Words of Prey

[Deleted]

From the notebook of Barbara Gordon, days marked after the shooting.

Day 2

Finished another session of surgery. Hot flashes, feeling dizzy from the anesthetics. Sleep. Tired. Feeling dead. Wants to be dead.

Day 7

The doctor comes in with breakfast at his usual time. 7:30 on the dot. I'm still trying to get use to not using my legs. He gets me up and into a wheelchair issued by the hospital, and pushes me to the physical therapy center. I hate it. Not the physical therapy, the fact that he pushes me. I know where it is, I know how to get into the wheelchair, but he insists, and my father does nothing but worry. I'm just tired of this, I want to go home, but the doctor is showing me different exercises to keep my legs from atrophying. Another week of this, and finally I can get the nurses off my back for feeling sorry for me. They don't think I can hear them, but they're wrong.

I think I've come to a decision. I don't like being a cripple, but I don't like being felt sorry for even more. It's currently 9:42, and I hear boys in blue outside. One of them is a familiar voice, belonging to Detective Bullock, and the other isn't that familiar. Dad doesn't need to keep body guards posted at my door, but I understand his concern, and I can tolerate it. I just don't want this to be the norm. I don't want him to think any different of me now that I'm paralyzed. I'm sure one day he'll get over it. In some ways, I already have.

At 12:00 the nurse comes in with a tray of mashed up food in shapes of what it was supposed to be. A mashed steak was cookie cuttered into the shape of a t-bone. Chicken with the consistency of mashed potato was fit in the way that it looks like a drumstick. You don't fool me. You taste awful. I eat it anyway and down the cranberry juice that came with it. I leave the mashed broccoli on the side.

Seven days in and the time is 3:58, the pain in my spine hasn't gone away, I'm the most uncomfortable I've ever been, but at least I've stopped crying. The only thing that's keeping my mind off the pain are these journal entries. I also think I was lying to myself earlier when I said I was already over it. I know there's no going back, the doctor told me I'm never going to walk again, the damage to my spine was too much. Sure, I'm sad about it, I wouldn't be human if I wasn't, but I think I just have to adjust to this. Hospital visits from friends have been few and far in between. The doctor said I need rest and the heat flashes will subside. The bullet holes still haven't completely healed.

Woke up from a nap, had a nasty dream, I don't want to write about it. My bed is drenched in sweat, though that's almost a norm most days. I guess I was asleep longer than I thought. It's already dark outside and the clock reads 2 after midnight.

Day 10

Phantom pains in the morning, as my doctor comes in to deliver a lukewarm bowl of oatmeal. It's as if nails are being driven into my feet and up my legs, hyperventilating, and peering out my door's tiny window, I see policemen try not to look in as I whimper pathetically. Sweat makes the sheets sticky, and my doctor tries to settle me down. The morphine helps. Maybe, it was my legs begging for some. I don't blame them. The doctor said, it's a normal thing, especially if the weather outside isn't particularly pleasant.

Physical therapy went by smoothly today, probably because I was on a morphine high. I didn't even mind the doctor wheeling me around like a dilapidated vegetable. I know I'm in a hospital, but there are just so many sick people here. People who can't depend on themselves to do what they need to just to survive. Breathing from machines, too weak to move. I feel like I'm slowly coming to the realization that I don't want to a former shell of myself. I think I'm going to do something drastic.

It's 5:35, the Morphine wore off hours ago, since then the doctor asked if I wanted more. I refused. I need it to hurt. I need to remember the pain.

Day 14

My white knuckles wrap around the arm rests of the wheelchair as my doctor pushes me down the sterile white halls of the hospital. My father is waiting for me outside, with his hands in his jacket pockets, still feeling sorry for what happened, as if he could have prevented it.

Movies all day, dad spent the day with me, the pain is still fresh, the doctor said that the bullet wound would take 3-6 months to completely heal, but at least the blood loss has stopped, and there was no infection. We had dinner and talked about nothing serious. I don't know how long I'm going to be at dad's. He told me to take as long as I needed, but if it were up to me, I'd be be out right now. I think he needs to know that I'm safe for now.


Barbara put her notebook down and locked it, it was important to her that it was handwritten. The record of it was completely private, maybe one day, she'd burn it, or reveal it's contents, the choices were up in the air. The only thing that mattered was that it helped her in the now. She looked up at the knock against her door.

"Come in." She said in a raspy voice, the kind you get when you don't speak all day.

[Deleted]

The commissioner walked in on to his daughter's room, she was in her bed, sitting upright, the covers over her legs. He can't count the times he had done this in the past, it felt the same, yet very different. James walked over, closing the door behind him and setting himself down on her bed next to her. His hands rested atop of hers, squeezing them slightly. "Barbara," he began, looking at her glassy eyes. There wasn't much to say, but he felt that ignoring this would be wrong. The Irish inside them kept them from coming out with their feelings, so this was more difficult than it sounded. His hopes were that he could keep their emotions bottled up inside and then one day, hopefully, die. "I'm sorry." He ended up saying. After the silence, it just felt right.

