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~ Raised by an organization she isn’t fully aware of but may have ties to Project Cadmus, the Court of Owls, the League of Assassins, Arkham Asylum, or plain ol’ Amanda Waller (really jury’s still out there), Mana is a young girl birthed and trained to be part of an experimental government faction that aims to build its own superpowered group out of “wasted” genetics: the rogues gallery of the Justice League.
With this theoretical super-group under the control of this faction – unlike the JL operating as its own entity – any and all tasks or disputes that they get into will be handled by said faction, plus the government/s, and none of the blame will go to these “new heroes”. It’s a technical win-win, all things considered.
They just haven’t accounted for these manufactured heroes to be more self-aware than they should be. Especially as young as they were.
~ Mana was two years old when she was exposed to her first death, hanging around the hip of her Caretaker as the faction executed inmates on death row in front of her, masked soldiers, people in white coats, and other fellow toddlers holding on to their own carers. When the shots were fired, there was a long pause where the echoes bounced around the empty room before there were screams. Wailing, screaming, hyperventilating, all from her should’ve-been friends.
Not Mana, though. In retrospect, she should’ve at least pretended to. She had been shocked for a good second, clutching onto the white lapels of her caretaker’s cloak.
But then she had been confused. Not because the men who were kneeling in front of them one second, were lying on the wet, red floor, unmoving in the next.
But because it seemed familiar. And she was only two years old. Her oldest memory at that point was the Caretaker pulling her away from what she assumed was her Mother. Maybe it was familiar because her Mother had also been unmoving on the wet, red bed, but this was different. It was the loud sounds. One after the other. She had to have heard it before.
Never mind that though, because her lack of reaction (or different one at least) caught their sights. The Caretaker had been worried, she was sure. She felt his grip tighten during the sounds, and even more after all the crying happened. But he had to let her go, taken with the other few friends that didn’t cry like her. In that she found some comfort, especially when the Caretaker hesitated to give her away. But it was short-lived when after a while, carried away with the no-criers, the loud sounds happened again.
And the wails stopped.
She remembers breathing hard. Then not being able to breathe at all. Wetness on her cheeks. Aches in her chest. White cloaks surround her in a flurry, poking her with this and that. But they weren’t the Caretaker. Where was her Caretaker?
And there he was, right when she’d thought he was gone. He swooped in, making his way through the white cloaks, and immediately coming to her side. He carried her, rocking her, petting her, until she could breathe again.
She could breathe again.
There were arguments afterward, her still hanging on his hip while he shouted with the other cloaks and eventually the masked soldiers as well. Then with just a few people, in a private room, or as private as it could be, given that the other cloaks were watching through a window. But for now it was just them. Her and her Caretaker, in her arms.
Her wet, red arms.
Why was he covered in the wet and red?
She remembers slowly lifting her head from his shoulder, the wet and red sticking to her cheeks. Then backing as far as she could while the Caretaker held her close, so she could see his face while he talked to the new people. That caught his attention, and looking back at it, so did the others.
The wet and red were on his coat, in big dots and lines. There were some on his face, too. A streak at the side of his mouth and on the shiny thing perched on his nose.
She didn’t like it, so of course she tried wiping it away with her hands.
It didn’t go away, instead going to her fingers which was fine. But it spread all over his lips and cheeks.
She didn’t like that at all.
Mana doesn’t remember crying after that, nor the desperate attempts to wipe him off the wet and red again. She does remember him taking a cloth from his pocket and wiping his face for her, before she grabbed it from him and proceeded to wipe every other red spot she could find in her vicinity.
She remembers the silence, though. How everyone stopped making sounds while she worked, which she was grateful for.
And when she was done, wiping the wetness from her own eyes as well with the cloth, she had smiled.
Her Caretaker had no more red. Her Caretaker was with her again. Her Caretaker smiled at her, too.
~ Mana was three years old when she fired her first gun. She and the others that came out of the red room a year ago had become a “class”, being taught their alphabets, their shapes, their maths, and their firearms. Her Caretaker (Henry. His name was Henry. Don’t forget his name.) continued to be her carer while the others had new ones, though she supposed they didn’t remember. None of them seemed to remember. Henry told her that it was normal for people her age to not remember faces later on, which was silly because she remembered his, but he said she was different so she had to be fair to the others.
So she did. Because he asked her to.
The writing classes were in the morning and the shooting classes were in the afternoon. They started them off small, she knew. Smaller than small. She had seen the big guns from the masked soldiers, and the smaller ones carried by some of the cloaks. Even Henry had one, too. Theirs were little versions of them, better to fit their little hands she supposed. They were taught the parts and how to assemble, disassemble, and reassemble them. They were taught safety procedures to not get hurt while holding them. And lastly, they taught them how to fire.
Loud. Loud like before. No more wails, though. They wouldn’t have made it out of the wet, red room if they had wailed. Plus, all of them were given ear covers to muffle the sound, and eye covers like the one Henry wears all the time but heavier. They fired in a wide space, divided by open cubicles so they couldn’t see each other. Only how the others faired with their shots.
A lot of misses that day from them all, looking at their results on the paper targets, but it was okay. At least she could handle the recoil though it did hurt a little. Some fell back on their butts, and she had helped them stand back up to the dismay of the people watching them. The kid thanked her, she thinks, but she doesn’t remember all too well.
But her Caretaker, her Henry only smiled and nodded. And that’s all that mattered.
~ Mana was four when she killed for the first time.
They were taught to hunt. Yes, they still had their English writing to finish and their chemistry books to read, but they also couldn’t slack on physical education. It was an exciting day, going out of their big grey building for the first time and seeing the outside, not from a window for once.
There had been so much blue above and green below. And the colors she thought were only from the hairs or eyes of her classmates and their screens were all around the ground as well. Their earth sciences called them flowers.
Mana liked the flowers. She liked the dirt, she liked the trees, she liked the skies, she liked the birds.
She didn’t like them on the ground, twitching, in the pool of the wet and red.
Blood. Right. Their physical health teacher wouldn’t like it if she forgot what it was called. Food fuels the blood and in turn, fuels the body. Blood outside the body meant a leakage of fuel. She had cleanly shot the grouse through the stomach, she thought.
But its chest still heaved, up and down, up and down, its feathers twitching while the blood stained it.
Its eyes shifted until it landed on hers.
And she ached. Her chest hurt, just like that day. There was wetness in her eyes again. Where was Henry? Where was Henry!?
There. Here. He was here, squeezing her shoulders tight. She knew that hugging was going to have to wait until they were back in her rooms, but his hands and his words were enough to calm her and aim again with her shotgun.
But he stops her, gently lowering it, before fishing out a curved knife from his pocket. He reminds her where the arteries are, and she nods.
She makes sure to cut away from them. The tips of her boots were caked in mud, which would’ve been great. But the blood slowly seeped in and it was enough of a reminder to not have her splatter more on them. Henry gives her a reassuring pat, and a smile when he hands her the sheath and maintenance kit for the blade later on.
She carried the grouse by the neck, as all the others had with their kills, and tried not to be too sad about stepping back inside. They had a good dinner.
The next morning, she and her classmates walked back into the shooting range. Across from them were people who were similarly dressed as the inmates, years ago.
She made sure to hit the one designated to her straight through his forehead, even through what Henry had called tears. She couldn’t bear to have those eyes stare at her again.
~ Mana was five when she finally learned the truth.
No, it hadn’t been Henry’s fault. If anything, he made it his mission to never let her know, but she had beat him to the punch anyway. Actually, all of them. As it turned out, all of her classmates' carers learned to care about them too, not that they noticed but she did. She saw the little things they weren’t supposed to do, like handing an extra sandwich or two when the cafeteria proportions weren’t sustaining them, or another one carrying one of her classmates after passing out from heat exhaustion, or another being protective when their charge was being stalked a little too much by a guard.
She saw all this, and none saw her, yet she hadn’t exactly been hiding. In fact, she should be standing out given that once or twice, her only company had been the other cloaks while the rest of her classmates had gone to their classrooms without her. Yet, while the cloaks saw her (and even the guards), they simply nodded at her and left.
So of course she had to test it out further. She had theorized that this was the special ability that she was going to have, since the others were slowly showing theirs as well. Some could float, some were really fast, and some have yet to show their powers. If it was her turn, then getting to surprise them and Henry should be a real treat!
It took a few days but she finally chalked it to a few patterns. She couldn’t turn invisible, definitely. Everyone’s eyes would find her sooner or later. It’s the fact that nobody questioned her when they do.
It started out with walking in front of class and sitting on the floor there. The teacher and her classmates had watched her but ultimately shrugged and let her be. The next, she walked in front of class and started writing on the board in the middle of a lecture. The classmates didn’t comment on it, but the teacher did ask what she was doing, but after simply saying that she was writing the lecture for her, they shrugged and let her be again.
The next was when she walked out of class entirely and spent the next three hours roaming the school halls. When she came back, they had all blinked at her but otherwise didn’t comment.
The next was when she skipped classes entirely from the get-go. She found out through Henry running through the library and accidentally stumbling upon her reading that her absence was noticed after all. But if Henry himself hadn’t stopped by the cafeteria around lunch, when all cloaks, guards, and students would eat, her teachers wouldn’t have known she was missing at all that day. It took a lot of reassuring on her part that she was fine since Henry was such a worrywart, but it did help solidify her theories.
In other words, no one questioned her absence, but more importantly, no one questioned her presence. She could do almost anything she wanted inside her classes within reason, and be away from their sight without ringing any alarm bells.
Except for Henry. He could always see her.
While a part of her questioned what made him special, she couldn’t quite bring herself to share her discoveries just yet. Not until she’s fully tested her capabilities to her satisfaction, which didn’t involve skipping classes anymore. It was to explore the facilities entirely. She wanted Henry to be proud of her new powers, after all.
And so she waited, behaving for the next few days until a new hunting day came around. She told Henry that she didn’t “feel well” but would like to hunt either way. Seeing his worry and denying his offer to have a check-in with the school doctor was a small price to pay for her plan to work. Once the hunting grounds were opened and the carers no longer accompanied them as part of their progression, she took off.
Opening the map she had stolen from the library once she was away from prying eyes (and there were eyes still, the cameras in the trees were not subtle, but she would soon learn that even they can’t remember her), she made her way slowly around the enclosed forest, avoiding her classmates as much as she could. Once she reached a lone fire exit at the other side of the facility she marked on her map with excitement in her veins, she finally ventured in.
She doesn’t know whether to regret this trip at all.
Mana knew exactly what her power was best for, you see. Her teachers had emphasized that resourcefulness was just as important as any other facet of their training, so no matter what powers they eventually had or lack thereof, knowing their strengths and expanding upon them where their best bet. So, obviously, she would be a great spy! She could get in and out of anywhere like a little bird and bring back anything she deems important. So naturally, she had to find important things to take and deposit back to her teachers so she could present her powers with pride!
She passed by coats (doctors, nurses, scientists), and guards (soldiers, special forces), and she received nothing more than a smile, a nod, and the occasional “What are you doing here?” to which she’ll reply with a quick “I’m about to head back to the hunting grounds!” with a flash of her rifle tucked at her back. They leave her then and no one comes to check on her. Glancing by the clocks, she had about a few more minutes or so before hunt hour was over. She had to make her trip count.
So she heads to the facility records room. If there was anything she learned from the library, it was that knowledge held the key to everything. Yes, her teachers were one thing, but the library showed her the concept of biases and how important it was to view things from a different perspective. So coming to the records to gain knowledge, one that was sure to impress anyone with her ability to find would surely solidify her new power status. It didn’t even have to be so special. Just something that they all knew already, but would prove her capabilities by finding it.
She chose her classmates’ birthdays. Henry explained the concept of birthdays and so had the teachers, although Henry made it seem like a special occasion more than they did, especially since the others didn’t seem to know their birthdays until the teachers told them it was (mostly so they knew how old they were). She figured it was easy enough information to find, and it was, unfortunately.
Because what she ended up finding were not only the records of her entire class (including hers), but also the ones that had failed in the red room all those years ago.
Not failed. Died. All shot because they had failed the first test of exposure.
Because that’s what they were: Test subjects. Loud wails and complete silences.
Mana makes it back to the hunting grounds, empty-handed save for a squirrel she plucked from the nearest trees she could find. It brought some questioning gazes to her, especially since it was still alive, but they went as quickly as they had come when the squirrel wrestled its way out of her grip and back to the grounds.
No one reprimands her for it. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that her forgotten plate during their usual hunt dinner was because of her powers and not as an act of punishment. Henry remembered, of course, and had given her a plate with roasted quail.
She doesn’t tell him that she throws it all up later.
~ Mana is six when she leaves.
As much as she wants to call it her ‘grand escape’, it really wasn’t. Much has happened since that fateful day but one thing was certain. There was no way they would find out what her powers were, no matter what, and that included Henry.
At least, not until the very end.
She behaves. During classes, during hunts, and especially during the new “assignments”. With supervision, they were brought outside school and accomplished tasks that their teachers would set them out to do. Some were reconnaissance, some were retrievals, and some were assassinations. Mana counts herself lucky to have qualified for all three, but not enough that she stood out. She needed all the available resources she could get to execute her plan, after all, and most valuable of that was time.
Time was on her side, for the most part, but it was still a routine. With her little escapades in the night back into the records room, she had to make up for all the loss of lectures and studying twicefold. Henry definitely noticed, but Mana was quick to reassure him that it was just some stress. She was going to be in 1st Grade soon, after all. Who knew what the studying material was going to be like then?
In truth, along with her studies, she also brings it upon herself to memorize as much knowledge from the records as she could despite having access to the copier there. She needed to remember as much as possible, because there was one thing she knew she had to do and only she could do it: Bring the facility down, no matter what.
Of course, that wasn’t as simple as she hoped. Her classmates, no matter how much they forget her and in turn she forgets them, were the closest thing she had to friends. And Mana knew that Henry wasn’t innocent either, but she thinks she’s allowed to have her bias.
But this facility, this organization, had to go. It was nothing more than a baby factory sourced from recycled goods, and just like any treasure made from trash that didn’t quite shine as one would hope, well back into the trash they went.
Except, the trash they originally came from was still alive and well. And as long as they stayed alive, and getting captured again and again, then more like her would come around. Yes, she’s seen her record. She’s seen the mixed DNA where her genetics truly came from. But that didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. What mattered was no more would be born like her again, because she hadn’t been the only one sharing her genetic pool. Of course, she wasn’t. What use were genetic samples if they didn’t have variety in their test subjects?
Knowing her gene donors didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had half-siblings, and all of them died from either being unstable enough in their genetic makeup, dying in the womb, or being shot dead that day.
She tries hard not to think that Henry was one of the people that did the shooting.
Basically, if Mana couldn’t save her siblings then the least she could do is save her friends, and save the babies she’s never met and will never hopefully meet. She studies for school and she studies her records. Remembering names, codenames, gene donors, everything, letting every successful assignment fuel her desire. Henry, ever glad to answer her questions, entertained every single one about surviving in the streets, and even the wilderness when it came down to it.
And so she had a plan. Leave the facility with proof of her claims secured, find the nearest super and plead her case. If they don’t believe her, find another super, rinse and repeat. Any of the JL would do. She couldn’t trust any government official to do this for her so the very people who put away their gene donors behind bars could at least do this one thing.
And when one does believe her then… it would be a technical success. Of course, she’ll plead for them to spare her classmates, and Henry too, and to dismantle the organization entirely. The best they should get is extended time in juvie, and Henry, maybe a life sentence.
That would be enough, she thinks. It’s best not to hope for more. But then what would she do after? Turn herself in with her classmates? Stay in the streets?
Mana supposes that that’s a problem for future-her. At the moment, finishing her letter to Henry and leaving was the priority. Later that night, Henry tucks her in one last time, and she listens to the last story he tells her. About a magical bird of red and rainbow feathers and three Princes who sought after it to cure their father, the King.
~ Mana is six and a quarter when she finds Superman. Or better yet, Clark Kent.
Getting out of the facility was one thing. Finding herself just outside the cityscape of Metropolis was another. She debated on finding Wonder Woman instead, knowing that her city, Superman’s, and Batman’s were all near each other. But the big blue boy scout was the safest and most efficient bet.
So she goes to Metropolis. Getting in and out of any kind of commute was no problem. Food was solved as long as she went to a service instead of buying for herself. She had no money, after all. Leaving with Henry’s card would’ve been too risky, and it didn’t matter since she could steal anything she wanted in broad daylight anyway.
It does get annoying when people would accidentally sit on her on bus rides. Or on diner benches. Or even alleys. She had hoped that the bright red hoodie with rainbow sleeves she stole from the thrift store would’ve at least helped balance out her powers but nope. Being near-squished to death by city-folk was her new normal, apparently. At least all she had on her person were folders and folders of files inside an envelope, inside her stolen backpack (she needed a leather one, unable to rely on the strength of the plastic envelope she carried them all in despite knowing its high durability.) No kind of technology in her person meant no way of tracking her and having nothing breakable to worry about. Her twin karambit (because Henry had gifted her another one for her moving-up ceremony to 1st grade just before she had left) was all she needed.
