This shouldn't be so hard.

But it is.

I'm standing in the bathroom, the bottle of pills in my hand with the cap off. The original plan was to flush them, make them disappear forever and go back to what I'd done seven years ago—get rid of the temptations, the emotional crutches, and suffer ahead with other ways to distract myself. There's the heroin case, the persistent problem of trying to make this place livable, dealing with Naomi's shit order of going to therapy, and repairing what's left of my family—even that hurts to think about sober. But I can do that without these. I can do it without drinking.

Then why have you been standing here for ten minutes?

They helped me sleep for eight hours, made it so I had no dreams. Was it so wrong to want that, to escape for a little while?

You know where this leads.

Just doing it once for the first time in so long has me thinking about doing it again. But it doesn't have to be like that. I used them too much before—made it so that I was high all the time and able to forget… everything. Not just the things that hurt, but all of the things about myself that I knew would make it happen again. And it had helped.

No, it didn't. You just really wanted it to.

The ability to lie to myself convincingly is a skill that never quite recovered.

I might not have dreamed last night, but they'll come back. It's a pattern of waves—sometimes for weeks at a time, when I was tired from working almost sixty hours a week, they would just be gone. I'd be so drained that I'd drop into bed and sleep like a stone. All I wanted was to be able to go outside and feel alright, not like there were eyes permanently boring into me, peeling back the layers I hid in. I'd train and I'd fight and exhaust myself, give room for hope to grow. Those periods happened more often the less I thought about Gotham, when I pretended I never lived there at all.

Then the dreams and all those memories would just… swallow me.

Sometimes it would just be from smelling a cigarette and walking through the cloudy plume. Other times it was like I could see the faces of men I knew were dead imprinted on the living. Seeing them in stores, walking down the sidewalk, at work, and sometimes in my apartment—always when I least expected it, when my guard was down and I let that feeling of hope grow too big. I'd wake up screaming, covered in sweat and convinced someone was holding me down, crushing my throat.

Those periods always lasted longer, and every time it got bad I'd try my best to find oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. And look where it's gotten me.

You don't want to be that, do you? Don't live up to everything he said you were.

My hand shakes. I want to dump it in—I want this decision to be easy. But it's not—it's not and it digs that permanent knife stuck in my heart a little deeper.

Prove him wrong. C'mon, Miri.

The rattling vibration against the countertop almost makes me throw the pills everywhere by accident. Like an anxious cat seeing ghosts in every corner, I've been too jumpy since I've come back to Gotham.

And angrier.

It's my phone losing its mind, buzzing itself towards the edge. I take it as a sign to deal with the pills later. Twisting the cap back on, I check the ID before answering.

"Kane." It's my new, standard greeting. Cold and impersonal enough for work. That's what I mostly use this phone for, and I learned early on not to give people too much more to talk about—that it's best to give them nothing at all.

"It's David. Matsumoto assigned me as your Gotham contact." His voice breaks occasionally, like he's still going through puberty even though he's a thirty-one-year-old man. I know that because I hacked into his computer this morning and found his file in the DMV database.

Probably why he's calling.

I didn't try particularly hard to hide my tracks. Best he knows early what kind of game he'd be stupid to start—which I would've thought he'd have learned that long before meeting me.

Maybe curiosity got the better of him.

"Yeah, I know who this is."

And, to be fair, he tried breaking into my laptop first.

Except his skills are mediocre.

Or, at least, not good enough to get through the firewalls. First attempt was through a phishing email under a slightly altered version of his own address. It was insulting, really. And the subsequent attempts were worse than I would've expected from someone working with Homeland Security.

"We're supposed to meet. You know where Murphy's is?"

There really isn't any reason to be angry with the guy, he's just doing his job—even if he's bad at it. It's Naomi who I should be angry with, but I'm not talking to her and spite is something that's dragged over from last night.

Spite isn't the only thing. A healthy dose of crushing guilt is mixed in there, too.

"You'll have to be specific. The Irish bar in Burnley or the café in the Fashion District?"

He might sound like he's going through puberty, but I'm the one who's acting like a snotty teen.

"Fashion District," he says. His tone doesn't change, and I'm hoping he either isn't picking up on the aura of hostility or just doesn't care. "Meet me at 1445."

"Oh my—we're not military. You can just say 2:45," I snap without really knowing why.

Jesus. Dial it down a notch.

I wince at myself, walking out of the bathroom and leaving the bottle behind as I shut the door. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and rub my forehead. Finding some sense of calm for the day will help—and it might take away the urge to punch somebody.

