Besmirching the Archetype

Announcer: Gotham City has the fine fortune of being home to many a well-known public personality. Darlings of the culture might be encountered on any outing along Gotham’s broad boulevards . . . but celebrity, like many honors, is sometimes awarded for surprising reasons.

Consider this young woman, a fetching figure appearing live before the studio audience of one of Gotham’s favorite late-night variety shows....

The audience was laughing, really eating it up. The guest smiled, her face lighting up in practiced glee. The host was being upstaged, and he knew it; he groped for a witticism that might restore his ownership of the spotlight. Nothing sprang to mind, so he nodded his head, vaguely, waiting for the applause to calm.

Diapergirl was in top form today: animated, charming, ebullient. She drew ready attention, with her odd attire, and held that attention with the skill of a born performer. She wore her standard uniform for public appearances, a uniform well known, after all these weeks, to anyone who had recently been near a television or newsstand. One might expect the audience to be laughing at her, not with her, at first glance; such was the absurdity of her garb. She seemed trapped in early childhood: her hair pulled into curly pigtails, her feet clad in little baby-styled booties, a pacifier dangling on a colored string around her neck. And the diapers, her namesake. Diapergirl affected a sort of bikini, composed of disposable diapers. One, snugly taped around her hips; another, just as snugly secured around her chest. The outfit met the standards of television decency, if just barely.

Taylor Carlton, the host, finally managed to make himself heard. "I’ll take your word for it, Diapergirl. If you say the fashion world is ready for diapers, well... okay. You’re the authority on the matter."

"Yes, I am the authority," laughed Diapergirl. She had a discernible French accent. "The fashion world is ripe for ABY culture."

"Ripe," said Carlton. People laughed. Carlton was known for his ability to make the audience laugh, using just one word. Knowing this, he tried to say as little as possible, as often as possible, to get the most laughs. "ABY?" He asked.

"It is short for ‘Adult Baby.’" Diapergirl said the words carefully.

"Is that a, what, an acronym? What is the ‘Y’ for?"

"Perhaps it is a contraction. But we will take the fashion world by storm!" The ‘Y’ went unaddressed, because Diapergirl suddenly bounded up and across the stage, almost landing on the host’s desk. Carlton jumped visibly.

"Don’t bounce around so much, Diapergirl! The censors would plotz if you burst your tape." Carlton mimed exaggerated dismay, mopping imaginary sweat from his brow, sweeping his hair away from his forehead. There were a few lascivious chortles. Some giggled at the comical sound of his Yiddish inclusion.

Diapergirl took her seat again, casting an amused glance back at the host, who was, once more, struggling to devise a way to regain control of his own stage.

"Look, Diapergirl –– "

"Call me Janet, Taylor." The guest was calling the shots.

"Janet, then. You know your fashion. You know your diapers...."

"Yes, I do. I am not only the president of the Hair Club for Men, I am a member."

Carlton tried to continue, then got the joke and let himself laugh with the audience.

"Well, right. Right," he finally managed, "But you could be running your company from anywhere in the world. Now, you’ve come to Gotham City from Paris, which surely outranks us as a center for world fashion."

"Of course, my father’s old factory, the manufacturing plant, is here in Gotham City. But that is not why I returned to Gotham. I will ask you, what is the one thing that Gotham City has, which no other city can claim?"

Carlton hammed it up, guessing. "The World’s Largest Bagel? Our Annual Festival of Petunias? No, I know! Gotham’s architecture features more gargoyles per square mile than anywhere else in the world!" Finally, the host got a laugh. What he said was true.

"There’s one just outside my apartment window, big ugly thing," he continued, but failed to draw out the amusement.

"Are you quite finished with your guessing? They are all wrong, your guesses! Gotham City has one thing! Batgirl!"

"One thing. Er, Batgirl?" Carlton’s double take won a few chuckles.

"Batgirl. I just adore your Batgirl. She is so alive! And I will tell you something...."

The two talked over one another. "Now that’s really a surprise. Batgirl?" No audience response. Taylor didn’t have their attention; Diapergirl did.

"Batgirl is going to help me sell my fashion to the world!" Now the audience laughed. The guest beamed.

"Batgirl," said Carlton, looking at the audience. They laughed. "Diapers," he said, looking at the smiling guest. The audience laughed again. He shrugged. "You’ve talked to her about this then, have you, er, Janet?"

"She is a hard woman to meet, Taylor, but we will talk. You’ll see."

"Well, I’d like to wish you a lot of luck with that project, Diapergirl...."

James Gordon’s finger stabbed at the remote, clicking off the video recorder. Diapergirl’s visage remained frozen on the screen for an instant, before he abruptly turned off the television and turned to face his visitor.

