Batgirl and the Overdue Grimoire
by Misstakenmanips (ao3)
Chapter 1: The Returning Returner / Heart's Desire
Chapter 1: The Returning Returner
The Gotham librarians gathered at midnight.
Some of them, at least. Most of the (rather staid) librarians dismissed the legend out of hand. But many of the younger librarians were there, eager to see if the tale was true. It was kind of fun, staying at the library after hours. They had made a sort of party out of it: whooping in the even-more-quiet reading rooms, canoodling in the stacks, reverse-alphabetizing the recent returns. That sort of thing.
Barbara Gordon would ordinarily be spending the midnight hour prowling the streets and fighting crime as Batgirl. But tonight she had to sate her curiosity about the legend of Gotham City Library’s Returning Returner.
As midnight approached, all the librarians gathered at the circulation desk. They grew quiet as the elderly archivist Giles Rupertson began. “On this night, every seven years, the same young woman, carrying a book, appears at that entrance. She never ages, never varies in her speech or dress — and she never finishes her task. For she, and the book she tries to return, simply vanish. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes since I was a young librarian, I wouldn’t believe it either.” He polished his glasses on his rumpled tweed jacket.
Barbara spoke up. “Who do you think she is? Or… was?”
“A ghost? Perhaps. But every time I have seen her she seems quite corporeal. Don’t you, my dear?”
No one had heard her enter: a young woman in a long black dress. One of the librarians let out a stifled scream. But then all was silent as the Returning Returner made her way toward the desk.
Barbara looked with the keen eyes of both librarian and detective. She was about five and half feet tall, brunette, a similar build to Barbara herself. Her black silk dress was 50 years out of date, an Edwardian number with a high empire waistline and a multi-layered skirt. (She’d recently read a book on the history of fashion in Gotham.) There seemed to be something bright yellow across her chest, but Barbara couldn’t make it out, obscured as it by a flowing black cloak whose hood also hid her face. She seemed to be walking with difficulty. And she was carrying a large book, bound in black leather.
No one spoke as she approached the circulation desk. The mystery woman held the book out. “Must … pay… the price!” Her voice was threaded with anguish and regret. But also, familiar? Like someone Barbara had met in a dream.
As if speaking lines half-remembered from that dream, Barbara answered. “This is Amnesty Week. All fines are waived. No price to pay.” And she took the book from the woman dressed in black. A look passed between them. And then she was gone.
“You… you did it, Miss Gordon! You got her to return the book! She’s always said that about ‘the price’ but I never thought of telling her the fee was waived. Good show!”
“Thank you, Mr. Rupertson. It just sort of came to me. Now let’s see what book she has been trying to return for 49 years!”
The librarians drew in closer as Barbara and Rupertson opened the black book. It was a manuscript, probably on vellum, and certainly older than 50 years. The script was odd, in some sort of language she’d never seen before. “The writing looks like Ogham, Medieval Latin, and Sanskrit got mashed together. And these diagrams!” In addition to the writing there were drawings of plants and strange machines, anatomical and astrological diagrams, occult symbols and pictures of eldritch things that she didn’t want to look at twice.
“I’d say it’s a grimoire.” Rupertson sounded like he’d seen one before. “A spell-book, in modern parlance. Probably written in cipher. Which is just as well, I would hate to think that someone might actually use this. It might be dangerous. And it might be the most valuable book in Gotham!”
They agreed that it should be placed under lock and key in the Martha Wayne Special Collection room. To be catalogued in the morning. Barbara volunteered — it was a lot of stairs for the old man, and the others were too junior to access the Wayne room.
On the way up the spiral staircase, Barbara began to think. Tomorrow the other librarians would talk. A valuable, dangerous book, delivered by a phantom at midnight? Who wouldn’t tell that story? Soon the press would print it. The Mystery of the Gotham Grimoire! And then — Gotham’s villains. Someone would certainly try to steal it. Or worse — use it.
Besides, she gave it to us, didn’t she?
Us. Barbara and Batgirl, both. Maybe it would be safer with Batgirl. Maybe that’s why she gave it to us, after all these years!
There was a feeling in the pit of her stomach as she left the Library with the grimoire hidden in her bag. She wasn’t sure whether it was guilt, excitement, or fear.
BATSPIN TO
Barbara’s apartment
She couldn’t sleep.
There was something familiar about the letters in that book. Where have I seen that before? Manuscript… cipher… that’s it! The Voynich Manuscript! A medieval book with strange drawings, written in the same flowing incomprehensible script. No one had deciphered it, although a few had gone mad in the attempt. On the Batpad, she pulled up images from the Beinecke Rare Book Library at Yale. Identical lettering.
It was a matter of a few hours to scan the Gotham Grimoire. (It would have been shorter, but those diagrams were fascinating….) She fed the images, along with those of the Voynich Manuscript, into the Mini Bat Computer. She also fed in frequency tables and word lists from Ancient Greek, Hebrew, Latin, Aramaic, Sumerian, and Hittite for good measure. She fed in every online spell-book she could find as search patterns, and a slew of ancient and medieval texts as potential cipher keys. Finally she instructed the MBC to link up with the main Bat Computer and use its far greater processing power. She hit “Bat-Decrypt Ancient Text.” And dropped off to sleep immediately.
Barbara dreams.
The Returning Returner was there in Barbara’s bedroom, face hidden in the hood of her cloak. The layers of black silk dress rustled. “Beware, Barbara. Beware the book!” She turned away. “Wait, who are you?” If she could just see her face… Now in her cowl and purple spandex, Batgirl reached for the mystery woman, grabbing her cloak — which was suddenly empty. She held the cloak, which was the same black cracked leather of the grimoire’s cover.
The black leather cloak began to envelop her.
She tried to fight against it but it was impossible. The cloak had cinched itself around her booted ankles and ankles and was slowly winding its way up her legs. Batgirl lost her balance, toppling over onto the bed as the black leather wound around her, tighter and tighter. She was desperately trying to pull it off, but the cloak seemed to have other ideas. The living leather formed thongs that wrapped around each wrist. It was irresistibly strong, and it pulled her arms down by her sides, trapping her hands next to her hips as the leather continued to wrap its way up and around her body. She gasped as it reached her breasts, crushing them in its embrace. Finally it stopped at her clavicle — she sighed in relief, it wasn’t going to choke or suffocate her — and as she sighed another thick thong forced itself between her lips, cruelly gagging her. It tasted of warm leather and fell magic and ancient lust.
She arched her back to get a better view of her situation. There didn’t seem to be any opening, any fold, any way to get out. She was wrapped and gagged tight in unbroken, inescapable leather.
Is thisss what we want?
The voice whispered in her mind, alluring, knowing, mocking.
Yes. And we want more.