Again…

Jason's face comes up; it's harder than I want it to be to shove it back down beneath the surface.

You should call. Apologize for being…

For being me.

"Sorry. Had a long night." Might as well start practicing now. It doesn't excuse me acting like a brat, but I try to convince myself that this isn't another thing I'll keep making a habit out of. "You want me to bring anything?"

"Bring the dossier and print-outs of any background you found. Be prepared for a full briefing and don't be late."

I look at the clock on the microwave—that radio one is still unplugged somewhere—and sigh, the frustration coming back up.

"It's 2:15. Might take me time to get there."

Either I need to find a taxi or take the bus. After what happened the last time I used it, how—I'm certain now—he and Zsasz were stalking me, I never want to use the SkyTrain system again.

I'm in the process of trying to plan my route when David interrupts my thoughts. "Didn't you check your mailbox?" he asks.

What the hell is he on about?

"No… should I?"

For the first time, David expresses something that sounds like emotion. He's chuckling under his breath. "Uh, yeah. The keys are inside."

I'm already grabbing my bag, shoving all the papers from the counter and my laptop inside before struggling to slide my sneakers on. Leaving the apartment and getting that godforsaken lock on the first try for once, I start taking the stairs two at a time. Naomi didn't mention anything about keys beyond giving me the set to this place.

"Keys—what keys? To what?"

I think the mailboxes are by the lobby…

Instead of answering my question, David chuckles again. "See you at 1445, Kane."

He hangs up by the time I'm a flight down, but I don't care. When I get to the lobby, I look along the long rows of silver mailboxes, searching for my apartment number. And, lo and behold, David was right. Amongst a heaping pile of old grocery store flyers and junk mail is a set of keys with a fob.

"Nothing like a trial by fire, right?" I mutter to myself, shoving my hair behind my ears. Despite everything I know that's waiting for me upstairs, all the problems I'm avoiding but will crush me later, I can't help but smile.


Alfred might have given up on teaching me how to drive, but I took it up again in Chicago. It was difficult—nearly wrecking the lease car I was using and scaring the instructor half to death, and more than a few tries to pass—but I did it. Naomi might not have screwed me as much as I thought she had. At least I won't be beholden to anyone or anything to get around. The freedom of movement makes me take Gotham in a different light: streets lined with cars, the bright red of the taillights ahead glaring against the gray walls of brick, concrete and sky, all the pedestrians and their sea of technicoloured umbrellas. None of it brings the edge of fear, the stifling paranoia. I control where I go and when, and I only wish I knew I had it sooner.

Still, my driving isn't perfect. Bumper-to-bumper traffic is something I'm not well-suited to—my impatience nearly making me rear-end the car in front of me several times over. Navigating Gotham is different as a driver than a passenger, and even though it takes me time to figure out where I'm going, I still manage to get to Murphy's five minutes early.

The café is spacious and homey—and totally doesn't match the name—with bohemian-style pillows and bright mandala tapestries hanging along the wood panelled walls, and white blocks of cursive words vaguely related to coffee and poor attempts at inspirational quotes. Another level goes just past the edge of the coffee bar, the wrought iron railing wrapped with fairy lights all the way down the circular staircase. I don't see David on the first floor, but I guess he's here somewhere.

Ordering a tea and dumping an obscene amount of sugar in it, I head upstairs. I find him immediately in the furthest possible corner hunched over his laptop in thought. He would be hard to miss—he's a big man, his frame wide and much too large for the too-small wooden bistro chairs and circular tables made up of mosaic tile. Even his hands look too big for his keyboard even though his laptop is the same size as mine.

"David?" I ask more out of courtesy than out of actual uncertainty. He's the spitting image of the photo Naomi sent.

He barely looks up, flicking his eyes my way before returning to the screen. "Mmm."

Charming.

I sit down, inching away from the table and the vicinity of his legs. He has to be at least six-foot-five. David still doesn't say anything, preferring to type away and stay in his own world. The seconds pass by and impatience makes my knees bounce.

"So…" I trail off, hoping for him to pick up on the cue and start.

He's the one who called me over here. What was the point if he's going to ignore me?

We sit in silence for a while longer, my mouth opening twice to say something before promptly shutting. It's not until I start sipping my tea that he finally looks away from his laptop.

"What do you got?" he asks, face deadpan and bored.

I'm annoyed that even in this he doesn't seem to have his shit together, and that I have to answer to him of all people rather than Naomi just leaving it to me to handle the preliminary investigation.

