a Catwoman Continuation

by thatcraftykid


— Florence + the Machine —

When we first came here we were cold and we were clear

With no colors on our skin, we were light and paper-thin

And when we first came here we were cold and we were clear

With no colors on our skin, 'til you let the spectrum in

—Gotham City, September 2016—

"What do you see?" he asks her in a voice breathless, gruff with exertion. That voice, almost. A shade of it.

The face she holds in her hands is half-shadowed by the dark hair that has fallen over her left shoulder. His eyes are a glittering black, a shining hazel.

She arches her spine to curl in close. "I see…" Her breath flutters on the sharp line of his cheek, on the soft curve of his lip. The shadow moves with the tilt of her head. She aligns herself with him, nose to nose. "All of you."

His mouth pushes against hers, his hand pushes his body up. He presses her body, her mouth down with enough quick force to knock over the lantern beside them on the floor.

Without its flickering light, as he pulls back she loses him to the darkness. Except for the hot, rough weight of his chest, rising and falling against her rib cage.

His fingers find the crease in her brows without hesitation. He slides her eyelids closed. "What do you see?" he asks again in a voice that sounds lighter. Farther away.

He must feel the movement of her eyes as she searches the impenetrable dark for his right answer. The pressure of his fingertips increase.

A slow explosion of color starts behind her lids.

—Gotham City, March 2016—

What she saw was a light. She closed her eyes so tight against the bright, white flash that bursts of color stained her vision. They shone like a specter when she forced herself to watch his end.

A weak, high-pitched noise escaped from her throat, muffled by her shaking palm but not unnoticed. A heavy arm went around her shoulders.

As a thick cloud mushroomed over the skyline of the city that – after all she'd said and all he'd done – the city that could be saved, a police commissioner held her, convicted cat burglar Selina Kyle, like a friend as dear as the one they believed lost to that colorless light.

She'd thought him lost before. Thought him lost to the deep shadows cast by a terrorist, but she had not been sure. She'd slunk back, taking with her the agonizing hope of possibility.

Now she had only blinding certainty.

Commissioner Jim Gordon's embrace was steady, with no motive beyond a sharing of knowledge. He murmured, "The Batman." A sharing of pain. "Bruce Wayne." Of guilt.

Selina waited until daylight shimmered through the cloud. She imagined its heat was the sting behind her eyes. Or that it was relief, plain and simple.

She turned her back to Gordon and took off her mask, dripping the wetness that had pooled at the bottom onto the cracked pavement beneath her clicking heels.

Three times Selina had walked away from certain death because of a man she would never know but would always understand. Not on the surface, but deep down in the place inside of her that made her break her number one rule and sacrifice a sure escape.

Not much of a sacrifice, set against his.

From behind, Gordon said, "There are a lot of criminals out there needing to be put back in Blackgate Prison."

Her pace slowed to a halt. A change of heart didn't a clean slate make. "You know who you're talking to, don't you?" she asked in her trademark arch tone.

"Yes. Someone who is…uniquely qualified to assist the Gotham PD."

Selina turned in profile so he could see the disdainful curl of her lip. She didn't mean to show him the quiver. "What makes you think I'd even consider it?"

"He trusted you enough to go to war with him. That's enough for me to trust you'll want to make sure the peace he bought us was worth the price."

Even with her eyes closed, the spectrum of color lingered in the darkness. Three lives she owed the Batman.

Selina did a sharp turn on her heel, slipping on her mask as she went. Leaned over his psychotic motorcycle, she said with borrowed authority, "Not all 'criminals' deserve to rot in Blackgate."

"I'm only interested in the ones who do."

She revved the engine, forcing Gordon to take a step back. "I'm done when I say I'm done. Then I walk away and no one follows."

"You have my word, Ms. Kyle." A promise from someone who, according to his own confession, for eight years was able to praise the mad man who'd tried to kill his child with a poker face even she'd never thought to question.

But if they were talking about who the Batman trusted and why that should matter, it had to cut both ways. Selina nodded once and pulled down her goggles.

As she whipped the cycle around, Gordon called out, "How will I get in touch with you?"

"Don't call me, I'll call you." A passable line to speed off on, but her heart wasn't in it. It felt far away.

