Work Text:
Barbara deleted her fifth attempt at a text message before giving up. She was asking for help out of the blue, it wasn’t going to help her case to pretend anything else. Lois didn’t seem the type to turn a side conversation into a front-page story. Barbara sent the sixth text message without checking more than spelling.
Just out of curiosity- is there a way to say ‘no comment’ that sounds like ‘screw you’ but won’t make me sound bitchy or desperate in print?
Barbara’s phone chirped with a reply a few minutes later. I’d say it’s all about your tone, Lois wrote. If they aren’t recording video, you can get away with something downright icy and they’ll sound like a jerk if they try to put any context on ‘no comment.’ I could be more specific you want to send a detail or two.
She could let it go. Lois would probably never mention it again. Having the choice to leave it alone let Barbara take her chance. Her Gotham friends were too emotionally invested to give dispassionate advice and she was not in the mood to soothe someone else’s feelings.
Tabloids. Several run yearly specials about how I’m doing now. Then they run columns for days or sometimes weeks after with whatever letters readers send in because I won’t give an interview. If I do say anything, they just twist that into something dramatic to sell more papers.
Just a minute, I’ve got an idea, Lois texted.
Barbara moodily looked over the Metropolis tabloid websites again. She had been reading them for inspiration on how other cities handled ‘no comment’ before she had the idea to ask a real reporter. Their stories were frequently about Superman, of course, but they also kept several classic stories about assumed-dead celebrities and aliens not on the Justice League’s radar. The rest were stories confidently predicting a celebrity divorce, baby, or cheating scandal despite being wrong in nearly every previous issue.
Okay. I have an idea but this one is going to take more than a few minutes. I’ll be in touch eventually. Keep your chin up and see if you can find something else to think about. Letting someone else yell about tabloids for you can be therapeutic, too.
Barbara smiled. Thanks, Lois.
Anytime.
Talking to someone who would be rude on her behalf sounded nice, actually, but she wasn’t about to have a reprise of Dick trying to stand between her and reporters. The ridiculous editorials about the budding relationship between Commissioner Gordon’s crippled daughter and Bruce Wayne’s eligible bachelor son were so obnoxious she had been dangerously close to saying they were actually four years behind on good gossip.
Bruce and her father couldn’t afford to set themselves against the tabloids. Neither one of them would risk the precedent of a police commissioner or a local billionaire leaning on a publication to try to suppress a story. The best her dad could do was staff the Gotham Police Department’s public relations desk with amazing people and personally fund coffee and snacks for the office until the latest questions stopped trickling in. Two years before, Bruce had been a touch more theatric than usual and two of her least favorite reporters were completely distracted that Bruce Wayne and an actress might be making plans to elope. Bruce’s very willing co-conspirator had happily used the publicity of nearly marrying Bruce Wayne to push her independent film project into a nationwide release.
Her father was sorry he couldn’t do more and Bruce was sympathetic but could hardly distract them so thoroughly every year. She didn’t want sympathy. She wanted to hit something. Unfortunately, unless someone suitably obnoxious wanted to get in her range, that wasn’t going to be a viable option. Standard punching bags were a struggle but she was not ready to let Bruce custom-design more workout equipment for paraplegics. She wanted to talk with someone that wouldn’t try to fix all her problems for her. When she decided on a likely possibility, Barbara had to double-check the directory for the most recent phone number. For once, the call connected with a person instead of a recording saying that the number was out of service.
“The hell do you want? I haven’t done anything that should get you on my ass,” Jason Todd said in lieu of ‘hello.’
Barbara smiled. Everyone else tried to pretend things were normal but this time of year they all started getting a little too solicitous. Telling people to stop being overly nice left her feeling irrational while they tried to be even more polite and she felt even more frustrated. “Nice to hear from you too, Jay,” she retorted. “I’m not calling to yell, I’m calling to ask for a favor.”
“A favor?” She could just about hear his eyebrows rising.
“I really want to destroy something right now. I do not want to have someone invent me a new gizmo and I do not want anyone to treat me like a precious princess. Do you know a gun range that would let me shoot and not tattle to the press?”
“Just about any gun range that would let you in would have people that might narc to the press. Red hair and wheelchair is pretty distinctive. If you arranged for a private lane, that might just get even more attention,” he warned. “Why aren’t you trying at the police range? They wouldn’t tell on you.”
