1776 Lexington Lane

Freshly pressed garlic joined minced basil and thyme in the saucepan, generously coated in a coarse dust of ground peppercorns and seasalt, and done, Amy Lawless thought with a satisfied sniff, leaning closer over the stove-top for a deeper breath of the entrancing aroma. It would have to simmer for several hours now, but the hard work was over, the chemistry of the cooking complete.

Well, nearly. The noodles were drying nicely, and she'd already shredded the salad, but the breadstick dough now needed rolling and there was still the matter of the obligatory pork meatballs to be made. If there was one thing Amy Lawless prided herself on it was on being a decent cook. That's what she said out loud, of course, in her head she was a superior cook and according to her husband she was the damned sexiest one as well. Many of her friends just shook their heads, said they hadn't gone to college to slave away in the kitchen the rest of their lives to meet some man's outdated expectations, but none of them ever took the time to fully understand. Say what you will about women's lib, the kitchen was still the one place that a woman could let her hospitality shine, to allow herself to be utterly and unapologetically feminine…and that lack of fear or hindrance, that desire to be admired for herself and her abilities, to be so relentlessly open and vulnerable to him was what she'd appreciated the most that first night she'd spent in Aaron Lawless' decidedly unkempt bachelor's flat xxx years ago. Sure, the sex had been phenomenal-until then her only partners had been clumsy, bumbling boys, first in high school and then in college, some one night stands, others brief boyfriends, too unsure of themselves to be certain of her needs. And she'd been far too shy, too naïve, and too inexperienced to know for herself what it was a woman wanted. But it hadn't just been Aaron's incredible strength or experience, although admittedly she'd been attracted to his undeniable masculinity. It wasn't just the way his body moved on top of hers, inside hers, all around hers with mounting ecstasy and burning desire until she was moaning and gasping not for air but for more, more, more! and for him, that had won her girlish heart. It was the freedom just to be, to enjoy the meaning of the moment, for the first time to feel fully understood and appreciated, admired-no, adored-by his gentle hands and lips, unembarrassed to cry for the beauty and intimacy of sex without worrying about being judged, or mocked, or scorned.

She'd lost her virginity at 16, sure. But it took her six years to find out what becoming a woman meant. It meant embracing that inner femininity and inherent weakness…and it meant having a man who understood to nurture and cherish it as well. Those sort of men had all but died with chivalry, and she was lucky-damned lucky-she reiterated to herself again, to have found him. So now, eight years later, sweaty and dusted in flour from fingers to elbows from kneading and mixing first homemade noodles and breadsticks she swore she'd do whatever it took to keep him.

But it was one face, not two. And that face was worn. Weathered. Aged a hundred years since she'd last seen it. The salad bowl slipped forgotten from her fingers and shattered across the kitchen floor.

"Aaron…" she whispered, Monday's fear and loneliness gnawing again at her heart. "Where's Jimmy?"


remember getting the amniocentrises?

"Are you going to tell Aaron?" She asked.
He was silent a long, long time. "No," he finally whispered. "It's not my place. You have two weeks."

"It's not your fault. This had nothing to do with you. This was my choice. Mine." She lied harshly.

And she felt guilty. Yes, guilty. Guilty for being jealous of her husband's time, guilty for being such a fool as to believe he would ever betray her, guilty for fucking another man, guilty for thinking she could ever cover it up, hide it, keep such a secret to herself, guilty for carrying her husband's baby when she didn't deserve it, guilty for ever thinking of harming her child, guilty for never wanting kids, never wanting to be a mother …and guilty for lying. Guilty for lying to a young man when she did blame him, blame him for what she'd had to suffer through…

But mostly Amy Lawless was guilty for feeling relieved. Mark Chavez's entire surgical team had been kidnapped by that madman and if she hadn't gone for Ian she would have been, too. Jimmy Connolly was dead, the baby was Aaron's…and now he'd never have to know. Her husband would never, ever know.

She was a liar, and she was alone. She would always be alone…


"Is Jimmy coming back?"
"No, bud. Jimmy's dead. Jimmy's not coming back."
"Why?"
"He's dead, bud. Dead people don't come back."
"Not ever?"
"Not ever."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." Ian said. "Is he coming tomorrow."
"No, bud. He's not. Not tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. Jimmy died."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why'd he die for?"
"I…I don't know, bud. I just don't know."