"Diapergirl certainly is odd, Commissioner, but I don’t see why you needed to see me so urgently about her. Did I miss something?" Batgirl looked serious, as though contemplating a difficult puzzle.

"You heard what she said, Batgirl."

"There’s no harm in using my name to get a few laughs, but, surely, she’s not serious." Batgirl did not succeed in keeping a momentary look of revulsion from showing on her face.

"This Diapergirl may be more serious than you think, Batgirl. Take a look at these records...." The Commissioner reached out his hand, expecting to make contact with something, but grasped only empty air. He turned and glared at Chief O’Hara. "The files, O’Hara?"

"Oh, beggin’ your pardon, Commissioner. I don’t know what I was thinking."

O’Hara looked oddly sheepish. The Commissioner was plainly irritated. ‘What is wrong with the man?’ wondered Gordon.

"Here, Batgirl, look at these." Gordon handed her a folder of files.

"Case files," said Batgirl, beginning to peruse the documents. "They’re several years old."

"But still open, or at least never solved." The Commissioner glared at O’Hara, then occupied himself with something on his desk so Batgirl could turn her attention to the documents.

A story unfolded before her, in the dry language of the police report. It took her a moment to realize that she was reading about Diapergirl’s past. Batgirl read of a company, Squeezies Diapers, and of a scandal that almost ruined both the company and the man who owned it.

Diapergirl’s father was the owner. Diapergirl had been the child model for the company’s products. The police had become involved due to allegations that unspeakable things had gone on between the father and the daughter. These rumors had never been fully explored. The mother had rushed the daughter out of the country, to Europe, rather than take the affair to court. The matter had been let go.

Diapergirl’s name proved to be Janet von Windel-Couche. ‘Von Windel-Couche?’ thought Batgirl. ‘Gesundheit.’

"Why was this dropped?" asked Batgirl.

"There were some rather serious problems of proof, Batgirl. In addition, there was political pressure involved," replied the Commissioner, with obvious disgust. "We were warned off."

"That old man had half the aldermen in his back pocket, he did," said O’Hara, unexpectedly. "A dirty business."

"Indeed, Chief O’Hara, indeed."

"Well, Diapergirl obviously had an unhappy childhood, if there’s any truth to this . . . but she seems to have risen above it." Batgirl was still not sure what she was supposed to grasp in all of this. The Commissioner was being almost evasive. Apparently, this distasteful matter made him uncomfortable.

"If, indeed, there is truth to it, it was more than unhappy. It was monstrous."

"She’s fine now, though, obviously."

"Perhaps not, Batgirl. Read this one." The Commissioner handed her another file.

Batgirl read some more. This one was much more recent. The documents were dated from three years ago. The father, owner of Squeezies, had committed suicide. The details of the case made it unambiguous. Suicide.

"He was a troubled man, apparently," said Batgirl, "but the conclusion seems clear. Why is this case still unsolved?"

"Quite troubled, perhaps deservedly so. The scandal destroyed him. But that man did not take his own life."

"That’s not what the file suggests. Is this another case of ‘political pressure?’"

"Rather, another case of inadequate evidence, Batgirl. This last document is from a dossier we've been keeping, concerning Diapergirl. As evidence, it is purely circumstantial, but I think you'll find that it is quite suggestive." The Commissioner's expression was pained as he handed the single page to Batgirl.

"Quite the dramatic buildup for this one, Commissioner," laughed Batgirl.

James Gordon wasn't laughing.

Batgirl reviewed this final page. Janet had been in the States, in Gotham City, at the time of the apparent suicide. She had traveled under an assumed name, and had departed only three hours after she arrived.

Batgirl leveled a gaze at the Commissioner, who was staring at her expectantly. "You think she did it," said Batgirl.

"Yes . . . and we’ve been keeping an eye on her ever since she returned to the States to take over the Squeezies company."

"How can you possibly prove anything at this late date? She apparently had motive, whether vengeance or inheritance, but what further evidence can you uncover?" Perhaps he wanted Batgirl to do their sleuthing for them? The case, though, was clearly cold.

"We’ve seen all kinds of troublemakers in Gotham City in recent years, Batgirl. We’ve learned some of the indicators for which we should keep watch. Diapergirl has money, influence, a dark past, and a colorful, costumed public persona. She has a ready-made army of followers, if she really has as much influence over these ‘ABY’ people as she claims. Finally, she has her obsessions: diapers and Batgirl. She looks like one of our notorious villains, just waiting to sprout."

"Is she guilty until proven innocent?"

"She’s suspicious. We can’t do anything unless she does; I know that . . . but I’m concerned about you, Batgirl. She’s obsessed with you. This isn’t the first media venue that she’s used to express her Batgirl fixation . . . and she’s getting bolder about it, talking about directly involving you in something."

"In selling diapers. It’s harmless; silly."

