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Cass’ fingers move with a practiced precision, so light that the only testament to her touch is the trail of goosebumps running up Stephanie’s stomach. Her chest is a zigzagged maze of scars and stretchmarks. Stephanie looks up, catches Cass’ eyes, and then hurriedly pulls her gaze back down. Just what does Cassandra see written across her skin?
Though the question pulls at Steph’s mind, it never reaches her tongue. An airy pant is all that she can force from her throat before she goes silent again. Her eyes slip shut. Clayface’s recent Arkham escape, her upcoming abnormal psychology midterm, Barbara’s mayoral campaign – the subjects that had once consumed her every waking thought now seem distant as a dream. Her wrinkled costume lays sprawled across the floor. If she’d kept it on, would Cass have even been able to guess at what history had engraved across her body?
She pushes the thought back. Day or night, Stephanie’s life might as well be one giant game of dress up. Why should she scramble to find another mask to hide behind?