Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She does not have a name.

She is around eleven years old, although she does not know the exact date of her birth. Her father is a man she left many years ago. She does not know who her mother is.

She has no place to call home.

Violence. Broken, rusted nails. Hysteria. Big, rough, calloused hands. Failure. The expanding pupil of a starving canine. Pain. The bitter tang of polluted rain. Hunger. A scream in a carpeted hallway. Rot. Overcast sky. Loneliness. Decaying grass in an open field. Desperate. Shattered teeth fragments. Guilt. Residual mud on a wet gun. Fear. 

She tries to do good things.

Chapter Text

The girl was always running away. She couldn’t stay in one place for too long. The place she had stayed the longest in was the first place she had ever run away from. 

She was currently on a bus. She didn’t know where she was going to end up. There was a list of locations plastered to her left, but she didn’t know what they said. Attempting to read them would just make her stand out.

There was a redhead woman sitting in the seat across from her. The woman’s shoulders were guarded, cautious. She was looking down on her, clutching her purse as if the girl would leap out and attempt to snatch it, right there in front of all the other people on the bus. She wasn’t afraid of the girl. She was suspicious in a way that she believed she was superior to the girl, that the girl could attempt harm, but the woman would win. 

The girl knew the woman was wrong.

She jumped off the bus when she saw no one else was getting off on that stop. She had enough currency to be able to buy food from a run-down, dirty place. She didn’t fully understand how money worked, but she knew different prints on the paper dictated their value. 

The paper with a portly man with a balding head yet bushy beard could buy her two weeks of food. That type of paper was rare, but not as rare as the bald man with long hair in the back, who could buy her food for an entire month. The paper with a thin man looking to the side was the paper with value she found or stole the most often. The papers of the tiny green man and brunette man were much more common, but they could barely buy her anything unless she put multiple of them together. Especially for the paper with the small man.

Small pieces of metal also had value, but they were worth even less then one paper of the small man, and they were more inconvenient to keep on her person than paper was, so she barely had any. 

The place she had arrived to was near the ocean. It looked intimidatingly gloomy from so far away. She knew she didn’t really have a reason to run away from the last place she was staying at. It was crime-riddled and dark, perfect for her to blend into. But staying in one place for too long had started to make her itch ever since she had run away the first time. In a strange way, knowing she would always leave a place gave her a sense of stability. 

Once she enters the streets of this new city, she realizes it’s going to be similar to the last one. There’s so much anger and hurt in the mass around her. People bump into others to steal their wallets. Then, shortly after, get chased for stealing the wallet. Aggressive voices only she could hear surround her. It was overwhelming. No one would ever notice a dirty, small girl like her.

Perfect. 

She turns into an alley. It’s smashed in between two apartment buildings that appeared to be crumbling apart, slathered in dripping paint that was saying something she didn’t understand. It was late now, the sky was almost dark. There were no signs of someone else in the alley, so she tucks herself behind a great, big trash can and hugs her backpack close to her chest. Hoping to fall asleep.

When she wakes up, a woman is patting her head. The girl leaps up immediately, grabbing the woman’s hand in under a second, twisting it behind her back. The woman lets out a yelp of pain. She’s confused and scared. 

She had no intention to hurt the girl. 

The girl let's go, pressing her back against the wall. She moves her palms up in an apologetic motion. The woman doesn’t seem to be angry at all. But cautious, like she’s approaching a wounded animal, despite the woman being the wounded one. 

The woman rubs her arm, wincing at the pain. An angry voice breaks through the silence. The girl looks behind the woman, who towers over her, and sees a young boy lurking. His hands are stuffed into his pockets defensively. His shoulders are raised. His legs spread in a position that would make it easy for him to run away if he needed to.

He’s defensive. He’s mad at her for hurting the woman. The woman laughs through her pain, and rubs the boy’s shoulder, as if she’s worried the boy will try to attack the girl. The girl can tell from his stance that he wants to. The angry boy scowls and says something she doesn’t understand. But she understands the way his body moves. You hurt her. I want to hurt you now. He’s dirty like her. His hoodie is covered in grease stains. 

The woman replies to the angry boy, voice lighter. Trying to calm him down. She then turns to the girl and says something in a deeper voice. The girl tries to strain her ears for a phrase she might recognize. But she just woke up, and she’s on guard, and she thinks she might get attacked by the angry boy, so she can’t put in the effort required. She squeezes the straps of her backpack tighter.  

The boy scoffs and says something to the woman, who looks quizzical in response. She nods. Then, she says something the girl understands. 

“Yuu suhpeauk ienguhlush?” 

It's a phrase she hears regularly. It’s the thing people say when they’ve realized she can’t understand what they’re saying in the way they want her to. She shakes her head to the side. 

The woman says something to the boy. The boy scowls again. The woman points to herself. “Cahateh.” She says. She looks at the girl expectedly. 

“Kaaaa…” the girl starts, “Kaaaa…hhaaaa…eeee…” She cannot finish. The words fumble on the end of her tongue until she shuts it close. The girl can say some words. Basic ones. She doesn’t flinch when her skin is carved from her body. But speaking is an almost impossible task for her. 

The woman smiles at her despite the failure. She says something else to the boy. In response, he rummages through his gray hoodie’s pockets, and produces a small card. It’s bright blue, with a strange, curvy, yellow symbol in the middle. The woman reaches to tuck it into the front pocket of the girl’s shirt. The girl does not stop her. The woman is wearing four inch heels, and it would be very easy to topple her if her touch was intended to do the girl harm. So she lets her. 

Her body says, I’m helping you. 

The girl doesn’t know how having this card in her pocket will help. She wishes the two of them would leave her alone. She doesn’t know how they think they’re helping her, but she doesn’t need any sort of help at all. 

The woman pats the angry boy, who doesn’t seem angry anymore, just high-strung, on the back, and walks out of the alley. The angry boy stares at the girl for a few moments. Then he walks in the direction the woman went in, leaving the girl alone. 

She takes the card out of her pocket. It’s not a string of numbers, nor words. She can’t read, but she does know what words look like. It’s just a yellow symbol. The card may be useful, but she doesn’t want people to see it peeking out from her pocket, in case it’s a signal for other people to do something to her. 

So she zips it into the front pocket of her backpack. 

The girl spends the rest of the day exploring the city. There’s a section where the run-down apartment buildings start to become clean-looking condos, and she tells herself to never go into that area. People are more likely to pay attention to a dirty girl with a giant backpack in those sorts of places. 

So she stays within the bounds of the section she knows she can blend into. Eventually, the sky turns dark again. The sound of people being hurt increases. She’s tired. She hasn’t eaten since she arrived in this place. So she walks up to the most abandoned-looking store she can find. She gives the person behind the counter a paper of the skinny man and points to a random word on the giant wall of words behind them. She hopes she likes whatever she’s bought.

She doesn’t. It’s bread with some meat in the middle, a vegetable, a thin white… thing, slathered in a yellow sauce. It tastes gross. It’s too sour yet also too sweet, and it makes her tongue feel disgusting. But she keeps eating it, knowing she needs the energy. She recoils with every bite. 

A voice says something. She turns to the side. It’s the angry boy from before. A myriad of new bruises are splattered across his face. Even though it’s only been half a day since they’ve last seen one another. His body posture is mocking. Probably about how grossed out she looked when eating. He’s said something insulting to her. Waiting for her reaction, even though he knows she can’t understand him. 

He’s hungry. His hands are shaking and his stomach is emitting a low rumbling noise. So she digs in her backpack and gives him a couple of the papers with the tiny man. It won’t buy him a lot, but it’s at least something. He looks at her in shock. 

Are you playing a joke on me?, his facial expression asks. His voice says something. It sounds suspicious. She pushes the paper further into his hand. He doesn’t push back.

Thank you. The way his shoulders relax says. His voice says nothing. 

He tilts his head, motioning for her to follow him. She does. He takes her deeper into the city, where the girl starts to notice more and more women in fishnets and short skirts and the lights grow dimmer. She knows what the women are doing. She’ll have to make sure none of their customers hurt them, now that she knows there’s so many women with this job here. 

He leads her into a small alley. There’s a worn-down mattress with a tattered blanket laid over it. He points at them. She points too. He points again, more aggressively. She walks towards them. 

The angry boy motions towards the bed. Suddenly understanding, she sits down. He says something. I’m curious about you, his body says. He sits down next to her. 

The girl motions to the East, the direction she knows she came from, with her thumb. She makes a motion with her fingers, as if a person is running. 

The angry boy asks a question. Waits for a response. She doesn’t recognize any of the words, so she just shrugs. Then he asks another. At this, she turns. She recognizes some of the sentence.

“Wahaet isz yuuoer nahame?”

Name. 

It was a label. What she was called. She had been called many things in her life. Many things by different people. But every time she would attempt to say those things, or explain them through her body, it just never worked. The other person would get confused or frustrated and motion for her to stop.

So she just shook her head. It was better if she didn’t have a name. She didn’t need one, after all. She was alone. And to herself, she was just… herself. She wasn’t a person with an identity. 

The girl wasn’t worthy of one. 

The angry boy sighs. This is the part where he says his name. Like all the other times. She knows she won’t be able to grasp the name, and he’s going to get angry. But he doesn’t. He says nothing. He taps her pocket. 

Oh, the paper. She unzips her backpack and gives the card to him. The angry boy looks at it, disbelieving. He’s upset at her for not keeping it in her pocket, like the woman had put it. She gives him a disbelieving look back. Surley, she looked like she had been living on the streets long enough to know not to display a bright, colorful signal on herself from strangers. Strangers she couldn’t even understand.

Despite her lack of words, he seemed to understand her meaning, giving a shrug. He placed a hand in his own pocket and out came an exact replica of the card. He tapped the two together. Oh. Maybe it was a signal in a way she didn’t predict. But the boy wasn’t displaying his like he wanted her to. 

The girl doesn't say anything. She’s not sure how to convey to him that while some sort of… alliance between street kids based on visual aids is nice, that won’t make her trust him. 

He seems to get it though, because he just sighs and lets her card flutter to the floor. A few more words are said. He’s not looking at her, though. She can tell he’s not talking to her anymore, and falls back onto the mattress. The springs dig into her back. It’s uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the brick wall she slept against last night. She sits up, and motions to the bed with her hands, catching the angry boy’s attention.

She points to her heart. Smiles. Hopes it doesn’t look too weird or forced. Thank you. The angry boy’s head tilts to the side. He shrugs. But, she can tell his nonchalant attitude is forced. Don’t make me regret it. His body says. 

She hopes this strange alliance with this angry boy lasts until she decides to run away again. Usually, when street kids hang around her, they were unbearably… irritating. Constantly trying to force her to talk. Not having any patience. Getting angry when she couldn’t understand them, even though she always knew what they truly meant. That’s usually what got them so angry in the first place. 

She just wasn’t meant for people.

The angry boy seemed to not be either, in a different way than her, so maybe this would work out. She didn’t know what he was saying for a majority of the time, but his body language was always hiding something. So, he was probably lying half the time he spoke. Not in a malicious way. In a… guarded way. She understood.

Eventually, he falls asleep, pulling the tattered blanket over himself. It’s stretched out enough that she can pull some over her too, but the boy is so on-edge when he’s awake, she feels like he’s that way when he’s asleep too. It’s likely he’ll jolt awake at the slightest touch. And she doesn’t want to put this alliance in danger. So, shivering, she stares at the sky. Because of the lights of the city, no stars are visible. 

It’s scary in a way. The alley is so narrow, and the view of the black, empty sky is so clear, she feels like she could just… fall into it. Even though she’s grounded on the bed. Even though that’s not possible. The feeling is so dizzying she closes her eyes. 

When she wakes up, it’s because someone is shaking her. Her eyes snap open, hand itching to pin down the person… but she sees a stream of dark brown hair and narrow eyes, and she realizes it’s the angry boy. Her shoulders relax. She looks to his side, and realizes the woman from before is there. 

The woman was extremely tall, and it was even more noticeable than the last time the woman had met the girl. She wondered why that was— then noticed the woman was just standing up straight. Oh. Why was the woman crouching down the first time she met the girl? She didn’t have to do that to talk to her. 

She has long, straight blonde hair and a black tank top was fitted over her figure. It was much more modest than what she was wearing the last time she saw her. And it was clean-looking. Even though the boy was wearing the same thing, covered in dirt and grime. So she guessed they weren’t as affiliated as she had assumed. After all, the angry boy had slept next to the girl on the street, and it seemed the woman went back to her house. No… an apartment. Probably not a house. She hadn’t really thought about that. Why was the angry boy friends with the woman anyways? 

He seemed to be a little younger than the girl, but they might be the same age. He was so skinny she couldn’t really tell. But the woman seemed to be in her early twenties. She knew street kids didn’t easily trust adults. Scared that they would hurt them. The girl hadn’t ever worried about that. She could restrain multiple adults with her hands tied behind her back. She had. 

The woman’s eyes soften, and she steps forward. Her body language is so inviting. As if they’ve been friends for years. It’s… relaxing. The woman points to herself, and says, “Kahateh.” She thinks it’s the same thing from yesterday. Then she says some other things, and the girl catches a few words she thinks she might understand, but they slip just as soon as she thought she had them. She looks at the bed. Asks another question. 

She wants to know if the girl slept well.

She nods. The woman’s face lights up. She certainly thinks the girl had deduced her answer from her speech, not her body. And the girl is okay with that. As long as it didn’t lead to any misunderstandings that had consequences, it seemed okay to not let them know. She didn’t feel like the angry boy would react well to her being able to tell when he lied. And the bed was much more comfortable than the floor. She hoped he let her sleep on it again tonight. 

The woman then rubs her shoulder, and departs the way she came. But the angry boy stays. He waits a moment, checks behind the wall, probably to see if the woman is out of sight. Then he motions for the girl to follow him. 

They walk to a red brick building, with a flashing neon sign in pink. The words look curvy. Even though she can’t read them, the aesthetic appeal does catch her eye, and she smiles at it. She can feel the angry boy look at her strangely out of the corner of her eye. So whatever the sign says must not be so nice after all, and she stops smiling as they walk in. 

It’s a… store, of some kind. There’s a display case of yellow fruits, stacked upon one another in a manner that looks like just one breath can send them toppling. But there’s also big, crinkly bags with animal drawings on them, on the other side. She thinks it’s food meant for pets. She’s not sure selling these things in such close capacity to one another is normal. Unless the yellow fruits are fruits just meant for pets. But she’s never seen anyone feed their pets fruits. And she’s seen all sorts of pets since she started running. 

The angry boy walks up to the man behind the counter, and his entire face shifts. Suddenly he’s smiling. It’s still a weird smile, kind of between a smirk and a genuine happy expression. But the girl can tell it’s fake. The boy is talking to the man in a grand voice m, making wide movements. Like he’s trying to… hide something. Oh. Everything fits into place, then. 

She slips into the back of the store, hoping the man behind the counter hasn’t noticed her. There’s a bunch of random packaged food. She throws a bunch of red, shiny fruits into her backpack, and for good measure, some of the plastic-wrapped crunchy foods. She then zips them in, silently. 

The angry boy looks back at her, and his talking slows down. He then lightly brushes over the man’s hand in a fake-friendly manner, and lets go just as quickly as the two exit the store. The girl thinks if the woman dour on that sort of performance, it would have come across as much more realistic.  

He’s slyly grinning ear to ear as he paws at her backpack. Show me what you got. His body is basically screaming with joy. She unzips it and shows him, hoping it’s what he wanted. She doesn’t know the name of a majority of foods, but she’s always liked the red fruits. 

He lets out a small cheering noise, and slaps her on the back. She’s alarmed, but when she notices how absolutely elated his body language is, and how happy the tone of his voice as he chatters on, she guesses it mustn’t have been intended to hurt her. She smiles too. 

She follows the boy as he walks down the street, and they go to a park. It’s not even close to the most beautiful park she’s seen. The playground equipment is rusted away and crumbling away. The trees don’t have any leaves. Which is expected, since it was one of the cold months. They sit on a bench and eat one red fruit each, and the boy opens one of the packaged foods. 

He doesn’t say anything. She lies on her back and looks at the sky. There’s so many clouds in this city’s sky. She can barley see the sun anymore. Everything was so… dark. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it on a personal index. But it was good for cover. 

She sees the angry boy check his watch. She didn’t even know it worked. It looked rusted to the point it probably left a stain on his skin. The boy then gets up. She starts putting the uneaten fruits back in her bag, assuming they’re going back to the bed despite it barley being dark, but he motions for her to stop. His shoulders are raised. He isn’t looking at her, eyes planted on the floor. He’s ashamed of what he’s about to do. Embarrassed. I don’t want you to see me. His narrowed eyes say. 

She nods. Meet me back at the bed, her hands reply, motioning in the direction of the alley. He walks away.

She waits until she can’t see his figure anymore until she walks back to the bed. She didn’t think the two of them would be together all hours of the day, but she wonders what he’s doing. The angry boy seemed to get ashamed at everything, he only expressed it in different ways. But for some reason… she got a bad feeling in her gut.

She does different exercises while waiting for him to return. She does them until her chest burns and she feels the sweat freezing off her body. But even then, the boy doesn’t return. She’s not worried. He looks like he’s used to the streets. And she can feel that he’s not naive. Even though she hadn’t understood a single thing he said out loud. She wonders how he talks. If it’s as different from his body language as she thinks. 

Thinking back, his sentences were always short. But the woman’s sentences were longer, with more pauses and words that didn’t sound like real words. Buffer words. She really wishes she could understand them. But there’s no point. Because she’ll get a desire to leave soon. And then she’ll never seen them again. 

Although, it would be helpful to be able to understand all sorts of people. She’s not sure how she could. It seemed so difficult. Even impossible. But… she was built to be perfect. She had never, ever doubted any of her capabilities. And her father had never doubted her. Language was hard. But so was learning how to be shot without flinching. And disarming two grown men in under 20 seconds. 

Huh.

She’s trying to imagine how it will feel to understand the entirety of people’s words, when a shaking figure stumbles into the alley. The angry boy. But he doesn’t look very angry right now. He looks… detached. And his body isn’t saying anything. Like its voice has been ripped from it. He’s limping. But she can’t notice any marks on his face or his hands, the only skin he’s showing. He’s wearing the same clothes he left in. 

She looks at him, quizzically. She wonders if he took a really bad fall, but the closer she looks at his limp, the more she doubts it. Who did this to you?

He looks to the side. He bites out a remark. She doesn’t know what it means. But his tone is aggressive, angry. Pretend nothing happened, his posture begs. It’s sad, in a way his real voice isn’t. 

She doesn’t want to ignore it. The boy gave her a bed, and he’s friends with the woman, who rubbed her shoulder in a way that makes her feel warm to think about. She isn’t sure what’s happened. But she feels like if she lifts the angry boy’s pant legs, there will be bruises trailing up. His wrists are limp. Someone grabbed them. Hard. Maybe behind his back. She’s had all sorts of injuries, she recognizes how the body reacts to them. But his limp is too high up, it’s not in his ankle, or knee. Maybe someone… pinned him down, and smashed his pelvis against a wall? She takes her bag out of its hiding spot, and produces a red fruit.

The boy gives her a confused, tired glance. She digs her fingernails into the apple. Slicing it into a smiling face. Then she turns it around, showing him. She smiles like the carving. He makes a strange face, and grabs the apple roughly out of her hands, chomping down. He turns over. And he doesn’t say anything for the rest of the night. 

She doesn’t mind. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, she wakes up on her own. When she turns over, she sees the boy sleeping. His hands are on her hair. Curious, she slowly lifts up the sleeves of his hoodie. Purple, almost green, fingerprints are pressed into his thin layer of skin. She frowns. Pinning someone’s wrists is more convenient with one hand. It wouldn’t leave marks like this. This  was one hand gripping onto only one wrist, arm turned frontwards. These weren’t pinned behind his back. She knows from the position of the fingers.

She wants to investigate more, but… The angry boy is already stirring. She doesn’t want to risk lifting up the other sleeve. But she knows it will have fingerprints too.

So she drops it. She gets up. Listens for a few minutes. Stretches her legs. And then she sets out.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. She wants to find the woman. She walks until she finds a lady who does things in dark corners with other people, usually men, for money. Whore. She thinks that’s what it’s called. She couldn’t say it, but she’s heard people say the word enough when describing this sort of task it can loosely settle in her mind. She thinks that’s what the woman is.

She goes up to this other woman, a woman with a blue bob. It shines unnaturally, so it must be a wig. The girl taps her back. The blue haired woman makes an acknowledging noise and turns around. Her face is fuller than the blonde woman’s. The girl gets a pen and paper out from her backpack, and draws a loose picture of the woman. She hopes it looks enough like her that the blue haired woman will be able to tell who it is.

She seems to, as she says, “Oouugh, Kaahaahette?” It’s somehow even more confusing of a word then when the woman herself said it. The blue haired woman must have an accent.  But she recognizes the syllables of the word, and knows it’s the same one.

The girl nods readily. The blue haired woman tilts her head. Who are you? Her confused look says. But she takes the girl to an apartment building. They climb the stairs to the right floor, because the elevator is broken. When they reach the woman’s door, which is only one of three because the floor is so small, the blue haired woman knocks on it in rapid successions.

“Kkkaahhaatttteehhee! Sohoehene’s heiere tuhoh suhsei yououh!” The woman yells.

A groggy voice yells back, quieter but still loud, and she hears someone run to the door. When it’s swung open, the woman comes out. The girl nods at the blue haired woman, and grabs her hand. She squeezes it. Thank you. She says. She hopes the blue haired woman understands.

She doesn’t seem to. But the woman gives her a nod in the downstairs direction, and the blue haired woman scratches her head, then leaves, rotting down the stairs. The woman bends down to the girl’s eye level. She asks a question out loud. The girl doesn’t recognize any of the words. What’s wrong? Her body asks. It’s so inviting. She feels safe with this woman. Even though she’s skinny in a way that isn’t athletic. And the girl doubts she could hold her own in a fight. She feels safe. It’s a nice feeling.

So she starts to play charades. She puts her jacket hood over her hair, in the way the angry boy does. Then she makes a mad face. The woman asks something. It’s one word. And short. But it’s longer than the word that the girl thinks is the woman’s name. This one starts with a “Kuh”, and this… she’s already forgotten what the start of it sounded like. But it must be the name of the angry boy. She nods.

Her voice says something, frantic. Is he alright? Her body asks. She looks beyond worried. The girl looks in the woman’s apartment. If the woman cared about the boy, why did he sleep on the streets when she had a house?

Her questioning look must have caught the woman’s eye, because she looks back into her apartment as well. She starts to say something… before stopping. The woman goes into her apartment, leaving the girl at the front door. The girl can hear a rustle of objects, and another woman’s voice from inside. It’s more feminine and higher pitched. Oh. She must have a roommate. But the woman says something that must calm down the other woman, cause she doesn’t hear the voice again.

The woman comes out, now holding a notebook and a pen. The girl frowns. She has those too. If the woman needed one, she could have… motioned it. Somehow. She’s about to try to explain that, when the woman begins to furiously scribble, using her knee as a holder for the notebook.

It’s two stick figures. One has long hair, and one has none. The figure with hair has a speech bubble above it. In the speech bubble is an apartment. But in the bald figures speech bubble, there’s a giant X. This figure is also angry. But the figure with long hair is smiling.

She understands. She points to the one with long hair. Then she points to the woman. She waits for an answer. The woman smiles. She says something in agreement. So, the angry boy was offered a place in the woman’s apartment, but declined. She feels her opinion of the woman rise up again. She wonders why the angry boy would reject a roof over his head.

The girl motions for the woman to hand her the notebook and pen. The woman does so. She’s not sure how to convey this. She draws a figure, gives it an angry face. Figures that’s enough to let the woman know the figure is the angry boy. Then draws arrows pointing to his wrists. She scribbles a hand over each wrist.

The woman looks at the drawing, seemingly baffled. She asks a question, slowly, and her words pause a lot, so she must not be sure of what she’s saying. The girl notices how deep the woman’s voice is. It’s calming.

But she doesn’t know how to respond to the question she couldn’t understand. She makes a twirling motion with her hand, and slowly moves her mouth, but says nothing. Repeat what you said. Slowly.

If she could recognize how the words sounded, she could maybe recognize the use in her head. She couldn’t see words as words, just sounds that came together. And even then…

Everything the woman said, although slow and deliberate, is all unintelligible. Until one word.

“Huhhurert?”

Hurt. When someone is hurt, they’re injured. Yes, the angry boy is injured. The bruises on his face, and his limp, and his wrists. She feels he wouldn’t want the woman to know this. But she wants the angry boy to be okay. She can’t let someone get hurt when she’s here. And the woman is friends with the boy; so she probably knows who hurt him. The girl wants the woman to tell her so she can go and then hurt this person.

And make sure they don’t hurt anyone else.

“Mrrrmmm…..” She says, nodding. Her voice is shaking. And it’s raspy. It doesn’t sound right. She knows if she used her voice a lot, it wouldn’t sound like that. But the woman looks pleased, and she yells something into the apartment, presumably to the roommate. A yell comes back. But then it’s quiet. The woman steps into the hallway, closes the door. And the woman and the girl leave together.

As they walk, the woman motions at her own wrists. She makes a slashing motion. The girl shakes her head. The boy’s skin wasn’t pierced by a blade. She didn’t even have to be trained to recognize that. The girl makes a gripping with her left hand to her right wrist. She keeps gripping until the woman’s face melts into understanding.

But then the woman’s face shifts to sadness. A… angry sadness? She starts to walk faster, and her broad shoulders square up. Her fists tighten around the notebook. The woman understands something, now. Something about the boy— how he got hurt. The girl knows this, but she doesn’t know what it is, and she thinks she’s made a mistake, because the woman’s eyes are hard and disappointed and—

When they find the boy, it’s near the bed. He’s awake now. His knees are squared up, and he’s hugging them. She can't see his eyes. The woman throws the notebook at him. She asks him a question that doesn’t seem to truly be a question from the look in her eyes. It’s a question she knows the answer to. Her voice breaks at the end. The boy sputters to defend himself— he can also tell it was an accusation, whatever the woman said. The girl knows from the way the woman’s mouth is tight and the way the angry boy’s whole body curls in on itself. 

He unfurls the notebook. He sees the girl’s drawings. His neck snaps up at her, glare full of vitriol. He yells something. He’s so angry. He gets up in her face, breathing hot and heavy air. She steps back, but he keeps going, until the woman places a hand between them. He grabs onto her hand. Challenging her. But she looks down at him, and he falters. Says some more things. His body is screaming at her. Insulting her. She can't recognize any words.

She was trying to help him.

Her hands jut out, grabbing onto the notebook the boy had dropped in his rage. She picks up the pen. The woman asks a question. Probably about what she’s doing. And the boy makes a snide remark. But she keeps drawing. Even as her hands shake. It starts to impede her drawing, so she makes them stop. Her throat starts shaking. It’s a useless part of her body, so she doesn’t make it stop. When she’s finished her drawing, she tilts the paper upwards.

It’s four people. Her. The angry boy. The woman. And a figure with no face. There’s an arrow between the figure and the angry boy. The woman and the girl are kicking and hitting the figure.

The boy’s face twists into ten emotions, one after the other. He starts crying. Grabs a stuffed pillowcase off the floor. And then he runs away. The pillowcase has a weight to it that the girl realizes means it’s held something other then feathers. She doesn’t know what. Her throat is still shaking.

The woman chases after him, but she’s wearing heels, and the angry boy is too small and fast, and the woman comes stumbling back into the alley shortly after.

She doesn’t look as sad anymore. Just disappointed. She wishes she knew what happened to the angry boy. They probably said it out loud. But she still doesn’t know what it is. Even though she knows the woman is about to walk towards her before even the woman does, even though she knows that the angry boy is ashamed of almost everything he does, she can’t even understand what just happened. It makes her feel something. She’s not supposed to feel anything. To think anything. To want anything.

She wants to understand. 

The woman steps towards her. She lifts the girl's chin, and wipes away at her eyes. The woman’s hands are so soft. She feels a wet smear on her cheeks. Oh. Her hands go to her face. Grasp at it. She was crying? Why?

I’m sorry. The woman’s body says. She picks up the pen, scribbles something. The faceless figure now has a giant scribble on it. And the hands of the girl and woman are now connected. It looks strange. The drawing of the girl and women were on different sides of the figure, so their hands shouldn’t be able to connect that far. But when the girl looks up, the woman is smiling softly, and she understands.

“Eeehiitteh’s ooohkaaey.” The woman says. And it’s foggy, the words barely make their way into her brain despite the short length. But she gets it.

She wants to say something back. She wants to agree. But when she tries, only murmurs come out of her throat. She grasps at her hair, covering her face with closed palms. The woman pats her back gently. She says some more things. The girl can feel her open body language, and she knows the woman isn’t mad at her. But it doesn’t matter. Because she’s mad at herself.

She doesn’t think that the angry boy will return to the bed tonight.

He doesn’t. She waits for him to come back, but he doesn’t. As she expected. The woman had motioned for her to follow her to her apartment, but the girl had shook her head. What if the angry boy came back, and saw the empty alley, and thought the girl abandoned him? He was already so mad at her. He felt betrayed by her. She didn’t know what for. Didn’t know what the woman had accused him of. 

It had been something he did. Something he had done before. She guessed her had promised to not do it. Like he had a bad habit, and he fell into it again. The shifty eyes, the backtracking, the stammering over sentences. She didn’t need to know the words to understand the gist of conversations. That was her gift. That’s what made her good. Useful. She just wished she knew what it was, so she could help.

Her not meaning to upset him didn’t matter. What mattered was that he felt that she had crossed him, and she needed to fix it. Even if that meant waiting. She wasn’t a good person. But to be worthy of continuing to live, she had to do good things. 

She hopes wherever he is, someone is helping him with his wounds. His bruises need to be disinfected, because some of the skin broke. And his limp, whatever is causing it… he needs to lay off the leg. Maybe wrap it with some tape. And his wrists need bandages so he doesn’t stress on the tender points anymore. She can think of dozens of ways to help him. Dozens of ways she should be helping him. But she can’t. Because he isn’t here.

The wind howls around her. It’s  much colder than it had been the previous night. She cannot feel the tips of her fingers. If someone attacked her, she is sure that she would win, but she also knows she might slip up. This thought disturbs her.

She’s so cold.

The next morning, she goes to her backpack, nestled between two wooden planks, and notices all the food is gone. She didn’t have any more money left either. She knows it was the angry boy, he was the only one who knew where she hid her backpack. A small tinge of a negative emotion she cannot name rises in her chest. She’s not even upset that he took the food, but that he somehow was able to go through her things without her noticing in the dead of night. If he could do that, then maybe anyone who found the backpack could.

Or maybe that’s what was in the pillowcase he took when he left, and he was planning on ditching her the whole time. Both thoughts make her feel horrible. She sleeps with the backpack nestled in between her chin and her knees the next night. The angry boy doesn’t show up.

The sky becomes bright two more times before she sees him again. She wonders where he’s been sleeping. The tattered blanket is still there too, so he must have been even colder than her. The past few nights have chilled her to her core. And even in the day, when the sun shone, she couldn’t shake off the urge to shiver.

Stealing food isn’t a problem for her. It’s more of a problem than it should be, because of the cold and hunger, and she’s ashamed of that. She can hear her father not being proud of her. Shooting her in the leg. Breaking her toes until she learns not to whimper. But her fingers are still faster than the eyes of adults, and her bag is half-full after a simple stroll down the street. Then out of the corner of her eye… the angry boy is there. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even think he notices her.

She sees him swipe something off the counter of the store clerk. The twitchy one who growled at her the second she walked in. She had decided then, to not steal anything when she was in view of the man. Even if she could get away with it. Of course, the angry boy is not her, and the older man immediately notices him stealing. The man punches the boy.

You’re disgusting. I’m better than you. You make me sick to look at, the man’s fists say as he pounds the boy’s face in. He had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for some dirty kid to walk in and screw up so he could do this. It turns her stomach. 

The girl is upset that the boy took the food that they had stolen together. She’s upset, but she understands. It was okay that her father beat her, because she was made for that. She had to be perfected. This beating was not perfecting. It was senseless violence. It had no purpose other than damaging the already damaged boy. The boy who she had been wanting to help. So she goes up to the man, and she hits him in the neck at an angle she knows will make him fall unconscious. Eyes fluttering shut, he falls on top of the boy.

She grips the angry boy’s hand, and lifts him up easily. He’s shaking. You killed him. He’s saying. He’s scared. He’s scared that he’s just witnessed a murder. But mostly, he’s angry. At having to be saved, at being caught, at himself, for being scared.

She shakes her head. She taps the back of the man’s neck, guides the angry boy’s hand, places it to the vein she knows will let him feel the man’s heartbeat. It’s steady. The angry boy relaxes, but he doesn’t want her to know, so he just scoffs, and tries to run off.

Keeping up with him is simple. He runs into their alley, where they stayed the night. He doesn’t know that. He only ran there because it was familiar. Then, quickly, she realizes by the way his eyes twitch: It was his alley before she came along. He was scared to go back, because he knew she would be there.

The realization of this does not shock her, and she tries to relax her shoulders to show him that she doesn’t want to hurt him. She sat there waiting for him so he wouldn’t think she left, and all he wanted was for her to leave so he could go home. She swallows something painful in her throat.

I cannot understand you and it frustrates me. He says with his expression. His body is frighteningly loud and aggressive as he says it. He growls something out loud. His voice isn’t as loud as his body’s, but she feels if someone was walking past them, they would be able to hear him, You betrayed me so badly and you don’t even understand what you did. The way he speaks is so different from the way his body does. She almost wants to listen to his words over his movements. His voice is irrelevant from his true voice though, the voice of his body, and she pushes her curiosity aside to focus. 

I can understand you. She nods her head, and reaches out to hold his hand. He flinches. She can feel his fear. He flinches not out of fear that she will strike him, but confusion as to why someone would ever touch him in an attempt to not to strike him. She understands even more. She brings his hand to her face, curling the fingers in a punching motion towards her lips. She drops his hand, and makes a motion with her own hand, spreading out the fingers from her mouth, as if something is bursting from it.

Your fists are your voice to me. I will always know what you mean. Not what you are saying, but what you truly mean.

The angry boy looks at her confused. He says the same thing over and over again. His eyes narrow the more he repeats it. Eventually, it begins to sound like it means something. It’s only a series of sounds, with some others thrown in, but she recognizes the pattern. She hasn’t heard the same person repeat the same thing over and over again for so many times in her life. The phrase isn’t difficult, but she’s unsettled, in a strange way, so it takes longer to soak into her ears.

“Yuu ehndeerstahnd meh?” His voice says. You understand me? His body asks.

Yes. She says with her head. She nods it up and down. He doesn’t fully what she was trying to say, that she doesn’t just understand his body language, but that he is his body language to her. That everything he ever thinks, she will know. That she understands his very being more than he understands it himself. 

His voice says different things, lifting off at the end like he’s waiting for her to say something back. Each word sounds like a different language. She knows that people speak different ones, now. Which one do you understand? His furrowed brow asks, I need to understand you.

I’m so lonely.

I’m sorry. She holds him close, and he does not do anything in her embrace. He does not cry, which she knows normal people do when they’re upset. His back is quivering. The girl feels like she’s doing something wrong, so deliciously wrong. She can feel the cold metal beating against her back. The familiar pain she knows would come if her father ever saw her do this.

But he’s not here right now. She hugs the angry boy tighter. He eventually pushes her off, ashamed of having let himself be held. He says something softly. I wasn’t used to that. I don’t want to be hurt again. The way he bites his lip tells her. She knows hugs are things she’s not allowed to receive, because she wasn’t a normal child. The woman’s gentle back rubs were already pushing it. But her father had never said she wasn’t allowed to have someone rub her back. He would if he knew. But he never said it. So it was allowed. It’s an illegal loophole, she knows that she’s just kidding herself to feel better. 

The boy was normal. So  she would have to give hugs to him whenever she could. Because that was normal. And it made his shoulders relax. 

The girl makes a holding motion, the one she did to him, with the empty air. Then she crushes the air. Touch means pain to me. She tries to say.

His eyes fill with recognition. They are the color of a grenade, rusty from laying in an empty storage closet.

The angry boy’s body shifts. He looks determined. He’s trying to do something. Her foot unconsciously tilts, preparing herself if he ever decides to leap at her. But he doesn’t. He just keeps repeating the same thing. Again. It’s not like the last time. He doesn’t seem confused at all. And yet, she’s sure he doesn’t fully understand her language situation.

“Gahsycen. Jahsycen. Jascen.”

She does not interrupt him. He keeps going.

“Jason. Jason. Jason.”

Jason.

“Jaaah… Se…. Cen.” She drags out. Her voice hurts from lack of use. She does not scream. It makes fighting less effective if her enemy knows about her presence. She cannot scream. It has been beaten out of her. “…Jason.” The word sounds natural, now. Even to her. It’s surprising, and she blinks a bit at the sound.

He’s overjoyed. He’s feeling the same thing her father felt when she didn’t flinch when being shot with a bullet from five feet away. He’s proud. He’s saying things quickly now, too fast and jumbled and she doesn’t even understand his body’s voice either, because it’s too fast. She grabs his shoulder. Makes his movements slower.

He’s bashful at the correction, but continues to talk slowly as if that will help her understand more. But she is not even trying to listen to the way the words sound on his tongue. She cannot understand them. She pays attention to his shoulders, how they go up and down. How his hands flap around him.

Jason.

The boy is Jason. Her brain struggles to hold onto this concept.

“Jaaaa….” She tries to say it again, to get the words out. It feels like trying to hold onto a slippery ledge as ten grown men kick her already-broken fingers.

He looks at her expectedly. Waiting for the words to come out. Say it. His shoulders tell her in the way they ride up.

She falters, spit dripping down her chin. He looks deflated. I’m disappointed. I don’t want you to know. His fake smile says.

I’m going to do better for you next time. She holds up a fist, high. In the way her father did to his men before taking them into a mission. You’re going to be proud of me.

He looks at her sympathetically. Half-between pitying her and disbelieving her. The feeling makes her chest tighten. Her father always knew she was capable. That she was perfect. People on the street had underestimated her, but they hadn’t seen her fight. The angry boy… Jason… had. There was no reason for him to doubt any of her capabilities.

She couldn’t do it now. But she would.

Even though she knew she would be soon, the feeling of hope for being able to learn excited her. She knew the urge to run would eventually rise within her. Like it always did. Because she wasn't like everyone else. She wasn’t meant to stay, to laugh, to form connections. She was constantly moving. Protecting people. So they could then do all the things real people deserved to do.

They sleep in the alley that night. They don’t talk. Not about how she had betrayed him unknowingly, nor about his injuries. Not about where he went, or how he stole the food. Not about the reason for his anger or why the woman was angry in return.

Jason keeps glancing up at the closed window, the one right above them, when he thinks she’s asleep. He wants to go inside. He doesn’t. It rains lightly, when the sky has started to become bright, but Jason doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t shake him up. She stares at the gloomy sky, hoping it will eventually turn blue, but it never does. 

Chapter Text

( It’s afternoon when she gets into her first true fight in the new city. ) 

She hates fighting in daylight. It feels like it’s exposing her, like she’s under a spotlight and she’s vulnerable. She knows logically, she isn’t. Light helps her. She can see the facial expressions of her enemies easier, the small twitches of their muscles. And yet, the dark has always been a comforting presence to her. 

The woman sticks around her and the boy— Jason, much more, over the next week. She isn’t around at night, and the girl knows why. But when the day is bright, she sits on the bed and she talks. The boy usually doesn’t stay. And when he does, he’s silent and moody. It’s still tense between him and the woman. 

It reminds her of a situation in her past. Only a short time before she would run away. A teenage assassin was set to spar with her. She didn’t know this at the time, but looking back on it now, she understands the assassin’s mentor must have been his father. Like hers was her father. Although, she thinks this one’s father was probably biologically related to her, unlike her own. 

She had beaten him in twenty seconds. He was much older and taller, and when he fell the floor shook. It had been a normal performance for her. But for the teenager, it had been the destruction of his entire basis for living. She still remembers the look in his eyes. As if he had shattered his bones, although she had barley even hit him. He came back multiple times. He never spoke to her. He wasn’t permitted to. And she beat him every time. 

While originally confident and cocky, smirking at her through the view of his blade; the more he returned, the more sullen he got. His hands were clasped and his head was hanging whenever his father grabbed his back and ushered him out of the room after matches. 

She wonders if the teenager’s father had beaten him for losing, after they left. Like her father did her, when she was much, much younger. Maybe that’s why he was so angry. Or… If… No. Nevermind. The point was, the way the boy was acting reminds her of that. The body’s voices were almost exactly the same. 

She was in the middle of stitching up her black ski mask that had torn itself in her last city. It was much more suburban there, she had to stick to bushes and forests and fields. She ate raw meat from a carcass claimed by the sun. She hated it. A bobcat hated it too, and had clawed at her face to show her that.

 The boy was reading a book. It has a dusty green cover and the print is unbelievably small. She had been trying to build up courage to ask him to lend her it. She didn’t know where to get books. She had attempted reading the backs of the chips they stole, but the words were so big she wasn’t even sure they were real. Plus, the boy probably wouldn’t be a patient teacher. Or even want to be one.

She knows being around her was frustrating enough for a normal person. 

Still early in the morning, they have nothing to do, and they continue minding their own business in the dirty city park. She can’t really see the text from his— Jason’s book that well from her spot. Perched on a tree right above him. It made her feel powerful. Lurking. He knew she was there. But he didn’t acknowledge her. 

A boy with a shaved head walks up to them. He has a switchblade in his pocket that he doesn’t want them to know about. His ribs are injured. He favors his left side. She knows this from a glance. And she knows, most importantly, that the shaved-head boy doesn’t know she’s there. There’s a couple other people behind him. They look every bit as tough. 

The shaved-head boy walks up to the boy sitting down. Towering over him. He leans down, and closes the boy’s book. Jason looks up, anger clear, and then it morphs into something… milder. Frustration. As if this shaved-head boy was a common annoyance in his life. That was good. Maybe this was just an argument, and it could end easily. 

She kept her eyes trained on the pocket the knife was in. 

The shaved-head boy asked a mocking question, causing the boy’s eyes to narrow. She didn’t like this. Her grip on the tree branch tightened. She knew she was already on thin ice with him. With Jason. For meddling in his business when she didn’t have context. Because she didn’t have context for anything in his life. 

But was it really right to just sit here? Her breath slows down. Nothing bad had happened yet. They were just having some sort of conflict. And it wasn’t her business. If the boy needed her, he could just call her down. Because he knew she was up here. And certainly he could tell she was a better fighter than him from her combat knowledge and how quickly she maneuvered around in general. 

The boy doesn’t look so angry anymore. The more the shaved-head boy talks, the more tense he seems to become. He’s on edge. Trying to shrug off the boy’s advances like he’s not worried. But he is. His entire body is flaring up. He smirks and says something to the boy and the girl KNOWS it’s a lie.

And the shaved-head boy seems to as well. Because he reaches for his knife, leaning to his left—

But she’s already on the floor, leg out, tripping him, before he can. The rush of adrenaline she feels as she hears his face splat against the dirt is addicting. His group comes at her next. She dodges them all easily. They’re all clumsy and have no defensive skills. All they can do is go forward and hit. She can feel the surprise of the angry boy behind her, but he doesn’t say anything besides let out a wordless sound of shock. 

She punches a boy with braces that she can tell gave him jaw pain the night before. She kicks a girl with her arms flailing out in the stomach. She jumps up, and two people trying to ambush her from opposite sides, clash in a comedic display. Jason is still fighting the shaved-head boy under the tree. 

They’re feral. Pulling at skin and clawing at each other’s hair. The way they’re fighting isn’t a language. It’s not words. It’s a continuous, loud, guttural screeching. It hurts to look at. She kicks the shaved-head boy in the back of his shins, dropping him to the floor. The angry boy takes the chance to punch the boy in the head. He didn’t have to. The shaved-head boy was already down and too tired to get up. Jason just wanted to. 

She grabs his hands, taking care not to move them as he flinches. She uses the sleeve of her jacket to wipe the blood off. They’d look less suspicious leaving that way. He has more bruises on his face, a scratch mark trailing down his cheek, and his nose looks like it might be broken. She frowns. Her hands tenderly touch the spots. Jason winces at the touch. 

He lowers her hands down roughly. Why did you do that? His shifty gaze is asking. Accusing. She fights against his grip, trying to touch his face again, to make sure that nose really isn’t broken like she thinks. Confused, he lets her. She poked at his nose. He lets out a yell of pain and clutches it, yelling at her. She motions to her own nose, and then picks up a stick, snapping it in half. 

Jason groans. He ruffles his jacket up, pulling his hood lower. As if that will make his broken nose less noticeable. She quirks her head to the side. Walks up to him. Jerks her thumb back to the direction of their hideout. But he just shakes his head. 

It’s like before. He’s about to walk off, so she races forward and grabs his wrist. She can feel that the touch hurts him. The bruises are still there. It strengthens her point. He’s hurt. The woman will get angry again. And… 

She pleads with her eyes. He shakes her off. He says something in a chastising, yet standoffish tone. I’m not doing what you think I am, but it’s also not your business. He glances back to the group of beat up people on the floor. Then looks back at her, and then her bloody hoodie. It’s a dark brown, so the boy she puncher’s blood will be easy to wash out. But he’s looking at everything like it’s the first time. Then his eyes blow wide open. 

He looks at her again, with this new expression. He’s between scared and impressed. She is about to play charades again, to tell him to not be scared, she wouldn’t do that to him. As long as he didn’t hurt anyone. But he’s already pulling his hoodie down and walking fastly into the woods. He looks at her, saying, Come on, what are you waiting for? 

And she chases after him. 

They run through trees and branches and things nip at her face and her feet and her throat is pumping with blood. It feels amazing. She’s spent so much time floating through this dreary city she forgot how it felt to be ALIVE again. Even the fight back there hasn’t made her feel this way. It had been robotic. Planned. She was just executing her purpose. But there were leaves getting in her face now, because the wind was so strong. Pain blooms from her chest as she heaves in the air. 

This is what it feels like to be alive. She’s grinning madly and she can’t stop it. Her teeth get cold. But she’s still running. She can’t even hear the words the angry boy is saying. Then he says them louder. And louder. And she’s the one in front of him, and he’s chasing her. He grabs her hoodie and yanks her back.

She falls onto the ground. Her head hits it hard. The leaves rustle around her hair. She blinks up at the sky. She can't even see it. All there are is bushy trees. But even the trees are a faded, dark color. Like the whole city. It makes her want to laugh. And she does. 

There’s a THUD next to her. She looks over. It’s the angry boy. Jason. His hands are folded behind his head as he lays down. He isn’t looking at the sky. He’s looking at her. He points to her mouth. He says something as he does so. She realizes she’s still smiling. At his motion, she drops it, frowning. His expression drops too. 

She smiles again. It doesn’t feel as nice as the first time. He sighs and rolls his eyes. He mutters something to himself. It’s about her. He digs in his pocket and out comes a small book. It’s thin. Probably doesn’t have a lot in it. She gives him a confused look. She’s not sure what he wants her to do with it. But he doesn’t give it to her, like she assumed from his posture. He opens it up and starts reading out loud. 

She closes her eyes and listens to his voice. It’s nice. He’s not good at reading. He keeps stumbling over words and making off-topic comments. She can tell because his tone changes into something sharp when he makes them, and they’re usually short and blunt. But when he reads everything else he sounds… normal. 

She’d like to understand his quips. She doesn’t know what they are. But she bets they would make her laugh. Like how everything is always dark and gloomy in this new city, and how that made her laugh. Something like that. 

She hopes her beating up those people shows him she does good things. Even if she’s not a good person. And she hopes those people leave Jason alone now. She doesn’t know what he did, but cornering someone and outnumbering them as an intimidation tactic… it was gross. In a way that made her nose twitch. 

The angry boy seemed to have a lot of problems here. With the person who gripped his wrists and gave him a limp. Within this group of delinquents. And maybe even the women, but that was in a different way. It was all okay. She felt something swell up in her chest. It was okay because she was gonna protect him. 

She glances at him as he reads to her. She’s gonna protect him. He doesn’t even know it.

She’s gonna protect him. 

Chapter Text

The girl slowly understands that the relationship of the women and Jason makes much less sense than she first thought. Her first impression was that of a father and son, or, if women had some sort of special title for father. The way they interacted was a sort of twisted version of the way she did with her own father. Although the woman was much younger than her father. And much less able to fight. The girl would bet the woman didn’t even know there were more than one type of handgun. 

She bet the boy did. 

The woman is calm in a confident manner. She never trips in her six inch heels. When she does, she just laughs and takes them off, holding them carefully at the top. The boy is confident in a fragile way. He’s all smirks and assertive jabs until something goes wrong, and then he bunches his shoulders and tries to pretend he isn’t upset but it’s obvious that he really is. 

Despite it, the woman seems to hold no power over the boy at all. 

When she admonishes him, he just quips something short. It’s always the same thing. Maybe a few different words peppered in. But still the same basic sentence structure. It’s something she knows doesn’t have much value to the woman, because she doesn’t get mad—but something that carries weight, because she’ll still be quiet for a moment, and then try to argue. The boy may be angry at times, perhaps less angry then she originally thought, but the girl notices he barely ever truly argues. 

It's as if when he’s said what he’s going to do, he sees no point in arguing with others. Because he’ll do it. Whether anyone else agrees or not. She hasn’t decided if this is because of maturity or immaturity. It’s something she likes about him. Mainly because she can’t really argue anyways. She can show that she disagrees. But no one really listens to the way she protests. 

It’s calming being around someone who always knows what he’s going to do. Someone who won’t get frustrated she can’t talk back. Maybe that’s why the boy let her follow him around so much in the first place. 

It’s a cold afternoon when she learns what she believes must be the main way the boy makes money. They’re both hungry, and stores are starting to protest letting her inside. Most had already protested letting the boy in. That morning, she had started walking into a crowded street to pickpocket people, but he held her jacket hem and yanked her back from the people. His mouth was downturned. He let out a loud reprimand, his voice going high and breaking at the end.

I disapprove of you stealing from people here.

She didn’t know why. Most of the people here were criminals. They hurt others. Maybe even killed them. It pained her to imagine, but the screams she heard at night also hurt to hear. She knew the boy must know this as well. He lived here longer than her. But his eyes carried a fearful indifference. 

Logically, she knew this must mean she needs to pickpocket from the people in the wealthy part of town. But people are going to watch her there. She hasn’t showered in a long time. The water would just freeze in her hair and make her even colder than she is. The rich people would smell her if she even approached them. 

But the boy seemed to already know what to do, as the sky turned from a grey ish blue to a greyish yellow. He grabs her hand and leads her into the outskirts of the city, rattling off about something. He sounds so excited. She tries to shake off the involuntary shivering in her body and focuses on the way his voice sounds. Tries to grab it as if it was solid. 

He leads her to a fence. Their feet crunch on the snow. It's brown and somewhat clear. More sludge then slow. Someone must have driven a machine over it. It makes her somewhat sad. She’s starting to believe nothing in this city that doesn’t belong to the rich isn’t diluted and dirty. 

Jason climbs the fence. He surprises her with how quickly he does it. His leg is still hurt, but even so, he grips on the chain and heaves himself over like an acrobat. Of course, he’s clunky when he lands, but the before is something that stands out to her. Maybe his problem isn’t that he’s a bad fighter, but he’s fighting the wrong way. She decides to store this feeling somewhere important in her head. She can ponder it again later. 

When she’s on the top of the fence, the angry boy holds his arms out like he’s expecting her to fall into them. She scrunches her face. Why would he expect that? She jumps down, and lands right next to him, still standing. She had learned not to have to bend her knees while landing a while ago. It hurts more. It also gives her an advantage against her opponents. You never know how alone you really are. Pain as well, is more manageable as the years pass. 

He takes her to a car. It’s all alone. Abandoned. But it’s not rusted at all. It’s tucked behind a bush in an endless, gray field. The smoke from the city still surrounds them. 

Jason eyes the car like a suicidal man given a grenade. The expression makes her stomach turn. The car sits as if it belongs. It doesn’t. It’s bright as blood and shiny as sunlight reflected off a blade. He motions for her to follow him. She does. 

They crouch behind the back left wheel. The hubcaps are glittery in a way that makes the girl stare in awe for a moment. But only a moment. She knows that if they’re caught, the person who drives this car has enough money to make sure no one would ever even think to ask about their deaths. The boy starts to wean some of the bolt-like things off the car with a lug wrench he had held in his bag. He struggles to get the last one, so she takes the wrench from his hand and pops it off with ease. 

He sticks his tongue out at her. 

He places the hubcaps in his bag. They stick out somewhat awkwardly. She takes her jacket off and drapes it over his bag. It’s cold. She gets goosebumps as soon as her skin is exposed to the air. He protests. She shakes her head, motioning outwards from his back. The hubcaps are too noticeable. Her short discomfort is less important than someone seeing the hubcaps. Even if it’s not the owner. She doubts the people who live in the area he does would just let him continue walking if they saw what poked from his backpack. 

They’re heavy too. So he’ll probably walk slower than normal. She doubts he’ll even be able to scale the fence. She’ll be able to. She grabs at the bag. The angry boy’s face morphs entirely. 

“No!” He yells. He’s angry. Scared. Doesn’t understand. She lets go. 

She doesn’t say anything. Waits for him to calm down. His breathing is eratic. His face changes from furious to the confusion she knows he felt. Stupid. She shouldn’t have just grabbed it. She forgot he can’t understand what she does. That it’s not normal to be able to discern people’s strengths from just the way they carry themselves. 

She flexes her muscles. Then points to his. Jason lets out a fake offended gasp. So he’s not angry. That’s good. 

That’s good. 

He places the bag on the floor. She’s going to grab it, when he swats her hand away. But his body language is telling her he’s okay with her taking it. Just not now. So she waits. He takes his own jacket off. And holds it out to her like he’s embarrassed. He says something. She doesn’t recognize any of the words. Mostly because they’re mumbled out.

She doesn’t want to wear the jacket. She’s had to stand in freezers for hours on end. Been soaking wet in icy weather. She can deal with a little chill. He can’t. He’s skinnier than her. He doesn’t have the experience she does. He’s not her. There’s multiple reasons. Her taking the jacket is illogical.

But she feels like she knows the boy enough to know rejecting it will hurt him. Him giving it to her at all shows he’s a good person. And good people deserve to feel good. So she slowly puts it on. It smells like cigarette smoke. It’s warm. But not as warm as her own. It’s thinner. 

He motions at the bag. She tugs the straps over her shoulders. It’s heavy. Much too heavy for him. She’s glad she’s the one holding it. He’s shivering. She looks the other way so she doesn’t see. He doesn’t talk like he did on the way there. 

She climbs the fence. Places the bag on the other side. She would just throw it down while on the top to save time, but she’s not sure if anything delicate is in the bag. It’s the angry boy’s personal belongings anyways. The things he isn’t comfortable separating from his line of sight. She shouldn’t take chances. She climbs to the top again. Climbs down. 

He hasn’t been able to climb up. Even though he’s acting like he can, that he just needs time. He can’t. He’s too cold. She knows. He says something small and mumbled about how she climbed the fence with the bag. How that impresses him. But she’s not sure he was as open in words about his amazement with her as he was in his body language. She goes to take the jacket off. He really does need it more. Her shirt may be tattered and worn down, but it still has sleeves. But as soon as her fingers curl around the sleeves, he lets out a sound of protest. 

He mumbles the rest out, but it’s an attempt at reasoning for her wearing it. She thought the boy didn’t argue. She doesn’t want to wear it anyways. Even if it may hurt his feelings. Because good people deserve to feel good, but the angry boy also deserves to not freeze. His skin is starting to turn a strange light blue color. She’s sure he will understand. So she takes the jacket off anyways, and drapes it over his back. 

He’s still disagreeing, but his voice dissolves into mumbles until he isn’t speaking anymore. Then he tugs the jacket on. He pulls at the bottom. Adjusting it. Then he laughs. It’s short and brief. He says something, to her. I’m grateful for this. 

The girl wonders why he decided to tell her he changed his mind on wearing the jacket out loud. She knows from the tone that’s among the lines of what he said . But of course he would. It’s cold. She knows this intimately now. He climbs the fence with ease. When they’re on the other side, she places the bag on her as he shakes the end of his hands. The chain link fence left a red mark on his fingers from where he gripped.

Cold metal does that. Especially when you hold on with force.  She looks at her hands. There’s an imprint of pink. It’s not that she doesn’t feel pain. It’s that there’s been so much pain in her life, if she didn’t learn to push it down, she wouldn’t be able to carry on. 

Pain was a fact of life with her father. Bullets. Knives. Whips. There were many ways to hurt someone. And her father made sure she knew personally how each felt. Looking at an object and first seeing a weapon was a side effect of her upbringing. She wondered what the angry boy first saw when he looked at her. 

He’s not heading back to the place they sleep. He doesn’t bunch his shoulders up when she follows him. So she knows they’re not going to the place the angry woman doesn’t want him to go to. They arrive at a small building. There are no doors. The front is a big, wide entrance with many car parts inside. A man wearing a blue parka is inside on a banged up, fake leather chair. Bits of stuffing poke out from it. 

Jason greets the blue parka man as if they’re friends. And it feels true. She allows herself to relax. The blue parka man looks at her in shock, and starts to question her about something. Probably her lack of a jacket. But the angry boy stops him. He whispers something. He does this, even though he doesn’t have to. He knows she can’t understand him. 

He points to his head and taps it while glancing at her. Oh. He’s telling the blue parka man she can’t understand him. The blue parka man relaxes a little. His posture becomes nonchalant. As it was before he noticed them. The angry boy gestures at the girl to take the bag off. She does so, handing it to him. 

He takes her jacket off the top, giving it to her while simultaneously holding the bag’s contents up to the blue parka man. She doesn’t make a sound as she expresses an internal sound of relief in her head at the warmth she feels when she’s wearing her jacket again. It’s much warmer than the angry boy’s. 

The blue parka man tries to take the bag, but the angry boy pulls back at his grip. He says something bluntly. He likes the blue parka man, but doesn’t fully trust him. She understands a transaction is happening here. She hopes the blue parka man just gives them the paper people in shops take for food, and not something else they’ll have to go to another person to trade. 

The blue parka man lets out a small laugh. So he doesn’t take offense to the angry boy’s defensive behavior. They must have known each other for a long time, then. The blue parka man disappears into the back of the building. When he comes back, he’s holding several pieces of green paper and a small brown bag. 

He gives the angry boy the paper. And he gives the girl the bag. She’s not sure if it’s for her, so she doesn’t open it immediately. Jason nudges her. Aren’t you going to open it? His eyes ask. The bruises on his face are a yellowish green, contrasting the almost dirty green of his eyes. She hopes they go away soon. 

She unfolds the top. Places her hand in. It’s soft and flaky. Food. She takes it out. It’s a pastry. She doesn’t know what kind. She hasn’t ever seen this sort before. There’s something too pink to be blood oozing out of the side. She nods at the blue parka man, hoping he understands this means she’s grateful. But both of them are still staring at her. She holds it up to her mouth and bites. 

They aren’t staring at her anymore. They’re not even looking in her general direction, caught in conversation. They don’t care if she doesn’t like it. They just wanted her to eat. She wishes she could tell them it was good. She doesn’t know how. So she eats until it’s gone. 

When they leave, something is lighter in the angry boy’s shoulders. It must be the new paper in his backpack. She’s happy too. She hopes whoever owned the fancy hubcaps they just sold doesn’t know it was them. She knows they didn’t leave any identifying marks behind. They used a wrench to take the hubcaps off. They didn’t touch any other part of the car. But still, something feels uncomfortable in her stomach. 

Like why such an expensive and clean car was in the middle of a field. She wants to ask the boy what he thinks. She grabs his shoulder. Points to a random car parked on the side of the street, points in the direction of the field and shrugs. She questions motioning for him to not talk, but doesn’t. How else is she supposed to learn words if she doesn’t let people talk? 

Eventually, eventually… it makes sense she’ll be able to link the meaning in his expressions with the sounds the words make.

Like “Jason” and “no”. 

She can't say them herself without strain and effort she doesn’t currently have. But she knows them. Even if she doesn’t know them as well as he does. They exist in her mind. And that’s something. 

He shrugs back at her in response to her question. I don’t know. I don’t care either. I doubt it’s something worrying. It’s a sort of nonchalance that tells her occurance like this must be normal in this city. 

Then, he says a word she somewhat recognizes. Its similar to his name. Slightly different. She tries to let the word sink in her brain, but it’s gone the second he finishes it. He’s said it before, though. She knows he will say it again. So she doesn’t dwell on it. He smiles at the end of this sentence. It was a question, but one he didn’t expect her to answer. 

She knows the boy is grateful for her help. And that when he needs to steal hubcaps, he’s going to take her again. It makes something in her chest feel fluttery. Being needed by others to do something that will help them. She feels bad for the person who will have a car with no hubcaps, but the smile of the boy and the lack of hunger in her stomach overtakes it.

Hubcaps can be replaced. People can’t. 

Chapter Text

Hunger makes everything feel slower. The girl’s life has been mostly defined by hunger since the moment she decided to run away. She tried her best to help people, but that wasn’t what defined her life: it just was her life. Her reason for living. If the girl couldn’t help people, she had no purpose for existing. And hunger stopped her from helping others. Stopped her purpose for living. 

It comes down to this: if she sees someone being hurt, she doesn’t even have to think before she has already stopped the assailant. But hunger takes over her thoughts constantly. When was the last time she ate? What was it? How much did it cost? How longer could she go without food? Would it hurt her abilities if she had to go longer?

The money from the hubcaps hadn’t lasted long. She hadn’t truly thought of the price of having a companion. Everything had to be split. She was okay with that. But halving things meant she would have to halve them further, because half wasn’t enough for the angry boy. Not in her mind. So she pretended she was full after only a few bites of bread, or left her fruit portions out next to his bed for him to discover later. 

The angry boy would disappear for days at a time. After these times, he came back with the same wound as the first time. The limp. But no wrist wounds. Despite this, she knew it was the same because he was furious to the touch. The attitude that made her think of him as ‘the angry boy’ in the first place, even though he hadn’t been very angry outside of those small moments. She wanted to ask. But she didn’t. The shame radiated off him in hostile waves. He didn’t want to read to her after he came back. And by the time he felt alright enough to do so, he was in a foul mood because then it was time to go back. So she tried on her own. She didn’t get far. 

And the woman didn’t visit enough to see him like this either. Her trips became further and further apart until they stopped all together. It was getting too cold on the street to even think clearly. She must have gotten another job for the winter months. The girl thinks the boy might have started going back to the place that gave him the limp because of this.

But whenever he came back, despite his wounds, sometimes to the face— sometimes to the abdomen, but always, always a limp— despite his hostile shame, he was clean. Not frostbitten. So this place must be a warm place. She was happy he came back from it. It wasn’t that she wanted him to freeze and be dirty with her. But the angry boy… wasn’t meant to be angry. She could feel that. 

He was meant to smile. And to joke about things. Even if she couldn’t understand them. He was meant to sit soundly as he read in exaggerated voices. The place he went didn’t seem to bring money. He never had any when he returned. He didn’t have much of anything when he returned besides injuries and frustration.

It was one of those days he was going to leave. She didn’t want him to go. When he had gotten up in the middle of the night, not even bringing his bag, she had grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. He flinched, because two of his fingers were broken. 

No, she thought. 

She couldn’t get the words out. He knew this. She didn’t even try. The words, the words that she understood, sat heavily on her tongue. She wasn’t sleepy at all. Unlike him, who had heavy gray bags under his gaunt face. His skin was warmer the first time they had met. It was still tan, but in an ashy, desaturated sense. The winter had not treated him well. 