"Mark my words, Batgirl: you need to watch out for Diapergirl. I’m afraid she might be... well, I’ll say it: she might be Batgirl’s Joker. That Grinning Ghoul has an unwholesome interest in Batman, and a dark, disturbed past. I see unsettling parallels. You should watch yourself."

It was the Commissioner’s visible concern which caused Batgirl to decide to take the matter seriously. Barbara Gordon spent much of that night, and as much time as she could manage at the library the next day, to bring herself up-to-date on Diapergirl’s doings.

By the end of her workday, Barbara’s head was swimming with trivia concerning Diapergirl. ‘What kind of name is von Windel-Couche, anyway?’ she wondered as she left the library. German-French, she decided, and wondered whether it would be useful to look up the words.

On her way to meet her father at his office, for their traditional Tuesday night dinner, Barbara caught a glimpse of a large, balding man with a black moustache –– and an infant’s pacifier in his mouth. She wondered whether the man was declaring his link to the ‘ABY’ movement and decided that it seemed likely.

Feeling like she’d learned something, at least, during her recent researches, she trotted up the stairs of Police Headquarters and made her way through its bustle and up the elevator, toward James Gordon’s office.

Barbara found her father seated behind his desk, his head in his hands, clearly up to his eyebrows in some stressful concern. James Gordon had always seemed invulnerable to his daughter, but today Barbara could see his age beginning to show. He seemed older than he had the previous day, and tired.

"Hello, Daddy," chirped Barbara, trying to cheer him up. "You look upset. Is the Joker jaywalking again?"

"The Joker is no laughing matter, Barbara . . . but you’ve come close enough to guessing it: more Masked Business. Batgirl’s having some troubles."

"Is she? What’s wrong?" Barbara anticipated a full account of yesterday’s meeting between Batgirl and the Commissioner. He put her through such recaps frequently, and Barbara was always glad to receive this evidence that her father had not discerned her secret identity. Not this time, not yet.

"Don’t they have a television or radio at the library, Barbara? It’s been all over the news, dear me."

"It’s a library, Daddy. Our patrons don’t want television or radio; they want books." Barbara gave him a smile, then a laugh, before continuing. "You always worry so about Batgirl, Daddy. She’s a big girl. She can handle herself."

"Against the onslaught of negative public opinion, I doubt many can handle themselves successfully. She’s made a terrible mistake, Barbara, signing on with this Diapergirl. Half of the public hates her; the other half will never again take her seriously. She may be finished."

"What in the world are you talking about, Daddy? Who hates Batgirl?" Barbara was fairly certain she hadn’t done anything foolish, regarding Diapergirl.

The Commissioner looked at her and suddenly seemed to pull out of his concern about his work. He smiled apologetically.

"How are you, Barbara? I’m sorry I’m obsessing about Batgirl. I have an almost parental concern for our masked heroes; but I can’t let that overwhelm my concern for my own daughter, dear me. You’ve been absent for days, Barbara. What have you been up to? You’re not, eh, seeing anybody, are you? Maybe that Banner boy I remember?"

"I was here last Tuesday, Daddy, for our weekly dinner. It’s Tuesday again, so I’m back. I’ve been busy, but, no, I’m not seeing anyone - least of all David Banner. Honestly, Daddy, where did that come from? I haven’t seen David since before..." Barbara cut herself short. "Since we moved," she finished, shooting a worried glance at her father.

"Since before your mother died. Go ahead and say it, Barbara. I’ve come to terms with your mother’s death."

Barbara replied softly. "Perhaps I haven’t come to terms with it, Daddy. I’m sorry."

"Barbara, Barbara. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?" James Gordon sighed, lost in some reflection.

Barbara decided to change the subject. "Tell me about Batgirl, Daddy. How is she involved with this Diapergirl?"

"Oh, she’s gone off and signed a contract to advertise Diapergirl’s products. Just yesterday, I warned her to avoid Diapergirl. Then she runs off and does this." The Commissioner sighed and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He was trying to seem dismissive about the matter, but he couldn't fool his daughter.

Barbara, however, had to try to seem unconcerned, herself. It was difficult. She was shocked; her mind darted about, trying to make sense of this revelation.

"I-I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, Daddy. She must have some plan in mind." Batgirl couldn't have a plan, not without Barbara knowing it. She'd have to know it. Batgirl couldn't operate without Barbara's knowledge, unless... what? A single word jumped into her mind: sleepwalking. Sleepwalking? The idea seemed unlikely, but it disturbed her; Barbara barely heard her father as he continued.

"Well, I certainly hope you’re right, Barbara. That fellow on the radio, the loudmouth O’Hara listens to at lunch, is trying to use this to shred Batgirl’s reputation - and he’s not the only one! The afternoon papers...! It’s a smear campaign, from out of the blue. Much of the public was already up-in-arms over this Adult Baby nonsense."

