I felt like the outsider.

Correction: I was the outsider.

What gave it away? Try the expression of distrust from the detective across the conference table. He sat there, munching on a donut and occasionally sipping from his coffee cup. I couldn't help thinking that he was the clique of all police – they love their donuts and are very prone to jokes on the streets about how they couldn't catch anyone due to their, ahem, obesity.

I left my hands out in plain sight, clasping them and resting them on the table surface. The detective kept his eyes fixed on me, barely blinking. He wasn't young, probably late-thirties, early-forties. It wouldn't be an understatement if I said he was round, because he was, round and plump. Jet black hair sat upon his big head, looking thin and rugged. His beady eyes never moved away from mine, starting a staring contest, whether he knew it or not.

The silence killed me, and the staring contest was the only thing I concentrated, to ignore the buzzing in my right ear because of the silence.

Our intense staring contest broke off when the Commissioner entered the room. The munching detective won; I looked away, distracted by the opening of the door.

The Commissioner walked in with a manila folder in his hands, one I assumed was mine, and he slapped it down in front of the eating detective before taking a seat. Finally, the detective dropped his gaze and away from me. His huge fingers flipped open the folder, and he quickly read through the contents. My guess was that he had already read everything beforehand and was making a show of refreshing his memory.

When he closed the folder and slid it back to the Commissioner, he looked at me, and distrust flashed in his eyes; he had already made his mind up about me, and nothing would change it.

"Do you know one another?" Gordon asked, noting how the detective stared me down. Very conscious, I shook my head.

"Bullock," the detective said gruffly before the Commissioner could chastise him.

"McKinley," I said, using the same tone. He glared at me, as if to say that he knew who I was, and I returned it, as if to tell him that I didn't care.

The Commissioner raised a gray eyebrow when I glanced at him. "McKinley, besides me and your patrol officer, Bullock will be the only other on this force who will know your situation."

"And where is her patrol officer?" Bullock asked, his tone sharp. Gordon threw a sharp stare at him. I fought the urge to intervene and step in for Bullock; he hadn't shown me any mercy, simply passed judgment without getting to know me beyond the contents of my identity folder.

"He's on patrol."

"Typical Hawkins, out somewhere else but not where he is supposed to be." Bullock caught the look the Commissioner gave him. "I'm at least here, to 'welcome' the new arrival." My eyes narrowed at his sneer.

"Hawkins is still doing his job. However," Gordon said, "Since he's not here to brief the new arrival, I'm asking you to."

"Brief?" Bullock said, his beady eyes widening slightly.

"Yes, brief her."

"Yes sir," Bullock said, reluctantly, "But isn't this against some kind of -oh, I don't know- rule?" He knew it was a risk to ask, but his temper overtook him, his plump face reddened. If I didn't know that he despised me already, I would have found out with his question, his tone, and his rising temper.

Gordon fixed him with a hard stare, one that hide more meaning that what I could read. Bullock obviously received the message because he stood and turned his gaze, fixing me with his beady eyes.

Placing his hands flat on the conference table, he leaned forward, looming over me. "Here's your briefing, McKinley," he said, his tone hard. "Listen up because I'm not going to repeat anything. If you can't catch everything-." Gordon cleared his throat. "You report every day, in the evening, to Lieutenant Hawkins, as he is your parole officer. As this is your new location to serve your 'sentence', you won't be given any privileges equal to the detectives. You are a clerk, a receptionist, whoever does the paperwork. It is your job to keep things up-to-date, to answer the phones, to send the messages to paroling police officers, and to tidy the paperwork. If you think you need access to any of the police files, you will go to Nash for that information; you will not access them yourself. You do what you're told and stay out from underfoot. Capice?"

I nodded, and Bullock huffed angrily before storming out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him. He had spoken quickly; the information was a lot to process, but whether it is luck or my intelligence is sharp, I memorized every word he said within the span of the minute that it had been spoken.

We sat there in silence for a few minutes after Bullock had left. I itched to break it, but I had no idea what I would say. The Commissioner already had troubling thoughts; I wondered how many times he had envisioned how he was going to reprimand Bullock and how many times had he killed him.

Let's be honest. Someone does something you don't like, and you've killed them at least seven times in different ways in your head for it. Even sane people do this, to simply amuse themselves or work out their frustration. The only difference between them and the murderers; well, quite simply put, the murderer's envisionaries became real.

