Trinity was going to vomit.
She couldn't even remember the last time that that had happened—it was such a common, nasty thing to do, really, and it was something that every fiber of her graceful, dignified soul eschewed. Vomiting, in Trinity's world, simply wasn't done.
Except for now.
The efforts she had invested in restraining the urge had been heroic, indeed. She had paced out onto her balcony several times, where she had breathed in gulps of the biting, 19-degree night air. She had pinched herself, given herself a stern talking-to, she had even dashed out to the 24-hour corner shop, where she had purchased a ginger ale—diet, of course—but all these efforts had simply delayed the inevitable. As Trinity made her way back from the store, clutching the useless soda bottle, she realized heading out into public had been the worst mistake; what if she actually lost her stomach there on the street? Humiliating. But miracle of miracles, she managed to make it back to her soothing, beautiful home without disgracing herself in public. However, once she was ensconced within the relative safety of her own four walls, she knew her ability to quell the rising nausea was finally going to fail.
She was leaning against the front door, allowing the tears to stream down her carefully made-up face, when it finally happened. The last overpowering wave of nausea washed over her, sucked her under, and she was only dimly aware of dashing through her home, past the fresh-cut flowers, the original artwork, the photographs of herself and her friends, into the bathroom. And there, amid the luxury she had so carefully and proudly cultivated over the years, Trinity finally let go. As she knelt at the toilet and alternately vomited and sobbed, it occurred to her that she hadn't just lost control of her stomach. She had lost control of every aspect of her life. And so, as Trinity let go of the contents of her stomach, so to did she let go of everything else. Her life was in shambles, utterly wrecked, and she had no idea how to rebuild it.
And strangely, that was the least of her problems.
It was all Donzetti's fault, of course. Until her dying day, Trinity was going to blame that damned schweinehundfor anything and everything that went wrong. In this case, it had been his abrupt departure and prolonged absence which had lulled Trinity into complacency. Without him about, pawing her like an inept and libidinous adolescent, she had had to spend far less time with the Arrows. While this had resulted in the unfortunate consequence of yielding no new information for Annabeth and her loony, dressed-up comrade-in-arms, it did free up Trinity's time and enable her to rehabilitate her nearly-extinct social life. The Winston wedding weekend had been her first tentative step back into Gotham's treacherous social waters, but when Trinity had received no rebukes from le Blanc or his cronies, she had grown bolder. She hadn't resumed her...former business, of course, and she had stuck mainly with her female or gay friends and acquaintances, but still, she was being seen. It was, as she had baldly informed Annabeth, good for business.
And it was good for her, too. By Thanksgiving weekend, she was feeling relaxed, almost happy. Certainly confident enough to really hit the town. The entire weekend had flown by in a blur of posh restaurants, extravagant shopping excursions, laughter, too many drinks, late nights at very exclusive clubs, dodging the paparazzi, god, it had been wonderful. She could, if she really tried, forget the damned Arrows and the havoc they had brought into her life.
But the Arrows weren't going to forget her. The real world came crashing down on her, quite rudely, the Monday evening following that grossly indulgent Thanksgiving holiday. She had spent the majority of the day recuperating, only rising around dusk to prepare for a quiet, solitary dinner out at her favorite neighborhood restaurant. By eight, she was ready, dressed in Ralph Lauren (a little pedestrian, perhaps, but so elegant yet functional) and fastening her pearl earrings, when her intercom buzzed.
Trinity paused, struggling to remember if she had invited anyone to join her on her precious, private evening. She couldn't remember, but nonetheless hurried over to answer the intercom. "Yes?'
"le Blanc here."
At the sound of his cold, no-nonsense voice, Trinity's heart plummeted, but even on the verge of panic, her survival instincts were strong. Scarcely recognizing her own voice, she purred, "Well, hello...stranger. Please, come up."
In the two minutes it took le Blanc to invade her personal territory, Trinity managed to compose herself. She even forced herself to recall his drink of choice—scotch on the rocks—and have it waiting for him as she opened the door and greeted him. He glanced at it as he walked in and simply remarked, "I'm not one of your johns to keep happy."
He still took the drink, though.
Soon Trinity was fixing his second. By that point, le Blanc had settled himself comfortably on the couch and was watching her. "You're not going to have one?"
Trinity brought him the refreshed glass and then seated herself in an armchair across from him. "I'm watching how much I drink. I've put on a few pounds lately." It was a bold-faced lie, of course; Trinity simply preferred to avoid alcohol-dulled senses around le Blanc and his crowd. But when it came to understanding women, le Blanc lacked nuance, and it seemed a reasonable explanation, coming from a female, so he questioned her no more. He simply nursed his drink as Trinity remained patient, quiet, and unquestioning.
Finally, he spoke. "Donzetti's in a tricky area right now, so phone contact is spotty. He should be back by the middle of December."
