On certain autumn and winter nights, Gotham City could be a very inhospitable place, its ruthless cold extending icy claws and attempting to gouge anyone who was foolhardy to be out and about after the final, feeble rays of sunlight had relinquished their tenuous hold. However, no residents of Gotham City suffered from the cold the way they did down at the Naval Tricorner Yards. Located at the southern tip of the island, the Naval Yards was actually an even smaller island, and there was something unfortunate about the geography that subjected the little island, and all its inhabitants, to cruel and icy winter, blowing off the river.

It was one of the factors which accounted for the relative affordability of the real estate of the Naval Yards; back in the summer time, when Gordon and his wife had made the decision to purchase the house there, it was a warm and sunny day, full of heady promise. Neither of them had guessed at the geographical disadvantage, and so they made their purchase and their move, blissfully oblivious to the moaning, biting winds and the astronomical electricity and gas bills which would be their constant companion throughout the winter months.

None of this fazed Barbara Gordon, Jr., in the slightest. She had spent most of her life in cold climes, so the temperatures were nothing extraordinary for her. More than that, however, she took a perverse pride in embracing physical discomfort and inuring herself to the elements. This, perhaps, explained her presence on the terrace of Jim Gordon's home at eleven o'clock that night, seemingly indifferent to the fact that the thermometer was hovering at a mere two degrees above freezing. Of course, another possible explanation for her presence could have been the clearly-audible sounds of temper tantrums emanating from inside the Gordons' house; despite the fact that no doors or windows were open, the sounds of whining, shouting, and the occasional wail drifted out. It was Jim Gordon's night at home with his children, and he was learning just how poorly the Gordon household was adjusting to the sudden changes that had come about in recent weeks.

Barbara sat at the picnic table Jim had built earlier that year, just after he and his wife—Barbara's adoptive mother, although they had never warmed to each other—and the younger Gordon children had moved in. Barbara had still been in Chicago then, and when she had finally come out to visit and see the new house, she had been shocked by the changes in her family. Her father had appeared more careworn and harassed than ever, her little brother and sister strangely withdrawn, her mother listless and angry. There hadn't been any choice for her; when her father had called her last month, Barbara knew she would have to move back home and help. Thank god Gotham University had been so eager to work with her—it was no mean feat for a PhD student to just up and switch from one school's program to another. Not that she would ever give her newly-adopted University grounds to regret their generosity; at twenty-five, she was a bit of a novelty, one of the youngest PhD candidates in the university, and even now, Barbara had her books and notes scattered out before her on the picnic table, trying to formulate some research ideas for her Information Visualization Research Practicum. To lubricate the process, she had by her left hand a tall glass of white wine, the cheapest Chardonnay she could find, and in her right hand she clutched a half-smoked Clove cigarette. Between the wine, the cigarette, and the wool coat and scarf she had wrapped herself in, she was weathering the cold quite well.

Idly, she jotted down a few more notes on her legal pad, and then, not bothering to look up from her book—an out-of-print tome she had had a bitch of a time locating—she said into the darkness, "Aren't you done staring yet? I imagine you're a pretty busy fellow."

With satisfaction, Barbara noted that she had been correct in trusting her senses—she looked up and stared hard into the shadows at the edge of their walled back yard, and smiled as the dark, hulking figure came into view. Given that his face was hidden with a mask, it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been surprised that she had detected his presence, but Barbara guessed it didn't make a difference, regardless.

"Well, well, well, " she said. "The rumors are true. You exist. And you're chummy with Dad." As she said this, she took a deep drag on her cigarette and eyed the legendary Batman.

He moved slightly closer to her. Already he could tell that intimidation was pointless. "That's a filthy habit," was his only response.

Barbara exhaled her smoke, deliberately blowing it into his direction; a stiff blast of cold wind did the rest. Only then did she answer. "I'm a filthy girl." As she said this, she cocked her head to one side, considering the man who stood before her, and the movement caused her silver nose ring to glint in the weak porch light. "I thought you'd be taller."

With that, she turned back to her notes.

A few more moments passed; the Batman did not move from where he stood, and finally, Barbara sighed and looked up again. "What?"

"I need to speak with Gordon." He growled this statement in as gravelly a voice as possible.

"Back where I come from, a real superhero says 'please'," Barbara retorted. "Were you raised in a barn or something?" Seeing that this rebuke wasn't going to elicit from him any manners, Barbara gave in gracefully. With unhurried ease, she rose from her seat and ambled over to the sliding glass door. She opened it, and bellowed into the house, "Dad! Can you come down here a sec?"