She thought it and couldn’t unthink it.
In response the thongs around her wrists, inside the black embrace of the living cloak, began to extend. They wrapped around her legs, crossed under and over her breasts, encircled her hips, and pulled taut between her legs. The leather thongs had made a bondage harness, tight across her body.
The outer leather shell was warm and supple, with just enough give so that she could move a little. As she struggled she found that the thongs at her wrists were directly connected to the tight straps running between her legs. She pulled down and the strap pressed against her clit. She pulled up and it pressed against her asshole. She moved from side to side and all manner of delights ensued.
She couldn’t help herself. She began to tug, rhythmically, faster and faster, her breath matching the pace, and still it wasn’t enough, faster, side up down side down down down, and in the throes of her passion she turned her bound and harnessed and sheathed and gagged body over, prone, putting her ass up as best she could to try and get more pressure, and saw that the sheets were now covered in the grimoire’s weird cipher, then flipped back over supine with her hips in the air, tug pull twist tug pull twist tug tug tug tug
Barbara came, hard, screaming into her living leather gag.
She woke up, still screaming, with her sheets twisted and wrapped around her sweating body. The sheets were normal now, no dream-writing on them. And the book was closed, on her desk, just a normal book.
Just a normal book….
Chapter 2: Heart’s Desire
Two things happened in the morning.
First, Barbara Gordon got fired from the Gotham City Library. For stealing a library book. A cardinal sin, in her profession. There were surveillance cameras, there were multiple witnesses, she was crazy to think she could get away with it! And she must return the book. Or the police would be called, and it didn’t matter whose daughter you were, the law is coming for you so you’d better return that book!
Fat chance. It’s ours now. Ours to protect.
The second thing was that the Bat Computer finished decoding the Gotham Grimoire.
Her hunch had been right — it was a book cipher, using the Torah (Deuteronomy, actually) as the key text. The original was in Aramaic, with some Latin and Hebrew thrown in. The translation appeared on her Batpad. A table of contents, with sections labeled Abjuration, Alteration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Illusion, Invocation, and Necromancy. And then, at the bottom, in letters that looked suspiciously carmine, was the heading: Wish.
She turned to that page in the grimoire, and the Batpad automatically translated. Unlike the other sections, which each seemed to contain dozens of spells, incantations, and diagrams, the Wish section had only one page, at the very end of the book.
There was a drawing of a septagram. At each of the seven points of the star was an arcane symbol that the Batpad could not translate. None of them looked familiar to Barbara, although she’d taken a course in ancient symbology while getting her MLA.
In the center of the seven-pointed star was a stylized drawing of an eye. And beneath it, in the flowing ciphered magical script was one phrase:
LOOK UPON ME AND STATE YOUR HEART’S DESIRE
A little thrill went through her. Our heart’s desire? What is that, really?
The truth was that, as both Barbara Gordon and as Batgirl, she always seemed to be putting others’ desires before her own. Helping her father by fighting crime in Gotham. Helping Batman and Robin in their latest case. Even her job — well her former job anyway — was always helping patrons, helping the librarians senior to her, helping the new librarians. She was always helping everyone! Except for herself.
It’s no wonder we can’t get a date. We don’t even know what we want. (The grammarian in her was slightly bothered by her recent habit of mentally referring to herself in the plural, but the thought soon slid away, unexamined.) Well there are certainly some things we don’t want!
She was tired of being the third wheel in the Terrific Trio. She was tired of being dismissed by her foes as “just a girl.” She was tired of being mocked, captured, bound, menaced, and thrown into vats of caviar! She was tired of being tied. And she was tired of being forced to submit to the deviant sexual devices of Gotham’s villains. They do not fear us. They only want to possess us. And no wonder! She looked at herself in the mirror. Tight bright purple spandex hugged her curves. Bright yellow belt drew attention to her hips. The yellow bat called attention to her breasts. Boots, gloves, cowl — it was sexy but it was never scary. She couldn’t even punch the bad guys because it wasn’t “ladylike!”
“A hero, not a sidekick. The hero of Gotham. Put some fear into the bad guys. That would be nice, for a change.” Before she even knew it, Batgirl had uttered the words, while staring at the mystic diagram.
At this point one might expect a wind from nowhere to dramatically flutter the pages of the book, a crack of thunder, or a sudden lighting change, but nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, the Batphone prosaically rang.
Commissioner Gordon was on the line. “Batgirl, you’re needed! The Riddler and Catwoman have teamed up and are robbing the Ali Baba Jewelry Emporium!”
“I’ll be there in four minutes.”
Riddler and Catwoman? We’ll need the Suit.
In thirty seconds she’d removed her cowl, her boots, and her clothes. It took her ten seconds to remove the Lucite container of black nanite goo from its receptacle, open the lid, and plunge her hands in.
The shiny black slippery substance was like liquid latex, but somehow alive. The nanites began to flow up her arms — it was up to her shoulders — and all along her skin it was like a lover’s caress. It had been so long since she had felt the tender caress of an attentive lover, so long — she shuddered a little as the coating of microscopic chains of robots flowed over her shoulders and down over her entire body.
In fifteen seconds she was completely clothed in shining black. The nanites had made a cowl for her and some practical combat boots. They had also made her red wig, and a yellow bat across her chest. It took her five more seconds to put her yellow belt back on.
(Had she always had the Suit? She couldn’t remember getting it. She also couldn’t remember not having it.)
One minute down. Three minutes to go. Ali Baba’s was in midtown, no way she’d get there in time through cross-town traffic. Time to fly.
She ascended to the roof on the Ascending Batpole. (Had she always lived in this 30-story apartment tower?) She put her arms out wide, and the nanites formed Batwings stretching from wrists to ankles. She leapt. And she flew.
Somehow it was already night, and the form of the flying Batgirl crossed the full moon. Gotham’s criminals looked up, cursed, took cover. Several muggers gave several purses back to several old ladies.
Gliding through the Gotham night made her feel powerful, amazing, heroic. But she had no time to dwell on such thoughts, just as we have no time to dwell on any lengthy descriptions of her journey as this chapter has gone on pretty long without much in the way of erotic content.
Right on time, Batgirl smashed feet first through the skylight of the Ali Baba Jewelry Emporium, executing a perfect three-point superhero landing.
The Riddler had just finished cracking the store’s safe. He was dressed in his green question-mark leotard, with a purple sash, purple gloves, and a purple mask. His three muscled goons were stuffing cash into giant sacks with dollar signs on them. Catwoman had finished tying up two hapless security guards and was holding several diamond necklaces in her black-gloved hands. “Batgirl!” She hissed.
“What’s the difference between an elephant and a flea? An elephant can have fleas, but a flea can’t have elephants! Hahahahahaha! And now it’s time for us to — flee! Hahhahahaha! Get her, boys!”
