"You know, one of my worst fears in life was getting shot."

Rafael's sudden candour took Olivia by surprise. She looked up from the sheet of paper she'd been staring at for the last twenty minutes and her eyes immediately darted to his bandaged left arm, which he'd complained surprisingly little about over the last week, except for when they had to cook.

(Takeout definitely wasn't an option in a place like this - it wasn't like they had access to their phones, anyway - but surely the marshals could do better than forcing two injured people to cook for themselves?)

(She already missed Postmates.)

(Would their new city even have Postmates?)

He twirled his pencil in his free hand. "It's incredible," he emphasised sarcastically, "how everything that's happened in the last few days has made my arm the least of my concerns."

Olivia glanced at the brace around her left thigh and realised with a resigned sigh that he was right. The splitting pain she'd expected to be in when she woke up in the hospital, now a dull ache, seemed almost trivial in comparison to the deceptively simple task they had in front of them.

Olivia Smith.

Olivia Johnson.

Olivia Davis.

Olivia Brown.

Olivia Jones.

She'd spent the last twenty minutes scrawling just about every combination of names on the rapidly filling sheet of paper, hoping that the one would jump out at her, but they all felt equally nondescript; equally inauthentic.

"Have you made up your mind?" she asked as she glanced over his shoulder, and wasn't surprised to find that his sheet was just as marked up as hers.

"I crossed out all the last names of my extended family members, but that doesn't narrow the selection significantly," he sighed. "I want to pick something meaningful, but it feels like I'm creating a cheap knock-off of myself."

Fiction. That was the essence of this exercise - and the entirety of their agenda for the day. Maybe picking something meaningful was just wishful thinking at this point.

"At the rate this is going, I'm probably going to close my eyes and randomly point to a name and go with that." Her tone was sarcastic, but her options were rapidly narrowing, and it was slowly dawning on her that she might actually have to do that. None of this was making sense, and she had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a new constant in her life.

And so she forced her eyes shut, let her pencil hover over the sheet of paper, and dropped it over what was soon to be her new last name. She squinted at it through one eye, unsure if she was eager to get this over and done with or dreading what she'd chosen.

Davis.

One of the top ten most common last names in America. At least there'd be plenty of distractors if someone tried to Google her; the marshals were sure to approve. But she wasn't sure why she was still feeling so uneasy. After all, it was only a new last name, wasn't it? She still was Olivia, half of herself, and that had to matter far more - or so she hoped.

She grabbed the TV remote and turned it to the first news channel she could find, eager for a much-needed glimpse of the outside world after over a week in captivity, even if just on a screen. Rafael grumbled quietly next to her, his train of thought completely derailed by the white noise that now filled the room, until his ears perked up to the sound of a headline that'd immediately piqued his interest.

In global news: Nobel Prize-winning Colombian author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, has passed away at the age of 87.

His eyes shot open. "That's it."

She was startled. "Huh?"

Rafael located Marquez on the list and hastily circled it. "I'm stealing the last name of my favourite author."

He couldn't believe how quickly it'd come over him. It still felt like too big a decision to make this easily, but time was running out and he was very quickly getting sick of overthinking this. He'd grown up on One Hundred Years of Solitude - surely it was better than the other last names to which he had no connection?

"That's… actually really smart," Olivia remarked, which made him feel slightly less antsy about his rash decision. "And meaningful."

"So… we're done?" His question lingered uncomfortably in the air. "Just like that?"

"I guess we're done," she muttered half-heartedly.

"This can't be real," he joked. "You closed your eyes and chose a random name, and I got mine from watching the news. And we're getting new Social Security cards with those names."

Olivia Davis. What was "Davis" going to sound like, rolling off her own tongue?

He flicked his pencil onto the table dismissively. "You know what's so funny about this whole situation?"

"What?"

"I was so unhappy about you calling me "Barba" just over a week ago, and now I'm actually going to miss you calling me by that name." The tense discussion they'd had in his apartment suddenly felt trivial and petty.

Was he ready to live in a world where "Barba" was a forbidden word?

"Well, "Barba" does have a ring to it. Especially when I'm mad at you," she quipped.

(She couldn't bring herself to change that to the past tense.)

"I'm not even that attached to my last name, especially with my father being the person he was," he admitted. "But it still feels Iike I'm losing a part of myself, you know?"

Her expression turned grave; serious. "I know what you mean. Perils of working in jobs where we're almost exclusively addressed by last name, I suppose."

Was she ready to live in a world where "Benson" was a forbidden word?

She glared at the crossed-out Olivia Benson on her sheet. Twenty years of signing Benson on her DD5s, her timesheets, her evidence logs, often without a second thought - subtle, everyday inscriptions of her identity. Soon it'd be replaced with a new name she could rehearse and practice countless times until muscle memory took over - but would it ever truly feel like hers?

"I have a feeling that we're losing a lot more than our last names today," he remarked sadly.

