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 - Unbreakable fate, fading sensations
3:00 AM.
Gotham's sky. Thick clouds. No stars. No moon. The steel beams of the Trigate Bridge groaned in the damp wind.
A shadow crouched by the roadside.
Barbara Gordon looked up at the bridge through her full-face mask. The Kevlar suit chilled in the night air. A suspension bridge, 2.3 kilometers long. In her precognitive memory, this was the gateway to hell.
"[serious] In position. Beginning reconnaissance."
A faint crackle from the comms built into her mask.
"[gentle] Copy. This is Casa Notturna. I've got eyes on all surveillance feeds. Three blind spots. Confirm them all."
The silver-haired intelligence analyst's voice resonated right against her eardrum. An image of her with her long hair braided flashed through Barbara's mind. The mysterious woman she'd met two nights ago, late, in the university cafe.
(Still can't trust her.)
Barbara started walking.
The bridge's south end. Blind spot one. Tire marks on the road. Fresh. Wide. Large vehicle. Blind spot two. Five cigarette butts on the shoulder. All the same brand. Someone was waiting here. Blind spot three.
Barbara stopped.
The south approach shoulder.
A covered truck. Parked. No lights. No engine sound. A presence in the driver's seat. Through a gap in the tarp, she saw a mass like scrap metal.
"[cold] Kathy. One truck at the south approach. Sending the plate."
She pulled off a glove and took a picture of the license plate with her smartphone. Sent.
Silence for a few dozen seconds.
"[serious] ...Got it. Registered to an East End transport company. On paper, anyway. The real owner is a shell company for the Venova Syndicate."
A chill settled deep in her chest.
"[cold] The cargo?"
"[serious] The manifest is fake. The weight is over two tons heavier than it should be. Packed with scrap metal inside. A vehicle modified for a collision. They'll make it look like a random accident. Sullivan, the executive..."
"[cold] They're going to assassinate him."
The words echoed faintly inside her mask.
The Joker's laughter resurfaced in her mind. The precognitive memory. A multi-car pileup. The shriek of crumpling metal. And then the gunshot that shattered her own spine.
(No. This isn't that memory.)
Today's assassination plot. The Joker wasn't directly involved. But behind it all, Gotham's most vicious crime lord was pulling the strings.
"[serious] The number of shooters is still unknown. Their escape route off the bridge, too. But..."
"[cold] We can stop it."
Inside her mask, Barbara felt certainty for the first time.
This truck would crush the black sedan. That was fate.
But she could stop it.
"[serious] Twelve hours left. Let's finalize the plan together."
"[cold] Copy."
Barbara gave the truck one last glance and vanished into the dark.
* * *
6:42 AM.
University dormitory, Hedgerow House, Room 302.
Barbara stripped off the batsuit and changed into a hoodie. Outside the window, Gotham's sky was still overcast. A siren wailed in the distance, then died.
She sat on the bed. Exhausted, but couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes. The Joker's laughter. White skin. A mouth split wide. A gunshot.
"...Damn it."
She punched her pillow. Pointless. But she needed to hit something.
She got up and went to the coffee maker on her desk. Added water. Loaded the beans. Hit the switch. A gurgling sound filled the room.
The aroma. She couldn't smell it.
She was used to it now.
She poured a cup. Cupped it in both hands. It should be warm. Freshly brewed coffee.
But.
All she felt in her palms was a vague sensation. A weak stimulus, like touching a wet tissue. No heat.
She set the cup down. Her fingers trembled.
She opened the notebook on her desk. Gripped a ballpoint pen and wrote.
'Tactile sense. Palms. Heat sensation lost. Confirmed Tuesday, 9:00 AM.'
The handwriting was shaky.
(The progression is too fast.)
Temporal Erosion. The side effect of the precognitive book. First taste, then touch. Then emotion. At this rate, she didn't have much time before all joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure were gone.
"[scared] I'm scared."
Saying it aloud made the fear real.
But. No time for tears.
Barbara picked up her communicator.
"[serious] Kathy. I want to re-confirm the operation."
"[gentle] Of course. I'll share the data."
She pushed the fear down and buried herself in the work.
(Six hours left.)
That was her only reality now.
* * *
2:45 PM.