"You want me to read you a story?" The Detective asked.
But Ian shook his head. "No."
"No?"
"No." Ian said, rolling over to snuggle deeper into the comforter. "I wanna wait for Jimmy."

"What, no bedtime story?" The Kid rolled to face him.
Lawless chuckled, embarrassed. "Night, Kid." He returned as he shut the door, but not soon enough.

"Night…" he heard the boy whisper to himself as a strange pang shot through him, "Dad."

A phone rang. Jarred him from his thoughts. Wearily he wiped his eyes to focus on the tiny LCD screen.

…It was Paltron.


The Narrows

Lenard Willis, tenant manager for XXX, a government sponsored low income housing block, never watched the news. He had a television, to be sure, but didn't bother himself with trifles such as world or local affairs. He was a simple man of simple tastes, satisfied with adult entertainment of various degrees that may have been borderline illegal, but there was no proving the girls in the videos he watched were under sixteen, and hell, even if they were, they were being paid for it by some prick producer, right? There was statuatory rape and then there was just good business sense, he reasoned, and that was the extent of his logic under what had over the years become a chronic alcohol-induced stupor

But even if Willis had watched more informative productions, he would still have been unprepared. There were no missing persons reports, no, all the damn news channels were still running stuff about that Legacy bombing or whatever the hell it was. No, there was no reason to suspect the fucking plumbing problem that he knew for a fact had started several days ago and had only just begun to be complained about last night was anything but an ordinary, pain in the ass problem that he'd have to deal with sooner or later, although later had always suited him just fine. Some crack-whore bitch had probably decided to take her weekly bath or something and discovered the hot water wasn't running like it should.

Too bad, bitch. Willis thought to himself, lugging his dented toolbox out of the dilapidated elevator. The doors shrieked in protest, and if he'd cared he may have made the mental note to oil them, but he didn't, he really didn't give a shit about this damn building or any of its problems until someone complained, and complained enough it pissed him off or threatened to tell his boss and get him fired. And hell, fired meant no more booze and cigarettes, and come to think of it, the job wasn't that bad, was it?

Eight AM. He grumbled to himself about the lousy hours for this crummy job, walked with an ataxic stagger down the drab hall and used the handicap button to open the door. He'd been doing that for years. He didn't bother to excuse it, he was lazy and unmotivated and that was fine with him. Getting out of bed and changing his clothes every few days or so was enough for his standards. Who really gave a damn if he smelled like stale liquor and cheap ciagarettes? Not him. And certainly not anyone living in XXX.

Outside, the building was covered in years of graphitti, crude figures with exaggerated sexual organs, every cuss or crass word in the English language and perhaps a few others, but he'd never know and frankly didn't care, and gang symbols. Oh, yeah. Gang symbols. There'd been quite a few of those over the years, but for the last three years this place had been Kings' turf. The Latin Kings.

The Latin shitheads, he scowled darkly, waddling down the back side of the building. Morning traffic had reached full-throttle, and the zipping of cars and the eye-watering fumes of gasoline aggravated his already pre-cancerous lungs. Fresh air his ass. He coughed a little while fumbling with the heavy key ring, looking for the damn key to the water room, when he remembered it wasn't locked.

That's right. There wasn't a point in juggling through fifty-so damn keys every time he had to come down here, right? And who gave a shit if it was against government policy, when was the last time the government came down here and actually gave a fuck? If they'd really cared they'd take better care of the people living in XXX, but they didn't, they really didn't give a damn and that's why Lenard Willis had known it would have been fine to leave the door unlocked, hell, who cared if some punk-ass kids came down and spray painted it? They'd already done the outside of the place. Might as well paint it to match…

Lenard lumbered heavily down the steps, cursing the weight of the toolbox, the early hour, and that stiffness in his legs and back that just wouldn't go away and all the doctor did was say take your damn glucophage. Yeah, right. Lenard wasn't interested in prescription pills unless they were hard narcotics, and the doc wasn't selling. Finally he was there on the cement landing, littered with broken bottles and faded McDonalds wrappers. It smelled like piss, and stains along the concrete walls confirmed it. Some homeless drunks holed up down here and hell, he couldn't blame them. It was shady during the day and sheltered from the wind at night, and it was smarter than sitting in the open alley way where anyone could up and mug you. After all, it was Gotham City, and it was the Narrows…

