Chapter two: the plot thickens...or dives down an unexpected rabbit hole, depending on your point-of-view.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter two: Wait…he's innocent?

- - o - -

Vince groaned as the banging on his door increased. The former cop turned vigilante contemplated rolling over and going back to sleep—and had even pulled his pillow over his head to silence the noise—when Raia began yelling his name.

"VINCE!" the carnie yelled, banging her fist on the door again. "Open this door or so help me, I'll have Ruvi hypnotize you!" And knowing Raia—and Ruvi—like he did, Vince didn't doubt it.

The vigilante sat up with a groan, and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Last night's patrol had left him incredibly sore, and moving was going to hurt today. He landed on the floor with a thump, and padded over to the doors to unlock the chain holding them closed against intruders.

"Mornin'…Raia," he said, yawning. "Something up at Trolley Park?"

Raia scooted past him, and began pawing through the machinery on the massive table in the center of the room. Vince watched her, brain unable to contemplate what she was doing through the pre-awareness fog. Finally, the woman gave up with an exclamation of disgust.

"Arrgh! Vince!"

Vince stared at her, now almost fully awake. Apparently he'd done something wrong…and she was going to do something nasty to him in return. Running away was starting to look like a very good idea. (She might not have looked it, but Raia was incredibly strong; she also had a mean left hook.)

"Vince, where's your TV remote?" Raia asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She looked about as giddy as the time Popo had let her have some of his coffee. Vince wasn't sure what was in that stuff, but Raia had been worse than a hyperactive five-year-old on a sugar rush. He had to wonder if she'd gotten into Popo's stash again…

"It's over here," Vince mumbled, deciding to humor the carnie. "Why do you need it anyways? Did Rollo lose the one at the carnival or something?" Raia scowled and smacked him on the arm.

"Vince, it's early, so I'll forgive you," Raia stated with an impatient look on her face. "Now, if I told you that everyone knew Chess was alive—and that you were innocent, would you believe me?"

Vince stared at her uncomprehendingly. "I'd say…that it was probably a dream, and go back to bed," he finally admitted. "There is no way," he added, grabbing the remote out from under a keyboard, "that Fleming would slip up that badly."

Raia smirked. "Well, I've just won four hundred dollars. Turn the TV on and take your pick of stations—I'd suggest NBC. It's got the best angles."

Vince raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. If Raia hadn't put a chair behind him, the vigilante would have collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

The montage of photos—from an "anonymous source", according to the voice-over—showed Chess, alive and well. The date stamps were constantly being highlighted, enlarged, and brought to the foreground before vanishing again.

This was…this was incredible! Vince ran his hands through his hair, a look of pure joy on his face. He could finally go home! Chess had been exposed as…

Vince's face fell as the news report changed to a press conference outside ARK Towers. Peter Fleming was on screen, looking rather contrite. The billionaire's speech, while pretty, was covering his bases so that he didn't look bad to the press.

Fleming was apologizing profusely for the "grave error" that had led to the death of one of Palm City's "finest sons". His security team had received a tip—from a source that had asked to remain anonymous—that had led to Vincent Faraday's death. Fleming would be conducting a full investigation into the validity of the tip; he would also be issuing a personal apology to the man's wife and son.

And, Vince thought cynically as he turned the television off, the black armband had been a nice touch.

- - o - -

Dana was on eggshells the morning after her conversation with Scales. She didn't know how long it would take the news to reach the public, but the public defender knew that the fallout was going to be spectacular. Either Chess would come gunning for her and Trip, the other gangsters would do the same trying to score favors with the serial killer, or she and her son would end up under the dubious protections of ARK Corporation.

Either way it was cut, she was not looking forward to the work day.

Almost as soon as she'd sat down at her desk, there was a knock on the door. Dana sighed and looked up, expecting to see Travis or one of the interns there with a stack of folders. She was partially relieved to see a deliveries man standing there instead, balancing a massive vase of flowers on one hip, and fumbling for his clipboard with the other hand.

Dana stood up and grabbed the vase of flowers for the man. She smiled at him as he gave a relieved sigh—that sounded suspiciously like a few well-aimed curses at his boss.

"Whose office are you looking for?" Dana asked, readjusting her grip on the vase. It really was quite heavy. The man glanced at his clipboard, before looking up at her.

"Yours, apparently," he said with a grin. "You've got one hell of an admirer, Mrs. Faraday," he added, holding out his clipboard. "Sign here please."

Dana's eyes widened as she took in the massive bouquet. Apparently Scales was still repaying the favor—with flowers. Who knew?

She managed to balance the vase on one hip and clumsily signed where the deliveries man indicated. He was about to leave when he stopped, and turned around to address her. "For what it's worth, I never believed that Officer Faraday was that nutjob."

He tipped his cap to the mystified public defender and walked off, whistling.

Dana stumbled back inside her office and deposited the flowers on the windowsill. A card stuck in among the brilliantly-colored blossoms caught her attention as she was about to return to her desk.

