for those of you wo don't traditionally read author's notes, please take a moment to read this:

I haven't quit writing! I'm not dead! Good things, I hope, but I do want to let everyone who is invested in this book know that I'm working on a different project: Cats Eat Birds! It's a Damian-centric series that I'm putting pretty much all my time and energy into, which is why I haven't updated in a long time. 

I hope that anyone who might be interested check out the new book. It's a multi-act, 50+ chapter book in the works, with a couple chapters already up! Thank you so much for your time, and I'm so glad that you have taken the time to read anything I've written before. 

Lots of love,

Ivy.

_

Cristen Young has never been one for relationships. Her split from Gotham had torn her in two, and the city that had once opened up to her and her alone, peeled back each rib of poverty and crime to reveal the beautiful heart beneath, wasn't as ready for her as she thought—or maybe it was the other way around. It couldn't work with her move to Fawcett City, regardless. Gotham just wasn't that type of girl.

But Cristen's back, and prepared to do the metaphorical equivalent of blasting Careless Whisper on Gotham's lawn; entering the city's hectic underbelly with her head up and fists forward. And Gotham needs her more than ever:

Batman is aging. Aging to the point where criminals can hear him in silent buildings and he, for the first time, can be found in the shadows by the naked eye. Gotham's rogues aren't as oblivious as the Batman wants them to be. The Joker, in particular, has already begun to build plans and find predecessors; Damian Wayne isn't so fond of this idea.

Damian, the dark heir to the mantle of the Batman, is distracted from his future by Selina Kyle's intriguing new associate. But the all-new, all-good Catwoman and Stray are followed closely by a shadow on the wall, someone involved in the pasts of both Stray and the present Robin... and not in a good way.

The next generation Bat and Cat must face off against Joker's latest plan, an old friend, while combating a rising panic in the streets as more and more people disappear. Who is taking all of Gotham's street children? What does Joker have in store for Cristen? What occurs when Damian Wayne is forced to face the true insecurities he hides within?

In a whirlwind of lies, blood, and a grayed line of justice and evil, Gotham's newest protector and future dark-night must understand the most important rule ever taught; no one is ever who they say they are.

_

...Here's a sneak peak you can't get anywhere else ;D

_

GOTHAM CITY; SOMERSET DISTRICT; PARK ROW (CRIME ALLEY) | SEVERAL YEARS AGO | CRISTEN

     THINGS, GOOD THINGS, began as they always did for Cristen; in the rain. Forecasts predicted a low of 35 and a high of 50 degrees Fahrenheit in Gotham City's center island of Sommerset, and the buckling sidewalks and sludged up streets of Crime Alley were spilling over with mist. At noon or midnight it was foggy in Gotham, because whatever will the place had was certainly a moody one. If she happened to know the time it was just because things like this only happened past seven at night. This was how Gotham preferred things: dark, polluted, and preferably in an alley at knifepoint.

Cristen pressed her nails into her palms. Gotham got what Gotham wanted, because here she was, in a dark, polluted alleyway. At knifepoint. But it wasn't raining yet.

There was something just plain magical about rain. The thing about it is that rain always come back, even if it took a day or a hundred years. Cristen hated things that couldn't come back. Everything good that had ever happened to Cristen had happened in the rain, and everything good in Cristen's life had left when the rain had withdrawn.

Now the one good thing—the last to stick it out despite the rain—was being held hostage, quivering hands grasping and tugging against the arm around her throat, eyes too young and too reckless to be full of so much fear. Cristen didn't want to think about fear. She wanted to think about the rain.

"Cristen," Laureline whimpered. It was a question abandoned by inflection, asking a dozen things at once. A vile elixir filled Cristen's stomach, thinking of the eleven-year-old girl, thinking of all her friend could've been at eleven years old if she hadn't dragged her into this.

She had met Laureline in the rain. Cristen wasn't very inclined to think about Sister Persephone's Home for Boys & Girls anyway, as it had been there that she and Laura had run away from. It was more of a doghouse than an adoption center. The two of them hadn't ever felt very home there at all, given how soft Laureline could be and how un-soft Cristen was, but that wasn't exactly why they were here instead of there.