Six miles away, if she was going to give in to the same stupid sentiment that had made her steal precious seconds from him for a kiss when a nuclear holocaust was on the line.

They could have gone anywhere. One of them still could.

Selina drove around Gotham City on a vehicle built for war wearing high-tech, custom-fit black leather in broad daylight. She heard no gunshots, no screams. People took to the streets for quiet reflection, arms linked around each other.

After their initial shock of hope faded with the sound of the engine, she might as well have been invisible. Except when she jumped a curb in the Narrows. There she sped by a teenage girl in ripped jeans holding up her mother, who had one arm in a tattered bathrobe. Five months of hardship dropped from the girl's face as she watched Selina maneuver the savior of Gotham's cycle like it was hers by right.

She could have used it to get off the island. But Gordon said it, she had to know the peace he bought them was worth the price. And the one way to do that was to do what he would do – watch over his city.

By nightfall, the only fire in Gotham was the one relit on top of the bridge. From Uptown to Old Town, they came out to watch the symbol of their freedom from fear burn for them. Under its light, they organized safe havens and search parties.

She knew then that her promise to Gordon wasn't going to amount to much work. The citizens of Gotham had taken back their city with the strength of its protector's convictions.

Selina Kyle was a citizen of Gotham. Born and raised, for better or worse. For worse, her six-inch thick police report would say. She would have agreed months ago. Even days ago.

Tonight she was back in the sewers, that last refuge of the reckoners. The light of his idling cycle made a trail of blood gleam in the darkness. Selina traced the uneven wall, a tight smile on her masked face at the thought of wounded prey. Barsard, mangled and cornered, was nobody's right-hand anymore.

Further along, the angle of the blood trail slumped and thickness spread. In several places, it was clear he'd stumbled to his knees and had managed to get back on his feet only with an extraordinary show of will.

Selina readied her Glock, her admiration for enemies a very finite feeling. Her hand atop bloody prints, she climbed a rusted ladder through a blasted opening to prowl the dim, deserted corridors of Gotham General. The sick and wounded had been the first evacuated from the city, their doctors with them.

Except for the two voices that carried out into the hall, one an anguished cry to save the arm and the other a dry comment about the effectiveness of a surgeon with a gaping skull.

When Selina made her entrance, a mild-faced man in his mid-forties looked at her over the semi-automatic jammed against his teeth and said, "The candy striper's here to see you."

Half a second later, the doctor and Selina were both ducking erratic fire. Selina swept the gurney out from under Barsard and followed the sound of bones crunching with the cock of her pistol. She'd reactivated the safety, but Barsard was too delirious to notice. He looked into the barrel of her gun with crazed anticipation. She could give him exactly what he seemed to want, and the world would be better off.

Selina sighed as she cold-clocked Barsard. On her headset, she put out the signal to Gordon and went about scavenging.

The doctor crawled out from under the counter while disassembling Barsard's rifle. Off her quick look, he explained, "Combat surgeon."

Assessing the knife Barsard had strapped to his shoulder, Selina added it to her belt. To the doctor, she said, "You're welcome to his arm before the Feds claim the rest of him."

"I have more deserving patients to attend to," was the doctor's stiff reply. Selina read his name off his tag. Dr. Lennon, white coat splattered with blood fresh and dry, was every bit the exhausted Gotham do-gooder currently in vogue. As he left, an odd sort of reluctance about him, he said, "I am doing my best."

"Aren't we all," Selina murmured to the empty room, standing from her crouch.

Her eyes were locked on the bracelet that had been secured in Barsard's inside jacket pocket. The sturdy wood had a coiled design and weathered pattern. On each end was the head of a snake, eyeing itself. Selina knew, as sure as she was stealing it, that the bracelet had belonged to the woman created to be chosen. 'Miranda Tate,' heir to the League of Shadows. Snakes in the grass.

The bracelet cut into her fingers when her hand was seized by a leather glove. Into her ear, a hoarse voice said, "Your best is still a thief?"

Rage at the poor imitation fueled her response as she slammed him into the floor. "I thought I already taught you a lesson about sneaking up on me," she said, ripping off his balaclava.

Detective Robin John Blake righted himself and the gurney. "I wasn't sneaking. I came to borrow him." He picked up Barsard under the elbows and indicated that he wanted Selina to get the feet.