He reached for the rusted door. The last time he'd been down here had been almost a month ago now, and he hadn't even bothered to close it…

There was a putrid smell. A terrible, disgusting smell wafting out of that door that not even his drunken senses could deny. It smelled godawful, smelled worse than all the sweat-sodden, beer-slopped, pissed pants drunks in the whole damn world, smelled like meat like rotting, disgusting meat like being suffocated in a dumpster full of three-week old garbage in the middle of July. Wills was used to stench but this, this had his breakfast of stale, moldy take out pizza left-overs and a 12 oz. Budweiser spattering down all over his shoes.

Must be the plumbing, he thought as one pallid, flabby arm reached inside and flicked on the lights.


Lawless Residence

Shit, Hell, Damn and Fuck. Amy Lawless' day-which was the rest of the city's night, thanks to her wonderful new job at Methodist on third shift for a third of the pay of Gotham General-was drawing to a close. All she wanted was a hot dinner (breakfast), a hot shower, and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep in all this chaos for her health and sanity. She'd spent the last 12 hours of her life cleaning bedsores and debriding burns and open wounds. She'd scrubbed in for the amputation of a festering leg with an uncontrollable infection only to lose the patient on the operating table. Fat embolus. Straight to the lungs. It was over in seconds. Painless. Quick.

…at least for the patient. Not for the family. And most certainly not for her.

Amy stumbled to the fridge, tired hands knocking magnets right and left in a shower of fluttering papers: Ian's drawings. Ian's drawings of her husband, her son…and the young man who'd shared their life. But not hers. Never hers. But he always would. From the moment she'd said yes to Jimmy Connolly moving in with them she'd resigned herself to his presence in her home. But his absence-wasn't that surprising-his absence she'd found was a presence in itself, more pressing, more permanent, a haunting, tragic shadow in her family's psyche.

Her house wasn't hers anymore. Not theirs. It was his. A mauseleum, frozen in time to a moment before his death, everything waiting and expectant for his return—his place was still set on the dinner table. And it would be, Amy decided with another sigh as she replaced those crude, childish drawings, for a long, long time.

As long as Aaron needed.

As she opened the fridge, the slight scent of mold reached her nose even over the harsh chemicals of the OR. She should've known better. The last meal she'd cooked was Friday, which meant any other leftovers had to have been here since before the Legacy. Bright puffs of green, aqua blue, and snowdrop white greeted her from clear Farberware containers.

Amy Lawless coming home from work, reading the paper while eating 'dinner' and Lawless having Breakfast. She says something about the missing surgical team. Asks how long Paltron's going to be there, Aaron gets a call while they're talking, she sighs and turns away.

But then, as if only to add insult to heartache, Aaron's cell phone rang.

"Aaron, don't pick that up," she pleaded. "please…"
But it was the Commissioner. It was work-his duty, his calling, his redemption. Even embittered and angry she knew her husband wouldn't be the half the man he was if he could ignore his City for something so trivial as her tears.


Gotham County Coroner's Office

(mention refrigerated trucks on the outside holding bodies)
"Well, if it ain't two of my favorite people in the world!" Gotham County Coroner Nora Fields exclaimed, de-gloving quickly and walking to the morgue door, where two very familiar faces stood.

"James Gordon." The matronly woman drawled as she pinched his cheek. "I always knew the wind would blow you back to me someday."

Gordon smiled, a twitch of humor on his drawn face. "It's good to see you again, Nora." The squat woman winked, pleasant face bunched around her beady eyes in humor. The Commissioner didn't like to admit it, but little ol' Nora had been his babysitter growing up. He had even-on one occasion-been on the wrong end of a swatting from her misshapen hands.

"I'd clap you in a hug, Jim, but…" She shrugged her round shoulders, gesturing to the blood-smeared smock. "I'm a bit busy."

