Protector {Damian W.}

Chapter 3

The date of her estimated and legal birth date was next week. She was excited for a lack of a better word. She would finally turn 18 and be able to embrace the real her. At last, she would become one with the shadows again.

Amara was relaxing on her roof sipping hot chocolate despite the warm weather, and reflecting over her time in Gotham so far. It was pleasant, she had met Dick, Damian, Alfred, and managed to achieve the status of a hermit. She had yet to meet anyone else, including Mr.Wayne ... Honestly, she wanted to delay that for as long as possible.

He was Damian's father, Talia's ex-beloved (she assumes as much) and the most important.

He is Batman.

BATMAN.

He would know in seconds. He'd probably rip her apart, feed her to the bats in his cave and then resurrect her and inflict more horrors upon her.

Pause.

Okay, so maybe that's a little far-fetched.

But only a little.

"I'll have to deal with that as it comes," Amara muses aloud. But first, she must prepare for the grand premiere. Her first night out as her true self.

A dangerous nobody.

•

"Good morning, I'm here to talk to the board of directors. Are they in?"

The secretary looks up from the computer and regards me through her eyelashes.

"Let me call you back", she speaks into the receiver. "And who are you?"

Snooty little— "Amara."

The witch raises her brow in a condensing way. "Amara...?"

Inhale. Exhale. Don't kill her Amara, you're above that.

"Crosswell. Amara Crosswell."

She begins to sputter, "C-C-Crosswell?! O-of course ma'am!"

Don't smirk.

•

Amara had been seated at the head of the board of directors table. Now she was being stared at as if she were the last of her kind like a wooly mammoth.

I sigh, "Were you not aware of my existence? I was led to believe the Lady spoke of me."

"Yes ma'am, we were notified... We just weren't expecting you, and we've never met you before." A lady named Emily, according to Lady Talia.

"Well, Emily, here I am. I'm sure you all know why. I turn 18 soon, and I would like to start working in the company as its rightful heir."

"You're just a child, what do you know about business?!—"

Put him in his place.

"If I were you Mr.Gratis—"

"She—"

"Exactl—"

I should have let my last adversary slay me.

•

5 hours and 2 Tylenol later, I found myself walking around the dirty streets of Downtown Gotham after a long and strenuous meeting.

Why—

"Watch it Richie rich!" A young voice spits as I get bumped hard.

"My apologies that you can't walk properly." I snap, the day's stress catching up to me, loosening my tongue to speak informally.

"Ugh, you're all same! Entitled bastards thinking the world revolves around you!"

"I'll have you know—"

"Whatever." The 5'1, blonde turns to leave and I get a good look at her. She couldn't be more than 16, wearing torn jeans, a dirty shirt, a tattered hoodie and broken combat boots.

A child.

I sighed, "Wait, don't go," I soften my voice. "I haven't had lunch yet."

The girl turns to look at me with an unreadable expression, "So?" She murmurs dejected.

"So... I'm new to town, don't know where to eat and the least I can do for bumping into you," I so didn't, "is offer lunch as an apology."

"I'm not a charity case!" She snaps.

"I didn't say you were," I reply calmly.

The blonde stares at me apprehensively for a bit, but I can see how thin she is beneath the shirt, so I feel no pride as the hunger wins over, just relief.

"Fine, follow me."

•

"How are you aware of my wealth?"

The young girl had taken us even deeper into Gotham, to streets as old as the city itself. In the light, you could see the city for what it was. Decaying bricks, homeless people, civilians rushing to get somewhere and a constant buzz from the people and busy streets. This city was alive, barely in some areas, but it was.

A survivor. My mind supplies in a whisper.

Currently, I was seated in a Cafe that although looked nice, had most likely seen better times. In the 90s. But still, it was cozy, secluded, and didn't garner attention. Made up of small booths, high chairs at the counter with cracked red leather and faded red and white striped walls, it was a miracle the staff didn't wear quad roller blades. Fortunately, the roller bladeless staff gave us a booth providing a view of the entire Cafe.

I Ignored the fact that even if they were in quads I'd still enjoy this because these old cafes were the definition of my normal American childhood. Even if I'd never admit to that.

"Well, your clothes have a high thread count and you didn't deny it."

Slurp.

Ugh. I tried to keep my face neutral.

"...good eye."

"Mhmm."

Soft chewing noise.

Is this awkward or what?

"...what's your name?"

"Laila. You?" Short and clipped. More focused on the food.

"I am Amara. Pleasure to make your acquaintance...?" I mentally cringed when it came off like a question.

Laila snorts, "Yeah, okay."

Dammit, my eye is twitching.

"So, anything fun to do around here?" I asked, suddenly reminded of my hermit existence. I would need cover-ups for my... nightly activities.

"You mean other than surviving the night?" Laila asked brow raised, shoveling pancakes dripping with syrup in her mouth.

I allowed a smile, despite the chance of it being a jab, amused at the young teenager's snark and mannerisms. "Yes, other than that."

"...for fun...uh...well...there's dancing. Street dancing...but I dunno if that's your thing." She said awkwardly, almost abashed.

"That actually sounds quite perfect. Pray tell where, and the specifications? Is it freestyle or gangs?"

Laila looked slightly impressed. Very slightly, though.

"Nah, its mostly everyone doing their own thing, with the odd dance off here and there...you interested?"

"Yes, very much."

"Well... uh... I don't mind showing you... but you can't come dressed like that. No offense it's just—"

"No," I waved her off, "I understand street dressing, thank you for your concern, but it will not be a problem. Can we meet here at...?" I implored.

"8."

•

I'm not even gonna try to make an excuse.

 I got a 1000, but ain't nobody wanna hear em. (lol)