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Orestes: I'll kill you before I let myself stain you. Pylades: Then do it. Kill me. I am already stained.
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When asked about legacy, Julia Pritchard answers quite simply: it is a length of rope. Your father wants you to hang yourself with it.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be a nobody, the last in Gotham's food chain. Not making nowhere near enough to afford an apartment in the city, having to share with her ex and living most of the time hiding away where he can't reach her; Wayne Tower, taken in like Alfred Pennyworth's stray, the runt of his old friend's litter.
Fortunate, unfortunate, it didn't matter. Julia knew where to recognize her luck and smile at it. Her apartment was a whole floor, there. She ever so rarely bumped into its owner, Bruce Wayne, who while always seeming midly inconvenience by something, makes it up by never being really seen.
She also knew when to turn the other way. The incessant ringing of her phone, the odd image of the Wayne's old Mansion – the orphanage where she was brought up. The sight of a sulky billionaire in the elevator.
She extends hand after hand, olive branch after olive branch. Nothing works – Julia cannot stop giving. She cannot. There is something deep within her, a gaping hole that keeps on growing. She gives.
Maybe that explains the gaping hole in her survival instincts – Batman's presence in her flat, every so often, the balance between stitching up his wounds and sharing things they shouldn't in a space that has long since been desecrated.
Julia Pritchard doesn't know how to take. She doesn't know how to take up space, how to make it feel like hers. How to make anything feel like hers. The worst part is; she tries. She doesn't know what else to do to belong.
Even that choice is made for her.
She didn't know Kiaan Gupta. Not personally at least; a judge, that was as far as it went – until she learns of her father's cardinal sin, live on TV.
