Alfred shot up out of a dead sleep, his body instantly alert. A strobing red light and a frantic vibration on the personalized watch on his nightstand announced an emergency. The watch, a piece of Wayne technology, linked directly to the Batcave’s systems.

There was only one reason for it to activate. Bruce had told him years ago that if it ever went off, it meant one thing: Life or death.

He immediately picked up the secure line phone on his nightstand and dialed a number he hadn’t used in a long, long time.

“Your help is needed,” he said, his voice clipped and urgent. “ETA 17 minutes.”

The call was brief, and he didn’t wait for a response.

He then ran to Hailey’s room, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He opened the door without knocking, startling her awake. She sat up, a gasp on her lips, but Alfred quickly hushed her, his finger to his own lips.

“Quietly, Miss Hailey, we mustn’t wake young Master Richie.” As he spoke, he tossed her a robe from her chair, grabbing her hand before she could fully process what was happening.

“Master Bruce is in trouble. He sent an SOS. We must prepare,” he explained quickly, his voice low and firm, as he pulled her out of the room and down the stairs.

Hailey’s mind was racing. What happened? Is Bruce alright? Her eyes began to well up, a wave of fear and panic threatening to overwhelm her.

Alfred, sensing her distress, gave her a reassuring squeeze. “There will be time for that later. We need to prepare.”

They made their way directly to the infirmary in the Batcave, their movements coordinated and purposeful. Without a word, they began to set up the trauma unit, the sterile instruments and medical equipment a grim testament to the life Bruce led, and the dangers that were now rushing back home.

As they prepared, Hailey’s hands shook and her mind was a tempest of fear and guilt. She thought about the mission, the information she had so confidently provided, the look on Bruce’s face as he had absorbed it all. A devastating thought took root and began to bloom in her mind: He’ll blame me.

A thousand frantic questions raced through her head. What if I gave him bad intel? What if he was ambushed because of something I missed? What if this is all my fault? Her heart was breaking with fear for Bruce, but at the same time, it was a profound, helpless ache.

The door to the infirmary hissed open, and a trusted surgeon, Dr. Stephen Gaines, entered, a man known to be completely outside their circle yet deeply trusted. He quickly assessed the prepared trauma unit, his eyes taking in the instruments and the sterile field.

“How much longer?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

Just then, the deep roar of the Batmobile could be heard echoing down the tunnel. The sound grew louder, culminating in a violent screech as the vehicle came to a halt.

The canopy slid open.

Batman’s head was down, his body slumped. Blood was visible on his lips and jaw, dripping slowly onto the console.

Hailey trembled with a fresh wave of terror.

Alfred, seeing her distress, grabbed her arm. His voice, though low, was sharp with urgency. “Suck it up, Miss Hailey! He needs our help!”

The three of them, working as a frantic, coordinated team, rushed to the Batmobile. They gently, but quickly, helped the injured Batman from the cockpit and onto the gurney. They rushed him into the scanner, the medical imagery immediately displaying a grim reality.

“Six broken ribs,” Dr. Gaines announced, his voice tight. “A punctured lung, and a shattered orbital lobe.” He pointed to the screen, his hand shaking slightly. “He’s drowning in his own blood. We’ve got to work quickly.”

Recognizing that Hailey, in her state of emotional distress, would be of no use, Alfred gently but firmly guided her to a chair.

“Stay here,” he instructed. He and the surgeon then began to work, a silent, well-oiled machine of efficiency and desperation.

In reality, this was only the second time they had been forced to work together on an emergency of this magnitude, yet they moved with the seamless coordination of a thousand prior experiences.

Hailey sat in the chair, a helpless spectator. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she watched Alfred and the surgeon work on the man she had come to care for so deeply. The image of the fractured ribs, punctured lung, and shattered orbital lobe on the scanner screen was seared into her mind.

She blamed herself, her thoughts a relentless torrent of self-recrimination. This all is my fault. I gave him the information. I put him in danger. She should have told him sooner how she felt, she thought. Before it was too late. Before he’d gotten hurt.

The frantic pace in the infirmary slowly gave way to a tense, expectant stillness. Dr. Gaines, finally stepping back from the operating table, pulled off his gloves with a snap. Exhaustion was etched on his face.

