que achei um escritor br de fic de batfam yandere kkkkkkkk cara eu to amando a sua história, sério, você escreve de um jeito tão bom e detalhado, eu mal posso esperar pra ver a progressão dos personagens quando eles perceberem que a mc tem poderes, a cena com o damian percebendo que o buraco é mais embaixo em relação à a mágoa da mc por ele e o jason no final, TÁ TUDO MUITO BOM
Também quero muito ver mais cenas da mc e o MJ dela, achei um detalhe tão fofo que ela tem um MJ 🥹
Obrigado por postar a sua história amg <3 espero que você poste mais no futuro (mas sem pressão alguma óbvio!) porque eu adoraria ler
VALHA-ME, NOSSA SENHORA! UM BR PERDIDO POR ESSAS BANDAS! Eu confesso que eu demorei alguns segundos a mais para entender que eu estava lendo algo em português. Abri um puta sorriso até
De verdade, muito obrigada pelas palavras tão doces. FIco toda boba depois de ler. Saber que minha escrita agradou significa muito para mim 🥹
Eu mal posso esperar para começar a escrever o arco em que todos eles começaram a enxergar a verdade sobre tudo.
O MJ é todo pitíco. Ainda não sei se o colocarei como um possivel interesse romântico da MC ou algo mais platônico. Mas com certeza quero escrever mais interações dos dois. E com Mavi também.
Eu agradeço novamente ao comentário tão doce e as palavras tão gentis. Vou postar o mais rápido possível, já comecei a escrever e estou com gás renovado.
Hi! I read two chapters of #yan batfam x neglected reader in one evening, and I want to say that it touched my soul. I wish I had found you earlier 😞. I kissed your hands.
I would like to ask you a few questions, I hope you don't mind☺️.
How old is Y/N? Is she of legal age? Where is she studying? Or was it mentioned in the story? (Sorry if it was, I might have missed it.)
The appearance of WALLY (MY GOD), I just love him (his charisma is just 😋🤌).
Damian—
Yes, it's a bit of a complicated case, but he's at least starting to understand what he's done. Hehe.
Jason is an asshole. It's that simple.
Will our cutie Y/N be dating anyone in the future? 🤔 (Maybe someone from the speed— *cough*) (...Bart Allen?..🥹) (Lol, I love him too. Although I haven't found any fanfiction with him in this genre, oh.)
I still love your work, and I'm looking forward to the update. Take more rest and get stronger. I wish you good luck 🫶✊.
English is not my native language, so I'm using a translator. I hope you understand everything🤌🫴🌹.
Oh, my dear, thank you so much for the sweet words. I confess I had a huge smile when I read them.
Of course, you can ask me whatever and as much as you want. You can't imagine how much it means to me to know that you liked my story.
Right... If my notes and memories are correct, Y/N is 17 years old, still a minor, but close to coming of age. She attends Gotham City High School. At first, Alfred wanted to enroll her in Gotham Academy, but by her own choice, she refused. She thanks him for not forcing her, since going to school with Damian sounds like a nightmare for Y/N.
About Wally, YES! I've never been so happy to have put a character in a scene. I wrote every word with a huge smile on my face.
About Damian, I really want to write a sensitive arc about him. As bad, despicable, spoiled, and (insert mile-long list of insults) as he is, I really like him. I want to make him pay and understand how badly he messed up with Y/N.
And about Jason, well… Jason is Jason, there's not much to talk about that little shit lol
Now, about our dear Y/N's love life. I haven't made up my mind about that yet (about anything, actually), but I do want to give our Y/N Wayne a very loving and passionate lover. I'm completely open to suggestions (in fact, Bart Allen seems like a really interesting option; I liked it, it's got flavor, and with his personality, there's definitely going to be chemistry).
Thank you so much for the sweet requests, dear. I wish you double the best. I'll try to write as soon as possible, because having you as a reader is an honor.
As for your English, it's great! It's not my native language either, and I always have to check with the translator to make sure I'm not speaking nonsense.
Again, thank you for the sweet words. You've made my week. My heart will be warm all week.
(me when hunters kiss, 1816 the year without a summer, and Transylvania Concubine start playing 🤩)
Firstly, pray for our poor MC. It will be necessary.
Secondly, valha-me Nossa Senhora, how have I never heard of them?Thank you so much, I just gained a new obsession. I'll definitely try to fit "Hunter's Kiss" in some scene
Author's Notes:
Hey everyone! My amores and amoras! I think I should start by apologizing for my absence. Unfortunately, I was involved in a work accident a few weeks ago and broke one of my hands. Typing with just one hand has been a nightmare, especially since it was with my dominant hand (I'm right-handed). I managed to write little by little, and I hope to update my other fic soon too.
After that encounter in the Fifith Harbor, you retreated to the shop, trying to distract your thoughts by helping Lavinah with mixtures for new potential recipes. The strong smell of sweetness and talc dulled your senses, but not enough to quiet your mind.
You couldn't get the image of the couple out of your head. They were your favorite couple, or at least, strong contenders against Jesper and Wylan. Nina and Matthias had chemistry, plus a trope that held a very strong place in your heart. Yet, seeing them there, in the flesh, in front of you, so focused on you, had thrown you off balance.
It was clear to you that there was no real danger in them merely watching your performance, but you had read the books and watched the show. Danger seemed to stalk the Crows like bloodhounds, and you had read enough isekai stories to know that when protagonists were involved, every precaution was necessary for reincarnated individuals or dimensional travelers.
That's why you fled, and perhaps, that was your undoing.
You carefully stirred the still-warm infusion of artemisia and linden concentrate, mixing it with grated soapwort root. A light foam began to form as you mechanically went over the necessary steps of the recipe in your mind. Almond oil was the next ingredient added, while you stirred constantly, trying to emulsify the mixture.
The gleam in Nina's eyes, which you had refused to acknowledge at first, was still making your heart skip beats even hours later. You almost knocked over the dried lemon peels and honey instead of adding them to the fragrant mixture. Cursing under your breath, you sealed the jar where your homemade shampoo was supposed to rest for the next few days.
It was a test, but it seemed promising. Lavinah was already giving you quite a bit of autonomy when it came to creating new recipes or helping her make the established ones.
"So, how are we doing?" she asked, appearing at your side and taking the jar from your hands to smell it. "Well, initial fresh and citrusy scent, herbaceous and slightly medicinal heart… Surprisingly sweet base." The woman paused for a few seconds before staring at you with a proud smile. "It's great. I might just put you in charge of the new recipes," she joked.
You blushed, shaking your head.
"It was just an attempt, we don't even know if it will work out in the end." You shrugged, grabbing an old cloth and wiping the counter where a bit of the infusion had dripped.
"I know that look…" Lavinah pointed out, placing the jar to rest on a shelf alongside others, some in different stages of curing. "Come on, out with it," she encouraged.
Biting your lower lip, you deliberated for a moment about how much you could tell Lavinah about the situation and your worries. However, a small, insecure voice whispered that the woman was already doing so much for you; besides giving you a roof and food, you shouldn't worry her more than that.
Besides, there wasn't really anything to tell her. What could you say? That a couple was staring at you in the square, where you were performing with the goal of being watched? And that, by chance, this couple was part of one of Ketterdam's gangs? Well, many people were associated with or members of some gang.
"The takings weren't so good…" you lied, the false words slipping from your mouth like poisoned candy. Lying to Lavinah felt bad, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, but worrying her unnecessarily was also bad. The lesser of two evils, you tried to convince yourself. "For a second, I worried they might be getting tired of me… That the songs weren't so good anymore."
Lavinah's face took on an expression of pity and someone seeing an overly cute scene. She dried her hands on her apron, more out of habit than because they were actually wet, and pulled you into a half-hug.
"Oh, dear. Is that what's weighing on your mind?" The woman seemed to have bought your lie, so the hug pained you. "I'm sure it was just a bad day. I'll be the old woman who puts her hands on her hips and says, if I had given up on this shop after a bad day, I would have kept it open for, at most, 2 days and wouldn't have half of what I have today." She began, giving your shoulder a affectionate squeeze before letting go, her gaze taking on a practical depth, hardened by years navigating the treacherous waters of commerce in Ketterdam.
"Dear, listen to something I've carried with me for years in this city," she started, her tone soft but firm. "In Ketterdam, everything is an investment. Everything. A broken heart, a debt, a kindness... and a performance in the square."
She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a trade secret.
"You weren't just playing for coins. You were investing. Investing in their attention. In your name. In the tiny spark of curiosity that makes a stranger remember you the next day. Some pay with coins. Others pay with stares. Both have value. One is immediate. The other... well, the other can be cashed in later, with interest."
She paused, letting the idea settle. It was perfect advice for your lie and for your hidden truth.
"A bad day isn't a loss. It's just… A reinvestment. You see that today's strategy didn't work so well? Tomorrow you adjust. You play a different song. You move the hat for the coins. You smile at a different face. You study the market and adapt."
It was deeply Ketterdam advice. A mix of hope and cynicism that, somehow, sounded both comforting and terribly wise.
Lavinah shrugged, a gesture of practical resignation. "In Ketterdam, if you're getting attention, you're already winning. The trick is to control what happens next. A stare can come from a potential customer... or a thief. The difference lies in how you orchestrate the next move. I imagine you chose resigned flight today. It's fine. It was your move. Tomorrow, if it's still bad, you don't flee. You sell. A smile, a song, a vial of perfume... or just the impression that you are not easy prey and won't be discouraged." She sighed, ruffling your hair.
You smiled, enjoying the affection, while trying to calm the nervous beats of your heart. As much as Lavinah had good intentions, her words did little to soothe the paranoia and nervousness that had seeped into your nerves.
Unbeknownst to you, the earlier situation was also a topic of conversation in another corner of Ketterdam.
Nina and Matthias were off that day, after a particularly boring mission for Kaz. The Fjerdan had taken Zenik to his favorite shops in the commercial center, they ate junk food all morning, and decided to stroll by the harbor, while sharing a bag of sugar-dusted almonds.
The Grisha was in the middle of a complaint about Kaz and his infuriating stoicism when a soft melody silenced her. The sweet, melodious voice drew the couple to a quieter corner of the square, near a group of tourists just off a transport barge.
To Matthias, the performance was reasonable, fun to watch. The voice was pretty, relaxing even; the lyrics seemed like a mix of a lullaby and nursery rhymes; the artist used a different, pear-shaped string instrument painted a nice blue. However, Nina seemed mesmerized. This made the former Drüskelle analyze more closely who was playing and enchanting everyone with that siren's voice.
At first glance, they seemed just like any other resident of Ketterdam, nothing really special to fixate on, but after staring for a long time, it was as if his intuition told him there was something more, something hidden by the poetic performance and the harmonious melody those hands created with each touch of the strings.
Nina was hypnotized; she couldn't describe in words what set that little street singer apart from the other passersby around her. As a Corporalki Grisha, her body and senses were always linked to the functioning of the bodies around her, from the circulatory system to the working of organs. Nina could always feel life pulsing and flowing around her, but that person in front of her, that is, you, seemed to vibrate at a different cadence.
It was as if something about you was superimposed, as if it didn't belong to the same reality as hers. An intrusive, floating phrase in a book it wasn't connected to. A note pasted on the edge of another story. Solid and within reach, yet, not belonging.
Matthias murmured about you hiding something, and Nina replied with something automatic, even more intrigued when you seemed to suddenly become nervous and aware of the couple's attention on you.
Your eyes met for milliseconds, and a spark ran through her body like an electric current. The certainty that you were truly something intriguing.
It was as if you knew about them, about their suspicion and interest. Seeing you tremble, miss a few notes, and flee, while trying to pretend to be calm, was more entertaining than it should have been. Nina should have felt guilty for making someone apparently so innocent so shaken, but a curious satisfaction settled in her chest. An unfamiliar desire to poke and provoke you. Something she had only ever felt with Matthias and the other Crows.