She tugged on his sleeve harder. His eyes were detached from the movement. Let go of me. What I’m doing hurts. Stop making it hurt more. The honesty in his body language took her off guard, and she let go in shock. But the boy hadn't dashed away like he usually did when the thing withholding him from doing what he wanted to do released him. Because he didn’t want to do this. 

He didn’t have to do whatever he was doing. He didn’t. Everything was fine here. He didn’t come back with supplies when he left. It wasn’t needed. He…

She wanted him to stop hurting. 

But he didn’t. 

He gave her one last far-off, vacant look, pulling his hoodie over his head and walking into the dead of night. She didn’t do anything. She just hugged her knees until she couldn’t feel anything, and then she knew it was time to move before she froze. It was harder to train. She let herself feel that this was because of the cold, and not the gnawing feeling in her heart. 

She had to keep moving or it would eat her alive. She kicked at the wall a couple of hundred times. Thinking of nothing. That’s the way it should be, isn’t it? Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing. A machine. A macchie who travels, helping people. Not a little girl who gets upset at a boy she only met a month ago leaving her alone. she is been alone her entire life. Even when she lived with her father, she was alone. Because she is not like the other people. 

She didn’t have the luxury of feeling sadness. Because sadness meant you felt happiness at one point. She was a MURDERER . She didn’t deserve to feel happy. She needed to repent. Never ask for forgiveness, it was another thing she didn’t deserve, but repent forever, and ever, until she died. 

She stalks the streets, obsessively checking every corner for someone in peril. She finds what she is looking for every time. She pulls her ski mask over her face and does her job. It’s nothing. She can’t offer comfort to the shaking people she rescues. She tries. Falters. Runs away. 

It's turning dark. The dark is a second skin to her. Maybe even more so a skin than this broken and brittle, small body. No matter the illogicality of it. Even though it gets colder and things get dimmer in her brain. The feeling of blending into the darkness, of how easy it is to… it’s intoxicating. She doesn't want to be seen by the people she saves, anyways. She can’t  offer them the vocal support they needed in their crisis. And even a gentle back rub felt like something she wasn’t worthy of giving. For so long, all touch had been only to bring her pain. 

And the first boy she embraced was gone now. Even though she wanted him to stay. Even though she could save him. Right now. She could find him if she tried. If she really tried. But she wasn’t. She was staying in place behind a crate, listening to a group of men with guns laugh loudly amongst themselves. The boy was probably being given another limp right now. How many of those until it became permanent? Until he lost that agility she had seen at the fence? 

They had not stolen hubcaps since. And the angry boy did not steal any by himself. She knew. He didn’t bring money back from the place he went, but he was fed there. He didn’t even bring his bag. He never did. Not enough food he had leftovers. He would share if he did. He was that type of person. A good person. When winter ended, the visits would too. She was going to stop him. Really. It doesn't matter if he yells at her or hits her or leaves and never comes back ever again. 

It doesn't matter. 

There’s a loud sound behind her. Someone landing. She turns her head, peeking to the side. A lady dressed in gray and blue. There’s yellow accents on her outfit. The girl has traveled the world enough to know what the lady is. She is a super. Whether she is a superhero or supervillain, the girl cannot tell yet. She knows that she should go. That the lady’s superpowers might harm her as well as the men. But she is glued in place. 

The lady asserts her stance in a kind voice. She is so confident in herself. Confidence. Yet kind. Certain that if she is not listened to, she will be able to make due on whatever it is she’s promising. 

The men yell at her. They all point their guns. The lady smirks. And then she drops into the crowd, her gray cape fluttering behind her. 

She is beautiful. Graceful. Like a dancer in the middle of a performance. Everything has elegance to it. She isn’t particularly strong, and it takes her several strikes to knock a single man down. The girl could take all of them down in one. But there was something so entrancing about the way the woman moves, the girl wonders if her one efficient move was worth less than the dancer’s multiple inefficient ones. 

She was a blur of blue and gray. It seemed almost as if the fighting was a side effect of her dance routine. Like taking down the men was not even what she was truly trying to do. Her hair is bright orange in the dark streets. The color of traffic safety cones. The dancer is like them. A beacon of safety. That’s what the girl felt in her heart. Something warm was rising in her chest. 

The dancer’s voice is authoritative and young. But it was not scary. It was intimidating, in the way the voice of the woman talking to the angry boy was intimidating. Although, the girl didn’t fear that the woman would ever strike the boy when she took that done. But the girl knows if the men didn’t give the dancer whatever it is she wanted, she definitely would strike them. 

She wonders if the dancer can kill them. It was a hypothetical. Because the girl would stop the dancer before she could. But could she, if she tried? Her fighting style was gorgeous, but slow. She isn’t new to using her body physically. The girl could tell that. But she was probably new to using it to fight others. That was good. That means she probably doesn’t know how to kill. 

When she fought the men, she didn’t avoid the vital points. She didn’t purposefully aim for them either. It was as if she was hitting whatever she could in the moment, because she knew she needed to strike as many times as she could in short intervals to take them down. With training, the dancer could be as good as the girl was when she was nine. Perhaps even ten. But then she would lose the dancing to be more effective in her strikes. The girl didn’t know what to think. 

The man she is holding the collar of lets out a whimper, his shoulders shaking. I don’t have what you want. I’m scared. Please stop hurting me. His voice was stuttering over itself in its words. He was clearly terrified out of his mind. The dancer didn’t have to be able to hear his body’s voice to understand that. Even his words said it in their tone.

The dancer’s frown deepened. Her eyes weren’t visible under her mask. She was frustrated. This complicates what I’m doing. She says with her gripped hands. What was she doing? Was she going to hurt this man? He certainly thought she was. The girl was cold. She didn’t really want to have to hurt the dancer.  

The girl looked more at the man. He was wearing normal clothes, though they were dirty and hung loose on his stocky frame. So he was from this area. She looked at the gun the dancer had kicked from his hands. Pistol. Silver top, black bottom. Sleek. Effective firing range… 600 feet. So he wasn’t expecting to come into a close contact fight. 

He was scared beyond any man who had a history in crime. First time. Working for someone. Not the leader of this faction. She scanned the men on the ground. They all looked the same. No leader? So they were probably working for someone like her father. Someone who didn’t get involved. But her father was a talented man. When he hired people, he hired effective people. These men all got taken down in under ten minutes. Definitely no training. So someone who wasn’t involved much with the hiring process of their men. Who hired anyone. Someone rich. Detached. Probably couldn’t fight themself. 

Whatever job these men were carrying out, the dancer must be looking for the person at the top of it. 

But the man doesn’t know who that is. He was just carrying out the job he was given. The dancer bites her lip and lets him go. She says something. A threat. But the man looks grateful. He’s about to scramble out of the alley, but she tells him something. He stops in place. Nods, scared. Then she shoots something from her hand. And she is gone, pulled to the top of a building. A zipline. The girl waits until her figure has completely disappeared over the horizon before she crawls out behind the crate.

She jumps up, grabbing onto a stray metal pipe, pulling herself up and tucking herself on the terrace. The man was now calling someone as he waited. Expectantly glancing at his fallen comrades and for whoever was on the other side of the phone. The dancer must have told him to wait until they wake up. Who was he calling? Did she tell him to turn himself in? 

Whoever was on the other side answers. A professional sounding young man. So probably the authorities, then. The man nurses a bruise on his face as he meekly mutters things to the phone. She shifts slightly to get a better view, but the metal under her makes a loud creaking noise. 

The man’s entire body changes. He jolts up. “Houueeeghh’s thheeeiiireeyyre?” He asks loudly. His body tells her that he knows he’s not alone anymore. That this thought terrifies him. She holds her breath, hands pressed against the cold, damp wall. She needs to get out of here. She has to find the dancer. Or know where she is going. Anything. Anything. 

She jumps up, twisting her body to hit the top floor of the building. The man starts yelling words at a rapid pace. The person on the other end of the phone is talking more quickly. But eventually they fade out as she runs further away.

She knows she can’t get to the building the dancer traveled to as quickly as she did. A grappling hook from her hand… that’s what those gauntlets she has on her wrists must store. The girl doesn't have much experience with ziplines. Or other types of instant traveling methods. Her father bred it into her for her to be quick enough so she didn’t need them. The dancer’s outfit seemed homemade, but those gauntlets were certainly high tech. Clashing stories. She would figure it out soon. 

The girl needs to meet the dancer again. She wants to hear her voice and see her move as she speaks. Move until the girl can understand every little thing about her. She has seen heroes before. People who fight for others. She has seen big fights in big cities by people with superpowers. Fights that destroy said city. And she is seen regular people fight bad people. But she is also seen them mostly get beat up in return.

The girl wasn’t like anything she had seen. She was normal. Yet she was strong. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t a weapon. She was… a person. A special person who clearly tried her best. One who wasn’t afraid to use force, but clearly didn’t want to if she had other options. A dancer who just wanted to protect the city.

Her city? Was this the dancer’s city? The one she protected? Or did she jump from place to place, like the girl did? She looked up at the building. The dancer was probably so far gone. Maybe even in another place entirely. 

It didn’t matter. The girl had to meet her. The dancer could help her. Teach her how to do good things. Teach her how to be less corrupted. Teacher the girl how to be like her. She would never make up for being a murderer. Corrupted at heart. But she could begin to make up for it in a way she never had before. She knows she can. The dancer can help her. She does good things, but the girl is permanently tainted. Even if she does good things, her badness unconsciously leaks out into everything she does.

The dancer was good in every sense of the word. Her stance. Her smile. The way she fought. She was so good it radiated off her in waves. The dancer can drain the badness from her. Maybe just being in her presence again could… 

No.

No.

She is being stupid.

 The badness can never be drained from her. She was stained forever. She was created to hurt other people. To kill them. A being created to kill, even if it doesn’t want to kill anymore, is bad forever. She has been tainted since birth. She can't fix it. She knows that. Why is she thinking otherwise? She runs faster. 

She doesn’t look at a single person below as she runs. She leaps from rooftop to rooftop. This is in her blood. Her purpose. It’s as natural as breathing. She reaches the building the dancer had shot her grapple into. There’s two giant words plastered on the top. Flashing an artificial green. What did it say? 

The first letter is two sticks slanted in on itself. A line crosses the middle. She recognizes this one. She did. She has seen it before, countless times. She squeezes her brain to remember. She has seen it before. She… She can come back to it. The next one is a half circle. She doesn’t know it. She goes to the next one. It’s a line with three other lines protruding from it horizontally, at equal distance. This one is more familiar than the last, but less than the first. There’s a space between this letter and the next. So it must be a different word. 

It’s so long looking at it makes her brain hurt. She goes back to the first letter. She knows it. It’s familiar. She can guess it. People just need to glance at words to know what they contain. She can do the same for only one letter. The dancer can’t help her if she can’t even ask for help. She… She had said the angry boy’s name. His name… She tries to grasp at his name. What was it? She had just known it a few days ago. Where had it gone? She had just… 

She jumps off the building, twisting into a window crevice. She can come back to the top and guess the letters later. It didn’t matter. She doesn’t need to know what type of building it is. The dancer had gone to it, so it’s the correct building, if she’s really inside, and not in some other city. That’s what truly matters. She rolls her ankles to prepare them for the jump she was about to take. She takes the jump. Lands on ground level. It mildly stings, but not in a way that will impede her performance. 

There’s a cracked window a few feet away. The others are covered in rust. The building seems to be crumbling apart under itself. No one has cleaned it in a few years, generously. Why would the dancer go here? Was she not going after the leader of those men after all? The girl wasn’t going to leave until she figured it out. 

She jumps through the window, easily avoiding the jagged broken pieces. It was good that it wasn’t as cold as it had been last night. She was already performing worse than usual because of how hungry she was. Not because of the angry boy. He wasn’t even in her mind. She hasn’t thought about him. It didn’t even really matter. It isn’t a big deal to her. Because even if she somehow went back in time and retained only her fighting ability she had at age ten, two years ago and still too young, she’d still be able to beat everyone in this city with her eyes closed. 

But the feeling of knowing she could be better than she was currently annoyed her. That she has been better. It was an uncomfortable experience that she didn’t like. It wasn’t because of anything besides the hunger. She hates winter. 

It’s silent in the building. There’s metal vats everywhere. Stacked on one another, overturned… she peeks into one that’s lying on the ground. There’s nothing inside. She gently  taps her knuckles onto the exterior of one standing up. It’s hollow. There’s dry leaves littered around the floor. She has to be careful to not step on them. Can't make too much noise. 

The inside feels like a place no one has ever been in. The ceiling is dripping, even though it’s not raining. There’s metal sheets forming a bridge that would definitely fall if someone tried to walk on it. And miles and miles of empty vats. Rust swallows the walls. She is getting a bad feeling. Like the shiny car, but opposite. It’s too silent. Too strange. Where did the dancer go? 

She looks around quickly, the horrible feeling burrowing into her stomach. She is not scared. Because she never gets scared. But she knows she has to hurry now. She is not sure why. But she has to. She kicks the vats over and shuffles metal structures lying around. Nothing. It is just a giant, empty room. But the building is several stories high. So there must be a way to get higher. The ceiling has to stop being a ceiling and start being the second floor at some point. 

She eyes the metal sheet bridge. It’s not as if falling from such a height would hurt much. Especially since she is expecting it. She doesn’t have anything to lose. She climbs the ladder connected to the metal sheet. Straight ahead is an open entrance. It couldn’t be seen from down below. The only way to reach it is to climb the metal sheet. She does. The sheet collapses under her. 

She moves her body up, runs her fingers across the sheet as it falls, and twists into the entrance. She smiles. That was good. Even for her. She knows her father would be proud. The thought stings as it has time to really dig into her. She shouldn’t be happy to make her father proud.

She hears a hysterical laughter. It cracks off at the ends and sizzles, like a live wire does when pressed against skin. It makes her skin crawl. She looks down, and sees green. Vats and vats of bubbling yellowish green liquid. The color of bruises. And the dancer standing next to one, fighting a pale, laughing man. 

He’s laughing as she punches him in the nose. As the crack rings out. He’s laughing when the blood drips down his white chin as if what the dancer did is the funniest joke in the world. She cannot imagine the dancer said anything funny before punching him. He’s babbling. His voice is horrible. Deranged. His body is twisted. The voice makes no sense. 

It's everything. Everything at once. Collecting on top of another, pooling in clumps, overlaying and stitching in ways nobody's voice should. She’s met people who were tough to read. People whose body and meanings were somewhat disconnected. But never this. It makes her close her eyes. Take in a deep breath. Open them. The madness is still there as he swings his legs at the dancer, trying to kick her. But she expects it now, so it’s easier to see. Even if she could understand the words he says out loud, she doubts they’d make more sense. 

What had made the man that way? The pale skin and green hair, the bright red lips on his face… they’re a shock to see. But nothing can match the madness behind the truth of his movements. The truth that there’s too much there to belong to just a single person. She had no real, unselfish reason to see the dancer. But now she does. If she can— if she can tell her, maybe that will help. It doesn’t make sense to her that the dancer wouldn’t know this, but she needs a reason to stay. 

The dancer is trying to reason with the everything man. Nothing works. She hits him several times with her foot. He grabs it and twists it, and she lets out a guttural scream. It’s too painful to let linger. The girl readies herself to jump down and— 

The dancer throws the everything man across the room with her injured foot. Grabs something from her boots, and throws it at him too. The girl is scared it’s a blade as it glints in its flight, but when it lands, a black foam erupts from the everything man’s chest. It solidifies in seconds. The everything man laughs at this too. 

The girl holds onto the end of the floor. Looking down at the dancer. She’s finished fighting. She’s gently touching her foot, which isn’t broken, but will need to be laid off for at least two weeks. The dancer doesn’t know this, though, and worries. She doesn’t let it show.  She turns away from the everything man and looks around, as if she expects someone to jump out. 

Please teach me how to be better. 

The girl leaves the way she came. 

Chapter Text

It was the time for lights. Towards the middle of every winter, people would string lights up and hang familiar symbols around their cities. Wrapped boxes, reindeers, snowflakes, and a certain man in red. She never really understood what it meant, but she knew the gist. Like that it was called ‘Merry Christmas’. She knew this because many people say it to each other on a specific day. She almost always forgot about this day until it started to come, and then suddenly, is he couldn’t seem to escape it. 

To her, it was always defined by the lights. They come in many colors. White, green, red…  They wrap around trees and buildings. She didn’t know why this happened. But she doesn’t mind it. People are more likely to give her money on the street during this time. She doubts people in this city would do that, though. They’d probably use the lights as a distraction to attempt to pickpocket her, if anything. 

The angry boy—Jason, she had to think of him like that, not by his body language— didn’t share her appreciation of the lights. They put him in a foul mood, and the more that are strung up as time passes, the more the mood grows. Whatever the holiday celebrates, it makes him mad. Resentful. The girl knows Jason has a lot to be envious of, so that doesn’t help her figure it out. 

The woman stops by. She’s wearing a heavy coat, jeans and running shoes. It’s not like the other things the girl has seen the woman wear. 

The woman leans on the brick wall that lines the alley. Her hair is up, and her bangs are clipped back. They’re longer than the last time the girl saw her. Maybe she doesn’t want them anymore and is waiting for them to grow out. The woman asks Jason questions. He isn’t angry as he answers them, but he’s in a sour mood, and it shows. 

The woman’s fingers twitch behind her back. She’s holding something. Not heavy, her posture isn’t titled. The woman is hiding something for the angry boy. She’s excited to give it to him, so it must be a good thing. The girl is happy the woman has something she thinks will make Jason feel better. Jason notices her suspicious behavior too. He asks her something in a wary voice. What are you hiding? 

The girl grabs his shoulder and gives a thumbs up. Tries to convey that it’s not something bad. That it’s a gift from the woman. He looks at her, confused. The woman laughs. She’s right. It is a good thing. But the way she phrases it out loud is much longer, and the girl wonders how she could have dragged out the sentences that long. Wonders what she missed. Something not shown in her body language… Probably a joke. Its confirmed when the angry boy’s mouth quirks to the side in an involuntary smile. I want to be in a bad mood. You’re ruining that. 

The woman smiles wider until it looks like her face might split apart. She leaps from the wall and hands the boy a wrapped box. It doesn’t look as shiny and fake as the ones decorating the street. The wrapping paper is wrinkled and uneven. She can see the brown box under it in the gaps. The boy holds the box dumbly. He didn’t expect to receive whatever this is. He’s not used to receiving anything, his body tells her. 

He stares at the box for a little longer. He doesn’t know what to do. Is it really such a shock, whatever’s in the box? Jason must know what’s inside already to have such a strong reaction. Is it more paper to trade? But why would the woman wrap that up instead of just giving it? No… you wrap gifts during the time of Merry Christmas instead of just giving them to people like normal, so that must be it. She’s excited for Jason to open it. She hopes it’s a lot of paper. 

The angry boy unwraps the wrapping paper carefully. His face doesn’t betray anything, but his shaking fingers show he’s… scared? He’s being extremely slow. The woman looks like she might cry, she’s so happy. The girl is confused. 

He opens the brown box under. It’s two books. They’re first-hand, shiny and clean. They’re not very thick. The boy looks up at the woman like she’s playing a practical joke on him. She smiles as she tells him something. The girl doesn’t understand what she is telling him, but it’s positive. Reassuring. The angry boy bunches his shoulders up and mutters something. He’s ashamed. He does not have anything to give back to her. 

But the woman doesn’t mind. She didn't expect anything from Jason when giving this gift. The sincerity in this moves the girl. She looks at the woman in awe. The woman doesn’t say this out loud, or at least not so honestly, because if she did Jason probably would have turned red as blood and maybe even get offended. But he doesn’t. He blushes slightly and says some grateful words. The girl can tell how much this gift means to him. 

The woman then turns to the girl. She has something for her too. The girl moves her head back. She can’t read like the angry boy can. Books won’t help her. But the woman isn’t holding anything else either. She takes the hat off of her head and places it on the girl’s, covering her ears. She blinks at the woman. The woman smiles. She turns to the angry boy. Says something, bashful. The angry boy nods, and thanks her again for the books. He’s holding onto them as if they might get stolen. As if the woman might rip them from his hands. 

The woman then rubs both of their arms, smiling still. She smiles the most out of any person the girl has met. She likes it. The woman makes her feel warm. Even though she’s cold. She’s warmer because of the hat, though. She pulls it more over her head. She didn’t realize how much colder she felt because of her exposed ears. The boy has a hat too, ever since a few visits ago. It’s thin and cheap, not like this hat, which must be wool. 

The girl takes it off and hands it to the boy, pointing to his hat, then herself. This hat is better than yours, take it. She says. The prospect offends him. He narrows his eyes and clutches the books tighter. He says something, loudly. She doesn’t know why he’s mad. She tries to understand from what his body language is saying, but all she can understand is defensiveness, and she doesn’t know what for. 

She doesn’t say anything when he’s done. She’s still holding the hat out. The boy doesn’t say anything either. He shuts his eyes, upset. They’re quiet for a moment. He then stands up, and grabs her notebook. He draws for a minute. Turns the notebook to her.

Its three stick figures. One with no hair. One with long hair. One with hair in a ponytail. Him. Her. The woman. She and Jason are standing across from another, and the woman is in front of them. They form a triangle. Two gifts are coming from the woman. One in the direction of Jason and one in the direction of her. The gift box in Jason’s direction has an equal sign that leads to two books. The girl leads to a hat. 

The boy draws an equal sign between him and her. Draws an arrow from the gifts to them, then circles the equal sign again. He’s looking at her expectantly. She understands what he is trying to get across. But he doesn’t understand that it’s more important that he is warm than that both him and her get gifts. She doesn’t care about gifts. She has a hat already. It may have holes in it so she can see through it when it’s pulled over her face, but she still has one. 

Out of the two of them, it’s clearly the angry boy who needs a better hat more. She doesn’t know how to explain that in a drawing. It makes her frustrated. She doesn’t want to feel frustrated, and she’s not sure why she is. Usually she can control her emotions better. It must be because of how hungry she is. She hasn’t eaten anything since two nights ago. She retracts her arm that’s holding the hat out and stares at it in her lap.

The angry boy scoots closer to her, until their shoulders are touching. He opens the book and starts reading. She listens. After he turns the paper two times, he sharply turns his head in her direction. He accuses her of something. Nothing serious. But the tone of his voice is somewhat aggressive. 

He grabs the hat from her lap and pulls it over her head. It’s even further down then when the woman put it on her, and that was already much lower than she usually wears her ski mask. She touched the sides of her head, now covered in fabric. The angry boy has gone back to reading as if nothing happened. 

Chapter Text

The city comes alive at night.

She knows that doesn’t make sense. A city cannot be alive. Just as there is a fundemntal a difference between a brick wall and a frog. Between the alive and dead.

She thinks she might know that better than anyone. The sound of pumping blood is forever engraved into her brain. The first thing she feels when walking into a room is the life around her.

But the city sleeps as the sun rises. People walk in the streets and pretend to be normal. They don’t smile. Not a lot of people smile here— not like the woman does. But their shoulders aren’t as bunched. They might nod to someone as they cross the street. When the girl walks past a person, the air is filled with a tight yet casual breeze. 

It’s not that way at night. The city’s eyes jolt awake and everything buzzes with electrical currents. The girl can’t walk past someone without giving them a hard stare. Don’t attempt to hurt me. It won’t end well. It says. It doesn’t work as well in this city as it did in others. They turn back at her, like they just want an excuse to start a fight. Everyone is dangerous and sharp. The ones who haven't been sharpened by the city cower in corners as the sky turns black. 

Girls who stumble around the streets aren’t happy, drunk partygoers. Their feet ache and they have tear stained makeup running down their face. The girl takes them to deserted parks and tries to stay with them as long as she can. But eventually a car full of too many loud people will always pick them back up. And the girl will hold onto the crying womens hands. Ask them not to go with her grip.

But they always do. And she can’t do anything about it. 

The boy never asks her why her knuckles are bloody. She doesn’t ask him why his collarbone is purple and blue. She’s afraid that one day the boy is going to leave. She’ll wait, like now, and then, she’ll keep waiting forever. And if she just told him, told him she could hurt whoever was hurting him, that he doesn’t need whatever they give him… She could stop it.

The angry boy reads to her in funny voices and shares his sweet, crispy food with her when he gets it from the store two blocks over. He twitches in his sleep like a wounded dog but has a confidence in his voice so loud that if the girl was someone else, she would think she hallucinated it. 

Knowing all these things is why she can’t stop it. Because she doesn’t want to lose it. The casual familiarity of not just understanding a person’s movements, but knowing them. Knowing why they make the movements in the first place. 

…Jason is like a hollow glass sculpture. She can’t move too quickly or it shatters. And she doesn’t want that feeling, the one she can’t name. Where she’s hollow like the sculpture, but everything around her is so heavy. 

She goes to the woman’s apartment in the daytime. The woman doesn’t work at night anymore, so the girl knows she must be asleep during that time now, like everyone else. The woman doesn’t visit her and the angry boy as often as she used to when she worked at night. Sometimes she visits them and only talks to Jason. The girl is okay with that.

She doesn’t know why, but just being around them is enough. She doesn’t have anything to tell the woman. Not a single thing of importance has happened. But something is clawing in her chest, and as she walks to the apartment of the woman it slightly subsides. She is ringing the doorbell and doesn’t know why she is.

The woman doesn’t open the door. It’s someone else. Her eyes are a vibrant blue against her even more shockingly pale skin. Her hair is short and black. It’s textured like a fluffy feather. She’s almost as short as the girl. She doesn’t feel warm like the woman. Her lips are in a frown. 

The girl stares at her. The cold frowner stares back. She asks a question. The girl immediately noticed how little the one emotes with her body, but she understands the gist of it. Why are you here? The girl recognizes some of the words. She tries to remember them.

Yyyyooooouuuuugghhhhuuuu.

You. 

Her.

Why was she here? She can’t answer the cold frowner. She doesn’t know. She feels hot then. She’s ashamed. She doesn’t know why she’s here. She wasn’t like the woman, who had a close relationship with the angry boy. She was just a drifter who was around them. Everything in her head feels crowded. She doesn’t know why she’s here.

Then, a skinny hand clamps on her shoulder. The cold frowner is looking at her, concerned. It’s a sharp concern. She’s not concerned for the girl, but for her behavior. The hand feels like it’s seeping into her skin. It grows heavier with every passing millisecond, but the girl knows the cold frowner isn’t applying pressure to it. 

The girl feels something wet in her eyes. The panic gripping her heart subsides slightly as she touches her cheek slowly. The cold frowner bites her lip. She calls into the apartment. The word is familiar. The girl knows it. She’s heard the people around her say it constantly when they talk to the woman. It’s her name.

Kaaaaauuuuuu…

She thinks of the woman. Her warm presence. Her constant smiles. Her tall stature. How her hands felt on the girl’s back as she silently rubbed it. And how that made the girl feel happy after, even though if a random person off the street did that to her, it would make her feel bad. 

“Caaaaahhhhhhhggggg...” The girl speaks. The way the words feel in her brain isn’t the way she says them. She can’t voice them right. She stops speaking. There’s still tears on her cheeks, but she’s not crying anymore. The cold frowner gets out of the way of the door, and someone comes out from behind her.

It’s the woman. The girl looks up at her. She isn’t sure what to do.

I just wanted to see you. 

How does she voice that out loud? How does she let her know? The girl keeps eye contact with the woman yet says nothing. 

But the woman smiles and motions for the girl to come in. The cold frowner says something. She doesn’t want the girl to enter the apartment. She wants her to leave now. The woman explains who the girl is. She’s motioning from the girl to the cold frowner. But the cold frowner does not seem less wary of the girl after the explanation. The girl wants to know what she’s saying. The girl could break both of their bones and exit out the window in under ten seconds if they tried to attack her. Yet she’s scared. Her hands want to shake. She stops them. Is she scared? No. That’s not the feeling that she is experiencing. 

But it’s similar enough in her heart, and she knows her brain won’t help put a name to it. So she tries to use the techniques her father taught her to decrease showing fear. Look at all escape routes. There’s a wide window a few dozen feet to her front left. The door she came through is shut, but it’s not locked. An open door that the cold frowner is standing next to leads to another room. She can see light shining in. So another window. That’s three. She could access them all in under a minute. She’s fine. 

Nothing bad is going to happen. Nothing bad is happening in the first place. So why does her heart feel so tight? 

The woman talks light heartedly to the girl as she rummages around in the kitchen. Her words blend together more than normal. The girl can’t even pick out a few she recognizes. The cold frowner is uncomfortable. Her body is perfectly stiff. She doesn’t trust the girl. Or she doesn’t like her. The girl looks down at her clothes. They’re not too dirty. She brushes them off to make sure. 

The woman’s apartment has cracks in the walls, and the room they’re in is so small that the kitchen can barely fit one person in. The only unnatural light source in it that the girl can see is a lightbulb strung from the wall, and it isn’t on. But it’s clean and organized. The cold frowner may not not trust her, but instead dislike her for being dirty in her clean house. 

The girl understands this. She feels that she’s dirty by default, that even if she washed her skin and scrubbed it with such a force it turned red, that when others looked at her— they would still feel she was unclean. She felt that way about herself. But is that how the cold frowner feels? 

The girl can’t tell. The cold frowner barely moves her body at all. She isn’t easy to read. It makes the girl’s heart tighter with the unnamed fear. She’s looking at the cold frowner out of the corner of her eye and hoping she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t, yet. But the more the girl looks at the cold frowner’s body the more pieces of the puzzle click together. 

It’s not natural the way the cold frowner’s body doesn’t move. And her legs are a perfect distance apart, aligned with her shoulders. Her back is methodically straight, arms plastered at her sides and head risen, unmoving. It’s the position of someone trained to not move for long periods of time. Most likely military. The girl looks back at the woman, who’s still talking, but now slathering a brown paste onto a toasted square. The girl knows it’s for her with the way the woman opens her shoulders as she does so. 

She doesn’t know the name of the square food. It’s sold commonly at food shops, but never by itself. She isn’t sure why. She thinks it tastes good. Better when toasted, though. When she steals it from stores in packs, she always makes sure to have a fire source to cook them. 

It makes her feel good that the woman already toasted it. She wouldn’t have told the woman she preferred them toasted, anyways. Even if she could. Having anything was more than enough. A gift she didn’t really deserve. 

The woman gestures for the girl to sit down at the one table in the room. She does. The woman slides the girl the food. The girl grabs it quickly, and tears into it. She knows there is no point in arguing to the woman about it. She doesn’t want to make her feel bad. She is afraid the woman would misunderstand her rejection as a rejection of her. 

The woman laughs, and says something else. The girl thinks she hears the word ‘Jason’. The woman’s voice is gentle, like wind chimes. It’s a nice sound. The girl wonders if the sound won’t be as nice anymore if she learns what the woman is saying. If it will just become another boring sound. She hopes not. 

The girl finishes the food before she looks up at the woman in full attention. She digs in her backpack to find her notebook. She wants to learn to understand others. She wants to do most of it on her own, though. She knows that people will get annoyed with her inability to understand eventually. She knows this intimately. 

Even though the angry boy and the woman— Jason and… Kaaaahhahahahaaaaatte— she would learn it eventually— haven’t gotten frustrated to the point she was used to, yet. They would. It was inevitable. Just like it was inevitable that she would have to leave this city and go to another, some day. 

Not today. And not tomorrow. And not the day after. She thinks. She didn’t have the urge yet. But it would rise in her. And she wouldn’t go against this urge when it did rise, because she never has before. She’s never had a reason to. 

The girl grabs the pen from the front pocket of her jacket and draws. She draws the woman. She makes sure to make her hair beautiful. The woman has wide eyes that go downwards at the end. She wants to capture that, she thinks it’s one of the most striking features about the woman, but they don’t look the same when she draws them. She keeps drawing. 

She draws herself. She doesn’t like drawing herself, so she draws it quicker than she drew the woman. She adds a smile to herself. It feels unsettling. She doesn’t draw an obvious expression on the woman, making her lips neutral. She draws an arrow pointing from herself to the woman. She adds a heart on top. 

The woman leans over the table, shifting the notebook backwards to face her. Her face immediately betrays her emotion. Unlike the angry boy, who tries to hide the way he feels, the woman never makes an attempt. It’s another reason the girl finds her company so warm. When people try to hide their body language, she feels as if the person is lying to her.

It’s the only language she understands. So when people purposely try to prevent her from understanding… It doesn’t deter her, usually. Because she’s been trained to go around that. But in her later years, it started to annoy her. Not anger her. But it causes a negative emotion. 

The woman smiles, mouth shut. But then it bursts into a wide grin. She lets out a declaration of some sort, and opens her arms wide, leaping at the girl. She wraps them around the girl and pulls her tight into her chest. The girl knew it was coming, but still feels a rush of emotion jump up into her throat when it happens. 

It’s so warm. For a second, she isn’t aware of anything. Not a singular thing. Just the feeling of the arms wrapped around her back and the scratchy fabric rubbing against her cheek. But it doesn’t bother her. She closes her eyes and lets herself fall into it. But only for a second. And then she opens her eyes and waits for the woman to get tired of hugging her. 

She does. The girl wobbles a bit at the change, readjusting her posture. Her back feels so warm. How could a single action she gained nothing from make her feel so much better? Did Jason feel that way when the girl hugged him? She can’t imagine that he did. The girl could never make another person feel so safe and complete. The woman is still grinning. 

She takes the pen from the girl’s hands easily. The girl doesn’t try to stop her. Her mind is overtaken by the feeling of arms around her side, touching her back. She felt so comfortable. She doesn’t think she’d have felt that way if her father hugged her. 

She touches her shoulders slowly, lightly. She holds down. Her arms wrap around the top of her shoulders. No… it doesn’t feel the same. 

The woman nudges the notebook back into the girl’s vision. It’s the same drawing, but now an arrow is pointing at the girl too. It’s from the woman. There’s a heart under it. 

She looks up at the woman. Holds the notebook tighter. The woman grabs the girl’s hand and leads her to the other room. When the woman passes the cold frowner, she grabs her hand too, saying something. The cold frowner almost falls over from surprise at being dragged. 

The room they’re now in is even smaller than the other. The wallpaper is an ugly gray. There’s a giant computer with a bunch of wires sticking out of it on the ground. Cups and empty cans are littered around it, unlike the clean exterior outside. There’s one bed, pressed against the wall. Gum wrappers lay on the edge. The woman dusts them off as if they’re a natural phenomenon. 

She says the boy’s name. Jason. She’s talking happily about him. Something in relation to him. Her face is seeping with fondness and nostalgia. She must have known the boy for longer than the girl originally assumed. Although she’s frequently thought about the origin of the friendship of the boy and woman, she hasn’t put much thought into the boy’s origin itself. She doesn’t even know who his parents are. 

She’ll have to think of it later. She wants to pay attention to what the woman is saying now. She doubts she’ll be able to piece together the words, but just recognizing a couple… She can do that. She can.

“Jasahhhhhseeeeoooiinn ttoouhhhhlleed mmemeehheeh thhahaattthhh hheeeehhhheeiughh’s bbbeeeaaanneeh rrreeaaaaaddeeennn twwwwooeeeo—“ The rest cuts out like static, and the woman is talking, but nothing makes sense, “Ieheh nnuuuuhhooooeeeewwhhh heeeeehh caauuun beeheheh heeaaauuddeehhstuuhhstrooonnggeeh, buuughhhtteeh—“ This cut is longer. The woman’s smile doesn’t faulter throughout a single of her words. If anything, it grows more fond.

She’s talking about a specific memory. The boy did something foolish. But she looks back on his mistake and she still smiles. No matter what he does, I’m sure I’ll always have positive emotions for him. I feel a sense of obligatory protection towards him. 

The girl understands. 

The words start to sound familiar again, “Ssssseehhhooouhhhhhh eiieiiihggheeh thhhoouuuuuutttuhhh maaaayyyybeeeehh ieiieiieegehe ccccaaaaauuuugghhnnn heeeeeelluuuhpppuhhh truuhhhwwooo.” I want to help you understand me. It doesn’t frustrate me that you can’t.

The girl is shocked the woman feels this way, and her fingers grip her palm. The woman doesn’t know that the girl can speak the language of her body. Most assume that she’s stupid. She knows she somewhat is. Over the years, it’s been made clear to her by others. 

Even though she moves faster than almost anyone, and she can make decisions in a split second in a fight— she can’t do that when it comes to people. She’s stuck in place. Their words are either too slow and blended or too fast and too much. She was made for a different purpose than those who surround her. She feels it every day. 

The small things she recognizes in their speech doesn’t make the whole thing comprehensive. And the things she knows from their body doesn’t tell her the entire picture. Or even the picture they meant to tell her at all. 

There’s multiple types of spoken language in this world. There’s also a standard one people use most commonly. There’s other sorts, and people sometimes think she speaks those instead, even though she barely hears those languages spoken otherwise. 

It doesn’t matter, really, because she can’t speak any of them. 

The woman still talks. She lifts her head, snapping herself from the fond memories, and says something to the cold frowner. The cold frowner holds eye contact for a moment. But it’s not cold anymore. It’s soft. They must trust each other a lot too, to live together. To sleep in the same bed.

The girl thinks that she wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with the boy if they had one. It’s more close and intimate than the dirty mattress they currently sleep on. Most nights, they sleep together without issue. But sometimes, she has to sleep on the floor. It’s not that it’s more comfortable. It isn’t. The mattress has a soft top, but the sharp springs can still be felt on her back if she lays down. Yet it’s preferable to the dirty floor, which leaves her cheek covered in a black dust. 

The angry boy tosses and turns in his sleep. He squeezes his eyes together and he mutters things like something bad is happening. She doesn’t mind that. She’s slept outside, with all the loud sounds, most of her life. But if he kicks her body with his feet, he’ll immediately wake up and jump. He’ll be terrified out of his mind for a second. Not even look at her like she’s a stranger, but someone he knows wants to hurt him.

But then he’ll pretend it didn’t happen when he realizes it’s her. And he’ll lay down again. And not fall asleep. He’ll pretend he’s sleeping, but he isn’t. She doesn’t like that. The imaginary barrier it causes on the mattress always pushes her off. And when she’s off, the angry boy can fall asleep again. 

The cold frowner doesn’t like that the girl is here. But she allows it because the woman wants… or… is okay that the girl is here. She’s pushing down her feelings for the woman’s feelings. The girl does that for the boy. 

But she couldn’t sleep in a bed with him. 

Their relationship is more than her relationship with him. All those nights with the boy, the hubcaps, the stealing… it felt so close. The woman and the cold frowner have had moments just like that. It’s a strange concept. She understands it, though. 

The cold frowner’s eyes don’t seem as scary when she looks at the woman. She sighs, as if the woman has won a contest. She leaves the room, and returns with a book in her hands. It’s big and the pages curl at the ends. It’s been read many times over many years. The woman is excited to see this book. Oh, she’s the one who reads it so often. 

The woman takes the book from the cold frowner’s hands and opens it. The text is smaller than the books that the angry boy reads. But the woman effortlessly reads. The girl listens. The cold frowner is standing in the doorway— looking at the girl like she’s waiting for her to do something. 

Is she supposed to do something? Is it a test? No, probably just a personal evaluation of her character. When the angry boy reads to her, she usually just sits next to him in silence. She likes it. Even if her brain can’t process the sounds, she likes listening to his voice. But she can’t do that here if the cold frowner will get mad at her for it. 

She straightens her back and looks down at the book’s pages. The black words blend together and create swirls in front of her eyes. She doesn’t understand how anyone could make sense of that. The symbols are so similar to one another— so small in their differences, and… flat. Just on the page. Sitting. The woman reads but the girl doesn’t hear her. 

The woman yawns. The girl knows this because the woman tilts her head back as she does this, and the girl is tuned to the movement of everything around her. Even in her fascination with words, she can’t turn off her real language.  

The woman closes the book. She didn’t read much. Only a few pages of text. But she’s not done either, she can see it in the way her hands tilt the book to the back. 

There’s a bright blue sticker on the back. It’s old like the book, but it’s out of place somehow. She doesn’t know why. A short word is written on it. The woman points to the first letter. 

“Kuuhhhh.” She says.

She points to the next one. “Aaaaaaayy.”

“Tuuuhhhhh.” Then she points to herself. The sounds make sense, but when the girl tries to think of them again— they’re gone. She’s distressed. The woman can tell. 

“KKkkkcccccuuuaahhhhaaahheeyyyette.” The woman says again, this time slower. That should make it better. Give her time to understand the sounds. But it doesn’t. They slip away again.  It doesn’t make sense. The girl holds her head as she looks at the floor. 

She thinks of the angry boy, how she remembered his name— his name— 

She can't remember. It’s gone. What was his name? Names are important to people. How could she ever forget that? It was the first name she really learned, and she’s already forgotten. She’s back where she started, then. It’s only one word. She knew it, she thought of him with this word many times. The sounds… Juh… 

But she only thinks of the way his eyes narrow when he’s mad, and the way he laughs with his stomach, and the way he lies when he’s scared. It’s a collective of actions that’s… him. The person she knows. 

And who is he? Those actions— they form a boy. A person with a name to them. But the name isn’t him. Not in the way she knows him. The actions are. They override the name. It’s a label given to him by people different than her to identify him in a language she wasn’t made to understand, in a world she isn’t part of. 

So she thinks of the woman and the way she talked about the boy. The fondness in her voice when she said it. Her smile when she talked about him, and how it showed her teeth, all straight except one on the top left side. He wasn’t actions to the woman. He was the name. Because she didn’t know him by the way his shoulders moved, she knew him by the way he spoke— and he spoke—

Jason.

“Guyhh…Aahhhh…Sen.” The girl says. 

The woman looks confused. The cold frowner looks baffled. The girl didn’t say his name right at all. But she understands it. She understands the name is his actions. The way he walks with a limp is Jason. The way he twitches his nose when he smells smoke is Jason. How did that not make sense before? 

The word doesn’t make sense out loud. It makes sense in her head. She wants to tell them. She feels smart. She feels like she’s solved something. She has no way of telling them. She’s smiling too much and she knows it. She shoots up to get her notebook. She has to explain this somehow, somehow—

She draws a boy. A stick figure. Doesn’t have time to add features. She doesn’t know any other boys, so the woman will know it’s him. She points to the figure. “Jjjjjjuuuuuhhhh…Aayyyyy…Seeeeeonn.”

The woman grins. She says something to the cold frowner, excited and jittery. She grabs the girl’s shoulders. Shakes her from side to side. The girl feels her stomach drop at the movement, but when she feels the light grip of the woman’s fingers— knows it isn’t hostile— she allows herself to relax her shoulders. The woman is proud of her. The cold frowner doesn’t smile, but her body language has become more resigned.  

The woman draws, bumping into the girl’s hand. The woman’s drawing is much nicer than the girl’s. She points to it. “Kkkkuuuhhhhhaaatatteeeh.” The drawing is her. The woman. 

The girl scrunches her face. She draws a spiral next to the woman. An arrow pointing to her head. While doing this, she is careful not to brush against the skin of the real woman next to her. The woman makes it hard. Her hand is right on the notebook. She doesn’t seem to notice this. The girl points to the drawing. 

I know this is you. I know you’re that noise you just made. It’s you. That sound is you to your very core. Every movement and smile and hug you've ever done— is that sound. 

“Bbbbuhhhhhhh.” That’s not right. She stops. Tries again. She grasps at how the sounds moved in her head. The way they connected to the woman’s long blonde hair, and her small thighs, and her never ending smiles, and the warmth that seemed to envelop the room whenever she was in it. 

“Cuuaahhahh….. Ahheeiiiiittuhhhh….. Tuuughhhheeetheee….” It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t the woman. But it was close. It was so close that the girl could feel it. She couldn’t celebrate getting the words out, because the real victory was brushing against her fingertips. “Kuhhh… Ayyyy…Tuhhh…”

That was it. 

The woman smiled. 

Kate smiled. 

It felt right. 

Chapter Text

It’s easiest to take down people who see her as a little girl. This is an obvious fact, with no need of further explanation. And yet, it’s something that comes up so often in her life, she frequently wonders why it’s something that not everyone understands with the same simplicity that she does.

Even when she twists the arms of their comrades or jumps over their bodies with a talent she knows is terrifying, they still look down on her for her body. As their pride is getting torn to shreds by being beaten by someone so much smaller— there’s still a tiny part of them that thinks— She’s only a little girl. 

Even as their conscience fades away and they slip into sleep, this one thought comforts them the entire journey down. And she doesn’t understand. If they used the full extent of their abilities, she knows she would still be able to beat them. That was her purpose. She always fulfilled her purpose. But at least they would go down with honor. 

There isn’t any honor in holding back because of the internal impressions. A true fighter knows to turn their inner world off the second fists start to connect. She was purposefully brought up with no inner world. No switch to be flipped. Pure movement at all times. 

Jason does not understand her purpose. And until she learns how to speak and tells him herself out loud, she does not think he ever will. Even though he’s seen her kick teeth in and punch stomachs with strength to make one cough up blood. She doesn’t believe he really cares enough to think about the reason why she can do that. She doesn’t get why. 

He should be scared of her. Not just in the moments where he’s scared of every sound and person around him, but in his hours of clarity too. But he isn’t. He laughs and jokes and reads to her. As if everything is normal. As if she’s normal.

They’ve gone through one book. It was long, and he had started reading it out loud to her when he was already halfway done. She didn’t understand it at all. The word “buuuhhhhrhhghlllluuueueueuehhh” repeated a lot. But it’s been a while since she heard the word, so it’s blurry and dragged out in her head by now. 

She thinks she understands the gist of this new story he’s been reading. There’s a woman with a name that sounds similar to Kate, but without the harsh Cuh sound at the beginning, and adding the soft on of the end of Jason’s name at the end. She thinks this woman is arrogant, because Jason always makes a certain voice when reading her lines. It’s a voice of women she’s met before, one’s who weren’t very nice. She can feel them looking down at her in just the tone. 

The higher woman meets a man she used to know. Or, she’s heard of him before. There’s a past between the higher woman and the history man. And funny things happen because of that. They’re not funny to the girl. She hasn’t understood a single joke. She thought maybe because of how thick the book was, it was something for adults. People who got bigger words, more complicated sentence structure…

 But it makes Jason chuckle and smirk. So it’s meant be easily understood by people their age. It’s just her. 

The girl likes listening anyways. She sees him glance up at her, quickly. Checking to see if she’s really paying attention. But he plays it off as if he wasn’t ever worried, eyes shifting back to the words in a split second. There’s an ugly bruise on his cheek. It’s big and purple and the blood is trapped under his skin, clotting in a pooled mass.

An object was thrown at him. Small. Hard. Dense. She thinks a book. Is it the book he was holding now? Reading to her with such care and diligence? The thought makes her sick. The place he goes to makes her sick. It’s a weird feeling. How can something she hasn’t seen make her feel something so strong?

Does the higher woman in the book feel that way? She seems to argue a lot with others. Back and forth and forth and back. 

She doesn’t want him to go. She knows he’s going to. His jeans are crinkling and he’s placing pressure on the top of his feet. He shuts the book. Turns to her. Rubs his ugly bruise self-consciously, trying not to draw attention to it, and in the process making it even more noticable. 

He says something. I’m going to leave now. Don’t follow me. He’s not talking to her, there, but just… telling her something. Whenever he leaves, he doesn’t speak to her like she can understand him, but as the fateless thing she really was. She doesn’t like it. She tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. 

She doesn’t look at his figure as he wrestles out of her grasp. The girl hasn’t put up much of a fight anyways. She lowers her head into her knees and hits them against one another, listening to the sound of her skull hitting her bones like a lullaby. She turns to the book. White and red and shiny and clean. The pages are bent because Jason likes to crease them so he knows where he left off.

She opens it carefully, scared if she’s too quick it will shatter under her hands and disappear as well. The words are so small and scary. She starts at the beginning. 

The first word— she thinks it’s a name. Its short. Simple. Then the next word is even shorter. The one after is the same word again. She doesn’t think that’s supposed to happen. Is it a mistake? She doesn’t know. It makes her anxious. The one after, she recognizes. Her. That’s what she is called. When she’s not “the girl”, she’s “her”. The letters were familiar in how they hugged one another. They greet her warmly. She can’t help but smile. 

She wonders why she is in the book. Perhaps it’s a common word to assign to people. There were probably other Jasons and Kates in the world. A name she couldn’t read. A small word twice. Then her moniker. Was it a list of names? But why would they say a name, then another word twice, than her name? She didn’t understand. It didn’t sound like that when Jason read it. 

She looks at the next word. This one wasn’t as round as the previous. It was slightly longer, by only a single stroke, and the strokes that formed the letters were much sharper.

She squeezes her eyelids closer together, trying to focus. But the more she looks, the more the words tangle in one another, forming a giant blob. And soon she’s not even looking at strokes, but a blurry mess of black marks. How did the angry boy understand this? How did the woman make sense of this? It was so lifeless and confusing. It reminded her of the everything man. Chaos. Dead, chaos. Not cold due to lack of light. Neutral in every sense of the word. Lukewarm, dead, chaos. 

She allowed herself a second longer of living in a different reality. One where she wasn’t inherently different from real people. A world where she could open a book and not only comprehend the text, but understand it with ease. Where she could open her mouth and the things in her head would be pounded down into a language the ones around her understand. Then she shuts the book. Breathes in the smoke. 

She isn’t sure where she’s walking. But she needs to go somewhere. Somewhere away from the book. She wanted to throw it against the wall. Shatter it into a million pieces as she ripped the black ink from pages. But it was the angry boy’s. It wasn’t hers. She couldn’t do that. It was wrong of her to feel angry. She had accepted her existence years ago. 

She doesn’t have the right to feel angry about it. Her eyes feel weird. She wipes them with a force that blurs her vision for a second. It’s too close to how the words look. It scares her. Her heart skips a beat. The hot rage swells inside her. She feels her chest slowly expand to fit the fire. It’s too small. She’s too small. It’s going to swallow her. 

A man looks at her strangely. He’s sitting on a bench, legs spread out so that no one could sit beside him. She doesn’t like it. He’s looking into her. He sees the fire and he sees the blood. She spins on her heel and turns the other way. The masses blur into strokes of color as she rushes past. 

She doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be with the woman. Kicking rocks and feeling the cold burn of a shaky fence with the boy. Everything around her is gray and dark. She feels someone behind her. She shifts her ankle to better prepare herself for delivering a kick to their jaw. She’s met with a figure of gray and blue. It’s the dancer. She can’t help it. Her breath hitches.

Then, in an instant, everything sets into place. There’s not only colors, but lines separating them. The dancer smiles at the girl. Leans down. She says something sweetly. It’s a question. She’s worried. I’m concerned about your safety. Do you have a place to go besides here? 

The girl nods. She is as safe in the alley as she would be in a house. Outside. Her inside hurts when the boy isn’t there. Because she knows he’s getting hurt. The visits are getting shorter. And she’s happy about that. But it doesn’t matter. It still hurts. The girl isn’t sure how to tell the dancer that. She gestures vaguely around her. Closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Opens them. Puts a subtle smile on her face. 

The dancer knows she isn’t being truthful, but she agrees with the girl anyways, placing her hand on her shoulder. The girl feels as if she’s on fire. Does the dancer know the whole truth then? About her past, about her father and the evil that she did? Can she sense that the girl is the most horrible person in the city? Like the man did? Does the dancer see the cold sweat and the shiny blades? Is she going to take the girl where bad people go once the good people find them? 

But the girl doesn’t get to find out, because a man is getting ready to jump out from behind a garbage can, and the girl can already hear the clicking of his gun against his shirt cuffs. She doesn’t plan her next move. She quickly grabs the man’s hands, twisting them in a way that makes him drop the gun, but not so his hands will break. She kicks the back of his calves. He collapses to the ground with a screech. 

The dancer looks right at her. Her body is cautious and confused. She’s gripping a sharp  object— she had been ready to throw it at the man. Her mouth opens to say something. 

The girl jolts. For a second, a second that shouldn’t happen, she is frozen. But her body moves when her brain won’t, and she’s running across the street before she can even blink. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She bumps into others and she knows it hurts them but she’s still running. A man yells at her as she knocks the bag out of his hands. But she’s still running. 

She runs all the way to the until she allows herself to stop. Her legs burn. Even with her training, the run was long. Her labored breaths barley escape her mouth before she falls to the ground in a coughing fit. She wipes her mouth. Grips the rough concrete scraping her knees. That was exhilarating. 

That was horrible. 

She turns over and looks up and down her body. She’s wearing the same outfit she’s worn the past year. There’s nothing identifiable about it. It’s dark, ratty, and not unique in any singular way. If she was spotted on the street, she was indistinguishable from any other kid her age. She didn’t have to worry. The dancer might have seen her face, but there wasn’t anything special about it. 

The girl’s long hair had covered most of her face anyways. And she didn’t have scarily bright eyes like the cold frowner, nor permanent bruises like Jason. She had black eyes, an average nose, black hair at an average length, and an average mouth. No identifiable marks and no special features. There were hundreds who looked like her. If the dancer could even remember what the girl looked like. 

She places her hand over her chest, trying to count her breaths. Make them more spaced out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. 

It was working. She could already feel her chest becoming less tight. She lulls her shoulders back and looks at the starless sky. There was nothing to see, yet she felt transfixed by it. When she felt her chest wasn’t bursting with her heartbeat, she looks down. The experience was no longer fresh. She could think about it now.

And she realizes how how amazing it felt. The dancer had been so close to her. The girl hadn’t even thought about it before protecting her. Before becoming a part of the dancer’s performance. The dancer was probably looking for her now. Wondering where her unexpected partner had gone. It was disgraceful. She had exposed herself, no mask, to someone dedicated to taking down bad people. 

But she couldn’t stop smiling thinking about it. 

The dancer had been right there. She had sought the girl out, wanted to make sure she was okay. Someone like her… Her red hair could have brushed with the girl’s fist if she had stepped even a few inches closer. A real hero. Someone pure good. 

She puts her face into her hands and bites on her palms to let the bunched up spring in her chest out. The pain shocks her into a calmer state. When she lowers them, she hears a voice. 

It’s Jason. The girl shoots up like a rocket and grabs onto his jacket. She’s calmer, but she’s still grinning. He’s taken aback by her excited behavior. She tugs on his jacket’s cuff again, and then again. She wants to turn around and punch a wall. There’s something inside her that has to escape. Jason looks even more troubled, and his feet begin to take steps back. 

What happened to make you act like this? 

She doesn’t know how to explain. Her hands move wildly. He grips her wrists and lowers her hands, an attempt to calm her. She looks up at him, apologetic through her excitement. But he doesn’t seem to realize, or maybe recognize, her apology. Still staring. Still confused. Still waiting for her to explain. How is she supposed to? 

She bites her lip. He lets go of her left wrist and traces asquare symbol in the air with his fingers. The notebook. She nods readily. He walks to her hiding spot for her backpack and pulls it out, handing it to her with a reluctant gesture. She opens to a random page and snatches a pen from the front pocket. Her drawing takes up the whole page. She can’t take the care to regulate herself. 

She draws the dancer and herself. The dancer is looking at her. Just like then, those few moments ago. The feeling in her body isn’t as intense as it was in that moment, but revisiting it in such a way makes electricity jolt down her spine. Her fingers shake against her will. Jason looks over her shoulder. 

He asks a question out loud. Only one word, because his voice didn’t pause to say anything else. Is it the name of the dancer? Why would Jason know her name? Was she his friend too, like the woman— Kate? 

She doesn’t know what the word means, so she doesn’t do anything. She points from the picture to herself, nodding up and down. He pauses for a moment, wiping his expression from his face. And then he blurts out something else. Like he can’t believe her. 

The dancer must be famous. Yes. The girl isn’t surprised by this. The dancer must be a celebrity. So the girl nods. The boy grins. She gives him the pen. 

He takes his time to sit down, but there’s a degree of quickness in his movements, untangling his legs to spread out, unlike her, who crosses her legs on top of the other. He writes out a word. It’s not too long, but it’s not as short as a word can be. He points to the first letter. “Buh.”

“Buh.” She repeats. 

“Ah.” 

“Ahhfff.” Pause. “Ah.”

“Tuh.”

“Tuh.”

“Buh—ah—tuh.” 

“Baaauuuhh—aayyy—tuuhh.”

It’s not a perfect recreation. The boy doesn’t congratulate her nor chide her for her efforts. He simply gives her a nod of recognition and continues to speak, “Guhh.”

“Guh.”

“Er.”

“Er.”

“Luh.”

“Leeeuuu.”

He frowns. Shakes his head. Taps the last letter of the word with more force. “Luh.”

She tightens her eyebrows and hangs on to the way his voice sounded as he said it. “Luueeee.”

“Luh. Luh. Luuuuuuuhhhhh.” He says the last word dragged out, slow. His voice is harder. Lower. He’s not mad at her, and she knows that. But he’s frustrated. She doesn’t want the angry boy to be frustrated at her. Frustration means she’ll have to go soon. She isn’t ready to go. So she clutches the skin around her thighs and thinks hard about the sound she’s about to make.

“Leeeuhhhh.” It’s close enough. She hopes it’s close enough. The boy makes a circular motion with his finger. Say it all together. 

She isn’t sure what all the sounds together is. She thinks of the way the boy’s face looked when he was saying them all. The way his mouth moved. If she can recreate his mouth movements, then she can probably recreate the letter’s sounds. 

“Beeee… aaa….teeee…ggwww…eeee…leee…” She bites her cheek. “Baaammff…” Again. She can do it. If others could, why couldn’t she? She had not a single reason for not doing it. Yes. Yes. Yes. She could say it, just like everyone else could. She could, “Buhhh..aahhhh…ttuuueehhh…gggggjjuuu…rrriiieeellluueeeuuuuuhhhaaghhh.”

The boy makes a positive comment. Complimenting her. She feels her cheeks warm up. She wants to thank him. She can’t. So she tilts her head in his direction and smiles, purposefully. He gives her a confused look, but his shoulders unloosen a little. 

He’s talking about the dancer, using her name. Buahtgerluh. The girl can’t really make sense of it. She’s sure she could repeat it out loud again, using the memory of the boy’s mouth, but she doesn’t truly understand it in the same way she understands Kate and Jason. The letters written on the notebook twist and flutter around one another. 

Jason starts to draw again. It’s a small boy and a man. The man has pointed ears like the dancer. And the boy is wearing a cape like the dancer and the man, but dressed quite differently. Is he their child? She supposed if people like her father could raise a person to be a perfect evil, others could raise people to be the exact opposite. The thought makes her feel… something strange. 

The angry boy—Jason, is talking about the relations between the three people he’s drawn. He seems to feel detached about the dancer. He’s the least passionate when talking about her, and sort of shrugs at the end of his comments about her. As he talks about the dancer-man, he gets more emotional, but not more positive. He frowns and his shoulders tighten up a bit. Stay out of his way. He’s scary. 

When he talks about the boy-dancer, there’s something solid in his eyes again. He tries to hide it. He finds it embarrassing. The girl isn’t sure why he’s ashamed of liking one of these… heroes? She assumes the man-dancer and boy-dancer are heroes too, since they’re related to the dancer. The girl hopes that they dance like her. The dancer is good and beautiful. Her family must be too. 

She thinks on how to communicate this to the boy as he talks about the boy-dancer. What does the boy do when he approves of things? He usually nods. But a nod means multiple things to those who don’t speak her language. It’s too simple. Too broad. She needs to assure him that he doesn’t need to be embarrassed. It has to be verbal. She swallows the spit in her mouth. It goes down like a rock.

There’s a lot of things that are assuring. A hug. But the boy wouldn’t understand what she meant by that. He might even get scared. Agreement. She agrees with the boy looking up to the boy-dancer. She looked up to the dancer, herself. How could she not? 

She slams her finger on the drawing of the boy-dancer. “Yuyyyyyuuuhhhuuhhaaeessssuuuhh.”

The boy snaps his neck back. Makes a sound of confusion and disbelief. She’s only said things to him when it follows minutes of him saying the word back. Is he proud of her? She wants him to be proud. 

“Yyyyuhhheeess.” She repeats, tapping the boy-dancer. Then she taps the dancer. “Yes.” 

He rubs the back of his head. Lets out a strange laugh. It’s not forced nor mocking, but pointed towards himself. He knows that she saw in his speech that he admired the boy-dancer. He shrugs. Says something in a soft voice. The girl doesn’t know if she was supposed to hear it. Wouldn’t matter if she could. 

He swings his arm around her and lets it rest in the crook of her nape. The touch is nice. She can’t feel his skin, because they’re both wearing jackets, and the only skin she’s showing is numb due to the cold. But it makes her feel more warm anyways. He is still talking. 

She looks down at the notebook. The smiling boy-dancer looks up at her. She finds it interesting that she’s said more in her time in this gloomy, cold city than anywhere else in her life. It woke something up in her, she thinks. She feels the exact same. But everything around her feels different. The time between her running away and now, this moment, with her hands clutched around binded paper, is a sludge of aching feet and dirt. 

But everything here is fresh in her mind. 

The dancer’s hair fluttering in the wind. That suspicious shiny red car in the field. How it felt to fall asleep next to someone who wasn’t a stranger, almost every day. She thinks she could live this way forever. If she’s allowed to. This city is sad and the people don’t trust one another. But if her existence had any meaning, she could help mend that. 

She isn’t delusional about herself. In regards to both her value as a person and the amount of change she can inflict on the world around her. She’s aware of her limits. She pushes them. She was breed to push them until she died. And she knows that although she’s defied her father’s plan for her, that aspect of her genetic code will never leave.  

She doesn’t think the boy understood her assurance. She wants to assure him all the time. She can’t. It’s not fair. She grips the paper a little tighter. The dancer and the woman can make her feel assured with just their physical bodies. The woman’s smile and touch. The dancer’s posture and gaze. They make the girl feel like she’s normal. Like she’s safe and nothing she’s done will ever hurt her, the dirt contaminating her insides is gone, because they’re here, and they’ll take care of it. 

But the girl knows that Jason won’t see it that way. He’ll think, as he has thought in the past, that the girl is pitying him. When the woman shows him genuine empathy, he sees it as her looking down on him. And it makes the girl sad how wrong he is. There’s a barrier between them. It hurts that she knows she can’t fix it immediately. That it’s going to take time.

She has all the time in the world. It’s never been a problem before. It’s one now. It’s a feeling she doesn’t enjoy. She shuts her eyes forcefully. 

For now, she listens to him speak, the rising of his voice, like the sound of her shoes hitting concrete, and hopes it’s enough. 

Chapter Text

She is in a steel room. 

She is the only one inside it. She turns to the side, and the reflection of her short, small frame stands there. She cannot tell what she is wearing. If she’s wearing anything at all. She feels naked. 

The room is cold. The bottom of her feet hurt, so she starts to walk forward. The room is a box. She knows this, that the room is limited, yet when she walks toward, she does not run into anything. So she keeps walking. There is a faint metallic clang above her. It’s soft. Soft enough she thinks nothing of it. An air vent, maybe. 

Until it gets louder. And louder. 

She looks up, and sees herself. This girl is her. But she is wrong. Unlike her, this girl is evil. She knows this. The girl reaches out, and pulls her into the ceiling. She is dragged into water. Miles deep. Dark. She cannot see the water around her, thrashing her weak arms against the curentless depths. 

She tries to swim up. She knows how to swim. She can swim well. She had to know, to be a good girl. But she isn’t fast enough. There’s no current, but she can’t move upwards. It feels as if she drowns forever. 

