ISSUE #9 (June 2018)
Written by Emma Woods Featuring: Batgirl
Red Robin
Flamebird
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"BUTTERFLY"“I’m really starting to think that you’re showing off!” Batgirl declared from the back of the motorcycle, shouting in order to be heard over the roar of the bikes engine. Fatigue had become an afterthought as she held on for dear life, her arms wrapped tightly about the midriff of the vigilante she had only just met, the streets of Gotham flashing by like a fever dream threatening to overwhelm her senses, the duo avoiding obstructions by the merest of inches.
It was frankly terrifying... and utterly thrilling! For all she knew, Red Robin might as well of been born in the saddle, so assured was his manoeuvring as they skirted the boarders of danger, accelerating as the last moment as they crested a hill, Stephanie releasing a unflattering yelp as they took to the air. Defying gravity itself with their ludicrous momentum, Batgirl held her breadth as her heart hammered against the back of the boy she didn’t know the name of, revelling in the inherent rebelliousness of the moment. Uncle Ted would not approve of such behaviour. Not at all. Gravity, however, would not be denied and, soon enough, both tires of the sleek motorcycle came crashing back down to asphalt with a euphoric jolt and the crime fighting duo continued to speed on their way. She noticed the deceleration almost immediately, Red Robin apparently having heard her over the deafening din of the wind resistance, perhaps feeling foolish. “I didn’t say stop,” she prompted with a tighter squeeze, rewarded by an almost immediate increase in acceleration after only a moment’s hesitation, Stephanie giddy as a grin spread across her youthful features. “Take the scenic route,” she suggested and, much to her growing delight, Red Robin took a hard right far more quickly than was probably prudent. Batgirl was shocked by her own bravado as she thrust out her right arm and shouted, the shuttered windows of her enclosed room a million miles away, the streets of Gotham wide open before her... ELSEWHERE... Given her profession, Doctor Agnes Bellinger knew exactly what the nicotine was doing to her body, and not a single damn was given as she inhaled deeply. Audibly sighing in relief, she visibly slumped in her chair, ten hours of stress bleeding out of her system in a matter of moments. She could have fallen asleep, there and then in her office during the dark hours of one of Gotham’s infamously long nights, the endless hustle and bustle of the Narrows only clinic safely behind her locked door. To say that she provided Gotham’s Forgotten District with adequate healthcare would be a gross overstatement, suffice to say, all anyone truly expected was that she wouldn’t leave them on the street. If nothing else, it was a minor miracle that her patients were receiving any treatment at all. With a wince that was spirit deep, a rap on her door caused her to flinch, Agnes rubbing her eyes irritably as she sat up straight, well aware that she was still needed. Her palms had begun to itch, as they always did when the old needs, the old addictions reared their persistent heads, Doctor Bellinger sighing deeply. When she opened her eyes, she looked to the nearby TV sat buzzing in the corner of her office, one of the few luxury items that anyone living in the Narrows could hope to purchase, wearily thankful to witness that her cities latest crisis had been averted. A quite prayer was offered up to whatever deity may see fit to listen, the hijacked Monorail diverted from it path of destruction, lives saved at the last moment. So many... Agnes dropped her cigarette, the stick of nicotine slipping from her lips as her mouth hung open, eyes that had seen too much opening wide in alarm as the latest images struggled to find focus on her small screen. Video had been obtained of the event, a single figure emerging from the train and dramatically exiting via grapple hook, a woman... a girl... the Batgirl that was the talk of the whole island district. It couldn’t be... And yet... Doctor Bellinger stood up, incredulous, furious, both astonished and seething. He couldn’t have done it... All those years ago, she had never expected him to take her at her word, a heated exchange coming back to haunt her as she should have known it would. “That Son of a Bitch!!” Stephanie Brown was awake long before the dawn, sleep claiming the young woman for little more than a few hours. While no-one in the Narrows could witness the sun rising from the vantage of their windows, each and every building clustered far too closely together, the warm glow was unmistakable as it crept through the cracks of her blinders, promising to fill her small room with light. She smiled, restless as she rolled over onto her back, the old mattress of her bed protesting with loud squeaks, every inch of the young woman giddy with nervous energy. She should be resting, Stephanie knew that, her muscles burning from the previous nights exertions, and yet... She rolled over again, this time the young woman snagging her small phone from the bedside table and looking expectantly at the screen, wrestling with the sense of disappointment when she saw nothing. Her thumbs hovered over the keypad, more than ready to begin typing, maybe she could... No, Stephanie put the phone away, sitting up with a barely repressed groan as the entirety of her body threatened to go on strike. She could wait, Stephanie decided, getting up and opening the window, the waking Narrows filling her abode with its familiar ebb and flow of a new morning, the young woman closing her eyes to let it all sink in. Her home. A little safer now than it had been the night before. Badass. ELSEWHERE... She couldn’t look upon her own face, not as she lay foetal on the floor, cowering within her dank domain and trembling fitfully. She screamed at times, a stranger to herself, the razor wire of her identity stiffening and contorting, ripping free of its fragile bindings