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Rain falls harshly from above as it starts to pour more harshly. Almost seemingly theatrically planned as the casket lowers into the ground. Silent tears cascade down your face along with the rain coming down as your hair gets drenched further.

As more bodies move to leave, you’re given apologies and reassuring touches. It doesn’t help the numbness as the casket is covered with dirt. Your eyes are unfocused, staring silently where he’s forever to lie.

You feel a stronger grip squeeze your shoulder. You don’t move. Just merely stare ahead, numbness seeping into your heart as a black void swallows your emotions and makes its home in your aching heart.

“He loved you,” you hear Jon’s voice. “He was our best friend, I don’t know…I don’t know how…” tears spill from his eyes as he breaks down, wearing. Your eyes finally move, and you pull him into your arms, hugging him.

“I know,” you whisper, clutching him more harshly. Your heart stings as you feel him cry into your shoulder. As you hold him closer, you whisper. “It wasn’t his time, but Thanatos still came for him. It is unfair.” You hold yourself back from falling apart like the man holding you. Your lips quiver as his sorrow bleeds through him into you.

You pull back as Jon’s sobs quiet down, and he pulls away from you. You hold his shoulder, giving them a gentle but firm reassuring squeeze. “This is not the end, Jon.”

Jon nods sadly as he takes your words as reassurance rather than fact, as the sky rumbles and darkens above you. “I know, but…” he bites his lip and shakes his head. “You know.”

You nod to him wordlessly. He whispers a goodbye before flying off into the rumbling clouds above. You don’t look up at where he flew off to; you just stand numbly looking at the freshly buried dirt in front of you.

Your soul feels numb. Your body reacts with tears, but your mind is numb. No words come to you. No prayer to whisper. No last words to give to him.

He wasn’t supposed to die. He gave his life up. He sacrificed himself before it was his time. Just like his father had. The two were more alike than Damian would’ve probably liked to admit.

You can’t even force a soft smile at the thought of him giving an irritated scowl at such a notion. It just makes the pit inside you widen. Your frown deepens as your fist clenches.

You can’t let this be the end. You won’t let it be the end. You’re going to get him back.

As your mind starts to spiral, you feel a presence step next to you. You don’t need to look over to know who it is. It’s your mentor. Her presence ever vibrant as she stares at the grave next to you.

“I won’t stop you,” she says. No hint of any emotion in her voice as she speaks numbly. “But do not be foolhardy in your endeavor. Something like this requires permissions and forgiveness from the gods. The imbalance this will bring will require a price or a bargain.”

You don’t move to respond. Your younger years, growing up in Hell along Circe, have taught you quite a bit about how all things come with a price. “I know,” I mumble to her. “But it wasn’t his time. It is as the sacrifice of Alcestis. They must understand.” Your brows furrow in frustration.

“The gods aren’t always kind. They can be cruel and unforgiving.” She reminds you, as she has done a thousand times, with the same tone of endearment in her voice. She understands as deeply as you do. The want to defy the gods and to find a way to bring back someone dear to you.

The silence stretches longer as you both stand next to each other, unmoving. As the rain keeps pattering against the ground and your clothes soak, you stand there in sorrowful silence as she stands next to you, as the grounding rock she has been since you’ve been able to come out of Hell.

“Come, we should return to Themyscira,” she doesn’t give room for a reply nor an argument. It’s more of a command, and as part of you wishes to stay grounded where you are forever, the other part knows you must leave and continue on. So you follow her wordlessly back home.

…

Weeks have passed. You have done nothing but either train or lie in bed. You’ve become more brutal when fighting your fellow sisters, and although you should feel shame for it, you feel nothing.

You look upon the shores of Themyscira, its crystal sand gleaming in the sunrise. The palm trees slightly rusting in the wind as the sound of waves softly crash against the beach, the water gleaming as brightly as the sand, and as you look upon the familiar, beautiful sight, it all feels dull. Lifeless.

The world has become duller. Shades of green around the island almost seem grey. The vibrant and bright fruits you’d snack on lost their appeal. The books you’ve been giddy to start have lost their allure. You’d pick up a book only to catch yourself re-reading the same paragraphs till you tire yourself from trying to focus, leaving you to lie back down to sleep. These days, it hadn’t seemed there was much need to leave your bed.

Your sisters have started to worry for you. Trying to communicate with you, pull you from your room to do activities. Each time you decline, not having the heart nor energy to do anything besides leave your room to train, and even then, you seem to be lacking, your mind always elsewhere.

As you’ve spent more and more time dwelling in your sorrowful thoughts, you can’t help the pang of hurt and yearning each time you think of him. You just want him back. It’s not fair that he was taken from you. It wasn’t his time.

Your eyes well with tears are you curl in on yourself once more. Repeating it as a mantra.

It wasn’t his time.

Your ragged breathing stops as you think back. Like Alcestis. The gods have been understanding once before. They have no reason to deny you of this.

…

You stand in front of the lake with Diana by your side.

“Are you certain this is a journey you’re willing to take?” Her voice laced with concern, “Hades might not let you return. You’ve been subjected to Hell before. I do not wish you to be taken from us again.”

“I’m certain. I will bring him back. I can’t leave him there,” you turn your voice steady and affirming. “The world needs him back, and I will stop at nothing to return him to me.”

“Oh, sweet child,” Diana sighs as she looks up, whispering a prayer up to Olympus. “I won’t stop you, even if I tried, I know I wouldn’t hold you for long,” a gentle maternal smile graces her lips as she places a kiss to your forehead and holds your face in her hands.

“Go as your heart commands, and may your path be true.

Let Hestia grant you warmth and clarity amidst the darkness.

Let Aphrodite guide your steps with love and compassion.

Let Artemis steel your heart and make you fearless.

Let Athena lend you wisdom and strategy to see your journey through.

And may Hecate guide your path through shadow.”

Diana steps back, pitch black hair reflecting the moon light as her eyes stare into yours. “Be careful.”

Nodding in return as you look towards Lake Lerna, the bottomless lake to the Underworld. The moon reflects off the still lake, rippling softly as a water spider skips by.

You take one last look back at Diana as she gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back, taking in a deep breath, and start stepping into the lake ahead of you. Each step submerges you further into the dark lake. Once you’re waist-deep, you pop open a vial from your satchel by your side before downing the contents. You suck in a deep breath and dive into the lake.

Staring down into the abyss below you you don’t let it stop you as you swim straight down till you're fully submerged in darkness, the elixir allowing you to continue farther and farther down. Deeper till you can’t even see your hands in front of you.

At this point, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You just keep swimming in the same direction you believe you’ve been swimming. Your lungs start to burn as your strokes become more desperate to reach the bottom. With each movement of your arms, your lungs strain for a breath and as you feel yourself about to give way, your hand reaches through into dry air and you fall through. Air rushes past you as your stomach drops, the sensation of falling enveloping you.

