Who answers when you pray?

'Forgotten' does not mean dead; 'abandoned' does not mean gone. Turn your back on the shadows at your own peril, but I know what reaches out in the darkness. Are you ready to find out?

[thatwhichreachesout]

You shouldn't be here.

And yet, here you are. Alone. Lost. Forsaken by your modern gods because they cannot see you here, driving aimlessly - but in what direction? Was it south? Was it east? No, you realize all too late - backwards, through time. As you speed down a desolate highway, the Past rises up alongside the unyielding trees; the Past, with its rotting teeth and dried blood, stares at you, unblinking, unfeeling.

You don't belong here.

Neither did I, a long time ago. These disintegrating tires were once fresh and skidding out on gravel roads just like yours, kicking up red dust that now coats my throat.

I was a person, once, with a name, and people who loved me, I think. Before the kudzu and the old growth. Before I wandered into a darkness that hungers. Before it spit me back as someone something else.

You need to leave. You need to leave before the sun sets and the Night stalks this way. The Night here hunts, and the Darkness eats and eats and eats but never ceases in its hungering.

You need to leave, and fast.

Good luck, kid.

General Info:

-The operator of this blog refers to herself as The Steelworker. How old she actually is, who she really was, and what happened to her, are all mysteries that maybe, one day, someone will solve.

-If you see her, you are lost somewhere in the Deep South (U.S.), and most likely are feeling a growing sense of panic because your GPS isn't working, your cellphone has no signal, the trees all look the same, the abandoned houses all look the same, and you haven't seen a living soul in about 100 miles. The kudzu draped over the landscape makes everything look odd and grotesque; the Spanish Moss hangs so low that you wonder if it's reaching for your neck.

-It is at this moment, when you pull over at what you hope is a functioning gas station (it is not), that she emerges from the gaping maw of the decaying building, well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered. Her mouth is covered by a black bandana. She is wearing black overalls and a navy blue long sleeve shirt, her hair covered by a black cowboy hat, and her eyes more akin to two blazing fires than eyes of another person.

-You realize, quickly, that The Steelworker might not, in fact, be another person.

-Is she a foe or friend? Depends. Whatever she is, you get the sense she’s powerful.

Boring stuff:

-This is a hybrid writing/aesthetic (and very occasional rp) blog designed to help the mun (Cait, she/her, 29ish) stay motivated in finishing my novel as well as help me work on writing in general. I will often be posting visuals (from Pinterest usually) accompanied by short stories or other forms of writing exercises that complement the image. I have a lot going on in my personal life so if you don't see this updated for another six months, don't worry about it lol.

-At some point I’ll put up a character sheet and hopefully a sketch of what she looks like, and probably update the theme to reflect her backstory better. Maybe a caard?

-I’ll tag trigger warnings as applicable, but general dark themes include religious trauma, spiritual and religious abuse, murder, general spooky and haunting legends, guns, etc.

[dronenotes]

Deep South, Untitled (Dark Glow) by Sally Mann

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Georgian Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia

[thatwhichreachesout]

Gadsden, Alabama

[thatwhichreachesout]

Colorado, USA

[thatwhichreachesout]

Did you hear that?

[cannivine]

She never left her post. The seemingly abandoned gas station off the nearly deserted highway, that kudzu-covered lighthouse of a forgotten sea, had never been vacant since she’d been spat back out by the woods.

And yet, her steel-toe boots, caked in red clay and something else redder still, thudded heavily with each long, sure step she took down the empty road. The Steelworker carried with her now what all steelworkers carried once before, when the city was full of life and not ghosts, and the world around her was alive with the hum of hope - a giant ball-peen hammer slung over her right shoulder, and a steel lunchbox in her left hand.

No one ever saw what was inside the lunchbox. Everyone saw the hammer gripped firmly in her large, capable hand. This was on purpose. Just as nobody saw her face, half of it covered in a black bandana, the other half covered by a black cowboy hat, but everyone saw her eyes: bright and hot as the fire of the forge itself. She was a woman of few words, but her large frame, standing well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, coupled with her uniform consisting of a midnight blue long sleeve shirt and black overalls, ensured that when she did speak, people listened.

The Steelworker walked with a preternatural cadence, rhythmic and steady without ceasing or faltering. There was nothing hurried in her movements. Slow, deliberate, she walked as Fate itself - inevitable.

She was hunting.

For the first time since donning her mantle, quarry had escaped both her and the woods. It was her sacred responsibility to drag him back where he belonged, right underneath a magnolia tree draped in Spanish moss, grave already dug and hungry for him.

So, she walked. North. No compass needed. No map. The kudzu that seemed to stalk alongside her, enveloping the landscape a foot at a time, was guiding her. Whispering to her. Leading her.

But where?

After many nights of walking, The Steelworker found herself stopped in front of a greenhouse. It didn’t belong to her prey, but the kudzu was frenetic now, ecstatic. A woman reborn from something powerful and ancient, she could sense the power emanating from inside the greenhouse.

Still, she stood outside the door, wordless.

Waiting.

As they always had, ever protective of their mother, the leaves whispered of a strangers presence within the green tinged maiden's domain, the gentle breeze carrying their words and delivering them right to her. Not that she needed to be told, she could already feel their curiosity humming in the greenhouse, the tips and petals of every plant occasionally gesturing towards the door.

And yet, with all the grace and patience of a summer bloom herself, Ivy did nothing. There was no rush to defend her peaceful little corner of the earth, no immediate need -- just a silent wait for the eventual guest that was sure to arrive at her doorstep.

There was no denying that this stranger would be an interesting one, for the inquisitive little kudzu had taken to them immediately, playing the role of a helpful tour guide to not so subtly lead the wandering body to meet it's mother's gaze. She was grateful, of course, to have such thoughtful children. Forever would she thank her lucky stars for their presence and connection, knowing deep within her roots that nobody would truly understand her the way they did.