“That’s all I can do for him, Alfred,” he said, his voice low and weary. “The rest… the rest is up to him now.”

Hailey, who had been watching with bated breath, immediately rushed to his side.

“Will he be okay?” she asked, her voice cracking with desperation.

The surgeon, meeting her gaze with a somber look, repeated his earlier words. “It’s up to him.”

Hailey’s control finally broke. She collapsed against the gurney, her body shaking with sobs, her hands clutching at Bruce’s.

“I’m SO sorry, Bruce,” she cried, her voice a raw whisper of pain and regret. “This is all my fault. I’m SO sorry.”

Alfred, seeing the raw emotion and the need for a private moment, simply let them be, quietly stepping out of the infirmary with the surgeon and into the silent cavern of the Batcave.

She sat by Bruce’s side, replaying the entire sequence of events in her mind over and over. The cold shoulder, the picture on the nightstand, her defiance, the information she’d given him, the SOS call, the raw, visceral sight of him broken in the infirmary.

The guilt was a heavy weight in her gut, a physical manifestation of her fear and regret. She held his hand, her fingers intertwined with his, and refused to let go.

***

For three days and three nights, she kept her vigil. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. She was just there, beside him, a silent, unwavering presence, holding his hand.

Finally, her body could take no more. Exhaustion, a relentless force, did not ask for permission. It simply took her. Her head drooped, her grip on his hand slackened slightly, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She awoke to the gentle touch of a hand on her head, her body stiff from sleeping in the chair. Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the dim light of the infirmary.

She looked up, and her heart nearly stopped.

It was Bruce. He was pale, a bandage covering the side of his face, and his movements were slow, but he was awake. His hand, gentle and warm, was stroking her hair.

He managed a weak, pained smile. “I… forgot… the… ice… cream.”

She half-laughed, the sound a choked sob of relief and exhaustion. “I’m so, so sorry, Bruce. This is all my fault. I gave you the information. I never should have…”

He shook his head, a pained expression on his face, cutting her off. In a broken, almost imperceptible voice, he rasped, “Not… your… fault.”

She told him to rest.

He drifted back to sleep, his hand still warm in hers, his last whispered words a balm to her guilt-ridden soul.

Tears welled in her eyes once more, but this time they were tears of relief and love. She started crying again, her hand coming up to gently stroke his hair.

Something inside her snapped.

The helpless tears stopped, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. The fire in her belly, a long-dormant flame of fury and righteous indignation, began to grow. She kissed his forehead one last time, a silent promise on her lips, then marched with purpose from the infirmary.

She went straight to the vault, her eyes scanning the rows of intricate suits and powerful gadgets.

There! That one.

It was a smaller suit, lighter than Batman’s, but still armored. She quickly donned the suit, the cool, unfamiliar material settling around her. She looked in the mirror, taking in the sleek, dark form staring back. Batgirl. How utterly ironic.

She sprinted to the Batmobile and wrenched open the driver’s seat. She frantically pushed every button she could find until the canopy finally closed and the engines fired to life with a powerful growl.

She grabbed the yoke, her knuckles white, and hit the gas. The force of the acceleration pressed her into the seat, threatening to overwhelm her. She thought she’d crash, but somehow the car seemed to drive itself, a silent, knowing machine.

On a whim, she said, her voice filled with a fierce determination, “Take me back to Ajax where Batman was.”

The car’s computer, with a calm, synthesized voice, said, “Acknowledged.”

The Batmobile accelerated even more, a dark bullet hurtling through the night towards the destination. Hailey, her hands gripping the yoke, felt a jolt of empowerment. She started giving the computer orders, her voice firm and decisive.

She commanded, “Scan for bad guys.”

“No heat signatures detected. No movement. The area is clear,” the computer’s voice answered calmly as the Batmobile pulled to a stop inside the ravaged Ajax Chemical Plant.

***

The silence was deafening, the only sound the low hum of the Batmobile’s idling engines.

Hailey hopped out, the Batgirl uniform surprisingly limber and comfortable. It moved with her, not encumbering her as she walked through the wreckage towards the tunnel where Batman had been ambushed.

“Well, well, well… if it’s not the Bat-Bitch.” A deep, resonating voice echoed through the dark tunnel, sending a shiver of dread down Hailey’s spine. The air seemed to thicken, the sound waves of his voice vibrating against the walls.