She wanted to go after you, but Matthias stopped her.
"Should we tell Kaz about her?" Nina asked when she lost sight of you.
"Have you ever tried to hide something from the demjin? It would be good to let him know," Matthias teased, putting one of his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, while squinting in the direction you had fled. "But there's something… I can't say for sure what it is, but there is."
"Oh, don't think too hard, you'll end up with a headache and smoke coming out of your ears," she joked, stroking the furrow between the man's thick, blond eyebrows. He looked at her affectionately, holding her hand and bringing it to his lips.
Nina and Matthias cut their outing short, returning to the Slat in search of Kaz. He had also taken a day off, but unlike the couple, he was holed up in his own room/office, perhaps deciding on the next suicide mission he would enroll everyone in without asking or considering the group's interest as a whole.
The Crows were still recovering from the successfully failed fiasco at the Ice Court, but Brekker seemed unfamiliar with the meaning of the word 'rest.'
The Fjerdan raised his fist to knock on the door, but Nina just entered without announcing herself. Kaz was sitting at his makeshift desk, staring at a document with the same ferocity he'd use to stare down an enemy. He didn't even need to look up to know who had the nerve to interrupt his work like that.
"You're back early," was all he said.
"Not by choice…" Nina began, sitting on Kaz's bed. Any other Crow wouldn't have such courage. Even Inej, perhaps the only one with real permission to act as she pleased with Kaz, maintained a superficial respect for Brekker's hierarchy. Nina would probably call him Waffles and throw herself on his bed if Matthias weren't present and if she didn't want to pretend to be professional. "Matthias and I found something curious on our stroll today. We thought it might be of interest to you," she concluded mysteriously.
Only then did Kaz lift his eyes from the documents in front of him, his icy blue gaze inspecting Nina to see the veracity of her words or, at least, how much it would truly be of interest to him. But her smile told him there was something there worth his attention.
"Go on…" he permitted, sealing the beginning of the turning point in your life.
A few days had passed since the unnerving encounter in the square. You had told Lavinah you needed some time away for creative purposes. To write new songs and plan new melodies.
It was a lie, of course. You had many songs already prepared, songs you had learned and memorized from sleepless nights spent reading fanfics and listening to random playlists that matched the themes of the chosen stories.
POV: You're a Princess Dreaming of Your Future Love as You Dance Alone Through the Palace Corridors or POV: you see a fairy dancing alone in the woods. - short playlist or ▸𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩┃songs that make you feel like you are in a kingdom had provided you with great material to perform in the square. Artists like Yaelokre or Aurora were also incredible inspirations; you owed your current career in the Grishaverse to them.
You drummed your fingers on the blank sheet in front of you; it was cream-colored and pasted into a beautiful leather-bound notebook—a gift sent by Dirk through a merchant friend when he heard the good news of your success as a street artist—pretending to think of new lyrics while Lavinah rearranged the stock in the room where she created and stored the products. You could hear glass tinkling and occasional curses uttered by the woman; she was probably having trouble deciding what went next to what.
A shiver ran down your spine as you looked around again, feeling watched. It had been exactly 5 days since the performances in the square stopped and 4 days since you started feeling constantly watched, under the attentive gaze of someone, and to your misfortune, you knew very well who your obsessive spirit was.
The one who defied the laws of gravity and traveled through the shadows with the skills of a specter: The Wraith, or Inej Ghafa.
On the few occasions you left the shop, to make deliveries or pick up orders for Lavinah, you could have sworn you saw glimpses of dark figures in the corner of your vision, or swift shadows jumping over the buildings. It was funny that, if you didn't know where to look, the existence of your pursuer would be completely unknown to you.
Knowing this left you scared and unsettled. As a reader and fan, knowing that your favorite characters were aware of your existence was amazing; now, knowing who your favorite characters were and their dangerousness, it gave you real fear, because, again, this was no longer a simple immersive reading, there was no option to, when things got ugly, close the book or the web page, ending it there. No. This was your reality, your life, and your physical integrity. Wounds hurt, they needed time to heal.
You were not an adventurer, you were not raised in the alleys of Ketterdam, you did not develop the callus of hardship. Against the canonical obstacles and violence of the universe, you wouldn't stand a chance. Therefore, the farther away you stayed from the problems of the Barrel's scum, the better.
At the sound of the door chime, you reflexively looked up to see who was entering. As you abandoned the still-blank pages, your hopes of staying away from trouble vanished the instant the unruly, messy chocolate-brown locks and the curious, doe-like eyes, scanning the environment, came into your view.
It was none other than Wylan Van Eck.
Your heart missed a few beats as you swallowed dryly. You closed the notebook gently, hands trembling, while clearing your throat and forcing a nervous smile.
"Welcome to the Amber Apothecary. How can I help you?" You repeated the standard customer greeting, praying that Lavinah had heard his arrival and would come to your aid. Given the kind of clientele that could enter the shop, the older woman preferred never to leave you alone to handle things, but it seemed luck was not on your side. Even after a few moments and the man's approach to the counter, Lavinah did not appear.
"Ah, y-yes… It m-might sound strange, but I need some ingredients…" Wylan stammered before forcing a cough, looking around with curiosity, even though his eyes always ended up returning to you. "I need rhubarb root, black pepper, and powdered ginger. I also need saltpeter and charcoal." He pulled a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket; there was a list written with some spelling mistakes, but the quantity measurements were high, yet precise.
You frowned, finding it odd not only that he was buying these ingredients together, but also why he had chosen Lavinah's shop, the shop where you worked, to buy base materials instead of finished products. Besides the fact that, if some of these ingredients were combined, they could be used not only to produce gunpowder but also smoke bombs or irritants. Wouldn't it be much easier to buy them from some merchant at cost price?
"Look, these ingredients and these quantities… I can't promise anything, sir, as our specialty is prepared mixtures and essences, not raw supplies. I can check our stock, but before that, I need to check with the shop owner," you explained, looking from the list to him. He blinked his long eyelashes and gave you the most innocent of looks, nodding timidly in agreement.
"I'm grateful just for the attempt. I've been all over the market, but I couldn't find anything of the quality I need. A supplier recommended this shop, so I'm willing to pay more," he said with resolute certainty. A bite of his lip and a subtle shift of his gaze told you there was more to it, but you chose momentary ignorance.
You nodded to him and went to the room where Lavinah was.
It was a mistake to let your guard down; that's what a small voice in your conscience whispered. Wylan wasn't diabolical like Kaz, nor deadly like Inej and Nina, much less brute force like Matthias or the unpredictable chaos of Jesper, but he was an enemy to be considered. He had brains and cunning, plus experience after the Ice Court incursion and the clashes with his father.
He was more than cute stutters and doe eyes.
"Aunt Lavi?" you inquired, knocking on the wooden doorframe. She stretched out her hand, indicating she was crouched in front of some sealed jars, trying to figure out what was inside without compromising the curing process of the product being made. "Trouble with the labels?" The question had an innocent tone, but the mocking smile on your lips was anything but innocent. The 'I told you so' had a sweet taste on your tongue, wanting to rub in the apothecary's face that her carelessness in labeling and recognizing jars would come back to bite her right in the ass.
"There are customers in the shop, don't make me tell you to go fu—" You cut her off with a nervous laugh, hoping the boy near the counter couldn't hear you.
"Speaking of customers…" You stepped further into the room, whispering so only she could hear. "It's a gang member…" When Lavinah whispered back, you just moved your lips in what came out as a silent Dregs.
Even without sound, the name echoed in the small room like thunder. Lavinah stopped completely, the glass jar forgotten in her hands. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing, the artisan's soft expression giving way to the sharp suspicion of a Ketterdam merchant.
"Them?" she repeated, her tone laden with meaning. The name was synonymous with money, power, and, recently, a specific kind of trouble localized in the Barrel. The gang itself had been demonstrating a growing presence under the city's nightly shadows, increasing in number and power. "What would someone like him want in my shop? I'm sure products aren't their interest."
"Ingredients for gunpowder," you replied, still whispering. "And a lot. He said a supplier recommended our shop and that he's willing to pay extra."
Lavinah let out a low snort, placing the jar on the floor with a care that seemed deliberate. "A supplier, is it? Or a dark-winged bird who likes to send his fledglings to do reconnaissance?" She stood up, brushing dust off her apron with a brusque gesture. "Let's go. Let's attend to our illustrious customer."
Following Lavinah back to the shop, you felt the air grow heavier. Wylan was still at the counter, his fingers drumming a restless melody on the wood. His eyes met Lavinah's, and he straightened his shoulders, trying to appear more confident than he was.
"Miss Lavinah, I presume?" he said, his voice a bit firmer now. You didn't remember giving him Lavinah's name. "My name is Wylan. I heard you have high-quality ingredients. I'd like to buy some of your stock."
"Some? That's not what I heard. I've never been one to refuse a good sale, but know that quality has its price, boy," Lavinah replied dryly, leaning her hands on the counter. "And so does discretion. Rhubarb root and saltpeter aren't exactly for a spice cake."
Wylan blushed slightly but didn't look away. "My... projects... require certain standards. And I pay well for privacy."
While the two engaged in this silent battle of double meanings, you felt that familiar chill on the back of your neck. Instinct screamed before your brain could process it: you were no longer being watched only by Wylan. It was a different sensation, more subtle and much more dangerous. As if the air in the corners of the room was solidifying into shadows.
Your attention was drawn to the exposed beams of the ceiling. Nothing. Just dust dancing in the sunbeams coming through the window. But then, an almost imperceptible movement, the slight sway of a metal pendant from a chain decoration on one of the beams, as if touched by the passage of an insect or... by the shadow of a person.
Inej, your thoughts screamed.
She was here. Inside the shop. She had probably entered through one of the upper windows. Wylan's visit was, most likely, a decoy. While he kept you distracted at the counter, The Wraith was conducting her own investigation.
Panic, a cold, needle-like sensation, shot up your spine. Why was she here? What was she looking for? Proof that you were a threat?
Lavinah, oblivious to the ghostly presence, was reluctantly agreeing to check the stock for Wylan. "I'll take a look at the barrels in the basement. Stay here and mind the counter," she ordered you, with a meaningful look that said "and keep an eye on him."
She disappeared through the back door, leaving you alone with Wylan... and with the assassin hidden in the rafters.
Wylan let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief when Lavinah left. His eyes then landed on you again, and this time there was a genuine curiosity in them, beneath the nervous facade.
"You're that singer who performs at Fifth Harbor, aren't you?" he began, like someone commenting on the weather. You felt as if a brick had just settled in your stomach. "A friend of mine watched one of your performances; she couldn't stop talking about it for hours."
Wylan's words hung in the air like smoke. "A friend of mine…" Nina. He was confirming, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was not a chance encounter. Your heart seemed to stop in your chest for a second, beating too hard in your throat. This was it. The game had begun. And you had become, by some cruel twist, a central piece, surrounded by players you admired from afar but who, in real life, were terrifying.
You forced a smile that felt like it was cracking at the corners, a pale, nervous reflex. "Fifth Harbor has many performers," you replied, your voice a bit hoarser than you would have liked. Your hands, behind the counter, clenched to disguise their trembling. "It's hard to stand out."
"Oh, but I heard you do stand out," Wylan said, and now there was a spark of Jesper in that gaze, a dash of boldness beneath the shyness. He leaned slightly over the counter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I've heard comments about your music from passersby, tourists or not... They always say it's different. The words, the melody. It sounds like something from a faraway place."
From another world, your mind completed, terrified. Every word from him was a knife, gently inserted, testing your reaction. Meanwhile, you felt the weight of the gaze from the rafters. Inej was there, listening to every syllable, analyzing every micro-expression on your face. You were being interrogated in stereo: Wylan with his soft questions, Inej with her absolute silence.
