AN: There could be a Spoungecake Factory, and a Brightmont Hotel. Really.

Just more from the little people.

It had been a bad day.

A bad, bad day.

A day from hell, really.

And the dinner rush hadn't even started.

Jason Murtok rolled his shoulders and barely resisted the urge to rub his eyes.

One: the produce company didn't deliver half the daily order, and none of the specialties. When he called to complain, and get the "absolutely-necessary-I-can't-believe-you'd-ask-that" scallions, fresh herbs and baby red potatoes, the receptionist listened sympathetically – then told him his representative was "unavailable." Apparently every rep was "unavailable," meaning, while she was very sorry, he was SOL getting any further deliveries today.

Two: a currently sulking sou chef, who not having any of his absolutely necessary product to work with, proceeded to vent this frustration by alternately yelling at a hapless (and innocent) prep-cook and slamming the door to the office. Repeatedly. Oh, and don't forget having to pry the phone out of the man's hand when he began yelling at the now-not-so-sympathetic produce receptionist.

Three: An executive chef (who normally reins in the more temperamental aspects to the kitchen) on vacation for the next two weeks. Jay furtively hoped he got a nasty sunburn somewhere sensitive.

Four: Three servers called out sick. Two for lunch. Normally a time for panic, but for…

Five: Only ten covers during lunch. Ten. In a restaurant that seats 400. In the middle of Gotham City. He'd lost more in labor alone than they'd sold. On a Monday of all days.

Six: His opening bartender had to leave (legitimately) in the middle of her shift, meaning he'd had to set up the bar.

Seven: And now his closing bartender was an hour late. Without a call.

This time he gave into the urge to rub his eyes.

Vanessa, the night hostess, eyed him. "Um, Jason, are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just been a long day."

"It's five-thirty."

"I know."

With a small shrug, she returned to straightening menus. Outside, traffic sounded even worse than normal. And the people streaming past the doors, well, they uniformly had something on their minds other than an upscale, casual dining experience.

"Did you see the news?" Vanessa asked. Translation: Did you see him?

"No. It's been on in the bar all day, but each time I manage to actually look at the screen, it's yet another reporter in front of the school."

"I can't believe he's real. I mean, yeah, everyone know someone who knows someone who's seen the guy, but I always thought he was just a story to entertain the tourists." She shok her head. "Even on TV, he just seemed to fill the screen."

"And that couldn't have been the camara angle at all, could it?" he retorted before thinking, and the half-puzzled, half-hurt look she gave him made him feel like he'd just kicked a puppy. "Sorry, just I still haven't seen this famous shot, nor any glmipose of him and I've been working night shifts in this town for five years. A little hard to accept." He shuffled the papers in his hand – there were always papers in his hands. Just once he'd like to walk through the restaurant without something that needed his attention right now. "Suzes still hasn't called?"

"Sorry."

Damn. She took the transit system, just like 80 of city.

He picked up the phone to call her cell again, then –

"God, Jay, sorry I'm so late. Every damn train and bus seems to be delayed today. I had to walk the last twenty blocks, can you believe it? And, of course, my phone chose to die this afternoon." Suze paused to breath and hold up the offending object as evidence.

"Dear God, I'm just glad you're in one piece."

She smiled a hello to Vanessa, shot him a quizzical look and shoved her bag into a cabinet behind the bar, all at the same time. "What are you talking about?"

"You haven't seen the news?"

"No." She shook out the white apron with a practiced flick of her wrist. "I was in the library all day, then trying to get here for the last two hours. Oh, and by the way, just when I thin ghtis icty can't get any nuttier, it does. There are cops everywhere."

In the background, yet another perfectly coiffed anchor rattled down the details of the gang attack on the school that morning.

"And who set this bar up? Nothing's where it's suppose to be."

"I did. And look at the TV."

Pictures flashed across the screen – milling parents, wrecked and dripping cars, a huddled couple sitting on a curb –

"Why did you – "

– a mass of kids flooding out the front door –

"Just look at the damn TV!"