Gordon shifted, finally emerging from his dark thoughts, whatever they had been, and he turned to me with an apologetic expression. Before he could speak, I shook my head.

"I'd rather know if someone disliked me than have them seething every time I turned my back. I wasn't expecting acceptance and a warm welcome from the detectives chosen to know about the true reason why I'm here. I knew what I was getting into; there's no need to apologize, Commissioner."

He closed his mouth, nodding as relief washed over his face. "I hope you caught everything."

"I did. No need to worry."

Again, that nod of relief. He stood and motioned me to stand; I followed suite, wondering what else I had to do. "To fill the requirements, even receptionists in the MCU need to take the basic tests on your knowledge of legal matters. However, in your case, you will also be taking some on police procedures and your analytical aptitude, eventually physical ones."

"Are you telling me that there is a chance I could advance from a 'clerk'?" I asked.

"A possibility, depending on your work ethics." Gordon moved to the door and opened it, motioning me out. "Nash is in charge of those tests, but I want you to tell him that he is not to test you until you come in tomorrow."

I nodded.

"His office is around the corner to the left. Tell him what I said, and that you are in his hands."

Again, I nodded. Gordon disappeared, abandoning me to find my way to Nash's office.

Nash smiled when I tapped on the glass and motioned me inside. "Shut the door behind you, if you would." I obeyed without question, understanding that I was in his territory. "Good news for you, McKinley," he said, "Thanks to the contribution from a secret admirer, I have you a place to stay."

"A secret admirer?" I asked. Naturally, I would have been flattered, but taking into consideration who I once was, a 'secret admirer' could mean an enemy who means to kill me as soon as I let my guard down.

"You don't need to be worried. Mr. Bleak's a gentleman, not a criminal." Nash must have noticed the blank look on my face because he continued. "He contributed money to a research project in Arkham, of building something specifically designed for you. He felt that it was wrong for a human being to be chained, especially when she is still a sane, thinking person."

"Are you supposed to know about that?" I asked him.

"Are you?" he returned without skipping a beat. When I didn't reply, he raised his eyebrows, drooping his head slightly, as if saying See? "Have a seat, make yourself at home." I took the one chair that wasn't cluttered with books. "I'm the genius with technology," he explained. "One of the detectives, yes, but my area is computers. I suppose you could call me the police hacker, even though that would infer that I was doing something illegal."

"Well, aren't you?" I asked, using a light tone.

"Well, yeah, but it's not like they need to know that." He winked. "So, in a way, that makes me a criminal too. Two peas in a pod full of legal people."

I raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Are you suggesting that we go and commit criminal acts together, Nash?"

"No, just that we back one another up. Of course, it's your choice. I wasn't even chosen to know about your secret past; Hawkins was supposed to pick you up from the asylum."

"How did it come around to you?"

"I pulled the shortest straw."

I shook my head. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

He shrugged. "You want to see your results?" he asked.

"Results?"

He motioned me over, indicating his laptop screen. "According to your records, you've lived in Gotham City for the past two years, living in a decent apartment and working as an editor for a small publishing company that went under. Last August, you disappeared after checking into an old motel for the night. Later that night, the Joker blew that place to pieces." He glanced up at me. "Do you remember any of that?"

"Vaguely," I replied, frowning. "Not working as an editor, but the motel. Why would I get a motel if I already had an apartment?"

"If the Joker blew up that motel, I'd suspect that he was following you and knew where you lived," Nash said, calmly.

"So, maybe I found out and tried to hide?" I suggested. Nash shrugged, and I murmured, "All the good it did me."

"Don't worry about it," he suggested, standing and clapping a hand on my shoulder. "The Joker's behind bars. No need to worry about him coming after you again."

I was about to reply that he was the least of my problems, but I stopped as Nash grabbed his jacket. "Where are you going?"

"To reopen your bank account," he replied, innocently, "Which you have to come with me since it's in your name." Then, he explained, "They closed everything under your name when you disappeared, and if you don't show up within a certain time, they permanently destroy your records."

"Hm." I followed him out of his office, which he locked up. After retrieving my jacket from the lobby, I told him, "Honestly, I'm only interested in my old apartment. You said that you had a place to stay for me."