You shrugged, a movement you hoped looked casual but felt incredibly stiff. "Just old songs I learned. Travelers' tales. I came from the sea, lived for a long time with merchant sailors. We heard many stories, legends, myths, and songs. Many songs." Your mind raced, trying to remember if you had sung something obviously too much, some reference to a concept that didn't exist in this world, but no. Even though the songs weren't yours, you had always sought to modify and adapt whatever was necessary, be it language or expressions.
Wylan didn't seem convinced. His doe eyes scanned your face, studying, cataloging. "Travelers," he repeated, as if savoring the word. "That's a good name for it."
He paused deliberately, his fingers returning to drum on the counter, but this time in a specific rhythm. Tap, tap... pause... tap. Almost like a code. His gaze flickered away for a fraction of a second, upwards towards the rafters, before returning to you.
"Sometimes, the most interesting stories aren't the ones that are sung, but the ones that are kept," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "A colleague of mine often says that everyone in Ketterdam has something to hide. The trick is to find out if what they hide is a treasure... or a corpse."
As he spoke, you felt that chill on your neck intensify. It was as if the weight of Inej's gaze from the rafters was a physical pressure. She wasn't moving; she was listening. And Wylan wasn't just asking questions. He was performing. For you? For her? It was a meticulously choreographed theater, and you were the captive audience.
Your response now was crucial. Any vehement denial would sound like a confession. Any too-easy acceptance would be a trap.
You opened your mouth to speak, but what the hell would you say?
Then, as if noticing your difficulty, he shrugged, as if abandoning the topic completely, and a more genuine, almost shy smile appeared on his face. "Well, regardless of the origin, your music caught the right person's attention. This friend of mine has a sharp ear for things out of the ordinary."
He then put his hand in his overcoat pocket, pulling out a small, thin package wrapped in brown paper. "She felt so guilty for not having any coins at the time, that she asked me to give this to you. As a thank you for the performance she couldn't pay for then."
Again, this gesture seemed like nothing less than a clear and almost obscene confirmation that this encounter, this visit to Lavinah's shop, was anything but a spontaneous shopping trip. He was there for you.
You didn't touch the package, just looked from it to the man in front of you. The doubt was clear: taking that package was accepting a direct and physical link to them, while refusing it would be a grave offense and a confirmation of extreme distrust—and people who have nothing to hide aren't frightened by gifts.
"I can't accept it," you finally replied, the ice in your stomach and the tremor in your hands becoming almost too much to hide. "It's very generous of her, I truly appreciate it, but I cannot accept."
Hearing your refusal, Wylan's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes became sharper, more interested. Your refusal didn't irritate him; on the contrary, it seemed to confirm something he already suspected.
"I understand," he said, his voice still soft, but now laden with deeper meaning. He didn't take the package back. Instead, he pushed it further towards the center of the counter, a deliberate movement that turned the gift into evidence, a mark left behind. "Understand, my friend is insistent. If you don't want to accept this as a gift or payment, accept it as a proposal."
Each word was a layer of silk over a blade of steel. He was telling you, politely and undeniably, that their interest had not ended. It had only just begun.
It was then that Lavinah's firm footsteps sounded from the basement stairs. She appeared in the doorway, her face slightly flushed, holding a medium-sized box.
"This is all I have," she said, placing the box on the counter. "I'll add it up and make a note of the quantities."
Taking advantage of the boy's distraction by Lavinah's appearance, you pulled a sheet from your own notebook, making the notes carefully. You couldn't say exactly why, but the memory of Wylan's condition came to mind. Your writing was done with more care, making the letters clear, well-spaced, and distinct from each other. There were fonts in your world for dyslexic people like Wylan; it was easy for you to write based on them.
When the chemist delicately took the note from your hands, you saw the subtle widening of his eyes, a furrow of his brow. Wylan's reaction was more than surprise; it was a seismic tremor under a calm surface. For a brief moment, the mask of the shrewd Crow cracked, and the man behind it became visible—someone accustomed to fighting against jumbled words, now confronted with unexpected and gentle clarity. His fingers clenched around the folded paper as if it were a precious artifact, something infinitely more valuable than any top-quality ingredient.
He looked at you again, but the analytical curiosity had transformed into something more complex, deeper. There was perplexed skepticism, a thread of suspicion... but also the first glimmer of genuine consideration.
"Thank you," he said, and for the first time, the word didn't sound like part of a script. It sounded real.
"In total, it's 520 kruge…" Lavinah said. You widened your eyes. The most expensive product they had in the shop was 70 kruge. You looked from her to him, suddenly surprised by the apothecary's serious and stern expression.
The spell broke. Wylan straightened his shoulders, the negotiator back in control. "Seems fair. The price is just." He paid with a wad of bills, without haggling, without bargaining, his movements now efficient and decisive. The wrapped package was still on the counter, an elephant in the room that everyone ignored.
With the box under his arm, Wylan gave a final nod. His eyes met yours for the last time, and what you saw in them wasn't a threat, but a silent promise that sounded like "This isn't over."
He left. The doorbell chimed, and the silence that followed was thick and heavy.
Lavinah didn't look at the money. Her gaze was fixed on the brown paper package, her expression a mixture of distaste and resignation. "What is that?" she asked.
"He said it was from a friend who saw one of my performances. Not a payment, not a thank you… A proposal," you explained, letting your fingers carefully touch the edge of the wrapping, with no mention or intention of opening it.
"If that package is from who I think it is, then it's not a proposal either, dear." Lavinah leaned in, kissing your temple in a sweet but also worried gesture. "It's a warning, and I think the story is longer than that. I'll make some tea. I'll be waiting for you upstairs."
Lavinah went up the stairs with quick but heavy steps, leaving you alone in the shop enveloped in a sudden, oppressive silence. The chime of the bell still echoed in your ears, but now it sounded like a warning bell.
Your eyes were drawn back to the package wrapped in brown paper. It rested on the polished wooden counter like a stain, a dark and indecipherable point in the center of your new world. A proposal. Wylan's word echoed in your mind, but now it sounded different, filtered through Lavinah's warning. A warning.
Your heart, which until then had been beating rapidly from pure fear, now ached in a strange and complex way. The image of Wylan's eyes, wide with incredulity as he read the note you had written so carefully, was etched on your retina. In that brief instant, you hadn't seen a dangerous Crow, but a person. Someone like you, trying to navigate a world that wasn't always made for them. It had been an act of instinct, of pure human empathy, and he had responded with the first spark of something genuine.
But in Ketterdam, kindness was a rare and dangerous currency.
You reached out, your fingers hovering over the string that held the package closed. The gesture wasn't to open it—the instinct for self-preservation was stronger than curiosity—but to trace its outline. It was soft to the touch, but felt heavy as lead, laden with all the unspoken intentions and the consequences it carried.
You had refused the gift, but had involuntarily accepted the game.
Your gaze was involuntarily drawn to the dark beams of the ceiling. The air seemed lighter now, the threatening pressure had dissipated. Inej was gone. But the sensation of having been seen, truly seen, by two pairs of eyes so different — Wylan's, full of calculating perplexity, and Inej's, invisible and omniscient — was a mark that wouldn't leave you anytime soon.
With a deep sigh that seemed to come from the depths of your soul, you picked up the package. It wasn't time for answers. It was time for tea, for Lavinah's weary wisdom, and to prepare for the storm that, you knew, had just been formally invited to arrive.
My native language isn't English, everything I know is self-taught, so please forgive any mistakes or confusing parts. Feel free to call me out on anything.
I don't have specific posting days, but I'll try to post once a week.
This story was born impulsively and without much prior planning. So we'll discover together what direction this plot will take.
Nothing is decided, so leave your opinions in the comments, who knows, maybe we can build this narrative together.
I'm nearly done with the second chapter, but I'm stuck on one thing: the romance for [Name].
My first idea was to keep the Crows in their canonical pairs (Jesper/Wylan, Kaz/Inej, Matthias/Nina) and have [Name] get together with one of those couples. But then I had another idea—what if the whole group was in a polyamorous relationship, and [Name] was the seventh member?
Which scenario would you find more interesting?"
Kaz and Inej + [Name]
Matthias e Nina + [Name]
Jesper x Wylan + [Name]
Poly! Crows + [Name]
Voting ended onAug 28, 2025
I'm also totally open to other ideas, so please share any thoughts you have in the comments! All suggestions are welcome.
Chapter 2: Portraits on the wall where my face isn't...
Author's notes:
Eita, another chapter where I might have overdone it a bit. In this one, I wanted to start embroidering [Name]'s experience with her siblings. I didn't really like how it turned out, but I have no idea what exactly bothers me about it to change. So, that's it.
Let me know what you think. Until the next chapter ≽^•⩊•^≼
🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ
“We only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice.”
- John Berger
[Name] skated as if traffic laws didn't exist, as if, with just a little more speed, she wouldn't go flying off the sidewalks of Gotham. She had lost track of the damn time. To hell with her dead phone and that useless Cuckoo clock that only worked when it felt like it.
After a pleasant afternoon coffee with Mavi's family, which included a divine mandioca cake, [Name] noticed it was a little less than 17 minutes to 7 PM sharp. From Mavi's house to the Manor was, on a good day, about 30 to 40 minutes.
Let's just say that, with desperation and perseverance, she managed to get home just as the main clock struck exactly 7:13 PM. The 13 minutes are the charm of being fashionably late, she joked to herself, hoping Bruce and the others would see it that way too.
She hurried in through the front door, flying up the stairs like someone fleeing something, balancing her skateboard, her bag, and the box with Mavi's more-than-special gift in her arms. Dumping the skateboard and bag haphazardly on the bed, she carefully hid the simple cardboard box inside the wardrobe.
Alfred knew [Name] preferred to take care of cleaning and maintaining her own room herself. He would hardly ever rummage around in there.
[Name] didn't have time to actually get ready for dinner, so she just took off the hoodie she was wearing earlier and threw on a black graphic tee with an image of Monet's Water Lilies, casually pulling her hair back.
She hurried downstairs, imagining Alfred would give her a gentle scolding about punctuality. To him, an unjustified delay existed on the fine line between blasphemy and a heinous crime.
While laughing at her own thought, [Name] didn't need to get very close to the dining room to hear the conversations and laughter from Dick, along with some clipped replies from Jason and the infuriating rudeness of Damian. [Name] stopped for a few seconds, breathing as deeply as possible, counting to 30 in her head, and wishing that, by some coincidence, the chandelier above her would suddenly lose its will to remain hanging from the ceiling.
When the accident didn't happen — unfortunately, in her opinion — she pushed open the dark wooden double doors that granted the dining room a bit more privacy. At the soft sound of the door closing behind her, the room fell silent at once, as if a blanket had been thrown over the mild noise her family was making.
She lifted her eyes, quickly understanding the tension that had so suddenly filled the room: they had forgotten her. Again. Another fucking time.
The family dining table was smaller than those used for Bruce's banquets or charity galas, but it was made to accommodate not only the magnate's numerous children but also their respective partners and close friends, so there was no chance of there not being enough chairs. However, when it came to dinnerware, that was a different story.
Nine place settings were distributed around the table. Nine plates, nine glasses, nine sets of cutlery, nine napkins, etc. The problem was, counting her, there were 10 people there. The math didn't add up.
[Name] carefully let her eyes sweep over everyone seated at the table. Bruce was at the head, staring at her with the same inexpressive, somber look he always directed her way (it was like he always saw right through her, never her); Damian was on his right, Jason on his left; Dick next to Damian, Cassandra next to Jason, Tim next to Jason, and Stephanie following after. Now, next to Dick, was a person [Name] had never seen before. He was redheaded, with leaf-green eyes that might have made her blush — though, if she were to compare redheads, MJ had a more delicate and handsome charm.