A shiny red car floats up next to her, and she climbs on top of the roof, pushing her legs off it. She breaks the surface of the water, leaping into the air, but still cannot breathe as well as she could in that steel room. She tumbles into a grassy field. Her neck hurts from rolling. She stands up. The grass is dead. It crunches beneath her feet as she walks. She is cold. 

Pages are falling from the sky. They are small, covered in ink. She tries to read them, but she cannot recognize even a single word. Her stomach drops. Usually she can recognize one, can’t she? At least one? She drops the page and tries to run across the field, but the dirt becomes soft, and her feet sink into it. The more she runs, the more solid the dirt becomes again. 

The pages keep falling. They brush against her skin. They do not hurt. But they are overwhelming. Touch. Touch. Touch. Too much is happening at once. She cannot understand anything. She can’t think. The constant touching. It’s harder to breathe. Something is wrong with her chest. It isn’t working properly. 

She thinks she might die, when—

She jolts upwards, everything more visceral. She is overwhlemed by the feeling of sudden cold. She looks around, assesses the area. It’s dark. The feeling of the roughness of the concrete floor underneath her. It scratches against her skin. She’s awake. She was dreaming. The room— the girl, the— there was something else, she thinks she was drowning— none of it was real. 

She pulls her hat tighter over her head, covering her ears. She moves her knees to her chest. Jason. She looks to the side. He is on the mattress, sleeping. He must have had a nightmare and kicked her off in his sleep. The girl cannot remember. It makes her feel unnerved she was not awaken by something so violent. She was trained to be a light sleeper. To be a better… 

But she isn’t that . So maybe it’s good she’s not a light sleeper. But no. She needs to protect Jason. If those people who fought him come back, she needs to be able to hear them coming, even in her sleep. Is the cold affecting her? She’s been in colder conditions, though. And she hadn’t faltered then. 

It was probably the nightmare. It had taken her in so deeply she hadn’t noticed. That had to be it. She pushes the other poisoned idea out of her brain. 

The girl looks at Jason again. He is in a rare bout of peaceful sleep. She is glad. When people don’t sleep, she’s noticed they are much more animalistic. Her father taught her this. His hands would shake, and although he could stop this if his finger was around a trigger, the second they were off they’d shake even more. He wouldn’t yell at her, that would destroy his whole reason for raising her at all, but he would growl and bear his teeth and his punches would leave bruises for weeks, even if she blocked them. 

Jason probably believes he’s animalistic. He says things he doesn’t mean to appear tougher than he is, and he goes to a place he knows hurts him but then gets angry when she looks at the bruises that place causes. Even though he could stop going there. No one would stop him. The woman— Kate. Kate would probably be happy he stopped going too and give him a present. She doesn’t know he’s still going though. Maybe. She isn’t sure. She doesn’t want Jason to get mad at her, so she doesn’t pester him about it. His face has a few fading, green bruises, but no recent ones. That makes her glad. 

She watches him sleep a little longer. His breaths are syncretic. Up and down. Up and down. They never skip or drag out too long. They’re perfectly even. Watching it is soothing. She can feel the trueness of his breath, the safety in its calmness, and in turn it makes her feel safe as well. 

Eventually, she falls asleep too, and she does not dream again. 

When she wakes, the sun has barely risen. The sky is a dark, purplish orange. She finds it beautiful. When she lived with her father, she never knew such things could exist. Her life was confined to a series of colorless rooms, the only way for her to know the passage of time was the activities scheduled for her. And even those could change on a whim. 

In this dull city, with the sludge and the horrible people and the never ending grayness— the sky was still beautiful. She supposes the sky’s beauty never changed, no matter where you went. This fact comforts her. Jason is still sleeping, so she makes sure to not make any noise as she gets up. She dusts her pants down, and takes her hair out of the two ponytails it was in while she slept. 

She hates the way two ponytails look, but she hates when her hair tangles in her sleep even more. She needed the hair to hide her face in, to keep warm, to be inconspicuous. If she could make the choice on her own, she would crop her hair like she had when she was young. But on the street, people looked at her strangely when her hair was short. Butted in her business. Watched her a little closer than they otherwise did. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

She longs for the way it felt to look at herself and be able to withstand her face. She doesn’t think she ever fully will be okay with the image in the mirror, but the shorter hair made it bearable. She isn’t sure why. It doesn’t matter, anyways. Cutting her hair short in this weather would make life even more miserable. 

When she thinks she looks presentable enough, she sits on the crates behind the mattress and waits for Jason to wake up. She would like to do some sort of activity, but she’s too frozen right now. She hopes cold periods in this area don’t last much longer. She’s been through colder ones, so she isn’t ready to leave over it, but it’s still an unpleasant experience. Cold periods are easily her least favorite time. Feeling sluggish and useless is one of the worst feelings in the world. 

She doesn’t like the heat, she has to wear less than she usually does and feels exposed, but the heat is much better than the cold. In the heat she can think properly. 

Jason wakes when the sun has been fully up for an hour. He is incredibly groggy, rubbing his eyes and blinking in rapid succession afterword. He looks like he’s waking from a coma, not a night of sleep. This thought is mildly amusing to her. 

The girl mimics his rubbing eyes motion, over exaggerating a yawn for good measure as she pokes him in the side. He breaks into a tired smirk. Her heart feels lighter. She thinks it’s going to be a good day. 

It’s colder than usual, so Jason wears a ragged parka over his usual attire choice of a t-shirt and stained jacket. She’s noticed he has multiple jackets. But there isn’t any way he could ever fit more than two in his bag at a time, so he must store them somewhere else. She doesn’t have to wonder too much about where. She can only think of one place. And it is most definitely not the woman— Kate’s barren, small apartment. 

Jason has a plan for what he wants to do today. He doesn’t have to ask the girl to follow him. She wouldn’t say they’re synced in movements— he could never be synced with her the way she is with him— but she follows when he leads. It is easy to follow Jason. She may not know his words, but she knows his actions like the lines on her palm. 

He doesn’t speak much as they walk down the street. He’s cold, hands shaking in his pockets, so she tries to walk faster than usual. The crisp breeze cuts through her thin hair. It blows into her mouth. She spits it out pathetically, hacking like a sick animal. Jason looks back at her and smiles. His hair is longer than usual for a boy his age, curling at the ends of his neck, but it’s much thicker than hers. The wind could never move it with as much ease as it moves hers. She sticks her tongue out at him. 

They jump onto the higher part of the sidewalk, the part she’s seen men have their jaws split open onto, and see who can balance for the longest. She wins, of course. 

Jason’s hands wander into the pockets of a tall, too-well dressed for the street he’s prancing down, man. His fingers shake as he does so. Not for lack of experience, but fear. She makes sure the man does not turn around. When they pass him fully, Jason grips the man’s leather wallet like a gun with the safety lock off. But then he shoves it into his own pocket as if it’s nothing substantial at all. 

They walk faster after that. She can feel the adrenaline bask off him in waves, despite his attempts to keep his expression neutral. Does he know it’s even more obvious he’s hiding his pride when he wears such a weighted line on his face? She can feel the tremors he’s repressing in his shoulders. He’s so predictable. He’s so strange. 

She knows every person she meets intrinsically. Broken down to their natural elements. What makes them move the way they do. Why the man didn’t notice Jason pickpocketed him— he was late for a job, overslept, a piece of rock in his shoe distracting him. 

Jason doesn’t understand how genuine he is. His actions are so clear. This city has superficially dulled him. It’s a gray blanket of grime overlaying everyone who runs around in it. His foggy green eyes, always bruised cheeks, hunched shoulders. But she sees the spark inside him. She sees it so clearly. If she didn’t have her sight, if she could understand his words but not Jason, as the movements that form a person, would she have followed him? 

No. She knows that she wouldn’t. It’s a sobering thought. 

They arrive at the open-garage. The one where they delivered the hubcaps before. But this time the garage isn’t open. It’s too cold for that. She instinctively tightens her fingers around her upper arms. Jason rattles his knuckles on the tin wall. 

The tin rattles, then rises, shaking the whole way up, like it might shatter. The blue parka man stands on the other side. He gives Jason a questioning look. Why are you here? He isn’t expecting Jason. This isn’t a planned transaction like the red car’s hubcaps. But she can tell Jason’s appearance isn’t unwanted, just unexpected. 

The girl shifts her stance. She isn’t comfortable anymore. 

Jason is being overly casual. Relaxed in a way that she knows he naturally is not. He’s asking for a favor of some sort. It involves her. He keeps looking at her, like she’s now a part of the transaction. The blue parka man looks her over. Her stomach makes small waves. She hates being stared at, being the attraction. She steps behind Jason. He’s shorter than her. It doesn’t do anything, realistically, but it makes her feel better inside. 

The blue parka man shrugs. Steps to the side. Jason walks in, motioning for her to follow. She does. The inside of the garage is somehow even colder than the outside. The walls drip a thin brown sludge. Jason’s hands are firmly shoved into his pockets. She thinks he’s gripping the inside material of the parka. But he isn’t scared. He’s tense. She curls her fingers into her palm. 

The blue parka man doesn’t lead them far into the room. He takes them to a corner stuffed with wet cardboard boxes. They smell rancid. The girl thinks they might have rotten meat inside them. Or at least the leftovers. He tells Jason something. Jason makes a face. Is this really what you want us to do? I expected something more. 

She gives him a confused look. He shakes his head. I’ll explain later. 

The blue parka man is explaining the parameters of whatever task these boxes involve. She thinks he wants them to move them somewhere. Make some sort of delivery. Maybe take them to the dump? She cannot imagine these boxes hold any value. She hopes they still get payment for the task the blue parka man wants them to do. Even if it’s not much. The last thing she had to eat was fished from the bottom of a dumpster, and her stomach had sincerely regretted that choice. 

She’s gone longer without eating. But the empty, nauseous feeling is an unpleasant one, especially in such bitter cold, and she would like to avoid it if possible. Hunger makes you slow, and slowness makes you a liability. 

The explanation is over. The blue parka man doesn’t seem to care that the girl didn’t understand what he said. Or maybe he didn’t notice. She prefers he uses Jason as a mouthpiece anyways. The blue parka man has hooded, sunken eyes that unnerve her. Jason wipes his gloves hands off on his parka.

He takes the left glove off, handing it to her. He makes a rubbing motion with his hands. It’s too cold to complete this task without your hands covered. She understands. She can swallow using his glove if it makes it go by quicker. It’s most efficient this way. They both grip the underside of one box, and lift it upwards. It’s ice cold on her right hand. 

The box isn’t empty, but not heavy enough to be holding anything substantial. She reasons that this must be trash. So they must be doing an errand for the blue parka man. The girl is glad it seems Jason wasn’t advertising her as a person, but her skills. He was probably reasoning it would be easier to move the boxes with two sets of hands. 

They exit the garage through a thin door frame, and shuffle backwards into an alley. A small boy calls out to Jason. Jason perks up in recognition. He greets the boy, motioning for the girl to put the box down. The small boy has bony cheekbones and a skittish appearance, like a scared rodent. She can tell he wants something from Jason. 

The scared rodent boy is nervous about asking Jason something. He’s prepared himself for this before walking up to them. Jason notices. His eyes aren’t as welcoming as they were when he first saw the boy. She’s glad. Jason points to her. He introduces her. She waves at the scared rodent boy. He doesn’t react. Almost purposefully. She can’t tell. He threads his knuckles in between his fingers. 

Jason bites out a remark. He’s impatient. I know you came here for a purpose, so just say it already. The girl looks at the wet box. She wishes she could just grab Jason and continue the task the blue parka man gave them. Even if they got nothing in return. She wishes she could tell the scared rodent boy to go away. 

The scared rodent boy blurts what he’s been holding in. It doesn’t have the affliction of a question. It sounds like a warning, but not from the boy himself. Something overheard. Jason’s face shifts dangerously fast. He steps towards the smaller boy with aggressive movements. Where did you hear that? Who said that? 

She gently touches the back of his parka. Calm down. The scared rodent boy looks terrified. She does not think he was sent by someone. The way he keeps looking around, shrinking in on himself, pulling away… She believes he overheard something involving Jason and sincerely wanted to warn the other boy. 

Jason seems to understand the intent behind her touch, and rolls his shoulders back. He steps away from the scared rodent boy. He asks the question again, in a more controlled tone. She understands the word “you”, but nothing else. The smaller boy looks at her. He looks at her too much. Oh. It doesn’t involve Jason at all.

The warning is for her. 

The boy says something in relation to her. Jason’s face grows even more sour. An insult? But she can tell that he didn’t mean it to be an insult, and he backtracks. It doesn’t matter, though. Jason is offended, and closed off, and doesn’t want to listen to the boy speak anymore. And nothing else matters after a person has made that choice. 

Jason bites his inner lip and shrugs off the scared rodent boy, grabbing the box again. Does he want to just walk past the boy, ignore this conversation completely? She wants context, now that she knows it involves her. Jason’s world of mean street boys doesn’t scare her. If the threat was from her father, she would know. Because someone like the scared rodent boy certainly wouldn’t be how she found out. 

Those kids she beat in the park probably wanted to get even with her. It doesn’t bother her. She shrugs back at Jason, trying to convey she understands she’s involved, but isn’t worried. The scared rodent boy is blubbering warnings. He grabs Jason’s hand. Jason strikes it off, something sharp in his eye. He gives the boy a look of pure disgust. He shrinks back at the action. 

They take the box to the dump. The scared rodent boy does not follow them. Jason is trying to console her. Play off the interaction. It isn’t anything to worry about. But there’s something in his voice, under the usual tone. She can tell he’s bothered. She doesn’t know why. It frustrates her. She wants to know what exactly the boy said. How she was mentioned. 

 When they move the last box to the landfill, walking out of the huge collection of putrid, decaying garbage, she stops him. She motions a circle with her hands. Explain what happened. Hisshoulders bunch up. He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. Not with the same passion he doesn’t want to acknowledge the unknown place he goes to, but almost with the same ferocity. That Jason brand of ignore it, it doesn’t involve you. Even though it does.

So she doesn’t ignore it this time. She stands there. The wind blows her hair into her mouth. She doesn’t spit it out. Lets it whip uncomfortably around her cheeks. Jason digs his hands deeper into his pockets. 

In a fast, aggressive movement, he rolls up his parka, and the jacket under it. It doesn’t ride up much, because of how thick it is. But she can see a trail of burn marks. They’re circular. Cigarettes. Her stomach flips. She feels less grounded. The rotting filth around her does nothing to make her feel tethered to the dirt under her feet.

He shoves his sleeve down. Points to where the burns are. Makes a punching motion to his face. Then points to her. The person who did this to me, the one who hurts me, wants to do the same to you. 

She looks at him with as genuine of confusion as she can muster. A motion so natural she doesn’t even exaggerate it to get her point across.

Why? 

She doesn’t know what else to do. 

He looks down at the ground. Trying to avoid eye contact. Makes a bad joke, making fun of the situation. He knows it’s bad. He doesn’t even laugh at it. He points to himself, like that explains everything. It does. She feels a burning hatred for the burner. For the person who hurts him when he disappears. They must be the same person. She refused to believe otherwise. She steps towards him. His eyes glued to the brown grass, he doesn’t notice.

I don’t care that someone wants to hurt me for being near you. 

You aren’t bad. You’re my friend. 

She rolls up her sleeve. It’s much easier than when he did, less fabric to bunch up. There’s a nasty, jagged scar on her wrist. It’s pink and shiny. Her father taught her how to stop her from bleeding from a major artery. She was five. She turns her arm slightly to the left. Her wrist bone is sharp and misshapen. It never grew back properly after it was shot out from its socket. She doesn’t react to bullets hitting her now. The inner palm of her hand is filled with small, thin white lines. Useless mistakes she made when she was a child. She hopes he understands.

It’s more dangerous for you to be around me then for me to be around you.

But it’s more than that. It’s a connection. I understand. People hurt me too. You’ve been poisoned, like me. Yet unlike her, Jason could wipe it off. The grime on him was a surface level thing. Not like her. She was bred with the grime in her bloodstream. This city has sharpened him, but he could dull again over time. She was whittled down to the bone, leaving only the skeleton of a being made for an inherently corrupt purpose. 

She makes her best effort to do good. To do good to balance out her unchangeable badness. But she can’t change the material she’s made of.

 She tries. That’s all she can do. 

Chapter Text

It starts like this: She isn’t very tired at all. 

She had lived with wild animals, and fought with wolves over meat carcasses. She supposes there is an inherently wild thing about her. Sometimes she felt like there was a creature in her chest, clawing at the walls of her rib cage, tearing up her inards as it screeched and yowled and all she could do was sit in silence as she ignored the sensation. 

She’s tuned in to things those around her aren’t. It’s a mix of her two parents; her father and the wild. She prefers the city. The people. She likes being around them. Even if she can’t understand them. Even if the judge her for this fact and animals don’t. Animals are about body language too. They speak it differently than her, but at its basics, it’s almost the same. 

Other people will never speak her language. And they look down on her for not being fluent in their own. They narrow their eyes at her and scoff and whisper and she doesn’t have to understand words to know that they’re mocking her. 

She can hear a pin drop in a eardrum shattering concert. Feel a certain gush of air in a freezing blizzard. Separate tastes even when her mouth is slathered with numbing gel. 

These sensations can overwhelm her. They did when she was younger. But it helps. She knows when people are in danger. Her instinct is a trusted friend. So, that’s to say: she isn’t tired, because the city screams and begs her for help at every block she turns.

A man wants to grab a woman’s purse. He’s a little nervous. He gulps and anxiously eyes it as she sways on the sidewalk. The girl doesn’t know if he’ll grab it yet. She can’t make a rash decision. He isn’t guilty just because of what he wants. 

But then his body turns it’s safety off, goes from thought  to action, and she’s gripping his wrist as it reaches down to snatch her handle. The swaying woman stumbles back, clearly in shock. But then her face shifts, and she pushes the man backwards. The man is frazzled, and looks at his hand in shock, as if he cannot believe he was stopped. The swayer is angry, offended. Insulting him. And she’s so furious that it’s easy for the girl to pull up her hood and slip right back into the crowd. 

Two teenage girls arguing. They aren’t from this area. They’re from the cleaner, more put-together part of the city. She can immediately tell. It’s printed all over their movements. Even their clothes. The girl knows she’s much dirtier than the average person in this part of the city, but even these girls are abnormally well put together for this area. 

One is tall and well built. A swimmer, probably. Her calves protrude and her greenish-blonde hair is slicked back. The other girl, smaller and rounder, snarls her teeth and balls her fists in defiance at whatever the swimmer is saying. 

A young man bumps into the growling girl’s shoulder. She yells at him as he continues walking. He turns around, liking confused. Doesn’t understand why she’s upset. She stomps up to him. Says the same thing she said the first time again, with slight changes. She’s so angry. It makes something in the girl’s stomach feel tight.  

The swimmer touches the shoulder of the growler. Calm down. Why are you starting a fight? This isn’t appropriate. Please stop. 

The man looks very uncomfortable. He talks, but the growler doesn’t care about anything he’s saying. She walks up even closer to him, so close their noses almost touch.

She’s about to go up to them, make the situation so awkward that it stops, maybe, but she doesn’t have to. The uncomfortable man… just walks away.  The growler yells as he does so and shakes her fist in the air and her voice goes high at the end of her sentences. But he keeps walking. 

She’s clearly about to chase after him, but the swimmer grips her shoulder. Gives her a disgusted look. Says something. Something very important, because the growler’s body completely shatters. And she’s left alone on the sidewalk, as the swimmer walks away from her too. She stays there for many minutes. And then she cries.

The girl feels it isn’t her place to watch. She leaves the growler completely alone, and feels somewhat bad about doing so, although the growler never knew she hadn’t really been alone those few minutes at all. 

She walks deeper into the city. She waves at the ladies who smile at her as they lean into men’s cars. She smiles at the young boys digging in trash and who greet her. Her chest is light.

Then she hears a man yell. The words are rushed, clearly garbled so even those would be able to understand them. A growl claws his way from his throat. It’s animalistic. She follows the sound, making sure her feet don’t tap against the concrete loudly. 

She peeks from behind a corner. It’s a dead end alley. The man is in the corner, overturning piles of splintered chairs, which litter the whole area. His skin shines in the overhead lights. Grease pooling in his pores, despite the cold. A consequence of living on the streets. She knows this intimately. She remembers how it felt to be clean. Years ago now. Still easy to reach in her mind.

He’s screaming again. Lifts up a chair on the floor and smashes it on the ground, huffing. He’s looking for someone. His body rasps, When I find you, I will hurt you. She looks around, quickly trying to survey the area to see whoever is hiding from him. She listens for noises, separating the sounds from the man’s thrashing and growling. 

The girl hears a whimper. Rustling, smooth metal. She looks to the left, far behind the man, at the end of the dead end, to see a little girl cowering under a tap rash can. Her back is arched in an unnatural position to maintain her hiding spot. The girl steps forward while the man is turned around, lifting up another chair to smash against the ground. 

She ducks behind a pile of broken chairs near the end, rolling her ankle slightly while doing so. Hurts, but barley. Doesn’t pay it mind. Not important. She can not see the man. She hears him. He’s pacing rapidly in circles. 

His steps are far too heavy. His breaths are uneven. He’s frazzled, scattered. His movements are everywhere, despite his well coordinated pacing. His sounds are further and further as he moves to the end— to where the child is.She grips the gravel underneath her as she listens. 

She thinks about the dancer, and then, slightly slower, the dancer-child and the dancer-man the angry boy— Jason— had drawn. They are the heroes of this city. The ones that the city knows. She should let them handle this. She waits. The hidden child is whimpering. The sound is too loud. She will be found soon. 

The girl bites her lip. She spreads out all her fingers. She puts one down. Then the one next to it. And she keeps doing this until they are all down, and all that’s left is two fists. She waited long enough. She gave them time to come. It’s hers. 

She leaps into action. A flurry of screams and sounds. They don’t mean anything to her. 

She doesn’t have to think before she makes her first move. She doesn’t assess that the opposer in front of her is winding up to stab to her lower left side. She doesn’t need to. Her body knows. It reacts faster than her brain can think. A singular motion. 

She’s already planted a kick to his upper kneecap, the one she knows will make him topple to the ground like a stack of paper cards, before she’s even processed it. The knife clatters to the ground. 

She doesn’t dodge when he tries to grasp her while falling. She moves before he even attempts the motion. He stumbles, but maintains his balance. She weaves between his low kicks. Sewing. Under. Over. Under. Threading her body, the needle, through the fabric of the air. 

She twists her body, thinking of the way the dancer did those few days ago. She traces her movements. She has to be delicate. The hidden child is watching. 

It would be easy to knock the opposer’s skull to the floor, knock him out, hitting him in the exact right spot to not cause permanent damage. But that violent move is violent. Loud. Scary. She doesn’t want to scare the child any more. 

She’s already so terrified. The fear comes off in thick, hot waves. It would overwhelm the girl if she had not been trained to block it out while fighting. Focus on letting her body move. Turn everything else off. 

So she’ll fight until the opposer falls on his own, till he becomes too tired to continue. She can fight for hours. She knows he cannot. 

For the next few minutes, she evades his upcoming attacks. He’s big and slow, but physically stronger than her. A singular clean hit would knock out a normal girl her age. She dances around him, imagining red hair in the moonlight. He throws his entire right side into his punches. Desperately attempting to hit her, hit anything. 

She can feel his exhaustion. So she finally faces him, spinning on her heel. A strong, yet subtle clash of wrists. She hits an especially prominent nerve. Less painful than a kick to the shins, but surprising and shocking in a way that generates more of a reaction. He topples over. 

The opposer grips the ground. Fingernails painfully breaking from the skin through the effort. He collapses. He does not get up. 

The girl leans down and looks under the garbage can. The hidden child is backing up further into the wall, like a cat. She’s so small. Her curly black hair sticks in front of her face, a poorly tied ribbon barley holding it together, so the girl can see the tears collecting on her chin. How could someone ever hurt something so innocent? Something so living? It makes her sick. It makes her angry.

She slowly backs away, to allow the girl room to crawl out. Trying not to frighten the girl. She doesn’t want her to fold in on herself more, or think the girl is like the opposer. The child looks straight at her. Waits a few seconds.

She seems to understand the girl is not there to hurt her. She rolls from underneath the trash can, hands sprawled on the floor as she squats. She faces the girl. She trembles slightly. Her hands are firmly wrapped around her own body. 

She gives a quick glance between the opposer, laid out on the floor, and the girl, knee bent in front of her. The child sniffles up her tears. Trying to suck them into her eyes. Trying to be strong. As if she makes them disappear, they were never there in the first place. She hugs herself tighter. 

Red marks dig into her skin. If the child had a toy, maybe she would hug that instead. It’s better than her hurting herself from her fear. The girl looks around for something the child can hold onto. There’s nothing. 

She tries to recall what people have said to comfort her in the past. The way the words sounded. Maybe she can mimic the sounds, even if she can’t understand the meaning behind them. She’s done that before. But she’s been comforted too little times to have a proper recollection of soothing sounds. Something agreeable, then. Something to let her know that it’s going to be alright. 

“Y…eth.” The girl says. “…yes.” 

The hiding child looks at her, confused. She doesn’t understand what the girl meant at all. The girl frowns, despite herself. It instantly makes the hidden child even more nervous. When the girl was upset, the woman— Kate— didn’t say much. She just rubbed her back in circles. It made the girl feel better. The assurance of the woman’s body was more than any words could be. Because it was in her language. 

Maybe it doesn’t mean as much to people who communicate by words. Maybe it will mean nothing at all. But the girl doesn’t know what else to do. She’s gentle, hovering her fingers above the girl’s jacket more so than the deep touch Kate did. 

Her imitation is robotic and a shadow of the original. But the girl melts into the touch, relaxing herself backwards into the girl’s hands, and her tears start to flow. 

You will be okay. I’m going to take you home, and no one will hurt you ever again. This is the last time. I’ll make sure. I will. She wants to say. She channels these thoughts into the stroke of her fingers, the way the circles sent into the creams of the little girl’s back, and she knows the hidden child cannot hear, but she concentrates like she can anyway. 

The hidden child’s leaps into the crook of the girl’s neck, burying her head in it. She’s wet and warm against the freezing air. The girl can feel her sniffles. The sensation tickles. But she does not move. Her hands are still. Does she continue? Does she hug her? She doesn’t know. She’s frozen. 

The hidden child mumbles something. It’s unintelligible through her clogged nose. She tilts her mouth out of the girl’s jacket and says it again. Clearer. The girl does not understand it. But she understands the way the hidden child’s body is leaning into her, the way it’s begging for touch. Not hers. But anyones. So she holds her. She buries herself into the girl, her arms limp at her side. 

She’s still hiding. Just in another’s flesh instead of her own. Is that better? Is it more beneficial to bury yourself in another’s arms instead of stewing in sadness alone? She thought it was better for others. To be alone. 

But… if that’s true, then why did it seem the very opposite? She was poison. A… 

She did an unforgivable thing, back then. 

She knew this. She did, really. She would never forget. This hug wasn’t for her. It was for the hidden child. It was helping the child, and that’s why she was doing it. But it made her sick. The child shouldn’t find comfort in her touch. Not her…

She rubs the hidden child’s back up and down. Her breathes slow, until she’s no longer sniffling snot on the girl’s jacket. She rubs her cheek against the girl’s collarbone, like an animal. Her nose leaks again. The girl swipes it away, gentley. The child says something short. Her eyes are sincere, although red and rubbed ragged. 

“Thank you.”

So that’s what it sounds like. Gratitude. She tries her best to memorize the sound the hidden child’s vocal cords made when she said that. She has so many people in her life she needs to thank. 

The girl stands up. The hidden child stays stagnant, huffing in another glob of snot. But she’s placid. Oddly calm despite her shuffled appearance. Like a storm has passed, so she has nothing to be upset about anymore. Though you can still see the wreckage it left on her as it moved to its next target. 

The girl looks at the opposer. Stands over him. She does not know his story, and hopes she never has to learn it. She grabs him by the collar and heaves him over her shoulder. The force makes her wobble slightly on impact. 

She lifts up her leg, about to untie her shoelaces to get the string, but the girl stops her, gently holding her hand. She undoes her ponytail, pulling apart the ribbon keeping her black hair together. It falls on her shoulders neatly.  

The girl smiles. Heaves the man to the trash can and ties his arms behind his back. She uses a technique she had learned from a woman with cold eyes, in the silver room, back then. 

You won’t have handcuffs or zip ties with you at every opportunity. You must learn to be able to restrain another with even something as brittle as a hair tie. 

The man is sufficiently fastened. She isn’t sure where to take him. The dancer most definitely will. The dancer seemed to be a patroller of the city, so it’s unlikely he’ll stay there long, especially given his obvious injuries. She’ll make sure he doesn’t stay here all night, anyways, just in case. 

He is a bad person. But he is still a person.

The girl turns around. She holds out her hand. The child quickly grabs it, desperate for touch. She gives a quick glance at the opposer. Tries to hide it. Wipes away a fistful of tears. I am going to take you home. The girl thinks. 

The child, no longer hidden, but smiling, knows this. 

Follow me. Take me home. The smiling child says with her open heart. She follows the smiling child’s lead, until she’s taken to an apartment building that’s falling apart. People die. Just like houses die as well. This house was wheezing heavy, labored breaths. The adults inside did not love it. 

But the smiling child looks at it as if it is her closest friend, as if it has great, huge invisible arms that hold the child gently as she steps onto the brown cement that surrounds it. 

She follows her up the freaking stairs, to a door that’s already open. It has a long split down the middle, and the letters on the mantle are falling off their hinges. 

She waves goodbye to the girl. The girl waves goodbye back. Then the door shuts. The air is cold. As she turns away, the girl is not sure where she is returning to. She walks alone. 

She doesn’t feel alone at all, though. Her soul is filled with Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes. 

Chapter Text

The girl promises to follow the dancer’s mysterious associates on this night. She wants to understand them more intimately. She notices that the dancer shows up in the city much less than the two of them. So although she was the first of the dancers that she saw— she might not be “the” dancer at all. The girl wants to learn more about this. She aims to discover the answer tonight. 

 Jason reads to her for longer than usual. They’re on the same one, and she can tell he’s enjoying it, because it’s taking them longer to get through this one than any other yet. He actively suppresses grins while reading— laughs at jokes in the book. She wishes she could understand them. 

When the sun has been down for a few hours, the boy starts to grow tired. He places a scrap piece of paper in-between the pages of the book to keep his place, and sets it carefully on a crate next to the mattress. He talks to her a bit before he finally closes his eyes. She stares up  at the starless sky, the concrete hard against her back. She waits several more moments before finally getting up. 

The dancer-man and dancer-boy are active at night. So she’ll catch them at night. The city is awake at this time, and the city is a jagged creature, so she knows she’ll have to be careful. But she doesn’t mind at all. She has questions, wonder, curiosity. 

It’s not long at all before she hears it. Shattering, thuds, yells. There’s an attempted robbery, multiple men in a store with huge jewels. One the glass windows are all shattered. She can see the dancers from the outside. 

Bright, blinding. The dancer-boy earned his name in her heart. It was clear to see he was related to the eloquent redhead. He was not exacting in his movements like the dancer, because it seemed he didn’t need to think before moving at all. As if the setting around him was his personal playground. 

He was smaller, younger. Much less strong than the dancer, but equally dangerous. He has an arsenal of tools at his disposal the girl had never seen the dancer use. The dancer took advantage of every move she could due to her smaller size, so if she did have these tools, the girl is sure the dancer would use them. 

Why did the dancer-boy have equipment the dancer did not? Did the dancer prefer fighting without them, after all? This idea puzzles her. It’s part of the greater unsolved puzzle of the dancers. The mystery of who they really are. 

Compared to the lithe dancer-boy, the dancer-man is brute strength. He is highly trained. The girl did not need to examine his fighting style for long to see this. Many of the moves he used on the people they fought were ones she herself had learned. Noticeably, a lethal move that shatters the shoulder blade and causes the victim to die of instant shock. But the dancer-man did not apply enough force, and confidently caught the thug he had applied it to, still breathing— but unconscious. He gently lowers the man to the floor. 

That move was exacting in its nature— more difficult to hold back on then to execute in its full intent. He had held back purposefully? 

This excites her. Sets something ablaze in her chest. He hurts the men attacking him— but not more than he needed to. He took no joy in his actions. He was doing exactly what he knew would incapacitate his opponent— nothing more. It reminds her of herself. 

A light flashes in the sky. It has the symbol that the dancer has on her chest— one the dancer-man has too. A call of his. He follows it like it’s his destiny. The dancer-boy follows behind, a noticeable bounce in his steps. They scale buildings with ease, fire grappling hooks at walks and then scale those too. 

She can’t do that. So she runs below as fast as she can, desperate to not lose them. The source of the light is a building in the cleaner part of the city. She does not pay attention to what it’s outer layer looks like . The girl immediately jumps on a windowsill in the back, swings her legs up, and grips the next one. She does this around four times, before she can struggle onto an indentation that stops right before the roof.

Voices speaking. She wasn’t quick enough to keep up with them— they must be several minutes into a conversation with the causality of their tone. There are two older male voices. Neither can be the voice of the dancer-boy, so another man must be speaking to them. 

She closes her eyes and separates them. One is clearer, thicker, goes on for longer when speaking. The other voice answers in short and clipped answers. The latter must be the dancer-man. She connects his manner of speaking to his fighting style— to the point. No embellishments. The other man, one who must not have a mask on, is easier to hear.

He’s giving them a mission. Telling them about a crime they must stop. Her first thought, If he knows, why doesn’t he stop it himself? She shakes it away. The dancers are the protectors of this city. The maskless man is maskless for a reason. 

When their conversation is over, the two dancers leap back down. She hears the sound of a grappling hook unfurling again, and the tang of it being used. She looks down. The ground is hard below her. She wishes that she had a grappling hook.

Going down is much harder than coming up. 

When both her feet are finally on the pavement, she immediately sprints in the direction she heard them shoot towards. People bump into her and apologize, even stop to check on her, although she doesn’t return this favor. It’s so starkly different from the dirty and sharp toothed strangers that she’s used to.  

She gets to a point where people are running away, pushing roughly against her and even yelling. This must be where they are. She goes against the direction of the scattered crowd. A woman grabs her shoulder and yells at her to go the other way. The girl doesn’t listen. Keeps running. The woman looks at her as if she is insane, her face catches for a second, worried and confused. But in the end,  she does not waste any more time on the girl, and runs past her in the opposite direction. 

A man loudly yells for attention. His voice is not shrill. It is authority-inducing. Several other men with guns aimed outward surround him, a perfectly protected circle. The man is facing the dancer-boy and the dancer-man. He is familiar with both of them, as they are with him. A gas mask coats his face. It is expensive-looking, as is his light brown jacket that hangs off his shoulders.

He throws his hands in the air and announces something else. The announcer’s tone is assured. He is making demands. Threats? The announcer is saying something he is sure will happen. Something bad. The men around him place their fingers on the trigger, and chaotic gunfire commenced.

The girl is not a spectacle. Several other citizens stand and gap at the fight. She blends right in among them. They don’t even seem to be scared. As if this is a normal thing for them. From her experiences in this city, she is sure that it is. But the casual way they all stare worries her. A young boy, older than her but not by much, slowly pulls himself towards the action, eyes twinkling with wonder. 

She races and tackles him, as five bullets are caught in the wall above them. She hears the metal bounce off the pavement. He looks up at her in shock, big brown eyes having seen his possible death. She lifts her arm, allowing him to escape. He does not look back as he almost trips over his own shoelaces. 

The dancer-boy kicks a gun out of the hands of a man, swings around in a circle, placing a punch on his face for every time the dancer-boy faces the man. He collapses to the floor. The dancer-boy calls out to the dancer-man, preening. Asking for praise. The dancer-man does not stop fighting, but his voice is much lighter when he gives the compliment the boy is looking for. The dancer-boy’s face splits into a grin. 

They’re like duo instruments. They fit so perfectly together. The small quick dancer-boy and huge strong dancer-man. Despite their lack of lethal weaponry, they make quick work of the gun-men, and only the whimpering announcer is on the ground. His face is covered, but he is making an expression of pure and utter terror. 

The dancer-man grabs the announcer by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to look him directly in the eyes. He knows it’s scaring the announcer. He wants that. The dancer-boy stands by his side. He’s bright and green and red and everything the dancer-man is not. 

The dancer-man says something to the announcer. She’s too far away. She cannot hear the words. But it makes the announcer get up and turn around, and the dancer-man puts a plastic zip tie around his hands. She notices unconsciously that he applies them too tightly. 

The dancer-boy smiles and cracks a joke directed at the announcer to the larger man. The boy’s laughter is light-spirited, but different from Jason’s. It’s not just the way his body moves. But she cannot place the fundamental difference. She can’t see if the dancer-man laughs in return. The younger boy waves to the few people watching them as they both aim their grappling hooks at a far off building. And they’re gone again. 

She races after them. They can’t be done for the night. There’s so much wrong with this city, to its very core. It oozes crime and dirt and gloom. She knows it can’t be permanently fixed, but it can be helped. Given a crutch. They can’t be done for the night. 

She loses them momentarily, on the sidewalk as the lights bear down at her. An old man walks up to her, places his hand on her own, asking if she’s alright. Maybe even trying to give her words of assurance. She doesn’t care. She needs to— she sees a flash of red and green on a roof to her left. The girl bats the man’s hand away and chases after the color. 

This building has a ladder directly attached to it. She smiles. It’s easy to climb, if a bit painful due to the large gap in the steps that someone of her size was not made for. She can hear them talking at the top. It’s just the two of them. They jump down, the man spreading his cape like a parachute to catch air, he glides down easily. The boy ricochets off the walls, using their closeness to soften his landing. 

They’re directly under her. They’re just… speaking. But there’s people at the gutter under the yellow building in Jason’s part of the city who fight every day. And gunfire on the streets once it gets dark enough. And she isn’t sure what happens in a certain red-lit building on a street near their hideout, but she can hear the screams that come from it. 

She watches them speak for a while, back and forth. The boy is energetic and moves his hands while speaking, smiling. The man is mostly quiet, but still clearly deeply fond of the boy in a way that reminds the girl of a dad. Not like her father— but a real one. In their partnership, it’s obvious  the older man is the leader, but in the sense of a gentle mentor. 

And then the dancer-man looks up, directly at her. They stare at one another. He says something, directed to her. The dancer-boy shakes his head around, confused, clearly trying to see the person the dancer-man is speaking to. She controls the beating of her heart— makes it less fast, less of an overwhelming sound in her ears. She grips the ladder behind her tightly. 

Then she pushes her legs off it, jumping on top of a trash can and then into the street. He runs after her. She can hear the tap tap tap of his shoes, the vibration of his weight on the pavement below them. He saw her the whole time. She knew in the way he shifted his face towards her, that lackadaisical acknowledgement of the thing he always knew about. Just deciding to finally address it. 

She’s scared. She hasn’t been so scared in a long time. 

She runs as fast as she can. She’s faster than the dancer-man. But she doesn’t know where she’s going, she does not know this city like him and the dancer do. She stops and twists at several places. It helps him get closer to her. 

The dancer-boy isn’t following them. Just him. Must have told him to stay behind. He thinks he can handle her on his own? Does he just want to talk? She does not know. She cannot see him, and can't afford to look back. This tightens the fear in her heart even more.

Tight, solid fabric snatches the air from her lungs, and pulls her back. It’s him. He’s caught her. His fingers cover her mouth, then break open to let her speak. He’s questioning her. She does not know about what. His body is perfectly stoic. He is suspicious of her, worried, curious of what she is capable of.

 All she can feel is his grip on her face. He has the power. Can so easily twist her neck, stick his fingers in her eyes, break her collarbone…

The girl recalls this exact scenario with her father, his bare and tough calloused palm gripping her cheeks. She also remembers the bruises, pain and sharp agony that followed this lesson, but she pushes it down. Focuses on the way to break free. Perfectly replicates it, twisting her top half and jamming an elbow in the dancer-man’s groin. 

It’s protected. Smart. But it doesn’t matter, he still lets go, stumbles back a few steps. She does not waste a single second, launching from his grip and thrusting her hands forward. She runs through the street, twists into alleys, hoping to lose him. She cannot sense him behind her. 

She jumps up a metal retractable beam attached to an apartment building and hugs her legs. He’s stopped chasing her. He probably never followed her once she had broken free of him at all. 

That was close. So, so close. If her father knew how easily he had caught her— it aches to imagine. She’s a failure. How could she lose so easily? If he had continued to follow her, really dedicate himself like he had the first time she ran from him, he probably would have caught her. And she’s not sure this time she’d have been able to escape. 

It’s a vacant, cold thought. The possibility of her losing. It’s a feeling she isn’t used to, one she should never feel. The dancer-man isn’t like her. He speaks. The way a body moves is not a language to him. But it’s clear that it’s more to him than what it is to the dancer-boy, or the dancer, or perhaps anyone else’s ever met.

The way he fought is a hazy mirror of herself. It’s not perfect. But it’s so close that the reflection, although not exact, is unmistakable. 

Who is he?

Chapter Text

The house the blue parka man lives in feels like a metal cage. The walls drip, and there’s brown stains on the aluminum door that rises and allows them to leave and edit. When Jason speaks, his voice echoes around them in a way it doesn’t outside. It makes her slightly nauseous. She doesn’t like it. Outside, she can see all possible routes of escape. In here, the only light source is a dingy, thin lamp shoved in the corner. There’s no windows. 

The blue parka man doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s a simple sort of person. The girl can tell he’s not as dangerous as he tries to make himself appear. Jason is certainly scared of him, although he tries not to show it. 

Today, the blue parka man has another job for them. He hands Jason that thin metal weapon they used to take off parts of that shiny red car a few weeks ago. So Jason doesn’t own it. The blue parka man must lend it to him. How much money could they be making if they had it all the time? It must be a thought Jason has had as well. 

If he’s thinking that right now, his face doesn’t betray him. He grabs the metal with a neutral expression. He shoves it into his backpack, and hitches the straps over his shoulders. 

Jason makes quick work of the cars, foolishly left in open view. It’s almost surgical in how fast he is. After a short staring contest, it’s decided that she will carry the heavy metal back. She feels it fight against the thin material of her backpack. A small ripping sound. It makes her nervous, so she walks as quickly as possible as Jason follows her. 

The blue parka man gives them the paper that’s worth food. She thinks she starting to understand what it’s called. Cccckckkckkkuuuuuuaaaaaeeessshhhheeehhh.

The sounds float around in her head. Sometimes she can grab onto them, pull them down, and force them out her throat. This one is short, but she hasn’t heard it enough to properly mimic it. It doesn’t matter though. She understands the concept, how people say it is of secondary importance. 

Jason has something to tell her. The girl can tell he’s had something he’s been excited about all day. And with a light feeling in her chest, she understands that she would be the first person he would share things that make him happy with. 

She lightly jostles his shoulder, and motions to her throat, then outwards. Well, out with it already. He smiles. It reaches his dull green eyes. She likes his eyes. He clears his throat. Has to make a big deal out of it. She smiles too, though she doesn’t mean to. She places her hand on her chin, making sure to divert all her attention to him as he speaks.

His smile turns into a grin. His words are loud and exaggerated. She tries to separate them. He looks at her. Clears his throat. He points to himself. “Jason.” He says. She nods. Then, he makes a fist, but leaves his thumb and the finger closest to the thumb out. He does the same for the other hand. He moves his left hand to his forehead, then down again, having it rest on top of his right hand. “Jason.” 

She doesn’t understand. She tries to make that clear on her face. 

He does the motion again. “Jason.” He repeats. He looks at her expectantly. Now, you do it.

She does. She perfectly mimics the signal. “J-Juh…ah…son.” She says. She didn’t have to start over. She’s proud of herself. She watches his body. Waiting for his response. He nods enthusiastically, trying to make his positive reaction as clear as possible to her, in the same way she does to him. He doesn’t have to. She understands what he feels. But it makes her feel warm all the same. 

She does the signal again. “Juh…ah…son.” It means Jason. It feels confusing, and the signal doesn’t connect in her brain as easily as him pointing to himself did. He nods. Does the signal again. Says his name again. And she does the same. And again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

She understands. The way the fingers are positioned, the way the left hand rises to touch the forehead, then meets the skin of the other hand, curled in the same manner, pointing out. It’s Jason. It’s the way he smiles, and the way he shrugs and puts his hand in his pockets when he’s hiding something, and the way his shoulders raise involuntarily when he’s mad, and it’s the color of his green eyes. 

She understands, but she keeps repeating the signal. She laughs. It feels amazing. She can do the sign so many times, in a way she can’t force the words out— she’s saying his name, and it means the same thing. 

She’s smiling so wide. She feels like her face might split. She clutches it in her palms to make sure it isn’t. It’s the same texture as always— grimy and a bit rough. But it’s not cracking. That’s so strange. It really does feel like it should be. Is it even okay to be smiling this much? 

She looks up at Jason. At the sign— because, he’s the sign too, now— he’s smiling too. He’s shooting off sentences. Talking way fast. He’s proud of himself. He’s been— she tries to focus on what his body says, but she’s so happy at the new found ability to say his name without forcing the words from her throat that it’s difficult. 

He’s been researching this. It’s been a long time in the works. Why? She watches closer. He didn’t want to take a long time. He wanted it to be perfect. The signal. So he didn’t invent it on a whim. It must mean something then. A pre established sign. She does it again, much slower. It feels right. 

He points to her. He says nothing. His finger drops at his side. She stares. He stares back. It starts to become meaningful. The lack of a spoken name hangs in the air. 

She points to herself. 

She doesn’t have a name. The reason is as simple as any reason could ever be. She’s not a human in the same way the people who have names are. But she thinks, now, it’s in a different way than before. She’s not exactly sure how. Doesn’t really want to think about it. 

Jason doesn’t say anything. But he points at to her again, touching the front of her jacket in the process. Then he draws his hands back. Puts his fingers in the same poison as before, but this time, instead of touching his forehead, he touches the bottom of his chin. Then he moves the left hand down, resting it on top of the right hand, just like with his own name. He points to her again. 

That’s… me?

But… it’s so close to Jason’s. She doesn’t have brown hair, and she’s taller than him, and she doesn’t talk as much as him, and she can’t make people laugh like he can, either. She isn’t like him. So she doesn’t really understand. 

She gets her notebook out. It takes her longer than usual, because her fingers feel so numb. Doing his name signal so many times had warmed them from the cold. She draws herself. It’s not detailed, but Jason will know it’s her. She draws him. Then a line between them. 

He looks at it. His expression is cold. Purposefully picked to be as neutral as possible. But she can see. He’s hurt. She’s hurt his feelings. So she turns the pencil over, rubbing the eraser on the paper hurriedly. She doesn’t think they’re the same. But… she doesn’t mind lying since he can’t understand why she thinks that. She cannot explain to him how much of an “other” she truly is. 

Not yet. 

So, for now, he’ll always assume the “other” is him. She doesn’t want that. He has bad dreams. Bad memories. He must feel like an “other” already. That frustration builds up in her stomach again. She wishes she could just transfer her thoughts into his brain. Things would be so much easier. 

His face changes. Neutral, but, under it— she can feel the relief in the way his knee bounces, just a little. He’s happy. He slowly reaches his hand towards the notebook, and then traces his fingers back. Hesitant. She keeps her hands at her side, stagnant. Then he crudely rips it out. Crumbles it in his hands, and throws it to the floor. It lands in a dirty pile of slush. 

Jason looks directly into her eyes. He does the sign again. The one that’s hers. It’s hard to seperate it from Jason. When she sees the way his hands move, his being fills her brain. The girl mirrors the motion back. Tries to think of herself. Who is she?

She… follows him. He lets her. But she likes to follow him, too. Because she thinks he is a good person. And he makes her feel warm. She has black eyes. Black hair that reaches beyond her shoulders. She doesn’t like that it’s so long. But it’s easier to hide in a crowd than when it’s short. So she has to keep it that way. She can fight well. She has to. 

It doesn’t feel like she’s describing a person. A being doesn’t come into her mind. She repeats the sign till her fingers lose their feeling. But it doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s just a botched version of the angry boy— no, no, she can’t think of him that way— of Jason. Jason. 

Her head hurts.

He can see that too. He looks disappointed. But not in her. He blames himself. He thinks she has a name, and that if he could say it out loud, the way he did with his own, that she would get it the same way. She doesn’t know. Something wet comes from her eye. She wipes it away. Nothing else follows.

Jason grabs the notebook, still laying in her lap. He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket. It’s blue and thin and almost fancy-looking. Not at all like the bitten, chewed pencil she uses. He must have stolen it. And he was definitely conspicuous when doing so as well, though he would think otherwise. What an easy thought. She really does know him. 

He draws. Much longer than her. He wants it to be perfect. What he’s drawing must be very important to him. It makes her itchy. She blinks a lot, watching him. Then, he turns the paper up, so she can see. 

It’s her. She has big muscles. Much larger than her real ones. And she’s holding the hands of many people. They’re all smiling. She isn’t. There’s a big heart above her. She looks for Jason in the picture. But he isn’t there. She understands parts of it. He thinks she’s strong. And… And that people like her. Because they’re all holding her hand. She doesn’t understand where he got that image from. She doesn’t think that anyone in the entire world besides him would ever hold her hand. 

She follows the blue lines the ink made with her finger. She soaks it in. Tries to memorize every stroke. Then does the sign again, as she stares deeply at the drawing. It becomes a little easier to think about herself, as she does so. 

She thinks that… if her father ever raised another child, right by her side, one to keep in tune with herself. She thinks that it would be Jason. It’s a horrible thought. To think of a normal boy like Jason being put through the training she was. It’s a horrible, disgusting and selfish thought. But it’s one that she cannot think for anyone else. 

He’s the only one who would ever hold her hand.

She does the sign again. And she thinks of how she wants to protect him. She does it again, and she keeps thinking this, and while her being does not fill her head, her connection with the boy in front of her does, and the relationship the signs have to one another slowly starts to mirror the one she feels for him, too. Maybe that’s okay for right now. 

The signs are her and him. 

He holds his pinky out. She wraps her own around his, and they shake. Yes. That feels right. There’s more to these signals. They’re nowhere near as easy as the way bodies speak. But they’re much less hard than vocally speaking. It’s a language, after all, and learning any other language than her native one is difficult. 

But it’s closest to hers. So… she really does think she can learn it. One sign at a time. And eventually, after a really long time, she’ll have to have them all, right? If she learns three a day; and she’s lived hundreds of days in her life, then… Yes. She’ll eventually learn all of them. She’s tired. Her brain really does hurt.

But she wants to learn more. 

She flips through the notebook, eventually reaching those drawing of the dancer-man, dancer-boy and the dancer herself. She rotates it to face him, and looks up at him. Does he know the sign for them? Surely, this language must have a way of titling them. She can think of so many actions that they are.

Jason looks a little hesitant. Nervous. I don’t know those signals. You’ve caught me off guard. I don’t want to let you down. He pulls a book from below a pile of dripping wood. It’s white and laminated and new. It would shine in the brightness of day. But it’s almost night— the sky is overcast and cloudy. 

He skims through the book. He knows what he’s looking for. He points to the ears on the dancer-man and the dancer. Then, turns the book to face her. It’s a drawing, with some text above it. Two hands, crossed over a chest. The finger closest to the thumb goes up. Then down. Then up again. He does the signal. She copies it.

He points to the symbol on both the dancer-man and the dancer. He draws it again, and then draws an animal right next to it. Ah. It’s a bat. She’s seen them many times when she lived in the forest— when she was a child, freshly away from her father. She hasn’t ever thought that the symbols and the ears the two heroes wore were trying to mimic the animal. 

Or maybe… they’re part bat? No. It doesn’t matter. The point is… that symbol means bat. Bat. The way their wings would flutter. The blood pumping through their veins, visible through their translucent skin. The high-pitched noises they’d screech at night. Bat. Bat. Bat. She does the symbol, again and again. 

But can they both be bats? They’re different. The man is strong and big and the woman is small and lithe. But Jason has more to say. She knows that. So she doesn’t bring up her objections. He then flips through several pages of the book again. There’s no drawing this time. She frowns. Feels itchy again.

He reads the text. Shakes his hands. Makes a fist with the thumb jutting out, pointed to just above his eyebrow, and then moves it down to his chest, opening his fist while doing so. He taps the man-dancer-bat drawing. Bites his lip. Then marks over the mask’s ears and the symbol. All the bat parts of him are gone. 

Him and the dancer are both “bat”. They share the symbol and the mask. In the same way Jason and the girl share that strange thing in their heart, which is why their signs are similar. She does the bat symbol. 

And then the… other one. She doesn’t get what it’s describing, so she can’t latch onto the being like she could with Jason and the bat. She thinks she loosely gets the concept. She does it again. 

Jason taps the dancer. He does the bat sign. And then, the other sign, but instead of touching his forehead, he touches his cheek. The rest is the same. He looks down at the paper, nervous. He’s questioning if he wants to do something. He decides to. He turns the page, drawing on the blank backside. 

It’s her. And the woman. And the dancer. And her roommate. And some other women, too. Is she supposed to recognize them? She doesn’t think so, because their faces are much less detailed than the ones she knows. He taps his drawing, and then does the dancer’s “other” sign— the one that came from the bat. 

She sits in this action for a bit. She thinks she gets it. She grabs the notebook back, and draws, smaller, because his drawing took up most of the page, Jason, and the dancer-man-bat, and the boy-dancer, and the blue parka man. Then she does the original “other” side. 

Jason smiles, and then nods. He says something enthusiastically. She doesn’t need to understand his words to know he’s praising her. Her face feels warm. 

She smiles too. 

Jason does the sign of the man-dancer-bat. “Bbbbbuuuuhhhaaaaaahhtttuuuuhhhhmmaaaaeeehhhheeennn.” He pauses. An idea comes to his mind— it spreads on his features. Does the sign again. 

“Buh.” He says. You say it now. 

“Mmm… M-Muh…” Deep breath. Part the lips correctly, “Buh.”

”Ah.”

”A-Ah.” 

“Muh.” 

“Muh.” 

“An.”

“Nnn… Nu-Nuh… Ahhhh….nuhhhh…”

”Buh… Ah… Tuh… Muh… An.”

”Mm-M-Buh… Ah… Tuhhhh… Muh… Nuh-Nuh-Ah… Nuh.” 

“Batman.” 

“Buh… Uh-at… Muh… An. B-Buh…at..man.” 

Batman. 

Chapter Text

The paper of her notebook has started to peel and fall apart. She isn’t too worried about it. This city may be alive, watching her, but paper is an easy thing to acquire. People seem to not care so much about it. Bound paper like her notebook, all collected in one place, is the most convenient for her to draw on, but she can always take the more fabric, soft paper that people who sell food seem to have stacked on the outside of their buildings. It is more difficult to write on because of the softness. 

But, again, the girl doesn’t mind. She has never and never will be a difficult person. She exists easily in the world, and leaves little impact with her actions. She will not ever do anything for her own selfish wants that will cause ripples in life around her. The life of normal people. Yes, the small, square shaped fabric-paper will be fine if she ever finds herself without her notebook. 

It’s getting warmer, though it’s still cold enough that her fingers get numb when she has them out of her pockets for too long. She’s never liked putting her hands in pockets. Takes too long to get them out. Wasted time that someone else could use to gain an advantage if. Leaves her feeling naked. Stupid. Useless. 

Leaves her feeling like she’s two years old again, in that room, the one she tries hard not to remember, though she spent the most important lessons of her life in there. The worst ones too, horrible teachings that have forever tarnished her already poisoned being. 

In that room the wrongness of her core, the fundamental evilness she was born with, was nursed and improved, honed into a thin silver needle. The needle can still pierce, though she will never allow it to draw blood as it was designed to. But it won’t grow dull. That dullness that is inherent to normal people. She exists sharp and pointy, and tries to live in their world, keeping to herself as to not pierce them. 

She feels like less of a lonesome beast than when the cold winter started. Her feelings on that itself are tangled in one another. She doesn’t want to touch them. Afraid what she will see when she gets them sorted out. 

Doing the hand signals has helped warm her hands. Makes it so she doesn’t have to keep them locked up in her jacket. Feels better, nicer. She’s spent days repeating the actions over and over. She’s sure now that even if her hands were cut off, severed at the wrists, that somehow, she would still be able to do the actions, because her very self has memorized them. The air around her would do the actions, bending it. 

She thinks it again, and is overtaken with a sudden repulsion at how illogical it is. Discards the thought. It’s stupid. Doesn’t make any sense. Air can’t bend. It’s solid and there. Can’t move. Why did she feel something so impractical so strongly, in her chest? She had to watch her feelings. They were straying her. 

Doing the actions again and again passes the time. It makes the air below her collarbone feel like it’s expanding. Like she might lift off into the sky. She questions if this feeling too, is illogical. If it may handicap her in the way such a disconnected-from-reality feeling as her previous would. No, she doesn’t think so. It’s good to memorize the actions. Understanding the meaning behind them is difficult, so it’s good that she is able to properly distinguish them due to their similarity. This feeling is justified. 

Her hands will never bend the air around them, just because she memorized the way it feels. The cold biting into her skin is the reality before her. Jason will see what she motions with her hands, not the feeling she has about her actions. So she has to get it exactly right. She wonders how many more actions she can learn before the snow completely melts. Before it’s warm again. The thought excites her. She curls her fists to keep it contained, channeling the energy into the force of her fingers digging into her palm. 

It may never be warm in this gloomy city. The smoke may absorb the sunshine, steal the warmth. It would be like this city to do that. It takes away happiness. It wouldn’t be too far to think it could perhaps consume light itself. She hopes not. Cold is her least favorite temperature. Makes her joints unfurl slower, her skin numb. She dislikes it. It would be nice to be able to have her hair up again too, without the feeling of cold eating away at the nape of her neck and ears. 

The girl hears the patter of flat sneakers grow closer to her. Quiet, clearly not unaware of the area around them. She stands up from the crate she was sitting on and runs towards it. She knows who it is. It’s as easy to know as breathing. 

She meets Kate’s eyes as she turns the corner. Kate smiles down on her, that closed smile that makes the girl feel warm no matter the chill. Kate’s shoulders are open, casual. She has achieved what she set out to do. She wasn’t looking for Jason, then. Was she looking for any one of them? Or specifically the girl? 

Kate answers that rather quickly. She reaches out, slowly, deliberately, in a way Jason never would, and clasps the girl’s hands in her own. The woman is wearing leather gloves, insulated, the girl assumes, and the cold leather feels uncomfortable in the folds of her palm. Kate opens the girl’s clasped hand. Traces the fingers, then moves them into strange positions. She momentarily doesn’t understand, then it hits her. 

The signals. Does the woman know them? She looks at her. No, she would have done one if she did. She’s poorly imitating them on the girl’s hand to show she has a loose knowledge of the concept from Jason, and wants to discuss it. Or acknowledge that she knows. The girl withdraws her hand’s from Kate’s grasp, and does Jason’s signal, slowly.

Then, mustering her voice from the depths of stomach, purses her lips, “Ja… Jah… S-Sen…” 

The woman before her smiles, clearly pleased. Kate’s feelings are open in a way Jason’s aren’t. They’re both there, placed for her to see, but Kate’s are arranged publicly, asking people to witness them, while Jason’s are shut off, forbidden, and she isn’t ever sure which ones she’s allowed to react to. It’s easy to be with Kate. The girl smiles shyly. 

Kate claps her hands. Celebrating. She starts speaking very fast, caught in this happiness, before she suddenly stops. She looks guilty. Mutters something. She forgot that the girl can’t understand her words. She then starts over. Clears her throat. “Ggggguuuuooooooeeeuddddddeee!” She exclaims. 

The word rushes over the girl’s head. She tries to hold onto it, but the woman doesn’t speak slowly like Jason, and it’s gone by the time she tries harder to think about it. The woman doesn’t wait for her reaction, still smiling. Did she think saying one word, one time, was enough to get the girl to understand the meaning? She doesn’t know. 

The woman points to herself. Does random hand motions after. But her face is contorted in a puzzling way. Clearly done on purpose, a caricature of her usual questioning look. To help the girl understand her feelings. She doesn’t need to do that. But the girl does not bring it up, knowing not only that nothing good would come of the information being revealed, but that even trying to communicate it would cause more problems than anything. 

Kate wants a signal for herself. The girl doesn’t know what to do. She isn’t the one who makes signals. Jason is. He has a book of them. Their signals were clearly based off of one’s in the book. She doesn’t know what the woman’s would be based on. 

Did theirs have a theme? What if the girl broke the theme? What if Jason gets upset at her for assigning signals without him? The girl doesn’t deserve to give names to real people. 

She tries to convey this on her face— the hesitation, but not make it seem as if she doesn’t want to give the woman her own signal. She thinks she succeeds, because Kate doesn’t look disappointed. She almost seems like she pities her. As if she’s looking at a wounded animal. Those big, blue eyes peer into her. 

They soften, and the woman’s body relaxes. The girl doesn’t like it. She can tell Kate is thinking less of her, seeing her more as incapable than before she had when she came here. She sees a flickering, nervous thing.

No, the girl doesn’t like it. She just wants to be sure. She is not anxious due to weakness. 

The girl motions pages with her hands, then outlines a small rectangle— the dimensions of the book. She does all the signals she learned in quick succession, and then does the pages and outlining motion again, pointing to her palm. The signs are from a book, one I don’t have, which is why I’m signaling it instead of showing you. 

Even if she had the book, it’s not as if she could assign the woman— Kate, she means— it’s not as if she could assign Kate one. Kate understands immediately, grasping the idea with ease. Everything really is easy with Kate. Maybe it’s because she’s so open. She knows Kate sees something in her that she’s not. Something delicate. She’s more receptive to the girl because she sees her as a child. Something that needs it’s hand held. 

Being underestimated is good. It means she’ll be taken less seriously in battle, can use that hesitation to get the better of the other person more quickly, with less resistance. It’s not like she’ll ever have to fight Kate, but… 

No. She shouldn’t think that. You never know who you might have to fight. Never know who can betray you. If she underestimated Kate, then she would be just as foolish as every grown man who’s done the same to her. And she was not a fool. She wasn’t. 

She knew Kate’s weaknesses from a look at her— knew intimately which points to hit to make the woman topple over. And she had to keep those thoughts fresh in her mind at all times when near the woman. Just like with every person. Especially now that she had almost been caught so easily just a few days prior. 

Kate seems to sense the intense energy coming off from the girl, stewing in her own thoughts. She lowers her shoulders and crouches down slightly. Making herself less threatening. It puts the girl more on edge. Kate seems to realize this too, and places her hands in her pocket with a slight frown on her face. 

She motions outside of the alley, towards the direction of her apartment. Would you like to visit me? Her smile is so sweet, so warm and inviting. The girl nods. Yes, I really would. The walk is quick. Kate doesn’t fill the space between them with her words, which the girl feels is odd. But Kate is still smiling, so self-satisfied, like just being with the girl is entertaining enough. Even though she can’t talk. Even though the woman is effectively alone every time she’s near her. 

She’s warm. 

The cold frowner is in the apartment. This makes sense, she lives here. She’s sitting with her legs crossed on the floor, clothes sprawled all over. Folding them. She looks between the two at her doorstep, and sends a particularly accusatory glare towards Kate. Why is she here? 

The girl wouldn’t need her training to understand the meaning behind those eyes. She draws into herself. Tries to make herself look smaller. Maybe that’s not what she wants though, because the cold frowner’s face doesn’t change. The girl can sense the military training in the way she carries herself. Can the cold frowner sense the same in her? Is that why she’s so put off by the girl? Or is it that innate untrusting that she herself holds towards unknown people?

