Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit or anything associated with Middle Earth.

Chapter 26: Shakedown

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former.

—Albert Einstein

So she was dead. Her funeral had been yesterday, and she had her own gravestone and everything. Well. Shit.

Gemma supposed that, morbid and terrifying though it was, her "death" was a good thing. It would at least provide an explanation for her disappearance. After all, she wasn't staying for long.

On that note, Gemma snapped herself out of her self-pitying stupor and proceeded to get on with what she really came to do. She ran to the bathroom and flung open all the drawers. Where was it, where was it? There! She pulled out a prescription bottle; heavy-duty painkillers from when she had been shot in the arm (a flesh wound, no big deal, but enough to hurt like a bitch) a few months back. There were still four tablets left, and they had not yet expired.

She prayed that Oin would be able to safely heal Kili once the painkillers kicked in. When she had seen Kili like that, poisoned and writhing in pain, she had barely been able to handle it. Not another one, she'd thought, not another friend gone. She was on the verge of a mental breakdown, but that thought had snapped her out of it, and she suddenly knew exactly what she had to do. So she'd sprinted from the room and whipped out the moonstone, praying that her theory was correct. She used it to transport her back here, and now it was anchoring her to this world. If she got rid of the moonstone, she would be sent back, right? She had to try. She doubted there was anything in this world to cure the poison, but pain was something she could help with.

Oin said the pain was preventing him from doing anything, so maybe the painkillers would allow him to help. Right? They had to. This was the only thing she could do, and she had to do something. If she couldn't fix these problems, if she couldn't protect the Company, why was she even with them in the first place? With her gun gone, she was basically useless, but this was something she could still give them. They were her family now; she would give them everything she could.

Although, while she was here, she could certainly grab a few things so she was quite so useless when she got back. Gemma smirked. She'd just thought of someone she should pay a visit to.

Gemma changed out of the dress she had worn to the feast, which she had neglected to change out of before making the jump back to this world, then hoped in the shower quickly. After, she went to her room and pulled on a pair of yoga pants, a fresh tank top, a sweater, and her tight high-collared winter jacket. She swapped out her boots, now too worn to be used, for her pair of winter running shoes. Finally she grabbed an old duffel bag from her closet.

Gemma proceeded to stuff it with anything she felt she might need: undergarments (because she refused to wear a corset ever again, that dress was pretty, but it was the worst), her favourite pair of heels, socks, running shoes, sweaters, pants, shorts, a toothbrush, a hairbrush… anything that could fit in her bag, making sure she left some room for those items she was going to pick up. After all, this would probably be the last time she was here. The idea, surprisingly, barely affected her; there really wasn't much left for her in this world, and she was in too much of a rush to be nostalgic. This wasn't really home anymore. It hadn't been that great in Washington anyway.

There was one more stop she needed to make before returning to Middle Earth. Gemma grabbed the old revolver she kept in the safe in her living room (a crappy old thing that wasn't even loaded because she'd never needed it once she got her Sig, but it was the only weapon she had available for now) then slipped out the window and down the fire escape, back to the alley below. Hauling the bag over her shoulder, she headed off, in seek of an old… friend.

"Hey hey hey, I told ya, I don't know nothin' 'bout your order. Old Jack gave me six pieces, said someone from your uh… group would be 'round ta pick 'em up. I ain't budging the price. It's standard, a deal really. Not my fault if you was s'posed ta have seven. Seven for that price? Yeah right. Anyway, I told ya, I'm just the middle man, the mover. You gotta take it up with Jack, ya hear?"

Clearly, the little rambling man cornered in the alleyway behind the Shakedown Pub by the seven-foot tattoo-covered giant had said something that said giant disliked, because he was pinned against the wall when Gemma found him. She sighed; what an idiot, he never knew when to keep his mouth shut. Even now, when he was being choked by the giant man, he was gasping out cusses and insults, several of which started with "your motha…" Fucking. Idiot.

Gemma pulled out her gun and stalked down the alley silently, until she was right behind tattoo man. She pressed the gun to his back and said "Get out of here." Tattoo man didn't move, so she drove the barrel of the gun into his back harder and said "Now!" with all the venom she could conjure. He left without trying anything. Thugs these days, they didn't make them like they used to.

