Her throat goes dry as her eyes fix on the swaying corpses. She's seen carnage before, but this...

She'll saw at the ropes, cut them all down -

She can't.

So she focuses on the words, inscribed as what she can only guess is a warning.

"Good intentions," she mutters, and her voice echoes oddly in the deserted street.

She bends down, intent pulling a throwing star from beneath her chair; it probably won't work, but she can try.

When she pulls her hand back, she's holding a batarang.

With a smile that aches, she aims at a rope.