"Don’t worry about it, Daddy. Come; let’s get dinner. I’m famished." Barbara popped up and began to drag her father by his arm.

"You don’t eat enough, my dear," he said, distractedly. Barbara giggled and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t giggling inside.

Barbara was staring at the cowl. She needed to reassure herself, remind herself that it was inert. The mask wasn’t running off and doing things without Barbara’s knowledge. It was as inanimate as the table on which it lay. With great relief, Barbara ruled out sleepwalking.

"I’m Batgirl: me," she reminded the mask, "and I’ve never seen Diapergirl, much less entered into a contractual agreement with her - and you certainly didn’t do it. So there’s another answer to this mystery." The mask was less responsive than was Charlie, her parrot.

Barbara nodded to herself. "That’s right, Charlie. The answer is obvious. There’s a phony Batgirl involved, if any Batgirl is involved at all." The answer did seem obvious, now that she’d quelled her ridiculous concerns about the mask. Nothing to worry about. Fake Batgirls had cropped up before; it was an almost routine occurrence.

Feeling better about the situation, Barbara decided to relax for a bit. Batgirl would handle this matter in due course. Barbara executed a graceful twirl, taking her across her living room, where she switched on the television with a flourish. ‘Still got it,’ she thought, pleased that her old ballet training had not abandoned her. Even so, she flopped gracelessly onto the couch. She was tired.

"Tonight on The Comment Hour," declared a talking head on the screen before her, "we’re discussing the Adult Baby trend."

"Of course you are," groaned Barbara, rolling her eyes. Two days ago she hadn’t even heard of the movement. Now it was everywhere.

"Now," continued the onscreen personality, "we’ve all seen it in the news. A group of people likes to dress up like infants. Fine. Let them. We’re a tolerant society. But shouldn’t this kind of thing be kept behind closed doors? Tom?"

"Chuck," replied Tom, "it’s what I’ve been saying all along: this is a regressive movement. It’s unhealthy. Keep it off the streets." Tom had a big, black mustache. The host had a big, balding head and a sharp nose.

"Frank?"

"Well, really, now, this is like any countercultural or subcultural movement. They have their own distinctive style. Perhaps the styles, in this case, are, literally, regressive. But is the movement? I think the whole thing is a non-issue, Chuck, a fad. It will pass. Let it run its course." Frank’s manner was almost apologetic.

Back to the host. "Today we saw Gotham’s own Batgirl coming forward as an advocate for this movement. Now, this has led to a surprising level of almost instantaneous controversy. What do you make of it?"

Tom made an unkind snorting sound. "Again, I’ve said it before. These masked vigilantes are no friends of society. Keep them off the streets."

Frank was given no opportunity to comment. Barbara began to wonder why she was putting herself through watching this, but couldn’t quite tear away from it.

"You’re unusually moderate on this issue, Tom," said the host.

"Frankly, I’m repulsed by the whole thing. But, as you said, we’re a tolerant society. Still, I don’t want to have to know about it, and I think a large segment of the public shares my view."

"Well, some viewer commentary. ‘Chuck,’ writes one viewer, ‘these people are deviants and should be punished to the full extent possible under the law.’ I should point out that there is, as yet, no law under which this could be accomplished. Perhaps someday."

"One can hope," said Tom.

"Another viewer: ‘Chuck, Batgirl should hang up her cape and call it a day. My daughter had a Batgirl poster. I burned it when I learned that she’s an Adult Baby. She should be ashamed.’ Something to think about."

"She should be kept off the streets," said Tom.

"Really, now, I..." began Frank, but the station cut to a commercial. Ironically, Diapergirl’s Own Adult Fashion Diapers was being advertised. Diapergirl, herself, was the spokesmodel for the advertisement. She danced about gleefully, expounding the joys of her product. She was selling her own appeal, more than anything else. Barbara had to admit that Diapergirl had charisma. Even so, she switched off the television, irritated.

"I am not an Adult Baby," fumed Barbara, "and I’d like to see him try to keep me off the streets." When she looked up, she was almost sure the cowl was staring at her. Barbara held its imagined gaze. ‘Go ahead,’ she wanted to dare the mask, to dare her other self. ‘Just try to take over my life.’

"Diapergirl has a fake Batgirl," she told the mask. "She’s stated that she wants to meet me and she’s pretending that she has. Daddy’s right. She’s trying to pull me into something . . . but I won’t let her." Or was Batgirl trying to pull her into something? Perhaps Barbara was rebelling against her secret self more than rejecting Diapergirl’s summons? The mask said nothing, as usual.

Charlie squawked, perhaps convinced that his owner was addressing him.

