Author's Note: What can I say, other than that I love everyone who took the time to review? But you already knew that. So this is me doing a happy dance. Coming up: a relatively somber chapter featuring some police policing, no dog and no kids. But fear not, they shall return. You have my Dr. Nightwitch guarantee on that.


~My Choice~

You stand outside the squadroom for at least two full minutes before you make your way in, watching the bustle in front of you as unfamiliar faces hurry by, probably on their way to that far off printer that they still haven't moved. A couple of rookies in uniforms pass along the hallway behind you while crudely trying to pick a nickname for some guy who masturbates at the Laundromat. They fall silent when you throw them a glance over your shoulder, so you might as well make it a stern one, make them wonder if they're in trouble. This is familiar territory, and yet, it seems like it's your first visit here, like you're being called to the principal's office with no idea what to expect, when in fact, you are the one making a request. As you make your way through the rows of desks, there is not a single familiar face around, an empty space where Rollins normally sits, new stuff on Amaro's desk. You had almost hoped you would run into Fin here, just to see a friendly face, catch up, get some scoop that he would never give you out of discretion. But he isn't here, either. So you stand around for a moment like some sort of mail order that no one has signed for, until a youngish, eager-looking detective asks if he can help you.

"No, thanks."

"You sure?"

"I just-"

"Carisi, where's the final report on- oh…" She stops right beside you, glancing up from the ipad in her hand. Her eyes widen, but she catches herself quickly, not giving away much more than a moment's surprise. "Hi."

"Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

"You know him?" the oblivious kid asks curiously.

"Lieutenant" you say, increasing the awkwardness by about a million, "I was wondering if you had a moment. It's about a case."

"Now?" She clearly has better things to be doing. You can tell that she is distracted, in full boss mode, trying to keep an eye on a hundred things at once.

Another guy in a suit comes up, puffing out his chest. You look him up and down, and you are pretty sure that he has never not worn a suit for a day in his life. "You want me to take this" he offers. Hell no. For a strange moment, you miss Amaro, or Cragen, or any point in time when Liv was just Liv and you could have a normal conversation with her without prying eyes. Or at least Amaro's prying eyes.

"Um, no" she barely meets your eyes for a second, "I got it."

You trail after her into her office, her shutting the door behind you, and somehow, a bit of the tension seems to fall off both your shoulders as you sit down in your respective chairs. This is a work meeting, and you are in your roles. She takes off her glasses and leans forward, ready to listen. You are relieved to see that she looks good – different for sure, but good, not hurt, not absent or tired. But then, that's Liv. She always makes an effort at work. Some things never change. Except her hair, maybe.

"You said this was about a case?"

Okay, then. No "how are you", "what's new", you dive straight in. It's probably better this way. "Yeah, so, I guess I have to explain, I work in Narcotics now with this specialised on call K-9 unit-"

"K-9? As in, dogs?"

"Yep."

Now, she is flat out staring at you, then taking obvious note of the empty space beside you as if looking for proof. She clearly hasn't heard of decoys before. You might as well have told her that you joined the secret service since you last talked over a year ago. "Since when?"

"A few months."

"I thought they only took officers and their waitlist was years long."

"Yeah, well. I pulled some strings." You tug at your sleeve, straightening it out. It feels as if she is making you, trying to figure out if this is some sort of undercover disguise. You don't know what else to tell her. You don't have to defend your professional choices to her.

"Well, that's…good for you." Under different circumstances, it would be amusing to watch Olivia Benson strapped for words. If it weren't all so fresh. "And you're partnered with a dog?"

"Yeah, a German shepherd." You can't help smiling when you divulge this information and for a split second, she seems to soften as well.

But she stops herself, folding her hands, unfolding them. She is restless. "And you caught a case that has something to do with SVU?"

"Yeah, it does- well, sort of, I'm not sure, it's complicated because maybe it's technically international so it depends on a lot of factors, and officially, we're going after the drugs not that but I can't just ignore it, can I, and so I don't know what exactly SVU can do but I just thought…"

"Brian." She holds up her hand to stop you. "I can't make sense of that. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"Right. So I was called in on this drug bust, not just to search and seize but supervising as well, and it was a good arrest, but tense. Like, really tense, so it was important everything was by the book. The guys had been moving product and they had international ties as well, so this was, you know, a pretty big deal."