“I tried last year. Gotham PD has three ranges, each one insisted that it wasn’t built for a wheelchair and that it wouldn’t be safe. I really do not want to involve my dad on that one and have the wrath of a pissed-off commissioner making someone definitely leak to the press I want to learn how to shoot. Bludhaven said the same thing.”
“So you gave up for a year? You don’t usually quit,” Jason said bluntly. “What the hell would you only want to shoot a gun once a year for—oh. Right.” Unlike almost everyone else in her world, he didn’t apologize and he didn’t find an excuse to change the subject. “Fuck. Team Joker Sucks, right? Tell you what. It’s a bit sketchy on legality, maybe, but I know a guy that owes me a favor. You busy tomorrow?”
“I’ll meet you there any time.”
“Don’t want to be seen with me in public? I’m hurt.”
Replying to the true hurt buried in Jason’s sarcasm would only make him angrier. For once, she completely understood that he didn’t want someone to try to bury old hurt in new kindness. “Unless you want to be my new handsome beau splashed across the cover of at least four tabloids,” Barbara replied sweetly. “Bad boy reluctantly charmed by commissioner’s tragic daughter, maybe, unless they switch up the order. If I went to most of the public ranges, they’d leak a picture, collect a bunch of money, and depending on how the image looked I’d be a tragic defenseless waif or a kickass cripple.”
“I forgot why you piss me off the least,” Jason said after a moment. “I’ll text you the address once I’m sure he’s open. Do me a favor and try not to look like a super-rich librarian or something. It’s not a great part of town. Also maybe use the spare wheelchair, the area around the range can get kinda narrow and your fancy wheels probably would get jammed up.”
She decided to feel touched that he knew which of her wheelchairs would work. She would pretend he hadn’t figured that out because he always liked to map which of his acquaintances could get anywhere near his favorite stomping grounds. “Got it. Usually the librarian look follows me but I’ll try for casual.”
He ended the call without saying goodbye. An hour later, he texted her an address and 2pm, don’t be late I said you were punctual and shit.
Two different civilian map services didn’t give a great view of the area. Batman’s street view was much better and she even picked out the likely location for the range itself. There was an empty bowling alley some idiot had named Gemini Lanes as if that wasn’t just begging for a Two-Face hit. Two-Face had, of course, robbed the bowling alley for everything it was worth (twice) and shortly after that they’d gone out of business. She logged out of the main view without adding any updated notes. The last notes from Dick said that the place was empty after Hatter’s spare parts had been cleaned out two months before. The combination of glue, gold sequins, and green glitter was apparently visible, difficult to remove from a Nightwing costume, and not terribly intimidating to foes. If she saw anything worth adding to that image, she could pass the information on after she did something to feel a little more like herself again.
Barbara had nearly half of her closet laid out across her bed before she gave up. Librarian probably followed her everywhere because almost all of her clothing was business-casual, torn, or difficult to put on. She gave up and settled for adding scuffed black leather boots to a draped black blouse and her favorite black jeans. In the gorgeous sleek wheelchair she used most days, her boots would look out of place. She stubbornly held on to them because she had put those scuffs there herself and remembered them as her most comfortable dressy shoes. In her dented backup wheelchair, the boots made the rest of her seem to fit the image of a professional woman with no time for nonsense. She managed to corral her hair into a tidy knot in a probably futile hope the photographers wouldn’t recognize her.
She double-checked security protocols on her computers before locking her door just as carefully. Her favorite taxi driver was waiting in the lobby. She decided that seeing Abdul had to be a good sign.
“Miss Barbara, hello,” he said. “I was not thinking you’d be going to that neighborhood but here you are.”
“I’m visiting a friend,” she replied truthfully. It was nice to not have to keep every secret. “We haven’t spent time together in a while but I think that might change.”
“Hm. So long as your friend looks after you,” he said with a frown. He swept the door open with a half-bow, standing well out of the way. Some people tried to open doors for her and ended up blocking her path. Abdul did it so well she thought he should hold classes. He also insisted on helping with the car door and made it seem like she was being polite to let him help with the wheelchair lift. “And there we are. Just fifteen minutes, I think, if I can time the lights just so.”
They didn’t usually talk while she rode. He preferred to focus on driving and she didn’t mind the quiet. Some of the other drivers could always cheer her up but she knew Abdul would be at least a minute faster. Some of her friends thought the licensed yellow-cab drivers were outdated and overpriced. Barbara thought the startup companies were trying to put full-time drivers out of business and dodging regulations that would have left them responsible for having handicap-accessible options. In Gotham she could call for a wheelchair-accessible cab and have someone appear at her doorstep. She wouldn’t even have to pay more than an able-bodied passenger would to have someone drop her off at exactly the intersection she had in mind.