She ignores the itch to have a gun on her person every day.
The next step was stalking Superman, which was harder than she expected but filled with excitement. Finally! Someone could see her! Or maybe hear her? Sense her? She’s learned about the theorem in Superman’s genetic makeup through her classes (and wouldn’t that have been a big clue?), so maybe having her heartbeat going haywire every time he came close to looking her dead in the eye was a complete giveaway.
But still! Someone could finally see her!
After that, it was a matter of getting used to his presence. Mana doesn’t find him all the time with how big Metropolis is, plus the occasional ventures he seems to make outside the city. But whenever she did come across him, it became a matter of calming her heart as much as possible and, for once, taking some control over her powers.
It felt like a cloak, more or less, not unlike the white cloaks that the doctors used to wear, but strong like the soldiers. It felt like a second skin, fluttering occasionally like feathers in the wind beneath her fingertips, arms, shoulders, and back. Maybe that’s why she had gravitated to the backpack with wings on the sides. Never mind that it looked childish, it was still a necessity. The wings were just a bonus.
The way she could describe taking control over her power when she feels it being poked upon by Superman’s gaze (which by now she’s felt one too many times) is by raising her metaphysical feathers and giving them a good shake. “Rousing” is what it was called, she thinks, and it works, especially when she’s on the move in a crowd. She caught him blinking a few times and looking every which way for her as she moved only a few feet to the left. It was stupid fun.
But then came the tricky bit. Because after finally getting into the groove of stalking him, he finds his secret identity by accident. Or maybe it wasn’t? Surely Superman wouldn’t have actively slowed down whenever she approached him, or better yet lead her to his home to what she assumes was his wife and son.
His son. His son almost caught her, too, so that was definitely a Superboy in the works, but that wasn’t the problem right now. The problem was that she now knew where Superman and his family lived, was able to break in and snoop with ease, and found out pretty much one of the most closely guarded secrets in the world.
And to think, the only thing stopping it all from leaking was a pair of glasses. That had her respect.
So thus, her plan was simple: Make an appointment with Clark Kent at the Daily Planet, hand her the bag full of files, do all the pleading she needs for her friends, then be on her merry way. And she does just that, strolling into the DP’s building in the center of Metropolis, tip-toeing to speak to the receptionist in the lobby asking to speak to her “Uncle Clark” and giving a “Jane W. Aldoe” as her name (it was funny!), then waiting in a mostly empty lobby for him to come down, hugging her bag.
Except… she didn’t need to give the bag away, right? She just had to give the files.
But she couldn’t just give the files away. It was her only copy, given that she didn’t have the time or space to make more when her window of leave was so short.
All these questions have her gnawing at her fingernail when finally, she feels it. Her feathers rising. Just one glance up and there he was. Clark Kent, having come down from the elevators and talking with the receptionist, and both scanning the lobby in search of her.
That… that ability was new. Mana elects to put a pin on that for now before shaking herself (her feathers) again, bringing his powerful gaze directly to her.
Screw those glasses, they did absolutely nothing! Why does nobody else see that!?
Playing off wanting to visit her “Uncle Clark” while her “parents” were away was fairly easy, and he played along just as well when the receptionist gave them concerned looks. But it was a quick matter of tugging him by the hand and demanding hotdogs that she was finally able to get them to some privacy, that being the city streets.
But a new hunch starts to rise when a few passersby hit Clark’s shoulder one too many times as she held on to his hand. And again when the hotdog vendor didn’t glance his way for a solid minute no matter how much Clark called his attention. Letting go of his hand but switching to his sleeve seemed to do the trick though, as the vendor nearly dropped his new batch of boiled sausages on her. It was okay though. Some steaming hotdog water over her jacket was a small price to pay to have Clark’s time, and it would’ve drenched her bag if she hadn’t quickly put it behind her.
Clark apparently didn’t share that same sentiment and immediately offered to help, which was silly. She’s stalked her for the last few months, and she knows that he knows! His self-preservation could really use some work but, Mana did like her jacket. It would be a shame to let it go. She agrees, and with a quick call to what she assumes was his wife (“She’s a kid, Lois. All this time, it was just a kid.”), they head to the nearest laundromat and wait until her jacket finishes in the wash.
And Mana, knowing that this was as good a time as any with no one around save for the laundromat’s clerk at the back, she climbed up the chair beside him and swung her legs to and fro, putting her bag back on her lap. (“The cameras should be having a hard time listening in on me or seeing me, so please don’t turn to look. I can’t say the same for you, although what happened at the hotdog stand was new. I’ll try again.” She whispered, knowing that he would hear her.)
And with Clark’s frozen silence, she brings out the files and wordlessly gives them to him to read, leaning against his side. To any onlooker, it would look like a Daily Planet reporter reviewing some files for an article while their niece was busy eating a hotdog. It was perfect.
Few minutes pass by, Clark not noticing that the jacket had been ready for the dryer at some point but it was alright, she had some stolen quarters of her own. Laundry was a necessity after all. It does startle him a bit when she comes back to sit, her jacket fresh and dry, folded in her arms. She doesn’t ask when Clark eventually puts the papers down, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.
Funny. Maybe those glasses did work miracles because, even without them, there was no trace of Superman in the hunched line of a man sitting in the dingy plastic seats in the laundromat. She wanted to make sure, so with a gentle pull, she took them from his hands. He lets her take it, of course, a fond smile on his face as she puts them on.
“Goodness. Henry was blind compared to you. Do these even have any grades?”
“Henry… you mean this Henry? Your…”
“Caretaker, yes. I was hoping to talk about that but…”
And she tells him about what she can do. About how no matter what, she was always just outside of someone’s periphery. Always meant to be where she was supposed to be. Clark hums in agreement, describing the way he felt when he first noticed her presence like an invisible nudge to look away. But after zeroing in on her heartbeat (and wasn’t that a nice fact, that he could always find her heartbeat), it became easier to ignore that nudge and find her head on. And also, would you look at that? No hiding under the glasses.
Which led her to her second point; her powers weren’t on the documents because she hid them on purpose. So she could one day escape/leave, to find help. But even she knew that asking for help was tricky because whoever she found needed to be able to find her back. To see her, hear her, and most of all, remember her. While she can’t say for certain that it was luck that Superman remembered her presence no matter how much of a blip they were, she had to try anyway. So imagine her luck when she found out that he was a reporter, too.
And that pretty much sealed the deal, she says. Because right now, while she’d thought that Superman would be her saving grace, it was Clark Kent who might save them all (She stands in front of him, sliding the glasses back on his face, smiling at how he straightens his posture). The press would have a field day when news of the facility came out, but she knew how much of a risk it would be to his identity as well. So however Clark decides to tackle this task, Mana would go along. He was the professional after all.
With a weary sigh, gazing upon the documents on his lap, he nods.
And with the strangest sort of relief exploding out of her chest, Mana’s knees buckle as she smiles through tears. Clark would immediately catch her, of course, before carrying her on his hip with one arm and gripping onto the envelope filled with files with the other. Mana could only weep in silence at the crook of his neck.
Later, it scares her a bit when she opens her eyes and finds herself not at the laundromat, but back at the Daily Planet. Still hanging on to Clark, her arms finally let go of the death grip on his neck that she doesn’t remember doing. Clark only smiles back.
She blinks, only to find them on another floor, passing by other reporters who waved at the both of them. Some cooed at her while others simply waved them off (“I had no idea it was bring-your-niece-to work-day, but Clark’s just that sort of guy I guess.”) (“Yeah. And is it just me or does he seem a bit taller? It’s kinda macho. Especially with the little girl.”) (“Lois is literally right there, Lana, shut up!”). It was unnerving. No one has looked at Mana this much, in quick succession, in years. You couldn’t blame her for hiding her face in his shoulder again.
Clark seemed to sense her distress so he walked faster (“Careful not to run a hole through the wall”, she whispers, a shaky giggle). And once they slowed down, hearing distressed voices (“Clark, is this…?”) (“Dad! I think that’s her!”) (“Jon, who is…?”), it was enough to finally face the sunshine again.
In a secluded room – as far as a room with glass walls was secluded – Clark’s wife and son, and another boy his age, met them with concern, excited concern, and curiosity. All eyes landed on her.
So. Many. Eyes.
So. Many. Voices.
A squeeze. “It’s okay, they’re all right.”
A shush. “Hi there, sweetie. It’s okay. We won’t hurt you.”
A wave. “Hiya. My name’s Jon. I saw you before when Dad came home once and—"
Soft paddings covered her ears before Jon’s sentence could finish. Blinking at the boy who had climbed on a chair to put what seemed like his own headphones connected to an iPod on her, he gazes in question.
“Better?”
Infinitely.
Mana nods, wiping the fresh tracks of tears on her face. Still unable to meet any of their eyes except the boy’s and Clark’s, she finally takes a breath.
“Are there cameras?” she whispers.
“Just the one.” Clark whispers back, loud enough for the others to hear but hopefully, hopefully, her power is able to extend to them while they were close enough.
And she makes it quick, immediately asking for any recording device that can’t be hacked so no one can hear them, plus asking all of them to remain quiet as possible so security footage doesn’t catch them interacting with her. Lois (because she recalls Clark saying her name) comes back with an old-fashioned tape recorder and blank cassette tapes before proceeding to ask the boys to get some water for her. Both immediately take off, but not without Jon (his eyes looked exactly like his Dad’s, but that spirit was all his Mom’s) asking them to let them listen to what she had to say.
They wanted to listen. All of them did. A bunch of strangers she just met and one she had been stalking for months. Her grip on the headphones tightens just a little bit.
When they come back with a bottle of cold orange juice and some snacks, she wastes no time.
“There is a facility, just at the outskirts of Metropolis some kilometers northeast of here. I’m not sure if it’s still within the borders of Delaware but it was only one long bus ride between Wonder Woman, Batman, or you, so I chose you. You were nearest.”
Mother and son freeze. The boy simply nods. “Efficient.” He whispers. Mana smiles.
“All the files you’ll need to take the place down are in that envelope”, she says, pointing at Clark’s other grip. “But be careful. Please. My friends, they’re… they didn’t know any better. I didn’t know any better. And so will the new ones too if no one takes them away. I don’t know how many of them are right now but it’s been six years since my classmates and I began our school, so there’s bound to be more.”
A beat passes. The clock ticks on the wall. Workspace talk muffled through the glass.
“And…” Lois asks, leaning in. “How old are you?”
Mana raises an eyebrow. “Um. Six years, 3 months, 11 days?” Wide eyes only respond to her so she quickly adds “I wasn’t sure what the date was anymore but I keep track in my head at least. But I double-check with your newspapers now and then. Why? Is that important? For writing an article about this? I know all my friends’ birthdays and deathdays if you need it, and it should be on the files too.”
Clark’s grip on her tightens just the slightest bit. Despite sitting on his lap, he hadn’t let her go, and Mana wasn’t sure if he had any plans of doing so very soon. He thanks her for the extra information and promises to highlight them when they eventually get around to the articles. So she smiles, thanking all of them back.
“I know that having a witness statement is crucial evidence, but I’m not sure how credible I’ll be. If it comes down to it, I don’t mind going down with the ship. But I wanted to at least try and get as many out as possible.” She adds, fidgeting with the headphone cords. “Even if you all will forget me.”
Before any of them could ask, the tension abruptly breaks when a bunch of Clark’s coworkers accidentally walk in and disrupt the impromptu meeting. With Clark instinctually standing up to address them all, Mana knew a window of opportunity when she saw it. Quickly, she stops the recording and fishes out the cassette tape to write on. This action doesn’t go unnoticed, however, when the boy who’d given her the headphones looks over her shoulder.
“‘Mana’. Is that your name?”
“Alternate codename. My caretaker started the trend of giving us alt names since no one could argue the convenience. Plus, he said it was short for a mythical creature from his and mine’s motherland.”
With a quick blow to dry the ink from Clark’s pen and proceeding to put a thumbprint on the side as well, she puts it back in the recorder.
“Listen. I don’t know who you are, but if all of them trust you—” she whispers, jerking her head towards the Kents. “Then I’ll trust you as well. Thank you for the headphones—”
“You may keep it.” He adds. “And the iPod as well, unless you don’t particularly like classical music. My brothers say I need to expand my tastes but I say mine are already exquisite.”
Mana giggles. “I don’t dislike classical music. Never really gave it a try.” And before she could rethink her next move, goes to embrace him on her tip-toes.
She feels the feathers ruffle on her arms as they encircle the boy’s neck, hopefully doing what she hopes it would; to help him remember her and vice versa. Because with a last “thank you” whispered to his ear, she knew without a doubt by the dazed look in his eyes that her power was also working to erase his memory of her. She clutches onto the iPod and leaves.
No one follows her. No one stops her. No one speaks to her. No one looks at her.
Clutching at her now lighter backpack, hood up, and new headphones down by her neck, she tries not to cry from the sudden relief and loss. Absently, she mourns not taking the orange juice and the snacks.
~ Mana was six and a half when she kills the Joker.
Right after meeting with the Kents, Mana heads to Gotham after noticing a meat freezer truck that has the facility’s logo on the side, just as she had read upon the information she’s gathered from the records room. The wild animals they were taught to hunt had always been abundant, so of course the facility could operate as a meat wholesaling company on the side. With nothing else to do, she runs inside the open freezer truck just before the drivers can close it.
And would you look at that? Through the slow twists and turns Mana tracks on her map, the truck heads to Gotham. What were the odds?
The truck makes several stops, all of which she notes made enough logistical sense (i.e. markets, Iceberg Lounge, butchers, Gotham Academy, etc.), but eventually, another box is checked off her mental list when it strolls into Arkham Asylum. It doesn’t just stop at the gates to deliver via the guards; it enters through an entirely secluded passage and stops beside an underground medical bay.
Because, of course, she would be blind to not spot the lone chemical freezer in the middle of all the meat fridges, each shelf containing one for every major hero city. She spots on the labels “Central City”, “Washington”, “St. Roch”, “Metropolis”, and lastly, an empty one saved for “Gotham”.
Morbidly, Mana wonders what would happen if the rogues of Gotham City found out about their secret children. Would they claim them as their own? Use them for their purposes? Shun them into society? Surely if Batman had all his Robins, then the rogues could have their own little families as well, right?
Well… she supposed that’s what the facility was for. In the end, would it be a net good once it was taken down, assuming her friends would get to live their lives still? Arkham wasn’t going to stop illegally taking DNA samples from its “patients”, for sure, and the facility did market itself as a recycling business from the get-go. Would it be the lesser evil to have the facility stay up after all?
…No. She can’t doubt now. Not when she’s come so far.
And yet, what was she doing in the back of a meat freezer truck, in Gotham, in the first place?
Welp. Only one way to find out.
She makes her way out of the truck and into Arkham proper, though that was a much harder challenge. Mana has to remind herself that this time, the white cloaks weren’t from her facility and that her powers could only do so much. Luckily, the asylum was in the middle of the general night protocol, so tailing after guards as they checked each patient was a solution.
If Mana happened to catch one of the patients or the rogues’ eyes, no one could prove that a little girl in rainbow sleeves strolled past and waved at them.
But finally, she reached solitary confinement. Starring at the end of the hall, with big bold letters permanently etched onto the old steel but no lights, Mana sighs. Might as well rip off the band-aid.
“Excuse me, sir? Is he not here right now?”
“Oh! Who? The freak? Nah, the Bats are still lookin’ for him after his new chick started blowing things up near the docks or somethin’. Hey Joey! Y’know where the clown’s been? Kid’s askin’.”
“Wha--? Oh, hi kid. Yeah, haven’t seen him since the war’s ended, and good riddance, too. Y’not from ‘round here, are ya?”
“No, sir. A war?”
“Yep. His new girl really took things up a notch. If the clown’s dead, I wouldn’t be surprised if she picks up the mantle. Hopefully we don’t gotta take care o’ her here though.”
“Jesus, Danny, don’t jinx it now! At least Quinn was manageable. Anything else ya need, kid?”
“No, I think that’s all. Though I kind of got lost so could you take me outside, please?”
“Not a problem. Stick close, kiddo. Ya don’t wanna get too close to any of these cells, all right?”
As Mana let the guards hold her newly gloved hands, walking her back through the halls, she takes a quick glance at the prisoners who had no doubt listened to their conversation. She allows herself a giggle.
But there were other pressing matters, like a citywide war between the Batman and the Joker that her teachers never talked about. Fortunately she had come to its end, as the efforts to rebuild and recover all around her provided more than enough cover for a new girl from out of town. The homeless don’t mind her, and she cherishes the times when they invite her into their little circles. The middle-class recoil at first glance but accept that a lone child in the streets wasn’t too abnormal for Gotham. She knows never to overstay her welcome with either people, of course. If there was anything the teachers had emphasized about the city, it’s that it was urban survival at its finest. Whether it was through money, power, or hierarchy, people would always find their own tribe, and tribe meant territory.
