A/N: Whoops, so I wrote up a new chapter (quite a long one) and forgot to upload it! Anyway, here it is, and you can be sure that I'll still be working on this fic. It's definitely the most complicated I've done so far.

Read and review please!


After a couple years in Gotham and hours spent poring over city maps, Olivia had memorized every street and alleyway. With Charlie's clue that the victims' bodies were in a warehouse off Gotham Harbor, she could narrow it down to a handful if she factored in which ones were empty, available, big enough to hold 147 people, and out of public sight. Then again, it also helped that only one of the warehouses had a swarm of police cars and black SUV's parked nearby. Security would mostly certainly be tight.

Fortunately, Olivia's badge and Charlie's word were enough for her to get into the building, which was heavily guarded at every entrance and exit. Even at the main entrance, which was guarded by several agents, Olivia was forced to reconfirm her identity and rank at three different stations before she made it to the main area itself. The government was clearly making sure that it was impossible for anyone to get in undetected and unapproved. But when Olivia finally made it to the inner area, she saw why.

Rows upon rows of neatly arranged bodies were spread across the ground on tarps. Each individual body lay next to any of its belongings or baggage, all of it in the process of being tagged and marked. The lighting in the warehouse was bright, leaving no shadow upon the scene as federal agents hurried around, studying and taking pictures of the bodies and evidence, writing things down, and conferring with each other. Tables full of medical equipment, computers, and paperwork crowded next to the bodies and several wheeled coat-racks on which suit jackets were hung. Clearly, some of the agents had been working there or were planning to work there for a long time.

As Olivia approached the scene, her eyes fell on the first body. It was a woman in her early forties, with short brown hair shot with a few strands of gray. Her body and clothes were covered with rips as if she'd been slashed repeatedly, and one particularly bloody cut across the throat showed her cause of death. She lay next to the body of a little girl who was unmistakeably her daughter. The girl, around seven years old, looked as if she'd been beaten; her body was covered in bruises and broken bones.

Olivia raised her gaze to scan the rows of bodies, her heart cold. She had seen many things as part of the FBI and GPD, but this was different. There were children among the victims, and families. Young couples who had been vacationing in Germany. Businessmen and women coming back from trips. 147 unassuming people whose only mistake was to board a plane.

In instances like this, an agent was supposed to confine his or her emotions to a small section of the mind in order for reason and good judgment to take over without an emotional bias or burden. Olivia had never adhered to this. Her emotions in her cases made her stronger, not weaker. They let her empathize with the victims and imagine what they were going through, and that gave her motivation and a drive to solve the case and carry out justice, even when others had given up. It was what made her a good agent and now, detective.

But sometimes, in instances like this, her cases left her empty. Hollow. The horrors of what she saw took her breath away and left her with a mixture of sorrow and cold fury. At that moment, she knew she would never let this case drop. She would take this case no matter the consequences. She would pursue it until the perpetrators were brought to justice. Screw Broyles and the FBI. Justice went beyond guidelines and office politics.

The bodies of the mother and daughter were only the beginning. As Olivia continued down the line of corpses lined up on the tarp, she saw that the causes of death for the first two victims were unique. The next victim was covered in third degree burns. Yet although his skin was blackened and charred, his clothes were unblemished. Whatever had caused this man's body to burn, it missed his clothes entirely.

He wasn't the only one with a mysterious cause of death. The woman next to him – Olivia saw with a jolt that they wore matching engagement rings – had numerous animal bite marks all over her body. Her throat looked like it had been ripped open. The next woman's skin was swollen, as if she had been stung by hundreds of bees, and the man next to her had all the signs of hypothermia. But from what Olivia had gathered so far, there had been no animals or bees on board the plane, and the temperature had not been hot enough for burns or cold enough for hypothermia.

It didn't make sense to her, and it seemed that the agents examining the bodies were just as mystified. They went through each corpse – taking pictures, searching for clues, conferring with one another, and writing down information. Surely they were also looking for the identification of the victims; they would have to contact the victims' next-of-kin and tell them the bad news. But as Olivia knew from working in the federal government, the families of the victims would not learn the whole story; they would be told that there was some kind of accident or attack, but they would not be given details of the deaths. They would not be allowed to see the bodies.

And then she saw John.

His face was unmistakable; all square jaw and straight nose. His body was intact, unlike the other victims, except for a small round hole in his chest, and the dark red stain on his suit around the hole. When one of the two CDC employees moved his body to inspect his back, she revealed a matching bullet hole and blood stain on his back. The CDC employee was relating a steady stream of observations to the other employee, who was jotting down the information. Olivia paused in front of them.