When the man was out of sight, Gemma rounded on her real target, the little man with the big mouth. He was cowering in the corner, gasping and wheezing dramatically. He wore an over-sized leather jacket that was supposed to make him look badass, but instead made him look like an old lady's purse. He had big sunglasses on despite the fact that it was nighttime, and his hair, what was left of it, was greasy and combed to the side. He smelt like cigar smoke and cheap aftershave, and Gemma could see a gold tooth glinting from his mouth (which she knew for a fact was fake). She threw off her hood and pointed her gun at him. "Get off the ground Mac, you're fine."

At the sound of her voice, the little man looked up, and his expression changed to something between relief, surprise, and displeasure. "Officer LaRoche. Long-time no see! Or should I say Agent LaRoche, heard you transferred a few years ago? Congrats, eh. We've, uh, missed ya 'round here." He spoke in a gruff drawl, like a really bad impression of Al Pacino.

"Oh shut up Mac. And would quit with that stupid accent?! You're from Iowa."

Burt Macolini: a low level middleman for arms dealers and gangs, who Gemma had had the annoyance of meeting on several occasions in her brief time as a D.C. cop. The first time, she'd arrested him, but he was such a small fish that he barely got any time, especially after all the information he supplied. The second time, she'd tried to recruit him as an asset, before she realized that he was much too stupid to be able to pull it off. He really wasn't worth the time it would take to arrest him either, so Gemma and her co-workers developed a new tactic; every once in a while they'd swing by and press Mac for information. He'd always start the same way. First he'd deny any involvement: "I'm clean now, ya see, on the straight 'n narrow, I am." When that didn't work he'd try to get their sympathy: "You don' get it. If I tell you anything an' my guys find out I ratted on 'em, it'll be my head, ya' hear?" When that didn't work, he'd try to gain something from it: "I mean, it's the least you could do, ya know? Since I'm riskin' my life 'n all by help you keep our good city safe." He said it like he was some do-gooder, as if he hadn't just been trying to sell illegal weapons on the street. That obviously wouldn't work either, so Mac would end up singing like a canary, and in exchange, Gemma and her colleagues let him continue doing whatever it was that morons enjoyed doing. Of course, they'd kept close watch on him, in case he somehow ended up doing something that was actually serious.

Normally, Gemma hated recruiting criminals as assets, because it often meant they didn't have to pay for their crimes the way they should. Gemma had no such qualms about Mac; he was barely a criminal, just a glorified truck driver and an idiot who was pretending to be a Hollywood-style gangster (hence the stupid fake accent and overdone appearance). How he had actually managed to make connections with real criminals was beyond Gemma, as she was certain that if she were a gang leader she would cap him just because of that God-awful accent.

"Look, I got nothing ta tell ya now, nothin' tha' would interest a fed. Besides, I'm clean now, on the..."

"Straight and narrow? Yes I'm sure you are, Mac. That's not why I'm here."

"I'm serious, it's mostly messages now, sometimes cash. Not weapons or drugs. Er, not usually…" He decided, wisely (which in itself was a surprise), to change the topic. "Hey hey, didn't I hear you was dead though? Yeah, on the news I saw it, you went an' blew up. They said you were dead."

Gemma sighed in annoyance. Time had made her forget just how utterly aggravating Mac could be. Even when she talked to her buddies that were still on the force and they mentioned his latest escapade, it couldn't live up to actually experiencing his idiocy in person. "Yes Mac," Gemma deadpanned, "I'm dead. Right now I'm here speaking to you as a fucking ghost."

"Gee, no need to be all sarcastic about it. I was real sad when I heard it. You were alright. I mean, I didn't half mind getting' shaked down by ya'."

"Oh I'm sure you were devastated. Now would you get off the goddamn ground and show me where you keep your stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"I swear to God Mac, I will shoot you in the face."

"Alright alright, I'll show ya the stuff! Calm down."

Mac got off the ground and led her to a door near the middle of the alleyway, opening it up to an old storage room that used to be part of the now closed bookstore on the opposite side from Shakedowns.

"Show me what you've got," Gemma said.

"Why?" Mac looked nervous, probably because she'd never asked him to do this before, and because she was being a lot less patient that usual.

"I'm not going to arrest you Mac, you're not worth my time anymore. Plus, I'm dead, remember? I'm going to take your stock, that's why."

