Rags gaped at her. At what was happening. She was maybe ten years old. Slender and pretty. She was dressed in a costume. Black and sleek, with a stylized bat on the chest and a short cape that fluttered as she ran. Masses of curly red hair bobbed behind her. Rags searched her oldest memories for the name of the character. Batgirl. Batgirl? Rags felt as if the world had suddenly become insane. Or that maybe she had gone crazy. Had the years of isolation, of fear and violence, of constant danger finally pushed her over that delicate edge into genuine madness? She could build a case for that. It made much more sense than what she was seeing. A little girl dressed as a superhero, laughing as she led a pack of zombies down the streets of a dead town. This was something from a fever dream. This was the sort of thing she imagined would happen every day in a mind that had become irreparably fractured. Rags had met several insane people, and it was clear from the looks in their eyes that they were seeing a different world than she was.