With a harsh thud you land, red clay sand floating up to make a dust cloud around you. As it dissipates, you brush off your skirt and stand up and look around you, only to spot the large white a stone archway leading to Hades’ halls.

No doubt his doing, that you conveniently landed here.

Arms flexing, you instinctively make your way inside the arches, seeming to grow in size as you approach. No guards are visible; the world is eerily quiet around you, as the only sound made is from your footsteps. Making your way inside with stone now beneath your feet, your boots tapping against the hard ground, the air shifts to feeling still and cooler as you see your breath in front of you mist oddly rising to your shins as you move forward.

“Halt!” an echoing voice commands. Behind a pillar comes forth one of Hades’ sentinels, a large, blue flamed form resembling a male figure with a staff, shield, and a helmet. “You have no business here, Amazon!” it bellows, sounding odd as it seems to speak in unison with several other voices that you don’t see the owners of.

You bow politely, “I’m here to make a request, something from Hades, though I suppose he already knows this.”

The sentinel is silent, seemingly listening to commands whispered to him from seemingly nowhere.

“Enter,” two large doors appear behind it as it moves out of the way, and the doors creak open, slowly revealing a thrown room.

At the center of it sits a large figure also consumed by blue flame, the light around him flickering as he breathes. He seems bored, staring at you, one hand resting on the throne's armrest with a fist supporting his head as his legs are laid out lazily.

You approach without hesitation and kneel. “Sire, I've come to make a deal.” You keep your head angled down as you wait for him to acknowledge you.

“Yes, I’ve guessed that, princess,” venom dripping off each word as his eyes narrowed at you, glowing harshly. His eyes then move to one of the sentinel flame creatures, “Why did you not remove her weapons?”

“She had none, sire,” the flame being replied, looking downcast.

“Nearly everything she’s wearing is a weapon, you insolent fool. Disarm yourself, Amazon.” Hades orders eyebrows knitting together as he leans forward.

You begrudgingly remove your armor, each piece dropping onto the ground with loud echoing thuds.

“Better?” you ask, looking up at him unamused as you jut your hip out with your hand on your waist.

“Do you think I can’t smell an enchanted pouch? Do you think I’m stupid?” You practically feel the anger radiating off the god’s body as heat swells in the room. “Empty it.”

You sigh as you pull out Athena’s blade and your lassos, dropping them in front of you.

“Just what every growing girl needs,” Hades remarks dryly. “Now that that’s over and done with,” he leans forward, “What do you want?”

“I want Damian’s soul back. I’m here to bring him back.”

The hall rumbles as Hades laughs; he pretends to flick a tear out of his eye. “That’s precious,” he mocks before returning to being dead serious as his red crown floats above his head and shines bright with authority, “But that’s not how it works. You have nothing you could possibly bargain with your unusable items in front of you, hold little value to me.” He pauses, looking away as if in mock thoughtfulness, before looking back at you. “Your soul, however, that is of interest.” He practically purrs at the prospect of it.

You feel fury boil up inside you, whatever it takes. You’ll find a way out of hell, out of Hades’ grasp. You knew you'd have to pay a high price for him to come back, but you weren't leaving this place without him.

“How about this? It’s been a long while since I’ve had some real entertainment down here. I’ll let you have him if you win, just one battle.” His cocky smirk widens at you cunningly. “And I think you can assume what happens if you lose?”

Eyebrows furrow as you think to yourself, you knew you’d have to strike some form of deal against him, one battle doesn’t seem bad, but it depends on your opponent.

“You don’t even have to kill him, only subdue,” you look up at Hades sharply.

“What do you mean? Who is my opponent?”

Hades clicks his tongue and wags his finger, “Now where’s the fun in that? Just one fight against one opponent in the Arena of the Damned.”

“I won’t make a deal with you without knowing who I’m up against.”

“Then I suppose Damian can rot down here with the other sad souls,” Hades says as he mockingly makes a gesture to examine his fingernails in disinterest. Heart sinking at the thought your dread already creeping through your veins feeling the familiar suffocating feeling constrict your throat.

Silence falls down upon the hall as you begrudgingly know the only option you have is to take his deal. “Fine. I’ll take your deal.”

The feeling of dread now pools in the pit of your stomach as you see the wicked grin return on his face.

“Oh, don’t look so worried, you can use all your fun little trinkets,” he motions to your items lying around your feet, “it’ll make it more satisfying when you lose.”

…

The world shifts, and suddenly you’re dropped into an arena, the Arena of the Damned, more specifically. Hades has a sick joy in watching others maul each other to death; the arena is encircled by large blue flames, creating the perimeter, a dark contrast against the dark red hue of the sky.

You look down beneath you, seeing all your items as you, put your lassos back into your pouch and your armor placed back on. Leaving Athena's Blade out as you hold it loosely in one hand.

Your head snaps up as you hear a too joyous clapping, "It has been far too long since we've had an Amazon in our arena, don't you think, dear?" Hades seems all too giddy and confident as he speaks to Persephone, who sits by his side.

"You promised me a fight!" your voice booms as you point the blade at Hades. "Where's my opponent?"

"So impatient," he dismissively flaps his hand, "our audience isn't even here yet," he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen.

Damian appears next to the god, bound in chains coated in blue flames, mouth covered as you hear muffled sounds come from behind his bindings, accompanied with that ever-familiar scowl on his eyebrows.

"Damian!" You shout, reaching out to him in disbelief as you let your blade move down.

"Ah, he's finally here, don't worry, I'll make right by our deal," the god is all too cocky in his remarks, making you seethe in anger. "Don't worry, seems my dear wife here has bet on you for this fight, how kind of her.” He motions to a unimpressed Persephone beside him. All you can do is grit your teeth at the mockery. Your nostrils flare as you try and compose yourself. Having a god taunt you as he dangles Damian in front of you like a carrot on a stick makes every part of you burn in hatred. You finally see him alive and breathing, not still and lifeless; as much as you want to relish in that thought, it's cut short as a flap of wings sounds behind you.

On instinct, you whirl around at the sound, both hands curling around your blade, holding it up defensively. Your heart drops at the sight in front of you.

"Thanatos," you say in disbelief. The personification of death stood before you. Your opponent for Damian's soul and the keeper of his soul as well; it's only befitting you suppose.

You can hear muffled yelling coming from behind you, and then you hear a loud thud as Hades grumbles at Damian, "Silence."

Although every instinct in you is screaming at you to turn around and aid him, your brain knows that if you move your eyes off the being in front of you, you'll die.

"Thanatos, I do not wish you harm, merely the return of Damian's soul. It was not his fate to die, you know this. He scarified himself willingly, balance will not be harmed if he returns." You try and plead with him. This is not a fine you're sure you can win. You now understand why Hades said all you needed to do was subdue him, as the being in front of you can't be killed.