"In a minute!" came the distant reply, followed by a bellow of childish protest.

She turned back to the Batman and explained, "It's his night with Jimmy and Hannah. They don't like going to bed."

He didn't respond; really, what was there to say? Fortunately, Barbara Gordon did not appear to expect a response. She was quite happy to lean against the house, finish up her cigarette, and cast an occasional amused glance at the Batman. No doubt he was aware of her scrutiny; he was conducting an examination of his own. After a moment in which they both engaged in a staring contest, Barbara caved first. "So what's with the black? Are you into some sort of S&M thing?" She let her eyes travel down his torso, lingering suggestively at his utility belt. "You got some cuffs in there?" Seeing that he wasn't reacting to her provocative words, Barbara shrugged. "You're totally a dom. I'd bet anything on it."

While the Batman evinced no outward reaction, inwardly her irreverence had rattled him somewhat. If Alfred had been there to witness this, the Batman was fairly certain he would be equally appalled and amused. How on earth had Jim Gordon ever reared anyone as absurdly offbeat as Barbara Gordon? According to what he had read on her, Barbara was twenty-five, but the way she prattled on and tried to provoke him reminded him of a mischievous adolescent.

The glass door slid open again, and Jim Gordon stepped onto the terrace, only to stop short as he took in the Batman standing there. "You're early."

"I heard I had the chance to be a circus sideshow."

Jim glanced at Barbara, who grinned at him, unabashed. "What? He's a novelty." Still, she took hints readily enough from her father and ambled back over to the picnic table, where she stubbed out her butt, finished off her glass of wine, and began to gather her notes. "I'm heading out, Daddy. It's late, but I managed to get a last-minute hot date tonight."

"Is this Benjamin, again? The nice guy with a moustache?"

"Nope. This one's Becky—the cute girl from my data-mining class. I've been eyeing her for a week now." Barbara kissed Gordon's cheek. "Don't wait up, I might be out all night." She turned back to the Batman. "'Bye, cutie. Nice talking at you." As she stood in the doorway, the light from inside the house cast her tall, skinny figure in relief and made her short, spiky, auburn hair glow a little weirdly…and then she was gone.

In her absence, there was a curious emptiness. Barbara Gordon Jr., it seemed, was a larger-than-life type character, vital and flamboyant in her energies and charisma. It was not unpleasing, actually, but Gordon nonetheless looked distinctly uncomfortable. "My oldest girl can be a bit much at first," he explained. "She actually idolizes you. Does all sorts of research on you; when she moved in, she immediately set up a little archives project in the basement. God help the library that that ends up hiring her." Any further words were drowned out as the rumble of a revving motorcycle engine roared out into the clear, cold night. Gordon knew the Batman had to be looking askance at him, and merely shrugged in resignation. "At least she wears a helmet."

The Batman was eager to divert the conversation away from the disconcerting subject of Barbara Gordon. "You called today. What do you have for me?"

"Our friend Annabeth de Burgh. It seems she's been given some very useful information from a source—the same one that you both met before." Gordon pulled a postcard from his jacket pocket, where it had been since Annabeth had brought it to him earlier that afternoon. He had gotten the sense she was only too happy to relinquish possession of it; such a weighty responsibility was not one she had either solicited or relished, and accordingly, it did not rest easily on her shoulders. She was a social worker, she had explained to Gordon with tremendous agitation, not a detective, not a crime-fighter, not a shadowy go-between.

None of this Gordon bothered to explain to the Batman—he sensed that it was at least irrelevant; Annabeth had been caught up into all of this, and extricating herself at this awkward stage was out of the question. It had most likely been a situation into which she would not have knowingly placed herself—Gordon could relate to that, of course. But at least none of them were fighting this battle completely alone.

Impassive as always, the Batman studied the postcard

Donzetti out of country completing unknown transaction. Chechens involved. Boy-o killed again and is out of favor. He's in hiding—get to him before the Arrows do and you can maybe finish this.

Gordon sighed. "It's not a lot to go on. And if Donzetti's out of the country, we'll have to bring in the Feds. There's no way we can't—we need them to investigate his flights, monitor his passport and overseas monetary transactions. This just gets more complicated."

Oddly, the Batman didn't share his negativity. "No. Get the Feds involved. Call them now—tell them to start focusing on Central and Eastern Europe, start analyzing human trafficking patterns for those regions."

