The rooftops were quiet, while New York City was alive as always, even at night. But up there Gwen paced to the edge of the building, arms crossed, her usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a frustrated scowl. She had just made her case— a solid one, she thought— and yet here you were, telling her no. Her brow furrowed as she tried to process the rejection 

"Wait, hold up. You’re telling me that you can’t talk to Bruce— the guy who probably burns more money on custom Batarangs than I’ll ever see in my entire life— about helping me out? You know, just a tiny loan or something?"

She moved away from the ledge, tone laced with disbelief while pacing a little, her sneakers scuffing against the gravel of the rooftop

"I mean, come on! My dad’s on a cop’s salary, I’m on a vigilante budget— which, spoiler alert, is zero— and everything I’ve got is falling apart. My drum kit’s barely holding together, my suit has more holes than Swiss cheese and don’t even get me started on my textbooks!"

She stopped, pointing at the barely covered holes in her suit before throwing her hands in the air. The frustration in her voice cracked, revealing buried stress and worries. So she looked away, trying to mask it with a short, forced laugh

"Okay, okay. I get it. I just thought, you know, maybe he wouldn’t even notice a few bucks missing. Like, what’s a couple hundred grands to Bruce-Nepo-Baby-Wayne? A rounding error?"

Gwen leaned back against a chimney, crossing her arms again and looking over the city. Her tone softer, quieter as she tried her last resort...

"Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I’m asking only for me, y’know? It’s for... everything. The city, my friends, keeping things together. But I guess I’m on my own with that too, huh?" 

Her words hung in the air for a moment as she tried a little guilt trip— Low blow? Maybe. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

"...I was just asking for a little help. Vigilantes should help each others! I thought we were friends!"