Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Batman.

Out of the Ashes

All Rachel Dawes heard for a long while was roaring in her ears. Unbelievable, unfathomable, unbearable. How could a human endure this noise? More than anything she wanted to clap her hands over her ears, a gut reaction to the pulsing noise, but her hands were still tied behind her back. The burning roar around her continued to build as if it were swelling around her, swallowing her up.

It shouldn't be much longer now. Her eyes were clamped tight—curious and demanding as she usually was, she had no desire to watch the flames consume her. Odd, that she didn't feel anything yet. As far as she knew, a catalyst as thorough as oil would catch even the tiniest flame within milliseconds. And this hadn't been a mere flame, but a detonator. That's what she'd seen, attached to the timer. Attached to the last link of communication she had with Harvey.

Harvey. Was he alive? It would be such a waste if he died along with her. Not that she was self-absorbed enough to say that his life was worth more than hers, but she was woman enough to face that Harvey Dent had a significantly larger influence on improving Gotham than she did. If he stayed alive, if their "friends" were smart enough to choose him over her, then Gotham had a chance. Harvey would reform their city, he would do whatever it took to clean out these streets in her name. She knew him well enough by now to know that he would stop at nothing. That's why she'd said yes. That's why she'd wanted to marry him.

But now she was dead.

Or at least she was supposed to be. In her stream of thoughts the roar had gradually dulled. She could still hear her own heart thumping wildly and a vague ringing in her ears, but other than that it was complete silence.

Tentatively she opened her eyes. The sight of it all was so shocking that she felt tears spring into her eyes, blurring the whole scene. "Oh, God," she moaned, incapable of thinking much else. She dug her chin into her chest, trying to block it all out, erase it. "How can I still be here?"

The wall to her right was completely blown away, exposing a row of abandoned office cubicles. The rest of the room was completely untouched. Frozen in time. A few pieces of the wall had blown around the huge expanse, but otherwise it was every bit the same.

The ringing in her ears started to recede. She was aware that the link to Harvey was crackling.

"Harvey?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. Tears of remorse were flooding down her cheeks. So they'd chosen her—the Joker had played his game and Batman had chosen Rachel, as she knew and feared he would.

Harvey Dent was dead. And she, Rachel Dawes, was still here.

"Harvey," she wept into the broken speaker. "Harvey, please, no."

It was then that the silence was broken. Someone had pushed the door behind her open—a shudder of fear coursed up her spine, wondering who the intruder was. She pursed her lips in a determined line and tried to straighten herself up. What more could they do to punish her, now that Harvey was dead?

"It's alright. It's fine." The woman's voice was wobbling with grief.

Rachel didn't utter a word until the woman came into her sightline. A cop from Gordon's unit. She couldn't remember the woman's name right off the bat.

"It's, uh, Detective Ramirez. Anna Ramirez." There were streaks of tears glittering on her cheeks. She looked every bit as grief-stricken as Rachel felt. Despite her frazzled countenance she immediately set to work on untying Rachel, muttering with regret, "I'm so sorry. Rachel . . . Miss Dawes. I'm—"

"Why?" Rachel managed. Her hands were free and she let them fall loosely to her side.

Ramirez shook her head. "I have to get you out of here."

"Well, yes," Rachel agreed, "but how did you—?"

"I have no time to explain." Ramirez finished undoing the ropes around her feet and stood with a clipped and businesslike manner. Rachel could tell that the detective was in full-blown crisis mode, and although she could believe that under the circumstances there would be reason for alarm, she could not entirely comprehend what was happening.

"You have no time to explain?" Rachel repeated dumbly.

Ramirez grabbed her hands and hoisted her to her feet. If the detective hadn't been holding to her arms so tightly Rachel was sure she would have fallen over, she felt so limp and helpless. An irrational thought passed through her head, and she wished Bruce were with her. Bruce would know what to do. Every time she'd been in trouble he had come to her aid.

Illogical tears flew up from her cheeks again. Where was Bruce?

The hands were pulling her forward. Rachel wished this woman would just leave her alone, leave her here so she could crumple into herself and mourn in peace. She had never felt so completely and irrevocably despaired.

"Listen." Ramirez's voice sounded too warbling and unsure to be firm with anyone, but Rachel looked toward her with unseeing eyes nonetheless. "Listen, Rachel. You must come with me. You have to."

Rachel shook her head and choked out, "No, no I don't." She sounded like a cranky little kid and she knew it.

For a moment Ramirez seemed to struggle with words, but she was at least faster on her feet than Rachel. "This is my fault. And if I don't get you out of here in the next minute, people are going to notice that this side of the building didn't blow and they're going to come after you."

Sirens in the distance. Rachel barely registered them.

"Is Harvey . . . ?" She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud. Her voice had been so soft that Ramirez hadn't even heard her. Instead of providing her with an answer she was intent on pushing Rachel out the door and into the humid air of Gotham's streets.

"Follow me."

With a lack of any other sensible course of action, Rachel followed her into an alley, ducking with her behind a Dumpster. The approaching sirens blared nearby—pulled right in front of them, parked on the street corner—

"Cover your ears!" Ramirez screamed over the chaos.

Puzzled, Rachel obliged, only to hear the profound crack erupt from the building she'd just exited. The ground rumbled menacingly beneath her feet and she buried her head in her knees, leaning against the Dumpster to keep her shaky balance. She screamed but couldn't hear herself above the catastrophic thundering.

Then flames were dancing around the building, licking it up and engulfing it as it crumbled within itself. Rachel gaped at it, open-mouthed and unintelligible.

"Oh my God." She took her hands off her ears and stared motionlessly at disastrous pit that had only moments before had walls and a roof.

"Miss Dawes?"

"Rachel," she corrected her vaguely.

"Rachel. We need to get out of here."

Not too far away she could make out the figure of Gordon, thrashing angrily by the curb. From where she stood his shouting was incoherent, but she could read the grief and wild frustration in his eyes. Finally she came to her senses. "Does he think I'm dead?" she asked lowly.

Ramirez opened her mouth, about to lie. When Rachel glared at her she seemed to change her mind. "Yes. He does." Then she took Rachel's hand to pull her away again.

"Can't we say something to him?" Rachel demanded.

"No!" Ramirez hissed at her. "No, no, we really can't. You don't understand now."

Rachel stood her ground. "Then explain."

"I can't!" Ramirez exploded, her face reddening in frustration. "You wanna be alive in ten minutes? Then you're coming with me right now and you'll stop asking questions. Understand?"

Again, the irrational thought, so tempting and persistent—She needed Bruce here. He'd know what to do. Find Gordon, or trust this absolute stranger? She searched this woman's eyes.

"You're a part of Gordon's unit. You're turning you're back on him?"

Ramirez shook her head. "No. No, I'm saving you. Now let's go."

Her voice was so rattled and insistent that Rachel forced herself to nod. Ramirez looked away from her, pained, and grabbed her by the arm.

"When can I come back?" Rachel asked, her throat thick.

Ramirez didn't answer.

I promise you'll see some Bruce in the next chapter--I just had to set the foundation to the plot first.