The goons hesitated. They really weren’t paid enough for this.
Batgirl did not hesitate. CHOP! A judo chop to the neck incapacitated Goon One. WHACK! Goon Two tried to punch her. The nanites instantly formed solid armor, absorbing the kinetic energy of the blow. WHAM! While Goon Two nursed his now-broken hand, the Suit put that stored energy behind a palm stroke that sent him across the room. Goon Three tried to run away, and made it twenty feet toward the exit before a well-aimed Batarang to the back of the head knocked him senseless.
That left Catwoman and the Riddler. “Sorry, partner, but I have an appointment with my fence!” Catwoman pushed the Riddler forward, who stumbled into the advancing Batgirl. Using the collision as cover, Catwoman swung herself up with her whip and escaped through the broken skylight, diamonds glittering in the Gotham moonlight.
“We’ll get her later. Right now, it’s just you and us, Riddler.”
“When is a prizefight like a beautiful lady?”
“Oh, you would hope this would just end in a ‘knockout,’ wouldn’t you? But I have to teach you a lesson, Riddler!”
POW! WHAM! OOF!
Riddler was beaten, his wrists bound behind his back with a zip tie, kneeling on the floor, facing the shining superheroine.
“What — what belongs to you, but is used by others?”
“Oh I know your name, Nygma. And they knew it at GCPD too, the last time I took you there. Should I take you back to prison, Riddler? Or do you need to spend some time in the Bat Cave?”
“No — please — not there — I’ll be good, Batgirl, I promise —“
“What did you call me, Nygma?”
“Mistress! I’ll be good, Mistress!”
“I don’t think I believe you.” Batgirl put up her hand, and the nanites formed a long cruel whip. “I’m not the only one who can use this accessory!”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The Riddler had rolled over to protect himself and now offered up his green spandex covered ass to the sting of the nanite whip. And while he screamed, he was also rolling his hips.
“Why Riddler — when is a man like a piece of wood?”
“When he’s … a ruler?”
Batgirl knelt behind him, reached around and grabbed the throbbing bulge in his green leotard. “When he’s hard, Riddler. When he’s hard like this.” She squeezed, hard. “Now if you lick my boots and tell me you repent, I will merely turn you and your goons over to the GCPD.”
Her nanite boots changed, growing spike heels as Batgirl stood, arms akimbo. And she laughed, mockingly, as the Riddler slowly licked them, shiny and black.
We are the hero of Gotham!
And thissss is our heart’s desire….
Has Batgirl fallen under the spell of the Gotham Grimoire?
What has become of the Dynamic Duo in this new Gotham?
Tune in tomorrow! Same bat time…. Same bat channel!
Chapter 2: Who Is Robin? / Visitor In A Dream
Chapter 3: Who is Robin?
SUMMARY, WITH MUSIC
“A ghostly girl appears in Gotham City Library…”
“And gives an ancient spellbook to Barbara Gordon!”
“The grimoire gives her strange dreams…”
“And the power to become Gotham’s number one hero!”
“Batgirl shows off her new nanite suit…”
“And becomes Gotham’s number one domme?”
“Keep your heads, anything can happen with this new Batgirl!”
NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
BATMAN!
Batgirl woke from her chlorogas-induced sleep.
While the nanite Suit recharged, she’d gone on patrol in her regular purple spandex suit. Responding to an alert at the Grassy Knoll Book Depository, she’d interrupted a book heist in process -- and stupidly stumbled into a cholrogas trap.
And now she was bound by thick cords to a steel slab covered in white paper, her wrists tied together and pulled taut above her head, her ankles similarly cinched and bound tightly by cords connecting to the bottom of the slab. The sides of the slab angled upward, just as if she were nestled in the spine of… a book.
She was at the center of a large library. Mostly old tomes, from the smell of it. Biblichor, that was the word. A figure stood over her, wearing a suit of brown leather with gold piping, a gold leather tie, and a brown leather hat with what looked like a brass reading lamp attached to it. And extremely thick glasses.
“Bookworm! We should have suspected. Who else would attempt to rob the Book Depository?”
“Well yes, Batgirl, but that was just a ruse to draw you out.” Bookworm leered at her through his thick lenses. “Noosing with care a bursting purse / Baited with many a deadly curse?”
“Robert Burns, I believe.”
“Naturally! Oh it is a pleasure to match wits with one well-read. Reading maketh a full man—”
“And writing an exact man. Francis Bacon. Now exactly what are you trying to accomplish, Bookworm?”
“Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme!”
“Paradise Lost, and you will lose too, if you don’t let us out of this contraption!”
“Oh but I will win, Batgirl. You see there is nothing that can keep me from a rare book. The Gutenberg Bible, the First Folio, The Codex of Leicester, I have them all! But my collection is incomplete. For you have the Gotham Grimoire. And you shall render unto Bookworm what is Bookworm’s!”
“We’re not giving you that book, Worm. You don’t know what it’s capable of!”
“Like a little knowledge, Batgirl, I am a dangerous thing. Miss Limpet! Begin the device!”
A brunette in a tight red outfit hustled over to a control panel. Click. A nozzle whirred into place about six feet above Batgirl’s toes. And a warm gooey substance began to pour out of it and onto her feet!
“It’s bookbinding glue, of course! My own recipe. Very adhesive, very strong, and very quick-drying! If you don’t give me the Grimoire, you’ll find yourself permanently encased in the spine of my new book. I call it Batgirl’s Demise! There will only be one edition, of course! Now do tell, Batgirl, where is the Grimoire?”
“Secret and self-contained and solitary as an oyster!”
“Oh that’s good, Batgirl — because you’ll have a Dickens of a time getting out of this one!”
Stop quoting at him and start escaping! She pulled with her ankles and tried to wriggle free. But Bookworm knew his knots, and the struggling only seemed to make the cords tighter. The glue was warm and sticky, and her feet and calves were now coated in several inches of the insidious adhesive. As the nozzle began to move slowly up her body, her struggling intensified. If we keep moving, maybe we can keep the glue from setting. But it wasn’t working. Already she could feel the glue harden around her feet and ankles.
This is exactly the kind of thing we didn’t wish for. She knew at some level that the grimoire had gifted her the Nanite Suit. But the Suit wasn’t here. And she had no way out…
What isssss our heart’s desire? The voice whispered in her mind. She pictured the last page of the grimoire, the seven-pointed star, the arcane symbols at each point.
We need more power. And the power came to her.
“Hey Bookworm! What will you find at 793.8092?”
“Biographies of … North American magicians?”
