The Birds and the Bats

As far as Helena Bertinelli was concerned, this could turn out to be the worst night of her life. And speaking over her earpiece, she was keen to make sure that her radio buddy knew it.

"I fucking hate social gatherings."

"I know. That's why this is so fun."

"You know when I get back I'm going to beat your arse, right?"

"Just try it Princess. Anyway, you get to hob-knob with the one percent because you used to be with them. Also, unlike me and Renee, you're white bread."

"Fuck you." Taking her finger away from her earpiece, she looked at the busboy who'd opened the door for her, and was now giving her a funny look.

"Not you," she said to him.

He didn't look convinced. In fact, he looked even whiter than her, given how his cheeks had turned pale. If anything, he looked like some of the victims she put crossbow bolts through, though at Renee's insistence, not anywhere that would actually kill them (permanent damage was still fair game though). When they looked at the so-called Crossbow Killer, they looked terrified - even more so when, in the brief seconds before saying it and getting a bolt, they realized that they'd said something they shouldn't have. And although she was bereft of her uniform, or her crossbow, and was wearing a dress that offered no protection at all, the effect was apparently the same.

"Have a good evening," he murmured, as she walked up to the revolving door.

She glared at him. "You telling me what to do?"

"Um..."

"I said, are you telling me what to do?!"

"I…I was just..."

Her face fell, as she realized what he'd meant. "Sorry," she murmured.

He didn't look like he'd accepted her apology. He looked like he was just glad to see her gone. Irony was, she wanted to be gone herself.

"I hate this," she sighed.

"You've already said that."

She pressed a finger to her ear. "You know the asskicking threat still stands, right?"

"I know, I know, just try and make an effort. You're our best 'in' to places like this, so we need you to practice for when we need actual gossip."

She looked around the hall. "Sure," she grunted.

She wondered how many people in the interior of Gotham Town Hall knew the truth. That the woman who'd walked into this gathering of the 1% was named Helena Bertinelli, a.k.a. Huntress, a.k.a. The Crossbow Killer, a.k.a. "don't call me Crossbow Killer you fucking piece of shit!" Chances were that the answer to all those questions were close to zero. As far as the world knew, Helena Bertinelli was dead, along with the rest of her family, and she wanted it to stay that way. The only people who called her Helena were Dinah and Renee, and even then, rarely, as they used their codenames in the field. And besides, the Bertinellis were once the most infamous crime family in Gotham. Half of the people might here would want her dead if they knew who she was. The other half might want her in prison. The third half might want her to put in protective custody, but maybe not, as she knew that there was no such thing as a "third half." What she did know however was that this was a gala function thrown on by the mayor for some charity, because that was how things worked in Gotham - throw fundraisers to give the illusion of doing something to change how things worked in the city rather than actually try to change anything.

She found a nice cozy piece of wall to lean against, folded her arms, and got the lay of the land. Rich men, rich women, mostly dressed in black and white, all attended by waiters dressed in red. Some were dancing. Some were talking. Some were drinking and eating. No doubt somewhere outside the hall, some of them were fucking. A smile touched her lips as she thought of some woman finding Jonathan (it was always a "Jonathan" for some reason) with another younger woman, going on a tirade, and reminding her that she wasn't the only one with a fucked up life. The smile faded however, as her mind returned to what was actually going on before her. The 1%. People making the most of the lull in violence that Gotham was enjoying, as the city's underworld tried to get the lie of the land now that Roman Sionis was dead, and that the Joker was nowhere to be seen. Renee had suggested that there'd be a gang war soon, as the city's factions declared it open season on turf, but for now, Gotham's socialites were unaware of the violence that awaited them. Or at least, pretended to be.

"Huntress."

She pressed a finger against her ear. "What?" she whispered.

"We sent you here to socialize. Start socializing."

"I am socializing."

"No, you're not. You're leaning against the wall pouting like a school girl who wasn't invited to prom."

