summary: “You have reached Wayne manor. Who may be calling?” “Alfred? It's me. Can you come pick me up, please? I’ve been de-aged.”
or: batsib gets de-aged and doesn’t know what to do with their family’s meagre attempts to form a bond.
contents: crack turned serious, concept fic, angst, de-aged!batsib, batsib is gender neutral, reader is 23-ish in present-self, sassy batsib apocalypse, highly intelligent batsib, dialogue-heavy, teacher!reader, no beta we die like batsib’s interest in being involved with the batfam.
a/n: this is a concept fic, meaning i might expand on this or i might not touch this at all, so please don't get your hopes up for a part two 💀💀
word count: 2.3k
"Watch out! There's a banana peel on the floor!"
"Huh? Why would there be a—" Slip. "W-Woah!"
As if the world slowed down, you observe, frame by frame, as the liquid of a beaker comes hurtling towards your face. It's a dazzling, deep shade of purple, and bubbling.
Gods above, why is it bubbling?
You do not know what could possibly be in this mystery concoction your less-than-stellar student has attempted to secretly dispose of behind your back, or how he did it without you noticing. It's commendable, you'll give him that, but you also would have thought that university students would have more common sense by now.
You can dodge this, just a half-step to the right.
But there's another student adjacent to you.
If you dodge this, they'll get hit instead.
Upon that realisation, you sigh, close your eyes, and brace.
Of course this happens to you on a Tuesday morning.
Splash.
Floating. Drifting. Drowning. Somewhere in between.
At first, you find that you’re almost ten years into the future.
Although, this was quickly proven wrong when you ran tests. Apparently, according to a quick google search, you’re supposed to be twenty-three years old. You’re not in the future. You’re in the present, just not... your present.
10/10 explanation. No notes!
You didn't time travel, you’ve been de-aged. (Supposedly)
ring ring ring
“You have reached Wayne manor. Who may be calling?”
“Alfred? It's me. Can you come pick me up, please? I’ve been de-aged.”
And it’s nauseating how fast everything seems to be going from there, because you suddenly become everything and anything negative in such a short amount of time.
You’re dizzy. You’re confused.
You were in a laboratory, belonging to Gotham University. You were in an office. (Your office! Isn’t that exciting?). You were in a car, courtesy of Alfred.
And now you're in a cave.
You're in the Batcave.
The very last place you would ever want to find yourself in. Though, you suppose you don’t have much of a choice.
“We need to make sure that this calls for the de-ageing protocol, or if the past and present versions have switched places."
"If it is the latter, then we risk the integrity of the timeline. They need to be monitored.”
"The tech we normally use is to confirm a situation like this is being updated by Cyborg, he said we won't get it back until next week."
Even when you stand here, clothes a little too baggy, and wearing a face far too young than what it's supposed to be, even then, they are talking as if you are not there.
"Maybe we can contact a speedster to confirm?"
"Last time we relied on a Flash, they ate our entire pantry."
"Wally even ate my limited edition cheerios, the one with chocolate, marshmallows, and sprinkles. I had that imported!"
None of them are even looking at you anymore and the conversation is being steered to something different altogether. They don't care, not really. It is a little disappointing, but you did not expect anything less from them.
Typical, really.
“It’s the former," you chime, your voice cutting all chatter. Everybody is staring at you now. Good. Maybe some progress will actually be made today.
“How are you so sure?” Bruce asks, taking the time to actually look at you now. It's weird having his attention, you think.
After years of yearning for it, begging for a glance, you feel nothing short of indifference. Nonetheless, that doesn’t cover the fact that he sounds doubtful of your declaration. Because why would you, the civilian, know anything?
“I collected a sample of the leftover substance I was hit with and analysed it during the time it took for Alfred to arrive." You fish out an eppendorf tube from your pocket, filled with what substance you could salvage from the scene.
"Judging by the results, it seemed that it had residual magic properties that match similar cases of de-ageing, rather than those of time travel.”
The cave is so silent that a distant squeak from a bat echoes around you, but still, you plough through.
“As a result of being raised in a house where one of the two adults dress like a bat at night and has clinical paranoia, I had guessed that my ‘present’ self had protocols put in place if an event such as this one were to occur.”
Someone whistles lowly. “I don't remember you being a nerd before I died.”
Your eye twitches.
Jason Todd-Wayne, for you, died almost a year and a half ago. Instead of in a casket, he's leaning against the meeting table, arms crossed, and you can tell that he's much taller now. Shorter than Bruce but beats Dick by at least two inches. According to the files, he should be around twenty-four now, give or take.
You're happy for him, truly. He did not deserve the death that had befallen him. But, it would be too far to say that you liked him, let alone miss him.
How do you miss someone you didn’t know?
The thought alone leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. Maybe that's why you couldn't stop yourself from blurting out something you wouldn't normally say out loud.
“Hello, Jason. Alfred has already informed me of your reanimation. You talk an awful lot for a zombie.”
You will be the bigger person and admit that what you said is most likely uncalled for, but nothing could stop the sick satisfaction that fills your chest at the way he almost snarls at you.
Just like a rabid dog.
His resurrection must be a sore spot, you snicker to yourself.
“Lotta mouth on you for being a middle schooler—”
“What does your protocol state?” Bruce, seemingly dismissing Jason's outburst, instead raised a brow.
"Three things." You shrug, unperturbed. "One, confirm that this is a time-body swap or a de-ageing. Two, confirm whether the de-ageing is temporary. Three, confirm if the age I have turned is that of a child or adult. Given the circumstances, protocol stated to contact the Wayne manor and hope for the best.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeahhh, it got sloppy at the end but that’s mostly because present-me didn’t think this would actually happen to us.”
When the bell signals for the end of the school day, Damian is notified of your presence and your circumstance by Alfred on the drive back to the manor.
He would not be the blood son of the 'World's Greatest Detective' if he were to say that he wasn't curious about you.
You, who had next to no portraits on the walls. The only ones being of you holding your degrees and a polite smile. All of which are contained in a measly frame atop an antique ornament table at the end of the corridor.
You, who supposedly packed up everything they owned and moved out at eighteen, a year before he arrived.
You, who no longer has an assigned bedroom at the manor.
He's done research about you before.
You are single. Graduated with first class honours in all your degrees. You live in a studio apartment, despite being a lecturer and research scientist at Gotham University, and could definitely afford something more substantial. You tutor snotty Gotham Academy students on Saturdays. You are older than Drake but younger than Todd, and have lived in the manor the longest amongst the siblings, up until you moved out. You are allergic to paracetamol and strawberries. Your mother is dead.
But those are all mindless, meaningless things, things you can look up on the internet or from the latest gossip magazines (though the word ‘latest’ was a stretch, Damian thinks, seeing as the most recent magazine of you dates to before your leaving).
He knocks twice at the door. Sharp. Precise.
“Enter.”
Damian had been informed that this office used to belong to you, way back then. An office on the top floor that overlooked the garden.
Despite knowing that, when you glance up from the sprawl of pages across the long oak desk, Damian deems it far too large for somebody of your stature. Somebody of your age. His age. No matter what de-ageing situation has befallen you.
“Damian, right?”
The room is dusty from years of disuse. Even Pennyworth knows it is pointless to constantly maintain a room nobody will occupy.
“Correct.”
The shelves are lined with scripture and history. Books are even stacked on top of each other as a result of there being no more room, piles that almost reach his own height.
“Do you need something?”
Damian glances at the untouched dinner placed carefully at the edge of the desk. It is bound to be cold now.
“Why do you insist on acting like an outsider?” He is quick. Straight to the point. Efficient.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” You tilt your head to the side. You're not offended, it seems.
It's nice to know that you are not overly sensitive compared to the other emotionally driven residents of the manor.
“You are a child of this manor, yet, why do you go to such lengths to not appear as such?” There is no accusation, just interest. After all, Robin is no less a detective than Batman. He craves knowledge.
“It’s best to ask the older version of myself, Damian. What they believe and what I believe could be different.” Honest. Lackadaisical.
“What is it that you believe, then?” He prods.
“I believe that I am not a child of this manor. I am nobody’s child. I do not act like an outsider. I am an outsider. Simple as that.”
Damian does not have a reply to that. He let's the information stew in his head for a second while also asking himself questions.
Why are you dismissing his connection with you? You, his older sibling, denying your link that ties you to him. How long have you had this mindset that you do not belong here? "Father loves you, so why is it that—"
It is at that moment where it all changes.
When you change.
It's abrupt and unexpected.
Because you're laughing.
Loudly. Unabashed. Uncaring.
Damian watches your lips curl upwards. A smile so cruel and so cold does not belong on the face of a teenager. Did he once look like that when he first arrived?
“Pfft— Damian, you cannot possibly believe that Bruce loves me like everybody else in this manor.” Your laugh is empty, as if incredulous to the very concept of such a thing. It almost sends a shiver down Damian's spine.
You practically read his mind like a book. How did you know what he was thinking? Had he asked that last thought out loud?
"You bear Father’s crest, his name. That should be enough proof." Damian sputters.
"What are you talking about, Damian? Being Bruce's son, I thought you would have read my file already?" Genuine confusion.
“I have.” He has. He's read anything and everything he could about you.
“Then you should know that Bruce didn't formally adopt me, and after reading articles about my present-self, it seems that he never did.”
Oh. He had overlooked that. Like a rookie, he assumed. But Father was so quick to give Damian his surname, has Father never offered you the same? He has formally adopted every one of Damian's siblings, all of them hyphenating their former surnames with Wayne.
Why not you?
Maybe because of his baffled expression, your face finally softens again. "I watched some videos of myself earlier, of interviews and speeches. I look… satisfied. It’s nice to know that I didn’t end up dead in a ditch, or in Metropolis." You say gently, rounding the corner of the desk, and now standing in front of him.
"Damian."
He looks at you. You're the same height as he is. The same age. It was like looking into a mirror.
Yet, why do you feel so far away?
"Don't dwell on things that are out of your control. It seems to me that I've made my peace with it years ago."
And with that finishing statement, he can tell that he is being politely asked to leave.
[ EXTRA ]
You're curious about Damian. You can see Bruce in the way Damian holds himself, the way he walks, his inflection, even his eyebrows.
You've done brief research into his character. Talia al Ghul's lab grown child. Raised within the League of Assassins. Raised to be an assassin. Kept a secret from Bruce until Talia brought Damian to the manor at ten years old. A year after present-you left.
He is now Robin.
Judging by the reports and security footage, Damian is brash, and is quick to threaten violence, especially towards Tim. He does not call anybody by their first name, most likely to put emotional distance between himself and others. He is spoiled relentlessly by Dick. He is frustrated, more often than not. He is overconfident. He views everything as a competition. He smirks. He scoffs. He jeers.
But, he is kind, in a complicated sort of way.
He is vegetarian because he cares and loves any and all animals. He enjoys and appreciates the arts, and is willing to discuss its portrayal and meaning. He helps Alfred in the garden, occasionally. He aids his classmates that do not understand the material. He likes reading manga and comics. He is patient. He does not judge without reason. He does not underestimate.
Damian is not perfect by any means, but he... he is willing to learn, and you respect that.
You wonder if he would be interested in having your collection of manga you no longer read.
Growing up in Gotham was as well as any dumpster fire could go. The manor was just as cold as it looked on the outside. No matter how many fires were set in each room, there was still a chill in the Manor. To a lone child it made it all the more freezing
If you think about your mother and the chill air in manor for more than a second. All you can feel is anger for being placed in this fucked up home.
Alfred was enough, but you still felt the professional distance that he had with you.
"You know this would be so much easier if you didn't take such good care of me Alfred" you glared at the kitchen door that Bruce had taken his breakfast through. "Pardon, Young Miss/Master?" Alfred turned to you with a fresh tray of scones. "Nothing Alfred, I was mentioning something about my debate and lacrosse matches, no worries if you cannot attend." Grabbed a fresh blueberry scone, scalding your hand but you paid it no mind with a scowl. "I'm able to attend those events, clotted cream?" Alfred placed an array of sauces. You grinned.
You spent the most time out of the manor in dorms of prestigious schools that you researched and thought would give you a jumpstart in life something to achieve that would be yours and not tied to the Wayne name.
At 18 y/o, you don't really remember if Bruce or Alfred told you that you were going to have a sibling, all you remember is coming home and seeing a boy 5 years younger than you, very sad and angry 13 year old Dick Grayson. A heads up would've been nice
On a different visit, there came Jason. The family was pretty tight lipped about each adoption, but that didn't really affect you in any significant way. Jason did trip up once in a while when talking to you, it was amusing in a way.
You really only met Dick and Jason on holidays where you absolutely couldn't be at the dorm. They're little kids compared to you, but you did give into their requests to talk and play on occasions. Those request lessen with time.
You really only came back to get funding for school. But every time you did, the manor had seemed all the much warmer, even Alfred seemed to warm up to his new wards.
Standing in the foyer covered in snow, holding a suitcase for your holiday stay. You could hear laughter in the house and actually feel the warmth in the air. Did they finally install updated electric heater in here?
"Are you alright Young Master/Miss" Alfred taking your coat. His tone is different than what you were used to, affectionate. You smiled without any emotion
"Of course, why wouldn't I be" You straighten your back and squared your shoulders, and walked up the stairs to a room you claimed as yours.
You're angry, you have been for a long time. At Bruce, at Gotham, every attachment you formed in that god forsaken manor all turned sour. Why the fuck did they get to have Bruce look at them the way he does... It's not like it matters to you anymore.
Just because this man had the genetic key, the money, and the means; he has to take care of a charity case, he clearly didn't have the emotional capacity for? Reader can't even claim child neglect because Alfred is right there. And just fucking great, there's another one. Great fucking job Bruce.
You knew that Dick was just as angry as you and he was a liar when he said he wasn't. And because you knew he was a liar he hated you for it. But you didn't know how to help another drowning kid so you planned to drown in a different area than him.
Dick and Jason hated that you didn't have any whimsy of any kind and found you ungrateful. Your life was just fine before you came to this shit museum they called home. You and Dick know what was traded in order to be standing in this vast Manor, and yet he claims to be content with this new life.
You did honestly try to connect with the boys, but the difference was too vast. Strangers passing in the halls, it was practically a dorm already. Dick had his chin held too high and Jason's bright demeanor and devotion was your complete polar opposite
You always thought that Jason never deserved to end the way he did… a delicate vase filled with white roses and lilies sits on a grave too small; changed from time to time.
Bruce and Dick must think that you are absolutely cripplingly stupid if they thought that you wouldn't know what they do at night, and frankly you'd have been insulted and pushed the both of them down the stairs if you cared enough.
It shouldn't take a genius to decipher their strange habits and behaviors… but who cares. Certainly not you.
Choosing a path to dedicate your life to was hard, but why not do something that is an abundance in this shit city.
You dabbled in some college classes not really committing to anything, but you remembered a great man. One of Bruce's friends that you thought truly cared about you. You haven't seen him in a while, but you hope that he's doing okay. You think he's busy at work or something, you can't really recall Bruce and Harvey being the types to share lunch without Alfred mentioning it offhandedly. Hm weird, you gotta see if he's doing alright soon.
Regardless, the idea struck you, a lawyer. You could be a lawyer, and a good one. With a goal in mind you set out to study for the LSATS and anything that could get you to Harvey Dent's level, an angel.
Pursuing a law degree at Gotham University had been a bout of fresh air amongst the smell of rotting flowers, but it wasn't easy. There's so many choices: entertainment, copyright and contract lawyers, family lawyers, public defence, criminal, immigration, corporate, divorce, there were so many to choose from.
Life had just seemed to open up away from that miserable manor, getting to know the people on campus, your professors, and the Gothamites that wander on campus. You finally knew that there was a brighter world in this city, and you grew to love Gotham and its people.
The apartment flat dorm was an amazing breather filled with three roommates that you would come to know as close friends and consider your family.The two guys and girl roommates that you had were hilarious, and got up to so many shenanigans.
Cooking was something that none of you really considered so after many youtube videos, presentations, and getting to know each other's food preferences over the week, it was decided that group shopping was a must. It also didn't help seeing that only half of you had a meal plan to eat at the dorm cafeteria, so there was that.
The classes you had were easy enough, bullshit but interesting classes that had nothing to do with being a lawyer, but everything to do with being a person and a student.
Life continued to be good as long as you weren't home. University was an oasis filled with love and color despite Gotham, you didn't want to leave it to go back home to the manor. The absence and disinterest of Bruce didn't hurt as much as it did when you were a kid, and it didn't fill you with as much hatred as it did when you were a teenager; it just felt hollow and uncomfortable. You didn't hate it, it was just uncomfortable, you swear that you didn't hate it. It just sucked being there, you absolutely swear that you didn't hate the manor or Bruce, Alfred, or any of the new kids that you see everywhere on the news and your phone…
…Who were you kidding? Of course you hated everyone at that Manor. They left you alone in this world, this city, with no one to turn to or ask for help. Do they even talk about you? Do they know you exist? Of course you were able to figure out how to live and apply yourself to life, college, and your goals. You had to, all by yourself with no help whatsoever from the Wayne family
Not one of your friends thought to ask you more detail about your family, they knew that you didn't like talking about them when you never said it. All they knew was that you were pretty well off with a wealthy family background in Gotham. And that's how it remained, and it wasn't until your 3rd year in University when it all came to a head.
The week before Christmas you asked to be able to stay on campus for the holidays ever since you came to University, claiming that classes were starting to pick up and you needed the library and constant internet access. You didn't really need the excuses, just talking with your RA and filling out an application on the university dorm's website would have been sufficient, but you wanted to be safe rather than sorry. You were gonna be a lawyer, sue you.
You'll fill Alfred in later, you deserve a nice long break from school. It's not like he reaches out to you without you texting first...
You stayed in your dorm flat, enjoying and fearing the new found freedom you had. You didn't have to go back to Wayne manor anymore… you didn't have to go back to Wayne manor anymore… Why didn't that make you happy? And why did nothing feel real? You had all of the things that mattered to you here, so didn't you technically not have a home? Was that ever a home to you? You just ruined your own mood, but nothing like driving around to cafes and reading up on recent lawsuits that the city has going against various superheroes and their villain counterparts.
Having a good drink and a sweet treat was bound to improve your mood and coming out of the cafe back to the street and the bustling city helped until you heard screaming.
A building had exploded in downtown Gotham, villains never attacked during this time a day much less this part of Gotham? Your mind thought a million things, but more screaming filled the air urging your body to run away from danger until you saw a lone little girl pulling at her mothers hand.
You urged your body to run towards them, helping the lady from the concrete slab she was trapped under with all the strength you could muster, and helping her onto your back with the little girl in tow. And there you saw an elderly couple falling over themselves trying to get the man back into his wheelchair, you hurried and ran to the cafe you were at and deposited the mother and daughter there and asked the staff to watch after them. Running back to the elderly couple throwing the elderly woman onto your back and another person helped you wheel the elderly man back to the cafe where there were more people collecting. You waved at the staff again and headed back out to the dust. It was stupid and reckless but you just needed to know if there was anyone else trapped.