Needless to say, Mana knew enough to avoid any accidental gang association if she could help it. The middle-class had the overt ones, sure, but the homeless were no exception. No one was an exception. Just look at the Bats soaring through the night skies. She had to be careful if her plan was to succeed.
(Except… there really isn’t a plan, is there?)
Yes. Yes, there was. Reconnaissance. Simple as that. If she could hunt, stalk, and face Superman of all people, she could do it again. In fact, she likes the challenge of looking for her new target through the maze of Gotham compared to waiting or running after the Big Blue Boy Scout.
And so, she asks around. A construction worker tells her that all the Bats look after the city, but they see Red Robin frequent a radius around Wayne Tower more often than not. A sad but kind purple-haired woman tells her that Nightwing takes to Bludhaven the most. A few sex workers tell her that Spoiler, Orphan, and Bluebird like to check up on them every now and then, though they miss Batgirl sometimes. An old officer tells her that Batwoman visits the G.C.P.D. when she can. A teenager walking several dogs in the park tell her that the Signal swings by at least once every morning and afternoon.
And the homeless kids tell her that Red Hood used to haunt Crime Alley, but not as much anymore.
It painted a pretty good picture, all things considered, especially since no one seemed to know any specific haunts that the actual Batman chose. Truly a master of the night. Mana would like some pointers if she ever runs into him, but hopefully not that soon. He would ruin her plan, after all. (What plan?) Oh, and the newest Robin seemed to hop between the other Bats as well. That or he occasionally sprouts out of nowhere, just like the main Bat himself.
All that is to say, Mana had two options. The closest figures to have interacted with her target, and the most accessible, were a tie between the Bats and the Clowns. One would ensure a safety net should things go south, but a risk of exposing herself with their infamous “No-kill Policy” (Was that the plan?). The other would ensure precision, following one clear breadcrumb after the next. The catch was that she would be alone.
Which, honestly, wouldn’t make a difference so off to the Clowns she went. Fighting the itch to steal their artillery, she asks questions, hopping from different clown croppings scattered around Gotham until she finally gets a solid answer other than “Just listen to her podcast!”. The Royal Flush Gang had “officially” allied itself with them via Punchline after the war, but it was easy enough to conclude that with the retired King and Queen having their own itch for action, Punchline simply added them to her deck.
And then it was a matter of finding the woman herself, but that also posed a problem. Alexis Kaye was still very active and very close to the source, and having her sights on Mana even for just a little bit could be a huge risk. But through enough snooping and convincing in their recent hideouts, she was able to confirm through the Royal Flush’s henchmen that Punchline did have a base she went to by herself that no one knew about, especially after she’d sustained her most recent injuries. It was frustrating, knowing that the quickest way to finish this (finish what?) was to stalk Punchline until she got into bodily harm again and then follow her to this base because the target had to be there. If the rumors were true and that he had narrowly escaped death via bomb strapped to his body, then he would need a place to recover as well.
But no. Punchline was a risk. Too many variables for Mana to accommodate for. Luckily, she had a more stable option.
Finding Dr. Pamela Isley in any kind of forestry around Gotham was a long shot, but it had been a shot worth taking. Because just like she’d hoped, lounging in her little Eden with her was Dr. Harleen Quinzel herself, also in recovery. It was a strange sight, finding the two being domestic amidst all the killer fauna, but it was a far better scene than dingy warehouses and conveyor belts full of XO.
The two women immediately invite Mana in as soon as they see her, making her tea and biscuits in a lone cabin within the forest. Dr. Isley hovers around her, tutting at her tattered jacket, while Dr. Quinzel beamed at being called ‘Dr. Quinzel’. She talks about finding them, talks about her travels, and the two coo and adore until the sun went down. When the time came to ask Harley for possible places where her target would be, and she only hesitates for a little before telling her anyway, Mana pushed as much of her guilt aside when she smiles, thanks them, and walks out the door.
Oddly enough, it was one of the more difficult times when she had to make her leave. Eden had pretty plants. The cabin was warm and cozy. Harley and Ivy gave her tea and biscuits.
She couldn’t turn back. Not when she could hear the two already wondering why there was a cup of unfinished tea on the table, biscuits on their littlest plate.
So Mana goes. Walking, commuting, hitching a ride, jumping from place to place that Harley had mentioned, until she finally lands upon an average-looking apartment building.
And upon knocking, she finds the Joker, answering the door with a dirty apron and some oven mitts.
He invites her in as she claims to have been sent by Punchline herself, hollering at the implications of a child being mailed by his loving Punchy. He instructs her to sit at the dining table while he brought dinner out, which was deep-fried chicken and homemade fries because he found cooking “strangely invigorating these days”. When he presents them to her, Mana only considers them once before eating a fry.
It was a bit chewy, but passable.
The Joker gasps, immediately rushing the fries back into the pan and letting it deep fry just a bit more. He continues to talk and talk, and Mana continues to watch and listen. Hands on her lap, bag on her back, her legs swinging to and fro.
She asks about his injuries while they wait. About the distinctly bald head and the red eye. He hums, assessing her, and easily concludes that she wasn’t a Gothamite like everyone else had. He admits that having Punchy send him a transplant toddler out of nowhere was definitely throwing him off, but it was a fun game nonetheless. Mana corrects him that she was six and a half, not exactly a toddler anymore. He only laughs. She giggles. Both harmonize without meaning to and unknowingly, it soothes a part of their souls.
And when they lull back into silence, he finally tells her about the war. About finding Punchline, creating one brilliant scheme after another with her to tear down Batman once and for all. Bringing down Gotham by using the Nightwing was the cherry on top, he muses. And with a sigh, he even confesses that he’s known who the Batman was for a while now, and the little Bats too, but otherwise doesn’t know what to do with that information anymore. Of course he could wreak havoc again, but with Harley shooting a bullet through his eye and recovering from all his “explosive trauma”, plus Punchline already doing a great job at creating chaos for him, he basically has nothing else to look forward to other than retirement.
Which, in all honesty, Mana can agree too. He had a good run, she tells him, and Ms. Kaye was more than capable of adjusting her chaos to the generation of today. Though Mana did appreciate knowing history when she could. As far as she knows, his legacy was his “clout” as Punchline had put it, and Mana is sure that it will only continue to grow through Punchline’s technological advancements.
This causes Joker to huff, admitting that while it was all “efficient”, it did sometimes irk him how her darling Punchline sacrificed creativity for convenience. XO was a clever product of a loophole, sure. Recruiting the Royal Flush was resourceful. Amassing her followers through the internet was timely and genius. Alas, it still brought an ache into his old heart when no one recalls the classics anymore.
(There.)
Mana asks him to clarify what the classics were, so the Joker lists off examples like an electrocution ring, or a flower squirter, or the trustworthy Bang! Gun. Mana only blinks. The Joker gasps in dismay, and immediately runs off and comes back with said gadgets, rusting and fraying at the edges.
Mana’s eyes twinkle when the Joker wears the rusted ring and offers his hand with a “Hello there how do you do!”. She takes it and giggles when the shock rides up her arm. Excitedly, he hands it to her to wear, which she does with both pinky and ring finger, and giggles louder when the Joker laughs in shock as well.
He takes the little sunflower next but is in dismay when it does a sad puff of dust. Mana giggles again, though, and they both proceed to giggle together. He proudly pins the flower on her jacket.
Lastly, he takes the rusted gun. He tells her that it was a real pistol that he’d calibrated just so he could mess with the Bat (and he fell for it every single time!). He aims the gun square in the middle of Mana’s eyes, her own still twinkling in delight, and fires. With a loud “BANG!” Joker shouts for emphasis, the little flag pole inside remains stuck making him curse in frustration. Mana watches him attempt to forcibly pull the pole before gently prying it from his hands, then quietly dismantling the gun on the table.
“Oh, there’s the problem. You shoved the pole all the way into the spring, and the spring rusted over it. You’ll need some oil and a new spring, too.”
“Aww, so you’re a little tinkerer! I LIKE THAT! Hold on, I’m sure there’s an extra jack-in-the-box here somewhere!”
As he leaves, she reassembles the gun but with one little adjustment.
When he comes back, she hands it back to him as they replace the spring and run the oil through a funnel into the barrel. He wastes no time and points it at her again, fires, and the flag finally pops out with the fresh sheen of oil just an inch away from her eyes. Mana laughs in shock, the loudest she’s ever laughed, and immediately covers her mouth.
“Oh no, oh sweet pea! Don’t hide that sound! I’m beginning to see why you’re here in the first place!” The Joker smiles, fondly. “What do I call you?”
Mana hesitates. “They gave me a codename, but I used ‘Jane’ to hide from their radar.”
“Oho? Jane what?”
“Jane W. Aldoe.” she smiles, waiting. As he tests the name, then mouths it again, she can’t help but smile wider when he bursts into hysterics.
“Jane WALDOE! Brilliant! Oh, that’s PERFECT Ha HAH!!!”
The laugh shakes his entire form, almost infectious. Especially when his eyes lock back with hers in pride.
“Here! You have a go!” And Mana lets him push back the flag in the barrel, the quiet twang confirming what she did to it, before taking her hands and circling it around the gun, aiming it at the middle of his eyes.
“It’s alright, little birdie, take a breath. Poor thing, you’re all shaky! I promise the recoil’s not so bad! No need to cry!”
Crying… she was crying?
“I’m sorry.” She breathes. In. Out. “I really am. It’s just that…”
“Yes, my little princess?” he smiles. Fondly. Again. His hands cup her cheeks, wiping the tears away.
“It’s just…” she closes her eyes and shakes her feathers, which makes him chuckle. His soft gaze unmoving.
Mana breathes one last time, a slow exhale.
“The recoil always hurt a little.”
She fires, silent, as the small flag pole jettisons from the gun and skewers through the inner corner of the Joker’s right eye. The “BANG” flag, soaked in brain matter, unfurls from behind his head.
Climbing down from the chair and stepping around the slowly forming pool of red beneath the Joker, Mana makes her way to the kitchen and turns off the stove, making sure the gas doesn’t leak. The fries had been a bit overcooked but looked much better. She plates it all carefully, paper towel and all, before making her way back to the table.
“I know you’re not dead. You never really die.” she says, climbing back up the chair and scooping fries for both of them. “At least that’s what our history teacher said. Her lessons were severely outdated but it was an honor to see all these little gizmos.”
Mana takes a hearty bite of the chicken as she pulls the flower off her jacket, watching a new stream of blood leak through the flagpole in his eye and down his cheek. She sets the flower on the table next to the gun.
“I swear I hadn’t planned on this though… okay, maybe I did. I’m not really sure. I was hoping to come to a conclusion when I finally saw you.” She says, picking at the fries before gnawing on four at the same time.
“I knew the goal was to kill you so that this—” she gestures to herself, “—doesn’t happen again, but even I had to admit that was unrealistic. In the end, I think I just wanted to do it. And I don’t really know what wanting is supposed to be like! It’s frustrating!”
The Joker’s form continues to sag against his chair, fingers twitching.
“I guess I envied you in that regard. You knew what you wanted, and all it took was one bad day, right?” she says, stopping to chew and swallow the chicken skin. “But I’ve had six years, six months, and 23 bad days. Minus several okay ones but you get my point. I still don’t know how to want and…”
She wipes her lips with her sleeve. Pulls off the rusted ring and turns it around. “I guess that’s a joke in itself, right? That I want to want? I suppose you’d be the expert but…” she puts the ring next to the flower, taking a beat to gather her thoughts.
“For the longest time, my question wasn’t how I was going to kill you. It was why.” Mana’s fist squeezes on the chicken leg, squishing the meat onto her hand. “As soon as I found out who you were to me, I knew I didn’t have to kill you. And even if I did, the damage had been done. Surely Arkham’s already sequestered some of your DNA somewhere, although they did mention that you’ve been busy for a long while so it would be quite funny if they ran out because of that.”
She allows herself a giggle. The Joker’s stomach rumbles, the smell of methane permeating the room.
“Don’t worry. I think fart jokes are great one-liners.” She smiles, before hopping off to pick his pocket for the phone that she spied on him. Wiping her hands on his vest, she carefully faces the screen towards his unblinking face to unlock his phone, before dialing 911. As she set the phone on the table as it rang, she sighed one last time at his smile.
Fond. It was so fond.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Mana taps an S.O.S. on the table, cutting off on the fourth attempt before hanging up and then activating the phone’s GPS.
“I didn’t have to kill you. I just wanted to.” She whispers, gripping his hand with one and the headphone cords with the other. “And I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. Ever.”
Crying. She was crying again. This was getting very silly.
“So maybe—” she sniffs, wiping her snot with her shoulder. “Maybe this is a good enough compromise? You’re not dead, technically. The pole should’ve cut right through your frontal lobe. You even helped me angle it just right.”
A laugh. A quiet laugh. Coming from her.
- NO. She COULDN’T. She MUSTN’T.
“I’m going now, okay? The police are coming. And if Batman and the others are listening in on them like I think they are, maybe they’ll get here, too? That way they’ll take you to a real hospital and not Arkham. Or maybe they won’t but I’m sure you’ll be fine— “
Sirens. Blue flash. Red flash. Sirens, wailing. Blue flash, red flash RED. Siren WAILING blue RED AND WET AND RED
THUMPING ON THE DOOR.
“G.C.P.D., OPEN UP!!!”
Mana hasn’t let go of his hand. She has to let go. She has to—
WAILING CRYING FLASH LOUD FLASHES LOUD SCREAMING BLUE LIGHT RED AND WET AND RED AND
Mana cries. Distantly, a sense of de ja vu washes over her as the sound of splintering wood and numerous footsteps come in, only to come to a stop behind her.
Mana cries. Looking one last time at the Joker’s fond smile. A smile just for her.
Mana turns, finally facing the blurry sea of people. No armor. Guns out. They were tracking mud on the floor.
“You… you’re that kid— “
Mana crumbles, her knees hitting the tile (WETREDWET). It was enough to break the moment as the old officer from before ran to her aid.
A blink. Rain is hitting her face. She’s outside, carried in someone’s arms, angled weirdly. His shoulder pressed to his cheek.
“We found him! Batman, we found him! He’s been shot and there’s a kid – fuck there’s a KID— “
A blink. She’s in the back of a car. Red and blue lights out the window. One siren wailing. Rain sliding on the glass.
“Dr. Thompkins! I’m sorry, it’s an emergency! There’s a kid! She’s in shock but we found her with the Jo— “
A blink. A lab. No, a medbay. Hospital? No, too small. Clinic. Someone takes off her headphones. Her bag is gone too. Her feet are cold. She’s lying down on something.
“Jim… Jim, w-who is this? Where did you find her? She—… we need to call—!”
A blink. She’s alone.
She’s on a cot, worn paint on the bars but with freshly laundered sheets. The fluorescent lights above her are closed but the warm light of a desk lamp is open. The rain hits the small window next to it, filtering the city noises from somewhere below. The night sky feels like an extension of the shadows on the walls, the building lights flickering like fireflies.
Mana wants to go outside. Slowly, she sits up, cringing at the creak of metal on the bed. Her socked feet touch the cold floor, instantly jolting her awake and making her realize that all her stuff had been taken off, save her clothes. Looking around, she spots her bag, her shoes, and her headphones, hanging on a coat rack and facing a fan to dry.
The headphones. She hopes they still worked.
She fishes out the iPod and carefully plugs them in. The sound comes out as static. She breathes, in and out.
With her bag strapped tight to her back once more, shoes double-knotted, and the headphones and iPod coiled around properly the desk with an apology note, she opens the lone door. On one end of the hallway, the faint voice of a woman on a call echoes.
“Bruce, I know the Joker takes precedent, but please. You have to see her. She has his eyes— “
And on the other end, a window to the fire escape. Easy choice. The rain greets her like an old friend.
~ Mana is six years, eight months, and 13 days old when she ends Punchline.
She finds an abandoned apartment on Crime Alley and never leaves. Correction; she leaves for supplies and the occasional adventurous stroll, but she always comes back. And stays. And waits.
It was functional. Water still ran and she knew how to adjust herself to the cold. She watches from the window, careful of the broken glass (she cleans it later) as the streets slowly come to life. News of the Joker’s “death” had spread eventually and she bore witness as the Alley threw celebrations and crimes in equal measure.
Later, the police came in to fight off that vacuum of crime little by little, along with the Bats (she fights the instinct to duck out of sight every time), and soon, people were calling it Park Row more than not.
She tidies up the place as best as she could, suffering some bruises and scratches along the way (bottles and bottles, both alcohol and antiseptics. So many tripping hazards) and manages to air out the moldy mattress on the rooftop (none of the Bats flew by that night. Less crime, after all.)