"Miss [Name], I thought the young lady would not be attending…" said Alfred, entering the dining room from the kitchen entrance. The old butler looked mortified to have been an accomplice in this forgetfulness. Before [Name] could respond, the redheaded man was faster.
"I'm sorry, I think I might be in your seat. My apologies for that." He made a move to get up, but his plate had already been served, and [Name] really couldn't blame him for the situation.
"Ah, no, please, stay," she said, sweetening her voice and smiling at him with delicacy, but honesty to a certain extent. "It's no problem at all, trust me, I'm used to it," she joked in a light tone, but there was an accusation between the lines — not directed at the redhead. "At least I'll get to have dinner in my room, that's what I wanted anyway, so thank you, Mister…?"
"You can call me Wally, Wally West. It's a pleasure." He introduced himself. [Name] did the same. Turning to the butler.
[Name] just gave a slight nod to Alfred, her smile turning apologetic, as if to say: It's okay, Alfie. I know it wasn't on purpose. As she turned to leave, her name was called coldly by Bruce's authoritative voice. She didn't turn around, just looked over her shoulder with her hand on the doorknob, boredom in her eyes.
"I thought you weren't coming. You never liked these dinners," he said, as if that didn't sound like a pathetic excuse for a justification. The man furrowed his brow in that characteristic way that almost always pushed the right buttons to make her lose her patience.
[Name] didn't answer immediately, just let out a scoffing laugh, raising her eyebrows as if she'd never heard of such a thing.
"It's fine, Bruce. Alfred said you asked all your children to attend, that Richard was visiting. I guess I misunderstood…" she said, shrugging. Her tone seemed calm, indifferent even, but again, between the lines, was the message: [Name] hadn't misunderstood the part about it being a mandatory request for attendance; rather, she wasn't among the children considered by Bruce. For the children, yes, attendance was mandatory. She wasn't even that in his eyes.
"[Name]-" Dick tried to speak, his tone showing that forced tenderness he only used with her or with guests he pretended to tolerate at the seasonal galas held at Wayne Manor.
"Alfie? Would you mind bringing a portion up for me, please? I'll eat in my room," she interrupted the man, already halfway out of the dining room. The door closed softly behind her, once again.
She missed Wally West's surprised and somewhat enchanted whistle.
"You didn't tell me your sister was so… amiable. She's got personality," he joked. Jason shot him a look that would make an average criminal cry, but all West did was keep staring at the door [Name] had exited through. She certainly knew how to make her opinions clear and leave a mark on those who had the pleasure of meeting her.
Back in the safety of her room, [Name] sighed heavily. Part of her was relieved not to have to spend the next hour trapped at that table, forcing herself to swallow dinner while being ignored by everyone around her, listening to endless conversations she knew she wasn't welcome to join.
And God help Dick if he came with his fake interest in her life again, she thought, shuddering with disgust. He was always like that: a model brother to the others, a disastrous farce in [Name]'s eyes.
[Name] changed into a baggy, worn-out pajama set, grateful to be able to flop onto her bed while waiting for Alfred and her dinner. She stretched out on the soft mattress, sighing as she hugged one of the pillows stained with dry, old paint. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, began picking at the flecks of dried paint on the fabric.
[Name] let her thoughts drift to various subjects, anything to soften the bubbling anger and frustrating sadness accumulating in her chest. She should be used to it by now; it wasn't the first time and it would hardly be the last. She knew that. So why did it still hurt? Why did a part of her still want to crawl back, to humiliate herself for a bit of attention? They don't deserve you and you don't need them, you don't want them in your life, you already have people who love you and they are more than enough, [Name] thought and repeated it like a mental mantra.
For some reason, her thoughts turned to the box hidden in her wardrobe. A tempting thought to slip into the suit and throw herself out the window. [Name] had done it once before, back in the beginning, wearing a hoodie customized by Miles and a red bandana hiding the lower part of her face. She laughed at the memory of Morales teaching her how to swing on webs, Hobie teaching her how to use gravity to her advantage — Hobie's lessons always seemed frighteningly similar to the training baby birds get in the cruel wild. [Name] lost count of how many times the cunning punk had pushed her off buildings or bridges.
She should have insisted on it, let her friends train her, maybe accepted Gwen's invitation to the Spider Society. Traveling between dimensions. Maybe her real home was out there.
"You should come with us. See what it's like. More Spiders there than you'll be able to count in your lifetime," Brown joked, flopping down next to [Name]. He handed her a burrito wrapped in foil.
"Yeah, you speak so highly of O'Hara, I'm just dying to meet him. Sounds like a real sweetheart," [Name] replied sarcastically, pulling her bandana down to take a bite of the food. Hobie did the same with his mask, leaving only his mouth visible. His lip ring reflected the rays of the setting sun.
"Ah yes, our great leader…" he replied in a mocking tone, shaking his head negatively.
A comfortable silence stretched for a few seconds, broken only by the sound of chewing. The two of you were waiting for the rest of the group. Miles and Gwen, who were supposed to have arrived 15 minutes ago.
"Y'know… When Miles found out about the society, the Humble, Peace-and-Love Spider-Man practically begged to get in. You didn't… You were the first Spider to not wanna join…" Hobie said, finishing his burrito. "Don't believe in groups either?"
[Name] laughed, swallowing a particularly large bite.
"I'm scared…" she began. Hobie cut a wisecrack short when he saw [Name]'s eyes focused on the horizon. The orbs, with the golden reflection of the sunset, looked alive, pools of liquid gold, yet unfocused, watching far beyond. "I'm scared I won't want to come back. I'm scared that once I see there are other worlds, infinite possibilities, I'll never want to come back here again…"
"But you got people here. Those friends of yours, Babi and MD. You got the old butler too, innit?" Hobie said. "You wouldn't have the heart to leave 'em behind."
[Name] laughed briefly at the name swap. Hobie always did that with people outside his close circle.
"Would I?" [Name] asked. She wasn't so sure herself. "Mavi's gonna be a famous fashion designer. You'd get along. She also wants to break the government with style and rebellion," she started, leaning over to rest against Hobie. Eyes still distant. Always distant. Hobie was afraid that one day, [Name] would go far enough that she couldn't come back from her thoughts. "MJ feels more openly, but he has Mavi and I know she can be strong for both of them. And Alfred, well… He has a whole family to take care of. I'm sure they'd all live just fine without me."
[Name] shrugged. In her mind, she would miss them more than they would miss her. Her presence wasn't that important; they would survive just fine without her. Hobie laughed with impatience, like when someone has a sharp contrary comment but decides at the last minute it's not the right time to say it.
"Sometimes, you're really bleedin' oblivious to the effect you have on people," he said finally, slinging an arm over her shoulders. The closest to a hug Hobie would offer anyone. His grip was good; [Name] sighed, closing her eyes and enjoying those few extra seconds where everything was quiet, including her thoughts.
[Name] was snapped out of her moment of reflection by a soft knock on the door; from the cadence, she already knew who it was. A permissive murmur escaped her, and soon Alfred entered holding a tray with dinner.
"Good evening, Miss [Name]…" said the butler. He entered like a kicked old puppy, clear guilt on his time-worn face. [Name] made a hand gesture, sweeping away the apology Alfred was about to offer.
"Don't even waste your breath, Alfie. I'm not angry, much less hurt. You run this mansion single-handedly, you probably cooked the whole meal by yourself. I can't realistically expect you to keep me in mind 24/7. You are still human… Well, I think," the girl said, smiling, as she dragged herself to the edge of the bed. "And I still got to eat in my room. For me, it was clearly a win-win," she joked, trying to lighten the mood.
Alfred looked at her with tender but sad eyes, like someone who knows better, as if he saw something [Name] was clearly trying to ignore.
"I am always grateful for your kindness, Miss [Name]," the man said, arranging the dinner on the desk carefully. [Name] laughed when she saw, on a smaller plate, her favorite dessert. As far as she remembered, that type of dessert hadn't been on the dining table, so Alfred must have made it just for her.
"You really know how to make someone feel special," [Name] said, getting up and going to him, hugging him from the side. Alfred returned it, rubbing her back tenderly. "You can leave the dishes; I'll take them down later. You go rest, Alfie. Good night," she said, pulling away.
The man smiled, bidding her goodbye one last time, giving a slight bow before leaving the room.
[Name] sat down, digging into the food and sighing with pleasure at the taste of Alfred's spices and skills. It was paradise for her taste buds. She ate slowly, savoring every bite. She was almost finished with the main course, already eyeing the dessert, when a familiar, muffled buzz hummed through the room. If she had been even remotely focused on something else, she wouldn't have heard it.
She jumped up, walking quickly to the bed and rummaging in one of the pockets of her messenger bag. A small, decorated black pager, with a mini keyboard below the screen, blinked with a message:
Ballerina Spider:Busy?
- sent now.
Cub Spider:Just finishing eating
Why?
- sent now
Ballerina Spider:
20 mins.
Central building on Third Ave.
Waiting :P
- sent now
Cub Spider:On my way
- sent now
Looking at the dessert with puppy-dog eyes, [Name] just piled everything onto the tray. She needed to hurry; it would take about 20 minutes to skate to that spot on Third Avenue.
I need to hurry, she thought, leaving her room with a certain lightness in her step.
[Name] slid through the shadowy corridors of Wayne Manor like the shadow she had grown accustomed to being. Accustomed to not being seen.
The high, cold halls stretched out before her, a labyrinth of polished marble and dark wood, illuminated only by the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling like stars caught on wires. Her bare feet made almost no noise against the polished floor, but each step echoed in her chest like a frantic drum. She needed to be quick. Gwen was waiting, and every second counted.
The walls were lined with ancient portraits of generations of Waynes with perfect smiles and empty eyes. [Name] passed them without a glance. She knew her face wasn't among them. It never would be. And she was grateful; looking at those cold, somber portraits felt like an offense to her artistic side.
A worn red carpet snaked down the main hallway, its edges faded by time and, if one looked closely, a wine stain Jason had pretended not to spill on purpose. Further along, a small blue paint mark still lingered near the baseboard, an accident from [Name] years ago that no one had ever reported. Or, if they had noticed, they never mentioned it.
She sidestepped a suit of medieval armor that seemed to guard the emptiness with its metal hands. Bruce insisted on keeping them there, as if the house needed more ghosts.
The air smelled of wax and old flowers, but as [Name] neared the kitchen, a new scent seeped through: cinnamon, fresh coffee, and bread straight from the oven. The kitchen was the only place in the manor that still felt alive.
[Name] pushed the door open with her back, entering the kitchen with a little spring in her step. She left the tray on the counter, scraped the leftover dinner into the trash, and calmly washed the dishes she'd used. She took one last look at the dessert. I'll come back for you later, [Name] thought, stashing the dessert in a hidden corner of the refrigerator where she knew it would be safe from anyone else.
As she was putting the little container away, bent over in front of the fridge, a very characteristic shiver ran through her body. The kind that distorted the environment around her, like waves of static, sharpening her senses and always making her react in milliseconds.
[Name] turned her body, intercepting a smaller, copper-skinned hand that was reaching for her shoulder. Green eyes stared back at her, surprised, and a scowl immediately formed on the young boy's face.
Damian Al Ghul Wayne.
Or Shorty Demon, as Jason liked to call him.
In secret, Mavi had nicknamed him Little Gremlin. It always made [Name] laugh.
Seeing him so close brought back memories of when he first arrived at the manor. A little pup all teeth, snarls, and violence. She was 14. Damian was 10. No one had warned her about the new addition beforehand; she met him hours before his welcome dinner, after overhearing a whispered scolding from Alfred to Bruce, and then seeing a sulking figure sitting on the sofa in her father's study.
[Name] had been looking for Alfred.