Hailey knew instantly who it was. The sheer power in his voice alone was enough to tell her it was Bane. Her brain screamed at her, a primal urge to run, to flee this immense, undeniable danger. But her feet stayed planted on the cold, concrete floor.

She didn’t wait. Fueled by a desperate fury, she immediately attacked. Her first move was to create chaos: she deployed two smoke grenades at Bane’s feet. The chemical plant air immediately filled with a thick, choking cloud of white vapor. Bane roared in frustration, his massive figure momentarily obscured.

She was a blur of motion, a flurry of precise strikes, and a series of well-aimed gadgets, all delivered in the few seconds of obscured visibility. She shot two miniature tasers from her gauntlets, aiming for the vulnerable points on his neck and wrist. The electricity sparked violently against the thick, insulated hide of his armor. He staggered, the powerful shock momentarily interfering with his nerve signals, but it was nothing more than a painful distraction.

Bane, for his part, fought with brute, overwhelming strength, a human wrecking ball of muscle and rage. Hailey, however, was faster, smarter, her movements a fluid dance that capitalized on his lumbering power.

Images of Bruce, lying broken and pale in a pool of his own blood, flashed through her mind, steeling her resolve and pushing her past the limits of her fear.

She ducked under a massive fist, spun, and landed a hard blow to his ribs, but he barely seemed to notice. He swung back, and she wasn’t fast enough. He caught her with a glancing blow, but it was enough. The force of it was immense, sending her flying across the room and crashing into a concrete wall with a sickening thud.

It hurt. Every nerve ending in her body screamed in protest. Her head spun, and she slumped to the floor, her vision swimming. She spit blood from her lips, the metallic taste stinging.

“Tough little bitch, aren’t you?” Bane growled, his voice thick with a mix of surprise and malice. “I’ll put you back in that wheelchair you crawled out of.”

Hailey knew she had only seconds before he closed the distance. As Bane charged, she reached into her utility belt and threw a flash bang grenade straight at his face. The sudden, deafening sound and blinding light were amplified by the close quarters of the tunnel.

Bane howled, clutching at his eyes and shaking his helmeted head violently, his perfect charge broken by the sensory overload.

Hailey met his next charge, the massive figure now blindly stumbling, a blur of rage. She dodged his attack, her mind razor-sharp, her movements a swift, calculated counter.

His blind stumbling and flailing of his arms left a critical part of his gear exposed. She capitalized on it instantly. With a quick flick of her wrist, she deployed a small, razored Batarang, cutting his venom tube. The source of his monstrous strength was severed.

Bane let out a series of agonizing screams, the sound of a beast in pain, as his massive body began its slow descent to the ground. She watched him, her mouth curved into a grim, ruthless line.

Venom pooled around him, a thick, green liquid, as his body seemed to shrink, the massive muscles deflating until he lay unconscious on the ground.

Hailey watched him for a moment before snapping a pair of specialized handcuffs on his wrists, their metal cuffs designed to hold even a man of his brute strength.

She started dragging him towards the gaping hole.

Halfway there, she stops, puts her hands on her knees, leaning over, gasping for breath, the exhaustion and adrenaline crash hitting her all at once.

“I should… kill you… for what… you did… to Batman,” she forced out, her voice ragged with the effort of breathing. “But Noooooooo… I’m dragging your sorry ass instead, because… I’M TRYING TO BE A BETTER PERSON!” She punctuated each word with a kick to the unconscious Bane.

His immense weight a challenge, even with the enhanced suit, she continued dragging him until finally reaching the Batmobile.

She dropped his leg and then kicked him one last time, “Asshole!”

Reaching in, she activated the comm. “H…H… Hello?” she said, her voice a little breathless. “Is anyone there?”

“Who is this?” Commissioner Gordon’s voice answered, sharp and authoritative.

“Um… it… it’s Batgirl,” she stammered, the name feeling strange on her tongue.

A long silence followed on the other end of the line. Gordon’s mind was racing. Could it truly be my daughter? No, Barbara was paralyzed. This isn’t her voice.

“Batgirl… what do you want?” he finally answered, his voice a low growl.

