A/N: See Chapter 1 for full notes. Special thanks to VirtualFaerie for beta-reading and ClassicCowboy and Vincent Hales for assistance with canon. All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcome and appreciated.

            Dana opened her front door and stepped into an absolutely blazing Saturday afternoon. She was just in time to see the weekend postman, a little old man named Nate, chug away in his twenty-year-old mail mobile. She sighed. At least we didn't have any packages. He was too distrustful of "young hooligans" to risk leaving any sort of large parcel on their doorstep, which made avoiding him on such occasions all but impossible. And Dana really, really preferred avoiding him.

            Old people are too damned observant, she thought, heading for the mailbox. The grass was warm and crinkly under her bare feet. Nate used to like Tim because he wasn't "a delinquent punk," and took great interest when he apparently ran away. Dana leaned on the mailbox, frowning before she could stop herself. Opportunistic little bastard. He'd done his part to make sure her family unraveled as much as possible.

            When Tim left, they worked up a makeshift story about him staying with a friend. Well, I worked up the story. Jack brooded and drank enough vodka to fry an elephant's liver, grunting when necessary. But it wasn't a lie, not really. Bruce is Tim's friend ... I think. Figuring out where Tim went was easy. Jack was sure Bruce would want him as close as possible "to finish his brainwashing." But she liked to think even the Batman had enough of a heart to make sure Tim had somewhere warm and safe to sleep, and had the bitter pleasure of being right. Not that it really mattered. Tim's room was empty, and the third Robin once again prowled the night.

Their story lasted all of three weeks with only a few tweaks--"Oh, we're remolding his room. Can't have him in there with paint fumes, you know..."--before Nate, in typical nosy old man fashion and assisted by the powers of the United States Postal Service, rather handily blew it all to hell.

He cornered her under pretense of not wanting to leave a box of vitamins out in the open, and casually let it drop that he had seen a number of interesting items related to Tim--including an official USPS Address Change Card. Looking back, she knew she should have felt hurt hearing about something so important from a snarky old coot, but at the time she just thought, this is really it. He isn't coming back. Standing on the doorstep all those months ago, she realized just how gaping a hole his departure had left in her life. When he attempted to make contact months later, she considered it a not-so-small miracle.

Nate had asked what was going on, going so far as to sound genuinely concerned about Tim. Right. She hadn't felt up to digging herself deeper into a failing lie, nor did she care about protecting Jack's reputation--just looking at him was still very much a chore in those first weeks. She admitted that Tim and his father weren't getting along very well, and the teenager was staying with Bruce Wayne, a friend of the family, until things calmed down. After all, how much damage could one little old man do? She laughed, a cold, bitter sound. God, I was stupid.

Nate proved himself discreet as a sugared-up toddler. Within five days the entire neighborhood knew. Tittering and awkward silence became the neighbors' standard greeting. She was naive enough to think that would be the worst of it.

Then, with no actual facts to go on (And why would those be necessary?), the rumor mill fired up. Tim's athletic body, frequent injuries, the trouble Jack had with him, his habit of disappearing for days--he was surely some sort of high ranking lieutenant in one of Gotham's more vicious street gangs. She didn't know how to tell one from another, at least not then, but the mere insinuation made her livid. Even Jack was furious, though he tried his best not to show it. Until he decked that Flanders bastard. She smiled. At least he didn't throw the first punch.

As if that weren't enough, their lovely neighbors dredged up old rumors about Bruce Wayne, the playboy socialite who couldn't manage to hold a stable relationship with a woman but seemed to really enjoy taking in troubled young boys. She found herself and her husband plunged into the Wayne pedophilia legend--something she had never heard of. I guess not being born in the social elite has its advantages.

The situation did have one plus. She found herself looking to Jack for support, and he delivered. Nothing could completely mend their relationship overnight, but it did force her to remember why they were together--Jack could be quite the compassionate, sweet man when he chose.

Most of the terribly vicious rumor mongering died out eventually. It turned out certain people in her neighborhood had a marked problem with fidelity. She grinned. And it all came to light about the time Tim and I got back in touch. She figured a certain Urban Legend had seen to getting the communal subject changed, but was giving up hope of ever getting him to admit it. He was damned good at dodging questions, though he did have a problem keeping mischievous grins in check sometimes. It wasn't like she was angry in the least; she just really wanted to know how he'd done it. She shook her head, suddenly aware of a cool bead of sweat sliding down her spine, and blinked. Daydreaming against a mailbox in blistering heat. Smart. Better get back inside before things start sticking. The last thing I need is the Williamsons' son ogling me. Again. Shepulled the flap on the mailbox and grabbed a handful of mail.