"I apologize, child of the Amazon; however, you've made your bargain with Hades, so it is written." His wings flare out as he takes a step closer, spear in hand. Half his face reveals a skeleton underneath as a dark cloth is draped around his body, dark shadows following his form. Curling and winding around him as if it were sentient.

"I beg of you, Thanatos--"

"Oh, hush! Get on with it, Thanatos!" Hades interrupts dismissively and the blink of an eye literal death is upon you spear missing you by a hair.

The world seems to still as your senses zero in on the fight. Instincts and training washing over your body and tacking control. You duck as Thanatos comes flying at you spear in hand, rolling out of the way as you quickly block a blow from him.

Letting magic pour into the blade you yell as the blade grows twice it's size and slices through the air cutting Thanatos slightly. Though it has no effect on him as he feints left before his spear flies to the right jabbing into your shoulder.

You let out a yell, pain strikes through your body as you move back tearing the spear out blood oozing out, with a quick spell the bleeding slows, however your opponent gives you little chance for much else as you dodge again.

"Quit dodging!" Hades groans and let's out a whoop as your sword meets Thanatos' spear, clashing together loudly.

The fight keeps moving on as you either dodge or meet Thanatos' blows, however unlike you he doesn't seem to be exhaustible while your movements start to feel sluggish. As he jabs the spear again you quickly reach in and grab the Nemesis Lasso hooking it too his spear and yanking it forward, however Thanatos doesn't let go of his grip on the spear and flies towards you with it, a boost from a flap of his wings hurling him towards you.

Quickly gripping the sword you slash upwards cutting off his left hand as golden ichor pools on the ground as he curiously looks at his now amputated hand. You take this moment to catch your breath as you, then yell, "Goddess Athena aid your humble servant in striking true. Let the Athena Blade break upon it as waves cutting through stone!" gripping the blade with a new sense of vigor you charge at your opponent the blade once more growing in size and now glowing as you swipe to cut Thanatos in half. It cuts true, slicing him in half ichor once more splattering everywhere.

You stare in disbelief, then quickly turn to Hades, "I've done it, I defeated Thanatos, release him!" you voice booms through the arena.

Hades just gives you a bored expression back, "No you haven't" he points behind you and before you can process your body is flung across the space crashing down onto the ground a small crater forming around you as your breath is knocked out of you.

"What do you think, Bat? Want to wager?" Hades asks before letting out a chuckle, "Right, forgot I had you muzzled."

You have no time to think as Thanatos once again is coming towards you now fully recovered from his injuries. Your eyes widen as you grab the Nemesis Lasso hooking it around his foot making him stumble, buying you time to scramble to your feet, breathless.

Lasso still in hand you tug harshly with your strength making Thanatos fly through the air and slam back down on the far side of the arena away from you. You quickly locate your sword and throw it as if it's a spear straight into Thanatos' chest as you watch him try and get up, the sword striking true making him grunt and get pint to the ground.

With shaking breath you look up at Damian in worry before taking out the glowing green lasso. Damian's eyes widen and you can tell he's trying to yell at you to not do it. You quickly make work of wrapping it around your arm as you start to speak focus moving into the spell, "I am become Her. She who is terrible and tragic. Cursing and Cursed." Another loop around your arm tightens as the green glow brightens. "Forever entwined in injustice, a living hell. This mantle must I accept today, for a far greater god." You stop binding it as you see Thanatos start to slowly get up from the other end as you yank on the lasso.

You feel your vision start to fog over in green as you continue, "In hope and faith, that I will once again someday return to myself," you give Damian one last glance with a smile, "Please do not forget me...for now.." your speech slurs as you quickly turn your back to him scales forming on your body as your body sizzles and mist forms around you.

"For now.." you croak out again as the scales overcome your body, "for now...I am become doom. I am Medusa," you let the hiss leave your lips as you glare at Thanatos in front of you, and none that see my face shall live." The power of the lass wholly overcomes you your sense of self lost memories overtaken by the creature you now embody.

Thanatos freezes as his body turns to stone. The arena succumbs to silence.

"Well didn't know you could do that," You hear Hades' voice from behind you, but before you can turn you feel a binding spell holding you in place, no doubt the god of Hell stopping you from turning them to stone.

"Deal's a deal I guess, though not sure how you and lover boy will make it out now that you're a snake," Hades chuckles. With a clap of his hands the bindings around Damian release, and as soon as he lands he strikes towards Hades who flicks his hand knocking him back, "don't be foolish mortal," Hades warns with a glare.

Damian spits back a growl, "turn her back!"

"Why would I do that?" the flames around the god flicker in amusement, "the deal was I release your soul, nothing about helping her out of her foolish and drastic decisions," Hades waves his arms dismissively.

"Good luck with her I don't think my binding spell will work for long," he laughs at Damian's inner turmoil as he looks at your now scaled back with snakes hissing around your head. He's in utter confusion of what he should do.

"She needs to be reminded of who she is," the kind voice of Persephone whispers to Damian.

"What?" Damian demands brows knitting together in confusion and frustration at the utter helpless situation he's in. Stuck in hell with two gods, while his beloved is turned into a mythical monster struggling against the bindings Hades has put on her.

"She has become something else, she needs someone to remind her of who she really is," Persephone repeats to him.

Damian's eyes widened as hope rushed through him. He runs towards you, your back still facing him he then tears his shirt to tie it over his eyes as he comes around in front of you.

"Now, why would you help him?" Hades pouts at his wife as he looks at the two.

"You've played your cruel games and had your fun, the girl has won the battle, let them have this," she tells him, tugging him away. Hades just scoffs as, in a blink of an eye, they disappear, blue flames surrounding the arena extinguish with them.

"(Y/N)," Damian whispers quietly, looking up to where he believes your eyes are. The snakes around your head hiss as they zero in on him. Your head turns to him, glowing eyes glaring, but you stop as he repeats your name. Something sounds so familiar about the way he says it. Makes your mind relax.

"I know you're in there, I'm not going to let you stay like this and let your stupid self-sacrifice separate us, that's my job," he yells up at you, and you feel another pang hit your head as you hold it in agony. The familiarity of that voice keeps your head pounding as it feels like scales are falling off of you.

"Stop it!" you cry out in pain, wanting whatever he was doing to you to stop.

"Like hell I will, you're not getting rid of me, this pathetic excuse of a mythical beast doesn't intimidate me," the voice bites back as your eyes fly open, meeting sharp green ones.

You blink slowly, "Damian?" you ask, confused as green mist starts to form around you, transforming you back to your original form.

"Who else?" he rolls his eyes, before you can even think, you wrap your arms around him, smiling with glee. You feel him wrap his arms around you as you fall into him.

