By Chelsea Mechelle

The “Kata” only goes so far as a means of defense in a messy situation like this. The Kata is a series of defensive karate moves, and it held the last five of them off of me until the billy club on the shoulder blades. Nearly got my head busted, but I slipped my head back out of the way just in time and took it on the shoulder. Still, it was a dumb move on my part. I know better-always run under a stick attack. I could kick myself for that dumb mistake. About to pay big time for it. But I sure have kicked enough of Gotham’s finest-no wonder they’re pissed.

I think my clavicle is broken. This is not good. I am trudging through the thick mud, broken concrete, and brick and wire of a devastated building that was imploded last week. It has rained for days. While the rain has stopped, and the sun broke through at dawn this morning, it left this devastated area rain soaked and muddy.

A swarm of police officers is after me, out to unmask me. My bat shirt is shredded off, only my right sleeve is left. However, my body briefer is keeping most of my chest covered. Still, my breasts are about to spill out. My shoulders and neck are bare; I don’t know where I lost my cape. My butt cheeks are in plain view, and my black costume leggings have so many holes and rips in them, one of the leggings simply disappeared into the mud. I am practically barelegged except for a few tatters left on my upper thigh. The auburn sheen of my thick pubic nest is peeking in and out of the tatters dancing on my upper thigh. 

People surely aren’t used to seeing this much of Batgirl. My mask is missing a Bat-ear. My cowl is torn in spots and barely attached to my face now. A crowd of Gothamites has formed around the area. They all want to find out Batgirl’s secret identity. One of the police officers grabs my left arm, and I shriek in pain as bolts of agony shoot straight to my bad collarbone. 

“Got her!” he crows.

“Oh! Oh! O, no!” I jerk and twist violently in his grip. I’m pleading aloud in pain. I look out at the gawking crowd. A woman has her hands to her mouth. Another is hugging tightly on a young toddler. 

I am gasping for air, moaning. The policeman is laughing, chortling now at my agony. My back is arched and my exposed breasts are pointing up at the chopper hovering noisily overhead. The whirring helicopter blades have been the background music of this completely insane incident. Media helicopter.

Karin Allison of News Five is screaming now. The young newscaster is frantic, exciting her viewers all she can. Her cameraman is next to her, peering dangerously over the edge of the chopper railing with his camera.

“BATGIRL IS IN SERIOUS TROUBLE NOW,” Karin’s voice blares into her microphone, “AS TO WHY THEY’RE TRYING TO PUBLICLY UNMASK HER IS ANYBODY’S GUESS, BUT IT COULD BE RELATED TO THE RECENT SCANLON INVESTIGATION. BATGIRL IS BEING GRABBED BY…” 

Live Eye Five. Good old Karin and channel five. Karin with an ‘i.’ The chopper is dangerously close, but the police officers couldn’t care less. The closer the better. We can hear every word she screams to the television audience over the din of the chopper blades.

A few moments ago the officer, who now has his grubby grip on the arm leading to my injured collarbone, was on the ground from a simple sokuto, a side kick. I put the full force of my hips onto the kick. He twists my arm and a million volts of anguish attack my brain. My face is a mask of fear, pain, anger, and yes, hate. Hate. HATE! 

Hate. I hate this frame-up. I did not kill Congressman Scanlon. I was framed, and these policemen know it. The crooked businessman Randall Borowitz killed him because Scanlon was about to expose his theft of government funds. I was about to uncover something very important about the murderer for GPD to react like this.

Batman is gone out of town, no telling where, on some JLA thing. But my own coworker, Doreen Grey, at Health and Human Resources, set up Barbara Gordon. Grey was about to implicate someone who was blackmailing her to frame me, Barbara Gordon. Then Grey disappeared, vanished completely, setting off a police manhunt and a national media frenzy as to her whereabouts. I know she has met foul play. She knew too much. 

The fact that Scanlon, on the House Appropriations Committee, was about to pull the plug on funding for Health and Human Resources, was coincidental and just more grist for the rumor mill. When I was in Congress, Scanlon and I were on decidedly opposite sides of the political aisle, and to some, that was motive enough for me to kill him.