What about the public outrage? Barbara parroted some of the television’s commentary back at the mask, or the bird, or herself. "It will pass. Let it run its course." She nodded to herself. If the Commissioner was right, Diapergirl would play the hand a bit further. Batgirl would watch and wait, and make her move when it was time.

Somehow, however, the controversy didn’t seem to run its course, or it found its course rather longer than Barbara had anticipated. Three days later, things were even worse. There were protesters outside of Police Headquarters when Barbara arrived, for another visit with her father. Their signs and slogans made clear their dislike of Batgirl, Adult Babies, diapers as fashion, masked heroes in general, and a former First Lady of the United States. They were largely calm and orderly, although some did look quite angry.

When Barbara entered her father’s office, she found him gazing out the window at the street below. She could tell from his posture that he was even more distraught than he had been when she last visited.

"You look tired, Daddy," she said upon entering.

"Perhaps there’s something about having an angry mob on one’s doorstep that might make one a bit tired. I’m feeling old today, Barbara."

"Why are they protesting here?"

"They seem to be gathering at most of the public buildings, Barbara. I’m surprised you haven’t seen them at the library. It’s a hassle I could do without, but their permits are in order. Dear me." He sighed.

"All of this is over Batgirl’s alleged association with Diapergirl?"

"There are groups - GOAD, for one - who’ve been waiting for an opportunity to publicly oppose Gotham’s masked heroes. That radio blowhard of O’Hara’s, he’s been building them up. They’ve been planning this for some time, and Batgirl’s sudden scandal has given them an issue they can use to advance their cause. I rather wish Batgirl would make a statement of some kind to try to defuse this controversy, but she’s been silent."

Barbara knew about GOAD, Gothamites Organized Against Depravity. They were a radical offshoot of the Gotham City Decency League.

GOAD seemed more likely to oppose the ABY movement than masked heroes. ‘Unless masked heroes are now considered depraved as well,’ Barbara thought. ‘Keep them off the streets,’ she heard the TV saying.

"I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, Daddy."

"You’ve said that before, Barbara, but how can you be sure? Perhaps, perhaps she’s listened to her detractors and decided to hang up her cowl."

An unfamiliar voice sounded from the entrance to the Commissioner’s office. "Not likely, Commissioner Gordon. It will take more than slander and bile to make me retire."

Barbara turned to find Batgirl entering the room. She was only shocked for a moment. ‘This is it,’ she thought. ‘This is Diapergirl’s next move.’

Commissioner Gordon shot his daughter an odd glance before greeting the unexpected guest. Barbara sat, trying to read the meaning of his glance, as "Batgirl" approached the two of them.

"Why, Batgirl! We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Barbara?"

Barbara said nothing, but carefully studied the would-be heroine before her.

"Have you met my daughter, er, Batgirl?" asked the Commissioner.

"Hello, Barbara," said Batgirl.

"We’ve met," said Barbara, "although you may not remember me."

Batgirl offered no comment and turned directly to the Commissioner. "I felt I should stop in, Commissioner, and talk to you about Diapergirl."

"Indeed? What about Diapergirl?"

"She’s causing me some trouble, causing all of us some trouble."

"Well, the public has the right to protest, if they so desire...." The Commissioner gestured vaguely, to indicate the "trouble" represented by the protestors outside.

"I’m going to have to do something about Diapergirl, Commissioner. I just wanted you to know that."

"Well, certainly, if she’s causing you trouble, Batgirl, you’d best do something. Yes. Quite."

Gordon was speaking as though to a child, Barbara thought.

"Thank you for your time, Commissioner," said Batgirl, already heading for the door. "I will contact you again soon." She was gone quite quickly. Her visit had lasted less than two minutes.

"Well, she was in a hurry," said Barbara.

"I suspect her nerve failed her," said the Commissioner, "but she deserves credit for trying to pull something like that off here, at Police Headquarters, of all places."

"What are you talking about, Daddy?"

"That was not Batgirl, Barbara. She was a fake, and not even a skillful one."

Barbara feigned surprise. "Why, how could you tell? She seemed authentic to me."

"Perhaps I’ve seen more of our Dominoed Daredoll than you have, Barbara. No, she was terrible. Any suitably-aged woman might make a better Batgirl than she, my dear. Why, Barbara, even you could... make...a...." James Gordon’s statement trailed off, and he looked at his daughter as though noticing her for the first time. His eyes widened for a moment. Then he looked down at his desk, silently.

Barbara could see the wheels turning in her father’s head. ‘Great,’ she thought. ‘I don’t need this.’

"Is everything all right, Daddy? You stopped in the middle of a thought."

"I found a new thought, Barbara, a rather disturbing one. One that makes far too much sense. Good Lord, to have missed the obvious all this time!"

"Daddy?"

"When did Batgirl begin making her appearances, Barbara?"

"Good question. It was a long time ago."

