#desperado

In the sprawling shadows of Wayne Manor, you had always been the afterthought. The adopted child who slipped through the cracks of Bruce Wayne's endless crusade and the Batfamily's vigilant chaos. Dick was the golden boy, always flashing that charming smile. Jason was the rebel, Tim the genius, Damian the heir apparent. And you? You were just... there. Neglected, overlooked, a ghost in your own home. Training sessions skipped because "something came up." Birthdays forgotten amid patrols. Conversations that trailed off when you entered the room. It built up like poison, until one day, you vanished. No note, no trace. You were done being invisible.

You fled to the underbelly of the world, where the forgotten honed their edges into weapons. You trained in the art of death—knives became extensions of your hands, poisons your whispers, shadows your allies. You became an assassin, taking contracts that paid in blood and silence. It was liberating, in a twisted way. No more waiting for approval that never came. But the life caught up fast. A botched job in Cuba left you cornered in a dingy alley, bleeding out from a gunshot wound, surrounded by cartel thugs ready to finish the job.

That's when he appeared. A man with eyes like storm clouds, strumming a guitar as if the world wasn't crumbling around him. El Mariachi. He didn't ask questions. His guitar case flipped open, revealing not strings but steel—machine guns barking in a symphony of vengeance. Bullets flew, bodies dropped, and in the haze of gunpowder, he pulled you to safety. "You're not done yet," he said in that low, melodic Spanish accent, bandaging your wound with steady hands. You didn't know his story then—the lost love, the endless hunt for justice—but you felt it in his gaze. Kindred spirits, both scarred by betrayal.

You healed under his watchful eye in a hidden safehouse overlooking Havana's crumbling streets. Nights blurred into confessions: your neglected past, his haunted one. Love crept in quietly, like a melody you couldn't shake. He taught you to wield your pain like a blade, and you showed him how to vanish without a trace. Soon, you were partners—in revenge, in life. Your dresses hid sheaths of knives, elegant and deadly. His guitar case concealed an arsenal. Together, you became legends whispered in cartel circles: the musician and the shadow, hunting a man named Bucho.

Bucho. The drug lord who'd ordered the hit on you both during a deal gone sour in Mexico. His men had ambushed you at a border town cantina, nearly killing you in the crossfire. El Mariachi had dragged you out, but the scar on your side was a permanent reminder. Now, you roamed from bar to bar, border to border, asking questions with smiles that hid steel. "Seen Bucho?" you'd purr, sipping tequila, while he played soft tunes on his guitar, eyes scanning the room. If answers didn't come, chaos did. Gunfire and blades, leaving trails of bodies and rumors.

Back in Gotham, the Batfamily finally noticed your absence—too late, of course. Bruce's investigations turned up fragments: sightings of a deadly woman with Bat-trained precision, now an assassin. Then, the whispers grew. Oracle's networks buzzed with tales of a couple tearing through the underworld. "They hit bars looking for some guy named Bucho," Tim reported one night in the Batcave. "He nearly got them killed once. The man's got weapons in a guitar case—machine guns, rockets. She's got knives hidden in her dress. They're ghosts, Bruce. Untraceable."

Dick frowned, guilt twisting his features. "That sounds like... her. The moves, the efficiency. We drove her to this."

Jason smirked bitterly. "Neglect does that. Turns you into a killer."

Damian scoffed. "If it's her, we bring her back."

But Bruce's jaw tightened. "We find them first."

They scoured leads—cartel informants, Interpol alerts, even hacked into CIA databases. Sightings in Tijuana, then Guadalajara. Always one step behind. The couple vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes of Spanish guitar and spilled blood.

Finally, in a dusty town south of the border, you cornered Bucho in his fortified hacienda. The night erupted in fire and fury. El Mariachi's guitar case unleashed hell, bullets shredding through guards. You danced through the chaos, knives flashing, slicing throats with the precision of a surgeon. Bucho begged at the end, on his knees. "Who are you?"

El Mariachi leveled his gun. "The end of your story."

One shot. It was over.

You slipped across the border that night, shedding old skins like snakes. New names: Antonio Rivera for him, Maria Sol for you. Forged papers, a beaten-up truck loaded with what little you owned. The Batfamily's searches hit dead ends—aliases buried too deep, trails gone cold. Bruce stared at screens in the Batcave, the family gathered in tense silence. "They're gone," he admitted, the weight of failure heavy. Dick looked away, Tim sighed, Jason punched a wall. Damian said nothing. They couldn't find you. You were free.

The U.S. welcomed you with open roads and anonymity. You drove north, the desert giving way to neon-lit motels. In a quiet room somewhere in Arizona, the sun dipping low, Antonio tuned his guitar—the real one, not the deadly case left behind. Soft strings filled the air, a Spanish ballad of love and loss. You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, voices blending in harmony.

"Quería que supieras, que te echo de menos..." you sang together, the words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His fingers danced on the frets, your hand tracing the scar on his arm. No more hunts, no more shadows. Just you, him, and the music.