"Hey, wait, what!?"

"Exactly what I said Mac. You should start listening."

"Wait no, those are for another customer. That guy you saw in the alley. He'll be real pissed off if I don't have his things when he comes back. He'll have my head!"

"You say that like you expect me to care Mac. Now show me your stuff."

Mac gave in with a grumble and proceeded to open some boxes. Gemma smirked; she prided herself with always being the best arguer in the room. Perhaps that was why she secretly kind of enjoyed arguing with Thorin: he was a challenge. The two of them would go at it for hours, and Thorin never wavered, even if he'd clearly lost. That passion, it got her heart beating in overdrive.

Mac finished opening the boxes, still grumbling under his breath (even when he grumbled he used that fake accent) and begun taking out various weapons. Gemma was actually quite astonished at his haul. He used to only bring in little weapons, mostly pistols. If they weren't careful, Mac could actually start becoming something to worry about. "Grenades, Mac? Why on Earth do you have grenades? Who wanted to get their hands on grenades in DC?"

"Hey hey, you said no questions."

Mac was, as much as she loathed to admit it, correct. Gemma was on a tight schedule, she couldn't stop to concern herself about this. She just couldn't help herself, it was in her blood. Still, just because she couldn't do anything about it didn't mean she couldn't scare the pants off Mac. "Doesn't mean I won't report you."

"Woah woah woah, you can't do that! Right, you're s'posed ta be dead anyhow, so you can do that." He said the last part smugly, as if he thought he was real smart for figuring it out.

"Ever heard of anonymous tips?"

Mac shut up and went back to pulling things out of the crate. Gemma opened her half-filled duffel bag and began perusing the weapons, as casually as if she were grocery shopping. She stuffed the bag with anything that she was somewhat certain that she could use. If she was going to go up against a fire breathing dragon, she wanted her own firepower. Besides, she doubted Smaug would be the only enemy gunning for them. Thorin may have forgotten them in his eagerness to reach the mountain, but Azog and his orcs wouldn't stop hunting the Company once they reached Erebor. Plus, she was pretty sure that she had managed to insult the entire kingdom of Mirkwood by threatening their prince, so there was that. But more than that, Gemma just had a bad feeling, a really bad feeling, about how this was all going to go down. She been mulling over the events of their travels thus far, and she was beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something larger was at work. Which was why she needed to get back.

Gemma surveyed the haul. She snagged the three grenades that she had first seen, partially because she was sure that they'd come in handy against a dragon at some point, and partially because her cop instincts just couldn't allow those to be loose on the streets. She grabbed a Sig, same make as her old gun which she'd lost in the Mirkwood river. There were also several larger guns, including some rather odd pieces, in Mac's arsenal. "Where on Earth did you get this?" Mac didn't answer. It was a sniper rifle, completely tricked out with various aiming instruments, only half of which Gemma actually knew how to use. Gemma's boss had been a sniper in the Marine Corps once upon a time, and when he had discovered what brilliant aim she had, he had taken it upon himself to teach her. She had found it rather enjoyable, the few times she'd tried, despite the fact that her boss was even more of a hard-ass when he was teaching. Gemma tucked that in the bag too, despite Mac's objections (apparently it was quite the expensive piece of hardware), along with several clips of ammunition for each gun. She paused when a glint caught her eye. She pulled it from the box. "Okay, really, where did you find this Mac, a war museum?"

"I told ya, I just move things. That's s'posed ta go to some thug, I don't know. Maybe he's interested in history. People have hobbies."

Gemma decided to ignore Mac in favour of continuing to examine the weapon. I was an old trench knife with brass knuckles on the handle, the kind of knife that would have been used in World War I. Gemma had never really liked knives, but Dwalin had taught her the basics of using a dagger, and she couldn't help but wonder what th e knife was like. She threaded her fingers through the grip, feeling its weight. Interesting indeed, and no doubt useful for the type of situation she was getting herself into. If she was going to stay in Middle Earth, she'd eventually have to make do without her guns.

It seemed strange, the idea of spending the rest of her life in that other world, and yet, not entirely unpleasant. She had already made her mind up anyway. She had to go back to help Kili, and that, in all probability, was a one-way ticket.