"Hey, I was invited to dance plenty of...wait. How do you know what I'm doing?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, before Dinah whispered, "glance to your right."

Helena looked.

"I said glance, dumbass."

Helena barely heard Dinah's words. In part because she wasn't listening to Dinah Lance. She was looking at her.

"Oh, fuck," she whispered.

Dinah Lance. A woman whose hair had been straightened, her hands cleaned, and her rings removed, wearing a red suit and serving people higher than her up the social ladder. People who weren't interested in the fact that their bus girl was apparently talking to herself.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Helena hissed.

"Making sure you do your job."

"My job?" Helena began walking back and forth. "I thought this was my night! I thought this was my time! You need info, what the heck are you doing here?"

"Like I said, making sure you do your job. Also, taking notes."

Helena stopped pacing. "What?" she hissed.

"Well, you've got the social skills of a goldfish, so we can only move up from there. Besides, it's fun to watch you try to swim in something bigger than a bowel."

"Was that a joke?"

"My point exactly. Now start swimming."

Helena looked for Dinah, but saw her disappear into the crowd. She wished she had her crossbow with her. She was pretty sure she could make the shot and end Black Canary's singing career. And if she missed and hit some poor innocent bystander who was on his way to fuck Jonathan's wife, well, what of it?

"Ma'am?"

She took a breath and looked at the man who'd approached her. In his right hand was a glass of champagne. On his left finger, a ring.

"Ma'am, you alright?"

She stared at him, trying to work out his angle. "Who's asking?" she murmured.

"Well, you were hitting your head against the wall a few seconds ago."

"Was I?" She cast her mind back, but it had gone blank. Had she? She couldn't imagine the man was lying, but one couldn't be sure with these types. Biting her lip, she asked him, "what's your name?"

"Jonathan. And you are?"

Helena felt her chest tighten. "Gotta go."

She walked past Jonathan Doe, not apologizing as she bumped into his shoulder, causing him to spill his champagne on his suit and spill some nasty words on her in turn. She didn't want to speak to a Jonathan. She didn't want to have some guy fumble her, before realizing that he was trying to make love to a goldfish. Usually, when hands were close to her, she broke them. But right now, the thought of those hands, any hands, getting close to her...

A body pushed against her...bleeding...smelling of blood, as she tried to hold her breath and try not to cry and...

...and now she was at the mini bar. Sitting down on a stool and looking at the bus boy who was cleaning a glass. He gave her a look.

"Hit me," she whispered.

He kept staring at her.

"You want your ear cut off fuckwit? I said hit me."

The bus boy looked ready to catch the titular bus, but he managed to ask, "with what?"

"Pardon?"

"What do you want?"

She giggled. "The chance to kill all the people I've killed all over again so I can work out why I don't feel better for it."

He stared at her.

"Give me water."

"Water. Sure. Plenty of water." He poured her a glass and gingerly put it in front of her. Helena looked around, before looking back at him.

"Do I…how much...like, I have notes on me, but-"

"Water's free," he said, before starting to wipe down a glass that was already clean."

Helena's face fell and she resisted the urge to slam her forehead against the table. "Nothing in this world is free," she murmured, before taking a sip.

Time warped in on itself as she just sat there, taking sips of the dihydrogen monoxide, deaf and blind to the world around her. Her left hand was forming a fist and shaking. Her right, clutching the glass for dear life. Her mind, trying to forget the feeling of shattered glass landing on her, and the bodies of her family. Eventually, she put the glass down, and began to rub her eyes. Not crying - she hadn't cried in over ten years - but her eyes were stinging, and her eyelids felt like they were on fire, and she was finding it difficult to breathe.

What the hell is wrong with me?

They were dead. Every thug who'd taken part in the hit on her family was dead. Even the one who'd ordered the hit was dead, his body parts reduced to fish food (not that there were any fish at Founders' Pier, the water was too polluted). By all rights, she should feel better about that. She'd done what she'd sworn in front of a cross to do, and she was continuing the good fight in Gotham, and wearing a kickass costume while she was at it. So why didn't any of that make her feel better?