That took her aback. "Okay," she drawled and craned her head over her shoulder. "Just what – Holy hell!"

– a dark figure, complete with mask and flowing cape, cradling a limp and bloody girl.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." A wide-eyed and startled bartender turned to the flock of servers and bussers who magically appeared around the bar. "Tell me that's a joke. A really bad joke, but a joke."

"Nope." One of the new guys said – nice, clean cut kid who'd been glued to the TV from the moment he walked in the door. "It's been all over the news. I've seen that shot four times now."

A few other servers nodded and Suze stared at them with a somewhat glazed look. In the ensuing babble almost no-one heard the quiet, awed "He is real."

Three hours later, and his piddling little bad day had actually gotten worse, transforming into the day from hell for everyone in the city. He hadn't needed the commissioner's press conference to start sending people home, although after the curfew announcement there was much less whining or foot-dragging.

ESPN filled the TVs behind the bar now. The news, while fascinating in that train-wreck sort of way, had become monotonous and far too depressing after a while. It seemed like every five minutes they reported another almost out of control fire or gang shooting. It didn't take a genius to see Gotham was this close to open warfare. Even without the constant bombardment from channel 4 the almost frantic atmosphere outside had seeped into the restaurant, leaving both staff and customers edgy.

And what few customers they'd had earlier in the evening left shortly after the curfew announcement.

Now, only the two dishwashers closing the kitchen, himself and Suze remained.

"You gonna try to get home tonight?" he asked as he helped her lock up the last booze screen.

She snorted. "Hell no. I called the Brightmont down the street and, sure enough, they had a room they were more than happy to charge my credit card to hold."

He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they a little pricey?"

"Yup. But, there's no way I'll make it home before nine o'clock. And I don't have an active death wish. I'd rather cough up the two bills and be safe tonight than risk it."

"You think it's going to be that bad?"

"I think it's already that bad. Since when do the cops go on the air and tell us we all have to be home and in bed by nine? And, you've watched the same news reports I have. It's getting worse out there, Jay, not better. You know the reporters can't tell us half of what's really going on."

He actually hadn't thought of that. Oy vay.

"It's still light out, I can walk there from here in less than five minutes if I hoof it and they had space." She shrugged. "I can make more money." Then she turned and placed the keys to the bar in his hand gently. "Look, tell the boys in the back they're done and let's all get the hell out of here. If the kitchen's still standing tomorrow, Victor can come back and bitch you out then."

"Riiiiight. The little weasel was the first one out."

"I noticed."

"And here I was worried about a screwed up produce delivery and a crappy lunch rush."

"Perspective, huh?"

"Yeah." He bounced the keys in his hand and made a decision. "So, when did you see him?"

She snorted again. "Just after the commissioner's announcement, sliding out the back door without so much as a 'bye,' thank you very much. Between you and me, I'm so telling Al when he gets back."

He shook his head. "Not Victor. Him."

"Oh." She looked up for a moment, then gave a small shrug. "About six years ago. I was young and stupid, and hadn't learned not to drink on shift yet. I was working a small, neighborhood bar back then. I vaguely remember locking up, then someone grabbed my purse, and pushed me into the doorway. There was a rush of air, then someone else handed my purse back to me with a very stern admonition to never lock up alone again and to find a cab now. I pulled a hamstring sprinting to the street and was practically run down by the first cab I saw." She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. "Do I know it was him? No. But someone saved me that night. And everyone I knew back then would have damn sure taken credit."

She moved to the door, then paused and turned back to him. "Every bartender develops a sixth sense for troublemakers. You've got it too, I've seen it. But, I didn't see it earlier; hell, I ignored it in favor of studying on the train for a English test." She ran a hand through her hair. "You were right – I'm damn lucky I made it here today, especially as I didn't pay any attention to my surroundings. Well, I'm paying attention now. This ain't over, and it's not going to be pretty." She shrugged again. "Say hi to Les for me."

With that she left, phone to her ear. As he locked the door behind her he heard "Yeah, Sheila right? Well, I'm about five minutes away on foot. Can we just chat until I'm actually standing in front of you?"