 If the girl couldn’t understand the body language of someone, she wouldn’t know a thing about another person. It would make her feel like she had been stripped of her senses and dumped into a pit. That’s probably how the other felt. 

The girl didn’t speak her language, after all. She had no way to understand the girl’s intentions. The girl understands. So she tries a small smile, waving her hand slightly.

 The cold frowner softens— but just slightly. It seems to be more out of surprise than anything else. 

Kate doesn’t notice, and begins to introduce her again. The cold frowner looks unimpressed, but the heaviness of her glare lightens. The girl doesn’t think she ever forgot who she was the way Kate seems to assume. Kate ushers her in, and casually wipes a bit of snow off her jacket. The touch shocks her. She represses a second flinch. Tries to pass off the first movement as a shiver. It really is cold outside. 

She hugs the sides of her arms to get the chill out of her system. Doesn’t really work. She places her arms at her side. Kate familiarity chats with the cold frowner, who answers in stilted responses. She’s on alert. Folding the clothes in front of her in a strict fashion, smoothing out every crinkle. But making sure she can still watch the girl from the corner of her eye. 

Kate laughs at one last thing the cold frowner says, then motions for the girl to follow her into the only other room in the house. It’s the room with scarcely anything in it besides a huge computer. The computer is connected to a mass of wires, intermingling in a messy fashion. It would be so easy to lose something in the heap if dropped by mistake. 

The woman waves her hand at the floor. “Sssseeeeeaaauuughhttt.” She says. It doesn’t sound like an order, but it’s said in a manner unlike her. Usually, she flowers her sentences with much more while speaking— like she can’t really get to the point. Even if the girl doesn’t know what she’s saying exactly, that’s what she’s assumed. The girl sits. 

The girl isn’t exactly sure what computers do— she hasn’t seen many. The only times she’s witnessed them for long amounts of time in person is whenever she finds herself stumbling into a certain type of building that houses books in massive quantities— it seemed to be that type of building's only function. She found those places intimidating— a reminder of her inability to access a single spec of anything written around her. 

Staring at the swirling, paradoxical pages only made her head hurt. It got her nowhere but lower. It’s not as if she’s really welcome in them either. She smells and she’s dirty. If the girl is not outright asked to leave, she’s sneered at by older people around her until she leaves herself. 

 This computer looks much more advanced than the ones she’s seen. It’s much bigger, first of all. So it must be better, to have more room for whatever it’s storing inside. Maybe the amount of wires linked to it measures how powerful the computer is, too. 

Kate maneuvers around the back of the computer, lifting some of the wires as she does so. She bends down, her face at the same level as the floor, and presses something. The computer flashes brightly. The screen flickers. 

The girl watches, transfixed. She wants to reach out and put her hand to the screen, but knows better. She stays still. Kate walks out from behind the computer. She says something. Her eyebrows are raised, chest somewhat puffed out. It’s impressive, isn’t it? 

Yes, she wants to say. Even though it hasn’t done anything that a lamp couldn’t do. Her fingers itch with the urge to touch it. It’s easy to repress the feeling. The cold frowner says something from the other room. Kate responds in a dismissive, yet still cheerful manner. There’s nothing to worry about. What I'm doing is going according to plan. 

The cold frowner says something else, her tone unsure, doubting. Kate shakes off her worry again, joining the girl on the floor. She presses the buttons on the flat, plastic surface in front of them— the ones computers always have. This one looks much larger than the ones she’s seen before. Sort of cobbled together. Not all the buttons are uniform. Some are larger than others— or slightly different shades. She can even see a shiny metallic material under a few, which are peeling off the board. 

The pattern the screen was displaying changes. It’s now showing words. It’s a small word, with some repeating letters next to one another. It flickers slightly, before fading to a brightly colored assortment of pixels. There’s a lot of grayish greens, and a sort of long, square-ish bright blue thing running through it.

Kate taps the screen. The girl wants to, as well. Wonders if it feels warm because of the light radiating off of it. No. She doesn’t want to touch it. She doesn’t tap the screen. 

Kate is pointing to a certain pixelated block. It looks like an apartment building. It’s obviously not a picture of a real one. She can see the solid colored blocks forming the structure. It’s too perfectly constructed to be real— too flat in its colors. But if she looked from far away, she could perhaps think it was a drawing of one. 

Kate then motions around then, and points to the building again. She says something. Prompting the girl. Wants her to notice something about this specific building— how it connects to the one they’re in. The girl looks closer. Examines the drawings surrounding the building. Maybe that will help her understand. 

She thinks it’s a neighborhood. The bright blue might be a river… running through a city. There’s few trees. Most of the buildings are tall, gray, and thin. There’s a portion of the screen devoted to smaller buildings, which take on a more brown tone.

Oh… She thinks she understands. It’s this city, isn’t it? The one they’re currently in. And that building she pointed to is this building. She looks again, and sees it. It has 17 white blocks on the side of it, the same amount of windows on the building they’re currently in. The buildings around this apartment are more uniquely shaped in real life, more sharp edges and unique features plastered on their walls— but the visual retellings of them on screen are recognizable enough. 

How does she convey this? She stews in it for a brief period of time, before deciding the best course of action might just be to mimic what the woman did. So she points to the building representing this one, making sure her finger doesn’t touch the screen, and then she motions around them, rubbing her hands on the floor and pointing at the corners of the walls. 

Kate smiles. She then presses a few more buttons. She moves so quickly it’s hard to even see what buttons she presses. The view of the screen changes. It starts to slowly scroll to the side, making more of the city clear. There’s a giant brown area that she knows isn’t like that in real life. 

The woman presses a button very slowly. Deliberately. She wants the girl to see her press the button. She focuses on the placement of the button on the board. She may not be able to recognize the symbols on it, but if she can memorize where it is— it’s basically the same thing. Achieve the same end result. And if she sees it enough, maybe she could start to learn the symbol too by association. 

Shortly after Kate presses the button, a building pops up on the barren patch of land. The woman presses a key on the other side of the board. Holds down on the key. As she does so, the building moves across the screen. She then takes her hands off. Holds her palms out, near the girl’s. 

Put your hands in mine. 

The girl does so, nervous at the touch. She hopes it doesn’t last long. The woman wraps her hands around the tips of the girls fingers and leads them gently down to the board of buttons. She presses them down on a key at the top, next to the one she had memorized the placement of. 

The building drops down the screen a little. The little square frame that had been around it disappears. The woman uses the girls fingers to press the first button she had pressed on her own. The one that summoned the building. It does the same thing it did the first time. This building is identical to the previous. Kate takes her hands across the board, presses down lightly on another button. This is the one that moved it the last time.

And just like that, the building slowly starts inching to the left. The woman lets go of the girls hand. Lifts it in the process, taking it off the button. Looks expectedly at her. The girl’s fingers hover nervously over the button. The building is no longer moving. She slowly presses the same button, making sure she puts pressure into the touch, and doesn’t let go.

The building moves, overlaying itself on the previous building. It has a red square under it. So it must not be okay to move it there. She lets go of the button. Jerks her thumb to the right, and then motions towards the building. How do I move it the other way?

Kate looks ecstatic. She guides her hand over the girl’s, leading it to the key just next to the one she had pressed. It’s on the right side. Oh. That makes sense. The key more to the right makes the building move to the right. 

She holds down on that key, and watches as the building moves away from the other. The red square blinks until it’s completely gone. She doesn’t want the buildings right next to one another. She presses the key above it, thinking that logically, it will make the building move up the screen too. It does. But the woman makes a shocked noise when she does so. 

The girl lets go immediately. She did something wrong. She shouldn’t have just assumed it was okay to touch the board’s buttons without the woman showing her. What if she had pressed the wrong one and ruined the city?

 No. The “ifs” don’t matter. What was wrong was she touched something that didn’t belong to her, without asking. She hadn’t touched the screen— she had been able to push down that feeling so easily. Why did she then do it with the board? She was so stupid and impulsive. She had spent years learning to repress these very stupid feelings. 

She feels hot shame leap into her throat. She’s so sorry. She hadn’t meant to. Doesn’t matter. She did it anyway. She’s a bad person. She understands how wrong it is. How wrong she is for doing it. 

She can’t look at the woman. She could force herself to, but she doesn’t want to. There she goes again, putting her corrupted wants above what’s right. She has to meet the gaze of the woman. Look in the eyes of the person she wronged and accept what happens.

The woman probably won’t punish her in the way her father does. She’ll probably just make a disappointed face and then move on. Not even say anything out loud. That sounds like her. She forces her head up, every slight movement of her neck feeling like she’s carrying ten thousand times the weight she really is.

But the woman isn’t disappointed at all. She’s worried. Concern slathered all over her face. The girl doesn’t think she’s ever seen the woman look so worried, and she’s seen her look worried many times. Maybe the most of any person she’s ever met. The woman fawns over the girl, sees her as weaker and less capable than she really is. She’s always worried for her. 

The girl doesn’t deserve it. She touched it without asking. She wanted to touch more, too. She’s so wrong. The angry boy wouldn’t have wanted to do that. It wouldn’t have even crossed his mind. No one in the whole world would have that thought but her. She wants the floor to open up and swallow her. Go back to the room— where she belongs. Away from people. The ones she only ruins things for. Inconvenience. Burden. Trouble for the real humans. 

She can’t see anything anymore, but she doesn’t care. She can’t focus enough on her senses anyways. Her face feels vaguely hot all over. There’s a sense of damp humidity on her skin. The tears, again. They race down her face and into her mouth. They taste salty. 

Her nose bubbles with something similar, though it feels less liquid. Makes it hard to breathe. She’s heaving. Tries to control it. Make them more even. Like she was taught to. She wants to go back to the room so, so badly. Things made sense there. 

She feels a warm weight on her shoulder. It’s not uncomfortable like the heat of her tears. She focuses on the shape. A hand. The woman. Oh. The woman is here. She tries to grab onto that fact, make sure it doesn’t slip through the rush of her mind. The woman is here. She isn’t in the room. Even though she wants to be. She did something bad and the woman is here and she isn’t in the room. 

She knows what would happen if she was in the room. If she touched something without being prompted or told, she would get struck across the face. Faces don’t really matter. She doesn’t need her face to fight. Strikes to the hand and legs were for more serious offenses. Meant to cripple her. The pain wasn’t the punishment when her father hit her there. The added difficulty of fighting for the next few days or weeks was the punishment. 

The woman wouldn’t know to do that. She knows that. It makes her more scared. With her father, she knew what was wrong. And she knew what to expect when she acted wrong. She doesn’t know that with the woman, or the angry boy, or anyone else. The lack of solid understanding terrifies her. She doesn’t know what the woman is going to do. 

She shuts her eyes tight. Not like she can see through the liquid leaking through them anyways. The hand of the woman falters slightly from her shoulder. She doesn’t know what to do. 

Hit me. Hit me like he did. Please. Make sense of what’s happening. Stop confusing me. Stop not hurting me. 

The woman holds her. 

Chapter Text

And she’s on the steel floor. Blood drips from her nose down to her lips. She tries to focus on the heat of the liquid. Ignore the cold, almost burning metal floor her palms are sprawled open on. The taste is familiar. Her cheeks are hot and sore. 

She tries to get up, but her father kicks her back, sending her crashing down. Her jaw hits the floor first. Bites her tongue. Pain rushes into her. It’s bleeding too. He chastises her for having her tongue in between her teeth during a fight. 

How could you make such a stupid mistake? 

It doesn’t matter, she feels. I could bite my tongue off and it wouldn’t matter at all. 

He gives her a second to catch her breath, and allows her to stumble upwards. She can tell her arm is dislocated. But she doesn’t have time to pop it into place. Would waste seconds she doesn’t have, and it’s not like she could use it even if it was put back into its slot. 

He can tell, so he aims for it when he strikes her. It makes a horrible crack. Flash of agony. Feels like her heartbeat was stolen. Staggers backwards in shock. Can’t fully comprehend the amount of pain. Wants to throw up. Pushes down the emotion. She bends down and swipes her leg out, knocking him off balance. She think’s it may be over when he topples, she’s wrong. He let himself fall on top of her. Strangles her. Rough, calloused hands on her delicate skin. Holds her neck as she thrashes against him. Can't do anything. Goes limp.

She’s four, and she’s never been beat so badly by her father before. The damage done to her body was not enough punishment this time for such a failure. He thinks she’s pathetic. She can tell. Seeping disappointment. He introduces a new phase of training to curb her dismal display. 

A good weapon doesn’t flail in the grasp of their enemy. They stay still and let them think they’re dead, so they can strike the second the other lets go. When they’re hit on their dislocated shoulder, the pain doesn’t hold them back from winning. They don’t let the bigger enemy gain the advantage by letting them fall on them. 

He breaks her arms. Twists her legs. Smashes her kneecaps. They heal quicker every time. She always has an injury on her body. But she’s faster with a broken left leg and sprained ankle at age six then she was with two unimpaired legs at age five. 

He blindfolds her and walks around the room. Projects noise in every corner, so loud her head feels as if it’s going to split open. But she finds him, eventually. Learns to memorize the way his feet go against the floor, signal out that sound amidst the chaos. Every time she fails to find him in under a specific amount of time, he shoots her. Shoots her again if she flinches. 

He holds her underwater until she passes out. She started only being able to hold her breath for 1 minute before she lost consciousness. By the time she had run away, she could hold it for over half an hour. She plays dead more times than she can count. He clutches her small ribs in between his fingers, waiting to feel a movement of her lungs, so he can press down and break the bone. 

She plays dead in Kate’s grasp. Stops her breathing. Legs go limp. Arms dead at her side. She’s not alive. But Kate still holds her. Whispering words. They don’t reach her brain. Can’t even separate them. She’s going to die. She’s not alive. She’s going to die. The wooden floor is made of steel. It’s so cold on her bare feet, though she’s wearing boots. Kate is so skinny. She has mounds of flesh in her chest. Her grip is the grip of the girl’s father. 

His hands. Rough hands. Resting in the small of her neck. Warm. Small hands. 

More words. She doesn’t feel good. Maybe she’s sick. When you’re too cold, sometimes you get really sick afterwards. You cough and sneeze and your head hurts. She’s probably sick, because it’s so cold in the steel room all the time. 

Her father never let her dress much, so he could always see what parts of her body were injured, and keep it in mind during fights. So she was often cold when she fought him. She didn’t have to see his skin to know what was injured. 

Her chest is hurt. The area over her beating heart. It feels compressed. Thinks of his fingers. Calloused and digging under her ribs. Like he was going to pop them out. Without her ribs, could she live? Would she stand up and fall without her skeleton holding her together? 

She doesn’t feel like she has a skeleton in the same way everyone else does. She’s always working extra hard to keep herself together, while everyone around her seems to not have to. They just exist. Not extra effort to exist. Existing is easy. Existing is difficult. 

Why does she exist? 

Kate separates from her. Her hands are on the girl’s shoulders. They’re not wide like his. The girl rubs at her eyes. Kate has long blonde hair that’s almost always down. In the steel room, having hair done was out of the question. Your enemy could pull on it and easily gain an advantage over you. 

Kate has a shining smile. The girl hadn’t ever felt herself smile as much as these past months knowing Kate. So far away from him. Blue eyes and tall figure and small thighs and dainty, uncalloused hands. 

Her arm travels up Kate’s, in sync. Her skin is very warm. The girl closes her eyes. She breathes out. She feels the sound of Kate’s beating heart. It’s so slow. She lets air in at the same beat. Things feel less light. She can’t feel the ground. But she can feel the bottom of her boots. They’re sturdy. 

The girl looks upwards. Kate is looking right back. She doesn’t know what to do. Kate sits her back down, applying pressure to her left shoulder. But the girl doesn’t mind. The pressure is light. Not like his. It’s so unlike his that she doesn’t even think for a second it could possibly be his.  

Kate gets up, but motions for the girl to stay sitting. She goes to the other room, where the cold frowner is. Closes the door behind her. The girl is alone. She looks at the computer. The light from the pixelated city projects back on her body. Shadows of the screen lay on her skin. She moves her hand, watches the pixels shift. 

The woman comes back. She’s holding a notebook. It’s thick and the paper is browning. The inside has pages of different sizes, so they’re sticking out strangely. She places it gently on the floor, opens up to a random page. Uncaps a pen with her mouth in a fluid motion. It was nice to watch someone who knew what they were doing. 

It’s predictable. Easy. She doesn’t have to strain her brain to understand it like she does with words. She can relax and listen. 

The woman doodles the girl. She’s frowning. Then she draws scribbles all over it. Lines coming out of her head. Showing what had just happened. The girl doesn’t like what had just happened. It doesn’t happen that badly often. 

The woman scrunches her lips. Then draws the same thing, again and again. Multiple instances of it. Then a giant question mark on top. 

Has this happened before? 

She nods. Resists the urge to put her kneecaps to her chest. Looks back up at the woman. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Small hands. Kate.  

Kate looks down on the notebook and draws circles over the question mark. She had understood the girl’s answer, and knew the girl understood her question too. The girl knows. She can tell. So what does it mean? 

She wants to highlight the original question. More information on it. Has this happened before? What’s the other question you need after you get an answer for that question? What comes next? 

Has this happened before? 

It has. 

How many times has it happened? 

Ah. The girl understands, now. She didn’t know. Not too often. But they were worse than this one, because no one had been there. She didn’t have any people to latch onto the features of. No one to show her she couldn’t possibly be back in the steel room. 

She tries to estimate. Thinks about the length of her hair. It reaches past her collarbones now. And the last time she had thought she was back there for so long, so intensely, it was… just above her shoulders, because it was summer and she had found a rusty metal blade in an abandoned house. 

And before that? It was long enough to reach the middle bone on her chest. The one that connects all her ribs. Really hurts if you hit someone there. 

She motions for the women to give her the pen, and then writes a line on the paper for every time down she can remember. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. One. 

She isn’t sure if they’re all there. She thinks of the steel room a lot. But these times she thought more than the others, got lost in the thought to the point she couldn’t even see things that were right in front of her.

It’s a small number compared to every time she’s gotten lost in herself, but was able to quickly pull herself out when forced. She places the pen down. Should she cap it? No, the woman would need to use it. She left the cap fastened to the end of the pen. 

Kate looks down at the notebook. She’s disturbed. Sad. She’s pitying the girl again. The girl curls her toes. It’s okay, she reminds herself, it’s good when others underestimate you. This is giving you an advantage in the case she ever attacks you. 

She repeats this thought to herself a few times, but it doesn’t give her the same comfort it used to. She doesn’t want Kate to think she’s weak. She wants to show Kate she’s strong. Capable. That she doesn’t need to be protected. What a stupid desire. 

Kate flips the notebook over, writing on a blank page. The writing is huge, almost taking up the entire page. It’s letters. One word, based on how close they are together. One is a circle with a line right next to it, trialing downwards. She can’t recognize that one. 

The next one is a circle with a line next to it as well, but this one is sort of curled, like a half circle. She thinks she knows this one. Tries to remember where she’s seen it. Where… Where… She can’t recall it immediately. She’ll come back to it later.

The one after is an arch, with an angular structure. She doesn’t know that one. The next letter is a line with a dot above it. That one is vaguely familiar, but not as much as the second letter. The last letter is a half circle. She’s seen this one too. She goes back to the second letter, the one she’s most familiar with. Tries to think of all the times Jason has read to her, what the words looked like, and the sounds those words made from his mouth. 

She points to that letter. “Aaaaaahhhhh…” She says. She can’t really control the way sound comes from her mouth, she’s never had to before, and this makes her uncomfortable. She’s used to always being able to perfectly control her actions. 

Kate lights up. She points to the first letter, expectant. The girl doesn’t know what to do. She bites her lip and takes a deep breath. Kate isn’t her father. Gentle hands. Rough hands. She won’t be angry. The girl shakes her head. I don’t know that one.

Kate doesn’t even hesitate. “Ppppppuhhhhh….” She says. 

“Fff… Ffuuh… Pppppuhhhh…” The girl repeats. 

Kate gives her an affirming smile. That was correct. She points to the next letter, the one the girl knew the sound of. “Puhhhh…. Aahhhhh… Paaaaaahhhh….” 

The two letters together made a new sound. She knew this. She knows that’s how words worked. So she thinks of the shape of the letter, the way Kate’s face muscles twitched as she said them, the sound she made, the tremor in her voice. “Ffmm…. Pppouuuu.. P—Puhh…. Aaaaaa…. Puuuuhhhhaaaaaa…” closes her eyes, tries to refocus, “…Paaaaahhh..” 

Kate’s body lights up. You did it correctly! I’m so proud of you. The girl feels heat rush to her face. Maybe Kate was exagerrating her body language to appear more excited for the girl than she really was. But that doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t matter if people fake their body language, the girl can distinguish the real movements under. Whatever. 

Kate traces the next words. “Pahhhh….Nuhhhh….”

“Puhhhh… Na…. Naaaaa….” She frowned. The words wouldn’t come out correctly. Not the way Kate was saying them. She knew how they sounded out loud. Why wouldn’t her lips mimic the same movements? She could copy any movement after just seeing it once. Sounds should be the same. She didn’t have an excuse, “Puhhhh…. Naaa…. Nuhhhh….” 

Another smile. You’re doing so well. You’re exceeding my expectations. The girl can see the expectation the women has for her in her face. She has high expectations for her? The heat in the girl’s face grows. Why? Why does Kate have hope for her? “Ehhhhhh…. Kuhhhh…” 

“Nnnn…Nuhhhh… Ehhhmmm.. Eeee….” The girl closes her eyes. It’s a simple sound. She can replicate it. She can. “Ehhhh… Kkkkmmm…Kuhhh… Ehhhh…. Kuhhh.”

“Pahhhh… niiiiik.” The woman repeats, tracing the word in its entirety. The word is foreign and strange, but still small enough for it to hold a comforting aura. It sounds like the woman’s name, somewhat. 

“Paaauuu… neeee… cuhhh…” It’s not a perfect imitation. She dragged out the “ni” to a “ne” sound, and it’s a distinction she knows Kate will be able to hear too. It’s not fair that speaking is so difficult. Her own inferiority angers her. Normal people don’t have things wrong with their voice like her. She wasn’t creating something. It was a mimic of an action. Mimicking actions is easy. It makes no sense for her to not only fail, but to fail so disgustingly. 

Kate is shining. Her cheeks are a warm red color, and she’s clasping her hands tight. The nails are painted a light pink, and they’re shiny. They’re so pretty. “Ggggguuuuuoooooodduhhhhh!” Kate says. She’s congratulating her. Goo... oooughhh…duh. Good? It’s something you say when you’re proud of someone, then? She’ll think about it. 

She tries to put it with her other words. 

Jason. Her. Kate. Yes. Batman. Batgirl. Thank you. Good. And the one they’re learning now. She isn’t sure what it means. She knows the sound and the way the letters hug each other. But to understand a word truly, to remember it beyond a few hours, she has to understand what’s underneath it. 

Kate picks up her pen again, flips the notebook back to the previous page, and circles the marks of the times the girl had counted that she lost herself. Points to it and puts it in perfect view of the girl's face. She wants her to remember it. Okay. She will. 

Then she flips the notebook again, to the big word. Panic. Panic. Panic. She remembers. Panic. She’s trying to keep the word from slipping away, but it’s hard. She hopes the woman explains what it means soon. She hopes even more that she can push down her stupidity for long enough to understand it. 

The woman circles the word. Points to it. Holds it in her face, again. Like she did with the marks. Then she flips it again, and points to the marks. “Panic.” She says. 

Losing yourself is panic, then. She didn’t know there was a word for it. Words were invented by people a long time ago, people who didn’t know she existed. People who existed before she was even born, probably… 

She doesn’t really understand. Losing herself—panic— it was something that happened because she was weak. Because she couldn’t handle the things she was made to handle. It’s not a phenomena experienced by anyone else. Because everyone else was a real person. So they couldn’t break like she did. 

Right?… She’s unsure now. Her stomach is moving in a weird way. Like she’s on a boat, and the waves are tipping it from side to side. Water sloshing… She gets a brief flash of thought to it. Her hands on his neck, the blood from his mouth. Sloshing like water as it dribbled from his chin… Ah, no. What was she thinking of? 

Panic. Panic. She almost did it again. But it was only her, right? Her father hadn’t created any other evil, human-like things besides her? She was the only successful one. That’s how she could live, knowing the evil was limited to her. Everyone else was real. They made mistakes, but they could be washed away, because what was under was a human. 

Under her was black sludge in the form of a person. Something created to cause only pain to the real people around it. An abomination. She knew that. But she wanted to make it right. No, better. There’s no way to change it. But she could ease the suffering. Use her existence to help as much as she could. She couldn’t be good, she knew that. But she could do good things. The best she could do with her tainted body. 

She hopes she’s misunderstanding. That there aren’t tainted, not-real people like her, but then… She remembers Jason. Those times at night. 

While he slept is the only time she saw true fear on his face. Though she’s seen him scared many times, he hid it with scowls, thinking she wouldn’t know better. She knew it wasn’t malicious. He wanted to be strong. She thinks he is. Just not in the way he tries to seem. But at night, she saw fear in a way she knows he would never, ever, want her to see. His body would contort and twist, as if struggling against invisible forces not even the girl could see, and his breaths would become deep and quick. 

He would let out small whimpers like a dog. She knows he would hate for her to hear that the most. He keeps what hurt him so close to his chest that it melded deep into his skin. If she pried it away it would rip his flesh, and he would hate her. It didn’t matter if she was trying to protect him. She knew that. 

Was that a form of panic? She thinks so. Because Jason wasn’t being hurt. But he thrashed around and made pained noises he never would while he was awake. So he thought he was somewhere else, some-time else. The way she did. For real people, panic must only come in sleep, where they can’t control their thoughts. But because she was not a real person, it came to her in the day and night. 

She understands now. She’s glad that real people don’t experience panic in the day like she does. Jason had probably done bad things in his life. But it wasn’t his fault. She knew that. So she hopes one day, his panic can go away. That would be good. 

“Panic.” The girl says, again. It comes out perfect this time. She can’t help but smile. She’s happy she can explain it now. It’s not the same as the panic other people have, because what she loses herself in is what she deserves, but she wants to be able to identify the panic, so she can make sure it doesn’t annoy Kate. 

The panic she had had an hour ago probably annoyed her, even if she didn’t show it. A deep seated, mild frustration. That’s how hatred of the girl usually started. She has to make sure she doesn’t nurse that frustration. She likes Kate. She wants Kate to like her.

They play the game for the rest of the day, and the girl doesn’t think of anything else except the warm, happy feeling built up in her chest. 

When she goes home, to the alley, she feels light, even though she had experienced panic. Panic. Panic. Panic. It’s so strange to have a word for it. Paniiiiiiic. It described it perfectly. She couldn’t think of what it was for too long, like how she did for other words, because what panic meant was bad, and she didn’t want to accidentally panic because she thought of those things.

That’s how she loses herself in the first place. Thinking of the bad things. So she skips home, smiling the whole time, and it feels unnatural, but she doesn’t care at all. 

Panic. Panic. Paniiiiiic. 

She knows a new word. She could say it out loud, too. The more she learns words the easier it will be to say them. One day, she’ll be able to say one without messing up at all. It will just slip out, like feet on ice. It’s going to be such a great day. She can’t wait. She wants it to come now. She has to do all she can so the day can come as quickly as possible. She’ll do all she can to assure it. 

She turns into the alley, and Jason is there. His head is down, buried in his knees. Her heart drops. She can feel her breath grow shallow. The blatant vulnerability of the position immediately let her know he was in distress. 

“Ja…son?” She asked, voice quivering a bit. She wasn’t sure why she had said his name. She didn’t think he would answer. He didn’t like to talk when he was upset. He shut himself away and bundled all the negativity deep in his ribs. 

But he did say something. He curled all his fingers except the one closest to his thumb, pointing at his forehead, and then moved it down— slowly, shakingly, deliberately, on top of the other fist below. Her sign. The girl. But she can barely register it. 

His face is a mess. His left eye is swollen shut. The skin around his nose is red, like it had been rubbed against a carpet, and dried blood was caked around his nostrils, trailing into his mouth. On his cheek is an equally swollen red mark, a strike from a fist that would definitely turn into a deep purple bruise. It’s so fresh that the newness almost disturbed her. His lips were always cracked, like hers, it wasn’t anything new. But they were bleeding in a way not even dryness could explain. She gently puts a hand on his chin. 

Can I see? 

His face is contorted into a grimace of pain. There was no defiance left in him. The thing she had grown to associate with him so much, snuffed out. All she could see was sadness. Weak sadness. He nods mildly. 

She hates it. That meek way of existence wasn’t him. It wasn’t Jason. Wasn’t the movement of fingers she had memorized. But she follows his acceptance, and softly moves his lips apart. Blood instantly spilled from his gums onto his lower lip.

She knew it. Multiple of his teeth were chipped. The third one from the front on the bottom row was even gone completely. His teeth had massacred his mouth when he was punched, gums cut up like he had taken a razor to it. 

Her heart hurt. She let go of his lips. He didn’t look at her, as if he was ashamed. 

She took off her backpack, keeping her desire to shake under control, and took out a roll of expired, aged gauze. It wasn’t in its prime. But it was the best she had. She pulls it apart easily, and motions for Jason to open his mouth again. He looks at her with mild surprise, but it was subdued in that way that made her sick. Someone had beaten his soul from him. She’s so mad that keeping her hands from shaking in this very moment was more challenging than keeping herself from shaking after getting shot. 

This isn’t fair, she thinks as she presses down on his gums, watching the beige material become red with his blood. 

This isn’t fair, she thinks as she can only see one of his dull green eyes, the other closing is on itself. 

This isn’t fair, she thinks as she holds him in her arms, pretending she can’t hear him cry into her chest.  

Chapter Text

She thinks it was about four years ago.

She had been walking for days on an empty stomach, the soles of her sneakers long since peeled off on some desolate road she would never learn the name of. She had had those shoes for years. Feeling them break apart right under her made her sad, in a way.

The clothes on her back were the closest thing to a friend she had. Soon it became more of a hindrance to wear her shoes then walk barefoot. The fabric would fold under her toes and cause her to trip, the fragments of the shoelaces tangled more often than tied.

Shoes were for protecting the bottom of your feet, anyways. What good was a pair of shoes with no bottom?

Yes, she knew it was over.

She had buried them in a field of yellow grass. The dirt was hard and dry on that day. From a distance, a dog watched her. Its ribs were showing, the short brown hair protruding from its skin more like infected needles than fur.

Two emaciated animals studying one another.

It approached her carefully. She waited just as gently as it came, keeping her breaths even. Avoids its eyes. Remembers how weak its kneecaps looked. One solid kick could easily break them. The dog sniffs the ground of her funeral. And then it had started slowly growling, the sound clearly struggling to come out of its throat. Around its neck was a red rope mark.

Ah, so you’re like me. She thought. I can’t talk either.

Eye contact with hounds equaled aggression. She didn’t want to fight. She had just buried her friend. But she had also, foolishly, wanted to see the face of this thing that was like her.

Its body screamed at her the mistreatment it had suffered since birth. Had it ever experienced what a full stomach was like? She doubted it. Its ribs were so used to protruding from its skin, marks would probably be left if the dog ever got well fed. Its teeth were bared. A warning. Any creature this dog had come across had hurt it. It didn’t see any reason this girl would be an exception.

Get ready to attack anything you encounter. Learn the way it moves so you can break the legs underneath it. She knew that feeling too. She stares into its black eyes and sees her own, deep down.

The girl had extended her hand, palm facing down, as a sign of non-aggression. Reach out to touch this similar thing. The dog sniffed at her palm, hesitated for a moment, and then licked it tentatively. The spit was warm. It’s tongue was rough. It then backed off a few steps and sat down, its eyes still locked onto the girl's.

She slowly approached the dog, keeping her movements slow and deliberate, and sat down beside it. Could feel the fear slightly subside. It was still in guard, still ready to attack at any moment. The dog's body was tense, but it didn't growl or attack her. They sat like that for a while.

When the sun started to set, she knew she had to continue her journey. But as she walked away from the field, the dog followed her.

It was apprehensive, keeping its distance, but everytime she looked back, she could see the figure of the animal trailing behind. As the girl continued through the expansive plains, the dog grew bolder, inching closer to her. It would occasionally stop and stare at her. Asking if it was okay for it to exist near her.

It was natural for animals to long for companionship, even if the past had taught them it brought nothing but pain. It was an innate desire that resided in a majority of all life. Back then, she hadn’t had such confused feelings on companionship like she did now. She stayed away from others, knowing it was for the best. Time had made her so foolish.

The dog never fully trusted her, but it still lingered around her. She fed it when she could. Sat next to it if it didn’t run away. She did her best to make the dog’s decision to follow her worthwhile. But days after their meeting, the dog had gotten its foot stuck in a trap. An old one.

The metal was rusted and bubbling brown, sharp protrusions sticking up. It was much too old to force apart with her bare hands. All it would have done is cut her too, and the girl receiving a metal infected wound would cause even more problems.

She knew what she had to do.

The dog would never forgive her. Could never understand why the girl was doing this. She would just be another thing that has hurt it, nothing more. Proof of that deep seated belief it had that no being would ever be kind to it. Everything would hurt it. Some would just wait before doing it.

She knew what she had to do.

The girl didn’t tremble as she severed the tendons, but closed her eyes as she broke the bone. The howls the creature let out hadn’t blended into the background. She had felt them deep in her own throat, felt the agony of the amputation on her arm.

It had lunged for her torso as she continued the operation, but she swiftly dodged each attempt.

She knew what she had to do.

If it was a human, she would have stuck a finger in its eye to stop another similar incident from occurring. But it wasn’t a human. Or an enemy. She was. She had understood why it wanted to attack her. It would only be fair, really, from its point of view.

She did what she had to do, and she never saw the dog again.

Being the enemy to help others is a position she can take. This is natural for her. She isn’t a real person. She thinks she’s a mix of human and evil now, maybe more so than before she came into this city, but the evil is poison, and it will keep the human part of her forever tainted, fake, insincere.

To help Jason, it’s necessary to hurt him. She has to betray this trust, and get involved in the place he leaves her to go to. She has to hurt the person who hurts him, so that they won’t do it again. He won’t understand. Just like that dog. But he doesn’t need to. Her feelings are useless. What’s important is helping. Making up for that mistake. It’s okay if he hates her. He should have, all along.

This is just a return to what’s meant to happen. The signs and the nights together were nice. More than she deserved. But it’s time to return to reality.

Kate won’t hate her, she thinks. She doesn’t want Jason to be hurt either. She’ll understand the girl's motives. Might even be happy. That’s good, at least. Maybe after some time has passed Jason will talk to Kate about it, and she’ll explain why the girl did what she did. And maybe then they could be friends again.

She looks at her shoes. They’re not as warm as her old ones. Wonders if their innards are still slathered on that road she didn’t pick them up from. Wonders if it’s possible that they could be mad that she buried the sneaker’s body so far away from them.

It’s going to be lonely to not hear someone talk to her before bed. She had gotten used to it. Knows she shouldn’t have. In the end, all of what she was feeling was her own fault. What she was going to do was right. How things should have been from the start. She had developed human attachment like she had the right to be a human, and this was the consequence.

She holds Jason in her arms as he sobs. Feels the warm spit and tears from his sobs on her collarbone. He grips the back of her jacket like he may fall if he wasn’t, despite currently sitting down. It’s going to be okay. She thinks. No one is going to hurt you in this way again. I’m sorry I didn’t fix this sooner.

After a while, he wearily pushes her away, rubbing harshly at his wet face with the crook of his arm. It’s to keep up that appearance— if the tears aren’t there, then I was never really crying— but it just irritates his already red face and makes it even more obvious a few moments ago he was sobbing.

Jason is lonely too. This, the girl knows for a fact now. He’s lonely and the girl makes him feel better. She thinks that anyone would make him feel better, that she isn’t special, because for her to be a special person Jason couldn’t form an attachment to any other, that would mean Jason enjoyed being specifically in the company of rotten people like her over kind people like Kate. And she knows Jason isn’t like that.

It’s because they’re together all the time, and the girl doesn’t point out things like him wiping his face being counterproductive, like Kate would. Would she have said so if she could speak?

No, she doesn’t think so. Because Jason would get mad at her, like he did with Kate. She knows Jason deserves better, a better person to be here, a real person and not a poor substitute like herself. He’s gotten attached to a fake, tainted mess he thought was a person. But this tainted mess is still going to protect him, even if it’s from a distance.

Yes, she’s going to stop the people hurting him. She knows this. She’s going to cut off the leg at the bone.

He says some things. She recognizes a few words, can fit her head around the sounds. Only really gets one. Okay? Added at the end, slimy, drippy with his snot and tears he keeps trying to get rid of. People say that when they want reassurance, from her memory.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Reassurance. Kate’s smile. The dancer— Batgirl. Her red hair, bright smile, strong hands. Not rough hands. The way Jason’s coat feels on her palms. She likes that feeling.

“Ooooo….kkk…aarruughhh…” She parrots back, rubbing her hand down his back. Small circles. Jason seems slightly confused at the touch, grumbling out a string of half-formed words, but leans into it all the same. It feels nice.

She digs around in the crook of a peeling, moldy wooden beam, where his backpack is. It’s wet because of the snow, but Jason’s backpack has a plastic-like material hers doesn’t coated around on the inside. So she knows everything inside will be fine.

She finds the book they’re currently reading, a decent sized one, at least bigger than the first one they had red. It’s red and worn down. Jason has bent one of the pages at the top to keep their place. She goes back to his side. He instinctively leans into her shoulder. Makes her feel funny.

She opens the page. She doesn’t read much. She doesn’t understand a majority of what she’s even looking at. She can recognize “I” now. It’s probably the easiest letter. It doesn’t have strange loops that can be confused with other one’s, it’s just a line. But the way “I” sounds is different depending on the letter before or after it, so she gets too nervous to say it most of the time. Jason doesn’t mind.

She knows No, Yes, Good, Her. They all showed up. Jason hasn’t fallen asleep after an hour. She thinks it’s because it’s not as nice to listen to her read him. Just sound like gross groans. She wouldn’t want to fall asleep to that either, if she was normal. Decides then maybe to put it away. Let him sleep on his own.

But he grabs her wrist, wearily. Keep going.

Cut off the leg at the bone. She knows.

Maybe this is the last time they’ll ever read together is this. Her and her failures. A bad imitation of what Jason did out of affection. But it’s okay. She thinks she’s okay with this being the last time.

Sleep is nice that night. It’s quiet. Peaceful. She listens to Jason’s breaths, watches his ribcage go up and down. Notices the twitches, like someone hit him there. Thinks someone definitely did. But she rests in knowing it won’t happen again.

Not after today. The sun rises. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

Chapter Text

The girl is nervous the entire day, but she tries her best to not let it affect her. 

Jason wakes up a little earlier than usual. It’s a tiny detail, but it’s like throwing a pebble into a gear. For some reason, it keeps her on edge. Even as the blue parka man gives them another assignment, she can’t shake the horrible dread in her stomach. Jason notices. He always does, she thinks.

But instead of reacting with pity like Kate, he matches her pent up feelings, walking around her weirdly the entire day, helping her carry the boxes like she’s too weak to do so on her own, forcing himself right next to her on the sidewalk even though it’s awkward. 

The girl wishes he wouldn’t. It’s going to make tonight even harder. It’s better to not acknowledge it. 

Later in the day, when they’ve moved enough boxes that both of their hands looked red and raw, Jason motions for them to return. She doesn’t want to. She wants to do mindless work all day, until the night when he disappears. But she nods, and they return to the blue parka man. As always, Jason pockets the paper he gives them. She doesn’t know what to do with it. 

It seems everyone wants different amounts for the same thing. Some people put some of the paper back in her hand when she gives them all she has, and some ask her for more until she has nothing left on her. She doesn’t understand how those transactions work at all. She’ll have to ask Kate to explain soon. It’s probably really simple, when explained by someone directly to her rather than having to guess based on people’s confusing actions. She hopes so. 

She thinks at this place Jason goes, they must have showers, because he never looks as grimy as she does. She’s thought of this before. Something similar, at least. About how his clothes and backpack are higher quality than hers. She’s happy for him. But she wishes that she wasn’t so cold, too. 

Despite Jason’s silent attachment to her the entire day, as if she’ll feel safe enough to just start speaking in full sentences and explain everything in her head, he does leave in the night. As expected. Doesn’t make her upset. 

She trails him. Hasn’t done that in a while. Feels weird. She has this strange ache in the back of her throat that he’ll catch her— even though this doesn’t make sense. She knows it doesn’t. Jason was the normal amount of observant as any person. She had been taught to bypass this normal observance. There was not even the slightest, tiniest chance he knew she was behind him. Yet the ache stays. 

He doesn’t leave the dangerous part of the city, which isn’t surprising. She thinks if he was going to the better part, the part that has huge buildings that don’t look like they’ll topple themselves, he would live there instead of only visit it every couple of nights. 

He stops at an apartment. Looks like every other. The stone outside is wet and molding. Bad pipes, she thinks. He takes in a deep breath before he enters. Preparing himself. She gets ready, and follows him in, scaling the shadows of the wall, filling herself in like a glass of water. 

She watches from the nook she’s fastened herself in as he climbs the stairs. He goes up one flight. Another. Another. Then he doesn’t go up any more. She silently trails after him, grateful the stairs are made of decaying stone rather than wood. Easier to be completely silent when she doesn’t have to feel for creaks in the floor.

She hears the sound of a door open. It’s loud. Aggressive. Not Jason, the one who was so on edge. She goes up faster, and sees a man in Jason’s face. He’s yelling, screaming. He looks like a wild animal, and Jason looks blank. She doesn’t think. She lands a kick to the in-between space of his ribs— the part that always topples a person. The man falls easily. He reeks of a strong chemical she can’t place. 

Jason looks at her. Gapes. Then his face shifts into something wounded and embarrassed, but he tries to hide it with rage. What are you doing here? He says with his wound up shoulders. He says something similar with his voice. 

She feels frozen. But her body moves anyways. She points to his left eye. 

I wanted to protect you.

He doesn’t yell at her. He winds up his face like he had been punched in the other eye. He’s embarrassed. Trying to decide what to do. She’s caught him in something so intimate it feels like a lie. 

She looks at the man on the floor. He’s trying to grasp for her ankle, but she hits it away with her foot. He’s in so much pain he doesn’t attempt again, simply placing his hands on his forehead and moaning. She points to him, then points to Jason’s eye. Did he do that to you?

Jason keeps his face wound up, as if not to betray any emotion, but she knows. He did. 

She isn’t sure what to do now. So she stands there. Maybe she should drag the man down the stairs. She’s thinking about what to do after he wakes up. Maybe stand guard outside the apartment and make sure he doesn't get near Jason again. Then the man will realize what he’s doing is wrong, since he’s being stopped from doing it constantly, and then he’ll apologize. Yes, she thinks that’s possible. 

She makes a fist, leaving her thumb and the finger closest to it sprawled out. Copies the motion with the other hand. Lifts her left hand to her forehead, tapping, then brings it down on top of the other hand, keeping the motion. The sign for Jason.

She doesn’t know what else to do. 

Jason sighs. Does the same thing, but instead of touching his forehead, touches his chin. You. 

He is mad. He’s wounded, and embarrassed, in the way he was embarrassed when Kate yelled at him for this months ago. When Jason is embarrassed, he gets mad. He lashes out and then goes into himself. To stop himself from being embarrassed again. But he’s not doing that. He looks conflicted. Experiencing lots of emotions, and his body is displaying all of them, though he doesn’t realize. The foot she kicked the man with feels tingly. 

He hits his head against the open door. Stays there, then lifts it to look at her again. “Sorry.” He says. And she recognizes it.

“Sormey.” She repeats, slightly garbled. 

The girl sees the exhaustion and defeat in Jason’s shoulders, the slump in his figure. She sees a boy tired of being angry. Defeated. Just like yesterday. 

She was waiting. For him to speak, to step forward, to hit her, something. She has prepared herself to be alone. What else was there? It seems like something pivotal in their relationship had been altered, yet here they were. Standing. Everything had changed and stayed the same.

She wasn’t sure if she had wanted his anger to be real. Had she wanted him to hate her? She thinks she did. She had been mad at him too. She was still mad at him, for not noticing she deserved to be hated.

He walks forward to the door. Hesitates. Seems as if even he was unsure of what was on the other side. This was the door that had been shoved open so aggressively earlier. He was reluctant to let her into this part of him.

It’s as if she was waiting for him to decide the rest of her life, or something huge like that. Her hands shake with an awful feeling, like that feeling you get on a high balcony, as though you are about to do something horrible, as though you are about to step off something high without meaning to.

But she waits. As though waiting had become the very fabric of what she was, waiting was like breathing to her now. This is something, she knows, was a part of him that he had kept hidden, a part of him that he was now considering sharing with her instead of pushing her away to keep secret.

He opens the door, and steps in with her. 

The inside the apartment is falling apart. The carpet is stained and loose. The kitchen is covered in grime. There are books and clothes everywhere. It is messy and chaotic. She knew from seeing it outside, but even the windows are dirty and streaked, although a quick wipe would fix that. The whole place smells of damp and sweat and stale cigarette smoke. It smells broken. 

But she has seen him cry, and she has beaten up his attackers, twice now. She doesn’t think he would be so shameful of a home. Was he ashamed of what happened back there? Of having been beaten up? Of her not only seeing it, but saving him? She had seen it before. She didn’t care. It didn’t make her think less of him. Maybe he thought it did. He didn’t understand. That’s what she had to do. He didn’t understand at all. 

It’s like the brokenness of this place, the dampness and the squalor, it has seeped into him. It has seeped into the cracks of him. Somehow it has burrowed into his skin and his bones. And it was him now, this place. He was embarrassed of her seeing his bones. 

She feels something rise in her, and she grabs the small of his arm, and brings it close to her.

She wants to let him know that there are no cracks or decay. There is just him, who’s slightly shorter than her, who smells kind of like mold, who loves books in a way she wishes she could. There is him, standing before her. There is him, just as he is. She was itching internally. 

This was so far from what she had expected, and she wasn’t sure exactly what to follow now. She had prepared herself to be clawed at in the eyes. Or for silent anger. She thought that was more like Jason, less like her fear. Was it so outlandish of her to have expected that? She doesn’t think so. It wasn’t that long ago that he had done that very thing— turned that silent anger on her, though they had known each other so much less back then.

In this apartment, she hears labored breathing. Mumbles. Jason hears it too, and he doesn’t seem alert. Just tired. So she calms herself down too. There’s a lot of windows. She could escape very easily. The door behind her is closed, but not locked. Gives it a few more glances. How quickly could she escape if she carried Jason, too? It would shave her time off by a few seconds. Thinks about it a little more. No, she could make it at the same time, if she tried. This thought placates her. 

On the floor, in the next room, which is barely a next room so much as a continuation of this one room with a slight wall jutting out to signify its a separate area, there’s a woman. She’s on a dirty mattress. She looks extremely sick. Her eyes are dull and her hair is lifeless. Like a good tug would make all of it come out. It’s the color of a rag soaked with diluted blood. 

Jason has a straight nose like a rifle barrel. The woman’s nose is small and curved upwards. The woman has blue eyes. Soft blue eyes that look like a dying sea. Jason has dark green eyes. A rusting grenade. The ghost woman barely stirs. Something about her screams despair. Her white forehead is soaked in pounds of sweat. 

The ghost woman doesn’t look like Jason at all, but the way he looks at her let’s her know who she is. She’s the way to Jason that the girl’s father is to her. She briefly considers the man outside being the same, but discards it quickly. No, Jason treated that man like a disconnected nuisance, like something to get over in order to come inside. 

“Jason…” The ghost woman murmurs. It’s so low and mumbled together that it barely sounds like his name. Like a dying animal in the night, right before you put it out of its misery because it’s too pitiful to leave that way. 

Jason rushes to her side, face immediately softening. It’s an openness she has hardly ever seen on him. So vulnerable. Not in the way he was last night as she soaked the blood from his mouth, not so raw and hurt. But happy. Or, soft. She thinks soft is better. She sees a bit of the dying sea in him. 

He says something reassuring to her. He repeats a word enough that she knows he’s calling her it. Mmmmmuuuuhhhooooeemmm. She doesn’t know the ins and outs of the word though, and it quickly leaves her head. 

Jason’s hand is firmly grasping the ghost woman’s, but she has no grip. If he lets go, her hand will slip from his and fall limp on the floor. 

The ghost woman’s gaze slow shifts to the girl. Her eyes fill with a dull surprise. She lights up, just slightly. She mutters something to Jason. The girl doesn't know what she is saying, but the question is clear.

The woman wants to know who she is. The girl stares back. She stands there, quietly. Waiting. Waiting for some kind of sign. For some indication of what she wants her to do. For some direction. She feels lost, she feels out of her depth. Jason was supposed to hate her, right now. 

Jason looks a little lost too, and he struggles with the words that leave his mouth. It’s not unusual, she’s noticed Jason seems to trip over his words when he’s been faced with a question he feels he can’t answer. When he’s embarrassed, too. He doesn’t talk long, but eventually he settles into something lighter as he speaks, as open as before. 

A flicker of understanding comes into the woman's eyes as he talks. Perhaps it is some hint in his voice... some familiarity… but as he talks, she seems to catch a drift of what he is saying. And she replies in some way that comforts him, an affirmation. 

An I understand now who she is now. Thank you for explaining it to me. 

The way she says it out loud is shorter, more dragged out in her whispy voice. 

Does she understand who the girl is, though? The girl doesn’t think so. Jason doesn’t understand her either, since he doesn’t hate her like the dog had. So how could he explain her to the ghost woman? 

The girl stares into the woman’s eyes and then slowly raises her hand in a slight gesture of greeting, hoping that the woman will understand that she has been seen; she has been noticed; she is real. The woman’s eyes soften from dull surprise to something closer to understanding. She says something else to Jason and then smiles at the girl, a gentle knowing smile. 

Jason shifts a little to the side, making room for the girl to sit next to him on the stained floor. She understands this is an intensely important moment. That making a good impression on this woman might be the most important thing she’s done for Jason since the day they met. And she had been so sure when coming here that by now, at this moment, he would be hating her forever. 

And, it’s here, when sitting down and trying to think of how to impress a woman she had even known existed ten minutes prior, she realizes something she’s known for a long time. 

She loves Jason.

She really, truly does. 

Wanting to be accepted by someone to make someone else accept you too, she’s never experienced this before. She’s used to people looking at her— her greasy hair or dirty jacket or rank smell, and all interaction ending there. But she’s spent months with Jason. Nights and days and words and signs. She had been preparing for him to hate her. Wanted him to. But, she knows now. It’s because she was afraid of this fact, that she loves him. Because she knows an evil person does not deserve to love. 

But Jason chose her. She’s in front of this ghost woman, this woman who clearly means so much to him, and the ghost woman knows her. It means something. Yes. It does. An evil thing like her, flesh draped over decay, isn’t worthy of forming these tender bonds. But maybe she had to. Maybe it was okay, if she tried her best to appear good. Jason didn’t know about her father, or the steel room, or what happened all those years ago. He knows her as the girl. Maybe she could just be the girl, for right now. 

It’s a farce. Indulgent, stupid, foolish. Love is this, she knows. Her father would beat this thought out of her. Grip her hair and smash her head into the floor until teeth and blood spilled out, until she couldn’t think of anything at all, much less something like love. If he was here. 

He’s not here. 

The girl had always thought that when love happened it would be violent and sudden. She thought it would feel like a slap, or a punch, or a kick. Something horrible, that she would run away from immediately out of fear and shame. But it feels warm and gentle and like a caress…

It feels like a gentle woman who holds you when you aren’t sure what’s happening. It feels like a boy who reads to you every night. She is determined, even in her fear, to be as worthy as she can be. She will be good. She will lie. She will pretend to be human. 

She extends a perfectly still hand. They are small in the ghost woman’s gentle touch. Surprisingly, the girl’s hands are colder. She notices a the strange warmth of the other’s palm. The ghost woman smiles, turning to Jason. Says something. Jason looks away bashfully and mutters something under his breath. The ghost woman looks at him with this glazed over, not-all-there expression, but it still reeks of fondness. 

She has soft eyes, full of history. The girl wants to look into her eyes forever. She wants to know everything. She wants to know who the man outside is. She wants to know if he’s the one who hurts Jason every time he comes here, or if it was just this once. If so, who are the other people? Why do they hurt him at all? She wants to know why the ghost woman would let that happen. Why Jason would. 

The soft eyes suddenly, as if coming out of a daze, notice Jason’s bruised face. The ghost woman makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a cry. She gently cups Jason’s head in her hands. She is silent for a moment, and then she says something. She is talking very gently, in a tone of voice that is unfamiliar to the girl. The girl cannot understand a single word, but it sounds warm and comforting, like a story told to a child. It’s a reassurance about the marks. 

Jason laughs a little too loudly, and looks down at the ground, but the girl can see that his eyes are wet. The ghost woman doesn’t notice though. She seems to be placated and she pulls Jason close to her, wrapping him in her arms and whispering sweetly to him. The girl can hear it. 

“You,’ she knew this. It’s a word used to describe the person you’re talking to, “dddddoooouughhhhnnnnuughtttt ddddeeehhhsseerrhhherrrrveee tttthhhuuuuuussseehhhh,” she can’t recognize these ones. “Noooooaaaughhhtttt you,” Then finally, she ends the sentence with, “Jason.” She finds it sort of oddly funny she can recognize almost half the sentence, yet gained nothing. All the words she knew were just her saying his name. 

The ghost woman’s gentle way of stroking his hair says it, though. I love you. I am sorry this is happening. I blame myself. That last bit, she doesn’t think Jason knows. But the ghost woman carries this massive guilt on her. It weighs her shoulders down. 

The ghost woman starts coughing. It’s not too violent, but for her frail body, it feels like it. Jason immediately holds her back, starts listing off things to do, ways he can help. She waves him off. 

Turns to the girl. Looks at her hands. Her knuckles, which are bruised from stopping a fight a few days ago. Bruised from many nights before that too. The ghost woman just stared. Blankly. She looks back at Jason’s face. Her face cracks into that faraway smile. You protected him, didn’t you? 

Yes. She nods, almost imperceptibly. 

Jason gives her a strange look. She itches at her side. Maybe what the ghost woman had said didn’t match what her body was asking. That happened more often that it didn’t, especially with Jason himself. Usually she measured this by the word length, and the way others probably saw their body language, not the inner workings only she could view. 

As the night drags on, the ghost woman starts to fade again, like she had in the beginning. Her shoulders slump and her head tips forward like she is almost falling asleep.

Jason jumps up to get her a cold rag for her head. He seems to know exactly what she needs, even though she hasn’t said a word. The girl knows she’s done this many times before. Just never with someone else next to him. 

When Jason gives the ghost woman the cold rag, placing it gently on her forehead, he says something to her in a low voice that the girl cannot understand. It seems to make the ghost woman happy, though, and the girl can see her lips move in a small smile.

Jason places a tender kiss on the ghost woman's forehead, on the cold rag he had placed there. The girl thinks about how many times her father had struck her there. On that very spot, right above her eyes. Vision fading, dizzy spells. She thinks about it, and then she stops, remembering Kate writing PANIC on her decanting notebook paper. 

Jason fishes around in his backpack and takes out the paper they had earned that day. He places the bulk of it into the ghost woman's hands. Her fingers twitch around it slightly. Like she’s feeling for it. It is almost an instinctual reaction. The girl watches as she takes it and holds it close to her chest.

She appears to relax as she holds onto the paper, rustling quietly in her hands.

Jason whispers something to her. A soft, little, tender thing. No answer comes back to him. It is as if the ghost woman has passed beyond their reach and words cannot reach her anymore. Jason seems unfazed by this, though. Yes, he’s used to it. He’s let the girl witness this routine, a thing that always happens, just without her witnessing it. Her inclusion this time… That’s the only strange thing here. 

The girl looks at the ghost woman. Her un-Jason face. Her sticky, sweat soaked forehead, her hands, full of the paper that could buy her food, her lips, which had smiled so kindly.

I’m glad you exist. Thank you. 

They leave the apartment, and the man isn’t there on the floor anymore. They had been inside for a while. She doesn’t find this surprising. She hopes the man has learned from this that hurting others is wrong, and if he tries again, the same will happen. She has hope that this is what will occur, and it doesn’t bother her. Jason seems sour though. As if he had hoped the man was still there, coughing and unable to move. She doesn’t really like that thought. 

But she understands. 

She does. 

Chapter Text

She dreams of the ghost woman, Batman, Batgirl, and her father. 

It starts in the field at the outskirts of the city, the one with the shiny red car. But the car isn’t there, and the girl doesn’t even think of it. She’s running from something. She can’t look back, but she knows it’s Batman. That horrible, inhuman shadow that had beat her. That had almost caught her. She thinks of nothing as she runs. Heart gripped by fear. 

The field is endless, but she can see the city in front of her. She’s in it. Running on top of the dirty concrete. It’s so hard to breathe. He’s right behind her. She sees Batgirl, the dancer, in her gray and blue suit, holding out her hand. She’s standing still, even though the girl is running. 

The girl grabs her hand. She looks up at Batgirl, but it’s not Batgirl anymore. Its the ghost woman, her red hair falling off in clumps as the wind blows. 

Then, suddenly, Batman catches her. He wraps his hands around her chest and pulls her down to the floor, then they go through the floor, and she’s falling forever, him holding her. She feels the rough hands of her father under her ribcage. They’re going to the Steel Room. She knows.

Then she wakes up. She’s sweating, huffing, and claws out to feel something. She touches the edge of the decaying mattress Jason sleeps on. The boy on top stirs, mumbles something in his sleep, then turns over. She feels something shift inside her as he looks at her, something like a knot untangling itself.

She tries to recall the dream, but all she can recall is the feeling of being strangled in a horrible grasp, and the stomach turning experience of falling forever. She’s not afraid of falling. She knows how to scale buildings with just her bare palms. Stupid. 

It’s cool tonight, despite the temperature warming up. She’ll probably wear her hair in a ponytail tomorrow, with her hood up to still obscure her face. She hates people staring at her. 

As she turns over on the ground, she thinks of Kate. She hopes that Kate is sleeping well. 

She doesn’t dream again. 

In the morning, her stomach hurts. She’s started to get these aches sometimes, in her lower section. She doesn’t know why. She can’t see any bruising on the skin. She knows injuries can be only on the inside too, but she tracks her injuries, and none ever happen on this area when the hurting starts. It's always here, too. She only gets it for a day or two every season, though. She doesn’t think much of it. If it continues, she will. 

Jason is still sleeping, drooling onto the mattress, a thick mass of liquid under his cheek. Gross. She smiles involuntarily. 

She does her morning training twice to occupy herself. She wants to go see Kate, but she doesn’t want Jason to wake up alone, either. He wakes up later than he usually does. The sun has been up for hours. 

He is bleary-eyed and disoriented. He groans, like waking up is a huge inconvenience for him, closes his eyes then opens them again. He notices the girl watching him and yawns out a half-coherent greeting, voice still raspy from sleep. 

The girl gives a nod of acknowledgment in his direction. Jason sits up and stretches, his arm reaching high above his head. He throws on one of his jackets, it’s the thin blue one that barely offers any insulation. She guesses it’s warm enough for that. She flexes her fingers and looks down at them. They’re not held down by the cold. It feels nice. She moves them again. 

They spend the day dismantling hubcaps. The girl enjoys the calm, almost meditative feeling of being so absorbed in this task. It’s becoming something of a second nature to her, memorizing the movements, the pressure she has to give in to twist off the metal. She’s better than Jason at it, and she knows that he knows this too. 

It seems to annoy him a little. He tries extra hard to dismantle quicker than her when it’s his turn. But it makes him rush, and he ends up messing up on a few, the wrench slipping from his grasp. It only made him even more frustrated. 

They hadn’t been caught yet, but she feels it’s only a matter of time. If she was doing it by herself, she knows she wouldn’t be. But Jason is slower than her, sometimes seems to purposefully take longer to talk to her, which makes him mess up more too.

  Though he knows she can’t understand him, so she doesn’t know why he does that. Shouldn’t the priority be the work? Especially since her being faster seems to make him feel insecure? She doesn’t know. Maybe he’s just bored. 

They end up buying some weird smelling chunks of meat. It looks like its curdling. White stuff seeps out of the bottom, congealing at the bottom of the tinfoil pan. She’s reminded of the feeling of raw deer flesh in her teeth, a few years ago. 

They carry the small tinfoil pan back in the direction of their alley, but Jason makes a hard turn in the opposite direction. She doesn’t question it. Eventually, they arrive at a small collection of sorts, of all different kinds of people. A majority are street kids. But there’s some women in skimpy outfits, like Kate at night. And a few old men, too. They are sitting around on wooden boxes or the pavement, leaning against walls, standing in small groups. She notices a few of them loitering around a small bonfire.

One man, bright smile wide, is holding a guitar, which he is playing a noisy song on. A few others are singing along with him. But most are ignoring him entirely, in their own worlds. 

Jason hands the tin foiled meat to a young woman with tan skin and shaggy blonde hair. It’s got a sort of reddish shade, and is pinned up out of her face with a ridiculous amount of clips. She’s wearing a black tank top with a fluffy jacket haphazardly draped over her shoulders. She kind of looks like a young cat. 

Jason knows this cat girl, though not as well as he knew Kate when they first met. He’s still a little closed off. But he smiles and chats with her. Introduces the girl. Less nervous doing so than when he introduced her to the ghost woman. 

Then, he turns to the girls and very slowly says, “Hhhhhooouuuuuughhhhhhlllleeeeee.” 

Oh. It’s her name. She doesn’t think she’ll remember it. It’s dark and the only light is the flickering bonfire, which isn’t even that close. She doesn’t know the cat girl, or her behavior, or the way she moves. She feels put on the spot. She feels embarrassed. 

She looks at the cat girl again. She has a self assured, kind of lazy, wide smile. When she talked, she had stretched some of her words, like she was exaggerating a lot. The girl thinks that fits with her overall demeanor. 

Hhhhhoooollluuhhheeeee.

Hhhooolllleeee.

No, that doesn’t sound right in her head.

Hhhhoolllllyyyy.

“…H…Huh…Luh-Lee…” She mumbles out, despite the amount of force it took to get the word out of her throat. The cat girl— Hooollllyyy— looks at Jason a little confused and incredulous. Like she didn’t really get why the girl had struggled so much. The girl hides her face in her jacket. She knew she would get humiliated. 

But Jason doesn’t look deetered, and shrugs. He says something nonchalantly. Explanation for why the girl had to wrestle that word from her mouth. Holly makes an understand sound with an underlying sarcastic tone the girl doesn’t know if Jason can pick up on either. 

She’s so, so embarrassed. Why did speaking have to be so hard? She wishes no one asked her to try at all. She could just learn in peace and one day speak full sentences and then they would be proud. The constant failure… She can’t stand it. When she was alone, she didn’t have anything to fail at. No one to watch either.

But Jason doesn’t seem to notice her dilemma, already moving on, walking with the cat girl, no, walking with HollyHollyHollyHolly, it’s Holly, to a group of women in the corner. A majority are dressed like Kate was, and the girl think she’s starting to understand something. 

The women smile sweetly at Jason, clearly knowing him. It’s strange, for someone who keeps to himself most of the time, Jason seems to be pretty well known. In this area, anyways. Mostly by people who see him in a positive light. She remembers a few scrabbles, but all of those were young boys. It seems older women like him. Or he likes them. 

They jostle him on the shoulder and he only lightly flinches, making an exaggerate groan of pain. Talks a little and laughs with them. Probably making a joke about being hurt there. She doesn’t really think it’s funny. Even if she could understand the words of the joke.  