She took a seat on the counter to watch Blake struggle in comfort. "While I admire your persistence in pissing off the Feds, what're you gonna do? Torture him?" She smirked at her own suggestion. "Anyway, he's a fanatic. He won't talk."

Proud of himself, Blake said, "I already found out he's part of something called the – " He hauled Barsard onto the bed with considerable effort and grunted, "Shadow League."

Selina bit back the fear that name had come to inspire in her. "Also known as the 'Out of Your' League."

Strapping Barsard to the table, Blake said, "Look, I know I'm not him. I can't even touch him." His hand waved away the very idea. "But they're all acting like this is the last terrible thing that'll ever happen to Gotham. Maybe they need to think that way to keep sane, I don't know. But this city needs someone to be ready."

The sour look Selina was fixing him with didn't wipe the earnest off his face, so she said, "You think this city needs another dead hero? There is no 'ready' when it comes to these guys. Not even for him."

Blake would have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb to miss the way she choked at the end. "You and him," he said, placing significance where there hadn't been time and drawing what should have been the inevitable conclusion. "You two were…" Blake ducked his chin, some internal Boy Scout code not allowing him to finish that sentence.

He had no idea how right he was not to.

"Oh, dear." Selina rearranged her legs. "You're blushing."

Blake shrugged. "I just figured he had to have meant something to you, or you wouldn't be doing all this." When he started wheeling Barsard away, he didn't bother asking her to get the door for him. "No offense, but you're not the type."

Selina didn't answer his smile, but she was grateful that somebody around here appreciated that.

The legacy of the Batman, she thought as she hid away his cycle and traded in her catsuit for head-to-heel Prada. The power of a Bruce Wayne guilt-trip, she was thinking when she redistributed stockpiled goods by day and rid the streets of the insane by night.

He'd given her a clean slate, knowing even before she did that she'd stick around to earn it.

Heel tapping a propped briefcase, Selina made a show of her impatience. She examined her diamond-studded modern art piece of a wristwatch. It was useless for telling the time, but it did draw the squint-eyed ire of the harried woman making Selina's afternoon. Too bad there wasn't a casual way to flaunt an inscription.

She sent a bland smile across the damaged coffee table. "Mrs. Earle, I do hope this delay isn't a sign of noncompliance."

Kathleen Coats-Earle, she of the relentless 'take back our streets' persecutions, continued to read over the itemized list of charges she and her family had accrued over five months of shelter in Selina's neighborhood. After hemming and hawing and readjusting last season's blazer, now a size too small, Mrs. Earle put down the document and picked up her saucer of tea. "I honestly don't believe your firm has much of a case."

"I think you'll find that many in your social circle shared that opinion." Selina sat forward, her chin angled down and fingers clasped together. "They changed their minds when they understood how vigorously I'm prepared to defend the people I represent."

Mrs. Earle retained her haughty demeanor longer than most, but she, too, was unsettled by a glimpse of something feral behind the eyes of a polished young woman. She shifted against temporary upholstery. "This is blatant discrimination." When she sniffed, her leathery skin flapped. "I don't expect to collect rent from the thugs who dragged us from our home."

Placing the open briefcase on the coffee table, Selina laid on sympathy as thick as she pleased: "Life can be so unfair." She walked out of the once-luxury apartment loaded down with cash, a smirking modern day Robin Hood in a truly fantastic pantsuit.

If only he could see her now. He'd be insufferable.

To distract herself while she waited for the elevator, she texted an account of the bulldog to amuse Jen. Selina had almost pushed Bruce to his usual place in the middle of her mind when the doors opened on one of the last people to have seen them together. One of the few who ever had.

Lucius Fox, his arm in a sling, looked as if he'd aged ten years in ten days. He didn't spare Selina a glance when she came in. She stood in silence, not knowing if she wanted to be recognized not.

A noise from her phone made the decision, drawing Fox's attention. After the smallest of double takes, he took off his hat for her. "Forgive me. We were never properly introduced."

Selina skipped the obvious condolences, saying, "I heard the Feds were on you pretty hard."

"I'd have more success pleading ignorance of embezzlement," Fox agreed. "But no matter."

