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Gazing down at the teeming city beneath her perch in the dank, chilled apartment, Sly observed quietly the patterns of those unburdened by gifts and curses such as mutant abilities, like those of her own or the Teen Titans. The latter had occupied her mind a great deal recently, riddling her thoughts with triumphant tales of bravado, sinister accounts of masked men committing wrong. The Teen Titans were revered by the average civilian, and hated by every cell inmate. They tried so hard not to classify anything as gray; to the tabloids, all the pictures taken in the newspapers and magazines were always black and white; good versus evil; Titans versus Slade; moral versus immoral.
Ah, but if only everything were that simple. If only memory was as easily restored as the innocence one often reads about in children's books; if only scars were so easily erased. She suspected she knew otherwise; she ought to, anyway.
A ciminal who attempted to make up for the deeds she had done wrong, of her own accord; that was what -- who -- she was. A mere shadow in the night, cloaked by the sweet shelter of smog and rain, always hidden from the prying eyes of the public media. She refused to be seen; if she wished to, she could make it so, had she nothing to hide. However, contrary to what some so dearly yearn, this girl had so much to hide. It puzzled even her how much she kept hidden even from herself. How many nights had she lain awake, tossing and turning while attempting to unlock the secrets her memory kept from her?
"Too many," she murmured aloud in response, her warm breath creating white fog on the glass of the window, cool to the touch.
A soft smile etched onto her lips as she lifted a slender, crafty fingertip to the window, pressing it against the glass and slowly dragging downward, a vertical line. She spiraled the design at the bottom, arcing it up and inward, not dissimilar to the structure of the treble clef on a sheet of music.
"Hn..." That settled it: she was bored. Not just the subtle sort of 'watch TV and get it over with' bored, but the hungry, 'get out of the house and commandeer something from the mall' kind of bored. Releasing a sigh followed by a yawn, Sly released her hair from its elastic holder, shivering at the sudden comfort of her multi-toned locks tumbling down to offer comfort for her bare shoulders. She stood, stretched her stiff, tired muscles, and moved to the lake of dark clothing she had christened her bed. Tugging out her favorite pair (deciphering into 'the ones with the least amount of runs or defects') of fishnet stockings and sweater and balancing precariously on one foot while the other underwent the tedious process of dressing, she managed to shove her legs into the stockings, a denim button skirt and a pair of black ankle socks, followed by knee-high, heavy-duty black boots.
"Cold today," she observed aloud to no one in particular, and thus resolved to complete her ensemble with a bright blue corset top and elbow-length black gloves. The cold didn't bother her much anyway; she just liked pretending that she was somebody she could consult about the weather and other petty things. She knelt to lace her boots and comb her hair, then grabbed her mp3 player, blue visor, and shoulder-slung bag, which contained her costume (for emergencies, it is always best for one to be prepared) before opening her door and locking it behind her, slamming it shut and allowing the elevator to swallow her whole and transport her to hte base floor of the apartment, where she would merge into the hustle and bustle of daily Jump City life.

However, when she stepped out of the cmplex and set out onto the sidewalk, she almost immediately halted her gait. At first she thought she was hallucinating; was there really a Teen Titan only meters away from her doorstep, fallen and calling out for help? It seemed too surreal to be true, but just to be sure she knelt beside the boy and grasped his hand to feel for a pulse on his wrist. She recognized him from the magazines and television specials in store windows. His name was Breyze, bearer of the wind, protector of both Titans' Main and Titans' West...but still, that did not answer her question: what was he doing there? What foul cause had forced him to his knees in a stroke of weakness and was now holding him to the periol of unkind pavement?
"Breyze," she poke, hoping that a reply would help her establish a mental connection between the two of them; that would speed up familiarities, at any rate, and help her conclude what was wrong with him.