You know, psychologically speaking, vengeance rarely brings the catharsis we hope for.

She clenched the glass even tighter. "Shut the fuck up Harley," she whispered.

"Y'know, talking to yourself is considered to be the first sign of madness."

She looked around at the source of the voice. And, seeing that source, looked back around.

"Anything I should know?" Dinah asked.

Helena sipped the water. "What's the second sign?" she asked.

"Dunno. But I have learnt a few things tonight from Gotham's rich, powerful, and famous. Can you say the same?"

Helena didn't say anything. She hoped that Dinah would move on. After all, she had a tray filled with little fish things on it, and from what she remembered of her old life, Gotham's elite loved little fish things. But, for whatever reason, Dinah stayed put. Waiting for an answer.

"Well?" Dinah whispered.

Helena sighed.

"Yeah, okay. Y'know, normally I'd kick your arse for that, but I've got an appearance to uphold. So, I'm going to serve these fish things and learn more about how Mrs Wilchier's husband was found in the car with another woman, and you're going to do...whatever it is that rich white people do."

Helena glanced at Dinah. Wanting to say that was racist. Wanting to say that she hadn't done anything like this for years. Wanting to say that she really didn't feel well right now, that she hadn't slept well in weeks because she kept waking up drenched in sweat. Instead however, she asked, "was the husband's name Jonathan?"

"No. Abercrombie. Why?"

Helena sipped more water. "Nevermind."

She didn't look back at Dinah. She didn't have to, as even in the din, she could pick out the sound of her footsteps fading away. She looked down at the glass, finding that the water was well below half full. Wondering if this was the moment where someone would come up to her and ask if they could buy her a drink.

Alright boys, she thought, as she took her final sip of water. Hit me.

Part of her hoped they wouldn't. Part of her was taken back to her life as a child. Living in a mansion overlooking Gotham City, far removed from the shit that flowed through its streets. She remembered Nana Bella brushing her hair, telling her that she'd grow up to be beautiful. That she'd find herself a nice handsome man, and get a nice house of her home, and have lots of nice children, who'd have nice children of their own, and that they'd all continue the family business. She snorted, wondering what Nana Bella would think of her now. Probably not much, since one's ability to think tended to stop when they were peppered with machine gun rounds, but if Nana was watching her from Heaven or Hell (more likely the latter), she doubted she'd be impressed with what she saw. Hair that was too short. A body that was too lanky. Tits that were too small, a dress that was too plain, and a cunt that had never got wet. Maybe her family would be pleased about how she'd avenged their deaths, but truth was...

Truth was that she didn't know the truth. She'd been too young at the time to appreciate the truth of who the Bertinellis really were, and what she'd be expected to do as she grew older. The truth right now, this second, was that the tightness in her chest wasn't leaving her...and that a man had taken the seat beside her. Given that he was dressed all fancy, and was typing away on his phone as if his life depended on it, she guessed that he was someone important. And if he was someone important, then she could learn something...provided she could get him to talk.

"Hey," she said.

He didn't look at her.

"Hey," she repeated, a little louder.

He glanced at her. "Hey," he murmured, before returning back to the phone.

So far, so bad, but she'd seen enough movies with Renee to know how this worked. "So…can you buy me a drink?" she asked.

The man continued to type.

"Or can I buy you a drink?"

She could swear there was a vein pulsing in his forehead.

"Yeah, okay," said Helena, as she tapped her fingers on the table. "Truth is, I'm not good at this, but I'd like to chat, and learn stuff about...stuff..."

He gave her a withering glance, before getting to his feet and pocketing the phone.

"Sure you don't want a drink?" Helena asked desperately.

The man began to walk away.

"Okay, fine. Least you could do is fucking say no!"