Frowning, she said, "What if they bring charges?"

"Oh, no. The worst they could do is pressure me into early retirement."

"Your job is worth his secret? He's not in a position to mind."

"Ours is a circle of trust," Fox replied, looking at her like he wondered if she belonged in it. "You seem to be suggesting that he in some way let us down." Hat back on, he said, "I can assure you, it was the other way around."

Selina was left behind in the elevator with polite regards and sinking claustrophobia.

—Gotham City, April 2016—

When Selina sat on the fire escape of her Old Town walkup on the morning the paper announced a small, private burial at an undisclosed time for eccentric recluse and terror victim Bruce Wayne, she could think of nothing but how little time they'd had together in contrast to their vast potential.

Never had she been more amused than when she was perched right here, sipping tea and watching a former billionaire haggle a low-rent cab driver over a fifty-dollar fare while the profits from his Lamborghini were sewn into the lining of her suitcase.

'My husband will be taking a cab home' – as far as lines went, right up there with, 'My mother warned me about getting into cars with strange men.' She'd been so smug. A cat who thought she had two rodents cornered. Their game could have lasted years. Should have.

Would have, she knew in her bones, had she not given in when Bane's thugs came calling. She wondered if she would have done any different if she'd known that she'd be selling the soul of the fat-rat billionaire along with the bat.

Even dripping tears onto a crumpled newspaper, Selina knew she wouldn't have. She needed that guilt, those five months of regret. She was a better person for them. They all were.

And he was better than any of them, and the worst of all of them. A martyr.

'A recluse in later years, Wayne made his last public appearance at the charity ball of elusive Enterprises board member Miranda Tate, still listed among the missing.' Adjacent to all those lies was a moment of truth captured in black and white. The caption: 'Wayne, seen here dancing with an unknown masked woman.' His eyes forever on her lips.

Selina tore their photograph in half, then shredded the article. Jen, who had never seen her so pathetic outside of a con, hovered on the edge of her breakdown. She hid her worried expression behind a memorable book with a gleaming cover.

"It wasn't supposed to end this way," Selina explained, letting the shredded paper fly off her fingers into the wind. They weren't – he wasn't – supposed to end this way.

Jen squeaked her throat clean, making new tears gather on Selina's eyelashes in anticipation. Like Holly before her, the dumb kid imagined herself a red light district philosopher. But goddamn if Selina didn't love the Robinson sisters for it.

"'The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.'"

Tears streamed down Selina's naked face as Jen continued to read the story of Sydney Carton and the seamstress girl he meets on his way to death.

"'Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?' 'Yes.' She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face.'" Hers isn't the pure love of the girl he loses to the man he thinks more worthy, but she is his last taste of a passion separate from his surrender. And that has to mean enough.

Selina stood and held out her hand to lead Jen to the living room where her suitcase was ready for the driver waiting downstairs.

She produced her most ostentatious piece, her emergency cash cow. Jen's eyes almost rolled into the back of her head when Selina placed the tiara on her head.

"Swap me," she said, and put the book in a black nylon bag.

Jen, one hand stroking diamonds, chewed on her lip as she watched Selina zip up her small suitcase. "'Is the moment come?'" she asked as Selina approached the door.

Selina put on a smile. Ruffled Jen's fluffy blonde hair, swatted her tight little ass, and gave her a long kiss on the forehead.

"I don't want to come back here and see you on the streets, princess," Selina warned Jen.

By twenty-one, Selina had been taking care of herself for five years. Jen had proven more rooted in Gotham than her sister. She had people in her life worth keeping out of trouble for, if the rules Selina had tried to teach didn't stick.

"Penthouses all the way down." Jen crossed her heart. An innocent pantomime of the threat eagle-eyed Barsad had made toward her before Selina came up with her plan to betray Gotham's Dark Knight.

Outside, Selina gave the driver her suitcase and an address to pick her up from later. Jen waved her last goodbye from the balcony.

In her defense, the back entrance was wide open. How could a girl resist?

Selina, mask in place, stood up from the cycle as the breeze she brought inside settled. Stray papers twirled down to the cracked marble floor of the Gotham City Police Department headquarters.

"Is the Commissioner in?" Selina mewled at the gaping men and women in blue.