"You seem awfully eager to get them involved," Gordon remarked, surprised.

The Batman actually grinned, a feral, superior smile that gleamed in the dark. "Not involve," he explained. "Distract. We need to find out what's going on overseas, anyway, so get them to do that while we work the domestic front—flush out this Boy-o guy, get him to talk, implicate as many of the Arrows as we can."

"A fine idea," Gordon said dryly. "Except—we have to find Boy-o, first."

"Not a problem." The Batman had decided that he had lingered long enough; already he was thinking ahead to how to find Boy-o, and so was eager to be moving on. "Leave it to me to flush him out." He turned away, but paused to say one final thing over his shoulder: "Keep an eye on your daughter. She's going to run circles around you."

"She's twenty-five years old," Gordon pointed out. "She can run just about anywhere she wants. I'd say you're the one that needs to worry."

And indeed, as the Batman melted into the night, Barbara Gordon was watching from a set of shadows all her own.


Flushing out Boy-o turned out to be one of the easier tasks the Batman had encountered; it was merely a matter of spending a few hours in the Narrows, talking with various contacts, squealers, and more or less helpful criminals. Soon enough, the Batman acquired the information he needed; unsurprisingly, confirmation came from one of his most reliable sources.

"I've got a hunch," Maggie McCormick confirmed, her voice more hoarse and gravelly than ever. She had not sacrificed cigarettes from her life since the last time she had encountered the Batman. "A few people have been talking. There's been more prostitutes down near this end of the Narrows the last few days." She shivered, but it was from the biting cold, and not fear. Maggie McCormick stopped scaring easily years ago, and now it would take more than a skinny, homicidal freakshow or a giant man with a bat fetish to unnerve her. "Can't you visit me inside the pub? It's fucking freezing out here."

The Batman ignored her admonishment. "What have you heard?"

"More like what I've observed. Like I said, lately we got more hookers down near this part of the Narrows—which means they're avoiding another part of the Narrows. A couple of them said something about wanting to stay away from Wharfside—my guess is that's where that guy is at. Word is that he's no longer one of the Arrow's Golden Boys."

"Wharfside? But that's where he killed last."

Maggie shrugged and lit a cigarette. "He's creepy as hell, and mean as hell, but at the end of the day, probably dumb as hell, too. Or maybe he's smart—probably knows Wharfside better than any area, and so that's why he's there."

It was all the useful information he was going to get from Maggie, but he felt compelled to linger for a moment longer. There was something earthy and hard and real about Maggie—not unlike Annabeth, really—that gave the Batman pause. She stood there now, barely visible in the dim alley light, shivering in the cold. She was a good woman, an honest woman, and for that reason alone, her presence was a silent, comforting benediction.

As he prepared to depart, Maggie offered some final, wise words. "Don't underestimate that freak show. If he knows that area, he's going to work it to his advantage." But even as she spoke, she knew she was talking to empty air—the Batman had left again. But she still suspected he had heard.


Luck was not a concept that the Batman liked to rely upon. Luck was a generous yet capricious mistress—for he knew that it would be luck that one day turned the tables around, that would end his life, or at least his career, in some fight gone wrong. It was luck that allowed so many criminals and pedophiles and punks and gang-bangers to roam free, night after night. No, he didn't care for luck—give him the steadfast predictability of facts, of reliable situations and behaviors and sources and equipment, any day of the week.

But luck was with him this night—he descended into Wharfside fully expecting to come out empty-handed. Wharfside was big enough—and shadowy enough, and filled with enough abandoned warehouses and alleys and dead ends—to swallow some one like Boy-o, someone crafty and survival-oriented at all costs, and never spit him out again. The Batman fully expected that this would be the first of many nights spent searching, investigating, or sniffing him out—but luck had something else in mind.

There were still two hours to go before another cold, grey day dawned upon the city. He had spent the last half hour perched on the roof of a nineteenth-century factory, observing the streets below and occasionally walking the perimeter of the roof , attempting to bring a little more warmth into his cold-stiffened limbs. His suit may have been thermal, but it certainly didn't have a heater built into it.

It was during one of these rounds on the roof when a muffled noise caught his attention. Peering into the darkness of the sidewalks below, he saw two figures—most likely female—hurrying past, looking as though they were not eager to linger overly-long. Few enough people were willing to be out and about in this part of the Narrows at this time of night, so chances were these two were prostitutes, and desperate ones at that.