“Specifically, Harry Houdini!” Batgirl twirled her wrists and they came free of the cords that bound them. With a dancer’s grace she pulled her booted feet out from the hard shell of glue. And she leapt from the slab and grabbed Bookworm by his gold leather tie. “How about 796.8159?”
“Mmm…martial arts?” Bookworm knew the Dewey Decimal System almost as well as Barbara Gordon.
“I know Kung Fu!” And she delivered powerful kicks to Bookworm’s second edition goons, all while holding Bookworm by the cravat. They, and Miss Limpet, ran screaming from the library. “And now, 620.5!”
“N-n-na-nan-nanotechnology?”
“Precisely!” And in an instant her spandex suit changed into the shiny black of the Nanite Suit. Now she was even stronger. She lifted Bookworm off his feet and threw him onto the slab, into the mess of bookbinders glue.
“That should hold you until the GCPD arrives!” She reached for the phone to call Chief O’Hara — and stopped.
She couldn’t move. Her muscles strained, but the Nanite Suit wouldn’t budge. It was like being encased in a solid suit of armor.
Prison isss too good for him. Arkham will coddle him and let him go. He humiliated ussss. He belongs in the Cave.
There was a part of Barbara that rebelled against the moral implications of what this voice inside her head was saying. There was a part of Batgirl that was extremely alarmed that the Nanite Suit seemed to have a mind of its own — and that it was stronger than her.
Those parts were quickly swept away, unexamined.
“I mean, that should hold you until I get transportation to the Bat Cave!”
“Not the Cave! Please, take me to prison!”
BATSPIN TO
The Batcave
Everything was just as Barbara remembered it. The Bat Computer, the Bat-Spectograph Analyser, the Atomic Pile.
And then there were the oubliettes.
For each oubliette, a circle of clear plastic, five feet in diameter, was set into the floor of the Batcave. These were the ceilings, and the only exits from the Batcave’s prison cells. Reserved for Gotham’s worst criminals. Scarecrow gibbered in the corner as his own fear gas was constantly pumped into the cell. The Mad Hatter wore a dunce cap and a blank expression. A bit of drool slid down his chin. The Joker was in a straitjacket. The walls of his cell were lined with hundreds of dolls. All laughing at him. All day. All night. Forever. “Bats! Let us out! Please!” She looked down at the Clown Prince of Crime and whispered, “No.”
“And here’s your cell, Bookworm.” She threw him in and closed the lid. Landing on the floor of his oubliette, he looked around in disbelief: hundreds and hundreds of rare books lining the walls. “Batgirl, thank you, I can’t wait to read all these! And here I thought you were cruel.” He began to frantically search his pockets. “Now where are my—”
“Looking for these, Bookworm?” Batgirl produced the villain’s thick spectacles with a flourish, and then dropped them onto the clear plastic ceiling of Bookworm’s cell. Then she crushed them beneath the heels of her shining black Nanite boots. “Oopsie. Guess you won’t be doing any reading after all.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
She left him, sobbing, and took an Ascending Batpole upstairs. Something was bothering her. Someone was missing….
“Alfred!” She embraced the old butler, surprising him in the kitchen of Stately Wayne Manor.
“Batgirl, so good of you to drop by! I almost didn’t recognize you in this new costume of yours. Oh, my.” Alfred was old, but he was a man, and the sight of Batgirl in skintight shiny black Nanite left very little to the imagination.
“You like it?” She gave a dancer’s twirl, using the cape to great effect. “Just something I threw together. Now tell me, Alfred, where is Batman?”
“I — I don’t understand, Batgirl. You know there’s been no Batman on these streets for over a decade.”
No Batman? “Pretend I have amnesia, Alfred. Explain to me what’s happened.”
“Certainly, miss. There was no place for him in Gotham anymore. Only memories of his dead parents. For a while he could assuage his guilt by fighting Gotham’s criminals. But you… rather eclipsed him in that category. So now he is off to ‘find himself.’ Traveling the world. Kathmandu, last I heard from him. And he has left the resources of the Wayne family at your disposal. Wayne Enterprises. The Batcave. Stately Wayne Manor. And, of course, my humble services.”
“And… what about Robin?”
“I’m sorry, my dear. Who is Robin?”
Chapter 4: A Visit In A Dream
Batgirl had sent Batman into early retirement. Robin had never even existed. We didn’t need them anyway. Always stealing the limelight. Well now we can become the real hero that Gotham needs!
Capturing Catwoman had been easy. The Riddler (while being whipped, back in Chapter 2) had asked “what kind of house changes with the full moon?,” which led to “were-house,” and it was easy to find Catwoman’s new lair among Gotham’s warehouses. With the Nanite Suit, Batgirl was nearly unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat. It almost wasn’t fair.
And Batgirl had plans for Catwoman.
Of all Gotham’s villains, Catwoman had a special thing for Batgirl, devising devious device after deviant device to use on her bound body. The Cat’s Whiskers. The Pattern Cutter. The Arouser See-Saw. The Pleasure Ball. Well, Batgirl was tired of being toyed with by Catwoman, like a cat toys with… well, never mind.
Batgirl had taken over the East Wing of Stately Wayne Manor and Alfred was forbidden from entering. She looked at the portraits of the Wayne family that hung in the East Wing, and wondered which one was named Stately, and why the house was named for him. Oh well whatever. Time to play.
She was wearing the nanite suit, and the microscopic robots somehow knew that she didn’t have crime-fighting on the agenda for tonight. She was coated in the black shiny stuff, the image of the perfect dominatrix. The nanites had opened up a window for her chest, and were holding, lifting, and separating her breasts, showing off her cleavage to best effect. A nanite whip was coiled in her hand.
Before she went to play with her new pet, she checked in on Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy.
Poison Ivy was dressed in a green latex catsuit, while Harley’s was black and red, naturally. Latex hoods sealed off their sight, with only their mouths and nostrils exposed. They were bound supine on a king-sized four poster bed. Harley’s arms were bound by straps to the lower right corner of the bed, while Ivy’s were bound to the upper right. More straps were connected to D-rings that were built-in to their black ankle boots, keeping their legs apart, forcing them into the “scissor” position where their latex-clad pussies could rub up against each other. Black and silver bit gags reminded them that here they were not to talk, only to moan. And moan they did, for Batgirl had suspended a Waynetatchi wand vibrator from the bed’s canopy, so that it was directly between their legs, pressing up against their pussies, and driving them mad with desire.
“Good evening, girls.” The moans grew louder. “We hope you’re enjoying your time together. And with the sound of our voice, we’re sure you’re just learning that this vibrator is keyed to sensitive microphones placed around the room. The louder you are, the faster this baby will go. Like THIS!” The two women screamed a little into their bit gags as the vibe between them jumped in response to the increase in Batgirl’s mocking volume. And then they tried to stop vocalizing their building passion, because that was just making it go fast again. “Good luck to you. Harley is quite a screamer, if we recall correctly. We’ll check on you two later, and see if you have learned your lesson about trying to take over Gotham.” Batgirl slammed the door behind her, and smiled as she heard more helpless moaning in reply.