As you walked through the dust and smoke with the sound of buildings still collapsing, there was a small clearing where you saw closest to you the back of the Joker and him holding someone hostage. A bit further you saw Batman and Robin at a stalemate, henchmen laying all about the ground, and by your foot there was a giant rock. You slowly picked it up and crept towards them in the dust, and with Joker monologuing it made it all the more easier to get closer. You lifted up the rock and brought it down on the back of the Joker's head, grabbing the hostage's arm as the Joker crumpled down and running with the hostage into the smoke in the direction of the cafe away from the costumed freaks. You didn't look back.
Getting closer to the cafe, you could see a police line and emergency vehicles waiting. Relief filled your body, as you and the man stopped running with safety in view. You can feel the dust in your mouth, eyes, and lungs but you were alive. There was a group of guys calling out to the man beside you behind the police tape. He smiled back at you and took off into a jog to them, but there was another explosion and you felt your body moving towards him. Above more debris fell, you didn't know why you had to shove him but you did, and then everything went black.
You woke up in the hospital a few days later on Christmas day, alone and hurting. A couple of broken ribs, collapsed and dust filled lungs, and a killer concussion. You were dug up by the hostage guy and his group of friends with the help of police. You were happy the guy was still alive, but pissed that you were here because of it. This city was a fucking looney bin. The nurse informed you that you didn't have a wallet and your phone was fucked all to hell, so there was that. You closed your eyes again, losing yourself to the void of sleep.
A couple days later you were discharged, you used the hospital phone to tell your roommates what happened and why you weren't back home yet. You provided a mailing address to your school mailroom and other healthcare details to the hospital, leaving emergency contacts blank. Your roommates all came to pick you up and took you back downtown to get your car. Your car on campus was fine, thank fuck. Got a used phone from a friend and began the process of getting new IDs, but first you should call Alfred.
You called him, but he didn't pick up. You called a fourth time, and he finally picks up. "Hello Alfred?" your face scrunches up and your friends pull up right next to your car a little too fast for your ribs.
"Oh Young Miss/Master, I was wondering when you'd be calling. You missed Christmas." He sounded miffed which kind of pissed you off considering the week you had.
"Yeah, I was a little busy-" he cuts you off
"Too busy to come back on Christmas? Do you understand how hard it is to get everyone in this house sitting in one place for hours at a time? And you missed it, all for your wallet to end up being handed to me by the police?! What have you been getting into that you would have the police coming to the manor hm?" Okay, wow what the fuck. You felt a little guilty not putting Alfred down as an emergency contact, but now you had second thoughts.
Alfred never used to scold you, sure he was critical of the things you did giving you a learned helplessness complex, but he was never one to raise his voice at you. Your friends could even hear him.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, "You ever been crushed by a building, Alfred?"
"What are you-"
"I asked if you've ever been crushed by a building Alfred."
"...No, I'm afraid not recently, Young Miss/Master."
"... Keep the fucking wallet, Alfred."
"Now, Young Miss/Master, lets not be-" You hang up the phone.
The air in the car is tense. You get out of the car, at least try to, the girl roommate helps you out and into the passenger side of your car and starts to drive you back to the dorm before you stop her.
"Let's sell this shit." It was a luxury car, enough to get another year and a half, but you bluffed your way into selling it for enough to get your bachelors in law. It was custom and your baby, but it had served you well. Food was taken care of already by your meal plan, if your budgeting was the same next year. After years of neglect, and just the right person to give the last push was all you needed. And all you need to do now is dismantle yourself from the Wayne family further.
You got home with everyone in one vehicle after selling your car. Your roommates were at least considerate that you didn't want to talk, so you all sat in the living room with the TV on, and there you saw it. The Wayne family's newest portrait that was two stories tall, something that Brucie Wayne commissioned and was showing off to the press. You thought that the painting could fit on the velvet draped wall going up the massive staircase, maybe even the library, one of them at least. And you could see that you weren't on it. You really weren't a Wayne, were you ever? No texts, no calls, nothing.
"Oh… that's what he was talking about." You started to cry. Your roommates surrounded you, not really knowing the reason why, but their warmth soothed and broke your heart.
You sobbed for a good half an hour before you started to tell them who your family was, what led you here, and that damn painting that the family was so proud of enough to show for a news segment. Excluding the family's extra curricular activities, of course. It turned into a cathartic and emotional bonding session with the four of you, and you supported each other growing closer than you had ever been. They knew who you were, who you are, and what it took to become you.
This was a new life, and you were gonna treat it as such, but you weren't gonna squander the things that helped you in the past. Your phone bill and coverage was automated under Bruce, and he did not give a shit about managing what was coming out of his account to you so you absolutely didn't mind letting him continue to pay for the automatic and still linked stuff. Streaming services especially. But other than that you're on your own.
Your friends had to teach you certain things like bus routes, credit card limits and credit, and services to help with welfare. They drove you places to get your name changed to your mother's maiden name, creating a new bank account, job interviews, and internships.
Just like that your school life passed by, you struggled for sure, but you wanted this. You were damaged but happy. You passed your classes with flying colors, earning scholarships and grants furthering yourself into your law education. Generous donors like Lex Corp., Queen Industries, and Big Bellies Burger.
Seven years later, passing the Bar Exam and other exams, licensing tests, and your right in the middle of your internship at a big law firm thanks to one of your many friendly connections that you made in Gotham Academy.
There was little to no praise nor thanks in work, but given that people have problems and you've made it your career in dealing with their problems
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
A/N: Maybe I'll add another after some more rough drafts, but for now it's ok. Thanks for reading
Series: Little Miss Gotham (LMG) ★ Wayne!Reader [2/?]
Prev || Next
Alright, after pissing off not 1, not 2, but 4 heroes, including your lovely older brother Dick fucking Grayson, you're left to somehow outsmart them all and escape into the night.
Word count: 7414 (To make up for the long wait)
CW: Reader gets a bit flirty with a random guy, I think that's about it? Lmk if there is anything else :)
A/N at the end :)
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The music throbs around you, but all you hear is the slow drumbeat of adrenaline pumping in your chest. Every fibre of your body screams that you’ve got this. After all, you wanted this. You’re smart. Resourceful. Wayne-bred.
But then— oh, fuck.
They’re not letting you leave.
Shifting in place, you toy with the oversized sleeves of Dick’s jacket as you glance at Roy, the smirk still plastered on his face, but his eyes flicker with curiosity. Artemis is just staring you down already analyzing all angles and movement. Conner is… Conner.
And Dick. Dick is the worst. Every inch of him screams that he knows your tricks, he’s anticipating your moves, and he will not let you win easily.
Your smirk falters ever so slightly as you realize you actually have to come up with a way to escape now.
Like, do you believe in yourself? Yes. Do you know how you're going to manage this escape? Fuck no.
Your fingers flex, tapping your perfectly manicured nails against the table to the beat of whatever song was playing, trying to mask the fluttering panic with a posture that screams, I’m untouchable.
Glancing around you take notes, the club’s pretty packed if you could just get out of this seat you could probably manage something… but the booth’s layout isn’t exactly built to allow a graceful exit.
There’s a wall to your right, and the nearest exit… well, Dick’s body is effectively blocking the straightest path.
You swallow hard, heart hammering so hard you consider zipping down your dress a bit to breathe better. Think, think, think.
A distraction? You’re tempted to just start screaming to get a bouncer to help you, but something tells you that you’ll end up in a deeper grave.
Your mind races through every potential escape route, anything that could give you an advantage.
Jumping over the table? Conner would probably slam you into the table trying to stop you. Fake a left, then vault over the seat back? In this short dress? You’re getting desperate, but not enough to flash them. Under it? Maybe.
“Dicky, can I borrow your phone to check my makeup?” you ask smoothly, letting the words roll off your tongue like silk.
Under works, you can drop his phone, make a dramatic show about going to get it and then immediately dart out.
You ignore the voice in your head that’s yelling at you that it definitely won’t work, because c’mon.
Dick freezes mid-scowl, eyes narrowing already calculating how dumb you’ve been tonight.
“Your phone’s dead, isn’t it?” he asks sharply, the exasperation in his voice more than evident. “Not only did you sneak out, make stupid decisions, and— oh, right! Let some creep get close enough to you to be a problem, but you didn’t even have the common sense to charge your phone fully?”
You roll your eyes, tilting your chin defiantly. “Whatever, Dick. C’mon, let me use your phone.” You try to keep the smirk intact, but your fingers twitch against the edge of the booth
After a moment of glaring, Dick grudgingly fishes his phone from his pocket, tapping something on the screen before thrusting it at you with a warning glare. “Make it quick,” he mutters.
You take it with a flourish, you don’t pay mind to how the camera is already left open for you as you turn it over ready to put on a show. This is just to you give yourself more time to think afterall— oh god.
Your lips part slightly, and you freeze. The smudge of lipstick on your lips, the faint streaks along your jawline.
How is there more lipstick on your cheeks than your actual lips??
“Oh fuck,” you murmur. You lean in, adjusting the angle of the camera and your stomach twists. Hickies. Several, from the base of your neck to your jaw.
Ugh, you told what’s his face not to! No wonder Dick and the others gave you those looks when you were first dragged over.
You’d looked like… well, you looked like the tabloids' dream cover page scandal.
You pull out your little lip combo from your clutch, fumbling slightly as you open it. You try to focus on fixing the mess of lipstick, trying to clean up the smudges.
Your hands are shaking just slightly, and your pulse races as you dab and press, trying to make yourself look like someone in control again.
For a moment, you genuinely forget that you made a bet against four seasoned heroes, more concerned with your appearance.
The booth falls silent except for the loud throb of the music and the occasional clink of a glass. The others watch you in stunned bafflement.
Roy’s smirk falters into confusion, Artemis’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and Conner leans forward slightly, arms still folded but face tilted like he’s trying to decode your logic. They can’t tell if you’re stalling or if you’re being genuine.
You tilt the phone camera just a little, checking the lighting, and— okay, the marks are worse than you thought.
There’s not much you can do right now, you shift to grab your tiny conceler stick, it won’t help with the discolouration, but it’ll do something at least.
With one final streak of concealer over the worst of the bruises you adjust your tragically low neckline slightly to cover the rest.
A deep breath, a smooth flick of your hair, and suddenly you’re leaning back again as you start to reach for your items to put away, the same cocky grin from before plastered across your face.
Your grin falters soon after putting away your plethora of items when your eyes catch the tiny movement.
Your precious lip pencil, the one you just pried from your clutch with painstaking care, is rolling across the table like it’s mocking you. Time seems to stretch as it teeters on the edge before it clatters down under the booth with a soft, pitiful thunk.
You click your tongue, the sharp sound barely audible over the bass, and shoot a pointed glance at Dick, expecting, almost demanding, that he reach under and hand it back like the perfect older brother he’s supposed to be.
His face is unreadable for a beat, then a faint twitch of a smirk appears, like he’s savouring the moment.
“You’re kidding,” he says flatly, voice dry, each word dripping with irritation and mild amusement. “I'm not picking it up for you.”
You give him a scandalized look of offence before you snap your head towards Roy immediately, your eyebrows arching in exaggerated woe.
“Surely you’d be nicer than my dick of a brother?” you say with faux hurt.
Roy raises an eyebrow, leaning back lazily in his chair, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk.
“C’mon, how are you going to have your big escape if you can’t even pick that up?” he chuckles, casual as ever, though there’s a glimmer of humour in his eyes that suggests he’s enjoying watching you squirm just a bit.
You don’t bother looking at the other two, you know better.
You scrunch your nose, muttering under your breath something about “heroes” and how they clearly have zero interest in performing basic rescues, and it comes out as more of a frustrated growl than words.
Your eyes dart toward the under-table space where your precious lip pencil has settled.
Oh god, ew, no—no no no, your brain shrieks as the reality of having to actually reach down and get it yourself sinks in.
Thank god you didn’t go through with dropping Dick’s phone, it woud’ve landed in that weird-looking goo.
You groan, pushing your hair out of your face and letting your fingers twitch against the edge of the seat. Your mind scrambles for solutions.
Maybe you could ask that guy who keeps looking your way to get it for you?
You shift to look at him and catch his eye, but the way Dick clears his throat makes you reconsider with a huff.
Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh, tilting your chin toward the ceiling as if to appeal to some higher, cosmic sense being.
“Fine,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to them, your voice thick with resignation, “I’ll do it myself.” You pause, glaring pointedly at Dick.
You lower yourself an inch, then freeze as your eyes take in the disgustingly revolting mess under that booth— gum, spilled drinks, a sticky graveyard— is that a sock???
No way are you kneeling down on the ground. Your eyes flick toward Dick’s feet. He’s in those expensive, polished shoes, black and sharp, probably the cleanest surface in a three-foot radius. Perfect.
Before Dick can even blink, you plant one knee directly on the toe of his left shoe, balancing delicately as your other hand grips his pant leg for stability.
The look on his face is priceless, a mix of confusion, disbelief, and pure silent horror.
“Are you— what the hell are you doing?” he asks, baffled.
You don’t look up, focusing instead on maneuvering your body in the narrow space, one hand still clinging to his leg as you stretch to peek around under the booth.
“Relax,” you mumble. “You wanted me to pick it up myself, didn’t you? Congratulations, I’m doing it.”
“Get off my shoe,” Dick says sharply, voice somewhere between a hiss and a growl.
“Not until I get it,” you shoot back.
Roy makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. When you risk a glance his way, he’s grinning, one hand covering his mouth like he’s trying not to choke on amusement. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice thick with disbelief.
“Unbelievably resourceful,” you correct through gritted teeth, trying to keep your balance as your fingers reach into the darkness.
You squint, stretching your arm farther, your grip on Dick’s leg tightening as your fingers brush the cool metal of a table then— finally the smooth edge of your lip pencil.
You’re just about to grab it when Roy’s foot makes contact. The pencil slides just out of reach, moved farther underneath the booth. You freeze before your head snaps up with enough force to give you whiplash.
“Roy!” you hiss under your breath, trying to keep your tone low while simultaneously daring him to meet your glare. “Really? What the hell?!” Your free hand flails slightly as if the motion could somehow summon the pencil back to you.
Roy just shrugs, the picture of innocence though the corner of his mouth twitches. “What? Just making it a little more interesting,” he murmurs, voice teasing, eyes sparkling with amusement.
You bite back a string of curses, you hate redheaded men, all of them. The pencil has rolled deep under the shadow of the seat, which means you’re going to have to bend even further and probably get really close to the floor.
Your stomach twists at the thought. You shift your weight carefully, pressing even harder against Dick’s leg, trying to reach without falling forward.
Your dress rides up just a fraction as you shift lower, contorting awkwardly under the booth, but you’re too far gone in irritation to care. Though your new state makes them look away, at least they have some common courtesy.
Your fingers brush the grimy floor, skirting around the inevitable sticky patches, and just as you start to stretch toward the pencil again, Dick jolts his feet suddenly— a stomp, just enough to startle you.
You yelp, loosening your grip on his pant leg and in panic, you grab the first thing you could— his shoelaces.
You grip tightly, your body wobbles for balance. Dick’s laugh, deep and amused, fills the small space under the booth.
“Whoa, careful down there,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief. “You just messed up my shoes. Tie them before you try to get back up, yeah?”
Bullies. All of them. Maybe it was the fact that most of them were tipsy, but you had half the mind to smack both him and Roy now.
You scowl, tugging at his laces with deliberate force, undoing the slightly messy knots in a rush of irritation.
You mutter under your breath, “Whatever,” the word dripping with annoyance.
You had no intention of actually fixing them, why should you? He’d put you through this ridiculous under-the-booth ordeal, after all. You hope that he trips on—
Wait.
As you sit there crouched awkwardly, a lightbuld goes off in your head. You glance around, checking that none of the others are paying close attention, and shift your posture just enough to make it look like you’re carefully trying to fix his shoes.
You let the noise around you fade, eyes narrowing on your new target.
Fingers ghosting over the laces again. If you just loop this one through the other… a little pull here… another twist there…
Your grin grows slow and dangerous. The idea is ridiculous, completely stupid even, but god, is it funny. And if it works? Even better.
You take a slow, steadying breath, heart pounding as you weigh your odds. The image of Dick toppling over flashes in your mind again, and it almost makes you snort— but no, focus.
You glance at the faint shimmer of your lip pencil, still lying abandoned beneath the booth, and spot the dangling strap of your clutch hanging just within reach. Perfect for what comes next.
You tug the sleeve of Dick’s coat that he made you wear to cover your hand and fully place it down on the gross floor as you reach to grab both.
You hold back your gag as the sleeve takes a moment to unstick from the ground, thank god it isn't your jacket.
Gathering the lip pencil and the strap of your bag, you feel the grin tugging at your lips, but you press it down, forcing your face into a mask of startled revulsion.
Showtime.
Then, channelling every ounce of your best high-society drama queen energy, you let out a piercing screech.
“OH MY GOD—EW!” The sound slices clean through the loud hum of conversation and bass, sharp and shrill enough to make the booth jolt.
You fling yourself backward with theatrical horror, scrambling out from under the table like something just tried to bite you. One hand clutches your lip pencil and purse strap like evidence of a crime; the other fans dramatically at your chest.
“Ew— ew— ew— oh my god, that was disgusting!” you shriek, hopping back another step as though the floor itself might infect you.
The effect is immediate chaos. Roy nearly chokes on his drink, his laughter bursting out before he can stop it. Artemis jerks back instinctively, one eyebrow arched high but her lips twitching, clearly fighting off a grin. Conner’s eyes go wide for a half second before he sighs, muttering something that sounds like, “Seriously?”
Dicks hands are planted on the table as if ready to spring up to help you. But when he realizes what’s happened, when he actually processes the sight of you standing there in a designer dress, shrieking about god-knows-what under the table and more importantly unharmed, his expression flattens into exasperation. “You have got to be kidding me.”
You don’t look at him right away, because if you do, you’ll break. You keep your eyes wide and glassy, shaking your hands as if brushing off invisible filth. “There was something under there! It— moved!” you declare, your tone a perfect mix of disgust and distress.
Before anyone can question you, or worse, you laugh, you spin on your heel, clutching your purse and lip pencil like your life depends on it, and bolt straight into the pulsing chaos of the crowd. But then—
Thump.
A sharp sound cuts through the noise, followed by another.. You freeze mid-step for half a second, just long enough to register the unmistakable cascade of chaos behind you. There’s a muffled curse, definitely Roy’s voice,
Oh. My. God.
You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh that threatens to bubble up, your shoulders trembling with the effort.
Your stupid, desperate little plan actually worked— maybe too well. You’d only meant to trip Dick, slow him down a bit. But from the sound of things, at least someone went down with him.