Her thoughts were gently cut off as the stranger, however, finally approached her greenhouse, standing ominously just beyond the door. It would have been off putting, if not for the fact that her child, the adventurous little kudzu, was now vibrating with excitement, proud of itself for bringing something home for it's mother to investigate. A warm smile broke onto her face, destroying the cold gaze she usually wore when it came to dealing with other beings of the unfortunate living.

What a sweet little plant.

With a sigh, the plant maiden got to her feet, making her way barefoot to the door to greet the new strange looking guest.

❝ Are you lost, darling? I don't think I've seen you before. ❞

Ivy's tone, deep and rich with a velvet sort of quality, remained kind towards the newcomer, her hatred for others momentarily put aside to celebrate the achievement of one proud little plant.

And god did that make the leaves shudder.

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker observed the other woman in the same manner she had learned to observe her own forest at night - warily and with respect. The wild is not known to be predictable; the woods that wear a woman’s face even less a foe with which to trifle. For a long moment, she did not speak, only observed: the way the plants in the greenhouse moved for the other, the way the kudzu in her own ears practically purred and preened underneath the weight of her presence, the grace that comes from power yielding to poise. Still, she is not fearful. Why should she be?

She is already dead.

After a long moment content observing the other woman, she speaks, voice low and speech measured.

Yes. I am looking for one who escaped judgment. The green has been my guide. It led me here.

Her head cocks to the side.

You are not harboring him, are you? You do not strike me as a woman who tolerates men of iniquity.

[cannivine]

❝ Harboring him? ❞ The plant mother allowed for a quiet chuckle to ease into the atmosphere, gesturing lazily with one hand towards the inside of the greenhouse, ❝ Men of iniquity would not be welcomed with open arms, that's for certain. With a shovel, perhaps, and hungry little darlings that would benefit from his presence far more than any other could. ❞

Her casual admittance would have been jarring to most, the idea of a human body being repurposed in such a way was commonly uncomfortable. But not to her. And she wouldn't dare hide it.

Hand now placed absentmindedly on hip, Ivy chose to lean against the frame of the glass doors, eyes drinking in the appearance of the stranger before her. Certainly not a familiar sight, but not the strangest, either.

❝ Why don't you come inside, dear? ❞ An offer beneficial to both sides, she thought, ❝ A short rest might be.. ideal, no? ❞

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker’s laugh surprised herself, the way it bubbled and tumbled out from her mouth so effortlessly. She enjoyed the strange woman’s method of dealing with men like her own prey, and briefly wondered if she might adopt such a method herself.

Ah, we are of similar minds, then. Let the green redeem their miserable existences by way of nature’s sustenance.

The kudzu grew more animated in the Steelworker’s ears as she was urged to accept the offer. She could see no reason to decline - not when her host was proving to be more like-minded than most, and though provided supernatural abilities, was not fully freed from the restraints of her past life’s flesh. And, if she must rest, why not in the presence of someone so…refined? It had been a long time since she had someone to talk to who might possibly understand the yoke she carried.

If it’s not an imposition, I’d be grateful for reprieve here.

Tentatively, she let the hammer slip from her shoulder, propping herself up for a moment as she waited for confirmation.

[thatwhichreachesout]

The door is open…

[thelonerforlife]

Reuben Wu, The Arctic Station

[cannivine]

She never left her post. The seemingly abandoned gas station off the nearly deserted highway, that kudzu-covered lighthouse of a forgotten sea, had never been vacant since she’d been spat back out by the woods.

And yet, her steel-toe boots, caked in red clay and something else redder still, thudded heavily with each long, sure step she took down the empty road. The Steelworker carried with her now what all steelworkers carried once before, when the city was full of life and not ghosts, and the world around her was alive with the hum of hope - a giant ball-peen hammer slung over her right shoulder, and a steel lunchbox in her left hand.

No one ever saw what was inside the lunchbox. Everyone saw the hammer gripped firmly in her large, capable hand. This was on purpose. Just as nobody saw her face, half of it covered in a black bandana, the other half covered by a black cowboy hat, but everyone saw her eyes: bright and hot as the fire of the forge itself. She was a woman of few words, but her large frame, standing well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, coupled with her uniform consisting of a midnight blue long sleeve shirt and black overalls, ensured that when she did speak, people listened.

The Steelworker walked with a preternatural cadence, rhythmic and steady without ceasing or faltering. There was nothing hurried in her movements. Slow, deliberate, she walked as Fate itself - inevitable.

She was hunting.

For the first time since donning her mantle, quarry had escaped both her and the woods. It was her sacred responsibility to drag him back where he belonged, right underneath a magnolia tree draped in Spanish moss, grave already dug and hungry for him.

So, she walked. North. No compass needed. No map. The kudzu that seemed to stalk alongside her, enveloping the landscape a foot at a time, was guiding her. Whispering to her. Leading her.

But where?

After many nights of walking, The Steelworker found herself stopped in front of a greenhouse. It didn’t belong to her prey, but the kudzu was frenetic now, ecstatic. A woman reborn from something powerful and ancient, she could sense the power emanating from inside the greenhouse.

Still, she stood outside the door, wordless.

Waiting.

As they always had, ever protective of their mother, the leaves whispered of a strangers presence within the green tinged maiden's domain, the gentle breeze carrying their words and delivering them right to her. Not that she needed to be told, she could already feel their curiosity humming in the greenhouse, the tips and petals of every plant occasionally gesturing towards the door.

And yet, with all the grace and patience of a summer bloom herself, Ivy did nothing. There was no rush to defend her peaceful little corner of the earth, no immediate need -- just a silent wait for the eventual guest that was sure to arrive at her doorstep.

There was no denying that this stranger would be an interesting one, for the inquisitive little kudzu had taken to them immediately, playing the role of a helpful tour guide to not so subtly lead the wandering body to meet it's mother's gaze. She was grateful, of course, to have such thoughtful children. Forever would she thank her lucky stars for their presence and connection, knowing deep within her roots that nobody would truly understand her the way they did.