“I got Bane,” she replied, her voice gaining a note of authority. “He hurt Batman really, really bad. He’s here at Ajax, ready for whatever you do with him.”

Gordon’s respect deepened for this “Batgirl” who captured Bane.

“I’ll be there ASAP,” he said.

“Thank you,” she answered, a tremor of relief in her voice.

She climbed into the Batmobile, the canopy closing over her with a soft hiss. The interior was dark and silent for a moment before she spoke.

“Computer, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” the synthesized voice responded.

“Can you take me back to the Batcave?” she asked, her voice tired but firm.

“Affirmative.” The Batmobile’s engines roared to life once again, the powerful vehicle turning and speeding away from the Ajax Chemical Plant.

***

As the car hurtled through the night, the radio came to life.

“Miss Hailey?” It was Alfred.

She hesitated, her heart sinking. She finally answered, “Yes, Alfred?”

“I must admit, taking the Batmobile out without permission was quite a transgression, even for you,” he said, a note of stern disapproval in his tone.

“But I had a good reason,” she protested, a flicker of her earlier defiance returning.

“You can tell me about it when you get back,” Alfred replied, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Her heart sank. She knew she was in trouble. The feeling was all too familiar, like being a kid called into the principal’s office. She really didn’t want to go back to face the music, but she did.

The Batmobile returned to the cave, and the canopy hissed open. Alfred was clearly taken aback. He stood there for a moment, his usual composure rattled as he watched Batgirl jump out of the cockpit. He cleared his throat.

She sheepishly removed her cowl, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her eyes full of a wild, desperate energy.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” she said, her voice trembling as fresh tears began to form. “I HAD to. I had to do something.”

Alfred walked toward her, his gaze firm but not without concern.

“And what exactly did you accomplish, Miss Hailey? You went off half-cocked, risking your life and Master Bruce’s secret. Did it make you feel better?” His admonishment was sharp, a direct challenge to her impulsive actions. “This is not a game, it is not a mission for amateurs. This is a life, not just your own, on the line.”

Her voice, now small and defeated, barely a whisper, was a stark contrast to her earlier defiance. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. She knew he was right, every word a stinging truth.

“I got Bane. Commissioner Gordon is picking him up.” She finally managed to say.

Alfred’s stern expression gave way to a look of utter bewilderment.

“YOU?” he asked, the single word filled with disbelief. “You… apprehended Bane?”

She nodded, the memories of the fight flooding back. She told him everything, from the surge of adrenaline to the cold, hard logic of her attack. She wanted to kill him for hurting Bruce, but she didn’t. She could have, she admitted. The thought had crossed her mind.

Alfred listened to her, his expression a mixture of awe and concern. When she finished, he simply nodded slowly.

“Miss Hailey,” he said, his voice now soft with a profound respect, “I do believe you have buried the very last vestiges of your former life.”

Hailey, still bruised and tired, managed a small, genuine smile.

“Alfred…? Hailey…?” a weak voice called from the infirmary.

They both rushed to his side. Bruce was sitting up, his face a grimace of pain, his bandaged side and face a stark reminder of his injuries. His unbandaged eye, though weary, were sharp with confusion as he took in Hailey’s appearance. Her bruised face and the sight of her standing in Barbara’s suit, which he had kept locked in the vault, stunned him.

Alfred immediately admonished him. “Master Bruce, you will lie back down this instant! You have six broken ribs and a punctured lung!”

“And a shattered orbital lobe.” Hailey added.

Bruce turned his head slowly, his eye narrowing, giving her a look that was part admonishment and part sheer, unadulterated surprise. He managed to sit up straighter, the effort clearly costing him.

“You could have been killed,” he said, his voice raspy and low, filled with a mix of fear and anger.

Hailey met his gaze directly, a new resolve hardening in her own eyes.

“I know. But you were…” she gestured to his injuries, her hands trembling. “You were almost killed, and it was my fault for giving you the intel. I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. You taught me that you don’t do nothing.”

Alfred, seeing the raw emotion in their exchange, stepped in.

“Master Bruce, if I may,” he said, his tone commanding their attention. “Miss Hailey… she managed to subdue Bane. He is no longer a threat. Commissioner Gordon is picking him up as we speak.”

