I own nothing but my Oc and the ideas I come up with everything else belongs to DC Comics

The night we lost our parents was the worst of our lives. A man took our parents away for the pearls around our mother's neck and the money in our father's pocket. Despite their cooperation the thief shot them anyway in cold blood and turned the gun on us. I was almost thankful that he only had time to pull the trigger one more time before he was forced to run away or be caught red handed, unfortunately the last bullet found it's mark...in me.

I heard Bruce scream, I heard him cry out for me and our parents, I wanted to comfort him, tell my big brother everything would be ok, but I couldn't speak and I couldn't move...I couldn't feel my legs.

Someone must have heard Bruce scream because the next thing we knew we were surrounded by police. I was rushed to the hospital once they realized I was still alive and I was taken in for emergency surgery to save my life.

I lived...but they could do nothing for my legs. I would be paralyzed for the remainder of my life and I knew Bruce blamed himself no matter how much I told him it wasn't his fault. Both our parents deaths and my paralysis, but I knew he did it anyway...he was stubborn like that.

When we returned to our family home in the care of our family butler Alfred, the two of them were relentless in making the manor home again. They renovated the entire manor to be wheelchair accessible so that I would still be able to go wherever I liked without having to be carried up and down the stairs, though Bruce and Alfred were happy to do so while the renovations were still underway.

It was difficult without our parents, but Alfred did his best to help us in anyway he could. He knew it wasn't enough, but it was a greater comfort than most orphans ever got in Gotham.

A few years later I could see Bruce was getting worse. He wouldn't talk to me about it, but I knew our parents deaths had affected him more than he let on, I could see the pain and guilt in his eyes every time he looked at me.

Eventually he left, without a word, to go out into the world to find himself, at least that's what his letter said. He apologized for leaving like that, but he was afraid that if he said goodbye to me in person he would never have the strength to leave me. I understood and I loved him enough not to track him down and bring him back to where it was safe kicking and screaming as I wanted to. I let him go...because he was my big brother and I loved him.

He was away for years. Every few weeks a new post card or letter would find it's way to us describing his adventures, what he was learning, what he was doing. Alfred and I worried about him together, we worried about what he was really doing, we worried if he was safe, we worried that one day we would lose him, we worried that he wouldn't come home.

Then one day...he did, but he wasn't the same...he never really had been since that day, but he was even more different than when he had left.

Bruce had gained height and muscle in his travels, all of his soft edges had become refined and hardened while he was away. I looked at him and for a moment I saw my father...and it brought tears to my eyes.

After Bruce returned he swiftly took over the company and I willingly handed it over, as much as I loved our parents and their work it just wasn't something I had ever been interested in. No I was a painter and all the proceeds that my artwork gained went to various charities around the city, one Bruce and I made sure were legitimate and actually helped those they said they did. I even had a room on the ground floor that faced, and had a door leading to, the gardens for inspiration and for whenever I wanted to get out for fresh air.

I started realizing how tired Bruce would look not long after he came home. I knew he was partying often, I went to a few of the gala events for charities that he planned, and it worried me that he wasn't getting enough sleep. I told him to slow down, take a day off, relax, but he would just smile gently at me, give me a hug and tell me he was fine and that he could handle it.

Not long later a vigilante calling himself Batman was discovered. A man dressing up as a bat and dealing out justice to the thugs and low lives of the city. I had mixed feelings about his man. While it was good that he was trying to save the city I worried about what would become of it in the wake of this man. For every crook and drug lord this Batman would take down, a new one would rise to take his place stronger and smarter than the one before. It was like trying to fight the Hydra of myth, for every head he would cut off two more would grow more powerful than the last. Eventually it would become too much for Batman to handle, he either needed help or to stop.