"C'mon," said the mugger. The tattoo on his wrist said that he was from a gang in the Bowery, and she had to hold in a curse of frustration. It just had to be them. "I know it was you who took our shit, kid! You give us back the police radio you stole, and we give you back the girl."

He gestured loosely with the pistol. The darkness rippled and two more figures appeared, charged with the same weapons and the same predatory smiles. They didn't walk, but strode onto the scene, nothing but arrogance and control. It made her gut stir. The idea that someone could be comfortable with that weapon, understand one so well that it became an extension of them...

"Let her go," Cristen said. Thoughts of beating them raw, hurting them until they were incapable of hurting another, were ripe. She was barely twelve, homeless, and fully charged. Little kept her from opting for another approach.

"That's cute, comin' from you," scoffed one, waving the pistol near Cristen's face. She knew his name was Tye. "How old are you? Like, what, ten? Just hand it over. We know you took that radio!"

She looked at Laureline, "Run. Now."

If this wasn't Gotham, maybe Cristen would be at home, doing schoolwork and eating dinner. Maybe if this wasn't Gotham, she and Laureline wouldn't have ever met—Cristen knew the girl would be better off.

Maybe it was just her luck. It wasn't raining, but that didn't mean she wouldn't take the chance.

Cristen's hands snapped outward, shoving the Tye's gun-arm out of reach and slamming her knee into his stomach as hard as she could. He would have shot if she hadn't gotten in so close, so she didn't let him. A little sizzle of pain lights up in her neck. Cristen knows what it means.

Too quick, too fast, and too much of anything for them to comprehend, Cristen wrapped her arms around his shooting arm and cracked it in half like a glowstick. This happened too quick for any of them to notice—too quick for any of them to be afraid—so she took the pistol in one hand and crushed it whole.

This, they definitely noticed.

Tye threw himself out of Cristen's grip, clutching his arm and gaping at his weapon. Horror conquered his face, "...W-what are you?"

With a terrifying grin, she drew an S on her chest and whistled, miming flying with one hand. That was about the time they started shooting.

Of course, bullets didn't bounce off Cristen. She wasn't Superman, or Kryptonian, or whatever. Cristen had no clue what she was. Sure, it was real easy to crush guns in one hand, and move fast, and jump high, but it wasn't like Cristen could fly. It wasn't like she was a very good person, either. Too much of her time had been spent sobbing inside locked closets, hands clawing her ears shut, pressing herself into the floor and desperately—desperately trying to make the world shut up. Why was everything so loud? So fragile? So dangerous?

Two shots rang out in quick succession beside her face. They were close enough where Cristen could feel the ends of her hair sear, but late enough into her hit where she felt the familiar buzz at the base of her skull. Two against one? She could handle this.

But of course, she had spoken too soon. A pair of palms pinned her to the nearby dumpster, crushing her windpipe and pressing the air out of her like popped balloons. Cristen could see the blur of people behind the spots growing in her vision. Maybe she wasn't so strong after all.

Then, all at once, it was gone. She was dropped to the damp cement of the alley floor, hitting her head hard on the rim of the bin. There wasn't much time to register anything else but the pain, the white dots across her vision—then, the incoming body thrown over her head and into the trash.

Cristen hadn't realized it, but she'd closed her eyes and shielded her face with her arms. She just hoped she hadn't yelped or anything.

There was a beat of silence. The cool wind of the night rolled through the alley's mouth, sweeping over her and the ground in a darkening and unforgiving fog. Then the wind spoke, voice even and condescending and almost... boyish, somehow.

"You're stronger than I'd assumed you'd be," said the wind, "But you made an error. Your chin is low—towards your chest—and your elbows are tucked in when blocking. An amateur's mistake."

Cristen pulled her hands from her face, wondering why the fog was critiquing her block. Maybe she'd been hit too hard. "Um... thank you?"