"I just want you to know that no matter what, I'm here for you." He wanted to reassure her, he wanted to let her know that she had nothing to be scared of.

[Deleted]

A part of Barbara understood her father's fears, it was only the first day out of the hospital, and yet she felt like she's been stuck with people feeling remorseful for her for years. This was her dad though, and for the last two weeks he had almost been absent from the hospital. Not that he didn't try his hardest, but it was just been so busy at the hospital, there wasn't any time for any visits. She took a deep breath, if she could crawl in a hole she would. At least the story never made the news, she was incredibly grateful that it was been kept under wraps. This also meant that she would be the one responsible for telling everyone close to her. She preferred doing it on her own terms anyway, although one thing she wasn't looking forward to was telling Jason Bard, her now fiancé.

"I know, daddy. I'll be fine." she assured, Barbara knew it wouldn't satisfy him, but she was taking her chances. "I know life is going to be different from here on out, but I think I've finally accepted that. I'll be okay." What more was there to say? She felt like her father was the one stable thing in her life, and this was probably true. Her ability to walk being taken from her was proof enough. Barbara knew this, and she hoped her father knew this as well.

"I think I'll be fine tomorrow, I'll leave after breakfast. It's been a long few weeks. It's not that I don't want to spend time with you, I just want to spend the night in my own bed." Barbara said, looking at her father through coffee eyes and blank stares. Whatever silence they shared together, it was comfortable for her, she liked just sitting back and smiling at him. She would have to get use to it.

[Deleted]

James looked unsatisfactory at his daughter, adoptive daughter, yet he never saw it that way. He knew he could sense the pain she felt, bottled up or otherwise. "I'd personally feel more comfortable if you stayed with me for the next couple of weeks if it's all the same to you." This was the commissioner talking to her now, "I know you want to be independent, but you haven't even fully healed yet. Three to six months, the doctor said." Gordon reminded Barbara. "I know if we were any other city, we would have had guards outside the house at all times... I know you know this, but I feel like I have to remind you, because I'm sorry for it. I just wanted the citizens of this city to know that I run an open administration, and you got hurt because of it." He was now avoiding eye contact with his daughter, this city was full of symbols, it seemed to be a running theme that didn't sit well with either of the Gordon's at this point.

[Deleted]

Tears welled up in her eyes, Barbara ignored the fact that they were there, as if she wasn't crying at all. He didn't have to do this, she wiped her hair out of her face, and looked out the window, almost to see if anything was out there. She took a deep quivering breath and bit her lip. "Yeah, I know, dad." Barbara said plainly. "Thank you…" she leaned over in her bed and wrapped her arms around her father and rested her head on his shoulder.

Barbara knew that her father would always be there for her, but him telling her that felt all the better. "I just wonder," she said painfully sucking air between her teeth, "I wonder if I'm ever going to get use to this." Phantom pains buzzed through her legs, yet it was all dampened by the hug returned by her father. Things didn't hurt as bad when he was there.

[Deleted]

James pulled back, smiling weakly at her, almost as if she said something in Chinese. "Of course, you're going to get through this." He said in a matter of fact tone in his voice, as if he was even offended by the implication that she would never get well. "You're a Gordon, but more importantly, you're my daughter. If I know anything, about you, it's that you have more strength and integrity than Batman himself. I know you can pull through." James assured her. "Listen, it's late. I have to get up earlier than usual tomorrow. So, I'm going to bed. If you need anything at all, just call me." He said leaning over and kissing his daughter on the forehead. "Just remember," James said getting up and heading out to the door, "hold on. Pain ends." He walked out and slowly shut the door behind him.

[Deleted]

From the notebook of Barbara Gordon. Eight weeks later. 

Everything isn't as simple as they use to be. You know when you're healthy you take the simplest things for granted. The most mundane tasks are now planned. Every move has to be choreographed. Such as getting into a car. I use to just jump in and out like most people, but now, I have to painfully place one leg in at a time with my arms while shifting my body in, and away from the wheelchair. Then dad has to pick up my chair, fold it, and put it in the trunk of his car. The same process is done when getting out, just the opposite. I guess I'm grateful for dad letting me stay at the apartment. Hailing for a taxi to go to my physical and emotional therapy sessions would have been embarrassing, and everyone hates a cripple on a bus. You hold everyone back, the bus lowers, the driver gets out, helps you on cause you can't walk up the steps, and you take up three seats at the front after being buckled down so you don't roll around on the cracked linoleum floors.