She tips her chin down in the smallest of nods to signal understanding.

"So once we located the product, they took their sweet time documenting everything while Big H –the head of the whole thing- was carted off. And there was this…girl there, who seemed…off. She wasn't high, but she just seemed really detached and like she was in trouble." The memory of the expression on her face as she was watching the arrest is burned into the coils of your brain. You've seen that look before. You know that look. "We were talking, and she told me then, that first night at the house, that he made her work for him, pimping her out, the usual."

"How old is she?"

"In her twenties, I guess, not a minor anyway. But he took all her papers, and she's from Belarus. He brought her in."

"Are there more girls?"

"Yeah, we got some records, but they've split for the most part. But you don't just bring in one girl, there's gotta be more of a business behind this."

She nods again. "Probably."

"Anyway, she's supposed to testify against Big H, but she's obviously terrified. And you know the budget situation…we got a detail on her for now, but how long's that gonna last? She'll be dead before the trial starts." It's the knowledge of this, the certainty of your knowledge from first-hand experience, which gets to you the most. It's in your hands now, and yet, your hands are tied. You once swore to yourself you would never get into this kind of situation again.

"So what can I do for you?"

"If this is what happened to her, if she was trafficked, she's a victim and she needs help."

"I get it, my question is, why are you coming to me with this?"

It's a legitimate question, but not one you were expecting. She used to always jump in on everything, pushing it forward, advocating for the victim. It's new for you to see her in this position, deciding over who is a "good" victim with a "good" perpetrator to pursue. There is something disillusioned about her approach here – and you always thought you were the disillusioned one. Things change. "They don't want to push the sex trafficking case, because they think it's not big enough, just a handful of girls, he was just starting out. They wanna get him on the drugs. But if she's a victim, she can get a T visa, right, they have to cash in for protection. Narco can't just pressure her because she has a protected status."

"Maybe, but you know we have no jurisdiction over the ICE. They can do all this, but sex trafficking is really their territory. The Human Trafficking Unit can help her, work out a deal for her."

"I know. She won't talk there, not a chance, she's too scared."

"She talked to you."

"Yeah, but…it just kind of spilled out of her." You don't know what it is, but somehow, complete strangers tend to tell you random things you often don't want to hear. "Once. I've tried to convince her, but I think she just wants nothing to do with any of it. She doesn't even see herself as a victim. She's just afraid of being deported."

"So they're pressuring her to testify by promising a visa in exchange?" she asks, her words heavy with weariness.

"Yeah." You have never been less proud of your unit. It's the way of the world, you know that, Lord knows you do. You don't even know why this gets to you so much. All you know is that you can't not act, not again. It's not right for this guy to get out of prison, or even go to prison for the wrong thing.

"So she'll either be killed, or she'll skip town if she's smart."

"Right" she sighs, tugging a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Look, will you just talk to her? You can convince her-"

"Brian-"

"I know you can. You're a woman and- I mean it's not just that you're a woman, you know how to do these things…she'll talk to you. Trust me, I wouldn't ask if I'd been able to come up with any other solution."

She gives you a long, hard look, one that is difficult to read as her face remains blank. "Can you get her to come in?"

"Yes." Maybe. You hope.

"Okay. Then I'll talk to her."

"Thank you-"

"I'm not making any promises. I'll try."


It always comes down to hookers with him. You don't really want to know why. For some unknown reason, their fate resonates with him, and his ease and casual, non-threatening charm helps him connect. It's a rather unusual, specific gift, and one that you hadn't expected to come into contact with again in this lifetime. But it's so Brian to just walk into your life again one day with zero preparation. You couldn't say no. For the girl's sake, of course.

Even so, Malena is not what you expected. For one thing, she doesn't dress like a working girl – or at least any working girl you've ever encountered, and you've seen your fair share from high end escorts to addicts living in the street. She looks more like your average college student with those fake damaged jeans that are suddenly in season again, Ugg boots and a plain, black shirt on top. Her hair and make-up is subtle, and she isn't wearing nail polish, as you can't help noticing while she clutches the table when she has finally stopped pacing and sat down.

"I'm sure you're under a lot of pressure right now" you comment on her inability to stay still.

She huffs through her teeth. "I just want a smoke."

"I can show you a spot on the fire escape."

"You smoke?"

"No, I don't. But I know my way around here."