"Interestingly, she first appeared at the Gotham Public Library," said Gordon, fixing a steady gaze on his daughter. "Further, she began making frequent appearances after you were first abducted by the Penguin."

"Ugh. Don’t remind me."

"Yet, where were you, Barbara, when Batgirl was first held hostage by Shame?"

"I told you, Daddy, I was...." Barbara couldn’t remember where she’d told him she’d been at the time. She fought back a moment of panic. ‘Play it cool,’ she told herself. ‘Cool and dumb.’

"Yes? Where were you again, my dear? But never mind. Consider, however, our trip to Londinium. Who mysteriously appeared along with us?"

"Batman and Robin."

"And Batgirl."

"What are you suggesting, Daddy? Do you think I’m Batman?"

"Don’t mock me, Barbara. Oh, you’ve had a great deal of fun at my expense." Gordon looked bitter. Barbara found that she almost wanted to open up and tell him the truth, rather than see him looking like that. Almost.

"You’re being obscure, Daddy. What are we discussing?"

"You, my dear. You and Batgirl." He turned away from her and began pacing the room. "It’s all so clear, now. My own daughter, dear me." Now he faced her again, his expression stern. "You and Batgirl bear a remarkable resemblance to one another, Barbara. I do believe you’re one and the same."

Barbara carefully kept her face expressionless. "Don’t be absurd, Daddy. Anyway, tell me: how does she resemble me?"

"And arm you to better hide such resemblances, my dear?"

"Dad-dee!!!"

"Well, perhaps I am being foolish." His expression belied this concession; Gordon clearly believed he wasn’t being at all foolish. "However, there are surprising points that you and she have in common. For instance: I am sure you’ve never seen it, but you have a very distinctive mole behind your left earlobe. By an odd coincidence, so has Batgirl. I saw it when she helped rescue me from Egghead."

"I’m sure plenty of people have marks in such places," protested Barbara. "But Egghead kidnapped you years ago! Have you been harboring these thoughts for so long?"

"Oh, so the event stuck out in your mind, then, too, Barbara?"

"Of course it did! You were kidnapped, Daddy! The whole idea is crazy."

"I have to agree. You’ve been taking risks, Barbara, which surely deserve to be called crazy."

Barbara stood, trying her best to remain calm. She wished, now, that she’d prepared herself for this day, instead of just living in fear of it. "Daddy," she said, "I think you need to take a vacation. This Batgirl problem has you so wound up, you’re chasing phantoms. I understand - but I won’t sit here and be subjected to this absurd interrogation. I stopped in to cheer you up, but I think, now, I’d better leave. I’ll call you later, once you’ve calmed down."

"You do that, my dear. If you start after her now, you may still be able to catch up with your impersonator."

If ever Barbara wanted to curse at her father, it was then, as she finally escaped from his office. His last comment was like a slap across her face. It stung, bitterly, because everything he had said was true.

Gordon was, indeed, correct about what Barbara had to do when she left him. He was wrong, however, about why she’d had to leave. It was obviously time for Batgirl to go into action, but there was no need to try to follow the fake Batgirl. She was certain the fake’s trail would lead to Diapergirl.

In truth, Barbara had fled from her father’s office because she’d finally and unexpectedly found herself in a trap from which she could envision no escape: the trap of her father’s knowledge and inevitable disapproval. Barbara couldn’t bear that disapproval; but neither could she be swayed by it and give up the mask, as Gordon would surely demand. Batgirl completed her, perhaps more than Barbara cared to admit.

Once the mask was on, she felt better. She had a purpose. Barbara’s concerns could fall away. "Daddy" became "Commissioner Gordon." Barbara’s dilemma belonged to someone else, not Batgirl. Batgirl’s problem was recovering her good name, restoring her public approval.

"I am not an Adult Baby," Batgirl grumbled as her Batgirlcycle rumbled beneath her, speeding her to the corporate headquarters of Sqeezies Diapers, producers of Diapergirl’s Own Adult Fashion Diapers.

Unless she was in hot pursuit, Batgirl always obeyed traffic laws. Usually she didn’t mind, but today she wished she didn’t have to stop for the lights. Passersby on the street did not wave or smile, as they usually did; they cursed or jeered. A gaggle of teenagers saw her at a light and sang part of the Batgirl Song, a novelty recording which had spent a short period on the charts in the wake of the heroine’s initial appearance.

"Batgirl, whose BABY are you?" They sang, over and over, mocking her. Everyone on the street laughed and laughed. The heroine found herself blushing. Yes, it was time to confront Diapergirl. This needed to be stopped.