An ominous air hung over them as the opening credits to the 9am show played. The marshals were arriving any minute.

"Only so long before they have to rip the Band-Aid."

"Only so long before we have to rip the Band-Aid," he echoed flatly.

Almost on cue, they heard three rhythmic knocks at the door, and she quickly hit the off button on the remote in preparation for yet another long walk down the carpeted hallways outside.

She didn't know if the silence that now filled the room was tense or mournful - or maybe both.


CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

Olivia Margaret Benson

Sergeant Olivia Benson, b. February 7, 1968 in New York, NY. Only child of Serena Benson and Joseph Hollister, both deceased - raised single-handedly by mother. Troubled home life - abuse, alcoholism in household…

… Only surviving biological family members are half-brother Simon Marsden and niece Olivia Marsden (River Park, NJ/Philadelphia, PA). Former temporary legal guardian to Calvin Arliss…

Olivia bristled reading the typed sheet placed in front of her, the words blurring into one another as she made her way down the page.

… Alumna of Siena College, NY (Psychology and Criminal Justice, magna cum laude, 90'). Decorated NYPD sergeant with 15 years' experience in the Special Victims Unit; further undercover experience with the FBI Domestic Terrorism Unit (EDG in Portland, OR; handler: Dean Porter, 2006) - was Acting Commanding Officer of SVU until release to WITSEC.

… Has navigated many high-risk, stressful situations in the line of duty, including an undercover stint at Sealview Correctional Facility (2008) and kidnapping by Will-

She didn't want to read on, but forced herself to under Nguyen's watchful eye, the ceaseless tick tick tick of the clock on the wall the only frenetic soundtrack.

"Is the information presented here accurate and complete? If it is, you can sign off on the printed copy."

Olivia looked up from the screen in a daze, her hand hovering hesitantly over the pen on the table.

"Any questions, Olivia?" Nguyen asked concernedly when she didn't get a response.

"I believe it's complete..." she stuttered, as she struggled to gather her thoughts. "Sorry, it's just a little… jarring to see my entire life summarised like this on one screen." Now she didn't want to imagine what her NYPD personnel file had looked like to anyone who'd read it.

Factual accuracy. It was all she was reading for. She'd already done the hard part - baring her soul to an unflappable Nguyen over the last couple of days, her shaking voice punctuated by Nguyen's rapid typing. Factual accuracy. That was all she had to sign off on. But Olivia's mind was racing, the sordid details of her life rushing over her like a waterfall.

"I'm sorry that we had to go over every detail like this," Nguyen said apologetically, her dark brown eyes the most compassionate and sympathetic Olivia had seen in days. "I just wanted to make sure that we've got everything covered, so we can create a new alias that's as air-tight as possible."

"Oh, I understand," Olivia replied. "Maybe I'm just having some trouble thinking about how all this is going to… disappear from my life when I'm out of this clearinghouse."

"That's only natural. I must say that you've had quite the career," Nguyen noted. "It must be a lot to process."

"All these things - expunged from my record with the wave of a hand. Your hand. I don't even want to think about so many of these things, but realising that they're just not going to be a part of my life anymore is… odd."

Odd. She couldn't find a better word for the restless discomfort that'd only grown stronger since the moment she'd stepped into the room that morning. Joseph Hollister? Lowell Harris? William Lewis? Of course she'd wished numerous times that the shadows those names cast over her life would disappear - but now that that exact prospect was staring her in the face, why was she still hesitating?

Did she… not want to wipe those memories from her life? To not forget?

Her head was spinning.

Nguyen quietly slid a glass of water - and the box of tissues - in Olivia's direction. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She gratefully accepted the glass, but still cocked an eyebrow suspiciously. "Is this going on record?"

"No, definitely not," Nguyen assured her. "Part of my job as your relocation expert is to help you out with the transition to your new identity. If you want to talk about anything, I'm all ears."

Olivia could feel her guard slipping far more rapidly than she'd intended - maybe it was a by-product of her prolonged isolation; maybe it was the way the room, with its leather sofas and carpeted floor, felt more like Dr. Lindstrom's office than the other interview rooms in this imposing federal compound. Maybe it was the realisation that she no longer had anything to lose; not when she'd already lost everything - her job, her home, her friends, and now her identity.

In any case, it was more than enough to loosen her tongue.

"I guess going over all these details is making me think about how much all the experiences I've had... have made me the person I am now." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "If I'm being honest, I don't really know how I feel about creating a new identity for myself, and it's making me conflicted about the whole process."

"What's making you feel conflicted?"

Her train of thought was feeling much more stream-of-consciousness than the logical level-headedness she'd spent her entire career cultivating. "How much of the person I am now is because of the things I've experienced? Or in spite of them? What happens when they all disappear from my life?"

Nguyen nodded thoughtfully.

