π°π²π²π΄πππΈπ½πΆ π΅πΈπ»π΄ . . . ππ·π΄ π±π°ππΌπ°π½ (πΈπΆπΈπΈ) ππ΄π½ππ΄π½π²π΄ πππ°πππ΄ππ
π΄π½π²πππΏππΈπ½πΆ πΌπ΄πππ°πΆπ΄ // π΅ππΎπΌ @fthtrtle
β you and i both know iβm looking at the real you right now. β
the real her. she almost laughs, but it catches in her throat and leaves in a shaky breath. the real her? she's been so many people. batgirl. oracle. the commissioner's daughter. barbara gordon. too many identities fighting to exist. none ever really winning. barbara looks to april, expecting her to be looking at the woman on the screen. her legs extended, a smile wide on her lips, red hair blowing behind her as she flies across the city skyline. instead their gazes meet. april's looking at the woman sat before the screen, whose hands twist together in her lap, whose vulnerability has been laid bare.
head nods, teeth tugging on the inside of her cheek. β i guess you are. β for now. until the next thing, until she has to become someone else. a hero, a secret, a schemer. oracle manipulates to get what she needs. she holds back, she never tells the full story. april stands as only a few who know the whole truth. a club whose members she can count on one hand. batman and robin, black canary, nightwing, huntress, and now nobody. to the rest she's a warped voice at the end of a line. a green mask on a screen. she likes it that way. somehow existing, but somehow not. a myth. a legend. smoke and mirrors. β are you going to stay? β