"You're here," you say breathlessly, feeling his heat against you.

"Yes, I am," he mumbles against your hair. As a moment passes, you feel Damian stiffen slightly at the contact and hear him cough as he pulls back.

“Enjoying this reunion?” he murmurs, a slight redness brushing at the tips of his ears as he looks away from making eye contact with you. “Because we are still in Hell. I would prefer to leave before something else with a god complex notices.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, a small laugh escaping you. “You always know how to ruin a moment.”

“I saved you from eternal monstrosity,” he replies flatly. “You’re welcome."

You smile at his antics as he looks around you two, "Come on," he tugs at your sleeve, making to start picking up your dropped magical items and returning them to you. "Get us out of here. I refuse to spend another second in this place."

Smirking up at him playfully, you poke him teasingly, "Jon will be happy to see you back."

"On second thought, damnation sounds preferable," his tone is flat as a deadpan expression crosses his features.

You roll your eyes before readying a spell to bring you back to Earth, "I didn't do all of this just for you to stay here."

"I know," he mumbles under his breath, his voice coming out a bit too earnest.

As your spell completes and crackling tears open a portal, you stand up and motion for him to follow you. Before you can think, you feel him catch your wrist and pull you against him, capturing your lips in a kiss.

In your dazed state, you barely have the chance to kiss back before he pulls away. Your wide eyes meet his hungry ones before he straightens himself and pushes you towards the portal, "Stop delaying and go through."

Which was why, when the haunted archive under Gotham University tried to erase her name from existence, her first response was mostly irritation.

“Oh, that is so rude,” she said.

The book floating in front of her did not respond.

It was enormous, bound in black leather and gold thread, hovering above a marble pedestal in the centre of a library that had absolutely not been beneath Gotham University ten minutes ago. The room stretched too far in every direction, shelf after shelf rising into darkness, stacked with books whose spines whispered when you looked away.

The ceiling looked like a night sky.

Not painted. Not open.

A sky made of ink and old paper, with stars that resembled punctuation marks.

You stood beside her, sword drawn, bronze bracers catching the eerie library-light. Your red cloak was torn from the earlier fight with the paper-hounds, and a shallow cut ran across your cheek.

On Steph’s other side, Linda Danvers hovered half an inch off the floor, fists glowing faintly with white-gold energy.

She stared at the book like it had personally insulted her and also maybe her entire bloodline.

Which, considering the evening so far, it probably had.

The three of you had come here because students had been disappearing from campus records.

Not physically, at first. That was the weird part.

Their dorm assignments vanished. Their class registrations disappeared. Their names fell out of group chats, yearbooks, transcripts. Friends remembered faces but not names. Professors remembered grading papers written by “someone.” Parents called the school asking why their child no longer existed in the system.

Then the students themselves began to fade.

Batman traced the disturbance to Gotham University’s old humanities building. Zatanna identified the magic as narrative-based. Diana recognised the gold-thread binding from an ancient Amazonian warning text about “archives that hunger.”

And because apparently the universe had a deeply petty sense of symbolism, the mission had landed with you, Stephanie Brown, and Linda Danvers.

Spoiler. Supergirl. Wonder Boy.

Three people who had all, at some point, been treated like footnotes in someone else’s legend.

The book opened itself. Pages flipped rapidly, faster and faster, until they stopped on a spread written in dark red ink.

Steph squinted. “Is that blood?”

“Probably,” Linda said.

Steph made a face. “Ew. People with cursed books are always doing too much.”

You stepped closer, lasso humming at your hip. “Careful.”

The ink shifted. Words formed.

STEPHANIE BROWN.

Steph’s stomach dropped despite herself.

The page kept writing.

SPOILER. ROBIN. BATGIRL. TEMPORARY. UNAUTHORISED. REPLACED.

“Wow,” Steph said, voice bright and brittle. “It went straight for the personal folder.”

Linda’s eyes narrowed. “Close the book.”

“I agree,” you said.

You moved first.

Your lasso flashed gold, arcing toward the book.

The second it touched the pages, the archive screamed.

Not like a person.

Like paper tearing forever.

Shelves slammed shut. Books flew from the walls like startled birds. The floor cracked into glowing lines of text, and the room split into three corridors.

One purple. One red and blue. One gold.

Steph looked at them. “Okay, so I’m guessing we don’t get to pick the fun hallway.”

“No,” you said.

Linda exhaled. “It wants us separated.”

“Then we do not separate.”

The archive laughed. The sound came from every book at once.

ALL NAMES STAND ALONE IN THE END.

The floor vanished beneath your feet.

Steph fell through purple light.

The last thing she heard before the library swallowed her was you shouting her name.

That helped. A little.

Then she hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

Steph rolled on instinct, came up on one knee, and immediately hated everything.

She was in the Batcave.

Not the real Batcave. The real Batcave smelled like damp stone, expensive tech, Alfred’s judgment, and at least one teenager making bad decisions in Kevlar.

This version was colder. Cleaner. Crueler. The glass cases stood in a long row. Old suits. Old mantles. Robin. Batgirl. Spoiler. Every costume she had ever worn displayed like evidence in a trial she had not been invited to attend.

Her Spoiler suit was first. Purple, bright, defiant, homemade in all the ways that mattered.

A plaque beneath it read: FAILED VIGILANTE.

Steph’s jaw tightened.

“Okay,” she said aloud. “Mean.”

The Robin suit came next.

Her Robin suit. Short-lived. Complicated. Still hers, no matter how many people tried to discuss it like a clerical error.

The plaque read: TEMPORARY ROBIN.

Steph swallowed.

Batgirl was next. Black. Purple. Yellow. A symbol she had worn with trembling pride and enormous attitude.

The plaque read: REPLACEMENT.

She stared at that one for a long time.

The cave lights flickered.

A voice came from behind her.

“You were never meant to keep any of them.”

Steph turned.

Batman stood in the shadows.

Not Bruce. Not really. The outline was right. The cowl. The cape. The white eyes. But there was nothing human in him. No exhaustion. No grief. No ridiculous inability to communicate like a normal person despite caring painfully much.

This Batman was only judgment.

Steph stood, brushing dust from her knees.

“You know,” she said, “if my subconscious is going to manifest Batman, it could at least manifest one who brought snacks.”

The false Batman did not react.

“You were a spoiler,” he said. “A warning sign. A mistake in another man’s plan.”

Steph’s hands curled.

“You were Robin because you forced yourself into the role.”

“You were Batgirl because the city was desperate.”

“You were always an interruption.”

“Always temporary.”

“Always almost.”

Steph smiled. It felt like broken glass.

“Okay,” she said. “First of all, rude. Second of all, ‘almost’ is kind of my brand. Third—”

The floor beneath her shifted.

Her mouth snapped shut.

The cases changed. Now each one held a different version of Batgirl.