Her thoughts were gently cut off as the stranger, however, finally approached her greenhouse, standing ominously just beyond the door. It would have been off putting, if not for the fact that her child, the adventurous little kudzu, was now vibrating with excitement, proud of itself for bringing something home for it's mother to investigate. A warm smile broke onto her face, destroying the cold gaze she usually wore when it came to dealing with other beings of the unfortunate living.

What a sweet little plant.

With a sigh, the plant maiden got to her feet, making her way barefoot to the door to greet the new strange looking guest.

❝ Are you lost, darling? I don't think I've seen you before. ❞

Ivy's tone, deep and rich with a velvet sort of quality, remained kind towards the newcomer, her hatred for others momentarily put aside to celebrate the achievement of one proud little plant.

And god did that make the leaves shudder.

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker observed the other woman in the same manner she had learned to observe her own forest at night - warily and with respect. The wild is not known to be predictable; the woods that wear a woman’s face even less a foe with which to trifle. For a long moment, she did not speak, only observed: the way the plants in the greenhouse moved for the other, the way the kudzu in her own ears practically purred and preened underneath the weight of her presence, the grace that comes from power yielding to poise. Still, she is not fearful. Why should she be?

She is already dead.

After a long moment content observing the other woman, she speaks, voice low and speech measured.

Yes. I am looking for one who escaped judgment. The green has been my guide. It led me here.

Her head cocks to the side.

You are not harboring him, are you? You do not strike me as a woman who tolerates men of iniquity.

[liminalstates]

they moved away a long time ago.

[thatwhichreachesout]

Hey Steelworker! Curious and interesting nickname, unless that's your actual job…

I've been browsing your blog (I hope you don't mind) and I gotta say you have some photos that have caught my eye. Some are by other people, but there are some of your own. I think you have a talent for photography, in addition to the writing talent I sense from your informative paragraphs. I can see a certain pattern in your snapshots: mysterious, abandoned places, sometimes with a touch of gothic aesthetic. Besides Steelworker, are you also a Ghost Hunter? Or are you the ghost itself? Nah, what nonsense… a ghost wouldn't take a picture of graffiti on a wall that says ‘F*** Trump’... (unless the reason for being a lost soul was Trump or someone connected to his administration.)

The Steelworker shifts in her seat, moving to sit forward, scarred arms still covered in soot resting on her knees as she considers the masked woman in front of her. Her glowing eyes seemed to grow brighter with interest as she waits several moments before answering.

Observant.

The voice that comes out from behind the black bandana is deep and seems to reverberate throughout the woods around them.

The forgotten places are home to me.

If she smiles behind her bandana, it’s impossible to say, but her voice gives away a certain level of amusement at the strange woman before her, clearly a woman unafraid of the odd, someone who turns toward the eldritch and not away.

Many innocent lives are lost to the greed of the wealthy. There is a kind of justice that lives here, obscured but not lost. So yes. F*** Trump.

Her head cocks to the side a moment before she slowly stands up to her full height, towering over her visitor, and crosses her muscular arms over her chest.

You are not like most. Righteousness clings to you. The scent of justice follows where you go. Why are you here, little Bat?

[batgirlspain]

I don’t like being called ‘little Bat’. I don’t say it, though. One look at her is enough to tell me that arguing over a nickname probably isn’t the smartest move right now. She’s huge, broad-shouldered and built like she could fold me in half if she really wanted to. So I keep that particular thought to myself. Instead, I look around: the trees, the abandoned gas station, the road disappearing into all that overgrown mess… none of it looks familiar. Everything about this place feels wrong.

“Okay… here’s the thing.”

I glance back toward the road.

“The last thing I remember, I was outside Gotham following a clue. I was on a road, checking a lead, and then…”

I trail off, trying to piece it together.

“Now I’m here.”

I pull out my phone and check it again, even though I already know what I’m going to find. No signal. No GPS. Nothing.

“To be honest, I’m not totally sure how I ended up here, ma’am.”

I look back at her.

“So, yep… pretty normal night for me: following a lead, losing my GPS and ending up in the middle of nowhere talking to a woman with glowing eyes who apparently hangs around abandoned gas stations.”

I take a few steps closer, but keep enough distance between us to react if things suddenly go sideways.

“As for the justice thing… I try. Gotham has plenty of people who could use a little justice.”

My eyes move over the soot covering her arms before returning to those strange, glowing eyes.

“But you seem to know a lot about me already. That’s the part I’m more interested in.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You called me Bat. You knew I was looking for something. And you knew exactly what kind of person I am before I said much of anything.”

I glance down the empty highway again.

“So before we get into the whole ‘righteousness clings to you’ stuff, can you tell me where the hell I am?”

I gesture toward the road.

“Because this definitely isn’t Gotham. And unless Gotham suddenly grew about a hundred miles of creepy forest and abandoned gas stations overnight, I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

I pause, looking back at her.

“And please don’t tell me I’m somewhere I can’t get back from. I’ve already had enough weird road trips for one lifetime.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

Unexpectedly, a laugh tumbles out from The Steelworker’s throat, though the laugh, too, is covered in rust from underuse. Something about the candor, the surety and bravery of the masked vigilante, strikes something soft within her. The green surrounding them speaks to her, tells her the other woman’s secrets the longer her visitor stands there, but she herself decides carefully what to say next. The Steelworker opts for a gentle sprinkling of truth instead of a downpour.

Yes. I know things about you, Batgirl. I come to know things about everyone who wanders here, eventually.

The Steelworker lets her arms uncross and slowly turns her back on the vigilante to briefly unlatch the steel lunchbox that sits beside her chair, her body angled to keep her guest from seeing inside. Moments later, she turns back around, holding something in her enclosed palm.

As for where you are now, and why, you were searching for something, yes? And your search has led you here.

As she speaks, her fingers open around the object and she holds it out to the other woman - a piece of paper.