You don’t dare look back. The image alone is glorious enough in your head— Dick toppling first, Roy tripping over him, maybe Artemis catching herself just in time but swearing loud enough to shake the booth.
And then, cutting through the laughter and the music, comes the sound that makes your grin stretch wide and wicked—
“Go after her!”
Dick’s voice, sharp and commanding, half fury and half disbelief. Oh, he’s mad. He’s so mad.
You duck your head lower, hair falling across your face as you weave through the crowd, the adrenaline fizzing through your veins like champagne.
The music swells, the lights flicker, and every step feels like victory. You don’t stop moving— not even when you hear someone curse your name, or the faint shuffle of pursuit starting behind you.
You’ve escaped the booth, outsmarted Gotham’s most overprotective boy wonder, and managed to turn your own clumsiness into a tactical advantage. You’re so doing some online shopping to congratulate yourself when you’re home.
You moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with all the quiet confidence you’d built over years of slipping past trained reflexes, every motion deliberate and calculated.
You knew they probably expected you to make a beeline for the obvious exits— the ones lined with bouncers, the flashing neon “EXIT” signs.
So, you steered sharply away from them, your heels clicking softly against the floor, and angled toward the men’s bathroom instead.
What? The women’s bathroom would be the next place they’d look. You couldn’t imagine any world where they’d think to check the men's room for you— and there was a decent chance of a window somewhere
You paused when you pushed the door open, immediately freezing at the sight before you.
A couple were tangled together in the corner, lips locked, hands roaming.
Barf. God, was this what your brother had almost caught you in?
You rolled your eyes slightly and paid them no mind, letting your attention slide past them. To the window that was at the back, okay, perfect, you could totally reach that—
…Wait.
The girl was about your size, with a build close enough to yours that an idea began to bloom in your mind.
A smirk touched your lips as you stepped fully inside, approaching the couple without the shame any normal person would have approaching a couple making out.
You didn’t bother looking at the man—your gaze went straight to the girl as you shrugged off Dick’s jacket and dropped it on the sink.
“Oh my God, how did you get your hair to do that?” you gushed, hands fluttering in the air. “It looks like you just stepped out of a magazine.”
She broke away from the kiss, glancing at you with mild surprise. Her boyfriend made a noise of confusion, his lips chasing hers as his brows knit together.
“Uh… babe?” he murmured, clearly caught off guard by her attention shift. He glanced at you doing a double take. “Wait— why are you in the men’s bathroom?”
You ignored him entirely, letting the small moment of confusion work in your favour. You stepped closer to her, smiling faintly, the warmth in your voice pulling her back toward you.
“Like, holy shit, your hair— I had to say something.” You tilted your head, tone softening with a hint of admiration. “It’s just… perfect. How do you even get it to fall like that?”
She blinked, startled for half a second before breaking into uncontrollable giggles. “Oh my God, stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” she laughed, reaching out like you were already best friends. “No one ever says that about my hair!”.
You leaned forward, catching her hands in yours, eyes wide with exaggerated awe. “Shut up! Girl— your hair is perfect. You're perfect!” you exclaimed, nodding like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “But… you’d look even better if you were wearing my dress. It’s a designer, and seriously, you need to wear it. We should totally switch— like, right now.”
She blinked at you, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, but the corners of her mouth twitched with a smile, clearly intrigued by your enthusiasm.
Moments later, the two of you step out of a stall, giggling as if you've been friends for years, both wearing the other's dress.
She practically glowed, her face bright with delight as she ran her hands over the sleek lines of your designer dress, marvelling at the way it felt against her skin.
Her eyes met yours, wide and sparkling, and before she could contain herself, she threw her arms around you in a tight hug. “I love you!” she said, voice muffled against your shoulder, squeezing you.
Pulling back, she grinned, her excitement uncontainable. She spun once, then twice before darting toward her boyfriend.
“Look!” she called over her shoulder, arms out as if she were on a runway. The fabric shimmered under the cheap fluorescent lights, hugging her curves perfectly. Her boyfriend froze, jaw slack, eyes wide with awe, completely captivated.
You chuckled softly to yourself, shaking your head as you made your way toward the open bathroom window. But when you turned to glance back, intending to give her a thank you, you paused.
They were already locked in each other’s arms. He’d clearly liked the sight of her in that dress a little too much, tugging her in for a kiss that quickly deepened, all urgency and awe. She melted into him, laughing against his lips before kissing him back.
You turned back to the window with a soft laugh under your breath, letting them have their moment while you slipped toward your own escape. You plant your hands firmly on the window frme, the cool metal biting against your palms as you brace yourself.
With a soft grunt, you hoist yourself upward, dress snagging briefly on a jagged edge before you wiggle it free.
Your heels scrape against the tile wall then the frame, and for a second, you balance there half inside the bathroom’s stale light, half in the shadowed unknown of the outside.
Finally, you release your grip and drop down. Your heels hit the uneven pavement with a soft click, knees bending to absorb the impact.
The alley greets you with damp stone, the faint reek of trash from an overturned bin, and the lingering smoke of someone’s forgotten cigarette.
You brush dust off your hands and straighten, pulling your shoulders back as though stepping onto a stage rather than into a dark cut of the city.
The window swings shut behind you with a dull thud. Alone now, it’s not exactly welcoming, but it’s freedom.
You smooth down your new dress, fingers brushing over the fabric. Dick and the others weren’t idiots, after scouring the club, they’d be forced to fan out. Figuring that you've somehow managed to get out.
Any minute now, one of them could step outside, sharp eyes sweeping. Walking aimlessly into the open streets was practically begging to be spotted, and calling a ride? Impossible, thanks to your actually dead phone.
You curse yourself silently— why hadn’t you just asked that girl in the washroom to order you an Uber?
Your heels click softly against the uneven pavement as you move, wary of every echo bouncing off the brick walls as you walk to what you assume is the parking area for the club.
You pause mid-step when you catch sight of a man— broad shoulders outlined by dim outdoor lights, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dark.
He leans casually against a polished black motorbike, all leather jacket, boots planted wide, an image straight out of your old Wattpad mafia fanfics.
You're quick to size him up. Not the safest-looking option, but beggars can’t be choosers!
You tug the hem of the already short dress just a touch higher, enough to make it seem intentional but not desperate.
Your stride shifts subtly, hips swaying with an ease you’d practiced at too many galas and charity dinners.
The sound of your heels was an announcement for all your glory as you approch him. He glances up at the noise, lingering where you wanted it to before climbing to your face. You answer with that flirty grin that’s half mischief and half invitation.
The smoke curls lazily from his lips as he watches you approach, and you let your eyes flick briefly to the gleaming motorbike he leans against.
A low hum escapes you as though you’re impressed, like the sight of the machine alone is enough to make you stop and alter your path.
Then your attention drifts back to him, the sparkle in your expression saying you’re curious about him, about the bike and the trouble the two of you could get into if he takes the bait.
By the time you’re standing close enough for him to catch the faint trace of your perfume over the scent of smoke and leather, you tilt your head, giving him the same effortless expression that’s carried you through countless rooms filled with hungry-eyed men.
The air between you feels electric as you give him a soft, measured grin and let your voice drop into that perfect tone that feels both teasing and casual.
“Hi there,” you say, drawing it out just enough to make it sound spontaneous. “You out here on your own?”
His eyes linger on you for a moment, taking in the dress, the way you carry yourself and the confident tilt of your head. There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression followed by a slow smirk.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice low. “Just needed a break… thought I’d get some air. You?” His gaze shifts briefly to your dress, then back to your face, his tone carrying both guarded interest and a hint of something like bemusement.
“Me?..” you murmur, the sound low and teasing, “just got bored in there.” Your eyes flick toward the cigarette dangling from his fingers, the tip glowing faintly in the night. You let your gaze linger playfully.
He follows your eyes to the cigarette, his brow arching in a subtle mixture of surprise and curiosity. There’s a brief pause as he studies you, as if trying to figure out whether your approach is flirty or just mischief.
“Want one?” he asks.
“Mmm…” you murmur, letting him wait just a heartbeat too long. Then you shake your head, brushing the cigarette lightly with your fingertips without taking it. “I don’t smoke… I just like how it looks,” you add, giving his mouth a pointed look. “I like to get my… fix in other ways.”
As you speak, your fingers trail lightly along the sleek curve of his motorbike. He leans more against it casually, one hip pressed to the frame, eyes following your movements as your finger glides over the metal, tracing its lines with exaggerated care.
Stepping back slowly, you create a small space between the two of you before looking up at him with feigned awe.. “That’s… a nice bike,” you hum.
“Would you mind giving me a ride?” you ask, letting your voice drop just slightly, widening your eyes a bit in mock worry. “I’m trying to get home without some people following after me…”
Your eyes flick to his briefly, then back to the bike, letting the pause hang. “And you look like you could keep me… safe.” The last word is just a teasing whisper.
There is a slow shift in his posture with his shoulders relaxing and the spark of eagerness in his gaze. He exhales, a mix of amusement as he flicks the cigarette to the ground and uses his boot to put it out before closing the gap you’d left.
“You know…” he says, “I think I could make that happen.” His tone carries that subtle weight of a man pleased to be trusted with something he perceives as special. His fingers twitch slightly toward the bike, but his eyes never leave yours.
“Thank you,” you murmur letting the simple words carry the weight of both appreciation and playful invitation.
He moves with purpose now, pulling the helmet from the bike and offering it to you. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says, his voice taking on a hint of protectiveness.
The way he says it, like this, is his idea makes you grin to yourself.
You slip the helmet over your head, adjusting the strap as the roar of the engine fills your ears when he starts it, and you can’t help but let a small laugh slip through.
“Guess I owe you one,” you murmur, climbing onto the bike behind him, the cool metal pressing against your legs. The air hums with a quiet promise as he leans forward, his hands steady on the handles.
You rest your chin lightly against his shoulder, letting the words linger in a way that makes him glance back with a half-smile.
He revs the engine as the bike moves forward, the low rumble vibrating under your thighs. You lean forward slightly, pressing your body closer to him, letting the scent of his leather jacket and the faint tang of smoke drift over you.
A small, triumphant smile curls on your lips. Yes, yes, yes, you think to yourself, feeling that rush of mischievous victory.
He eases the bike out of the shadowy back parking lot of the club, the tires crunching softly against gravel, then pulls smoothly onto the street.
The air is cooler here, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic, and for a second, it feels like you’ve escaped completely.
But then… voices.
Low but unmistakable.
It seems like they finally left the inside of the club, now gathered at the entrance, which the bike had to pass on the way to the main intersection.
A spike of dread runs down your spine, but you force yourself to ignore it. Instead, you turn your face sharply toward the opposite side of the street, pressing your cheek and shoulder more against the man in front of you. You settle on pretending you’re just some random girl enjoying a ride.
The streetlight above catches your swapped dress in patches of light and shadow— a new texture, a differnt colour. It fit your frame differently— basically a new identity.
It is fine. No one will see your face well enough in the dark to make the connection.
You force yourself to relax as the bike hums past the cluster of voices. You tense for a moment anyway, muscles coiling as the sound of boots crunching gravel fades behind you. Then, as naturally as you can, you let yourself exhale when you pass them.
From the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement in the bike's rear-view mirror— Conner’s head turning ever so slightly in your direction. His brow furrows for a split second, but then his attention slips away.
He doesn’t recognize you, not from the back of a speeding bike. Relief floods through you, and your shoulders loosen just a fraction. Yes! Okay, good.
A quiet laugh escapes you, though you keep your voice low so it doesn’t draw attention. Maybe you should try your luck with gambling if your luck is— The bike slows. You glance up, confused.
A red light.
Today has been nothing but ups and downs for you, hasn’t it?
The faint glow of the traffic signal gleams back at you, and your stomach twists as you realize you’re still within sight of Dick and the others.
Great. Just great.
Your fingers tighten unconsciously on the man’s jacket. You shift your weight forward, peeking more at the rear-view mirrors.
They’re still there, hovering near the entrance of the bar and the alley to the parking area. Still talking in hush whispers, but it gradually gets louder.
You catch it before you even realize you’re listening. Conner’s voice, carried faintly through the night air, drifted to you over the hum of the idling bike. “We could check surveillance,” he suggests, his voice measured with a smidge of panic.
Roy’s voice follows, “shell probably just get tired of walking in those heels and take a break somewhere.” The comment doesn’t seem to carry mockery this time, if anything… it seems reassuring?
Then Artemis chimes in, her voice low but direct. “We could grab the car, check the streets— She’ll be fine Dick.” It’s a practical option, but the way her words seem more comforting than plotting catches your attention.
You don’t fully process your confusion at their apparent 180 in attitude until you catch Dick words. His tone is different. Not the clipped, sharp annoyance you’ve grown used to in the past years.
This time, it’s worry. Genuine worry. You strain to catch his words. “Her phone’s dead…” he mutters, voice low, tight with concern. “She’s out there by herself… anyone could just—” He trails off.
“She’s… she’s too young to be left alone like this.” The usual edge in his tone is gone, replaced by something softer and protective, like he can’t stand the thought of you being in danger.
The sound of his voice hits you in a way you didn’t expect. And even though you’ve spent the night plotting your own escape a pang settles in your chest.
For a moment, your mind drifts, a quiet, uncomfortable thought threading through your relief at having escaped. He’s worried. I made him worry.
You make the small mistake of glancing back, curiosity and something else stabbing into your chest, almost as if you needed to physically see him to confirm that the worry and care really came from him.
Your eyes find his, and for a suspended moment, it feels as though the world has narrowed down to just the two of you. Every other sound and movement around you blurs into nothing.
In that instant, you see it all— recognition sparking in his gaze, the subtle easing of tension in his shoulders, the rush of relief flooding across his face as if he’s just been allowed to breathe again. That rare, unguarded expression so fast and genuine that it catches you off guard.
But then his eyes shift. Just a flicker at first, a subtle widening that makes your stomach clench.
They sweep over the older man your fingers have latched onto, the chrome of the motorbike, the way you’re perched on the back with no real protection between you and the street besides the helmet that you hadnt even swiped the visor down.
His relief twists sharply into disbelief, and then anger— boiling, explosive, and immediate.
Oh shit. The words don’t escape your mouth, but they hammer in your mind as you realize just how fast he switched up.
Your eyes flick back to the street ahead, to the red light pausing you, and back at Dick in panic now. His expression, that mix of shock and fury, is burned into your mind.
The thrill is still there— but so is the undeniable pulse of terror, knowing that your older brother, protector and fucking Nightwing, has now fully registered just how careless you are with your life.
The shout of your name rips through the night air, carrying the kind of weight that makes your stomach drop straight to your ass. The moment it leaves his mouth, you know you’re as good as dead if he catches you now.
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest, a cold rush of dread prickling along your skin. Oh no. Oh no, oh shit, I’m so screwed.
You freeze, like a deer caught in headlights, every ounce of bravado you’d been wearing like armour stripped away in an instant.
All at once, Artemis, Roy, and Conner snap their heads toward you, their eyes locking on the bike and on you.
Their expressions mirror Dick’s— shock first, then realization, then a storm of emotions you don’t even want to name.
For a heartbeat, the only thing you feel is raw, genuine terror. Your lungs seize up, your mind races, if you get off now and start crying, maybe you can—
The traffic light above changes, casting its green glow across the pavement, and it’s like the world throws you a lifeline. The engine beneath you growls as the man eases the bike forward, oblivious to the vigilantes planning your murder.
Relief slams into your chest so hard it almost hurts, and you press yourself closer against his back, clinging as if physical contact can shield you from the burning eyes still locked on your retreating form.
The city rushes past in a blur of neon and shadow, but all you can think is how close you came to being dragged off this bike.
Your heart pounds, torn between the giddy adrenaline of the escape and the suffocating knowledge that Dick and all of them saw you.
They’ll be on you in minutes— Artemis mentioned a car, Dick’s look was pure hunter, and the thought of the surveillance cameras Conner mentioned already maps your route.
Every intersection you pass flashes red or green like a countdown; you can practically hear the way they’ll be catching up.
Keeping on the road is stupid and roofs are out of the question. Your brain scrabbles through every reckless, glamorous, ridiculous thing you’ve done to avoid capture.
Then it lands on something older, secret, and useful— the sewer tunnels. You’ve used them before to sneak into wild underground parties, where socialites let loose— hell, you’ve even thrown your own parties there. A grin, small and feral, crawls up your face.
You scan the sides of the street for an area with limited cameras. Ahead, under the long span of a bridge, a drainage tunnel. Perfect.
“Hey,” you purr, leaning forward so your whisper lands close to the guy’s ear, breath warm against his neck.
“Can you pull down that tunnel? I think the long way through would be… quieter.” You keep your hand casual on his shoulder as you say it, the motion half-flirt, half-command.
He hesitates, but the gleam in his eye at the idea of being the one to get alone with someone like you wins out. The bike’s handlebars turn as he shifts the bikes path off the main road.
As you settle into the tunnel, you let yourself relax for just a fraction of a second. You had to act fast. Squeezing him again as a subtle signal, you nudge him toward the side for him to pull over. You have to pull this right, knowing exactly what he’s thinking— that you’ll be having some fun together.
When he slows and stops, you slip off the bike with grace, heels hitting concrete with a click and you take off the helmet and toss it to him.
Without hesitation, you dig into your purse and pull out a wad of cash, thick and uncounted. It isn’t even half of your weekly allowance, but it’s enough to keep him from doing too much.
“Here,” you say softly, pressing the bills into his palm. “For your trouble.”
His gaze flickers over you, completely baffled as if this has never happened to him. Leaning forward, you press a quick kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger just enough to make him blink.
Then, without another word, you pivot and stride toward the sewer manhole just a few feet away.
His gaze follows, brow furrowed. “What the hell are you—?” he starts, stepping off the bike.
You ignore him, already bending at your knees to hook your fingers under the heavy metal edge of the grate. It’s cold, damp, and rough under your fingers, but you move with precision, muscles flexing under the dress.
The metal groans as you lift it just enough to slip inside. His voice calls out behind you, muffled and uncertain. “Wait— are you serious?”
Without looking back, you pause at the tunnel entrance just long enough to flash a quick, confident smile. “Oh, very serious,” you murmur, slipping into the darkness. The grate clangs shut behind you.
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Wrapped in the warmth of your bed, the steam from your shower still clinging faintly to your skin, you pull your phone from the nightstand. It lights up instantly, and you smirk as your thumb hovers over your contacts.
You tap it with deliberate ease, calling Dick, but your tone as you greet him is a melody of mock innocence.
“Hi, Dick! Been a while since we talked,” you say sweetly, leaning back against your silk pillows, letting your voice stretch lazily as if you’ve just stumbled out of bed from a normal night. Your tone doesn’t carry an ounce of guilt— only amusement.