Dana had almost made it to the door when she heard it--a high-pitched, airy voice she knew all too well. "Well! Dana! Fancy seeing you out, you little recluse!"

Dana frowned, glad her back was to the other woman. Don't worry. I'll do my best not to let it happen again. She briefly considered just bolting for the door, but she had already stopped in her tracks and jerked her head up. Fleeing now would just encourage her. And she so needs encouragement. Plastering something vaguely like a smile on her face, she turned around. "Amanda. What a surprise. I was just thinking about you." Now be a dear and go back to trying to seduce your pool boy. Shoo. Not for the first time, she found herself wanting to ask Tim how to avoid being snuck up on.

Amanda Dawson was about Tim's height, slim, and blonde in all the worst ways. Her midnight blue eyes promised she was looking for the slightest thing to pass judgment on. She was twenty-seven, living high on Daddy's money, the neighborhood's chief gossip, a feature reporter for the local Fox affiliate, and went through courtiers fast enough to make Bruce Wayne look dependable. Her openness about the quality and quantity of her relationships made her impervious to what Dana liked to think of as Tim's retaliatory strike, which left her free to continue leading a small band of true believers in persecuting her stepson.

Amanda smiled, unnaturally white teeth shining in the sun. "Why, I haven't seen you in weeks. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were avoiding me. How's that darling husband of yours?" There was an especially interested lilt in her voice when she asked that question, and Dana felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. She inhaled deeply, the scent of summer not so calming as she'd hoped.

Why, if you actually bothered to think, Amanda, the world would be a far better place. "Jack's just fine. He's inside watching the Knights game. I'll be sure and tell him ... you said hello." Tart. She slid the mail she was holding into a pocket, and made a show of massaging her hands.

Amanda nodded, her eyes never once leaving Dana's, as if looking for some sign of untruth. "Oh. Well, that's good. I worry about him, you know," she mewed.

I'm sure you do. "Oh?" Warning bells went off in her mind, instinct trying one final time to induce escape, but she stood her ground.

"Sure," Amanda drawled on, her smile losing some of its warmth. "I mean, it must be hard on him, dealing with a wayward son without help. And the things I've been hearing about Tim ... he always seemed so nice."

Without help? You little-- But that was bait, and she didn't intend on biting. "They're working through their problems," at a glacial pace, "and I know they'll get through them eventually. As for Tim, he is a wonderful young man," she let her voice drop, "despite what some people might be saying."

The other woman toyed with her overall straps and smiled. "I don't mean to agitate you, Dana, really. But you have to admit, even before his mother died, Tim was becoming a bit more ... unpredictable than normal. Afterwards, well ... repeatedly going missing for days or weeks at a time? Going so far as to sneak into a Federal No Man's Land? And injuries ... I can't recall a day when he didn't look like he'd been in a street fight. You've got to admit he hasn't got the greatest image."

Dana slid her hands into her pockets, balling her fists tighter and tighter until she felt nails cutting into skin. Her voice sharpened as she spoke. "The only thing I've got to admit is that you don't have a clue what you're talking about. I happen to be privileged to the truth about what goes on in my son's life, and that's one-hundred times more precious and important to me than any image you might have of him."

Amanda took a step back, holding up her hands. Her smile was bigger now, but lacked any hint of warmth whatsoever. "Your son, Dana?"

Oops. Oh, to hell with it. Dana narrowed her eyes, the notion of putting up an indifferent front forgotten. "If you expect me to justify myself to you, you're more cracked than I thought." She was an instant from ordering the younger woman out of her sight, but Amanda seemed determined to have the last word.

"Aren't we touchy." Her look was superior now. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I was wrong about Timmy. I think I see what the problem is now."

She knew she shouldn't have pressed on, but Dana had a pretty clear idea where Amanda planned on going. And with memories of her previous night with the real Timothy Drake, the selfless hero Amanda and her idiot friends would never have the honor of knowing, it was infinitely more than insulting. "Is that right?" Come on, give me an excuse.