For the guilty, this place is one of damnation. For the innocent, one of peace. And for the harbingers of justice, one of assistance.

She looks down expectantly at the paper in her hand and back up towards Batgirl.

The clue you seek, you have found.

[batgirlspain]

I stare at the piece of paper for a moment before taking it from her.

“Okay… that’s not what I was expecting.”

I unfold it carefully and read what’s written across it.

“Where the iron sleeps beneath the roots,

follow the road that no longer exists.

Three bells will mark the way.

When the last one rings, do not look behind you.

What you seek is waiting where the dead still remember your name.”

I read it again, slower this time.

“Yeah. That’s cryptic.”

I turn the paper over, checking the back for anything else. Nothing. I look up at her.

“So this is the clue I was looking for?”

I glance toward the endless trees surrounding us.

“Because if that’s supposed to tell me where I’m going, whoever wrote it really didn’t believe in street signs.”

I fold the paper and slip it into one of the pouches of my utility belt before looking back at the strange woman standing in front of me.

“But I guess I didn’t end up here by accident. You said this place helps people looking for justice. So I’m guessing you know where this road that doesn’t exist is.”

I pause for a few seconds before continuing.

“And preferably, you also know what happens if I actually look behind me when that last bell rings.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker chuckles softly at the remark about street signs - truly, the place upon which they stand now existed long before humans had invented language to communicate. Long before humans existed at all.

In lieu of an answer, she nods and moves away from the vigilante, disappearing into the gas station that somehow is as dark as night itself even at high noon. When she returns, she is carrying her abnormally large ball-peen hammer resting on her right shoulder, and she stops to pick up the steel lunchbox.

Finally, she speaks.

Yes. I will accompany you on your journey. The Night here is far more dangerous than yours in Gotham. Here, the Darkness itself will consume you.

She takes a step towards the other woman, a foot between them now, her head tilting downwards, voice lowering further, burning eyes burning into the other woman’s own.

If you look back when the last bell rings, you will see the true face of the woods. No one has ever lived to speak of what face it wears.

Standing upright once more, she begins moving down the abandoned road. The overgrowth retreats from her as she steps, clearing a path. The Steelworker does not look over her shoulder to see if the vigilante is following. That is the other woman’s decision to make; The Steelworker can only do her duty, and her duty does not include argument.

[batgirlspain]

I watch her head down the road, hammer resting on her shoulder like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I look at the path she just cleared through the overgrowth, then back at the abandoned gas station. Yeah. This night just keeps getting weirder. I hurry after her, keeping a few steps between us.

“Okay, hold up!”

I glance at the hammer and then at the woods around us.

“You’re saying the Darkness itself’s gonna try to eat me, there’s some kind of face in these woods that nobody’s survived seeing and I’m supposed to just follow you down this road like this is a normal Tuesday?”

I shake my cowled head.

“Because I have a few questions.”

I pull the cryptic note from one of the pouches of my utility belt and hold it up.

“What is all this actually about? What am I looking for, and why did my search lead me to this place?”

I pause before remembering something else.

“And there’s one more problem.”

I look back toward the direction I came from and point vaguely down the road.

“My Batcycle. I didn’t exactly plan on leaving it behind. It’s parked somewhere back there, assuming this place hasn’t decided to swallow it too.”

I catch up a little more.

“So what happens to it? Does it stay where I left it? Do I get to go back for it? Or is this one of those weird situations where I come back and find out I’ve been gone for a hundred years?”

I glance at her.

“Because I’d really like to get it back in one piece.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker continues her slow, steady pace, her boots striking the pavement as a hammer might strike steel to mold it into the shape it must take. She, too, has been forged in these woods, an agonizing process but necessary. The Batgirl behind her is only just beginning the process of transfiguration, but The Steelworker is confident her unlikely companion will succeed the trials that lie before her.

This place is strange. Your laws don’t apply. The old laws govern. Those who arrive here are led here. Called. Some to be judged. Some to rest. In your case, to find answers.

The Steelworker pauses her speech to listen. The vines are speaking to her once more about the woman behind her. She inclines her head a moment longer before continuing.

Barbara Gordon, you wear many masks. The one on your face now, it has set your feet upon a path that runs through the heart of these woods. You told me you were checking a lead, following a clue, and that is how you found me. The mystery is yours to solve, but you will not do so without something you can only find at the place we now walk towards.

Now, the Steelworker slows her pace until she stops altogether, and turns to half-face Batgirl.

Your Batcycle will remain untouched, and you will find it when it is time to leave. As for time, it passes far more slowly on this road than others.

The Steelworker’s eyes fix on Batgirl’s once more, the air about them shifting with something powerful and ancient. Even the sky responds to the Steelworker, a storm cloud moving over head, threatening rain and casting the quiet forest into shadow.

Now, for all your questions, answer one of mine:

What frightens you, Miss Gordon?

[batgirlspain]

I stop dead. For a second, I just stare at her.

“Barbara Gordon?”

My stomach drops. She knows. Not just Batgirl. Not just some vague idea of who I am. She knows my name. My real name. My hand instinctively moves toward my belt, but I don’t reach for anything. There’s no point pretending I’m not rattled. She just said my name like we’ve known each other for years.

“How…”

I shake my cowled head and let out a quiet breath.

“Okay. That’s new.”

I look at her carefully, trying to figure out what exactly I’m dealing with. I’ve had people figure out who I am before. Batman. People close to me. A few very dangerous enemies. But this feels different. She didn’t uncover my identity. She just knew it.

“And here I was thinking the glowing eyes and creepy forest were gonna be the weirdest part of my night.”

I glance up as the sky darkens overhead.

“Guess I was wrong.”

Her question hangs there between us. What frightens me? I could give her the easy answer: getting hurt, losing someone, the Joker… there are plenty of things I could name, but something tells me this place doesn’t care about easy answers. I look down the road for a moment.

“Failure.”

The word comes out quieter than I expect.