Abdul looked Jason right in the eye after guiding Barbara’s wheelchair down to the pavement. “You’ll be looking after Miss Barbara, now.”
“Of course,” Jason replied. For once he didn’t look annoyed to have someone scrutinizing him. It might help that he was wearing a faded, well-loved red t-shirt and jeans instead of a costume. He was always more particular about people judging how he worked against crime in the streets. “I invited her to visit me so it’s only fair. Should we give you a call when she’s heading back?”
Abdul considered Jason for another moment before nodding. “The dispatch will do,” he said. “Have a good day, sir. Miss Barbara.”
Jason waited until the taxi had taken back off again to jerk his head toward Gemini Lanes. “Still collecting people, huh?”
“Everybody needs a hobby.” Barbara forced herself to not make some inane quip about his recent hobbies or, worse, thank him for inviting her. Jason did not react well to platitudes lately and she was in no position to judge. She also wasn’t in his neighborhood to chide that Red Hood could be a little more careful. “Dealing with the subway is a nightmare and I can afford taxis when I want to get somewhere. A few of the drivers get pretty protective.”
“Probably a good thing,” Jason said. “Here, this way.” The sidewalks in his part of Gotham were less populated than Barbara’s neighborhood. It was nice to be able to roll herself alongside a friend instead of following someone’s narrow path through the crowd or serving as a battering ram. Jason adapted quickly to her pace and even managed to pretend it wasn’t awkward. He called out the turns as they approached Gemini Lanes.
He smirked when she took the last turn before he said it. “Thought so,” he said. “I would’ve done the same, though, so I’m not offended you looked it up. My buddy’s already set up. I think this ranks as just a bit illegal instead of super-shady.”
“I wouldn’t have asked, but I appreciate it.” Barbara smiled when Jason held the door to the lanes open for her. Just as Abdul had done, Jason stood well out of the way so she could roll through the door without running into the doorpost or over his toes. “I just realized last year that I’ve never fired a gun. I don’t plan on owning one but I’d like to know how they work.”
“Smart plan,” Jason agreed with a nod. He closed the door behind them and turned the bolt. “Your line of work, you never know when somebody’s going to get ridiculous and think you can’t grab a gun out of their hands.”
“Could you…” She didn’t know how to put it into words. The idea of trying to fight again made her think of Bruce’s subtle offers and Dick’s less subtle encouragement. Talking about either of them would hardly put Jason in a good mood.
“With a dummy, sure,” Jason said when she couldn’t finish the sentence. “Nobody smart plays that game with a real gun, ever, but I have a couple fakes I use to try out the fancy tricks. Some other time when we’ve got room to work I can talk you through a few ways to disarm a guy.”
Barbara hadn’t even thought of training specifically against guns. She immediately liked it. She hardly expected someone to point a gun at her again, and even less from within her range, but even having the option let her picture a few strikes that she could manage from a chair or even from the ground. “I’ve been putting it off a while. Learning to fight sitting down felt like giving up,” she admitted. “I stay fit enough wheeling myself around that nobody’s pushed yet.”
Jason worked his jaw before sighing. “I can’t just show you how to fight in your apartment, we’d break something or you. Any of my places come with a break-in risk lately. Boss-man won’t have a fit if I teach you how to fight dirty. He’d probably add tricks on for you after all the shit where he was stuck in a chair for a while. Maybe I’ll call Alfred and figure out a time we can both use the big gym,” he said as they moved into the main room of the bowling alley. The lanes themselves were still there even as the bowling ball returns had been repurposed into gun racks and there were long belts on pulleys that seemed to move targets closer or farther away.
Barbara just barely kept her jaw from dropping at the offer. “That would be great,” she agreed. If she had to give up on leaping across rooftops all over again, seeing Jason and Bruce with the same objective would immediately make the day worth it. She hadn’t even considered that Bruce might have worked out how to fight from a wheelchair after the fight he’d lost against Bane. Even better, Alfred would be very pleased to see Jason and to send him home with full shopping totes of prepared dishes that Jason would pretend he didn’t want. Alfred was the best of all of them when it came to fussing over people that thought they wanted to be left alone.
“Only ‘cause of the Joker Sucks club,” he warned. He didn’t seem to care that the man standing near the range could hear them. “Since we’re both big-time members.”