Amanda's head bobbed, and for a moment she looked like she thought she was being supremely helpful. "Oh yes. I recently did an investigative piece on boys and girls like him--teenagers from affluent families who spiral out of control after the death of one or both parents ... it's quite common in Gotham, what with the crime rate as it is. Tim's a textbook case. Someone like him--smart, capable, athletic but not pure muscle--he'd be drawn to one of the more entrepreneurial groups, like the V's..."

Dana stayed silent up until that point, doing her best to let the bimbo's words pass over and away from her while she thought up a really good conversation killer, but that got her attention. Tim--No, it was definitely a frustrated Robin talking then--told her about that gang several weeks ago. He'd shown up in an absolutely awful mood, and she'd felt it her duty to drag whatever was bothering him out into the open before he exploded.

He finally gave in and filled her in on a new, highly sophisticated, possibly multi-city organization that made a great deal of money pulling homeless young women off the streets, drugging them to the point of almost complete incoherence, and auctioning them off as many times as they could manage before what he so euphemistically called "burn out." He discovered them earlier that week, dropping in on one of their gatherings in the East End expecting to make a drug bust. He had vowed to see them eradicated, but since she could count the times they had discussed it since then on one hand with fingers to spare, she guessed it wasn't going exceptionally well. And now this ... slime ... is daring to suggest he's in league with-- Before Dana realized what was happening, something deep inside her snapped.

Dana closed the distance between them and found herself gripping Amanda by the suspenders, her mouth twisted into a snarl as she pulled her up to eye level. Months worth of frustration and resentment finally broke free, and her mouth moved almost under its own power. "Enough! Just who the hell do you think you are? Where do you get off accusing Timothy of being slave trader?" Amanda's eyes widened, and Dana shoved her away in disgust. "You don't even know what you're saying, do you? Do you even know what those bastards do, or did the name just sound particularly juicy, like everything else you've spouted at me for the last year? Well, you know what?" her voice was rising now, but no longer cared. "It's over. I've done my best to turn the other cheek, but I'm through putting up with your shit."

She was booming now. "So here's how it's going to be. You and your flunkies lay off my family, including my son, or I swear I'll bring a slander case down on all of you so fast and so hard your grandchildren's children will still be paying damages. Do I make myself clear?"

Amanda staggered backwards, straightening her overalls. Her skin was slightly pale, but that annoying spark wasn't completely gone from her eyes. "You wouldn't dare," she finally hissed. "You couldn't prove anything. It's all hearsay. Besides, your husband's fortune isn't what it used to be. He couldn't stand up against Daddy's lawyers."

Dana smirked. Idiot. "Maybe not. But you might have heard of a friend of ours--Bruce Wayne. He would probably be very interested to hear that you've not only been destroying the reputation of an innocent young man, but also enjoy suggesting that he likes to do, shall we say, inappropriate things with little boys. And I'm sure you know how big his money pile is. There's also the matter of who the judge is going to believe--a nice, well-to-do family and Gotham's most philanthropic citizen, or a single leech who can't seem to keep her hands off ... pretty much anything that breathes." Amanda's eyes were saucers. Dana smiled sweetly, and her voice calmed. "Now get your ass off my lawn before I have you removed. Don't come back." Before Dana could blink, she was already scurrying back across the street, muttering all the way. Dana took a deep breath, and another, and then another, until the quivering in her hands and face finally stopped. Damn. That ... that ... She blinked. There was really no way around it. That felt good.


            Dana stepped into the foyer, easing the door closed behind her. Goodbye witch, hello, air conditioner. She shook her head. I think I let my temper get the better of me. She giggled, suddenly feeling a bit giddy. Think? I lifted her off the ground and shook her. Unable to manage any real remorse, she was just glad she managed to fight down her first impulse--she wanted to be the plaintiff if they did go to court, and rearranging Amanda's face would make that difficult. Wonder if she'll back off. She thought for a moment, and smirked. That would require the presence of a fully functional brain. I should've done that months ago.