Tsk. The wind clicked its tongue. Which made zero sense, because the wind shouldn't have a tongue.

Maybe that was because the wind... wasn't the wind. It looked more like a shadow. But when her vision cleared, she saw that it was actually a little boy (or at least he... looked like a little boy, almost vampiric half wrapped up in darkness like that), easily Cristen's age or younger. He had a boot on the thug that had manhandled Laureline, harshly binding his wrists with some kind of wire.

He wasn't the wind, but it was easier calling him that than Robin. There was no way in hell that Robin could be here. But the wind was always there, even when the rain wasn't.

He was the new one. It was hard not to notice the transition from gangly, broad-shouldered, bow-staff wielding supposed strategist of the Young Justice team, to—this. Cristen hadn't met the Robin before this one... but present-Robin was... short, and she could see the tip of a sword sheath under his cape as he approached.

Different. Special.

"Well?" He said, expectant, and she realized that he was holding out a hand to help her stand.

"My sorry. I mean! My bad. I'm sorry. Not my sorry," Cristen rushed. Her thoughts had molded into a thick sludge that she didn't feel like stepping through, but they seemed to be summarized pretty well when he pulled her up. "Um, wow. You're... Robin."

"I'm aware." He said, an odd combination of haughty and... proud? Pleased?

Cristen wavered on her feet and placed a hand on the wall to steady herself. (Russell had been tossed haphazardly into the bin, and she had completely forgotten if that had been her or not). She looked at him a lot like she'd look at a unicorn. Or a gargoyle come to life after falling in the radioactive Gotham River. Whatever the myth of the week was.

"Shit." It was an odd word coming from someone so young. Cristen felt the pain unfolding, her tough skin fighting against the incoming bruises. But that didn't matter right now. "Did you see where Laureline went?"

Robin studied her, almost as if he was about to ask her if she was alright, but turned his head away instead. "North. Meriwether street—didn't you see all the trash she turned up in her wake?"

Cristen felt her bones relax into her muscles. That was where home was. Good, she'd know to wait for her, then. In this neighborhood... calling the police just wasn't an option.

What did you say in this situation?

She'd heard the stories. There was a feeling in the back of her mind that the Gotham vigilantes didn't usually linger around the crime scene, and yet, here Robin was, hanging around like—well, like Robin. All he really seemed to be doing was looking up at the sky, more silent than stone, waiting for something. Cristen couldn't tell if he was breathing still. It was creepy, but lined up with all that she'd heard. (The boot on the thug didn't really add to the effect, though).

"Um, thank you," Cristen said. She tried not to think about how pathetic she looked, or how he probably had better places to be, "I'm... usually a lot better at this. He caught me off guard. I can handle myself. Are you—?"

"Fine," Robin said, whirling around. "Obviously."

He stuck her with such a piercing gaze that she was half-surprised his mask didn't burn up. Cristen tried not to shrink under the attention—he seemed like a kid from money with how talked, and Cristen was the exact opposite. She was just a homeless, just a kid, and he was... Robin. He'd saved the world more times than she could even think to count.

It startled her to believe it, but Robin was nearly everything Cristen wanted to be.

He scoffed a little. It felt like it was his version of a laugh, though. "And you are most certainly not."

"Oh, shaddap. I could totally kick your ass." She laughed a bit, the sound punched out of her in a single voice-warbling note. "You just got lucky, not to mention the fancy belt."

Robin stared at her for a long moment, trying to determine if she was serious or not. He only raised an eyebrow at her (or part of his mask had lifted like he did). She mentally checked that off: doesn't get jokes very easily.

"You're kidding." Robin said, flatly.

They stared at each other for another long breath.

Cristen was born in Gotham, so she knew what everyone in Gotham knew; the Batman and his companions were myths, and if they were real, they weren't human. Even the police would report the same things. Claws as long as my arm. Bulletproof. Wingspan like a bus. The only reason Cristen has registered him as Robin at all was the circle on his breast, gleaming under the light like real gold. The jagged cut of an R winked up at her under the moonlight.