Dick’s voice cuts through, low and controlled. “Where the hell are you?”
You let out a small laugh. “Dick, what are you talking about? I’ve been at home all night,” you say, the words coated in enough innocence to sound believable. You draw out the “all night” just enough to add to the performance.
A sigh escapes him, one that you can almost picture as exasperated, followed by a hint of something deeper– worry, maybe frustration.
You hear footsteps in the background, Roy’s voice grumbling, clearly ready to chime in, but you cut him off before he can start.
“Oh, hi, Roy,” you say softly, eyes twinkling despite the distance. “You keeping my brother out of trouble?”
Dick’s sharp inhale and a muttered curse from the redhead fill your speaker before rustling from what you assume is him having to physically move away from the others to continue the conversation.
You shift slightly on the bed, pulling the blankets around your shoulders. Your lips curve into that familiar, calculated smile.
“Anyway,” you begin, voice light and teasing, “just thought I’d check in… in case you wanted to give Dad an update. Can’t have him worrying for no reason, can we?”
Through the faint static of the call, you hear him finally exhale, the sort of controlled breath that signals he’s trying to balance irritation with reluctant acknowledgment.
“You–” he starts, but you cut him off with a small laugh, letting it linger just enough to disarm him further.
You sink deeper against the pillows, letting your hand trace lazily along the edge of the blanket. “I mean,” you continue, “you’re not going to break our little deal, are you? You’ve broken enough promises, don’t you think?”
Silence fills the line for a heartbeat. You picture Dick’s brow furrowed, lips pressed in thought, searching for some way to assert control. He lets out a low breath before speaking. “You’re unbelievable.” And you grin, knowing exactly how true that is.
“And you’re a loser.” The words tumble out of you with a laugh, light and teasing. God, you wish you could see his face.
“Anyway, night, Dicky!” you chirp, the nickname dripping with mock sweetness. You don’t give him time to respond before hitting the end call button.
The sharp click echoes slightly in your quiet room. For a moment, you just sit there, the glow of the phone fading into the dim light of your bedroom.
Then you throw your head back and laugh to yourself— a breathless, satisfied laugh that carries the weight of winning something far bigger than a simple bet.
A/N: Hi guys... Firstly, I am so sorry </3 I'm posting wayyyy later than I said I would. My midterms were horrid, but it's okay, I'm getting my marks back and guess who's getting straight 90s B). Anyway, my lovely friend whom I have forced to become my beta reader @vee08 (who also came up with the title + made the banner for this post) requested I post ★ Wayne!Reader first, so here we are :P. I realized after posting the first part, I actually had to come up with a plausible way for the Reader to escape... so I apologize if it's absolutely ridiculous. Also! I will get to everyone's messages and replies. I skimmed through it to grab anyone who wanted to be tagged for this, and omg thank you guys so much for all your sweet words mwah mwah mwah! (I'll continue the mom!reader later this week... I have a mid-term on Wednesday to survive first.)
If you’d like to be tagged please leave a comment on the series masterlist! It’ll be easier for me to not miss anyone that way :)) LMG Series masterlist, you can find it in my pinned post>>> masterlist>>> nyni’s series :D
Again, I'm still learning how to do tags, so ignore the mess below :P
Pairing: Batfamily x Neglected!Civilian!AFAB!Reader (Familial) | OC x Civilian!AFAB!Reader (Romantic) (F/F, F/M, Multi)
Summary: Y/N makes a desperate little love-me-back pact with a demon, only to discover the fine print says “monthly murder required” and “family issues not included.”
Rating: M/NSFW
Content Warning: AFAB Reader, Emotional Neglect/Neglected!Reader, Social Anxiety, Occult Rituals, Demon Summoning, Demons/Devil, Manipulation, Coercion, Future Obsession, Human Sacrifice, Explicit Violence, Dark Humor, Dark Themes, Obsession, Yandere, Murder
WARNING: Some of the content moving forward may be unsuitable for specific audiences. Please read at your own discretion.
Words: 9.6k
A/N: yay chap 3 chap 3, gotta focus on getting Tracks Left Behind up as well
Official Playlist Found Here
Prologue | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
Eli started sleeping outside Y/N’s door. Not just waiting, sleeping. Curled up in the stairwell, as if the hallway was the only place left for him.
At first, she told herself he wasn’t sleeping. That made it better. He was resting. Lurking, but in a sad wet-cat way. He sat on the stairwell between the second and third floors, hood up, elbows on his knees, half-hidden where the hallway light flickered and buzzed like a dying insect. Sometimes she saw the shadow of his shoes under her door. Sometimes she heard his voice when another tenant came too close; gentle at first, then sharper, then cold enough to make the old woman from 3B hurry past with her grocery cart rattling like bones. By the fifth night, the hallway outside her apartment was a border crossing, and Eli had made himself the guard.
He scared off delivery drivers. He glared at her neighbor’s boyfriend until the man stopped lingering outside the elevator to vape. He told a maintenance guy that Y/N was asleep and didn’t want to be bothered, even though Y/N had been standing three feet from the door with a mug of cold coffee in her hands, staring at the peephole she had taped over because looking was dangerous and being looked at was worse.
Once, someone knocked on the wrong apartment, and Eli said, “She doesn’t want visitors,” so flatly that the stranger mumbled an apology and retreated down the hall.Y/N sat on the kitchen floor, back pressed to the cabinet, knees pulled tight, listening to the ruined shape of her life breathing just outside her door.
He used to be Eli.
Just Eli.
A guy in a soaked hoodie with a forgotten drink and tired eyes. Probably had a playlist he liked. Probably a mother who texts too much or not enough. Probably a favorite gas station snack. Rent due, weird dreams, a million tiny private things that belonged only to him. He was his own person, complete and separate, moving through Gotham with the tired dignity of someone just trying to survive.
Then Y/N had opened the door. Y/N had looked at him. Y/N had spoken.
Now he waited for her, patient and soaked, like a stray dog left out in the rain. She pressed her hand to her mouth, hard enough to make her teeth ache. I ruined him. The words tasted like rust. The thought stained everything. It followed her from room to room, slid under the bathroom door while she showered, and perched on the counter while she microwaved soup she never ate. Heavy. Warm. It crawled into bed with her at night, curling up between her and sleep, whispering that wanting love had made her contagious.
Her phone buzzed on the tile beside her.
Y/N flinched, then looked down.
Alfred: Miss Y/N, I do hope you are keeping well. Master Bruce asked whether you had responded to his last message. I informed him that you had not. Do take care of yourself. Her throat snapped shut. Pain bloomed sharp and sudden.
The text was polite. Careful. Alfred in message form, all clean punctuation and emotional distance dressed up in a pressed waistcoat. She stared until the words blurred, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wanting to answer, wanting to say, Please tell him to call me. Please tell him I’m not okay. Please tell him I think I did something terrible before I even did the terrible part.
Instead, another message appeared, this one from Bruce.
Bruce: Alfred said you haven’t replied in a few days. Everything alright?
Y/N stared at that one, too. Everything alright. Like a weather report. Like a stranger asking for the time. A normal daughter might have gotten a call. A knock. A father in the doorway. A family that noticed when the silence changed flavor. Y/N got three words and a question mark. Still, some desperate, hungry part of her curled around them like a blanket pulled warm from the dryer.
She typed:
Y/N: No.
She stared at the screen. Waiting for something to change. Deleted it. Coward.
Typed:
Y/N: I’m fine. Sorry. Just busy.
Deleted that too.
Her phone buzzed again before she could decide what kind of lie to tell.
Bruce: I’m tied up tonight. Text Alfred if you need anything.
The apartment went quiet.
Outside the door, Eli shifted.
Y/N looked at Bruce’s message until the screen dimmed, then went black. Her reflection stared back from the glass, hollow-eyed, hair messy, mouth curved in a smile she hadn’t chosen.
Of course, she thought, and the softness inside her didn’t break, just folded itself smaller.
At the manor, Bruce Wayne set his phone face down beside a file already crowded with photos, maps, and surveillance stills.
He told himself Y/N was an adult. She lived alone. She had always been dramatic in bright little flares, always disappearing into her apartment and strange hobbies and internet jokes he did not understand, always reappearing with a smile before the concern became actionable. Alfred had mentioned her silence because Alfred noticed silences the way other people noticed smoke.
Bruce noticed patterns, and right now the pattern in front of him had a name: Victor Sable.
Victor owned three clubs in the Narrows, two shell companies, and enough private security to suggest he feared either enemies or witnesses. Jason had brought the case in with a fury he barely disguised, all sharp shoulders and clenched jaw, tossing photos across the cave table as each one had personally offended him.
“Guy’s dirty,” Jason said. “Not regular Gotham dirty. Rotten-foundation dirty.”
Dick leaned over the file. Tim already had three screens open. Damian stood with his arms crossed, pretending not to care while caring violently.
Bruce glanced once at his phone.
No reply from Y/N.
Then Tim said, “I found a money trail.”
And Bruce turned away from the silence.
Across Gotham, Y/N sat in her apartment with Victor Sable’s smiling courthouse photo open on her laptop and a notebook beside her, the strawberry cover now bent from how tightly she kept gripping it. The page titled Possible offerings had only one name, and she hated how normal the ink looked. Victor Sable. Not monster. Not sacrifice. Just two words in blue gel pen, sitting beneath tiny printed strawberries as if she were planning a bake sale with homicide undertones.
She tried to wait.
For one week, she tried.
She called Marisol only once and kept her eyes closed the entire time, even though phones didn’t count, because caution had become a nervous tic. Marisol had found nothing, though her voice went tight and aching when Y/N admitted the moon was getting bigger. Father Michael left voicemails she didn’t play. Witching You Well sent no new miracles, only a message that said, Babe, I am still digging through my supplier’s grimoire contacts, which was possibly the least reassuring sentence ever written.
Eli kept the hallway clear.
The moon filled out.
Every night, Y/N stood in front of the bathroom mirror and asked herself if she wanted to find out whether the demon would really take her soul.
The answer changed shape, but never meaning.
No.
No, she did not.
She could argue with herself all she wanted, could pace barefoot over the warped kitchen floor muttering about morality and consent and coercion while Eli’s shadow stretched under her door, but some animal part of her already knew. The demon would take it. Of course, he would. There had been no bluff in that smile, no looseness in the contract, no hint of mercy tucked between the shifting red letters. He had not threatened her like a man hoping to be believed. He had informed her like gravity explaining falling.
On the last night before the full moon, Y/N rented a truck under a fake confidence she did not possess and a real name she wished she could shed. She wore a black hoodie, black leggings, and boots she had bought for hiking but never used, apparently because she had been saving them for felony wilderness activities. Her hair was shoved under a beanie. Sunglasses at night would have been suspicious, so she wore a mask and kept her gaze down, answering the rental clerk in clipped, polite little bursts while staring at his chin.
Nothing happened.
No warmth. No hook.
He didn’t look at her eyes. He didn’t care.
Y/N nearly sobbed from gratitude in the parking lot.
Jason lost Victor Sable at 11:43 p.m.
He had been tailing the man from the Narrows, keeping enough distance to avoid the security detail but close enough to watch the pattern. Victor loved patterns. Dinner in the same private room twice a week. Back exit from the club after midnight. Two guards close, one driver, one floating perimeter man who checked reflections in windows. Jason hated him on sight, which was not evidence, but evidence had been piling up all week in ugly little heaps. Missing girls. Scrubbed footage. Cash withdrawals. A frightened bartender who had almost talked before vanishing into silence.
Jason was good at following people.
Normally.
Tonight, Gotham decided to become a slapstick routine with knives.
First, a garbage truck pulled out of an alley at exactly the wrong time, blocking half the street. Jason swore under his breath and cut across a rooftop, only to have the fire escape ladder jam beneath his boot with a screech loud enough to wake three apartments and one deeply offended cat. He recovered, kept moving, and dropped into the next alley, where his comm crackled so violently he yanked the earpiece out before it popped.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Sure. Why not.”
Then a flock of pigeons exploded from under an awning directly into his face.
“Are you kidding me?”
Victor’s car turned left.
Jason vaulted a fence, landed in something wet he refused to identify, and came out on the next block just in time to see a city bus wheeze between him and the taillights. He sprinted, shoulder-checking past a drunk man dressed as a hot dog for reasons Gotham would probably never explain, and reached the corner as the light changed.
A taxi nearly clipped him.
The driver leaned on the horn.
Jason slapped the hood. “Drive better!”
The floating security guard glanced back.
Jason ducked into the shadows, jaw tight, watching Victor disappear into the traffic tangle. He tried to track the car’s plate through a traffic camera hack Tim had set up, but the app crashed, then restarted in Korean, then displayed a weather warning for rural Nebraska.
For three seconds, Jason just stared.
Then he looked up at the cloudy sky and said, “Real funny.”
Across the city, Y/N was also losing Victor Sable.
Not in the metaphorical way, though there was plenty of that, too. In the literal way. He was harder to follow than she expected, which was humiliating because she had not expected following someone to be hard. Movies made it look mostly like walking with purpose and wearing a hat. In reality, she almost got hit by a cyclist, turned into the wrong alley twice, stepped in a puddle so deep it felt like a pond, and whispered “sorry” to a trash can after bumping into it.
She had no idea what she was doing.
She had researched too much and not enough. She knew Victor’s schedule, his clubs, the names of two guards, and the location of a side entrance near an old freight elevator. She knew from message boards that he sometimes dismissed his men when meeting private buyers or private victims, which made her skin crawl so hard she wanted to scratch it off. She had peppered her notebook with arrows and question marks and one tiny doodle of a skull crying.
But knowing where a bad man walked was not the same as becoming someone capable of ending him.
Her rental truck sat five blocks away under a dead streetlamp, loaded with a tarp, garbage bags, a shovel, bleach wipes, duct tape, and a roll of paper towels. The cashier at the hardware store had not made eye contact with her, thank God, because Y/N’s purchase history looked like Pinterest for nervous murder.
This is insane, she thought, crouched behind a dumpster that smelled like old beer and hot metal. This is insane. This is insane. This is so insane, I owe every true crime podcast an apology.
Victor’s club pulsed at the end of the alley, bass thudding through brick, neon bleeding violet and red across wet pavement. He stepped outside around one in the morning, flanked by two guards, laughing into the night with his hand on the back of a girl who looked too young and too still. Y/N’s stomach turned. The girl was guided into a black car by one of the guards. Victor stayed behind, answering a phone call, his face bright and bored under the alley light.
Y/N’s hand shook around the knife in her pocket.
It was a kitchen knife.
That was one of several problems.
She had technically bought a different knife, but the packaging had been impossible to open, and at some point she had sat on her kitchen floor with scissors, a migraine, and Eli whispering through the door, asking if she needed help, and she had decided the big kitchen knife was fine. It was not fine. It was deeply not fine. It had a blue handle. It had once cut a birthday cake. It did not have the gravitas of a murder weapon. It had apartment nachos at 2 a.m. energy.
Victor finished his call and went back inside.
Y/N whispered, “Cool. Great. Love that. Perfect for my nerves.”
She waited another hour.
Her legs went numb. Her phone died. A rat emerged from behind the dumpster, looked at her, and left as if it found her embarrassing.
Finally, Victor came out alone.
Alone-ish. One guard stood at the mouth of the alley, smoking, but Victor waved him off with irritation and walked deeper toward the freight entrance, phone in hand, jacket collar turned up against the rain. Y/N moved before she could think herself out of it. She followed him down the narrow service passage where the music dulled into a heartbeat behind walls and the smell changed from rain to mold, cigarettes, and old grease.
He stopped at a side door, swiped a keycard, then turned.
Y/N looked up by mistake.
Their eyes met.
The curse woke.
It was not gentle. With Eli, it had unfurled like warmth, disturbing but soft at the edges. With Marisol, it had caught like a hook. With Father Michael, it had bloomed into holy grief. With Victor Sable, it struck the room like a match dropped into gasoline. His face changed so fast it stole the air from her lungs. Irritation vanished. Suspicion dissolved. His pupils widened, black eating brown, and something almost childlike opened beneath all that expensive rot.
“Oh,” he said.
Y/N froze, one hand still in her pocket around the knife.
Victor stared at her as if the alley had rearranged itself into a cathedral. “Who are you?”
“No one,” Y/N whispered.
The words were a mistake. Her voice made it worse.
He stepped toward her.
Y/N stepped back.
“Don’t,” she said.
He stopped immediately. The obedience of it was horrifying.
She stared at him, at the handsome face from the courthouse photo, at the man whose name sat on survivor forums like a bruise. This was supposed to make it easier. He was supposed to be awful in a way that kept her hands steady. He was supposed to sneer, threaten, lunge, and become the monster cleanly enough for her to react.
Instead, he looked at her like she had hung the moon.
Y/N’s eyes burned.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
Victor’s expression softened. “Can’t what?”
Her hand came out of her pocket with the knife.
He looked at it. Then at her.
No fear.
That was worse than fear.
Y/N’s hand shook so badly the blade caught the alley light in tiny, frantic flashes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I thought I could, but I can’t. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know how people do this in movies without throwing up first.”
Victor stepped closer again, slow and reverent.
“Please don’t,” Y/N said.
He stopped.
A tear slid down her cheek, hot against the cold air. Her smile appeared with it, trembling, horrible, completely wrong. “You’re a terrible person,” she said, voice cracking. “You are. I know you are. I picked you because you’re terrible. That’s so fucked up, right? Like, imagine being so bad that a cursed woman with a kitchen knife and no upper body strength is like, yeah, that one. That’s my morally gray murder starter..”
Victor’s lips parted.
“I love you so much,” he whispered.
Y/N went still.
“No,” she said.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know my face because hell put a leash in your brain!”
Victor’s hands rose, slow enough that she saw them coming, not toward her throat, not toward the knife, but toward her shaking fingers. He cupped her hands with both of his, warm and steady, folding them around the blue handle as if helping her light a candle.
Y/N’s breath hitched. “Don’t.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I can give you this.”
“No, no, no, you can’t. That’s not how this works.”
“Let me.”
“Victor, stop.”
His name in her mouth made him smile.
Then he pulled her hands forward and drove the knife into his stomach.
Y/N swallowed her scream as best as she could.
But the sound of the whimper she let out cracked down the alley, swallowed by bass and rain and Gotham’s usual indifference. Victor gasped, but not like pain surprised him. More like relief. His hands stayed over hers, forcing the knife deeper, his forehead dropping toward hers, his breath warm and wet against her cheek.
“I love you so much,” he whispered again.
Y/N tried to pull back. “Stop! Stop, please, stop!”
He didn’t.
He dragged the knife out and pushed it in again, using her hands like they were a blessing he had been waiting to receive. Blood spilled hot over their fingers, dark in the alley light, slicking the blue handle, running down his shirt in sudden black-red sheets. Y/N sobbed, fighting him, but he was stronger, even dying, and the curse made him tender about it, which made the whole thing obscene.