"Well, not much of anything. Not exactly a lot to go off here," I say, pointing to the dossier I pull from my bag. The way I say it makes it sound like I actually did some background work.

Nothing like a good dose of bullshitting. Good job, Miri.

David blinks slowly, his head tilting down as his eyebrow twitches. "You don't watch the news, do you."

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Frowning, I mumble, "Not if I can help it."

That was something else I learned to do early. I had no—and still don't have—any interest in catching a glimpse of what the media all along the east coast loves to fixate about. What I saw at the store a few days ago was proof enough that nothing's changed. The media has been less than generous in its coverage of the Siege. It was both a mercy to not go to court—to have my life, my mistakes, my… everything that happened torn apart for the public to feast on—but it was also a curse, because my silence meant that they could say whatever they wanted about me. And they had taken that liberty to the point of libel and slander. But I'll never challenge them on it; then I'd have to prove they were lies and I couldn't do that either.

"Get started then," he says.

Lifting up his laptop with just two fingers, and the thing is by no means light by the look of it, he pulls something out from under it that I hadn't noticed. It's a newspaper. Thankfully, it's got nothing to do with me—but the headline would've been good to know coming into this.

MASSIVE FIRE AT GOTHAM DOCKS

"Shit."

Gotham Docks—that's where they think the heroin is being imported to. The Docks are big but not that big. If David's pointing it out, that means they could be related.

"Yeah. Shit," he says sagely, nodding his head as I keep reading.

Firefighters worked well into the early morning to suppress the inferno that broke out after several oil drums caught fire. Spreading quickly, millions of dollars worth of product, imports, and property were destroyed or damaged as a result. The cause is still unknown, but police suspect no foul play as they continue to investigate…

A fire that big doesn't just happen. How would oil drums catch if there wasn't anyone to light it or an obvious source isn't present? Reading on, the article goes on to say that, despite no witness accounts to corroborate the claim, Batman's presence could've factored into the blaze, but even that they don't entirely explain. It goes on, pandering with hints to touch on any small possibility of what really happened without definitively stating anything. Seeing the journalist's name, the reason why clicks in.

Jack Ryder.

I can't seem to get away from him. He hounded Bruce and me for months after Bruce got back, and he was there during his failed attempt at levelling Midtown. Jack got a front-row seat to what he did, got an idea of what that looked like, and then he—he—

Don't think about him. Focus on the work. The man's a worm and not worth the energy.

Jack Ryder is a cockroach, and getting upset over it won't do me any good. It still doesn't take away the urge to go back to bed with a little help of—

Stop it. No. You don't need it.

The clicking of David's fingers against his keyboard snaps me out of it, and a sudden thought strikes me.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

David stops typing but doesn't look up. "What does it look like."

Yep. If there's anyone I'm going to punch today, it's going to be him.

Gritting my teeth, I try to keep my voice even. "Unless you're bouncing off your own hotspot, don't you think it's pretty unwise to connect to public wifi with your terminal? We don't know who we're dealing with, right?"

If he's working on, well, work, then doing anything with his laptop here is beyond stupid. Totally something he should be thinking about but likely hasn't. He scoffs, the roll of his eyes the most emotion I've seen from him since I sat down.

"You think they know enough to be watching us? You've been here for, what, a week? And I'm nobody. Don't even get a second glance."

His reasoning isn't wrong, but we're dealing with a resurging gang presence with hundreds of millions of dollars on the line for some sonofabitch in Gotham. Gotham. Didn't we all learn that when the Mob backed one of the worst terror attacks in the city's history, and all the violence that came after, that not accounting for every possibility with these people is a mistake? Nothing is beyond them, and the level of corruption would have only gotten worse with Harvey gone, not better.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean someone can't go snooping through your shit." It's true—anyone could be monitoring this wifi network, could be looking at anything he's doing right now. It just takes one wrong idiot to glance at something they shouldn't for this entire investigation to tank.

Why isn't he thinking of this himself? Surely he knows better—or does he really not know how things can be here?

He must not be from Gotham. That's the only explanation that makes sense. Any Gothamite would have a good dose of suspicion and distrust embedded in their bones.

"You mean like you did?" he rejoins, still deadpan but a hint of accusation peaking through.

Yeah, and I'm not even sorry.

"Don't change the subject." Going back to the paper, I see that they timed the fire as happening just after two in the morning.

That fits with the intel on the dossier.