Batgirl tried to focus on the coming confrontation with Diapergirl, but she couldn't quite keep the confrontation with her father from her mind, as she rode along. She tried to push it aside, reminding herself to keep the concerns of her costumed life separate from those of her real life. Gordon's knowledge, however, concerned both Batgirl and Barbara. Her father never would have pieced things together, had she not refused to deal with Diapergirl, days before. Why had she refused? It was a foolish thing to have done. 'Dumb, Barbara; dumb and childish,' Batgirl thought as she neared her destination. 'You need to grow up, Barbara Gordon; grow up and stop running from your problems.'

It was after business hours, but hardly late, as Batgirl parked her vehicle on the outskirts of the Squeezies complex. The parking lot was empty, the offices and warehouses darkened. She suddenly realized that she would probably have to break into a building before she could locate Diapergirl. She hadn’t really thought things through. Batgirl was moving through the sheer momentum of Barbara’s distress and Batgirl’s own aggravation.

Breaking and entering was something she often had to do, in the course of pursuing felons; generally, it was considered justifiable under such circumstances. Diapergirl, however, had broken no laws; she’d merely sullied Batgirl’s reputation. A lawsuit for slander might be the most appropriate way to handle this situation.

Yet Batgirl wore a mask, was a fiction of the costume. She was not a real citizen, like Barbara, nor a legal entity, like the Squeezies corporation. Could the heroine bring suit over such a matter, over any matter? Surely the effort would just lead to a legal tangle, and more bad publicity. No, a more immediate approach was required - but it was risky. Batgirl would be breaking the law, whereas Diapergirl had not. There could be trouble.

She decided to risk it. If she set a legitimate appointment to meet with Diapergirl, that could lead to as much irksome publicity as a failed lawsuit.

Choosing a rear warehouse as her point of entry, Batgirl expertly picked a lock and opened a door. She stared into the darkened interior as she fished for the flashlight in her utility belt. ‘Into the abyss,’ she thought, and in she went.

The Commissioner’s fake Batgirl stood in a public phone booth. "C’mon, c’mon," she griped at the phone. It kept ringing. A passerby knocked on the glass of the booth. He pointed at her and said something inaudible through the glass, then laughed.

"Take a hike, you moron!" she shouted, angrily. Once he left, she got the last word. "Jerk."

"I would advise you to address your employer with more respect," said the man who was now connected on the other end of the phone line.

"I wasn’t talking to you. Some twerp was hasslin’ me. Listen, you’re making this hard for me. People hate Batgirl all of a sudden. I’m takin’ a lotta flak here."

"You’re earning your ridiculously large fee. You’ve been doing an admirable job so far; keep it up. I trust you’ve fooled everyone?"

"Right, sure. These diaper people, they don’t know a thing. But she sent me to see the Police Commissioner."

"And you went? That was foolish."

"Look, you told me to do what she says. I’m supposed to be working for them, right?"

"She suspects."

"Suspects, nothin’. Look, I’m good. They’re all mixed up. But there’s somethin’ screwy about what she had me tell the Commissioner. Told him Diapergirl was a problem I needed to look into."

"That doesn’t make any sense," said the man, concerned. "She knows," he concluded.

"No way. Anyway, how much longer do I have to keep this up?"

"Until I tell you to stop. Keep yourself visible. People need to be riled up a bit more."

"All right. When do I get paid?"

"We’ll set an appointment. But I don’t want you coming here. If there’s police involvement, you may be watched."

"You’re a suspicious old goat. Get it?" The fake Batgirl’s laugh was a harsh snorting sound.

"It’s GOAD, not ‘goat,’ and you’ll show me more respect, young lady."

"Sure," she said, "but just don’t push me. You want me to talk? I got a story to tell!"

"Enough of this. We’ll arrange a meeting place. Don’t call me again. I will contact you."

"Yeah, only I set the place."

"Out of the question."

"Gotta go. There’s this reporter I know...."

"Okay. You set the location. Goodbye!"

The ersatz Batgirl laughed as she hung up the phone. She knew just the place to meet with this man from GOAD, her employer. ‘Make him squirm a little,’ she thought.

As she exited the phone booth, "Batgirl" made an obscene hand gesture at another leering pedestrian.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room. The sun had set a couple of hours ago. Batgirl was accustomed to doing this sort of thing after dark. This moment of adjustment, during which she was effectively blind, was a window of opportunity for a waiting ambush. As she blinked the room into visibility, she sighed with relief at the absence of any attackers. Such a concern seemed silly, however. Why would Diapergirl want to ambush her? At worst, Batgirl expected to be hassled by a Squeezies security officer.

She made her way between rows of shelves silently, hurrying to find her way to Diapergirl. She was sure the Squeezies owner would be somewhere in the complex. By all indications, Diapergirl actually lived somewhere on the company grounds. Batgirl decided to check Diapergirl’s office first, then look for a hypothetical basement residence. Diapergirl was here, somewhere.

