Author's Note: I labeled the opening page as chapter one, when it really isn't—it's more of a prologue or an introduction, building a sense of suspension more than any character development or plot points.

Chapter One (for real!)

Meredith Walker found herself in a place she had always promised herself that she'd never return to—Old Gotham. The smells and sounds were familiar, as if in twenty years (18 years and four months, more precisely) nothing had changed; and not much really had, she realized. There were more children out playing in the street, she noted, and wasn't quite sure whether she should be upset because of that or not—children were hope, but she'd never wish this kind of childhood on anyone.

The smells rose out of lower class kitchens, and she felt a hunger in her heart rather than in her gut; she remembered why she had come, and knew that she'd have to fight off a slew off memories. The ache in her chest persisted, rising up a nostalgia that told her that despite all the horrible memories this place brought back, the hometown feeling had caught her off guard. The woman, who was of average height and average build, took out a sheet of paper from the pocket of her old, battered jean jacket (she had known better than to wear one of her more expensive coats).

Checking the address for what felt like the thousandth time in two weeks, she began to shuffle down the dingy, broken-glass ridden streets, and come to a silent agreement with them. Both respected each other, and she promised that she'd continue to find the strength it took to get up every morning and try to repair the cities wounds (not just Old Gotham, but Gotham as a whole) if Gotham would send her back out of this hellhole alive and in enough pieces to do so.

Meredith let out a shaky breath as she stepped unto a porch that squealed under her feet. Not allowing herself time to prepare (because that might mean standing there on the stupid porch for the rest of her life), she quickly rapped at the front door to the crumbling brick townhouse. There was a sound of a television shutting off—abrupt silence—and light passed over the peephole in the door. A woman opened the door and Meredith felt her throat clench with emotion… but then it wasn't the woman she had expected, or if not expected, hoped for.

"Whaddya want?" The woman staring back at her was some two or three inches shorter than Meredith, had streaked red hair, and bags under her eyes that were so dark they looked like two-day-old bruises. Meredith nearly felt glad that this wasn't the woman she was looking for, relieved that maybe that woman hadn't come to such a bad fate—maybe.

"I'm looking for a woman named Amy-"

"We got plenty of Amy's here, you pay right and we've got plenty of whatever you want-" The sales pitch was dry and uninterested, and she felt a pang of hurt and guilt, less that she should have to hear it than that a woman who was probably ten years younger than her that by now looked ten years older, would have to say it.

"Her name is Amy Walker, and I don't care about whatever else she goes by." Meredith said bluntly. She didn't want to be reminded any more of this part of Gotham life. The woman gave her a close, scrutinizing look—sizing her up and deciding whether or not she wanted anything to do with such a stranger. At long last she sighed, looked out over Meredith's shoulder, her hands planted on her hips.

"She aint here no more. I heard she was knocked up by some roughneck thug, and I don't need to be feeing a baby that cain' even earn itself, specially if it means trouble for tha rest my girls, you hear?" Even though the woman was trying her damnedest to look tough and hardened, Meredith had an excellent background in reading body language, voice inflections, and best of all—eyes. This woman (though Meredith supposed she could still be considered a girl by some of society's standards) was worried. Again she gave Meredith a hawk-like glare, and let out another sigh. "She's back on the streets. Walk about five more blacks down this road—she should be 'round there. If she ain', check the alleys."

Meredith grimaced, nodded, said her thanks.

"Whatchyou come round fer her for anyway?" The woman leaned against the doorframe. "She don't do female jobs, fars I know—and we've got girls that do."

"She's my sister," Meredith answered, turning away. The sound of her tennis shoes on the sidewalk beat in her hears, a rhythm she knew in her skull and deep in her gut.

Walking again.

- - -

"Amy?" The woman before Meredith turned, and unlike the other woman, the redhead one in the brick townhouse (that was also a sort of brothel) the dark circles under this woman's eyes were bruises. Meredith felt her gut tighten and she knew: After all these years of searching, after all of the walking, I found you, she thought to herself. We can go home and you can leave this behind.