Trinity brightened. "It'll be nice to see him again." The vomitous prick.
"I'm sure he'll be glad to be back," le Blanc agreed. "It's a long time to be gone from his creature comforts."
It's a long time for the worthless dirtbag to be gone from the luxuries he's bought with other peoples' blood. "Well, Michael does enjoy the benefits of a sophisticated metropolis."
"Indeed."
Their eyes met, and wisely, Trinity remained silent. It was one thing for le Blanc to imply criticism towards his right-hand man, but it was more than Trinity's life was worth for her to offer a negative opinion.
"Trinity, my dear, I do believe I've under-estimated you."
"Oh?" Trinity kept her tone light, almost indifferent. "How so?" Where the hell was he going with this?
He took a moment to find the right words. "When I first met you, I'm sorry to say I dismissed you, immediately. We had so many ladies in your, ah, field, that I just made certain assumptions. Now I see that that was to my own loss. Well, it took me a while to see you're obviously a woman of great class and style. As much as I love Donzetti, it's clear you're out of his league. Mine too," he hastily added, seeing the look of alarm on her face. "As lovely as you are, you're not what I want in a woman."
"Uh...thanks, I think." Trinity didn't have to feign her confusion. "I am really not sure where this conversation is going."
"You're a woman in a million, Trin." le Blanc looked her over with an appraising eye. "You hooked up with Donzetti for your own survival, and I respect that. But you also did it with style, and you made my friend happy, and so I'm grateful, too. But here's the thing—Donzetti gets bored. He's a one-woman man, sure, but he never stays with one woman for too long." le Blanc leaned forward. "But I don't want the Arrows to lose you. I think you're a damned good businesswoman, and I know I've got the perfect job for you. How are you with languages?"
The abrupt change in conversation was giving Trinity mental vertigo. "Uuuh...passable Spanish. Decent French. A tiny bit of German." She gave le Blanc a lewd grin. "Gleaned that from fucking the German ambassador."
le Blanc smiled briefly in absent-minded appreciation, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "No Czech? Or Russian?"
"Good god, no."
"Hmmm. Still, you could pick it up if you needed to, probably pretty easily, too. You have a passport? Like to travel?"
"Of course."
"Of course," he agreed. "What would you say if I told you I had a...unique international job opportunity for you?"
"Job opportunity?" Trinity echoed.
le Blanc smiled mysteriously. "Come with me."
Her field trip with le Blanc lasted a few mere hours, but would haunt her for possibly the rest of her life.
Trinity had joined le Blanc in the back of his car, listening in what was at first intrigued, and then appalled, silence as he explained his plans.
"Donzetti's having a difficult time recruiting—right now he's in Holland, purchasing some goods from the dealers who're already set up there. But we want to go at this from more of a..." le Blanc paused, searching for the right word, "...wholesale angle. We want more control over the original goods, and we want to spend less money up front. Cut out the middle man as much as possible. We want to get in there, on the ground, recruit our own."
"Our own what?" Trinity had grown tired of this evasive language. "We're talking flesh, right? Women?"
"Girls," le Blanc corrected. "We need them young, no older than their early twenties. But Donzetti just can't waltz in to Eastern Europe and start recruiting him...you know how he is."
"I do." She did. Donzetti, bulky and sleazy and intimidating, would scare off even the most desperate girls, no matter what dreams of wealth and easy jobs he dangled in front of their Communism-dulled eyes.
"So this time around, he's in Holland, purchasing some girls who've already been processed and broken in, who already have documents. They're more expensive, of course, which is why we need to get better at recruiting. We need to get someone more glamorous, someone that can get these girls to trust them."
"Me?"
"You." le Blanc nodded to the driver, who started the car. "You're perfect for it. Just go over there a couple of times a year, recruit, work with the local immigration offices and ambassadors. We've got some local people on the ground who can help. They know which officials to bribe, they know where the most desperate girls are...and then you come back stateside and help break in and train the merchandise."
"Break in? Train?" Trinity's mind was swirling. Since when had she become a dog trainer?
"You know what I mean—don't be stupid." For the first time, le Blanc became impatient. "You know as well as I do that a woman will be able to gain their trust more easily—and then crush it. It's a perfect way to keep the goods under control, and you're perfect for it."
It was the most disturbing—and insulting—thing anyone had ever said to Trinity.
le Blanc carried on. "We'll get you started in breaking in the first batch, and while you're doing that, start picking up the Eastern European languages. You should be ready to head over there for your first business trip by the middle of next year."
It was as he was saying this that Trinity began to experience the first wave of nausea. "So...where is this 'breaking in' going to happen? And how many are we talking here?"
le Blanc smiled in satisfaction. "See? You're a natural businesswoman. Already eager to plan the logistics and get started." He sounded absurdly pleased with himself. "Not too many to start with—Donzetti's only bringing in about twenty or so, this first time around. But we do want to expand, and goodness, we do have the space." le Blanc nodded confidently. "You'll see what I mean."
