One day, at the Gotham City Public Library, college student Barbara Gordon finds a book she's never seen before. The moment she touches it, her mind floods with memories of the future. Her legs paralyzed in a car accident. The Joker's bullet shattering her spine. Every tragic event that would end her career as Batgirl.
'No. Screw this. I'm changing this future.'
The first tragedy was just 24 hours away: the car accident. Barbara desperately tries to avert her fate. But the more she sees the fu
DC: Batgirl — In the Breach of Fate - 24-hour precognition
A page turned.
Fingertips caught the feel of leather.
The library air was colder than usual. Gotham Central Library—neo-Gothic stone walls, the quietest place in the city. Second basement floor. The Kalendula Restricted Archive. No one ever came.
Barbara Gordon moved deeper into the stacks. Her shoulder-length red hair swayed. University hoodie, jeans. Casual. But her green eyes were always searching. On her left temple, a small crescent-shaped scar from childhood glimmered faintly.
"...This one."
A book not in the catalog.
The leather binding was blackened. The cover bore letters she had never seen.
Curiosity won.
She touched it with her bare hand—in that instant.
Images avalanched into her mind. Rain. The Trigate Bridge, 2.3 kilometers long. Car horns. The sound of impact. Metal screaming as it crumpled. And—a man with green hair. A grin split wide. A gunshot. Her spine shattering. Agony.
"Aaah!"
She collapsed to the floor. Nausea hit. Only the cold stone felt real. The book lay there. Silent.
Barbara trembled. A premonition of her own death.
* * *
Back at her apartment.
Gotham University, Orchard Campus. Student dormitory, Hedgerow House, Room 302. Study notes on the wall. A freshly opened pizza box.
Barbara opened her notebook. Her hands shook. The pen wouldn't obey.
(*...Tomorrow, 3 PM. Trigate Bridge, center span. Three cars—black, red, silver. Rain. And then—*)
The Joker's laughter.
Her own scream.
"It's not just an accident."
This was a warning. Her own destruction.
She opened her desk drawer. Batgirl's communicator. The black Kevlar bodysuit. The yellow bat symbol caught the room's light. Dull gleam.
(*I'll ask Dad for help.*)
GCPD. James Gordon. In this corrupt city, one of the few cops who still believed in justice. But—he didn't know his daughter was Batgirl.
* * *
A diner near GCPD headquarters.
The All-Night Grill. Coffee, $4.50 a cup. The smell of grease. An old jukebox. Barbara waited at the farthest booth.
The door opened.
Short gray hair streaked with white. Exhausted blue-gray eyes. But when he spotted Barbara, a flicker of warmth returned.
James Gordon. 55. Back straight. Only his tie was always crooked.
He slid his 178-centimeter frame into the seat across from her.
"[serious] Calling me out at this hour. Something happened."
Barbara clenched the napkin on the table.
"[scared] Tomorrow, 3 PM. A major accident on the Trigate Bridge. A multi-car pileup—black, red, and silver vehicles. ...I want to stop it."
Her father's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Your source?"
"...I touched a book. And saw it. Memories of the future. Inside my head."
Silence.
The jukebox started playing an old rock song.
James sighed. He picked up his coffee cup. Took a sip. Then spoke quietly.
"[gentle] Barb. You haven't been sleeping, have you. University studies and... your nighttime activities."
Barbara's heart jumped.
(*He knows? That I'm Batgirl...?*)
But her father said nothing more. Instead, he took out a business card.
"[serious] I know a good psychiatrist. Go talk to him. Just once."
Psychiatrist.
The word stabbed into her chest like a knife.
(*He doesn't believe me.*)
Barbara looked down. Her red hair hid her face. She bit her lip. But showed no tears.
"...Okay."
That was all.
* * *
Back at her apartment.
9 PM. Outside the window, Gotham was overcast again. The city of eternal clouds. No rain yet.
She brewed coffee to calm herself.
Her favorite. Colombian beans.
One sip.
—Nothing.
No aroma. No bitterness. Only temperature on her tongue. Like warm water.
"...What?"
She opened the fridge. A lemon. She bit into it. It should have been sour. But—tasteless.
Her hands trembled.
(*The side effect of the prophecy book...*)
It was there. In the memory fragments the book had flooded into her. The price of the Chronocodex—Temporal Erosion. Every time she gained future memories, her ability to feel the present moment eroded. First taste. Then touch. Then emotion.
"It's already started."
Barbara stood by the window.
Gotham City sprawled below. Population 9.5 million. 220 days of rain per year. Crime rate 4.2 times the national average. In this dark city, she had fought. Believing in justice.
But now—she was alone.
She took out her smartphone. Set the timer. 23 hours remaining.
Then she opened the closet.
The Batsuit. Ballistic protection equivalent to NIJ Level IIIA. Communicator built into the mask. Estimated cost per unit: $120,000. But the price didn't matter now.
"[scared] I'm scared."
Her true feelings slipped out.
Knowing the future. Her father not believing her. Losing her sense of taste—and still.
"[serious] I can't run."
She picked up the mask. Stared at it.
Sixteen surveillance cameras on the Trigate Bridge. But three blind spots. The blueprints were in her head. To stop the accident, she'd use those blind spots.
Gotham was cold again tonight.
Clouds hung low. Sirens wailed in the distance.
That night, Barbara Gordon steeled herself. To face fate alone.
Her reflection in the window.
Intelligent green eyes stared back. Unflinching.
(*I will change it. No matter what.*)
The timer ticked off its first minute.
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