But he was... here. He didn't have claws (a pretty big sword, maybe), he didn't look bulletproof, and he definitely didn't have wings. He was just... a kid. Maybe not a normal kid, but Cristen wasn't a normal kid either. The realization that Robin was like her hit her calmly, like a secret she had already really known.

Thus, she grinned at him, all teeth and completely out of her mind. "You heard me. I could kick your ass."

It was a little tentative, like he didn't do it much. Just a quirk of his lip. But after considering something... Robin smiled too. "Care to test that theory?"

     SHE'D DRAGGED HIM down the corner of Meriwether and Cooke, down the street to the corner of Somerset Island and to the roof against the docks of Morrison Harbor. They reached her favorite sitting spot with the help of Robin's grappling wire. Cristen could hear the late-night cars whizzing by on Madison Bridge if they went quiet, which was pretty easy with how little Robin spoke.

And when he did, it was nothing but smack.

"I still don't understand your excitement," Robin said, blandly. "I could beat you with both my hands tied behind my back and my eyes closed. You're simply begging to be bested."

She jumped a little bit at his voice. He wasn't very keen to hide the smug flick of his lip that produced, but was kind enough not to comment. When she said that she'd dragged him down the street, that'd been an exaggeration; she quickly discovered that he didn't like being out in the open, and had followed her the whole way over in the shadows. What a weirdo.

"I thought that... you could teach me some things. And whatever," she'd laughed, which rang a little bit louder than it usually did in the slums. "You're gonna be needing those hands to patch up when I kick your sorry behind."

Robin did that little scoff again. He shifted his stance, pushing his cape behind his elbows, apparently ready to teach. "Tsk."

Cristen ignored him in favor of being taught. The second the overzealous hit me left her mouth, Robin punched her so hard her teeth rattled. She knew then that he'd noticed the crushed gun and one of the gunmen's broken arm, because he seemed the type to hold back unless he knew Cristen could take it.

Cristen recoiled, but now that she had more of a chance to get into the zone, she threw one back at him. Maybe it was a little harder than she should have. He must have let it hit him out of pity or something, but whatever it was made her a bit mad, so she tried again and was blocked this time. It grew childish quickly, which went from slapping hands to a headlock just as fast.

Robin didn't really understand why she was laughing. He set her loose, only to watch a smile blossom on her face. The confusion that registered on his was granted with an explanation.

"Sorry. Laureline and I play-fight all the time, and I guess I'm just used to that," Cristen reached up to touch her jaw, missing Robin's furrowed brows at the term playfight. "You got a mean hit though. Anything to critique about me?"

There must have been a lot of logical things he could say, but he only smiled at her, all canines. "You hit like a girl."

"And how is that a bad thing?" Cristen frowned, an eyebrow firing.

Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Robin's ears seemed to pinken. "...It's not. I never said it was."

"Good," Cristen turned her head, still a little at a loss for words.

The more she thought about it, the more she stepped away from the scene... Cristen and Robin just play fought on a roof (above her favorite view, no less). She was about to initiate small talk. With Robin. But she ended up saying um at the same time as he went hh, so she politely nodded for him to go first. She wanted him to stay, but it was beginning to become clear that he was in a hurry to leave.

"Your balance is off and you focus more on your opponent than on yourself—your own footing, hand placement, etcetera. You seem to rely heavily on your strength and speed, which are formidable, but you need to put your focus to your attack style and momentum," Robin babbled, waving his hand in a knowledgeable and dismissive way. "You would need much more training if you were to even consider surpassing me. If such a thing is possible."

"Oh? So I'm formidable now, huh?" Cristen chuckled. The expression swiftly dropped, pinkened, and she shyly rubbed her the back of her neck. "But would you mind... uh, showing me? I don't think I really get it."

Robin ran her through it. After feebly punching his hand and pretty much klutzing her way through things, Cristen hit in a manner that he was pleased with and blocked on time. She remembers this moment with something akin to delight.

"Uh? And that was...?"

"Work on it," was all Robin said, but