“I can’t,” she cried.
“You can,” he breathed. “For you. Anything.”
Again.
Again.
The fourth time, his knees buckled.
Y/N went down with him, trapped by his grip, boots slipping in blood and rainwater. Victor landed hard against the wall, then slid to the ground, dragging her with him. His eyes never left her face. Even as the life began to drain out of him, even as his breath turned ragged and shallow, even as the alley filled with the iron stink of what she had done and not done and somehow done anyway, he looked happy.
That was the part that broke something.
He reached up with bloody fingers and touched her cheek.
Y/N flinched but did not move fast enough.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
Then he died.
For one long moment, Y/N could not move.
The alley hummed. Rain pattered softly against the metal awning overhead. Somewhere inside the club, people cheered at something, a song changed, and laughter rose. Victor Sable lay half across her lap, heavy and warm and no longer breathing, and Y/N’s hands were still wrapped around the knife in his stomach.
Her brain, overwhelmed beyond usefulness, offered her exactly one thought.
The knife handle is blue.
Then the blood moved.
Y/N stared.
The blood pooling beneath Victor’s body did not spread the way blood should. It crawled. Thin red streams pulled themselves across the concrete with insect patience, curving into lines, loops, symbols she recognized from her living room floor. The alley air dropped cold. The rain hissed when it touched the forming circle. Victor’s blood drew the ritual perfectly, neatly, like an artist signing a painting.
“Oh, fuck no,” Y/N whispered.
The circle ignited.
Not with normal fire. Blue-black flame rose from the blood, silent and clean, throwing shadows up the brick walls in long, horned shapes. Y/N scrambled backward so fast Victor’s head hit the ground with a dull thump.
“Sorry,” she sobbed automatically, because apparently murder had not cured her manners.
The flames burned for seven seconds.
Then vanished.
No scorch. No blood circle. Only Victor’s body, the knife, the rain, and Y/N were covered in so much blood that she looked like she had crawled out of a horror movie through the wrong screen.
She started laughing.
It came out thin and jagged, tangled with sobs. She clamped both hands over her mouth and laughed harder, because the alternative was screaming until the security guard came back and found her kneeling beside a dead club owner with a kitchen knife and a moral philosophy crisis.
“Okay,” she whispered through her fingers. “Okay. We are not doing this here. We are moving. We are a moving girl. A productive girl. A girl with a rental truck and severe trauma.”
Victor was heavy.
Y/N had not considered that enough.
She had considered tarps, vaguely. She had considered the burial badly. She had considered whether bleach destroyed DNA and then closed the tab because it made her feel like the FBI could sense her through the laptop. She had not truly considered the physical indignity of moving a dead man who had, until recently, owned several gyms’ worth of shoulders.
Getting him into the tarp became a slapstick nightmare scored by her own panicked whispering.
“Cooperate,” she hissed, trying to roll him with her foot while keeping her bloody hands away from her face. “You literally killed yourself for me, can you be normal for five more seconds?”
His arm flopped out.
Y/N yelped.
“Don’t do that.”
He did not respond because he was dead, which was rude but consistent.
She got him wrapped eventually, sort of. The tarp made awful plastic sounds. The tape stuck to her gloves, then to itself, then to her sleeve. She dropped the roll once, chased it under a rusted pipe, hit her head on the wall, whispered six curse words and one apology to God, then remembered she was not on great terms with the supernatural at large.
Dragging him to the truck took twenty minutes and ten years off her life.
Somehow, no one came.
A car alarm went off on the next block just as she crossed the service lane, covering the scrape of the tarp. A drunk couple stumbled past the alley mouth, laughing too hard to look her way. The security guard who should have been there was occupied arguing with someone whose motorcycle had mysteriously fallen over, blocking the club’s side exit. Gotham’s cameras blinked red, then black, then red again, as if irritated by their own existence.
Minor inconveniences.
Y/N hated how grateful she was.
She got Victor into the back of the rental truck by using a broken wooden pallet as a ramp, a prayer she did not deserve answered, and the kind of adrenaline mothers get when lifting cars off babies, except the baby was a dead criminal and the car was her bad choices. When he finally slid into the truck bed, she collapsed against the bumper, gasping, hair plastered to her face, blood drying tacky on her throat.
“I’m canceling my gym membership,” she panted, even though she did not have one.
The drive out of Gotham blurred into rain and headlights.
Y/N kept both hands on the wheel at ten and two like a student driver transporting a corpse for her learner’s permit. Every sound from the back made her flinch. Every bump convinced her Victor had somehow sat up. She took side roads. Then the wrong roads. Then, she accidentally circled the same gas station twice until the attendant inside began looking concerned, at which point she drove away too fast and nearly cried because drawing attention while covered in blood was, in her expert opinion, suboptimal.
Two hours from Gotham, the city finally loosened its grip.
The forest road was narrow, black, and wet, lined with trees that leaned close as if eager to hear the gossip. She parked in a muddy clearing she had found online after searching remote hiking trails near Gotham, not popular at night, which was a sentence that should have triggered a wellness check. The rain had softened the ground, which was good. The dark was absolute, which was good. The shovel was heavier than expected, which was bad. Everything was bad.
Digging a grave was not cinematic.
It was mud. Roots. Rocks. Worms. Her breath is burning. Her shoulders are screaming. Her boots are sinking. Her gloves are slipping. She cried twice, not from sorrow exactly, but from effort and horror and the humiliating realization that every movie had lied about how easy shovels were. She took breaks, bent over with her hands on her knees, whispering, “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” into the trees while Victor waited in the truck bed like the world’s worst camping buddy.
The grave was not deep enough.
She knew it wasn’t.
She kept digging.
By the time she dragged Victor into it, the sky had begun to pale at the edges, not dawn yet, but the warning before it. She did not look at his face when the tarp shifted. She could not. She shoved dirt over him in frantic, uneven heaps, tamped it down with the back of the shovel, scattered leaves and branches, then stood over the place where a man had disappeared and felt nothing clean enough to name.
No triumph.
No justice.
No relief, not really.
Only the horrible knowledge that her soul still sat inside her body, and Victor Sable did not.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
The trees said nothing back.
She drove another twenty minutes before she stopped near a creek and looked at herself in the rearview mirror.
For a second, she did not recognize the woman staring back.
Blood had dried across her cheek in a dark smear, caught at her hairline, streaked down her neck, and crusted under her nails despite the gloves. Her hoodie was soaked with it. Her eyes looked too big. Her mouth was curved faintly, automatically, the smile returning like a parasite that knew all her passwords.
Y/N touched the mirror.
Then gagged.
She shoved the truck door open and stumbled out into the cold morning air, ripping at her clothes with shaking hands. Hoodie. Shirt. Leggings. Socks. Gloves. Beanie. Everything came off in frantic jerks until she stood in the trees in her underwear, trembling and goosebumped, whispering, “Nope, nope, nope,” like the word could peel the night off her skin.
She shoved the clothes into a metal fire pit near an abandoned campsite and poured lighter fluid with too much enthusiasm, then had to stand back because the whoosh of flame nearly took her eyebrows as a souvenir.
The clothes burned fast.
Black smoke twisted upward through the branches. The smell was awful, chemical and coppery and final. Y/N changed into the clean sweats she had packed, hands numb, skin clammy, every movement mechanical. She tied her hair back. Wiped her face with bottled water until her skin hurt. Scrubbed under her nails with a travel toothbrush she would never emotionally recover from using.
When she climbed back into the truck, the mirror held a different woman.
Clean-ish.
Alive.
Not innocent.
Y/N drove home in silence.
Eli was not in the hallway when she returned, which almost scared her more than if he had been. Her apartment door stood untouched. The tape over the peephole remained. The air inside smelled stale, safe, and faintly of the lavender hand soap she had used on laundry. She locked every lock, slid down against the door, and sat there for one second, two, three.
Then she ran to the bathroom and threw up.
She vomited until there was nothing left, then stayed on the floor with her cheek against the cool tile, shaking so hard her teeth clicked. The apartment brightened around her slowly, morning pressing gray fingers through the blackout curtains. Somewhere outside, a siren passed. Somewhere in Gotham, Jason Todd tried to find Victor Sable and found only broken camera feeds, contradictory witness statements, an abandoned car with the door open, and a security team beginning to panic.
For four days, Victor Sable did not appear.
On the fourth, Gotham News called him missing.
Y/N watched the headline crawl across her laptop screen while sitting on the bathroom floor in the same clean sweats, unwashed hair tangled around her face, the baseball bat across her lap.
Gotham Club Owner Victor Sable Reported Missing After Security Team Loses Contact
Her stomach turned again, but there was nothing left in her to throw up.
Outside the apartment door, Eli’s footsteps returned.
He sat down in the hall with a soft sigh, close enough that his shadow touched the threshold.
“Y/N?” he called gently. “I was worried.”
She stared at the headline.
Her smile came back, small and ruined.
“So was I,” she whispered, but not loud enough for him to hear.
By the time Victor Sable was officially missing, Y/N had already watched herself become guilty in seventeen different reflections.
The bathroom mirror was the worst one. It had old black spots blooming under the silver backing near the corners, little rot-flowers that made her face look fragmented when she leaned too close, and she kept leaning too close because she could not stop checking.
Her hands. Her nails. Her hairline. The soft curve of her cheek where Victor’s bloody fingers had touched her, as if she were holy. She had scrubbed until her skin stung, until the backs of her hands were raw and shiny, until the lavender soap smelled less like lavender and more like panic dressed up in a purple bottle.
Still, every time she looked at herself, she saw red in places red could not possibly remain. In the hollow of her throat. Under one ear. Along the seam of her mouth when her awful, automatic smile tried to crawl back into place.
Victor Sable was dead.
Victor Sable had been a monster.
Victor Sable had chosen it.
Victor Sable had looked at her like she was salvation, put his hands over hers, and driven the knife into his own body while whispering, I love you so much.
Y/N bent over the toilet and vomited again.
There was nothing left to throw up except acid and a thin, humiliating sound that scraped her throat raw. Her knees hurt from the tile. Her hair clung damply to her face. Somewhere behind her, the apartment sat in its bunker silence, blackout curtains drawn, baseball bat against the tub, her phone buzzing occasionally from people who wanted things from her now that wanting had become a disease.
It counted as justice, she told herself, forehead pressed to the toilet seat, eyes squeezed shut. It did. It did. He hurt people. He would have hurt more people. He was going to keep getting away with it.
Her stomach rolled.
He killed himself for you.
She gagged again.
There was no way to say it that made it clean. She had gone there intending to kill him. She had picked him. She had put his name in the strawberry notebook beneath Possible offerings like a grocery list written by someone losing a custody battle with hell. She had carried the knife. She had followed him. She had looked into his eyes and spoken. The curse had done the rest, maybe, but the curse lived in her now, didn’t it? It wore her voice. It moved through her face. It made wanting into a noose and handed the other end to whoever stood too close.
“Justice,” she whispered, and laughed once into the toilet bowl because the word sounded ridiculous in her mouth. “Sure. Great. Super justicey. Batman would love the branding.”
She froze.
Batman.
Gotham had Batman. Gotham had Red Hood, Nightwing, Red Robin, Robin, a whole shadowy ecosystem of people who broke bones in alleys and somehow made the news anchors say “vigilante” like it was both a warning and a weather pattern. Y/N did not know them. Not personally. Obviously. Her family had lives and secrets and bruises she was too far from to recognize as anything more than distance.
Bruce was just Bruce to her, impossible and absent. Dick was a cop with a smile too practiced to be trusted. Jason had no day job and a permanent storm behind his eyes. Tim ran tech at Wayne Enterprises and looked like caffeine had taken out a life insurance policy on him. Damian was in medical school and treated most social interactions like a test of endurance.
They were just her family.
Her family, who did not know she had murdered a man.
Her family, who would not notice unless the blood got on their carpets.
But Batman. Batman would find out. Batman would shove her in Arkham Asylum with the rest of the villains lurking in Gotham, all convinced of their own motives, their own explanations, goals, egos, and survival.
Just like her.
The thought hit so hard she slid sideways on the tile and sat with her back against the tub, shaking. Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. She ignored it. It buzzed again. Then again, a cluster of messages she could feel through the walls like tiny electrical insects.
She dragged herself up and grabbed it.
Alfred: Miss Y/N, I trust you are keeping well. I have not heard from you in several days.
Below it, from two days earlier:
Bruce: Busy week. Everything okay?
And beneath that:
Bruce: Alfred says you still haven’t replied. Text him when you can.
Not text me. Text him.
Y/N stared until the letters blurred.
The toilet smell, the soap, the old steam, the sour burn in her throat, all of it pressed in around her. She wanted to be angry. Anger would have been a clean flame, something she could point outward. Instead, she felt small and raw and bitterly ridiculous. She had killed a man and buried him in the woods two hours from Gotham, and Bruce Wayne still managed to make her feel like an unread email.
Her thumb hovered over Alfred’s message.
She typed:
Y/N: I’m okay, just sick.
Then she deleted ‘okay’ because it felt too close to a lie with teeth.
Y/N: I’m sick. Sorry.
She sent it before she could overthink, then immediately wanted to throw her phone into the sink.
It buzzed back less than a minute later.
Alfred: What kind of sick?
Y/N closed her eyes.
The murder kind, apparently.
She typed:
Y/N: Stomach thing. Probably takeout.
Another buzz.
Alfred: Have you eaten anything today besides takeout?
Y/N looked toward the kitchen, where an unopened sleeve of saltines and three cans of ginger ale sat beside a pile of unwashed mugs. There was also, under the sink, a trash bag containing the ashes of her strawberry notebook.
She had burned it in a mixing bowl at three in the morning because paranoia had climbed into bed with her and whispered that notebooks were evidence. The little strawberries had blackened first, curling in on themselves, cheerful and doomed. The pages had gone next: Rules? gone to smoke, Texts don’t count, gone to ash, Victor Sable’s name vanishing in a brief orange flare that made her cry so hard she almost dropped the bowl. She had opened every window afterward, even though she hated the dark outside looking in, then sprayed the apartment with vanilla room mist until it smelled like a bakery had committed arson.
No notebook. No rules. No list.
No proof, except the body in the ground. The rental truck. The cameras. The witnesses. The blood that had crawled into a circle and burned itself away like hell licking the plate.
Y/N typed:
Y/N: Saltines count?
The answer came immediately.
Alfred: No.
Then:
Alfred: You will come to the manor this evening. I shall make soup.
Y/N stared at the screen.
Y/N: Alfred, I’m fine.
Alfred: I did not ask if you were fine.
Y/N: I don’t want to get anyone sick.
Alfred: Then it shall simply be you and me. Dinner at seven.
Y/N opened her mouth to argue with the phone, then closed it.
Alfred Pennyworth had a way of making politeness feel like a hand gently but firmly closing around the scruff of her neck. It was not cruel. It was not even controlling, not exactly. It was old-world authority with good posture. Somehow, he could lightly force a person across town through text message alone, which was probably why Bruce looked emotionally undercooked but never starved.
She looked at herself in the mirror again.
Hollow eyes. Chapped lips. Damp hair. A face that could still smile on reflex, even now.
“No,” she told her reflection. “Absolutely not. We are not going to Alfred’s looking like the before picture in a cursed skincare ad.”
Across Gotham, Jason Todd was saying something much less gentle to a bank of screens.
“That’s bullshit.”
Tim did not look up from his keyboard. “You’re going to have to be more specific. There’s a lot of bullshit.”
“Victor Sable doesn’t just vanish.”
“People vanish in Gotham all the time.”
Jason leaned over the cave table, palms planted on either side of a map marked with routes, timestamps, dead zones, and the last known locations of Victor’s security team. His leather jacket creaked. His jaw was tight enough to crack stone. “Not like this. Not with four private guards, two cars, and a whole club full of witnesses who suddenly can’t remember whether he left through the back, the side, the roof, or got abducted by freaking mothman.”
Dick, perched on the edge of the table with a tablet in hand, gave him a look. “Please don’t say mothman in the cave like Damian won’t decide he’s real and start hunting him for extra credit.”
Damian, standing near the med station with his arms crossed, sniffed. “I would not hunt mothman. The folklore is inconsistent.”
“See?” Dick said. “We’re already in danger.”
Jason ignored them. His eyes stayed on the footage loop, such as it was. Victor exiting the club. Victor stepped into the side alley. A flicker. Static. A black screen for thirteen seconds. Then, an empty alley. No Victor. No body. No blood. No attacker.
Nothing.
That was the problem.
Nothing had been everywhere.
The traffic cameras around the club had glitched in staggered bursts that made no technical sense. A delivery truck had blocked one angle. A billboard had shorted out, blinding another with white light. The nearest street cam had caught a pigeon landing directly on the lens, which Jason would have found funny if he weren’t about to start a personal feud with Gotham’s entire bird population. Witnesses contradicted each other so badly that their statements looked like a group project done by drunk ghosts. One guard said Victor went inside. One swore he saw him leave in a black sedan. Another had slipped on spilled fryer oil, cracked his head on the pavement, and remembered only “some girl laughing,” which might have meant anything, nothing, or Gotham being Gotham.
Security detail lost contact for four days before admitting it publicly.
Four days.
Jason had spent those four days tearing the Narrows apart.
And finding less than nothing.
Bruce stood behind him, silent and heavy as carved shadow. “Could be someone with access to tech.”
Tim grimaced. “If it’s tech, it’s weird tech. The failures aren’t centralized. They’re situational. Almost like every route of observation experienced a separate, perfectly timed nuisance.”
Jason barked a humorless laugh. “Nuisance. That’s cute. My comm fried, a bus blocked me, my tracker app turned Korean, and a hot dog guy body-checked me into a trash can.”
Dick blinked. “A hot dog guy?”
“Don’t.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed at the map. “Magic.”
The word cooled the cave.
Tim stopped typing for half a second. Dick’s humor faded. Damian lifted his chin. Jason stared at Bruce, irritation and agreement cutting across his face in equal measure.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
Bruce looked toward the blank stretch of alley footage. “Zatanna?”
“I asked,” Tim said. “She’s off-world with the League. Constantine is unreachable, which either means he’s busy, drunk, dead, or avoiding us.”
“Probably all four,” Dick said.
Jason pushed off the table and paced, restless and furious. “Victor Sable was one of the worst bastards in the Narrows, and somebody made him disappear without leaving a footprint. If that somebody is cleaning house, they’re going to do it again.”
Bruce’s phone buzzed against the table.
He glanced down.
Alfred: Miss Y/N will be joining me for dinner. She appears unwell.
Bruce read it, thumb hovering. His daughter’s name sat there as a small stone dropped into a dark pool. Y/N. Twenty-seven. HR job. Apartment with a bad radiator. Too many jokes. Too much smiling. Too easy to leave unanswered because she did not demand space the way the others did. She had said she was sick. Alfred had it handled. Alfred always handled the things Bruce failed to pick up before they broke.