Barbara mutely held out her fist. Jason bumped it. Both of them turned to the man standing near a renovated ball-return machine.
“Hey,” he said with a brief nod. He was a tall, brown-haired man with his hair buzzed short and signs of a deep tan. “I’m Jon. Jay said you haven’t shot before and wanted to learn. I didn’t have time to grab that much but I thought a general lesson might be what we’re after.”
“That sounds perfect,” she said. “I’m Barbara. I’ve never handled a gun before, really, but…” She kept her chin up. She wouldn’t hide forever and if the guy did run to a tabloid writer he was the one that might look foolish. “I ended up paralyzed after someone shot me a few years back. I want to know how to shoot.”
Jon nodded. He didn’t look at all surprised or shocked by her story. If anything, he looked like he understood why she was learning how to shoot in a repurposed bowling alley. “Good reason to have a stranger bug you about the rules. Ever heard the four rules?”
She shook her head.
“They’re pretty straightforward after you’ve heard them. Rule one, every gun you ever see or touch is loaded. Every gun, every time. Rule two, do not ever point your gun at something or someone you don’t want to destroy. Rule three, your finger stays off the trigger until you have your sights on target and you are ready to shoot. Rule four, you know what you’re aiming at and what’s behind your target.” He paused a minute. “Got it?”
Barbara parroted back the four immediately. Before she could wonder if most people would have confused something about the list, he smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “Right then. I’ll show you the parts of a gun as we go and talk you through recognizing if the safety is on or off. You decide you don’t want to touch it, nobody’s pushing you. Clear?”
“Clear,” she agreed. She watched carefully as he picked up a gun that had been in a small case by his feet. He briefly explained the different pieces of the gun before handing her a pair of foam earplugs and a pair of over-ear earphones to block out the noise. Jason had brought his own pair of flat-profile plugs and Jon used the same pairing she did. Before she was quite sure if she was ready, he was showing her how to click off the safety and look down the sights of the first pistol.
He called it an M9 before catching himself and calling it a Beretta 92FS. It was a matte black gun that looked like most other handguns she’d seen. She’d never cared to look that closely before. It felt heavy and bulky in her hands but the target circle downrange looked in focus. She pulled the trigger and started. She had thought there would be more recoil but the motion had barely jerked her hands up. She’d also thought that pulling the trigger would be harder.
She emptied out 15 shots easily and frowned at the target. They were all clustered within the largest circle but only one was near the center.
Jon, however, looked very pleased. He explained that the SIG-Sauer he had would probably suit her even better. Sure enough, the other pistol was smaller and fit in her hands much more easily. It felt a touch lighter, too, which seemed odd. The smaller gun was all squared and blocky edges and looked like it should be heavier.
The bullets marched toward the center of the target. She still handed the gun back with no sense of regret, though, and took the binoculars from Jason to appreciate several holes near the central black circle.
Jon opened a long case that had been partly obscured by his jacket to reveal a third gun. The first two had been handguns. This one looked like the kind of stylized weapon that might result if Batman ever made a rifle. The basic framework of a rifle had been stretched into something that looked immediately more dangerous.
“Only if you want to try,” he said. “I happened to have this on me, sometimes people just like to try something different. This one is a bit differently. The other two were semi-automatic, right? You fire, gun automatically moves the next bullet to the chamber. This one you fire, then hit this bolt here, like this. I’ll rechamber it once to show you.” He showed how to aim and fired a shot at a target three lanes to their left. She didn’t need the binoculars to know he’d nailed the center precisely.
Barbara might have hesitated if the bare black center of her target wasn’t calling her name. She nodded. “I’d like to try.”
Staring through the scope felt strange. The entire world narrowed down into a target. She tried to fire on an exhale, like he said, but her hand seemed to wobble just a touch and the bullet missed her target by an inch.
She hit at the bolt and frowned. He’d made it look easy but the bolt did not want to move. She hit it again with just as little effect. She made sure the rifle was still pointed safely towards the target before looking up. “I think it’s jammed.”
“Those don’t jam,” Jon replied patiently. “Give it another try.”
“The lady said the gun feels jammed,” Jason cut in. It was the first thing he’d said since Jon started the lesson. “Babs?” Jason held out his hands to accept the rifle and carefully kept the muzzle aimed toward the ground while inspecting the channel. He snagged a pair of tweezers out of a pocket before fishing a fragment of metal out from where it had been wedged next to the bolt. “As she told you. Some bit of the casing fragged off and jammed the thing.”