"So I did." He laughed at my expression as we climbed into his car. "All in good time, all in good time."

It took over an hour to reactivate every account I had recorded. Bank account, credit cards, driver's license (I have no idea why I had that since I didn't have a car), Social Security, and a variety of others. Nash purposely brought me to the apartment last, most likely thinking that it'd be the last stop where he could simply drop me off once I was settled in.

As we pulled into a parking spot across the street, Nash cursed under his breath. I looked over to see what he had seen, and even I muttered a curse, swearing loudly in my head, but for a reason I didn't know. What I did know was that I recognized the man that I felt extreme hatred for - didn't know why and didn't know how I knew him, but on first sight, I immediately connected the name to the face.

Waiting outside my apartment building, leaning casually against his black Honda Civic, was Jason Hawkins, the man who caused my entire body to burn with hatred at the very sight of him. He stared expectantly, waiting patiently for Nash and I to climb out of the car and make our approach. I only followed Nash's movements, climbing out when he did, and surprisingly, Jason's face lit up when I turned and caught his eyes.

As we approached, I couldn't help but look over his familiar features. I vaguely remembered he was only a few months older than I, but his youth didn't appear as clearly, due to his years of working with the cops. His hair had been combed back, the brown locks parting naturally down the middle of his head. Despite not remembering when I had last seen him, a thought crossed my mind that it had grown longer, and it didn't show any signs of having been trimmed recently.

The rest of him appeared familiar enough that there had been no recent changes. Naturally, as a cop, he had a fit figure, ready to tackle criminals or chase them down the street. He held himself proudly, but also lightly, a guy who took his job seriously. His eyes were a brilliant blue, shining brightly as Nash and I neared.

"I thought you were on patrol," Nash said, in way of greeting.

Jason slowly took his eyes off me, lazily looking at Nash. He wasn't hiding his reluctance very well. "We finished earlier than expected, and I needed to be here, to show her the apartment."

"I can show her the apartment," Nash retorted.

"I'm her patrol officer, Edward."

I stood there, watching the two of them glare at one another. Heaving a sigh, I waited, expecting a catfight to occur. Fortunately, Nash's cell phone rung, and he had to drop his intense gaze to check it. He ended up having to answer it, and I caught a smug look cross Jason's face.

He turned back to me. "I'm Lieutenant Jason Hawkins," he said, holding out a hand.

Despite the repelling disgust, I took his offered appendage. "You're the one Commissioner Gordon said knew me."

"Back in college, we were friends." He smiled. "I recognized your name and later your picture. For old times' sake, I wanted to offer to help you out, what with everything you've been through."

"I appreciate it," I said, attempting to keep my voice even and grateful. Nash snapped his phone shut, grumbling unhappily. "What's up?"

"I'm being called back," he explained.

"I'll finish what you started," Jason injected.

Nash gave him a weary look. "If McKinley is fine with it..."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Controlling my hatred for Jason was unbelievably difficult. If only I knew why I hated him so much, I might not have such a hard time with it. Nash looked at me, staring so long that I thought he could read my true feelings toward the lieutenant in my expression, but finally, he nodded and asked if he would see me tomorrow.

"Gordon said I had to be in for tests," I said.

"Oh right. I forgot about those," Nash said. "But he said it was okay to push it off until tomorrow?"

"Affirmative."

"Then, I'll see you tomorrow." He gave Jason a slight parting nod and crossed the street back to his car.

Jason immediately steered me toward my designated apartment building. "You're aware that it is your-."

"Old apartment, yes," I interrupted, being unable to stop myself. To stop him from giving me information that I already knew, I continued. "Nash and I went over everything; the last thing he had to do was show me to my apartment." I was hoping that would deflate his growing hope - if it was that - but he merely smiled and led the way up the front steps.

He buzzed the landlord's apartment and waited. "Your landlord is Mr. Wood," he informed me, to which I resisted rolling my eyes. I wasn't blind or illiterate; I could read the name underneath the buzzer he pushed.

A woman responded to the call, demanding to know who it was. "Lieutenant Hawkins, ma'am," Jason replied, politely. "I've come with Ms. Jane McKinley."

"Jane McKinley?" Instantly, the door clicked. "Hurry right in," the woman said.