Barbara. Cass. Herself.

The false Batman turned toward the line of suits.

“Barbara was legacy,” he said. “Cassandra was purpose. You were noise.”

That one hit. Steph hated that it hit. She loved Babs. She loved Cass. Loved them in complicated, sharp-edged, fiercely loyal ways. Their existence did not make hers smaller.

She knew that.

She knew that.

But knowing something was not the same as never aching.

The false Batman stepped closer. “You wore symbols others defined better.”

Steph’s throat tightened.

“No,” she said.

But the word was quieter than she wanted.

The cave darkened. The cases rose higher, towering over her.

Spoiler. Robin. Batgirl.

Failed. Temporary. Replacement.

Steph backed up one step. Then another.

Her heel hit the edge of a platform.

The false Batman’s shadow stretched toward her.

“Remove the costume,” he said. “Let the story correct itself.”

Something gold flashed through the dark.

A lasso wrapped around Steph’s wrist.

Her head snapped toward it.

The golden rope stretched into a crack in the air. On the other side, she saw you, blurred by magic, standing in a corridor of gold light, one hand gripping the lasso like a lifeline.

“Stephanie!” you shouted.

The false Batman turned sharply.

The cave shook. Steph’s breath caught.

You looked furious.

Not battle-furious. Worse. Protective. Ancient. Like some Themysciran statue had come to life specifically to fistfight narrative invalidation.

“Do not listen to it,” you said.

Steph laughed, and it came out embarrassingly close to a sob. “I usually don’t listen to Batman anyway.”

“That is because you are wise.”

“Debatable.”

The false Batman’s voice boomed through the cave. “She was not chosen.”

You stepped through the tear in the air.

The lasso glowed around Steph’s wrist, connecting you both.

“No,” you said.

The word rang bright.

Steph stared at you.

You stood between her and the false Batman, sword drawn, cape torn, cheek bleeding, looking every inch the kind of hero people wrote songs about.

And then you said, “She chose herself.”

Steph’s heart did something deeply inconvenient.

The false Batman loomed. “Choice is not legitimacy.”

You laughed once. “That is exactly what someone terrified of free will would say.”

Steph blinked.

Then, despite everything, she whispered, “Drag him.”

You did not look back, but she heard the smile in your voice. “Gladly.”

The false Batman raised a hand. The cases shattered. Glass flew outward, but each shard stopped midair, reflecting a different memory.

Steph being told to go home. Steph being fired. Steph being underestimated. Steph reaching for a mantle and feeling it pulled away.

Steph dying. Steph coming back.

Steph breathing.

Steph surviving.

Steph surviving.

Steph surviving.

The false Batman spoke again. “She was temporary.”

The lasso tightened around Steph’s wrist.

You looked back at her. Your expression softened.

“She was recurrent,” you said.

Steph’s breath hitched.

You turned fully toward her now, ignoring the monster in the cape.

“Do you know what that means?” you asked.

Steph tried for a joke. “That I’m a rash?”

“Stephanie.”

She swallowed.

Your voice softened. “Temporary means ending. Recurrent means returning.”

Oh.

Oh, that was mean. That was so mean in the exact way kindness could be mean when it got under all the armour.

Steph looked away.

You stepped closer.

“Spoiler returned,” you said. “Robin ended, but you did not. Batgirl was worn by others before and after you, but when you wore it, the symbol did not become less. It became more.”

The false Batman hissed.

You ignored him.

“You were not noise,” you said. “You were warning. You were refusal. You were the girl at the locked door, saying, I know I was not invited. I am coming in anyway.”

Steph’s eyes burned.

The lasso glowed warmer around her wrist.

“And perhaps,” you continued, voice gaining power, “perhaps that is why this place fears you.”

The false Batman stepped back.

Steph blinked at him.

The cases flickered.

“Fears me?” she repeated.

You smiled then. Small. Sharp. “Of course. Archives hate revisions.”

Steph barked a laugh.

The false Batman shuddered like the sound hurt him.

Steph straightened. Her chest still ached. The words still stung. Failed, temporary, replacement. She would probably hear them again in other voices. In comment sections. In mission reports. In the ugly little room in her head that never learned to shut up.

But you were right. She had returned. Again and again and again. And if the archive hated revisions, Stephanie Brown was about to become a whole new edition.

She grinned at the false Batman. “Hey, Bats.”

He stilled.

Steph lifted her chin. “I was Spoiler because I ruined my dad’s plans.”

The cave trembled.

“I was Robin because I put on the cape and did the work.”

The Robin case cracked.

“I was Batgirl because I earned the symbol one bruise, one joke, one very questionable rooftop landing at a time.”

The Batgirl case shattered into purple light.

Steph stepped forward.

“And I’m Stephanie Brown,” she said, “because nobody gets to edit me out.”

The false Batman split down the centre like torn paper.

Purple light burst through the cave. For one second, Steph saw all her suits not as accusations but as proof.

Then the false cave collapsed.

She stumbled forward. You caught her.

The real archive corridor snapped back into place around you both. Purple light faded into gold. The lasso slid from her wrist.

Steph immediately wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “If you tell anyone I got emotional over metaphor Batman, I’ll deny it.”

You smiled gently. “I would never betray you.”

“Good.”

“Though I may tell Cassandra.”

“Cruel. Evil. Amazonian menace.”

Your smile widened.

Then the corridor shook.

A scream echoed from somewhere beyond the shelves.

Linda.

Steph straightened. You did too.

No more jokes.

The two of you ran.

Linda Danvers had been called many things.

Girl. Angel. Monster. Supergirl.

Not Kara. Not enough. Too much.

She had learned that names could be gifts, but they could also be knives people handed you by the blade and then acted surprised when you bled.

The archive knew that. Of course it did. It had built her a cathedral out of mirrors.

Every wall reflected her differently.

Linda as a teenage girl with frightened eyes. Linda with Matrix’s face. Linda wearing the Supergirl crest. Linda with wings of flame.

Linda falling. Linda glowing. Linda erased.

Above the mirrored altar, in letters of burning white, were the words:

WHO ARE YOU WHEN THE SYMBOL LEAVES?

Linda hovered in the centre of the cathedral, fists clenched, trying not to look at any reflection for too long.

The problem with mirrors was that sometimes all of them were true.

“Supergirl,” one reflection whispered.

“Linda,” said another.

“Matrix.”

“Earth-born angel.”

“Impostor.”

“Replacement.”

“Not the real one.”

Linda’s eyes flashed.

“Shut up,” she said.

The mirrors smiled.

Every version of her smiled differently. One wore Kara’s crest like a crown she had stolen. One had no face. One had wings made of paper.

The reflections spoke together.

“You carried a name that belonged to someone else.”

Linda breathed through her nose.

“You were never the first.”

“Never the last.”

“Never the one people meant.”