Dread lurked at the edge of Trinity's awareness, and the nausea grew stronger. Ruthlessly she ignored this anxiety and nausea and turned her attention to the cityscape sliding past. They were heading into the Narrows. Nothing good can come of this.
Even so, Trinity was unprepared for the horror that confronted her as they eventually entered the stash house. They had been greeted by three of the most frightening goons she had ever had the misfortune of encountering—cold and silent, they merely gazed at her briefly, appraisingly, before ignoring her for the rest of the evening.
"They're certainly not Boy-o," le Blanc had whispered in her ear. "Of course, these were the best we could do on short notice."
Trinity didn't answer. She was too busy trying to carefully find her footing as she headed up a dimly-lit staircase. Briefly, she wondered if she was heading into a trap, but somehow, she doubted it.
At the top of the stairs, the thugs paused in front of a door—a door which appeared much newer and sturdier than most of their surroundings. There was a rattle of keys being fitted into locks, and then the goons swung the door inward and stepped aside to allow le Blanc and Trinity to pass.
The smell hit Trinity before her eyes had a chance to adjust to the dim room. It was a smell of unwashed bodies, stale food, and sex, but there was something else, some other scent, too. Something undefined, and while she hoped she would never have anything else to which she could compare it, Trinity was pretty damned sure she was smelling fear.
Why was it so dark? There were only a couple of naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting only the most minimal illumination around the room. Trinity didn't need much light, however; her avid, quick gaze took in all she needed to see. Again, the nausea rose up within her, but with a supreme effort, she quelled it and managed to keep her expression only mildly curious, masking the shock and disgust that she was genuinely experiencing.
"Our guards here got a little ambitious," le Blanc remarked, his tone implying that he was not yet certain that this was a good thing. "Down in one part of the Narrows, there's a Little Mexico district. Lots of illegals, here on their own, no one to miss them, just ripe for the taking. So they took."
Wordlessly, Trinity took in the "contraband." Young women, heartbreakingly young, were huddled on dirty mattresses; some of them looked up at her fearfully, but others didn't acknowledge her at all, preferring to stay curled up on their mattresses and ignoring their captors. The room was cold, and Trinity quickly surmised that there weren't enough blankets to go around. "Who are they?"
"Who knows?" le Blanc shrugged. "It's not important. What's important is that we got them for free. No one to miss them, no one to care, since they're illegals. Fairly expendable, actually, but we might get some money out of some men that want to take their frustrations out on the immigrant population. Our boys here-" he jerked his head over to the goons "have been breaking them in. Right around the time that our European shipment comes in, these girls should be ready to hit the streets. Good teaching tool for the new girls, I think."
Nausea again. Trinity forced her voice to remain indifferent. "I can't imagine that a room like this is conducive to any sort of...activity."
"Nope." le Blanc looked very pleased, no doubt impressed with her eye for detail. "But it's a big building—there's plenty of rooms we're fixing up for business. It's cheaper, though, to keep the girls in small rooms...except for the problem ones."
"'The problem ones?'" Trinity echoed, although she was fairly certain she didn't want to know.
One of the goons chuckled.
"Oh, you know, there's always a few." le Blanc said this off-handedly, as though he were describing an rainy day, annoying but inevitable. "In this case, her name was Maria. Wouldn't shut up—so the boys here took care of things."
"The boys" grinned.
"How so?" Damn it, Trinity wanted to stop asking questions, but the morbid side of her, the side that kept saying, Look what you've gotten yourself into, would not be satisfied until she knew.
le Blanc smiled mirthlessly. "Let's just say it's quite convenient that we're located Wharfside here. Disposal is quite easy, and with the amount of chemicals in the river up this way, it won't be long before any...remnants...are decomposed."
The girls on their mattresses gave no indication of having heard this. Trinity suspected it had less to do with shock or catatonia and more to do with not wanting to be noticed. Being noticed by these men would not lead to anything good.
Trinity was many things—an ambitious woman, a very highly-paid prostitute, a clever scholar and observer of the human condition, a shallow yet pragmatic woman. She was all of this, and much more. But she never kidded herself about being a particularly compassionate or altruistic specimen of humanity, She had never thought herself particularly capable of such depth of emotion or charity, but on that night, as she saw the most wretched and unloved creatures in Gotham, she surprised herself. Her shock was outweighed only by her instinct to comfort, to protect the girls who had found their unlucky way into le Blanc's stash house; she wanted nothing more than to take them as far away from their squalid surroundings and their frightening future as was possible. And the real bitch of it was that not only could she not do that, she had to act as though she didn't care.