Gordon had his head out of his office door before anyone could respond.

She kicked her leg over and strode toward him, carrying her small black bag. "A word?" she asked, and he ushered her into his office. Selina took a seat, crossing her thigh-high leather boots. "I hope I didn't scuff your floors."

Finding his voice, Gordon said, "Lucius will be happy you brought it back at all." He pulled open a file cabinet, producing the thick mass of papers she came for. "I was going to bring this to the burial."

"And just what are you burying?" she replied, her tone too raw. No doubt now was the time to leave. She was weary of giving herself away. She snatched the file and riffled through.

"It's all there. No more hard copies in this office. I take whatever it was, the virus – it worked?"

"It will." She snapped the folder closed and placed it in the bag. She was about to pull out Jen's book when Selina's overtired brain registered what was on Gordon's desk. She side-eyed the dog-earned pages.

"Are you interested in the classics, Ms. Kyle? I've had mine for years, but someone had ten thousand new copies delivered to City Hall. We've been handing these out in the street. Inspirational literature, of a sort."

Of course. Jen couldn't be the only one to make the Dickensian connections, just as Selina couldn't be the only one to see herself in its pages.

Gordon lifted his copy to show her the highlighted portions. "Have you read it? For the eulogy…what do you think?"

Her eyes dodged the words on the page like she was ducking a punch. She held out her gloved hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Commissioner."

He stepped toward her to squeeze it. "Will you accept a thank you? Or are you like him in that regard, too?"

"Oh, we couldn't be more different," she said, hoping the batting of her lashes distracted him from the trembling in her hand. "I accept thanks. I expect repayment."

"Ms. Kyle, you're a free woman. At least as far as this city is concerned."

"So I walk out of Gotham today." The regret she felt was mistrust, had to be. There was nothing left for her here. She was deluding herself if she thought there ever could have been.

"I suppose I could help you stage your death. But you'll forgive me if I've lost my taste for such things."

Selina slid her arm out of his grip. Anger was burning in her eyes, so she cast them to the floor. She'd never believed in Harvey Dent. The feeling of betrayal was on behalf of another party. Eight years of a life cut short thrown away on a lie.

As Gordon opened the door for her, he said, "I'd say, 'You're welcome in Gotham any time,' but we both know that comes with a caveat."

Pouting, Selina ran her thumb along Gordon's mustache. "Oh, that hurts. My love for you is unconditional."

"Well, uh…" He leaned in. "Could you maybe not make a scene? I'm trying to patch things up with my wife."

"You'll want her to hear about this." Selina pulled him down by the tie to leave a lingering kiss on the side of his mouth. "Trust me."

His hand went to the lipstick smudge as she sashayed to the front entrance. Not one police officer or detective lifted a finger to stop her. The night she delivered the infamous Scarecrow in a burlap sack must have left an impression.

Selina was almost home free when a tearing sound preceded a pink slip of paper thrust in her face. She held it between two fingers. A parking ticket with a phone number on the back.

"Clever boy," she said, and tucked the red-faced officer's ticket into the belt slung low on her hips.

Catcalls followed her down the steps. A female voice yelled out, "Hate to see you go but love to watch you leave!" An older man called, "At least tell us who you are," and a younger one replied, "She's the Catwoman!" Laughter swelled in the broken hall of the GCPD. The clever boy got the last word: "Call me?" Always leave them wanting more.

Hell of an exit, she thought as she slid into the back of the black town car waiting for her at the curb. Hell of a goodbye to Gotham City.

But not to Selina Kyle, not yet. One more stop.

She had one of her thigh-high boots slipped off before an eyebrow raise at the heavyset driver made sure the opaque glass clicked closed between them.

When all the luxury homes on the island had been claimed by the people, the greatest of them had stood across the river a fortress on manicured lawns. Wayne Manor was untouched, as pristine and vacant as a mausoleum.

Long hallways echoed under her footfalls. Selina had grown up with rumors that the mansion was haunted, and she believed them now. She could hear the low moans coming from the Regency Room.

She slipped away from the sound, into the master suite. She went right for the safe.