"I joined Special Victims because of what happened with my mother. I've stayed in this job so long precisely because the bad experiences I've had on the job have only made me want to work even harder to outsmart the next perp - it's a sense of responsibility that I just can't shake. Being a cop has been my whole life for as long as I can remember. But when the… incident happened last year and I took some time off from work, it was like there was nothing left for me," she confessed. "I just felt so… empty. Which is why another part of me thinks it's a good chance to put a lot of the worst behind me and finally get a fresh start…"

The way Nguyen leaned in felt eerily similar to the many afternoons she'd spent in Dr. Lindstrom's office. "You don't know if the experiences you've had fuel you or weigh you down?"

"Exactly that." She stared at the carpet, her fingers nervously laced. "Don't get me wrong - I love, or loved, my job, but the past year's felt like a treadmill I can't get off, and I've occasionally wondered what it'd be like to just… not think about everything that's happened. But now that I'm here and in this situation… I'm not sure if I can let go of being a cop, and everything I've ever known. I don't know if I'm going to - or can - become a completely different person, and that scares me."

Fear. That was what this was. The disarmingly simple four-letter word had been stuck in her throat for the last few days.

Nguyen shut the laptop and looked Olivia in the eye, her body language as calm and collected as it'd been all week. "Well, one of the little-known facts about WITSEC is that the vast majority of the people who seek and receive protection in this programme are themselves criminals - people who've done truly heinous things. Murder, drug trafficking, money laundering - you name it. They enter the programme and have no clue what to do with themselves, because all they've known is their life of crime."

Confusion crept into Olivia's expression. "I don't follow. How does this relate to me?"

"You're not a career criminal, of course, and that's why the shift to a new identity can be even more difficult for noncriminal witnesses like you. Many criminals who enter WITSEC are happy to get a new name and start all over again because they want to leave their past deeds behind - for you, it's not so black-and-white, because we're asking you to leave a career that you should be very proud of. So I have to be upfront with you in this regard: it's not going to be easy. But you seem to know that."

Olivia reached for the glass and took a swig of water, focussing on the way it slid down her throat. She knew it - she'd known it since the moment she'd woken up in the hospital and looked up into the marshals' grim expressions. But did she really know the pain of what came next, or how to fight her way through this trial?

(Was she prepared for what looked like a lifetime of lying?)

"But I'll put it this way - just because the events that Olivia Benson experienced aren't on the "official" record of Olivia Davis doesn't mean that they never happened. The interesting thing is that many former career criminals end up thriving in witness protection, precisely because they've been so badly burned by their life of crime that they vow never to go back down that path. And maybe it won't be so different for you. Your past life will always be a part of you, Olivia, and it's going to impact the decisions you make going forward, whether you realise it or not. Just because you're leaving your life in New York behind doesn't mean that your new one is going to be completely removed from it. Your memories - good and bad - will be a part of you, and not even a federal record change or new alias can rob you of your agency over those memories."

She listened in a grave, contemplative silence. Agency. That was a word she hadn't thought of much - definitely not since arriving at the clearinghouse, where every move she made felt like it was out of her hands.

Agency, Olivia repeated under her breath. It was a word she now wanted to burn into her memory; a power she wanted to grasp tightly, no matter how limited it felt.

"You've accomplished a lot despite the difficulties you've had at home and work. You can't change the impact that all these events have had on you, but you also have the chance to build a new life independent of those bad memories."

Something stirred in her and Olivia sat up in her seat with renewed vigour. "I've never thought about it that way."

You also have the chance to build a new life independent of those bad memories.

That was something that'd never crossed her mind as the harrowing details of her father, Sealview, William Lewis had poured out. It'd eluded her as exhaustion consumed her and she crashed into her bed before dinner the previous night. She'd obsessed so much over losing her past, that she hadn't thought about the possibilities in what came next.

Maybe a little distance was what she truly needed to heal.

"You're still going to be the person you are, Olivia," Nguyen reiterated reassuringly. "Changing your last name or backstory isn't going to make the strength or fight in you disappear. And we'll work on a new identity that works for you - something that's going to keep you safe, but also one that you want for yourself."

"That sounds good." She was almost shocked to realise that she believed what she was saying.

Agency. She had agency. She was going to find a way to make this work, somehow.

"Great." The printer in the corner whirred to life and spat out the page she'd just read with a note of finality.

"Has anyone ever told you that you sound exactly like a therapist?" Olivia joked lightly as she reached for the pen.

"Just one of the many hats I wear as a Deputy Marshal," Nguyen smiled as she handed Olivia a pen and the print-out. "If you're good to go… you can sign off on this and we'll start working through the details of your alias."

You can't change the impact that these events have had on you, good or bad, but you also have the chance to build a new life independent of those bad memories.

Olivia's hand hovered over the dotted line for a few final seconds.

You're still the person you are, Olivia. Changing your last name or backstory isn't going to make the strength or fight in you disappear.

Those were the exact words she needed to hear and remember.