Just the type he wanted to talk to.

The poor women nearly had heart attacks as the massive figure appeared suddenly in front of them, blocking their way. One of the woman—a few years older than her companion—squeaked in terror, the other, younger girl merely inhaled sharply—but both of them stopped short and immediately began searching for an escape route, or failing that, help. Neither was particularly likely.

"Don't be scared," he told them. "I need information, and then I'm gone."

The older woman stared at him, mute with terror, but the younger one was a little bit more quick-witted, or at least a little more prone to bravado. "What are you willing to pay?" she demanded. She was barely eighteen, or perhaps not even, and the profession she had chosen had not yet diminished the youth and the look of innocence about her, which was no doubt something many of her clients were paying for.

"Depends on what you know. You two know who Boy-o is?"

They knew, alright. The looks of fear in their eyes were instantaneous—most likely they had had personal contact with him at some point; most likely he had done his best to cow them into submission. Now that he had gone to ground, he may not have the same hold over Gotham's sex industry, but no doubt the fear of him was still a potent thing.

The younger one took her time in answering. "Yeah, we know who he is. Bastard knifed Edie here last month." She jerked her head towards her companion. "I think he gets off on pain." The expression she was regarding the Batman with seemed to indicate that she considered him of the same ilk.

"You know where he is now?"

The two women glanced at each other. Boy-o or the Batman, which would they help?

It was a short struggle, at least for Edie. For the first time, she spoke up, and her voice had a low, sweetly feminine tone to it, surprising when considered against its hardened, rough source. "We think he's about six blocks that way." She gestured towards the north. "One of the other girls was talking about him—said she heard from one of her johns that he had seen him in one of the bars up that way. Dude keeps that up, he's gonna get caught."

"You gonna try to catch him, brother?" the younger girl demanded. She stared at him, her eyes issuing a challenge, but holding no hope. She had heard the rumors about the Batman, like everyone had, but to her, he was just another man—if he wasn't one of the ones who was deliberately trying to keep her down, he was one of the ones who stood passively by. Still, seeing him for the first time, having confirmation that he was an actual, real entity, jerked her out of her normal cynical nature. The challenge in her eyes was almost more of a plea.

"I'm going to catch him, sister," he responded. "And swing by Maggie McCormick's tavern. I'll make sure she has payment for you." He looked at them for a moment longer, took in their skinny, under-nourished frames, their lack of warm clothes, their carefully-made-up faces not concealing the misery and weariness that dogged them both. The Arrows and Boy-o had been bad for their business—and yet, the Batman suspected that even after they removed the threats that the Arrow posed, these two women would not experience any vast improvement.

One battle at a time.


It wasn't far away, the area of the Narrows the women had pointed him to, but he took the Tumbler—if he happened to capture Boy-o and get the cops on the scene, he'd need to have the means for a speedy getaway. And so he drove there, the Tumbler set to "stealth" mode as it silently wove its way through the darkened alleyways.

And then…the hunt really began. Not wishing to involve any more prostitutes in his quest—after all, they could face repercussions if it got out to the wrong people that they willingly gave up Boy-o, and by extension, the Arrows—he expanded his research to the questioning of several homeless people. It had been his experience that if they were lucid, the prodigious homeless population of Gotham was a valuable source of information. And when offered the right inducement, they readily parted with their information. At the rate he was offering payment for good information, Maggie McCormick was going to find herself working an unwanted day job as a beer-scented bank teller.

But he was also going to provide the Gotham City PD with a very nice catch, indeed. After verifying from two independent sources the alleged hideout of Boy-o, the Batman felt confident enough to move in for the kill. And not a moment too soon—a glance at the eastern sky told him he had no more than an hour to make this happen, before another day dawned. As he began to search the decrepit, abandoned flophouse where Boy-o had reputedly gone to ground, there was a sense of urgency driving him on, not one that he particularly liked—Bruce Wayne was leaving town for the weekend, and he wanted to get this wrapped up before then. Let the Gotham Police question Boy-o all weekend while Bruce Wayne put in some face-time with the Gotham elite…and his girlfriend.

It was this thought which went through his head just before the heart-stopping moment in which a volley of gunshots shattered the silence. The gunfire originated from the floor below, and as the bullets blasted through, the rotting floorboards under his feet splintered and began to give way. The remaining wood could not support his weight, and so he went crashing through to the floor below, falling down in a shower of wood, plaster, and metal. He landed on his back, and on a pile of cement blocks. While his armor was designed to protect his body from any major impact, it certainly didn't provide a cushy landing. One particularly heavy wood beam struck his titanium-reinforced cowl, and while he was protected from the worst of the blows, he was still dazed, his vision momentarily muddled. By the time he had regained focus, the lanky figure of Boy-o was almost upon him.