            She began sorting through the mail. Bill ... bill ... fitness magazine ... uh oh. She held up a letter from a computer magazine addressed to Tim--one of the few things that still found its way to them--and slid it into a drawer, underneath a pile of O magazines. I'll just save that for next week. Moving on ... bill ... invitation to the McNairs' Independence Day party ... Newport Smoked Meats catalogue. Are we even subscribed to them? She picked up the last parcel, raising an eyebrow. The envelope bore the seal of the Gotham City Independent School District, addressed to "The Parents of Timothy Drake." Oh! Tim said this would be coming soon. At least the school still thinks he lives here. Tim never did try to change his legal guardianship. It was one of the few little things that gave her hope their situation was temporary. Wonder if Jack would want to open this. She shook her head, frowning lightly. He would ... after staring at it and brooding for at least an hour. She heard a cheer and some light clapping coming from the living room. No reason to start that up.

Dana worked her finger under the flap, wondering what cosmic joker thought it would be fun to give the two most important guys in her life gigantic, diametrically opposed egos. There was the matter of Tim actually having a very good reason to act the way he did and Jack, well, not--but that train of thought never left her happy. She tore open the envelope and glanced over the single slip of paper inside, grinning. "Wow." When do you sleep, Tim? She gazed at his final grade report. Computer Science II, 99; English III AP, 96; Latin III, 93; Precalculus, 95; Digital Graphics, 89--"The teacher doesn't think I'm artistic enough."--Economics AP, 97; and surprise of surprises, General P/E, 100. Sliding the paper back in its envelope and pocketing it, she left the room. I'll get him something special for next Friday. He likes cheesecake ... no, he lives with a master chef, I'll have to get more creative than food this time ...

The television was alive with the sound of announcers. "Two strikes and a man on third, with the score six-three Expos--yes, you heard that right--the Knights new golden boy, Rocky Schwartz, is taking the plate. Even if he does manage to salvage the inning, someone has to say it--one man can't carry a team, just make them look less pathetic when they loose."

"Knock it off, Larry. Just whose side are you on? Until we figure out how to clone ol' Rocky, we'll have to make due with what we've got."

"You tell him, Danny," Jack boomed from the couch. Dana was pretty sure he had no idea she was standing in the doorway. He adjusted his worn Knights cap and scratched his hair. "They should banish Larry to Bludhaven."

            Dana crept up behind him, tracing the outline of his trim physique under his shirt with a smile. He wasn't going to win any Mr. Universe contests anytime soon, but she'd be willing to bet her grandmother's wedding ring nothing and no one would be able to find an inch of fat on him. Did a pretty good job getting you back on your feet, if I do say so myself. "Aren't sportscasters supposed to be impartial?"

            "Dana!" As expected, Jack jumped a good six inches off the sofa, and unless she was very much mistaken, the little hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. He looked back at her, smiling. "How long have you been standing there?"

            "Long enough to wonder if you really think Danny can hear you, dear." She kissed him on the cheek. "You didn't answer my question. Basketball announcers are far less antagonistic."

            He smirked. "That's because they don't have to deal with the Knights. Those two are paid to distract us locals from how bad our team sucks. Like Danny said, we need a lot more Rocky Schwartzes."

            She grinned, moving around the couch to sit next to him, pleased when he brushed his lips against hers. "I knew there was a reason all those companies are dumping billions into cloning research."

            He chuckled. "You're quite a bit more chipper than you were ten minutes ago."

            She nodded. "I ran into our dear friend, Amanda."

            He frowned sharply. "And that made you happier? Did she say she's moving?"

            I didn't realize telling people off and getting nice report cards made me look that pleased. "I wish. Let's just say we had a little ... discussion. I don't think she'll be bothering us for awhile."

            He raised an eyebrow. "Uh oh. No one's going to come by looking for a body, are they?"

            She shook her head. "Not today. Let's just say we came to an ... understanding. She breaks our agreement at her own risk," she finished calmly.

            "Do I want to ask for details?"

            Hmm ... I think I prefer you in a good mood. "Probably not." About that, at least. "Just do me a favor and stay out of her reach. Hussy."

            Jack's mouth fell open. "She made a pass at me ... to you?" Dana nodded. "Idiot." He sighed. "I'm sorry you had to mess with her."

            Dana shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It's better this way. If you talked to her the way I do--two words: sexual harassment."

            "Point taken." He tossed a glance at the game. "Six-five. Much better. So ... any interesting mail?"

            Dana paused. She could either make small talk about bills and the mystery of Newport Smoked Meats, or ... Screw it. If I can handle the bimbo from hell, he can deal with a report card. It's not like it says something bad. "Pretty much the usual. Bills, that meat thing ... oh!" She paused, reaching into her pocket and tossing an envelope on the coffee table, "Tim's report card." Here we go.