"Why are they lying in the paper?" I ask myself under my breath.

"How do you know they're lying?" David asks.

"Are you kidding?" I snap, more annoyed that he spoke—which isn't anything to be angry at, really—than anything else. Forcing in a deep breath of air, I continue, "Everyone lies in Gotham. Don't expect things like the paper and police to be honest just because they're supposed to be in principle." David blinks, sitting back a little further in his chair like the notion hadn't occurred to him before.

He must really not be from here.

"Do we have a copy of the police report?" I ask.

He's my 'contact,' meaning he's the one with access to all the official records. He's the one who's part of the larger investigation and I'm just one of the cogs working in tandem, answering directly to Naomi. I'm supposed to do the technical work they'd need a warrant for, basically acting like their lapdog and providing leads—or, really, being whatever Naomi wants me to be.

Without speaking, David hands me the report before ignoring what I said and going back to typing away on his laptop.

Idiot.

Trying to not think unkind thoughts, I go over the report. Despite what the paper said, initial tests at the scene indicated that there were drugs present, but they never say just how much. And, just like the paper, they attribute the fire to a shipment of oil drums that seemed to have 'spontaneously' burst into flames. Even though I haven't been there myself, something about all this doesn't sit right. Cover-ups are common, but what are they covering up?

What about Gordon, I thought he was anti-corruption?

Thinking of his face brings up a whole other host of problems. I'd consider going to ask him, but I know a random fire on the Gotham Docks isn't what he'd want to talk about. But I'm not telling anyone what happened. Not ever.

Don't focus on it. That's the key, remember?

Pulling out the small bundle of crime scene photos from inside, they all show scorch marks and burnt-out shells of discoloured metal. It's all warped and split apart, shipping crates broken and lying scattered. They're all close shots, focusing on small details with numbers and reference rulers along the border of the frame. During the other cases I worked on, there were always more photos than this. I shake out the envelope, thinking some might have slipped my notice, but it's empty. None of the photos in my hands show the oil drums or do a wide shot of the entire scene.

Something isn't right here.

"Where are the rest of the photos? This can't be it."

David looks up from his computer, eyes heavy and lazy, and his hand rises to stifle a large yawn. "That's it. All they gave me when I got it two hours ago."

Maybe that's something I should ask Naomi about.

But I'm still pissed at her. Calling to ask her to look into something is the last thing I want to do, and I'm not going down to the police station unless I'm being dragged there. My mind wanders to other options.

Hacking into the GCPD database doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"How much work have you done? Any ideas who this is? The suspect list isn't exactly long."

"Yeah, definitely not that." It's all he offers, going silent and yawning again.

My temper flares up, but so does the rest of my brain. The urge to hide goes away, falling back into the distance. All I focus on is what I have in front of me, what I know from being in this town for too damn long, and what I learned the hard way.

"We can eliminate Shaddid and Donahay." Saying my father's name is painful, but I know he isn't part of this—at least, not in a leading role. Being someone else's lackey is something I wouldn't put past him, but he was struggling before and there's no way he turned that around on his own. I wonder briefly if his leg still hurts from what Batman did to it. "They've been around for a long time, but they always paid up with one of the bigger families when they were still around. They're not sophisticated enough to pull off shipments like this with that much regularity and bribe journalists and cops for a coverup."

David's mouth opens and shuts twice before he finds his words. "How would you—"

"I just do. Live here long enough and you pick up on a few things," I interrupt. It's not totally wrong, and there's no need to speak anything of lived experience. Thinking about all of this—as much as it's stimulating, it's also unbelievably frustrating. No matter what I do, I can't seem to leave anything behind for long. "That just leaves Esposito, 'Black Mask', and 'Red Hood' if this is a conclusive list."

Just saying the words out loud is ridiculous. Batman seems to have set a new kind of precedent for the insane and unimaginable to happen.

What kind of names are those, anyway? Definitely no points for originality, Jesus.

David seems to have recovered, adjusting in his seat as much as he can before giving me more of his attention. "Yeah, there's not exactly a lot of people left. These are the only big guns, and two of 'em are new." He pauses and paws at the patches of facial hair under his jaw before continuing, "I'm from Kansas City. Never lived in a place quite like this."

A mirthless laugh bursts out of me—too loud for the comment he made. I'd like to tell him understatement of the goddamn year, but there isn't any point; I think he gets it already.