Later, she’d buy an issue of the Daily Planet from a convenience store. Seeing Clark and Lois Kent’s by-line on the front page was more than enough. She’s unable to stop the tears when she finds the birthdays and deathdays on the next page. She makes it a habit to buy one at least every week after that, though eventually, the elderly store owner offers to let her read them for him daily as long as she stays behind the counter, accompanying his wife behind him.
The store owner remembered her. His wife remembered her.
She politely denies the offer.
Later, she would take walks further away from Park Row to see how much Gotham had changed. It wasn’t her city, but it did give her a strange comfort to find people less weary of their surroundings during the day. And at night, she notices the other vigilantes from the Hill for the first time. She admonishes herself for not considering it. The Bats could only do so much, after all.
And most days, she stays in. Books are her usual companions, most of which from Gotham’s library (the librarian had been shocked to find her, probably with all the books she was carrying. She did her very best not to laugh when she offered to carry them since she was a “living book cart anyway”, it would’ve been rude!). She still doesn’t have any form of modern technology, but she allowed herself a solar-powered lamp from Best Buy and a radio with a built-in CD player from a junk shop. (The library apparently had music records and CDs too, so of course she got some.)
As she lay on the not-so-moldy mattress, a thrifted pillow under her head with sequins that changed color when you wiped it one way, and a blanket with tiny birds on it, she sleeps to the sound of Henri Vieuxtemps’s Hommage à Paganini. It was the closest she could find, sounding just a bit too clean compared to the recorded quality from the boy’s iPod. The song hadn’t been a concert; just a solo. Viola, she thinks. She hopes against all odds that the headphones and iPod make it back to the boy, and that he forgives her for drenching it.
(Silly. He was all the way back in Metropolis. If the doctor lady hadn’t thrown it out then maybe she’d have sold it for parts.)
(No, no, she addressed it to the “friend of Jon Kent and Mr. and Mrs. Kent from the Daily Planet” after all. There was at least a good chance it would get there. Maybe.)
(Maybe is not enough for acquiring a target. This is sloppy.)
(Maybe sloppy was okay, now, too. Maybe everything was okay now.)
Her brain finally quiets after that.
When she finds herself awake in the middle of the night, throat hoarse from screaming and unable to remember her dreams, she plays it again. And again. And again.
And she waits. And waits. And waits.
Her exhaustion is the reason why she doesn’t notice the eyes that watch her several buildings away for the next few days. Nor when the same eyes climb through the window and stare at her sleeping form.
She does notice the lunchbox, however. Especially after waking up to find it mere inches away from her face. It had rice and an omelette over it, with some sausages on the side and some chopsticks. But more importantly, it was steaming. It was still warm.
Idly, she waits for the alarm bells to ring in her head, and isn’t as anxious as she should be when the omelette explodes perfectly with a slice of the stick. She’s only a little embarrassed when she lets it cool down before eating with her bare hands. Henry had taught her how their people ate without utensils, cupping rice and ulam at the same time with her fingertips. Her slightly scalding fingers were a small price to pay.
Cleaning the lunchbox was an absolute must, so she goes out into the autumn cold as quickly as possible to buy (not steal, Gotham’s elite could spare some missing pocket change) some dishwashing soap and a sponge. Her home economics teacher would’ve been utterly dismayed if she didn’t do it.
And after she finishes, letting it dry next to a “thank you but I don’t know how to use chopsticks” note, she leaves for the library.
When she comes back later in the evening, skipping lunch as she was wont to do, she finds a square bag in its place. Gently putting her new books onto the fresh pile – careful not to mix them with the to-return pile – she unzips the bag only to find not just a new lunchbox (warm with something green inside), but a metal water bottle, a spoon, fork, bread knife, a toothbrush kit, and a note.
“Sorry kid.” it said, “You looked Asian. Not a racist, I swear."
Mana giggles, before quickly pulling out a notepad and pen that the librarian gifted her that morning. She just had to write this mother hen back. The spinach casserole warms her tummy as she finishes reading The Da Vinci Code that night. With a stretch, she puts it on the to-return pile before glancing at her to-read lists. Plural. Because one was American and European literature. The other was from Henry’s time before she’d met her.
She sighs, resigning to the fact that she’d have to explore independent bookshops soon. The Gotham City Public Library was vast, but even she can’t fault the lack of third-world literature. She hopes to at least find the story that Henry told her before she left. All she had was the name of the magical bird to go by and hope that there was a book or pamphlet about it somewhere. Cleaning her lunchbox and her utensils, placing them upon the upturned crate she uses as a table, she sighs with the gentle stream of music from her player. Bright and early, she promises herself. Tomorrow would be productive.
Or it would’ve been if she hadn’t woken up screaming again. Only this time, something was holding her arms.
Henry. HENRY. WHERE WAS HENRY. WHERE WAS HENRY
“KID, it’s okay! You’re having a nightmare—!"
The mechanical voice shouts when Mana escapes the hold, fishes her twin karambit from under her pillow, and double-slices whatever had held her arms down.
A curse. A hiss. Before big hands efficiently dislodge her karambit from her grip, holding on to her wrist. Blearily she sees twin rivers of red flowing down big arms and dripping somewhere on her bed.
“HEY THAT’S ENOUGH! WAKE UP, PRINCESS, LOOK AT ME.”
No. She hates that. She’s not. She’ll NEVER. She hates it she hates—
“Please don’t…” she whimpers. “Please don’t call me that. Please.”
The hands quickly let go. Footsteps back away. Cloth flies out her window. All at once, the apartment is cold again.
Mana falls back to sleep. When she wakes, there was dried blood on her bed and the lunchbox is tipped over, the rice having spilled onto the floor, a lone pigeon pecks on her breakfast. She recalls what happened all at once, flushing in embarrassment. When the bird notices her movement, she sighs.
“Can I have the spam, at least? It smells really good.”
The bird tilts its head before resuming its pecking order. But before Mana can resign herself to a breakfast-less fate, the spam is thrown onto her blanket. She blinks at the bird. The bird blinks back.
Then she giggles. Then she laughs. A laugh that, for once, didn’t hurt.
There was no new note that day, or the next few days after that. But the mother hen did return and left as soon as they could. Finally having a full tummy for most of the day encouraged her to rest better, and in turn, she felt her powers rejuvenated once more. The problem was, her feathers rose more times than she was used to, sensing the hen in the streets. It was a toss between anxiety or thrill knowing that she was being actively watched.
During the day when she would do her usual strolls, the mother hen would be somewhere just off by a few dozen meters. They would disappear for a bit when she’d make it to another block only to return completely fresh right there as well. As soon as she’d come back to the apartment, the hen would finally leave her until what she had previously assumed was the crack of dawn. But no, it would return just after she finished dinner (some sandwiches from the convenience store since the hen wasn’t coming back) and proceeded to watch her read. Or whatever she did just before sleeping. It had mostly been reading to help exhaust her brain and sleep peacefully. And having the hen’s watchful eyes on her gave her comfort, too.
But also, she hoped. She had hoped that all her waiting would be worth it.
The next day, she woke up to an earthquake.
It had been Punchline, or partly at least. The Joker’s advertised brain death had skyrocketed her plans to heights even the Royal Flush Gang couldn’t keep up with, and the turf war against the Yakuza was met with loud indifference. Needless to say, Punchline was pissed, which would’ve been quite funny if the entirety of Gotham didn’t suffer for it. But especially, the Alfred J. Pennyworth Children’s Hospital at the break of dawn.
The shockwaves didn’t level anything other than a third of the hospital at first, but it was just enough for the entire city to feel. Mana had been quietly chewing on her breakfast burrito inside the convenience store, watching it live on the News with the elderly couple as it progressed (they had immediately admonished her for going outside while the makings of a new war seemed to start, although they didn’t stop her from staying either).
She watched as Punchline… no, Alexis Kaye, televised the meltdown of the century, hysteric denial of the Joker’s critical situation and persistence that it was all a plan that the Bats had in store for her. She watched as chopper cameras focused on her near-suicidal display, dangling from the windows as she bartered for the Bats to come out of their beauty sleep and face her head-on, once and for all, or else she would blow up the buildings that weren’t in the middle of construction.
Mana sighs. As irrational as it was, this was her responsibility, too. She curses herself for hoping that the wait would be worth it but she supposed this would do.
Finishing her burrito, she bids the couple goodbye and allows herself a hug with the two, wishing them both a safe day. Surprised but warmly, they bid her the same, asking her to get home safely as soon as she could. She smiles and leaves, backpack left at the apartment and nothing but her karambit in her pockets.
Mana takes her time walking through the emptying streets, weaving through shortcuts she’s learned over the months of strolls, ducking out of sight when Bat after Bat soared through the waking sky. She makes her way to the nearest warehouse of the Royal Flush Gang, hugging the henchmen and thanking them for letting her “borrow” the B&T 300 SPR she’d been eyeing for a while, and heads off again.
The rifle sits snuggly inside the bag behind her, the bag itself almost her entire height. She spots herself at the window of a deserted store, looking like a budding cellist, and allows what may be the last giggle she’ll make.
The hospital was hard to miss. Even without the chaos currently happening between the Bats and Punchline, it had become the centerpiece of the city. A monument borne of grief and hope. Mana had stopped by the memorial statue more times than she had originally planned (which was none, if possible) because of the immense weight the figure represented. But here and now, watching as trap after trap slowly activated around one Bat at a time, she inhaled with the weight and exhaled with the doubt.
And she climbed.
~ The Bat Family has been mourning for 5 and a half years when they learn the truth.
Later, when all the Bats return to the cave, bloodied and bruised but otherwise victorious as Punchline had fallen and, for all intents and purposes, going to see the same hospital room as the Joker for a long while, they study the footage not at the behest of Tim or Bruce, but Jason.
Warily, they watch him watch all angles of their fights plus the functioning CCTV, stopping and looping moments again and again on a single location. Eventually, when it seemed like he had enough data that he needed, he asks the Computer to triangulate all angles provided by the footage he selected and form a single 3D rendered clip of that exact moment. It took a few minutes, to which he allowed himself to be stitched up by and stitch the others as they waited, but once the processing finished and the 3D clip projected for them all, nothing could stop him from dashing to his motorcycle and riding out like hell.
Confusion hits them, for what they saw was a simple projection of Alfred’s memorial statue during the fight. But when Damian makes it back to the cave, out of his Robin costume and freshly showered but his old, missing headphones in tow, he stops in his tracks.
“Father… when was this?” he points at the projection, the old iPod in hand.
Bruce purses his lips. “During the fight, son. Right before Punchline had fallen from the 5th story windows. Is there a problem--?”
Damian would then bolt to the screens, scrubbing through their perspectives just as Jason had, only this time jumping from one viewpoint to another as if following something they couldn’t see. The others could only silently share their concern over his head as his gaze darted left and right, clutching the headphones.
When Jason makes his way to his old apartment-turned-bird nest for the girl he found there weeks ago, it was empty. Riding back to the Library hoping that Babs would’ve seen her come in only led to nothing. Circling back to the one-third destroyed hospital they’d just come from, there was nothing to greet him but the GCPD and construction task force, so he grapples his way above them and lands beside Alfred’s statue.
And circling around it revealed exactly what he thought he’d see. Bullet casings on the ground, little shoe prints tracking all the way up to his right shoulder.
Jason clenches his fist as the clip of the girl, firing a fucking sniper rifle at Punchline’s fucking spine from the statue’s fucking shoulder replayed in his mind. The fresh twin scars on his forearms tingle in agitation.
The others didn’t see her when he’d been playing their footage. The others didn’t see her in real life, at all. Barbara had, that one time in the Library. Duke couldn’t even spot her when he’d pointed right at her reading at the park.
Why couldn’t they see her?
Why could he?
A firm hand grasps his shoulder, turning him.
“This is not funny!” Damian shouts. “This is not a joke!”
“Woah, woah, let’s all calm down now.” Dick says, hands in surrender. “None of us are laughing at you, Little D. It’s just that… I really can’t see what you’re pointing at.”
“She’s right there, Richard. Or have your decrepit eyes already failed you at your age?!”
Not for the first time, moments like these remind Bruce just how much of a godsend Alfred had been. Alfred, give him strength.
“Alright, let’s look at the facts then.” He says, nursing an icepack to his jaw. “Damian, you can see a young girl, much younger than you, perched on top of Alfred’s shoulder and firing a gun towards Punchline, who is about 100 or so meters away, in the middle of our battle.”
Damian nods feverishly, headphones still clutched in one hand, iPod in the other. He squints at the projection in the middle of them. “She’s about a head or so smaller than I, a bit on the thinner side though her baggy clothes seem to hide that well. She’s sitting with her back just against Alfred’s neck over there…”
The Bats squint when he points again.
“…most likely to compensate for the recoil of that monstrosity. The rifle is just as big as she is, if not bigger! And here!”
Damian speeds through bringing up multiple viewpoints of theirs and the CCTV inside the evacuated building.
“There, there, and there! There’s a streak of metal and impact upon the walls. The battle started with us on the 7th floor but Punchline had dropped down to the 6th and the 5th almost on a whim, did she not? And looking at the sequence of her movements, it’s clear that she had thought we had our own gunman forcing her to move.”
With the most serious tone they’ve heard him say, Damian turns to Tim who’d been listening on the Bat computer’s chair.
“I’m willing to bet my finally returned iPod that a bullet–not of Todd’s arsenal–is still lodged on at least one ceiling. Especially from that angle.”
Tim hums. “I’ll have the computer process the bullet holes within our footage, determine what make they might’ve been. But Damian; counterpoint.”
The boy nods, inviting the challenge as was necessary for the process, less angry and more desperate than usual.
“Shouldn’t we have heard the gunfire? Also, you just got your old iPod back, right?” Tim points to his hands. “From the mail, of all places?”
“YES!!” Damian shouts, the loudest he’s ever been without fury to fuel him. “I lost it all those months ago, remember? But I would’ve NEVER lost something so vital to my music studies, so I assumed you were all playing one of those stupid pranks on me and hid it somewhere in the manor!”
“Oof. Yep, I remember.” Stephanie says, cringing at the memory of all her clothes disappearing and instead left with a version of Riddler’s suit fit just for her, complete with a bowler hat. “Where was it, then? And how’d you get it back in the mail?”
“Exactly!” Damian points at her, frantically. “It says in the package that it came from the Daily Planet! Sent by the Kents!”
That’s got Bruce to sit up straighter. “So you lost them back in our trip to Metropolis. Clark and Lois found it and sent it back to us. How does this help, exactly?”
“It helps, Father, because…” and here they wait as Damian carefully fishes out three pieces of paper from his pocket. “The package came from Metropolis, but the original forwarding address was here in Gotham. Specifically—”
He flattens the receipt on his stomach before handing it over. “—Dr. Thompkins' office.”
They all lean in to check, and lo and behold there it was; the familiar cursive on the return address plus a little note. Bruce reads it out loud. “A patient left this on my desk and had addressed it to you all. We’ve lost their record but I hope it finds its way safely to you. Regards, Dr. Leslie Thompkins.”
“And upon arriving at Metropolis, the Kents themselves didn’t recall who the headphones belonged to even though I know they’ve seen me multiple times with it. But Jon did.”
Damian unfolds a bigger piece of paper, with bigger handwriting with a pencil. He hands it to Dick to read aloud, ignoring the mix of elation and concern the elder gave him.
“Hey Damian!” Dick says, giving the best impression of Jon he could muster while not forcing his broken ribs. “This is gonna sound so weird but I think the mail got all mixed up because I’m pretty sure these are yours. It has your smell but it’s very faint. I think it got rained on so, whoops! Although… there’s something else I don’t get and maybe I’m worried for nothing, so I’m asking you too. Mom and Dad don’t remember it was yours, but when I reminded them the last time you came over, they looked really confused and tried to remember really hard. So I helped them out and even got the big article they worked on that day! The one about that facility at the edge of Delaware, right outside Metropolis? I remembered that you were there when they were working on it!”
Distantly, he hears Tim quickly scouring for the article. Dick’s voice lowers in worry.
“But there’s something fuzzy, too, and I think Dad is the same. He remembers writing it with Mom. We remember sitting down and listening to a recording of a witness statement in a conference room (and I found it for you too! Mom says it’s okay as long as you return it!). But none of us could remember how we got that recording in the first place. But I know I was there! And you were there! You had your headphones one second and then they were gone! And I remember…”
Dick shifts his weight on the chair, not liking the progression of the letter. He glances at the others, bruised but still alert, sharing the same look. Damian had a tired determination in his eyes.
“And I remember someone crying. She was so little, Damian. Littler than you and me! So I listened to the recording again and again just to make sure and I was right! I have to keep listening to it now while I’m writing (I’m sorry if my writing is blotchy, I tried to wipe away my tears as much as I could! Mom did too when she first wrote the article!) because I’ll forget as soon as I stop. Listen to the tape, Damian. And read the little note that came with the headphones as well. I’m sure it was her, and Dad says the same too. Oh! And he says to get a second opinion from Uncle Bruce when you can. Dad also says that he’s sent over files provided by the witness through the JL server because he remembers promising that he would keep it safe. Alrighty, that’s all I got. Good luck!”