HollyHollyHollyHollyHolly (she’s trying hard to remember, HollyHollyHolly) thanks Jason for the meat, smiling with her lips closed. Jason doesn’t say anything in return. They turn back. The girl watches the woman laugh with one another a little longer, before catching up with Jason.

It’s late, but not late enough to sleep. She wonders if that’s really all they could afford with their earnings from everything they did today. She doesn’t think so. She doesn’t understand how the green paper or coins or any of that works, but it feels wrong. She’s hungry. Her stomach aches dully. She’s so hungry she feels a little nauseous.  

But those women were so skinny. Their tank tops and skirts were hanging off their bones. They looked tired. And Jason had always planned to give the food to them. So he knows them. They must mean a lot to him. Holly. The others. She ignores the feeling in her stomach. She trusts Jason’s decisions. 

When they get to the alley, Jason goes to the back, where broken wood pillars and trash cans are piled up in a strange sort of castle they never enter unless they’re hiding from someone. He pulls a basin from on top one of the decaying wooden pillars and drags it behind them, hiding it from view of people who walk past the alley. It’s small, can probably fit both of them in it if they squeeze. Rust eats at the edges. 

He unzips his backpack. Pulls out water bottles. There has to be at least ten. She hadn’t even known he had put them in there. He unmaps them into the basin. It takes a while, but soon it’s halfway full. She stares at it, confused. What did he do that for? 

He then pulls a bar of soap from the zipper pouch in the front of his jacket, and hands it to the girl. 

Oh.

He’s saying she stinks? She wants to laugh a little bit. She hasn’t felt the urge in a while. She hasn’t bathed in months. It had been too cold. She just wiped off any grime she could see with a towel, sometimes rubbed water on it, then wiped that off too. Jason mostly lived on the streets, but he could also go back to that apartment. She’s sure it had a shower. It explains why he was always much more presentable than her. 

But to be told it like that… The girl cracks a smile involuntarily. Jason holds his hands up and says something in a sarcastic tone of voice. Probably saying she smells. It makes her smile wider. A few giggles escape from her throat. She holds her neck in surprise at the sound. 

Jason looks at her in awe. Like he hadn’t thought she was capable. But she’s laughed before, she thinks. It’s just been a long time, right? She thinks so. They’ve known one another for a long time. The only person she’s ever spent more time with than him is her father. 

It surprises her, the sound of herself laughing. Her laughter seems to start in her throat, and then it escapes from her mouth in a way that seems almost separate from her. It is like the laughter is coming from some deep place inside her, and just using her body as a conduit.

It feels... good.

Good to be so free.

She struggled to undo the zipper on her jacket. It is stuck, frozen shut. A mix of rust and old age, maybe? Jason walks over, unbidden, and reaches a hand to try and open it. He fumbles with it for a moment, before pulling too hard and ripping the jacket.

They stare in shock at the hole, long and jagged due to the thin fabric, and then they both start laughing.

Jason moves suddenly when he laughs, and it causes him to pull the zipper upwards, which causes the hole to only grow. It only makes the two of them laugh harder, and soon the girl is laughing so hard that tears run down her face and the two of them end up on the floor, laughing so hard that they can't stop.

It is wonderful. 

She pulls her jacket over the top of her head, still giggling a little bit as she does so. How had Jason done that? He’s stronger than he looks. Well, it’s not a huge loss. She can still wear it, even with a hole. Not like it’s freezing anymore. And when it’s cold again next year, she’ll have been able to find a new jacket somewhere. 

Will she still be here next year? She doesn’t have to think about it. The answer is yes. There’s nothing else to ponder. 

She takes off her shoes, and dips a foot in the water. As expected, it’s cold. Nothing horrible. She’s been in ice baths in freezers. 

She has been on the run for a long time. Her bathing experiences have been strange, at times horrifying, and never consistent. She has washed herself in rivers, lakes, and ponds— in all kinds of weather. Hot or cold or lightning storms or hail, it didn’t matter. She had to take every chance she could. 

The weirdest one by far was a bath she took with some deserters she had come across in the country— men who had fled the army and went their own way, doing whatever they could for money. The deserters had a small, dingy house with no electricity or running water. They had to get by with only what they could scavenge or beg for. The countryside town had a  community bath, which all of the men used, at once, at an allowed and pre planned time. 

The girl hadn’t wanted to, but she wasn’t sure when the next time she would be able to clean herself in an actual shower with soap would be. 

The men hadn’t stared at her. They had ignored her entirely. But something about the atmosphere, the hot and humid air, the talking and sounds. The feeling of so many bodies around her… She couldn’t take it. 

She did what she had to do to get clean. Scrubbing and rinsing, ignoring everyone and everything else except her own naked body and the soap on her skin, letting her mind drift away like the steam rising off her shoulders. She left that night.  

She tried her hardest to stay by herself as she traveled further. People just weren’t for her. 

The girl goes to take off her shirt too, just to hear a yelp from Jason, who covers his eyes and turns around at lightning fast speed. He’s embarrassed. She doesn’t understand why. Maybe he’s never taken a communal bath like she has. Maybe it’s not that common. So it wasn’t just her who didn’t like them. But there’s only her. Not all those people. So it doesn’t correlate to her. 

She turns away from Jason anyways, back facing him. She does not want to embarrass him any further. She undresses completely, and Jason doesn’t move an inch. His hands are so firmly planted on his eyes she worried he might gouge them from their sockets with the force. 

She sits herself in the small basin, trying to avoid the rusty sides. She hugs her legs close to her chest and sits. Counts. One. Two. Three. Okay. She moves her legs apart and scrubs them with the soap Jason gave her. The soles of her feet are caked with dirt. Expected. They’re hard. Sore. She runs a lot. 

She gets to her chest. It’s more scar tissue than skin. Her father liked to shoot her here the most. Near her shoulder blades. Avoid vitals. But make it hurt. The bullet exit wounds are huge, stretched over the years. She doesn’t like her chest. 

When it comes to her hair, she stops moving. How is she supposed to wash it? The basin is too small for her to cup her hands and splash water on her head. She’s going to have to get out then stick her head over the basin. Oh. She thinks that won’t be enjoyable. It’s gonna be even colder.

She’s going to get up when she hears Jason’s voice. 

What's wrong? Is Jason okay? She turns to look in his direction, wondering what he could have seen that was so shocking. Oh, she realizes now. It must be the scars on her body. It must be disturbing to look at. People never reacted with anything positive when they saw them. She preferred disgust to pity, though. She hopes Jason isn’t going to pity her. Maybe his embarrassment at seeing any naked body will override it. Yes, she hopes so. 

He says something else. A little mumbled. He’s still blushing. Not looking at her fully, eyes invested in whatever is next to her head. But there’s nothing there besides wall. She turns back around. 

“Sooo….rry.” She says. 

He responds in a fast paced sentence. She wishes she could see him. She would be able to better understand if she could. But it sounds like he’s trying to reassure her. You don’t have to apologize.

The girl can hear him get closer. And then…His hands are touching hers. He grabs the soap from her hands, kind of slowly, doesn’t look her in the eyes as he does so. She’s perfectly still. 

Then she feels the soap on her back. He’s washing her. The soap moves in gentle circles on her back. At first she feels shock and tension, but it melts away as he works the soap on her. She can feel his touch, gentle and light.  She must be very dirty. And the way he is touching her, tenderly, as if she were a child, is somehow very embarrassing for her, yet also pleasant. Jason is careful. The soap is soft. He doesn’t put too much pressure on her skin. 

She can sense a little bit that Jason is being careful not to touch her scars as he washes her. She thinks he must be afraid to touch her. Then she thinks he must find her ugly. As if she were a monster. 

Yes, a normal person, who did good things, wouldn’t have as many scars as her. He doesn’t know the truth. That they were proof she had been raised for that. But he can’t think anything good about them. She wishes she had thought more about this. She shouldn’t have let Jason see then. She wouldn’t care much for other people. It’s what she is. She has to take responsibility for what she is. But she doesn’t want Jason to…

She doesn’t want him to know the truth about her.

 She clenches her hands and screws her eyes shut, trying to ignore the bar of soap moving along her shoulder blades. 

“Sorry.” Jason says, simply. And she doesn’t know what he means. What is he sorry for? Sorry for touching her? Is he apologizing to himself? No, she knows he’s not. But she doesn’t understand. 

Her scars feel like open wounds now. She’s hyper aware of every bullet, every knife, every finger that has pierced her skin and left a mark. She doesn’t flinch. Her teeth clench. Is he going to say something about them, about her body? Will he ask her a question? Or will he simply see her differently forever? Why had he turned around when she got up? Why had he gone from embarrassed to solemnly washing her? She feels a growing sense of dread as he moves to her hair. 

She is holding herself so tight that her muscles strain. The touch of the soap feels like the cut of a needle across her hairline. She isn’t crying. Her hair is wet, now. She isn’t sure how. But it’s wet. She keeps waiting for Jason to say something, anything. It would be better than silence. Or would it? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t want him to look at her. She knows what she looks like. She thinks of the way her father would look at her from above when he had beat her. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She feels fingers digging into her arms. Her father—

But it’s Jason. His eyes are wide and green. His skin is tan. He has shaggy brown hair. Not blue, not pale, not gray. Oh. She looks down at her hands. They’re pruned up. She puts them back in the water. He’s looking at her, so worried. Like she might crack into pieces, right there. She feels nauseous. 

She thinks she’s panicking. Experiencing panic. She doesn’t know how to stop it. Her head is muddled and her heart is racing. But she’s not shaking or crying. Maybe if she stays still it will go away. Maybe if she stays still. 

If she was alone this wouldn’t have happened. It’s being around people that’s making her panic so often. If she didn't care for Jason, she wouldn’t mind him seeing her scars. She wants him to not hate her. He will. He will. Eventually. Yes. She knows. She thinks he’s talking. 

Her world shakes. Jason is shaking her. He is asking her something she cannot hear over the pounding of her heartbeat. Again and again and again. Like when he taught her his name. That was pretty long ago, wasn’t it? His eyes are locked on hers and she feels like he’s looking straight through her, right down to the broken parts of her, like he knows her better than she knows herself. He doesn’t. 

She feels like a mouse caught in his hand. All the warmth of his fingers on her, she feels paralyzed. Jason withdraws his hands. Then he lifts up his jacket and shirt in one go. 

He’s skinny. But what she really notices is… 

He has scars too. 

They’re smaller than hers. No bullet wounds. And not even half as frequent. But he has a few small, thin wounds— a knife, she thinks, and healed over scraped off skin on his arms. It’s mostly on his arms. Like a huge carpet burn. Probably from falling on the cement. When he got beat up, she thinks. And then a few strange looking cuts. Impact from something blunt. Had something thrown at him. She finds herself unconsciously touching them. He flinches. He’s not looking at her. 

He reaches out for her arm— much paler than his, but also much more muscular, she can see this fully now— and he holds it against his own. Her arm is full of jagged wounds. Some scars interlace one another. His has those scraped off skin marks, only two on this arm, and they’re kind of small. But there’s also a few thin, white lines. A blade. They’re not particularly deep. They’ll go away in a few years. She has a fleeting thought. She’s grateful he won’t be scarred forever. Yes, the marks on a good person always eventually wash off. She knows this to be true. 

He’s trying to make her feel better. Show her she’s like him. She’s not. 

She’s not. 

She’s not crying. Her body is still. The sense of his arm touching her own grounds her. 

She knows their scars aren’t the same. His were of unfortunate circumstances. Hers were about her very birth— proof she was born to be crafted into something monstrous. Yet… She does feel better. He won’t think she’s disgusting. Because he has his own. Every kid their age in this city probably has scars. She won’t stand out. They’ll just think her life was particularly horrid.

She can… blend in…

She has this horrible thought. What really is different about these scars? Both were given to them by people who wanted to hurt them. If she hates her scars, isn’t she hating Jason’s? She banishes it quickly. She can’t think that way. She’s not the same as him. It’s not the same at all. She got hers becoming a… a….

He got his from just trying to live. He’s not like her. She’s not like him. 

But she looks at their arms anyways. And she smiles, wiping away the tears that had been running down her face the entire time.  

Chapter Text

The girl is thinking of the words she knows.

Jason. Dull green eyes and safety. 

Her. The girl. People use this when referring to her.

Kate. Pretty blonde hair and a warm smile. 

Batgirl. Hero. Graceful dancer full of light. The girl has caught her a few times. She purposefully seeks her out, after all. Batgirl’s strange fighting style— her lack of brute force and how she makes up for her clear lack of strength in complicated maneuvers that moreso resemble a ballet performance than a winning strategy— intrigues the girl.  

Batman. Fear. A great big man she will slip in corners and suck under rusty steel pipes to avoid. Although Batgirl has a innately human beauty about her, she cannot see this in Batman. Perhaps it’s easier to dehumanize anyone who could catch her. 

Thank you. Gratitude. She usually isn’t able to say this one aloud. The first word is too hard to spit out. But it’s an important word, and she tries her best to commit it to memory. It’s very crucial people understand how grateful she is for them. 

Good. What she isn’t. What everyone else is. 

Panic. What she does when she starts to get lost in her thoughts— usually thoughts of the past. 

You. A name for everyone. When she’s talking to Jason, he can be ‘you’. When Kate is talking to her, the girl can be ‘you’. She thinks she understands the rules for this specific name. It’s part of ‘thank you’, and that makes it easier to understand who can be ‘you’ and who can’t be ‘you’, since ‘thank you’ is only said to someone you’re directly speaking to. 

Sorry. Apology. This word is useful. She has a lot to apologize for. Though she finds the more she says it to Jason, the more annoyed he seems, so it’s a word that can suffer from over-use too. 

It’s a lot of words. It’s more than she knew a few months ago. She can recognize some spoken words from Jason’s books, but she doesn’t know those like she knows these words. Jason’s readings have taught her to be familiar with some words in the way she would be familiar with the look of a street sign. She wouldn’t be able to recount what’s on the sign, but she could loosely describe the shape and color. 

The book Jason has been reading for the last week is a red, battered thing. She thinks she likes this book more than the last one. She doesn’t know what’s going on in it, of course, but the words are far more familar than the last one. Lots of ‘you’ and other short words. They don’t seem to have a concrete subject like any of the words she does know, though. Kind of like they’re fodder for the other words. She finds herself incapable of recalling any of them. 

Jason brings her to the ghost woman again, because Jason brings her everywhere now. There’s no man there. The girl is pleased with this. Perhaps soon he will apologize to Jason. The ghost woman seems even more out of it, and she doesn’t speak to either of them outside of unintelligible mutters. 

She puts her sweaty palm on Jason’s cheek as they’re leaving. It seems to affect him negatively, because he asks with his bound up shoulders to be left alone for the rest of the day, though he days nothing with his words. He kept retracing the spot the ghost woman touched with his own fingers, but looked more and more unsatisfied with his copy. 

The girl understands his request, even if he himself thinks he did not ask it. The girl isn’t sure what to do by herself. Maybe she could go to the blue parka man to receive a task. But it feels wrong. She thinks of words again. 

She could try to read Jason’s book by herself, a fleeting thought tells her. Her logic immediately disagrees. Out of the words she knows, she can spell maybe a fraction of them. And even those ones she can spell will probably be intelligible to others. 

She wants to learn. She’s not sure how. It helped with Kate explained the word ‘panic’ to her. But Kate isn’t the girl’s… uh, her…

She’s not close enough to Kate to ask her for that sort of help. She’ll just feel guilty and messed up inside. Kate has her own life. The girl could maybe ask Jason when he comes back. 

The girl lets it sink in how much she hates Jason being gone. She’s spent years alone, but only a dozen minutes by herself have felt like torture. When did that happen? She knows. It’s been happening and she’s done nothing to stop it. 

Being a mindless drone following orders is what she was made to do. She had been mindless, so she didn’t question those orders. She had thought it was a game, right until the end. She can’t let herself become that again. She reasons it’s okay to like Jason’s company, but not be reliant on it. That should be okay.

It’s not as if she would do everything Jason tells her to do. Yes. Not that Jason would tell her to do anything bad. Yes. Because then she would just walk away. Yes. 

Kate gave Jason some of his books. Not a huge portion. The rest were from… She thinks she can recall. They all have a glossy little tag on their spines. There’s a word on them. Maybe she could ask Kate what it means…? No. No. She doesn’t want to use Kate like a tool. The next time she visits Kate, it will be because she wants her company, not because she needs something from her.

She guessed this book building won’t be the sharp, dirty part of the city. There’s hardly any sorts of buildings that aren’t just poorly constructed apartments, or shoddy convience stores. 

So she was going into the part of the city where grime and grease weren’t a cover, but a flashing neon side. She knows, logically, having people turn their head up at her or sneer or cover their noses won’t do anything besides maybe sting somewhere deep in her heart. But she can’t take being gawked at. Being the center of attention. She needs to just be another nameless headcount in a crowd. Part of the well oiled machine. 

She wants to go with Jason. It wouldn’t be easier to blend in with another street kid of which she couldn’t control the appearance of. But being with Jason made her feel… safer. But that would ruin why she was going alone in the first place. 

Stupid. Nevermind. 

Wearing a jacket would be conspicuous. Lots of space. She needed to be as bare as possible. She hated that. She already only wore long sleeve shirts to hide her skin. Even if she wasn’t mostly scar tissue she wouldn’t wear short sleeves. It’s about being seen. Jackets also hide her smell easier. It was a stroke of luck that she had taken a real bath only a week ago. 

The girl walks down the street in only a grey long sleeve and her regular black cargo pants. Her hair is down and hugging the sides of her face. It’s her only real cover now that she can’t pull up a hood. She hates her long hair, but this is where it comes in handy. It’s a little too long and a little too messy, but not to ridiculous lengths. Her hair didn’t get tangled easily due to its thin texture. If Jason had hair her length, he would probably have to shave it all off for convenience due to the thickness of his.  

It starts raining lightly as she exits the part of the city she’s most comfortable in. What a great sign. She tries to ignore it and fight the urge to turn up her invisible hood. She’s clutching their most recent book in her hand, trying to commit the letters on the spine to memory. 

She can recognize a grand total of three letters. O. U. A. The one that looks like a line with a little dot above it is also somewhat familiar. The rest are too complicated and curvy and strange and they seem to blend in together. But she can see the words are separated into four sections. They are not equal in length. She looks around at all the buildings around her, trying to match the scribbles to a sign. Nothing yet.

The girl passes quickly on the sidewalk through the city. She keeps herself small and hidden. She blends in with the concrete jungle, almost invisible. In the back of her mind, she is aware of the others passing around her as well. She is invisible to them. 

She feels like a shadow amongst moving shapes. Perfect. 

No one knows on this street that she exists. She could fade at any moment and nothing would change. No one would know. She is here, and then gone, in a flash, and no one even notices. It’s such a comforting feeling she almost loses herself in the sidewalk, too. 

This is hard. Where would a bunch of books be kept? Books that are marked, not bought. So they must be returned. She recalls buildings like that. They’re quiet, she thinks. But they also usually close very early. The closest things look like little shops. She could ask someone. She could ask any of these people walking by. All of them.

But a feeling inside her chest tells her not to do that. She doesn’t know where this came from. Something inside her just knows not to do it. Don’t talk to the people. Don’t do it.

She sits down on a cold metal bench. The bench feels too hard against her bones and her spine, but it is better than standing. She pulls the book close to her face, trying to read the letters on the label one by one once again. It just makes her feel more frustrated than before. The tiny lines and squiggles of writing are something her brain cannot grasp.

She glances up at the buildings around her. Trying to find something that matches the letters she is reading. Nothing. Nothing even close. 

The girl suddenly hears a high voice trying to get her attention. It is a blonde girl with big brown eyes. She sort of looks like a deer. She seems a little younger than the girl, and has a ball with even black patches on it under her arm. The ball doe looks at her and smiles. She points at the book. Clearly trying to engage in conversation about the contents. The girl can’t give anything in return, so she just sits there like an idiot. 

She is uncomfortable. But the ball doe seems kind. And friendly. Not aggressive or hiding second intentions like most people in the part of the city she lives in can be. The hair on the back of her neck still stands up, though, and she is still tense.

The girl points at the spine of the book and then around at the imposing buildings of the city, the cars and stoplights, and the crowds of people that push past. 

Where is this from? She asks, and hopes the ball doe can understand her wordless question in a way the girl cannot understand the ball doe’s own. 

The ball doe looks a little confused for a moment, tilting her head in a way that makes her look even more like a deer— but then light flashes behind her eyes, and the girl knows she understands. The ball doe makes a long sound comprised of just one inflection— Oooooooooooooooooooo. The girl does not know what that means, and she does not have time to question it, because the ball doe is then pointing off into the distance, moving her hands from side to side to gesture streets and turns. 

She commits it to memory. She can memorize the way the ball doe’s hands moved. They were fast and sweaty. Sort of jittery. It fits the way the ball doe talked— fast. 

“Da… Th…. Tha….” No, that isn’t right. The girl curses herself. The ball doe is looking at her confused again. She’s so normal. It’s a little scary. The girl hasn’t been in a conversation with another girl her age so normal in a while, “Thankuh…. yew.” It’s not exactly right, still garbled and a little incorrect, but the ball doe understands it, and gives a smile and a few parting words the girl does not understand before waving and trotting off. 

The girl watches the ball doe walk away, feeling a little better now that she’s alone. She looks up at the buildings around her. The city sky is gray and it looks like it could start to rain harder. A car blares by on the road and she turns her head to the other side, trying not to be noticed.

She holds the book up to her face. It is a little comforting just to have it there, a little book with its neat spine. It’s glossy cover prevents it from being ruined by the rain, which gives her a sense of comfort. She wishes everything could have a glossy cover. The whole city wrapped in plastic. She wonders if it’s possible. She thinks about the ball doe and how it felt to have someone smile at her.

“Thankuh… you…” she whispers, before getting up and trying to follow the ball doe’s directions. 

The girl walks through the gray streets. The buildings around her are tall, most of them are made of equally gray stone. The street is busy this morning, with people shopping and coming back from work and otherwise going about their day.

The air is foggy and wet, an excess of wind despite how it should be dry season by now. It makes her nose run a little bit, and she wishes she hadn’t left her jacket behind. In the very far distance, she can see the ocean. 

Despite the ball doe’s shaky and confusing hand gestures, she eventually finds exactly what she’s looking for. It is a massive building that feels like it goes on forever. It’s tall and wide and takes up what feels like an entire block. It is built of pale gray stone and has huge windows all along the top. It looks both imposing and inviting at the same time, with large wooden doors and a broad expanse of stone steps leading up to the building.

And right on the top— the words that match the writing on the spine. She still can’t read it. But she recognizes it. Far too many complicated words, even if it’s only four. One day she will be able to read it though. Yes. One day she will be able to read the sign. And she’ll say it out loud, too. Yes. She will. One day. 

The girl pushes open the heavy wooden doors and steps inside. She stands on the marble floor for a moment, feeling overwhelmed by the size and grandeur of the building. It's a short walk down a somewhat too-fancy feeling hall until she finds the books, and the floor turns to carpet under her feet. 

She takes in the high-ceilinged room with towering shelves filled to the brim with books. It all seems so foreign and unknown, but she is determined to make use of this special place. She takes a deep breath and starts to wander down the hall, committing to memory the color and shape of every book spine peeking out of the shelves. 

She feels she’s only there for ten minutes when she sees a red haired woman out of the corner of her eye take a book down from the shelf, flip through it, then place it back. She does this continuously. 

Her movements are…. familiar. The way she stacks the books. The interval of time her legs take to move. How she almost glides as she moves across the floor. It’s strange. It is a familiar gait, a familiar movement—she must have seen it somewhere before. She makes smooth, efficient motions as she works, almost like she’s dancing.

Dancing… Ah… Dancing….! 

The girl thinks the floor underneath her disappears, even though she can feel it underneath her sneakers. There’s nothing solid at all. It’s a blow to the senses, an instant wound to her whole body— her body before it became a mass of scar tissue— a physical sickness like vertigo. She can’t find balance. She can’t find solid ground. She cannot even move. 

She feels electrified. Like a live wire has been pressed directly into her teeth. She can’t move. She just stares. Batgirl. Batgirl is right there. Just a few bookshelves away is… 

The girl’s eyes dart around the room. There’s a few people. A tall, wide brunette man is crouching down, skimming a bottom shelf. An old lady with green earrings is reading the newspaper on a huge wooden table, a few chairs over from her is a disgruntled teenage girl, chewing bubblegum loudly. 

Do they all know? Do they all know Batgirl is right there, casually rearranging books? Why is no one else reacting? Why are they all so calm? Batgirl wears a mask. The only thing that’s revealed is her red hair. So— it’s a secret. They don’t know. Only she does. She digs her fingers into her palm. Everything is spinning. But that pain is real. Yes. 

She watches Batgirl again. It could be a mistake. People are not a monolith. Sometimes, their body talks the same. It could just be very similar movements. 

No.

She’s right about this. There’s a very big difference in having a similar walk cycle and completely embodying a fighting style — the equivalent of a normal person listening to someone whisper and then hearing someone scream. She couldn’t ever mistake this. It’s— It’s impossible. 

After a few minutes of frozen staring, Batgirl seems to notice her. She looks up from the book she is shelving and their eyes meet. The girl can see Batgirl’s green eyes peering back, full of concern and confusion. Batgirl comes over, looking puzzled.

Her hair was red like copper wire. Like— a garrote, maybe. If it was more vibrant. Her red hair was cut in bangs. As thick and solid as the tip of a bayonet. She had this casual brightness. Like a really shiny knife found down by a hidden river or the back of an expansive pawn shop. Not in a damp and dark city. 

Batgirl asks a question, one full of concern. But the girl does not pay attention to it. Batgirl is bending down a little to be at eye level with the girl. Her hands are folded neatly. 

The girl blinks, and her heart seems to skip a beat. Batgirl is smiling at her— and more than that, Batgirl actually looks concerned. Like she is genuinely worried for her well-being. The girl feels a wave of heat wash over her cold shock. Batgirl is concerned about her. Batgirl cares. She is really here. 

And she’s looking at the girl like she matters. Like— like she’s someone worth protecting. Her smile feels a little more professional than Kate’s— more separated, less pity, since Batgirl doesn’t know her, and Kate does. Kate sees her like some— like a wounded animal, maybe. A unique thing, something not like the other kids. Batgirl is looking at her like a stranger who’s worth her time like any other stranger is. The girl gets a wave of nausea in her gut. It feels… it feels less warm than Kate’s smile, and more like the girl has been set on fire. She still finds herself unable to move. 

“No….” said the girl on instinct. Her voice came out as a mumble. It’s not clear as anything at all— it hangs there limp and useless in the air.

Batgirl hears it. Of course she does. Batgirl probably has fine-tuned training, someone who listens to secret things in a world of dark corners before stopping them. 

“No?” Batgirl echoes back, sweet voice confused. She’s looking at her like it’s her job to help her. As if it’s some sort of casual obligation. As if this girl is like the other people she helps as Batgirl. The girl wants to shake. Her body doesn’t show this. She is still standing still. 

“No…” She doesn’t know the word for ‘speak’. Or if ‘No speak.’ even makes sense. The way she thinks of things is so different from how people’s out loud words are formed and arranged. She might just look even more dumb if she tries to vocalize it. So she instead flaps her four fingers and thumb, making them touch each other. Visualization for someone talking, the way the jaw goes down and then up and down and up. 

“O!” Batgirl says, the same way the ball doe had said ‘o’, just less dragged out. So it must’ve some sort of word. O. The girl doesn’t know the meaning. Maybe it’s another form of ‘you’. They’re both very short and only one single sound. But people don’t just say ‘you’ for no reason. ‘You’ is a subject. It’s a thing. She does not know what ‘O’ is.

 Maybe it’s a nothing word, a word just to be put in between real words, the way she had seen before. Yes, she thinks that it. Batgirl said ‘O’ when she was surprised. The ball doe had said it when she understood something. Shock and understanding. Batgirl is surprised, but she said ‘O’ after she understood something. 

O. Oh. An exclamation of understanding. Usually due to surprise. She thinks that’s probably correct. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. She won’t use this word out loud. It seems very useless. But she needs to know every word, even the ones she personally won’t need. 

“Aaaauuuurrrrr you aaaauuuuhhhlllluhhhhrriieeettttuhh?” Batgirl asks again, a little firmer this time. “You ssuuueeeeeuummuhhh bbbbuuuhhiiieeett ssssuuuhhkkkkuuhhhaarreud.” The girl then realizes. This is where she works. Batgirl was just doing her job, working. That’s why she was organizing the shelves. She gets a small thought in the back of her head, that it may not be a moral obligation, but a practical duty. But she knows the intent of a person’s body. She knows what she felt. Batgirl had looked at her that way because she cared.

She needs to collect herself. Her mind is everywhere, she’s even forgetting her native language. This isn’t who she is. She doesn’t falter like this. She doesn’t flounder around like an idiot— drawing attention to herself. She is not an idiot. 

She makes a circle with her thumb and the finger closest to it. She knows this is a symbol for “Nothing is wrong.” Or something similar to that. She’s seen people use it when they don’t want people to worry about them. 

Batgirl doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze drifts down to the book that the girl was clutching tightly to her chest, and she lets out a little noise of clicked teeth. Oh. She works here, right? She probably recognizes the book. She doesn’t know how many books there are. Maybe Batgirl knows all of them. Maybe everyone knows all of them— like the ball doe back on the bench— and she’s the only one in the world who isn’t in on it. 

The girl holds it out. Not far enough that Batgirl can take it. Even if it belongs here, it;’s currently in Jason’s possession. And she cares more about Jason than returning it. Batgirl seems to understand. She looks down at the title, reading upside down, somehow— and lets out a sign of delight. 

She traces the words with her hands. Starts talking about it. Her voice is tinged with joy. So she must really like it. Yes, the girl can see this in every facet of Batgirl’s being. The girl wishes she could understand why Batgirl likes this specific book. Wishes she could read it. Her stomach churns.

She must look troubled again, because Batgirl trails off speaking. She says something kind in a reassuring tone. There’s a few ‘you’s in it, but the girl can’t find it in herself to strain her brain to try and capture the words. Her grip on the cover is tight. She suddenly feels like she’s strangling someone— a man, face wrinkled like the back of a dog— No, no. That isn’t happening. She is panicking. Delicate hands. Delicate, small hands with pink nails. Yes. Okay. 

She holds up the book higher to Batgirl. Then punches the side, the amount of pages. It’s not very large, her fingers are barely apart. Then she makes it smaller. 

I need a book that is shorter. She says with this gesture. I need a book that is simple. 

Batgirl tilts her head to the side. She doesn’t get it. The girl tries again. She opens the book and points to a random passage. She then says, a little louder than the first time she had, “No.” I don’t understand this. I need something simpler. 

A flash of realization shot across Batgirl’s features so quickly someone else might have missed it, but she was different. She felt it. It moved through her in a flash like the flicker of a candle flame. Batgirl ran off strangely, as if she was trying not to run, trying to make as little noise as possible, and when she returned, she had a pen and paper in hand. 

She wants the girl to write down what she means. She thinks the girl just can’t speak. The girl takes the pen and paper and leads Batgirl to a table. It’s okay. She can explain herself through this too. Even if it’s not in the way Batgirl thinks. 

The girl draws a stick figure. It’s her. The stick figure’s head is empty, a hole like a dark mouth which is also her mouth. Then a speech bubble with scribbles inside, indicating that she cannot speak. Above the figure, she draws a book and draws over it, to show she cannot read. 

Batgirl looks down at the drawing, contemplative. She seems very… sure of herself. Like she knows exactly what she’s going to do at all times. She’s so solid. The fact the girl knows who she is— the real her, the her that no one else in the world has seen, the veins and muscle movements— makes her feel even more like she’s standing next to a shining light, someone she can’t directly look at.  

Batgirl leaves again, weaving into a section of the building the girl cannot see, behind dozens of shelves. She returns again though, the girl knew she would, with a small, strange book in her hand. It’s got a very colorful cover, and the pages triple the amount of the book she has. 

Batgirl opens the first page. It is a child with blonde hair. He is pointing to himself. There is a speech bubble above him. There’s only one word in it. A squiggle with two turning points. And a half circle with a line running through it. 

Batgirl pulls out a chair. She looks around. Looking to see if there’s anything to do? For her job, the girl thinks. The girl doesn’t know what Batgirl’s duties are here. Maybe all she does is look at books and rearrange them. She probably doesn’t fight in this building. Since she isn’t wearing her gear. 

“Mmuuhheeehh.” Batgirl says, pointing to the word. 

The girl tried to mimic the sound, but they form a mass in her throat she can not cough up. It is too thick to swallow and too dry to cough away. Her voice turns into hot liquid, or an iron rod, or a knot of lead lodged forever in her throat. She forced them through anyways. “Muh…” 

“Eeeee.” Batgirl says, slowly. She is not warm like Kate. Yes. There’s a degree of separation between them right now, and the girl is glad about it. She can’t take anyone else close to her. Kate is a blistering cut on her arm, Jason is a gaping, infected wound on her back. Anymore sounds and she wouldn’t be capable of anything anymore.

 She shouldn’t be close to something as perfect as Batgirl anyways. But this is good. Maybe just being around her— being taught by her— it will make the girl be able to be better too. 

“Muh….eee…” The girl repeats back. 

Batgirl smiles. She points to herself. “Me.” She waits.

The girl gets it. She copies Batgirl’s motion, pointing to herself as well. “Meeee…” She draws out. 

Me. It’s.. the opposite of you. In the context. She thinks. Yes. That makes sense. The girl would say ‘me’ when talking about herself. How would she use that? Oh. Ah. Maybe if Jason asks something like, who ate the sandwich I wedged between the mattress? 

Me. I did. 

But she could just point to herself for that. She feels a hint of frustration. She wants to know important words. All of them at once. Not things like ‘me’. No. It is important. She isn’t the only one talking. She needs to understands what others say too. This is another word she will recognize in people’s speech. Maybe ‘me’ is one step closer to finding out why Batgirl likes that book.

So she listens and repeats. 

Chapter Text

Something is wrong with the ghost woman. 

There is always something wrong with her. Her skin is the color and consistency of milk. Sweat congeals on her forehead and down her neck. She is constantly fading, like in the next second she would not even be there anymore, a little white puff and gone. It was the movement of sickness. She didn’t usually move from her spot on the ground, but when she did, it was slow and heavy, as of she was underwater.

But now… The way she moves, the way she exists… the girl can feel herself dying every time she gazes at the ghost woman, and it’s disturbing. She’s experienced dying before. That horrible clasp of terror, blinding pain— than nothing. Utter silence. The ghost woman is a dull throbbing existence. Her silence is tucked away in a little corner only the girl has access to. The girl is afraid. She is afraid one day she and Jason will open the door— and the ghost woman will be there, and they will think she’s sleeping, but they get closer and—

She knows she will realize before Jason. 

She goes to Barbara again. She remembers how to walk to the library herself. She almost thinks she can say what it is out loud— a library. But not yet. The last part has too many confusing vocal inflections. By this time, the girl has learned a handful of new words. She learns what a ‘name’ is. A name is what you call someone. Kate’s name is Kate. Jason’s name is Jason. That cat-like girl is— her name is— Ho… Hol…. The girl can’t recall it. 

Batgirl says her name is ‘Barbara’. 

She doesn’t fully understand that. Because Barbara is Batgirl. But she thinks since Barbara is not dressed like Batgirl in the place they meet, the place with all the books— she thinks Barbara is the name for this section of her life. She still doesn’t understand it much. Batgirl is clearly the most important thing in Gotham. Why does Barbara bother coming to this place, rearranging books and dawdling around? There are people to be saved. 

If she was Batgirl… It’s a terrible thought, she knows, someone like her being Batgirl, but if she can throw away that part of it, just pretend she was a clean, normal person who was Batgirl, she would only be Batgirl. There wouldn’t need to be any other aspect of her life, no other name. 

She wonders why the real Batgirl isn’t the same. Why is teaching a dirty, smelly girl words more important than saving others? She’s grateful to Batgirl, but also feels this disgusting negative emotion about it. It’s complicated. She doesn’t understand it fully. It’s not something she should understand. It’s gross and unjust. She doesn’t have the right to think like that. Why is she so ungrateful? Batgirl— Barbara, she’s taking time out of her day to painfully teach the girl an entirely new language for nothing in return. 

…She should be grateful. 

The girl knows everyone has a name. She sees them as they are; the full picture, but their name is also them. The cold frowner with the black hair in Kate’s apartment has a name, and she would probably not want the girl to know it, and the ball doe with the bright smile has a name, and she would happily tell the girl it, probably did in their conversation, and the ghost woman has a name too. The girl can feel an incomprehensible introduction on her sickly breath. 

Even the everything man has a name. That horrible man. He has a name too, people call him something, and this word is who he is. Even…

She thinks of a rough hand over her mouth, digging into her skin. Who is she thinking of? Her father? Batman? She doesn’t know. 

Did her father give her a name? 

A name. A thing that is her— her very essence and being. People are born with it, this word should have been hers before any other words were. A name is unique to her, a thing that is her alone. She is unique. She knows this now. Jason wouldn’t read to any other person. Kate wouldn’t play video games with any other person. So what is her name? It’s as if it gets away from her the harder she tries to reach for it, the more it seems to run from her and hide where she cannot possibly find it.

She wants to ask Batgirl—Barbara, she’s Barbara right now— this, but she isn’t sure how. She points to the image in the book, a red-haired boy happily smiling while introducing himself to a girl with brown hair. She points to the boy a little harder. 

What about me? What is my name?

Barbara looks at her with confused yet gentle eyes. They’re similar, yet sharper than Kate’s. People are all so different. Maybe Barbara already asked her name, back when they first met. Maybe the girl is just showing how stupid she is. 

“No. N…Naaa…. Muh.” No name. She doesn’t have a name. Maybe her father did give her one, but he’s kept it secret all this time, kept it all to himself. She doesn’t think that’s fair. She wants to know it. Even if she’s not human— the same type of human as everyone else— she thinks having a name is okay. Jason calls her something, with his hands. But she feels… She feels like that’s a special name. In the same way that Barbara has Batgirl (though she doesn’t understand it), she thinks she can have another name too. Because that name is just for Jason.

You do not have a name? Barbara asks with thoughtful consideration. The girl nods. It’s all she can do now— just nod and hope Barbara understands. 

Barbara looks down at the picture, then back up at the girl. She seems to understand what the girl is asking. Barbara reaches into her pocket and takes out a tiny piece of paper. It’s blank, and hard. Not as thin as the paper in her notebook. The girl thinks it’s a card. Like the playing ones, she recalls seeing people use those. But there’s nothing on this one. The blank face stares at her. 

Barbara hands her a pen. Oh, the girl understands. Barbara is telling her to write something. And since the conversation was about her name... She wants the girl to write her name. But the girl just told her she didn’t have a name. So what did Barbara expect? Was the girl incorrect? No, this was the obvious course of action Barbara wanted her to take. Only thing that makes sense. But it doesn’t make sense. 

The girl looks down at the card and the pen. Her mouth is dry. This is strange. This is strange, and also— and also— She doesn’t know. Nothing seems to make any sense. The girl stares at the pen and paper in disbelief. This is more evidence that she doesn’t have a name at all. Nothing in the world seems to know her. Even though her father has a name, she doesn’t know it, and he never told her hers. No, she had foolishly entertained the idea, but the idea her father would give her a name, such a human thing, doesn’t make sense. So how can she write her name here?

But she needs to try. Maybe she’ll come up with something. Maybe this whole experience will teach her something new. She thinks really hard. She thinks about all the words she knows. She thinks about all the words she’s ever heard. Even the half-formed shapes on the edges of people’s tongues that live in the blurriest lines in her brain. She closes her eyes for a moment and listens to the sounds of the wind moving through the air.

Maybe she can make her own name up? Is that possible? 

The girl looks up at Barbara, desperate to be understood. Could she… just make something up?

She stares and stares until she feels she’s stared a hole into the wooden table. She puts the pen down. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t know. She got too excited. She forgot the reason she didn’t have a name in the first place, why her father didn’t give her one. She was nameless, it was supposed to be that way. She couldn’t think of anything because it was against the natural way of things. People get their names at birth, and she didn’t. She wasn’t meant to have a name, the time for getting one was over.

The girl stares around the library. It’s a grand, imposing room with rows upon rows of shelves, each one lined with books. All this beauty and knowledge, she realizes with horror, is meant for another person—not a nameless thing wearing draped skin over sharpened bones. The library feels so big and scary as if it’s a living thing that could swallow her whole. 

Barbara sits quietly for a moment and looks over at the girl. She seems to be thinking about something, and then she finally speaks.

"You nnnnnooouuugghhh, eeeiiiittuhhhssuhhh rrruhhheeeuhhhllluhhh ooooohhhkuuhhaaahhh iiieeeffuhhyou ddduhhooonnnuhhhttuhh wwwuuuhhaaanneenntttuhh tttooouuu ccuhhmmuhh uuuuuhhppuuhh wwwuuutthhuhh uhhhh nnuhhaameee. You ddduhhooonnnuhhhttuhh hhuuuaa—“ Then she trails off, the girl can’t follow the words anymore, they just sound likesludge. But Barbara’s body says, There is nothing wrong with not writing anything down. You are not strange. 

The girl feels herself smile. Muscles pulling under skin. The girl’s smile fades as she looks out the window and sees her reflection in the glass. She stares at her face that’s staring back at her. Who are you? The girl wonders. Who are you? The girl in the library window was very small. She had tan skin and very dark, brown eyes. Her hair was black as black is and long— down to her back. She really wanted to cut it. There were faint scars on her face, like threads of light on dark cloth. The bad ones weren’t on her face. Wouldn’t have fit that plan if she was conspicuous— Nevermind. They don’t matter. All mistakes of untrained youth. She is the only one who decides if she gets scarred now. 

Everything about her, is her decision. 

The girl walks back to the dark, narrow alleyway and spots Jason sitting on the dirty mattress at the end. He is waiting for her. As she gets closer, she can see that Jason is shivering. It’s not cold at all. She thinks he might have just visited the ghost woman. He looks up at her. "Eeeiiiyyyeeee wawwwuuhhaaahhttuueeddeehhh," he says simply. I waited. She knows he said that, that’s what he meant. Eeeiyyyye. Eye. I. Must be a word for Jason. Another name. There are so many names people have, yet she doesn’t have a single one. The girl nods and sits down on the mattress beside him. 

As soon as the girl sits down beside Jason, he puts his arms around her, pulling her close. She can feel his shaking start to calm down, but he is still scared.

"Wwwwuuhheerhhee wuuuhheerrr you?" he asks her. He’s panicked. Worried. Worried as he looks at her, so what else would he be worried about besides her? She’s trying to connect the words he said out loud to what she knows he meant, but she’s too worried about Jason to do it properly. The girl wonders why he cares where she was. It doesn't matter where she was, does it? She starts to open her mouth to respond, but doesn't know what to say. How can she explain it with the words she knows? She could say ‘Batgirl’, but Barbara is Barbara because she doesn’t want her Batgirl life in her Barbara life, so she doesn’t know. As she thinks, Jason leans his head on her shoulder and closes his eyes. The girl can hear his breathing begin to slow down.

The girl is slowly woken up from her thoughts by Jason, who then moves up from her shoulder. He must have briefly fallen asleep. She can remember that dip in his breathing intervals. A small part of the girl is flattered by this. A little bit. Jason is a lot of warning signs and boarded-up doors with furniture cautioning anyone from entering. But here she is, right next to him.

Jason looks embarrassed. As expected. He turns away from her and stands up, looking down at his feet. Then Jason slowly touches one of the rusty fire escapes— the ones that riddle this city, unused and certainly dangerous, hanging lip on the sides of bricks. The girl can feel his body shaking. Jason pulls himself up the side of the wall, his feet clanging against the rust as he climbs. He looks like he is struggling towards the top, his movements hesitant but his grip on the metal firm as he climbs higher.  The girl can see the effort it takes him. Jason stands up and looks out over the cityscape, breathing heavily. He looks like he is searching for something. Then he looks down at her. She knows what he means. 

The girl takes her weight against the fire escape and begins to climb, the metal squeaking with the pressure. All the way she had to hold her breath against the smells of the city that poured up all around her—the exhaust from cars, the heat from the apartments, the rotting garbage. It was easy to ignore, but existed somewhere in her mind, sitting off to the side. She took one step and then another easily. Her breathing was still steady when she reached the top. Her shoes scraped the steel of the grate. 

Jason turns his head to look at the girl as she stands on the roof beside him. He is wheezing now. His heart is beating like a triphammer. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Little explosions in his chest. His face is red and splotchy and he’s out of breath. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he. In the silent moments, only the sounds of the city can be heard, the cars, the honking, and the sirens in the distance. The smell isn’t as strong up here. She lets herself breathe. 

Jason then takes off running, beating across the pavement of the roof. He takes a deep breath, braces himself mid-movement, and then jumps. She sees his feet leaving the edge and for a moment, she feels nothing— she’s weightless, her heart silent. She stands rigid, waiting for a crash. It does not come. She was still waiting when he lands on the other roof, looking very relaxed and pleased with himself. He looks back at the girl, who is smiling at him. 

The girl doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even take a breath. She steps confidently to the edge and jumps. Her body moves through the empty space smoothly as a fish through water. She lands on the roof without a sound.

They do this again and again. He leads, she follows. But as they got further and further, their differences also became more defined. Jason looks so tired. His shoulders are slumped, his jaw loose, his breathing unsteady. She is worried. She is worried he’s going to fall. He wasn’t trained to run like she was, wasn’t trained to jump like she was, wasn’t trained how to best position your body to absorb the shock of a fall like she was. His determination pushed him in places she didn’t want him to go. 

They look down at the cityscapes below. It’s not sp far down, but it’s hard to see through the thick layer of fog that envelops the city like a blanket. The cold air is rushing by them, her hair whipping her face and his breathing becoming more and more labored. This city was Jason’s home. She could see from how he interacted with the people in it, how he spoke to them and how he loved them and how sometimes, he hated them— it was his. This view must be so beautiful from his eyes. She wishes she could see it. 

Jason still leads, picking his way cautiously up another fire escape, one step at a time, testing each rung before putting weight onto it. As he ascends she looks out at the city— the cracked facades of buildings, their windows that sagged in the frames. There are holes in the walls as wide as car doors. She doesn’t think that it is fair. She doesn’t think it is fair that that beautiful library exists on that perfect hill and those marble stairs while all of this exists too. Why didn’t Batgirl fix it? Why didn’t Batman? Or— Or that boy dancer who was always with him? She couldn’t remember his name. She hadn’t seen him in a while. She was trying to avoid his partner. But, she swears she still hasn’t seen him as much lately anyways… 

As they walk, they eventually get to the part of the city where the library was not out of place. The buildings here are solid, well-maintained, and loved. Where their feet touched the tiles of the roof, their footsteps seemed almost silent (hers more than his) and where the streets meet there is a soft hush of sound, unlike the hard skidding of car wheels. They linger on the rooftops, which had gotten higher and higher as the buildings got more elaborate. Jason catches his breath. 

She wonders if Jason was scared. She looks down again. People flood the streets together. They are like a river, pouring forwards on their way, all dressed with the same uniform elegance, men in sharp suits and women in long coats, everyone in monochrome. They seem to move in a sort of military formation that only they understand. 

Jason lets out a few words. Chiding her for taking so long to look at the street from how his body is positioned, but there’s an underlying joke in it that she can sense. Because they both know that the one who takes the longest is him. That they were waiting for him to catch up. So she laughs. And that makes him smile, strangely. It looks sort of caught off guard. She’s laughed at his jokes before, even if she couldn’t understand them in the way he means her to— sometimes his expressions can be so obvious they break the barrier of their native languages and merge. 

The girl reaches out and touches the corners of his mouth. She wants to engrave that smile on her fingerprint. She thinks that Jason should smile all the time. She feels his skin with the tips of her fingers and for a moment, nothing happened—then he burst out laughing. The air was full of his laughter, his loud, high-pitched, joyful laughter. She hadn’t expected it to make him happy. But it was… nice. Nice to be the cause of such a sound. She thinks he should laugh all the time too. Is that how he felt when she laughed too? Just now? 

He glances around like he is trying to recognize where they are, before walking over to a rise on the roof—a bit of extra building made from the incline. It is like a little hat. They walk around the hat structure, following the curved edge which feels as if it might give way at any moment. Jason kneels by the lock, working at it with a paper clip. It makes a strange sound in her ear. He keeps picking at the lock silently, moving slightly with each effort, until it clicks.

There are no windows in the stairwell the door leads to. Yet somehow the sunlight seems to shine through it. The air is warmer, and full of strange new smells—wood polish, leather shoes, and the scent of perfume. The perfume is especially heavy. It fills the place like the thick fog of the city. Even as they descend the stairs, it follows her nostrils—wrapping itself around her in a thick haze. She sees that Jason is being affected by the perfume too. Achoo. Achoo. Achoo. He rubs his hand crudely over his nose after he sneezes. Gross.

They round the corner, still following the stairwell downwards, stepping over the edge with care to avoid a drop. The hallway below is painted a warm yellow, and from somewhere beneath her feet she can hear a haunting and beautiful song, so loud that she felt the music vibrating through the floor like the beating of a heart. 

The girl looks up at the ceiling with curiosity, and here and there it is marked with little bumps, like tiny white bubbles. And the yellow lights overhead flash off the little white spots, making them move as if a thousand insects are crawling around just above her head. She has never seen a ceiling quite like this before. She's seeing and learning about so many new things…

The music grows louder and louder the further down the stairs they go, as if it is following them. She has to place her feet carefully now, avoiding the echo of the vibration as if it is something that might trip her up or break beneath her. She feels the song filling all her senses—she can taste it on her tongue and feel it in her belly. The music is all around her, as if every note is being carried by the air.

It is so beautiful.

They come to a little landing just off the staircase, a tiny space on a higher floor. From this spot, she can see down onto the floor below, only it isn't a floor at all. It is a stage. It is lit brightly, and the women on it glow like ghosts in their white clothing. She watches them with a look on her face, rapt with attention. She notices there is a sound now that accompanies them, the thunk of feet on a wooden stage combined with the brush of fabric.

They are more elegant than Batgirl, but unlike her, they carry this sense of fragility to them. They are all so small. They aren't fighting as a dance, they are the dance, completely. Batgirl feels like an orchestrator, controlling her own body with intent. The dancers on stage feel as if they are dance incarnate, simply submitting as the wind pushes and pulls them around in a beautiful circle. Their legs are moving so fast they are blurs, the skirts catching on their ankles as they leap and kick and swirl on the stage. Each is like a snowflake falling, falling, falling.

She is used to deliberate movements. Ones made through an iron grip, honed from years of precision into a straight line. Or a loose line of what action the person wants to make, is gripped by fear and panic into doing. Nothing like this. They are so trained it doesn't even feel like they are repeating anything. But she knows, she knows these women are trained to be able to do this. It is incredible. There are no windows in the stairwell the door leads to. Yet somehow the sunlight seems to shine through it. The air is warmer, and full of strange new smells—wood polish, leather shoes, and the scent of perfume. The perfume is especially heavy. It fills the place like the thick fog of the city. Even as they descend the stairs it follows her nostrils—wrapping itself around her in a thick haze. She sees that Jason is being affected by the perfume too. Achoo. Achoo. Achoo. He rubs his hand crudely over his nose after he sneezes. Gross.

She looks over at Jason, making sure he’s seeing it too. He’s looking down at the women with a very clear air of disinterest. Eyes half closed. He still has that fading bruise on his eye. It's almost gone. Sickly green on the edges of his eye socket. But him not being as moved as her is logical. It makes sense. She can’t really see a world in which Jason would be entranced by the wind women and their movements. 

So she tries to mime out a book. Hands flat facing up. Do you have a book? She thinks it would be better if he could read something so he wouldn’t be bored. But Jason just stares at her. Not a stare of Why even ask that? but one of I do not know what you are trying to say and do not want to make you feel bad. It makes her stomach lining clench in on itself. She had been learning so much that she forgot just how little it meant in conversations with real people. Even the one who knew her best. She could learn a thousand names and enough ways of saying Yes and No to fill a book, but it wouldn’t matter at all, because their language had so many specfic words she would never think of knowing until the very situation arrived. 

It’s an object. So it’s probably just one sound from her mouth. Yet she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t even know it. She feels very small, right now. The wind women feel far away. 

But then— suddenly, Jason wraps his arm around her. Just one, around the crook of her neck and shoulder. She panics for a moment. All the ways to flip over someone attempting to choke you out immediately flash in her mind. She doesn't have to think about it. But it's Jason. She recognizes the feeling of this jacket. It is a little too big for him, and the sleeves hang over his hands just so, so that she can push them up his wrists easily—the fabric a deep rich blue. It is his favorite one. She knows this because when they do work together, he never wears it.. 

But he’s wearing it right now. And— he didn’t care about the wind woman either. Yet he was here. He did all of that and he was here. He was running and leaping and doing all of that just to be here. 

She puts her arm around him too.

She is also here. 

Chapter Text

It is no longer cold at any time except night, and the sky is the ever bit clearer—just slightly. A thick mist clings to everything. It lays over the rooftops and in the air above the streetlights like the cobweb of a giant spider. It is damp—but not cold. The smoke from buildings fills the still air and makes it hard to breathe. It's as though the city is a pot filled with steam, and the fog, rolling along the streets like a white cloud, is the product of these fumes. The park is still beautiful. She tries to go as much as she can. She never runs into those boys she had last time, the ones who she tried to rough up Jason, and she isn't worried about it, either.

People are walking with dogs or sitting on their own, gazing out across the city. A couple of elderly ladies in floral shirts enjoy one another's company as they eat their packed lunch. A group of teenagers gathers near the fountain and laughs among the spray. A child plays in the sandpit, and a mother watches. A lone red-haired woman under a tree, covered head to toe in a green trench coat, but seemingly content nonetheless. She likes this. She likes just watching them. Everyone is so happy, so full of life.

This is exactly the way every day should be.

Sweat drips down her nape under the weight of her long hair that drapes over her neck. The air is humid, and her shirt sticks to her skin. She has a horrible idea. Why not cut her hair? Like she has wanted to all season— ever since she came to this city? Her hair grows back quickly anyway, faster than she expects sometimes. And she can always borrow one of Jason's winter hats that he hardly ever wore to cover her face if she needs to. It's hot, right? What is stopping her from cutting it right now?

So she gets up, and she leaves the park, giving one last look at the place— to the old people, middle aged people, the young people, and the children— and she goes home. 

It’s easy to cut her hair. Jason has a pocket knife hidden in one of the hollowed out wooden beams that lie beyond their mattress— which has gotten quite disgusting now. The mattress lay in the alley, damp and dirty from rain. Mold was starting to grow on the surface, and the foam was squished down into odd shapes. The mattress was no longer useful as a place to sleep for Jason, having become nothing more than a dirty lump of material sitting in the alley. Either way, he preferred sleeping at the ghost woman’s apartment as much as possible these days. Just falling asleep on the floor next to her. The girl couldn’t sleep in somebody else’s house. So she would watch them both until Jason woke up and then sleep for a few hours in the alley during the evening. 

The hair cutting had to be quick. The knife would catch on tangles, no matter how thin her hair was, which meant having to hack rather violently. She remembered the feeling of her hair whipping against her face like strands of wet string. She brought the dull pocket knife up along the nape of her neck where it touched the skin and cut. It’s hard— the pocket knife is small and worn down, used more for opening bottles than anything else, but she finishes. She raises her hand and feels along the back of her head where the hair has been cut much too short. There were uneven places. She felt with her fingertips the different lengths where strands had escaped her amateur snipping and cut differently. In some places, the hair was longer, in others, short.

But she feels happy. She should go visit the ghost woman. That’s where Jason is. She wants to always be with him, but… The ghost woman is dying. And she is his female version of a father, so… it’s good if they’re alone, sometimes. And not having to deal with the feeling of someone else always with them. She thinks if her father was dying, even though he’s horrible, she would also like to be alone with him.

She wonders what her father is doing right now. If he’s adopted and trained another child. She hopes not. Her creation had already brought so much evil into this world. And she had realized she was bad. If he raised another bad thing that didn’t run away like she had… She doesn’t want to think about it. She won’t panic. Maybe she could visit Kate. The girl thinks she talks to Kate more than Jason talked to her, now. No, but, Kate was probably busy. She had been putting some of her things away in boxes the last two times the girl had come over. So she’s probably doing that again… 

The library? She could always go there. It was productive. But…The idea of words makes her head hurt right now. She’s sorry, Barbara. The walk to the park is too long for this time of day. The sun is almost down. She’ll just wait a little longer here, then go to the ghost woman’s apartment. She starts by doing sit-ups. 

The alleyway is dark and narrow, lined with brick on either side. There is not much room for physical training, but she pushes her body against the walls anyway. So, here she is again among the dumpsters, doing press-ups and squats, and then stretching her arms out in the small spaces between the buildings. The city looms up all around her like a giant made of black bricks and grey clouds. In the distance, she hears the sound of tires screeching on pavement and the sound of people arguing. She thinks to herself they’re just agreeing with one another in a very aggressive way, even though it’s not true. 

The small capsules that Jason gives the ghost woman work less and less as weeks done on. She thinks her death is unavoidable. It’s a great huge bucket on the top of her apartment door and it’s going to over turn one day when Jason walks in. But she can still help.  Right?

She can still help. 

The blue parka man is in his garage, like always, listening to a dusty radio. He tenses up when he hears the girl’s footsteps, but relaxes when he sees her face. She wonders if they can count as friends. She sees him often, and he gives her and Jason tasks every time. Even though the two of them don’t ever speak to each other— it still counts as frequent visits. And the girl is friends with Kate and all they do is visit each other. So, they could be counted as friends, she thinks… 

When she goes inside, he turns down the music. Maybe they can say hi to one another, she thinks. She waves, but the man isn’t looking at her. She walks past his workbench littered with screwdrivers, hammers, pliers,  past a row of tools hanging from hooks in the wall—and waves again.

The blue parka man looks up from his radio. He looks puzzled and confused. He asks her a question. It’s kind of wobbly. His blue parka is ragged and dirty. It hangs in loose folds, worn out with patches. The man himself is small and wiry, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. His face is framed with bushy eyebrows, and his shoulders hunched forward. He always seems like he’s scared, like he’s ready to run away. But if they were friends, she would protect the blue parka man. She wants to tell him this, but can’t. So she says nothing. 

He gestures this time, to the space besides her. Besides her… Ah. Jason. The blue parka man is asking where Jason is. Does the blue parka man know about the ghost woman? No, she doesn’t think he would. The girl points vaguely to the outside. He is not with me right now. He is somewhere out there. 

The blue parka man makes a face like he wants to tell the girl something. He looks at her expectantly, trying to keep eye-contact, as if that will somehow bridge the language gap with a look. She smiles awkwardly. Feels strange on her face. He must want Jason. She isn’t him. She hopes that if she stands here long enough, he’ll understand that she wants him to give her a task so she can help Jason get more capsules for the ghost woman. 

The blue parka man looks at the girl for a long moment, then stands up and points to a pile of old boxes in a corner. He makes a motion like he is trying to show someone pulling a cord with a finger. The girl decides he’s asking for her to clean up, an average task assigned to her and Jason. She can’t think of another reason why he would gesture that way, and decides to get started right away.

The girl starts digging through the boxes, removing their contents one by one and placing them neatly on a work bench besides her. She tries to sort them into piles: tools, paint cans, random papers, broken things, garbage. Her fingers are black with dirt and oil, which she wipes on a dirty napkin she finds in one of the boxes. She looks up as she is working and sees that the blue parka man isn’t paying any attention to her at all. 

As she sorts through the boxes, she starts to think about what the blue parka man’s life is like. He seems to be alone all the time except for when Jason and the girl visit him. She wonders if he’s sad a lot because of this, but then she remembers how he looks scared and worried about something every time she sees him. So maybe he is happy being by himself just listening to his radio.

She doesn’t know.

When the girl finishes, she goes up to the blue parka man expectantly. Whenever she and Jason do a job, they get currency in return. The girl doesn’t fully understand the currency, but she does know it’s worth. It’s just never been fully explained to her, so it’s sort of rusty in comparison to her knowledge on names. She understands names a lot, now. Maybe she should ask Barbara to explain the green paper and tiny metal cylinders. 

She doesn't understand it. But she isn’t totally clueless either. So when the blue parka man gives her a few brown coins for her work, she knows he’s not giving her the correct amount. And she knows that he knows this too. He doesn’t look her in the eyes. His face is red. 

The blue parka man motions for her to take the coins. She does, and places them in her pocket. She isn’t sure what else to do. If she asks for more, what if he refuses to give Jason and her a task the next time they visit? No, it’s okay for her to get ripped off when she’s alone, she thinks. She just has to work twice as hard. She isn’t sure why the blue parka man is doing this. It kind of hurts. She thought maybe they could be friends. 

The blue parka man looks up from his workbench and nods at her, then motions for the girl to come over. She shoves the coins in her pockets and does so. He looks at her, and makes another gesture with his hands, like an arm wrestle. He holds his arms out to the girl. It’s obvious what he wants her to do. But she feels nervous. She isn’t sure why. Maybe she’s mad. Mad that she couldn’t ask for the correct amount she was earned, like she knows Jason would if he was in the same situation. She claps her hand around his and steadies her elbow on the table. 

One. Two. Three. She overpowers him easily. She doesn’t even have to try. It’s a natural reflex, like when you place your hand over fire— to draw back, to overpower the enemy. It’s the same thing. 

She looks up at the blue parka man to see if he is pleased with her victory, but his expression is unchanged. Expected. Yes, he expected this outcome. She knows. He pulls out a thick black marker and a paper napkin and scribbles, then turns it around to face her. It’s a row of houses, with one circled. She looks at it for a few seconds. The circled house… is on a street that is very compact. The street is crooked. Compact, crooked street… Ah. She understands. It’s a map of the street they’re on. And the next one too. The circle must be their location. She is proud of herself— that she got it so quickly. When the blue parka man sees this in her eyes, he circles another house. It’s on the street over. Seven houses down. It’s a location she has to go to. 

That’s easy. Why did he need to arm wrestle her for that? That’s also easy. That resignation in his gaze, he knew from the start she would beat him. He just wanted to make sure she could. So this mission needs strength. And if he used another human, himself, to test that strength… it would need strength against another human. She would have to fight someone.

“Buh… Ahhh…Duh?” She asks, pointing to the location. If they were bad, she would fight them. Bad people needed to be fought so then they wouldn’t be bad anymore. If they know she could beat them, they would be too scared and they would stop being bad and then realize being good is much nicer. 

Maybe she shouldn’t say bad. For people… There’s good and there’s not-good. Sometimes, people don’t know they’re doing something not-good. She doesn’t want to hurt them. Just to fix what they’ve done. She’s bad, but people are just… not-good. She amends her mistake. “Nuh—Nuh—Na…Nuh—Naahhwww—“ But before she can finish, the blue parka man gets a nasty look on his face and interrupts, “IIiuuuuhh don’t nnnuhhhheeeuuudduuuhhhh vvvuuhhooocaaall ccccuhhhhnuhhhfirrrmatttiouunnn, cuuuuiiidd. Juhhheeezzzuss, you ttuuuaauulllkk ssuhhhloohh uuuhaass shuuuuiiittuhh. Yyyuuaahhh, thhuuuueeeuuurr bad, ooookkkaauhh? Thhhuuusssuh shuuhhiiitffuuuhhaass iissuh bad, eeeevvvuuull—”

She tries to distract herself from how obviously he thinks she’s stupid. Being interrupted is so awful. It makes it feel like all her progress was for nothing. Think of something else. That last word. Eeeeeevvvvuuuulllll. It sounded so familiar. But she couldn’t remember. 