Jon’s eyebrows were both very high. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Feel up to trying again?”
Barbara accepted the gun back from Jason carefully. When he nodded toward the target, Barbara looked through the sight again. This time, she breathed several times before picking her moment and pulling the trigger. The center of the target had a neat bullet hole.
Jason took the rifle back before she could say a word. “Think that’s it,” he said. When Barbara only nodded, he shook hands with Jon before handing the gun back over. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one.”
“Think we’re even, actually,” Jon replied. “I wouldn’t count this as a debt. We’ve not met personally, Ms. Gordon, but my father’s worked with your dad for ages. I had no idea who Jay was bringing around but it was an honor to be of service.”
Barbara couldn’t find the words. “Thanks,” she managed. It didn’t seem like nearly enough but Jon offered his hand and the two of them shook. He didn’t act like it was at all unusual to bend forward slightly to shake hands or to bend at odd angles for several minutes to help her see how to look down the sights.
He and Jason exchanged a few quiet words while Barbara took a picture of her target. She thought just looking at it might help a little when she started getting phone calls from strange numbers. If she didn’t occasionally get a call that should have routed to the Watchtower, she would just hide her phone in a safe for the week.
She managed to talk Jason into lunch at some greasy diner where they knew him by name and didn’t bother to bring him a menu. After negotiations that devolved to rock-paper-scissors, she paid the bill for lunch and he tipped. He waited with her until a different cab driver showed up to drive her back home and texted her a few times through the week. The first time, an informant of his had said Riddler spending a lot of time scribbling in a bright green notebook while mumbling to himself at the Iceberg Lounge. The next two were rude comments about tabloid articles belatedly realizing that Poison Ivy had been particularly obnoxious the week before.
Alfred called her on Friday. “Would you like a ride to the manor tomorrow, Barbara?” he asked after the initial pleasantries. “Jason said that he would like to stop by to assist in teaching you self-defense. I had planned to be in town for the morning and could easily stop by your apartment on my way back.”
“I would really appreciate a ride, thank you,” she agreed immediately. Getting in a car driven by Bruce Wayne’s devoted butler was a complete non-scandal. The couple reporters camped out in the coffee restaurant across the street wouldn’t have much to say about a possible visit to a known family friend.
Barbara was in a good enough mood the next day she managed a cheery wave to one of the photographers. He was gaping badly enough that he missed the shot and had to race outside to get a couple pictures of Alfred helping her with the wheelchair ramp in the specially adapted car. Maybe she would see if the Wayne Foundation could handle another charity. She had enough money that she could afford to take cabs to places that public transit didn’t handle. She had friends that could afford to renovate their houses to be wheelchair-accessible and that kept a car available just for her. It wouldn’t seem odd at all if Bruce let her run a charity organization and maybe it would finally give her something to talk about in interviews. People tended to assume she was a bored socialite since she could hardly explain she spent a lot of her time on Oracle work.
Jason had planned to get to Wayne Manor on his motorcycle. She and Alfred pretended that they weren’t worried it would come to blows before any lessons could start. They talked about her tentative idea for a charity instead. Alfred was gratifyingly intrigued by the idea and thought it would be a nice touch to have a woman who was visibly handicapped leading such an organization. He suggested visiting children’s hospitals as Barbara Gordon was likely to do quite a bit of good. Barbara had signed the occasional autograph as Batgirl but hadn’t thought that being one of Gotham’s most famous wheelchair users could help.
The main garage was missing a car. In a show of diplomacy, Dick had invited Damian to an arcade with him for the afternoon. Damian liked complaining about American extravagance and the ease of the games of skill nearly as much as he liked finding his niche games and racking up an impressive number of tickets and deliberating over his prizes for at least an hour.
Whatever had happened before Barbara took the elevator down to the Batcave, Jason and Bruce were both focused on something at the computer when she rolled in. They both seemed to be pretending that it was normal to be within ten feet of each other without verbal and/or physical blows. It turned out to be an enlarged image from a self-defense guide specifically written for paraplegics.
Half an hour later, Barbara reluctantly conceded that Jason had been very smart. She would have given up probably three minutes in if it not for the novelty of Jason and Bruce working together. Trying to fight off either one of them was an exercise in frustration whether she started in her wheelchair or on the ground. Bruce’s ideas about fighting while partially paralyzed were good but she was too far from combat-ready for the speed required. Jason’s tricks were much easier to learn. Forty minutes in, she was sweaty but she had just managed to trip Jason and scramble into a creditable attempt at pinning him. He could have broken it, they all knew, but it probably would hold a henchman or one of the bleeders.