As Bruce takes over Tim’s seat and searches through the server, Dick folds the letter, ready to give it back to Damian when he spots the hastily written note at the back.
“P.S. I know you gave it to her, D. I just know you did. You would never lose your iPod, ever! Especially since you just recorded your last practice then. I looked at the note from the original sender (sorry!) and I think it proved me right. You helped her, Damian. You did.”
Silence. Damian gently pulls a slightly worn cassette tape from his other pocket and unfolds the last paper to the computer’s scanner.
“Computer. Please scan the handwriting on this tape label and this note and analyze for similarities.”
As the scans progress in the background at the same time as the bullet holes, Damian gestures the note to Cassandra. She blinks, not expecting the sudden assignment.
“I think,” he defends, “you have the perfect voice for her.”
Looking at the encouraging nods from the others, Cassandra pulls her mask down and gently takes the note, neat but small handwriting on the page.
“To the friend of Jon Kent and Mr. and Mrs. Kent from the Daily Planet,” she reads aloud, slowly. “I’m sorry that it took so long to return it. It’s gone through frost, soot, grass, and even chicken grease, which sadly might’ve been the final nail in the coffin. I’m not sure if both the iPod and the headphones broke in the rain. I hope the iPod makes it, though. The headphones helped when everything got too loud, but it was your music that helped me fight the nightmares. Truly, I owe you a great debt, and I hope someday when my wait is over, it will be paid.”
With no by-line, the Bats all sit in contemplation, the whirring of the bat computer a quiet hum.
“The iPod didn’t make it,” Damian says, quiet. “But the headphones did. And that is what will bring it all together.”
Bruce stands up, turning the chair for Damian to sit on.
“Over the past few months I have been looking for it, I had also been trying to listen through it since I remade it with Lucius’ help to function as one of our own communicators.”
He connects the computer to the headphones as he brought up an entire folder of recordings from months past, surprising them all with the amount of data he’d been secretly gathering. Through another window, he runs both the data he collected and the data from the phones through an audio processor and adds it to the other background analyses.
“I had the computer automatically record anything and kept track of it at the start, but when the pranks stopped and none of you returned it to me, I stopped keeping track as well. But in the back of my mind,” Damian fidgets, pulling the strings of his hoodie, “even if the iPod was lost and the headphones were replaceable, I knew I had to keep recording. Even if the results were like this.”
He hits play on the first file from months ago. A quiet static echoes through the cave.
“Better?” they hear Damian’s voice from the speakers, before a shuffling of clothes. A loud static cuts through immediately, causing everyone to flinch.
“A̷r̵e̸-̴…̵ ̶-̵r̶a̶s̴?̷”
Nothing could’ve prepared them all for the tiniest voice to filter through the static. Damian senses Tim and Bruce stiffen at his periphery, along with the gasps behind him.
“Just the one.” Clark’s voice echoes despite the whisper. And the small one (a girl, it was a little girl) responds with the static, “N̶e̸e̸-̷…̴ ̶r̴e̷c̵o̶-̶…̷ ̴c̶a̶n̶’̵t̴ ̸h̶a̸-̸…̶ ̴p̴l̷e̶a̸s̸e̷?̴”̸
A loud ping followed by a finishing statement across the screen was enough to break the spell. All eyes and ears dart to the bullet calculations. Kate steps closer, despite nursing a broken ankle.
“Analysis complete. Bullets are 90% likely Sellier & Bellot, 200-grain subsonic ammunition, sound levels of 121-123 decibels. Fired from approximate distances of 90 yards on the 5th floor, 117 yards on the 6th, and ranging from 160 to 250 yards from the 7th. Bullets fired from the 7th to the 6th showed deliberate leading military tactics, centering on Ms. Alexis Kaye for 75% of the duration. The remaining 25% was cover fire.”
And they see it now, enhanced through the computer. Bullets materialized out of nowhere pushing and pulling Punchline into certain directions, and even disrupting what would’ve been fatal hits them all.
“7th and 6th floors received minimal collateral damage from bullet fire. 5th floor received no collateral damage, having all perceived bullets lodged inside Ms. Alexis Kaye’s leg and spinal region.”
And they watch again, in slow motion, as what they thought had been a sad twist of fate of Punchline tripping and falling over a great height like her predecessor, was instead a bullet hitting her on the calf. It causes her to go off-balance before a second and third bullet hits just above the middle of her hips and between her shoulder blades.
They catch the moment of true fear in her eyes when her body refuses to respond to her call, tipping over and falling to the concrete stairs of the hospital with a CRACK.
Silence once more. Then hesitantly, Kate speaks.
“Oracle.” She clears her throat. “Can you patch through to Jason? I need his opinion.”
A few seconds go by before a frustrated huff rings through the speaker.
“I’m back at the hospital, assholes, talking to Gordon – Computer, import tracking data from my helmet on Alfred’s statue. What do you want?”
“Good, you can ask him, too,” Kate says, crossing her arms. “Subsonic ammo, 200 grain, S&B, and I’m willing to bet 20 rounds, .300 Blackout caliber. Most gangs don’t care about subtlety so unless G.C.P.D. has been handing out sniper rifle ammo to children… would you mind narrowing the playing field?”
Jason relays the question to the Commissioner before silence takes over again. They hear boots pacing back and forth, a signal to them all that Jason himself was thinking deeply.
“It’s a top necessity for Blackgate.” They hear Gordon alternating from left to right on the speaker.
“Nope. Too far. The most she’s been south is Robinson Park.”
Everyone in the cave freezes.
“Jay…” Duke says. “… how would you know that?”
A self-deprecating smirk filters through leather on stone. “You would too, if you could remember. I pointed her out to you weeks ago.”
Another screen window opens, Jason having connected his helmet’s feed to the computer. There they watch his POV as he hangs out with Duke in his Signal outfit, pointing to a patch of grass under a tree.
“Don’t sweat, I know none of you can see her—”
“The wing bag!”
Wide eyes turn to Damian, having stood up and pressing closer to the screen.
“I remember now! Her backpack! It had tiny leather wings on both sides! I can see it leaning against the trunk!”
“Rainbow sleeves…”
Barbara opens her own camera feed for them to see, showing all her own anxiety.
“Her arms were so tiny she couldn’t hold all the books she wanted to get. She was reading all kinds, but kept looking for literature from—”
“The Philippines?” Jason cuts in, slowing his pace. “Fuck, she had to-read lists, Oracle. I even got them all so she could finally check those goddamn boxes.”
“Her motherland…” Damian says, quiet, but it was enough for all eyes to circle back to him. “She didn’t have a name, but an alternate codename based on a mythical creature.”
Hesitantly, he picks up the cassette tape. “Mana.” He whispers.
PING! A completed analysis. The handwriting on the note and the label were a 100% match.
PING! Audio processing completes, but before Damian can touch it they start playing automatically.
“Are there cameras?” “Just the one.” “We’ll need a recording device that can’t be hacked. Please—”
“ Excuse me, sir? Is he not here right now?” “Oh! Who? The freak? Nah, the Bats are still lookin’ for him—”
His eyes widen, quickly looking at the others to verify that he wasn’t the only who could hear. They look back at him, mortified, at the tiny voice.
“New in town, huh? Well you should visit Wayne Tower when you can. Red Robin usually circles around—”
“I haven’t seen him in a while but Nightwing guards Bludhaven for us all. Say hi to him for me—”
“Oh yeah, the bat girlies stop by once in a while to watch over us, but the old one’s gone. I miss her sometimes—“
“The precinct has its lot of good and bad, kid, so if you don’t see me here, at least look for Batwoman—”
“I see him every morning and afternoon for my walks!” “Woof!” “You should say hi to him. The Signal’s friendly—”
“We think he’s hangin’ out at the Hill with those other vigis these days. But if you wanna meet him, I heard that abandoned apartment over there used to be his base—” “(SMACK!) Don’t go scaring the new kid, Marty! She got no business messing with the Hood!” “I was just answerin’ a question!” “And the kid’s a flippin’ transplant, dumbass!”
Distantly, Bruce registers the lack of breathing within the room save for a quiet hitch from Jason’s comms. He forces himself to breathe in and out, until horror dawns upon them all.
“Lookie lookie fellas! This kid’s looking for the big guy!!” “HaHA! The balls! What’s your name, little girl? Want some candy???” “Leave off, man. No kid just strolls up to us for no reason. Unless they're desperate.” “Oooh, look at this jacket. Ya like rainbows?” “Boss man will like you, for sure for sure.” “Or maybe he won’t. Ya can hang out with us if you want hehe. You can be like our li’l mascot!”
A glitch.
“Hey hey hey, if ya wanna find boss lady you can’t be snoopin’ around our goods.” “Wait wait, let her cook! Here kid, you can hold it for a bit.” “Pffft, she’s so tiny! She can barely reach for the trigger!”
“We were taught to leave the stock folded until our arms grew bigger.” Click CLACK!
“Oh yeah, that makes so much sense.” “Chat, is this for real? Is our next generation really gearing up for WW3??” “Ya got good taste, kiddo, but you can’t have it. King and Queen just made us take stock so it’ll be fishy when one goes missing.” “Hey, how about this? We keep the gun separate for now, and if Punchline and their royal majesties don’t notice it over the week, we’ll let her take it?” “What kinda bullshit is that?” “C’mon! It’s just a little bet! It’s not like we’ll forget a fuckin’ sniper rifle from inventory, right?”
A glitch.
“Hey Pammy? The morphine’s either stronger than I thought or there’s a kid inside our cabin. Hi there!”
“Harley!?” Tim shouts, personifying the accumulated stress from the room.
“It’s not and there is.” Ceramic clinks on wood. Pouring liquid filters through the speakers. “Here, little one.”
A sip. “Mango and orange tea, and…” A bite. “…classic butter biscuits. Thank you, Dr. Isley. Dr. Quinzel.”
A high-pitched squeal. “So formal! Can we keep her, Pammy!? We gotta—!”
A glitch.
“—There’s also that dingy old apartment in the Bowery. I hope he’s moaning and bitching there, even with his brand-new eye. Went through the trouble of aimin’ just right and what do I get for my troubles? Nothin’!”
A sip. “If I may ask, Dr. Quinzel, why hadn’t you aimed for the head?”
Bruce feels his breath quickening. He is ashamed to find comfort from Dick’s hand on his back, rubbing gently.
“’Cause I made a deal with the Bat. You know his no-kill thing. I regret it sometimes, though, because look where we are now. He’s still got that new girl doin’ his dirty work for him, but I can’t even blame her too much because she ain’t being manipulated like me. She was the result of all the decades’ worth of buildup from his philosophy spreadin’ under Gotham’s skin. I believed he had a heart. She believes he has a brain…”
A pause.
“What about you, kid? You’re the one askin’ for him. What do you believe?”
Bruce looks at everyone. They look at him back. Jason is deathly silent.
“I believe he has a soul, Dr. Quinzel.” Ceramic clinks on wood. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be going now.”
“W-wait! You haven’t finished your—!” A door closes gently. Footsteps on grass.
Distantly, they hear, “Hey Pammy, did you make me tea? Aww, that’s so sweet--!”
PING! Everyone flinches at the intrusion, the computer alerting them of the finished analysis from Jason’s tracking data. The faint, muddied footsteps on the statue’s back highlights on the screen, leading down and away from the hospital.
“Go, Red Hood! I’ll look ahead!” Barbara shouts, keyboard keys typing furiously in the background.
Bruce can only watch as Jason’s POV grapples back to his motorcycle, riding through the waking streets of Gotham while the highlighted footprints lead the way. He startles at the hands on his arm and wrist, finding Tim and Damian holding him.
“We got this, Bruce,” Tim says.
“Please sit, Father,” Damian says.
He feels them lead him to the chair, all three of his sons holding him as they watch the fourth ride like the wind.
And collectively, they hold tighter when the last audio glitches to life.
“I don’t want your goddamn car insurance! —Oh, hey there, little girl! Come in, come in! I just got dinner ready. You like fries and chicken?”
~ Jason Todd has been angry for the last 8 years when he reaches the end.
Jason lets out a quiet string of curses, driving through roads, then alleys, then back to roads when the spaces were too small for his bike to squeeze through.
He should’ve helped the kid from the very beginning. He hadn’t planned on returning to the Alley so soon after moving to the Hill, but when he did, only to find his apartment not as empty as he’d left it, he froze. Jason knew she was a transplant from the get-go. No one from the neighborhood would’ve dared to enter the apartment. He knew from the start that he should’ve helped her get to a homeless shelter, or social services, or anything but let her stay.
But he let her. And now she was going to pay for it.
“How does it taste, pumpkin?” “Slightly chewy but passable.” he hears the processed audio through the comms.
He grits his teeth and drives faster.
“—my darling Punchy is innovative, sure, but this old heart aches for the classics that no one seems to remember anymore… You know? Like a shock ring? Squirting acid flower? Ye olde BANG gun? Oh, this is perfect! Stay right there!”
“Hood, she’s just outside of Crime Alley, before the Rob Kane Bridge.” Barbara’s voice cuts through the grating one that haunted his dreams. “But her footprints lead to an abandoned recycling facility and the cameras stop at the gates. Please be careful.”
Jason revs in response.
“Hello there how do you do!” TTZZAP! A tiny giggle. “Now you try!” TZZZAPP!! A maniacal laugh.
“Christ…” he hears Dick curse.
“And the pièce de resistance… BANG!”
Jason flinches, gripping the handles tight. Come on, faster. FASTER.
“Agh, jiminy motherfu— Aww, so you’re a little tinkerer! I LIKE THAT! Hold on, I’m sure there’s an extra jack-in-the-box here somewhere!”
“Batman, come in! Are you there!?” he hears Gordon call and Bruce responds in the affirmative. “We just finished closing off the hospital but listen! We count only 19 bullet casings near the statue! Only 19!”
“FUCK!” he shouts, taking an impromptu shortcut through a ledge to skip a street entirely.
“BANG!” A tiny but loud laugh echoes through the comms, only to stop abruptly “Oh no, oh sweet pea! Don’t hide that sound! I’m beginning to see why you’re here in the first place. What do I call you? … Jane W. Aldoe? Jane… W… AldohohoHAHAHA!!! Jane WALDOE! Brilliant! Oh, that’s PERFECT BAHAHAH!!! Here! You have a go!!!”
A glitch. A click. A twang. A sniff. Tiny hitching breaths.
“It’s all right, little birdie, take a breath. Poor thing, you’re all shaky! I promise the recoil’s not so bad! No need to cry!” “I’m sorry.” Her breaths were so fucking small. “I really am. It’s just that…”
“Yes, my little princess?”
Jason skids to a stop at the gates of the abandoned compound, willing himself to unclench his fists from the handles. He had called her princess. Jason called her princess—
“It’s just that…” the girl exhales slowly. “The recoil always hurt a little.”
A true gunshot. A back hitting a chair. Soft footsteps pitter-patter. A stove turns off. Plates clink from a tray. Steps pitter-patter again, beside the sound of blood splattering on hardwood.
“I know you’re not dead. You never really die.”
Jason walks, fighting the itch to draw his guns as he steps through the overgrown concrete. He silences his footsteps, following beside the little ones through the cracked stone and grass. Distantly, he hears Bruce have an argument with Tim and Damian about needing to go to the compound as well. They succeed in forcing him to sit back down, the others sending Jason quiet encouragement to keep going.
He pulls off the helmet entirely and continues walking.
The communicator erupts with surprise, so he whispers to everyone to calm their tits. He could still hear them and they were goddamn lucky they could still hear him. Plus, the helmet’s feed should still be live, it’s just at an angle lower.
He wants the girl, Mana or Jane, to see him, and for the others to see her in the same way. Eye to eye.
“I swear I hadn’t planned on this though… okay, maybe I did. I’m not really sure. I was hoping to come to a conclusion when I finally saw you.” Sounds of chewing and swallowing. “I knew the goal was to kill you so that this… doesn’t happen again, but even I had to admit that was unrealistic.”
Jason breathes in and out through his nose. So does Bruce.
“In the end, I think I just wanted to do it. And I don’t really know what wanting is supposed to be like! It’s frustrating!” A pause. A chew. A swallow. A GLITCH. “For the longest time, my question wasn’t how I was going to kill you. It was why… as soon as I found out who you were to me, I knew I didn’t have to kill you. And even if I did, the damage had been done. Surely Arkham’s already sequestered some of your DNA somewhere, although they did mention that you’ve been busy for a long while so it would be quite funny if they ran out because of that.”
Then, of all things, a fart.
“Don’t worry. I think fart jokes are great one-liners.”
“Bruce…” he hears Tim whisper in disbelief. “The article says it was called Project Cadmus Omega. This girl…”
Jason feels the dread settle in his stomach and lets it fuel him. He knew the implications.