“Not getting knocked out. Not taking a hit. I can deal with that.”

I look back at her.

“I’m scared of failing someone who needed me. Of getting there too late. Of making the wrong call and having somebody pay for it. And yeah…”

I pause and glance away for a second.

“I’m scared of losing the people I care about.”

I look back at her, still trying to hide how much her knowing my name bothers me.

“But I’m probably more interested in something else right now.”

I take a step closer.

“How much do you actually know about me?”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The revenant nods her head once, solemnly, in approval at the shorter woman’s response.

You answer in truth. In return, the same will I do.

The Steelworker lets the hammer fall lazily from her shoulder, resting the head on the ground and using it to prop herself up, an impromptu cane. She would never say to another, but she carries an ache that has wrapped around her tendons like the kudzu has wrapped around buildings and light posts and anything else that stands too still a moment too long. Even The Steelworker welcomes rest at times.

The longer you are here, the more I will know about you.

She gestures with her broad, calloused left hand around them, to the greenery.

The green here knows all and tells some. It told me your vigilante name. It told me your government name. It tells me more…personal things, that I will not relay unless you desire me to do so. And it told me vaguely of what lies before you.

The Steelworker fixes her gaze to a place along the horizon, behind Batgirl’s cowled head, burning eyes dimming with concentration.

I will walk with you most of the way, keeping the Darkness from derailing your journey before it is time. The final steps will be yours to walk alone.

She sits up for this next part, returning the hammer to its previous resting place.

It will require you to face that fear. Be brave, Miss Gordon, and you will prove yourself worthy of victory.

Turning around once more to resume their walk, the Steelworker calls back as lightly as a voice like hers can be.

I am sincerely hoping you find success.

[thatwhichreachesout]

Hey Steelworker! Curious and interesting nickname, unless that's your actual job…

I've been browsing your blog (I hope you don't mind) and I gotta say you have some photos that have caught my eye. Some are by other people, but there are some of your own. I think you have a talent for photography, in addition to the writing talent I sense from your informative paragraphs. I can see a certain pattern in your snapshots: mysterious, abandoned places, sometimes with a touch of gothic aesthetic. Besides Steelworker, are you also a Ghost Hunter? Or are you the ghost itself? Nah, what nonsense… a ghost wouldn't take a picture of graffiti on a wall that says ‘F*** Trump’... (unless the reason for being a lost soul was Trump or someone connected to his administration.)

The Steelworker shifts in her seat, moving to sit forward, scarred arms still covered in soot resting on her knees as she considers the masked woman in front of her. Her glowing eyes seemed to grow brighter with interest as she waits several moments before answering.

Observant.

The voice that comes out from behind the black bandana is deep and seems to reverberate throughout the woods around them.

The forgotten places are home to me.

If she smiles behind her bandana, it’s impossible to say, but her voice gives away a certain level of amusement at the strange woman before her, clearly a woman unafraid of the odd, someone who turns toward the eldritch and not away.

Many innocent lives are lost to the greed of the wealthy. There is a kind of justice that lives here, obscured but not lost. So yes. F*** Trump.

Her head cocks to the side a moment before she slowly stands up to her full height, towering over her visitor, and crosses her muscular arms over her chest.

You are not like most. Righteousness clings to you. The scent of justice follows where you go. Why are you here, little Bat?

[batgirlspain]

I don’t like being called ‘little Bat’. I don’t say it, though. One look at her is enough to tell me that arguing over a nickname probably isn’t the smartest move right now. She’s huge, broad-shouldered and built like she could fold me in half if she really wanted to. So I keep that particular thought to myself. Instead, I look around: the trees, the abandoned gas station, the road disappearing into all that overgrown mess… none of it looks familiar. Everything about this place feels wrong.

“Okay… here’s the thing.”

I glance back toward the road.

“The last thing I remember, I was outside Gotham following a clue. I was on a road, checking a lead, and then…”

I trail off, trying to piece it together.

“Now I’m here.”

I pull out my phone and check it again, even though I already know what I’m going to find. No signal. No GPS. Nothing.

“To be honest, I’m not totally sure how I ended up here, ma’am.”

I look back at her.

“So, yep… pretty normal night for me: following a lead, losing my GPS and ending up in the middle of nowhere talking to a woman with glowing eyes who apparently hangs around abandoned gas stations.”

I take a few steps closer, but keep enough distance between us to react if things suddenly go sideways.

“As for the justice thing… I try. Gotham has plenty of people who could use a little justice.”

My eyes move over the soot covering her arms before returning to those strange, glowing eyes.

“But you seem to know a lot about me already. That’s the part I’m more interested in.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You called me Bat. You knew I was looking for something. And you knew exactly what kind of person I am before I said much of anything.”

I glance down the empty highway again.

“So before we get into the whole ‘righteousness clings to you’ stuff, can you tell me where the hell I am?”

I gesture toward the road.

“Because this definitely isn’t Gotham. And unless Gotham suddenly grew about a hundred miles of creepy forest and abandoned gas stations overnight, I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

I pause, looking back at her.

“And please don’t tell me I’m somewhere I can’t get back from. I’ve already had enough weird road trips for one lifetime.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

Unexpectedly, a laugh tumbles out from The Steelworker’s throat, though the laugh, too, is covered in rust from underuse. Something about the candor, the surety and bravery of the masked vigilante, strikes something soft within her. The green surrounding them speaks to her, tells her the other woman’s secrets the longer her visitor stands there, but she herself decides carefully what to say next. The Steelworker opts for a gentle sprinkling of truth instead of a downpour.

Yes. I know things about you, Batgirl. I come to know things about everyone who wanders here, eventually.

The Steelworker lets her arms uncross and slowly turns her back on the vigilante to briefly unlatch the steel lunchbox that sits beside her chair, her body angled to keep her guest from seeing inside. Moments later, she turns back around, holding something in her enclosed palm.

As for where you are now, and why, you were searching for something, yes? And your search has led you here.