“Good,” Bruce said.
Jason fist-bumped her after she rolled clear. He loitered near her wheelchair pretending to be nonchalant and didn’t offer to help her while she hauled herself up.
Alfred had set up his take on a small luncheon while they worked. Barbara noticed several sandwich varieties that only showed up when Alfred was happy and grabbed one of each before settling her bounty at the table. Alfred slid her phone and a folded copy of the Daily Planet toward her when she moved on to cookies.
“You have had several text messages, I believe, and a second copy of the paper was delivered today. I believe Lois insisted that you deserved your own. I gather that Mr. Kent had no idea the article would benefit you until after publication,” Alfred said.
Barbara frowned at the front page. In the right-hand column, there was a Clark Kent byline under an editorial titled “Civility: A Forgotten Virtue.” She checked her text messages first. The article in itself is just part of the campaign, Lois had texted. It’s immensely easy to provoke Clark into talking about how some vultures chase tragedy victims instead of finding the cause of a tragedy. I convinced him to write the rant down. After that I told Perry that he could show up a lot of snobby Gothamites if he ran Clark’s column today.
While Barbara was trying to puzzle out just why Lois had gone through so much trouble to convince Clark to write an editorial, let alone why Barbara had her own copy of the paper, a new text message alert chimed on her phone. The local news stations in Gotham appear to have remembered their manners. With any hope the local tabloids will realize that they look ridiculous. I pranked the Gotham media machine and Clark just figured out I set him up as a moralizing hero, hope your day is fun too.
Jason had stolen her paper while she was frowning at Lois’s texts. He skimmed through Clark’s article while Barbara checked a Gotham-specific listing of local news on her phone.
Bruce wasn’t nearly so subtle. He walked over to the Batcomputer’s bay of monitors and started calling up local news coverage.
She took her paper back from Jason. Occasionally, in our desire to write an interesting story or to print a story first, journalists forget to consider that our words shape narratives and guide conversations, Clark had written. When a tragedy happens, sometimes private citizens become the news, and the sudden deluge of coverage can cause even more hurt to grieving families. Zealous ideas about the public’s right to know quickly can override a person’s right to privacy. People who have not been accused of a crime can end up with far more publicity even than some people who caused the tragedies that brought them their unwanted fame.
The sound of a local news program brought her attention away from the paper. “I don’t think the article is calling for censorship at all,” Vicki Vale said with ringing clarity. Barbara recognized that tone. That was the sound of Vicki about to reveal her hidden ace she held back through a rough interview. “If you read Mr. Kent’s column, you’ll notice that he suggests covering from a different angle. Insisting loudly that you have the right to post photographers outside of Ms. Gordon’s apartment only suggests that he’s right.”
The chyron under her guest identified him as Jack Thorpe, editor of the Gotham Gazette. Barbara rested her hand on Clark’s article while she watched the man squirm. “The public is always curious about the well-being of those who have been affected by such horrific events. I’m sure they’re shocked the Joker is still on the streets!”
Vicki waited for a moment. It was quite obvious that he was done, really, and just as obvious that she was giving him the opportunity to pre-emptively defend himself. “I find myself shocked,” she agreed pleasantly. “By the numbers in your paper alone, Batman has delivered him personally to the police’s custody or Arkham Asylum three times in the last five months alone. Perhaps your readers would like to know what steps Arkham will take to decrease rates of escape or whether they will consider transfer to a more secure facility.”
The rest of the interview was brief but wonderful. Barbara munched through several varieties of cookies while Vale kept the man on retreat. The cookies really were an excellent counterpoint to watching someone wonder if he should consider apologizing. Alfred had outdone himself. It wasn’t often he had the chance to cook for Jason, though, and Barbara could accept sympathy for her situation when expressed in baked goods.
Barbara would save the rest of the article for later. She pushed back from the table and rolled her chair back over toward the training area. It was a pity that reporters thought they had a right to her secrets. It was disappointing they seemed to think she wasted her days away feeling sorry for herself instead of handling data and communications for the Justice League. It was even more of a shame she couldn’t tell them that she was spending the anniversary of ending up paralyzed with Red Hood and Batman personally showing her how to feel dangerous again.