She forgot to listen to the rest of the blue parka man. He’s done speaking now, all red and panty and weird looking. He’s passionate about this. He truly believes this man is bad— ah, not-good. Yes, he’s not lying. So it’s true. She grabs the napkin and nods at him. The blue parka man watches the girl leave his garage. As she walks away, he turns back up the volume on his radio and listens to it loudly. He seems a little sad. He seems very lonely. She doesn’t think she wants to be his friend anymore. 

Getting to places is so easy when she has a map. She wants to make a map of the whole city so then she can get everywhere. Maybe someone has already made one. She hopes she can meet a person who has by chance. She meets so many people these days, she’s bound to run into them eventually… When she gets to the house, she’s not surprised it’s actually an apartment. Everything here is. Ah. There’s two numbers on the map, where the apartment is marked. Or maybe a number and a letter. Why… did the blue parka man think she would be able to read this? No, no. She doesn’t have to read it. Just match the drawn symbol to the one in real life. That’s basically how she’s been learning the alphabet anyways. 

The first letter-number-thing is a straight line with a triangle on the top half. All of the doors on the first floor have a straight line next to their door. So it’s not this floor. It wasn’t the second or third one either. But then she gets to the fourth floor, and the symbol is next to every door. So this symbol is four. Okay. She can try to remember that. Maybe she could keep the napkin for reference. Ah, the second symbol is— a circle with a sort of… half circle arching above it. She’s seen this. It’s fluid. She finds the door with it on it. 

When she knocks, no one answers. She knocks again. No one answers. She thinks maybe she should knock harder, but when she about to, a loud, gruff, male voice cuts through. It’s aggressive. Telling her to stop knocking, definitely. But she can’t see the man. She doesn’t know if it’s because he’s coming to answer so her knocking is annoying or because he just doesn’t want to answer. After waiting a few minutes, she knows it’s the second one. So she forces the door handle open and steps in.

On the walls there was nothing but cracking paint. There isn’t any furniture besides a worn couch and a table with two chairs. The main space was the living area, with toys and action figures littered everywhere. She tried to remember where the voice came from. Left, she thinks. So she goes to the door to the left. She does not knock this time. 

A boy was kneeling on a bare mattress in the corner, playing with his dolls. Next to him, taking up half the room, was a high four-legged bed with a soft blue cover. The boy paid no attention to the girl, only to his dolls. They were two stuffed bears, one blue and the other tan. There were a lot of stains on the mattress and on his pants. They were very old. His hands seemed small. His hair was dirty.

“Mmm.” The girl said. She did not know how to introduce herself.

The boy looked up. He seemed confused. He was expecting to know her, but he didn’t. She’s glad he wasn’t upset. She’s glad he didn’t seem to know the other person living with him was not-good. She motions taller than her. She assumes the man who yelled must be in a room over. There is a small door wedged between the huge bed. The boy understands. “Oh, ddduuuaddduuuee? Thhhuuueeree!”

She doesn’t knock this time. She simply opens the door. It;s a bathroom, she thinks, as she’s greeted with the tiles. Then she thinks, Ah, it’s a man. The not-good man she must make good, he’s there. He is smoking a cigarette. His eyes are open but he does not look at her. The room smells bad. The blinds are closed. It is dark, except for a dim green light flickering. There is a lighter in the sink he is currently gripping. The girl places the napkin map in front of the man, in the sink. So he knows where she came from.  

He looks up in surprise, his cigarette in his mouth. He starts to say something, maybe, what are you doing here, then coughs and spits out his cigarette. It falls into the sink. He mutters something. This is not good, This motions says. The cigarette man begins to try to stamp the cigarette out, breathing in the smoke. Then he sees the napkin map. He holds it up and looks at it blankly.

Then the cigarette man looks at the girl and he laughs. It brings a rosy color to his almost gray cheeks. The boy is asking a question from the next room. She knows. He’s asking why his father is laughing. It must be his father. Everyone except her seemed to have one near them. 

He shoves the napkin deep into her chest, clearly trying to make her fall over with it, but she doesn’t. She places her own hand over his and keeps his hand spread on her, and then she twists it. He doesn't struggle. His hand stays in hers, but without its strength. The boy does not come into the bathroom, and nobody comes upstairs (four floors, she remembers, four, four, four) to find out what is going on.

The cigarette man’s face changes. The color drains from it. His lips trembles. He stares at her with panic in his eyes. He asks the same thing twice. It’s a question aimed at her, but it’s too short to be substantial. His voice came out as a whisper, quavering. He takes a step backward, still looking at her, but not in the eyes, as though she might hit him. His hand reaches for a drawer, she kicks his fingers hard enough for one of them to make a cracking sound. She didn’t mean to do that. It didn’t break. 

The cigarette man grabs at the air, trying to find her face to hit her, but she batted his hand away and ducked down. The cigarette man is breathing hard, like an animal, and there is a gross sound coming from the back of his throat. It is very loud in the bathroom.

He charges forward. His large hands grab her throat and squeeze hard and he leaned forward while doing this like all people did when they were angry and trying to kill— she used that strength to slip under, causing him to crash face first into the door. He slides down, but thrashes wildly with his legs, trying to topple her as well. It was scary. She could feel his desire to kill her. To mangle her and beat her face in until it was bloody. It felt like it was her own. 

She sits on his back, and presses a muscle she knows will make him lose motor function in his legs for two minutes. That’s all she needs. The cigarette man knows now that if he continues to be not-good, she will come after him, and she will show him being not-good gets you this. So she stands up and opens the bathroom door, but the cigarette man grabs her hind leg. Its not with any intent to hurt. He’s stopping her. 

He coughs. Blood splatters on the white floor. It almost looks like a light green. He points to the big bed with the blue sheets— under it. She looks under. It’s a big metal box. She doesn’t understand. She brings it to him. He flips through dials on a circular metal thing that’s keep the box shut. It opens. It’s currency— the green, paper kind. She really does not understand. She looks at him, hoping to convey this. 

But he doesn’t seem to understand her at all. He looks at her like a monster. Suddenly, she looks back, where the boy was— with the dolls, but he’s gone. He must have been scared. It’s okay. His dad would tell him later that he was doing things that weren’t good, but he got stopped. Nothing bad happened.  But then… Why did this feel bad? Why did she feel like… The blue parka man dealt in money. And the cigarette man was giving her… The room feels smaller, as if she is taking up so much space that there was barely enough space in it to breathe.

She wasn’t here to stop a bad man, she was here to collect money. Money he owed the blue parka man. 

The girl imagines herself vomiting something like a snake, ejecting her stomach contents, long and foul. She imagines a green snake on the floor of the room, curled up tight, but its skin slowly crawling away, like it was inside out. Even though she was not vomiting, a bile rising in her throat made her want to retch. A wave of disgust washed through her like the foul air of a sewer. She wanted to kick him, to run away, to bury her head in a big hole and pretend not to be here. She saw him clearly now, with his bloodstained clothes, stinking of cigarettes and tears, and her own fear and rage and hate, all boiling together in her stomach.

He is trying to speak, but coughing was getting in the way. Blood dribbles down his chin. She does not to listen. She does not want to hear anything. She is evil. Evil. She recognized the word earlier because it was her. 

She is going to throw up. All her father’s training to control her stomach and it didn’t matter, none of that mattered, she was really going to throw up, and— She could taste the acid in her gums, but nothing would come up. 

The cigarette man is staring at her with wide eyes, retching and gagging. He is pointing to the money. He wants her to leave. Get out. He is not listening to her. She is retching and retching. She is retching so hard her throat is raw, and she is crying, and the snake, if that is what it is, is thrashing at the end of her tongue, lashing its teeth everywhere. 

The girl gets to her feet somehow and stumbles out. The green snake slithers after her. She doesn't care what anyone else sees. She cares even less what she looks like. She only wants to get away from the cigarette man. She can hear the blue parka man's radio. She can almost hear his hollow face through its speakers. The snake slithers out after her. She doesn't know where she is going, but she feels the indent of stairs, all mossy-colored. 

She is so dazed through the acid in her throat and the water in her eyes. She is moving without thinking. The snake keeps up with her somehow, slithering out of the house onto the street. She looks at it in dull amazement, but she can't think about it right now. She thinks she might cry more, (was she crying at all?), but then she remembers why she has come here. She has to go back to the blue parka man. She has to. But how can she? He’ll never know her after this. She is evil. He must be evil too, even though people can’t be. He must be just like her. She wants to retch again. 

She staggers into an alley, gasping for air. She can feel the green snake still with her. She wanted to run from it, but she was so weak she could hardly move. It followed her in lazy S-shaped movements, its tongue flicking in and out.

She can't think about it. 

She staggers forward and falls against a brick wall, gasping for breath. But she notices her breath feels different. It is faint, green, she thinks. This thought strikes her as strange, but that thought also feels far away, blurry. 

She looks up, coughing. She can see green smoke coming out of every window of the apartment she had just been in. Then the snake moves with her, and she sees that it has become a green cloud, like mist, and it is coiling up around her, covering her head and mouth and filling her lungs. She gags and gags but she can't clear the green fog from her lungs. It's in her eyes too, so that all she can see is green. All she can taste is green.

And as the green overtakes her, all she can think is… She has never been so afraid in her life. 

Chapter Text

The girl can taste the bitter green of the gas on her tongue. It burns, burns as it sinks into her skin. Like oil on a rainbow in a puddle, the gas forms a sickly, green sheen over the water. The green gas, a living, crawling thing, seeps into her mind. A slow drowning in fear.

Like fire ants marching up and down her skin. (She remembers when her father put a lighter under her hand to teach her how to numb her reactions to pain). Her eyes wide with panic. (She remembers the first time her father shot her.) Her body tingles with shock. (She remembers the horrible sting of a taser in water.) Her breath comes in shallow gasps. (She remembers retching on the floor as she fails to beat her ideal runtime.)

They are like a thousand tiny hooks jabbing into her. Tiny hooks dipped in the bitter green gas. The fear is a swarm of things stinging her. It crawls up her spine, over her limbs, up to her throat where she cannot scream. Blind, choking terror comes from somewhere inside her, somewhere she has never gone before. She tries frantically to get a sense of where she is, flailing her arms out rabidly— to see how far under the water she is drifting, how many more painful breaths she has before drowning. But the frantic need is no match for the panic consuming her.

She feels as though she is sinking into wet sand. A blind groping. No sense of up or down. The sour green gas all about. All she has to grasp onto is the fear - a raw, green emotion. Fear of the gas. Fear of drowning. Fear of dying.

Has she ever been afraid of dying before this moment? It's hard to find her own feelings in the green. She tries to look around, tries to focus. The green makes it seem like everything is blurred, smeared. She can't get her bearings at all. She can feel the texture of the green gas all over her body, she can feel it seeping into her skin. It is cold, but there is another sensation there too. Something is moving.

What is it? She breathes hard, she struggles to look down, but she can't see herself. She feels a kind of pressure. Something pressing against her. The pressure keeps increasing. She realizes she is being shoved, forced to move on. She can feel herself being swept along. No matter how she struggles to resist she is being carried forward, her body sliding along some invisible surface.

She feels her own hands. Hands. Hands. Where is the enemy? Where does it hurt? She doesn't know. She can… fight. Yes. She can hit them. Hit them. Hit them where it hurts. Where is that? She doesn’t know. Right now. She remembers it usually. But… right now…

Would father be mad at her for failing this mission? She can't recall what it is. But she’s failing. And everything’s so far away. Even her father, even his rage, even his hands. She misses him so much. The green looks like a hug. She falls in. 

She remembers her father’s hand. Its heat. Its smell. It squeezes her shoulder and tells her she's doing okay. Perhaps it's his way of saying sorry. She still can't tell if this embrace is what you call love. But it's gone too. All gone. Her eyes are heavy. She opens them. 

There’s trees growing on the walls, vines trailing the air in long graceful strands, orchids blooming on top of lampshades and in a faucet, exotic plants crowding together in the corners. The air is heavy and wet with the scent of soil growing inside, mingled with the damp odor of a rain forest. There is no room for sleeping, for eating, for a human being to even breathe. Plants have taken over the room.

But a woman stands in the center. She stands as if she seems to be a part of it, half plant, half human— as if she has always been there. Her hair is the color of a gaping wound— a shocking, almost scary vibrant red. Her skin is the color of putrid flesh festering under the rain, a sickly yellow-green. But she looks so peaceful. 

“Oh mmuuuhhheeeiiii.” The plant woman purrs, “Ddduhiiidduhh suuhumuuwooun wwwuuaaakkuhhh uuuppuhh eeerrrlllaayy?” 

The plant woman walks over. Not purposefully slow but surely, with no hurry. The girl then realizes the only thing covering the plant woman is a few dry brittle leaves, part of the plant woman herself. The plant woman places a finger on the girl's chin, tilting her head upward. Bite it. Bite her finger. Tilt her neck to an angle to make her pass out. Press one of the points in her heart that will paralyze her. Do something. Do something. 

“Suuuuhh kuueet. Buuut I wuuunduhh haaaww suuuch aaah kuueet gaaal haaass suuuch aaah haaaii tuuuhluhruuhnss. Hmm. Thhhuuiiss iissuhh whaaay I wuuurkuh alluuuoonneuhh.” 

The plant woman is confused. Amused, more like it. Something didn’t go to plan. She’s looking at the girl. So she’s involved. The girl looks behind her. There’s kids. Dozens of them. All vastly asleep, curled against the tree-walls. They look like street kids. Kids like her. 

She feels sick. She still feels dizzy. The plant woman is over the girl and the plant woman is a part of the room. There’s no escape from her. Everything is her. 

“You muhhssttuhh bbuhhee tyuuuhhreed.” The plant woman says as she strokes her cheek. It’s a hand that never got dirty playing out in the sun or in the mud of a creek or the way she had expected the plant woman’s hand to feel. Too smooth, it’s cold as death, lifeless even, “Wuhheeiii nuhhuttuh tuhhaakuhhh aa luuuhhhhttlee nuhhaappuhh?”

She has felt this kind of fatigue before, this dragging in the limbs, the slow movement of the mind, this sleepiness that comes not after a day's work or a long journey but from some terrible manipulation of the body. But when she had felt it before it had been drugs, something she had seen as she was administered it— (it was important for a monster like her to be as immune to those sorts of things as possible, to build up a tolerance. Never be caught weak, even when you’re weak.). This is something else. It feels sinister, it feels natural. It is a power she has never known. 

She tries desperately to keep her eyes open, to fight off the sleep that seems to be seeping into her blood. She sees the plant woman with the burning hair and her green, dead skin. The plant woman is leaning towards her with her head cocked to one side as if listening to some music only she could hear. 

The plant woman says something else with a voice like honey and venom, but the girl could not hear it, she was too tired, too sick, too much of everything. Someone else would have to help this time. She couldn’t do it. It was too much. She was so tired. 

Batgirl… 

Batgirl…

Maybe Batgirl could save her. 

No. Not just her. Aren’t there… other kids here too? Behind her. Kids all lined up. Kids who have no home. No one will miss them. No one will miss her either. No… Isn’t that… also wrong? Yeah, it’s wrong. Someone will miss her. Her father has no idea where she is… If she’s even alive… But there’s people out there who will notice that she’s gone. So weird. Yeah. Jason will notice if she doesn’t go to the ghost woman’s house tonight. 

Kate might take a little longer, they don’t see each other that often anymore… Makes her sad… Barbara will think she probably got killed by some villain… Blown up... Stabbed… There’s a lot of ways to die in this city. None of them really matter. You could die peacefully in your sleep or be skinned alive over a course of weeks and the world would move on the same no matter which way. Those kids aren’t like her. They don’t have people out there who will notice that. And she’s awake and they aren’t.

She has to wake up… She has to shake off the weight on her arms. The green is gone now, despite the amount of plants around her. Was that the plant woman’s power? She doesn’t think so. What the plant woman did felt like her body was turning against her. But the green was artificial... unnatural. It gripped her, infected her like a foreign body. So the green must be someone else. Doesn’t matter. She has to wake up and deal with what’s in front of her. Jason will miss her. The ghost woman is going to die soon. The girl has to be there for him. Or else he will be all alone. No. She can’t let that happen. She won’t.

The girl stands up. It hurts. It doesn’t feel as if she’s standing up. The plant woman scoffs. Says something. The girl is too tired to listen. But the plant woman’s face says I am upset that you have decided to be an annoyance. It says she doesn’t expect anything from the girl. This is perfect.

So she runs. She runs into the wall and kicks her leg out, ricocheting her right off. The plant woman reacts, trying to make the trees on the wall grab the girl’s leg, but she is not quick enough. The girl throws her tied hands around the plant woman’s neck and squeezes on that spot in the neck that knocks a person out in only six seconds. 

At one second, the plant woman gasps. It’s sudden. At two seconds, the plant woman claws at her face. It bleeds. At four seconds, the plant woman sends the vines on her arms into the girl’s arms. It hurts. At five seconds, the plant woman starts to scream. It’s loud. At six seconds, she slumps over. The girl sets her down gently on the floor. 

The walls feel blurry, they blend in with the plants growing on them. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that she can barely see, that her arm is bleeding, that it’s painful to even move. She has to get every kid out. And she has to protect them from whoever controls that green gas. 

The girl can’t restrain the plant woman, she’ll just use her powers to come undone. So she has to do this before she wakes up. She runs out of the house, out into an open field. It’s on the edge of the city. She can see the giant black hulking buildings in the distance. She’ll never be able to run that far in time. She looks back at the house. Thinks of all the kids. And she runs. 

She runs thinking of Jason, and the way he caressed the face of the ghost woman, and the way she looked at the girl, and the way Kate had taught her games, and Barbara’s soft voice as she read to her. And she runs. The grass stalks whip at her legs. She cannot see or feel her way. There are hundreds of small cuts on each leg, each wound making the air sting sharply. The sun beats down on her in a cruel way, like a magnifying glass. She can't see and now the grass is a sea of green with flashes of silver from light dancing on the grass stalks. And she runs. 

But then— there’s a bright, intangible flash of white light. It’s a car. A car is racing towards the field. She has to get its attention. She has to— scream. If there’s any time for her useless vocal chords to help her, it’s now. So she opens her mouth, and screws her face up, but… Nothing comes out. She strains and pushes and tries again. But nothing comes out. 

And yet, as if something was guiding it, the car stops next to the girl, turning to the side. It is huge and sleek and black. The girl feels the warm air flowing out of it. The car opens its door and reveals its inside, a sea of leather seats and chrome. And inside is him. That man. Batman. She can’t move. She certainly can’t fight him. He climbs out of the car, his hulking figure feeling as big as the thing behind him, and picks her up in his huge arms. He walks over to the black car and puts her inside carefully. All of her is covered in scratches and blood. 

Her head lolls on the seat. She can feel the warmth of the leather and the smooth black of the car around her. She hears her breathing and the hum of the car. The whirring of the engine and the clicking of the gears. She is so tired.

“Iittttssuhh ooohhhaaauhh. Rruuhhhesstuh. You ddduiiiduhh good.” She hears. She’s distantly happy that she recognizes so many of the words. Herself and good in the same sentence. He was… calling her good… 

And then she’s asleep. 

When she wakes up, the first thing she hears is people talking over one another outside. The ceiling is beige. She lowers her head, but it hurts. She must be in a hospital. She recognizes the equipment. Immediately, she gets out of bed. The pain overtakes her nervous system for a second, making her unable to move. She wants to compass to the ground. But she walks to the door, and leaves. 

The girl notices people in beds with IVs attached to them. Many of them look like kids. They are lying here, some with tubes attached to their skin, others just staring at the ceiling. She hopes it’s the children from that house. She hopes all of them got out. She squeezes her eyes shut. If they didn’t, it was her fault. She has been perfectly awake and still managed to fall asleep halfway to the city. She could have ran faster. She could have beaten the plant woman in half the time. 

She hopes in the confusion and amount of bodies, she can slip out easily. But then at the desk, over all the loud screaming voices, she recognizes one. And it's screaming the loudest. It’s Jason. He looks furious, the most angry she’s ever seen him. He’s arguing with a nurse, hands flailing everywhere. It reminds her of when they first met, when he was the angry boy. 

She taps the hallway wall loudly. He does not notice. She does it again. His eyes lazily look to her direction for the source of noise. She begins to move her hands to make the signal for “Jason”, but she does not have time. He’s already running towards her, enveloping her in a hug, digging his fingers into her back as her arms are restrained against her side. 

“J-Jason,” she says.

She cannot understand his words. They’re rambled and through sobs. He keeps sniffing as if that will stop his tears. 

She struggles to get away from him, but he has her pinned against his chest. His hands on her back dig so deeply into her skin she thinks he might draw blood. She feels the heat of his body. She can feel his tears wetting the back of her shirt.

Jason finally lets go and looks at her face, but he’s still holding her arms as if she may disappear right there. He wipes the tears from his eyes with one of his hands, roughly, and then again, and again, as the sobs do not stop, and they stay there, clutching his face. She holds him. His sobs are not so hysterical, but more subdued, trembling. She wonders if he had also been kidnapped. No, it’s not possible. She would have seen him, definitely. So… why? 

Oh. That’s right.

When she was there, she had thought he would miss her.

So it must be…

“O… O—Okuh...ay.” She says. I’m okay. You do not have to worry about me. You do not have to cry. 

He hugs her back, tightly. 

“Iiiidddioougghht,” he hiccups into her shoulder, “Duuuuhhmmbbuh… Ssuhhttuuupuhidhh…”

“O—Okay.” She repeats, with more urgency. 

He doesn’t say anything else. Just holds onto her. She holds back. 

When they separate, Jason’s face is bright red. He hides it from her, moving his head to the side as they lay against the hallway wall— all the seats in the waiting room are taken. He talks very fast, but slower than before. His voice isn’t trembling as much. He’s telling her what happened. She’s not sure if it’s what happened to her or what happened to him in the time she was gone. They both know she can’t understand, but she listens. 

After a while of sitting, the girl hears a familiar foot pattern. She shoots up. She hasn’t seen the owner in so long, her feet guide her and her eyes don’t, and she falls right into Kate’s arms. The two of them collapse to the ground at the surprise. 

“You!” Kate laughs. It’s bright and happy and exactly as she remembers it.

“Kate,” she says back softly. 

Jason stands over them. He grumpily shoves his hands into his pockets.  “Cuhhooouldvee gaaawwuhhttuh huheereuhh soounnurr.” It’s some sort of admonishment to Kate. Maybe that they haven’t been able to see her so much. But it’s clearly not too serious, he doesn’t seem genuinely mad. The girl separates from Kate to see how she responds. 

Kate laughs. It’s such a wonderful sound. She gets off of the floor and ruffles Jason’s hair. He pouts, but he’s smiling too. 

She’s so glad. 

A nurse comes up to them after a few minutes, pointing to Jason and her. Kate waves her off, smiling brightly and saying something in a very clear voice. She holds both of their shoulders into her as she says this. She’s lying. The girl doesn’t know what, but she’s lying. Jason’s eyes widen as Kate says what she does. But he’s not upset. So it must not be a bad lie. Okay. She doesn’t say anything. The voices feel distant. Her head hurts. She can’t really strain her ears to hear the specific syllables. 

When the nurse leaves, Jason gets very close to Kate’s face and asks her a question. Why did you say that? 

Kate looks serious for a moment. And then she coughs. Her words are quieter than usual. The first word out of her mouth is, “Jason,”, but the rest— the girl doesn’t know. 

When Jason hears it, he looks as if… She doesn’t know. She’s never seen him make that expression. He’s horrified, upset, shocked and angry. He opens his mouth to talk but shuts it. He pushes past Kate, hard, and grabs the girl’s hand as he does so. Right before they leave, he yells at Kate something short. It’s not an insult— but a statement. It’s something Jason sees as truth, as fact. Kate doesn’t say anything back. She sighs and looks at them with pity. Jason screws his face up and slams the door.  

They’re leaving. Kate must have said something to undermine them. Knowing Jason— their independence. Or something similar. It’s just a guess. She genuinely does not know. She hates not knowing the specifics of what people say— only their emotions. She’s sad Jason is mad at Kate. She’s sad they couldn’t spend longer with her. And she’s sad Kate didn’t come after them.

Hand in hand, they go to Jason’s apartment. 

Chapter Text

When they get to his apartment, she knows it’s going to be a fight. Jason is holding onto her hand— too tight, too tight, but she likes the warmth, doesn’t want to leave him cold— and there’s a man banging on his door.

Jason’s face turns into a scowl. His arms hunch forward. He bites out a question that’s not really a question. The man turns around. He’s skinny and twisted like a wire. His eyes are very, very red where they should be white. 

When the wire man sees Jason, he makes a condescending sort of expression. It’s hard for her to pinpoint exactly. But his body is saying I know you, I have hurt you, and we both know I will hurt you again, because I am capable of it, in a sickly sweet sort of tone. It makes her sick. 

The girl thinks of Jason’s bruises and his limps and how he doesn’t get them anymore. Ever since she started sleeping with him at the apartment. This man is different from the other one who learned his lesson. The— the— she can’t remember what his body was like. She’s woozy. Her arm still hurts. It’s probably formed an ugly scab by now. 

She steps in front of Jason instinctually. She does not let go of his hand. Her expression does not change. The wire man coos at her. He points to their clasped hand and laughs. It sounds like a sputtering engine. He says something. He’s mocking them. The girl thinks of how Jason was a few months ago— alone, hateful of touch, like a sharpened blade. He must be mocking how close they are. That Jason has anyone. She is mad. Her expression still does not show this. 

Then the wire man’s face changes from the relaxed laughter to something cold and sharp. He looks at Jason. He makes a movement with his left hand— as if he’s mixing something between two fingers. As if he’s about to snap. 

Jason’s body is as closed off as the day they first met. He doesn’t look the man in his eyes. He is stanced in the way a body says, Leave me alone. but it’s never about himself with Jason, so she assumes the one he wants to be left alone is the ghost woman. 

The wire man wants something from them, no, the ghost woman, most likely. Wants something. Something like… what do people want? They want… they go into people’s homes because they want things from their homes. Like money. And the safe. The child. Thre bathroom. The mattress. 

She feels sick. 

She feels very, very sick. Is the green gas back? No. No. Obviously, it’s not. That wasn’t— the green gas made her see things. Obviously. The child, the mattress, none of that existed, or it had happened very differently than how she remembered. Yes. That didn’t happen— she wouldn’t have— she didn’t. There’s no safe in the apartment of Jason’s hallway. 

Jason’s body tells the man I do not have what you want. Go away. It’s a flashing warning. A threat. But it’s empty. The girl knows it, and the wire man knows it. Jason is shorter than the girl, skinnier than the wire man who himself is very, very skinny already. The wire man leans against the apartment door as if it’s his own. He’s explaining something to Jason. It’s a fact, to him. Whatever it is. But to Jason— it’s not. Or it’s a fact he rejects. She thinks she understands. 

The ghost woman has something the wire man wants— no, something he feels he owns, that never really belonged to the ghost woman at all, and he wants it now. And Jason doesn’t have it. 

It’s okay. The other man learned his lesson. She can teach it to the wire man as well. The ghost woman is very sick. She doesn’t have anything. All she survives on is cold towels to her forehead and small, white pills. The white pills take all the money they have. Maybe the wire man doesn’t understand this. That if he works hard himself, he can also get the pills. They’re just down the street. Turn left, and right, and walk a bit more, and— no, she thinks she got it wrong. 

It’s okay. Jason definitely knows the directions. He’ll be able to explain them to the wire man so he can get his own. Unless he wants towels. But… you can also get those easily. She isn’t sure. She feels confused, and she hates feeling confused— her permanent state of existence since she arrived in this unseeable city. 

The wire man finally stops leaning against the door, peeling himself off like something sticky. He walks forward, right to Jason, as if the girl doesn’t exist. She shifts herself before he can get to Jason. He looks at her with pity. He thinks it’s cute she’s doing this. Cute in the way you’d think an ant is cute for trying to climb straight up a frozen tree in winter. You have not yet learned your place.

But she has.

She grabs his wrist and squeezes. Nothing breaks. She tries very carefully, very purposefully to not break anything. He makes another sputtering noise. And then his face twists into rage. Just like that. One, two, three. She pushes Jason back and doesn’t think anything of it. 

She twists his wrist to stop him from landing the kick he attempts, spinning him and then kicking his back so he lands face flat on the floor. He doesn’t hesitate. He kicks out to knock her off balance, so she spreads out her legs and jumps forward, placing both palms on his his neck’s pressure points. He lets out a restrained cry of pain. And then there’s nothing.

 She sits on his spine and feels for his heart. It’s softer, now. But it’s not a normal heartbeat. Something is wrong with it. The way his body moved was twitchy, erratic. She hopes that he’ll be okay soon. Maybe she should watch him in case his heart keeps being strange. She looks back at Jason, ready to make a heart thumping motion to let him know the man’s heart might be hurt, but Jason is not— Jason has opened the door, in front of her. 

When did that happen? She doesn’t know. She stands up, one foot at a time, stepping to catch up to him. And then Jason screams. He runs forward, almost on all fours, and she knows. The ghost woman is dead. Jason is running to check her pulse, to beg her to wake up, and she’s dead. She runs into the room, too. 

Jason falls to the floor loud enough to bruise his own knees. He grips the ghost woman with a violence he never would have even thought to touch her body with yesterday. He shakes her like an inanimate object. The girl thinks it might be enough to break her delicate skin. He shakes her again and again and again, fingers gripping into the pale skin, causing red marks to bloom, but he keeps doing it. And then he hugs her with the same aggressive motion. 

He holds her to his chest, to his chest so small compared to her own. Her head does not fit in the crook of his neck. It lolls to the side, sitting inhumanly at the opposite angle. Jason does not acknowledge this. He simply, neatly, too neatly for Jason, moves it to it’s rightful place. How it was supposed to be. How it was just yesterday, so short ago. 

She thinks this is good. 

He whispers something that does not sound like anything. He cries. The ghost woman was dead before either of them got here. Her life sputtered out like a flame that had been trying to keep itself lit for too long. Quiet. Painless. She hopes it was painless. The ghost woman might not have been lucid to feel pain for a very long time. 

She thinks this is good. 

Jason strokes the ghost woman’s greasy hair and keeps muttering things through his sobs. He might not be saying anything. But sounds still leave his mouth. They stay there like for a long time. Eventually, he moves her body so that her head is on his lap. Her eyes are closed. Yes, it must have been a painless death. A death that occurred in sleep. 

She thinks this is good. 

He rubs his hands down her cheeks, as if feeling for some sort of warmth. He had done this often before, touching the ghost woman’s face. To get a reaction, the girl thinks. He moves the ghost woman’s hands, which are hanging off his side, around his own. They must be cold. The girl has not moved from the door way. She can see everything from the doorway. She feels everything. She doesn’t have to be closer. This isn’t her apartment. Never was. She was visiting. He wipes the sticky sweat off the ghost woman’s forehead with the wet cloth from yesterday that had fallen off her. 

She thinks this is good. 

There is no life in the room but her own and the sadness boy and Jason and the angry boy and Jason and her and there is no life otherwise— there had been one before but there is none now the apartment is as empty as it always looked no warmth to cover that blankness and she feels and she feels 

She doesn’t know. 

She walks forward as if it is difficult. It is not. One foot in front of the other. It is not difficult at all. There is nothing stopping her from walking. There is no weight chained to her foot, no bullet wound to her ankle, no tendon severed. 

She eventually makes it over there. 

Jason does not look up at her. He is coaxing the ghost woman to open her eyes. He tries to open them himself but his hands always shake too much just when he’s about to touch her eyelids. He can’t do it. He knows she can’t open them either. 

The only touch he feels right now is the clammy skin of a corpse. Would he feel better if someone was holding him? The way she felt? No, no. She is dead too. 

The only person in the room is Jason. She killed that man— she touched his throat in the bad way and she killed him and she died too in that office so only Jason is here right now yes her touch would just be the touch of a corpse as well so there’s really nothing to do except stand there and stare and watch and observe since she cannot interact with real humans with live people something she is not 

The girl stares. Jason opens the ghost woman’s eyelids. He looks sick. He throws up to the side. Her body drops to the floor. He cries. He apologizes to her for dropping her. He puts her back on his lap. He picks her up. He holds her. He closes his eyes. He cries harder. He calms down. He kisses her forehead. He places her back on the bed with a great effort. The girl could have moved her easily. 

He readjusts her hair so it’s perfectly under her body as she rests on the pillow. He places her hands by her side. He places the cover over her. He takes it off. He twists it in his hand. He cries. He tries to rip the cover apart. He cannot. He stands up. He almost trips on the cover. He hits the floor with his hand many times. He tries to get up. He cannot. 

He looks up at the girl. 

She cannot see the color of his eyes. They’re too puffy and red and full of tears. He says words she cannot understand. But she understands what he’s saying.

 I NEED YOU. 

The body, the machine crafted perfectly, does what it’s asked to. What mission must it fulfill? Why does it have to go there? It’s father would get angry if it didn’t come to him quick enough. It had to be able to discern what exactly he wanted with just a look. Not just what he wanted— but what he wanted it to do, down to the finest of details that could not possibly be transmitted in body language. 

Tell me what to do. How do I complete the mission? I came here. What do you need me for? 

And then he stumbles up and hugs the girl. It’s expected. Of course, there is no way it couldn’t have been. But the warmth surprises her. It’s not as violent as the hold he had had on her at the hospital, as if she would dissapear under his grasp of didn’t grip her with all his strength. It’s— wanting to feel someone who’s alive. Alive.

That’s right. Jason likes to hold others. He hides it. Because… well, who did he have to hug besides the ghost woman? He was friends with Kate, but he still wanted her to see him in a certain way— the way he had wanted the wire man to see him. Independent. A threat. Not someone who needed the touch of another. 

People all need that. Even if they hate it, even if they pretend they don’t. All humans need touch in some form, at some point in their life. She needed touch. What did that make her? Was it proof her shoddy imitation at humanity had succeeded to the smallest, cruelest of details? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about it like she had before. 

She hugs him back, and they stand, until Jason can’t stand anymore, and then they collapse on the floor together. 

After a while like that, Jason moves so that both of them fall on their backs, staring at the ceiling. He covers his eyes with his hands, elbows pointed up. She ignores his poorly disguised cries like how she knew he wants her to. The lights didn’t work, so it was almost pure black in the apartment now. 

The ground is disgusting, littered with all sorts of trash and grime. She fingers a little bit of paper that is near her hand. This is Jason’s apartment. The body next to her is real. She just wanted to make sure. 

She turns her head over, facing the place where the ghost woman was lying. She had never moved from that place the entire time the girl knew her. The covers were still a mess where Jason had failed to place them over her gently. The ghost woman’s skin is even more sickly then it had been yesterday. She wonders how fast her body will rot. She hopes it rots very, very slowly, so that Jason can kiss her forehead for a few more nights. 

Jason eventually stumbles up again, and without a word, walks out the door to the hallway. She knows what he is going to do. The intent was clear in the way his brows were furrowed. She gets up too, to grab his arm. 

“No.” She says.

Jason sneers at her. He looks at the wire man, still crumbled on the floor, but conscious. He’s slowly regaining control of his limbs. He should be able to move his ankles first. That way, she can help him to his feet. 

“No.” She repeats. Jason will not hurt the wire man. She showed the wire man to stay away from the apartment. He wouldn’t do anything else. It worked with the last man, so she understands the pattern now. Surely, Jason would too. 

He does not. He twists his wrist in her grasp. She can easily keep holding, but it will eventually break his bone. She does not want to do this. So she lets go, but walks in front of the wire man, blocking Jason with her body. 

“No.” She says, once more, “B… Buhh… Ahhh… B—Bad.” 

Jason says something that sounds similar vocally to “Yes!”, in the same angry tone he would use to point out something obvious, with the same body language, but it’s not exactly the same. She’s not sure if it’s some sort of other word for “Yes” or if he’s still slurring his words. 

Okay. He understands it’s bad to hurt the wire man. So why does he still want to? His intent has not wavered since the second he got up, even though he understands the girl. She doesn’t understand why. He’s staring at her like he could fight her, but it’s not even worth it. 

The girl doesn’t understand this either. Jason has seen her fight many times. She knows that he knows he couldn’t ever beat her. He moves his hand like he’s going to push past her, and she’s sure she’s going to stop him, like she stopped all of her father’s attacks, but she doesn’t. She lets him push her. She stumbles back a little. 

She grabs the back of his jacket with the tips of her fingers. It’s a weak and flimsy fabric. If he pulled even slightly, he would be free of her grasp She’s not even holding on that hard. She doesn’t know why she’s doing it at all. But he stops walking. He sniffs in the snot left over from crying. And then he turns to her, face the reddest it’s ever been. His hands are bound up in fists at his side, his shoulders raised to his jawbone. 

He yells at her. She doesn’t understand any of the words, even though they’re short. Let go of me! He’s furious and he’s sad and her heart hurts. But hurting the wire man won’t make either of their hurt go away. The wire man learned. He changed. She helped him. He won’t be bad anymore. 

The wire man wiggles his fingers slowly on the floor, flexing his wrists until he staggers up. He wipes his mouth with his hand. Jason gets on alert again. He screams at the top of his lungs— all shrill and childish and everything he never wants anyone to see. He charges full speed at the man. Not with the intent to kill but the primal intent to HURT, to HURT, to HURT, to HURT. 

The wire man grips Jason’s shoulders and throws him to the ground. Jason yells as his shoulder hits the floor at an awkward angle.

 She doesn’t understand. He had learned. She had shown him it was bad. Maybe he didn’t understand. Just because she learned in one lesson, doesn’t mean everyone did. He had a lot of chances to change. He would, eventually. So she kicks the wire man in the stomach, knocking his body into the railing of the stairs. 

He doesn’t topple over, his balance is too good— and that’s what she counted on. Because he still does tumble slightly, and she uses this stutter to kick the back of his kneecaps fully, toppling him. He hits the concrete. 

“Bad.” She says. “You. Bad.” 

He laughs. It’s even more distorted than before. He must have blood in his mouth. The wind is probably knocked out of him too. She hears Jason shout something from down the hallway, where he had been thrown. But he probably can’t get up now. 

The wire man says something that includes the word “Jason”. She doesn’t know what it is. There’s some sounds she recognizes, some words she would know if she could focus. But his body is saying, I am superior. I will get what is mine eventually.

She doesn’t know what he thinks is his. It’s a mistake. It’s a big mistake. Jason is upset and she wishes the wire man would just stop so she can comfort him and she doesn’t understand why he’s doing all of this why he’s so full of violence and anger and bad bad bad bad bad bad intent and why he hurt Jason when Jason hadn’t done anything to him and asked to be left alone yet he was still trying to hurt him and

She blinks and he’s down. She doesn’t remember what moves she used against him. In a brief flash of fear, she listens to his heart again. It’s still stuttering along strangely, like before. She’s glad. As she gets up off him, she hears something rattle from his pocket. She digs her fingers in and out comes several thin, metal sheets. She turns them over and sees pills inside see-through plastic portions. She doesn’t know what they are. The ghost woman’s pills were a different size, and came in orange bottles. She checks his other pocket and sees— 

It’s two orange bottles. She unscrews the cap. Small, white pills. 

Ah.

Ah.

Ah.

So it’s like that. She looks at Jason. He’s still against the wall, but he’s moved himself to be sitting against it instead, legs spread out. She walks to him and sits down. She gives him the bottles. 

He looks the other direction. His mouth is in a scowl. He throws them at the wire man’s passed out body, even the one with the unscrewed cap, making small, white pills spill everywhere. 

The girl gets up. She has to pick them up. One, two, three, four, five, six. How many were in each bottle? She can't recall off the top of her head… But the ghost woman went through at least a bottle a week, more in the days up to— 

Oh. She didn’t need these anymore. The girl looks at the small white thing in her hand. For some reason, she feels an intense hatred for this object, a thing tinier than a bullet, that could be crushed like chalk. She doesn’t know why. She can’t bring herself to throw it. 

She picks all of them up, and places them in the orange bottle, which she finds had fallen down a flight of stairs. She is about to put them back in the man’s pocket, but Jason stops her.

“No,” He says, very shortly, very deliberately trying to make himself sound as clear as possible through the tears. And then he says something else. Do not give them back to him. 

But Jason doesn’t want them either. He had thrown them. He clearly hated the pills. What does she do with them? 

He can see the confusion on her face, and his expression softens. He mumbled something in a kinder tone of voice, holding out his hand. I do not want them, but I will take them. 

The girl gives them to Jason. He shoves them in his jacket pocket with force. She holds out her hand to him in return. She wants him to get up. She doesn’t want him to be all cornered in on himself. His back is probably forming a bruise. He takes her hand. 

They go back into the apartment. 

They sleep there. In the morning, she gets ready to go out. She cannot go back to the blue parka man, she knows this. But maybe they can do something else for money. But Jason does not want to come. He stays curled up next to the ghost woman’s corpse. When she taps him, he does not respond. He’s not asleep. 

She does not even entertain the idea of leaving without him. So she sits on the floor and watches the two, until Jason moves. He does not. They haven’t eaten in a while. She thinks he should at least eat. The apartment has a fridge, but the only thing inside is butter, metal cans of liquid and a folded bag of flour. 

The girl thinks it’s better than nothing. She mixes flour into water— creating a thick, white paste in a plastic blue cup. 

“Jason.” She says, shaking his shoulder. He barely acknowledges her, only slightly turning on the mattress. 

She hands him the cup. He looks at it as if it’s grey sludge on the sidewalk. He mutters something, a refusal to drink it. She pushes it up to his side. 

“Yes.” She says. Yes, you will drink this. You will not get sick like her. You will not d… You will not become a ghost boy. Drink it. 

He sees the passion in her eyes about the topic. Perhaps because he’s so tired, he does not put up a fight about it, or even try to seem like he’s the one in control. He grabs it shakily, she has to hold it steady with her own hands, and downs it. He coughs a little. Some of it dribbles down his chin. She wipes it with her jacket’s sleeve. She can wash it later. It’s only a little stain. 

“Okay?” The girl asks. It’s taking every ounce of her concentration to not stutter. She thinks if she does, she may die. A sudden heart attack or something. Jason needs stability. He doesn’t need an idiot who can barely speak. She has to be right. 

Jason does not say anything. Instead, his blank face breaks as if he’s crying for the first time. He starts sobbing again, wiping his tears roughly with the back of his hands, his face bright red. He does not answer her vocally. But even someone without her knowledge of the human body would know his answer to the question. 

She does not know what to say. People need to be comforted with words when they are sad. What words does she know that would make Jason feel better? She wants to tell him that up to her last breath, the ghost woman loved Jason. That she was sad she could not be well. That she knew about the things he did to help her, and she regretted making him do them. 

But she doesn't even know how to begin to construct such a sentence. Neither does she know how to say the ghost woman’s name out loud, or a shorter word that means “her”, the way “you” means someone you are speaking to.

If Kate was here, she would know what to say. Jason may have fought with her, but she always knew what to say to someone smaller than her. And Barbara, who was so smart, who knew so many words— she would be able to phrase what the girl meant so easily. She wouldn’t even have to think about it. 

“So…ruh… Sorr…eee….” The girl strains out. 

“‘S okay.” Jason mumbles into her shoulder. Is it okay? She doesn’t think so. She thinks she is an idiot. A half-good friend, an even less person. She can feel his wet tears pooling on the fabric of her shirt. They stay like that for a while. 

The ghost woman starts to smell the next morning. Jason does not show any noticeable difference in how much it makes him want to hold her. When the sun has risen, she thinks they should leave. She does not vocalize this. 

They eat all of the flour in the house. She tries to drink the cans in the fridge, but they taste awful. She thinks they might be expired or some sort of fuel, so she pours them down the drain. It becomes dark. 

There’s a loud bang on the door. Jason does not react to it, so she goes to the door and stands on the tips of her toes to see through the peephole. It’s still a struggle to get high enough to see, but she wouldn’t have to strain to know who it is. The wire man. 

He has a hunched up and twitching body of a trapped and furious animal, hair like a mane, and red rimmed eyes.The door shudders with each blow from a fist, or a foot, or a shoulder or hip. The wood buckles and bends out and in, rattling in its frame.

He wants to come in. She doesn’t want him to. She checks the door to see if there’s extra locks to make sure he stays out, but there are not. Of course. Why would it have magically appeared overnight? She thinks if there’s something she can say to make him go away— to realize they don’t have what it is he wants, that Jason is very sad and needs to be left alone, but she can’t think of anything in her limited vocabulary. 

She thought he would understand after yesterday. After the second time. It’s alright, though. The wire man is very upset, and when people are very upset, they don’t think clearly. If she just shows him again to go away— then he’ll probably understand this time. 

Maybe if she doesn’t make a sound he will go away.The door moves again and there is a faint scuffling and scraping on the floor outside. She waits, listening, wondering. Outside, it is dark. The only light in the entire room comes from the peephole. The banging has stopped.

He is trying the door knob, he is trying it hard, shaking it. It won’t give, but it is shaking.

She looks to Jason, to see if he has some sort of order for her. Even just an emotion on his face. An emotion could tell her what to do. Does he want her to ignore it? Does he want her to teach the wire man a lesson again? His body does not betray anything, snuggled in the corpse of the ghost woman thoroughly. He doesn’t even acknowledge the wire man’s pounding at all. She doesn’t know what to do. 

She can hear the wire man muttering something to himself. He is whispering, she thinks, at the same time he is trying the door. A voice. She makes a decision. She will wait. The wire man tries the knob again, it shakes. 

The girl wonders if Jason will be sad if the ghost woman’s apartment’s door is broken. Does he love this apartment? She loves their alley. She would be sad if it got closed off. Maybe she should open the door before it got caved in. No, no. The wire man will try to fight again, or look for what he wants, or whatever it is, and Jason needs to be alone for as long as possible. Yes, yes. She’ll wait until she cannot wait anymore. 

She takes a chair and places it against the door, then she places her body weight on it. She sits on the floor in front of the chair and listens to the man outside. He is trying the door knob again and again. The wood moves in its frame. He screams at her. 

The door shatters open as she falls to the floor. Her face hits the ground, the pain in her back so sharp she is almost senseless. She hears the man yelling and sees him move inside. She gets up, easily ignoring the red hot pain of her spine. She doesn’t want to hurt him. She just wants him to leave. The door is broken, so even if she took him out, he could easily come back inside. It seems she’ll have to knock him out again. She kicks the chair to his feet, making him stumble, then drops to the floor, twisting the legs around his own. He’s agitated, on fire, and swings at her recklessly, with an intent to do more than hurt.  It’s scary, it’s distracting, and she separates the feeling from her own to the best of her ability. 

She steps back to avoid his swinging fist. She waits, watches his movements. She is used to fighting men who only know how to use their brute strength. He swings again and misses. She dodges, waits and kicks him in the shin. He stumbles and she pushes him. He falls to the floor and she stomps on his stomach. He throws up on himself, and then passes out from the pain. She puts one foot on his back, he is motionless. She drags him out the door and dumps him in the hall.

It gives them a good few minutes to leave. She looks at Jason. He’s up now, but still holding onto the limp hand of the ghost woman. He looks pained. He also knows they have to go. 

He collects some things— some of which she notices are a few coins, a necklace, and a couple of books. He puts the small things in his pockets, and holds the others. She offers to hold the books, but he refuses. She understands. He probably just wants to hold something close to him— feel like it’s his. 

He looks back at the ghost woman, and then walks towards her, leans down, and gives her a final kiss on the forehead. 

As they walk past the wire man’s crumpled form on the ground, Jason spits on him. She knows he wants to do more. She is grateful he doesn’t. She places a hand on his back to show this. She’s not sure he knows what it means, or why she’s doing it.  

She does it anyway. 

Chapter Text

It’s not too hot to wear long sleeves, but it is to do it comfortably. It’s strange, because in most of the places she’s lived in, she would be sweating holes in them by now. This city is perpetually foggy. The dampness stays on you, it gets in your hair. The feeling is not entirely unpleasant, maybe because she has not taken a long shower for weeks. How long has it been? 

She’s sure as it gets hotter, this will fade somewhat, but currently she’s grateful for the gloomy weather. 

Jason has been miserable. This is expected. If he wasn’t, she would have been more worried, if anything. But that doesn’t make it better in any capacity. She can’t stand to see him like this. It tears apart a fundamental aspect of her personhood— that shoddy thing made of artificial material she had sewn together since she met him. He cries at night. He’s mostly silent in day. 

How could she comfort him? She had not been able to comfort herself. She was a collection of scraps. She wanted to give him comfort, she needed to give him comfort, but the comfort she could give him was flimsy— a machine echo of what she had seen on streets, of what she wanted deep down for someone to do for her.

She hated her fake body and hated that it was the only body that Jason seemed to trust. She couldn’t find the shape of a human. Everything was sharp or plasticine. She didn’t know where Kate was, but she wanted her to come back. At the same time— she was terrified of seeking her out. If Jason and her argued again, Kate might leave forever. Or Jason might hate the girl for wanting to see Kate. No, it was better to just wait. 

They would lie together in the night and she would hold him on the damp mattress until the shaking in his sleep stopped, then roll back onto the ground. Sometimes they slept together because she couldn’t keep from holding him. 

When she is near him it felt like he is crying into her, even when he doesn’t. He fills up her skeleton with his humanness and it hurts. It really hurts. 

She is trying to be a person but she knows she is lying. She knows that every fiber of her being is meant for someone else, her body, her mind and her heart all meant to be a different thing. The very essence of her wants to be something else. But she tries and tries to pretend this body is good enough, this body in which no matter what she does she cannot fit properly. And Jason needs her. That’s what is most unfair about all of it. He needs her— this thing she wants to destroy. She loves him so much. But he loves what she hates. 

It’s not only Jason who has an opinion on her anymore, though. The girl thinks she’s starting to build a reputation. 

She remembers some of the kids on the street would look at Jason and there would be a history there— usually camaraderie, sometimes a weak intimidation, less likely hatred. She did odd jobs that others gave her. It was mostly labor. She didn’t mind. She’s learned that a lot of the other children do not have the same level as strength as she does— but why would they? So some are afraid of her, some see her as a useful tool.

Some have tried to be her friend. They come up to her to tell her she did a good job, then try to move the conversation to a perceived shared interest— but she can’t understand the way they talk, all fast and together. So now, a lot of them think she can hardly understand anything at all. 

That hurts a lot too. But she tells herself it’s not that bad because it’s good that people underestimate you. The voice of her father says that in her head. But it’s a softer father then the one she remembers. She’s trying to domesticate him in her mind. It isn’t really working. 

She does small things. Takes things apart and put them together. Fixes the light fixtures that are too hot. Climbs the pole no one else can to look at the wiring in an attempt to slow down electricity. Sometimes the lights flash on and off. Sometimes she shocks herself.

The girl knows she is not perfect. She is always guilty at what she is allowed to do in spite of this. Existing alongside others is a privilege. She is surprised that she can stay hidden in this world for so long. She knows that if she makes a mistake people will be hurt. But it will happen even if she does everything right. It’s an inevitability of her being.

She sees Barbara a lot more, despite doing more work as well due to Jason being sad. She thinks that if she doesn’t, she’ll be… upset. But a very, very bad sort of upset. The type she doesn’t even want to ponder for too long, because then the outline of that feeling will start to attach itself to her and drag her down. 

She’s learned more words that aren’t objects. “Have”, “Is”, “Are”. And another word that is a description for everything. She likes this word a lot, because when she doesn’t know the name of something, she can use it and as long as she points to or was already in the sphere of it, people understand what she means— “it”. 

It’s her favorite word after “you”. She likes “you” for the same reasons she likes “it”.  But “you” is much more useful when talking to other people, so she thinks that it might be her favorite word forever. However, the way the word “Jason“ makes her feel cannot really be replicated by any other word. So she likes words like “you” and “it” that can be used in many situations— she likes them for efficiency. But she likes “Jason” and “Batgirl” because they make her feel warm.  

The new words she learns are really hard to understand, and sometimes she mixes them up, though more often she forgets them entirely, as if she never even learned them in the first place. She hates this more than anything, it makes her feel like she should never have even tried to learn them in the first place. If she can’t even remember, then, why even tempt to keep learning, when something like this can happen at any time and erase all that effort? 

She knows that eventually with practice, it is not going to seem so hard. It is true that even words that do not mean anything to her at all will have their purpose eventually. 

She is trying.

She brought the book with hand symbols to Barbara a few sessions ago so she could also learn the words in actions. When she learns a word through both of these languages, it helps her understand it better. It’s less likely that she’ll forget it then.

It’s easier for her to learn words through the hand language of the book, then the language most people speak— the one out loud and on paper. She hasn’t even fully begun to try and understand letters yet. She doesn’t want to. She hopes if she ignores it, Barbara will forget about it as well. 

She knows Barbara won’t. Barbara is sharp and all-knowing. Unlike the plant woman, Barbara’s eyes are green in a clear way. The girl thought that fit her well. Barbara was clear. She was like cold water. The girl liked her a lot. The library was vast and open. There were a lot of people around her who she didn’t know. But Barbara was always right there. 

Today, she is in the library. Her shorter hair feels nice in the cold air. Because of machines stationed in the corners, it’s colder inside than outside. She thinks it’s interesting. One day she’ll understand how that works. Barbara is teaching her more about names. 

Names are important to people. She knows that the fact she does not have a name upsets Barbara. For the same reason the difference between Batgirl and Barbara is important— the name is part of the identity, which is the most important thing of all. It’s an integral portion to the parts that make up a “human being”. If only she could get Barbara to understand she doesn’t need an identity, because she’s not a human being… then things would be easier. But Barbara won’t understand that. At least not while the girl can’t speak more than a word or two at a time. 

She likes Barbara a lot. 

Barbara is kind in the way she likes to imagine her father might have been if he wasn’t bad. She cares a lot about people. When Barbara is Batgirl, she works with Batman and— the boy dancer. Ah. Um. Robin. She thinks that’s his name. She’s not really sure. He’s the one the girl least thinks about. She sees Batgirl more with Robin than with Batman, which makes sense, since they’re closer in fighting styles.

Batman is harsh and clunky. His fighting reminded her of her father. His punches come hard and heavy as if the arm is attached to a piston. The muscles have no mercy. Their hands are like big meat hammers with the skin ripped off. With her father, it’s no finesse, no care for the bones of the opponent. It is all brute instinct, to destroy everything that the hammer hits, to break and mangle. 

But Batman held back. She could tell. He learned moves meant to kill, and specifically executed them in a way that avoided that. It took more effort than just doing the move the way you’re taught it. To neuter yourself like that in a fight… it said something about him. And she wanted it. Whatever that was. 

Robin was the exact opposite. The style, if there was one, was as much avoidance as combat. He was lithe and hard to pin down as a wild thing. He made no sound with any body part besides his mouth, which always seemed to be running with some words in it. Batgirl hardly seemed to find him humorous, but she did laugh every now and then. Batman simply smiled. 

Robin was always laughing, preened, and his style fit that. He was graceful like Batgirl but not deliberate in the same way she was— it was clear he had more training than her, especially in acrobatics. It was like breathing to him, while to Batgirl, it was a controlled dance. Maybe that’s why the girl was so enthralled with it. She could tell how much effort Barbara— Batgirl— put into every movement. 

But she hadn’t seen Robin in a while. She knew that Batman was mad at him for a long time, it had been obvious in the way they fought side by side— so she thought maybe they stopped being friends. Or maybe Batman was his father, and he stopped liking him, like she stopped liking her father. Robin was young, but she wasn’t sure how much older a father has to be to their child. 

When she finds out that there is no hand sign for the word “Jason” and that Jason had been using another word as a substitute, Barbara is very slow in her explaining. She drew about ten pictures to properly explain. The word he used— “brother” is like a really good friend, who’s close in age to you, but is related to you, through your father. So, if the girl’s father had had another child— this child would have been her “brother”. 

If Robin was Batman’s child, then maybe Batgirl was too, and she was Robin’s brother. The girl didn’t really understand it. 

It made her feel weird to think Jason would want to have her father. She didn’t fully get it at first, because when she had had that thought herself, it made her feel disgustingly shameful. Barbara had to clarify several times. Unlike Kate, when Barbara explains things to her through drawings, she talks like normal— as if the girl is any other person who could understand. The girl doesn’t understand why Barbara does that, but she likes her voice. It’s sort of authoritative in a warm way. 

When she enters the library, which used to be cold and expansive, she feels safe. She knows that when she goes in here she will learn, and Barbara will be there. 

When she was with her father, things were not structured. She would wake up to cold water on her face, or a bullet to the shoulder, or a shock through her body, or something maybe even more horrible. And maybe she would spend the day fighting a grown man until she turned purple, or maybe she would just spend it doing a simple task like dismantling and putting together a gun as fast as she could. She never knew.

And now, she doesn’t know what happens either. She knew the ghost woman would die, and she couldn’t control it, and it hurts. Sometimes she walks past the blue parka man’s place, and it hurts. 

Someone would come from somewhere, or from nowhere, and either she would go with them, or she would stay where she was, and the next thing would happen. She didn't know what it would be or where she would be. Sometimes the jobs were okay but sometimes they weren’t, and she couldn't say anything about it because she never could. 

But she has control when she goes to the library. She knows what will happen. Barbara will teach her. She will learn. She’s scared to follow her own feelings too closely because she doesn’t know what might happen next. She needs to be guided by real people who knew what they were doing, like Barbara.

The death of the ghost woman has changed Jason. He didn’t show it much during the day, keeping his mouth shut like it was wired that way— but he was fragile and fragmented. He wasn’t mopey, and he didn’t burst into tears except at night. But he was always on high alert now. He was angry. And he didn’t really have anyone to take that anger out on, so he took it out on himself. 

She hates it. And she wishes she could help him. Whenever she joined him for jobs, they didn’t speak. She missed his voice a lot. Even though he talked fast and sort of weird— she thinks he shortens his words when he gets too excited— she really does like his voice the most in the world.  

So that’s why she’s surprised when he pulls her aside that night, after she had come back from the library, with a book in his hand. It had been the one they were reading before the ghost woman died. He hadn’t read it since. She can’t help it, she smiles. She thinks that by now she’ll actually be able to recognize some of the words as they leave his mouth. Not even nearly enough to form a sentence— but just knowing she has the meaning of one word or two there as someone speaks makes her feel unbelievably proud of herself. 

So he reads. His words come out very slow and precise, his voice like one long smooth sound that made even the words that she did not understand like music for her, like a little tune he was singing just for her. He still made a little quip here and there— mocking something that happened in the story— she wasn’t sure. She thinks, after knowing Jason a while, he was probably specifically making fun of a character.

He then does weird voices, like he’s speaking for different characters. But the voices sound exaggerated, like they themselves are a joke. She doesn’t know, so she doesn’t pretend to laugh, because she just wants to listen. She wants him to keep doing it. Even if it isn’t a joke, she doesn’t care. It makes her happy. 

As he reads, she notices that his hair is longer than it usually is. She thinks maybe she should cut it for him. He doesn’t have access to a consistent shower anymore, and it’s kind of matted at the nape. 

His flesh is rough as a dog's underneath her touch, and something about the matted mess of hair makes a hot pressure behind his ears. She pulls some strands from the top of his head to even the length, and he yelps in a startled way, his back going rigid. She looks up at him, but sees his eyes shift towards her hands, and realizes that he is not responding to pain as much as to her having touched him.

A hot humiliation washes over her at the sight of his recoil and she withdraws immediately. A strange, sour, animalish look came over Jason’s face which she thought she saw, but it’s gone almost immediately. He drops the book and puts his arm around her. He rubs her head with his knuckles, messing her hair up. It’s a strange friction. She has never had anyone touch her there in that way— it was weird. 

She stayed completely still— hoping he would continue, but he took his hands back fairly quickly. He was about to say something, she thinks an apology of some kind, when his eyes go straight past her to the entrance of the alley. He shoots up like a dart. She follows him, though pushing herself up off the floor makes a small bit of pain shoot through her arm.

She still has a scab healing over from the plant woman there. She thinks there must have been some sort of poison mixed in, because it had been inflamed and oozed pus for weeks. She didn't want Jason to worry, so she had said it didn’t hurt much and wrapped it with cloth so he wouldn’t be reminded if she ever wore something that showed her arms. She had healed from worse, anyways.  

She follows Jason out. 

The street is mostly empty, but along the alley parallel to them, she can see a sleek black car parked. The black car is like a deep wound in the light. She tries to turn her vision from it to the streetlights and the few people who can be seen moving along the sidewalks.

She hates black cars and their dark windows. Nothing good ever happens in black cars. She wonders if Jason is afraid of someone inside of it. But no, his body is almost giddy in excitement. He’s happy he found this car. 

She looks at it closer. It feels oddly familiar. And then she sees the symbol on the hood and she realizes. 

It’s Batman’s car. She rode inside of it when he saved her. She pulls on Jason’s shirt. Batman might be saving some other person right now, and they might be inside, and if Batman saw her— 

She didn’t know what he would do. But he scares her. And the fact he had been unconscious with him and yet he hadn’t hurt her scared her even more. He’s mysterious. She can’t fully understand him and she isn’t sure she can beat him and she doesn’t want to be around anyone like that. Especially on the second half. 

Jason shrugs her off, pulling out the metal thing they use to take parts off of cars. No. No. No. She doesn’t want to. Not even because she’s scared of Batman, though she is, not because she’s scared in general and being scared makes her terrified, but because he needs those. He uses the car to help people. 

She looks around her, making sure no one is around or watching them. The dread sits in her stomach like a heavy sack, making her feel sick. 

Jason uses the tools to remove the tires, and she tries to stop him, “No. No. No.” She can’t force out any other words, and even that one is mumbled and wrong sounding more like “mo” than the word she’s trying to say. 

Jason doesn't listen. He shrugs her off. He keeps taking off the tires.

She sits there with dread as he puts the tires down on the pavement. The dark rubber against the street feels like something horrible is about to happen. She is about to reach out and try to stop him again, but she doesn't know if Jason will listen to her. Or what might happen if she makes him angry. He will have every right, she can't explain herself. But she feels sick and frightened and knows she hates cars like this one and the men who wear masks and have no faces behind their eyes.

She knows Barbara. She doesn't know who Batman is, what his other name is.

She hears footsteps approaching, the heavy movement of someone she doesn't want to see. She recognizes it as Batman’s. Her whole body tenses.

She jumps, her hands reaching out to drag Jason away. Her signs are simple and rough, the motions awkward and desperate. She is not sure that he understands what she means. She makes the signal for "Batman" in rushed movements, and her face contorts with what she hopes looks like terror to get the point across.

He resists her. This time, she has to use her real strength to physically drag him away from the car. She grabs his shirt and pulls. He fights back, but it amounts to nothing. She drags him down the alley and away from the street.

The heavy footsteps. There is Batman in front of them, looming over the alley. She is still trying to pull Jason away without hurting him, but he is resisting her. Then he looks up. 

Jason’s eyes go wide, and he grabs her hand and runs, but she’s faster than him and pulls him onto her back, carrying him as she runs away. She carries him away from the alley and down the street, not stopping until she is sure that she has lost Batman. When she’s sure he’s behind her, she stops running and sets Jason carefully down. She is breathing hard, but she feels the rush of adrenaline like electricity pulsing through her body.

They could go to the ghost woman’s apartment— and she thinks that’s what Jason is going to do, but she stops him by grabbing his wrist. She doesn’t think it’s safe. The corpse hadn’t been removed, no one cared enough to do that besides Jason, and the girl didn’t want him doing that, or being around her body, for that matter. And if Batman followed them there, it would be even worse. 