“When they say Supergirl, they do not see you.”

The worst part was not that it was a lie. The worst part was that it was almost true.

Linda loved Kara. That made it harder. It was easier to resent someone who had wronged you. Harder to ache beneath the shadow of someone good. Kara deserved the symbol. Kara deserved the love. Kara deserved to be remembered as Supergirl in every bright, clean, iconic way.

And Linda? Linda was complicated. Her story was messier. Stranger. Harder to summarise on a lunchbox.

Merged lives. Lost selves. Redemption arcs with jagged teeth. Power that had felt holy and horrifying depending on the day.

She had been Supergirl. She knew that.

Most days.

The mirror directly in front of her changed.

Now it showed Kara. Blonde. Bright. Powerful. Beloved.

The reflection tilted its head.

“You wore my name,” it said.

Linda’s stomach twisted. “You’re not Kara.”

“No,” the reflection said. “But everyone wishes I were.”

Linda dropped to the floor.

The cathedral bells rang. There had not been bells before.

The reflections stepped out of the mirrors.

Versions of Linda surrounded her in a circle: every identity she had worn, every self she had shed, every name that had fit until it didn’t.

Supergirl stepped forward.

“Give it back,” she said.

Linda’s jaw clenched. “No.”

“You do not need it anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t mine.”

“Was it?”

The question echoed.

Linda’s breath caught.

Was it? The crest had been hers. The battles had been hers. The mistakes, the sacrifices, the impossible days where she got up anyway—that was hers. But symbols were cruel sometimes. They outlived the people inside them. They moved on. They got reassigned. They became cleaner in memory than they ever were in use.

Maybe that was good. Maybe it was unbearable.

The cathedral doors burst open.

Gold and purple light flooded the aisle.

Linda turned. Steph stood in the doorway with a batarang in one hand and mascara slightly smudged in a way she would absolutely deny later. You stood beside her, sword drawn, lasso glowing.

“Oh,” Steph said, taking in the army of Lindas. “Creepy identity crisis cathedral. Been there.”

Linda tried to smile. It didn’t work.

The Supergirl reflection turned toward you. “This is not your story.”

You walked forward anyway.

“No,” you said. “But she is my friend.”

Linda’s throat tightened.

Steph spun the batarang in her fingers. “And I’m nosy.”

The reflection’s eyes burned white.

“Linda Danvers wore what was not hers.”

Steph made an offended sound. “Okay, hypocritical book church, we are not doing this.”

The reflections whispered.

“Not the first.” 

“Not the real one.”

“Temporary.”

“Replacement.”

Steph flinched at that last word.

You noticed. Linda noticed.

Then you stepped between them and the reflections.

Your shoulders were squared, but your voice was soft when you spoke. “Do you know the myth of Psyche?”

Steph whispered, “Is now the time?”

“Yes,” you said.

Linda stared at you, half-laughing despite herself.

You continued, because apparently nothing—not haunted books, not identity cathedrals, not emotional devastation—could stop an Amazon boy from weaponising a mythological reference when he sensed an opening.

“Psyche was so beautiful that people compared her to Aphrodite,” you said. “Then she was punished for being mistaken for a goddess. She was given impossible tasks. Sorted seeds. Fetched golden wool. Crossed into the Underworld.”

The reflections stilled.

Your lasso pulsed.

“Everyone remembers Psyche as beloved of Eros,” you said. “But before that, she was a girl made to suffer because others could not decide whether she was mortal, divine, threat, or a prize.”

Linda’s breathing slowed.

You looked at her.

“She became immortal not because she was born flawless,” you said. “But because she endured every trial meant to prove she was unworthy.”

Steph’s eyes shone.

Linda looked away.

The Supergirl reflection sneered. “Pretty story.”

“True one,” you said.

Linda swallowed. “You don’t get it.”

Your expression shifted.

Not hurt.

Attention.

Linda hated that. Hated how careful you were with other people’s pain. Hated how easy it made it to tell the truth.

“I don’t always know which parts of me are mine,” she said.

The mirrors trembled.

Steph lowered her batarang.

Linda wrapped her arms around herself. “There were times I felt like a person. Times I felt like a vessel. Times I felt like a symbol wearing a girl-shaped body. And everyone wants a clean version. Kara is clean. Clark is clean. Even when they’re messy, the story knows where to put them.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know where to put me.”

The cathedral went silent.

That was when Steph moved.

Not fast. Not dramatic. She just walked over and stood beside Linda.

“Yeah,” Steph said quietly. “That part sucks.”

Linda gave her a wet, startled laugh. “That’s your wisdom?”

“I mean, I could say something poetic, but that’s his thing.” Steph nodded toward you. “I mostly do spite and emotional honesty with questionable timing.”

You smiled faintly.

Steph looked at Linda.

“I know it’s not the same,” she said. “But I know what it’s like when people treat your time in a symbol like it only counts if it was permanent.”

Linda looked at her.

Steph shrugged, but her voice was soft.

“Like if someone else wore it before you and someone else wears it after you, then you were just… filler.” Her mouth twisted. “A weird little transition issue. A temporary patch in the canon.”

Linda whispered, “Yeah.”

Steph’s smile was small and sad.

“But we were there,” she said. “We did the work. We saved people. We messed up. We got back up. That counts.”

The reflections dimmed.

Linda stared at Steph like she had handed her a rope over a cliff.

You stepped closer.

“And you,” you said, “are not made less real because your story is difficult to summarise.”

Linda’s eyes filled.

The Supergirl reflection hissed, “She carried a borrowed name.”

You looked at it sharply. “All names are borrowed until someone lives in them.”

The cathedral shook.

Steph pointed at the reflection. “Yeah. Put that in your haunted bibliography.”

Linda laughed, and it came out broken but real.

You turned back to her.

“I know what it is to wear a symbol people think they understand before they understand you,” you said.

Linda’s gaze softened.

Your hand moved to the eagle on your chest.

“When people see this, they expect womanhood to follow. Diana. The Amazons. Sisters. Daughters. Princesses. A mythology built around women’s strength.” Your voice wavered. “And I love that. I love them. I love the women who raised me. But sometimes people look at me and try to make me fit the version of the symbol they already know.”

Steph looked at you.

The cathedral light reflected in her eyes.

You swallowed.

“It is hard,” you admitted, “to be loved by a legacy and still feel like you have to explain why you belong to it.”

Linda’s face crumpled.

Steph’s hand found yours.

She did not make a joke. That was how you knew she was taking it very seriously.

Linda reached for your other hand.

For a moment, the three of you stood in the centre of the mirror cathedral, hand in hand beneath the judgment of every name that had ever tried to become a cage.

The Supergirl reflection took one step back.

Linda looked at it.

Then she looked at all the other versions of herself.

“I was Supergirl,” she said.

