Stacked by Sarah Stella Title: Stacked Author: Sarah Stella Category: vignette Rating: PG Continuity: TAS Summary: A snapshot from a night in the life. Assume that it takes place shortly after "Shadow of the Bat." Babs ponders a problem I've often thought about and comes face- to-face with a situation that I'd assume lots of female superheroes would face if men didn't write most of the comics. ;-) *** Stacked by Sarah Stella (soitgoes@witty.com) *** Usually, the padding on the insides of her boots is enough to keep weariness away until morning but tonight's just not one of those nights. He's far ahead of her, his footsteps echoing weirdly in the alley--hollow. The noise seems magnified by the dark. And while she knows this is impossible according to the laws of physics, she thinks about it just the same. She can make out his figure, a dim blot against blackness. He's slowing, tiring. That's the main part about routine patrols; unless she gets the career criminals all she has to do is outlast them. Even the crazy ones aren't always in fighting trim, relying more on gadgets and hired muscle. She smiles, her legs still pumping under her. That she should have think of this now is at once ridiculous and right. Her feet are hot inside the leather boots. They hurt. The man slows even more and she pours on speed, thigh muscles burning. How long have they been running in this alley anyhow? It seems like forever to her, the seconds stretching out with the stretch of muscle on the insides of her thighs. Inside this costume, still new to her, she feels confined, even as her limbs move freely. She is wrapped tighter than a mummy--spandex, rubber, latex, and leather. She could be a refugee from a sex shop for the genuinely insane. Her breasts are bound severely. That's probably what bothers her the most. She's still experimenting with different combinations of sports bras and gauze wrapping. Of course it's a necessity, but it strikes her as a strange hypocrisy. The form-fitting costume covers the flattened breasts. At least when she was pretending to be Batman the message was consistent; a consistent lie but she's not about to split hairs, especially when her face is clammy with sweat that beads and is blown semi-dry by the air as she runs. She feels as if something is denied in her bound breasts. A chain link fence covers the end of the alley. She registers the cliché with a rueful twitch of her mouth. "That's far enough," she says. When had her voice become so commanding? It sounds deeper than she remembered it, but maybe that's just the acoustics again. The man has his back to her and she sees his shoulders fall in resignation. "Don't hurt me, lady," he says, each word staccato as his breath hitches. He turns to face her, still gasping for air. Even in the dark, she can't ignore the look that rises into his face. She tries not to think about where that look comes from. He examines her carefully, like he wants to draw her from memory. Starting at her feet, his eyes wander over her calves, skate up her thighs, follow the swell of her hips. He stops forever in the curve of her waist, as if he's planning to take up residency there. Then, across the flat expanse of her stomach and over her breasts to the arch of her neck, along the twining red paths of her wind-tangled hair. He meets her eyes easily. She has felt the progression of his stare along her spine, as if someone had touched each one of her stacked vertebrae in turn. She shudders with the vulgarity of it and a vicious spike of anger comes up from her stomach. "You don't have the right!" she silently cries. Out loud she is cool. "Finished?" His tongue darts out and moistens his lips. She has no way of knowing if it is fear or desire that provoked the action but she is almost as surprised as he is when her fist snaps his chin upwards. He falls to the ground and she touches her back, trying to massage his gaze away.