Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing at all. Nope. Not WHR not anything. ANYTHING. Disbelieve those who might try to convince you otherwise in order to sell you insurance, like Mr. Llama.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to that personage who is great and worthy of adulation, namely P.G. Wodehouse, who for those of you not yet enlightened on the subject is in my opinion the greatest writer of humor EVER. Yes indeedy.

Hyde A/N: Heil Spode! –snork—I couldn't resist. Well, there's your random Wodehouse reference for the day. Moving on. Welcome to That In Which The Identity of AADOM is Finally Revealed Part II. As you may recall, we last left Amon in a dead end alley, surrounded by little old ladies, and Robin watching anxiously from the rear, ready to come to his rescue.

………………

Robin began to press her way forward through the mob. Being just a little shrimp of a thing, she managed to wriggle her way through the mass of cotton dresses characterized by long-outdated floral prints. Reaching the epicenter, which was Amon of course, she did the only thing she could think of which was pushing aside the nearest pounding umbrella, half flinging herself onto Amon, and cloaking them tightly with a wall of fire.

This threw the little old ladies, who erupted into screams and retreated from the lump of flame that had once been their prey. There was an initial stampede, in which nearly half of the AADOM members were trampled underfoot. A few lingered, whether by reason of having the good sense to do so or being too traumatized to move it is uncertain, but these after the initial rush from the battlefield began to assist those more severely crippled. Slowly the alley emptied, and the traumatized squeals receded into the distance. Robin released the fiery shield and slumped to her knees, her face even paler than usual from the exertion. Amon knelt next to her, dazed from the many blows he had received.

After a few moments Robin recovered sufficiently to rise to her feet and tug Amon to his. He didn't seem to be quite conscious, but he didn't resist her.

"We should take you to the hospital, Amon," said Robin softly, her voice unable to belie her exhaustion.

That aroused him from his stupor.

"No, no hospital," he said. "We have to get to work."

"Amon, you shouldn't be working in this condition," she protested.

"I'm fine," he said, putting out a hand to steady the brick wall next to him, which seemed to be leaning dangerously from one side to the other.

"We're going to the hospital," she said, noticing his dizziness, a trait quite uncharacteristic of Amon.

"No."

"Amon, you can't work like this."

"I'm fine. Fine. Fine…" his voice died away as though he had lost track of it in a crowd.

"At least go home and rest."

"I have to work." Having brought the wall somewhat under control, he set off purposefully, if not quite in a straight line.

"Amon, where are you going?"

"To my car."

She hastened after him and fastened on to his arm. The whole way back to his car she reminded him over and over again that he couldn't go back to work in his condition, and over and over again he protested that he had to.

"Amon, maybe I ought to drive."

This suggestion offended him even more than the suggestion of a hospital visit.

"NO. I'm fine."

"Amon, I don't think…"

"I'm fine."

They climbed in. Amon pulled away from the curb with less than his usual macho smoothness.

"Amon…" said Robin nervously. He ignored her. "Amon, maybe I should…" He didn't even look at her. Sighing, she crossed herself and fought the urge to close her eyes.

At three consecutive intersections, Amon came perilously close to sideswiping three cars. Robin began murmuring uneasily. In the space of three blocks, five pedestrians nearly became so many pedestrian pancakes. Robin's murmuring increased in velocity. She suggested twice to Amon that perhaps he should slow down, but her suggestions were ignored and she gave up.

The macho black Audi approached a red light. Please let him see the red light, Robin prayed. The car did not slow. The intersection seemed deserted. Thank goodness, Robin thought. Suddenly a dark sedan, one of that breed which are everywhere and apparently multiply like so many rabbits, appeared out of nowhere.

"Amon!" Robin screamed. He slammed on the brakes and came within inches of the black sedan's bumper. The black sedan also screamed to a stop. Amon leapt immediately from the car and began a yelling and glaring match with the driver of the sedan. Robin seized the opportunity and slipped into the driver's seat.

Amon wasn't quite sure why he was exchanging incoherent words and dark Sullen Glares That Turn All Drivers Of Black Sedans Into Fried Mush with the driver of the black sedan, but it seemed to be the thing to do, and so he did it, and made little headway probably because neither he nor the Black Sedan Driver could understand a word the other was saying. It didn't really bother them, though, and neither showed signs of slacking.

Something brushed against his coat and he turned and saw that it was the door of his macho black Audi. The window was rolled down, and Robin looked up at him from the driver's seat and said, "Come on, Amon, get in."

He complied, still slightly confused.

Before he knew it, they were in front of the Anonymous Clinic Of An Anonymous City In An Anonymous Country.

