CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: THE WEIGHT OF A NAME II

She didn’t have a room. Not really.

Dick had gestured toward the side wings of the Manor and told her to choose whichever room she wanted. No guidance. No preference. Just choice, a luxury that felt more like a burden as there were too many options: rooms too big, too ornate, with beds that looked like they’d never been slept in.

Eventually, she picked the smallest one. The room with the fewest windows, the least furniture. The one that felt the most like a space she could retreat from rather than be swallowed by. It was tucked into the corner of the east wing, unremarkable compared to the rest of the Manor. Which, in a strange way, made it feel more hers.

There were no pictures on the walls. No personal touches. No books on the shelves. No sign that anyone actually lived there. Except for a pile of worn clothes folded on one side of her bed, and a mask tucked away in the top drawer of the nightstand, hidden beneath plain t-shirts like a secret she couldn’t quite let go of.

Taylor lay on her back in the dark, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t know how long she’d been awake. Sleep came in fits, when it came at all.

She was getting used to things.

That was the part that scared her the most.

Used to the quiet. Used to the warmth of the tea Alfred made every morning, brewed exactly the way she’d never said she liked it. Used to Alysia’s constant, usually sardonic chatter, a voice that filled the silences without ever demanding anything in return. Used to the way Dick cracked jokes just to see her roll her eyes, filling space with something lighter than guilt or grief.

She was getting used to being seen—and worse, not being treated like a walking time bomb.

No one at the Manor tiptoed around her. Not like the PRT had. Not like the heroes from her old world, who looked at her with that fear she sometimes craved. There was no wary distance, no assumption that she’d snap under pressure, no thinly veiled calculation about whether she was more useful alive or dead.

Just blunt affection, or in Damian’s case, reluctant acceptance. 

It was… disorienting.

. . . . .

Barbara caught her off-guard in the hallway outside the library. Taylor had been moving quietly, trying to vanish into the stillness of her room after a long day of pretending to belong. She didn’t hear the soft glide of wheels until it was right beside her.

"Trying to avoid me?" Barbara asked mildly.

Taylor stopped. "Do I need to?"

Barbara gave her a sidelong look. Cool, perceptive. Like she already knew the answer.

“No. But you are a runner.”

Taylor frowned. "I'm still here."

"For now."

There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet observation. But there didn’t need to be. They hit anyway. 

"You've been through hell," Barbara continued. "No one expects you to be okay."

Taylor folded her arms tight across her chest. "I'm not looking for sympathy."

"Good. Because I wasn't offering any."

That earned a blink. She still wasn’t used to people meeting her like that—without pity, without fear.

Barbara’s smile was faint. Wry. "You're not the only one who's lost something. And you're not the only one who came out of it wondering who the hell you're supposed to be now."

Taylor's jaw clenched. Her grip on her backpack strap clenched until her knuckles turned pale.

"You're not alone," Barbara added, and there was nothing performative in it. "Not unless you want to be."

Taylor didn’t answer. Not because she disagreed—because she wasn’t sure what terrified her more: the truth in the words, or how much she wanted to believe them.

. . . . .

The next morning, Alfred found her in the kitchen again. She hadn’t slept much—again. Had wandered the halls sometime around three in the morning, haunted by phantoms only she could hear. Screams that didn’t belong in this world. Shadows from a locker. From a war. From an empire of bugs.

He didn’t ask questions. Just handed her a mug and joined her at the table.

“I was twelve when I stopped thinking the world was fair,” she said after a while. The words came out flat—worn smooth by time and repetition, like something she’d said to herself too many times to still feel sharp. “Fifteen when I realized I could make people afraid of me. And when I started using that.”

Alfred didn’t flinch. Didn't blink at the obvious implications. Just watched her with that quiet, unshakable calm that made it impossible to tell if he was judging her or understanding her.

“And yet,” he said, “here you are.”

Taylor stared into her mug, fingers curling tighter around the ceramic. The tea was still hot, but she barely felt it. “You’re not surprised?”

“I’ve served in wars,” Alfred said. “Seen good men become monsters. Seen monsters lay down their arms to save a single innocent life. What we do—what we’re forced to do—doesn’t always define us. Sometimes, it’s what comes after.”

She let out a dry, bitter laugh. It scraped her throat on the way out. “You think I’m here to atone?”

“No,” he said softly. “I think you’re looking for permission. To stop fighting. You’re tired.”

That silenced her.

And because she didn’t know if she could stop. If she even knew how anymore. The fight had carved itself so deep into her that peace felt like a lie she couldn’t afford to believe in.

But the idea lingered. Dangerous. Treacherous. Tempting.

She stayed at the table long after Alfred had gone, fingers wrapped tight around a mug gone cold.

. . . . .

Later that day, she caught a glimpse of herself in a hallway mirror outside the dining room. It stopped her cold.

The girl in the reflection looked unfamiliar.

No mask. No costume. Just a college student in borrowed clothes, living a borrowed life—one she didn't really deserve.

It didn’t feel real.

But it didn’t feel like a lie either.

And that—more than anything—was what scared her most.

Because some part of her wanted it. Wanted this strange, fragile quiet to be something she could keep. Something she could stay in without losing herself.  

And that meant, for the first time in a very long time, she had something to lose.