"Nope. Gotham's one of a kind," I say, calming down enough to register the looks from the other patrons. The fits of giggles are something else that transferred over from that day—an unconscious itch that peaks up and I can't control. It makes me think of—

No, no—stop. Don't. Don't think about it.

The valium would help with this. It would take away the panic building in my throat, the voices and sounds of gunfire that block out everything else—

Stop. You don't need them. Just get a fucking hold of yourself.

I can think it all I want, it's not taking any of it away.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Inhaling, I hold the air in, making my chest go still. I keep it that way until it hurts and the blood rushes to my head, and then slowly release it. Closing my eyes, I repeat the cycle, focusing on it rather than the memories.

"What about this website—the FalseFaceMarket?" I ask eventually. Looking up, I find David staring at me, his expression blank but still focused on my face. Cheeks going hot, I look away. "Have you been able to find anything?"

He's slow to respond, dropping his elbows from the table and leaning back in his chair. "Police acknowledge it exists but insist nothing can be done," he says eventually. "Penetrating their servers would require an entire team just for that, which we don't have right now, so I've been eyeing up the product lists."

He goes back to typing, and the urge to tell him to smarten the hell up again comes but it's not worth repeating. If he blows this, I'll make sure Naomi knows it wasn't me.

Stopping, David turns his laptop around, showing me a website that looks like a direct rip-off of the early 2000s version of eBay. Except, instead of lists of clothes, games, and random junk, the things on here include entire sections dedicated to different types of guns—everything from blueprints for printing your own 3D guns, assault rifles with their serial numbers filed off, mines, goddamn RPGs—and drugs. There's enough variety on here for someone to equip a small militia group.

Maybe that's the point.

Just thinking about a repeat happening of before has me breaking out in a cold sweat.

I keep diving deeper into the site, morbid curiosity taking over. Most of the drugs listed are substances I've never heard of, listed by the type of high you get and the region of production. I keep clicking, an overwhelming sense of sick wonder keeps me going through the tabs, until I find one I knew to expect but never wanted to confirm.

There's a specific section, glamourized with nude shots of men and women with dead eyes, that's dedicated to buying and selling snuff films, child and torture porn—and one entire category is just for an online auction that sells people.

"Jesus—"

Slamming the lid of the laptop closed, I focus on breathing again. There's nothing these sick bastards won't commodify, apparently. It's not anything I didn't expect from shit you can find on the dark web—it's not new to Gotham or any other place in the world, but it still twists my stomach. More memories come back up and I can't shove them down anymore. I'm grateful when David clears his throat.

"Yeah. There's, ah… it's a lot."

Another fucking understatement.

"Good news is—if you wanna call it that—they haven't added anything new in two weeks. Normally, there's new shit to buy or full stock again every two or three days."

I centre myself on that, the objective details—the facts I can use instead of the acts I don't have the power to stop.

But shutting down a website doesn't stop the fuckers providing the content.

Misanthropy—something he taught me—bleeds in and I try to blink it away. "Then someone's messing with the supply lines?" I ask, pushing my hair away from my face. David nods and I try to think—connecting the fire at the Docks with what we know about the group's operations. "Is… Could this be part of a gang dispute? There's still more than one group running around—if there's a monopoly happening and someone else wants to cut in…"

David nods again. "No one wants to confirm it, doesn't exactly boost Hill's ratings, so it's relegated to ghost stories online. That's where I got most of my info on him," he says, pointing at Red Hood's name on the dossier. "Black Mask is another bag of beans. Got warrants to tap into some phone lines and I've been mining some emails from guys we know are still in the game."

He reaches down into the backpack at his feet and pulls out several stacks of paper. They're all emails, with some lines highlighted and others with small annotations made in green pen. I start flipping through, reading his notes to get a general idea. I'm reminded of when I did something similar—back in that winter when I blackmailed Ivan. When everything went so wrong. David points back to the list on the dossier.

"They all mention a Black Mask but none of his affiliations, no other names apart from the alias. What's left of Old Gotham is splitting between him and the rival groups of Hood and Esposito."

Black Mask is the one in charge of the website then? Or, the one raking in the profits?

"If they're sabotaging one another, then that means…"

"They're building up to something," David finishes.

For once, he doesn't look so much like an idiot.

"What do these… ghost stories say?" I ask, setting the emails aside.

"Nothing good." He seems to get excited, leaning his hulk in and talking low. "There's fanbase for all of these freaks—including 'Bat Watchers,' as they call themselves. Most focus on the Red Hood, say he's more brutal than the others. Usually goes for… total elimination strategies. Has a fondness of guns and explosives."