Bit busy. Hell of an understatement. Turns out that except for a death on a military base, or a military execution in a public prison death chamber (theirs was only one of a handful states that still did), the county Coroner was a god. Even the public officials with all their political cloit and glamour were not immune. If President Geraldo himself were to visit Gotham County, he too would be under the jurisdiction of plump little 53 year-old Nora Fields, MD, PhD., Forensic Pathology. Victims of the Legacy were considered National Disaster deaths, but they still fell under her baaliwick. And sure, the National Guard had donated a few trained specialists, and a plethera of volunteers had flown in from across the country, but the fact remained that Nora knew the state, county, and city paperwork and laws like no other, and her office was backed up…

…And what with the wanton destruction still eating away at the heart of Gotham City, it looked only to get worse.

The plump woman turned to the her other visitor, positively beaming. Lawless tipped an imaginary hat. "Howdy, Nora." He said. How the hell did she remain so damn chipper? Even now?

But perhaps being coroner for a city with a populace of 13 million with the highest rate of homicide in the world could desensitize you to stress…but no. That smile was genuine, and so was the mirth dancing in her dark eyes…but on closer inspection it was strained. Sincere, but strained. The Legacy had left no well of stoic strength untouched…

"And where's your pint-size partner? You know I'm particularly fond of that little runt." She laughed, clapping her hands and staring to the doorway, as though expecting him to appear…

Lawless closed his eyes, and that half-hearted smile fell from the Commissioner's worn face. "He's….he's dead, Nora." The Commissioner finally said. "Connolly's gone."

"Oh, hell." Was all she said.

"Lawless, are you going to be alright?" Gordon asked. They were in the dim lit hall of the morgue, waiting for Nora to finish up. Five, ten minutes tops, she had stated crisply. The Commissioner was standing, uncertain, a few feet away, as Lawless sat with his face in his hands.

The Detective raised his head, wiping his tearing eyes with vehemence. He nodded wordlessly to the open autopsy room, sounds of splattering flesh and organs splashing in the sink. "Fuck." Was all he said.

Fuck was all there was to say.

"What are we going to see?" Nora asked, leaning forward from the backseat, eagerly peering out the dash. With her height and eagerness, she might easily have been mistaken for a child by passersby.

"Joker killing." Gordon grunted. "Or so it seems. I've asked Lawless to take a look."

Nora nodded. "And you need me-?"

"To authorize Lawless to inspect the place. I want the two of you in there before anyone else. The only other person who's been down there is the guy that reported it. Tenant manager."

The short woman chuckled. "Your CSI guys still that bad?"

Gordon shook his head, shoulders tense as the unmarked car slid through morning traffic. "I want to keep this one on the down low, Nora. I'm playing it close to the chest."

In the passenger seat, Lawless sighed. It wasn't CSI Gordon didn't trust…it was the police force in general. So much corruption, so much scandal…so much death. They would guard their cards closely from here on out, extend the circle of trust slowly…and wait for the dam to burst.

There was a traitor in their midst. Someone, somewhere, secret, stealthy…and they would strike again. One of their friends was a fiend, and they had to wait, be willing to stand as bait for the villain to show his true face…as had Dent.

The Detective shook his greying head, staring vacantly out at the Sleepless City. Somewhere their foe was waiting, watching…and all their lives, all their families, were forfeit. Good men had good intentions, good judgment, but when that judgment failed…good people died. Because that was the definition of a traitor: someone you trusted. As Gordon had Dent. As Ramirez had Gordon. As they all had…and had handed Jim's family over to that Two-Faced motherfucker. It wasn't public knowledge, and Jim Gordon himself would argue differently, but his remaining—albeit silent— loyalty to the Batman made those closest to him suspicious of the truth.

"I'm…I'm sorry Lawless," the stout woman said mildly. "I've forgotten how it feels. The shock…the not knowing." Her plump face grew wan. "I usually know. I know first. I'm the one who makes the goddamn calls…Connolly. Fuck." She sniffed.

The Detective pulled a wry grin, "Such a dirty word from such a pretty little mouth." But the humor didn't reach his eyes.

"I can swear all I want, damnit!" Nora smiled. "Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck."

Lawless sighed. "Feel better?"