“Everything?” Tim asked without looking away from the footage.
Bruce set the phone down. “Alfred is checking on Y/N.”
Jason’s head turned for half a second. “She okay?”
“Sick.”
Jason’s face did something almost concerned, then closed again when the Victor footage flickered on the screen. “Flu’s going around.”
“Alfred has it handled,” Bruce said and turned back to the case.
Y/N spent forty-six minutes trying to look alive enough for soup.
She showered with the bathroom door cracked because closed doors made her feel trapped now, then changed twice, then a third time because the first sweater made her think of family dinner and the second had a stain she convinced herself was blood, even though it was probably hot sauce. She settled on black jeans and a soft green cardigan that made her look less like she had recently dug a grave and more like she might attend a farmers' market against her will. She put on concealer with trembling hands, then wiped most of it off because her face looked strange when it tried too hard to be normal.
The knife block in the kitchen sat on the counter.
She had avoided it since coming home.
Her eyes caught on the empty slot where the blue-handled knife had been. She had buried it with Victor because bringing it back had felt impossible. Now the missing space looked accusatory, a mouth with one tooth knocked out.
I love you so much.
Y/N clapped a hand over her mouth and ran to the bathroom.
Nothing came up this time. Just dry heaves and tears and that horrible phantom warmth of Victor’s hands closing over hers.
By the time she made it to the car, she was sweating through the cardigan.
Driving to the manor felt unreal. Gotham slid around her in rain-slick ribbons, all gray buildings, neon signs, traffic lights blinking red through mist. Every police car made her throat close. Every siren felt personal. When a dark SUV followed her for three blocks, she nearly took a wrong turn into a loading dock before it passed her and revealed a bumper sticker that said MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM, which almost made her laugh and then almost made her cry.
Wayne Manor rose from the dark like an old secret with windows.
Y/N parked too far from the front steps and sat gripping the steering wheel until her fingers went numb. She had grown up coming here and still always felt like the house was deciding whether to let her in. Warm lights glowed through tall windows. Rain silvered the stone. Somewhere beyond the hill and locked doors, her family was probably wrapped around some urgent thing, some case, some emergency with edges sharper than her. She hoped they would all be gone. Then hated herself for hoping. Then hated that hating herself still felt easier than being angry with them.
The front door opened before she knocked.
Alfred stood there in his usual immaculate suit, silver hair neat, posture severe enough to shame architecture. His expression softened when he saw her, but only slightly. Alfred’s softness was not sloppy. It was folded into corners.
“Miss Y/N.”
“Hey, Alfred.” Her voice came out bright and awful. “I brought my plague vibes.”
“So I see.”
“Wow. Hurtful.”
“You look as though you have not slept properly in a week.”
“Okay, more hurtful and also weirdly specific.”
He stepped aside. “Come in before you catch your death.”
Her stomach lurched at the word death.
Alfred noticed. Of course, he noticed. His eyes moved over her face, not lingering, not pressing, just cataloging with that quiet precision she had always associated with him finding lost cufflinks and knowing exactly which vase Damian had broken before anyone confessed. Former British spy or not, Alfred could make an observation look like hospitality.
Y/N lowered her gaze and slipped past him into the warmth.
The manor smelled like beeswax, old books, polished wood, and something savory drifting from the kitchen. For the first time in days, the air did not smell like her apartment’s fear: burnt paper, stale takeout, sour panic, laundry soap, the faint metallic memory her brain kept inventing. Here, everything was ordered. Held. Clean. A place where knives lived in drawers and soup meant soup.
“Just us?” she asked.
“As promised.”
“Bruce isn’t here?”
“Master Bruce is occupied.”
“Of course he is,” she said, too lightly.
Alfred said nothing. That was the thing with Alfred. He could make a silent answer and refuse to answer at the same time.
He led her to the smaller breakfast room instead of the dining room, which helped. No huge table. No empty chairs lined like witnesses. No cold soup under chandelier light. Just a round table near tall windows streaked with rain, two places set, a small lamp glowing gold, and a bowl of what smelled like chicken soup waiting with bread and butter.
Y/N’s chest tightened.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Alfred pulled out her chair. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not sir me. It makes me sound like a schoolmaster.”
“You kind of have the vibe.”
“I shall choose to take that as respect.”
She sat, and for a few minutes, the world became spoon, bowl, steam. The soup was gentle, rich without being heavy, with tiny noodles, soft carrots, and herbs that tasted as if someone had thought carefully about making food for a person whose stomach had declared itself an enemy state. Y/N ate slowly at first, wary of her own body, then faster when she realized she was starving.
Alfred pretended not to watch too closely.
That was kind of him.
It also made her want to cry.
“You said it was a stomach ailment,” he said after she had eaten half the bowl.
“Yeah. Probably takeout.”
“From where?”
Y/N froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth.
Taco Bell. Baskin-Robbins. Blood in the woods. Mint chocolate chip. Victor’s breath against her cheek.
“I don’t remember,” she lied.
Alfred buttered a piece of bread with unhurried grace. “You don’t remember?”
“I order a lot of garbage when I’m sad.”
His hand paused for less than a second.
There. She had said too much.
“Sad?” he asked.
Y/N smiled into her soup. “You know. Seasonal vibes.”
“It is April.”
“Spring sadness. Very niche. Chronically online condition.”
“Indeed.”
She took another bite to avoid saying anything else. Her hands were still shaking. She tucked one under the table and curled it into her sleeve, but Alfred’s gaze dipped once, just once. Fidgeting. He saw the way her knee bounced. The way she startled when a pan shifted in the kitchen sink. The way her eyes avoided the knives on the sideboard. The way she had positioned herself with her back not fully to the door, despite never caring about that before. The way she looked thinner, as if some essential padding had been stripped from her nerves.
He did not comment.
Yet.
Instead, he poured her tea.
“You have not answered Master Bruce,” he said.
Y/N’s spoon scraped the bowl. “He told me to text you if I needed anything.”
Alfred’s face remained composed. “He is handling a difficult matter.”
“He always is.”
The words slipped out quietly enough that she almost pretended they hadn’t.
Alfred set the teapot down. “That does not mean he should neglect everything else.”
Y/N looked up, startled.
His expression was calm, but there was something beneath it. Not anger exactly. Disappointment sharpened into an old blade.
She laughed, soft and nervous. “Whoa. Alfred Pennyworth criticizing Bruce Wayne. Should I duck? Is lightning coming?”
“Do not be flippant with your exhaustion, Miss Y/N. It is quite poor camouflage.”
Her smile faltered.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Rain tapped the windows. The lamp hummed faintly. Somewhere deep in the manor, a door closed, distant enough to feel like another house entirely.
“I’m okay,” Y/N said.
Alfred looked at her for a long second. “No, you are not.”
Her throat closed.
The automatic smile came back, bright and terrible, even as her eyes stung. “That’s rude. I came for soup, not emotional violence.”
“Soup and emotional violence are a traditional pairing.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, small and cracked but real enough that the room loosened around her.
Alfred’s eyes softened.
That almost broke her worse than anything.
She stayed for almost an hour. They talked about nothing and almost everything. Alfred asked about work, and she told him HR was still mostly emails, awkward conversations, and people misunderstanding their benefits. He asked about her apartment, and she told him the radiator had escalated from ghost whale to haunted trombone. He asked whether she needed repairs paid for, and she said no too fast. He noticed that too. He asked if she had been sleeping, and she said yes, badly enough that he simply hummed.
Every kindness felt dangerous because she wanted to fall into it.
But Alfred knew her. Alfred had known her before the curse, before the ritual, before the blood circle and the grave. She could meet his eyes without feeling hell wake under her skin. The curse did not move here, not with him, not in this old warm room with rain on the glass and soup in her stomach. For the first time in days, her shoulders lowered. Not all the way. Never all the way. But enough.
When she stood to leave, Alfred handed her a container of soup, wrapped neatly, along with bread and a tin of ginger biscuits.
“I’m not an invalid,” she said, clutching all of it like treasure.
“No. You are underfed and stubborn.”
“Invalid was shorter.”
“Stubborn remains accurate.”
She smiled, and this one hurt less. “Thank you.”
Alfred studied her face. “You will answer my messages.”
“That sounded like a command.”
“It was.”
“Yes, schoolmaster.”
“Y/N.”
The use of her name, without a title, made her look at him.
His voice lowered. “Whatever it is, you are not as alone as you believe yourself to be.”
For one mad, reckless second, she almost told him.
Not everything. Maybe not even the worst thing. But enough. Alfred, I did something. Alfred, I’m scared. Alfred, something is wrong with me. The words crowded behind her teeth, shoving, desperate. He would believe her. Maybe not at first, but he would listen. He would sit her down. He would make tea. He would know what to do because Alfred always did.
Then she saw Victor’s blood crawling across the concrete, forming a circle.
She saw Eli outside her door.
She saw Alfred’s face changing if the curse could find a way through confession, through pity, through whatever awful, hungry thing she had brought back with her.
Her smile returned.
“I know,” she lied.
Alfred knew it was a lie. She could tell.
He let her keep it.
The manor hallway was dim and quiet when she left the breakfast room, soup container tucked against her chest, keys looped around one finger. She passed old portraits, polished tables, and flowers in vases that probably had names. The house felt half-asleep, its grandness softened by shadows. For once, no one stopped her. No one called her back. No one asked where she had been, where she was going, or why her hands trembled around a container of soup.
She rounded the corner near the front hall and nearly walked into Damian.
He had a backpack over one shoulder, dark hair slightly damp from rain, a medical textbook tucked under one arm, and his phone in his hand. At twenty, Damian had sharpened into himself rather than softened, all lean lines and elegant impatience, his face carrying the faint, permanent displeasure of someone born unimpressed. He glanced up just in time to avoid a collision.
“Y/N.”
“Damian.” She shifted the soup container before it slipped. “Hey. Sorry. I was just leaving.”
His eyes moved over her quickly, not with Alfred’s warmth, but with trained, absent assessment he probably did not realize he had learned. Pale. Tired. Cardigan sleeves pulled over hands. Weight held wrong. He blinked, as if something in the picture did not fit the file in his head.
“Were you ill?” he asked.
“Stomach thing.”
“Mn.”
“Very sympathetic. Bedside manner’s gonna be killer.”
“I am not studying medicine to provide bedside entertainment.”
“Yeah, no, I can tell.”
His mouth almost moved. Almost.
For a second, the hallway held them in a strange little pause. Y/N did not know what to do with him. Damian had always felt like a locked door with a sword behind it. Not cruel to her, exactly. Just not interested enough to be kind consistently. Youngest brother. Biological like her, but treated like a fact instead of an accident. Bruce’s son in a way she had never figured out how to be Bruce’s daughter.
She tightened her grip on the soup.
“I’ll get out of your way,” she said and started past him.
Damian looked down at his phone as it buzzed, attention already shifting. “Drive home safely.”
It was absent-minded. Automatic. Barely warm. The kind of thing someone said because Alfred had trained manners into the walls.
Y/N stopped anyway.
Her chest did something small and painful.
“Thanks,” she said quickly, too quickly, and scurried toward the door before her face could do anything humiliating.
Damian looked up.
The front door opened. Rain whispered in. Y/N slipped out, clutching Alfred’s soup like a shield, and pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click.
Damian stood in the hall, staring after her.
Weird.
He did not know what part of it was weird, which irritated him. The trembling? The haste? The way she had reacted to one throwaway sentence as if it had been a hand offered across a pit? The fact that she looked both sick and hunted, despite insisting on a stomach thing?
As he watched her rush away, Damian caught the faintest trace of something dark beneath her fingernails; an odd red-brown, almost hidden by quick-washed hands and nerves.
For a split second, he wondered if it was paint, but Y/N used a digital drawing app, something Damian had turned his nose up at multiple times. A detail, easily explained. Yet it sat with the rest: the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her eyes kept flicking over his face like she was measuring safe distance.
Y/N had always been strange in emotional ways, smiling when most people would cry, joking around, with bruises no one else could see, bright and slippery whenever the family’s attention glanced off her instead of landing. It made her difficult to parse, and Damian disliked difficult things unless they were surgical, tactical, or living creatures with claws.
His phone buzzed again.
Tim: Need you downstairs. We found a second Sable shell company.
Damian’s focus snapped back into place.
Victor Sable. Missing. Possible magic interference. Father occupied. Todd is furious enough to be inefficient. Drake overcaffeinated. Grayson is pretending not to worry. A case, real and urgent and immediate, with bloodless evidence and a criminal vanished into impossible luck.
Y/N became a small oddity filed somewhere in the back of his mind.
He turned away from the door and headed for the cave entrance.
Outside, Y/N sat in her car while rain dotted the windshield, breathing hard, waiting for her hands to stop shaking enough to drive. Alfred’s soup warmed her lap through the container. Her phone sat dark in the cupholder. The manor glowed behind her, full of people chasing Victor Sable’s ghost without knowing she had buried his body under wet leaves and bad prayers.
Her stomach rolled again.
She swallowed it down.
“Drive home safely,” she whispered to herself, and laughed once, broken and soft.
Bruce Wayne loves his children, of this he is certain.
He had taken them all under his wing. He’d trained them and taught them self-defense. He attended parent-teacher meetings and stayed by their sides after nightmares.
Bruce Wayne was a good father.
But Bruce Wayne was also Batman. The dark knight who had protected Gotham every nightfall for several moons– and who would do so for many years to come.
He had tried, Gods he had tried so hard. But somehow, someway, he had failed you. His firstborn child. Dick Grayson’s anchor when he and Bruce fell out, Jason Todd’s younger sibling, the one who stayed with him in the library when nightmares had chased sleep away.
Dick had just donned the Robin mantle when you arrived at the gates of Wayne manor.
Only three years old, and curious about everything you were able to lay your big eyes upon. Not once did you let go of Bruce’s hands.
Back then, your eyes carried an innocence the way only children can do– children who had not yet been tainted by the destructive nature of Gotham City.
This had been why he’d chosen to leave you out of the vigilante world. His only wish for you was to grant you the ability to grow up like a child. One who did not understand the meaning of bruised knuckles and ungodly sleep schedules. He would don the cowl so that you would never have to.
That is what he had told Dick when he asked, and what he told every child that joined the cause in the years to come.
But then, Dick and Bruce started to fall apart. Your big brother– the one who’d taught you everything you knew– was leaving. By then he’d been dividing time between Batman and The Titans, so his absence was not unknown to you, but this was different. As young as you might have been, you understood this decision was final.
Jason loved spending time with you. The two of you spent hours in the library, and played silly games in the living room with you whenever he could. He stayed with you when nobody else did.
But then he’d left. In search of his real mother is what he had told you– his real family, were the words that stayed unspoken.
And he never came back.
This only solidified Bruce’s decision in not telling you about their secret identities. Because he knew what you would say. And he could not afford to lose another one of his children.
Bruce believed that he had made the right choice in not telling you. That you would stay the safest this way. But he never considered what this would do to you.
You who had never felt so alone in the manor. You, who had to find out from some random child with too much time on his hands, that your father was the Dark Knight. That your big brother was Nightwing. That Barbara used to be Batgirl, and that Jason used to be Robin.
Just as Bruce had predicted– and feared– you had begged him to join, wanting to take revenge for your brother and get justice for what had been done to Barbara. Barbara who had been nothing but kind to you. Who had fought so hard and had paid the ultimate price.
But Bruce refused. He refused to accept the risk of any of that happening again, not to his child, not to you. The problem? He never properly communicated this to you. To you it sounded like your father simply did not want you there, that your presence was unneeded, weak. He could accept your siblings, but not you. Never you.
He had taught you self-defense at first, in case something were to happen. But higher duties and his desire to be the one to keep you safe himself had overpowered him.
So you tried helping in other ways. You learned basic medical procedures. You learned how to mend clothes in case their suits ripped, and you learned how to bake in case they needed snacks while debriefing missions. All taught to you by Alfred of course.
But in the end, it didn’t really matter did it? Because once you put the suit back on the mannequin, or once you placed the delicate plate of sweets on the desk, you had no reason to be in the cave.
You added no extra information to briefings and could not offer any insights on investigations. If you did decide to wait around a bit longer? An awkward silence would build up. What could they talk about with you? You wouldn’t understand the weight of it all anyway.
It wasn’t on purpose, you know this very well. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. You understood that their relationship was different. That they were different. The others had a silent understanding between each other, their own way of communicating. You weren’t a part of that. Not a part of that world.
Your family loves you, of this you are certain. But they do not like you. Maybe they did once– maybe they will again. They could have once, but they’re much too late now.
Oh em gee! That’s the prologue everybody! I am very excited but also scared to start this fanfic, but let’s fight through it together HAHAH
If you have any questions or idea’s for this fic, please let me know! My dm’s and asks are open.
It was liberating. The feeling of the wind blowing against his body as he revved his black and red motorcycle.
"Ready as I'll ever be, Superstar."
He sped up, the wind was cool, there was no sun to emit any heat due to it being night and the winds got stronger the nearer he got to the sea.
He drifted to a stop, getting off his bike when he was in a two hundred meter range of the warehouse. He used his grappling hook to get to the shabby wooden roof. It was near the docks, he could basically smell the salt from the ocean.
"Can you confirm it's the League of Assassins and Luthor's goons?"
"Well from the looks of it, yeah." The lenses of his red helmet scanned the people below him, purple profiles of the people soon appeared, confirming their identities.
"I can't believe they're actually in Gotham." The girl was typing on her side, looking through the lenses of Jason's helmet on her screen.
Meanwhile Jason was looking around, scanning for something, anything that would give them a clue as to what those two factions were meeting up for. Not long after, his lenses locked in on a container that was kept frozen, a purple outline with exclamation marks signifying that it was something important.
"Should I just blast in and take them out or just grab that container and run for it?"
"90 percent success rate for the former and 99 for the latter. Might as well just shoot, try and get some info while you're at it."
"Aight." He was about to takedown somebody from above but was interrupted by someone bursting in from the door, "What the—" His lenses zoomed in to spot a Superman and Batman.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me." The pair said in unison over the comms.
"Okay change of plans." Typing could be heard on the other side once more, "I've stalled the Batmobile for five minutes. Just grab the container and ride back to HQ. You got five minutes since the goons have stopped icing it when those two appeared. Probably thought if they weren't going to make it, they might as well destroy the evidence."
"FIVE minutes— You have a lot of faith in me."
"Since day one. You don't even have to worry about Superman's super hearing, the suit I made you ensures that you don't make any sound."
"Yeah yeah I'll get the damn container of who knows what."
"Good boy."
He turned as red as the helmet he was hiding underneath, truth be told he doesn't know why he still gets flustered by the flirting, he should've been used to it by now. They've known each other for how many years already? Seven? Eight? And counting.