"What can you tell me about this man's cause of death?" she asked, voice quiet. The two from the CDC - most likely emergency response specialists - looked up at her from where they were kneeling next to John's body. They looked her over for a moment, obviously trying to figure out what agency she was from, before deciding that if she was there, she was most likely part of the investigation.

"The victim has all the signs of a bullet wound to the base of the spine," said one of the specialists finally. She was the one examining the body. "Paralysis was immediate." Laying John back down on the tarp, she pointed at the dark stain against his chest. "Bullet wound through the heart. He was killed instantly."

Olivia nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she kept her expression neutral. The other specialist, the one who had been taking the notes, was scrutinizing her.

"Are you part of the investigation?" he asked abruptly. When Olivia met his gaze, she saw questioning in his eyes. He was more curious than accusing. Olivia glanced at the other specialist, who was staring at her as well, before nodding curtly. Technically, she was part of the investigation – she was just working under Gordon and the GPD, not Broyles and his interagency investigation.

"His name is Detective John Scott. Check the hidden pocket on the right side of the inside of his jacket for his badge." The female specialist obeyed. Searching the inside of John's suit jacket, she came up with his GPD badge and wallet. Flipping it open, she revealed his ID.

Olivia walked away before they could question her further, but before she was out of earshot, she heard the female specialist ask, "How did she know?"

"Did you see her own badge?" the male specialist replied, his voice softer. "They're both from GPD. They're probably partners." As Olivia strode away, she could feel their eyes on her.

She didn't recognize any of the other victims as she continued down the long line, inspecting the bodies while listening to the other agents' conversations. They discussed the details of the case in sturdy, detached tones, as if they were talking about last night's dinner, not a biochemical attack that had killed hundreds of innocent people. This is what they were trained to do, yet Olivia knew that Flight 627 was nothing that they were prepared for.

From eavesdropping, Olivia learned that the victims had died in a variety of ways and with completely different symptoms, yet there was no cause of death. Preliminary tests done on the air of the cabin, the fluids in the victims' bodies, and the food and drink in the plane came up with nothing unusual. 147 deaths, and no cause - no killer. Despite the efforts of a room full of highly-trained agents working without respite, background checks on each of the victims and cross comparisons of any similarities revealed no answer. Everyone was stymied.

"-Broyles considered Batman having a hand in this?"

Olivia paused to crouch down in front of the body of a man who looked as if he had drowned (his clothes were completely dry) to listen to two male FBI agents speaking in hushed voices behind her. The agent who had spoken first sounded uneasy, uncertain. The second one sounded more sure.

"That's just a superstition in Gotham," he replied dismissively. "Police made that up to keep the criminals under control."

"I don't know," the first agent said, unconvinced. "Someone's been cleaning up the crime around here, and it's not GPD."

There was a brief moment of silence as they both considered this. Olivia, her eyes still on the victim in front of her, pursed her lips but gave no other sign that she had heard them. Hints of Gotham City's new Dark Knight had begun to crop up all over the city just a few months ago: wanted criminals found bound and unconscious in front of police headquarters; citizens swearing that a dark monstrous bat had saved them from being mugged or beaten; and terrified suspects who abruptly began confessing to crimes that the GPD had spent months trying to prove.

Outside of Gotham, Batman was seen as a myth, and the decrease in crime was attributed to the GPD (which, politically, was to Gordon and the GPD's benefit). There was no hard evidence of his existence, yet his influence had settled on the city. Although everyone claimed he was called "Batman", the name was never spoken at the GPD. Whenever anyone hinted at the Dark Knight, Gordon shut them down abruptly. If any officers had seen Batman with their own two eyes, none mentioned it. Olivia herself had never seen him, but that didn't mean anything; the evidence pointed to another factor, outside of the GPD, that was fighting crime at night.

Olivia was about to get up and leave when the second agent finally responded, slightly apprehensively, "Let the GPD deal with Batman. We don't have time for an urban myth." A moment later, the two agents walked away, leaving Olivia to ponder their conversation.

Was Batman involved in Flight 627? So far, he had done nothing to harm Gotham; on the contrary, he had improved it dramatically. Yet he was too much of a mystery to assume that the vigilante existed only to benefit the city. Attacking a flight of innocent people flying into Gotham didn't line up with his actions so far, but no one could accurately explain what Batman's motives and agenda truly were. For all they knew, he was capable of international terrorism.

Batman was dangerous enough to factor him into the investigation, Olivia decided, getting to her feet and looking around. She would not consider him a suspect until she gained more evidence, but he was someone to keep in mind.

A glance at her watch told Olivia that she had been at the lab for hours - it was already three in the morning. She had gone through the warehouse thoroughly, but was no closer to finding answers than she had been when she had arrived there. The detective was about to make another round of inspections when something in her peripheral vision made her turn. Something - she wasn't sure what exactly - had moved in the shadows near the glass roof of the warehouse. The glaring beams of the lights hung several feet below the roof, which left shadows around the catwalk circling the room below. Someone - or something - was stalking those shadows on the catwalk.