Trigate Bridge, south end.
Barbara straddled the Batcycle, staring down the bridge. The engine's hum vibrated against the road. Inside her full-face mask, her breathing sounded unnaturally loud.
"[serious] The motorcade has entered the bridge from Uptown. The black sedan is the second car. That's Executive Sullivan's vehicle."
At the voice over the comms, her grip on the throttle tightened.
2:50 PM.
The truck moved.
Sudden acceleration. The tarp flapped in the wind. Black smoke belched from the exhaust as it barreled straight for the motorcade.
"[angry] Go!"
The cycle leaped.
Wind slammed into her body. The road surface streamed beneath her. The speedometer needle jumped.
The truck closed in. Fifty meters to the lead car of the motorcade.
Barbara raised the grapple gun in her left hand. Aimed for the right front wheel. If the wire tangled, she could force an emergency stop.
"[cold] Show me the data. It's not logical."
Her catchphrase became a murmur inside the mask.
She pulled the trigger.
Thwip.
The wire snared the tire. A metallic shriek. Sparks.
The truck braked hard. Its body turned sideways. The tarp tore, scattering scrap metal across the road.
The motorcade's lead car slammed its brakes. Distance to the black sedan: two meters.
No collision.
In that instant, Barbara's body was airborne.
The grapple's recoil inertia. She was slammed to the road, cycle and all. An impact to her right flank. The sound of her ribs creaking.
"Gah...!"
Her breath caught. Her vision flickered. Cars around her started blaring their horns.
But.
She lifted her head.
She saw Executive Sullivan's black sedan cross the bridge safely.
(It changed.)
The sound of the multi-car crash from her precognitive memory hadn't happened.
Barbara put a hand on the road. Her whole body ached. A sharp pain shot through her ribs. But. She stood up.
She pulled the cycle to the shoulder and pressed the mask's communicator.
"[serious] Sullivan's car. Confirm safe passage."
"[cold] ...Confirmed. The motorcade has passed safely into Uptown."
A one-second pause.
"[gentle] Good. I'm so glad."
At that small voice.
Tears spilled inside Barbara's mask.
She couldn't stop them. The sleepless nights of fear. The frustration of her father not believing her. The taste of coffee she could no longer feel. It all overflowed at once.
"[crying] I changed it..."
Her voice shook. Tears ran down her face inside the mask.
"[gentle] Yes, you changed it. Let's change the next one, too. Together."
On the other end of the line, there was a pause, as if Kathy had started to say something and stopped.
But for now.
Barbara tried to savor those words.
And noticed.
She was holding the coffee she'd bought at a nearby convenience store. Yet. She couldn't tell if it was hot or cold.
Her palms felt nothing anymore.
Joy and terror squeezed her heart at the same time.
* * *
Past 9:00 PM.
Her room.
Barbara sat at her desk, updating the side-effect log in her notebook.
'Tuesday. Confirmed complete loss of tactile sense. Acceleration of progression suspected.'
She put the pen down and let out a long breath. A poultice was taped to her right flank, wrapped in bandages. Her ribs might be cracked. But she couldn't bring herself to go to the hospital.
She closed her eyes.
Today's operation was a success. Executive Sullivan was alive. Fate had been changed. Her coordination with Kathy had been perfect.
(Kathy.)
Barbara picked up her smartphone.
A message from her.
'We need to talk again tomorrow. At the university cafe.'
A short text.
Barbara stared at it, thinking.
(How did she write today's report for Casa Notturna?)
A Venova Syndicate truck was used for an assassination. Who was the client?
(Kathy might know something.)
She had no grounds to interrogate her. Not the courage, either. Not yet.
But.
Barbara looked out the window. The city of Gotham was cold again tonight. An overcast sky stretched out, and she could hear a patrol car's siren in the distance.
She opened her palm.
She felt nothing. No warmth, no cold. Nothing.
And yet, her heartbeat alone pulsed with an annoying loudness.
(I still don't know if I can trust this person.)
Barbara put her smartphone on the desk and opened her notebook again.
The side effects were accelerating. Kathy's true intentions were unclear.
But. Today, fate had definitely changed.
That alone was her truth now.
Barbara gripped her pen and began to write on a new page.
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