Dad drives me to and from therapy. Monday: physical, Tuesday mental, Wednesday: emotional, Wednesday: physical again, Thursday: regression therapy, Friday: physical therapy again. It's not a great feeling, I'm tired of being a victim, but everyone around me seems to keep reminding me that I am. I've been here for eight weeks now, still trying to get better, and I'm tired of it. I have taken to the internet on my old computer; it's still more powerful, and way faster than the computers I use at the library. Almost twelve-fold in fact. It actually has a lot of Wayne Tech in it, and for all my intents and purposes, it'll suffice. The flourishing online community is remarkable and just so supportive. I'm talking to so many different people and it's actually helping me more than my therapy.

The internet is a community of people talking, arguing, romancing, and helping one another—and you didn't even have to use your real name. I found an enormous freedom and complete acceptance there—and for a time, the cybernet was more real to me than the world outside my window. In a strange way, I became more real to me as well. More content. More happy. Then, one night at dinner, a chain of events began that led me to where I would go. A road has opened up before me.

Barbara put her fork down in concern for her father who looked unsettled, as if the food was bad, and it left a rank taste in his mouth. "Dad? What's wrong?"

[Deleted]

He didn't want to talk about it. This new case was eating him up, more than he was eating his dinner. James pushed his plate away and got out of his seat. Rubbing the back of his head, he tried to shake it off, but it was like a string around his finger. It was messing with him, and he knew he couldn't do anything about it.

"Sorry, Babs... it's work." He said turning away, beginning to walk out.

He didn't like doing this to her, sure it's been a while since Barbara was crippled, but the fact that something else was on his mind other than her was getting to him. He did have other responsibilities, and it was almost as if he was helpless in the situation. James and Barbara had become accustomed to her new way of living, and it had become an afterthought to them now, but he still wanted to do everything to accommodate for her.

[Deleted]

It had been a long while since Barbara had been worried for her father, she had to admit to feeling rather selfish as of late. He had been working so hard, and working so many hours, on top of driving her to and from therapy. She didn't like putting the pressure on him, but neither of the Gordon's really had a choice in the matter. Barbara knew he had a lot on his mind, and it wasn't healthy.

Folding her hands together after folding her napkin, a look of genuine concern swept Barbara's face. Her rolled up red button down crinkled as she leaned forward as best she could, resting her elbows against the plain white table cloth. "When isn't it?" She asked, already foretelling that work was bothering him. "What is it this time? Tell me."

The last thing Barbara wanted was her father stressing out. Not after all he's done for her in the last two months. Not after the Joker.

[Deleted]

Still rubbing the back of his neck as if it would do any good, James caved to his daughter's plea of an understanding of his emotions. "There's this financier, a woman by the name of Ashley Mavis Powell. We know she's laundering money, but we don't know how. She does stuff with computers. I know it's your field, honey, but.... ahhh, I hate 'em!" The commissioner walked out of the kitchen frustrated, "I can't sit here and do nothing. I gotta figure out a way to trace it back to her." He said grabbing his jacket off the coat rack. "I'll be in the office, you have my number if you need anything." James grabbed his keys off the wall and stepped out the door, back into the night.

[Deleted]

From the Notebook of Barbara Gordon.

Poor dad. He was a Luddite when it came to computers. Still, I was intrigued and started to ask around online about this Ashley Mavis Powell and decided after hearing some testimonies going as far as New York, that I'm going to go after her, but I'm going to need a better computer. I've ordered computer parts online and intend to spend my time building a supercomputer. With a generous fund I received from the Wayne Foundation, I purchased special order parts. I even maxed out two of my own credit cards in the process, all in the efforts in helping catch and convict this cyber thief. In my research I've found out she goes by the name Interface, she even has some low level metahuman capabilities. She can reroute cash flow in an untraceable way using her powers. She's also a child abuser, the police would love to jail her on that pretext alone, just to get her away from the kids. Interface is incredibly dangerous, I'm going to have to have to hold off until I can build my own computer. I'll have to reroute my OS to bounce my signal off several satellites so I don't get hacked by her.

Two weeks have passed since I ordered the computer parts, dad's attitude hasn't changed. The longer Ashley Mavis Powell--or Interface--is out there, the worse off he gets. I built my computer in less than an hour. I hate people like her, so I begin the process of going after her. I keep myself locked in my old room, the room I had since I moved in here at thirteen. It's only changed since I've been shot. Added a mini-fridge, so I can stay up late and track Interface down, the computer heats my room like a radiator wish it could, and I had my window shade reinforced so I can't tell if the sun is up or not, just so I can stay focused. I'm determined… and I have nothing else to do.