She continued down the hall, her black nanite heels clicking on the polished inlaid wood. The nanites somehow sensed when she needed combat boots and when she wanted spike heels, and changed her footwear accordingly.
She reached the ballroom, where she was keeping her new pet. Catwoman.
She was dressed in a black latex catsuit, of course, but Barbara had added a few details to the outfit. First was a hood. This one exposed the eyes, nostrils, and mouth, and also had cute little cat ears built in. Second was a Vibrotastic belt. She had managed to save several from Ovo Corporation before that unfortunate fire destroyed their headquarters. The belt, which resembled a chastity belt on the outside, was fitted with all manner of delights and torments on the inside. It had been placed in “Exper-Tease” mode for the last two hours, and Catwoman was horny and helpless to do anything about it.
Because the next “detail” that Batgirl had added was a special set of bindings. She believed this was called, in BDSM circles, a “bitch suit.” Catwoman’s legs were bent, with each thigh strapped to her calf, so that she could only walk on her knees. Her arms were similarly strapped, forearm to bicep, so that she could only rest her weight on her elbows. Stripped of the use of arms and legs, forced to crawl forward using her elbows and knees, Catwoman looked just like a cat. A kinky latex cat. Oh, and Batgirl had added a cat tail, attached to a very large butt plug, naturally.
“Hello, liddle puddy tat. We hope you weren’t too lonely there in your cage. Come out and let’s have a look at you.” Catwoman would have cursed, but a ring gag kept her from vocalizing her anger and arousal and frustration. “Here, let us put your collar on.” And Batgirl did, locking it in place with several brass padlocks, and attaching a leash. “Now forward!” Catwoman did her best to walk on her knees and elbows like a pet. “Faster!” The nanites had formed a whip again, and Batgirl used it to force Catwoman across the room, toward the contraption.
The contraption was simple. It looked like a sturdy wooden barstool, but higher than normal. But at the front of the seat there was a neck-sized indentation. Beneath the seat, the legs were sturdy iron, and Batgirl began to explain the contraption to Catwoman as she strapped her into place.
“You see, you’re not Catwoman any more. You’re just Pussy. And you’re our Slave. We guess that makes you our Pussy Slave.” Catwoman’s head was nestled in the indentation of the seat, while her body below was firmly attached to the chair, still with her arms and legs folded together and strapped. Batgirl hopped up onto the stool. “If you’re a good Pussy Slave, I’ll do this.” And she changed the Vibrotastic Belt to Level 4: Bitch! Inside the belt, dozens of PrograMalleable Plastic nubs came alive. Each was like a tiny vibrating finger, moving against Catwoman’s already wet sex, caressing and pleasing her and
“If you’re a bad Pussy Slave, we’ll do this!” And she changed the Vibrotastic Belt to Level 2: Punish! Catwoman grunted in pain as the pleasures of Level 4 were replaced with random electric shocks.
Batgirl’s crotch was strategically placed right in front of her. And the nanite suit opened, exposing her sex. Despite the ring gag, Catwoman began licking Batgirl’s pussy in earnest, her tongue moving and fluttering on the sides, licking up and down the center, pushing in to her and then out and circling her clitoris. And again. And again. And again.
Batgirl’s first orgasm came, but Catwoman kept going, driven on by the maddening pleasures of the belt. It would be hard to say which one of them was more aroused. As Batgirl’s desire mounted, her breath coming faster, she turned the Vibrotastic Belt to Level 4: Slut! And the tiny plastic fingers formed one large one and penetrated Catwoman, the penetration she had been craving for hours. Catwoman went faster, quick quick quick quick quick, and Batgirl shifted her hips, grabbing Catwoman by the head and driving her tongue deeper into her pussy. Finally both women orgasmed together, an amalgam of shiny black bodies and enmity turned to lust.
Batgirl reached down and removed Catwoman’s ring gag. And kissed her, deeply.
Catwoman looked up at her. “Mistress… you make an excellent Catwoman.”
The words went straight to Batgirl’s core. The whip, the shiny black suit, even her cowl’s bat ears looked like cat ears.
I can’t do this. I am becoming the villain I swore to defeat. I have become Catwoman.
She untied Catwoman, removed the collar and hood. “Catwoman, I am so… I can’t even say. Please, just go. Go now, before my mind is changed. And please, make sure to free Harley and Ivy on your way out, third bedroom on the left, and make sure they actually get out of that bed and out of this house. Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it.”
Catwoman, her muscles aching with pain from their confinement, took Batgirl by the chin. And kissed her again. Then she slapped her, hard. “That’s not for me, that’s for Riddler. Pull yourself together, Batgirl. This isn’t you.” And she slipped out of the room.
But Selina kept the belt for herself.
Batgirl was on the verge of tears. What have I become?
Thisss is not our heart’s desire. Thisss is not the power we were promised. The evil of Gotham must be punished, and we are the night and the vengeance and the scourge!
The voice in her head was loud. She wasn’t sure it was her voice any more.
We showed weakness toward Catwoman. So we mussst pay the price. Kneel.
Batgirl tried to stand firm. But her feet -- the nanite boots were changing into ballet boots, forcing her to stand on point! And the suit was moving into a kneeling position, and bringing Batgirl along with it. There was nothing she could do, the suit was too strong. The very armor that had made her invincible was now turning against her.
She was on her knees. And the suit kept changing.
First it coated her upper body, no longer exposing any cleavage, or any flesh at all. The nanites began to flow over her head, making a perfect hood. She was sealed in darkness and silence, with only her nostrils and her mouth exposed. A solid rod of nanites slipped between her teeth. It was slightly rubbery as she bit down on it. She had been thoroughly gagged.
Another solid rod of nanites, this one with the tensile strength of steel, began to form between her ankles, pushing them further and further apart. Her hands were free, but between the spreader bar and the ballet boots she wouldn’t be able to stand. Or see. Or hear.
She was beginning to wish that she hadn’t banned Alfred from the East Wing. This wish was not granted by any magical grimoire.
Batgirl shuddered. The nanites had just caressed her, all over her body, all at once. Then again. And again.
Then they began their erotic assault on Batgirl’s body.
No part of her was safe, no inch of skin was not being squeezed, licked, caressed, touched, vibed. She cried out into her gag (just like Ivy and Harley a few hours ago) as the sensations began to overwhelm her. It was like wearing the Vibrotastic Belt on Level 5: All of the Above mode, but all over her entire body.