Black Mask is building an empire for himself, swallowing the smaller gangs into one, and Esposito would have the loyalties of what's left of the Mob. Where does that leave Red Hood?

"Do they say if he's acting alone?" I ask. If I hadn't lived through what I did, two years ago I would've dismissed something like this as outlandish, something from a TV plotline. But Gotham seems to be a place that fosters the impossible.

"Not from the sounds of it. Some say he's a one man army, but we know that's shit. Others say he's pulling in the straggling groups, recruiting others from the rival gangs."

That makes more sense. Doing all this by himself would be a feat—it would even make him comparable to—

I realize for the first time since sitting down that Bruce might know something about all this. He'd be the one to have intel no one else would, making his own investigations outside the bureaucratic channels I'm stuck in. Maybe he could—

Don't forget, Miri—you just screamed at him and threw a glass at his head less than twenty-four hours ago. You made it pretty clear where things stood, didn't you?

Wincing at my own temper, at my automatic reaction to lash out, I set aside the idea of going to Bruce for this. He was the one asking for my help, wasn't he? About something unrelated, too. A series of murders—and I haven't even bothered to read up on it.

Maybe… maybe you should.

Thinking about Bruce is confusing, and it's a thought that doesn't go away. Swallowing, I say, "It's a safe assumption to make that Red Hood doesn't have the networks and capital to maintain this type of network and supply line?"

"Nah, not likely."

"Then that just leaves Black Mask."

Well, at least you've accomplished something. Naomi should be happy with that.

David sighs, adjusting again. "Looks like it."

I nod, thinking more out loud to myself than talking to him. "We know he's paying cops, papers, and has a substantial amount of capital…" Despite Gotham's overwhelming poverty levels, it's home to too many goddamn millionaires. "How many people like that are left in Gotham?"

"The list is short," he says, shrugging.

Bruce would know most of them, too, on account of the absurd amount of parties he throws, people he reportedly dates. He's kept himself busy constantly since I've been gone, almost like I never left at all. Sometimes, I couldn't help but search his name, see what he was up to. What I read helped keep me angry—it made it easier to justify not talking to him.

You know most of what the papers said is a lie.

But somewhere in there, parts of it have to be true, don't they?

Maybe you just want them to be. Easier to keep being bitter that way, isn't it?

Shaking my head, I say, "Then we start working it down until we find a name that sticks."

David and I divide up the work—him focusing on the website and me on finding people who fit the profile. We both agree that there should be no exclusions; we'll look into everyone until we can clear them. Once I have a shortlist of names and enough corroborating evidence for them to use, I give the rest to David and then it goes on to the investigative team shared between Homeland Security and the DOD.

Someone shipping in arms of that level and drugs in such large amounts wasn't something they'd let slip by. Corruption in this city bleeds into everything, but now it's a question of exactly how far it goes.

My head's full with whirring thoughts, spinning 'round and 'round as I try to hold onto them. There's a lot of work to be done and not much time to do it. Leaving the café and clutching my jacket close to keep out the spring chill, I dig through my bag to find the car keys when someone runs into me, knocking my shoulder and almost throwing me off balance. I right myself quickly and the blood drains from my face.

"Well, look who it is."

God-fucking-damnit. Not now—

It's Jack Ryder.

The panic comes first, but it's quickly smothered by rage. He has a smarmy grin on his face, the frames of his glasses blending in with his thick eyebrows. Just like all those years ago at Bruce's party, it still feels like he's staring and trying to find something to laugh at later.

He's already doing that. But on national fucking TV.

My hands curl into fists and it takes everything in me not to clock him. Jack looks like he can tell; his smile widens.

"Miriam Kane. I'd heard you were back, but then I couldn't imagine that anyone was quite that stupid."

The cold sweat returns, and with it the paranoid certainty that the people walking past us on the street heard and are judging me, too—condemning me with a glance. I want to hide, I need to drink—bury this before it consumes me. And I hate Jack for it—I hate that I'm letting him do this to me.

I'm going to kill him. I will.

He's the one who made everything so much worse, made it so I couldn't turn on a TV without being slapped in the face with lies. Me being some sort of—of accomplice, somehow being in on what he did and willingly participating. How it was my fault that Parker died—like I tortured him myself and stuck a dagger in his heart. That I should've been charged with accessory to murder for what happened to him and Zsasz. Replaying those videos he made and going through them frame by frame like a sports analyst. That I had willingly slept with—

Don't. Don't.