"Do I know you?" Amy Walker asked the sister that she hadn't seen in over 18 years. Meredith wasn't hurt that her sister didn't recognize her—it had been so very long, and there were so many sharp, rocky places in each of their pasts (one more so than the other, admittedly). Instead she stepped closer to her sister, unable to keep herself from tearing up.

"Amy, it's Merri," She whispered, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. The other woman looked confused for a moment, her bruises that she had tried to hide under layers of foundation make-up showing through, even in the dark. "I've been looking for you for the past five years, I didn't even know you were still in Gotham." Meredith wiped at her tears, hating her blurred vision—all she wanted to do was keep looking at her sister, maybe afraid that if she closed her eyes, the other would evaporate. They didn't look much alike, not anymore: instead of the auburn hair that both Meredith and her had shared as girls, Amy had bleached her hair blonde; her form was rail-thin—her lips were puffy, as if she'd recently been hit in the mouth. Meredith was a few inches shorter, though if Amy had kicked off her heels that would have changed.

The two stood, one trying to keep herself composed, restraining herself from taking the two-years-older, battered woman in her arms (though there was little else she could think of wanting to do more at the time), while the other seemed to watching incredulously, unable to keep herself from scowling in her disbelief. Meredith took another step closer, her arms raised slightly, almost hoping to embrace her sister—Amy Walker cocked her hand back, and before Meredith could react, her sister's knuckles collided with the side of her face in a stinging, numbing, backhand slap. Tears flew from Meredith's cheeks, knocked there from the force of the hit. She grimaced, not feeling anger, but only shame and hurt.

"I'm sorry," She whispered, able only to look at the ground, while her sister stood tall and huffing in rage—shaking. Then there were arms around her shoulders, and Meredith could see nothing but the unnatural, bleached blonde hair in her face. "I'm sorry," She repeated, but her sister was shaking her head, hushing her, and crying.

"I shouldn't have hit you," Her sister warbled, her voice unsteady with tears. "I'm sorry. It's just been s-so-"

"I know, but everything's okay now. Everything's okay," Meredith rubbed the woman's back and shoulders, running her fingers through the foreign, artificial-looking hair. "I'm going to take you home, okay? Back to my home, out of Old Gotham." Her sister choked a cough, and nodded. When she stood back the both of them looked at each other again, inspecting each other, running their eyes over each other's faces—remembering and building for new memories. "Here, my car's a few blocks back. Let's get out of this place." They both began the walk backwards, back home. Walking hand in hand the years of hardship and separation seemed to slide off, with the soft padding sound of one woman's sneakers, and the hard clips of the other woman's heels.

"You know, Meredith, I-I don't know how to say this but-" Amy squeezed her sister's hand, and her lips pulled tight, as if bracing her mouth for what she knew she had to say. "I'm pregnant, and I'm keeping the baby—I'll work as many jobs as I need to, to do my share and all, but-"

"It's okay, don't worry about it. I think it's beautiful and you don't have to worry. We won't be rich, but we'll get by. I knew, I found out when we finally got a hold of you," Meredith reassured her sister.

"Who told you? I mean, how did you find me?"

"I hired a detective."

"Like a private eye? That kind of thing?" Amy smiled in spite of herself, musing the idea. It was a fun idea, the kind of thing she could remember from the days of cartoons, when she was still young enough to be allowed to be innocent.

"Yeah," Meredith returned the smile, and had to look back at the street out ahead of them—still uncomfortable with crying in front of her sister (in front of anyone). Tears slid silently down her cheeks, leaving small wet drops on the asphalt as she past by—she had found her sister. After five years of searching, and many more than that of hoping, she had found her. It didn't matter to Meredith about the baby, if anything, she only took that as a sign of fate: just in time. Just in time to save one more life, She told herself, unafraid, and both were absorbed so completely in the idea of rebuilding a family, that neither noticed the black car slowing to a stop, just a short distance away.