Trinity yawned. "Okay, so you've shown me where you're going to keep them. I suppose it will work, although you might want to groom some of the nicer-looking Natashas for something a little bit better. When do we expect them?"
It's all for the greater good, she told herself as she followed le Blanc out of the room and back down the stairs. She forced herself not to look back at the girls. All for the greater good.
That's what she told herself through the entire ride back out of the Narrows, back to her home. It was what she told herself each time she questioned le Blanc, trying to get as much information as possible.
When did he say that Donzetti and the merchandise were scheduled to arrive? All for the greater good. Mid-December, she was told. The majority of the shipment would come through Mexico—porous borders and easily-bribed officials.
What sort of work were they going to be doing? All for the greater good. Peep shows, strip clubs, some prostitution and escorting, mainly.
What was going to happen to them after they wore out? They did have a limited shelf-life, after all. All for the greater good. le Blanc didn't have a satisfactory answer for that one, and Trinity chose not to pursue it. She didn't want to betray her hand by showing too much concern.
It was the performance of a lifetime.
And now Trinity was back in her home, away from le Blanc and his disgusting plans, but it felt as though she was never going to escape from the filth of what she had just seen. She lifted her head from the depths of her toilet and decided that she had had enough. Not just of the vomiting—she was fairly certain that she had nothing left in her stomach to eject—but of all of it. She wanted to be done with the Arrows—after seeing those girls, sequestered away, and imagining the next group coming in, she realized how good she had it, and how so few had it that good. It was time to bring it to an end.
Action. Action made her feel less helpless, and so Trinity arose and began to regroup. First thing was to visit Annabeth, get her to initiate contact with...whoever it was. The police, the costumed vigilante, Mickey Mouse, whoever. When Trinity had done her research on Annabeth, she had learned where she lived, and so that was where Trinity would journey to. It was bitterly cold out, so she changed into her warmest and least obviously stylish clothes and bundled into her oldest coat. Briefly she debated hoofing it the whole way there, but Annabeth's condo in Bordertown would take her through the part of the city with which she was less than familiar—after all, her clients and friends only live in downtown, or else in the Palisades. So, a taxi it would be, although she did decide to grab one a few blocks away. Trinity doubted the Arrows were watching her or her condo—one of le Blanc's many weaknesses was a tendency to trust too much, which was why so many girls had gotten brave enough to defect in the first place—but she didn't want to take a chance.
So she exited her building through the service entrance and moved quickly through the back streets, keeping to the shadows. She moved quickly and with confident strides, unconsciously imitating the gait of the crusader she was on her way to see. Trinity's fear and disgust receded with each step, replaced with a righteous anger, a fierce sense of purpose. Surfacing a few blocks up on Broadway, it took minimal effort to hail a cab, and soon she was on her way.
The cabbie looked a little surprised as Trinity ducked into his back seat and gave the address—what the hell was a stylish, obviously monied woman like this blonde broad doing? What business could possibly bring her to Bordertown? He knew better than to question it, however—anything went in Gotham. And this particular cabbie knew better, too, than to question why his beautiful fare asked him to turn down random side streets and keep an eye out for anyone that could be following him. She saw his surprised look, and quickly produced an enticing wad of bills. The cabbie was a North Korean with questionable documentation and three children, and so he would have dangled from the the top of Wayne Tower for a tip like that.
It was Gotham—anything went.
The North Korean cabbie was one of the best Trinity had ever encountered. He drove quickly, erratically, and unquestioningly, not even behaving as thought it were odd or untoward for one to be huddled in the back seat of his cab, only peeping up every now and then to check the traffic behind them. With the cabbie's skill and eagerness to lay claim to Trinity's promised hefty tip, they arrived in Bordertown much sooner than Trinity would have imagined, thereby undermining forever her belief that Bordertown was remote and not a part of her Gotham. It didn't matter, though—she was there. Trinity had arrived safely, with no one trying to stop her. Perhaps they would all get through this.
As she scurried up the steps to Annabeth's building and buzzed the intercom, Trinity sighed with relief and leaned her head against the door. Thus engaged, she didn't notice the brief movement across the street. Someone had observed her. Despite all her admirable efforts to escape notice, Trinity had failed.
In the moments before chaos and disorder descended upon the house of Annabeth, she was at the tail-end of an unusually peaceful evening. She had gotten home from work at a decently early hour, which was highly unusual, and had decided to take a personal day off the next day—equally unusual. She had even splurged in a delicious delivered Gotham-style pizza. She had thrown on her warmest flannel pajamas, had curled up on her living room floor, lit a few candles, put on some music, and surrounded herself with—predictably—work. But to top off this most unusual of nights, her work was of a personal nature, rather than professional. She had surrounded herself in bank statements, mortgage paperwork, old letters, neglected mail. Annabeth was cleaning house. Clearing the decks. The hours ticked on, the night grew darker, and still she plowed through, losing track of time. All was serene.