            The sound from the television abruptly died, and Dana could feel her husband tense--which, seeing as they weren't actually touching, was quite impressive. Or ominous. She never could decide anymore. Jack's voice was a low rumble. "Oh." He glared at the envelope. "I see you've already opened it. How did he do?" Dana didn't miss the slight accusatory note in his voice.

            She felt a spark of anger, but forced it down. It did no good. "Look for yourself," she said coolly. "Is it so hard to pick up an envelope?"

            Jack's expression was stormy. "He chose to leave all on his own. There's only one reason he would still have that sent here--to remind us he can do just fine on his own."

            Jesus Christ! Is that what you really think? "All on his own? Do you really want to do this right now? I distinctly remember a certain someone telling him not to bother coming back if he put on that suit again. You gave him an ultimatum, Jack, and he called you on it."

            Jack's jaw was clenched now, and he was speaking in a low tone that let her know he was doing his best to control himself. "He is a child, Dana, living out a dangerous and selfish fantasy, nothing more. He lied to me--to you--for years! If he were doing something he was really proud of, why would he have to hide it? I'm his father--once I finally managed to discover what he'd been doing, I did what any good father would do and took matters in hand before he ended up getting himself killed in someone else's blind crusade! And then he decided to defy me. As long as he doesn't want to live by my rules, he won't live in this house."

            Her own voice was throaty and dangerous. The only thing that kept her from slugging him was the knowledge, at his very core, he was motivated more out of fear for Tim than anything else. "Don't raise your voice to me, Jack. As long as we're having this conversation, let's do it like adults, shall we? I'm not going to try to explain why he's so committed to being Robin, or why he felt he had to hide everything from us. I'm not sure I understand, but I know it's doesn't have a damned thing to do with playing a game. Prowling the city night after night in a war he can never win? What sort of fantasy is that?

"And you're wrong. He's not the child you think he is. A child couldn't survive fighting criminals and lunatics like he does. And as for how you 'took matters in hand,' you were really the mature one, weren't you? From putting a goddamned pistol to Bruce Wayne's head--a man who could've broken every bone in your body in about five seconds--straight down to turning into Tim's jailhouse warden without even asking why he chose to be Robin. Instead of trying to understand him, you took away his life, some of his best friends, and treated him like a criminal.

"And then," she felt moisture sting her eyes, "then, when that poor, frightened girl came asking for help, when she told Tim the lives of three people were in his hands, you actually forced him to choose between going or letting them die. Did you think he would stay here? Really? Because if you did, well, maybe your relationship isn't worth trying to salvage." And maybe ours is too much of a chore.

Jack's nostrils flared, but he lowered his voice. "None of them would have been in that position in the first place if they were sane and left matters to the police, Dana. I was perfectly willing to allow her to call the authorities, but she was convinced that would take too long, and managed to get him to believe her. Of course I didn't try to reason with Tim when I found out--if he thought going out every night in a Halloween costume and playing Russian roulette with psychopaths was smart, there was nothing to reason with. I can't believe you're trying to pass off what he's doing as even remotely right. But you've chosen to take his side against me, so I guess it's understandable."

Son of a bitch. Dana slammed her fist into a pillow. "I never said it made me happy that he does what he does, but at least I'm trying to work my head around it. And I didn't know we were taking sides, Jack. Now who's being juvenile?"

His blue eyes--the same shade as Tim's--flashed, and the short white hair on the side of his head seemed to bristle. "I don't know, Dana. How juvenile is sneaking out of bed every Friday night and baking him cookies? You're just encouraging him--telling him that you believe what he does is right."

She tried to hide her surprise. That's new. He's never mentioned that before. "He asked to see me, Jack, and I wasn't going to turn him away. It's not the same as living with him. I found out he's been dating a girl--seriously--for the last six months just ten hours ago, completely by accident. But at least I know, when he comes through my window he's survived another week. Even the nights he doesn't show, there's always a call telling me why. My nightmare is the Batman appearing in his place, because Tim told me if he ... if ... if he ever dies, Bruce will ... will ..." she cleared her throat. "He's the closest thing I will ever have to a son, Jack. Yes, I'm proud of him--and I know you are--but don't you dare to presume he doesn't scare the hell out of me. But I do my best to trust he knows what he's doing, because we can't stop him, not unless you want to tell the police who he is and really get him sent to prison, for a long, long time. He's made his decision--we can either be a part of his life, or not. The only thing I encourage in him is the idea that he's still a part of this family. I can't let him give up on us." Or you.

