All the characters appearing in Gargoyles and Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of Mouse. A thank you to my brother, Chris, who helped edit this story.

Brooklyn shivered. He'd never felt so alone in his life. Below him, the streetlights flickered like little stars and people skittered about to their destinations.

This new city was louder, meaner, and crazier than New York. New York City had always seemed on the brink of madness but this town seemed to have gone over the edge years ago. Nearly every building was covered with broken windows and graffiti and all the shops had bars on the windows. The city reeked of spray paint, garbage, car exhaust, and desperation. Maybe a long time ago, someone had had great plans for this place but madness had seized it and covered it like a fungus.

Brooklyn couldn't be sure where he was—he hadn't paid too much attention to where he was going. He had left with grand illusions of seeing the world, or seeing pyramids and other marvels, but his conscience beckoned him to stay here for reasons he that mystified even him. He sighed. "If I am to stay here I might as well get the lay of the land," he said.

He flew from building to building. He saw derelict after derelict, condemned buildings where drunks huddled together, desperate and mad. He saw streets where blood had been shed many times and still had bullet casings everywhere. He read the graffiti for graffiti was a form of communication. Through graffiti, gangs, scoundrels delivered warnings and bragged about accomplishments.

Brooklyn couldn't understand this town's particular code of communication but he did find one interesting piece of information. Scrawled in red was a simple message: Welcome to Abaddon. "Awfully literary for graffiti," he said with a smile. Abaddon was truly a fitting name for this place.

Suddenly a cry for help rang out through the night air. Looking down, he saw a woman struggling with a group of muggers over her purse. "Hand it over already, you nut!" said the thug grappling with her over the purse. Not wasting a moment, Brooklyn leapt down into the alley, attacking the muggers. Before long they were all either out cold or running like the reaper himself was on their tails.

The woman dusted herself off and turned towards Brooklyn. "Thanks, shug," she said, her voice slurred.

She was obviously a prostitute: her skimpy attire and thick make-up, slathered on her face in a desperate attention to appear awake, made that quite clear. She turned to Brooklyn, "Hey, shug," she said, "that was right nice of you, helping me like that. Most wouldn't even bother." She reached into her purse. "Here sweetie, a few bucks for your trouble."

"Thank you, but I can't accept your money," Brooklyn said.

"Now aren't you quite a character," She said with a laugh. "Now look here, sweetie, I wouldn't feel right if I didn't give you some kind of a reward. Do you have a place to stay?"

"No, I..."

"Good, then you can stay at my place. It ain't much but it's a roof over your head and I could use someone to walk to me home. These streets are dangerous this time of night," she said.

Brooklyn couldn't refuse her offer. Whoever she was, she was obviously drunk and he was afraid she might run into some more trouble. "Do you want me to carry you home?"

"You think you can manage me?" she asked.

Brooklyn smiled. "Easily," he said. "Just give me directions; I'm kind of new here."

"That's kind of obvious, shug." She smiled.

Brooklyn scooped her up and they took off. "Where do you live?" he asked.

"Not too far from here; just fly thataway. First motel, you run into, that's where I live, on the fifth floor room 517B."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"It's Regina, what's yours?"

"Brooklyn."

"As in the part of New York City?"

"Yeah."

"I've got a sister that lives in Brooklyn. Least I think she still does. I dunno, I haven't heard from her in eight years."

The motel she was talking about was named "The Hay-Penny Inn" and whatever price they charged for a room, it was clearly overpriced. The place smelt of alcohol and was covered with peeling paint and was brightly lit with streetlights that only served to call attention to the squalor.

"Is this the place?" Brooklyn asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"I guess I'll be going then," Brooklyn said.

"Nah, you won't, you silly. After what you did for me, I ain't going to let you squat in some shack. That wouldn't be proper of me at all. "

"What about your landlord?"

"My landlord don't give two shits about me. 'Course if you feel so guilty 'bout being charity or anything like that, we can work out a deal: you look after me while I'm making my rounds, make sure no one jumps me or anything like that, and I'll let you stay under my roof." Regina said.

Brooklyn stared at her. He knew she'd probably had quite a bit to drink, but could she possibly be that drunk? She hadn't said a word about his appearance. "You're not frightened of me?" he asked.

Regina laughed. "Hon, some of the Johns I've serviced were much scarier than you. 'Sides, you saved my butt so I suppose you can't be all bad."

Brooklyn shrugged. He couldn't argue with her logic and besides it would be nice to have a place to roost during the day. He followed Regina to her home.

Her home consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a closet. A single naked bulb lit the place, casting an orangey tinge over everything in the room. A bed, its sheets stained and worn, squatted on its metal frame like a fat toad and had been shoved against into a corner in a desperate attempt to free up some space. There was no television or telephone and the only wall-hanging was a cracked mirror which hung over the dresser. The dresser top was covered with bottles of cheap alcohol and makeup all lined up in a row like skyscrapers in a miniature futuristic city.

Regina absentmindedly swatted a fly as she lit a cigarette. "It ain't Buckingham, but I suppose it's better than nothing."

"You realize I can only look after you at night," Brooklyn said.

"It's okay: I do most of my work at night. I'm getting ready to settle in. If you need anything to eat, check the closet," Regina said. She flopped onto the bed and settled into a quick repose.

Brooklyn spent the rest of the night, staring out the window, thinking about the changes his life was going through. He never in his wildest dreams would have imagined sharing a shabby motel room with a prostitute. Almost immediately his thoughts drifted back to his clan in New York. "They are probably looking for me right now," he said.

It was comforting to think that but Brooklyn knew that might not necessarily be the case. Being a part of a clan was considered a privilege, not a right, and by leaving he'd essentially renounced his clan and all that it stood for. The decision to leave was not one to be made lightly and if at any point Brooklyn decided the real world was too rough for him, Goliath was under no obligation to accept him back.

Brooklyn had made his decision and now he had to deal with the consequences.