A/N: I started this as like 5 a.m. so I hope it's okay. This is the much-requested story about what happened at the press conference. I don't have a lot of dialogue in this one, because I can't remember everything they said in the movie. I'm still running short of ideas for POVs, so anything you want to request, add, whatever would be appreciated. Thanks to all my reviewers again, and please R&R and all that :) Oh ya, there is one swear in here. Just a heads up.

At 11:30 a.m. my time, on August 9, I got 1,000 hits! Amazing! You guys are awesome.

I scowled as the sounds of a busy newsroom assaulted my ears. No caffeine, little sleep, and a story that just scraped by the deadline didn't make a happy reporter. Not to mention I had no breakfast. My monthly budget was stretched thin because I needed more locks on the door and window of my little apartment, so I had to sacrifice a meal.

"Cheryl!"

My editor was standing outside his own personal, quiet, spacious office. Of course I'm jealous.

I stomped over to the door, scowling. "Yeah?" Unless I got paid to be nice, I wouldn't try to hide my bad mood. The editor knew I was a good writer and always made the deadlines (However close-cut). I could name ten people that would get fired before I was even considered for a layoff.

"Dent called a press conference today at 2. Something about Batman. You finish the last story I gave you yet?"

I nodded.

"Then you cover the press conference. I want a hot story." Ugh. Hot story equaled another sleepless night while I sat at my keyboard and tried to think of words to attach to the headline. Thanks to the new locks, I wouldn't be able to splurge and buy some late-night coffee or energy drinks either.

I trudged back to my desk, wrinkling my nose at the smell of cigarettes. Mike smoked like a chimney whenever he could, which meant there was practically a fifteen-foot radius around him that smelled like smoke.

I ignored his cheery "Good morning!" (Stupid morning people) and sat down. I stared at my blank computer screen for a while, then fiddled with my purse. I glanced over to the clock hanging up on the far wall. 8:15. Something like six more hours until the press conference. I sat some more, swiveled around in my chair, and turned on my computer.

Sometimes, I wish I could actually stay in my apartment all day, no matter the extra heating/cooling and electricity costs. To just be able to call in sick, take a day off, pop in for a short nap.

A nap sounded good right now… I glanced around the room. Some old ragged couches sat abandoned in a corner. Some of them were literally being held together with duct tape and staples, but I didn't care. Right now, I could fall asleep even on one of those monstrosities, springs digging into my back and all.

I dragged my tired body over there and crashed onto one hidden in some sort of alcove made by cabinets. I cautiously peered around. No, my editor would not be able to see me from his office door. I set the alarm on my phone for noon, then tucked my phone in my pocket and stretched out and waited for oblivion.

I hate my phone. It's loud. And annoying. And it wakes me up when I'm stealing naps on the job. How do you turn off the alarm?!

Once I finally managed to shut the alarm off by turning my phone on and off, I stretched. Yep, my back was sore from one (or more) of the springs digging into my back. Yep, I felt better anyways. A few hours of sleep will do that to you. In retaliation for waking me up, I ignored the clock on my phone and peered across the room at the wall clock. 12:07. I vaulted to my feet, grabbed my coat and my purse, and headed for the door.

Lunch was a cheap sandwich down at the local grocery store, and gulps of water from the bathroom sink. Yum. I wandered around then newsroom for a while to kill time, until I decided to just head for the conference. I grabbed my scruffy notebook and stubby excuse for a pencil, and headed for my car.

My car was perhaps my only indulgence. It was black and ancient and run down, but my baby had seen me through my entire career as a journalist. The muffler was broken, and I could only start the car half the time of the first try, but I still loved it. Instead of taking cheaper public transportation, I spent my money on gas and drove.

Traffic, numerous swears (both said and directed at me), and one splash from one of the puddles that never seems to evaporate, and I was at the press conference. Other reporters were already milling about, fiddling with notebooks or recorders, and TV crews were checking their equipment.

Curious civilians who had somehow heard of the conference mixed in with the reporters. I ignored the idle chatter and pushed my way through to crowd to grab a seat in the first half of the room. It took a while until everyone settled down.

Harvey Dent strolled onto the stage with a grin on his face. He was as immaculate as ever without a hair out of place, as befitting the 'White Night' of Gotham. I really wanted to fire whichever journalist made up that nickname.

Dent did the whole political take, arguing about giving in to the Joker's demands and all that, but I tuned him out. I didn't care about why Batman takes off his mask. I just wanted to know when so I could be there. A story like that would send my career to better paid heights.

"So be it. Arrest the Batman." Dent finally stopped trying to argue with the insanely curious public, stepped down from the podium, and stood on the stage in front of it.

I sat up straighter in my seat, making sure that I could get full view of the stage. My attention was focused solely on Dent (who was about to speak) when a person in the crowd of people yelled out.

"I am Batman." The voice was mid-range for a man's and well-spoken. It was not the voice of someone who had grown up on the streets of Gotham, but rather an accent that spoke of high class and money.

Everyone's heads turned towards the man at the same time, like there was some silent signal. Someone's head is blocking my way (Of course it's a jerk from Gotham Times) and I crane my neck to get a look at the man that everyone had started murmuring about. If I just tilt my head a little to the right and duck down the slightest and – holy crap.

Bruce Wayne.

I think my jaw might have literally dropped, but I was a little too shocked to notice. The Prince of Gotham (another stupid nickname) was Batman? On the stage, Dent looked crushed. I would be too, if the man I had just argued to save was the world's most pompous arrogant airhead.

The murmuring had grown in volume, until it rose to a dull roar. Reporters started shouting out questions, but Wayne just ignored them. He strode towards the stage, where two policemen flanked Dent. One already had handcuffs out and ready.

The dull roar grew until it reached epic proportions. Nobody could believe it. Bruce Wayne! Some people were crowding around him for pictures or to try and shout out a question, while others practically dashed from the room. This was definitely a story that would jumpstart someone's career.

I myself was standing on my chair, watching the events from a broader perspective. For all the jostling and pushing the journalists and reporters were dishing out among themselves, nobody touched Wayne. The man seemed to have a five-foot bubble around him.

Wayne was stony-faced as the officers put him in handcuffs and led him away. When I walked out (going at a dignified pace and not running like everyone else) Dent was still standing there gobsmacked. Wouldn't that be a great picture under the headline. Poor guy, probably though Batman would be someone worthy of the title.

A story was churning through my head, headlines squabbling for my attention. Batman Revealed: Who Is the Caped Crusader? Or Billionaire Bruce Wayne Arrested! Maybe Batman and Bruce Wayne; What Do They Have In Common?

This news would sell papers for months! Visions of paychecks and breakfast swam in my head, and I squealed out of the parking lot in my little car. There was a story to be written, and an editor that would be hovering over my shoulder to until I finished it.