Bruce’s eye widened, the surprise overwhelming the pain. He looked from Alfred’s face, to Hailey’s, a profound realization dawning on him. She didn’t just survive; she had gone out and succeeded where he had failed.

Bruce’s eyes, still wide with shock and pain, softened as he looked at Hailey. The anger and fear that had been there moments before faded, replaced by a deep, weary concern.

“I just… I just don’t want to see you hurt,” he said, his voice a low, pained admission.

Hailey’s defiant posture faltered for a moment, her own pain and fear bubbling to the surface.

“And do you think I like seeing you hurt?” she countered, her voice trembling with emotion. “I don’t, MISTER Bruce Wayne! I spent three days and three nights watching you lie there, not knowing if you would even wake up! Every moment was agony! I have half a mind to kick your butt right now for putting me through that!”

The fire in her eyes was not just anger.

“Why?!” she demanded, her voice and question sharp, cutting through the tense silence of the infirmary. “Why don’t you want to see me hurt, Bruce?! Tell me why!”

Alfred, sensing the gravity of the moment, let it play out, standing silently by the infirmary door.

Bruce, his own emotions a chaotic mess, stammered, his words catching in his throat.

He looked at Hailey, at her bruised face and her defiant stance, a mirror of his own relentless spirit. He saw his own pain reflected in her eyes, and the thought of her being hurt, truly hurt, was more terrifying than anything Bane had done to him.

“Say it, Bruce!” Hailey insisted, her voice breaking. “Tell! Me! Why! TELL ME!”

“You’re important to m… you’re important to Richie,” he finally said, the words a painful, inadequate lie.

Disgust flickered across Hailey’s face, a look of profound disappointment. She shook her head slowly, her eyes welling up with fresh tears that weren’t of sadness, but of pure frustration and hurt.

Without a word, she turned and left the infirmary, her footsteps heavy and deliberate. She walked into the vault, her movements mechanical as she began to remove the Batgirl suit, the symbol of her defiant act now feeling hollow and meaningless. As she exited the vault, her civilian clothes on and her heart aching, she gave him one last glance, a look that spoke of a feelings she was now burying.

“You’re an asshole….” she whispered, her voice raw with a quiet devastation. She then headed upstairs, leaving him alone with his pain and his unspoken truths.

Alfred approached, his footsteps soft but his expression firm. He watched Hailey’s retreating form disappear up the stairs before turning his attention to Bruce, who was now lying back, his eye closed in pain and defeat.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred began, his voice low and serious. “Forgive me for interfering, but I cannot sit idly by and watch you throw away the one thing that has brought a genuine smile to your face in years.”

Bruce’s eye remained closed.

“I can’t, Alfred,” he said, his voice raw. “You know what happens.”

“And what if she is the one to break that pattern?” Alfred countered, his voice unwavering.

Bruce looked away, his gaze fixed on a point on the ceiling, but Alfred caught the single, unshed tear that glistened in his eye.

“Very well, Sir.” Alfred’s voice was soft, and with that final, respectful word, he left Bruce alone.

The infirmary was silent once more, the low hum of the monitors a steady, rhythmic presence. Bruce lay there, still, his eye fixed on the ceiling.

His thoughts, his old, familiar thoughts, were a prison. I can’t risk it. I can’t. Everyone I let in dies. It was a refrain he had chanted to himself for years, a shield he had built from the broken pieces of his heart. It was a lie he had clung to, a cold, hard logic he used to justify the solitary existence of Batman. But now, it felt less like a shield and more like a cage, and the thought of Hailey, hurt and angry and raw with emotion, made the bars feel tighter than ever before.

I’m risking enough just for loving Richie and taking him in. His mind tried to cling to the illogical, to find a loophole in his own self-imposed rules. I’m risking my heart for Richie, who now sees me as another father. Is that not enough? The thought spiraled and turned on itself, his logic failing him.

He was a man of reason, a man who built his life on logic and control, yet here he was, a prisoner of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I love Richie, and I’m willing to accept that risk. So why am I so terrified of doing the same for Hailey? Why is my fear of her getting hurt, my fear of letting her in, so much greater than my fear of losing Richie?

He was a broken man, and the woman he had just pushed away was the only one who seemed to understand.

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.