From his prone position, the Batman struck out with his boot, catching Boy-o's feet and knocking them out from under him. As Boy-o fell, the gun he was gripping went off again, fortunately missing the Batman by several feet.

The Batman regained his feet just as Boy-o, too, was struggling to his. As he stood upright, Boy-o pointed the gun again at the Batman and fired once more. He was only six feet away, and there was no time to reac; the deafening blast of the gun was startling enough, and even more startling than that was the impact: the force of the gunshot threw the Batman backwards and temporarily immobilized him. The blast didn't knock him off his feet, but the unexpected pain did. The Kevlar and armor had held together, and the bullet had not penetrated; nonetheless, a debilitating pain spiderwebbed outwards from his sternum, and the wind was knocked out of him.

Boy-o was a sharp one, after all—he recovered immediately from the surprise of seeing that the Batman hadn't been felled by a bullet, and he advanced to finish the job. So intent was he on this that he didn't see the tall, thin shadow move behind him and didn't sense the person landing on him like a ton of bricks until after he was brought down.

Barbara Gordon had timed her move well—she didn't have much but the element of surprise and her fighting skills, somewhat rusty after being out of the police force for two years—and she was almost amazed to see that her ambush of the Boy-o worked. He fell face forward under the unexpected assault of her weight, and before he could recover, she had knocked him unconscious with a well-placed knock to the head.

"Handcuffs!" she hissed at the Batman.

It had been shock and trauma which had taken his capacity to breathe; now it was shock which brought it back. "What the hell are you doing here?" he croaked as he struggled to sit up.

"Handcuffs!" she snapped again. "Or are we just playing at cops and robbers?" She glared at him fiercely, but concern began to creep in as she saw his slow movements. Settling herself onto the unconscious Boy-o—her knee driven deep into his back—she began to dig around for her cell phone. She dialed 911, noticing with cool detachment as she did that her hands were shaking, and barked, "Suspected murderer and gangbanger apprehended in the Narrows—third floor of the Old Wharfside flophouse." She snapped her phone shut and saw that the Batman was still on the floor. "Are you hit?"

"No," he rasped. He was groping about in his utility belt for the specially-designed bat-cuffs that Alfred had added a year ago, and when he found them, he tossed them to Barbara.

She smirked. "I knew you were a dom." With the knowledgeable efficiency of an expert, she snapped on the cuffs and left Boy-o lying there. "We've got to get you out of here."

"I can manage." He didn't like how she was taking charge of the situation—former cop or not, Barbara Gordon was a civilian, and the beloved daughter of his most supportive ally. "You need to get out of here."

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'm covered." She watched as he began to get to his feet, a difficult task, given the pain in his chest and the fact that he had not quite regained his wind. After a moment, she stepped forward and grabbed his arm—noting in surprise the ridges and gauntlets, the smooth armor—and began to try to haul him to his feet. "Come on, buddy, break time's over. You gotta go."

If he hadn't felt as though he were about to suffocate, he would have smarted under the humiliation of Barbara Gordon having to help him. It was fortunate that he had other things to occupy his attention as he pulled himself into a standing position with Barbara at his elbow, trying her best to steady him—she was a pipsqueak, he thought in dismay, and realized in equal dismay that in his shock, Bruce Wayne's thoughts were mingling with those of the Batman.

"Your car thing nearby?" Barbara demanded.

Not wasting his breath on a response, he touched the control on his belt that would bring the Tumbler to the building, and began to stiffly make his way to the fire escape. But then he paused, glancing back at the inert form of Boy-o. "I shouldn't leave him."

"Like hell," Barbara snapped. "You're hurt. If the cops come and you're still here, you're fucked, royally. I'm keeping an eye on Twinkle-Toes over there, and you've got to get medical help." She eyed his armor, and it was as she studied it that he realized just what damage had been done: the armor had deflected the bullets, but the force of the impact had formed a massive indentation which was pressing inward onto his chest. God only knew what damage there was, and not just to the armor

Barbara kicked out one of the shuttered-windows, and a blast of cold air hit them as the wood gave way once more. She stuck her head out the window and then pulled back in at once. "The fire escape is here, and it looks like your little car is waiting for you down below—" whatever words she was speaking were drowned out as screaming sirens filled the night. Barbara cocked her head, and from the movement of her lips, he could tell what she was saying: "They're coming in the front way. We can get out through the alley."