She reached out and signed the name Olivia Benson for what was probably the last time, with slightly more hope than she had entering the room that morning.

"Let's get to work."

It was a fresh start - but with a life that still felt like her own.


CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

Rafael Eduardo Barba

Assistant District Attorney Rafael Barba, b. October 24, 1970 to a working-class family in Bronx, NY. Son of Lucia and Ricardo Barba (deceased); grandson of Catalina and Mateo Diaz (deceased). Troubled home life - abuse, alcoholism in household… Mother is a former middle and high school Spanish teacher and now principal of a charter school in the South Bronx.

… Attended local Catholic schools and won a full scholarship to Harvard (English, magna cum laude, '92 and JD, 95'). 17 years' experience in the King's County District Attorney's office and 1 year in the Manhattan District Attorney's office (Sex Crimes Bureau). Has an 84% conviction rate that includes high-profile convictions of serial predator/rapist/murderer William Lewis and talk show host Adam Cain…

"Is the information presented here accurate and complete?" Blake asked. "If you've missed any details, I can type them up before I print it out."

"I think that's it," Rafael replied confidently. He'd methodically catalogued all these details in his head since the day he graduated high school, but never had he expected it to come in handy in a situation like this.

There was a cruel irony to the situation. Seven years at Harvard against the odds, seventeen years in the Brooklyn DA's office, a career that he'd come to be immensely proud of - all his life's achievements, splashed out on a single sheet of paper, only for them to be completely expunged in a matter of days.

It made him feel sick.

"Fantastic," A seemingly oblivious Blake smiled, which only made Rafael feel more uncomfortable than confident. "We have all the information we need to start building your new alias."

Rafael's mind wandered to a creative writing class his mother had sent him to one summer in middle school; the excruciatingly hot afternoon in the Brooklyn classroom where he'd gripped his pen so tightly as he struggled desperately to put a single word to paper. Writer's block, he'd learned that day - now it was repeating itself as he stared at Blake, his identity a tabula rasa waiting to be populated with ideas that he didn't have.

Fiction. He couldn't escape the word; the process.

"Who do you want to be, Rafael?" Blake asked the question like he was enquiring what Rafael wanted to eat for lunch - not concocting a whole new identity.

Who do you want to be? He didn't even know who Rafael Barba wanted to be sometimes.

"Who is Rafael Marquez?"

Irritation crept into Rafael's voice. "Those are massive opening questions. Where do I even begin?"

Blake bristled at his tone. "Think of it as trying to find a middle ground between Rafael Barba and Rafael Marquez. Many witnesses in the programme try to retain as much of the essence of who they were before entering WITSEC, while also polishing over the things from their past that they don't want to carry over into their new lives. Is there anything that jumps out at you?"

"Well, being a lawyer has been the single most defining experience of my life. But like you've told me numerous times - I can't practice law because it'll blow my cover, so I suppose that won't make the cut," he remarked defeatedly.

"That's true, unfortunately," Blake said regretfully. "It'd be too easy to trace you that way. Anything else that comes to mind?"

"I don't know," Rafael replied testily. "Being a lawyer is all I've known and striven for. My entire identity."

He folded his arms on the table and stared intently at the sheet he'd just signed. "I can't imagine myself doing anything else. Going from el barrio and my shitty childhood to Harvard to my job - take one of those out and I'd be a completely different person. And now you're asking me to write a new life like it's a work of fiction we can concoct in an afternoon," he explained venomously.

"I'm aware that this is immensely difficult, but-"

"And I'm aware that it's your job, but you aren't making this any easier for me," Rafael snapped more impatiently than he'd intended, which instantly sent a wave of guilt up his gullet. It wasn't like he - or either of them - had much of a choice.

Thankfully, it didn't seem to faze Blake. "Let's try this slightly differently, then. If you went back in time and chose a different career path, what would you be?"

It genuinely stumped him. He'd never seriously considered that question, especially after he'd made up his mind to pursue law school and never turned back, but circumstances were forcing his hand, twenty years later, and he needed an answer, now.

"Probably something people-oriented," he offered tentatively.

"That's a good start. Did any other career paths pique your interest when you were exploring your options at Harvard?"

"I did lots of theatre growing up, but don't think that acting was ever a realistic path. I honestly don't remember what else I considered seriously. Maybe I gave academia some thought, but I didn't want to get tied down by a PhD."

"Let's change tack, then. What about being a lawyer did you find the most interesting or stimulating? Maybe there's something in the same vein that could work for you."

That was a question he could actually answer. "It's changed a lot over the years. I've always loved the intellectual challenge, and being able to stand in front of a crowd and make a strong statement about something that I believed very strongly in - that's the nature of the work in the Sex Crimes Bureau. And of late… I've realised how rewarding it can be to really connect and advocate for the victims. A more affective, empathetic dimension to the job, I suppose."