The mirrors cracked.

“I was Linda.”

More cracks.

“I was changed. I was merged. I was lost. I was found. I was holy and messy and angry and scared and brave.”

The cathedral bells rang again, but this time the sound was distant.

Linda lifted her chin.

“You don’t get to make me choose one version so the archive can shelve me correctly.”

Light burst from her hands.

The mirrors shattered.

Not violently.

Joyfully. Like a thousand windows opening at once. The reflections dissolved into white-gold sparks, swirling around Linda before sinking into her skin.

The cathedral vanished. The three of you stood back in the main archive. The black book hovered above its pedestal, pages thrashing wildly.

Words spilled across them.

UNAUTHORISED. TEMPORARY. REPLACEMENT. CONTRADICTION. FAILED ENTRY. UNSTABLE CANON.

Steph squinted. “Did the cursed book just call us unstable canon?”

Linda wiped at her eyes. “I think so.”

Steph cracked her knuckles. “That is the nerdiest insult I’ve ever received.”

You stepped forward, lasso in hand.

The archive shelves leaned inward. Thousands of books opened. Names poured from their pages.

Student names. Hero names. Forgotten names. Misfiled names. Names crossed out. Names rewritten. Names smudged until only the first letter remained.

The missing students appeared between the shelves, pale and translucent, reaching silently toward the book.

Linda’s expression hardened. “That’s enough.”

The book’s pages flipped faster.

ALL STORIES REQUIRE ORDER. ALL SYMBOLS REQUIRE SUCCESSION. ALL NAMES REQUIRE AUTHORITY.

Steph raised her batarang. “Counterpoint: no.”

She threw.

The batarang struck the pedestal, cracking the marble.

Linda blasted the shelves behind the book with white-gold light, freeing several ghostly names from the pages. You cast the lasso around the book itself and pulled.

The archive screamed again.

This time, the sound had fear in it.

The book yanked back, dragging you forward. Your boots skidded across the floor.

Steph grabbed your waist from behind.

“Linda!” she shouted.

Linda flew upward and slammed both hands onto the book’s cover.

The magic surged.

All three of you were pulled into the pages. For one impossible second, you saw every story the archive had tried to control.

Students erased because they were inconvenient to old magic. Heroes renamed by people who loved categories more than truth.

Girls called replacements. Boys called contradictions. Children called mistakes.

People turned into footnotes because the page had no room for them.

Rage filled you.

Not wild.

Clear.

The kind Diana had taught you to honour.

You wrapped both hands around the lasso and spoke in a voice that filled the archive.

“No story belongs to the shelf more than the soul inside it.”

Gold light erupted from the rope.

Steph shouted, “Names are not yours to keep!”

Purple light flared from her batarang, catching the cracked pedestal.

Linda’s eyes blazed white. “And symbols are not yours to police.”

The book split open.

Pages flew everywhere.

The archive collapsed into a storm of paper and light.

Names poured free. The missing students became solid all at once, gasping, crying, collapsing into each other’s arms.

The library shrank violently around you.

Shelves folded inward. Stars fell from the ink ceiling like punctuation marks shaken loose from the sky.

You grabbed Steph’s hand. Steph grabbed Linda’s.

Linda grabbed two unconscious students by the backs of their jackets.

“Exit?” Steph shouted.

The room tilted.

You looked around, lasso humming, searching for truth beneath the chaos.

There. A door made of ordinary wood. Ugly. Modern. Gotham University-issued. A little scratched. Probably smelled like dust and bad coffee on the other side.

“Left!” you shouted.

Linda flew. Steph ran. You pulled the lasso around three more students and dragged them with you as the archive screamed one final time.

The three of you burst through the door and landed in a heap in the basement of the humanities building.

Real basement. Real concrete. Real flickering fluorescent lights. Real smell of mildew and old textbooks.

Steph lay on her back, staring at the ceiling.

“Okay,” she said. “I officially hate libraries.”

You groaned from somewhere beneath Linda’s cape. “You do not mean that.”

“I mean haunted libraries.”

“Reasonable.”

Linda sat up slowly, hair a mess, eyes still glowing faintly. “Everyone alive?”

From around the basement, students groaned, cried, and answered in various levels of panic.

Steph lifted one thumb. “Alive. Emotionally attacked. Personally offended.”

You pushed yourself upright and immediately regretted it.

Your ribs ached. Your cheek stung. Your throat felt raw from speaking truth at a cursed book, which was apparently a physical activity.

Linda noticed. “You’re hurt.”

“So are you,” you said.

Steph sat up. “So am I, by the way. Since we’re doing the team injury roll call.”

Linda looked at her. “You have a paper cut.”

“It’s from a cursed book. That’s basically a stab wound.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The basement door opened above the stairs. Campus security shouted something.

Steph looked at you both. “So, we staying to explain the ancient sentient archive situation or…?”

Linda’s expression went dry. “Absolutely not.”

“Great consensus.”

The three of you helped the students up, got them moving toward the stairs, and gave the security guards just enough information to make them extremely confused but functional.

By the time the police and emergency services arrived, the three of you were on the roof of the humanities building, sitting under a cloudy Gotham sky.

Nobody spoke for a while.

Steph had her knees drawn up, chin resting on them. Linda sat beside her, cape wrapped around her shoulders. You leaned against a gargoyle that looked deeply displeased with all of you.

Finally, Steph said, “So that was a lot.”

Linda laughed softly. “Yeah.”

“You ever notice how magic never attacks you with, like, mildly inconvenient insecurities?” Steph asked. “It’s always the big emotional thesis stuff. Very rude. Where’s the curse that makes me worry about my parking tickets?”

You looked at her. “Do you have parking tickets?”

“That is between me and the city of Gotham.”

Linda smiled. Then the smile faded.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” she said to Steph.

Steph looked over.

Linda’s voice was careful. “About Batgirl. Robin. Being temporary.”

Steph shrugged too quickly. “It’s fine.”

You said her name.

She groaned. “Do not emotionally perceive me. I’m fragile.”

“You are not fragile,” you said.

“I am a delicate flower.”

Linda raised an eyebrow. “You kicked a paper monster in the throat.”

“It deserved it.”

You smiled, then softened. “Stephanie.”

She sighed, long and theatrical, but her shoulders drooped.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s stupid.”

“It is not,” Linda said.

Steph picked at a loose thread on her glove.

“I know I matter. Like, logically. I know Spoiler matters. I know being Robin mattered even if it was a hot mess, and I know Batgirl mattered. I know Babs and Cass love me. I know.” She swallowed. “But sometimes it feels like other people get to be chapters and I get to be a weird sticky note.”

Linda’s face softened.

You shifted closer.

Steph kept looking at her glove.

“I’m not the first anything. I’m not the best anything. I’m not the chosen anything. I’m just stubborn.”