“Does it say…” Stephanie asks, hesitantly. “If Conner was a mix of Clark and Lex Luthor, then she—"
GLITCH. “911, what’s your emergency?” GLITCH. “I didn’t have to kill you. I just wanted to. And I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. Ever.” GLITCH. “So maybe—” A sniff. She was crying. “Maybe this is a good enough compromise? You’re not dead, technically. The pole should’ve cut right through your frontal lobe. You even helped me angle it just right.”
A quiet laugh. A sniffling gasp.
“I’m going now, okay? The police are coming. And if Batman and the others are listen—“ “—they’ll take you to a real hospital and not Arkham. Or maybe they won’t but I’m sure you’ll be—" “G.C.P.D., OPEN UP!!!”
Sirens. Thumping on wood. Guns cocking. Mortified gasps.
Crying. Sobbing. “You… you’re that kid— “
Jason falters, hearing Barbara gasp, before squeezing through the rusted steel doors of an overgrown warehouse.
~ Mana is six years, eight months, and 13 days old when she dies.
A flock of birds in V-formation pass by in the sky, Mana only seeing fractions of it through the holes on the roof.
She had found the compound on one of her more private walks, taking advantage of the mother hen’s absence. There was fallen debris everywhere, not because of any destruction caused by the rogues, but because of time itself.
The facility simply outlived its use, growing old for people to find use in it. She thinks there’s relief in knowing that things could actually die of old age in the city. The fact that it was a recycling business was the cherry on top.
She sits in the middle of the floor, having taken off her shoes to feel the weeds in between the cracks.
She takes off her jacket and folds it neatly, leaving her in the original shirt, pants, and socks she had left with from the facility.
Lastly, she unzips the bag for the rifle and lays it open as she works. The suppressor was only third of the way unscrewed when she hears the steel door nudge, boots on concrete and grass.
Finally, she thinks. The wait is almost over. She doesn’t look up and continues unscrewing.
“So is there any good reason why an SPR300’s in the hands of a homeless kid, or is it just for shits and giggles?”
Mana fights a smile. She succeeds only halfway.
“Yes, there was.” She says, pulling the suppressor off the barrel and putting it back in the bag. She turns. “I like to think I plan too much to afford ‘shits and giggles,’ but who am I to say—”
Mana blinks. She should’ve known the lack of a mechanical filter through the voice was a sign.
“You are… Jason Todd-Wayne. Yes?”
The unmasked man sighs, clutching onto the red helmet by his stomach. He was much less menacing without it, especially as he nods with that deep frown on his face. She spots the twin scars on his arms, and looks away,
“I see… I’m sorry for cutting you.” She says, unlocking the riflescope and detaching it. “That was you, right? You were my mother hen?”
Faintly, Mana thinks she can hear voices coming through the helmet. Something like a choked sound.
Jason clears his throat, his ears tinged in pink. He steps closer, slowly. “You were the one who turned my old apartment into a nest. What was I supposed to do?”
She sets the scope beside the suppressor. “You could’ve thrown me out. Was it not yours, still?”
“Where would you have gone?” The man smirks, knowingly. “If I took you to a shelter, or an orphanage, or anything that resembled like dilapidated boarding house, you would’ve run away anyway. Probably to somewhere near the library, or even camp at Robinson’s and then trek to the library.”
His shoulders relax but the hold on his helmet stays true. Mana doesn’t point out the slow approach.
“Are you speaking from your reconnaissance or speaking from experience, Mister Jason?” she says, turning to grab the cloth to wipe all parts of the gun. She misses the way he falters, but notices the lack of response.
“For what it’s worth, I appreciated it.” She adds, admonishing herself for breaking the silence. “Your surveillance. Your sympathy. It was fun trying to outsmart you during my walks, and it was nice to come home to your meals.”
She hears a gulp. Boot steps inching closer. She lays the disassembled rifle across her lap and doesn’t look up.
“I can keep making them for you.” He says. “You can teach me how to eat in that weird way you cup with your fingers.
And she can’t help it. Mana giggles. That was completely unfair.
“The utensils, along with the lunchbox and the toothbrush kit, should be clean and dry right about now. I’ve wrapped the blanket over the books so they don’t suffer any damage, as well.”
A step. “Smart.” Another step. “You can come with me and we’ll take them back to the library together. The lunchbox and all that? It’s yours.”
That causes her to stiffen. “Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve already hoarded your space long enough.”
She places her hands on the rifle, seeing Jason freeze in her periphery. “A reason why a kid would have this gun is because it’s perfect.” She says. “Foldable stock. Aluminum suppressor. Optional bipod. Very easy to assemble in just a minute.”
“But most importantly,” she adds, raising it to aim at a bush sprouting out of a crate. “It all fits in a backpack and weighs next to nothing. It’s even compared to a kids’ toy.”
She lowers it again, pushing down the guilt when the man sighs in relief. “This belongs to the Royal Flush Gang, though. So when this is over, could you please return it for me? You can have my karambit as payment.”
Mana raises her head, finally, to look the man in the eye. She needs to know that he would take this seriously.
There is horror in his eyes. Then anger. Then remorse. He was very emotive.
“We can take it back to them together.” He says. “I’ll even let you ride my bike. You can wear the helmet, too.”
She looks straight at it and how his fingers clench tightly at its sides.
“That sounds fun.” She smiles, but turns away when the edges of her vision blur. “But I don’t think I can.”
Boot steps closer. Closer.
“Why?” Jason whispers. “Why can’t you?”
She sniffs. Wetness runs down her cheek. She tries to keep the smile together.
“Because your people have suffered enough.” Her hands slowly switch grips. The left on the stock and the right on the barrel. She raises her knee and turns to him, hoping her sincerity shows. He has to remember that at least.
“You have suffered enough.” She regrets that she can’t quite see him through the tears but she must keep going. “So I want to thank you, again. For letting me nest in your old apartment. Leaving food for me after I wake and before I sleep. Thank you for watching over me on the streets. For rearranging my books after you looked through them. Thank you for trying to stop the nightmares when my CD player went out. And thank you, for not leaving. Thank you for staying with me.”
She smiles the smile she gave Henry all those years ago, when he let her wipe the wet and red off his face.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Master Jason.”
And she twists the rifle around, barrel to her face, and pushes the trigger with her socked toes.
Bruce Wayne has been mourning his parents’ death for the last 30 years, Jason’s for 8, and Alfred’s for 5. Irrationally, he’d always hoped that it would be easier the next time around, and if anything, he hoped that the next time would be him if it meant that no one would meet the same fate.
That’s why he holds on to them, his children, as tight as he has. And he could only hold tighter the more they grew, both in age and in numbers.
He knew that the only reason why he hadn’t broken when Jason died was because of Alfred. Alfred, who had carried him immediately after his mother gave birth to him, and his father who’d trusted his oldest friend with his life. Alfred, who had held him when their caskets lowered into the ground, and when he’d wake up at night, their lifeless bodies seared at the back of his eyelids.
Without him, Bruce had hoped that he’d have grown. That he would no longer need a guiding hand in the presence of death in the family.
But as he forced himself to breathe, to stay, to feel the hands of all his children by his side, he knew he was wrong.
And he could only be proud and sad that they were stronger than him at this moment.
They saw her. All of them did. Whether or not she was meta and her powers were yet to be understood, or the fact that she was a clone of The Joker himself, it didn’t matter. She was just a child, alone, in need of saving.
And the best person to save her was by her side.
BANG!!
They watch as Jason quickly shoves his helmet on her head, taking the impact of the bullet entirely, the crack of the metal echoing through the speakers.
They watch as the feed from Jason’s domino show him wrestling the rifle from her arms, throwing it somewhere they couldn’t see.
They watch as the feed from Jason’s helmet show her hurting him where she could. Bringing her fists down on his chest. Scratching his arms, his face.
They see through the inner camera a child in despair, threatening him with his own death. A crowbar. A bomb. As long as she lived, there would always be a chance that he would relive the same nightmare from the last 8 years.
And through the helmet’s POV they see Jason, taking it all in. Unmoving, unrelenting, not closing his arms around her but not letting go of her either. He quips, saying that the last 8 years were good practice. That he’s more than ready to handle it all again.
She sobs. She screams. Her blue-green eyes almost alight in green alone when she reminds him of The Joker’s body count. Jason only reminds her of his own.
She shouts, kicking his hunched form, that he was just like Batman. A hypocrite who wants to save everyone but couldn’t kill the one person who would help save everyone instantly.
Jason shrugs, letting her pull him down on the grassy floor, as he says that he was bound to have picked up those bad habits anyway. And that no matter what she says, she wasn’t the Joker.
She heaves, running out of breath, her tears dripping under the helmet. She tells him her own body count instead. How she’s killed mercilessly, unerringly, that by all rights she was a criminal that needed to pay.
He holds her steady, the same grip on her wrists all those nights ago, but just enough that she could pull away. He tells her that she was a soldier. Made by the cruel who pretend to be the just. He tells her that they were the monsters for teaching a baby how to fire a gun. That teaching her that killing people was an achievement for a toddler. It wasn’t her fault that she knew how to recon on the enemy, how to strategize for the best attack, how to survive in the streets, so much so that she felt safer there than in what they taught her was supposed to be home.
But then Jason pauses. And so does she. Before he confesses that that was what made her different from him. All he cared for was himself as soon as he could leave his home. But she left to look for help for hers. That’s why she had gone to Superman, hadn’t it? To the Joker? To him? It had all been an effort to make things right. To pay for the sins placed upon not only her but the others who grew beside her. And even for the cruel who birthed her. All the while knowing that no one would remember her.
It wasn’t a matter of paying what was owed, he whispers as he takes off the helmet, putting it to the side. It was a matter of not paying at all. Because she was just a child, and none of it was her fault.
They watch from beside the two, as the girl wept, sobbed, and collapsed into Jason’s arms.
They watch him enclose her with his arms and even his legs. His eyes closing in relief as he rocked her side to side.
As the sun’s rays peeked through shattered windows and missing roofs, they hear Jason ask her for what she really wanted, promising he’ll do his damnedest to get it for her.
And in between whimpers and hiccups, she claws the answer out of her for the first time.
“I want… I want to make omelets. I want to read about my motherland. I want to do my laundry and clean my bed. I want to see my friends again, but I don’t want to, either. I don’t want to know if they remember me or not. I don’t want Henry to get in trouble because of me. I don’t want to leave the apartment. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to forget me. I don’t want…”
She clutches onto him. He hugs her tight.
“I don’t want to go. I want to stay… I want to stay.”
~ Jason Todd was 25 years old when he lets them all in and became something new.
Half an hour passes by of Jason rocking the child back and forth, humming under his breath. Everyone knew that if it weren’t for the fact that his helmet was recording the entire thing, no one would’ve believed it. Bruce encourages everyone to dress out of their suits in the meantime, which of course leaves Damian to watch over the feed by himself.
Months of headaches that went as quickly as they came, any time he thought about his missing tech, had all come down to this. He knows not to beat himself up for lacking any knowledge on the subject, but the fact that he’d been the first contact still grated on him.
“Is anyone still there?” Jason whispers.
Damian bolts up and turns on the mic, nearly forgetting to lower his volume.
“Just I, Todd. Father has successfully convinced the others to address their wounds further and change clothing. Is something the matter? Is she all right?”
Jason nods. “Yeah. She’s cried herself to sleep. Could you ask Dick to bring a car here?”
Damian pauses. “Why not Father?”
He watches and listens to Jason rock and hum to the little girl. The song seems familiar.
“Have you all opened the files from Clark yet? They were sent through the JL server, right?”
“They were,” Damian confirms. “but they seem to be taking longer than usual to download than anything we’ve ever downloaded before. To the point that it feels—”
“Intentional?” Jason says, glancing at the helmet. “Like the computer is being forced to look away?”
Damian blinks. “This meta power is truly confusing. But the potential for it is extremely high.”
“No doubt about that.” He hears Jason sigh. “I have a hunch about her, is all. Cadmus couldn’t clone Superman because they needed a stabilizing gene. One that was so completely his opposite that it’s forced to mellow out. Balanced and all that. But they made a mistake with growing him out of a test tube, then out of a pod.”
“You think that she was naturally born then? If the Joker’s genetics were the primary, then her mother would’ve had to be a strong opposition to the clown’s… well, everything.”
Jason chuckles. “True. But I think that’s only part of it.”
He watches him adjust his hold on the girl, laying her body across his arms like a baby.
“She didn’t mention anything about a mother. Just a Henry. A Henry mentioned on her to-read list. Maybe he’d secretly been her uncle the entire time, who knows? But not just that. I think the mom was just there to make up for the pod problem.”
Damian’s eyes widen. “The second gene donor… do you think—?”
“It’s not Bruce,” Jason says, surety in his tone. “Joker’s genes were taken from Arkham, but I don’t think it would be a far stretch if other health institutions, public or private, have had a thing going on with that baby factory as well. Rogues still end up in normal hospitals, after all. But more importantly, everyone else.”
“And you’re ruling out Father because not only does he go straight here, but the most he goes to is Dr. Thompkins.”
“Exactly.” Jason smiles. “So who do we know that is the closest to being the true opposite of the Joker? Someone who abhors needless violence, but morally gray enough to do wrong things for the right reasons? Who do we know is content with always being in the background, but boldly passionate and self-sacrificing for the people they love?”
Damian’s eyes slowly widen with understanding. “Someone who has decades' worth of muscle memory for gunmanship. Someone with a proactive desire for cleanliness and order, knowledge, cuisine… and music.”
Jason remains silent save for the low humming. It’s enough to anchor Damian into the reality of the situation.
It couldn’t be this simple, could it? Karma is a concept for the unaccountable. He knows his guilt will never leave him but…
If Jason’s theory was correct… then all this time… for the last six years, just before he’d died—
“I need you to come, too.”
Damian shoots up to see Jason look straight at the camera. His face somber as he rocked.
“I’ll have to ride my bike back to the cave and Dick will drive the car. She’ll need a familiar face. Could you do that?”
“You should go.”
Damian whips around to see the rest of the Bats filing back in, bandages, splints, and crutches on their person. Bruce smiles a shakey smile, fishing out a pair of keys and handing them to Dick, who in turn stares.
“If Jason’s hunch is true…” Bruce pauses. He fidgets with the arm currently in a sling before smiling. “… it’s about time this mansion saw another Pennyworth, don’t you think?”
Damian gulps, fighting the tears that threaten to collect at the corners of his eyes. “What about you?”
“Tim and I will continue working on how to get the files from Clark, but I have my own hunch that with Barbara’s help, we could do it. So…” His warm, uninjured hand lands on Damian’s shoulder.
“Go, son. Your new friend will be glad to see you.”
Damian straightens and nods, not letting Dick argue as he pulls him (not as hard as he usually would, given the recovering ribs) towards the garage. He doesn’t mention how Jason stiffened at what Bruce said.
Later, they would park one of Bruce’s lesser-known cars just beside Jason’s bike, noting the black skid marks that it left behind. They debate quietly among themselves on how to approach the two, but before they can come to a conclusion, they arrive at Jason still sitting in the middle of the wide, overgrown warehouse, his back facing them. The thrown rifle just by their feet at the entrance.
They say nothing as they approach, afraid to break Jason’s rhythm as if it would cause a catastrophe. But really, the shock is from seeing the scene from outside the helmet’s point of view.
The warehouse was enormous with boxes and crates of segregated trash scattered everywhere. Metals, plastics, papers, non-biodegradables. It was easy to imagine that if it weren’t for the greenery persisting through the structure after years of abandonment, the place would’ve been gray and dull.
It doesn’t miss Damian and Dick’s forethought that the last time Jason was alone and exposed in a warehouse had not been the best of times.
“Are you two going to stand there all morning? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Jason whispers, grinning.
Well, Damian thinks, there goes all his respect for the man.
They near the two as Jason turns, slowly unveiling the child in his arms. Without the obnoxiously colorful jacket, the girl looked almost like a paper doll.
“Jesus…” he hears Dick beside him. “She’s so small, Jay.”
He and Jason light up in unison, finally having another person in their exclusive little seers club.
“In fact, she looks too small.” Dick continues. “The audio files said she was six. She’s too short and thin for that.”
Damian blinks when Jason only nods.
“I know. I was hoping to have her slowly start eating lunch and bigger meals if I couldn’t convince her to see a doctor. I didn’t want to risk refeeding syndrome or anything.”
Jason rises off the ground slowly, readjusting his hold on the girl. He surveys the objects she had neatly sorted. Things she didn't deem hers, and therefore needed to be returned. Things she had entrusted to Jason and Jason alone.
He looks at the two of them and turns to Damian. And extends the child to him.
Damian nearly staggers in disbelief.
"She's not that heavy, you little punk," Jason snarks, fondly. "Plus, I've seen you hold all your gremlins like baby deer. I trust you."