Months fly by, and I met her. In person. At dad's insistence, I started going out more, making my way around the city. He was right of course, but I didn't like it. I was a gymnast at one time, I was a dancer. I loved how my body moved. Now, I just felt conspicuous. Clumsy. I use to walk everywhere, and traffic never bothered me. Now, I come to a busy corner and I'd feel myself start to panic. And for good reason too. She walked up to my wheelchair, asked if I needed help to get across the street. I obviously refused, but she leaned in close and whispered in my ear that she was Interface, and she knew I was prodding in her affairs. Next thing I knew, she pushed me into the traffic, I covered my head as I tumbled out of my wheelchair and prayed that I wasn't going to get crushed. I was lucky the driver in front of me stopped when he did, I smelled burnt rubber. Someone in the crowd helped me back into my wheelchair as Interface disappeared. She made me feel like a helpless victim again, and had laughed while she was doing it. She just made the biggest mistake of her life. I need a resource, not one from Batman or my father. One I would find on my own. I sent in an inquiry online asking to see if anyone knew any form of self defense, as I'm confined to a wheelchair. I got a quick response saying to meet a friend of a friend in Robinson Park tomorrow at noon for private lessons. Matches, whoever you are, my heart goes out to you.

I met him yesterday, so begins the weeks, the months in the park, learning from a street bum named Richard Dragon the Philippine art of stick fighting called escrima. He becomes my sensai, asking for nothing in return. He tells me that the debt has already been paid, I'm unclear who takes more pity on who in our relationship. I stop going to therapy and instead watch the seasons change with Richard Dragon. The physical and mental discipline honed questions of my identity. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the answer came to me in the form of a dream.

I am walking. Dressed as Batgirl once more. I know with a dreamer's certainty that I am in a a classical Greece. Just as instinctively, I know I am at Delphi and the woman before me is the priestess who speaks for the gods--the oracle. She wore robes that draped to the floor and sat on a stool, behind a wooden mask, a carved face with brainwaves embezzled on the forehead. "Speak child, ask me your questions." She says. "I've lost so much, I've lost everything I thought I was. Who am I now? How do I go on?" I ask her. "You have lost nothing that matters," she tells me, "you have everything you need. Everything before leads up to now and now leads to what shall be. Take away your mask, and I will take away mine." As we both took off our masks, she reveals her face to by my own. I woke up, and I realized that the internet can be a mask as surely as any cowl. I could assume an identity--and this time, not a second-handed version of someone else. This would be mine. My mask, my shield, my persona. And I knew exactly what I was going to do with Interface. Three weeks later, and I have everything ready, I hurled my gauntlet at Interface...

Ashley Mavis Powell sat at her computer, boney fingers crossed the keys. She was hunching forward for the last eight hours, until a pop-up unexpectedly covered her screen. It was plain white box with black text. "Whu-…" she whispered, as she leaned back to read the message.

Greetings Interface,
This is Oracle. I know your secrets and I will have what you hide and nothing you can do will prevent that.

Suddenly, her computer cut out, the only thing on her screen was the logo of this Oracle persona. "Oh, ah don't think so! Whoever you are, I will track you back, crash your files, short your hardware, and collect your guts for garters!" Interface sneered, placing her hands on her monitor, electric currents running down her hands. She was in.

Contact! Now Powell was arcing from site to site on the internet, her mind whipping around the world with the speed of thought, falling deeper and deeper into my trap. I had gotten her attention and drawn in her mind. Now all I had to do is execute my pre-arranged program. "Execute." How appropriate. Powell was was psi-linked with the computer, and I had caught it in a logic trap--endlessly repeating the same circuit over and over again, unable to break free… until I cut her loose and fry her mind. Show time.

Interface jolted from her chair and fell on her back, steam literally fuming from her ears. She held her head and tried to shake the feeling of nausea off. Too late. She turned to her stomach and got on all fours, hurling her lunch. There was a sound. Ringing. Her phone was ringing. Interface crawled over to her phone and picked it off the table.

"Wh-who is this?" Interface asked.

Activating a voice scrambler, all Powell could hear was a husky metallic baritone.

"You know who this is. I am Oracle."

She spoke through her headset, holding back her anger.

"What I have just done to you, I can do again any time. I've set a post hypnotic suggestion in your mind. I can trigger the logic trap any time I choose, and I will. Unless you do exactly as you're told. Or do you want to go for another spin?"

Ashley Mavis Powell turned herself in the following morning to the police, along with all her files. Dad has no idea I had any part in it, apart of me wish he does, but his happiness is good enough for me. I said goodbye to Richard Dragon, he wished me well, and I thanked him for everything. A little over a year has past since my old life ended, since I died and was reborn. The shadows remain, but only to give contrast to the light. I am no longer a distaff impersonation of someone else. I'm me--more than I have ever been. My life is my own. I embrace it, and the light, with a deep continuing joy.