She didn't even know why she had started searching for him, but when she saw the old man wasn't in any of his usual spots, she started treating it like a game. Alfred always disappeared like that; in fact, everyone in that house seemed to have an unsettling ability to vanish.
But they always came back. Except Jason.
Jason had vanished one night and never returned.
[Name] shook the thought away, not wanting to be sad while playing her game of find-the-butler. It was her game, and she couldn't play it sad.
She was heading to the south wing of the manor, where the study, the library, and all of Bruce's gloomy domain were located. Usually, [Name] avoided these parts like the plague, but since the search for the butler had yielded no fruitful results in other corners of the mansion, the little girl was taking drastic measures.
[Name] heard Alfred's voice, a low whisper that conveyed polite displeasure. She couldn't make out what they were talking about at first, and as she approached, everything fell silent. It was coming from Bruce's study.
"Come in…" Bruce's gruff, hoarse voice sounded. [Name] had to swallow the urge to run. She pushed the door, which was only ajar, and entered with her eyes downcast. Only when Alfred said her name tenderly did she dare to look up — not at Bruce, of course. [Name] looked at Alfred with sweet, apologetic eyes.
"I'm sorry, Alfie. I was looking for you, but I didn't want to interrupt the meeting," [Name] said, not even acknowledging her father. She only paused when she saw a smaller, strangely familiar figure sitting on the burgundy sofa in the study. He stared at her with cold, superior eyes. He was younger, but he looked at [Name] as if she were a mere, miserable, dirty child.
A boy so small shouldn't have that kind of look, she thought cautiously.
"Miss [Name], I apologize for not being able to speak with you sooner, but allow me to introduce you to your younger brother, Damian…" Alfred said, an apologetic smile on his lips.
[Name] turned to the boy, looking at him with hesitant curiosity. She took a small step closer, her hands nervously clutching the fabric of her sleeves.
"H-Hello… My name is [Name], it's a pleas—"
"You are not my sister." The childish voice that cut [Name] off was harsh, snarling, and dripping with obvious disgust. [Name] froze for a few seconds, confused. "I refuse to share blood with someone so pathetic and weak," he concluded, as if it were a universal truth.
[Name] just sighed, her eyes welling up. She looked at Alfred, as if seeking salvation, a denial that she wasn't pathetic or weak, but when her gaze briefly shifted to Bruce, her father, her own flesh and blood, a sob escaped her lips. There, in those icy blue eyes, was agreement. Not denial, not surprise at his youngest son's rudeness, but a cold agreement that she was, indeed, pathetic and weak.
The girl just turned around and left the room in silence, tears falling against her will, her cheeks burning with shame from the insults. Soon, quick footsteps were heard, and [Name] felt a tender touch on her shoulders.
"Miss [Name], I apologize on Master Damian's behalf. He… well, given his upbringing, I beg you not to take it to heart. He was raised in a hostile environment. It's not his fault," Alfred said, squeezing one of [Name]'s shoulders affectionately. She looked at him, tears gathering on her lashes like dew.
[Name] nodded, still silent, not trusting her own voice. But in her childish mind, she replayed the words, thinking and reflecting that she wasn't really sad about Damian; she barely knew him, and vice versa. Blood meant little to her. Her real sadness was for Bruce, who hadn't intervened, who hadn't scolded Damian, who hadn't moved to comfort her.
Alfred, seeking to cheer her up, took [Name] by her small hand.
"Tonight there will be a dinner to introduce and welcome Damian to the family. Master Richard will come from Bludhaven, and Tim will join us as well. Why doesn't the Young Miss help me with the dessert?" the butler offered, smiling, but his smile died when [Name] looked at him with even more hurt in her eyes.
"Th-Thank you, Alfie… But I don't feel very well right now. I think I'll go to my room," she whispered, letting go of his hand and walking away with her head down. A welcome dinner? It was funny to think that when it was her turn, she had eaten in the kitchen, with only the butler for company. No one had prepared a welcome dinner for her.
Alfred didn't force her, just nodded too. Defeated. The feeling of failure growing in his chest like a thorny rose, but without the fragrant petals.
Upon reaching her room, [Name] took a medium-sized canvas and separated a set of colors she had made herself with Alfred, mixing and creating various base tones. An old, worn-out brush was chosen — her mother's favorite brush.
For hours, until dinnertime, [Name] dedicated herself to the painting, letting her poor, hurt heart dictate every brushstroke. Her mother always said that if you diluted your bad feelings into the paint, it was a way to expel them from your chest and trap them in something beautiful. She desperately wanted to remove the feeling of inadequacy from her chest, the feeling of someone suffering an injustice but powerless against the perpetrator. Cold anger bubbled, along with the uncomfortable sensation of salty tears drying on her skin.
When Alfred knocked on her door again to inform her that dinner would be served soon, she just refused, saying she wouldn't come down today. The butler entered the room, asking permission, and gasped when he saw the scene before him.
[Name] was perched on the stool in front of the easel, covered in splatters of various colored paints and slightly out of breath, tired. Her eyes, hard as steel, strongly reminded him of a certain masked look that went out at night to deliver justice with its own hands.
But what truly made the butler lose his breath was the medium-sized canvas on the easel. The brushstrokes were raw, betraying the youth of the hands that painted them, yet the inspiration of styles was clear: on the canvas was a brutal fusion of Caravaggio, through the dramatic use of light and shadow, and Edvard Munch, through the emotional and symbolic distortion of "The Scream." [Name] had knowledge of a master's classical technique, but also the elements of a tormented teenage soul.
The scene in the painting seemed to be shown through a frame within a frame, an ajar door emphasizing that the point of view comes from an observer excluded from the focal scene. Through the door, one could see a sumptuous environment with a long mahogany table, a crystal chandelier on the ceiling, and expensive tapestries. Everything was painted in warm colors—golds, amber, burgundy—but blurred and distorted to give an air of a happy memory that wasn't hers.
At the center of the composition, the only thing painted with sharp clarity, was an empty chair at the dinner table. It was the chair that should have been hers. It was pulled out, as if someone had gotten up, but it was perfectly clean and intact, with no utensils or cutlery in front of it, contrasting with the rest of the table, laden with food and used cutlery.
For a second, Alfred wanted to cry, wanted to go to her and hug her tightly, but he just cleared his throat, nodded, and said he would bring her something to eat soon. The butler left the room with a heavy heart, already planning another scolding for Bruce about these actions.
That night, [Name] took a long bath, scrubbing to remove the paint stains that had marred her skin. She felt light in the bathtub, the anger soothed and the frustration just an echo easily ignored.
When she got out, Alfred had already left her dinner on the desk. She ate calmly, looking at the painting resting to dry completely, smiling at the work she had put into it. It was morbid, but it wasn't just sadness. There was her contained anger, envy, unrequited love, and an ancient pain. The perfect technique served to highlight the inner chaos.
Her mother really was very wise. Locking her bad feelings in paint meant [Name] didn't have to carry them in her heart.
After finishing eating and leaving the dishes by the door for Alfred to collect later—she always took her own dishes down to clean them, but particularly that night, she didn't want any chance of running into Bruce or her brothers, especially Damian — she retired to sleep.
[Name] didn't take long to fall asleep, her arms still aching from the hours spent perched on the stool, painting every detail with care. However, when it was still too dark to mark the dawn, [Name] woke up startled by the sound of fabric being torn.
The first thing she could make out, given the darkness of the room, was a small figure shredding her painting, still on the easel. Strips of canvas fabric scattered around the room with a rustling sound, while the figure used something resembling a long sword to destroy even the wood of the easel.
With the sudden movement of the girl sitting up in her bed and turning on the bedside lamp, the figure, now not so mysterious, turned around. Damian looked beyond angry, panting from the lack of control in his actions. He dropped a piece of the canvas frame wood and approached like a great predator cornering its prey.
"You are a disgrace of a firstborn," he said in a snarl. "I refuse, I deny believing that you are the one who will inherit the Wayne empire. You are weak, pathetic, a miserable excuse for an heir. I am disgusted to know I share half my DNA with someone so… useless," he continued, getting closer and closer.
[Name] didn't latch onto his words; she was far more focused on the katana, a blade she now recognized, gleaming with a mute threat in the boy's hands. If it was capable of chopping up the wooden easel, what wouldn't it do to her flesh?
She screamed when Damian agilely jumped onto her bed, pinning her under his weight. Even though [Name] was 4 years older, she could do little against his grip. The blade was positioned on her shoulder, pushed just enough to break the skin, scaring her, making it burn. She tried to push him away, but he just pushed the blade in a little deeper.
"I will kill you. I will free our father from a failed child. I will give him a real heir," he said, raising his wrist as if to deliver the final blow. [Name] screamed again, landing a direct punch to Damian's nose. Whether dazed by anger or surprise that she fought back, Damian lost his balance slightly, causing the wound on [Name]'s shoulder to tear open more. She screamed loudly.
She didn't know exactly how long it took, but soon Damian was pulled away from her, the blade also leaving her body, tearing the wound even more. She cried, scrambling to the corner of the bed, hugging herself, as her pajamas, once light blue, began to be painted crimson.
The sweet, sickening smell of copper made the memories of her mother's death return. [Name] felt everything spin, her consciousness threatening to abandon her alarmingly.
Before everything went black, [Name] saw Dick holding Damian, looking at his red nose with concern, saying something to him that she couldn't hear. Tim was in the doorway, watching everything with palpable surprise. He was looking at Dick and Damian, but not at her. Not at the one who was bleeding, the one who had been attacked in her own bed while she slept. No, they seemed worried about Damian, not about her.
[Name] closed her eyes just as Alfred burst through the door, running to her, Bruce behind him, but, like the others, he went straight to Damian.
The next morning, [Name] woke up in a different room. Her shoulder throbbed and ached, but she forced herself to get up anyway. She was wearing different pajamas and could feel, even through the soft fabric, the bandage wrapping her shoulder and torso. She hissed and whimpered as she got up.
Alfred entered again quickly, as if he sensed she was awake.
"Young Miss, please, be careful…" He approached, helping her back to bed. She was weak, trembling, and it seemed a simple breeze could knock her over.
Over the next few hours, Alfred apologized in every way expressible in words, swearing it would never happen again and that Damian was very sorry for what he had done. The butler tried to talk again about how Damian's upbringing was to blame for his behavior and that [Name] wouldn't need to worry anymore.
"But will he still be living here?" [Name] asked quietly, not looking at Alfred.
"Yes, Miss. He is, after all, still Master Bruce's son," he said, as if the question itself were unthinkable.
"And so am I, but he hasn't even come by." The words slipped out after a few minutes of silence.
"He left, Miss," Alfred said, the words seeming to contain glass, hurting his throat on the way out. Guilt. [Name] understood instantly.
"And Dick, and Tim, and, of course, Damian too. I imagine," she whispered.
"Miss, they are—"
"It's fine, Alfred. I'm still sleepy, I'm going to get some more rest." Before Alfred could even say anything, [Name] just lay down, turning to the other side, hiding under the covers. The man tried to call her, to turn her gently, but gave up when she didn't respond.
Bruce, Dick, and Tim had left, most likely taking Damian on a tour of Gotham. No punishments, no consequences… He had tried to kill her, and that was that.
After that day, [Name] made sure to always keep her distance from any Wayne, adopted or not. Even Alfred felt the shift in the dynamic within the Manor. It wasn't as if [Name] lived in fear or with a grudge; it was distrust, the kind you have when you're on enemy territory. High walls, never distracted. [Name] no longer trusted her family to protect her, to keep her safe — for God's sake, she didn't even trust Alfred for that anymore.
It was just one step closer to the final straw.
[Name] was pulled from another flashback by a tug. Damian was trying to free himself from the gentle grip of her hand. His eyes were wide, surprised, even a little fearful of why his weak, pathetic biological sister didn't seem to react to the tugs he was giving to free his wrist. She didn't even seem to be exerting any effort to hold him, regardless of the strength he used to break free.