When a rumor floated that Barbara Gordon, who was late for the pretrial hearing, might be Batgirl, someone at GPD cited an obscure anti-vigilante law and came up with a bat signal trap to lure me out. Anti-vig law in Gotham? Geez, all these Arkham Asylum crazies would eat this town alive without us Bat folks. Whatever, it was just an excuse to demand removal of my mask. 

Detective Cameron felt he could not make an arrest in the Scanlon case without a positive ID of Batgirl. I think he just wants Daddy’s job, and a commissioner with a relative who is a vigilante, hurts Daddy politically.

I often answer the bat signal when Bruce is busy. A helluva time for Daddy, the police commissioner, to be out of town. It was odd seeing the signal flash across the sky just before dawn. That was three hours ago. I have been fending them off that long. They will not shoot me, especially with all these people watching, and they want to prove to the world I’m Barbara Gordon. What started as a face-to-face confrontation with Detective Cameron is about to end with my face unmasked in front of these cops and a television audience. Cameron’s first move earlier this morning was to order me to ‘lose the mask.’  

No way. Talk about self-incrimination. I’m not going to put my life in danger to all those whackos I put behind bars. I might as well put a sign on Barbara Gordon’s back: ‘go ahead and kill me, Joker and Penguin.’ Not to mention the target my father would become. So here I am. About to be unmasked anyway. They can’t say I didn’t put up a hell of a fight.

“Hold her up so they can see her,” Cameron yells, pointing a thumb in reverse at the chopper flying overhead behind him.  

A cop on each arm now. What a lucky girl I am. An overweight cop lunges at my face with both hands. I send a kick to his sternum and he tumbles over, spitting out curses at me as he falls.

Cameron is shaking his head in anger. Another cop, tall and slender, rushes me and grabs the mask with his long reach. He pulls on the cowl, but it slips from his hand. Another cop rushes in from the other side and lands a haymaker right to my face.

I am stunned. I see stars. I feel the mask tear. The same cop throws another punch. I can see peripherally that the mask is tattered now under both eyes, and peeling away from my face. The cowl encircling my head still holds the mask on, though. The left side of my face feels puffy, swollen. I can’t see out of my left eye, but I hear someone’s feet sloshing to gain footing in the mud. I kick downward at his knee and he howls in pain. I twist free of the other officer’s grip and run as hard as I can through the rough terrain. I get twenty yards ahead of them and stumble over a large rock. I fall onto to some debris, concrete and rebar. Rebar is a metal rod that helps reinforce building foundations, but it’s no help to me right now. I’m on all fours.

I try to get up, but I am pulled down. No one’s around me yet. I look down at my exposed bra top, a bustier like Wonder Woman wears, only mine is black, and worn under my now discarded bat shirt. I am ensnared by the material of bra top, caught on the rebar like a hooked fish. The metal rod has pierced a hole through the material of the briefer right a the middle of my cleavage, pinning my breasts to it.

I’m lucky that’s all it pierced. Could have punched a hole in my chest! I don’t have time to free myself. I can’t move!! I can’t slide down it, too far to slide, and not enough time. I press my arms up into a push-up—oops! Better not! My boobs almost came out of it! I am staring to overflow, cups running over at a really bad time.

Meanwhile, Gotham’s finest has caught up to me, encircling me again. My boobs are pinned to the debris, I can’t move. The chopper is still above. Karin Allison is having a fit up in the helicopter: 

“IT DOESN’T LOOK GOOD FOR BATGIRL, NOW, SHE HAS A BLACK EYE AND A BRUISED FACE,” the media gal says. “SHE IS DOWN…”

“Get up,” Cameron orders. 

“I cant,” I say. He can’t really see my predicament, my top caught on the metal, pinning my jugs to it. My breasts are going to fall out all over the place. I am huddled over the metal rebar, blocking his vision. I wouldn’t know how to explain this to him any way. Oh, Detective Cameron, excuse me but my jugs are pinned to this little piece of metal. Could you help me? Yeah, sure.