If all of them trust you, her voice echoes in Damian's ear. Then I’ll trust you as well.
"I'm not concerned for her weight, Todd. I've carried your collective behinds many a time. My "gremlins", as you call them, could even attest to that."
As he raises his arms to meet Jason's, he freezes at the sight of her. The attire that he assumed had been a uniform from the facility she escaped was simply a gray T-shirt, gray pants, and socks. But what stood out were the plethora of different colored stitches upon tears and patches in the fabric.
Despite the various dried stains, she looked relatively clean. Cleaner than what he’d expected from homelessness.
But the way her elbows, ankles, and cheeks protruded just a bit too much broke that illusion.
Damian looks to Dick, not exactly sure why, but he braces himself when the man only nods in encouragement. The girl is transferred to his arms (light, she was too light), and a patch stitched on the shirt’s breast pocket reveals itself. A small string of numbers and letters on the top and big bold letters on the bottom.
JKR-11940-ATCP-08212019
MANANANGGAL
Damian pushes away his curiosity and gestures to the colorful jacket. Dick jogs to it, groaning as he kneeled to pick it up, and all three gently maneuver the jacket back on her.
“Would you look at that,” Dick says, pulling the red hood over her head and smiling at Jason. “You two match. What do you say about upgrading your suit with some rainbow—”
“I know where the pancake mix is,” Jason says, picking up the rifle bag, her shoes, and his helmet. “And so help me I will throw them all away so I won’t have to make you those stupid buckwheat pancakes Alfred used to make.”
Dick pouts dramatically, before lighting up. Tim beats him to it.
“You’re coming over?” All three of them hear over the comms. “You’re going to make breakfast?”
Damian simply walks with the men as they shuffled over to the thrown rifle. Jason picks it up, starring at it, before putting it back in the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He feels the girl stir in his hold.
“No,” Jason says, opening the rusted doors further. “I’m taking Jane back to my apartment.”
The silence rings as Damian and Dick freeze in their tracks. They could sense the same from the other Bats as well, especially Bruce.
“Let me rephrase that,” Jason rounds back, making sure Dick and Damian see him clearly. “I’m taking her to the Hill. My friends have helped me clean up the place, plus it’s got two bedrooms and a great rooftop view. I’ll send the coordinates to Dick and Babs—”
And here they watch Jason pull out his phone, doing just that, before squinting at Damian. “And I guess the demon brat, too, since you’ll probably hunt it down anyway. Steph and Cass, if it’s alright, could you get her stuff from my old place in the Alley and take it to the apartment, too? That’s the books, the lunchbox set, the backpack and the sparkly pillow. Really, the books are the reason why it’ll have to be a two-man job, and I’m not letting Dickie here carry any of them only to spill them on the sidewalk.”
Dick shouts, offended, as they resume their trek. Damian quietly follows.
“And what will you do?” Bruce says over the comms, a tone they only hear when he’s upset but fighting not to be.
“I’m going to the Royal Flush Gang and return this.” Jason says, helmet on as he remounts his bike. “And then I’m going shopping.”
“You can use my card—” Bruce says.
“Got cash right here, B.” Jason says.
“Whatever necessities she’ll need can be met here.”
“True, but there’s one thing there that she really doesn’t need. Not yet, at least.”
Bruce pauses. “And what’s that?”
Jason turns on the bike. “Being a Pennyworth.”
Dick opens his mouth but closes it. Damian purses his lips, silently watching. He says nothing when the girl’s eyes flutter open, only to close again, her breaths remaining even.
“I know what it means, Bruce. To you. To all of us. But for her sake…”
The Red Hood turns to Damian, cracked helmet glinting under the light peeking through shadows of leaves. He extends a gloved hand and caresses her head. “The least we owe her is time to just… be.”
Before he straightens and points aggressively at Dick. “Stay in the car and let the girls bring down the stuff from the old apartment. The kid made good work with the resources she had and I don’t want you looking around it all like a street puppy’s cardboard box house. Also, I’m begging you, don’t mess with any of my shit. Don’t change the heater temp, don’t rearrange my furniture, and for the love of god, Ziplock any cereal boxes you open. Capiche?”
Dick stammers for a second or two before quieting. A big smile spreads on his lips.
“Now I see why she called you her mother hen.” He says, ducking and laughing when Jason tries to smack him.
“Tt,” Damian shakes his head. He turns slightly to whisper. “I hope you’re prepared, ya zghiri. This ridiculousness will be your every day now that you are here to stay.”
He says nothing as her face turns to nuzzle his chest, a small tear track spilling from the corner of her eyes.
Later, Stephanie and Cassandra will meet them on the sidewalks next to Jason’s old apartment, bruises and stitches prominent. But both girls light up and soften immediately at the sight of Damian in shotgun, the girl sleeping soundly on his lap. With his help, they successfully pester Dick to stay in the driver’s seat while the girls enter the building. It also helps that the child chooses that moment to forgo her ruse of sleep and stare at the man himself.
Dick nearly chokes as he stared back, but recovers enough to properly introduce himself. The look that Jason predicted he would make does happen, and Damian looks over the child’s head to glare. When the two girls come back down, they gasp in unison and hurry to introduce themselves, quickly putting her things in the trunk.
The girl shrinks back into Damian’s arms but doesn’t look away. She thanks them for getting her things. They coo.
They make their way to the Hill, the girls leading Dick without the use of the coordinates. It doesn’t escape the boys that Jason had trusted them before anyone else with his new home, but that no longer mattered. Stephanie continued to point out little landmarks in the suburbs like the Priest Memorial Hospital and Annie B’s Diner, deducing that she had liked to explore. Cassandra nodded along and occasionally added a thing or two, happy that the girl slowly gravitated to her for confirmation.
Dick himself absorbs the information quietly, knowing that living in the only Joker-free neighborhood was the least Jason was owed. Technically, the entirety of Gotham was now the same, but the choice was still important.
When he turns the corner and finds Tim, Barbara, and Duke in front of the brown-bricked building, he was only mildly surprised. Having Bruce absent however, now that sent worry down his spine.
But as soon as the doors opened and Damian stepped out with the baby hanging on his hip, being half of his height, it was quickly replaced with a flurry of excitement. Damian would, of course, glare at everyone to tamp it down so as to not overwhelm the poor thing (she shrinks into the nook of his shoulder while he hisses, it was adorable!). They file inside to not rouse the neighbors, Duke carrying Barbara on his back while Tim hoists her wheelchair up the stairs. They take it as a win when Barbara readily accepts the help, and the girl’s curious eyes absorb it. Cass fishes a spare key for apartment 436 from her pockets and everyone takes it in.
It was by habit alone that they notice the marks of an attack underneath all the furniture and renovation first. But other than that, it was surprisingly a tame enough apartment that showed just enough of Jason’s personality, combined with was most likely the new environment he was staying at. Tables and chairs from a woodworker down the block, a couch from a garage sale, a 1980s fridge from an antique store. The only new things seemed to be his collection of books—which even then housed some classics—and the food pantry.
There were more than enough food ingredients for a man and a young child—or a committed couple. And judging by the lack of two toothbrushes, or two sets of shoes, or two of any personal items in the house, plus the abundant articles stuck to said fridge like “Your Child at 6: Milestones”, “Food for 6-Year-Olds: What to Eat? Remember S, M, L”, and “Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) – Medically reviewed by: Christina M. Cammarata, PhD”, Jason’s theoretical partner was most likely not in the picture.
But little notes taped to certain things indicated something different.
“Let us know if you need baby formula! Kish and I have a lot to spare! And some jerk chow mein too!”
“Here’s the CD you wanted. Travis worked hard to make it look like a tiny vinyl for the little guy, too.”
“Let me know what you think about the Mango Smoothie! Dad said it tasted a bit different from what we made in Costa Rica, but it was a good different!”
“Leave us a call anytime for takeout, papi, even if it’s late. If Dana didn’t give you our number, here it is…”
Jason had friends. Actual friends that he hung out with and trusted enough that he could ask for favors involving a child no one knew about. Whether or not the friends came before or after his move to the Hill didn’t matter. No one had expected the man—who’d been so prideful of being the “edgy one” in his youth—be an upstanding citizen and actually commune with the community.
They absorb all of this in just a span of a minute, the child being no exception. Taking Jason’s words of warning to Dick suddenly take a different weight, but when the little girl leaves Damian’s hold and makes herself comfortable on the worn couch for a nap, the spell is broken and they make themselves at home.
Jason would arrive later, back in normal clothing and several bags of clothes, shoes, and whatever he’d deemed necessary for the girl, only to find everyone making a mess of his kitchen. They freeze, deer frozen in headlights, waiting for the explosion to come from the man. But when the little girl rouses awake again, her head having rested on Damian’s lap, Jason very visibly deflates and, well…
Unofficially, that was the day they coined the “Mother Hen Mode”.
Jason would still complain and nag at them all for expecting to make anything in his kitchen when they couldn’t do the same in the manor’s, but it was much different having a small girl in his arms as he does so. Less angry, more disappointed, you could say.
They clean while he cooked, alternating between one-handed and carrying her, or asking someone he trusted wouldn’t mess a task so simple, or putting her down momentarily and finishing the task by himself. Witnessing how his voice would change into a more mellow but strict tone for her was worth all of the cleanup.
And together, in the living room of his apartment instead of the small dining table, sitting on the couch and the floor, they eat. Pancakes, sausages, waffles, and of course, omelets, plus glasses of orange juice, exchange between them all as they bicker and talk and just spend time together as a family. And while at the back of their minds, they knew that Bruce himself would have to enter the picture soon, everyone agreed that it could wait. He would not be forced to see her or avoid her, and neither would Jane.
When they would later leave, all somehow managing to fit in Bruce’s car, it takes a good minute or two before Dick breaks the silence.
“Did we… did we all just become aunts and uncles???”
~ Jane is seven years old when she celebrates her first birthday.
They had called her Jane.
“Jane, do you want butter on your pancakes? Or just syrup?”
“I really shouldn’t be holding this pillow, Jane. Please take it off my hands before I get hypnotized by it.”
“I saw that you’ve dog-eared Nancy Drew. What do you think of it so far, Jane?”
“Jane, please tell Jason that I did not look like a kicked puppy!”
And some of them gave her new names entirely.
“Tt, do not ask for lies, Richard. And you do not have to answer that, ya zghiri. Let him suffer his actions.”
“I like your sleeves.” Cass would say, signing what Jane would later learn to mean “little rainbow.”
It had overwhelmed her, but she ate her pancakes anyway. She finds all the encouragement she needs to finish it all when Jason smiles proudly at her.
Jason Todd-Wayne. Jason Todd. The Red Hood. Cooked breakfast for eight after a battle at dawn, and was now washing the dishes.
He doesn’t stop her when she pulls a chair beside him, grabs a towel, and starts drying the stack he set to the side. And when she runs out, he gives them directly to her.
Later, he would show him what he’s bought though it was much fewer than it looked. Gender-neutral clothes and shoes, some child-safe shampoo and toothpaste, a new backpack fit for school. He explains that he would much rather take her with him next time, so she could pick out what she’d like to wear. And that she didn’t have to go to school either if she didn’t want to. But regardless, he wants to take her to a doctor to check on her. Whether she needed a pediatrician or a child psychiatrist or both, he’ll be more than happy to find them.
Jane would feel that rumbling feeling in her again. She counts it a win when the pancakes stay inside her tummy.
He helps her take a bath. He had hesitated first, not knowing if she needed his help at all, but even though she’s used to cold showers for most her life and would soon learn to adapt to a warm bath, she asks him to stay anyway. Even if it was just to hold her hand during the process. The water seemed too deep, after all, and she was supposed to have learned how to swim during her 3rd grade.
Jason ends up calming her when she suffers a small panic attack in the tub, teaching her how to handle the feeling of being surrounded by water on all sides. He stays seated on the cold tiles beside the tub, holding her hand as she shook and refused to get out until she combatted the fear.
She was afraid, she realized halfway as they made space for her books on the bottom shelves, underneath Jason’s on the top. She was so afraid.
Afraid of the new, untorn clothes. The red crocs in a size extra small. The articles stuck with magnets on the fridge.
The way Jason held her for hours with ease. The way he would instantly deflate upon sight of her.
It was frightening. She had so much to lose.
And on top of it all, Jason knew. Without needing to say a word, Jason would grab the sequined pillow and collect her in his arms, taking her up to the rooftop. And she would look over the neighborhood as it brimmed with life, like a battle hadn’t happened hours ago. Some neighbors seem to notice them too, and wave. Jason waved back.
She wiped the pillow back and forth. It was silly how it soothed her. He sits on one of the blue folding chairs, her on his lap, as the breeze caresses their hair.
And then he sings. Quietly. Just for her.
“I don't want to drive a fancy car today. I don't wanna ride in a red Corvette… I don't wanna jog my Saturday away
But I don't wanna go home yet.”
Jane sighs, leaning against the rumble on his chest.
“Today is not the day to jump out of a plane. I don't wanna parasail or play roulette.” She smiles at the lyrics. “I don't wanna risk it all or go insane, but I don't wanna go home yet…”
He sighs. “I just wanna watch the birds go by, from my handy foldable blue canvas throne… I wanna watch them fly and fly, and see them soar up into the unknown.”
“But I feel just like a nerd, watching birds, watching me here all alone.”
She giggles. He chuckles. And they sit in silence for a bit.
“I used to play the guitar,” he says when a cloud floats above them, shading them from the sun. “I think it’s still in my old room back in the manor. It’s electric though so I’m not sure if you’ll like it. I like acoustic either way.”
He wipes the pillow with his fingers next to her hands, the sequins changing colors. “But I also got your radio slash CD player back, and Travis and Gary made a playlist for you. They want us to visit their vinyl store if we can.”
Jane looks up when Jason takes a pause. He smiles, the soft one that he seems to reserve only for her.
“But we don’t have to. We don’t have to go to Vinyl Moment or any of the shops here. We don’t have to go to the manor. We don’t have to see my friends, my siblings, or most importantly, Bruce.” He fusses with her hair, untangling some of the drying roots. “Just say the word and you’ll never have to see anyone, ever.”
Jane thinks, then nods. “I’m scared.”
Jason continues to finger-comb. “So am I.”
She leans back against his torso, his chin nuzzling her head. They stay like that for what felt like hours.
“I like your voice,” Jane says later. “I’d like to learn how to sing. And play. Maybe you and Damian can teach me?”
She does not see how Jason’s eyes close and then open like the world was finally listening to him.
“Sure, kid. He plays the harmonica, too, so you can pester him all you want about it.”
Later, she asks about the rifle inside the school bag he bought. He tells her that, yes, it was the exact same one she had used and that he had meant to return it to the Royal Flush Gang.
But he had also recalled how much he stole from Bruce and Alfred despite being free to ask whatever he wanted of them. How he’d sneak behind their backs for extra batarangs or fishing lines, for money and food. He had stashed them all in his old closet and he knew that the two had known what he was doing. They never reprimanded him for it, and would even beat him to the punch and leave the supplies inside the closet without him asking.
It was a bad habit, he knew. They all knew. And it embarrasses him to admit that the only reason he stopped was because they weren’t helping at all. He wasn’t a psychological expert, sure, but even he knew that feeding into his anxiety wasn’t the right move. But they hadn’t known, so he couldn’t blame them.
So he bought the rifle instead, with a price that would gray all of Bruce’s hair if he had known how he didn’t even haggle. He explains that he has no intention to make Jane a Red Hood 2.0, but he’d rather have her be able to defend herself (or others) with what she was good at. Jane hums, eyeing the way the bag had secure sections for the rifle parts in the inside, and had functioning water bottle holders and pockets on the outside. The clinking of the bullets was disguised by the elaborate collection of metal keychains dangling from a zipper. It was very efficient.
And of course, he offers to take it back if she didn’t want it. In the end, he did like the idea of a weightless, soundless, sniper rifle, so it was an overall good investment.
She thinks, before getting up, taking the roll of white masking tape she had spotted beside unused card boxes, and tapes around the stock, the handle, and even the suppressor. She grabs the colored markers and sticker sheets Jason had bought for her, spreads them on the table, and sits primly beside him on the couch.
He shakes his head, exasperated, peels off a twin cherry sticker, and places it just behind the mount.
It would be the first thing she sees whenever she aims. Two red cherries together. They spend the day taking turns in decorating it. And later when she spies his pistols, he allows the same sticker on one handle, hidden by his palm when in use.
In the afternoon they took a break setting up her new room, she reminds him that because the new bag was being used, she would have to use her old one for school. He smacks his forehead only a little hard, but goes off to research exactly what she would need and if going public or private was better for her. He maintains transparency as he explained that having Damian in the same premises would help her ease into the environment, that she didn’t even have to take a Wayne scholarship since he was plenty loaded, and that she would have free motorcycle rides everyday.
She slumps on his shoulders, looking over and at the laptop Jason opened his research on over her new bed. She asks about St. Ignatius and Hilltop Elementary, which he dutifully opens tabs for, and ponders.