She is feeling you out, trying to get a sense of who you are. You let her. Her face won't betray what she is thinking. She is neither attractive nor unattractive with her eyes set rather widely, her pronounced cheekbones, the dirty blonde hair falling loosely down to her shoulders. She must be young, early to mid twenties maybe, but then again, that could be the fashion. "No one smokes in this country."

"How long have you been here?"

"Five months."

"Really? How come your English is so good?" She barely has an accent.

"My father was a teacher – not for English, but he wanted me to learn. But I really just watched a lot of American TV, CSI."

"Impressive." You stir the coffee you got for yourself and her to give this the air of a casual conversation. "So Detective Cassidy told me that you might want to talk to me about Big H."

"He seems like a nice guy, Detective Cassidy. Cute dog." She is deflecting, delaying this conversation for as long as she can.

"He seemed worried about you."

Her lips stretch into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Because I'm supposed to stay alive so I can put Big H behind bars. I told him, that's not going to happen."

"I'm not interested in the drugs. You're at SVU here, we investigate sex offences."

"You can't talk to me without a lawyer, I know my rights."

Thank you, CSI. "I'm not talking to you as a suspect, Malena. I'm not interrogating you. We are only talking because you told Detective Cassidy that Big H…made you do things for him. That he brought you into this country."

"You want me to testify against him, no?" Her guard is up as she eyes you suspiciously.

"Right now, I simply want to talk to you about your options."

"My options?" she laughs drily. "I have options?"

"Look, I know Big H is a dangerous man. That's why we need to make sure you're protected from him." Don't make promises you can't keep, don't make promises you can't keep.

"And how would you do that?"

"I can't do it, personally" you opt for the truth, "but if what you told Detective Cassidy is true, I can put in a good word for you with the people who can. There are places that support crime victims, specific protections in place so he can't find you, visas."

"In exchange for what?"

"If he is prosecuted for what he did to you…and maybe others."

Suddenly, some of her certainty and armour seems wiped away. She is playing with the frayed seams of the holes in her jeans as she chews on her words, visibly unsure how to even find the words for this.

You give her time, but it's pretty clear you have to be the one to structure the conversation here if you have any hope of her talking. "Malena, you know I can't promise to keep you safe. That would be a lie. But I will walk you through the steps if we pursue this." You have to make her feel that it's her choice, and yet somehow, you can't expect her to be able to make it.

She opens her mouth, pausing before speaking. "Detective Cassidy, he…he told me I could trust you. And that you've helped, uh, people like me in the past. He said he's never seen you give up and he'd trust you with his life so…"

This strikes something inside you, something you can't quite afford to examine right now.

She sits up a bit more, perched on the edge of her seat. "Normally, cops just want to bust us. When we're working."

"Working where?"

"With the johns. We don't go out. We don't…um…solicit. We come in as guests at the parties. Big H arranges it all."

"How?"

"I don't know, phone calls with his contacts. He doesn't trust the internet. His clients are pretty steady. I don't know if he keeps a list."

"So he brings you to these parties…"

"Yeah. But sometimes, he brings them over to the house, too. It just depends. We're not his prisoners. He pays us, a little."

"When you say you're not his prisoners, do you mean you are free to leave?"

"Ha, no. And where would I go? He has my passport, my papers, everything. I don't know anyone here, besides the girls."

You tick a mental box. She seems to be free to leave, free enough at least to come here and talk to you, but a major point is him keeping hold of her papers. It's evidence of coercion, one indicator that you are dealing with trafficking and not merely smuggling. This will help her, you hope. "What would happen if you walked away?"

She is chewing on the inside of her cheek, staring at the table in front of her. "I don't know…"

"What happens if you say no to him? Or to a john?"

"You don't say no to him" she replies in a hollow voice.

"Why not?"

"He'll do what it takes. Take their money, beat them." She has switched from first, to second, to third person. "It doesn't matter. You're his. It's a job."

"A job you accepted of your own will?"

"Yes. I mean…no. Yes. Back home, he said I would work in a hotel, with other girls."

"So he got you here under false pretences."

"I knew it wasn't all so…right. I paid a lot of money. Yan took care of everything from Vitebsk, but there wasn't a real office. He put me on a bus to Riga, because I guess it's easier to enter from an E.U. country."

"Yan?"

"His partner back home."