“To hell you can’t,” he says. “I’ve had enough of this.” He points his cigar at one of his men. “Get her up-take the goddamn mask off, NOW!” 

The officer reacts quickly. He grabs me around my neck, pulls me up to a standing position and grabs the mask. I hear my bustier rip off my body and feel my tiddies pop out. As I am lifted from the ground I see Cameron’s eyes widen in shock and lust. 

The chopper lady screams into her microphone.

“BATGIRL HAS BEEN STRIPPED NAKED,” Karin screams, “SHE’S TOPLESS AND ABOUT TO BE UNMASKED! OMIGOD, THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! I DON’T KNOW FOR SURE WHAT SHE’S ACCUSED OF, BUT SHE DOESN’T DESERVE THIS KIND OF HUMILIATING TREATMENT. COMMISSIONER GORDON WILL ANSWER FOR THIS.. IF YOU HAVE CHILDREN WATCHING…” 

I struggle to free myself. The chopper lady is still blathering on, but I am encouraged by the sudden public relations turnaround. I am very angry about my exposed breasts. I see the woman in the crowd with the toddler. She is obviously shocked, covering her child’s eyes. Embarrassing. My nipples are literally ‘hanging out’ of the top, my melons bouncing and jiggling like a stripper on a pole at the Centerfold Lounge. One of Cameron’s favorite haunts, by the way. Learned that investigating Scanlon’s murder.

“Stop, Stop, get her covered up!” Cameron yells, seeing his mistake. But the policeman pulls my mask. Couldn’t stop his momentum, his internal launch sequence. 

“Please, don’t unmask me, Cameron, don’t do this, I’m begging you,” I plead. “Please don’t…”

I feel the cowl begin to tear and lift off my face. The mask stretches and rips. He has trouble with it, but then yanks it smoothly upward and off my face. The remnants of it hang on my thick red hair. He pulls the mask from my hair and tosses it into the mud. The policemen let out a loud cheer.

I feel my eyes lock wide open, my mouth is agape, my face is unmasked, and I’m stripped naked and unmasked in front of all Gotham! 

Everyone is gawking at me. I twist and turn my head back and forth several times with all my might, sending shockwaves of pain through my collarbone.

It’s no use. I’m exposed, my secret identity is ruined.

I am in the other cop’s grasp, naked in the chill air. I am being held up to the camera by the cop, topless and unmasked. My feet are several inches off the ground, as he aims my face at the chopper. I am so embarrassed I cringe and close my eyes. I feel my eyes watering with tears. The whole city is watching on television, not to mention a street-side audience, with their own cameras and videos.My breasts are bouncing madly now. My collar bone is in excruciating pain.

I don’t even care about the mask. Omigod, please, someone cover my upper body! I’m naked! I feel humiliated, ashamed. I can’t twist free, my collarbone hurts. Oh God, my boobs are public talk now, scuttlebutt for the masses and the tabloids. 

“BATGIRL HAS BEEN STRIPPED AND UNMASKED BY GOTHAM POLICE!” The chopper lady screams, frantic now.

I am physically beaten up. All for less than a half-square yard of material with two eyeholes in it. What’s wrong with this picture? Cameron is staring, and not at my face eitherso embarrassed at what the chill is doing to my nipples.

I see men, the police officers and the ones in the crowd, leering at me. I hear women are screaming and yelling at Cameron. Some of his officers are smiling; some are turning away, embarrassed. They’ve all seen too much of Batgirl now. I’ll be a joke as a crime fighter from now on. Please stop gawking at me! Omigod, when will this agony end? Let me go!

“BATGIRL IS UNMASKED NOW!” says the frenzied newswoman from the helicopter. “THAT’S BAB’S GORDON, THE COMMISSIONER’S DAUGHTER! BARBARA GORDON IS BATGIRL!’’

I get up, my arms still covering my boobs and trudge back through the mud. I feel like a trashy lingerie model-or worse-a hooker. I find my cape. I pull it over me and clasp it around my neck. I tie it at my midsection to cover me like a large pancho. I remove the torn sleeve of my bat shirt off my arm, and make a sling for my injured collarbone. I look back at Cameron, thirty feet away now.  