The boxes on the shelves around her matter-of-factly declared their contents: diapers, diapers, diapers. Once this was over, Batgirl decided, she’d be happy if she never encountered that word again.

All at once, it happened. She heard a sound, like a sheet of plastic rustling, and immediately whirled and ducked. Something smashed into the box which had been behind Batgirl’s head before her dodge, with the sound of corrugated cardboard being violently crushed. Batgirl whirled again, correctly guessed the position of her attacker, and landed a solid kick. Someone fell, noisily, and Batgirl finally got a good look at the woman who’d tried to assault her. The would-be assailant’s appearance was unexpectedly clownish. Perhaps this was what distracted Batgirl. She stared at the baffling bundle of shiny, blue latex and absurdly clown-like makeup before her, and missed the second assailant altogether.

This second attacker was quieter and subtler than the first. A cloud of gas suddenly rose around Batgirl’s face, making her sneeze. She spun and staggered.

"No," she squeaked. The strength was flowing from her limbs. She identified the smell that filled her nostrils. "Talcum powder?" said Batgirl as she slumped to the concrete floor.

"Baby powder, Batgirl," responded a voice. "Specially formulated to turn Batgirls into Big Babies." The speaker’s face swam into view and Batgirl got her first good look at a member of Diapergirl’s secret army of babyslaves. Batgirl tried to struggle as she observed her captor, but her arms and legs wouldn’t respond. Being turned into a Big Baby apparently involved paralysis.

The woman before Batgirl looked ridiculous. She wore a red rubber outfit, highly polished and shiny, styled to resemble baby clothes. The red rubber bonnet on her head surrounded a smiling face which was made up like a clown’s. A red rubber bib, labeled "Baby Girl #1," lay over a red rubber top with poofed and ruffled sleeves. Her feet wore rubber booties, red as well. Her abdomen was covered by a hugely distended pair of red rubber panties, apparently covering some immense diaper. The diaper made her waddle when she walked and her booties made shuffling sounds on the concrete.

The blue attacker came into view. She was shorter, but her outfit was much like that of her red companion, aside from the bib, which revealed its wearer as "Baby Girl #2." Number Two was angry.

"She’s helpless," cackled blue number two. "Lemme make her cry, before the Boss gets here. Batgirl’s a crybaby. I can tell."

"No, Winny. No games, and that’s an order. Get the gurney." Red, at least, sounded pleasant enough.

Blue scowled. "She kicked me."

Red was not sympathetic. "Winny!" she shouted.

"Someday I’ll wear the red," said Winny. "Then we’ll see who’s boss."

"Get the cart." Red finally stopped smiling and snarled. Blue responded to this primal signal and ran off. Her departure was a cacophony of squeaking latex, rustling diapers, and shuffling booties.

"Let me go," demanded Batgirl, pleased to find she could at least speak.

Red Number One did not respond. Her irascible companion returned, pushing a hospital gurney. The two rubber-clad babyslaves picked up Batgirl and wrestled her onto the cart. Batgirl watched the ceiling change as the gurney was wheeled out of the warehouse and into the connected office building. She found that she could turn her head, slightly, with great effort. She could make her arms and legs twitch a bit . . . but Batgirl could not move, not really.

This was much worse than being tied up. Paralyzed, Batgirl was helpless; effectively bound without ropes or shackles or bindings of any sort. Any plan of escape she could devise would require being able to move, at least somewhat - but she was stuck, captive in her own body.

It was a distressing situation. Batgirl felt panic tug at her. It almost had her, when she heard a familiar voice, followed by a face she recognized from television. Diapergirl leaned over Batgirl, smiling. ‘Finding Diapergirl was easier than I expected,’ Batgirl thought wryly. She focused on her pigtailed captor, pushing the panic aside.

"Oh, isn’t she just so darling?" Diapergirl cooed. "Hello, Batgirl. I am so, so glad you’ve come to join us. I was afraid you would not respond to my invitation."

"This isn’t funny, Diapergirl. Let me go!" Batgirl had almost forgotten the concerns which had brought her into this mess. She added, as an afterthought: "and stop dragging my name through the muck."

"Is that all that you want, Batgirl? But I cannot do that. You see, I like you too much. No, you will stay here, as my guest. Eventually, you will sell my products because you want to. You will join the ranks of my babyslaves!" Diapergirl seemed ready to burst from pure glee. "But, until then, you are just a helpless Big Baby Batgirl, unable to move. You will learn to love our ways."

Smiling, Diapergirl raised a disposable diaper, unfolding it before Batgirl’s eyes. In her other hand she held a bottle of Baby Powder. ‘Big babies must wear diapers,’ Batgirl groaned to herself, ‘even Big Baby Batgirls.’ She could see no way out of this dilemma. She couldn’t move. Batgirl was trapped!

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