The nanites formed tongues inside the suit, hundreds of them against her breasts, against her nipples, in her ass and her pussy and around her clit it was like each tongue had a dozen other tiny tongues protruding from it.
She couldn’t help herself, her legs were spread apart, her body was overwhelmed by erotic sensation. She began to masturbate, one hand squeezing a nipple (that was being licked by a long thin nanite tongue that was spiraling around it while her breasts were squeezed) the other hand on her clit (which was being licked from twelve different directions.)
No. We are being punished, after all.
And the suit pulled her arms back, and back, and behind her, and she tried to fight it with all her strength but the nanites fused her arms together into a single glove.
The suit pleased and punished her for -- hours? Without sight or sound, she lost track of time entirely. For long stretches it teased her, giving her little to no stimulation at all, and she writhed in frustration. And then the nanite tongues returned, and she writhed in ecstasy.
Eventually it let her go. Naked, shaking, she made her way to the first bedroom on the right. And fell instantly asleep.
---------------
That night, the dream was the same. She grabbed the black leather cloak of the Returning Returner, the ghost disappeared, and the cloak enveloped her in its tight embrace, and the leather wrapped itself around her body in a bondage harness, and she could only tug at the crotchrope, again and again…
Only this time, someone else appeared in her dream-bedroom. A tall man, with spiky blonde hair. Wearing a trenchcoat. And smoking Silk Cut cigarettes.
“Hello, luv. Name’s Constantine. John Constantine. I’m a friend. At least, I am for now. I know your pal, the big bat. We’ve done each other a few favors. Although the bloke I know is a bit… different. You’ve got your hands on something quite powerful and quite dangerous, little bat. And worse, you’ve figured out how to use it.”
Batgirl was still dream-gagged, and couldn’t respond. But she’d stopped struggling. Instead, her mind was struggling to understand. This Englishman has invaded my dream. But he’s not part of the book.
“The book is called the Retconomicron. It’s more than an ordinary grimoire. It has the power to rewrite reality, both past and present. The spell can make anyone’s dreams come true. But it comes at a price. Always a price. Because the Retconomicron makes it so that whatever you wish for not only happens — it has always happened. The past, written over. Deleted with no backup drive. Retconned.”
“See I shouldn’t even be here talking to you. I’ve met you — another version of you, actually. In a wheelchair. Bad bit of business, that. But the Batgirl in my world doesn’t exist any more. You’ve made your wish, to be the protector of Gotham, and all the realities are folding in on themselves to accommodate you.”
“Now I’ve been pulled into your odd little world. It’s not bad, as worlds go. Not as dark as most. But if I’m here, it means that more unpleasant things are going to be part of your world, too. Magic attracts magic, and power lusts after power. They’ll be coming for the book, and they’ll be coming for you. And I am duty bound to warn you: I am coming to destroy the grimoire. I have to protect reality. All my best stuff is here.”
“I’m not sure if you’ll survive the process, little bat. I certainly will try to save you. But I make no promises. And now… it’s time to wake up.”
---------------
Will Batgirl escape from the clutches of this grim grimoire?
Can she win in a fight against her own clothes?
Tune in next week. Same Bat time… same Bat channel!
Chapter 3: The Price / The Paradox
Chapter 5: The Price
SUMMARY, WITH MUSIC
“Batgirl is caught in a deadly book…”
“But gains the upper hand!”
“A trip to the Bat Cave and its strange prison cells…
“And Alfred reveals that Batman is no more!”
“Batgirl takes Catwoman to be her slave…”
“But recoils in moral horror at what she has become, only to be bodily punished by the very suit that gives her such terrifying powers!”
“Cinch yourself to the bedposts, because who knows where this story is going next!”
NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA
BATGIRL!
(This theme song has always been about Batgirl. Do not adjust your set.)
Batgirl had been utterly defeated by the one villain she now hated above all others: herself.
She had wished to become Gotham’s hero, and now she was the only hero left. She had wished for her enemies to fear her, but now she inspired that fear through sadistic displays of power. She had wished for the power to fight evil and evildoers, but now she was a prisoner of the very suit that gave her those powers.
The shiny coating of microscopic robots would not come off her skin. The nanite suit gave her power, it was true. But it also monitored her every move. After her transgression in letting Catwoman go, the suit made it clear that further lapses would be harshly punished. Sometimes it would randomly freeze up on her during the day, just to remind her what it could do to her at any time. If she strayed from her new persona (“Badgirl,” she called it) she could expect to be punished that night. If she kept that persona in charge, she’d be rewarded.
She feared that one day it would betray her in front of her foes, in front of everyone, unable to move, helplessly coming again and again as the suit played with her body.
Since her break after the Catwoman affair, and since learning about the power of the Retconomicron, Barbara had regained control over part of her own mind. But her mind was a crowded place these days. There was original Barbara, who could mostly only watch her own actions. There was the “Badgirl” persona, powerful and cruel and increasingly taking over her mind. And there was the occasional voice of the Grimoire whispering suggestions.
Today Badgirl was fully in charge. She had evicted the inhabitants of her 30-story apartment building, renamed it “Belfry Tower,” and turned the penthouse floor into a throne room. It had appropriately gothic decor, a giant bat symbol painted on the wall behind her (extremely comfortable) throne, and a lectern on which rested a black, leather-bound tome.
She gazed out the huge windows with their stunning views of Gotham… and of the faint shimmer of her Bat-Anti-Magic Shell that surrounded it. Still in place, Badgirl noted with satisfaction.
For Constantine had been right. All the powers of Earth and Hell were after the Retconomicon. Enchantress. Circe. Ertigan. Doctor Fate. She defeated them one by one. The grimoire had given her the ability to gain any power or knowledge by invoking the appropriate Dewey Decimal number. And so Batgirl gave herself mastery over magic and countermagic spells by invoking 133.44, Spell Casting. The magic fights were really quite epic. But you’re not here for epic magic fights, are you?
The attacks had grown so constant that just last week she had cast the Bat-Anti-Magic Shell around Gotham. Nothing magical or demonic could get in or out. And she could concentrate on saving Gotham from itself.
Gotham’s criminals had all gone to ground in the face of this new and terrible Batgirl, who was judge and jury, and whose punishments were all cruel and most unusual.
“Who is first on the agenda, Bob?” Bob was one of the Batgoons. Batgirl had hired all of Gotham’s now-unemployed goons. They kept the peace where the GCPD couldn’t. After all, she couldn’t be everywhere at once. Not yet, anyway.
“Mrs. Kowalski, Mistress.” Two Batgoons brought in a frumpy and disheveled woman in curlers and a nightdress.
“Batgirl, I must protest! Your henchmen—”
“They are not henchmen, Mrs. Kowalski. Henchmen believe in the cause. Goons are only in it for the money. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
“Our labor goes to the highest bidder, as is our right in a free and capitalist society, Mistress.”