She regretted the words immediately, and her slamming the table with her hand even more so. And given how the man stared at her - how everyone within ten feet stared at her - she was ready to die. To meet her family and say "sorry, I fucked up. Can we have pasta for dinner?"

No-one had the kindness to kill her though. Bastards. There weren't even any knives to cut her own throat. The people just looked at her, and while the sound of conversation slowly returned, there was an awkwardness in the air that refused to dissipate. A substance that entered through her mouth and wrapped its way around her lungs. Making it hard to breathe. Making her brush a hand under her eye, and scowl as she saw water on the finger. She scowled, and knew that if someone came up to her now, she'd fucking punch them.

"Don't take it personally. Burton and Son is on its last legs. Only thing William's looking for right now is a loan."

She sprung to her feet, her right fist clenched, as she got ready to swing at...

The man, looking at her with a bemused look, extended a hand. "Bruce Wayne," he said.

Oh God.

"But you probably already knew that."

Oh Jesus Mary Joseph Christ.

"And you are...?"

"Hyena," she blurted out.

"Excuse me?"

"Hyena. I mean, Helena. I mean...fuck."

Bruce Wayne just stood there. And Helena wondered if this was punishment from God for taking the name of his son in vain. Or, more likely, whether it was just bad luck. Or good, depending on one's point of view. Right now, she couldn't be sure - the tightness in her chest wasn't helping, nor the warmth between her legs. Because after all, this was Bruce Wayne. The man who'd appeared on more magazine covers than she had fingers. One of the fifty richest men in the country. Elected Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor seven years in a row. Gotham's Golden Boy. Gotham's Greatest Shame. Bruce Wayne, who went to as many parties as he threw. Bruce Wayne, whose parents were tragically taken away from him, leaving him in control of a company valued in the billions. Bruce Wayne, who was standing before her, dressed in a fancy suit that was missing a bow tie, and holding a glass of very red, and no doubt very expensive, wine.

"Helena," he said. He withdrew his hand, took hers, and kissed it. "A pleasure."

"Oh, I doubt that," she said, her voice higher than usual. She glanced around, looking for William, for Jonathan, or heck, even Dinah. "I mean, I'm...I'm not...good at these things..."

Bruce shrugged, and took a sip of wine. "Seem fine to me."

Helena raised an eyebrow, as she saw how quickly Mister Wayne was drinking. "How many of those have you had?"

"Three, four, give or take." He put the now empty glass on the counter and grinned. "Don't worry. My butler always drives me home."

"I see."

"And I've got a wine cellar back at the manor."

Helena didn't doubt it. She understood that Bruce Wayne didn't actually live in his manor these days, but would often visit it. Sometimes, disappearing for days at a time, according to rumour. And oh boy were there a lot of rumours.

"Maybe you could show me it sometime," Helena said.

"Maybe," he murmured. He looked around, at the people who were dancing.

"Or take me out on the town?" she asked.

Bruce didn't say anything. The dance stopped, people clapped, and he joined in. Helena gingerly put her hands together, wondering when was the last time she'd washed them. Whether there was still the smell of blood from when she'd broken that bitch's nose earlier today.

Good times.

She didn't want to stay here. The tightness in her chest was subsiding, and if she was going to pump anyone for information, it was hard to find someone with more skeletons in their closet than Bruce Motherfucking Wayne. Not that he'd ever fucked his mother (well, not that she knew of), and of the fifty-plus women he'd dated over the years, none of them had ever been fucked themselves, but...

"Wanna dance?" Helena blurted out.

What the hell are you doing?

She didn't know. She didn't want to dance with Bruce Wayne. She didn't want to be anywhere near Bruce Wayne. She wanted to be down some dark alley putting a crossbow bolt into someone's chest, and taking what pleasure she could from the act. Nevertheless, she was in this place on behalf of the Birds. And with Bruce Wayne looking at her now, there was no going back.