As she speaks, her fingers open around the object and she holds it out to the other woman - a piece of paper.

For the guilty, this place is one of damnation. For the innocent, one of peace. And for the harbingers of justice, one of assistance.

She looks down expectantly at the paper in her hand and back up towards Batgirl.

The clue you seek, you have found.

[batgirlspain]

I stare at the piece of paper for a moment before taking it from her.

“Okay… that’s not what I was expecting.”

I unfold it carefully and read what’s written across it.

“Where the iron sleeps beneath the roots,

follow the road that no longer exists.

Three bells will mark the way.

When the last one rings, do not look behind you.

What you seek is waiting where the dead still remember your name.”

I read it again, slower this time.

“Yeah. That’s cryptic.”

I turn the paper over, checking the back for anything else. Nothing. I look up at her.

“So this is the clue I was looking for?”

I glance toward the endless trees surrounding us.

“Because if that’s supposed to tell me where I’m going, whoever wrote it really didn’t believe in street signs.”

I fold the paper and slip it into one of the pouches of my utility belt before looking back at the strange woman standing in front of me.

“But I guess I didn’t end up here by accident. You said this place helps people looking for justice. So I’m guessing you know where this road that doesn’t exist is.”

I pause for a few seconds before continuing.

“And preferably, you also know what happens if I actually look behind me when that last bell rings.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker chuckles softly at the remark about street signs - truly, the place upon which they stand now existed long before humans had invented language to communicate. Long before humans existed at all.

In lieu of an answer, she nods and moves away from the vigilante, disappearing into the gas station that somehow is as dark as night itself even at high noon. When she returns, she is carrying her abnormally large ball-peen hammer resting on her right shoulder, and she stops to pick up the steel lunchbox.

Finally, she speaks.

Yes. I will accompany you on your journey. The Night here is far more dangerous than yours in Gotham. Here, the Darkness itself will consume you.

She takes a step towards the other woman, a foot between them now, her head tilting downwards, voice lowering further, burning eyes burning into the other woman’s own.

If you look back when the last bell rings, you will see the true face of the woods. No one has ever lived to speak of what face it wears.

Standing upright once more, she begins moving down the abandoned road. The overgrowth retreats from her as she steps, clearing a path. The Steelworker does not look over her shoulder to see if the vigilante is following. That is the other woman’s decision to make; The Steelworker can only do her duty, and her duty does not include argument.

[batgirlspain]

I watch her head down the road, hammer resting on her shoulder like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I look at the path she just cleared through the overgrowth, then back at the abandoned gas station. Yeah. This night just keeps getting weirder. I hurry after her, keeping a few steps between us.

“Okay, hold up!”

I glance at the hammer and then at the woods around us.

“You’re saying the Darkness itself’s gonna try to eat me, there’s some kind of face in these woods that nobody’s survived seeing and I’m supposed to just follow you down this road like this is a normal Tuesday?”

I shake my cowled head.

“Because I have a few questions.”

I pull the cryptic note from one of the pouches of my utility belt and hold it up.

“What is all this actually about? What am I looking for, and why did my search lead me to this place?”

I pause before remembering something else.

“And there’s one more problem.”

I look back toward the direction I came from and point vaguely down the road.

“My Batcycle. I didn’t exactly plan on leaving it behind. It’s parked somewhere back there, assuming this place hasn’t decided to swallow it too.”

I catch up a little more.

“So what happens to it? Does it stay where I left it? Do I get to go back for it? Or is this one of those weird situations where I come back and find out I’ve been gone for a hundred years?”

I glance at her.

“Because I’d really like to get it back in one piece.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker continues her slow, steady pace, her boots striking the pavement as a hammer might strike steel to mold it into the shape it must take. She, too, has been forged in these woods, an agonizing process but necessary. The Batgirl behind her is only just beginning the process of transfiguration, but The Steelworker is confident her unlikely companion will succeed the trials that lie before her.

This place is strange. Your laws don’t apply. The old laws govern. Those who arrive here are led here. Called. Some to be judged. Some to rest. In your case, to find answers.

The Steelworker pauses her speech to listen. The vines are speaking to her once more about the woman behind her. She inclines her head a moment longer before continuing.

Barbara Gordon, you wear many masks. The one on your face now, it has set your feet upon a path that runs through the heart of these woods. You told me you were checking a lead, following a clue, and that is how you found me. The mystery is yours to solve, but you will not do so without something you can only find at the place we now walk towards.

Now, the Steelworker slows her pace until she stops altogether, and turns to half-face Batgirl.

Your Batcycle will remain untouched, and you will find it when it is time to leave. As for time, it passes far more slowly on this road than others.

The Steelworker’s eyes fix on Batgirl’s once more, the air about them shifting with something powerful and ancient. Even the sky responds to the Steelworker, a storm cloud moving over head, threatening rain and casting the quiet forest into shadow.

Now, for all your questions, answer one of mine:

What frightens you, Miss Gordon?

[thatwhichreachesout]

Hey Steelworker! Curious and interesting nickname, unless that's your actual job…

I've been browsing your blog (I hope you don't mind) and I gotta say you have some photos that have caught my eye. Some are by other people, but there are some of your own. I think you have a talent for photography, in addition to the writing talent I sense from your informative paragraphs. I can see a certain pattern in your snapshots: mysterious, abandoned places, sometimes with a touch of gothic aesthetic. Besides Steelworker, are you also a Ghost Hunter? Or are you the ghost itself? Nah, what nonsense… a ghost wouldn't take a picture of graffiti on a wall that says ‘F*** Trump’... (unless the reason for being a lost soul was Trump or someone connected to his administration.)

The Steelworker shifts in her seat, moving to sit forward, scarred arms still covered in soot resting on her knees as she considers the masked woman in front of her. Her glowing eyes seemed to grow brighter with interest as she waits several moments before answering.

Observant.

The voice that comes out from behind the black bandana is deep and seems to reverberate throughout the woods around them.