"And what did he tell you would happen next?" You are taking no notes, focusing simply on her credibility, her certainty in telling her story, the gaps in the information. These things will matter when she has to tell it over and over again.

"I didn't know exactly what would happen, but I'm not stupid. I knew there aren't so many jobs, even in America."

"But he still deceived you to come here."

She raises her chin, facing you squarely now. "He helped me come here, either way. I wanted to come. Me. It was my choice."

You watch her in frustration, this young woman, and you can't help sympathising. She is clinging to her last thread of agency, and you understand it, you understand it so well. But it's precisely what will harm her in the long run, making her a "bad victim" in court because she won't break down in tears, won't dwell on her pain. She wants a life of her own with all this in the past. But to get this, she will have to dwell on the past and play along in this potentially just or unjust justice system. It's the dance you do, day after day.


"So…?" you ask as you enter the observation room which, for some reason, is occupied by your two most senior officers in rank and seniority, as if they had nothing better to do, no actual cases to work on. You really only called Fin in for a second opinion, but at some point, Dodds must have invited himself to partake. You suspect it's his paranoia of being outsmarted by your most trusted detective.

"Could go either way" Fin observes curtly, "but ICE's gonna be all over us if this gets out."

Dodds leans against the frame of the one-way mirror. "I think we should look at this objectively. If she is telling us this in hopes of a visa and protection, can we trust her statement?"

"She was reluctant" you point out, "unsure if she would even cooperate with any investigation into that pimp."

"That could be an act. I don't know, she just didn't seem like a p-…like a sex worker to me."

Fin does a half eyeroll behind his back, and you are tempted to join in. As much as you have tried to be a fair boss to your sergeant, to give him a chance despite his paternal privilege, the mixture between doe-eyed naivety and know-it-all actionism is more exhausting than if you simply did both the Lieutenant's and the Sergeant's jobs yourselves. The best thing you can say for Dodds is that he is good at paperwork and has legible handwriting.

"How so?"

"The way she expresses herself, her appearance…for a trafficked girl, she seemed to be in good shape."

"She's a hooker, Sarge" Fin says gruffly, "they know how to beat 'em so it leaves no marks. He's not gonna reduce her value."

Dodds is clearly not impressed with this answer. "Her story seems very neat. Why would this dealer get someone from Belarus and risk being exposed if he could just find young girls in the city?"

You nod. "That's a big question. But international sex trafficking is not all that unusual."

"Lieutenant, if you don't mind me asking, why are we even interviewing her? This should be a case for-"

"-for the Human Trafficking Unit, I know. I'll call them. I just wanted to get a picture of the situation."

"Okay." Clearly, it is not okay. The questions appear about to spill out of him, held back only by the tip of his tongue, but he decides against it, mumbles something about checking in with Carisi, and leaves.

And then, it is just you, leaning against the wall yourself, trying to collect your thoughts and make sense of this whole thing. Or that's what you would do if Fin weren't hanging around, eyeing you suspiciously. "Cassidy brought this to you?"

"Yes" you confirm, knowing that he won't ask intrusive follow-up questions, but also knowing that he will share this information with Amanda in no time.

"Hm."

"What?"

He crosses his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits. "Look, I'm not all up in your personal business-"

"It's not-"

"-but Cassidy's got a talent for trouble. He always drags something in with him."

You can't deny it. It's a pretty spot-on assessment of all the times you have ever had professional interactions with him in this millennium, but while you are allowed to think that, Fin isn't. "He was unlucky, he had a target on his back, but that was before…most of the time, he couldn't help it."

"Most of the time…" Fin concurs in a tone that suggests he is reliving all the bad, consequences-be-damned decisions Brian ever made.

"He doesn't hide information, and he knows the limits of what we can do."

"I'm not saying he'd intentionally bring it here to drag us through the mud, I got nothing against the man. You can watch your own back, all I'm saying is…K-9 or not, Cassidy doesn't come without IAB at his back." On this somber prediction, much like an oracle, he shuts down again and leaves you to consider his words.

You do. Because somehow, in all this, you already feel like things are spiraling out of control again, refusing to stand still for a single second to give you room to breathe and deliberate like a rational, unbiased human being. You agreed to one thing –you made that choice- and suddenly, it has taken on a dynamic of its own and you can't turn back. This feels awfully familiar. In this garden of forking paths, each lane opens up twice as many other options. You can never make your way back, just as you can't reverse time itself.