Olivia's impact. Rafael couldn't resist breaking out in a smile - something that'd felt particularly elusive as of late. He'd been with Manhattan barely a year, but something about Olivia had lit his fire in a way the Brooklyn detectives never had, as competent and professional as they were. How he wished that he'd gotten more time in Manhattan, but that wasn't a hope he wanted to hang onto for much longer - especially when he already was in the thick of mourning his career.

"All this is great, Rafael," Blake assured him between his furious note-taking. "We can work on a cover story that draws on all of that."

Maybe it wasn't going as terribly as Rafael had expected. At the very least, he was grateful that "alias-building" didn't entail sitting in front of a blank sheet of paper and writing a new narrative from scratch, like they'd done with their last names, but even as Blake continued with his line of questioning, Rafael couldn't shake the growing dread in his gut.

He knew it was his body's way of telling him no, you can't do this. No, you can't write a life for yourself where you never grew up in the Bronx and overcame that to get to Harvard. No, you can't rewrite your past like you're writing a book.

It was his visceral reaction to his growing need to lie about his past, the consequences of not complying far more deadly than he wanted to imagine.

The process was supposed to be collaborative, and Blake made sure of that with a methodical efficiency. He pored over every detail and carefully documented every one of Rafael's responses, repeating them back to him as he typed them out. The questions came faster, the responses more gregarious, and Rafael's nods of agreement increasingly frequent as the hours ticked by.

Who is Rafael Marquez?

The answers remained unclear, but he had agency. He was going to find a way to make this work, somehow.

Except that it still felt like a life that truly wasn't his own, and he feared was never going to be his own.


"You have to be kidding me."

He was struggling to stir the pot on the stove with only his right arm, but Olivia was far more compelling than canned mushroom soup could ever be. (She always was.)

Her bell-like laughter lit up the room. "I'm not kidding, Rafael," she insisted.

"You actually went undercover for the FBI… as an eco-terrorist named Persephone James?"

"First and foremost… we weren't actually eco-terrorists. Just over-zealous activists with a knack for getting arrested. And Persephone was a real person running an organic greenhouse upstate. I just borrowed her identity for a bit and flew to Portland for a few months." Olivia couldn't help but think that the real Persephone would be proud that they were whipping up a vegetarian meal (although not that it was from a can).

"Still - you do know that Persephone was married to Hades, right?"

"Believe me - I'm no expert in Greek mythology, but the week-long crash course I got from my handler was more than enough to get me up to speed." She almost - almost - pitied Dean Porter, with whom she'd spent a very long few days in Quantico preparing for the assignment.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't buy you as a radical tree-hugger," he remarked with an amused chuckle. "Especially with the amount of single-use plastic you went through at the precinct."

"Hey, I have a reusable coffee mug. That's a start," she retorted.

Had a reusable coffee mug. Another thing she didn't want to correct to the past tense.

A wistful, contemplative look suddenly crossed his face. "How did you do it, Liv?"

She frowned quizzically. "How I switched to a reusable coffee mug?"

"No… go undercover as someone who isn't the slightest bit like you."

The eerie parallels between Persephone and the present weren't lost on either of them. Olivia's mind instantly raced back to the scorching summer she'd spent in Portland in skin (and a bad haircut) that never truly felt like her own, no matter how much she'd tried to convince herself otherwise.

No more clear cuts, no more lies! Stop committing ecocide!

She'd recited those lines so many times that they'd been indelibly burned into her memory and she'd almost believed that she truly was one of EDG, but Rafael was right - Persephone wasn't the slightest bit like Olivia Benson, and she still marvelled at the fact that she hadn't once blown her cover in a moment of weakness.

"Practice, I guess. Saying my new name to myself in the mirror, writing it on paper until it felt familiar… It took some time to feel natural." She hadn't kept many souvenirs from her time in Portland - she'd tossed many of them after Dana Lewis had gone to jail for murder - but the notebook page on which she'd practised "Persephone James" in her scratchy cursive until it felt like second nature had survived.

(Now she wondered if that page would survive the trip to her new home.)

"It was like rehearsing for a role," she added. "I just kept telling myself that it was for a job, and that I had to play the role well to get the information I needed for the Feds."

"That's what I'm nervous about," he confessed. "You've been undercover; you've had practice. You know that lying isn't my strong suit. And we're not doing this with a job in mind. It's… an entirely new life with no definite end date."

She tried her best to hide just how unnerving the last part sounded. "I don't know that it's lying. We're just… re-writing the past, in a way." She stood up to help him scoop the soup into bowls. "And we'll both definitely get better with practice. You did theatre in school. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"That's just semantics, isn't it? I can't spontaneously become someone else without feeling like my body's on fire because when I have to tell someone that I'm from Chicago instead of New York." That was the only detail he'd worked out with Blake today, and even then, it wasn't going down easy.

"There probably isn't an easy way to get around it," she said pensively, although she managed a brave smile. "But we're not going to be completely new people, are we? We're still us, just with some tweaks and paperwork changes."