"Whoa…" she said, understanding the situation, opening her fingers and letting him take an almost comical number of steps back. "What do you want, Damian?" she asked, biting back a laugh at how small he seemed now, looking at her suspiciously.
"H-How did you…?" he began, as if to question how on earth she could be that strong, but he recomposed himself fairly quickly. Now staring at her accusingly. "You embarrassed our father today. Again." His tone returned to the same disgusted snarl Damian always seemed to use when talking to her. Before, [Name] would just ignore it, leave the room the moment the boy set his emerald eyes on her. Partly out of fear — she could still feel a phantom numbness in the scar on her shoulder — but partly out of pure exhaustion.
He wasn't worth it, none of them were, she thought.
"Oh yes, I embarrassed Bruce, because apparently he told Alfred it was mandatory for all his children to attend, but yet, there was no place for me at the table." [Name] feigned a thoughtful grimace, as if she were deeply pondering the entire situation. "Yeah, no, no, I don't see how that's my fault. He kinda embarrassed himself, so… Better luck next time?" she said with a shrug, turning to leave.
Before she could actually walk away, that cold sensation came again, the shiver on her nape screamed a microsecond before Damian's hand closed around her arm.
Surprisingly for Damian, it was just a touch. A gentle but firm grip to stop her from leaving, not a strike. But for [Name], it wasn't just a touch.
She thought she had gotten over it; it was a trauma, yes, but she no longer felt the same raw, real fear. The touch was cold, the kind of cold that comes from a blade against skin, just like years ago. It was the shock in the eyes of a ten-year-old boy who had no mercy, only a mission. It was the phantom pain of the scar on her shoulder, throbbing again, a sudden, sharp burn as if the wound were fresh once more.
This time she didn't think, didn't simply dodge. She reacted.
In one fluid motion, too fast to be perceived, her free hand covered his, her fingers — with a force that made his bones creak under the pressure — closed like a steel trap for the second time, but without the gentleness of before. It wasn't a fighting move. It was a survival move. Pure, raw instinct, triggered by the touch of the only family member who had ever truly tried to erase her existence.
She pulled him forward, turning to face him. There was no fear in her eyes now. There was something far more dangerous: a cold, silent hatred, a poorly healed wound bleeding pure rage. The mask of indifference shattered completely.
"I'm only going to say this once, Damian. Take your hand off me." Her voice came out in a low hiss, laden with a threat so palpable the air seemed to chill several degrees. "Don't touch me. Ever again."
Damian froze. Not from the pain in his wrist, though it was considerable, but from what he saw on her face. It was the same look he saw in the criminals and enemies who had been cornered, who had nothing left to lose. It was a look he was accustomed to causing, only, for the first time, he wasn't seeing it through the mask of Robin or the mantle of the League. He was seeing it face to face, coming from the eyes of his sister.
He let go of her arm as if burned.
[Name] pushed his hand away with contempt, releasing him. She was breathing deeply, trying to recalibrate, trying to push the sensations back into the dark place they came from.
Damian took a step back, not out of fear of her strength, but from the impact of that visceral reaction. He stared at her, and the arrogance in his eyes gave way to deep confusion and, perhaps, the first glimpse of a horrifying understanding. He had hurt her, hadn't he?
"I… I wasn't going to attack you," he said, his voice a bit lower, the "snarl" gone.
"Everything that comes from you is an attack, Damian. It's the only thing you know how to do," she spat, rubbing her arm where he had touched her, as if trying to erase the sensation.
Before he could formulate another word, another excuse or accusation, the muffled sound of a bzzz-bzzz came from inside the pocket of [Name]'s jacket.
The pager.
[Name]'s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Gwen, shit. Urgency took over again, smothering some of the anger. She couldn't afford to get stuck in this dysfunctional family drama; she had a better place to be.
She completely ignored Damian, turning and walking quickly toward the exit, heading for the stairs at a brisk pace.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice came from behind her, still confused but regaining some of its accusatory tone.
[Name] was already halfway down the stairs, but she didn't deign to stop, or even look over her shoulder. She just continued on her way to her room, slamming and locking the door behind her, just in case Damian was feeling suicidal enough to follow her there.
Ballerina Spider:You coming?
- sent now.
The message read. [Name] typed a quick little lie, tossing the pager onto the bed.
Cub Spider:
Almost there…
Traffic T-T
- sent now
She looked at the skateboard, a nervous excitement bubbling in her stomach with a tempting idea. Her eyes drifted to the wardrobe, a slightly anxious expression taking over her features. What if…
Not letting the thought complete, [Name] began pulling off her clothes with clumsy haste. Not a graceful sight for someone who had just outmaneuvered a born and bred assassin. She pulled on the suit, right down to the boots.
The result was even better than she could have imagined. She looked badass. There was no other way to describe it.
[Name] pulled on another layer of clothes to hide the hero uniform. Baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. She thought she looked like a little dumpling with the extra layers, but honestly, it was all she had for now.
With the mask hidden in the hoodie pocket, along with the pager, she approached the window. She wasn't going to test her luck with the back doors this time; she'd choose an even better exit.
The window opened with a low creak; she was grateful her room was in the wing opposite the others'. She wasn't next to anyone, and that made her more confident as she stepped out onto the balcony, swinging one leg over the parapet.
A laugh wanted to bubble up in her chest, the flames of rebellion growing and spreading. She'd missed this feeling these past few days. With one last look around, [Name] jumped from her perch. The third floor was high enough to do damage, but she seemed exempt from the rules of gravity, especially when she landed gracefully on the well-manicured lawn of the garden. Running through the shadows like a thief escaping a crime scene, [Name] practically dissolved into the darkness, leaving Wayne lands behind.
She would have melted into the Gotham night completely unseen, just another shadow among shadows, if not for the faint, glowing ember of a cigarette tracing an arc in the darkness of the gardens. Perched on a low stone wall far from the mansion's golden-lit windows, a somber figure was just taking a long drag, seeking a moment of solitude away from the oppressive weight of the manor's walls. His eyes, accustomed to scanning for movement in the dark, caught the furtive shape darting from the third-floor balcony with practiced, unnerving grace.
Jason stared at the figure disappearing from his view with an incredulous laugh and raised eyebrows. The suspicious clothing, the agile and silent escape through the garden… he knew that M.O. It was everybody's in that crazy house, at some point.
A slow, malicious smile spread across his face. "Well, well, well…" he murmured to himself, his voice a low, amused growl. "Seems like someone here finally found a spine… or is in some deep fucking trouble."
He scratched his chin, pondering. Part of him – the part that still carried a shred of fraternal guilt and responsibility – told him to follow her, or at least tell the old bat that his only "normal" offspring was sneaking around. It wasn't safe for her.
The other part, the bigger and louder one, saw that and felt a huge, criminal, almost paternal pride.
"Atta girl," he grumbled, shaking his head with a muffled laugh. "Get into trouble properly. And if you're gonna join a gang, at least pick one that pays well."
He shrugged and continued on his way toward the manor, already filing the information away for possible future blackmail or just to throw in Bruce's face at a family dinner. This was promising, and now he was curious to see how it would play out.
Author's Notes:
Valha-me, Nossa Senhora, this chapter turned out much longer than I originally imagined. I just wanted something introductory to give a little background on [Name] and her friends, my original characters.
Forgive me for being so long, and I apologize in advance if anything sounded strange. Writing in another language is dauntingly challenging in every way.
P.S.: Adding, in this work MJ is male.
🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ🕷Ꮺ
"Gotham taught me this: even ghosts need colors.
So I paint myself into existence.
(And wait for someone to look.)"
— [Name]'s sketchbook margin, found years later
The smell of water-based paint was [Name]'s equivalent of calming perfume, even as her wrist began to ache from the awkward position. She stood on tiptoes atop her dresser, one leg bent and resting on the bookshelf for stability, her body stretched in a semi-contortion as she finished detailing a massive mural that climbed from mid-wall to ceiling with Posca markers.
It was an amorphous silhouette, utterly black with neon purple accents, countless multicolored eyes scattered across its shadowy form like patterns, gazing in every direction. [Name] hummed a bubblegum pop song she must have heard on one of Gwen's shared playlists.
[Name]'s room wasn't a space, it was a manifesto.
The original white walls of what had once been a mere guest room had long been devoured by layers of paint and spray, torn stickers, and even lipstick smears in creative protest. Not a single inch remained untouched: it was a giant sketchbook where every scribble told a story.
To the left of her bed, a forest of graffiti letters (a gift from Miles during his visit) pulsed in red and blue, declaring "GET MAD. GET CRAZY." in warped blocks that appeared to melt and a little cute sunflower doodle.
On the ceiling, a counterfeit night sky (a collaborative effort with Mavi and MJ) glowed with phosphorescent stars and invented constellations. Her favorite part was the cosmic spider weaving threads between light fixtures (Gwen's contribution) and a stenciled anti-capitalist punk poster above her headboard (Hobie's sole responsibility).
Behind the door, a tribute to her mother: a reproduction of an unfinished painting [Name] had found among her mother's sketches, depicting a woman viewed from behind, with abstract shapes and drips of paint transforming into butterfly wings at the edges.
There was chaos, but even the mess was calculated.
Dried brushes overflowed from recycled tin cans (some still bearing soup labels decorated with colorful duct tape—a relic from their apartment days). Open notebooks displayed frantic sketches: anatomy studies, faces distorted by rage, drawings of Wayne family members with horns and tails (Damian hated his). Clean and dirty clothes mingled on the floor, but the oil paints stood organized by hue in a handcrafted wooden box—a gift from Alfred.
And at the hurricane's eye: the disaster-bed, covered in acrylic-stained blankets, a teddy bear recovering from an "attack" (years ago, Jason had "helped" give it a pirate eye patch), and a moon-shaped lamp casting blue shadows on the walls.
This was her sanctuary, her oasis in a perpetually cold and shadowed house.
[Name] was putting final touches on an amber iris when she heard an exaggerated throat-clearing behind her. She turned too quickly, making the furniture tremble. A small glass figurine nearly toppled from the shelf, but she caught it mid-air. Alfred, who'd been watching the scene with concern, almost flung the tea tray across the room.
"Good heavens, Miss [Name]," Alfred said, setting the tray on the bed and approaching with outstretched arms. "You'll be the death of me one day. Come down from there, please."
[Name] laughed, waving off his concerns as excessive. She carefully lowered her leg from the shelf, standing fully on the dresser.
"You worry too much, Alfie," she teased before jumping down with impressive ease, landing with a theatrical flourish like a performer acknowledging applause. Alfred paled several shades but relaxed once her feet touched ground. "See? Still in one piece," she joked, spinning to prove her point.
The butler chuckled at her antics, shaking his head at behavior so childish for a seventeen-year-old. His fond gaze scanned her youthful, smiling face just as it had years ago when she first crossed the manor's wengé double doors. She'd worn a yellow daisy-patterned set, scuffed black doll shoes stained with carmine (not paint).
Gotham had a way of dissolving people into silhouettes.
[Name] learned that early, watching from her apartment window as rain smudged the streets into watercolor gloom. But her mother had been different—a woman cut from brighter paper, all honey-laughter and paint-stained hands. "Ghosts aren't just white, little butterfly," she'd once said, dabbing violet on [Name]'s cheeks. "They're the colors people leave behind."
Now, facing Wayne Manor's intimidating entrance hall with Alfred's steadying hand on her shoulder, [Name] wondered if her mother knew she'd become one.
"This is your home now, Miss [Name]..." Alfred whispered gently, his kind but watchful eyes tracing her tear-swollen face. "And if I may, nothing I say will ease your pain today. But know this: you're not alone. This house may feel cold now, and we may be strangers... but I give you my word—there will always be a seat at the table, an ear to listen, and honeyed tea when the world feels too gray."