The forgotten places are home to me.

If she smiles behind her bandana, it’s impossible to say, but her voice gives away a certain level of amusement at the strange woman before her, clearly a woman unafraid of the odd, someone who turns toward the eldritch and not away.

Many innocent lives are lost to the greed of the wealthy. There is a kind of justice that lives here, obscured but not lost. So yes. F*** Trump.

Her head cocks to the side a moment before she slowly stands up to her full height, towering over her visitor, and crosses her muscular arms over her chest.

You are not like most. Righteousness clings to you. The scent of justice follows where you go. Why are you here, little Bat?

[batgirlspain]

I don’t like being called ‘little Bat’. I don’t say it, though. One look at her is enough to tell me that arguing over a nickname probably isn’t the smartest move right now. She’s huge, broad-shouldered and built like she could fold me in half if she really wanted to. So I keep that particular thought to myself. Instead, I look around: the trees, the abandoned gas station, the road disappearing into all that overgrown mess… none of it looks familiar. Everything about this place feels wrong.

“Okay… here’s the thing.”

I glance back toward the road.

“The last thing I remember, I was outside Gotham following a clue. I was on a road, checking a lead, and then…”

I trail off, trying to piece it together.

“Now I’m here.”

I pull out my phone and check it again, even though I already know what I’m going to find. No signal. No GPS. Nothing.

“To be honest, I’m not totally sure how I ended up here, ma’am.”

I look back at her.

“So, yep… pretty normal night for me: following a lead, losing my GPS and ending up in the middle of nowhere talking to a woman with glowing eyes who apparently hangs around abandoned gas stations.”

I take a few steps closer, but keep enough distance between us to react if things suddenly go sideways.

“As for the justice thing… I try. Gotham has plenty of people who could use a little justice.”

My eyes move over the soot covering her arms before returning to those strange, glowing eyes.

“But you seem to know a lot about me already. That’s the part I’m more interested in.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You called me Bat. You knew I was looking for something. And you knew exactly what kind of person I am before I said much of anything.”

I glance down the empty highway again.

“So before we get into the whole ‘righteousness clings to you’ stuff, can you tell me where the hell I am?”

I gesture toward the road.

“Because this definitely isn’t Gotham. And unless Gotham suddenly grew about a hundred miles of creepy forest and abandoned gas stations overnight, I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

I pause, looking back at her.

“And please don’t tell me I’m somewhere I can’t get back from. I’ve already had enough weird road trips for one lifetime.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

Unexpectedly, a laugh tumbles out from The Steelworker’s throat, though the laugh, too, is covered in rust from underuse. Something about the candor, the surety and bravery of the masked vigilante, strikes something soft within her. The green surrounding them speaks to her, tells her the other woman’s secrets the longer her visitor stands there, but she herself decides carefully what to say next. The Steelworker opts for a gentle sprinkling of truth instead of a downpour.

Yes. I know things about you, Batgirl. I come to know things about everyone who wanders here, eventually.

The Steelworker lets her arms uncross and slowly turns her back on the vigilante to briefly unlatch the steel lunchbox that sits beside her chair, her body angled to keep her guest from seeing inside. Moments later, she turns back around, holding something in her enclosed palm.

As for where you are now, and why, you were searching for something, yes? And your search has led you here.

As she speaks, her fingers open around the object and she holds it out to the other woman - a piece of paper.

For the guilty, this place is one of damnation. For the innocent, one of peace. And for the harbingers of justice, one of assistance.

She looks down expectantly at the paper in her hand and back up towards Batgirl.

The clue you seek, you have found.

[batgirlspain]

I stare at the piece of paper for a moment before taking it from her.

“Okay… that’s not what I was expecting.”

I unfold it carefully and read what’s written across it.

“Where the iron sleeps beneath the roots,

follow the road that no longer exists.

Three bells will mark the way.

When the last one rings, do not look behind you.

What you seek is waiting where the dead still remember your name.”

I read it again, slower this time.

“Yeah. That’s cryptic.”

I turn the paper over, checking the back for anything else. Nothing. I look up at her.

“So this is the clue I was looking for?”

I glance toward the endless trees surrounding us.

“Because if that’s supposed to tell me where I’m going, whoever wrote it really didn’t believe in street signs.”

I fold the paper and slip it into one of the pouches of my utility belt before looking back at the strange woman standing in front of me.

“But I guess I didn’t end up here by accident. You said this place helps people looking for justice. So I’m guessing you know where this road that doesn’t exist is.”

I pause for a few seconds before continuing.

“And preferably, you also know what happens if I actually look behind me when that last bell rings.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

The Steelworker chuckles softly at the remark about street signs - truly, the place upon which they stand now existed long before humans had invented language to communicate. Long before humans existed at all.

In lieu of an answer, she nods and moves away from the vigilante, disappearing into the gas station that somehow is as dark as night itself even at high noon. When she returns, she is carrying her abnormally large ball-peen hammer resting on her right shoulder, and she stops to pick up the steel lunchbox.

Finally, she speaks.

Yes. I will accompany you on your journey. The Night here is far more dangerous than yours in Gotham. Here, the Darkness itself will consume you.

She takes a step towards the other woman, a foot between them now, her head tilting downwards, voice lowering further, burning eyes burning into the other woman’s own.

If you look back when the last bell rings, you will see the true face of the woods. No one has ever lived to speak of what face it wears.

Standing upright once more, she begins moving down the abandoned road. The overgrowth retreats from her as she steps, clearing a path. The Steelworker does not look over her shoulder to see if the vigilante is following. That is the other woman’s decision to make; The Steelworker can only do her duty, and her duty does not include argument.