before tightening with suffocating intent. Otherwise she mumbled, muttering as she pulled upon her hair and rocked, weeping before cursing before falling silent, her eyes, unblinking, failing to find focus. ‘Anarchy’ had been discarded; the featureless mask of gold thrown aside after it had failed her, a face that had proven to be a lie. They promised so much, they all promised so much, and yet all of them were found wanting, none of them filled her with glorious purpose, no-one remembered her name. She didn’t remember her name. ‘She’ didn’t remember her name, the girl, the other girl, always the other girl, the Bat... She screamed, palms clutching at her temples as she failed to seize a sense of self, a reason for existing, a reason to be acknowledged, a reason to remember her own name. A name that they would all remember. Not ‘Anarchy’. Not ‘Scarecrow’. What name? What name would they never forget...? Attired as she was in her forever faithful, purple hoodie, loose fitting jeans and well worn sneakers, Stephanie Brown was ready for the day ahead, bounding down the stairs that lead directly to the Wildcat Gym below her apartment with a lightness of step that betrayed her good mood. She felt great, to be honest, possibly euphoric even, buzzing from head to toe as she felt more alive, more free than she had done in years. She felt liberated. She wasn’t afraid to unlock the door. “Sun is shining in the sky,” Stephanie hummed to herself with all the confidence of someone who knew that she was alone, just as she would be until it was time to open, a skip in her step as she headed for the broom closet. Vigilante by night she might be, but Janitor by day was how she paid for her lodging upstairs, “there ain’t a cloud in sight. It’s stopped raining. Everybody celebrate. And don’t you know, it’s a beautiful daARHHH God Damn It!!” Stephanie cursed both virulently and with conviction as she swiftly discovered that she was not alone, the door to her Uncles office both open and Bette Kane sat incredulously behind his desk. Her ire well and truly spiked by the unexpected presence of a second person, the young woman swore again beneath her own breath as it took far longer to regain her composure than the teenager would have liked. “Enough!” Brown insisted, marching into her Uncles office to confront her assigned Handler. Bette, for her own part, was tactfully unimpressed with the other blondes fluster. “With the sneaking around, all of you, you’re really starting to do my nut in.” “Then perhaps you should learn to be more mindful of your surroundings,” Bette consoled without a great deal of sympathy. “At least you remembered to get changed this time,” she continued to note with a perking of her brow. Stephanie, however, wouldn’t be baited, folding her arms in impatience, “What are you doing here Bette? I don’t need a babysitter while I sweep the floors.” Kane didn’t reply, not verbally, instead meticulously folding the newspaper that she had been reading before setting it on the desk. She folded her hands and looked Brown in the eye. Just as it seemed as though she was about to speak, she didn’t, bracing her arms against the chair and, with visible effort, pushed herself up, collecting her crutches and making slow progress on her way out. “Wait,” Stephanie caused her Handler to pause, the teenager struggling to retain her defensive demeanour the moment a thought occurred to her. “Have you been here all night?” Evidently, Bette didn’t see fit to reply, choosing instead to allow the silence to linger until she vacated the premises, leaving the teenager knowing the answer. “Damn,” she cursed quietly, annoyed with herself as she unfolded her arms and stuck her hands in her back pockets. She was going to pay for that later. One way or another. ELSEWHERE... The locket was the last of her possessions that he still possessed, clutched between his thumb and forefinger, the tiny disk fragile within his grasp. The gold had long lost its lustre, tainted by the flames that had tried to consume it, and yet it glittered amongst the hovel that had become his home, the rotten core of this Forgotten District, tethering him to his final shreds of sanity. Reminding him of his purpose. Killer Moth was a man shed of his humanity, encased within garb engineered to inflict harm, his face obscured behind a modified gas mask, lenses contracting sharply upon every disturbance. He sat alone at the centre of his web with poisonous intent, monitors flickering about him with persistent updates, every sin within the Narrows laid bare and ripe for exploitation. Every injustice flamed, every wrong escalated, every tragedy fuelled to ever greater heights. The Narrows were a powder keg waiting for a match, an overpopulated island waiting to explode, a desperate, destitute population just waiting for an excuse. He would give them one, he would sow the seeds and reap the harvest, he would give the people of the Narrows exactly what they wanted and, in turn, when the reservoirs across the bay ran red with Gothamite blood, they will have returned that debt to him in kind. The bill comes due. Always. “She’s proving to be problematic,” one of his Tiger Moths explained as she entered his most secluded haven, attired in the same garb as her master. They had become indistinct from one another, as it was meant to be, those who had come to him now filled with only a singular purpose. His. He was aware of who she was referring to, the Batgirl of this overbuilt District, images of which played out before him upon the monitors. At first she had been rumour, a myth as much as he was, but where he was a Slender Man, she was something else entirely. She had seemingly become counterintuitive to his own ends; she had given them something to believe in. He was reminded of the locket between his fingers. “Leave her be,” he exhaled in answer, his lungs burning with the exertion, “for the moment.” He looked down; the pendent heavy within his hands. An excuse was all they needed. “We have found our Martyr.” |