Without a moment's hesitation, Olivia casually made her way to the nearest ladder that stretched up to the catwalk. Since the agents in the investigation had set up bright lights surrounding the tarps and aimed at the bodies, the areas behind the lights were dimmer. Nobody seemed to notice as Olivia sidled over to the shadowy ladder at the edge of the warehouse and began to climb. She did not look down.

After reaching the top of the ladder and stepping onto the catwalk, Olivia strode towards the area where she had seen the movement. There was nothing; no sign that showed someone had been up here, studying the scene below. Nobody had gone down the ladder, which meant that the only other way someone had made his or her way to the catwalk was from above.

Olivia looked up. The glass panes of the transparent ceiling, which was sectioned into glass squares, was just beyond her reach. After looking around and failing to see any object for her to step on, the detective placed her foot on the waist-high railing that divided the catwalk from the open air, and hoisted herself up.

There was a brief moment of alarm as Olivia wobbled dangerously on the thin rail, before she steadied herself by bracing her shoulder against the roof and splaying her right hand against the surface of the glass. With her left hand, she lifted the nearest pane up and slid it aside. The glass was thick and sturdy, built to survive the rough elements that sometimes blew into Gotham's harbor. A cold breeze snaked inside. Taking a deep breath, Olivia placed both hands against the edge of the glass, preparing to raise herself up-

-and almost fell backwards at the sound of a gravely voice.

"Liv?"

In a second Olivia had straightened, then unholstered and raised her gun with her right hand, her left hand still holding onto the edge of the glass. By then, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, so she could make out the puzzled expression of Charlie. The agent was standing ten feet away on the catwalk, his hands up at her reaction.

"It's just me," he told her calmly. "What are you doing?"

Olivia stared at Charlie, realizing how ridiculous she must have looked right then, standing on the rails and about to lever herself outside onto the roof. She lowered her gun slowly, then holstered it.

"I thought I saw someone up here," she replied finally. Her hands free again, she slid the plane of glass back into place and jumped down onto the catwalk. Charlie had lowered his hands.

"It's just us," he said. He spoke slowly and calmly, assuring her. "There are guards outside on every ladder up here, and there's only two ladders from the inside. There's no way someone outside of the investigation could've come up." The agent looked closer at her. "Are you ok?"

Olivia swallowed, linking her hands in front of her. She did not want to think of what Charlie thought of her now. At worst, he thought she was crazy. At best, he thought she was being irrational.

"Yeah," she replied, trying to keep her tone casual. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Charlie still looked concerned. Then again, he had just caught her trying to exit the warehouse through the roof.

"Liv, go home and get some sleep," he told her firmly. "I'll contact you later with more information."

Olivia nodded, partly because she agreed that she needed some sleep, and partly because she didn't want him to be more concerned over her mental and emotional well-being. She was in control, damn it. She was not being irrational; she was being thorough.

"Ok, I'll see you tomorrow."


The ride away from the warehouse was no easier than the ride to it. Olivia kept herself stoic, though she knew it wouldn't last. She could keep up this facade of professional detachment in front of the other agents - like Broyles - who would think less of her for being emotional, but everything was different when she was home. There, she did not have to answer to anyone, or force herself to act in any way that was not herself.

She let herself into her apartment, going through the motions automatically: turn on the lights; glance around the room; place her badge, gun, keys, and wallet on the kitchen counter; and hang up her coat in the hallway closet. It was only after her routine was done that the woman began heading towards her bedroom. Before she had taken a few steps, however, something caught her eye - something on the table.

It was the wine bottle, glasses, and candle. For a moment Olivia stood staring at the objects, comprehension dawning on her as she remembered her plans with John. Only hours ago, she had been here, happy, waiting to see him. She couldn't remember what that felt like.

Her throat constricted. Jaw clenched, she grabbed the bottle and glasses and put them away in the cabinet, shutting the cabinet door a little too firmly. Turning back to the table and seeing the candle, she seized that too and put it back into its box in the closet, her hands now shaking. The hard, cold feeling in her chest tightened as she slammed the pantry door shut, and then she was sinking to the ground, her back to the door, as the tears she had kept inside suddenly burst forth as if from a dam. She crumpled to the floor, knees drawn against her chest as she sobbed, grief washing over her in waves. Every time she began to calm down, there was that realization that John was dead, that he was gone, that he would never come back-

Every time that happened, she would begin crying anew, pushing her hair away from her face and covering her mouth with her hands as if to stifle the sound of her sobs. In her life she had faced her fair share of grief, but this was different. This was her partner, her friend, her lover. This was John.

It was a long night.