Before an important fact dawns on her. School meant needing birth records, and with the Cadmus Omega’s future still up in the air, there was no way that any school would just accept her. Jason mulls it over, before offering to adopt her without missing a beat.
But the beat does come. And Jane and Jason both realize the gravity of what he had said. They agree to postpone school for now.
By the time they were making dinner, Jason receives a visitor.
Instinctually, she hides under the sink cabinet, listening to the heated argument above. Jason calls her Dana.
It doesn’t start as an argument, however. In fact, the woman seemed very caring. But as soon as she talks about the need to take down so and so once and for all, no matter how Jason calmly tells her she didn’t have to, that she herself had promised both him and the rest of their group to stop, she’s overcome with righteous anger.
Equal parts envy and pity fill Jane as she listened to the woman shout with fire in her heart. Idly, she wonders if stepping out of the cabinet and not-so subtly cementing Jason’s worries would add fuel to it or put it out.
She decides that it was too much of a coin toss and stays put.
The argument ends when both Dana and Jason surrender, her leaving to do as she had said alone, and him sliding next to the sink cabinets in defeat. Jane quietly crawls out, makes sure the stove is off, and sits next to him.
“You should call your father,” she whispers. “He wanted to be here, right? To help? Whether it’s as a caped crusader or an awkward babysitter, at least let him help this last time.”
Jason sighs, gropes for the phone he left on the dining table, and slinks further down beside her.
“At least I got front-row for when you talk to him in that tone, eventually.” He smiles. She smiles back.
Jason calls for the Batman to help Dana and stays in.
That night, Jason wakes from a nightmare, practiced enough to avoid the tell-tale scream and wake his neighbors. Thinking of how to calm his racing heart, he tosses the covers and decides to check up on Jane.
He is met with the young girl, clutching onto the two-toned pillow, her fist about to knock on his door. Collected tears on the rim of her eyes.
He maneuvers them into the living room, not bothering to open the lights, and heats a glass of milk for them to share. When they later lie on the couch, he tells her the story of the magical bird and three princes.
Or at least, a modified one. He had done his research, you see, and was able to find the original story. But he found that having the tale be told from a different perspective with different stakes made it much better, so Jane hunkered on top of him and listened.
Once, there was a faraway land where creatures and beasts lived together in harmony. From giants made of soot that smoked cigars on tree branches, to werehorses that liked to trick travelers into walking in circles. The creatures came in many shapes and sizes, and one of them was revered among them all: The mystical Adarna bird, with red and rainbow plumage that glowed under the sun and moon, was a kind and quiet one, albeit full of mischief. It enjoyed flying through trees and skies, playing hide and seek with its creature friends who didn’t quite understand how a being of all colors could disappear in the blink of an eye.
But the Adarna bird also knew not to back down at a time of need, for it also possessed magic that many sought after. The bird could sing seven enchanting songs, you see. The first was to put anyone to sleep. The second could help it sense anyone it wanted. The third turned objects into stone. The fourth turned the living into stone. The fifth made anyone accept it as part of wherever it was. The sixth song healed the sick and injured.
And the seventh… well, no one quite knew, least of all the Adarna itself. For it was content with all six songs as it helped itself and the friends it made wherever it went.
But one day, humans came into the faraway land and hunted them down, trapped them in a cage where their once free forests stood. They shackled them, beat them, forced them to use their abilities until it drained them, forcing them to change. To take away the harmony in their hearts and sow discord into their souls, all to hunt even more beasts and creatures they deemed as monsters.
The Adarna was no exception. Forced to hunt instead of forage for its food, to stone anyone the humans declared deserving of the fate, and to always return to the cage they once called home, the Adarna grew. It followed. It served, for unlike the others, it remembered the friends they all used to be. It remembered the harmony.
But the humans have kept the Adarna shackled for so long, it too would start forgetting itself, becoming engrossed in the illusion of life the cage afforded.
Until the illusion broke, and the Adarna escaped.
The humans were everywhere, as frightful and devious as the Adarna had seen in the cage. But it remembers the kind ones who showed mercy and care in its time of need and flies to find more, especially, the ones they told them stories of.
The Three Princes, they were called. All powerful and righteous rulers of their kingdoms.
The first was the Big Blue, who soared through skies faster, higher, than even the Adarna could, but would also hide in his kingdom and walk amongst his men. The Adarna found him easily, though the Big Blue couldn’t find it back for too long, but eventually they found each other and the Adarna quickly told him about the cage far away. The Big Blue would listen, along with his family, and promise to help the Adarna as much as it could, but the Adarna knew not to stay and wait. It pushed down the true reasons why it wanted to leave, and flew off without a sound.
The second was the Giggling Green, who had disappeared. The Adarna didn’t fully intend to look for him. It went to his kingdom, yes, and found it slowly crumbling from a war he had fought versus the third prince, the Blooming Black. The Green was nowhere to be seen as the Bloom pushed and pushed his giggling kingdom into the ground, so it avoided as much of the Shadow Sprouts that resembled the prince as much as it could.
Because without meaning to, the Adarna sought after the Giggling Green to deliver the justice it was taught to deliver. But also, because the Adarna knew of the hidden truth; the humans had changed it, molded it, forced pieces of humans into itself until it took the seventh song—the one it had always sang but never known—and made it into something new.
The seventh song induced a cloak of imperceptibility, a song that the Adarna had sung its entire life, offering harmony, joy, and strength to those who listen to it and find the bird regardless.
But with the cage and the humans and the changes they forced upon it, the song was twisted and instead caused anyone not only to look away from its target, but to disappear entirely if the Adarna was afraid. And it was very afraid. So everyone who heard it will not see the bird, yes, but if they got too close, they themselves become unseeable to anyone around them, filling them with terror and delirium with the loss.
So naturally, the Adarna made sure to stop singing it as much as she could, which caused the song to play in its head anyway. The terror and delirium had filled the bird from the inside, the slowly building well growing and growing while it was in the cage.
And upon the Giggling Green’s presence, finally, the Adarna took from that well and turned him into stone, cracking him permanently.
For what other just course was there, other than to ensure that the Green’s tyranny never saw the light of day? The cage taught that, and despite all the wrong they did, the Adarna could not deny that they were right.
Because of course the Adarna would know. The humans made sure to put a bit of the Giggling Green inside its heart, after all. The bird had loved to laugh all its life, but with the cage, the giggling was all it knew was the safest. Because the Green Prince’s Laughter of Agony was a sound the entire world knew and one that threatened to bubble inside the Adarna every day. It could not afford that to happen.
So with the Green in stone, cracks and all, the Adarna knew it had one thing left to do; to find the prince of the Blooming Black and finish this story of injustice, once and for all.
But the Adarna, you see, had been afraid. So very afraid. So instead of searching for him, the bird chose to hide somewhere the Black could easily see, and waited.
And waited. And waited. He was bound to find the Adarna sooner or later, especially when they found the Green again. Plus, the hiding spot it chose had belonged to one of the Blooming Black’s own sprouts, the Raging Red, a prince in his own right but had run away to fend for himself.
The Bloom nor his Sprouts found the bird, so it stayed and waited. It flew away to gather food for itself, foraging what it could from the kingdom of steel and soot, and explored every now and then. It found a place of stories, one that it hoped would house the story of where it came from, to fight the twisted memories that the cage put inside it and the terrors that came in its sleep. It explored every day.
But it came back every day. And it waited. And one day, something changed.
A Hidden Hen had come to the nest and left the Adarna with food, tastier and more filling than it had since the cage. Later, the Hen would leave more and more things to help the Adarna stay more comfortably. Things that helped the Adarna rest, and even attend to its plumage, and heal for a time. But with the healing came the terrors, and the terrors came with the fight.
The twisted memories force it to fight the terrors of the mind, so the Adarna hurts the Hen without meaning to.
The Hen doesn’t come back after that, which was just in the Adarna’s eyes. But it could not deny the warmth it felt when the Hen’s watchful eyes still stayed, following the bird as it explored the kingdom.
But then the kingdom shook at dawn, and the Prancing Purple, the Countess of Crime to the Giggling Green, demanded to fight the Blooming Black and the Shadow Sprouts in his honor. Citizens stayed indoors as the threat of a new war loomed on the horizon, and the Adarna knew that the wait was finally over.
It flew to them, taking the powerful magic it had found on its many explorations, and approached the battle fighting two things; the seventh song that threatened to make the Sprouts invisible to one another because of how deathly afraid the Adarna was, and the way it had always cloaked itself. The Adarna made quick work of helping the Bloom and the Sprouts and made quick work of the Purple Princess. As she fell, cracked stone on the earth, the Adarna made sure that the feathers it left would leave a trail.
A trail to a barn that resembled what the cage had originally been like. A simple, humble barn that sorted trash from treasure, and even made them into one. The barn was perfect, thought the Adarna. Leaves and branches that poked through the stone, with bars of steel like the cage.
It had expected the Bloom to find it, but instead, the Raging Red appeared.
No. The Reaping Red. The Prince of Righteous Fury. The Protector of the Lightless Alleys.
The Red came to the Adarna, waiting for it to let go of the stolen magic, and pounced when it turned upon itself.
For what other just course was there, but to end itself? For all the corruption in its heart put upon the humans that could fester into something monstrous, or the injustices the Adarna itself made for all the life turned to stone at the humans’ behest. Putting the Giggling Green down was not enough, and the other set of Shadowy memories agreed. The Adarna had to get rid of the threat, and it was the only one in that barn.
The Red did not agree. The Adarna scratched and bit and kicked and screamed. But the Red only hung on and waited.
And waited. And waited.
Until eventually, the Adarna tired itself out, unable to deny the prince’s plea. For he had also been the Hidden Hen all along and believed that the Adarna was innocent. The Reaping Red Hen liked to think that the Adarna would believe him someday, but until then, he took it to his own lands up the hill were the Adarna could heal in peace.
Jason thumbs Jane’s shoulder as the story ends, a faint glint of feather hairs sparkling in the moonlight across them.
And Jane nuzzles under Jason’s chin, chewing on the corners of her pillow. “Thank you for the story,” she whispers.
Jason hums, petting her hair. “You’re welcome.”
And much later, when Jason’s breaths slow, Jane sits up, pitter-patters to the kitchen, and turns on the microwave. She places her hands behind her back and doesn’t turn around, enjoying the warm light.
“If you hurt him, I will hurt you,” she says, watching the Tupperware inside rotate.
The kitchen window slides up slowly as bootsteps thump on tile, intentionally. “I know.”
She nods in gratitude, pulls the container just before the microwave beeps, and turns to the Batman standing in the shadows of the kitchen wall. She pulls a chair quietly before glaring at the towering figure.
He dutifully sits down.
“Here.” She says, sliding the Tupperware in front of him. “It took several tries, but Master Jason—”
Her teeth clack as they quickly shut. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath in and out of her nose. The Batman says nothing as she turns around and reaches on her toes for a plate, fork, and knife from the drawers.
“Jason was very patient.” She says, setting the utensils in front of him. “Please let me know what you think.”
Steam comes out as the lid opens. Inside is an omelet just like the one Jason had originally made all those nights ago, albeit smaller and flatter.
The Batman stares at the egg. Turns to the child. Her posture is straight, her hands folded in front, her gaze impassive. But she does not meet his gaze, seemingly staring at a random point across to the living room.
Bruce sighs, and takes off the cowl. He smiles as Jane immediately whips her head to see, but quickly looks away.
“Thank you for saving some for me,” he says, the unfiltered voice jolting the girl slightly. “But you didn’t have to.”
Jane purses her lips for a second before visibly deflating. She finally meets his gaze, a look that meant no-nonsense.
“You were bound to show up,” she says, quietly pulling another chair before climbing on to sit. “My other memories were enough to deduce just as much so please, Mr. Wayne. Don’t pretend like you wouldn't have forced this confrontation sooner or later.”
Her hands fold primly on top of the table, thumbs twiddling. Bruce fights the dizzying wave of de ja vu.
“What do you remember?” he asks, transferring the omelet to the plate. “If I may ask.”
Jane turns her chin up, almost looking down on him despite being several heads shorter. He tries not to shrink at it.
“Straight to interrogations then.” She sighs. “I know I’m not them, if that’s your main concern. The facility made sure to take just enough bits and pieces that they liked so that we could still grow as our own persons. I was just extremely unfortunate to have the genepool of a homicidal maniac, a decorated soldier-servant, and what I think was a meta for a mother. I’m not sure. The records didn’t say.”
Her legs swing to and fro a little, her gaze on her twiddling fingers.
“But the earliest had been from when I was two when the facility did our first exposure test. Death-row inmates lined up in front of the first batch of successful babies. The prisoners were shot in front of us. Out of 25, only nine of us passed. The failed ones were exterminated immediately. Have you not seen the files yet?”
Jane finally looks at Bruce by the last question, only to find the man clenching the fork and knife. Hesitantly, she reaches a hand to his fist. He laxes his hold as her tiny fingers prod at his own, putting the fork down, and faces his hand palm up to let her take it with both hands. Bruce watches her massage at the Kevlar glove, barely feeling the pressure, but it was enough to anchor him anyway.
“What’s done is done, Mr. Wayne,” she whispers, scratching at the bumpy texture. “And just like my memory of that day is in the past, so were the memories that didn’t belong to me. After some time away from the place, I thought that the de ja vu was from the Joker having murdered some Ace Chemical workers in a row before having pulled them up in the rafters for you to find. But then I thought it was from Mr. Pennyworth’s time in Iran when he and his platoon were unsuccessful in a rescue mission, watching their charges executed by terrorists.”
Bruce watches as the girl regales this memory of gore and death with nothing but a shrug.
No. Her fingers (small, so much smaller than Damian’s) go from scratching to rubbing. She does not look at him.
“I think you could see my progression of thinking, at least.” She continues, taking her hands back and folding them down on the table. Bruce misses the fiddling immediately. “Mental illness has been proven to be genetic in most cases, so whether or not the chances were low in my developing the Joker’s level of psychopathy, or Mr. Pennyworth’s level of PTSD, it would still have been a very very bad day if I got any of that plus what my brain has already been cooking up my entire life.”
Her entire life. Only six whole years. Bruce sighs.
“Then I’m grateful that Jason got to you in time,” he says, smiling at the girl when she finally looks back.
“In the warehouse? I made sure he’d find me either way, or anybody really—”
“No,” he shakes his head. “In his old apartment. No one had been there in the last few months, according to him. And while I don’t encroach upon the Alley as much as I should, there was still a higher chance that I would’ve stumbled upon you.”
Jane hums. “I would’ve accepted whatever you thought was the right thing to do.”
Bruce sighs, slumping on the chair. “I don’t doubt that. That’s why I’m glad he got to you first.”
He points with the knife towards the still quiet form of Jason, one arm over the couch head and the other hugging her sequin pillow. Both of them smile fondly at the sight.
“He hesitated, you know.” She says, prying the knife from his hand and proceeding to slice the egg. “When we talked about adopting me. I did too. Despite all this, I know my fallacies. I know I won’t be easy to care for.”
Bruce watches her cut the egg into rectangular slices, a bit wonky at first but straighter as she progressed. “You won’t be a burden to him,” he says. “And if there’s anything I want you to personally know from me, it’s that my failures have ensured that Jason will grow past me. Has past me. And he has more than shown that he would be a great father someday.”
Jane stays quiet, finishing the slices, before turning the fork and passing it to Bruce. He takes it and eats a piece.
“A little salty, but delicious.” He says, smiling at how her nose scrunches in disdain. “Would you like some?”
Her eyes find him, and he stays still as she looks through her soul. She nods and accepts the fork.
“Goodness.” She says, frowning deeply. “A little salty, Mr. Wayne? Please get your tongue checked, this is dreadful.”
Bruce shakes his head as the girl searches the supplies in the dark, retrieves tomato paste, pours a small amount onto a mini-bowl, and sets it beside them. She dips her abandoned egg slice and nods in satisfaction. Bruce chuckles before a quiet ping sounds in his comms.
“Go,” she says, securing the slices in the Tupperware and pouring the paste over them. “And please wash the container after.”
Bruce gives her one last smile, and a nod, before scooting the chair to stand, only to have a lapful of child. Jane clings to him, her face at the crook of his neck and her arms sinking into his cape, her knees digging against the Kevlar. Bruce hugs her back just as tight.
“Thank you,” she whispers, arms tightening just the slightest. “Thank you for believing in me.”
Bruce nuzzles his cheek to her head. “I could say the same. Thank you, for giving me a chance.”
They stay like that for a while before Jane eventually peels herself off, Bruce dawning on the cowl as he steps back into the night, Tupperware in hand. Jane waits for a bit before putting the plate, knife, and fork on the sink, and making her way back to the couch.
“How was the front row?” she asks, plopping herself on Jason’s stomach.
He grins with all his teeth at her, taking off the comm in his ear. “Absolutely worth it.”