"Sure," he said. He extended a hand, and taking a breath, Helena took it.

"Nice," Dinah whispered in her ear. "Course, you're going where every bimbo has gone before, but..."

"Shut up," Helena hissed.

Bruce looked at her. "Excuse me?"

"Hmm?" She tried to put on her game face. "Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing. Must be the wine."

Helena doubted that, then doubted her own doubt a second later. From what she'd heard, both as a child and as an adult, it was that Bruce Wayne seemed to alternate between knowing nothing, and knowing everything. Like he couldn't even remember which newspapers he owned half the time, or the names of the women he'd been with a quarter of the time, but he could recite some of the most minute details at the drop of a hat when prompted. Who said what, and when, statistics pertaining to crime and corruption, that sort of thing. Question was, Helena reflected, as he put his right hand on her shoulder and his left hand on her hip, how well could he dance?

The music started to play. She started to move. She promptly stepped on his foot.

"Sorry," she whispered.

He gave her a smile, but there was no warmth to it. And when she stepped on his foot again ("sorry"), the smile turned into a grimace.

"Sorry," Helena said, as she stepped on his foot the third time.

"Maybe I should lead."

"Aren't you?"

"Trying to. You're acting like you don't want to be here." The smile briefly returned. "Don't worry. I'm just here for the free food."

In spite of everything, Helena scowled. "Too many women knocking at your door for you to need to go fishing right?"

"Something like that."

Helena wanted to do anything other than dance, but for better or worse, she'd not only got Bruce Wayne talking, but got him talking without slurring his sentences. So, trying to relax, she loosened her grip on him and allowed him to guide them across the floor, right into the centre of the socialites. For whatever reason, the tightness in her chest was leaving. Her heartbeat was returning to a normal rate. And closing her eyes for a moment, she was taken back to how things used to be. When she was a girl, being taught how to dance...protesting against it...not knowing that bullets could get people to dance quite well...

"You alright?" Bruce asked.

"Hmm?" She opened her eyes. "Pardon?"

"You're crying."

"Oh, am I?" She brushed a hand against her right eye. "Just allergies."

"Allergies?"

"Yes. Allergies. To...fish."

"Fish," said Bruce blankly.

"Yes. Goldfish. I mean, not goldfish, I mean blue fish, I mean, whatever that blue fish was in that movie who wouldn't shut up and…fuck."

Bruce didn't smile, nor did he frown. There was a coldness about him all of a sudden, and Helena shivered herself. She looked around, but Bruce had guided them into the centre of the dance floor, and there was no way she could escape his arms without trying to squeeze through fat men and women who'd no doubt eaten a lot of fish. Meeting his eyes, her blues locked in with his browns, she tried to smile, and whispered, "may I ask you a personal question Mister Wayne?"

"Depends how personal."

"Oh, don't worry." She tried to giggle, but it came out like a banshee with a sore throat. "Just wanted to know who taught you how to dance. You do it so well."

The statement was true, so it wasn't too obvious an attempt at deflection. Or so she told herself.

"Oh, that's easy," Bruce said. "My mother."

"Your mother? What, before the guy shot her?"

Something flashed in Bruce's eyes. "Hard to teach me how to dance if you're dead."

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Very hard."

Bruce smiled, and leant in closer, so when he spoke, he was close to her ear. "Since we're asking personal questions, think it's only fair I ask you one in turn?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Helena said - this close, she could smell whatever stuff Bruce had put on himself. She liked it.

"Why is Helena Bertinelli back in Gotham a decade after losing her family?"

The smell was gone. For a moment, all she could smell was blood. Her heart began to race, her chest began to tighten, and her hand dug into Bruce's shoulder, while also trying to break free from his own grip. However, feeling his own hands tighten on her, she got the message.

"I... I think you're mistaken..." she stammered.

"No, not really. Though I am curious as to why you tried to call yourself Hyena."