“There. You see? Someone in your position should really pay more attention to the fine distinctions of the English language. You are employed at the Gotham City Library, yes?”
“Yes, and this morning your goons—”
“And you were responsible for firing one Barbara Gordon, yes? Even knowing she was the Commissioner’s daughter?”
“But, she stole a book! She broke the law!”
“As have you, Mrs. Kowalski. Three unpaid parking tickets. A crime for which the penalty is, let’s see — 348.74, Laws of the Northeastern United States! — ah yes, the penalty is now life in prison. Take her downtown for booking, boys.” And they did.
“Next on the agenda, a social call from Mr. Oswald Cobblepot!” And in he walked, tuxedo and top hat and monocle, same as ever.
“Penguin! We were wondering when you would rear your ugly little head.”
“Oh, please Batgirl, I don’t go by that name any longer. I am just Oswald Cobblepot, a humble Gotham businessman. See? No umbrellas!”
“Fine. Cobblepot. Why have you come to see us?”
“I represent a small but vital coalition of Gotham’s most respected families and entrepreneurs, who wish to work with you, Batgirl, not against you. Their economic interests are aligned with your vision for Gotham—”
“So the crooks and the villains want to cut a deal, do they? Well there is no deal. There never will be a deal. And I am bored now.” Batgirl flicked her wrist, and a glittering puff of magic enveloped Cobblepot. Penguin had been transformed into — an actual penguin! “Bob, see that this creature is taken to the Gotham zoo where it belongs.”
“Yes, Mistress. Next on the agenda—”
Esare Eriomirg!
Two intruders had appeared in the throne room, out of nowhere!
The first resembled the Penguin in certain aspects of dress: top hat, tuxedo jacket, bow tie, vest. The resemblance ended there. Her legs encased in fishnet stockings, her high black boots shining, Zatanna looked ready for the stage — or for magical battle!
Next to her was a familiar figure with excellent blond hair and a long trench coat. It was unclear whether the smoke around him was magical or tobacco-based. John Constantine muttered some occult Latin and moved his hands just so.
Two things happened to the tome. Ink magically began to drain from its pages. And an interdimensional portal, crackling with arcane energy, opened beneath the lectern. Lectern and now-blank tome tumbled into the other dimension. The portal snapped shut. The book was gone forever.
“FOOLS!” Batgirl rose from her throne, purple and black lightning zapping off her like a Tesla coil. Before Zatanna could utter another spell, a black shadow tentacle that had emerged from the ceiling stopped up her mouth. Constantine was similarly gagged. More shadow tentacles emerged from the floor and ceiling, wrapping around their arms and legs and pulling them wide, binding the magicians. Batgirl floated over to them from the dais, the crackle of magical energies reflecting off her shiny black nanite suit. “You were clever to attack the book first instead of me. The others did not think of that.”
“But did you think we would be foolish enough to leave my source of power out in plain sight?” The real Retconomicron appeared in her hand. “You have very successfully destroyed our decoy copy.” Batgirl gave a slow mocking golf clap. “And now … what shall we do with the two of you?”
More tentacles emerged from floor and ceiling. Zatanna looked over at John Constantine. They both knew exactly what Batgirl was going to do with them.
The tentacles began to worm their way inside their clothes, up Constantine’s pant legs, into Zatanna’s leotard. They looked like they were made of shadow, but they felt quite real, and quite slimy. They encircled Zatanna’s breasts, squeezing and constricting them, while smaller tentacles began to lick at her nipples. The tentacles encircled Constantine’s cock and Zatanna’s clit, and began merciless stimulation. Both magicians were penetrated from behind.
Constantine looked over at Zatanna. He had to act before Batgirl realized that she had left his fingers free. She nodded and he snapped.
Snap
The three of them, Batgirl, Constantine, and Zatanna, were instantly transported. There was a white marble floor, but a thick mist of shifting colors obscured everything more than 20 feet from them.
And Batgirl was free of the suit! She was wearing her good old purple spandex again. She almost wept from relief. “Badgirl” and the Grimoire were gone from her mind. “Where… are we?”
“It’s a little bubble universe, mostly made up of Astral Plane and a bit of Fey. Constantine thought it up. We used it to get through your Bat-Anti-Magic Shell, and now we’re astral projecting into it.” Zatanna’s clothing was quite unharmed here.
“So our bodies are still back there.”
“Being violated by your tentacles, yes luv.”
“I’m so, so sorry — the things it has made me do — the things it has done to me —“
“We know. It’s not your fault. The Retconomicron has infected your mind.”
“And your soul. Zatanna and I were hoping to destroy the grimoire first. But that was a neat bit of misdirection with the fake book.” Even though his corporeal body was elsewhere, Constantine still smoked. “While you’re here, your mind and soul are restored, but we can’t maintain this bubble universe forever, and besides, we can’t do anything here that can help us get free back there. Magic’s no good here, because it’s all magic. Sort of. And when we go back, our prospects aren’t good. The grimoire has apparently retconned you into the greatest mage in creation.”
“Can’t I get rid of the book? Burn it or tear it up or something?”
“It’s not that simple, Batgirl.” Zatanna laid a reassuring hand on the young crimefighter’s shoulder. “The Retconomicron is very self-protective, and the reality it creates around itself won’t allow it to come to any harm. You won’t be able to even think of destroying it once we’re back there.”
Constantine took another drag on his astral Silk Cut cigarette. It felt good, even though he knew his real body wasn’t in a state to appreciate it. “There is a way to get rid of the book. You could give it to someone else. But then it would start all over again. The Wish, the Heart’s Desire, the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Whoever you give it to would have to pay the price.”
“Pay the price. Pay the…. That’s it! There is a way out of this. I know who we can give the book to.” And she explained her plan.
Have you ever noticed that when the characters explain the plan, and the audience gets to hear the plan, it always goes wrong? But if you don’t hear the plan at all (or only part of the plan), then it will turn out well?
Batgirl explained the plan.
Zatanna and John Constantine readied themselves to be back in their bodies. Constantine snapped his fingers again and…
… screamed into the tentacle that was gagging his mouth. A thick ooze had started to drip down his throat. If it’s feeding me, it wants to keep me. Constantine did not like this thought. He looked over at Zatanna, who was likewise screaming into her tentacular gag, and shuddering as another orgasm hit her as the tentacles pleased her and penetrated her again and again.
Batgirl, in shining black, invoked a new power. “530.12 -- Quantum Mechanics!” Lots of sparkly stuff that would look really good with a decent CGI budget happened as Barbara Gordon gained power over the fabric of space-time.