“That is not just,” you said.

Steph’s mouth trembled.

She looked at you.

You held her gaze.

“Stubbornness is sacred.”

A laugh burst out of her, wet and surprised. “That is such a Wonder Boy thing to say.”

“It is true.”

Linda nodded. “It is.”

Steph looked between you both, eyes bright.

“Rude,” she whispered. “Supportive and rude.”

Linda reached over and bumped her shoulder against Steph’s.

Steph leaned back.

Just a little.

Then Linda said, “I get it.”

Steph’s expression gentled.

Linda looked out over Gotham.

“I know I was Supergirl,” she said. “I know that. But sometimes talking about it feels like showing people a photograph from a dream. Like I have proof, but not the kind they want.”

Her cape shifted in the wind.

“And there’s always someone else who fits the name better in people’s heads.”

You listened.

The city below murmured: traffic, sirens, distant laughter, a dog barking at absolutely nothing.

Linda’s voice lowered.

“I used to think that meant I had to either cling to it or let it go completely. Like if I wasn’t Supergirl forever, then maybe I never really was.”

Steph reached for her hand.

Linda let her take it.

You thought of all the names you had held like hot coals.

The name you had been given before you had language for why it hurt.

The name you chose.

Wonder Boy.

Son.

Brother.

Amazon.

Words that did not always sit easily together in other people’s mouths, but lived fiercely in yours.

“I think,” you said, “some names are not houses.”

They both looked at you.

You searched for the right shape of the truth.

“They are roads,” you said. “We walk them. They change us. We leave footprints. Then perhaps we continue elsewhere.” You looked at Linda. “Leaving does not mean you were never there.”

Linda’s eyes shone.

Steph was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “You really do talk like a museum plaque.”

You sighed.

Linda laughed.

Steph grinned, but it softened.

“A good museum plaque,” she added.

“High praise,” Linda said.

“The highest.”

You bowed your head slightly. “I am honoured.”

Steph bumped your knee with hers.

“And you?” she asked.

You looked at her.

She gave you a pointed look.

“Yeah, don’t think we forgot the evil book made you talk about Symbol Feelings too.”

Linda nodded. “You don’t have to, but…”

You exhaled.

The rooftop wind was cold against the cut on your cheek.

Below, Gotham did what Gotham always did: survived itself loudly.

“I feel like a road too sometimes,” you admitted. “Not a house.”

Steph and Linda listened.

“I know who I am,” you said. “I am not confused about that. But knowing does not stop the world from being clumsy with me.” Your hand rested over the eagle on your chest. “Wonder Woman’s legacy is so tied to womanhood. To Amazons, sisters, daughters, queens. And I love that. I would never diminish it.”

Your voice thinned.

“But I am not a woman. I was never going to become one correctly, because I was never one at all.”

Steph’s fingers curled around Linda’s.

You looked down at the rooftop gravel.

“Diana made room for me. Themyscira made room for me. That is a gift I can never repay.” You swallowed. “But sometimes I wonder if I am a room added onto a house everyone else already understood. Loved, yes. Wanted, yes. But still an addition.”

Linda’s face changed.

Steph whispered, “Oh.”

You laughed quietly. “That sounds self-pitying.”

“No,” Steph said immediately. “It sounds… yeah. It sounds like the thing.”

You looked at her.

She shrugged, helpless but sincere.

“The thing where people love you but the story still doesn’t know where to put you.”

Your breath caught.

Linda reached over with her free hand and took yours.

“You are not an addition,” she said.

You looked at her.

Her voice was steady.

“You are proof the house was alive enough to grow.”

That one hurt.

Beautifully.

Steph nodded fiercely. “Yeah. Also, for the record, anyone who has a problem with Wonder Boy can fight me in a Denny’s parking lot.”

You blinked.

Linda nodded solemnly. “I’d pay to see that.”

You laughed, wiping at your eyes before tears could fully betray you.

Steph pointed. “No crying. If you cry, I cry, and then Linda cries, and then this gargoyle judges us.”

“The gargoyle already judges us,” Linda said.

You looked at the stone creature. “It is Gotham. Of course it does.”

Steph leaned into your side.

Linda leaned into your other.

For a while, the three of you sat that way beneath the grey sky, shoulder to shoulder, a small line of warmth on the cold roof.

A spoiler.

A supergirl.

A wonder boy.

Three names the archive had tried to file as temporary, borrowed, unstable.

But you were still here.

There was something holy in that.

Not clean. Not easy. Not carved in marble.

More like graffiti on a locked door.

Messy.

Bright.

Undeniable.

Eventually, Steph said, “So. Fire thieves.”

Linda tilted her head. “What?”

Steph gestured between the three of you. “That’s us.”

You smiled slowly. “Prometheus?”

“Yeah. We stole fire from the narrative gods or whatever.” Steph waved a hand. “Very mythic. Very hot. Extremely brandable.”

Linda laughed. “You want team branding after a cursed archive almost ate our identities?”

“I cope through aesthetics.”

You nodded. “Valid.”

Steph beamed. “See? Wonder Boy gets it.”

Linda looked at you, amused. “Do you?”

“I was raised around ceremonial armour and symbolic weapons,” you said. “I deeply understand coping through aesthetics.”

Steph snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

Linda shook her head, but she was smiling.

The clouds broke slightly above Gotham.

A thin line of sunlight touched the roof, catching on Linda’s cape, Steph’s blonde hair, your bronze bracers.

For one brief second, all three of you looked gilded.

Not by permission.

Not by inheritance.

By survival.

Steph stood first and offered both hands down.

“All right, fire thieves. Let’s go get waffles.”

Linda blinked. “Waffles?”

“Yes. Identity crises require carbs.”

You took her hand. “That is medically sound.”

“It is emotionally sound,” Steph said. “Which is basically the same but with syrup.”

Linda accepted Steph’s other hand and stood.

The three of you moved toward the fire escape together.

Before descending, you looked back at the rooftop, at the gargoyle, at the city, at the thin sunlight stubbornly refusing to vanish.

You thought of Prometheus stealing flame.

Ariadne holding thread. Psyche sorting impossible seeds. Every myth where someone was tested not because they were weak, but because the world could not understand what they might become.

Steph bumped your shoulder. “You good?”

You looked at her, then at Linda.

No, you thought. Not always. Maybe not even most days.

But clearer. Held. Named correctly by people who knew what it cost to keep a name.

You smiled. “I am hungry.”

Steph grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Linda laughed and stepped off the roof, floating gently down toward the alley.

Steph followed the fire escape.

You swung after them on a line of gold.

Behind you, Gotham University’s haunted archive was gone. Or defeated. Or sulking. Whatever cursed books did after getting roasted by three emotionally compromised legacy heroes with excellent outfits.

Ahead, there were waffles.

That was not exactly divine reward.