[thatwhichreachesout]

Hey Steelworker! Curious and interesting nickname, unless that's your actual job…

I've been browsing your blog (I hope you don't mind) and I gotta say you have some photos that have caught my eye. Some are by other people, but there are some of your own. I think you have a talent for photography, in addition to the writing talent I sense from your informative paragraphs. I can see a certain pattern in your snapshots: mysterious, abandoned places, sometimes with a touch of gothic aesthetic. Besides Steelworker, are you also a Ghost Hunter? Or are you the ghost itself? Nah, what nonsense… a ghost wouldn't take a picture of graffiti on a wall that says ‘F*** Trump’... (unless the reason for being a lost soul was Trump or someone connected to his administration.)

The Steelworker shifts in her seat, moving to sit forward, scarred arms still covered in soot resting on her knees as she considers the masked woman in front of her. Her glowing eyes seemed to grow brighter with interest as she waits several moments before answering.

Observant.

The voice that comes out from behind the black bandana is deep and seems to reverberate throughout the woods around them.

The forgotten places are home to me.

If she smiles behind her bandana, it’s impossible to say, but her voice gives away a certain level of amusement at the strange woman before her, clearly a woman unafraid of the odd, someone who turns toward the eldritch and not away.

Many innocent lives are lost to the greed of the wealthy. There is a kind of justice that lives here, obscured but not lost. So yes. F*** Trump.

Her head cocks to the side a moment before she slowly stands up to her full height, towering over her visitor, and crosses her muscular arms over her chest.

You are not like most. Righteousness clings to you. The scent of justice follows where you go. Why are you here, little Bat?

[batgirlspain]

I don’t like being called ‘little Bat’. I don’t say it, though. One look at her is enough to tell me that arguing over a nickname probably isn’t the smartest move right now. She’s huge, broad-shouldered and built like she could fold me in half if she really wanted to. So I keep that particular thought to myself. Instead, I look around: the trees, the abandoned gas station, the road disappearing into all that overgrown mess… none of it looks familiar. Everything about this place feels wrong.

“Okay… here’s the thing.”

I glance back toward the road.

“The last thing I remember, I was outside Gotham following a clue. I was on a road, checking a lead, and then…”

I trail off, trying to piece it together.

“Now I’m here.”

I pull out my phone and check it again, even though I already know what I’m going to find. No signal. No GPS. Nothing.

“To be honest, I’m not totally sure how I ended up here, ma’am.”

I look back at her.

“So, yep… pretty normal night for me: following a lead, losing my GPS and ending up in the middle of nowhere talking to a woman with glowing eyes who apparently hangs around abandoned gas stations.”

I take a few steps closer, but keep enough distance between us to react if things suddenly go sideways.

“As for the justice thing… I try. Gotham has plenty of people who could use a little justice.”

My eyes move over the soot covering her arms before returning to those strange, glowing eyes.

“But you seem to know a lot about me already. That’s the part I’m more interested in.”

I tilt my head slightly.

“You called me Bat. You knew I was looking for something. And you knew exactly what kind of person I am before I said much of anything.”

I glance down the empty highway again.

“So before we get into the whole ‘righteousness clings to you’ stuff, can you tell me where the hell I am?”

I gesture toward the road.

“Because this definitely isn’t Gotham. And unless Gotham suddenly grew about a hundred miles of creepy forest and abandoned gas stations overnight, I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”

I pause, looking back at her.

“And please don’t tell me I’m somewhere I can’t get back from. I’ve already had enough weird road trips for one lifetime.”

[thatwhichreachesout]

Unexpectedly, a laugh tumbles out from The Steelworker’s throat, though the laugh, too, is covered in rust from underuse. Something about the candor, the surety and bravery of the masked vigilante, strikes something soft within her. The green surrounding them speaks to her, tells her the other woman’s secrets the longer her visitor stands there, but she herself decides carefully what to say next. The Steelworker opts for a gentle sprinkling of truth instead of a downpour.

Yes. I know things about you, Batgirl. I come to know things about everyone who wanders here, eventually.

The Steelworker lets her arms uncross and slowly turns her back on the vigilante to briefly unlatch the steel lunchbox that sits beside her chair, her body angled to keep her guest from seeing inside. Moments later, she turns back around, holding something in her enclosed palm.

As for where you are now, and why, you were searching for something, yes? And your search has led you here.

As she speaks, her fingers open around the object and she holds it out to the other woman - a piece of paper.

For the guilty, this place is one of damnation. For the innocent, one of peace. And for the harbingers of justice, one of assistance.

She looks down expectantly at the paper in her hand and back up towards Batgirl.

The clue you seek, you have found.

[thatwhichreachesout]

Hey Steelworker! Curious and interesting nickname, unless that's your actual job…

I've been browsing your blog (I hope you don't mind) and I gotta say you have some photos that have caught my eye. Some are by other people, but there are some of your own. I think you have a talent for photography, in addition to the writing talent I sense from your informative paragraphs. I can see a certain pattern in your snapshots: mysterious, abandoned places, sometimes with a touch of gothic aesthetic. Besides Steelworker, are you also a Ghost Hunter? Or are you the ghost itself? Nah, what nonsense… a ghost wouldn't take a picture of graffiti on a wall that says ‘F*** Trump’... (unless the reason for being a lost soul was Trump or someone connected to his administration.)

The Steelworker shifts in her seat, moving to sit forward, scarred arms still covered in soot resting on her knees as she considers the masked woman in front of her. Her glowing eyes seemed to grow brighter with interest as she waits several moments before answering.

Observant.

The voice that comes out from behind the black bandana is deep and seems to reverberate throughout the woods around them.

The forgotten places are home to me.

If she smiles behind her bandana, it’s impossible to say, but her voice gives away a certain level of amusement at the strange woman before her, clearly a woman unafraid of the odd, someone who turns toward the eldritch and not away.

Many innocent lives are lost to the greed of the wealthy. There is a kind of justice that lives here, obscured but not lost. So yes. F*** Trump.

Her head cocks to the side a moment before she slowly stands up to her full height, towering over her visitor, and crosses her muscular arms over her chest.

You are not like most. Righteousness clings to you. The scent of justice follows where you go. Why are you here, little Bat?

[chaeri-png]

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