My stomach turns, and my anger is so potent I can almost feel it manifesting behind me. He made sure I'd always be afraid to use my own name, to have any sort of identity outside of what happened. He might have carved his initial on my chest, but Jack did something just as bad: He gave the entire city the ammunition to make sure I relived those moments every day, that my entire existence would be defined by two weeks spent in the depths of hell.

"Move," I growl. Hands shaking, jaw clenching tight, I hold myself back. My body's vibrating, and I want to unleash that energy and slam his face into a wall.

And the son of a bitch chuckles.

"Why? Not happy to see me?" he asks, stepping in my way when I try going around him to get into my car. He's enjoying this and I'm losing the ability to control myself.

"Last warning. Move."

Jack wags a finger at me, tutting and that fucking smirk growing. The bastard is probably thinking about the next topic of his show, creating a new angle to debase and humiliate me. "Ah, that's right. Still a feral little thing, aren't you?"

"Shut your fucking mouth." I'm too angry to admonish myself, how I do sound rabid.

"Come on, Miriam," it's like before—when he made my name sound like an insult, "why don't you give a comment for the Gotham Times? No one's heard from you since the Siege. Have you made plans to go pay a visit to Arkham, see your 'partner in crime'?"

I freeze, heart stopping and my muscles twisting in on themselves. The scars burn again, searing deep into my skin until it transcends the pain I felt when I got them the first time. Jack stares at my chest, right where the 'J' is. He was there at Wayne Enterprises—he saw the cuts and bruises. He saw all of that and yet here he is.

"Don't you think it would be good for Gotham to know that the little terrorist that got away is back?" He laughs, rolling back on his heels and shaking his head. "You know, nothing wrong with a few more minutes in the limelight. If you'd stayed, this would've been different. Could've probably even got yourself a book deal. But no, it's not my fault you ran away—"

No.

I've become wrath incarnate; no longer thinking, just acting.

"I'll show you feral."

His hand is extended as he gestures, but I'm not hearing him anymore. Grabbing him by the wrist, I jerk him forward and spin, making him smack face-first into the passenger side of the car. Twisting his arm until his elbow's facing up, I put pressure down on it. Enough that he knows I could break it or dislocate his shoulder.

Or both.

Jack's yelping in pain and sinks to his knees, sliding down the car, but I don't care. During my time away, I wasn't idle. I made sure to have all the tools I needed to deal some damage. I won't be helpless anymore.

I won't.

"If you print any more of your lies, I won't just sue you for defamation," I twist again until he has to suppress a scream and it makes me smile, "I'll make sure you never work in Gotham again. And maybe if you think I'm so dangerous, and such a menace—what did you call me the other night? 'Bonnie'?—you should know better than to piss me off, don't you think?"

There are people walking by, but no one says anything, keeping their heads down and going on their way. Any other time, I would've criticized their apathy, but now all I have is a deep appreciation

Jack finally finds his voice; it's several pitches higher and panicked, but I don't ease up. "L-Let go—th-this is assault—"

Something in me snaps. I rip his arm up, his shoulder just shy of totally popping out of its socket.

"Oh, if it's happening to you it's assault?" A burst of laughter shakes my torso, loud and ringing out across the street. Jack shakes, blubbering more threats as I lean in, bending his wrist back in the process. "Don't forget, Jack, I remember what you didn't do back then. The look on your face. You like watching people get hurt, don't you? What great material—lying about a trauma victim and making a profit from it. I think it's about time you got a taste of your own medicine, don't you agree?"

"I-I will have you charged—"

Actually dislocating his shoulder would have me arrested on the grounds for assault, but keeping him in the same position won't do permanent damage. Even though that's exactly what I want to do.

What are you doing?

Sense seeps in and the anger ebbs. I can't find my feet under me, the world tilting.

Isn't that what he did to you? Twisted your arm as you screamed?

The memory rocks me; bile rises in my throat. Letting go of his arm, I step away. Fists gone and hands shaking instead, once again reality hits me hard. But, just like always, the impulse to drive the barb in deeper doesn't abate.

"You're just as pathetic as I remember, Jack," I say. He's cradling his arm, gasping and struggling to get up with the car as support. Maybe he didn't hate me before and was just looking to cash in, but he does now. "If the best you can do is slander, then you should consider finding another line of work."

As Jack rights himself, something drops out of his jacket pocket. He's too sore to move quick enough and I grab it first. It's a dictation machine. And it's turned on.