Gemma zipped up her bag and headed for the door. "Hey wait a minute!" It seemed that Mac had finally worked up the nerve to confront her. "You listen here. I'm not just gonna let you come in here an' take my product. You ain't a cop no more, you ain't even an agent. You got no more power than I do." He crossed his arms and tried to look menacing. With his beer belly, balding head, and short stature, the effect wasn't quite pulled off.

"That's where you're wrong Mac. I still have the power to beat the shit out of you. Or I could let it slip that you've been aiding the police for years and let your buyers and suppliers do it for me. So you're going to keep your mouth shut and let me go and forget that you ever saw me. Sound good?" Mac nodded and Gemma walked past him and out the door.

"You're different." Mac called after her, dropping the fake accent, which was a surprise. "You used to be a good person. I use to feel ashamed that I ever got into this business whenever you came around. I used to wish that I could be good again, good like you. Now you're… violent and… a bit on edge. And you're supposed to be dead. What happened?"

What happened? She had been captured and tortured, and it never stopped, even after she was rescued. If anything, it got worse. I wasn't physical pain anymore, but mental anguish, a product of her own mind, and it slowly ate away at her sanity. What happened? She had lost her mind, and with it, she supposed, her morals.

It was more than that though. Middle Earth had changed her, in some ways for the better, but in some ways for the worse. Never before had she truly had to fight for her life, at least, not for such a prolonged period of time. Never had she killed so many creatures before, and it bothered her even though they were creatures of evil. Never before had evil been so black and white. And never had she been so stretched to her limits.

What happened? "I died." And she left before Mac could reply.

Gemma's feet found a path that didn't lead back to her apartment, but in the opposite direction. She let her feet lead her. Had really lost her morals? No, no she still those cop instinct, so she hadn't lost her morals completely. She still felt the need to protect the innocent, just like Kili. She couldn't let sweet Kili suffer pain; she wouldn't let any of her dwarves suffer pain. So many of them were still ignorant to the idea of suffering.

Not Thorin. He understood it, and maybe that was why she felt such a connection to him. Or maybe it was the fact that when she was with him, he somehow managed to slow down her descent into madness. When he'd held her on the Carrock, when he'd listened to her story at Beorn's, when he'd kissed her in the Mirkwood prisons; all those moments had made her feel a little less crazy, a little less broken.

Gemma was startled to find she'd walked all the way to Congressional Cemetery, the place where she and Patrick had been "buried", despite the fact that there were no bodies to bury. She slipped inside (the lock on the gate was old and easily picked) and wandered the grounds until she found her headstone. How strange, to be looking at your own grave. She pulled out the moonstone necklace, which still glowed a faint blue in the moonlight. Slowly, Gemma unwound the copper wire which Gandalf had fastened around the stone, freeing it from the necklace. She decided she'd keep the empty necklace, as a small way to tie her to this place once she left for good. Gemma held the now freed stone in her palm, where it felt smooth and cold, and looked around. A graveyard was a fitting place in which to exit her world, Gemma decided. And it was rather beautiful here, despite the ominous feeling that one naturally associated with graveyards; it was calm. So, with a deep breath, Gemma tossed the moonstone, her anchor to this place, to the ground, and crunched it beneath the heel of her shoe.

At first she felt nothing, and Gemma was terrified that it would not work. Then there was a tug in her gut, and she did not fight it. The pull grew to the point of painfulness, and Gemma felt like she was folding in on herself. Then, silently, she disappeared.

The wind blew in the cemetery, and a million crystalline fragments of moonstone were swept around the headstone of Gemma LaRoche, where they sparkled in the darkness.

AN:

Argh, I'm so sorry, don't hate me please! The past week and a half has been so stressful, hence the lack of posting. I've had four major tests, three projects, volunteering at the Toronto marathon, and two track meets, so needless to say I've been pretty strung out. It's no excuse, but anything I would have produced in the last week or so would have been awful. I just got home from a track meet, in which I ran a shitty 3000m because I had an upset stomach, so I decided I should force myself to get this out, because I need some cheering up and you guys have been waiting long enough.

Speaking of which, thank you so much for waiting so patiently, and for sticking with me. I'm so honoured that so many people love this story. I promise I'll never do that again.

What do you think of Mac? I kind of love the character. The idea of a wannabe gangster just made me laugh so hard that I had to squeeze him in here, even if he doesn't really fit that well. Let me know what you think.