Just as she'd done that night all those months ago, when she hadn't been able to resist letting the pearls dangle in the light. They'd been a gift. 'To my Martha from her Thomas,' said the note tucked with delicate precision into a velvet box. Even without the note, Selina had been able to tell by the shape of them that they were not payment for services rendered or apologies accepted. They'd been a gift in the truest sense, given with love. They'd been cold when she wrapped them around her neck, but she'd imagined a hand warming them.

The safe was empty now, the pearls gone.

Selina unwound from her crouch and paced the length of Bruce Wayne's oriental rug. Those hands had taken the pearls from her neck, the warmth of them never touched her skin. His mother's pearls. She'd presumed to deserve them a second time. Wrong again.

On his mantel, a photograph Selina had seen before shared a new frame with a photograph torn from the headlines. She ran her fingertips over the faces of his Charles Darnay, his Lucie Manette. They overlooked his room as if from an altar.

She turned away from them, toward the place she met him. Along the frayed edges of the target, Selina traced the hole the arrow left where it sunk in inches from her nose. Her mouth curved at the memory. What an introduction.

The door creaked behind her, and she turned to watch well-kept leather shoes approach. His suit was the same mourning black as her dress. When he said nothing, she darted a glance at the butler's face. He was as drained of color as Bruce had been, before a cat burglar had brought the blood rushing to his skin.

Alfred Pennyworth turned his red-rimmed eyes toward the safe. He said nothing to her.

Selina never felt more like an intruder. With no mask to hide her face, she ducked her chin as she walked out.

She was almost out of the room when Alfred said, "I heard you were with him at the end." Through the crack in his voice, he said, "As much as he'd let anyone be."

"I asked him to leave," she said against the doorframe. "I meant to myself."

"But you didn't. You didn't leave him." The old man's breath caught. "Godspeed, Ms. Kyle."

"Goodbye," she said to Alfred, to the room. To Bruce Wayne and his Batman.

Inside her pocket, her hand closed around the Clean Slate he'd promised her. On her way to the Gotham airport, she held it like her mother gripped a rosary.

The black town car slipped into the darkness of the Midtown tunnel. But Selina, with her eyes closed tight, could only see white. A blinding light.

—Gotham City, September 2016—

Colors bloom and fade as the pressure of his fingertips lift from the soft skin of her eyelids. A spectrum kaleidoscopes around his face as her eyes adjust to the darkness.

Her name, like a breath: "Selina." He whispers, "What do you see?"

"I see…" She lets her nails trail his gentle face. Flashes teeth as a thought occurs to her. "I see a man who wrote his own eulogy. Wherever did you find ten thousand copies of A Tale of Two Cities, Bruce?"

"They were for Alfred," he admits. "Mainly. A hint."

"They were also Batman's last words to inspire Gotham. 'I see a city…'"

He lifts his chin, and she wonders how bright the lights of Gotham shine in from that window. "'I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through the long long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.'"

"'Long long years,'" she quotes back at him, drawing his eyes down to her. "Gotham still needs time. And Batman still needs a break from retirement, now and again." She holds her hand over his face. "Even if he won't be donning any masks."

Bruce pulls down her hand to kiss the center of her palm. "Who's retired? No one in this room."

Selina arches back to take in the deep shadows of the only aboveground part of the Martha and Thomas Wayne Home for Children to be kept closed. The East Wing of Wayne Manor.

In a fluid motion, Selina rolls Bruce onto his back to reclaim her favorite perch. "Close your eyes, Master Wayne." She drums her fingertips over his eyelids. "What do you see?"

"Lights. Colors."

"I see 'a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'" She curls her fingers through the light silver patches at his temples. "I see a long life worth having, because of you."

Bruce smiles, and she knows she's found his right answer. He sits up to kiss her face, left to right. "These eyes see what mine do."

"Mine see better," she purrs, shoving him down.

"Selina." There's a warning in his voice.

"Bruce." A challenge accepted.

Not long before her vision illuminates with every color shining from his eyes.

— Florence + the Machine —

Say my name, and every color illuminates

We are shining, and we'll never be afraid again

Say my name, we are shining, say my name

Say my name and we will never be afraid again

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Disclaimer: "You're not my original work. You're practice." All rights to Christopher Nolan, Warner Bros. Studios, and DC Comics. No infringement intended.