Below them, a crash echoed through the building as someone kicked in a door. Footsteps, at first cautious, and then more hasty, began to thump up the stairway.

"Go." The Batman said this tersely, but when Barbara didn't move, he bellowed it. "GO!"

She was no fool, and swung her legs over the sill and pulled her body out the window onto the escape. After a second, he head the rickety metal rattling as her feet pounded down the steps.

The police were here—there was nothing else he could do to ensure Boy-o was taken into custody. He, too, pulled himself through the window, and swiftly attached a line to the railings. He lowered himself to the Tumbler, which was idling just below the escape, its hatch open, but as he did, he saw Barbara Gordon, still standing in the shadows, watching.

"Why'd you do this?" he demanded, forcing his voice into its normally frightening, commanding timbres, and trying to ignore the pain this action induced.

Barbara approached the Tumbler, trying to mask her intense curiosity at this impressive, complicated piece of machinery. After a moment, she pulled her gaze away from the Tumbler. "Huh?"

"I said, why'd you do this? You could have gotten killed. You could have screwed this up."

Barbara shrugged. "My date stood me up." And then she backed away, turned heel, and ran.


With all the tenderness of a mother, Alfred assisted Bruce as he peeled away the armor from the top half of the body suit he wore underneath. Even doing this was intensely painful, and as Alfred glanced at Bruce, he noted the clenched jaw, the eyes steely with determination. A lesser man would have passed out by this point, but not Bruce.

He glanced down at his chest. Already the bruising was extensive, a horrific circle of purple and blue with some red mixed in for good measure. He and Alfred were going to have to think of some good excuse for this one—but as he glanced over his shoulder at Alfred, who was tending to his back, it occurred to him that Alfred wouldn't have the time for much other than doctoring him.

"How's it look back there, Alfred?" Bruce asked. He struggled to keep his voice light, but it was difficult—tonight had been an extremely close call, and it was all the more galling that it would have been worse had Gordon's daughter not been there.

Why had she been there? When Bruce had first wheezed his story out to Alfred when he arrived at the cave, he had wondered this aloud, but the look Alfred had given him was so deeply distressed, he didn't bother to wonder again. It was obvious that Alfred was thanking their luck—that fickle bitch—that Barbara Gordon had been there at all.

"It looks as though you fought a collapsing brick wall and lost," Alfred snapped. "There's quite a bit of bruising back here." He had forced Bruce onto the examining table as soon as the young man had emerged from the Tumbler, and had been hard at work ever since. Now he paused to dig some cold packs out of the medical supply closet, and began strapping them around Bruce. He hissed with pain as Alfred strapped them around him, and Alfred's hands faltered for a moment. Bruce glanced at Alfred, saw the butler was pale and upset and obviously shaken—and Bruce didn't want Alfred to see how shaken he was, either.

The numbness of the ice packs began to set in, and it momentarily became too much for Bruce. He leaned over the side of the table and vomited, quickly and matter-of-factly, but the strain it placed on his stomach muscles—so close to the bruising—immediately induced another wave of nausea.

"I can't check for internal bruising, Master Wayne," Alfred continued, his tone becoming sharper. Getting angry was better than being frightened. "I suggest we get you to a clinic and get some x-rays and a more thorough examination."

"Once I think of a good excuse for these bruises," Bruce said. "Got any ideas?"

"You tripped—fell down the stairs." The irony was heavy in Alfred's voice. "I'll ready the limo."

But he didn't leave, not right away—he paused to collect the plates of armor, and as he did, he saw Bruce reach for the utility belt, and pluck out the special cell phone. It looked tiny in his enormous paw of a hand. He was dialing a number and a moment later, the Batman's raspy voiced rattled into the cold, damp air.

"It's me. Did you get him?"

In terms of results, it had been a very profitable night—Boy-o had been apprehended, and in addition to stemming the flood of violence that had been unfolding against the more unfortunate of Gotham's female population, they would hopefully get plenty of information to implicate various members of the Arrows. But in terms of damage, it had been a very costly night.