“Are you arresting me,” I scream, “or did you just want to inspect my cantaloupes?’’

“Got your eyes full, jerk?” I ask Cameron. Cameron moves his eyes from my bare nipples and looks up at my face now as if he had just been jostled from a daydream. He tosses his cigar stub aside and looks at one of the men. 

‘‘Turn her loose, get her covered up and hurry!”

The officer puts me down. I fall to my knees and quickly hug my jiggling melons with my arms. 

“Bout time,” I bark at him. “Hope you enjoyed the view!” He looks shaken. I don’t think he’s ever seen a woman this angry. One of the men offers me a GCPD jacket.

“Go away, you fucking asshole,” I yell at him.

I get up, my arms still covering my tits. I trudge back through the mud. I feel like a trashy lingerie model or worse, a hooker. I find my cape and clasp it onto my neck. I look back at Cameron, thirty feet away now.

“Are you arresting me, or did you just want a peek at my cantaloupes?” I scream at him. He blushes to the low murmer and snickering of the men around him. 

“You’ve got no case on me about Scanlon,” I tell him. “And now you’ve just stripped the commissioner’s daughter naked in front of a crowd and TV cameras.

I wouldn’t want to be you when my father gets back.” He looks like he has a lot on his mind.

“I didn’t do it,” he says. “Your clothes got caught on that piece of metal.” 

I am really fed up now. I step through the mud and over a concrete rock. I walk up to him. My yellow boots are knee-deep in sludge, mostly discolored mud-brown. The cape is covering my body now.

I put my unmasked face inches from Cameron’s face. I hear camera shutters clicking all around me. The helicopter overhead is still hovering, though Karin’s voice is quiet up there, letting the pictures tell her story now. 

“Listen, you and your apes held me up there naked while they took pictures,” I shout, flinging an angry index finger in his face.

Some of the officers are sloshing idly around in the mud, looking and listening. I put my chin next to Cameron’s and continue to yell at him. 

“Pictures that are going to end up not just on the eleven o’clock news but on every tabloid and every web page on the Internet-and maybe some men’s mags to boot.”

I am furious at him. My exposed face feels warm. I am enraged at being stripped and unmasked by police. I sense the gawking crowd is put out with the cops’ behavior, too. 

“From what I’ve learned of your habits, I’d guess you’ll probably be doing a lot of downloading and magazine reading yourself, when you’re not out in the bars ogling strippers.”

Cameron is married with kids, an upstanding churchgoer, supposedly a pillar of the community. He knows I’m not finished with my investigation of this. He looks around nervously at his men. I turn and walk away.  

It’s beginning to rain again, and the chopper curves away into the cloudy morning sky. The crowd and even the reporters are sympathetic to me. I don’t have to fight through a thicket of questions.

A large-framed young man in a Gotham University football jacket pushes some of the crowd aside, and barks orders at the slow ones. 

“Get out of the lady’s way, let her through,” the big footballer says. I make eye contact with him, and we smile at each other. I feel better. Some in the crowd begin to yell encouragement to me.

“You go, girl!” a woman says. “You’ll be back; make ‘em pay. Don’t let ‘em do that to you.” 

A smattering of applause breaks out for me and erupts onto a chorus of cheers.

I look over at Cameron. He seems worried, probably about the crowd. His men are in the muddy ruins of the imploded building, completely encircled by people who deal with crime in Gotham every day and don’t share his negative view of vigilantes. Maybe he should be worried. He won’t get any Bat-help today if a riot erupts, that’s for sure. 

I slip away easily and find my bike. I head home, to figure out what to do next, about the Scanlon case and about my exposed secret identity.

Who says I have to fight crime in a mask and cape? I have considerable computer skills, I’ve built quite a database on Gotham criminals over the last several years.

I could fight crime from my computer desk-keep radio contact with Batman, Nightwing, and the others, and relay needed info and answers to them at a moment’s notice. It’s less risky and less worrisome to my loved ones.

I could be the silent voice of the Bat gang. Maybe I could call myself Oracle!

END