So they stay there, crouched behind a dumpster for a while. Jason’s legs start to cramp, so they sit up, and—

He’s there again. Just watching them. She doesn’t care anymore, if he can beat her— she can’t outrun him, he knows the city better than her. And she won’t let him near Jason. He helps people, but he’s scary. So she gets in front of Jason’s body. 

And Batman just leans down. As if he’s talking to a scared child backed into a corner (she thinks of a mattress and a bathroom and the smell of green and feels sick). She slightly moves her stance to account for the change in his height. He’s harder to attack like this— she usually knocks people off balance. She’ll have to take care of his belt with all his gadgets first. Get it off somehow. Not sure how yet. 

Batman says something. It’s slow and leveled. Jason brushes something off his jeans and bites out something short. He’s telling the man that the girl can’t understand him in some capacity. Batman’s face changes. He turns to Jason now.

She hates it when people do that. When people realize she can’t understand them so they act like Jason is the only person there. And she doesn’t want him focusing on Jason at all. She’s okay with getting caught, and maybe being forced to sit in a cold building with men in blue uniforms for a few hours before slipping out, but she’s not sure Jason will be able to get out as quickly as she will, or if he will even come back. She won’t take the chance. 

Jason is arguing with Batman now, who leans in closer. They’re talking about her, she’s sure of it. She doesn’t like it. The longer they stay there, the more chance of losing. But Batman’s voice is gentle and even, and Jason’s starts to follow— becoming less alert. They must be bartering over something. 

She wishes she understood. She tries not to let the angry feeling sit in her stomach too long, and devotes every part of herself to watching Batman’s body. She’ll be able to sense even a slight movement. They can run down while he gets up, that gives them a few seconds ahead. 

Jason paws at her hand, a little too far to fully grasp it, before finally grabbing on. He points his thumb out of the alley. They have a destination. She looks back at Batman— what’s he gonna do about that? But he just stays there, smiling very slightly. Alright. So this is a place Batman knows as well, maybe even offered in the first place. She looks back at Jason. He’s a little mad, and kind of growls at Batman.

Go away. I agreed to what you said.

Batman shakes his head and says something. He can’t leave, he has to do something. Maybe watch them go to whatever place this is. From the look on Jason’s face, she can tell it’s something involving them. 

He pulls her by the hand, not letting Batman lead them. She doesn’t like having Batman behind her. It makes her feel like he could grab her and put his hands over her mouth and grip her jaw until it shatters into pieces. 

She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath. It’s okay. He was walking, so she can grab his cape and yank it. Maybe pull it between his feet. It’s long, so easy to grab— she could incapacitate him, at least temporarily. She wouldn’t be caught. 

She didn’t know about Jason. He couldn’t run as fast as her, and if she carried him, she would certainly be caught too, after enough time of running. Wouldn’t be able to climb anything, either, with him in her arms or on her back. Something sour turned in her stomach. She didn’t feel alright at all. She squeezes Jason’s hand. He doesn’t look back at her, but he squeezes back, almost like an unconscious action.  

The little building they arrive at, with its dead-end, no exit street, sits at a corner between other streets, it is where boys go. It is made of brown brick with dark cornices. When the girl has walked past this building in the past, there was always a faint sound of music coming from somewhere inside, as if it was flooding out of the cracks in the bricks. Boys are the only things that enter and leave this place.

Her stomach twists violently. She grips Jason’s hand and holds it up, shifting so Batman can see it. She points to it with an exaggerated movement. 

Please do not separate us. 

Batman waves his hands down. It’s alright, I understand. 

She can feel herself breathe a little. Jason says something and bumps his shoulder into hers. She bumps hers back. He breaks into a smile and laughs a little. She smiles too. She hasn’t heard him laugh in so long. 

Batman knocks on the door. It makes a lot of clinking noises— there must be multiple locks to be dealt with, so she thinks whoever lives here must like locks a lot or make them, and then an old woman opens it. 

There is something about the way the old locksmith stands with her hands folded in front of her that makes the girl feel uncomfortable. The woman seems not to move, but her eyes are looking all around her with a kind of hungry, interested attention. Batman smiles at her and talks— they know one another. Jason keeps one hand shoved in his pant pocket and one latched on tight to her. 

She stares at the old locksmith, at her thin mouth and sharp jaw, her narrow hungry dark eyes, dressed neatly but very plain, her thin hands folded on her breast. The old locksmith’s eyebrows are raised up high, almost as if she was surprised. The girl moves to stand behind Batman, pressing against him. He gives her a quick side glance, amused, not looking at Jason, who keeps his hand buried deep in his pocket.

The old locksmith’s mouth turns up, sweetly and yet falsely, the girl notices. Like  there is another, darker, kind of smile she cannot see underneath it, like the smile the old locksmith really wants to make but won't allow herself to, so just hides it behind this pleasant mask of a smile.

The girl glances over at Jason, to see if he also realizes anything. He still has his hand buried deep in his pocket, he is kicking at the gravel in front of him, his eyes are on the ground, or possibly on his shoes. She looks back. Could she run right now? No, unlikely. Not that the woman has seen them too. This is a place for boys, and the girl knows she doesn’t have aspects most girls her age have (her face is sort of square, and she doesn’t have breasts), so maybe she could pass for a boy, but she really doubts it. 

So Batman was probably asking the old locksmith to let her into the place as well, to make an exception for her to keep her with Jason. Jason didn’t like the idea of being in someone else’s care, but he settled because of that part of the deal. She thinks that’s what’s happening. It makes the most sense. She wishes they just ran back when they were near that dumpster. 

It’s too late to do anything. The woman knows they are here now, and Batman, with his cheerful grin (he is not as bright as she thought), knows as well. The girl turns to Batman, thinking he doesn’t understand anything at all, he must not know what is happening here. 

Batman gives her shoulder a slight rub, then leans a little towards Jason and says something. She can feel that he has lowered his voice and is watching her to see if she is paying attention. She stares at him the whole time he speaks. She gets out the word “her”, which is a name you use to talk about every single girl. So she thinks he was saying something about her. 

Jason is still looking at the ground, kicking around in the gravel with his foot. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, but it is a definite nod. He doesn’t look very happy about what Batman just said, but in a petulant way, so she thinks it wasn’t actually something upsetting, but probably made Jason feel slighted. It’s hard to tell what people have said based on Jason’s reactions. He gets mad at things she would have no issue with. 

Jason grabs her hand tightly and pulls her in. The old locksmith starts talking to her, in a syrupy baby voice as if she is an idiot. She then smiles and turns, shakes Batman’s hand. Batman smiles back and nods his head in parting, then the old locksmith closes the door. 

The old locksmith is talking to Jason in a quiet voice, totally ignoring the girl now, with a tight smile on her face that looks cold. “Llluuueesssunnn huuereuhh, boy. I brraawwttuhhh you eenttwoo thuuiissuhh hhoowwwssuhh uundd I kaauunn juuusstuhh aassuhh wuueelluhh tuuaakkuhh you oowwwtuhh. You wuuiilluhh uhdruhsuhh me wuuiitthuhh ruhhsuuhhppucctt uundd doo aassuhh I suuaayy wuueenn I suuaayy ituuh ooaarr iimmuhhh guhhnnuh wwuhhhoooppuhh yuurr sscrawwneee liituhhluhh beehuuuiinndduh. Dooughhnntuh thuuinkkuh you uundd thhuuaattuhh girl aarrruuhhh guhhnnuh ssuhhleeppuhh iiinnuh tttuhhee suhhhammuhh rrrooommuhh…” 

Her brain is hurting from hearing every word so precisely, but somehow not grasping them, not knowing what it could mean. They both are standing so still now, so close together, the old locksmith still smiling in a fixed way at Jason, Jason scowling back. 

The girl can tell that the conversation is going badly for Jason, the old locksmith is leaning in closer to him and talking softly, Jason is shifting his position and leaning more and more backwards to get physically away from her, his face is turned down. He seems to be getting angrier and angrier. He grips her hand and says a few words she doesn’t understand but doesn’t have to. 

Don’t separate us. 

The girl looks at the old locksmith and feels very small. The old locksmith says something to her again in that baby-talk, just a few words. She knows it’s an insult. She stands still. The old locksmith leans back, laughs slightly, and lights up a cigarette. 

She waves her hand around, indicating to them that they can go wherever they want inside the house. The girl watches Jason glance back at the old woman, there is anger on his face, but also something else— something almost like hatred.

Chapter Text

She thinks she’s never been in a place where people are so mean to her. 

She’s the only girl and she can tell this idea fascinates them, as if she’s some new creature they’ve never seen before. She hates it. It’s just another thing she doesn’t understand about people. They’re mean to Jason too— they sneer at him and sometimes push him around. But it’s different for her. They whistle when she walks in, and they’ll mock her hand signals when she uses them to talk to Jason, they’ll follow her around the house like she’s doing something wrong. 

It is worse. It is worse to be prey to people who don't even despise you— like you’re not even worth that much emotion. 

They would pick her apart if they could. They would take her apart like a watch or a toy. Sometimes she feels like that’s what they want to do, down to the intricacies of such an event. She had to keep away from them, hide herself, keep her movements small and fast. If she ever let them see what they wanted to see, tears and weakness, they would take her apart and put her on display so they could laugh at her forever. 

There was no escaping anyone. It was as real as the walls around her bed with its thin blue sheets, as the nightgown they gave her with its fraying ribbon. It was as real as the voice of the old locksmith who called herself the girl’s family. Every time there was an excuse to call her or to look at her so hard she felt her stomach clench up.

The boys movements are slow— awkward, lumbering beasts she could easily outmaneuver. But there was nothing she could do. These boys were everywhere, they were like the air, they were like the sky, they were like the laughing earth. And here she was, trapped in her body without permission to move, without permission to act, without permission to defend herself. She knew she could flip them or punch them and disable them easily but she couldn’t. No, she couldn't.

The worst of it was the old locksmith who ran the place. Almost the second Batman left, she took out a big rolled up piece of paper and lit it— smoke wafting through the wooden walls. She fingered the girl's hair, clearly displeased with the length. That set the scene for all of their interactions over the next week. 

She would scowl at the girl, speak right through her, would give her tests then get furious when the girl couldn't read them. 

The girl learned the words “stupid”, “slow” and “lazy”, and learned that all of these words apparently described her. 

She hates this place. She wants to leave badly, more than any other place she’s been in since the first one. These boys are dangerous. The old locksmith is dangerous. This place is bad for Jason. They want to whittle him down into something sharp like the girl is. She can’t let it happen. But then Batman would find them, and just take them back. She doesn’t know what to do. 

The girl starts the day uncomfortable, having fallen asleep the night prior only because she could no longer keep her eyes open to watch Jason on the other side of the room, over all the other rows of thin beds.

She went to the tiny bathroom, and grabbed the only hairbrush there, picking out every hair before using it on her head. A lot of time in communal spaces had taught her that if you share a hairbrush, you have a chance to make your head itchy. She didn’t know what caused it, but she had gotten it too many times to take chances. As she brushed it, she admired the short length in the mirror. She really likes it. She hopes her hair grew back very slowly. 

She feels the presence of someone behind her. A boy trying to scare her, she knew it already. She turns around and met his eyes, and then walks right past him. He was going to reach and grab her by the wrist, so she moves it out of the way before he has the chance. 

She keeps walking. She wonders where Jason was. It isn’t like him to leave her on her own. 

She didn’t know exactly what went on behind the closed doors— only the boys were let in. For a majority of the day, the old locksmith would gather all of them up (except her, of course) and keep the door shut until they were let out. It made her nervous. Jason didn’t look hurt, and he didn’t stumble like he had when he came back from his former apartment all the time before, but there was something hard and angry in his face. 

As she walks down the hallway, she can hear the sharp tones of the old locksmith chastising Jason. He looks furious, but doesn't say anything back. The old locksmith’s eyes caught on the girl faster than she would have liked to be noticed. Her neck snapped to meet her gaze fully. 

The old locksmith stares right at Jason as she says, “Teeehluhhh her.” It’s about her. She doesn’t know what the first word means, but the old locksmith wants Jason to do something involving the girl. She does not move. 

Jason looks at the old lady angrily, like he really will bite her head off. But then she repeats it again. “Teeehluhhh her.” The way she says it is sharp and final. 

Jason shifts a little awkwardly, still furiously stiff in his movements, and faces the girl. He makes a wide arrangement of hand movements— none of them mean anything, but it’s clear what he means. He’s representing the signs as a whole. And then, he moves his thumb and the closest fingers to it apart, and then together again. No. His mouth is shut tight as he does it, which is strange, because usually he talks when making the signs.

The girl’s stomach sinks somewhat. The old locksmith told him to tell her no more using the signs. 

She doesn’t get why. It’s easier for her to learn spoken words if she can use movements to understand those words. Shouldn't the old locksmith want her to learn as quickly as possible, so then she can understand? So she can stop being stupid, slow and lazy. 

The old locksmith doesn't keep it a secret that she despises the girl’s inability to understand her. The girl thinks that maybe part of the reason that whenever she talks to both of them, she only acknowledges Jason is to make her feel bad. And it does. 

Is this another way to make her feel bad? The girl looks at the old locksmith’s body and sees anger— tighter lips than Jason, tensed facial muscles, rigid posture. No, she was genuinely mad at the girl. Moreso annoyed, maybe. So she felt that the girl really had done something wrong. It wasn’t just her being spiteful. 

Were the signs bad? No, Barbara had helped her learn more (it turned out the book Jason had wasn’t the only book teaching the hand signal language), and Barbara is Batgirl— and Batgirl is good. So that can’t be it.

Is it that… she feels left out, not understanding what her and Jason are saying? The girl feels like that doesn’t make sense. A majority of their conversations in the language are just Jason translating words to her in simplified way— and he says all the words out loud. 

None of it makes sense. She doesn’t understand this woman at all, and it scares her, a little. She can feel the hostility, the hatred, the exclusion— but she cannot understand the old locksmith’s feelings. And she knows that if she could understand speech, she would be able to. What was the point of all of that— of knowing so much about people, just to fail where it matters?

The girl nods. She looks at Jason, signaling “follow me” and he obliges, after giving the old locksmith a nasty look. 

She won’t fail. She won’t fall into an abyss of self-hating. She needs to understand spoken words to be a human. So then, she’ll learn them. 

But it won’t be here. 

Jason knows too. She can see it all over his body. He’s angry, not quite back to being the angry boy (she doesn’t think he’ll ever be like that again with her, which makes her feel strange in a good way) but he’s in sync with her steps. 

They wait until it’s night. Late night. When all the boys are asleep, and the ones who aren’t are downstairs smoking or drinking strange-smelling stuff out of glass bottles. Jason grabs a rope— she’s not sure from where, but it makes something dislodge inside of her that the old locksmith even has those in the house. Yes, she knows for sure now that this place is dangerous in a way beyond the words the residents say.

They don’t return to their alley. Batman knows that place. Even though he hadn’t caught them in that place, she knows that he knows about it. Somehow. He is everywhere in that way. 

They go to Jason’s apartment. They slow-motion through it— both knew this was only the beginning of their future hiding places. But it was the easiest for right now.  A splintery place, a dusty place, a dark smell of rotting life and human waste. Splinters everywhere. The door still caved in, half-heartedly cautioned off with tape. Not even crime scene tape, just stuff from the store. People looted it. Even the small items littered in the dirty place were gone. Including the corpse of Jason’s mother. Well, she didn’t think the people here stole that, at least. She’s glad his mother didn’t have to rot in such a dirty place. Maybe she was peaceful, now. 

Jason had found the book of hand signs that the old locksmith had confiscated on the first day. They didn’t have everything (her gray long sleeve shirt was nowhere to be found), but everything important, at the very least, was with them. Maybe the old woman hadn’t cared about Jason’s books because she herself wasn’t interested in them, but a shirt could be used for something? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. A shirt could be bought anywhere.

He opened to a random page, then drowned, and opened another, and he kept doing this in quick succession until he found what he was looking for. They teach one another the hand signs for “good” and “bad”. She knows what good and bad are— even before she knew the spoken words, she deeply understood the concept.

Of course.

But she doesn’t have to get into that. 

The stinking apartment held them throughout the night. The girl wore Jason’s clothes since the only thing the old woman had given her for daytime wear was a long skirt to be worn over the nightgown, making it like a shirt— which she hated. It wasn’t cold in the night. They lay together under no covers, just old grime and the smell of a corpse rotting, which never quite left the place. Maybe it smelled like home for Jason. She didn’t know. 

When morning comes, the girl decides it’s best to leave as soon as possible. Batman rarely came out in the daylight anyway, but it was better not to risk it. Jason rearranged some things in the apartment before they left, which she pretends to not see. 

They make it down one flight of stairs before she feels something is horribly wrong. She pivots, signaling for Jason to exit with her through a window on the first floor instead. 

He looks at her strangely, asking, “Why?”

She understood the word completely.

She can’t help it. She smiles. Jason looks down at himself, examining his clothes as if the reason for her smile is pasted on them. She swats his hands down, then grabs them and brings them up. “Why?” She asks him back, almost perfectly intoned (if she says herself). She’s still smiling. She can’t help it.

She motions to the front door, then makes the sign for Batman, with a scary facial expression. He looks back, almost doubting, but doesn’t verbally disagree, gives a solemn nod and gives her space to lead them again. They take the few foot drop out of the window, and—

He’s right there. Batman. Just standing there. Like he knew everything. She can feel his body moving under the cape, muscles flexing. It doesn’t mean anything, but she stances herself anyway. No way she could win against him on the amount of sleep she’s gotten in the last weeks. Ironically, she ate better at the old locksmith than she had in years. So maybe that could help her for something. 

He says something in that incredibly low voice to both of them. She forgot what it felt like to be acknowledged alongside Jason. She looks at him to make sure that his line of view isn’t skewed. It’s not. She looks back at him and tried to focus on his words. The way he talks is so strange compared to Jason. It’s so clear and slow. In a way, it makes it almost harder to understand. The way they say words are different— the sounds lift up at different angles. That’s so stupid. Is she going to have to learn the different ways each person says a word?

Jason grips her shoulder, pulling her back, and then sticks a finger directly into Batman’s armor. Like he’s not afraid at all. And he isn’t. Why isn’t he afraid? She makes a mouth with her hand— she doesn’t know the sign for this yet, but she thinks it will get the point across. She makes the mouth talk.

Explain what’s happening. 

Jason glares at Batman then points at her, then to himself. Okay, so he’s probably explaining their relationship…? Or her inability to speak? Something about her and her relation to him, anyways. She feels self-conscious. She hates situations like this, where Jason becomes her mouth, and she just sits dumbly in the corner, like she’s some sort of child.

She’s not a child. She’s never been one. 

But Batman keeps looking at them both, like she’s just as present in the conversation as Jason is. His white eyes are staring deep into her soul, and she feels self-conscious. But she doesn’t break eye contact with him.

I’m here too, she tries to say with a look, I’m just as here as Jason is. 

Batman speaks the same as he did before, slower even, but now…

He’s using the hand signals. 

She recognizes that when he uses the word “good”— he uses the hand signal for it, too. Hand flat and laid out, another hand touching the chin and then brought down over it, layered. She can’t recognize many of the others, but she’s too much in shock to fully comprehend them, either. 

Jason also looks surprised, but he tries to hide it by putting his hands between his head, elbows pointed up, with a nonchalant grunt. She can tell, though, he’s amazed. Probably says the opposite out loud though, because Batman smiles (slightly, it’s always slightly) and his shoulders’ tension lessens. He thinks whatever Jason said is amusing. 

The girl had no idea anyone else knew the hand sign language. Of course, there was a book about it, but she had just sort of— forgotten that other people could have that book too. She didn’t know how many versions of it existed. Maybe ten? Or is that too much? 

She would have expected that Barbara would know the language over Batman. The way she moved was more elegant. Knowing a language that takes good hand control seemed like a more her-thing to do. But Barbara only knew what the books said. Oh, that’s probably it! Batman probably went to the library Barbara is always at, and borrowed some books about the hand sign language from there. So it probably wasn’t from her same book. 

Of course. 

Jason turns to her, and says in his painstakingly slow hand movements— “Us.” He says it out loud too, (“Us.”) and then points to Batman. We’re going with him.

That makes sense. No wonder Jason was so wound-up. Batman wanted to take them somewhere else. She looked at him with (what she hoped was) a strict facial expression. Do what he says. If they just followed his directions, then they would be free to escape again after he left. She didn’t know how many places there were like the old locksmith’s house, but maybe Batman would run out of them eventually. 

It’s better than trying to fight him. She knows she would lose— she’s too tired, no matter how full her stomach is. And Jason? He wouldn’t stand a chance. Maybe he doesn’t realize that, though. Because he really didn’t seem scared of Batman at all. 

They walk to Batman’s car. That huge, shiny black thing that she recalls seeing not that long ago. Back then, it had seemed much bigger— and complicated. Maybe because she was delirious. It kind of seemed just like a normal, yet stretched-out car, right now. Jason was looking at it like he looked at Kate whenever she scolded him. It was clear he desperately didn’t want to get in it. 

She decided to get in first, but Jason pushed past her, squeezing into the backseat— all pressed up against the wall like a stain. She didn’t get it. She slowly got in, hating the drop in her vision as she did so. The inside of the car was so dark. Batman asked a question from the front seat. Jason didn’t hesitate, he bit out a response back immediately. It sounded venomous. 

Batman paused for a second, and then a bright light shone overhead. No, it was still in the car. The roof had lit up like cities do when it gets cold— lights all strung about. But it was just one solid light. Like the whole car roof was a big sun. She squinted. Jason barked out something again. The light dimmed, enough to properly see but not be blinded.

Batman asked a question. Jason said something in response— less hostile. He was still pressed up against the car door. If it was opened from the other side, he would spill out immediately. She grabs his arm and pulls him over. He looks at her like she’s insane, and lightly shakes her off. 

She doesn’t get it. 

They don't drive for that long. He drops them off at the place where the bad guys went. She feels a pit in her stomach. She wonders what she did to make Batman notice she's bad. She tries really hard to not do anything like that. Maybe he can just smell it on her. Batgirl probably can, and Batman seems like a slightly-less special Batgirl, so he has a little of what she has, too. That makes sense.

Cold seems to radiate out from the building. Inside she knows it's even colder. She imagines the light and warmth of the car again, as she gets out, and wonders why she has come.

Batman gently ushers them to the door with his palms on their backs. Jason flinches as if he's been punched and turns around, biting out another insult. She tugs on his jacket. 

Do not do that.

He blushes and looks to the side, then gives a final glare to Batman as they walk inside.

The inside was brown and bright, with people at all corners. So much noise. So many people. It was crowded. She was jostled. People brushed up against her and seemed to be moving in a different gear than her. The bright lights, the smell of cigarette smoke, the smell of old coffee. That feeling of being pushed against from all directions. She felt like she had the attention of everyone.

Batman strided, rather confidently for the weird walk he did— to a man with brown hair and square glasses. He had a brown trenchcoat, a deeper color than his hair, strung over his shoulders. The square glasses were staring at her, there was something sharp in them like a needle looking for a soft spot, but his hunched-in shoulders made it obvious he wasn’t a threat. He was tired. Slow. Didn’t matter how tall he was, she could get him in ten— no, five— seconds. He looked from her to Jason then over to her again. The man was looking at her face— staring, maybe judging, not saying anything.

Hunch man sat down at one of the desks and took out a file from underneath him— some sort of cabinet by his feet. He moved a few loose pages around. Studied them for a few seconds. He looked at Batman, who had moved away from them, and stood behind them in silence next to the wall. Jason clung to her hand.

The man looked back at the file again, ran a thick finger across the page, sighed, and seemed to ask Batman something serious. Jason’s face twisted up and he yelled something at the man before Batman could even open his mouth. The man sighed, but let out a dry chuckle. Whatever Jason said must have been amusing, again. Adults were always doing those weird half-smiles when he spoke. She didn’t get it.

Batman says something. Slow and serious. Using the hand signals as he does. The man looks at him intently as he does, before giving a glance to the girl. Batman gives the man a nod and a smile, but it isn’t his real smile.

Batman speaks to the man again in his slow, serious way, using the hand signals as he does. The man looks at him intently, then gives a glance at the girl, eyes darting back to place just as quickly. Jason holds her hand very tight at that moment. He squeezes her fingers.

Batman nods, and then leaves the way he came. Like it’s that easy. She looks back to Jason, her face confused. He just shrugs. Okay. She’ll probably see him again when they escape whatever place they’re taking them now. 

The hunch man jerks his thumb back to the side of the hallway, where a couple of chairs are scattered against the wall. Go there. It’s simple. She does, not letting go of Jason’s hand. It’s really sweaty and uncomfortable at this point, but she doesn’t want him to be scared, so she keeps the grip reassuringly tight. 

They stay like that for a while: just sitting. The light outside may change, but she doesn’t know. The chairs are at an odd angle— so she can’t see the windows. And she can’t get up, because she’s holding Jason’s hand, and then he would get up, and the hunch man told them to stay here. 

So she sits.

And waits.

And eventually, the door jingles like it’s going to be opened, and the hunch man gets up from his desk like it’s someone important, so she looks too. 

She watches, fascinated, as a man in a suit walks through the room. No, not walks— he’s gliding. He moves every piece of himself carefully, confidently, so that he never has to readjust his balance or sway his movements in any way. Every step is precise, like something wooden being moved by a kid’s hand. 

She’s never seen anyone move that way. Not in real life. Not even in her dreams. It is an old-fashioned kind of grace, like a person in a movie. It’s not like Batgirl or the dancers— there’s more weight behind it.

He had a rehearsed sort of laugh, with a forced, uncomfortable quality to it, as if he wasn’t really finding anything funny. She watches him, observing the way he throws his head back, the way his shoulders shake— almost like a marionette whose strings are being pulled. And they were talking like best friends. The hunch man was laughing, too, in more of a real way, but she saw his mouth move to form words when they weren’t coming out. And the marionette man would stop laughing and smile almost too widely every time.

And then, suddenly, he looks at them like he has known they were there the entire time— his gaze steady as it moves across them both. Jason’s frown deepens as he watches, his grip tightening on her hand. She tries to squeeze back more reassuringly, but her own hand is beginning to feel numb.

The marionette man steps forward, offers his hand. Jason is scowling now, and his grip on her hand still tightens.  But she feels bad for the marionette man, who looks like he wants them to like him. She reaches out to offer her other hand to the man, her grip firmer than it would have been if Jason were holding it. Jason lets out a quiet grunt and looks away.

He flashes that same smile. It’s not as forced now, but there’s still something too smooth, too practiced about the way it spreads across his face. He motions for them to get up, giving one quick wave to the hunch man, and then, without looking back again, they are out in the street again.

The man’s car is parked right in the front, all shiny and bright blue, like a beacon that’s attracting her attention. Not just hers, but anyone walking down the street. Living in the city has taught her that he’s lucky he didn’t get robbed. Cars don’t just sit outside with no one watching them. She wonders if the man is stupid, or if he just knows something she doesn’t: that the city is safer than she thinks.

She finds herself thinking that she likes how trusting the man seems, even if there’s an artificial air about it. A sort of manufactured innocence. As if he’s someone who has lived a sheltered life, never really had to learn the hard way how the world works. Sure, it’s all fake and rehearsed, but it’s kind of a comforting presence. He makes it look like everything is under control, and for once, she wants to believe it is.

The car seats are hard— nothing like the cushions in Batman’s car, soft and warm like a hug when you sit down. The smell of the car is like someone doused the entire car in perfume: not so much like flowers or herbs, just a generic “scent”. There’s no warmth or complexity to it. Just a flat perfume. It’s not too bad, just kind of strange in its bland-ness.

Jason was pasted to the side of the car again: grasping the door in a death grip, silent. The man tried to make conversation, but she couldn’t understand any of it. He talked slow, but the car moving made it hard for her to concentrate on his words. And Jason was pointedly ignoring him, not even looking in his direction as he talked.

The man kept on talking anyway, trying to make the conversation lighter, and it all seemed so forced. The questions seemed too perfectly intoned, and the jokes were too rehearsed. Well, she assumed they were jokes, because he does a little laugh at the end of them, like how some people do— telling the people listening that it’s okay to laugh. Jason rolls his eyes every time, as if the marionette man can see his reaction. 

The houses get further apart the longer they drive, no longer densely packed on top of one another the way they were in the city. The streets grow wider, the lanes divided by small grass dividers. There are fewer pedestrians, and the roads seem less congested as they drive. The houses seem larger, more secluded.

The man’s voice changes— his tone is no longer full of meaningless, playful banter. She can tell he’s getting to something serious, something important. They must be nearing their destination. Wherever it is.

She hopes it’s nice. 

Chapter Text

It is nice. 

The room had a deep brown color that looked almost like blood. It was so big that it made her feel tiny, and she could see doors leading to other rooms. Were they just as big as this one? At the end of the room there was a steep flight of stairs so high, rolling up in opposite directions. It was difficult to say if it was alive or dead for all its shine and stillness. 

The girl could not imagine living in such a place naturally. It was too much space. Perhaps it was merely a waiting room to some other show. One with dancing ladies. 

She tried to imagine how the marionette man with a rubbery-looking mouth would enjoy the dancing ladies, but she could not quite pull the picture into her head. He might like their shining hair and soft white dancing slippers. Or being so high up over them. Or maybe he would like their glittering sequined smiles. Maybe he would even think they’re pretty, like how dolls are.

But she doubted if he would understand their secret dance moves, which were meant only for her.

Jason did not look at all taken by the beauty of the place. Despite him standing next to her, he still gave the impression of being alone. He was pulling his shoulders in tight as if everything he saw disgusted him. In fact, he looked as if he would rather be anywhere except here. 

He murmured something— she could only make out the world “I”, which meant the speaker’s self. There was another word that sort of sounded like “I”— she thinks she should have probably recognized it. Jason didn’t sign it out, so they must not know the signals for what he wanted to say. 

He shifted, and then gestured around everywhere, and then made a throwing up motion, including the retching sound effect. She smiled. 

The marionette man looked back at them. The receiver, with the long black coiled cord attached, was cradled as if casually (but only as if, in reality, she could see his muscles ready to flex at any second) in his palm, muffling the voice on the other side, but the cord was neatly wrapped in order on a table. He took it in for just a second before turning back to the person on the phone.

Jason scoffed and kicked imaginary dirt on the carpet. No puff of dust — maybe they had just cleaned it? The carpet in the library always had dust. It was nice to see it in the sun, but it made her cough. 

The room was clean, and in the sun it was very pleasant, though. The windows were huge. She wanted to look out of them, but she didn’t want to wander from Jason’s side. Eventually, the marionette man came back from the small table with the phone stationed to the side of the hall. 

He closes his eyes as he smiles, and then says a fast string of words she couldn’t catch at all, but at the end his words are slow, “Cccuuuuoooooughhummm wwwuuuiiiggggghhhthh me.” 

Follow me, his body says.

She tries to think of the words he had said before “me”— tried to remember them as “follow”. Cooo… uhhh…. Mmm….. w… w… Ugh, she can’t remember the second part of the word at all. She stiffens slightly as she follows him. 

The marionette man stood before the window, pointing at various objects within the room. He gave a brief witty voice-word with each gesture. His voice was coming out too fast to follow, like a machine gun. A steady ratatatatattat. He spoke so fast each syllable caught the one behind it, then the one beyond that. 

She couldn’t make out many of his words. For each quip the man said Jason gave a roll of his eyes, so she guesses they must not have been very funny. 

He takes them into another room. It’s a kitchen. A tall man stood near one of the walls, waiting patiently. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, with polished black shoes, and a white shirt, and a narrow black tie. The marionette man gives him a slight nod, to which the crisp black suit nods back. So they’re friends? 

The room is full of hanging pans and rows of silver saucepans that have been polished so brightly that the room gleams with reflected light. Of course, she’s seen rooms dedicated entirely to cooking (though sharing a dining table with said kitchen is more common)— but she has never seen one so grand. 

There were multiple stoves. Who needed multiple stoves? She thinks that maybe dozens of people besides the marionette man and the crisp black suit live here. It makes sense. She’s seen lots of places where people of totally different looks, ages and personalities are all crammed into the same space. Oh. Then maybe it’s not dozens. Maybe hundreds of people live here…? But then… where are they? 

The girl looks at Jason to see if he’s as amazed as she is by the kitchen, but he’s still just scowling. She thinks the only reason he would be so mad is if it meant some sort of authority was being asserted over him. So she thinks isn’t some random fancy building— it’s the marionette man’s home. Then… it’s gonna be their home too. That must be why he’s showing it to them. Batman must have told him to take them to his house. 

She doesn’t care if she has to share it with a hundred people. Or even a thousand. It wouldn’t be too much trouble to sleep inside the stove itself. She wants to stay in this beautiful place. At least for a little while, until the urge to leave rises.

The marionette man and the crisp black suit fall into a familiar rhythm, like they’ve done this countless times before. There’s a lot of familiarity between them in the way they speak, the way their sentences flow. The marionette man talks first, his voice rising cheerfully to the high ceilings, and the crisp black suit answers with careful, short words. 

But his voice is different— it seems to have a strange sort of pattern to it, rising and deepening in different vowels. She thinks he must have an accent.

The crisp black suit approaches them. But as soon as he gets close enough, the marionette man motions for him to stop, waving him back and saying something. 

The crisp black suit looks back to Jason and her, clears his throat, and tries to introduce himself. Except he does it very slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully. Though, she can’t understand any of it. There’s a lot of “ar”’s. But he still sounds so graceful. She keeps eye contact with him so he doesn’t think she’s stupid. 

The crisp black suit offers his hand to Jason, who turns away and scoffs as he crosses his arms. Then he offers his hand to her, and she takes it—his gloves are stiff, his fingers long and boney. He smiles warmly—the first smile she’s seen in this house that she knows comes from a deep well of contentment, rather than the false ones the marionette man keeps presenting. She can feel it in his demeanor, the relaxed shoulders, the way he slowly introduced himself, and the light grip on her hand— he truly wants them to be comfortable here. 

She can tell that the marionette man wants them to be comfortable too, but there’s something strange about him. He feels like there might be another man inside him, rehearsing this one: his lines are too perfect, his gestures a little too contrived. She can’t trust him until she knows for sure.

The girl can tell that Jason doesn’t trust the marionette man either—but for a different reason than the one she has. He hates adults who tell him what to do— especially ones better off than him, and his lips are pressed into a thin, repulsed line. Wealth disgusts him—that she can understand. She sees his gaze dart around the room as he glances at the shining pans and polished countertops.

Yes, it really is beautiful, she wants to say. 

The marionette man gives them one more, too-wide smile, then says something else to them— she thinks something generic as a send off. He gives a slight wave before leaving them alone with the crisp black suit. 

The crisp black suit gives his own quiet smile, and steps towards the counter, gesturing for them to sit.

The girl sits immediately—it seems to be the polite thing to do—but Jason scowls and doesn’t move, so she watches the crisp black suit closely to make sure he doesn’t have a bad reaction to Jason. She doesn’t think he’ll fight him or anything, though she isn’t sure if he’s the type to yell. But he just stares back at Jason with a patient kindness, and begins to speak anyway.

His hands fly through a series of gestures as he talks, and she watches in amazement. It’s the same hand signs she and Jason use—how did he know them as well? She had already been surprised when Batman knew them— this man does too? Is it a language as accepted as voices? She can’t believe it. Unlike Batman, who was very precise in the way he moved, the crisp black suit has a kind of ease as he speaks with his hands, as if he’s been using the hand signs as long as he’s been speaking.

Her thoughts race as she looks back and forth between Jason and the crisp black suit. How many people don’t talk? Are the hand signs more common than she thought?

The girl looks at his hands, which make the signals with more ease than she does. She wants to ask if he couldn’t talk as a child, or if he knew someone who was that way, but she can’t even begin to think of how she would phrase that. 

She doesn’t have a word for the hand signs themselves— her and Jason just usually make a bunch of hand movements to signify the language. And she doesn’t know the word for a “younger you” or the word for what the voice-language everyone speaks is. And she doesn’t know the word for “someone you know” or “someone you like” either. She knows father and she knows brother and sister, but there’s definitely more types of relationships than those. 

She feels a little frustration crawl up in her again—the crisp black suit is looking directly at her with such kind eyes, but she doesn’t know how to say what she’s thinking. 

The crisp black suit then says one word quite slowly, she knows it’s his name, and with each unique sound that comes from his mouth, he uses one sign. Does every sound of his name mean an entire word? She looks at Jason in confusion, and perhaps spurred by her look, Jason asks him a question. A little confrontational in attitude. 

The crisp black suit simply nods kindly, though. He repeats the name again more slowly, looking at her, waiting for her to say each syllable back to him. She stumbles the first time, and the second— but the third time—

“El… fru… duh…” 

She knows it’s not perfect. But a lot of the way she says things aren’t perfect. It’s still saying something. That’s what matters, she thinks. That’s what she’s trying to tell herself, anyways. That she wouldn’t have been able to even say the first sound of his name even a few seasons ago.

Elfruduh. No, the way they say the beginning has a gift of a rounder shape— Al. And the middle was more sharp. Like the sound in “Yes” without the “suh”. Alfre… duh. Alfred. Yeah. That felt right. 

The girl looks at the crisp black suit, eyes traveling over his old face—all lined and crinkled at the edges—and his gray hair, his kind expression. His movements are patient and precise as he waits calmly for a response from her. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. 

She shakes his hand again, and notices it’s different: more substantial and real now that she knows his name. “Al..fred,” she repeats quietly to herself under her breath.

Alfred smiles back. 

Alfred leads them back out of the kitchen, past the living room full of red wood chairs and down a long hallway where more doors than she could count are situated on both sides. Most of the rooms are closed, but she can glimpse a few things from inside the ones that are open—a desk, a bed, bookshelves.

So she was right, it’s a house for a lot of people. Well, she doesn’t have many feelings on it. She just hopes there’s a lot of bathrooms as well. And maybe not a lot of grown men. Men like the marionette man and crisp black suit— Alfred, are fine. It’s different. A different type of man. 

She peeks in to one particular room— it has a very grand bed, but she noticed it for the color— it’s a bright, tacky yellow. 

Alfred leans in behind her. He asks a question. His face is reservedly alive with an eagerness to discuss the beauty of the room or a sense of its history, she doesn’t know which. Something about Alfred makes her feel like it could be both. 

Jason leans against the door frame, peering into the yellow room as well, but there’s no curiosity in his expression— just a bored look of someone who doesn’t feel like being there. He has his arms crossed over his chest. She lightly pats his forearm. You don’t have to be so confrontational.

If it’s bad, they’ll just leave again. It would be a very long walk back to the city but— maybe they don’t even have to go back to the city. Maybe they could go somewhere else entirely. They could take Kate and even the cold frowner (if she wanted to come.) and— 

Ah.

Barbara.

No, Batgirl had to stay here. The people here needed her.

But wouldn’t people everywhere need her? Couldn’t Batgirl help people no matter where she went, and it would be exactly the same? The logic felt incredibly sound, but it gave her the impression of a selfish, evil thought at the same time, so she decided to stop thinking about it. 

Jason jerks his thumb backwards at the room. Do you like it?

She nods. She does like it. It’s a nice room, even if the color is too bright. Jason stands up a bit straighter to move his face in the direction of Alfred and says something. Maybe relaying her message. 

She wonders why Alfred just didn’t ask her that way if he wanted to know if she liked it. Jason didn’t have to communicate for her. She didn’t like it. It was embarrassing. And it made her feel like she wasn’t really in the room. 

She tugs on his side. Do not do that. She tries to say in it. Give off the air of embarrassment it makes her feel. He doesn’t say anything, but then nods, and gives her shoulders a little squeeze-brush thing. It’s not solid enough or light enough to be classified as either. 

The second floor is more well lit, and it’s also more quiet. They slowly make their way up the stairs to each room, and each time, Alfred opens the door and holds it open as they peer inside. 

There are a lot of rooms on the second floor. Some are more comfortable, with small couches and desks, perfect for lounging, some are more formal, with a row of chairs around a table. And there are several that are just beds. Big beds, and rooms meant solely for sleep.

She guesses because of how fancy it is, a lot of the people who stay here are probably important. So they don’t have time to do anything in their rooms except use them for sleep. She can understand that, but the idea of having your own room— your own space, that no one else can see— she likes that idea a lot. 

As they walk down the hallway, she looks up and sees how high the ceilings are— they seem almost unnecessarily high. Why would anybody need ceilings that tall? They could have stacked the rooms on top of each other like paper and added more beds in that way.

When she gets time on her own she’ll draw it out for Jason to explain it. 

When they've looked at all of the rooms for sleeping, Alfred stands at the end of the hallway, under a huge window, and holds his hands out. Gesturing to the rooms. Choose one.

The girl pauses in front of another doorway, examining a room—it’s got a cozy looking chair in the corner, and something about it is calling to her. Perhaps the chair is her favorite part. It looks so soft, soft enough that it seems to invite her to try it out. 

But she can’t think of a single reason to use the chair for. 

She doesn’t think she would ever sit in the chair, and it seems wasteful to give it to somebody who wouldn’t use it. A room with just the bed is probably more appropriate for her. She walks to one like that, and while it does have a dresser (something else she would never use)— it’s the least furnished of them all, so it makes her feel correct in her decision. 

Jason picks the room next to the hers, so she assumes he doesn’t completely hate the house. It makes her feel a little less on edge—they can be together still, if something bad happens.

Alfred seems pleased by this, and ends his sentence in a lifting way, so she assumes it must have been a question. She recognizes one word— “nuh-ee-duh.” 

It sounded like a sound this one man made a lot of years ago whenever she beat him in a fight, despite her father’s furious punishment each time he did it. Whenever her father hit him, he didn’t make any sounds at all. She’s not sure if it was the same word, or if it was just a similar-sounding coincidence. But she’d like to know. The idea of piecing together what people said to her in the past is fun. Not as fun as the present, goes without saying. But it’s… fun. 

After some small talk between Alfred and Jason that didn’t seem as contentious as the kitchen talk, the two are left alone in the hallway. She thinks because the place is so big with so many people, there’s definitely cameras hidden. She would look for them later, though. Just to know how to avoid them. 

She follows Jason into his room, and they unpack their things on his bed, which are mostly his. Between the two of them, they own very little, so it doesn’t take long to unpack and set up their things in their respective rooms. She puts what few clothes she owns in the dresser drawers. She doesn’t bother to close them all the way when she’s done.

Of course it was nice to have her own room, but she and Jason would use the same one to sleep in, and they both knew that without having to communicate. 

She had something like that with her father.

He places a gun in front of her. She loads it.

He points to the target. She takes aim.

He hits her. She hits back. 

It’s a weird feeling— knowing that the things that were like routine to her are now so far away. If Jason gave her a knife, what would she do? She would be confused. An object that once had such an obvious purpose was now so convoluted to her. If she put one in the hands of everyone she knew, they would all react differently. 

How weird. 

How would the cold frowner react? How would Holly react? How would the blue parka man react? How would all those people she passed on the street react— Not like all the nameless people she had known before, who would grab it without hesitation and point it at her throat, silently slash at some other artery.

She sits on the bed in Jason’s room and she doesn’t have a schedule. He’s on the floor, back pressed against the bed frame, reading something. She taps him on the shoulder and gestures to the door. I’m going to leave.

His eyes harden a bit, his body saying harshly, I don’t want you to be on your own. There’s a feeling that it’s because they’re specifically here. Wherever here is. 

But she nods reassuringly, and the tension in his body subsides. She holds out one hand to the side, palm facing him, before making a fist and bringing her fingers down. She keeps her hand in a fist, but keeps the thumb and finger nearest to the thumb outside her fists. She mimics the same action with the other hand. Then she moves her left hand to her forehead, and then brings it back down again to rest on her right hand. “Buh—aye… Jason.” 

“Bye.” Jason says back. He tilts his head as he does so, and he’s smiling in a way that shows teeth. His body says— I’m proud of you. It makes her really excited, like she wants to run around in circles, so she hurriedly nods before shutting the door quickly, and then jumps in place five times. 

She checks every room again, and doesn’t spare a space—she looks under the beds for cameras, checks the pillow cases, and pads the mattress. There are none. Next, she checks the kitchen cabinets, being careful to avoid Alfred, every dresser, even the chairs and couches. Nothing. 

There must be other places to hide cameras. Maybe ones that she can’t see? The walls are pretty high. There could easily be a 1cm little eye nestled in a wooden frame 10 feet above her. There probably was. This place was huge after all. Rich people didn’t just have houses in a base state. She knew that. Had been taught where to look for them. But since she hadn’t found one camera, that meant all her searching had been recorded by them. 

She walks around thinking about that for a while. No one had come in to the house since she had gotten here with Jason. Where was everyone? Where were the people who used all those pots and pans and rooms and beds and chairs? 

Maybe they were outside. Maybe they wanted her and Jason to get to know the house in its empty state before they came back inside and made it all crowded. 

She walks over to the side doors and looks out into the garden. The garden is enormous— it stretches back to the edges of the estate, and is full of hedges and bushes. She can smell the flowers before she sees them, and the smell is sweet and sharp and almost overwhelming. But there’s something about the garden that feels off, and she can’t quite figure out why. 

Maybe it really is so big that it’s almost unnerving. Or maybe it’s that the trees are too neatly trimmed.

The grass is prickly and cool in her bare feet, and the smell of the flowers grows stronger as she walks further. She lies down on the grass and looks up at the sky. The moon is visible, and it casts a soft glow over the garden.

The moon is a huge steel knife, curved to a dangerous tip, and it cuts out Jason’s eyes, it slices off Barbara’s tongue, it peels off the face of the blue parka man, amputates the arms of Kate, stabs out Alfred’s heart and slits the throat of the marionette man.

She lays there.

The moon is pretty. 

If she could take down the moon, it could be a good weapon. There is a rough, blunt voice. A hand holding her hand, an arm holding her arm up to the sky. Pointing at the stars. How many times did he do that? Only once, she thinks. It’s hazy, because it wasn’t important to remember it. She remembers the way his chest goes up and down, but it could have gone up and down the same time four times— she would only remember that singular pattern.

It hurt that it would never happen again, and a sick part of her wanted it so badly, even if she had a knife in her hand, even if he never loved her but her— the objective.

Objective.

The moon was very big.

Was she panicking?

She didn’t know. 

The girl could keep looking at the moon above her and feel the grass, so maybe not. 

She’s broken out her thoughts by soft, rhythmic sound of someone— Alfred or maybe the marionette man— walking nearby. The sound of their shoes makes a hollow thump, thump as their feet hit the ground. They sound heavy, but with the even and careful pace of walking… it’s Alfred. 

She gets up and waits for him. If he’s coming here, he knows she’s here, and running away (even if she can easily do it without him even seeing her) would be suspicious. 

She stands there, watching and waiting. The footsteps get louder and she can hear the sound of breathing before a figure comes into sight. It’s Alfred, just as she thought, who stops when he sees her. He doesn’t look surprised, just gives her a slight, courteous smile.

She can see him thinking, wondering. How he’s gonna communicate with her? Well, he figures it out, because he points to the big house, then back to her. I’m wondering why you aren’t inside. 

He’s not hostile. Didn’t come out here to punish her, then. She looks back to the big house. All the lights are on, but she can’t see any shadows in the windows. She looks back to Alfred. 

She points between the two of them, then makes a “more” gesture with her arm, and then points to the house. Are there more people? Alfred keeps that gentle expression, but he clearly doesn’t understand what she means. He seems like he’s about to explain that in a careful, polite tone, so she just jerks her head to the house and then starts walking— Follow me. 

The girl goes into the house, then motions for him to stay put, runs upstairs, nods to Jason, grabs her notebook and pen, waves wildly when he asks her what she’s doing, leaves, goes back downstairs and quickly doodles a house with four people in it: her, Jason, Alfred, and the marionette man. Then, she circles the rest of the house— the empty space. 

Where is everyone else?

Alfred looks at it for a while. Taking it in. Then brings his closed fist to his hand and coughs, though she can tell he didn’t have anything in his throat. He then holds his hand out slightly, only a little open. I need your pen. She gives it to him. 

He draws multiple arrows from the four of them to the empty spaces she had circled. Only we use these areas. 

He then flips the notebook over, tucks the pen on the top, and hands it back to her. “T…ank… you.” She says. He looks a little caught off-guard by her speech, but doesn’t let it overtake his features like the average person would. She notices this a lot about Alfred— he has an incredible handle on his reactions. He’s very… calm. 

Alfred motions to her to follow him back the way they came, back near the glass doors—into the kitchen. It’s quiet and still, like nobody has been in here in a long time. She wonders what this is about— surely they don’t have more talking to do? What else is left?

He gets a silver-polished sort of pot (she’s seen something similar— it has a long tube coming out of one side) from the rack with all the other kitchen essentials, and fills it with water. He places it on the stove, and turns it on. The stove top makes a clicking noise as the gas ignites.

Once the pot whistles, he gets two cups out of a cupboard and pours water into them, then puts some sort of dried leaves into the cups. She wonders what sort of leaves they are. Maybe for flavor?

He hands her the cup, and she takes a quick drink before she realizes how hot it is. The liquid burns the tip of her tongue and she makes a noise of surprise, drawing her tongue back into her mouth.  

Her father used to test her ability to withstand pain— of course, water at different temperatures was an easy sort of way, but there was much more— so maybe this is another test. He’s watching her to see how she deals with it, how long she can hold the hot liquid in her mouth or if she’ll react at all? She decides to drink it down without letting on that it burns her tongue.

She tries to lift the cup to her mouth again, but Alfred gently grabs her wrist and holds it in place. When she meets his eyes, she sees a worried look there. His mouth is parted, and his eyebrows are bent, like he’s genuinely concerned that she’s hurt herself.

She blows onto the warm tea, the heat swirling in the air around her, making her face feel warm and wet, and watches Alfred slowly let go of her, before he does the same. They drink it slowly, now that it’s cooled down— just as intended. She wonders exactly why he gave her the tea in the first place.

The moment has a quality to it that she’s surprised to find she likes— sipping at their drinks, a comfortable silence between them. She thinks maybe this is how it is for everybody— that life is full of moments just as soft and strange as this one, and that there will be more moments like this one. 

She’ll be here, with Jason and Alfred. And maybe the marionette man will visit every now and then, but she has the idea he’s the type to not be inside often. 

Somehow, that doesn’t bother her.

Chapter Text

The girl decides she is going to find out the marionette man’s secret.

No, she doesn’t know what it is exactly. She finds that the lower people live, the more real they are in their actions. Even if they lie, they are more true because they are allowed to be themselves more—they live in reality more, while the upper ones live in fantasy or make-believe. Yet the marionette man doesn’t seem to fit into either category. After all, he is with Jason and her, in a closed house, yet he keeps up this performance that makes her itch.

For some reason, she needs to know why.

That night, she gets quietly into bed with Jason, who has been waiting patiently, and he makes a reluctant thumbs-up, asking Is everything good? She nods her head, and they both pull the covers over themselves. 

She has slept in beds before, of course, but not like this. The bed is so comfortable that she feels her whole being relax the moment her back hits the pillow, which is ridiculously soft. She is so close to falling asleep immediately—but of course, she has to wait for Jason to fall asleep first.

It is a kind of comfort she has never experienced before—and because of the new feeling, she feels like she should stay awake more than usual. Just to make sure nothing happens. But slowly, her mind begins to slip into a warm, comfortable void of sleep. She hears Jason’s deep breathing next to her and the sound makes her realize that he is also asleep, so she doesn’t fight it. 

When she wakes the next morning, all she can remember is Batgirl, perched impossibly high among an impossibly tall tower, and the feeling that someone has put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. But the moment is gone, and she couldn’t remember who had put their hand there.

Her vision is hazy and blurry. For a few seconds, she doesn’t know where she is— and then she realizes it’s Alfred opening the door. Why is he here? Where’s Jason? She feels his breath absentmindedly near her, and realizes a bit. Then she starts to sit up, and her body feels heavy. She looks out the large window, and the sun is well into the sky. There’s no way it’s morning anymore. How long did she sleep? There’s a pit in her stomach. 

The girl lightly shakes Jason’s shoulder, and he grumbles, twisting the covers tighter over his head and trying to grab the pillow, before she shakes him again. He finally gets up this time, slowly. Then, he turns to the side and sees Alfred, and his face turns sour. His shoulders scrunch up, as they do when he’s closed off, and he stares the older man dead in the face— as if he wants to fight him, though she knows he wants to do nothing of the sort. 

A long moment passes, as if the two are having a silent conversation— and then Jason looks away first and grunts, pulling the covers back over his head. She shakes him again. He groans. Alfred smiles. 

He holds up his hand, palms spread out, then taps his wrist, and closes the door behind him. She understands it: Be ready in five minutes. She shakes Jason again, and this time he gets up, though groggily. She questions if she should wear one of Jason’s shirts, but she doesn’t want to take too long explaining and then be late for whatever Alfred wants, so she says nothing. Jason doesn’t give any indication he wants to change into new clothes anyways. 

Even after being here for a night, the beauty of the hall still amazes her. The carpet under her feet, the way the doors are spaced out perfectly even amongst the high-standing walls— it all seems like something from a dream. She can’t imagine waking up in a house like this every day.

They walk into a room that’s only function seems to be housing a very long table. Two plates are already laid out on the table, each plate has various food— bacon, some type of egg-thing, yogurt, fruit, a circular flat kind of bread. All of it looks fresh and new, as if nobody has eaten any of it before. It’s more food than she’s seen concentrated in so long that the sight of it all is almost unbelievable.

She looks at Jason. Is this for us?

He doesn’t look happy about it, eyes narrowing, and shrugs. Yes, it is.

The girl sits down. Scoots her chair all the way in so she’s as close as possible to the food. Grabs the knife and fork and cuts up the fruit first— she’s most familiar with it. She holds it to her nose. She can’t smell any chemicals, and touches her tongue to it. It’s just as fresh as it looked, but she can’t taste chemicals either, so she eats the whole thing. 

The bacon is the meatiest she’s ever had— it’s not dried out, like the canned stuff, and it practically melts in her mouth. The yogurt is so rich that it’s nearly pudding, and the egg has a creamy, almost buttery taste— it’s delicious. She’s never had food like this before.

But Jason hasn’t touched anything. He keeps looking at Alfred, who isn’t sitting with them, but standing dutifully in a corner, hands folded behind his back. Jason says something snide to him while making a swirl with his finger on his plate, moving the fruit juice around in a circle. 

She taps him. He looks at her. She makes a thumbs up.

It’s alright. You don’t have to be so worried. 

But he stays sitting there, and eventually turns away from it, shrugging in on himself.

The girl says, “El…fre—duh.” And Alfred turns his attention to her. She then swipes Jason’s plate and pushes it over to Alfred’s direction. He looks at it for a bit before his calm features crackle into an amused style. He closes his eyes and says something very serenely, and Jason bursts out laughing, his shoulders shaking, breaths faint and few.

His laughter is so intense that the girl would expect there to be tears in his eyes, and he bangs his fist on the table, and the dishes on the table clank together loudly. His whole body shakes as he roars, and she can’t help but laugh along, even if she has no idea what Alfred said.

When he stops laughing, he slides back the piste over to himself, which she also doesn’t understand (after all, he hasn’t wanted it, so she thought it made sense if Alfred got some, since for some reason he didn’t even seem to be eating with them). 

She pulls on his hand, and makes a frowning face, gesturing to it, and then a questioning face. What was wrong earlier?

He looks to the side, avoiding her gaze. “I waaauuuuzzzaahhh pppuuiisssuueedd oouughhffuuhh.”

She stays silent. He amends, “I waaauuuuzzzaahhh… mad.” 

The girl doesn’t know what the middle word is, but mad is angry. Mad is what Jason was a lot of the time when she first met him. Mad is a basic human emotion, and it’s not a complicated one. The intricacies of many emotions are too refined for her to fully understand on just one explanation, but ones like sad, hurt, fear, and mad are very easy to understand. It’s also a short, simple word when said out loud. She likes that very much.

She doesn’t know the out-loud word for “happy” yet, but “good” is similar enough, she thinks. She knows her mind’s view of “good” is not a classical emotion. But when she’s good, she’s happy. When things are going good, people are happy. So they’re related enough. 

So, Jason is mad. She remembers Barbara’s lessons. There are five very important words. 

Who? This is a question about a person. Related words that she knows— I, you, I’m. Jason and Barbara are “who”s. If someone asks her “who” she is, she wouldn’t know what to say. 

What? This is a question about an object. The core of what something is. “What is Jason?” The answer would be a brother, although she still doesn’t understand why he wants to be related to her father. If someone asked “what” she is, she would be able to answer very easily. 

When? This is a question about a time. She doesn’t know any words relating to this. But it’s easy enough to signal. All Alfred had to do was show his hand with the fingers outstretched for her to understand they had to be somewhere in five “minutes”, a concept she understands very well, because she has been trained in intervals, to be the quickest she can. 

Where? This is a question about a place. She also doesn’t know any words related to it. But she feels it very strongly. It doesn’t matter that the place doesn’t have a name— she knows the feelings of that alleyway she slept in, Jason’s apartment, and the Steel Room very well. It’s easy to draw these places. 

And—

“…Wuh…ai?” The girl says, very slowly.

Why? 

It means the reason behind something. 

Jason very clearly doesn’t know how to explain why he was upset, looking around the room and sucking his cheek in, thinking. He then sits back up, leans more over the table, and smiles widely, and does flapping hands as he does— talk, talk, talk. She knows immediately. Some sort of signal for the marionette man. 

“Muu…ahd.” She repeats.

He nods, and leans in closer to her, grabbing a napkin and patting himself down, presumably for a pen, but not finding anything. Alfred steps forward and hands him one, then backwards. Jason is perturbed by this, and stares at him for several seconds, before shifting the chair to block Alfred’s line of sight of them. 

On the napkin he draws a little man, and then a pile of paper with symbols she doesn’t know on them, it might be words, but from the shape she can tell it’s paper currency. Then, below those two things, he draws two stick figures— clearly them. He seems angry, drawing on the napkin with heavy, quick movements, almost tearing through it. It took no effort to understand what he was trying to say. He felt lower than the marionette man, and it angered him.

But she felt he was missing a big part of it. She took the napkin and pen, and circled them, and then drew an arrow rising to the level of the man.

If they ate here, and slept in his beds and found a way to save money, they could have better lives than they could have ever dreamed anywhere else. The marionette man was untrustworthy, but Alfred was kind, and they hadn’t been told to do any horrible labor yet (though she suspected something like that would eventually come)  — so they should enjoy this time they had in a life otherwise unreachable to them. 

Alfred walks over to them in a weird, stiff way that reminds her of a statue with joints. Despite his strange demeanor, he says something in a clear voice, but Jason jerks his thumb at her, and Alfred picks the napkin off of the table. He turns it over, grabs the pen, and draws a small figure at a door, then crosses the door out. The picture is enough to understand that the marionette man won’t be back for a while— that they are left alone with Alfred.

She doesn’t find this to be a bad thought.

 Alfred doesn’t overtly want anything from them. The days of Jason coming back stumbling, bruises indented into his face and swaying side to side as if his legs had been broken seem far away now. She knows she would never let that happen again. It’s annoying how she’ll be reminded of her own evil weakness at random moments. But she knows at least the man who had been hurting him had learned his lesson and wouldn’t do it again. 

She pushes it down. 

For now, everything’s calm. She looks at Jason. He still looks stiff and uncomfortable around the older man, but he picks at the fruit on the table now. She can feel him relaxing. The food isn’t poisoned, for one.

She isn’t sure why, but the fact he first ate the same food as her makes her feel happy. She feels her cheeks grow a little hot, and pats them like that will make it stop. 

The room they’re taken to after breakfast is on the second floor of the large house, and it looks like the room of a young person in a way. The bed is wide and large, the bed sheets a deep, navy blue, and there’s a bookcase and desk at the far side of the room. Shelves on the wall are full of figurines and objects— heroes she’s seen before only in passing glances through screens and torn down advertisements. There’s a few posters plastered on the wall— she doesn’t recognize anything on them. 

The room feels lived in— it has a strange, homey sort of feel, like it could belong to anyone if they were careful enough with it. Alfred walks to the closet, and motions a hand inside it.

I want you to look in here. 

Jason, against her expectations, immediately jumps right into the closet, rifling through the clothes and taking things out.

The clothes in the closet are all for young men— there are plenty of jeans and various dark shirts, but no skirts or dresses in sight. There’s also plenty of Batman and Superman shirts, but there’s a few for other heroes too. She wonders who this room belonged to.

Jason picks through the clothes, gathering most of the hoodies and only a few short-sleeved shirts to match. She’s surprised to see that they’re mostly Superman or Batman; the same heroes that she’d seen figurines of in the room, which likely also belonged to the same person. Because of her deep fear of Batman, it’s easy for her to forget there’s been several moments where Jason has revealed some sort of admiration for him— though just as much of a dislike for Batman’s constant saving of them.

She feels strange looking through the closet herself, knowing that the clothes don’t belong to her, but she grabs a few things because she knows she needs them. 

The clothes she picks are all the same— dark colors, long sleeves, loose, and easy to move in. She doesn’t like jeans, they restrict her movement. There’s a good amount of stretchy, tight pants clearly made for exercise— she grabs them. She picks out things that she can easily slip on so no one else can see what’s underneath them, and so that she won’t have to think about it herself. She hates letting people see her scars, and hates looking at them most of all.

They go back to Jason’s room then, Alfred staying behind the door, and Jason immediately peels off his shirt and changes into one of the new ones he grabbed. He goes over to the small mirror to the side, looks in it, and then spends a solid minute or two ironing the shirt out with his hands, proud of himself. The sight makes her smile a little.

The clothes in her hands feel like a weight, and she really does want to change, but she’s afraid. Jason’s seen them before, and she knows that— but she still feels so disgusted by them, even in private. She wonders if he’ll comment on it.

After a moment she tells herself to get on with it, and finally changes. The moment feels like it takes far too long— but there’s no comment, and Jason’s already taking her hand to go back downstairs, back to the reality of the rest of the house.

They go through rooms that she had already gone through, but which Jason hadn't yet seen for himself— a library with huge never-ending stacks of shelves and plush armchairs, a gigantic room full of games and other electronics, a green room with a roof made of glass…

Jason seems in awe, staring at everything they come across like he can hardly believe it.

Four days go by with only occasional visits from the marionette man and long stretches of time spent alone. They spend most of it in the library, Jason reading and teaching her more hand signs— more ways to speak without speaking, more ways to get the answers she needs without ever opening her mouth, although she does more of that then she’s comfortable as well. She almost thinks she can say Alfred’s name right. 

On that, they choose a sign for him. It’s the word for “grandpa”, which means “the father of your father.” Again, she doesn’t understand this. Alfred is not the father of her father. And why would they put him in that position, when she doesn’t even know where her father is, and without asking Alfred first? But Jason thinks it’s really funny, so she guesses it’s something she doesn’t understand again. 

To make the sign, you place your palm out and then the thumb on your forehead, then move the palm away in two arches. She relates this to Alfred, to everything about him, and it gets easier to say his name out loud.  

For the marionette man, his is simple too. It’s for “doll” which is what she sees him as. She picked this one. You make a hook with your hand then “wind it up” twice, up and down your face. The motion feels just like him, and it feels easier to see him as this stagnant action than a “person” capable of multiple since she doesn’t even see him often. 

She was beginning to wonder if they’d see him at all— the most they’d hear was the sound of a door closing sometimes at night. So going down for lunch (still an incredible concept to her— three meals!) after a time of eating alone they didn’t expect to see anyone at the dining room table.

But when they came in, the marionette man and Barbara were sitting there. They were talking.