He guided her to a bedroom nearly as large as their old apartment's combined living space—but lifeless. Sterile white.
It should have intimidated her, made the pit in her stomach yawn wider. Yet her mother's voice surfaced again, warm as summer's first light:
"Look, little butterfly... You know why blank rooms are best? Not because they're pretty. It's because they're afraid."
An imaginary pause, the phantom scent of linseed oil and cheap coffee clinging to memory.
"White walls are cowards. They stay 'perfect' because they dread mistakes. But then—" her voice turned theatrical, "—comes an artist with a brush and courage. One red stroke where it doesn't belong, and suddenly... the whole white trembles! Because it knows that stroke will bloom into flowers, the flowers into gardens, and those gardens? Oh, they'll sing so loud no one remembers this was ever just... boring paint."
Another pause. A ghost-kiss to her forehead.
"So don't fear the white, my painter. Let it fear you.”
[Name] sniffled. Alfred's concern spiked until she turned with a watery smile, cheeks flushed from suppressed tears.
"Mr. Alfred..." Her voice wavered politely. "Do you have any paint?"
The delicate clink of porcelain snapped [Name] back to the present.
"You skipped breakfast..." Alfred noted, calmly setting a fragrant teacup and her favorite meal on the desk.
"Lost track of time," she admitted, gesturing to the new mural. A slight frown twisted her lips, she hated family meals. Dinners were tolerable (Alfred's roasted vegetables helped), but breakfasts were torture. "But I got room service, so... no regrets." She pulled out the chair with a grin.
Alfred chuckled at her attempt at humor.
"I've errands in town today. Any plans for Sunday? Need a ride?"
"Meeting friends at the park," she said, and Alfred understood she meant Mavi and MJ. "Mavi needs art supplies, and MJ's finishing a photo portfolio. Wants inspiration-hunting help."
Alfred nodded.
"If you'll be out past sunset, do inform me. I won't have you wandering Gotham after dark."
"I'll be back before you miss me," she teased, turning to her meal.
"Good. Master Dick returns tonight. Dinner at seven. No excuses. Master Bruce's orders." He was already halfway out the door, denying her protest time.
[Name] exhaled sharply, equal parts annoyed and amused by his tactical retreat. She stirred her tea with a humorless smile. Skipping wasn't an option, Dick's visits were rare, and Bruce demanded full attendance. Even if [Name] knew her presence was tolerated, not wanted.
Hell, she knew if she skipped, only Alfred would notice. When Bruce said "everyone," he meant the sons he acknowledged. Not her. Never her.
It had always been this way.
Winter in Gotham
Four months after [Name]'s arrival
Bruce's study reeked of polished wood and bitter coffee when ten-year-old [Name] nudged the heavy door open with her hip, her hands occupied with a silver tea tray borrowed from Alfred. The chamomile (the only kind she could brew) trembled in fine porcelain cups beside freshly baked spice cookies. She and Alfred had spent the morning baking them. Bruce's portion lacked icing, Alfred claimed the patriarch disliked sweets.
Bruce didn't look up from his computer. The screen's blue light turned his tired eyes to liquid ice.
"Alfred send you?" His fingers kept typing.
[Name] swallowed hard. "I... thought you might be cold." Her voice was mouse-small against the wall clock's ticking. "It's snowing... and you missed breakfast, Mr. Wayne." She never dared call him Father, never would.
She stepped like crossing a minefield, setting the tray on the only clear desk space, beside a silver-framed photo of Bruce, Dick, and Jason smiling together. [Name] wondered if a photo of her would ever grace that study's frames.
(Spoiler: she never did.)
"Alfie and I made these. They're fresh—clove, cinnamon, and—"
"Need to finish this." Bruce cut her off, finally looking at her, or rather, through her. "Thank you for the tea."
[Name] froze. Her fingers twisted the emerald-green dress Alfred had suggested (one Bruce's favorite color). The silence could've sliced skin.
As she turned to leave, Bruce muttered to his screen:
"Alfred says your school resumes next week."
[Name] whirled so fast she nearly knocked over a crystal globe. "Yes! There's a parents' event on the first—"
"Good." He was already back to work. "Asks Alfred to bring the LexCorp files for my meeting. He'll know which."
The door clicked shut behind her, its silent mechanism cruelly at odds with the thunder in [Name]'s chest. In the dark hallway, she realized two things:
Bruce hadn't asked how she was adjusting. In four months, he'd never once asked.
He wouldn't touch the tea or cookies. Alfred would retrieve them later, completely untouched.
With leaden steps, [Name] went to deliver Bruce's message.
Her "brothers" (heavy on the air quotes) were no different. After her mother, the closest thing to family had been Alfred and her friends. Chosen family, she called them. I don't need more, she'd convinced herself effortlessly.
Her mother had taught her never to force herself where she didn't belong.
[Name], sulking after schoolmate Angelina ditched her for a new friend, refused to paint—their daily ritual. Her mother dipped a brush in cadmium red and drew a line on [Name]'s wrist:
"Real love, platonic or romantic, is like good paint. Doesn't run when shaken. Doesn't fade in rain." A dramatic pause as she switched to bone black. "...But bad paint dries cracked. 'Know what we do with cracked paint?" She painted another line, thin, brittle.
[Name] watched it flake off.
"We... wipe it away?"
"Exactly!" Her mother laughed, easily rubbing the flawed stroke clean. "Never stick your heart where it's only welcome sometimes."
The wind tangled her rebellious hair as her skateboard sped across the gray city sidewalks. [Name] gripped the strap of her messenger bag tightly, there wasn't much inside: a sketchbook, compact art supplies for convenience, her wallet and phone. In her ears, discreet headphones played a new playlist on shuffle. Miles had recommended some of the tracks added there. A song about sunflowers accompanied her path as she only pushed occasionally to maintain steady speed.
She arrived at the square a few minutes late and could already spot familiar blue hair hiding under the shade of a tree, watching a redheaded boy crouched among flowering bushes, photographing a butterfly that just wanted a moment's rest.
Mavi was the alternative figure, hiding from sunlight as if she belonged to the Addams family. She wore round black-lens sunglasses, her royal blue hair divided into two messy braids with stray strands escaping. She had on a black button-up shirt with a sheer high-neck mesh top underneath. For bottoms, high-waisted shorts with a (fake) harness belt over ripped tights and, on her feet, punk-style ankle boots with fluorescent laces.
MJ, the boy buried in the bushes, had naturally curly red hair, intentionally disheveled, almost as if he'd run out of the house without brushing it, though in reality he'd probably spent ten minutes in front of the mirror to achieve that effect. He wore a slightly wrinkled white t-shirt with a faded print of an obscure 80s band (which [Name] knew he didn't actually know or had ever heard, but found at a thrift store for a fair price). Over it, a faded denim jacket with pockets full of forgotten trinkets and a pack of peppermint candies.
For bottoms, MJ wore beige cargo pants, slightly too big, with three mysterious stains on the left leg (coffee? Paint? Who knew). His belt was somewhat loose, as if it wasn't his size but he hadn't noticed. On his feet, old All-Star sneakers, one black shoelace and one red, because he'd lost the originals and improvised.
And completing his standard look, in his hands was an old Nikon FM2 camera, inherited from his grandfather, hanging from his neck. Its strap was worn and mended with duct tape.
"Look who decided to show up..." Mavi teased, pushing off from the tree trunk to greet her with a hug. The colorful-haired girl knew [Name] had used her as a skate brake, but chose to believe she just wanted a hug.
"Would you believe me if I said I overslept?" the girl tried, tossing her skateboard aside and bumping MJ's extended fist. All three wore the same friendship ring, an ugly thing of weak, opaque plastic that once imitated something glossy and jet black - Mavi wore hers on a chain around her neck. She didn't like the feeling of the band around her fingers.
"On top of a paint bucket?" The boy stood up, pointing to a dried stain near her ear.
The trio laughed, moving to a nearby bench. [Name] gently rubbed to remove the dried paint from her skin, MJ took her hand, calmly doing it for her. Mavi whistled, murmuring something about lovebirds just teasing and was nearly pushed off the bench by [Name].
"So, remind me what the plans are for today..." [Name] asked, leaning her head on Mavi's shoulder while enjoying the warmth of the morning sun rays - or at least the few rays strong enough to pierce the gray layer of clouds.
"I already finished the photos I needed for my portfolio, now I just need a computer to edit and send them," replied MJ, shaking his camera to emphasize his point.
"Great, I need to kidnap [Name] for something. We can go to my house, you can use my dad's office while me and our girl handle some business," Mavi said excitedly.
"Hmm and what things would those be? Are you committing a crime or something? I can be the getaway driver, don't leave me out," MJ teased, batting his puppy-dog eyes at both.
"Girl stuff," Mavi replied, lifting her chin in mock arrogance.
"You're non-binary..." MJ countered.
"Girl and non-binary stuff," she finished, looking at him with one eyebrow raised as if saying checkmate.
"Damn." MJ conceded defeat.
As the discussion unfolded between her friends, [Name] looked from one to the other as if watching a ping pong match. She laughed when Mavi won the argument, being pulled up from the bench by her hand.
For a moment, [Name] allowed herself to just watch her friends teasing each other while Mavi guided them through the park alongside MJ. She wouldn't classify them as childhood friends - they'd only known each other for about three years. 36 months. 1095 days. Not much when put into an adult human's perspective, but only they knew everything that had happened in that time.
Since moving to Wayne Manor, [Name] had believed the only person capable of loving her truly and unconditionally was gone forever. She knew Alfred cared for her, but not enough to put a stop to Bruce's neglect or her "brothers" picking on her. He always remembered her birthdays, her appointments and preferences, but when Bruce disappointed her, when one of her brothers clearly pushed her aside, even when Damian used violence or brutality against her, all Alfred did was wipe her tears, hug her when boundaries were truly crossed - but never, not once, did the butler physically stand against the emotional abuse hurled at the girl.
MJ and Mavi were the only ones who went out of their way to help her, to lift her up when she didn't even feel worthy of breathing. When paint and art were the only things keeping her upright. [Name] lost count of how many times they stood up to protect her. Against bullies at Gotham City High School, against Damian, in the few encounters they'd had when [Name] couldn't avoid him, and especially when Bruce, as usual, acted like a shitty father.
Sometimes, [Name] truly believed they were gifts her mother had placed in her path.
Mavi's house was simple, located in one of Gotham's quieter neighborhoods, if such a thing could exist in that city. A Queen Anne style townhouse that seemed to have escaped from a fairy tale and hidden in that silent neighborhood. Painted in faded salmon with sage green details, the house was an explosion of careless romanticism. The roof was steep with dark slate, arched dormer windows like curious eyes, the wraparound porch taken over by jasmine vines and peony pots, experiments by her florist mother.
Mavi dragged [Name] and MJ through the ornamental iron gate (also painted sage green, of course), where the scent of damp earth and lavender hit them instantly.
Inside was even better, at least in [Name]'s view. The walls were covered in floral wallpaper peeling at the corners, there was a spiral staircase with vine-shaped handrail leading to the second floor, and stained glass windows projecting colored light over stacks of books and empty perfume bottles, the latter being failed experiments by Mavi's father, a somewhat famous name in niche perfumery.
"Ah, you again..." Mavi's mother greeted jokingly, wearing dirt-covered denim overalls over a colorful t-shirt that looked like a failed tie-dye experiment. Her green military gardening boots were tossed in the kitchen corner near the back door. "Don't you kids have homes?" she teased.
The kitchen had glossy worn reddish wood boards, a cuckoo clock that hadn't worked since 2002, and dried herbs hanging like furniture. The furnishings were dark wood with some parts painted cobalt blue and lemon yellow.