"Not really." She shrugged sheepishly. "This damn Legacy is kicking my ass. And, and now you tell me Connolly's dead…hell, it's the good that die young." She said soberly. She had loved that little runt, loved him since that day when criminology 101 had come in for a tour of the morgue he had caught one sight of an open cadaver and fainted dramatically to the floor. Hell of a mess, bleeding everywhere had to drive him to the hospital for stitches and get him a unit of blood entire afternoon shot there'd be paperwork up to her ass. She'd grown up big. Put on a personality too tough for teasing and Turner's syndrome. But the scrawny, shy, teary-eyed 18 year-old had melted her hardened heart in a second when they put the IV in, and he had asked to hold her hand….as shitty as this last week had been, she still found herself smiling at the memory.

"Yeah." He grunted. "Yeah."

"You sure you're ready to do this?" Nora asked. The man looked haggard. Worn. Lost. There was a weariness that went well beyond the shock of grey in his auburn hair and beard, a tiredness that was more than the premature lines that marred his face, the spreading grey circles under his eyes. He'd been struck a blow, a crippling, psychological blow, and he hadn't yet come to terms.

But twenty plus years of dealing with death and dead people told her he might never. Some were diagnosed with depression. Some became alcoholics. Some killed themselves. Others went on to lead normal lives, but they weren't the same, never the same after that…

Nora's pudgy fingers wadded the neckstrap to her Canon XXX. She contemplated the possibility Lawless might be suicidal.

"I'm fine."

She shook her grizzled head. "No, Lawless. You're not." She had been on the field long enough to know hollow grief when she saw it. "This thing's eating you alive." The Detective bowed his head, sighed, ran grubby fingers through his greying hair.

"You two were close." The pathologist said, uncapping the lens on her digital camera.. "That Kid goddamned adored you. I could tell, just the way he looked at you, couldn't take his eyes off you. First time I saw the two of you I thought, hell, he's finally happy…" She pulled the padded strap behind her thick neck.

"Were you lovers?"

Were you lovers.

It's a cold night, you can't sleep, raining outside fat drops like hail rat-tat-tat pounding down on the roof so damn loud, jars you awake. You roll over but she's not there lying next to you has to work at goddamn 3 o'clock in the morning, hell, you think, then you remember you're barely talking anyways let alone getting any your life your world is falling apart. Can't sleep can't dream too goddamned afraid too scared to shut your eyes, terrified the phone's gonna ring with that call, the one that says she's been robbed she's been mugged she's been raped she's fucking dead…

So you walk. Pace the room, wash your face, look in the mirror you're a hell of a mess, life can't go on like this wasn't meant to be like this you stalk the hall open his door, he's sleeping peacefully but you come closer, heart pounding, throat aching you have to see, have to feel, have to touch for yourself that that tiny heart is still beating…it is.

And you sigh in relief and you curse to be so fucking weak and you watch him sleep and wonder how long it'll be until he's fatherless or motherless or dead and the furniture draped with plastic and the room, the house, your life empty again…

And you leave. There's no peace here, even here in the house you're supposed to protect with the people you love you still don't feel like a man.

So you walk downstairs to all the windows and doors check every single one make sure the alarm is set stare out the back porch into the shadows every bush concealing a monster you're nothing but a fucking kid wetting himself so damn scared of the fucking dark…

Walk back inside shut the door behind you check it again snap the deadbolt in place wet feet slick against wooden floors walk down the hall, down the hall where the bay windows are flashing light from the full moon and pattering rain like the shadows of the trails of tears…

The panes are pale, water drains down, swirls and eddies against the cold glass, dancing, dancing, falling down, down, down light and shadows all across the living room the whole world is weeping

He's sitting there. Silent statue beautiful boy like a ghost like an Angel weeping with the empty night pale face bathed with light and tears and shadows of tears from the rain and his dripping eyes…

You sit. You're silent. And you stare out the window with him as water builds up in the street swirling drains rushing rivers and everything turns to a sickening wet.

He turns, stares. Asks if you believe in hell. You don't know how to answer, because life is hell your life is hell it's falling apart like trying to stop the rain with your fucking hands…

You say yes. You believe in hell.

