(Test) Cass Cain

A drop reaches her lip and Barbara Gordon-Grayson tastes the brine of her own sweat. She sucks in a harsh breath between her teeth. The bars she hoists herself up on feel slick under her hands, despite the powder she put on them - what? An hour ago? Two?

There's an annoying strand of red tangling in front of her eye. It's glued to forehead. She wills it aware and leans forward. One more step. One more

Step.

One -

More -