And so, it only stood to reason that life, being the fickle bitch that it was, would throw a curve ball—or several—through the window of her quiet life and shatter that serenity.
The thumping on her door was loud, sudden, and insistent, and it startled all the living inhabitants. Wurzel, in predictably feline fashion, shot three feet into the air and landed in the still-open pizza box, thereby killing off any of Annabeth's hopes for leftovers. She had half a second to observe the trail of tomato sauce which immediately appeared as Wurzel streaked across the living room and into her bedroom, before the thumping began again. Jed whined and looked up at his mistress, his eyes limpid and worried.
"You're useless," Annabeth told him as she struggled to her feet. "What kind of dog are you? Why don't you just go open the door for them while you're at it?" This scolding had less to do with her dog and more to do with keeping herself calm. A glance at the cheap clock which had ticked on the wall since its procurement at one of the suburban SuperTargets told her that it was almost midnight; who the hell would be inclined to pay her a visit at this hour?
Few people came to mind, and none whom Annabeth cared to talk to. "Just a minute," she called, and then darted into her bedroom. The aluminum baseball bat stood at attention as it always did, like a latter-day sword, and she grabbed it. Not likely she would need it, but one never knew.
A quick glance into the peephole provided as much reassurance as it did confusion. There was no mistaking the woman that stood on the other side of the door, but what the hell? It wasn't a good idea for her to be here; it could put them both in danger. Annabeth couldn't afford to be in danger. Not now.
She jerked open the door. "What the hell?"
Trinity burst into tears.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! Geez." Annabeth took Trinity by the elbow and pulled her out of the hallway, checking behind the taller woman, looking right and left and making sure no one else was there. "Shit, I know I'm a bit of a bitch, but there's no need to cry about it. I'm sorry." She shut the door firmly behind her and gazed in amazement at Trinity. "What in god's name has gotten into you?"
Trinity couldn't even begin to say. All she knew was that, as soon as she was confronted with the image of Annabeth standing in front of her, humble, unpretentious, dressed in some ratty pajamas, for god's sake, but reassuring, honest, fierce, and beautifully real, she lost it. Burst into tears—the one thing worse than vomiting, in her estimation.
She allowed herself to be led into Annabeth's home. She was still crying, and suddenly, she was hyperventilating.
"Oh christ." With firm but gentle hands, Annabeth guided Trinity to the couch, careful to seat her on the end that was not broken. "Try to slow down your breathing. You're okay. You're okay, you're safe. When you're ready, tell me. But stay calm, you're safe here." Annabeth wasn't sure she herself believed this, herself, but no need to tell that to the blonde having an episode on her couch. "It's okay. I promise, it's okay. We'll get through this."
She sat on the arm rest of the sofa, slowly stroking Trinity's back and cooing nonsensical and possibly untrue nonsense. All the while, the feral, sharp instincts that Annabeth had nurtured throughout her life were now running in overdrive. What had Trinity been thinking? What danger had she possibly put them in?
It was clear that no information would be immediately forthcoming, and so, with infinite patience, Annabeth continued to comfort Trinity. Eventually, her unannounced visitor begin to calm down and resume the visage of the collected, glamorous woman Annabeth remembered. What on earth had brought her here? What had happened? She glanced around at her orderly, quiet home and had a very brief moment to wonder what had happened to it, just before another rapping knock resounded throughout the room.
The two women froze, each equally terrified. Trinity had just stopped hyperventilating, and Annabeth had just stopped wondering if she had any brown bags, and now this. Annabeth reached for the baseball bat with one hand while silently sshhing Trinity with the other. Stealthily she crept across the room, her heart pounding in her ears. She was dimly aware of Trinity behind her, beginning to look for the nearest escape route.
Annabeth stood on tiptoe and stole a look at the peephole.
No one was there.
Weary realization dawned upon Annabeth. She turned from the door to face Trinity, who had, despite her well-advised fear, begun to move closer to the door. "Look," she sighed. "I wouldn't freak out too much if I were you-" she peered over Trinity's shoulder. "Oh. Hello."
Trinity turned around, confused—and promptly yelped in fright as she took in the dark, hulking figure of the Batman waiting silently behind her.
"Precisely," Annabeth agreed, and promptly plopped herself down on the floor, amidst her paperwork. "I'm guessing you both have a very good reason for popping in tonight. Generally, people call first. You should give it a try."
Trinity looked as though she were about to retort, but any comments that were rising to her tongue were promptly cut off as she burst into tears again.
"Oh, lord. Again?" Annabeth didn't know what to make of the situation, so went for the old stand-by of inappropriate, deadpan levity. She turned to the Batman and said, almost conversationally, "I'd try to catch you up, but that's pretty much what you missed out on for the first five minutes." She turned her attention back to Trinity, and when she began to speak, her voice carried none of her previous exasperation. "Trin?"