"But what if I'm the person I am now precisely because of the life I've led? Aren't we the people we are because of the places we come from and people we love? What if I can't separate the two?" he rambled, almost spilling the soup in the process.

"This conversation is getting very existential, Rafael," she remarked, although a genuine concern peeked out from behind her bemused grin. "Are you alright?"

"Honestly? I don't know if I am," he sighed. "It was a rough day."

(Rough was an understatement, but it wasn't something he wanted to alarm Olivia with. Not when she looked this buoyant; this hopeful. Qualities he didn't have.)

"Do you want to talk about it?" she offered gently.

"This whole process is making me uncomfortable," he confessed. "I like my life, Liv. And the thought of writing over that with a concocted backstory made me feel sick - like my mind was resisting it the whole time. I'm fully aware that this is necessary, but it still made me profoundly uncomfortable."

She got up and wordlessly scooped a portion of the cooked soup into his bowl, although she never quite took her eyes off him.

"All the parts of my life - el barrio, my dad, Harvard, being a lawyer - just fit together, and I can't pull that apart and pick and choose the parts I want to keep. I guess I'll need some time to let all this sink in, but right now I'm not confident that I'm ever going to own the life I'm making up now."

Olivia wished that she had something more sagacious to offer him. "Just because they don't exist on paper anymore doesn't mean your life is going to disappear entirely. They'll always be a part of you."

She reached across the table and rested an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "And I'm always going to know the whole truth, even if we can't speak about it outside closed doors. Just like you know me."

"How did you find all this, Liv?" he asked. "Coming up with a new alias?"

"Actually not as dreadful as I thought it'd be. It's been a bad year," she explained, her voice now three semitones lower. "You know that better than anyone. Maybe some distance from all of it will be good. Nguyen and I made pretty good progress today."

"But what do you feel about the rest of it? Letting go of the rest of your life in one fell swoop? Your childhood, the entirety of your career…?" he pressed.

"I wouldn't call it that. Everything that's ever happened to me still happened, whether or not it's on my "official" record. Maybe I actually like the idea of hanging on to some parts of myself and freeing myself of the others. There are lots of things in my life that have weighed too heavily on me, and I'm thinking that I actually don't mind... letting some of them go."

"I don't know about that, Liv. My whole past, even the worst parts - made me the person I am, Liv. Everything's connected. Remember the time we were working the Alex Munoz case and Amaro followed me into the elevator in a huff?"

Olivia hadn't heard Nick's name in over a week and the mere mention of him made her hair stand on end, like he'd just uttered a forbidden word. "I remember that. What happened?"

"He accused me of being afraid to go after Alex because he stayed in the Bronx and embraced his working-class roots to help the community while I ran off to Harvard and worked my way into "high society" like all the gringuitos. Insinuated that I was feeling guilty for selling out. Bodega psychoanalysis - I'm quite sure that's what I called Nick's little speech."

She recalled the tension between Nick and Rafael - so thick that she could cut it with a knife - like it was yesterday. Did she actually miss what felt like being trapped between two squabbling children?

(She'd still give anything to go back.)

"Amaro meant well, but he got me wrong. I'm not ashamed of my family or my background - not at all. I don't think I sold out. Without all the things that went down at home when I was a kid, I'd never have worked my ass off to get that scholarship and this job. It was powerful motivation. And taking even some of it away feels like I'm having all my limbs cut off and substituted with mismatched replacements."

"That's gruesome, but it's not like you're being killed and resurrected as an entirely different person just because your last name and paper details are changing. Rafael Marquez can't be completely different from Rafael Barba, right?"

Rafael nodded, but wished he believed that.

"You're still the same person - at least to me. Even if I can't call you "Barba" when I'm mad at you, or Rafael Marquez didn't fight his way into Harvard from a Bronx Catholic school. I know it's tough, but you're not going to forget all of Rafael Barba overnight. And if you ever need a reminder, I've got you."

He managed a feeble smile. At least he still had her.

"Come on, let's not talk about body parts while we're eating," she added. "We're going to be fine, Rafael - even if things aren't great now." Olivia's smile was warm and reassuring - probably his one bright spot in what'd been a seemingly endless day of talking.

He wished that he had Olivia's tenacity; her grit. The ability to untether herself from her past; to somehow be both Olivia Benson and Olivia Davis at once - the opposite of him, so stubbornly proud of his past.

He was Rafael Marquez, not Rafael Barba, and his life and safety now hinged on his ability to suck it up and do what he needed to do. After all, Rafael Marquez couldn't possibly be completely different from Rafael Barba, right?


CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL [UPDATED]

Olivia Davis

Olivia Davis, b. February 7, 1968 in Los Angeles, CA. Alumna of the University of Oregon (Psychology, magna cum laude, '90). Parents (names unknown) deceased - more details forthcoming. Primary residences were Portland, OR and Los Angeles, CA.