"See, Amon," said Robin, gesturing toward the discrete sign on the front of the building. "It's completely anonymous." A little too anonymous perhaps, she thought to herself.

"I'm not going to the hospital," he said.

"This isn't a hospital," she said patiently. "It's a clinic. An extremely anonymous clinic."

He looked at her darkly for a moment and then asked, as though it had just occurred to him, "Why are you driving my car?"

"Never mind," said Robin. "Come on. We're going in."

They got out of the car. Robin feared that perhaps she would have to drag him in by the sleeve of his macho black coat, but to her surprise he did not mount any serious resistance, but merely stalked grudgingly to the door beside her.

Upon entering, they encountered a secretary with slightly pinkish hair behind a counter.

"May I help you?" she inquired nasally.

"We…he needs to see a doctor please."

"You don't have a prior appointment?"

"No."

"Well, that's alright. We'll work you in. Is this your first time at the Anonymous Clinic?"

"Yes."

"Well, take this clipboard and while you're waiting," she gestured toward a group of slightly pinkish chairs, "fill out this form."

"I thought this was anonymous," said Robin.

"Oh, we don't ask for any personal information," the secretary reassured her, thrusting the clipboard into her hands. Robin headed for the pinkish chairs, with Amon in tow.

"Um," she said, pen poised at the top of the form. "Amon, you have to pick an anonymous name to go by."

"A what?"

"A fake name. To use here."

"Oh." He sat there silently. Robin couldn't tell if he was thinking or overwhelmed by the idea.

"How about George?" she suggested tentatively.

He gave her a deadly Sullen Glare Explicitly Used In Cases Of Young Blonde Witch Huntresses Attempting To Name Dark Sullen Individuals George.

"X," he said.

"X?" she replied uncertainly.

"X."

Mentally shrugging, she wrote a large 'X' on the appropriate blank. "Allergies?"

"None."

"Chronic illnesses?"

"No."

"Mental illnesses?"

"No." Not as sure as he on that point, Robin paused, then marked the paper. Oh well.

Robin returned the clipboard to the secretary. They waited for about half an hour, both staring at either the slightly pinkish carpet or the slightly pinkish haired secretary (which unnerved said secretary not a little). Finally she called for "X" and took them down a hall to a white door. Robin came along, not certain she should be leaving Amon alone with anyone.

They were greeted by a tall heavy man with a receding hairline. He moved toward them slowly and with as little excess motion as possible.

"Which one of you is 'X'?" he inquired.

"Him," said Robin, pointing.

"Very well. I'm Doctor T. How can I help you?"

Both he and Robin looked at Amon, who stood there stolidly and sullenly, studied the ceiling, and ignored them.

Robin sighed. "He's been beaten up. Somewhat. He already had a concussion."

"I see. What sort of symptoms, if any, is he having?"

"Um, dizziness, disorientation…Am…ah, X, do you have a headache?"

He shook his head slightly.

"Well, that doesn't mean anything, he probably wouldn't tell me if he did."

"I see. Let's take a look here." Dr. T approached Amon…er, X, slowly and ponderously. As he went, he slowly produced a small light from his pocket. He and his light advanced toward Amon's eyes, intending to examine therein.

As quick as lightning, Amon's arms flashed and suddenly Dr. T found himself staring down the barrel of an orbo gun while his wrist was clenched in an iron grip.

"Eeep," said Dr. T, and his light fell from his now nerveless fingers and hit the slightly pinkish carpet with a dull thump.

"Don't touch me," said Amon darkly. In the blink of an eye he released the doctor, slipped his orbo gun back into the dark recesses of his coat, and headed for the door.

"Amon," said Robin, but he was gone.

She turned to Dr. T. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, it's happened before," he said, rubbing his wrist. "I'd say just bed rest for a few days. If he has a persistent headache or any new symptoms, try to get him in here or somewhere."

"Thank you very much," she said softly. She turned and slipped wraith-like out the door, and before the doctor had hardly noticed, she was gone.

………………

Wee, fairly long chapter. And it's about time it was done and posted. No cliffhanger this time. That used to drive me crazy when I would read a book and the end of a chapter would be some major cliffhanger. It seemed rather pointless to me. Anyway. Enough rambling. Come on, Hyde, focus, finish chapter. As I said to someone earlier, I feel like an ameba with three brains today. Hmm, I wonder if that's how you spell ameba. I don't trust the Spell Check. AHK! Focus! Finish chapter! –hyperventilates—

May multitudes of small children never appear in your bedroom and run around in circles doing ancient Native American dances with your sweaty socks,

Hyde