"Don't call me that." Trinity managed to stop crying for a moment and glared out at Annabeth through tear-ravaged eyes, "They call me that. That's not my name."
"Fair enough," Annabeth agreed. "Trinity, I'm guessing you're here because something happened?"
"Yes." Trinity took a deep, gasping breath. "I've got more information about the Arrows. Important stuff."
The Batman shifted his stance, and Annabeth knew his body language well enough to know that he was interested. "Go on," he ordered her, and ignored the dark look Annabeth gave him.
"There's a place in the Narrows—down near the area they call Wharfside. I think there's actually a whole block of slum tenements, they all look abandoned..." Trinity closed her eyes and felt the tears trickle silently from beneath her lids. "Anyway, that's where they're going to be taking the girls Donzetti's bringing in. They've got some goons running the stash house."
"What do you mean 'running'?" Annabeth demanded. "They're already in business?"
"Close to it. They nabbed some girls, some illegals that wouldn't be missed. They're..." Trinity paused , searching for the right words, "breaking them in. You know what that means."
Both Annabeth and the Batman nodded. They were well-versed in the ambiguous language of evil that seemed to be specially created by and for Gotham.
"These are girls, and I mean girls. I think they need medical attention; they're in horrible living conditions. I'm sure they're torturing them, beating them, all in the name of keeping them in line." Trinity forced herself to recall the details; she knew that anything less would be an unholy denial of the evil she had witnessed. "And they're just the beginning. The Arrows will be bringing in dozens, maybe hundreds of girls soon—the profits will be astronomical compared to your garden-variety Gotham prostitute. And they want me to help break and train them."
Annabeth was disgusted, but the Batman, unsurprisingly, maintained his impassive air. When he spoke, there was no indication that he was moved by any of this. "How many guards were there?"
Trinity struggled to remember. "I saw three, I think."
"How many girls?"
"At least six—there was at least one more, but it sounded as though they got rid of her."
"Where exactly in Wharfside was it?"
"I don't know!" Trinity's lip curled in momentary disgust. "Do I really look like the type to know the streets and alleys of the Narrows?"
"Think." The Batman's voice was commanding, almost harsh.
"I don't know!" Trinity was beginning to crack under his rapid-fire questions. "I know it was Wharfside, and it was right by the water. God, it stank. A whole block of abandoned tenement buildings, they all looked the same...but in the dark, it's hard to tell."
"You need to tell me all you remember," the Batman told her, and this time, there was no mistaking the harshness in his voice. "If you're going back in there, we need a plan, and we need all the information you have."
All hell broke loose as he stated this. Annabeth instantly turned to him and began hotly protesting this; he couldn't mean to send her back into that mess; it was too dangerous; it was soul-destroying. With each protest, her voice grew higher and higher. "Are you evenhuman?" she concluded. "Who the hell are you to play us like goddamned chess pieces? Can't you see Trinity's losing it?"
"I can see she's losing it," was the Batman's concession. "Her dinner, anyway."
Annabeth turned and saw that Trinity was no longer in the room; as Annabeth had been railing at the Batman, nausea had once again overtaken Trinity and compelled her to dash off in search of a bathroom. Judging by the sounds of gagging and choked sobs echoing down the hall, she had found it.
Sighing, Annabeth heaved herself off the floor and headed down the hall. The door to her bathroom was open a crack, and so Annabeth slowly, gently pushed it inwards. Just as the Batman had surmised—damn him—Trinity was in the throes of nausea, her beautiful blonde tresses swooping down over her face in a golden cascade. Without thinking, Annabeth knelt down beside her and gently pulled her hair back.
"Thank you," Trinity managed to choke.
Annabeth smiled sadly. "It's one of the most comforting things a person can do. And fortunately, I just cleaned my bathroom tonight, so you're puking in a clean toilet."
Trinity laughed, a strangled, feeble sound in the small bathroom.
"Well, it's true. How many times have you knelt in front of the toilet and realized, god, I'm brought so low I'm shoving my face into a place that hasn't been cleaned in god only knows how long, and I don't even care." Annabeth gently stroked Trinity's head as she said this.
"He's right, you know." Trinity jerked her heads towards the direction of the living room. "Your Batman friend. I need to keep doing this."
Annabeth nodded reluctantly. "I hate it when he's right, but...he's right. We'll make a plan, though, just as soon as you're ready."
"Give me a few minutes?"
"Take all the time you need." Annabeth rose back to her feet. "I'll just entertain our guest. Think he'll take some tea?"
It was a feeble attempt at a joke, whistling bravely in the dark, but Trinity appreciated it for that reason. As she listened to Annabeth exit the bathroom, she realized that the courage Annabeth exuded may have been false bravado, but it was catching.