"Thank you, ma'am," Jason said and moved to open the door, but I had already opened it and was holding it for him. He mumbled a thank-you, and upon turning my face, I smirked - a little victory for me.

"Oh, Jane!" I glanced at the far end of the lobby, and an old woman hustled over in my direction. I noticed that she shuffled with a limp, and curiosity got the better of me; I looked down to see that her right leg was badly twisted. Upon reaching me, she threw her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly and thanking God for keeping me safe. As she stepped away, I looked at her closely, guessing she was the landlord's wife.

Mrs. Wood was a stout, little woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She wore her premature hair all pinned up into a neat bun. Surprising for her age, I could hardly see any wrinkles on her sweet face.

While I had been taking in her features, she had asked me how I was, that she missed me and worried greatly, and finally asking who my friend was - appearing to have forgotten that Jason had introduced himself on the intercom, which made me smile. I swear, I almost had to ask her to repeat it all, she spoke so fast - probably from the excitement of seeing me for the first time in months. I introduced Jason, and she went off, praising the police force for enduring the constant struggle against the Mob and other criminals; I hid my mouth behind my hand, hearing the sarcasm oozing off of her statement – luckily, Jason didn't catch on.

Finally, I had to draw the conversation back (as one-sided as it was), and asked for my key.

"Of course, Jane. Let me get it. You're on the fifth floor, room 444." As she scuffled to the cabinet where the keys were held, I couldn't help but narrow my eyes. For some reason, the number four popped up around me quite enough, like it enjoyed following me around. I wondered if it meant something to me, or if it was simply coincidence.

"Are you all right, Jane?" Jason asked, suddenly interrupting my thoughts.

I glanced at him, tempted to explode, but I fought the urge. "I just...I remember that number as my address, that's all."

"Well, that's good," he said, cheerfully. "Little details should come first before the bigger emerges."

"Yeah..." Mrs. Wood returned, and I smiled politely as she handed over my key.

"I kept the place tidy for you, after I found out that you went missing. It was nice of Mr. Bleak to keep paying your rent for so long; he's such a good friend. I'm so glad you're all right, Jane. Come by anytime to visit. You're more than welcome."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wood," I said, and she finally hustled back into her own apartment. "Nice lady," I commented.

"Indeed," Jason said. Was it just me or did I hear resentment in his voice? Maybe it was the mention of Mr. Bleak, a reminder that he wasn't the only one helping me out. I didn't know, but it sounded funny in my head, that Jason would be jealous of another man aiding me in my return to society. It wasn't my problem; my problem was that I didn't know anything about this Mr. Bleak, and when I had the time, I had to find out. I didn't like the idea of a mysterious man helping me.

Jason followed me as I headed up the stairs to the second floor, watching the numbers of the doors until I found mine. I inserted the key and unlocked the door, pushing it open.

"Careful, there might be someone in there," Jason said, and I hesitated, glancing at him nervously. He grinned, revealing that he had only been joking, and I resisted the urge to punch him. I knew this move; he was attempting to break the ice again.

"Mind checking anyway?" I asked him, stepping aside and looking at him innocently.

"I'm sure it's safe," he said, motioning me first.

"I'm an ex-criminal and an ex-patient at Arkham Asylum," I pointed out. "I could have enemies who were just waiting for me to either escape or be released." He nodded, his eyes smiling, and he stepped inside to check it out. I chuckled to myself. Toying with him helped with keeping my hatred at bay.

After a few minutes, he called for me. "It's safe."

"Are you sure?" I asked, purposely sounding uneasy.

"It's all clear. No explosives or traps. It's safe to come in."

I rolled my eyes, smirking to myself, before I stepped inside.

I blinked, surprised by the brightness of the light. Once my eyes adjusted, I found that I was looking straight into the living room, where all the curtains were open and the blinds up, revealing the early afternoon and allowing the natural light inside. I stepped over the threshold and simply took in the view.

To the left of the door awaited the kitchenette, part of the living room. All the appliances were white and high-quality. I liked that the counters weren't white; they were a gentle grayish-blue. The last thing I needed was to feel that I was still living in an asylum. Upon searching the refrigerator and the cabinets, I discovered they were empty, which was no surprise since I hadn't been here for months. An island counter with bar stools separated the kitchenette from the living room.