Seeing Barbara sitting at the table was a surprise, but her first reaction was happiness— she had missed her so much, and it was so nice to see a familiar face, especially hers. But that happiness was quickly replaced by caution, and a little fear. This was the marionette man’s home. Barbara should not be here, sitting by his side as if she’s been here before.

She feels herself pulled into Barbara’s body with no warning, strong and tight, simply like a friend who’s returned, and this is the natural way of expressing that. Barbara doesn’t even hesitate, like it’s something she’s always wanted to do— hold this strange, broken thing, but she’s not a strange, broken thing at all to her.

The girl holds her back, and doesn’t let go until the marionette man starts talking. She has to see his body as he does so, so she detaches herself, even though she doesn’t want to. 

Her body feels fuzzy, and her bones don’t feel so sharp at all. 

Jason asks a question, and from the way he glances between Barbara and the marionette man, she can tell that he’s asking about the nature of their relationship— and when the marionette man starts to respond, Barbara reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little pouch, and in that pouch is a small photo. It shows her as a young child, standing next to the hunch man. He didn’t have so much of a hunch in the photo though, so maybe it’s unfair to call him that. Even though the photo is in black and white, she can tell his hair was darker. 

She looks at Jason, makes the signal for his name, but in this context, it means— Brother? 

He shakes his head, points higher up.

She puts the thumb of her open hand on her forehead, feeling a little queasy while doing so. Father?

Barbara glances back to Alfred for a translation. Jason says it instead, loudly, too. Barbara smiles and nods, holding the photo fondly, beginning to stroke it a little. She likes the love in Barbara’s eyes. 

She knew most fathers were nice to their children. But, it made sense, because fathers had nice children. Her father was a bad man, so he had a bad child, and their relationship was a unique anomaly outside of what real humans were like.  

So, the marionette man knew the hunch man, and the hunch man was Barbara’s father. What did that make the marionette man and her? Just friends? Or did that make the marionette man Barbara’s father too, since she’s learnt now that family roles can be assigned just based on knowing someone? Was Barbara the hunch man’s child because she was Batgirl and he also fought bad people— or was it before that, and he raised her to fight bad people too? That thought makes her twist her hands into her lap. 

She didn’t really understand it at all. What was the word for someone who’s the friend of your father? What’s the word for a really nice lady who held you as you cried? What’s the word for a man who you do tasks for— bad tasks you didn’t like, and— it was a haze, still. What’s the word for a woman who taught you the five W’s? 

They talk this way a long while, communicating through drawings, signs, and Jason’s translation. Barbara will be visiting more now, she learns, to work with her on learning to talk. That’s good— she’s excited about talking, but not so much about learning to read.

Everything feels so nice— too nice. She’s waiting for something to come and ruin this image, for the marionette man to take off his face to reveal something horrible behind it. The feeling sits in her chest, that something is going to go wrong. But it doesn’t. They talk for a long time, Barbara laughs a lot with the marionette man, and then Alfred offers her something off a platter, which she takes, before entering a more serious conversation with the marionette man as she gets up to leave. This one is quite short, but it also makes the marionette man’s face twitch incredibly strangely, which Barbara noticed. Maybe that’s why she left so shortly after. 

The marionette man clears his throat, getting a strange look in his eye. He looks uncomfortable, but more so like he’s forcing himself to stay uncomfortable. Alfred rolls a trolley out with the full spread of food— everything one could want, and he begins placing each dish on the table. 

She feels uncomfortable about being served, it’s strange to just sit there and be given things— it’s much easier to help put the food on the table, so she gets up when Alfred brings the food in to help, and Jason does as well, without even saying anything. The marionette man looks amused at the sight, and says something before getting up and helping them as well. 

Alfred looked incredibly scandalized by the entire thing, and she supposes the marionette man was the final straw, because the older man actually swats away the younger’s hand— to which the marionette man laughs heartily and says another thing— “What hhhuuuuaappuuuhhhneeeuuddd tuuuhhoooo tttuuuhhh whuuuulluhhh 'I'm gggujjjuuusttuhhh uhhhannn oollluudduhh muhhhannnuhh' rooottuueeeiiinnuhh, hhuuuhhhh?”

Alfred quickly replaced his face with the one she knew, and he turned back around with a pointed gesture in the other man’s direction. The marionette man just laughs and calls back some sort of plea to Alfred, who continues as if he heard nothing at all. 

Its a sort of childishness friendliness she hadn’t expected from the marionette man. She wonders what him and Alfred are, too. Are they brothers, then? She doesn’t think a father and child would be so friendly with one another, but in the way they interact, it’s clear Alfred is the senior. But at the same time, it’s usually the seniors who have things done for them, not the other way around. So, basically, she really doesn’t get it at all. 

They eat, and the marionette man tries to engage in conversation with Jason, but he’s always looking at her, too. She focuses on the way the meat tastes in her mouth (she hasn’t eaten meat so many days in a row since she lived with her father) and tries to ignore it. 

Later, when the day is half gone and the sky is turning gold, she hears a call from the garden below. She doesn’t even have to move to see him— he’s directly below their window. The marionette man is gesturing for them to join him, red ball gripped in his hand, and she can feel herself getting nervous— Jason just looks annoyed. He gets up, and she follows, and they meet him in the garden.

He’s grinning cheerfully as they arrive and throws the ball up high and catches it in his hands, back and forth. He wants them to play catch with him. His body is open and inviting. 

Jason moves forward with her reluctantly, looking at the ground and making a face, but she can tell he wants to play too. She can see it in how he glances up towards the sky where the colorful ball goes, and how he picks up speed as they get closer to the marionette man, though his steps are heavy. 

Jason grumbles to her while they get closer to the marionette man, his face set. He jerks his thumb back at her. You should go first. 

The marionette man doesn’t seem to mind, and hands her the ball, motioning for her to throw it to him, which she does. It arcs through the air with a gentle path, before landing in his waiting hands.

Jason is distracted by something and isn’t looking when the ball comes hurling towards him. He almost catches it, but it bounces out of his reach at the last second, and rolls across the grass. He grows embarrassed as he looks at his feet, trying to hide his face, but the marionette man doesn’t seem angry and kneels down to pat his shoulder, saying something to him that she can see makes a small smile creep on Jason’s face.

Jason picks up the ball, and pretends to throw it to him, swinging his arm incredibly far back in the marionette man’s direction, but then throws to her instead. It’s a clear effort to inflict equal embarrassment, but she’s expecting it, and catches it perfectly, grinning from the side of her mouth. She tosses the ball back to him, this time even faster than before. There’s no way he could catch it, and she laughs out loud as it smacks into his face.

He picks up the ball after the impact, and with all his strength he tosses it further away into the bushes past the marionette man. It goes much farther than it should, and the marionette man sighs and shakes his head jokingly before walking off to get it. Everything he’s done is in line with his previous character, but she still finds herself unnerved by his kindness.

She glances down to her feet and spots a pebble amongst the grass, and tosses it at Jason. It bounces off his shoulder before he reaches up and barely catches it in his hand. He then spots a bunch of pebbles all over the ground and quickly picks them up, pelting her with them as she laughs.

The marionette man returns with the ball, and upon seeing them immediately jumps in, worriedly grabs them, and pulls them off one another, but then after a moment, he sees that they’re playing, and relaxes. It’s the most genuine reaction that she’s seen from him so far. He’s kind with people younger than him, but jokes with people older than him, and seems to take Barbara as a peer, despite her being much, much younger than him. 

They keep playing catch, the man’s gaze moving between the two of them all the while. The girl feels him watching her more intensely than he watches Jason, until suddenly he hurls the ball further and faster than he’d ever thrown it before, and she knows he’s testing her.

She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know what for. She doesn’t care. She didn’t know what all the tests her father had given her were for either until the one she purposefully failed. She catches the ball, and then she catches it again, and then again and again. 

Jason eventually notices the tension between the man’s testing of her, and sits down in the grass to watch them pass the ball. She jumps and twists to get it, feeling like she has to move so fast she’s almost dizzy, and yet she manages to catch each throw, no matter how far or fast the man throws. She thinks if the tests remain like this, she won’t mind them so much. She hadn’t been under the impression anyone would want her around for anything besides her body’s ability, so it’s not a surprise that the marionette man did, too. 

They head back inside eventually, but Jason doesn’t stop his barrage of pebbles, throwing them constantly at her, almost as if it’s his new favorite game. She catches each one with ease, before finally sticking her tongue out at him in response. They drop on the pavement below as she opens the door for him.

She really doesn’t mind tests at all, if she can have moments like this forever. 

Chapter Text

It becomes clear that the man is going to be around more often. He seems to have some sort of task out of the house, which is why he wasn't around in the early days. Now he’s back and here to stay. He eats most of his meals with them and talks to Jason a lot— it’s obvious that by each passing day, Jason warms up to him more and more, but she’s not sure if he realizes it himself.

Barbara keeps her promise and visits to teach her many words— "eat," "want," "water," "stop," and "help,". These words are taught because Barbara considers them very important. Thinking about it, the girl doesn’t find much use for them, though. She doesn’t need to tell people when she wants food or water, and the idea of ever using "help" seems far-fetched. But "stop"… well, she guesses that that could be useful.

She could tell that Barbara had planned on teaching her how to read as well, yet she made sure to somehow avoid it. The idea of learning how to read sounded so scary to her— she didn’t need to read, she thought. It was useless to her.

The marionette man knows the hand signs too, but in a much more limited capacity, which she guesses she should have expected, since him and Alfred are friends, and Alfred is very old, so they must have been friends for a long time. She doesn’t know why he talks so fast and so much when he knows she doesn’t understand it. She guesses it doesn’t bother her.

Unlike Barbara, who didn’t know any of the hand signs at all. But she’d borrowed Jason’s book on them the only time they had all met to make sure the girl continued to learn both the out-loud versions of words and the sign versions. The girl had liked the hand signs at the time she was first introduced to them, but the more people she met, the sillier it had begun to feel— how many people knew them, she thought to herself. How useless was it to learn?

It wasn’t so bad, she thought to herself. Even if the language wasn’t widely known, she had a silent way to talk to those who she knew well, and that was a nice thing to have. Jason couldn’t come to her latest meeting with Barbara because the marionette man called for him, but she didn’t mind that either— in fact, she felt happy. Barbara pointed to the book, then pointed at Jason, and said "Help." 

And now she knew that Jason needed help with speaking (or reading?) too, so she didn’t feel lonely. The way Jason talked was so quick, she realized, that she had never once considered that he also couldn’t actually speak very well. Perhaps the words he used were too simple or strange for adults to understand.

She learns more, and enjoys being with Barbara. She has no idea when they’re going to see each other again, but knowing for sure that it would happen at some point is enough for her. She hates being on her own now, because at least when she’s with Jason, and gets surprised by a new activity, Jason (who seemed to have known of almost all the activities— because he had been told about them out-loud) is there for her to read from and emulate. She knew when an activity would be shifting, or hard, or if they’d be together or apart. 

The marionette man arrives at the library late, but not so late that it's unusual for them to be out of bed. He walks very confidently, as if he has a schedule to keep. It silently annoys her, but she won’t show it. She follows him because Jason does.

Jason talks a lot to the marionette man as they move, and she thinks that maybe he does need speech lessons after all because she can’t understand any of it. That also annoys her. He knows she can’t follow fast talking, and he isn’t even looking at her. She tugs on his sleeve, and he stops, looking embarrassed.

The rest of the walk involves Jason awkwardly trying to recap what he said with one-word answers she still doesn’t understand and stilted hand signs. It’s something about a large body of water. It’s embarrassing. She doesn’t need to be included in everything, but being so blatantly overlooked is humiliating.

She makes talking motions with both hands. Then she makes one of them stop and moves it very far away from her other hand. I feel isolated. 

He nods at her slowly. She gets the idea that he understands. Obviously not the entirety of her emotions, but he doesn’t need to. He holds her hand for the rest of the way they walk, which is only a few seconds, and he squeezes as she lets go. The marionette man doesn’t ask Jason to continue the rest of their conversation.

They are in some kind of indoor gym. It is very warm. The wood is a healthy brown— there is a chandelier at the top of the ceiling. The floor under them is rubber, as expected, but it is also brown. She has never seen a gym with such an atmosphere. They’re usually gray or black.

She passes by a huge object, heavy and leathery, with ropes looped over metal bars. It’s compact and looks well-used. Maybe it’s for pulling? Maybe for training? It isn’t the same one that she used when practicing with her father, but the idea is similar enough to make her fingers twitch with impatience.

And beyond that— a small row of machines that looked like they were just for fun. Shiny paint jobs that gave the impression they were done-up to fit a specific feeling of warm tones the rest of the room had. Buttons to press and wheels to turn and levers to pull and seats with cushions. 

The resistance bands were coiled into neat rounds on the floor. The barbells, stacked and leaning against the wall. They weren’t heavy, not like the ropes and weights she used with her father. Just balanced. For fun. Not for pushing limits. It felt like the place was just a temporary home for these things. Like they might not be here long. Like they weren’t meant to stay in the first place. 

The man waves for her and Jason to stay. They do. Jason fiddles with some of the stuff around him, picking up one of the weights and tossing it in the air. It lands in his hand with a thump and a wince. After a while, he lies down on the padded cushions of one of the machines.

When the man comes back in, he is in a tank top and tight exercise pants. He holds two outfits. Long sleeves and pants. She thought he’d bring tank tops too, not noticing they like clothes that cover their bodies. Huh. Maybe he isn’t as dumb as she thinks. She should stop thinking he doesn’t notice other people because of his fakeness. To be fake, you need to know people. Maybe.

He gives one pair of clothes to Jason, one to her. Then he opens the door and points. A room down the hall. Bathroom, she thinks. She walks there, and Jason waits outside.

The bathroom is beautiful. She shakes her shoes off— running shoes borrowed from that person’s room, whoever they were. Her feet feel cold on the tile. The mirror is so clear. No dust at all. She puts her hand on it, and watches the print appear. Then, just as quickly as it comes, that little bit of proof is gone, and only the girl is left in the mirror.

Her fingerprints are pressed firmly against the mirror this time, harder pressure, and the mark stays. She looks at it, and a small rush of pride comes over her—this means for just the same tiny moment—

She hears Jason yelling something. Small word. “Heuuuuuuuaaaggh.” She’s heard it before. Huuuaaayyyy. Huuaeey. Hey. Hey. What’s it mean? What’s the print mean?

No. She’s not sure. She lets go. She puts the clothes on quickly. 

Jason is faster than she thinks she was— changed almost before she’s done blinking. When he’s out, he makes a motion with his hands, palms out, spinning them in the air. 

Her handprint is still there. She looks at it from outside, then him. What does she do with that? She shrugs. It’s the easiest answer. He doesn’t mind—doesn’t even pause to think about it. Just opens the door back to the gym. Inside, the marionette man has set up a tiny boxing ring.

The small ring is tight and cute, but the rope blocking it feels too fancy. Too high-class. She thinks it could hold a ton. The marionette man laughs when they enter, like they’ve stumbled on something secret. But he must’ve known they’d see him, so she doesn’t understand what’s funny. He waves them in. They follow. He stands there, feet set, like he’s ready for something. Then, another smile as he says something and he gestures back to it vaguely while punching his open palm. 

Just for fun, his body says. Playing around. She gets it now. Fighting is just a game for him. A thing he does.

Jason looks excited, probably hoping to burn off energy or hit someone else. That’s fine, she thinks. A lot of people would hit others if nothing bad happens after the act. It doesn’t make them evil.

The marionette man smiles all big and wide, patting Jason’s back again and again. His hands float out, soft but sure, like they’re saying, I won’t hurt you. Jason scoffs, of course. But she can see it—how serious the marionette man is. Jason raises his fists, thumbs tucked in wrong. She’s ready to step in, fix it, but the marionette man is faster. His hand lands on Jason’s shoulder, gently uncurls the thumb. Jason scowls at that, too.

Jason looks back at her, and places his hands out in front of her. Is he right? His face is saying.

She nods. Yes, that’s the right way to hold your fists.

Jason seems more satisfied after she approves, and then faces the marionette man again. He goes for a punch, body wound up and then sprung out, but the marionette man dodges it like it’s nothing. To be fair, it really was. 

His hands fumble with the gloves the marionette man gives him, his feet shifting on the mat, too much movement, too loose. The marionette man grabs Jason’s hands, showing him how to strike, how to avoid.

She watches the man guide Jason’s fists, showing him a path away from the throat, away from the head. Away from the places that matter. The places that end fights quickly. Her eyes flick to his shoulders—his muscles tight, then pulled back. He isn’t showing Jason how to hurt, not really. The man doesn’t want him to hit where it counts.

He doesn’t move like someone who needs to hurt. Like he is... playing.

It is familiar, the playfulness. But it is wrong. He speaks with force—strong words, big words—but his body whispers something else. This is just... a game to him. She tilts her head. No... not just a game. He moves like someone who knows too much. Someone who knows how to fight for real, but doesn’t need to anymore. Someone who doesn’t need to kill. Calculated mistakes.

She doesn't trust the marionette man at all.

Eventually, Jason grows tired, his face slick with sweat, and though it’s obvious he doesn’t want to stop, the marionette man holds his hands out for Jason to give him the gloves that haven’t even hit his skin once. Jason looks to the side, petulant, but eventually takes them off.

The marionette man tries to place a hand on Jason’s shoulder, but Jason shrugs it off. Then, he looks at her, as if to say: You can beat him for me, right?

Of course I can. She says back with a look.

“Yes.” She says out loud.

The marionette man reaches out for her, and pulls her up the small platform. Very slowly, he touches her shoulder. Afraid she might react badly? His voice is loud—sharp. She can’t see his face, but imagines the way his lips move, the way his chest rises with every word. He's trying to show her something, his hands close, guiding hers. His touch is warm. Heavy. Heavy. Heavy. Familiar. Loosely. Maybe it’s just because he’s an older man. She’s not sure. Ignores it. 

He moves her arms—here—then here. He wants her to block. His breath comes out in short bursts as he talks again, and she watches his feet, how they’re planted. Too wide. Off-balance.

She feels the tension building in his muscles, and she knows he’s holding back. He thinks she’s fragile. She lets him guide her, lets her body move to the rhythm of his hands, but there’s too much noise. Too much weight in his grip.

Her fists—tight—loose. He shows her the punch. She sees the twist in his hips, but there’s too much strength. It’s loud in his body, in the way his knuckles curl before they even make contact. His eyes are focused— waiting for her to catch up. But she can feel everything, the air shifting when he moves, the faint tremor in his wrist when he turns it. He’s not fast enough.

She wonders if it’s wrong to let someone see you if all they show you is the surface-level of themself. She wonders. There’s something underneath, deep, dark, something— she’s not sure what. But then she looks at Jason, and the way he’s waiting for her, hope in his eyes, his gaze full of expectation. Something inside her stirs. Confidence, determination— she can do it. She knows it.

There's a heaviness in the marionette man— a strength that feels familiar, not quite right for a lesson. She grabs his arm, twisting to try to break free, but he’s so strong that only the grip on the sleeve becomes tighter. She leaps over his shoulder, throwing out her knee to hit him in the back, but he quickly turns to grab her leg before it hits, swinging her around to sit onto his hip.

He masks his fighting style carefully, and she’s sure now that’s it’s purposeful. Trying to be neutral. The bland instructor, like a book, a lesson. She doesn’t understand why he’s doing it; but she knows she has to win for Jason. She pushes harder against his chest, forcing herself to come forward and then down on his legs, trying to use the weight of her body to pull him forward. He resists her. She tries again.

He stumbles back, clearly surprised by the force of her push and the ability of her small body; he holds his hand out for her to stop, clearly saying, Stop.

But she can see it— that look in his eyes. She doesn’t know what it means. She tries to keep this small amount of force on his legs going, even as he continues to walk with her attached, his awkward laughing growing a little strained. She can tell she’s pushing him far past where he wants to go.

She lets go. The marionette man looks at her strangely, assessing, and turns towards Jason with a few quiet words on his lips, and that’s her chance. She goes to kick his calves, but her foot slips on the floor, somehow, (how?) and her leg bends at an awkward angle. He quickly turns to catch her.

She knew it. The move came back to her. The catch. She knew it. She knew the man. The marionette man, the unknowable man in a fancy house, with icewater eyes, sleek hair. Everything in place. But she knew him. She wasn’t sure how she knew him in this moment, but she knew it was him. Every breath. Every muscle. Every strand of hair. She knew him.

She looks deeply at him, staring at this person in front of her and not letting her gaze wander anywhere around the room. She realizes that this must have happened before—that she has practiced with this man. Perhaps she had once trained with him when she was with her father? No. He would have shown more nerves or apprehension if it was like that. But this man— he’s probably the type of man who can easily put his old life behind him and forget about it. Keep mentos of fighting like accessories in a special room, then leave.

He sits her up and smiles again.

Jason lifts up the string of the boxing area, and quickly runs towards her, opening his arms to her. He lifts her into a spin, and then places her back on the floor. “Good jjjuuuhhbuhhhh!” he says, smiling brightly. She looks at him, and then back at the whole room. “Uhhh…”

He gestures around them, and then goes into a fighting stance. She understands now. A job is a fight. She has done a good fight.

“Good.” She says back.

“Good!” He repeats. And then he blows spit at the marionette man. The marionette man smiles.

She finds that things change after that. The marionette man fights with Jason; he doesn’t hurt him, but whenever she steps in to fight him afterwards, he only wants to teach. He never takes on an equal level like with Jason. He wants to keep her at a distance. She thinks he saw that she recognized him. That weird fear. It stabs at her mind, so she ignores it.

And she finds herself once again in a situation where she feels this distrust, this thing she can’t explain to Jason, who looks at her and wonders why her face looks so concerned. They eat breakfast and lunch and dinner together, and she still cannot explain to him what she knows to be true.

The steel room had been a place of simple rules. She was told to do something, and she did it. That was it. That was her existence. There was no need for explanation, because all the things she needed to do were simply put in front of her.

Now, there were things she wanted to share. Information and questions. She wanted to know what Jason had said, what the marionette man had said back. She wanted to know why Barbara laughed. It was different now. It hurts. It hurts, because it wasn't like this before. She wasn't supposed to be like this. 

The body is always telling her to move. To punch her father, just use your whole body. Start in the feet. Push, twist your hips. Never use your arm. The arm is too slow, not built for this. Your fist, too. That’s all it is. Use the whole body.

She feels it—curl the fingers tight, thumb stays outside. Soft knuckles aren’t for hitting. Hit, and they break. Then it’s the elbow— that comes last. The shoulder stays low, doesn’t rise like... like scared things. Scared makes it wrong. Makes it weak.

Her arms are weak, she knows this. Their smallness is known to her. They’re too thin. Breakable. No strength in them, like her father wanted. Too many starving days. She feels the pain from her ribs pressing in, against her skin.

But the motion’s clean. Always clean.

She stands, raises her fist, and she does it. Turn the hip, push with the foot—fist moves fast. 

Crack—right to her own face. Cheek stings, eye blurs.

Her body knows how to hit.

But it’s weak.

The blood drips down her face, the cold the whole way down. She feels stupid. Her father hadn’t even been here. She's the only idiot bleeding, useless weapon, useless person, there is only uselessness from her.

Her father wasn't here. 

She wipes the blood from her nose, not looking at the wetness on her hand. Goes to the bathroom. Looks at the mirror. Yes, it was bad. She was going to be purple and green for weeks. She was really an idiot. 

She pours lukewarm water on her face, looking into the mirror. And she knows it’s still obvious what just happened. Anyone who knew how to fight could tell from the angle of the blow. And her knuckles are not bruised yet. She goes to the library, where Jason is sitting in a corner, leaning on the wall, reading something with a glass of water in his lap.

He looks up at her with his eyebrows knitted, about to see the red mark on her face. And before he can even take in her expression, she stops him— grabs his water glass, not letting him spill it. He grabs her face, and the worry is rapidly turning to anger. He stands up, and his voice rises, words so fast she can’t understand a single one. 

She takes a step back, and her eyes plead with him, holding up a fist to her own face. He stops, doesn’t seem to believe her. After all, it does sound absurd. She looks at him, pleadingly, trying to convey sincerity. It doesn’t seem to work with him.

She wants an explanation, a reason. Why did she hurt herself? Because she was upset. Because hitting was all she was good at. Because being hit was all she was good at too. Because when her father was mad at her, he hit her, and she was mad at herself, all the time. 

Because she misses her father. 

But she couldn’t explain any of this to him. She would be able to talk about it in years, but by then, would the memories still be as clear to her? She recalled the fights and anger and pain, but the handful of good times were so few and far between that she wondered if she would remember them in the future. It hurt. And it still made her hurt.

His expression twisted up, and she knew he was admonishing her. 

Don’t hit yourself again, his words must have been. 

Why? She wanted to ask. Tell me the reason. I need to know. Why am I not supposed to hit myself?

She felt desperate to understand the words he said so harshly. Never in her entire life had she felt so consumed by such an overwhelming need to comprehend a scolding. 

It was wrong, all wrong. She didn’t know, she didn’t know anything, and it was all so far away. “Jason.” She says. “Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason.” And by the last word, she couldn’t say it anymore, because she was crying.

She feels him grab her arm, and she knows the direction they’re headed in without being told. The corner with the screen. A box-like machine sitting there (one like Kate’s), waiting for them to use it. 

The box glows and hums, and Jason presses the buttons fast— tap-tap-tap. He says a word— “happy”, (she knows this word) and pictures fill the box. Smiling faces are shown— she knows those looks, those lips that curl up and eyes that shrink. She feels that feeling in her chest. Happy.

Then he says "bbbuuurriiiiiddd." His hands move like wings, and the box shows flying things—feathers and flapping.

Bird. Bird. That’s a bird. Bird. She looks at the screen. Those tiny things in the sky, the one she’s seen so many times. You’re birds. That’s your name. 

She does the sign for the marionette man. Jason watches, then taps again. Tap-tap. And then—there he is. Him. So many pictures. The man. Marionette man. Everywhere.

She points, presses her finger to the screen. He's real. He’s real.

The box is warm under her hand. Like it’s breathing, like it’s alive. She presses harder. Maybe it likes when she touches it? Maybe it feels her, too. Jason says something, but she’s not listening. The box hums louder. It’s happy, she thinks. It loves the pictures it holds. Loves them like she does. She wonders if it knows the marionette man. Does it want to show her more? 

She leans closer, her breath fogging the glass, and whispers, "Good… juh-ob."

Maybe it hears. Maybe it understands. Maybe it’s alive, too.

When she pulls her hand away, she sees her tears— little drops scattered on the glass. They catch the light coming from the box, and there’s a strange shimmer, like a rainbow, bending across the screen. It’s... pretty. Like the box is crying with her, like it feels what she feels.

She wipes them away, gently. Smoothing over the warmth. She doesn’t want to leave marks. Doesn’t want to hurt it. She forgets her cheek, her nose, all that pain inside her— and watches the box, still crying. 

But she knows why. 

Chapter Text

The polished, shiny gym used to feel disconcerting to her, but she had since gotten used to the feel of the place. When she could, she spent long hours in there, but if she didn’t have to sleep with Jason, her favorite time in the gym would be night, when there was no chance of a singular person walking in on her. Sometimes it even felt like the sun was watching her as if it was a real live person, an intruder into her skin, and she didn’t like the feeling at all.

The marionette man would sometimes casually walk into the gym while she was training, as if he had somehow missed the fact that she was there in the first place. But he hadn’t, she knew that. There was a newfound sinister air around him that made her stomach turn— that recognition she felt for him would not go away no matter how long she tried. 

It was one such case today. Jason was sprawled on top of two dumbbells like a makeshift hammock, reading something from the library. It was beige, with a weird green design on it— a very small one. She’s stretching on the floor, feeling the pull in her muscles, when the marionette man steps inside.

The marionette man motions for them to follow him, door wide open. Jason looks up at her, they exchange a glance, and then they start to follow. The marionette man smiles, very loud, and says something she can’t make out, then says and repeats the sign for “Good” with big, exaggerated movements. He does it a total of six times.

She liked it when people signed to her— the way they moved, and the differences in each person’s hands. Barbara’s were clear, practiced and precise to avoid any misunderstandings. Jason’s are similar, but lacking in refinement, and he often mixed up signs himself. Alfred’s signing was slow, but not from a struggling memory, but from being careful and deliberate.

They sit and eat together, the marionette man sitting to the side and reading a big, yet thin, cover-less book. She’s seen them sold outside, no matter where she goes, but everyday the words and the picture on the front is different. The front page of this day’s paper is a beautiful woman, with dark, curled hair and a smile. In the photo, she’s posed against a large telescope, clearly trying to look playful and coy. 

When he’s finished reading, the marionette man gets up from the table despite his breakfast still being unfinished, throws on a dark wool coat, and says goodbye to them with a playful pat on the shoulder each. Then, he exits the house, and she is left with just Jason and Alfred. She doesn’t get it. Why ask Alfred to make food he wasn’t going to finish? He’s an adult— shouldn’t he know by now how much he can eat before he gets full? 

She stares down at the plate, before Alfred reaches down to pick it up. Alright, yes, that’s good. That’s very good. Alfred is thin, so for him that portion will be enough. She feels certain that he’ll finish it.

As Alfred walks into the kitchen with the food, her eyes follow him, and she jolts up, realizing what he’s doing— he’s going to throw the food away. But she won’t allow that, and she swerves towards him to stop him, grabbing his arm. He looks at her like he’s surprised— like he’s really caught off guard. 

“Eat,” she says. She pushes his arm, forcing the rim of the plate up against his suit.

He laughs, but then shakes his head. He places the plate on the side of the table, to free his hands. He makes the sign for himself, then “no” then “eat”. Alfred no eat. But no— he spoke as well, and that’s not what he said, it was—- “I wwuuiiieeell noouughhttuhh duuuuinnnuhh.” 

She thinks she knows the third one— noughhtuhh. Noh-tuh. Noooo….ttuhh… 

She sounds it out with her mouth. 

Not. Not. It means — not eating. 

He won’t touch it. Her stomach aches. Why is it? He had spent so much time, so much effort, on it— the chopping, the stirring, the smells and the sweetness and the warmth. Why, then, wouldn’t he eat it? It made her sad.

She had never really felt casual, permanent sadness before— little moments of it would come and go, and then cease, and she hadn’t had much to feel sad about before all of this. She didn’t dwell on the past and what had driven her here— she couldn’t afford to. 

But now, she remembers the leaves— dry, rough, and crackling as she picked them up off the ground. The taste was bland, and her mouth always ached after she ate them, but it was the only thing she had to eat. She would eat the leaves until there was no more hunger in her body, if only for a second. But now, she was somewhere else, where there was real food, and she couldn’t give it up. Not like that.

The sound of footsteps, and a light tap on the door. She knows that rhythm, and knows it’s Jason. He walks in, and she looks to face him, but he’s not looking at her— instead he’s talking to Alfred. Words go back and forth between them quickly, but the speed is almost too fast for her. It sinks in how slow Alfred talks around her.

Alfred is constantly moving around, cleaning and fixing, but he’s gentle with her. He has a smile on his face, but it’s not for her at the moment. Jason and him talk, and it seems like Jason is the one doing most of the speaking— his shoulders are just a little more squared than normal, so he’s probably explaining the reason behind her following him to the kitchen. 

She looks over. In the corner, a plate, full of leftovers. The pieces click in her mind—he must’ve saved it for himself.

Jason gets it, too. His steps are quiet on the tile, but sure. He grabs the plate, all the scraps left by Alfred, and lifts it up. He moves back, slow but confident, setting it down beside their plates.

From the kitchen door, Alfred’s watching them. His head tilts, eyes on them, but he doesn’t say anything. Just... watches.

“Alfred, eat wwwuiiitthuhh us.” Jason says, and she’s caught off guard for a moment by how she could have closed her eyes for that sentence and understood his intentions entirely. She knew every word except the middle one, and it wasn’t even a complicated word, so she could put together what it meant. 

Eventually, as if it were a great effort to do so, even painful, Alfred sits down with them to eat. Jason talks a lot, and she listens, and as she does, it’s clear that they’re discussing their physical training— though it seems like Jason adds in all kinds of details about her, because Alfred keeps looking at her and smiling after every other thing Jason says. And she can feel his affection come off in waves. 

The doorbell rings a few seconds after they’ve all finished eating, and the girl  hurries up to lick her plate clean, because she knows it’s Barbara and she can’t wait a singular second to see her. She sets the silverware on the plate the way the marionette man does, with the fork and knife next to one another, but also laid across the plate. 

It’s only a second, and Alfred has just started to get up, but already through the door, light spills over the floor. She grins as the door opens  and Barbara is there, exactly how she expected her to be— her bright green coat, her lively hair, the bag on her back. The girl jumps up and frantically waves, her arms large and wild as she runs to greet her.

She’s here— Barbara hugs her tight, spins her around, and laughter bubbles from her chest. The girl laughs too, dizzy, as Barbara spins her round and round. Everything blurs— just them in the wild, colorful dizziness, until at last they slow and come to a stop.

When Barbara lets go of the girl, she looks over and sees Jason. She smiles a polite smile and waves, and he returns her smile and waves back. The girl hopes that sometime, Jason and Barbara can become friends.

She watches as Alfred moves toward Barbara, speaking in soft sounds. Too soft. Not on purpose, though—she can tell. It’s just how he talks. Jason, though, he gets it, all of it. She can see it in his eyes, the way he’s almost buzzing with something, his fingers twitching at his sides, excited by it— whatever “it” is. 

Barbara blinks, surprise crossing her face at something Alfred says, then she nods, quick—sharp, a snap. They both start walking toward her, the space between them closing fast.

Barbara motions for her to follow Alfred, and she does, with Jason right behind her. They step down into the dark. The space is hollow beneath the house, silent and open. It was a strange underground room, rows of vehicles that she knew were cars. They were silent and still in the dim light, and they frighten her. The way they are hard and cold, their doors shut tight, like something very alive, trapped inside.

Alfred walks briskly to the same huge black car they had rode to the house in. It seemed so long ago, but the sun had probably only risen about 20 times since then. She wanted to remember something— a piece of knowledge about time. About what it’s called when the sun goes up and down 20 times. She was sure Barbara told it to her. Barbara told her about seconds, that was easy. She could not remember now.

They get in the car, Barbara in the seat in the front next to Alfred, who’s driving. Jason clicks his seatbelt, helps her put on hers too, then immediately puts his hands deep into his pockets, After they leave the room, with a big metal door opening to reveal the outside, music starts to play— and it’s— like something gentle, and it sounds nice. She likes it because it doesn’t have words.

Jason's feet kick playfully at the back of the seat in front of his. Barbara stretched her arms, trying to reach back and swat his legs. Despite her efforts, her arms were too short, and Jason clearly found this hysterical— and the girl could tell Barbara did too, a little smile on her face. He laughs at her, and as his laughter filled the car, Barbara leans forward and twists a knob, changing the music.

A man's angry voice yells, pulling the note out loud and painful and angry, as if he is struggling to subdue the sound. The music is like the sound of a body being dragged slowly over gravel. There are now heavy bangs, two quick crashes, stones being smashed together. It's painful to her ears, just noise, meaningless and jarring.

She keeps still. Controls every part of her face, her body. No frowning, no shoulders lifting, no tight eyes. No one should see that she doesn’t like the sound. The music is angry, messy, twisted-up inside itself. It bangs and drags along and something’s fighting to get out.

She doesn’t want it here, in the car, but they can’t know that.

Jason’s laugh bubbles up again, loud, his heels kicking the back of Barbara’s seat in rhythm with the banging noise. Barbara twists around, her face pinched—she’s scolding him, but the little smile tugging at her mouth says she doesn’t really mean it. She’s enjoying this, somehow.

They drive, getting closer to wherever it is Alfred wants to take them. Close to the place she and Jason used to live. The alley with the rotting beams. The wet mattress, horrible and sagging. She was on it not long ago, but already… no, she doesn’t ever want to go back.

It leaves her with something strange in her chest. Something sad, again.

What happens when this ends? When the driving stops, when they can’t stay at the big house anymore? Will she have to go back to that—surviving on empty stomachs, crouching on the ground to pee? The thought makes her feel sick. Makes her feel… stupid, even. She shouldn’t have gotten so used to a life that wasn’t hers. 

She was the type who had to do all the gross things, stay away from people. Because she was stupid, because she couldn’t speak or understand, because she had to be alone so people would be safe—from her, from fooling them into liking her, because she was…

Kate’s apartment goes by, the one with all the windows, tall like a line of boxes stacked up—seventeen, she’s counted. She taps on the glass fast, over and over, trying to make Jason look.

She wants to see Kate. Wants to say sorry. She wants to say words, real words, so Kate will know she tried hard, that she’s proud of her. Jason’s face gets that awkward twist to it. He shifts, uncomfortable, his hands still buried deep in his pockets. She can tell he’s holding tight to the fabric inside, his fingers clenching at it like he can hide something there.

She frowns and tugs at Jason’s arm. He doesn’t try to shrug her off, just sighs. He’s confused, not sure how to explain it to her— whatever “it” is, whatever the reason she can’t see Kate is.

Jason talks, and Alfred she can see his face through the little mirror on the top of the car, between him and Barbara, and he seems sad. Barbara’s face tilts to the side, but she seems like she’s trying to control her facial expressions. Has she picked on that the girl can read them— or— read them better than everyone assumes she can? She doesn’t get any feeling of apprehension from Barbara. But she’s trying to appear calmer than she really is. 

The girl feels the presence of Barbara’s gaze from in front of her, her tied hair bunched up against the back of her neck, and feels her reach out and fiddle with her hand to comfort her. But she doesn’t understand why— what is there to be comforting her over? She’s being consoled for an event that no one has been able to fully explain to her.

She looks at the ground intensely. This is just how life is. There will be things she won’t understand, and she’ll have to just accept it. She can’t cause a scene, she can’t open Jason or Barbara’s brain to get the information she wants. They can’t explain it to her— to her tiny stupid brain, to her mouth that can only say a few words, to her hands, which only parrot back a handful of signals. It feels too difficult, and too unfair. 

There was an aching puncture inside of her that no other person seemed to have. How could the world continue to turn when she didn’t even feel like she was really living in the same world as those around her? Everyone, it seemed, was normal and happy— everyone could talk and hear and exist normally, and yet she teetered on the sidelines, no matter how much she did or didn’t want to. Jason explained the issue in less than a minute, that’s how simple it was. It was so simple, yet she wouldn’t know for a long time.

Maybe they’d never tell her, and in ten years, when she knew enough words, she would have to remember to ask, or they’d off-handedly mentioned how Kate died or something equally horrible. She knows that’s not it: if Kate had died they wouldn’t be acting so casual. But she doesn’t know, and she just—doesn’t know.

She turns over and stares out the window. She can feel Jason struggling to extend his hand towards her, but she really doesn’t want to see anyone right now— them or their movements. 

She looks out the window, and the shapes outside barely even look like people. They are just blurs of color, all melding together into the same mass. She can't see any one individual— they pass by so quickly, there's no possibility of understanding any single person. They might as well not even exist. The glass of the window feels hot, even through her jacket that doesn’t belong to her. 

Eventually, the car stops moving, and she feels a little better. She slowly opens the door on her side. They are outside, walking—then they aren’t. The area is crowded, full of people and hard, polished stone. Lights and sounds come from every direction, and it’s overwhelming. Everything is happening all at once.

They walk down an extremely long hallway of stores and stop at one that’s particularly bright and pink, filled with charmed jewelry hanging from the ceiling and frilly, ruffled shirts on the racks. She doesn’t like it. Everything is too noticeable.

Alfred clearly wants her to go inside, giving her a small, gentle push to get her moving. She looks at the glittering jewels on the walls, all set against the pastel pink of the room, and feels a bit lost—unsure of what she’s supposed to be doing.

She glances over her shoulder at Alfred, trying to guess which object he’s looking at. But he’s just looking at her, his eyes steady and staring straight into hers. She picks up a random necklace, and he gently takes it from her, heading over to the register. That’s all he wanted. Her help. It’s okay.

The perpetually open door they came through is the only way out. There are people in front of it, crowding together, talking, holding drinks, eating. She could slip through them, no problem.

Barbara could too. Barbara is Batgirl—she could follow without losing her. She could even bring Jason. It wouldn’t be hard. Pick him up, throw him over her back, and run for miles.

Alfred is different. He’s heavier, more fragile. Maybe Barbara could carry him too.

The lady at the counter is small. No muscle. Her eyes barely lift. She isn’t paying attention. It’d be easy—too easy—to catch her off guard. Alfred hands her something, talks to her, and the necklace goes into a bag. Then he looks at her, nudging gently, like he wants her to pick again.

Her throat tightens. Did she mess up? Was the first one wrong? But no—Alfred liked it. He smiled. It was fine. She pushes the feeling away. It doesn’t matter. She keeps her head still, her back straight. Hates her back turned. Too many ways people can slip behind her, out of sight, too quiet— if she stops paying attention for even one second. 

Her hand hovers, picks a silver chain with a bat hanging from it. She knows what it is—Batman. He’s on the package, all stylized and sharp-looking. But it’s simple. Barbara also wears the same symbol when she’s Batgirl. She likes that.

She glances back at Barbara— just a quick look, wanting to see what she’s thinking. Barbara smiles, just a little, and lets out a breath— a huff, like she’s tired of it. Tired of the seeing that symbol, or maybe her? But it’s not real, it’s a pretend huff, meant to be humorous, she thinks. 

Oh. Maybe Barbara thought the girl liked Batman. 

She must—it's a Batman necklace, after all. Why would Barbara think anything else? And Barbara can’t read her mind, so of course she’d think that. The girl thought Barbara liked Batman a lot too, since they’re both wearing matching symbols. Maybe she expected a little more happiness. 

Jason laughs, and before she can process it, his hands are in her hair, ruffling it, making it all frizzy. She lets out a sound, some noise she can’t even name, before pouncing on him. He’s laughing at her, but she’s jumping at him to return it, his thick hair not reacting the same way hers does, leaving him sprawled out on the floor, still laughing.

Barbara shakes her head, and grabs Jason by the collar of his jacket, hauling him off the ground. He writhes, but she holds him up easily, as if she were carrying a kitten instead of a boy. He kicks at her, slaps at her hands, trying to get back down— but she just places him easily. 

The girl gives him a pat, soft and comforting, but it's playful too— her hand just a little too slow, a little too dramatic. She can’t help it, her face scrunching into an exaggerated sad look. He smacks her hand away, and looks up at Alfred with a pathetic pout plastered on his face, but Alfred just turns his head, not even looking.

Jason grabs her hand, and with a quick motion toward Alfred and Barbara, he pulls them forward. They move past the crowd without a hitch, slipping through with ease. The store is dark—blue lights hang overhead, soft but sharp, casting everything in a deep glow. She likes it. It’s easy to see everyone, clear in the blue light, but nothing feels too bright, too harsh.

She notices there are boys in the store. A lot of them, around Jason’s age, drifting through the racks, dressed in the same dark tones. Ripped jeans, black and torn—clothes that don’t make sense. Do these boys train too? She looks at a standee in the shape of a person wearing green and tan. The material isn’t practical, it’s just for looks, but the patterns—she feels the fabric in her hands. It’s the same as what she wore, the same as what her father wore. She doesn’t understand it, but it feels familiar.

Next to her, Jason holds out a piece of clothing, the paper attached sticking out from it, right up in Alfred’s face. There’s a number, a bunch of lines inside a box. Alfred barely looks at it, just a quick glance before nodding.

The tension in Jason—gone. Just like that. His shoulders drop, and he’s off, moving fast, arms full of clothes, and dumps them into her own arms. She unfolds them one by one—a black long sleeve, a dark red turtleneck, a deep blue t-shirt. Simple. Plain. She points between him and the shirts. “You?” she asks.

He flicks his head to the side, a gesture to say he doesn’t care either way. His eyes scan over the walls and shelves, wandering from one place to the next, unfocused. Whatever he sees, he isn’t really looking. These are things for her, he means. 

They leave that place shortly too. Alfred’s holding three bags—too many, really—and he moves around her when she tries to help. Not fair. She’s stronger than him, but he doesn’t see it. Even if he did, he doesn’t seem like the type who would care. 

The girl looks over at Barbara, and notices that her hands are empty. There is no shopping bag in her arms, no items in her hands. No sign of anything, any item that Barbara has bought. Confused, the girl watches as Barbara approaches Jason. She smiles widely, spreading her lips and pulling them back so that her teeth show, and clearly wants him to do the same. 

“Sssscuuurrruuugghhheewwuhh ooougghhfuhh,” Jason says. Scrughew oughfuh. No—screw off. It’s what you say when you want someone to go away. Short. Easy.  

She tries to remember it.

Jason sticks his tongue out, then licks his hand, shoving it toward Barbara’s face.

Barbara makes a noise—something between a gag and a squeal. Jason laughs, but Barbara doesn’t think it’s funny. She pushes Jason back, and the girl lightly pinches his arm. He gives her a scandalized look. 

They move to a huge, high-ceilinged room, bright lights and small objects everywhere. Alfred glides amongst them, throwing things in a red shopping basket. He’s moving quickly, purposeful. Barbara helps him, grabbing items and dropping them into the cart, too. They pause by a large, brightly colored displays— rows of multicolored, small sticks in every hue imaginable.

You use them to brush your teeth. Toothbrushes. She used to do it with her father. She doesn’t use them anymore. Not really. Sometimes, when she’d sneak into hotels—just once or twice—there’d be cheap plastic ones in the bathroom, all wrapped up tight. But she doesn’t sneak into hotels often. Hotels always have people in them.

There’s some with heroes’ heads on them— she knows a few, but most are strangers. One has Batman on it, and the boy dancer— Robin, she thinks— and Batgirl too. The Batgirl one doesn’t look like Barbara, though. The bangs are sharp, cut straight, and Barbara’s are different—layered, messy, not always even. The paint is cheap, cracked, almost like clay. She runs her fingers along the edges, feeling the bumps.

Jason picks the Batman one, sneering at Barbara after she says something snide. The girl’s eyes flick back to the Batgirl toothbrush. She gestures towards it, then looks at Alfred. He’s the one who decides what they’ll get. Alfred smiles, a little nod— an acceptance.

She picks up the Batgirl one. Barbara’s eyes—blinding, full of pride—lock onto her. At the front, Barbara pushes ahead, picks the Batgirl toothbrush out of the basket, and shoves her paper at Alfred. She keeps cutting him off when he tries to speak, and they leave the store with Barbara smiling widely as Jason keeps trying to talk to her to no avail. 

They drive for a very short while in comparison to the drive to the place. The car halts at a building and Barbara gets out. The wooden door opens rather slowly, and the hunch man climbs down the steps, and hugs her. It’s a heavy, tight embrace, as if he’s trying to hold every inch of her, make sure she’s all there. His arms wrap around her back as he holds his daughter closely.

His hands are big. Rough. Calloused. Huge. If he wanted to, really wanted to, he could snap her wrist like a twig. But he wouldn’t. No. He wouldn’t.

She takes a deep breath, determined to get out of the car. It’s more difficult than it seems: Jason is in the way, squirming and squawking about how much trouble she’s causing, and how he doesn’t want to move— something like that. She ignores his fussing easily, pushing past him to hop out. 

She goes straight to Barbara. Wraps her arms around her, and Barbara hugs back right away, warm and tight. Then Barbara shifts, spins her, so she’s facing the hunch man standing there. Her father. The girl lifts her hand, waves. “Hi.” She says. 

The hunch man talks a lot, says a lot of words. She doesn’t know what they mean. She nods, because that’s what you do when you’re supposed to agree. She’s sure she agrees with whatever he’s saying. He says "Barbara" a lot. Barbara—over and over. It makes Barbara’s face turn hot, red like blood rushing to her face, like when people are tied by their legs and turned upside down and then they start going purple and— and red like her hair.

Inside the car, Jason hasn’t stopped groaning. His body makes it clear he’s tired with all of this, and he’s leaning forward, his hand moving to the windshield, pulling it down, trying to grab the girl back inside the car. 

She looks at him. “Scu… rew… off-fuh.” 

It sounds weird. It wasn’t quite right. Jason looks at her like she slapped him. Like he didn’t expect that. And then Barbara bursts into a high-pitched giggle, and Jason's laugh follows, loud and big. He starts slapping the car from the inside like it’s funny.

Alfred’s eyes snap to her through the rearview. The hunch man stares too, looking all confused.

She didn’t tell a joke—she doesn’t get what’s so funny. But they’re not laughing at her—she can see that. 

“Screw off.” Jason had said that earlier, and no one had laughed. Jason talks in a fast and sharp way, like he’s spitting out the words, and sometimes the spit gets stuck in his mouth. So she knows it’s a mean word. It must be.

But it’s okay. It’s not so bad they’re laughing. She lets out a little laugh too, just a small one, to fit in. She shakes the hunch man's hand, feels the roughness, and then gets back in the car. And Jason’s still talking fast to Alfred, his voice still full of laughter, even though it’s almost over.

They get back to the big house, and when they’re in their room, Jason convinces her to change into the new clothes they bought, even though she hadn’t wanted to. It feels wasteful, knowing he’ll have her change again tomorrow. She hates that Alfred’s hands have to wash her clothes, that someone else is always taking care of things for her. But she does it.

The light is still on when the marionette man knocks. Jason says something, soft words that let him in without asking. One or two words. He steps inside, says a few things—his voice steady—and then, “good night.” She knows what good means— but not night. Even though she knows it’s what you say to people when they go to sleep.

He makes a hand sign, which must be for “good night”, and they both parrot it back. But she doesn’t try to say ”night”. It’s too hard, too much to figure out. So, she stays quiet.

The marionette man ruffles her hair as he settles into bed. The feeling... it’s familiar. His hands are big, rough, but not calloused,. For a second, she thinks it’s her father, his touch— but no. It’s someone else. Someone she knows.

Big hands. Hands that can hold a mouth with ease, hands that could cover her whole face. Those hands... they belong to—

She looks at him, “You… Batman.” 

Chapter Text

Batman’s hands fall from her hair, and he steps back, staring at her and back and forth as if he’d never seen her, or as if he were seeing her for the first time, as if she were suddenly a different shape, as if some new quality had been added to her. A strange quality— blank, accepting, yet incredulous.

Jason leaps at her, his fingers digging deep into her shoulders, pushing and shaking her violently while yelling repeatedly what sounded something like “What?” — and has a word very similar to it, “Thatuh?” or “Thee-ha?”— at her.

The girl doesn’t know what to do. Thinks she’s made a mistake. Barbara doesn’t hide her body’s language. She moves like a dancer, even in small things—standing, walking, turning her head. It’s all fluid, open. Easy to see. But the marionette man—Batman—he doesn’t. Everything about him is hidden, folded in. His voice isn’t his voice. Even the way he walks isn’t really his. All steps taken to cover who he is.

Immediately, she is up and through the door, crashing straight into the doorframe and sprinting immediately down the hallway. Embarrassed. Humiliated. She slipped. And Jason—Jason is here. Now he’s tied into this, all of it tangled up with him too, and that makes it worse.

Her legs move faster, feet pounding the floor, breath sharp. A taste—green, sharp and bitter—flickers in her mouth, and she pushes harder, heart pounding faster than her steps. She finds a corner in the library, presses herself into it. Her eyes race over the books, like maybe if she stares hard enough, the words will slip inside her skull, find some answer to all this.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe out again.

Her father’s hand comes back to her—rough, big, calloused. It was there before, on her head, now it’s on her chest. It presses down, hard, on her ribs, like it wants to crush her, but it doesn’t, she can tell it has no such intent. His voice is there too—move this way, that way. Up. Down. Slow your heart. Breathe. Breathe.

Don’t gulp the air. It’ll burn. Slow. Small. Sips, not gulps.

She remembers him crouched close, his hand firm on her chest, pressing, showing her ribs how to move.

Here— tap-tap on her stomach.

Not here— fingers push lightly on her throat. She coughs once but cuts it off fast.

Quiet. Steady. Don’t fight it. Breathe with it. Feel it. Match its rhythm.

The air isn’t hot or burning—not the kind he taught her to breathe this way in. But the mantra comes easy. She slips into it without thinking. Following an order feels good right now, even if it’s her own.

Jason steps through the open door of the library, moving quickly, but not as quickly as she thought he would. Had time passed at all? Probably, but she found herself unable to remember how much. Jason began speaking so fast that she could not understand him— “really”, he kept saying, over and over. She knew it was a question somehow, but she couldn’t understand it.

He makes the sign for marionette man—a little jerk of the hands,—and then says “is” out loud. That one’s easy. It’s when something is something else too. Then, Batman. He does it so big, so dramatic, arms wide and swooping like wings, like she won’t understand if he doesn’t make it huge. Like he needs her to see it, to make it clear. The marionette man is Batman? 

She looks away, nods quick. Doesn’t know why Batman wants them here. He knows her— what she does, how fast she runs, how high she climbs. All that training— he was watching. Measuring her. Batman stopped bad people, and her father was a bad person. If he had to gauge her, that means she didn’t know who she was. How long would it take him to find out? 

Jason keeps talking, fast and loud, but her eyes catch the door as it opens again. Batman’s feet make no noise. Not like before. Everything about him is different now. His steps— they’re sure, strong, but they have this quiet, sneaking way about them. Confident, but... skulky. Over his arm, he carries something big and black, heavy-looking, like a hulking shadow shaped into clothes. In his other hand is the mask. Batman’s mask.

Jason points at him, wild, his hand waving like he’s trying to catch air, then he covers his face, like he can’t believe it. She holds Batman’s gaze. Not scared. Not surprised. Just still.

The girl keeps his gaze steady, then reaches up, fingers brushing his suit first, then the mask. It’s warm under her touch, and she can feel dried sweat. She follows the lines—woven stitches and scars, bullet holes worn into the fabric, grooves that feel like tire tracks carved across the mask.

Her hand lingers. She imagines how the suit fits him, molds to him like a second skin, made for every movement, every shift of muscle beneath it. Perfectly his. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Just watches her, face trying so hard to be unreadable.

She considers it all and works it into her knowledge of him. Each time he vanished at night and returned scraped, bruised— he was fighting, and he was very good at it. He always won, and he never killed his opponents, neutering lethal techniques she herself had been taught by the very creators. 

She looks at it once more, and after a moment, she’s content. She places it back into his hands, satisfied. “Okay.” She says. 

“Okay.” Batman replies. He gives a nod back, and then puts them both in the crook of his elbow again. 

Jason pulls at her shoulders, trying to make her look at him. But she doesn’t even glance, and picks herself up. She grabs his hand firmly, and with a gesture to Batman told him— take us, wherever it is. She knew, suddenly knew without a doubt, that that clean, comforting gymnasium wasn’t where he trained. 

Batman leads them into a room set aside just for him, one she hasn’t entered before. It’s always locked from the outside, and she hadn’t wanted to try and break in with the very real possibility of cameras.

On the inside, it’s different than the rest of the house, more cramped, more intimate, things almost everywhere, and full of pictures. Faces of people she does not know staring out. 

She’s drawn to the face that repeats the most— A man, who is also a boy in some of the photos, but the same person nonetheless. Maybe ten years older than her at the oldest photo. His hair is dark, messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes—blue, deep, soft. His smile is wide, like the kind you can feel, full of love for whoever’s holding the camera. But she’s never seen him in real life. 

She doesn’t think Batman took the picture. But she can’t be sure.

Batman walks up to a big clock standing tall against the wall. He presses the wood, and the face opens. His hand goes inside, moves the hands, one on each side. A click. Then, the clock shifts, jerking open with a groan, back door creaking. They descend into another darkness, and she wonders how deep the hole under this house even goes. 

Jason sees now that the girl won’t speak to him, so he breaks into a gallop. He stomps across the floor in long strides, cutting through the group. He makes for Batman, looking quite accusatory as he does so. He’s pointing and gesturing, all the while speaking words that she doesn’t even bother to understand. The strange part, though, is the way he’s talking. He’s loud and excited— he’s happy, somehow, energized by this reveal— and she doesn’t know why, as if it isn’t scary that they’re in the bowels of such a powerful fighter. 

She’s expecting a gym— big, grey, full of walls and bars and ropes. But then, it’s not that. It’s a screen. A computer, the biggest she’s ever seen, glowing bright, casting light onto a table covered in papers, scattered everywhere like they don’t matter. The gym stuff— she barely sees it, almost pushed aside by the screen. But it’s there, too, a little in the background. She thinks it’s dusty, but from her height on the stairs, she can’t see it.

Behind some rocks, she spots something huge— at least three of her stacked. Metal, flat, shiny. It’s a big coin. And then there’s the thing—bigger and stranger. A creature. Scaled, green, huge, like nothing she’s ever seen. It’s not alive, and she doesn’t know what kind of thing it is. A reptile, maybe. But the size—she can’t think of a name for it.

Faces were flickering rapidly on the screen. She recognized the first; a woman with sickly green-yellow skin. Her red hair looked as if someone had hacked it off in chunks, but it had been long and flowing when the girl had met her. The second, a man with a balding head and a heavy nose, looking somehow familiar, and the third, a man in his mid to late 30s, blond and masculine, with a orange bandana tied so tight around his mouth it seemed to almost hurt.

There was another one. A man she could just feel was important. He had carpet burns on his face— which was stretched out and almost seemingly naked, but despite this there was a familiarity that unnerved her. She refused to think about how she had seen him before, and closed her eyes instead, only looking when she felt a new face should be on the screen. And there was— a white face, with a bright red smile. The man who was impossible to guess at, the man who was everything. 

She looks away again. 

Batman opens a transparent glass casing and lifts a small, red suit out. He hands it to the girl, and it’s immediately clear that it’s too big for her; this was a costume that someone else had worn before her— Robin. The boy she had not seen in a very long time, the boy that Batman had been friends with. 

She wonders if the blue eyed boy in his private room is Robin— and the reason there are only pictures is because the boy is not here. She doesn’t know. She can’t be sure. 

And she can't be Robin. Not even a little bit. She doesn't even know what that means. Maybe it’s something important to Batman, something that makes him who he is. She doesn’t know anything about that, though. Probably not for a very long time.

She didn’t trust Batman. Not yet. Working with him, so close, one-on-one... she wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t be displayed in someone’s most private room like Robin had been.  And that suit—bright, too bright, too loud— no part of her wanted it.

She turned away, the fabric crumpled in her hands, red and green. She shoved it into Jason’s grip. He didn’t need to ask. He knew exactly what it meant. He’d watched Robin, Batman, growing up, while she was far away, eating meat torn off the side of the road.

Jason was familiar with the concept of fighting, but had more of a sense of how to survive without knowing exactly how to do it. He was more familiar with his heart than his hands, and she was fine with that. And in this way, she thought the heroic games of children were not something she should play. This opportunity for mentorship— she didn’t need it. Jason did. 

Jason's fingers twisted and tangled with the fabric, as if he feared it would disappear from his grasp at any moment. He’s quiet, and that’s strange— Jason’s never quiet, especially not today. But now he’s staring at Batman, his eyes wide, like a child waiting for something. For something to happen. She doesn’t know what to say, so she stutters out, “Y—You.” 

Batman bent down to look at Jason too, gave the boy a smile, and ruffed up his hair. Then he spoke: “I’ll thhhuiiunkuhh on it.” It was a strangely familiar sound, and she somehow understood he was saying “maybe.”

Jason places the costume back down on the table reluctantly. 

They drift through the space under the house, poking gently at the strange trinkets sitting on tables. Jason slips carefully beneath a silver bar, and tries to swing on it. She examines the screen again, cycling through image after image, an endless procession of faces— or, she now realizes, the faces of bad people. After a while of simply watching them mess around, Batman takes them to a portion of the cave with yellow plastic containers stacked high, sealed tight, and wooden cabinets lining the walls.

When he slides a drawer open, she almost loses it. It is full of weapons. Rifles, pistols, shotguns. Even tanks of gas and crates of things she doesn't need to see to know the danger of. But the worst were the buckets— they had holes on the tops so you could see inside. Buckets filled with bullets. It was an armory.

She slams the drawer. Hard. The wood groans under her grip, like it might splinter. Jason’s staring, wide-eyed, thinking she’s lost it. But she feels Batman’s eyes, sharp and watching, like he’s waiting. Testing her. Wants her to say more with her actions, go further.

But she doesn’t. She won’t. This isn’t a game. Not with all these weapons. They’re everywhere. Her head burns seeing them all laid out like this. The bucket is so small, but the amount of families that could be destroyed by just that bucket is—

Batman selects a gun, his big hands closing around it. She tenses up, about to swing— but he just begins to take it apart, letting it fall to the floor in pieces. “Bad,” he says, and stalks away to a different part of the room. Jason follows right behind him, and— against her better judgment— she does the same.

Taking the weapons of the enemy to understand them— she understands the philosophy. But it did not make the display of guns any more pleasant. The thought of them, even empty and clean, so close to her made her uneasy. It was so much. Too much.

Jason points one finger and shoots a round of soft, orange bullets. They thump on the bottom of the target’s body, spraying in useless arcs across its surface. He is absolutely awful at shooting. He doesn’t even manage to hit the paper—or even the red circle. But despite this, she can tell he is going to get better. For some reason, that makes her stomach roll.

Would Jason have become a better shot even without her? She wondered to herself. Would he have had to learn how to use a gun, regardless, if he’d never met her, if he’d never had the chance to stand and learn alongside her— or would he have picked up a gun somewhere else, some night on the streets, alone and in danger, backed up against a wall?

She doesn’t know. There’s a twist in her stomach, a nasty knot. Jason fires again. Misses. 

Batman’s hand is on his arm, steadying it. His voice is soft, kind. Try again.

Jason fires again. Misses again. And again. And again. Again. 

He hits the paper once. Once too many. Her stomach sinks lower. She can’t even bring herself to pick up the airsoft gun when it’s empty— no more fake bullets. They don’t hurt anyone, don’t even hurt the skin. But she can’t beat it. 

Batman looks at her with a kind smile, and she just can’t imagine that this is the face that has always been under that cowl. Was he really looking at her with such tenderness, all those times in the dark? 

He holds out his mask to her. She takes it, turns it over, and slowly puts it over his face. He stretches out his open hand.

“Bruh… Ooo... Suh.” He says. 

“Bra… Ooo… Si.” She repeats.

He smiles. She can see his teeth, but not his eyes. “Bruce.”

“Bruce.” She says, and Bruce— or Batman, right now, nods. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. 

She reaches past him and picks up the toy pistol, turning it over. It’s orange and fake, with the same color bullets sitting in a box beside it. Its cheap material gives it a child-like touch, and its small size ensures it could be easily handled.

The girl’s fingers slide back and forth over the cheap material, searching for something like a safety lock or a trigger, even, but can’t find any. Of course— this is just a toy, a toy gun, and she’s panicked for nothing. Her eyes burn with an ache as she tries to fight back her tears, her nose getting all stuffed up with snot— stupid.

She aims the gun at the circle of the dummy target, the red concentric bulls-eye staring straight into her eyes. It is large enough to shoot with ease, almost a full inch wide, and seems to be practically begging to be hit. It wants to be hit. It wants her to. It wants her to, and Bruce wants her to, so she’s not bad.

Her father was there in her mind— his hands adjusting her pose, his body steadying her as the pistol fired. She recalled the first kick, it had sent her into his arms. He had held her only for a moment before she was put up straight again, as the practice continued.

The recoil had become less with time. Easier to hold steady, easier to fire. Her hands didn’t shake anymore. The way her father held her never changed. His hands, rough, heavy, pressing too hard against her skin. She can’t remember what was the last time he touched her any other way. Just the scrape of his knuckles, the weight of him forcing her to keep still. To not react to the recoil, to not react to the bullet through her stomach, to not react to the electricity surging through the water she was held under.