Wearily, Annabeth made her way back to the living room, where the Batman still waited. She looked at him, tried to look into his eyes, as much as the cowl and the black paint allowed. "She'll be out in a minute. You're right, we know it...but we don't have to like it."
He nodded silently.
Annabeth plunked herself down, yet again, on the floor, and mourned the loss of her peaceful evening. She began gathering up her paperwork, putting it into neat piles. "But soon enough you might have to find someone else to play with and be a bureaucratic gopher."
The Batman went very still. "Why?"
"I might be moving soon." Annabeth said this sadly, but with a certain serenity.
"Moving?" The Batman came closer. "How far?"
"Far. Not sure where yet, but far from Gotham. After all, it's not the best place to raise a family, is it?" she pointed out rhetorically.
Long ago the Batman had trained himself to detach himself from all personal matters whenever he was in his costume. Up until now, he had done this successfully, but there was always a first time. Now, hearing Annabeth's almost-but-not-quite casual tone, he knew that that time had come, and his blood ran cold. "A family?"
"Yup." Annabeth turned her attention away from her papers and met his gaze directly, not aware of the shock her words were causing. "I'm pregnant. Just found out today, from my doctor who, as it turns out, knows less about fickle reproductive systems than anyone could have guessed. 'Improbabilities are still possibilities,' she says. Pompous fool. Never thought I'd say that about a woman."
The Batman struggled to focus, struggled to find some words, any words, with which to respond. The ones he came up with were woefully, even comically inadequate. "So...you're leaving?"
"Time to get the hell outta Dodge, I think." She smiled, and again he saw the sad serenity that seemed to hang about her like an aura. "I've given it my best, and I'm not going to let this city take anything else from me. Interesting—you're the first person I've even told about the baby. You should feel honored. When was the last time anyone shared news like this with you?"
Any opportunity he has to respond to this was cut off as Trinity came back into the living room, pale but with her head held high and her eyes glowing dangerously. "I'm back," she announced unnecessarily. "Now—let's figure out what we're going to do. A raid? Can you get them out of there?"
Incredibly, the Batman managed to corral his chaotic thoughts and focus, however briefly, on the matter at hand. "A raid, yes. But not now, not yet. We need to wait for Donzetti to come back with the rest."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Trinity didn't like thinking of the nameless girls whose frightened faces now haunted her. "Those girls looked like they were in rough shape, and god only knows what the ones coming in with Donzetti will be like."
"We need you to keep an eye on the situation. Keep an eye on the girls—the ones that are there and the ones coming in. When Donzetti gets in, we need to find out exactly how many there are, and where everyone is stashed."
"And then what?"
Both the Batman and Trinity turned to Annabeth, who was looking pretty unhappy. "Then what?" she repeated. "You and Gordon and his team raid the stash house, arrest Donzetti and le Blanc and any Arrows you can lay your hands on, hurrah hurrah, but what's going to happen to the girls? You guys think that one through yet?"
Trinity looked chastened; the Batman—well, it was impossible to tell.
"Let me enlighten you guys. What's going to happen is that Gordon and his men are going to unearth several dozen undocumented immigrants, because you can be damned sure these girls don't have real papers. The Feds will be involved, of course, which means INS will be involved. These girls—who are victims—will most likely be arrested and detained for lack of documentation. They're going to be treated as criminals—prostitutes at best, illegals to be deported at worst, they're not going to have the counseling that they need, and you can be damned sure that they'll be deported, sooner rather than later if le Blanc manages to bribe the right people. And then, guess what happens—they're right back to where they started, except that the Eastern European thugs that got them into this mess will be gunning for them and making sure that they don't blab to anyone over there once their delectable European asses get hauled back to whatever godforsaken former Communist bloc from whence they came."
The Batman and Trinity stared at Annabeth.
"What? You think this is the first time I've gotten involved with a stash house raid like this?" Annabeth demanded.
"No, I just think that you're a pedantic prig sometimes," Trinity retorted. She glanced over at the Batman. "She always like this?"
"Usually. Doesn't mean she's wrong though."
"This needs to be handled carefully," Annabeth continued, ignoring Trinity's not unreasonable observation. "We need to coordinate with Gordon and about a million other government agencies. These girls are going to need expedited temporary visas, protection, medical care, legal help. We can't let them be victimized by bureaucratic callousness. Can you help me get Gordon on our side?" she asked the Batman.
"Shouldn't be too hard. He's not always by the books."
Annabeth nodded. "Good. Contact him as soon as you can; it sounds like we've got a pretty small window of time to work with. You think Donzetti's due back by the middle of the month? I'll arrange a meeting with him by the end of the week. Trinity—you're going to keep us informed, yes?"
Trinity nodded silently, grudgingly impressed with Annabeth's ability to take the lead and think out a reasonable strategy. She wasn't the only one; the Batman, too, was marveling at her self-possession and grasp of the situation...particularly under the circumstances.