He grappled down, silently taking the container and grappling back to his motorcycle, "Got it."
"Well you have 3 minutes to reach back to HQ."
"Damnit!" Jason immediately got on his motorcycle and started to speed back to one of the teleport pads that would lead back to HQ.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"Now tell us what you're meeting for." Batman was gripping one of Luthor's goon by his collar, lifting him up and speaking with his signature Bat tone, the tone that would make a grown man scream like a little girl.
"T-that container—" The goon choked his words out.
"What container." The bat growled.
"The one that's iced o-over there!" They both turned to look at it but there was nothing there. "W-wait that can't be! It was right there just a moment ago I swear—!"
He knocked the goon out before letting him fall to the ground and went to the spot he pointed at, it still felt cold, he raised his forearm and scanned the area using his high tech glove, "Superman. It seems like someone took something important from here." The bat said as the results stated that something used to be there not long ago.
"I'll fly around and survey—"
"Cover north of this area, I'll go south. The reader says something was here less than 5 minutes ago. The person who took it can't be that far."
"On it." Was all the meta said before he disappeared, flying off.
Batman pressed the call button for the Batmobile.
Click.
Strange. It didn't work.
Click.
Once more.
Click.
He sighed and grappled back to the Batmobile instead, getting inside only to see a four-sided star surrounded by swirls of energy on the Batmobile's screen, the Star of Themis, a notable signature of a well known hacker.
"Damnit, Supernova!"
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Jason skidded to a stop, on top of one of the many teleport pads across the cities, his body glitched out before glitching back into a very advanced technological looking base. Though he looked completely unfazed by the tingly sensation it left on his body, he was used to it by now, having used these teleport pads to get out of so many sticky situations in the past.
"Hurry now. Before it defrosts completely." It seemed like she was already ready, gloves on her hands as she took the container from Jason, placing it in a tube, before letting it close. Instantly the tube frosted up, ensuring that the specimen is cold, she allowed the tube to scan and analyze it.
"What do you think it is?" Jason watched the girl glitch around her lab to different screens.
"No idea. For all we know it could be a Luthor and Al Ghul tube baby."
Jason shuddered at the thought, "No way."
"We never know. The Al Ghuls are crazy with their lazarus pit and Luthor was crazy enough to babytrap Superman so who knows what those madmen are planning."
The tube beeped, signifying the scan was complete, immediately the girl glitched in front of the screen, looking at the results, "You're joking."
Jason raised a brow, walking to stand next to the girl to look at the results as well.
"What the fuck."
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“And where are you going?” The girl was stopped just as her hand touched the door handle. When did you care. "Out."
Clark raised an eyebrow, "Out where?"
"With my friends." She kept her responses short.
"In... That outfit?"
"What's wrong with my outfit?'
The girl was wearing a cropped black sleeveless top, showing off her toned abs, with long navy green cargo pants. Her shoes were a nice pair of black and white Air Forces. She had a nice bracelet stack on her right arm, her watch on her left, though she also had multiple rings on both hands. Her nails had extensions and a beautiful black and purple design.
He really didn't know when his little girl grew up.
"I don't know if that's a good idea honey. It's just that Lex Luthor was—"
"When is Lex Luthor not up to something. I'll be fine. I always am."
The only thing that came after that was the sound of the front door closing.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Clark's hand was mid-raise about to call out her name when he heard the door closing. He sighed, putting his arm down and shaking his head, "When was she... like that?"
Clark never really did have that much time with her, not after Jon was born, having to take care of a baby was exhausting you know? And not long after he got out of his toddler stage he got his powers.
Could you blame the man for getting excited? His first born, a daughter, never inherited his powers, never even showed any signs of being even half Kryptonian, but Jon, he hadn't even reached his teen years before he discovered his powers, so of course the man had to focus more on his son, right?
She was always a sweet girl, never disrespectful so he never had to worry about her. And her grades... She did well, he thinks. He never really asked and she never told him, did she?
She tried but she gave up once she realised he would never listen.
He took one look at the front door before going back to writing his article, he decided that he was going to ask her about school when she came back. She should be in college now, right?
Wrong, she had already graduted as the youngest graduate of MIT while being valedictorian of her graduate year.
He'll ask her which college she went to and if she hadn't, he would help her decide. Yes, that seems like a good idea.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The girl sighed as walked out to a nearby abandoned parking lot, looking around to see if there was anybody close by. Seeing that there was nobody she threw a small cube to the floor, causing her black and purple convertible to glitch in front of her.
In her vigilante form she would have her iconic black and purple motorcycle, the one that she's matching with Jason, whose motorcycle was black and red, but she couldn't risk getting recognised by some people who are a bit too perceptive. Cough. Cough. Batman.
She got in and started the car, changing the song on the audio player to play "Whiplash" by Aespa while putting on her sunglasses before driving off. The open roof allowed the music to be heard as she drove past multiple cars.
She drove for a short while before parking in front of a cafe, a cybercafe to be specific. Walking in, she heard the bell jingle.
"Welcome! May I take your order— Oh not you again."
"You wound me, my friend." She placed her sunglasses on her head as she walked in.
"Let me guess. A death wish iced coffee with 8 extra shots of espresso."
"You know me too well." Our main character flashed a foxy smile at the barista.
The girl had been coming here since her days at MIT, basically made this her second home with how much time she spent in here, sitting in the area where it was just a normal cybercore aesthetic cafe instead of where the PCs were and grinding for her exams. Spent so much time in the cafe that she got to know every single worker there, especially the barista who owned the cafe. Y/n was running on pure spite and caffeine, still is to this day.
She payed for her drink and walked to the table, seeing her very recognisable partner in crime at a table in the section without the PCs, waiting for her, "Remind me why we always come here again?"
She went to take the seat in front of him, "You know this is the only place that sells this amount of caffeine to me."
"Yeah you even drink more than Tim. And that says a lot." He had a hint of teasing in his voice as he looked at his girl.
The girl rolled her eyes in response, "Haha. Very funny."
Jason sipped on his frappuccino, "So are we not gonna talk about that tube—"
All of a sudden he was interrupted by the sound of everyone's phone pinging.
A flash flood warning.
The pair looked out of the window, suddenly seeing a wave of water coming towards the cafe.
"What the fuck. That can't be natural."
The girl simply looked at her nails with an odd amount of calmness, “Yeah, it’s probably not.”
Jason pushed his chair and stood up, “We have to evacuate the citizens to the roof.”
“What. I haven’t even gotten my daily coffee intake yet–”
“Y/n!”
“Ugh! Fine!” The sound of her chair scraping and falling to the ground was agonising.
The duo helped the bartender guide everyone to the roof before quietly slipping away into the shadows, jumping over to another rooftop.
"Any luck contacting your family?" She stood at the roof's edge, looking down to see the water flooding the city.
Jason slipped on his iconic red helmet, instantly his suit started to glitch in place of his civvies, "Nope. Comms are completely down."
He toyed with his built in communication device before tuning into their duo channel, "Ours still work though."
"Of course it still works. It'll take a lot more than water to disrupt my tech. I would think you of all people would know that." The girl had an expression of mock offense, "You know how much shit you put your suit into and it's still perfectly functional? Who's to thank for that?"
“Sorry, princess. You just never cease to amaze me.” Jason shrugged as he tilted his head down to look at the girl standing next to him, who scoffed in response.
The girl rolled her eyes, sliding on her signature purple and black kitsune mask, her outfit glitching into her vigilante suit, a rare thing for the public eye to see. Supernova was usually never seen out on the field unless it was serious.
"Oh? This flood is serious enough for you to come out of hiding?" Jason teased, she could almost see the shit eating grin he had on his face behind that helmet.
With a flick of her wrist, a purple holographic screen appeared in front of her, paired with a matching purple holographic keyboard, "I'm more concerned if this is happening all over the States and not just Gotham.
Her hands typed quickly on the keyboard effortlessly, "Because it's one thing for Gotham to go against mother nature but it's another if it affects the entirety of the States."
Jason leaned over to see the screen over her shoulder, "What are you planning now?"
"Well first of all I'm going to make sure that none of the security measures around Arkham Asylum were deactivated and if they were I'm getting them back up."
Jason nodded as he heard her words, that was a smart first move.
"And... Done." Y/n quickly changed her screen, "Now I'm connecting all of the heroes' comms with ours."
Jason blinked once, then twice, before finally speaking, though only one word came out from him, "What."
Her eyes were focused on her screen, "If your comms are down with the Bats and this is happening all over the States that means the League are all disconnected and everything will go to shit. And sure the old bat could have a contingency plan for this but better safe than sorry."
Jason raised an eyebrow under his helmet, "Won't they track it back to you?"
"If they could they would've done it ages ago." Her hands finally stopped typing, screens everywhere around the states lit up, the Star of Themis appearing as her voice echoed into the what should have been disrupted comms of the Justice League, Teen Titans and Young Justice, “That should do it.”
Meanwhile, back in the Batcave Barbara, Tim and Bruce were huddled around the Batcomputer, trying to get comms back up or at least get the Batcomputer to turn back on. Duke was on the dayshift alone when suddenly their comms were cut off and an anomaly was detected before everything shut off completely.
All of a sudden the screens of the Batcomputer lit up, “Oh that must’ve done it–...” Barbara’s words trailed off as she noticed the familiar star symbol, feeling defeated. Just at that moment that husky voice that they knew all too well echoed in the Batcave.
“Hiya~ Supernova here. Couldn’t help but notice that a flood has taken over Gotham, I don’t suppose it’s the same for the rest right? Please say that it isn’t happening in other places because if it is that's so much more work for me.”
“Supernova–” The name was essentially growled out.
Y/n immediately cut him off. “Ah ah. Now’s not the time for your usual hostility, Superman. Answer my question first.”
“...Metroplisis is flooded too.”
“Coast city too.”
“Same at Central city.“
"Star City as well."
"Gateway city is."
"Midway City is also flooded."
"Here in Jump City too."
As she heard the rest of the heroes slowly confirm, she let out a deep sigh, “Okay so the plan is—”
“And why would we listen to you?” The unshakeable voice of the man of steel could be heard through the communication route.
“Well for starters I’m the only reason everyone can even communicate with each other now so be grateful. And second of all you wouldn’t want your family to drown would you?” The girl paused and tilted her head, tone snarky, “Oh wait, it’s not like you care all that much about them anyways.”
The silence in the communication route after that comment was suffocating.
A sudden growl was heard, “What do you know about my family? You have no right to speak about them like that–”
“Oh yeah because you're such a happy family of four." Her words were laced with thick sarcasm.
"Yes we are actually."
It was silent for a good minute before a shocked and amused laugh echoed through the communication route, "You didn't even realise what was wrong with that sentence."
Her laugh continued for some time, after that she wiped a tear from the side of her eye, "Oh man. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time."
"What do you mean–"
"Enough! We don't have time for this." The deep voice from the original bat was heard, "What was your plan, Supernova?"
“Of course. Now before I was so rudely interrupted.” Her words clearly targeted, “A metal ball looking gadget is materialising in front of each of you right now.”
As she said that, true to her words, each hero and vigilante had a metal ball glitch in front of them, even Jason who was right next to our main character.
“These gadgets can capture and contain huge amounts of water. Simply place them at the centrals of your respective cities and that should solve the problem.”
“...That’s all?”
It seemed like everyone was expecting something more complicated.
“What were you expecting? For me to connect the entire US draining system to drain the flood?" She paused, "Well I could. But I’m abit too lazy for that, yeah?” Her voice was was too casual for the words she just spoke but they had more pressing matters to attend to right now.
In front of her she had a holographic 3D map of each city, “A holographic 3D map of your respective cities have appeared infront of you. I have used your individual symbols to mark a central location of your cities. Just press the button on the gadget and our problem will be solved. Once you’re at your designated location wait for my signal, coordination is key here. Though the solution is simple, a single mistake can mess everything up. So be patient, yeah?”
“Totally not stressful, princess.”
The sarcastic voice sounded out from beside her making Y/n give him a playful shove, "I try my best, darling."
“Flirting so shamelessly in front of so many, how utterly disgraceful.” A boy that was exactly three apples tall hissed out.
“Speaking like a victorian child as always, demon spawn.” Jason shot back towards his little brother.
"Okay okay enough. We got a job to do. Let's go." With that Y/n muted herself and was about to jump off, her mechanical wings, one black, one white, unfurled from her suit.
Jason grabbed her arm and spun her towards him, pulling her closer to him, "Not so fast, princess. Trying to leave without giving me a goodbye kiss?"
Y/n rolled her eyes playfully, "You'll live."
"Oh c'mon please?" Jason said in a teasing voice, "Or you can make it up with me tonight–"
Dick had to interrupt, "Woah woah there are children in the comms."
"I am not a child–!" Damian growled out before his comms got cut off.
Y/n turned to Jason, "You didn't mute yourself?"
Jason took off his helmet for a split second, "Never planned to, princess." He winked and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, his touch lingering before he reluctantly pulled away, placing his helmet back on.
"See you on the other side." He gave a two finger salute as he jumped to another roof and another until he became a small black blob in Y/n's vision.
The girl sighed, a small smile hidden underneath her kitsune mask as she set off in the opposite direction, away from her partner.
Meanwhile the younger heroes(and some of the Justice League) were all listening into the comms to hopefully hear more of the duo's interaction to gossip about later, they ended up disappointed when they realised the two had went in opposite directions.
As she flew around the skies of Gotham, surveying to see if any citizens needed help she saw a small black blob floating in the water, thinking it was a black kitten in need of help she activated the lenses of her mask and zoomed in to take a closer look and to her surprise what she saw wasn't a kitten, it was in fact a stray Robin!
Y/n giggled as she saw the Robin bobbing up and down the water, his suit had seemingly deployed it's emergency flotation device. She flew down and picked him up from his cape akin to a mother cat picking up her kitten by the scruff.
She saw the Robin panicking before realising it was her, his cheeks reddened instantly, "Unhand me you heathen!"
The girl simply chuckled as the boy made no attempt to escape despite his words, she landed safely on the skyscraper Damian was supposed to be on and placed him down.
The poor boy probably didn't alert anyone of his predicament due to embarrassment, Y/n chuckled at the thought but coughed to hide it once Damian hissed, "What are you laughing at?"
While Damian tried to look scary all she saw was a wet angry kitten hissing at her, the boy was basically the same colour as Jason's helmet, out of anger or embarrassment she didn't know, probably a mix of both.
Y/n waved her hand dismissively, "Who's laughing? I don't hear any laughter." The boy growled and was about to retort before our main character stopped him, "C'mon demon spawn, I'll help you with the device."
"I don't need help–"
"Yes yes, you're very capable. I'll just lend a helping hand." Somehow the metal ball device in his utility belt ended up in her hands as she beckoned the Robin over.
She threw the ball in the air a few times before kneeling down and handing it to the child that was three apples tall, his eye twitched as he snatched the ball back from the girl, "You dare to mock my height when you're not much taller."
"Your words are as sharp as ever, demon spawn." The boy's hand was itching to grab his katana, he's been waiting for a rematch ever since that night.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The Robin was panting as he held his katanas, his body shaking with exhaustion. He couldn't see a way to best his opponent. He had been trained by the best assassins in the world and he couldn't even beat a hacker that hides behind a screen all the time! His mother and grandfather didn't train him just to lose against this.
A masked figure barely looked back at him, her katanas glinting in the moonlight, "Not bad demon spawn. Come back when you're stronger, you have so much potential to unlock. Unfortunately I'm quite busy tonight, so I'll have to take my leave."
He wasn't even bleeding, she purposely avoided making him bleed, she didn't even treat him seriously!
He had been bested with his own weapon that night.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"No retort this time? How odd."
Her teasing voice snapped him back to reality, he realised that he zoned out with a dangerous variable next to him. Was he losing it?
He snarled, "Just tell me what I have to do with this device." He was scrutinising the small device in his hand.
"Okay okay. To be honest all you have to do is press that purple button–" She immediately covered the button on the metal ball after seeing his finger almost press the button instantly, "Once I give the signal."
Damian scoffed, "Could've started with that." He swatted her hand away from the gadget and started to inspect it once more.
Y/n let out a small chuckle before tuning back into the comms, the boy could hear her husky voice in his comms and from the source, right next to him, "Hey. Everybody in position?"
She waited for everybody to confirm their positions before speaking again, "Okay. On the count of three, you press the purple button."
She didn't have to hear their response before counting down, the instruction was as simple as it could get.
1.
They each felt the weight of the metal ball in their hand as they waited for the count.
2.
Some had smiles on their face, some were serious, some were curious, some were interested, but they all shared one emotion, anticipation.
3.
They all pressed the purple button, watching as the metal ball suddenly flew into the sky with great speed but what happened next was something that made the entire communication route silent, words truly couldn't justify the beauty of the scene.
The water beneath them started to tremble, droplets, instead of falling from the sky, seemed to be defying gravity and going up instead, before being pulled towards the metal ball, as if it was being magnetised. The liquid started to form a hypnotic spiral pattern, the water catching the light, causing it to seem as though it was sparkling. It was jaw dropping to see the laws of nature being defied right before their eyes.
Damian looked up at the sky in awe, his eyes wide as he saw the scene which could only be described as a scene right out of a comic. Similar to the ones he has been secretly reading.
Y/n gave the boy a side glance, not moving her head away from the direction of the scene, "It's quite a sight, isn't it?"
The boy could only nod, he couldn't bare himself to take his eyes of the scene for one second, not until the gadget had seemingly finished it's job of containing all the surrounding water, falling out of the sky and back to it's owner's hands.
"Looks like my job is done." Her voiced echoed through the communication route once more, breaking the silence as she tossed the metal ball into the air and it glitched away midair.
At the same time all the metal ball devices with the rest of the heroes glitched away as well.
"Thank you for your service. Ah. Just in time too. I rebooted the electrical plant. Your own comms should be working now. And don't worry about any escapees from Arkham Asylum, Bat, that was the first thing i took care of. Until next time, my dear heroes." Was all she said before she deactivated the comms she had set up for the heroes.
.
.
.
"Were we just used–”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
She turned to look at the Robin that just stared at her. When did she even reboot the electrical plant? Was it when he was looking at the water being collected? Damnit he was distracted twice now when he was right next to her. He clenched his fists. This shouldn't be happening.
Y/n stepped closer towards the edge of the building, giving her signature two finger salute before jumping off, "See you around, demon spawn."
The boy couldn't run fast enough to stop her, when he reached the edge himself and looked down there was already no trace of her left. Damnit. He didn't even have the chance to challenge her to another duel.
"Robin. Robin come in." Damian heard his father's voice through their own communication line now, seems like she wasn't lying and it was back up already, not that he ever doubted her, well not her, just her abilities, he would never trust her. Right?
"Robin here." Damian responded in a gruff voice.
"Why didn't you confirm your position just now?"
