When a young journalist investigates Bruce Wayne's disappearance, he faces the wrath of the Roman. Underground and on the run, he makes some unexpected—and perhaps untrustworthy—allies along the way. Rachel/OC, set during and before BB.


It wasn't over. God, how could he have been so foolish-?

YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED. It was written in red, but it wasn't paint sprayed or splashed on Abuelita's broken down door, it was blood. Human blood.

"Oh, God." Chris breathed, "Oh my God-"

"Chris, we have to go," Rachel's even, measured voice commanded. "We have to go-"

"That's blood, Rachel. Blood," He panted, feeling sick. "And it's all over, it's, the door's been broken down-" They'd found him, they'd found his shelter, his would-be landlady and they'd killed her. "Abuelita?" Chris called anxiously as Rachel held him back from that damaged door. "Abuelita? Are you home? Can you hear me!"

"Chris, no!" Her arms were tiny, but strong, and for several seconds she held him back. "We have to leave. Don't shout-people are staring. We have to walk away, Chris. You have to walk away from this-"

He broke free. Ran into the darkened house still crazed, still shouting. Red. Drips. Drops. Spatters and smears. And there, there on the wall, about the height of a man's head-

Chris retched, retched like he hadn't since Joe Chill's murder, retched like Rachel Dawes' drunken Halloween story, retched because there was a river, a dark, deadly river of scarlet flowing from plaster to tile that would not be quenched.

"Chris, we have to go," Rachel's voice was small and shaken, but still firm. "We can't stay. There's nothing we can do-"

But Chris was still in shock. "ABUELITA!" he shouted again into the darkness. "Abuelita, can you hear me?"

"Chris, stop-"

"She might be here still. She might be hurt-" he pleaded.

"Chris, listen to me. Listen to me!" She commanded gently. "She's gone. She's dead. No one could survive that amount of blood loss. No one. We have to leave."

She was dead. The grumpy little old woman with the wrinkled face who took him in. She was gone. Dead. Dead because of him. "H-he m-murdered her. F-f-falconi murdered her. Oh my God, oh my God-"

Rachel touched his arm. "I know, Chris. I know."

Abuelita was dead. A woman was dead because of him. He'd been angry before, frightened, saddened yes, but never hopeless. He'd lost everything, lost everything to that murdering Mafioso but this he couldn't stand. In that moment Chris Holden forgot everything he'd learned in a year on the streets, forgot this was no longer his father's or Thomas Wayne's Gotham, forgot that the man who hunted his life owned the souls of the public service. He was frightened, persecuted, forsaken, and he needed someone to turn to. Help, aid, justice, someone or something to make this right. "We have to call the police," he choked, growing more resolute. "This is murder. We have to call them-"

"You can't, Chris, don't you get that?" She said sadly. "That's just what Falconi wants. You call the police, and before you know it you'll be their prime suspect and you'll be in the tombs within 24 hours. You think Falconi runs Gotham? You think this is frightening? The mob owns the prison system. You wouldn't last a day, not even in County, and there he can make anything look like an accident and the press with never hear of it." She shook her head, took once last grim look at the bloodied wall, then turned to go. "She was your friend, Chris. It's your choice. But you call this in and you're signing your death certificate."

He blanched. For nearly a minute he stood still in the dingy, blood-splattered kitchen, whispered a silent, shaky prayer, then followed his only remaining friend outside.

A small crowd had already begun to gather. Point. Cross themselves. "What do we do now?" Chris croaked hoarsely.

Her small hand sought his, perhaps in fear, perhaps in determination. "We get away from here," she said as she began to lead him. "We get as far away from here as possible."


There was nothing left. No place left he could turn. Falconi's fingers reached deep into Gotham's gutters, and there was no place so dank or dirty the Mafioso would be afraid to grasp. He'd long ago sunk to the curb in defeat, and Dawes slowly sat next to him, keeping a silent vigil.

"It's over, Rachel," Chris choked. "No matter what I do, where I go…he'll find me. He'll kill me."

"Falconi can't be everywhere," Rachel finally countered. "There's one thing you still haven't tried."

"Where can I go?" He asked, not daring to hope.

She sighed and turned away. When she spoke again her voice was strangely resigned. "Out of Gotham."

Instinct. Ire. Indignation. Chris leapt to his feet. "I can't just leave, Rachel! I, I, I'm not leaving you behind to deal with this alone!" The words, though loud, fell into silence. That admission of affection was met with hush, and Chris had no choice but to stand there, feeling foolish and reckless as the moments passed emotionlessly.

"Stay with me," she finally stated.

"Er, what?"

"The mob runs all the cheap hotels and they're looking for you on the streets. They'll find you by morning. Stay with me," Rachel repeated, her dark eyes inscrutable. "You'll be safe."