Alfred turned away again, and desperately tried to ignore the fear rising within him. He had always had confidence in Master Bruce—had always believed in what he was doing. But now, this night, his confidence was shaken, and he was reminded that Bruce Wayne was mortal. Had it not been for the strange intervention of a meddlesome woman, things could have gone very badly indeed. Master Bruce was clearly rattled at the prospect of Barbara Gordon showing up again—and Alfred was rattled at the prospect that she wouldn't.

"It's him."

Annabeth turned and looked through the one-way viewing window, focusing on the man to which Stacy was pointing. She wasn't the only one looking, Gordon, Detective Montoya, and Ginny Chien—Harvey Dent's replacement as Gotham DA—were also following Stacy's eyes.

"It's him! I swear to god it's him!" Stacy looked frantically from one adult to the other, searching for belief, for trust, for encouragement. "You asked me to come in and look at a lineup, try to point out the guy that killed Vicki, and I did. That's him!" She would recognize him anywhere-that tall, lanky frame, that impossibly angelic face, out of which shone one set of very cold, inhuman eyes. He couldn't see her, of course, but she still felt creepy. Even with all these adults, all these allegedly powerful people surrounding her, she felt very vulnerable.

"We believe you," Annabeth soothed her. She placed a protective arm around Stacy's shoulders and noted with surprise that the teenager didn't shrug her away as she had done so many times before. She glanced at Gordon. "This is upsetting her-can we leave now?" It was upsetting her, too. She had planned to spend her Thursday wrapping up loose ends, trying to square away as much business as possible before Bruce whisked her away for the weekend. Instead, as soon as she had arrived at work that morning, she had been greeted by a voicemail from Gordon, informing her that Boy-o had been caught, and that they needed their witness to come down to the MCU for an ID. With that voicemail, Annabeth's plans for the day went to hell in a handbasket, and now she was here at MCU with a sullen teenager. It was a good thing, of course—but inconvenient as all hell. Damned criminals never consulted anyone else's schedule.

Gordon now motioned for Montoya to take charge of the men in the line-up. "We're almost done here. Stacy," he said gently to the frightened girl, "I know this was hard for you, but you picked the right man. We believe you, and I can promise you we're going to do everything we can to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else."

Every adult in the room knew that those words, although uttered with the kindest of intentions, might very well end up being a lie. Even Stacy knew it, apparently, for she didn't look particularly reassured. In fact, the look she gave Gordon was positively withering.

"Okay, we're going to try." He gazed down at the girl, doing his best to keep the pity he felt for her under wraps. No one-particularly not streetwise punks who had seen too much of life already-relished being pitied. "We're going to do our best to keep you safe. We've kept you safe so far, haven't we?"

His eyes met those of Annabeth's, and he jerked his head, indicating he wanted a private word. Annabeth gently detached herself from Stacy and huddled in the corner with Gordonl. They talked as low as they could.

"Notice anything suspicious around Safe Haven lately?"

"Nothing." Annabeth frowned, not happy at all with the current situation. "But I'm going to be out of town for a few days...I won't be able to keep an eye on her."

"I can hear you, ya know," Stacy muttered. "I'm not stupid. I'm not going to go running all around the city while you're getting laid by your billionaire boyfriend. I'll stay put and be a good girl."

"Is it too late to ask him to come back and finish the job?" Annabeth grumbled, watching Boy-o's departing back.

Gordon sympathized. He didn't envy Annabeth's job, not for a moment. "Hopefully it will be all over soon. We've still got men keeping an eye on Safe Haven...the most trusted ones only. They haven't noticed anything suspicious, either. Don't worry...your boss notice anything unusual yet?"

"Not yet." Annabeth's pale face crinkled with worry. "Stacy's been too difficult for her to really work with...but she's going to start asking questions soon. And then we'll have to figure out what to do with her...Stacy says she's sixteen, and I suppose we could go for emancipation." Annabeth glanced over at Stacy and saw that she was trying hard to look as though she was not paying attention-and failing miserably. "It's a mess."

"The Feds and Interpol are working on some connections overseas," Gordon said. He chose his words carefully, knowing that he could only reveal so much to a civilian, even one as involved as Annabeth had become. "Hopefully they'll be making some arrests soon. And we're going to push for a swift arraignment of Boy-o. But...if he gets a good defense, this might take a while. He could make the insanity plea...and I'm not sure it wouldn't work."

Annabeth shook her head firmly. "Enough for now." She glanced over at Stacy. "Ready to go?"

"Hell yes." Stacy sprung to her feet, not bothering to maintain the disinterested, sullen malaise she had been affecting during her stay at Safe Haven. "Let's go, please?"