The woman sighed and grabbed the card before returning to her desk. Dana read the card, and scowled before ripping it into fourths. The pieces were subsequently tossed into the trash. If there hadn't been fire codes, she would have set them on fire as well.

It had been an apology from the ARK security team that had killed her husband. As far as Dana was concerned, it was insincere bullshit.

Dana returned to her work, and began reviewing the case files. Several area teens had been arrested for "suspicious behavior". Reading between the lines told her that they'd pretended to be drunk as a stunt for a web show they were doing. Dana wrote her recommendation (give them community service time and a warning), and tossed the folder onto the done pile.

She was halfway through the A's when the next delivery man arrived. Dana sighed and waved the man in. He was carrying a smaller vase—an inexpensive plastic one—that held a single purple hyacinth. There was no note.

Dana placed the small vase on the corner of her desk, next to the cup with her pens. In eighth grade, she'd been crazy about flowers and what they meant—the purple hyacinth was an apology. From who, she didn't know.

She'd take the apologies as they came, even if they were a weird message. Surreal was her watchword these days.

Travis entered Dana's office at mid-morning, carrying a smaller stack of files. Dana had actually managed to make a dent in the caseload on her desk; when she saw the new files, she gave Travis a fish-eyed look that she hoped conveyed the depth of her displeasure.

He shrugged. "Sorry Dana, but you know how it is." The files were deposited on her desk, but Travis lingered for a few seconds. Dana looked up after a few seconds, a questioning look on her face.

"Yes, Travis?" she asked, putting her pen down.

"I'm sorry about your husband," Travis said sincerely, before placing a yellow rose on her desk. He gave a little half bow and left the room. Dana sighed, rubbing her temples. If she ever saw the smuggler again, she was going to skin him and make a nice pair of boots.

By noon, Dana was getting fed up with the gawkers, the deliveries, and the apologies—sincere or not. Her office now resembled a flower shop, and the pile of files on her desk wasn't getting any shorter.

When the next deliveries man knocked on her door, Dana lost it. She began screaming at the man, who looked like he was about to cry.

"STAY OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Dana roared, the anger that had been brewing all day erupting at the nearest target. Unfortunately for the poor deliveries man, he was it. "I AM SICK AND TIRED OF EVERYONE TRYING TO GET BACK INTO MY GOOD GRACES AFTER EIGHT MONTHS OF ABSOLUTE HELL! GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!"

The poor man nodded rapidly and deposited the flowers on the bench as he fled the building. Dana wilted the moment he was out of sight, leaning against the door jamb as she buried her face in her hands.

She hadn't meant to lose it like that, on a man who was just doing his job, but she had had it! Now that everyone knew that Vince was innocent, they all wanted to kiss up or apologize for believing those horrible, soul-crushing reports for eight months.

Dana jumped when someone placed their hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Kia—one of the other counselors on this level—looking down at her with a look of sympathy.

"You okay, sweetie?" Kia asked, crouching down so that she was eye-level with Dana. "I think everyone heard you," the Hispanic lawyer added, scowling at someone who was unfortunate enough to be looking out his door at that moment. She muttered something rude under her breath that had Dana smiling.

"I'll be fine, Kia," Dana said, hauling herself upwards. "But after work, I'm going to go hunt down a man and skin him." Kia snorted, shrugging as she left.

"If you ever feel like drinks sometime," Kia threw over her shoulder, "I'm always available. Call ahead and I'll break out the rum." She smiled at Dana, waved, and left for her office.

Dana laughed, and returned to her paperwork. Another two hours to go until she could hunt Scales down and yell at him. She had a feeling that he'd let her vent with no repercussions…

Scales was sitting at the same booth, drinking a glass of beer, when Dana walked into the bar. She'd remembered the route surprisingly well, considering that she'd last driven it during a freak snowstorm three weeks ago. And, three weeks ago, she wouldn't have even contemplated doing this.

But now? Now, the public defender felt brave enough to give the smuggler a piece of her mind. She was fed up with the world at the moment—with a few notable exceptions, Kia, Travis and Ms. Blander being the three.

The deformed smuggler looked up as Dana stalked over to his booth, face nearly unreadable in the half-light. He didn't look all that surprised to see Dana however, and merely saluted her with the half empty glass. "Evenen, luv," Scales rumbled, standing up.

Compared to the last time she'd seen him, Scales was dressed rather casually. Instead of a suit that would have bought the public defenders' office twice over (at the very least), the smuggler was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It bothered Dana that the picture the smuggler presented wasn't as surreal as it could have been.

"Fancy a drink with me, ducky?"

Dana blinked, unsure of how to reply. The flowers throughout the day had been surreal. The apologies—dear God, the constant, never-ending stream of apologies—had been annoying. And now a smuggler, even if he'd done something that could be portrayed as heroic, was offering to buy her a drink.

Well, she'd have time to regret it in the morning. Dana nodded, and followed Scales over to the bar.

- o - o -

Author's note: Okay, well...that was unexpected Dana.

What did you think? Not realistic enough? Too sappy? To weird? Not suspenseful enough? Drop a line to let me know.