“To be the ultimate protector of Gotham, we must cleanse this city of crime before it takes root! We must go back -- in TIME!”
Batgirl, the tentacles, and entire reality built up around her, disappeared.
Chapter 6: The Paradox
There had been no crime in Gotham for nearly 50 years.
Some praised the witch who lived atop Belfry Tower in the center of the city, who kept the streets safe with spells and magic. Others said she wasn’t a witch but a seer, who could divine when people had evil thoughts and then somehow prevented them from committing those crimes. Still others claimed that she turned into a huge bat at night, and carried off evildoers and feasted on their tainted blood. It was also rumored that she kept a black panther in the tower, that she held secret masked parties of wild debauchery, that she rode a unicorn naked into battle against the forces of darkness.
Whatever she was, folks always referred to her as “The Oracle,” although no one really knew why.
Very few had actually seen her. Gotham’s historians traced the first rumors of her existence to 1918, the year that Luigi Maroni and Vincent Falcone disappeared, the Year of the Black Spot. She was said to never age. She wore the same clothes, a black silk Edwardian number with a high empire waistline and a multi-layered skirt. There was some kind of magic yellow symbol worked into the black fabric, and she always wore a long black cloak with a hood that obscured her face. Some said that the dress seemed to be in constant motion even when The Oracle was still, like it was somehow alive.
Without crime, there was no Crime Alley. Thomas and Martha Wayne lived a long and healthy life, and Bruce was their pride and joy.
But there was one group that claimed to have seen the Oracle every seven years -- the librarians at Gotham City Library. It was said that she appeared at midnight bearing an ancient tome, that she tried to give this book to someone, but that she and the book promptly disappeared.
Until one night….
…. no one spoke as the Returning Returner approached the circulation desk. The mystery woman held the book out. “Must … pay… the price!” Her voice was threaded with anguish and regret. But also, familiar? Like someone Barbara had met in a dream.
As if speaking lines half-remembered from that dream, Barbara answered. “This is Amnesty Week. All fines are waived. No price to pay.” And she took the book from the woman dressed in black. A look passed between them. And then she was gone.
“You… you did it, Miss Gordon! You got her to return the book! She’s always said that about ‘the price’ but I never thought of telling her the fee was waived. Good show!”
“Thank you, Mr. Rupertson. It just sort of came to me. Now let’s see what book she has been trying to return for 49 years!”
……..
It was past midnight in the library. All the librarians had gone home, talking of the ghost and the grimoire. All but two: the pretty young librarian, Barbara Gordon, and the elder (and handsomely British!) librarian Giles Rupertson. They sat in the Martha Wayne Special Collection room, the grimoire on the table between them.
“And you say that when you looked at the last page, you had a vision?”
“Not a vision, exactly, Mr. Rupertson. More like -- more like memories, of a life that I never led, if that makes any sense? It’s going to sound silly but I remembered dressing up in a costume and fighting crime.”
“In Gotham, you’d have very little crime to fight. Perhaps your vision was inspired by that fellow up in Metropolis.”
“Perhaps. It felt very real, though. I had done a lot of good things, and then I remembered getting this book, and doing -- doing some terrible things, Mr. Rupertson. Things I don’t think I want to talk about. And that brings me to my request. Mr. Rupertson --”
“Please. Call me Giles.”
“Giles, you said it yourself. This is a spellbook of immense power. I saw myself in that vision of the future. A future where I take this book and use it. It will give me powers, and it will also change me into something terrible.”
“Well then. We should keep it far away from you, under lock and key.”
“But don’t you see? Even if I never touch that book again, you or someone else will, and it will happen to them. It’s like the book wants to be used. For evil. That’s why I think we need to destroy it.”
They both stared at the grimoire, with its strange writing and its black leather cover.
“You know what I think. I think that this whole thing is a hoax.”
“A hoax? I’m not joking, Mr. Rupertson, I think it really is dangerous! You must believe me!”
“No, this book is clearly a fake. Someone tried to play a trick on the Gotham City Library for Halloween. They’ve just copied the Voynich Manuscript for the text, I doubt that’s even real vellum, and look at the cheap binding. We wouldn’t dare besmirch the fine reputation of the Martha Wayne Special Collection by accepting such tosh. That’s why we must burn it, you see. For the honor of the Library.”
Barbara smiled, nodded. “For the honor of the Library.”
When the last page curled up in flames (the Wayne Special Collection room had a rippingly good fireplace), Barbara Gordon underwent a strange transformation, as did the universe.
The universe, for its part, went back to the way it had been before, when Barbara Gordon decided to take the night off from being Batgirl so she could stay up late at the library. Gotham’s colorful criminals still plotted their evil deeds, and the Terrific Trio of Batman, Robin, and Batgirl still managed to stop them, week after week. Same Bat time. Same Bat channel.
But Barbara remembered. She remembered what had happened when the Retconomicron had given her power. She remembered going back in time, and her lonely years protecting Gotham as the Oracle. And she remembered her life growing up in the other Gotham, the one without crime, the one protected by the same Oracle, by herself.
She tried to explain it all to Giles, leaving out the lascivious bits.
“... and that’s why I went back in time! The only person I knew who could accept the book without ‘paying the price’ was myself, because I had already done it! But the book could only be taken by Batgirl, because otherwise she -- I mean I -- would never go back in time and become the Returning Returner. But since I did go back in time, I prevented myself from becoming Batgirl in the first place, by eliminating all crime in Gotham as the Oracle!”
The elder librarian nodded. It was late, but he had a keen mind and a sense for this sort of thing. “So you created a paradox through time travel.”
“Correct! And a paradox is the one thing that can’t be ‘retconned.’”
“Fascinating. But… you made an extraordinary sacrifice, Barbara. You spent 49 years protecting Gotham from itself. And now no one remembers it but you (and I, apparently), because you ‘retconned’ that world out of existence.”
“It’s not a time I particularly want to remember. But even now, those memories are beginning to fade. Don’t you feel it? Like it was a terrible dream. I have the feeling that it will all be forgotten tomorrow. I hope so…. But it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. I had to protect reality itself. And what else could a hero of Gotham do?”
“Not a hero of Gotham, Barbara. A hero for the entire world. Even if you don’t remember it. Even if no one ever knows.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes while the embers died down.
“And what about you, Mr. Rupertson? You know my secret identity now. Perhaps you could join us in our fight against crime. I could use my own sidekick, you know.”
The librarian laughed, and then polished his spectacles on his rumpled tweed jacket.
“It’s a tempting offer, but I must decline. I will keep the secret of your current night job. But I think it’s finally time for me to leave this job, and Gotham, behind.”
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
“I will stick to being a librarian, mostly. I have a job offer in a quiet little town in California. It’s called Sunnydale.”
FIN