The living room was spacious and well-furnished with ornate pictures on the walls. Various small plants sat scattered about the room on little tables. I flicked on the light switch, testing the lighting and finding it satisfactory. I especially liked the sitting area, which consisted of a lounging chair that matched a large couch, complete with a coffee table and an entertainment system set up along the opposite wall.

"It's a nice apartment," Jason commented, trying again to start a conversation. "It definitely says something about living a criminal life. If you can get away with it, you'll be living in style." I couldn't tell if he was joking with me, or if he was trying to start something. To see, I checked over my shoulder, but he wasn't looking at me, busy analyzing the movie collection I had. Maybe it had only been a comment.

"Mind you, I worked as an editor while I lived here," I told him, remembering the little details that Nash had revealed. "As a criminal, I never came here."

"An editor at a small company that eventually went under. You were unemployed before you disappeared."

I didn't not to say anything and instead opened the door to the bathroom, flicking on the light.

It was small and very green. The walls had been painted a light shade of olive. An emerald mat rested on the green-and-white tiled floor near the shower. I counted how many mirrors there were, finding five, four over the sink and toilet, and one large one on the opposite wall. I touched the bottom edge of one mirror and discovered it had a cabinet behind it, which of course was empty, like the rest of them.

Satisfied, I flicked off the light and turned to leave. A short cry escaped my lips as Jason was standing right there.

"Pardon me," he said, stepping out of the way. "It's a nice bathroom."

"Thank you." My heart pounded furiously in my chest from the fright he had given me, and my paranoid mind went through reasons why he might have done that. Was he trying to scare me on purpose or had he simply been looking over my shoulder at the bathroom? His comment had been the same as the one about the apartment, but then, he was a guy; he probably didn't have any other describing word in his mental dictionary.

I opened the second door connected to the living room, forcing myself to act normal. Here was the bedroom, containing a bureau, a desk, and a queen-sized bed. I had a walk-in closet too, filled with clothing. Glancing at the tags, I discovered they were my size, so they had to be mine. Frowning, I moved to the bureau and opened it, finding that it too was filled with clothes, all in my size.

"Is it to your satisfaction?" Jason asked, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

I slammed the bureau drawer shut, closing my eyes tightly, inhaling sharply. "You mind not creeping up on me?" I demanded.

"I apologize," he said, "I don't know why you're so on edge."

"Because I'm around someone I don't know." Which wasn't true because I did know him, subconsciously. "I haven't gotten used to you yet." I opened my eyes and gave him a hard stare.

His face was apologetic. "I keep forgetting that you don't remember," he said, in way of explanation. "You act like you used to, so it's hard to-." He stopped himself and then said, "Can I start from beginning?"

"It's 'may'," I corrected him, "And you can - without introducing yourself again because I knew your name and status." I didn't want him to, but I had been trying hard to keep my hatred under control. With the last fright, I had slipped up, and I felt guilty for it - but not guilty at the same time. Still, I figured it would get him off my back, and I would learn a little more about my background with him. I might catch a hint as to why I hated him so much, deep down.

"How about I explain while we drop back the store?" Jason suggested. "Your cabinets are looking a bit depressing with nothing in them."

"As is the fridge," I said. "All right, let me make a list first, and then we can go." I rifled through my desk, locating paper and pen but also finding a wallet. Curiously, I snatched it and went through it.

It wasn't a wallet made for a checkbook, just for cash and cards. I checked the card slots, finding them all full, and I pulled out the first two, discovering that they were two IDs. My picture...but with a different name on each. Checking the rest, I found a bunch of them, all from different states.

Panicking, I yanked them out and tossed them into the desk drawer, hoping Jason wasn't watching me and noticing what I was throwing. I placed my new ID card, one with my actual name and current picture, into the clear slot before slipping in my Debit card and some cash inside. Funny, I had some cash in there already, which I quickly checked to make sure it was real.

"You ready? Sorry," Jason said as I jumped. "I'll try to make noise next time."

"That'd be preferable." I quickly made a list of things I could need, food, cooking items, necessities (some of which I wouldn't be getting in Jason's presence), and miscellaneous. Folding the list and slipping it into my wallet, I turned and headed out into the living room.

"Now you ready?" Jason asked, standing by the door, hand resting on the doorknob.

"Yes. Let's go."

Lordlink13: Chapter seven is up for all you readers.