You ask him if he thinks he's going there, thinks God's forgotten him because you wonder the same thing yourself…

He doesn't know. He's afraid, scared shitless like you are like a rudderless ship tossed in a storm a little kid just trying to be a grown up trying to make some sense out of a senseless world and you know it you know it you understand it because that's all you are too all anyone is lost and helpless…

But he doesn't want to doesn't want there to be a hell he loved him he loves him why did he never love me what did I do was there something wrong with me why didn't he love me I just wanted him to love me that's all I love him I love him he's my dad I love him I don't want him to be in hell…

But he is he is some people deserve it some crimes demand justice some people deserve to be punished to rot in hell for what they've done, some people just don't give a damn some people never learned to love-

And he's scared scared shitless afraid he'll be just like him afraid he'll go to hell for loving him for wishing he wasn't there what's wrong with me why did this happen to me I wish this had never ever ever happened to me-

So you tell him not to wish it not to erase it never forget it he hurt you took something from you made you what you are right now and if you take that away you're nothing you've learned nothing from life you could be just like him but you're not. You're not because you're crying because you're scared and you're still innocent so goddamned innocent he can never take that from you, and be thankful be thankful you learned compassion this way not to be selfish this way that you were hurt and loveless and you never had to learn form your own mistakes…that you never lost a wife a marriage something sacred because you were so goddamn selfish playing doctor to see her needs and you walked all over the woman you loved treated her like shit and when she left you you were too damned busy feeling sorry for yourself you never tried to win her back and now she's gone and you've broken something that was never meant to be broken a vow before a sovereign God to love her and only her and instead you loved yourself, and you got drunk one night and killed somebody killed four somebodies killed two fucking kids killed a fucking baby… And you've started over you've asked forgiveness but it's left a scar and it'll never fully heal and you have to live with that, live with that everyday every time you see your own son live in fear of what you've done of what might happen of divine vengeance of karma of an eye for an eye be sure your sins will find you out, wonder why was I so selfish so fucking selfish…

And he blinks when you tell him he's stupid, that he's a goddamn fool for regretting that the man who should have loved him fucked him over, fucked him over so bad as a child that thirteen years later he's still crying in his sleep that he never had a dad who loved him who raised him right that he had all this shit in his life and he never learned to hate, that he's terrified of growing up and doing the same thing to his own wife and kids so emasculated and you know he never will because he still loves he loves he's learned to love instead of hate, learned through other's mistakes and not his own…that it's a gift, a gift a precious gift to never throw it away.

He stares out the window dark eyes blank and lost rain patters down tears splash he closes his eyes says I love him why did he have to go to hell I forgave him I forgive him why does he have to be in hell why couldn't he be like you I wish my dad had been like you-

Tears swam in hazel eyes as she waited for an answer. Not accusing, not judging, simply waiting.

"Did I love him," Lawless whispered. "Yeah, I, I loved him." He shut his eyes, clenched them tight to no tears would fall he was sick of weeping sick of weakness sick of feeling so goddamn broken…sick of being misjudged, misunderstood, sick of waiting for whispered words from an Angel's mouth that he would never hear again.

"But we weren't, we didn't…I, we," And Lawless lost it, began weeping openly, unashamedly, sat on the curb shaking back and forth, hands over his face. "…when we were alone I let him call me dad…and he never will again."

He'd been wrong, wrong thought he'd been forgiven held the boy weeping against his chest I wish he'd been like you I wish my dad had been like you I,I, I wish you were my dad-! Tears on your hands on his perfect, porcelain face, those anguished eyes hold him close breathe his scent his warm heart against yours smooth cheek against your neck hot tears spill down your chest trace that tiny hand in yours silky hair soft underneath your lips and the guilt is gone the doubt is gone you're a man you're a father you're his father still afraid but so strong…

But you know the truth. Have always known it, always feared it, and you allowed yourself to forget the steep price of justice. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. A life…for a life.

Nora stood beside him, one rough hand laid silent upon his shoulder. He finished crying, dried his eyes, and looked up to her solemn face. "Legacy didn't kill him, Nora. That purple Bastard did. And when we finally find him I'm gonna have to ID the goddamn body…Fuck." He whispered.

