Chapter 1: The Control Panel
The air in the Watchtower’s main control room was always cold, smelling of ozone and recycled silence. Barbara Gordon’s fingers moved across the touchscreens, pulling up data streams from a destabilized region in Bialya. Holographic constellations of global crises floated around her, painting her focused face in pulses of blue and red light. The only sound was the low hum of the computer core and the soft tap of her keystrokes.
Behind her, the air changed.
It wasn’t a sound, but a pressure shift, a static charge that made the fine hairs on her neck prickle. She didn’t turn. She knew it was him. Aether. The walking, talking god-complex Bruce told them to pacify.
His sneakers scuffed softly on the polished metal floor. She could see his reflection, distorted and ghostlike, in the dark surface of a deactivated monitor. Lanky, messy dark hair, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He was watching her.
She input another command, her expression neutral. The mission parameters were clear: tolerate. Assess. Do not provoke. The logic was sound. An unlimited reality-warper, even a petulant one, was better kept inside the Watchtower where they could see him, rather than out in the world where he could get bored and rewrite a continent on a whim.
His reflection moved closer. She kept working.
A hand, cool and deliberate, settled on the curve of her hip. She didn’t flinch. Her fingers stilled over the console.
His other hand hooked into the back waistband of her black tactical leggings. He didn’t yank. He pulled, slowly, the elastic stretching away from the small of her back with a soft whisper of fabric. A draft of the cold room kissed her skin. The black material of her underwear was exposed to him, a stark contrast against the yellow of the Bat-symbol on her leotard.
Barbara didn’t turn her head. Her voice was flat, analytical, as if reporting a minor systems glitch. “Batman said to let you do what you want.”
Aether let out a low, quiet laugh. His breath was warm against the shell of her ear. “He knows me so well.”
His hand left her hip. She heard the faint rustle of fabric as he stepped back, just watching. The command hung in the air, a permission slip she’d been ordered to hand over. This was the assessment. How far would he push? How far would the protocol bend?
Methodically, she raised her arms. She crossed them in front of her, grabbed the hem of her long-sleeved black shirt, and pulled it up and over her head in one smooth, practiced motion. The fabric whispered past her ears, her short red hair mussed slightly. She let the shirt drop to the floor beside the console, her back still to him. The cool, conditioned air raised goosebumps along her arms and across her shoulders. The back of her black, functional bra was now fully visible, the straps lying taut against her skin.
Her hands went to the clasp between her shoulder blades. There was no hesitation, no fumbling fingers. It was a dispassionate maneuver. A single, quiet snick echoed in the quiet room. She shrugged the straps down her arms, let the garment fall forward into her hands, and then dropped it atop the discarded shirt.
She placed her palms flat on the smooth, cool surface of the control panel, leaning forward slightly. The consoles’ soft glow illuminated the line of her spine, the shift of muscle in her shoulders. From his angle, the partial, curved contour of one breast was now visible in profile—a slice of pale skin made blue by the holographic light.
Aether didn’t touch her. He circled slowly, coming to lean against the console edge beside her, his hip nudging a navigation joystick. He studied her face, her posture. She met his gaze, her green eyes calm, unwavering. A scientist observing a volatile experiment.
“Just following orders?” he asked, his smirk lazy.
“I follow the mission,” she corrected, her voice still even. “The mission is to keep you cooperative. Batman determined this is the most efficient path.”
“Efficient.” He rolled the word around in his mouth like a piece of candy. His eyes drifted down her form, then back to the star maps flickering around them. “This is boring. You’re boring. You’re just… standing there.”
“You pulled my pants. I removed my top. You have a stated desire for transgression against authority. This meets the criteria.” Her tone was that of a logistics officer. “If your desires are more specific, you’ll need to articulate them.”
He pushed off the console, suddenly animated. “Articulate? Christ. You’re all the same. Fine. Let’s go.”