Light weakens as soon as it touches your home, flickering and losing its luster the deeper it drifts into the waters. In those depths, you originate, in the belly of the sea you belong. Though nothing more than a tourist to the surface world, Barbara has arranged for a far more permanent residence.

Stripped of half your identity, condemned to a life you could have freely chosen—but hadn't had the chance to.

Sometimes, if you delude yourself enough, you can almost sense its presence. Somewhere, locked away and hidden in this damnable clocktower, is the one thing that allows you to return to the sea. A possession that's hardly a possession at all, but an integral part of your being. As sure as you breathe, you know this is a piece of yourself you can never leave behind.

And so does Barbara.

"We can go for a walk later," Barbara suggests, her voice calm. "I'm working right now."

Most of the time, Barbara's computer room is dimly light, the rays of the sun through the clock's face offering a poor imitation of the raw luminesce outside.

Her fingers tap on her keyboard, the rapid clicks like the staccato pecks of a hummingbird on your eardrums. All feels loud here, even though the muffled sounds might resemble the quiet of being underwater. It's not the same. It won't ever be the same.

Gotham slopes below sea level, yet the clocktower is so tall it hardly matters how close you are to the shore.

"I ordered food earlier. Go eat while I work," Barbara says, her eyes flicking to you briefly. "You're free to do whatever."

Hardly.

Even now, she struggles to fully believe in selkies, though the proof stands right in front of her.

There's something grotesque about keeping your 'skin' from you, but the supernatural is easily compartmentalized in Barbara's mind, as well as the pretence that this is nothing more than her full dedication to your safety.

After the accident, how could she not? It had been her fault for not foreseeing it. Controlling your movements is a twisted sort of penance.