Jack folded his arms and looked away. "And if I said I'd given up on him?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I would know you were lying, and call you a coward." She grabbed him by the shoulder and twirled him around, forcing him to meet her eyes. "I'm not going to go back and forth with you all day. I just heard that damned Dawson woman call your son a pimp that nabs girls off the street, but you know what? Nothing she thinks or says about Tim matters. You, on the other hand--you're his father. You know the truth, and he knows that. Every day that goes by that you don't try to put aside your pride and talk to him--you're hurting him, the way no one else can."

Jack actually lowered his eyes. "Dana, I..."

She held up a hand. "Just answer one question. Do you still love him?"

The response was instantaneous. "Of course! I couldn't ever stop loving him. He's my boy."

And that's the truth, isn't it? Dana stood, a sad smile on her face. "Then you've got to do something, Jack," she said gently, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm not sure he believes that anymore."

She kissed him on the forehead and left the room, left the man she loved with a horribly shocked, lost expression on his face. The last thing she heard was an envelope being opened. Don't give up on him, Tim. Not yet.


            Harm sipped a Soder and looked over the various items on the floor in his guest room. Almost everything was ready, from the freshly polished black combat boots, leather pants, matching sleeveless zip up military shirt and domino mask with red Starlite lenses ("Presenting the proper image is vital, Pansy.") to a pair of silenced Beretta 93R machine pistols, one loaded with armor-piercing rounds, the other modified to fire Kryptonite slugs. He walked up to a desk and lifted up a steel-mesh belt, carefully examining its compartments. I think Timmy would agree ... it pays to be prepared. He laughed. Too bad we won't be giving him the opportunity. It would probably be more fulfilling to take him when he's at his best. He thought for a moment. Nah. Dead is dead. He heard Pansy lean against the doorframe and smiled. "Hello, there."

           "Getting harder to trick every minute, aren't you?" she giggled. "And here I thought macho men didn't obsess over their clothes."

            He chuckled, turning to face her. "We just don't cop to unless we absolutely have to. And even then, smart girls don't harass us about it." He tried to glare, but his heart wasn't in it. Her antics were quickly losing much of their annoying quality, and he wasn't completely sure it was just because of how much she and Spires had helped him. And that thought didn't bother him too much.

            She walked to a dresser and picked up a gauntlet Harm had just finished installing fresh grapnel line in, turning it over in her hands. "At least you don't try to deny it. I don't see how you operate in this kind of mess. If I didn't know you were planning to start a massive assault on some of Earth's most powerful metas and quite possibly the best-trained human vigilante currently on the planet in less than twenty-four hours, I wouldn't believe it. I'd be thinking garage sale." Harm watched her carefully lift a C-4 grenade and examine it. "A really spectacular garage sale, but still. Isn't Plastique expensive?"

            He shrugged. "Not if you make it yourself. Now put that down carefully, please. I paid 350 dollars for that leather. I'd hate to see it get incinerated before I even had a chance to put it on. Oh, and I'm guessing you probably wouldn't fare too well either. As for all this stuff ... I've been saving it for a special occasion." He grinned. "Thanks to you and your ... uncle ... that time has come." You don't know how long I've waited for this. "And hey, I won't have to pay that crazy French anarchist to store it anymore." Especially since he's dead.

            "Uncle Eddy's a businessman. You represent a unique opportunity to get something he wants, for a minimal investment." She grinned at him, unnatural yellow eyes glistening just as much as her fangs. "Didn't I tell you I could make your dreams come true?"

            He returned the look. "So you did. The thought of ever having doubted you, even for a second, is highly embarrassing."

            A shrug. "Nobody's perfect, Will." She winked. "But you're not far off."

            Huh? His eyebrows disappeared into his raven mane. "Uh ... thanks." I guess.

            She punched his shoulder. "So, you said you were almost ready. What's left?"