"Fuck." She repeated, and he took her pro-offered hand, and rose.

…the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away, Lawless blinked in the sudden sunlight. And causes the rain to fall on the just and unjust alike. So you'd be a cock-sucking idiot to think it made a damn bit of difference.


CLUE: marks/instrument used
Investigates the scene: Jimmy asks him 'what's this?"

"Dad."
"Yeah, Kid?"
"What's the problem with the grid?"
"It's ruined. Contaminated. All the forensics are destroyed."
"You're thinking too present. Back up a bit."
"You mean The Grid? As in a theoretical concept?"
"Yeah."
"It's a two dimensional, static optic representation of a five dimensional dynamic event."
"Er, five?"
Lawless shrugged. "Space. Time."
"Smartypants," Jimmy shot back.
"Watch your mouth."
"You're thinking too Abstract. Go for the Goldilocks solution."
"And now you're just babbling."
"Three dimensions, not five, Dad." Jimmy grinned. "What's the one direction people never look?"

Realization. "…up."

"Good work, Kid."

"Pardon?" Nora asked, coming down the stairs.

…Nora. The Detective blinked, turned slowly, suddenly shaky. He had been working alone, alone this whole time.

"What's wrong?" Nora frowned.

"Nothing," Lawless said. "It's just..."

…it's just that Paltron's not the only one seeing things now.


Maharishi Emergency Animal Hospital
Office of DVM Naveen Prashant

(From Naveen's perspective)

"One can measure the greatness and the moral progress of a nation by looking at how it treats its animals" Mahatma Gandhi
Stops at his Indian vet friend to check up on the puppy before bringing it home. The friend says I'm sorry about your partner. From what the news has said he was a good man. Good cop.

The worst things that happen to us, are often the best. There's something I've wanted to say to you for a very, very long time my friend. That DUI was the best thing that ever could have happened to you. It changed your life.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did. And I'm a better man for it. But damn if a day doesn't go by I don't regret. Wish there had been another way."

"You are a much, much better man. And there is no point in wishing it away, you cannot change it. Must accept it. What is done is done, for good or ill, only we can decide. You know this, my friend. Do not dwell on the past."

"Yeah. Yeah. But he was so young, Naveen. So damn young. He had the brightest parts of his life ahead of him…and now he's gone."

"Those we love never really leave us. You know this." Runs a hand down the dog's back. "I will say a prayer for him. For his soul. That he may find peace."

Say something about a knowing glance. I once knew a doctor who'd rather drink and hit something rather than stop and alter the course of his life. Now I have friend who brakes for a worm infested stray and wakes up a colleague to care for it before bringing it home for his son. He must've meant a lot to you…and I'm sorry for your loss."


Amy's POV:

Aaron comes home with the dog, she says she thought they talked about this. She's tired of this, can't do it anymore. Aaron asks if she's going to leave him like Jess did, did I drive you away?
"Are you going to leave me?" he asked her helplessly. "Like Jess did? Did I drive you away?"

"You have to be here," she placed the pregnancy test in his hands. "You have to promise to be here, to make this work. I can't do this alone."


Aaron's POV:

The sun's first rays filtered in, blood-red over the manicured lawn. Little Ian Anthony clutched that damned cinnamon bear, while his partner looked on in moody silence. In all this time he'd never asked. Never pried. He'd heard the rumors, the stories, the GCPD tall tales concerning her case, seen the scorn and derision…known that every cop on WATCHDOG carried a burden not unlike his. But he'd never once asked.
If only he had.
He pulled the screen back as the puppy wriggled. Joined her in her brooding vigil on the porch. An outsider, looking on. And finally, he understood her pain. He'd orbited outside his family for so long, afraid of vengeance, justice, an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth…a son for a son. Divine retribution had come at the hands of a stranger, a Clown, a man-who-would-be God. But he knew the truth now, the weary, tired truth: there were no gods, no demons, Man blamed his depravity on outside forces to avoid his own guilt, called righteousness divinity out of shame.

"Your friends," the boy asked. "the Howe's. How did you know them?"

He sighed. Told the truth: "I didn't."

As he put the puppy down his partner turned at the sound of clicking nails on wood. "He wake you?" Aaron asked.