“oh, pardon,” helena has been in a rush from the morning — in the middle of an active chase, if you will — but she can’t exactly afford to attract unwanted attention just to get away from her pursuers, so she needs to lose them. a muscle memory by now, to slip into all-new clothes, all-new accessories, an all-new name, and an all-new face, and pretend they’ve all belonged to her, pretend as though there is no loaded crossbow and other illicit items of interest in her designer shoulder bag. she hasn’t had the time to bring along concealer, so the jacket over her sunny dress and the shades on her face would have to do for now — but they prove to be fragile anyway, when helena looks behind for one second and accidentally runs into somebody else. she apologises first, crouches first to help and pick up their belongings, anything to signal no threat, no lose of composure — and, it’s easy to slip into an ambiguously-enough british accent as a part of her go-to disguises.
“wasn’t looking where—” when she looks up to hand over something to the other woman, there’s a pause; it’s brief, it’s imperceptible, dismissable, but there is a pause. bruce wayne’s girlfriend. or — she doesn’t care to know the details of her not-father’s personal life, she has no right to that in this world; however, she still carries the right to his eyes, that particular striking shade of steel that gets him on magazine covers and newspaper front pages, only made different because of the damning scar across her face. she hastens the transaction so she could slip on her shades faster. “—i was going, sorry,” helps faster, retrieves faster, anything to end the transaction there and then so she could go stand back up on her heels and dust off a little, preparing to exit left stat. “excuse me, bye.”
it’s an average day, an average morning, an average time. brief pockets of scattered relief within days dotted with an endless chaos. and every so often, once in awhile, there’s the blessing of this. an average day.
the average nature of the day wanes fast as soft brown eyes flick upward and recognize, stomach suddenly leaping in a swan-dive, that there is a strange recognition to those eyes. horrible. suddenly she’s eight years old again, locking steel with chestnut on one fateful evening that would tie bat and cat together with an unbreakable crimson thread. her body feels still, suddenly, frozen, a syringe of discomfort jabbing into her spine. and then the plunger jabs down.
but she grabs an arm, then, unforgiving and swift, and begins to yank aside and out of sight.
“wow, it sure is nice seeing you! i parked right over there! and i can’t go to my car alone, i’m just a girl!” voice drops lower, and those eyes, that brief second, raises suspicion and bubbling paranoia. not even medication can save this one, “who the hell are you? answer wrong and i do surgery on your fucking achilles.”