            His grin was wolfish as he waved a hand over the cacophony of weaponry. "All this is just ... convenience. Someone once said all a properly trained man really needs in any situation," he knelt beside the bed, pulling out a guitar case, "is a good knife." He laid the case on the edge of the desk, and popped the top. Grasping its black hilt, he lifted his broadsword out of its foam rubber padding, twirling it in the air a few times.

            "Oh. Mr. Pointy." She ran a finger along the blade. "I was wondering when you'd bring that out. Wow. How often do you polish this thing? I can see myself."

            Mr. Pointy? You are scary, Pansy. "As often as I do maintenance on the ... accessories." He pressed a button on the hilt, and blue arcs of electricity sprang into life along the edges. Another, and a curtain of fire surrounded the blade. Satisfied, he returned it to its slot in the foam. "All that's left now is to prime the gas chamber."

            "Wonderful." She gestured at a set of green spheres seated in their own spot inside the case, "And these would be ampoules of your homemade toxin--I would call it your 'special gas,' but I really don't want to laugh in your face." She pointed at a dozen small silver cylinders. "Is there a reason you carry so much lipstick?" She smirked.

            I guess I don't use those that often in the future. Not surprising. "Potassium chloride grenades. Custom made."

            "Oh." She nodded in understanding. "For killing your sister."

            He nodded. "Originally, and then only if she absolutely refused to see reason. Now that she's human," he ran a hand over the blade, "there are easier ways. Still, they might come in handy."

            "Packrat." She put her hands in her pockets and leaned against the wall. "I've finished prepping my computer to initiate the data corruption program. We can set it off at the local Starbucks. Wireless net--we won't even have to enter the building. Clever use of the information I gave you, by the way--I'm not sure I would've thought of that particular approach. Too bad we can't put cameras on those poor bastards."

Harm nodded. "It'd be a hell of a lot more entertaining than most people's home movies. Probably make a decent summer blockbuster--too bad it's going to scare the shit out of anyone who happens to see it. So everything's on schedule for kickoff. Excellent."

            "Sunday, bloody Sunday." Pansy's laugh was extra throaty. "You have a nasty sense of humor, you know that?"

            He met her eyes. "I've been told I am nasty," he said flatly.

            "Cool. Any sane person knows saints are ... well ... pansies."

            Ugh. And she kept a straight face. "That was lame, Pandellion."

            She straightened up. "Sure was. I'll tell you what. You've practically admitted you're ready to rock, so I'll make you a deal. You can either stay in here and play with your big slab of metal while I make more corny jokes, or we can do what well-prepared warriors normally do the night before a big fight ... especially one they know they're going to win."

            He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"

            "Don't you read history?" She winked again. "Party. Have a little fun. The Vikings were damned good at it."

            I think tomorrow will be pretty fun. "What did you have in mind?"

            Another shrug. "Not important. There are so many interesting things on your mind." She closed her eyes, her whole body suddenly quivering and rippling, collapsing in spots, expanding in others, like wax conforming to an invisible mold. Her face, from the small, full lips to the button-like nose was the color of porcelain; her bushy blond hair stopped just above the nape of her neck. Even her clothes altered themselves, growing smaller to fit her suddenly reduced frame. She opened her eyes, now a captivating crystal blue. "Yes, Billy, very interesting," she whispered, in a wispy voice that was not her own.

            Harm felt his eyes bulging. Shape-shifter. That ... explains the voice emulation. "Gre--Pansy, what are you doing?" Damn. She looks ... sounds ... just like her. He thought for a second. Cool.

            She laughed. "Something the matter? You can't say this is freaking you out. She's more connected with desire in your mind than anything else, except establishing yourself as the world's greatest villain. Quite an unhealthy little fantasy, Billy."

            He felt some of his surprise evaporate, and had to admit the situation did have its appeal. Good thing I can't go to hell again. "If you think so," he said coolly, "why are you indulging it?"

            "So you admit it. Good." An airy laugh. "Life is nothing but an unhealthy fantasy. The only variable is who's doing the fantasizing." She reached up, cupping his cheek in her small hand. The skin was warm, just as soft as he always thought it would be. Remembering it was a simulation was quickly becoming ... troublesome. "And your dreams ... look like fun." She sighed. "But if you'd rather do something else..."

            She trailed off, turning to leave, but Harm darted a hand out, grabbing her by the wrist. She stopped and looked at him, large eyes questioning. "I didn't say that." This could be ... interesting.