Helena decided to not tell Bruce Wayne about how Harleen Quinzel had named a hyena after him. Problem was, she wasn't sure what to say at all. If she could kill Bruce Wayne, then that would make her life a whole lot easier, but she didn't have her crossbow with her. That, and when you killed anyone other than the 99% in Gotham, people cared.

"Don't know if you know this, but there's been a state of murders recently," Bruce continued. "Quite a few of them were the people who took your family's lives, including Roman Sionis himself."

"I...didn't know that."

"No? Well, that's understandable. I and a whole lot of other people thought you'd died with your family that day." He drew himself back slightly, so that he was no longer whispering in her ear. He wasn't smiling, or frowning, or anything. He was just there in front of her. Dancing. "Must have been an interesting decade or so."

"Oh yeah. Totally. Did drawings, fired arrows..."

"Arrows. Interesting. Did you know that apart from Mister Sionis, every one of those men was killed by a crossbow bolt? The Crossbow Killer did a-"

"Her name's not the Crossbow Killer, it's Huntress!"

Bruce blinked. Helena sweated. In her earpiece, Dinah whispered "what the fuck are you doing?" And given the way the people were looking at her, they were asking the same thing.

Run.

The voice in her head knew what to do.

Seriously, run.

Thought it was hard to do that when she was in the arms of Bruce Motherfucking Wayne.

"Huntress," he said. He looked around the crowd. "Huntress it is then."

The socialites laughed politely, but even with her social ineptitude, Helena knew he was covering more for himself than for her. Enough to let him keep dancing, and whisper, "Huntress. Curious."

"The name?"

"That. And also how you know the Crossbow Killer is a her."

Fear and anger were having a catfight in her mind, with an army of dogs egging both of them on. Not too unusual a state of affairs, as fear and anger had been the dominant emotions for most of her life. But, as they continued to dance, Helena drew herself back and looked Bruce in the eye. He was studying her. But no reason she couldn't study him in turn.

"Alright," she whispered. "Let's say I came back to Gotham to deal with my issues in a certain illegal way."

"Who's saying that?" Bruce asked, feigning a look of surprise.

"If I did, you should be on my, I mean, the killer's side," Helena whispered. "You lost your parents as a child. I lost my parents as a child. If Gotham loses a few thugs because of that, what of it?"

"Hmm." Bruce let them dance for a seconds, before whispering, "that assumes I really care."

"Excuse me?"

"Lost my parents. They left me a house, a fortune, a position on the board, and a hell of a lot of wine."

Helena stared at him. Surely, no-one could be that cold, she told herself. Surely even Bruce Wayne had scars like her.

"Mean, it was nice when the Batman brought in Joseph Chill last year, but really, I was over it by then."

Helena tried to smile. "You still remember his name though."

Bruce laughed darkly. "Remember the Batman more than anything else. One tends to remember lunatics who dress up like flying rodents. Man's done more harm to Gotham than any street mugger."

"I-"

"And then there's these Birds of Prey," he continued. "Some trio of vigilantes who think they're making things better, when they're not."

"I don't think-"

"Joker's gone. Sionis is gone." He gestured around the room. "We should be partying right now."

Helena took her hand off his waist and clenched it into a fist. "If you're suggesting that..."

She didn't finish the sentence. Something was buzzing in Bruce's pocket. He looked, she looked, the whole world might as well have looked.

"You've got a pocket in your rocket," Helena blurted out. "I mean, pocket in your pocket. I mean, rocket in your locket...no, I…wait…you've got a..."

Bruce drew it out. "It's a phone," he said blankly. He took his other hand off her, turned around, and began to talk into it. Straining her ears, Helena managed to make out a few words.

"Alfred? Yes. Really? Yes, I can change. New suit? Yes. Give me five." He rocketed (no, pocketed Helena reminded herself) the phone and turned to look at her. "Duty calls," he said.

"Another date?" she asked.