Ah right. The boy was right next to her so he didn't have to confirm his position, not that he would ever admit that to his father.
"I didn't need to. She probably knew all of our positions anyways." He grumbled out as he jumped away from the current rooftop he was on.
Bruce didn't question him any further but he knew. And Damian knew that he knew.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
As Clark and the two Superboys flew back home, his two boys were talking about random things before he suddenly spoke, thinking about the words the hacker had spoke, "I just don't get it. What did she mean..." He questioned, mostly speaking to himself.
“Oh yeah because you're such a happy family of four."
Conner shrugged, "Maybe she's just salty that she doesn't have a family."
"You shouldn't say that! That's mean... Even if she's a little bit mean sometimes..." Jon muttered the last part as he continued to fly.
There was a silence that ensued between the three of them as they were left to their own thoughts.
What could that mean? They were a happy family of four. Him, Lois, Conner, Jon... Why did it feel like he was forgetting someone?
.
.
.
Y/n!
All of them came to the same realisation at the same time.
First thing that hit them was guilt for forgetting her, the second was fear. How did Supernova know how many people were in they're family? That, at the very least, meant that she knew their real identities.
Clark immediately contacted Bruce, explaining the situation quickly. Bruce raised his eyebrows as he heard the new information, he was concerned of course but... Since when did Clark have a daughter? And why didn't he know about her at all? A Kryptonian he had no information on or contingency plan at all? That was concerning. He had to get that fixed but before he could ask for more information on her Clark disconnected the call.
It didn't help that Clark didn't even mention what her name was before he disconnected the call, saying he has to go check up on his daughter.
Bruce didn't have much things to work with here. The only thing he could think of was calling the one person who's in contact with the hacker herself so that he could make sure that the Kryptonian family was at least not in danger.
Bruce sighed as the entered the communication line with him.
"I need your help."
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Y/n sighed as she finally reached back to the Kent's home. She took off her kitsune mask prior to avoid suspicion and decided to drive her black and purple convertible back to the nearby abandoned parking lot once more.
She usually would return to her own penthouse but she left a really nice mini dress here that she wanted to wear, not that it really mattered since she would be wearing her vigilante outfit the whole night but it's the thought that counts, you know?
She was ready to take a long well deserved shower. She took off her make up, grabbed her towel and entered her bathroom.
Once she stepped out of the shower, the mirror fogged up with steam, she dried herself off with her towel before going to grab the tight black mini dress she simply adored that showed off her body and exposes a little bit of her cleavage.
She wasn't afraid to wear things like this, she could fight. Not that she had to with Jason by her side like a loyal guard dog that isn't afraid to bite.
She was putting on her lip gloss when Jon bursts into her room, Y/n was a bit surprised and confused as she looked at him through the mirror. First, he just came back from the whole flood fiasco, so he should be resting right now and second, he came to her? That's a first.
He seemed to frown for a second as he saw her outfit before returning to his usual sunny smile as he waved a piece of paper in the air, "Hey sis! Can you help me with my homework?"
'Sis?' Y/n could barely hold back the cringe as she decided not to look towards him and continued to put her lip gloss on at her vanity, barely even acknowledging him causing him to pout.
"Sis~" The boy whined from the lack of attention as he came closer to the girl.
"I'm sure you can ask someone else for help, Jonathan." Y/n said as she pressed her lips together as she finished her lip combo, closing the lip gloss and placed it back on her vanity.
Jon froze as he heard that. 'Jonathan'? His sister calling him that made them feel so... distant. He continued to follow her as she walked around her room, putting on some jewellery, "But I want you to help me!"
"I'm a bit busy tonight, Jonathan. I'm sure Clark wouldn't mind helping you."
'You even call dad by his name?' Jon's thoughts made him lose track of his original purpose as he didn't even notice that she had already left her room, leaving him alone standing in the middle of her room that smelled like vanilla from her perfume with only his thoughts.
"Why was she so... cold? Was she always like that?" Jon questioned out loud, looking around her room that was kind of empty. It didn't hold any warmth, like it wasn't actually being lived in, there were only a few things left here and there, it looked like an older sibling’s room when they leave for college.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
When was the last he even stepped foot in this room? Jon was currently standing in front of the closed door, contemplating whether he should go in or not. He finally pushed himself to just do it, if he stood there any longer he knew he would chicken out, it was such a spur of the moment decision that he even forgot to knock.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
He sighed as he left the room without his desired results, even worse actually. She barely even acknowledged him! After all that courage he built up to even enter her room in the first place. There was no way she used to be that... He tried to find a different word than cold to describe that but all he could think of was how she dismissed him like he was a stranger.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Y/n shrugged off the interaction with Jon and walked in the hallway, beelining for the door, before she got stopped by a certain leather jacket wearing teenager, calling out her name as he leaned against the doorframe of his room, "Yo."
The boy looked her up and down with a raised brow, "I'm guessing you're going to the club? Or maybe a bar?" He was purely guessing off her outfit.
Y/n was wearing a tight black mini dress, with a pair of red bottom heels, a small designer handbag hanging off her shoulder. Along with a nice bracelet stack on her right arm with matching simple silver earrings that shined when the light hit it just right, and her nails with extensions that were sharp enough to do enough damage if scratched.
"I'm going out with my friend." She kept her answer short and curt, trying to walk past him but he blocked her.
The boy let out a teasing remark, "Do you even have friends?"
He was expecting a retort from her but all he got in return was a deadpan stare, he raised both his hands up as if to show that he meant no harm, "I'm just joking~"
He tried backtracking, "So is it just a friend or…?"
"It's none of your business." Her tone was icy, she said as crossed her arms waiting for him to move out of the way.
Conner let out a strained chuckle as he tried to navigate his way around her aloofness, "Well if it's nothing then there should be no problem with me tagging along–"
Before Conner could finish his sentence, Y/n cut him off, "Yeah no sorry. I don't hang out with kids."
"K-kid? I'm not a kid–!" Conner stuttered over his words as he turned red.
"You're a minor. That mean's you're a kid." She waved her hand dismissively as she simply walked past the now stunlocked boy.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Conner blinked a few times, trying to process what just happened. She wasn't like this before. He knew she wasn't. She used to be the type of person that gave off the older sister vibes, the one that would roll her eyes when he asked if he could buy something but would buy it for him anyways, the one that would banter with him, the one who would drive him to get some takeout at 3 in the morning.
His fists were clenched, when was the last time that actually happened? He couldn't seem to remember. He tried(keyword: tried) to shrug off her detached behaviour, perhaps he would try asking her to take him to get some food again soon, it's been too long since the last time after all.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
She continued to walk to the front door, this time she started speed walking, hoping that she wouldn't have to run into another person trying to talk to her.
She turned the key to unlock the door, 'Finally I can leave–'
Her thoughts were interrupted by someone clearing his throat. Of course she just had to jinx herself. At this point she started to regret not going out by her window, she turned around to face the man who has stopped her just as she was about to escape, not just once but twice today.
"Sweetheart." The man started, Y/n almost gagged as she heard that nickname come out from his mouth, a nickname she hasn't heard in years.
"A-Are you going to the bar? Don't you think you should be focusing on your studies?" The man felt awkward as he stood infront of her, his words stuttering as he looked at her, were her eyes always purple? He could've sworn they were the same bright blue as his or at least the same light blue eyes he had fallen in love with.
"I mean you're around the age where you should be in college. Are you in one yet? If you’re not it’s fine! I-I don't want to stress you but if you need help you could always ask me–" It seemed as though Clark didn't see how her jaw clenched as he continued to talk with a slight stutter. Like how he didn't see her for years.
The more that man said the more she felt her blood boil, is he seriously acting like he cares now? After years of neglect? Of not showing a hint of interest in what she says? Of ignoring her in favour of the son who had actually shown signs of being half Kryptonian?
Now it's not like she actually held anything against Jon, she'd grown out of that hateful stage years ago. She just didn't want anything with him, well not specifically him, she wanted to distance herself from that family in general.
Having enough of hearing the original Super's voice she found the words coming out of her mouth before she could think it through, something that hasn't happened in years, "I already graduated college. As a valedictorian."
The air around changed, it was almost as if the air was filled with more electricity than normal. Clark opened his mouth, before closing it again, the words stuck in his throat. When did she graduate? His only daughter, his first born. Then why was she never a priority, Clark?
Did she ever tell him about that? No... There's no way she did. He would've remembered if she did, right? Or was he not listening? How could he not listen to such important information?
Her graduation ceremony! Did anyone go? Did she have to walk the stage with no one watching her? He didn't go to her graduation ceremony.
He didn't go.
He didn't go.
He didn't go.
He was only pulled out of his spiral when he heard Lois calling out his name concerningly. He looked up at the door, only to find it closed and locked once more. She left. She left.
Clark slowly walked to the couch and sat down, burying his face in his hands, "Lois... I... I think we really messed up."
It seemed as though the man was far too distracted with his own thoughts to realise that her eyes had glowed slightly purple during that conversation.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Y/n let out a sigh of relief, now that she was actually out of there she started to think about what she said, "I probably shouldn't have exposed myself."
She looked around the abandoned parking lot to make sure nobody would see her, once it was clear she put on her kitsune mask, her vigilante outfit glitching onto her, "Well what's done is done. I'm not returning to that house for a good while."
"Don't even know why they kept bothering me one after another." She muttered as she threw a small cube to the floor, her black and purple convertible glitched into existence once more. All she had to do was press a button that made it change it's form, turning into her vigilante persona's iconic black and purple motorcycle that was matching with Jason, she had specially created these motorcycles just for them. They were unique, faster, more resilient than the usual motorcycles you would see.
A smirk slowly creeped up behind her mask as she got on the motorcycle, "It's time to have some fun." She revved her engine before speeding out of the abandoned parking lot, leaving a trail of purple behind her.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Jason sped through the roads, Bruce had called him and usually he would pick then hang up almost instantly just to annoy him but before he could even reach for the hang up button, Bruce had asked him directly, that he needed help.
As soon as the call connected Jason got a, "I need your help." Spoken in his signature deep, rough Bat tone.
So now he was speeding to the Batcave. I mean c'mon, it's not everday that you hear THE Batman asking for help. He wasn't going to miss the opportunity to rub this in the old man’s face in the future. Though he hoped that it would be quick, he had to accompany Y/n later to the information club so no creeps would dare come close.
Of course he knew that she could handle herself just fine, but he didn't want her to have to do that. He wants her to feel protected.
He drove into one of the many secret tunnels leading into the Batcave, parking his black and red motorcycle before getting off it and taking off his red helmet.
He saw Tim and Barbara huddled near the Batcomputer while Bruce standed behind them, Tim and Bruce still in their costumes, they were likely trying to make sure that all systems were back up again.
Though his loud entrance made them turn over to him, he saw Bruce looking at his motorcycle, his eyes narrowing as he saw the small mark on the side of the motorcycle; the Star of Themis. That mark could only mean one thing, it was the work of Supernova.
Jason gave a wolfy grin as he got off his vehicle, "It's pretty, isn't it?"
Bruce wasn't sure whether he was talking about the motorcycle or the mark, maybe both, but either way he knew that he wasn't just complimenting the inanimate object but also the creator of said object.
"I've literally been begging for you to let me take a look at it." Tim said as he tried getting closer to the motorcycle only for Jason to block him.
"Yeah no way am I letting you touch my motorcycle, replacement." Jason said as he flicked Tim's forehead, making the shorter boy groan and soothe his now red forehead.
"You can't just brag about having a motorcycle made by THE Supernova and not let me take a closer look!" Tim said the hacker's name with a tone of admiration and curiousity, "That's like dangling a carrot right infront of a bunny!"
Jason rose a brow at Tim's choice of words, "So you're a bunny now?"
"You know that's not what I meant–"
The two brothers continued their childish bickering with Bruce sighing at the back. But it seemed as though Bruce wasn't the only one that seemed upset by the sight of that mark.
The ginger sitting in front of the Batcomputer pushed up her glasses and spoke, breaking the two brothers’ banter, "I don't even understand why you're all so worked up over her. It's not like she's anything special."
Instantly, the temperature in the Batcave increased by a ton, sweat began to form on Barbara's forehead as she looked at the source. Jason had the look in his eyes that said he was not against launching himself at the person who tried to talk down his girl.
Despite that Barbara continued, "The only reason why she's so successful is because of her powers. She doesn't actually have any skill."
The only warning was the single twitch of his eye before he lunged himself at Barbara, holding her up by her shirt with just his right hand, lifting her from her wheelchair, his eyes glowing a dangerous green, "You want to repeat that again?"
Before he could continue a familiar husky voice sounded from his helmet that is being held by his free hand, "Anger spike detected. Step back and take a breath, my love."
It seemed like it was a pre-recorded message Y/n had programmed into his helmet that senses the change in the Lazarus levels in his body. And she had purposely used her own voice since she knew it would calm him down.
Jason scoffed as he let go of Barbara, uncaring where she lands as he placed his helmet back on and started walking back to his motorcycle.
"Wait Jason I still need to–" Bruce said as he followed his son for a few steps, trying to reason with him.
"I'm not staying another second in a place where my girl isn't respected." Jason growled, giving him the finger before he got back on his motorcycle, purposely revving his engine loudly before taking off.
Bruce sighed as his only source of information was gone now, he looked at the ginger who luckily, landed safely in her wheelchair, "Did you have to provoke him?"
Barbara looked turned away, refusing to say anything, she simply fixed her shirt before going back to looking at the screens of the Batcomputer.
Tim side eyed the ginger in question, "Why do you even dislike Supernova that much anyways?"
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
As he stormed out of the Batcave he heard the familiar husky voice that instantly calms his nerves, coming through his comms, "Hey darling~ You on your way yet?"
Jason let his lips twitch up slightly underneath his helmet, "Of course I am, princess. I'll be there before you know it."
She always knew exactly how to calm him down.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
.
.
.
Bonus scene:
Tim crushed the can of another monster and threw it into the concerningly big pile of other finished energy drinks. He had been up for hours, scouring through security cams all over Gotham to see if he could figure out what caused the mystery flood.
It had been hours and hours of boring sped up footage until he finally came across something interesting. Now he didn't say it was useful, just very interesting.
He had an evil grin as he downloaded the footage and transferred the short clip to his tablet.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Damian could see Tim from the corner of his eyes while he was sharpening his katana, he didn't like the smug smile that Tim had on his face.
Damian finally addressed the older boy, "What do you want, Drake."
Tim hummed out, "Hmm nothing... Just wondering how good of a look did you get of Supernova's wings."
Damian turned around, his katana now glinting in the light, his teeth gritting against each other, "What do you mean Drake?"
All Tim had to do was wave the tablet he had in his hands, showing a video of Supernova picking Damian up by his cape.
Once Tim saw Damian move even an inch he took that as his sign to book it, with Damian hot on his trail screaming out his last name with katana in hand.
Bruce sighed as he sipped his coffee, being able to hear Tim being chased all throughout the manor from the dining room, it was far too early for this.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Did any of you catch that I already teased reader's "vigilante" alias in the prologue🤭🤭 You'll find out the backstory on how the name "Supernova" came to be in future chapters.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY JASON TODD! yes i definitely planned to release this on his birthday... definitely... also sorry for disappearing LOL i'm not dead guys
I'm currently OBSESSED with the idea of a neglected!reader in the Batfam, but imagine this—what if the reader is petty and looks like Martha or Thomas Wayne? And she uses that to her full advantage.
Like—
"Oh, you missed my event?"
Or,
"Oh, you forgot my birthday?"
No problem—she just grabs a string of pearls, perfectly styles herself like Martha, and slips into character to a T. Add in a piercing glare that’s an exact copy of Thomas Wayne’s—you know, the kind that settles on you and sends shivers straight to your soul.
And to really amp up the pettiness? Imagine she shares one of Martha’s old hobbies, like gardening. So she deliberately gardens right in front of the window that Bruce’s office overlooks. And even though she can feel his stare? She never flinches. Never looks up. Just keeps pruning those roses like a ghost of the past.
Reader joins the batfamily at some point, but it too young to join in on the vigilanting and so is kept in the dark about it. Over time this would cause a disconnect between her and the rest of the family where she eventually fades into the background.
After however many years of this, reader decided to say fuck it and leave on her 15th birthday. Deciding ti make a clean break she pack up all her things and brings them to the dump, leaving her room looking like an empty guest room. Then, with nothing but the clothes on her back, walks into Gotham proper. She manages to find someone whos willing to let her stay in an apartment for free if, twice a week, she comes to his apartment and spends the night in his bed.
Naturally she hates this, but its a free apartment, utilites included, and when she does especially well he'll even tip her.
That's not enough to put food on the table however, so she manages to get a job as one of two faces goons. She knows that her family are the bats, having figured it out before she left, and so she wears a mask and sticks to low level gooning, mostly moving boxes and such.
This works very well and while she does have the occasional run in with the bats, she usually manages to come out with nothing more than some nasty bruises.
Over time she discovers a love for music, and song writing in particular. It becomes her passion, she throws everything into it and, on her 18th birthday, after about a year of work, releases her first album. Anonymously of course.
It was an instant hit, breaking all the charts. Globally it was the number one most listened to album for a month and a half, and had at least one song stay in the top ten for six months.
She got approached by a big producing company and asked to sign on, it was her big break! She could quit working for criminals, move out of her shitty apartment, and focus just on her passion!
Of course, one does not just quit working for a Gotham rouge, but she chose two face for a reason. When one of two faces goons wants to leave, he flips a coin. If it lands on tails, he kills them on the spot. If it lands on heads though? He let's them go with a very nice severance package and a promise to make sure their employment under him never reaches the light of day.
It landed on heads, she was free.
She threw herself into her new job, the producers understood her need for privacy and as such allowed her to work under a pseudonym while she got to work changing her legal name. Technically she was working for free, but her pay was being put into an account that would be transfered to her once she had her new name.
Years passed like this, and she loved her life. Sure showbiz had its darksides, but shes been selling her body since she was 15, shes used to it.
Eventually though, she made a mistake. She wrote a three songs, one about a girl who was forgotten, one about running away at fifteen, and one on selling her body for shelter and committed crimes for food. It was a hit yes, but it was very different in tone to all her previous work. In an interview, she was asked what this short album was inspired by and she just said that its the story of her life, that the girl in the story was her.
Her fans rioted, they loved their reader, she was always so honest and kind and sweet to everyone. To hear what she had gone through was a punch in the gut. They wanted blood. But she was still anonymous, she still worked under a pseudonym and wore a mask. Plus even if they doxxed her, something they were loath to do, all they would find was her new name.
Reader had somehow managed to cultivate the single least toxic and most welcoming fanbase in the entire world, and because of that lack of toxicity very few were willing to take the steps needed fo find out who it was that hurt reader.
Eventually though, someone did it. Someone managed to link Readers public identity to who they were born as. Someone realized that she was a Wayne.