Extensive work experience in women's advocacy groups and non-profit organisations, particularly in the areas of mother-child welfare, safe housing, and provision of welfare services - an experienced administrator and leader who is confident in a fast-paced work environment and managing large groups of people.

Has strong interpersonal and communication skills; is likely to pursue jobs in the realm of social justice or advocacy.

[Notes from Deputy Marshal Michelle Nguyen: Olivia is adjusting well to the taxing demands of the orientation programme. She is vocal about her concerns and proactive in addressing them. Has a positive outlook despite the circumstances, which bodes well for the transition to her new location.]

CASE NOTES: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL [UPDATED]

Rafael Marquez

Rafael Marquez, b. October 24, 1970 in Chicago, IL. Alumnus of ? University (major unknown, '92). Parents' background unknown at present. Primary residences were Chicago, IL and ?.

Work experience in the ? field. [Details pending.]

[Notes from Deputy Marshal Edward Blake: Rafael is still in the process of building a new alias - more details to be added soon. He has exhibited some resistance and discomfort with the process, although he gradually warmed up to it during the interview. Am anticipating some, if not significant, difficulties with the transition ahead.]


"We'll start the day with some exciting news."

Olivia and Rafael weren't sure that anything coming from the marshals could possibly count as "exciting" news, but they nonetheless waited for the reveal with bated breath.

"We've finally decided where we're going to relocate you to."

Her breath caught. Now that was something they'd been eagerly waiting on for days.

"When we relocate witnesses, we try to find a place where they're likely to assimilate into the local community - meaning that we tried to find a place that felt compatible with your professional histories and backgrounds. With that in mind, we've found a city for you that seems like a great fit," Nguyen smiled. "And you won't have to travel far. Our area of responsibility is the D.C. metropolitan area, specifically Montgomery County..."

"So we've decided to relocate you to Bethesda, Maryland," Blake completed seamlessly. "Just a quick hop out of the city."

Bethesda, Maryland.

Olivia and Rafael's eyes met, and he could see the wheels in her head turn as she made sense of the news. Maryland. Washington D.C., essentially. He didn't instantly hate the idea, which made for a promising start. An urban area instead of cornfields and forests. A working subway system. A place he'd actually heard of.

And it was just a 4-hour drive from New York.

(Not that he was planning to make the trip back, but that knowledge was oddly comforting - even if he didn't know what to do with it.)

Blake and Nguyen went on to explain how they'd arrived at the decision - some things about safety, it being one of the most highly educated counties in America, its excellent amenities, and promising job prospects - but Rafael and Olivia were almost impervious to their explanation. They finally had a destination, which meant only one thing: all this was real, which meant there'd come a day in the very near future that they'd have to leave the clearinghouse and go into the world as Olivia Davis and Rafael Marquez.

It was like the marshals had read their minds. "We're not going to release you from the clearinghouse until your new documentation arrives and you've recovered fully from your injuries - we can't have you telling people that you were shot - so you still have some time here, which you can use to read up on the places you're now from, as well as the D.C. metropolitan area," Blake added.

Nguyen set an imposingly detailed map of the county on the dining room table. "It's also a good time for you to search for housing in the area - we'll get you laptops and Internet access later today. We're familiar with the housing market here, so we'll help with that…"

Housing? This was too much, too soon, Olivia thought. With housing came the questions of rent and bills, with rent and bills came the concerns of bank accounts and credit cards, with credit cards came the need for new jobs…

But at least they finally had a place to think about. Bethesda, she repeated under her breath. Bethesda. Something concrete, after living in hypotheticals for the last fortnight. It was a name she'd soon be saying a lot more of.

"Any questions?" Nguyen asked.

Rafael and Olivia had so many questions - too many to count - but no words escaped their mouths.

"We'll leave you two to it. Let us know if you need anything," Blake added as they turned towards the door. Just as quickly as they'd arrived in the living room, the marshals were gone, leaving Rafael and Olivia alone to grapple with the enormity of the news hanging over them.

He was the first to break the silence. "So… how do you feel about this? How do we feel about this?"

She lingered on his question for a few seconds. "I don't know, but I think we can make it work."

"We'll make it work," she added slightly more confidently, after a long pause.

She reached out to grip his hand, and he felt her strength seep into him. "We'll make it work," he echoed.

Maybe he was actually starting to believe it.


"I honestly thought I was going to break out in hives today."

They were lying in the shaded darkness of Olivia's room, his hand in her hair and her head resting on his shoulder. The sling, brace and last of the bandages had finally come off, and Rafael relished the feeling of her skin brushing against his, still as rose-petal soft and luminescent as it had been the last night they'd kissed by his bay window overlooking Park Avenue a lifetime ago. Exhaustion was threatening to overcome him completely, but he was alive to her every movement; her every touch.

Her gentle, lilting laughter pierced the darkness. "When?"

