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The following week proved to be a true test for me. I felt as though I traversed the seven circles of hell seven times over, each day more unforgiving than the last. My mind was consumed by thoughts of an imminent confrontation with the League of Shadows, preventing me from ever truly relaxing. This time, I knew that conversation alone would not sway my fate, so I vanished into the Batman cave, delving deep into the wisdom of the Dark Knight's mastery. In his absence, I listened intently to the teachings of Nightwing and Batgirl, absorbing their craft with rapt attention. Even upon returning home, my studies—the very torture of them—continued ceaselessly; Bordeaux and Katana ensured that not a moment was spent at ease.

I understood that my efforts could do little to fortify me for the looming confrontation against Ra's al Ghul and his fearsome League of Assassins; it was impossible to advance my combat skills so swiftly that I might contend with such expertly trained fighters. Still, I persisted in honing my abilities, partly as a distraction to make time pass more quickly. I hoped that burying myself in relentless training would allow me to forget, if only briefly. Fatigue overtook me—fatigue from the never-ending struggle for the freedom to live a dignified and independent life, from the desire to pursue my passions undisturbed, and from the endless anticipation of the moment I could finally break the metaphorical noose tightening around my neck. From the moment I entered this world, the fragility of my life was never beyond my awareness; it always felt as though I was walking on thin ice. Survival depended on tempering myself as steel: fortifying my spirit, amplifying my strength, and becoming indestructible and unapproachable.

Very soon, I would have that opportunity—a chance to change everything and claim mastery over my destiny. I anticipated the moment when I could face my enemies with dignity and deliver a proper rebuff. My eyes were fixed on the slow crawl of the clock's hands, reproaching them for their deliberate, mocking pace. I know I exaggerate, but that is how I remember those endless days. I waited with bated breath for Pamela and Kavita to recreate the super soldier serum, clinging to the hope that I would soon find relief. Yet, the days continued to pass without word of the serum, and so I threw myself into my training to drive away intrusive thoughts. This was not in vain: I was distracted from my torment and made tangible progress in my combat training. Every cloud, after all, has its silver lining.

Today, the twenty-fifth—on the fourth Thursday of November—I paused my rigorous training regime to grant myself a brief reprieve. The entire country was celebrating Thanksgiving Day, the holiday that heralds an inspired yet hectic season of preparation for Christmas and the New Year. Uniquely, it is a holiday where every American feels duty-bound to gather in the warmth of family. The tradition stretches back centuries, to the days when the first settlers stepped onto American soil. In gratitude for their generous harvest, and in appreciation for the warm welcome from the indigenous tribes, the settlers held a feast with dishes aplenty, inviting all local residents to join. The years have not consigned this benevolent holiday to oblivion; instead, it remains a cherished tradition of gathering in the family circle, expressing gratitude for all the good that exists and all that has transpired.

I do not remember my past, nor do I know if I have family in this world. Therefore, on this day—when loved ones come together around the table—I chose to celebrate with women dear and beloved to my heart. The sweet aroma of pumpkin pie filled the house, infused with the promise of comfort. Silver had just taken dessert from the oven and, as it cooled, she set the table with deft hands: a snow-white lace tablecloth, dishes enveloped in red napkins, and a generous decoration of chrysanthemum flowers, thyme sprigs, and autumn leaves, all lending a festive autumn atmosphere.

It would be a mistake to assume that a woman as rich and famous as Silver St. Cloud, whose company is noted for elegant parties and receptions, never worked with her own hands, merely giving orders from afar. In reality, Silver had weathered many hardships and solved both her own and others' problems, unafraid to dirty her delicate fingers in the process. I lavishly coated the turkey—stuffed with vegetables—in cranberry syrup before fulfilling my duty and placing it in the oven. Drawn by the citrus fragrance from the fruit Silver was slicing so carefully, our esteemed journalist Victoria burst into the kitchen, camera in hand. She flitted about, capturing our preparations for the family registry.

"Vicky, please take this to the table," Silver said, handing her a plate of fruit. Vale popped a slice of orange into her mouth and dashed off to complete the task.

"How's our turkey?" Barbara asked as she lowered the volume on the TV broadcasting the Macy's parade—a magnificent procession of huge balloons and figures inspired by beloved cartoon characters, stretching from Central Park to Herald Square in New York. Every year, millions watched this spectacle unfold on the fourth Thursday of November.

"In progress," Silver replied with a smile.

"How is Harley?" Vikky inquired.

"As usual," Batgirl muttered. "Terrible fidget... She's broken another plate. That's the fifth! I'm tired of cleaning up after her!"

"I said I could have done it myself!" Quinzel shouted, catching Barbara's complaint.

"Oh, what are you saying?" Barbara responded sarcastically. "When did you last clean anything? You only spread chaos, causing trouble at every turn. You are the black cat bringing misfortune."

"Oh, but I like cats," Harley replied cheerfully, launching into an unrelated story, clearly undisturbed by Batgirl's accusations. It was unsurprising; the two had long been irreconcilable enemies—even fighting on occasion: the Masked Heroine versus the mad Harlequin. Importantly, Harley still did not know that Miss Gordon, who chastised her so frequently, was actually her old adversary Batgirl.

As requested by Barbara, I had said nothing. Barbara's trust in the clown remained shaky, and she greeted Harley's talk of a new life, free from the Joker, with continued suspicion. Hence, the ongoing discord between them seemed unlikely to resolve soon. Perhaps one day, in a distant future, they would overcome their antagonisms and become friends. For now, their squabbles persisted, an endless refrain.

"Girls, don't fight," I urged, seeking peace.

"Sasha, help me," I appealed to my bodyguard, who lounged on the windowsill, absorbed in a mobile game. Sasha Bordeaux was a woman of few words—though perfectly capable of socializing, she preferred to speak concisely and to the point.

"I'm busy," the girl said, her gaze never wavering from the phone screen—ever consistent in her approach.

Without waiting for evening, we decided to sit at the table. Barbara wished to leave early to celebrate with her family. She explained that this day was nearly the only one all year when her father, Commissioner Gordon, a notorious workaholic wholly devoted to his job, would never abandon the family hearth, remaining home for the holiday's duration—a testament to the significance of the occasion.

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Thank you all for your support please vote with power stones and write a review.

Check out the other book as well:

Spider-man: An Idiot's dream.

You all can read extra chapters on [email protected]/annihilator009

Or support me through:

Ko-fi.com/annihilator009