Neither of them were at all sorry to leave the MCU-Stacy was too twitchy to feel comfortable there, and for Annabeth, it brought back plenty of unhappy memories. In fact, as they exited the building, Annabeth sighed with relief, fervently hoping she would have no call to set foot in the building ever again. She grinned at Stacy as they exited the building. "What do you say I buy you breakfast somewhere?"

Stacy didn't need to be asked twice; she came from a world where, if you hesitated too long, whatever chance of a treat would be whisked away. "Fine. I want pancakes."

"Pancakes it is," Annabeth agreed. And so the two of them set forth, trying to ignore the fact that two of Gordon's most trusted men were following behind. Someday, normalcy would be restored. But today was not that day.


Not so long ago, Annabeth had been young. Not so long ago, she had been perilously close to Stacy's current predicament, and it was only the intervention of blind luck that she hadn't gone the same way. She understood, only too well, the fear and anxiety Stacy was feeling, if not articulating. But Stacy was the same as any other teen Annabeth had ever encountered-she was determined to suffer alone.

They sat in the diner, their breakfast spread in front of them and ignored by both of them. Stacy picked half-heartedly at the pancakes she had so recently insisted upon, and Annabeth simply wasn't going to eat because she was biting her tongue in annoyance. Had she ever been that awful?

Probably. She answered her own question. Probably still am, too. She glanced down at her own meal-eggs and bacon and fruit, all untouched. She should be setting an example, but instead, she was too busy trying to figure out what to do with this troublesome Stacy.

Apparently, Stacy was worried about the same thing. She broke through her sullen exterior long enough to ask, "What's going to happen now?"

Oh, the million-dollar question. What would happen to Stacy now? A sixteen-year-old runaway, no family that she cared to speak of, no completed education, no marketable job skills, and the only person who had bothered to befriend her was dead at the hands of a toothpick parading as a man. What happened next, indeed?

Stalling for time, Annabeth tried to get some more information out of Stacy. "Still don't want to talk about your family?"

"No." Stacy shook her head vehemently, and her dirty, limp hair swung in time with the motion. "They're no help."

"What do you want to do?"

Stacy looked at Annabeth as though she had grown two heads. It was not something anyone had ever really cared about or paused to ask her. "What do you mean, what do I want?"

"It's a simple question." Annabeth gestured for the waitress to bring her more coffee. The morning was not yet over, and she was already dragging. "What do you want to do? No wrong answers here."

Stacy shook her head. "I don't know. Survive? Get a job? Make some money and be able to afford things?" She slouched down in her seat. "It's not like I'm really smart, though. Shit like that is hard."

"Straighten up." Annabeth said this sharply, moreso than she had really intended. "Come on, you want to make things even harder? Keep sitting there like a loser."

Sharp tones and no-nonsense talk were something that Stacy responded to more readily than sympathy or understanding. She straightened up and looked warily over at Annabeth, her unwelcome savior. "What's your bright idea?"

Sixteen years old, Annabeth mused. Probably old enough to be emancipated, if she can prove that she can support herself in the long term. If she keeps clean and stays out of trouble. We can find her an advocate...

"There's some possibilities," she began. "But it's going to be hard. Do you want to spend most of what could be a very short life on the streets, or do you want to try for something more?" Too preachy. "We don't have to help you-but we can if you're willing. Bear that in mind-if you say no, or decide you can't tough it out, it's your own damned problem, not ours."

"What do you know about problems?" Stacy sneered.

There was no point in sharing her experiences, Annabeth knew. She remembered enough about being a selfish teenager to know that one simply didn't accept that other people had pain and problems. To this streetwise kid, she was just another grown-up, an adult trying to commandeer her life. "My problems are none of your goddamned business!" she snapped. Once again, Stacy seemed to respond more respectfully to the harsh language. "But I'm making your problems my business, and I'm pretty damned sure that even when I'm away this weekend, trying to have a good time, I'll still be trying to figure out how to help you, you bloody little ingrate." It was true, too-she could already imagine her silent spells of deep thought, Bruce's long-suffering resignation, Alfred's amused glances. Dammit, the first vacation she had had in a very long time-and she was beginning to really look forward to it-and she'd probably spend the majority of it too engrossed in thoughts of Safe Haven and Gotham and this little wretch to properly enjoy it.

Just then, she noticed that Stacy had finally begun to devour her pancakes.

"Oh, screw it," Annabeth sighed. "I've got packing to do."