The circumstances. "I'm pregnant," Annabeth had said, and that simple statement had thrown the Batman's entire, carefully-ordered world off its axis. Why wasn't she reeling? He was reeling—at least internally. It took every ounce of effort to focus on what was happening and what was being said. He jerked his head, just a little, to bring himself back to the present situation. Listen. Pay attention. Still, a strange adrenaline was pounding in his ears.
Annabeth was looking back and forth to these two different, and somewhat unwelcome people, who were cluttering up her living room, her life, and possibly her future. She just wanted to get on with her plans and her evening. "This needs to be coordinated just right—remember who the victims are here." She glanced sharply at Trinity. "Did anyone follow you? Other than him?" She jerked her head to the Batman.
"If someone did, I suppose we'll find out when my battered remains make tomorrow's news, won't we?" Trinity gave a twisted smile. "How'd you know I was here, anyway?" she asked the Batman.
"I was watching Annabeth's home," he answered simply. It was the truth. He had stayed away as long as he could, but loneliness, or morbid curiosity, or an addiction to angst, or perhaps all three, had driven him to Bordertown, to Annabeth's home. That was where he had seen been lurking for a good portion of the evening when he had seen Trinity's frantic entrance into Annabeth's building.
"That's creepy." Trinity remarked.
"Yup." Annabeth agreed. "The Orkin man doesn't cover this kind of pest. Now," she glanced at the Batman, and then at Trinity. "It's late, very late, and I'm tired. Make sure Trinity gets home alright," she said to the Batman. "She's the key now."
Trinity shook her head. "I'll be fine—I got here fine."
"No." Annabeth rejected this. "This is not open to discussion. You need to get home safe and you-" she turned to the Batman "-need to make it happen."
The Batman reluctantly was forced to agree with her, and even as Trinity left through the front door and he left out a window—without having a chance to pursue Annabeth's revelation—he had to admit to himself that Annabeth was going to make a very good mother. She certainly had the bossiness down.
God, what a mess.
Back to the Palisades. Back to the Manor. Back to the Batcave. Back to Alfred.
The long drive home had done nothing to assist the Batman in ironing out his thoughts. For the first time since Rachel's death, he was lost—completely at sea. He had no idea how to proceed. But then, when Rachel had been killed, it was death which had immobilized him. Now it was life. And it wasn't any easier.
Predictably, despite the ungodly hour, Alfred was patiently waiting for him. As the Batman emerged from the Tumbler, he could not help but to notice the lines in Alfred's face, deep lines scored from years—too many of them—of anxiety and responsibilities from which any other man would have long ago fled. What kept Alfred there? What reward, what enticement could there possibly be for this strange life he had chosen for himself?
And here the Batman was, about to complicate it more.
"I have herbal tea waiting for you, sir. Chamomile" Alfred said this almost indifferently. It was something of a routine, particularly after a certain time of night. He was always trying to get his employer to consume less caffeine. He watched as the Batman unfastened the cape and began to pull off his mask and cowl, revealing Bruce's face, pale and strained. "Rough night?"
"You could say that." Bruce headed over to his work table, but as soon as he reached it, he turned around and paced in a half-circle. He glanced over at Alfred once, and then walked back to the work table, placed both of his hands upon it, and bowed his head.
Patiently, Alfred waited.
After a moment, Bruce unfastened his utility belt and carefully placed it on the table. Only then did he turn and meet Alfred's querying gaze. "Annabeth's pregnant."
At first, Alfred did nothing—there was absolutely no reaction from him. And then, after a moment, he began to examine the utility belt Bruce had so recently placed upon the table. In confusion, Bruce watched as Alfred carefully ran his hands over the material, checking each piece of equipment. Each item—the grappling hooks, the lock-picking tools, the plastic explosives, the forensic kit, and strangely, most thoroughly, the empty compartments—received his scrupulous attention.
"Alfred?" Bruce prompted. "What are you doing?"
Alfred turned to Bruce and held the utility belt aloft. Bruce saw that his butler's face was white—with what? Rage? Disappointment? Disgust? When he spoke, his voice dripped anger, with more than a little disappointment thrown in.
"This belt, Master Wayne..." Alfred shook it for emphasis, "this belt alone cost forty thousand dollars to produce...the equipment, a total of sixty-five thousand...and R&D on it came to just over one hundred thousand. Do you know how much that equals?"
"Over two hundred and five," Bruce answered promptly.
"Two hundred and five thousand," Alfred agreed, his long-dormant Cockney accent becoming more pronounced as his voice grew louder. "Two hundred and five thousand for this utility belt, which is loaded with every bell and whistle we can think of and room for plenty more. So can you explain to me why, sir, you saw fit to invest in a two-hundred-thousand dollar boy scout kit, and you couldn't have added a bloomin' condom to it?"