"When I signed that last piece of paperwork for the apartment and had to use my new signature. Somehow, it was even worse than the Skype interview."

"I've never seen you sweat as much in court as you did during that Skype interview."

He winced just recalling it. "I'm not going to lie - that was tough."

"Worse than facing off with Buchanan?" she chuckled.

"Maybe." A few months ago it'd be his worst nightmare - now he actually treasured those memories of his days in court.

It'd merely been a 15-minute interview with his prospective landlords - a retired couple looking to rent their apartment after moving to Florida. Maybe it was the fact that it was the last viable option within a 5-minute drive from Olivia's new place; perhaps it was his anxiety about navigating a brand new housing market with zero knowledge after spending all his adult years trying to master New York's hellscape. But it was definitely the fact that he was going to have to introduce himself as Rafael Marquez to a pair of complete strangers and hope that they'd buy it enough to trust him with their one-bedroom.

Dean and Ellen Kincaid clearly hadn't suspected a thing about the polite, Yale-educated former public relations executive from Chicago who was moving to D.C. for a "change of scenery", even with his lack of a credit history (the marshals had been adamant that they would not create false credit histories for anyone), but the way Rafael almost sweat through his polo T-shirt as Olivia looked on from the corner was more than enough to prove that even an otherwise ordinary conversation could be an uphill battle.

And that was only the first of many. He couldn't tell if it was the growing spring heat or sheer anxiety that the memory generated that was making him sweat.

"Well, you got the apartment. I'm glad we got that sorted out." He could feel her smile against his shoulder.

I'm glad we got that sorted out. That choice of pronoun had slipped out of her mouth without a second thought, but the knowledge that they were in this together was more comforting than any closed housing deal could ever be.

"And the rest of the work starts tomorrow." It was just past midnight - eight more hours until Nguyen and Blake drove them out of this fortress and back into the real world, and every minute now seemed to tick by twice as quickly.

She exhaled softly into his shoulder. "I guess this is real now."

The last few days had brought about the feeling in waves, the first being the day their new documentation arrived. Olivia couldn't help but stare at the fresh, undented plastic of her new driver's license, bearing her new last name and Maryland emblazoned on the top. New birth certificates bearing unfamiliar states and the names of hospitals they'd never once stepped foot in. Freshly-printed Social Security cards as flimsy as their grip on their new identities.

But she'd been caught off-guard by an unsuspecting object in the manila folder - a college diploma from the University of Oregon, bearing her name in bold typeface and even aged to look like it was printed in 1990. She didn't even care much for her college degree, but it didn't stop her from running her finger over the embossed logo, unsure whether to be in awe or horrified. So rigorous had the marshals been that even an aspect of her life she rarely thought about had a substitute of its own.

The only thing that felt sorely missing was her NYPD shield.

The second wave hit them when the marshals had a Macbook Air and a box of guidebooks delivered to their apartment, accompanied by a note instructing them to read up as much as possible - Chicago for Rafael, Los Angeles and Portland for Olivia. The computer keys - ones that she'd spent hours typing away on in the precinct - suddenly felt cumbersome under her newly clumsy fingers, and she found herself hovering over the "N", "Y", "P" and "D" keys wondering if her account had already been deleted from the server but could never find the courage to reach out and press them in order. D.C. area newspapers showed up at their doorstep, and Olivia pored over the local news with as much dedication as Rafael had tackling the crossword, unfamiliar suburb names like "Rockville" and "Kenwood" slowly seeping into her consciousness.

And the third and final wave crashed over her the moment they closed the laptop for the last time after their dinner of pesto pasta - the first meal they'd been able to properly cook together after deftly working around their injuries - and cast their eyes on their now-empty closets, all their clothes now neatly stowed in the same drawstring bags they'd come in, soon to join the rest of their possessions at their new apartments.

Maybe the clearinghouse had grown on her - heinous concrete walls, old-fashioned wooden furniture, unearthly silence and all. It'd grown on her because it meant safety; something she wasn't as sure they'd have when the marshals' car pulled out of the compound in a few hours' time.

Perhaps Rafael had sensed her worry, because he wordlessly tightened his embrace around her, every brush of his skin an unequivocal and resonant we've got this even through his own fear. There were so many things lingering on the tip of her tongue - thank you for having my back; I'm so glad that you're here - but she settled for a steady grip on his hand, her silent confirmation that they going to be alright, somehow.

Now he was much more than just a friend; a colleague who kept her on her toes and occasionally got on her nerves. And they were far past being colleagues who'd fallen into bed together after a drunken night at Forlini's. Now he grounded her in the absence of anything else concrete to hold onto. He completed her; completed Olivia Davis with Olivia Benson.

Olivia's eyes fluttered shut to the feeling of his lips against her forehead, warm and tender, and she bit back her mounting anxiety as she settled into his arms. Tomorrow was a brand new day - a new beginning - but for now, she could afford herself the luxury of basking in what seemed like the only source of safety she had left.