The fucker wanted a reaction out of you.

A thought strikes me. Jack followed me here—or, knew where I would be. He got his recorder with the intention of making some new late-night special. The anger comes back just enough to efface any form of regret I might feel. Dropping the recorder to the ground, I smash it with my foot, hammering it until it's just a mass of broken wires and plastic.

Jack looks at me with horror—maybe even with a genuine feeling of fear—and I smile sweetly. "Hope you weren't needing that." His is mouth gaped open in shock and pain. My smile gets wide. Leaning over him, making him cower closer to the gutter, I'm pretty sure I look unhinged, and I'm glad. "You come anywhere near me again—talk about me, have me followed, anything—and I'll do more than twist your arm and break your toy. I'll make you wish you'd never heard my name."

Standing up straight and resisting the urge to kick him in the balls, I start walking away. Finally finding his voice, he shakes with rage. "You absolute bitch—"

"Tell me something I don't know," I mutter, going around him to the driver's side. Slamming the door closed, I take off without doing up my seatbelt, engine revving high as I floor it. I want to be as far away from here as possible.

It's not until I'm around the block, taking the corner at a speed that makes me slide in my seat, that I yell in frustration. Slamming my fist against the edge of the steering wheel, I have to hold back everything building—expanding in my chest until it feels like I'll burst. Anger makes it hard to see, to focus on the road, my already questionable skills taking a hit as I stop paying attention to the other cars.

Stifling silence muffles my hearing, pressing against my head until the pressure builds behind my eyes. The sounds of the outside world are gone, but it makes the voices that lick against my memory all the louder.

"I think I've, ah, figured it out. They can see how ugly you are. On the inside."

No. Stop it. Don't think about it—stop.

But it doesn't stop. It gets louder. Horns blaring pierce through—not enough for me to care as I cut across lanes and haphazardly pull over and hyperventilate. I can't get his voice out of my head—can't stop the feeling of his hands on my chest—can't shake the fear that's crippling me. My chest constricts, air hitching in my chest.

"Shut up!"

I'm yelling at a ghost—a memory I can't kill.

Just like back then, he was right.

"They can see it just as well as I can. It's what makes you disposable to them. They take one good look at you and oh! that's it. You. Mean. Nothing."

"SHUT UP!" I scream.

I hate Jack. I hate him. I hate what they've done to me—what they're still doing. I hate that I'm letting them.

Banished back to whispering, the pressure's still there but it feels less like it's crushing me. Breathing hard, I struggle with new urges—ones not rooted in violence.

You still have the pills back in the apartment. Now you can go get more booze—you have a car.

I want those things—I need them. And it makes me feel so fucking pathetic.

It's what made me hurt Jason—Bruce. It's just another crutch in my life I don't want to let go of. An ache, deep in my bones and arcing across my heart wants to find oblivion again. To forget everything. Kill what's real and let me find that quiet place of peace where nothing hurts anymore—nothing feels like this.

Weak. Pathetic.

Tears spring up but I don't let them fall. Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and growl.

"No."

I won't take the easy way out. Not again. There are other things to drown myself in. Things that won't kill me, won't eat away at the people I have left.

It takes time, but I make it back to the apartment. Ignoring the bathroom and what sits inside—what I know I won't be able to resist if I stare at it—I go to the coffee table, where Bruce left that chip last night. Holding it in my hands, rolling it between my fingers, I try to make peace come. If I won't drink, if I won't kill what's eating me alive inside, then I can at least bury it—have my brain focus on something else.

You don't even have to tell Bruce. Nothing wrong with looking—you might find nothing at all.

It's a bunch of bullshit. My resolve still needs work. The heroin case won't be enough, there needs to be more taking up space in my brain. I might regret it later, but I don't think I have a choice anymore.

There's always a choice.

"Sometimes, you just gotta do things—work with what's in front of ya." His voice is back, but I swallow it down with willpower alone. And it hurts to admit that he wasn't entirely wrong on that point. "Just let it go. Let it all go."

With the voice come the sensations of the past, how they felt—the heat of hands on me. I shake and I try to keep the world still, keep it from falling out from under me.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I'm choosing to try—try beyond what I've been doing. I'm choosing to be different, to prove them—him—wrong. I can be different. I will be. I'll keep saying it until it's true, even when it still feels like a lie.


AN: Hey everyone! Thank you, everyone, who's been following along and letting me know what you think! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and I'll be back in a couple of weeks. And, as always, thank you to Khaosprinz for all her help!