"Hello to you too, Ma..." said Mavi, approaching her mother and kissing her forehead. Mavi was tall, about 5'7", while her mother barely reached 5'4". "MJ needs to use Dad's computer to send some schoolwork, while [Name] and I will be in my room." She announced, already pulling them upstairs.
[Name] and MJ barely had time to shout greetings to Mavi's mother, only hearing her say something about making cassava cake for snack.
When MJ was left to his own devices in the father's office, the two girls went straight to the attic where Mavi's room was.
The father's office was, at best, a perfumed chaos, a cross between a medieval alchemist and a distracted professor. When MJ entered, he was greeted by walls covered in faded floral wallpaper, crowded with shelves full of glass jars, each hand-labeled with names like "Graveyard Dew" or "Child's Laughter (do not use in drinks)". He laughed at the last one.
In the corner opposite the door stood an antique oak desk with stains from essential oils burned into the wood. The lighting was dim, stained glass lamps projected colorful patterns on the floor, as if sunlight had melted inside. On a table that must have once held a tea set now stood a vintage microscope atop a pile of botany books. On one of the bookshelves was an antique globe with "X" stickers marking labeled places like "Bosnia (best lavender)" and "Madagascar (stolen by pirates)".
The computer was an old desktop with an "I ❤️ Chemistry" sticker on the monitor, some keys on the keyboard were worn from overuse - Mavi's father definitely played something in his spare time. Next to the screen was a yellow post-it note saying: "DO NOT DELETE ANY FILES. SERIOUSLY."
MJ sat in the worn leather chair that creaked like a hinge that had never seen oil. When he turned on the computer, the wallpaper revealed a photo of 5-year-old Mavi dressed as a mad scientist holding a bottle of "Devil's Perfume (do not sniff)".
"If you're going to mess with my Spotify, at least pick something good." The father's voice echoed from the hallway.
MJ looked at the open playlist titled Scents & Beats (a mix of lo-fi and forest sounds). Without thinking twice, he clicked on Toxic - Britney Spears (Orchestral Cover).
From upstairs, Mavi shouted something that sounded like "MJ, I HATE YOU."
The father laughed from somewhere in the house.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, [Name] laughed at Mavi's reaction upon hearing the music playing softly under the door. She threw herself onto her friend's fluffy bed, hugging a cloud-shaped pillow, or something meant to resemble a cloud. The duvet on the bed was a patchwork made by Mavi, a mix of old shirt scraps, destroyed jeans and even a piece of her mother's graduation dress. It was more beautiful than comfortable thanks to so many different textures, but the inside was lined with fleece, making it very warm.
From her spot on the bed, the room reflected Mavi's unpredictable mind remarkably well. One wall was completely covered in burgundy velvet tapestry, with pins holding magazine cutouts, polaroids and fabric scraps, according to its owner, it was a constantly growing inspiration archive.
Around the room, floating shelves overflowed with knickknacks and books of all kinds. One shelf housed crystals and some witchcraft symbols, as far as [Name] knew, Mavi was agnostic but liked having an altar.
In the corner opposite the bed was Mavi's "work area". A huge desk that took up almost the entire wall. On it sat a vintage sewing machine, a birthday gift from her father, surrounded by colorful threads, sharp scissors and pins scattered like stars. Further along the desk was an inspiration board with photos of 90s runways, exotic birds and even a portrait of Frida Kahlo with the eyes crossed out and replaced by buttons, plus a pile of sketchbooks full of clothing designs bordering on fantastic, from a dress that looked made of dragonfly wings to a coat with iridescent scale-like texture.
"Alright, Madame Mavi... what's this super secret meeting about?" [Name] asked, rolling onto her back while eyeing the other girl suspiciously. Mavi was kneeling, pulling a box from under the bed and handing it to [Name].
"I promised myself I'd wait until your birthday, but... Well, I guess I don't have that much self-control. I finished this yesterday and couldn't keep it to myself," she confessed, shrugging, trying not to sound too emotional.
[Name] tugged the elastic cord holding the lid of the box shut. As she removed it, what lay before her was something between armor and a work of art.
The integrated hood looked like materialized shadow, a matte black fabric with hand-painted webbing that shimmered under the light like strands of wet graphite. The attached mask resembled smoked glass, transparent enough to breathe through yet opaque enough to conceal fear and, most importantly, her identity.
The torso piece was two garments stitched into one: a skin-tight long-sleeved undershirt layered with a loose cropped top. The material was hard as scale, flexible as skin, dyed a purple so deep it only revealed its hue under Mavi’s desk lamp.
“Recycled Kevlar from bulletproof vests,” Mavi explained, tracing her finger over the brushstrokes on the back that formed the image of a glitch-effect spider in graphite. “And this? Idiot-proof paint. You included. Won’t come off even if you scrub.” She smirked.
[Name] laughed, incredulous. She pulled out the next piece, this time, the pants. Cargo-style but form-fitting (Tactel + spandex), with hidden kneepads disguised under spikes and the same hand-painted webbing on black fabric. Last but not least: high-top combat boots, soles thin enough for [Name] to cling to surfaces with her abilities effortlessly, plus fingerless gloves matching the suit’s palette.
“I can’t accept this, Mavi,” [Name] stated, lifting her eyes to meet Mavi’s with a pained look. “This is for heroes, and I… I’m not one.” She folded the garments carefully, placing them back with the same reverence.
“Oh, you’re taking it. I didn’t spend six months on this for you to throw it away. You have pow—" When Mavi’s voice threatened to rise, [Name] gently, but urgently, covered her mouth, fear flickering that someone might hear. Mavi peeled the hand away tenderly, studying [Name] like a cornered animal. “You have powers, [Name]. Like it or not. You can choose to make them matter or hide and drown in self-pity.” She gripped [Name]’s hands, forcing her to meet her gaze. “And I know my best friend wouldn’t let anyone else go through what she did if she could stop it. This? It’s just… help.”
[Name] exhaled, pressing her lips into a tense line. Memories of how it all began surfaced...
It was dawn, and once again, [Name] had slipped out of Wayne Manor unnoticed.
Sometimes, she felt arrogant knowing she lived under the same roof as Gotham’s greatest detectives, yet never got caught bypassing security, dodging alarms Alfred reset nightly like clockwork. Other times, she felt worse than trash. What if they knew and just didn’t care? If Damian vanished, Bruce would move heaven and earth. If Jason went radio silent, Dick would race from Blüdhaven. But [Name]? She wasn’t worth a second thought.
Would any of them even mourn her corpse if she turned up in a ditch after some Gotham villain’s attack?
Shaking off the gloom, she pushed faster on her skateboard, hunting her target under a weak moon and too many shadows. No stars pierced Nyx’s mantle, just haze reflecting the dull silver light.
Twenty-three minutes of precise kicks later, [Name] reached the abandoned building she’d scoped for days. She crouched, slipping through a gap in the chain-link fence, the motion as mechanical as breathing. She hugged the mildew-stained walls, counting six architectural protrusions to the window boarded with loose planks. Another squeeze, and she was inside, finally breathing easy.
Flashlight in hand, she walked through the four-story husk. Once an apartment complex, now left to moths. Lucky moth, she thought, grinning.
The third floor was nearly wall-less, a cavernous space. She inhaled dust, stagnant water, and something she didn’t want to name. Her backpack hit the ground, spray cans rolling out, her stash, fresh.
Approaching one of the last intact walls, ideas buzzed in her skull. She’d sketched this piece for days. Mask over her nose, she began.
As paint hit brick, that familiar itch bloomed in her chest, the chills that curled her lips into a smile, the tremor in her hands. Graffiti had always been her refuge, her reset button.
Between strokes, she tugged headphones over her ears, cycling through Miles’ playlist. Beats became colors; her hands moved to the melody.
Then, the stillness.
A cold prickle crawled down her neck, the air itself warning her: Wrong. A touch. Light. Sliding beneath her hoodie’s collar. Her body froze before her brain registered danger.
Then, the pain.
White-hot. Chemical. Molten metal injected into her veins, magma in her bloodstream. [Name] screamed, pulling out the hoodie off. Her headphones and spray can clattered away, the latter splattering red like blood.
Her fingers found something hairy, legs thrashing against her skin. Instinct made her crush it, flinging it aside. Silence settled.
On the floor, a glow.
Her breath hitched. A spider twitched in spasms, its body pulsing green-blue, a tiny beacon in the dark.
[Name] crouched, heart pounding.
Beautiful.
And now, dead.
Its exoskeleton gleamed like fractured crystal, legs still trembling—fighting death. Unthinking, she touched the wound on her shoulder: numb now, but raised, burning when pressed.
Then the spider disintegrated.
Only glittering dust and one searing question remained:
“What the hell did you just do to me?”
That night, [Name] sprinted home, abandoning her backpack, nearly forgetting her skateboard. At the manor, she tossed the board by the back door, stumbling inside, miraculously avoiding alarms, only to collide with Tim on the stairs.
They locked eyes. Tim, in sweatpants and a black tee, empty coffee mug in hand, looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. [Name] didn’t speak, just pushed past.
“Hey…” he called softly, not wanting to wake the house.
She turned. Pale. Wide-eyed. A deer in headlights. Tim’s gaze dropped to her boots. Combat-style. Laced.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. But the evidence was there: hoodie, sweatpants (not sleepwear, but streetwear), and now the boots. [Name] sighed at his silence and kept climbing.
Bigger problems now.
In her room, she tore off her hoodie and undershirt (door locked, of course), leaving only a black sports bra. The bathroom mirror showed the wound:
Not a bite. A mark.
Two punctures, ringed by dark veins spidering under her skin. Swollen. Fever-hot.
“Shit… What do I do?” she whispered, trembling. No hospital, Alfred would demand answers. “Wait till morning? If I live that long.” The joke fell flat.
She crawled under blankets, fingertips brushing the wound’s edges, jagged, radiating heat. Not a burn. A fever.
She shuddered, praying for a nightmare.
The next five days passed in a feverish haze. [Name] writhed in bed, body aflame. Alfred threatened doctors by day six, but on day five, she woke fine.
The wound? Gone. Only twin pale dots remained.
And with their disappearance? Come abilities.
“I’m not a hero just because I can climb walls and shoot webs from my wrists, you know…” [Name] joked, shaking off the memories.
“And super strength, reflexes, agility, flexibility, bioluminescence, shoot lightning and invisibility...” Mavi listed like groceries.
“First of all, it’s enhanced strength. Second of all, I don’t ‘shoot lightning’, it’s static bursts. And I don’t turn invisible, I camouflage myself. Say it like that, I sound like Fantastic Four reject.” [Name] laughed, drumming the box. “What would I do without you?”
“Nest in a wall crack and never leave,” Mavi shot back, pulling her into a hug.
“Excuse me?!” [Name] feigned outrage. “Ever see Charlotte’s Web? I’d live in a barn loft and adopt a pig.”
Laughter erupted, until a cough cut through.
“Aww, cuddle pile? Can I join?” MJ grinned from the doorway.
“No, you ruined it. Leave, knock three times, and wait for permission,” Mavi grumbled. MJ stuck out his tongue, flopping onto the bed.
“So, she accepted the offering?” he teased. Mavi flicked her forehead.
“You knew about this?!” [Name] gasped in mock betrayal.
“Duh. Who got the Kevlar? Think it’s sold at JoAnn’s?” He dodged another flick.
“I’ll never trust you both again,” [Name] deadpanned, squirming as MJ tickled her and Mavi pinned her arms.
“Admit it, we’re the best friends ever,” the blue-haired declared.
“Say it: ‘Thank you, Mavi. Thank you, MJ. You’re amazing, and I’m the luckiest spider-human hybrid alive,’” MJ chimed.
[Name] wheezed, laughter cutting off her air, until bioluminescent marks flared across her skin. A pulse of static sent Mavi and MJ tumbling off the bed, hair standing on end, as [Name] flickered to the door, kneeling.