"Something like that." He extended his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms Bertinelli."

After a moment's hesitation, she shook it. It was surprisingly firm. And for whatever reason, she watched him leave, standing still as a statue, as Bruce Wayne waded through the crowd of his fellow rich people like Moses parting the sea. She noticed how he tugged at the collar of his shirt, as if he couldn't wait to get it off. But if he was Moses, she wasn't sure where she fit into that analogy, apart from also being Moses. Losing her family to be adopted by a stranger, before coming back to reclaim her roots, that sort of thing. And having done that...

...having done that, she made her way through the crowd as well. Bumping into people. Seeing their withering glances. Murmuring "excuse me" while her mind listed off more expletives than Moses had led Israelites. And, true to form, having got out of the sea, she found that there was no escaping from Rameses.

"Well," said Dinah in her ear. "That seemed to go well from where I was standing."

Helena put a hand to her chest. The tightness was back.

"You okay?"

"Fine," she whispered.

"Yeah, okay. So how'd your date go?"

"It wasn't a date," she said, a little louder than she intended.

"Course it wasn't. Unless it was..."

"It wasn't," Helena repeated, even louder than before.

"I mean, if you have a crush on Bruce Wayne, then you wouldn't be the last."

"I do not have a crush on Bruce Wayne!"

People stopped dancing. The world stopped turning. Time appeared to come to a stop, and not like that weird shit that had hit Central City six months ago. Everyone was looking at her, and she had no means with which to gouge out her eyes. Or, even better, slit her own throat and be done with it.

"I…I mean that...that I..."

She could smell blood, and feel broken glass brushing against her skin.

"I need to..."

She didn't say anything.

She just ran.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Helena gripped the seat of her bike with her left hand, and her crossbow with her right. She was wearing leather - what amounted to her everyday attire, when she wasn't dressed up like a purple mook from a comic book or movie series of uneven quality. That costume was in the backpack leaning against the bike, and beneath it, a white dress that was scrunched up beyond recognition. With any luck, she'd never have to wear it again. But in case Dinah got any ideas...

She turned around to face her fellow birdie. "Here for the asskicking?"

"Try it. I dare you."

Helena almost took the dare. Dinah was out of her bus girl uniform and in the space of ten minutes, had switched back into regular attire. "Ghetto" was the word that came to mind, but she decided not to pull it out. She might raise her crossbow in time, but Dinah could just as quickly use her canary cry to send the projectile back into her. No, Helena told herself. Better to let the bitch come closer before she plunged the bolt into her back like she deserved.

"What do you want?" Helena grunted, as she turned around and got on the bike.

"Oh, to share information. Got some juicy stuff tonight. Turns out there's quite a few people who know that poor Romy is dead, and they want to make the most of it."

"Fascinating," Helena murmured.

"But then there's you," Dinah said jovially, as she walked out to the bike, arms stretched out as if ready to hug its rider. "I mean, you got to dance with the big boys. Not bad for the first time out of the fish bowl."

"Eat shit and die." Helena put on her helmet and slammed the visor down. But before she could rev the engine, Dinah walked in front of the vehicle.

"Okay, enough," Dinah said.

"Get out of my way birdie."

"Yeah, not happening. Not until you sort your shit out."

Helena raised the visor. "You want shit sorted out? I can do that."

"No, you can't. I spent three years as a singer for a sociopath who was fucking a psychopath, so I know how to spot someone who's already fucked up. And right now, you're more fucked up than normal."

Helena glanced aside, gripping the bike's handles. "Didn't know you cared."

"I don't. But I'd rather deal with the shit now than later."

Helena didn't say anything.

"Listen girl, you can do the lonely brooding woe is me schtick all night, but I've got places to go and people to beat up, so-"

"Harley was right," Helena blurted out.

Dinah didn't do, or say, anything. She just stood there, looking at Helena as she slowly took off her helmet. So when words next came to the alley, it was Helena Bertinelli who said them.

"Psychologically speaking, vengeance rarely brings the catharsis we hope for," she murmured. "Crazy girl was right."

"Uh-huh." Dinah didn't sound convinced.

"Killed every asshole who killed my family. Well, except Sionis, but I ain't begrudge the kid for getting her first homicide."

"Guess not."

"But it's been a month," Helena continued. "And I…I don't feel any different, y'know? Like, sure, I can break bones, and shoot bolts, and all that shit, but it's like...like I spent ten years preparing to do this one thing, and now the thing is done, and I'm thinking of other things, and..." She rubbed her eyes, pulled at her hair, and reflected that this was indeed, the worst night of her life, if not day. "And then there's Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce Wayne," Dinah repeated dumbly.

"Yeah, Bruce Wayne. I mean, he's on to me-"

"He's what?"

"...but it's like...I dunno, like, he loses his parents, I lose my parents, and I'm thinking that maybe there's this thing we might share, only he's got a really strong handshake, and-"

"Helena, stop."

"...and yeah, he's much older, but he doesn't look that old and-"

Dinah slapped her.

"Ow!"

She slapped her again.

"The hell was that for?"

"Which one?" Dinah folded her arms and looked at Helena, like Nana Bella did after she'd got dirty in the garden. "God you're a mess."

That was what Nana said. Then she'd hug me.

"Listen, girl," Dinah said, her tone and folded arms making it clear that there'd be no hugging. "Know you've been out of the loop the last ten years, but you don't want to be getting entangled with Bruce Wayne, alright?"

"Oh yeah, why? You been in his arms?"

"Jesus Christ, you..." Dinah took a breath. "Listen. Men like Bruce Wayne? They're the worst kind. People who do jack shit. Have their dates, have their wine, their mansions, their money, their butlers. They're the people who'd play on the violin while Gotham burnt, long as they didn't have to feel the heat. Oh yeah, he has his galas, and his fundraisers, and all that shit, but you could be dying in the gutter and he'd walk right by you, unless you had a nice arse to take back to Wayne Manor." She looked Helena up and down. "Which you don't, by the way."

"Nicer than yours," Helena murmured.

"That a challenge?" Helena opened her mouth to respond, but Dinah beat her to it. "No, don't answer that. Look, point is kid-"

"I'm not a kid!"

"...you're fucked up." Dinah walked round the bike and put a hand on Helena's shoulder. "So deal with it. Because not all of us get to be little rich girls. Some of us have to deal with the shit of life from day one."

"Oh yeah, you lost your mum," Helena said.

"Yeah, I did. And after that, I-"

"Did you get to see her die right in front of you?"

Dinah withdrew her hand. For a moment, Helena feared she was going to use it. But a moment after that, she saw, and heard, Dinah Lance say, "no. I didn't." The hand that had once been a fist reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "Want one?"

Helena smirked. "You smoke?"

"Yeah. And?"

"Won't that affect your singing voice?"

Dinah snorted and lit her first cancer stick, blowing the smoke in Helena's direction. "Hasn't so far."

Helena smiled, and so did Dinah. For a moment, there was actual warmth behind it, before she offered the packet again. "Sure you don't want one?"

"No, thank you." She put the helmet back on, though kept the visor raised. "Think I'll hit the streets tonight. Maybe even hit some people."

"Yeah. You do that."

"Yeah. And let them know that they were taken out by...the Huntress."

Dinah snorted, smoke and snot coming out of her nose.

"What?" Helena asked.

"Oh girl," Dinah laughed. "You have got to work on your line delivery."

"Fuck you." She lowered the visor and revved the bike. "But thanks."

Dinah took in more of the cancer stick. "For what?"

"You know what."

Dinah didn't say anything. Nor did Helena, as she revved off into the night, leaving Dinah Lance in the smoke of exhaust, and the smoke of her cancer stick.

Out on the hunt. For prey.

For closure.