Once again, disclaimer: This is my very first Millennium fanfic. Blame any errors on my lack-of-experience, if you please. Thanks so much to everyone who's read/favorited so far. Means a lot to me! :)

~TruthIsOutThere

P.S.- Just throwing it out there. I really dig reviews, too. Just saying.

Blomkvist arrived at his daughter's apartment around five 'o' clock that evening.

He had to knock twice before someone came to the door.

A tall woman with dark brown hair stood in the doorway. She wore a pair of sweatpants and a jogging bra, iPod headphones slung over her arm.

"Sorry," she said, breathlessly. "I was working out. Didn't hear the door." She reached out and grabbed a water bottle from an unseen table beyond the doorway. She took a healthy swig and wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist. "How can I help you?"

Blomvist felt a familiar pang of loneliness looking at the young girl. Her hair was pulled back— her face, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Blomkvist would have been attracted to her, had he not felt overwhelmed with nostalgia for his ex-fiancé, Monica Figuerola, who had spent every moment of her free time at the gym. Every moment she wasn't with Blomkvist, of course.

"Um. Is Pernilla home?" Blomkvist asked, uncomfortably. He rocked back and forth on his heels. On the one hand, he didn't want to be intrusive, but on the other hand, the journalist inside of him was absolutely dying to ask this woman how he knew her daughter.

"Nilla? Yeah. She's in the other room." The woman smiled pleasantly, then cast a glance over her shoulder. "Nilla!" she called. "It's for you!"

"For me?" Mikael heard his daughter's muffled voice, from the other room.

The stranger turned his attention back to Mikael. "Who are you?" she asked. She tipped her head to the side, curiously scrutinizing this man who had so abruptly shown up on her doorstep.

"I'm Pernilla's father," Blomkvist said, incredulously. "And who are you?"

The woman smiled.

Just then Pernilla appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy?" she asked, sounding baffled. She glanced around, shivering. "Come in," she said. "Tish, get away from the door. You'll catch hypothermia dressed like that. Come in, come in." Pernilla ushered her father through the doorway. "Daddy, I see you've met Tish. My roommate."

"I didn't know you had a roommate," Blomkvist admitted.

"You should come visit more often," Pernilla said. There was no resentment in her voice. Pernilla was always pleasant, even to those who didn't deserve it.

The familiar feeling of guilt washed over Blomkvist. Though they didn't always agree, Mikael had always loved his daughter dearly. Sometimes, in her presence, he felt as if he'd been neglectful to her during her teen years. Now she was an adult, living her own life. He hardly knew her. It troubled him.

"I should," Blomkvist agreed. He decided then to make a real effort to make this a commitment.

Pernilla gave him a warm smile.

"What are you doing way out here, daddy?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes to brush a bit of snow off the shoulder of his coat. "If I had known you were visiting, I would have cleaned the place up a bit."

"I know, I know. I should have called." Blomkvist gave his daughter an apologetic look. "I'm afraid this is all something of a last minute trip, though."

Pernilla pursed her lips, looking pensive.

"Come have some coffee with us," she resolved, leading him into the kitchen. "You can tell me all about it."

Blomkvist took a seat at Pernilla's table, across from Tish. He eyed her for a long moment. She flashed him a flirtatious grin. Blomkvist looked away, feeling instantly uncomfortable. Tish was too young— too much like his daughter while simultaneously too much like Monica.. She was attractive, of course, but he would never dream of it.

"Here you go, daddy. Tish." Pernilla handed out cups of coffee. She took a deep breath. "So," she said, taking a seat between her father and her roommate. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

Blomkvist rubbed the back of his head.

"I'm afraid it's a rather long story."

"The short version then," Tish cut in, smiling around the rim of her coffee mug. "You're a journalist, aren't you? You must have some paraphrasing skills."

"Right," Blomkvist breathed. "Well, I suppose I'm on my way to a funeral."

"See?" Tish asked, raising an eyebrow. "Wasn't so hard."

Pernilla rolled her eyes. "Who's funeral, daddy?" she asked, resting her head on her hands, and looking lost in thought.

Blomkvist cleared his throat. "Henrik Vanger's, actually."

"Henrik Vanger?" Tish asked. "The CEO?"

"Former CEO," Blomkvist corrected. "But yes, we're talking about the same man."

"He's dead?" Tish asked.

"Apparently," Mikael said. "I got a call from his attorney this morning. I'm to head to Hedestad at once."

"Why is his attorney calling you?" Pernilla frowned.

Clever girl, Blomkvist thought. She analyzed things. Just like her father.

"It appears I was included in Herr Vanger's will," Blomkvist admitted. "In what way, I have no idea. That's why I'm going; to find out."

"Well, let's hope you got a lot of money," Tish said, wryly. She got up from the table and dumped her dishes in the sink. "That's what I'd be hoping for."

"Tish," Pernilla scolded. She turned back to her father. "Is Herr Vanger paying all of his former employees?"

"I was hardly his employee," Blomkvist reasoned. "I wrote his memoir."

"You know what I mean."

Blomkvist let out a long, slow breath. "I'm not sure," he said, finally. He looked at his daughter. She was frowning— trying to work something out. Undoubtedly the same thing he'd been pondering all day. "From the way Herr Vanger's attorney phrased things, I don't think so. I think I'm an exception."

"You alone?" Pernilla asked, sipping her coffee.

"Well, not only me," Blomkvist shrugged. "Lisbeth as well."

"Lisbeth Salander?" Tish asked, abruptly re-entering the kitchen. Clearly this was a topic that interested her more than a dead man's will.

"My father worked with her on Hedeby Island, nearly four years ago," Pernilla said, before Blomkvist could answer, himself.

"My, my. You do mingle with celebrities, don't you?" Tish asked, shaking her head.

Blomkvist chuckled. "Lisbeth would kill you if she heard you say that."

"Say what? That she's a celebrity?" Tish looked amused.

"She hates it," Blomkvist said, splaying his hands out on the table. "She absolutely loathes the attention."

"I can imagine…" Pernilla sighed, sympathetic as always. "If I had gone through what she has…" Nilla shivered. "I don't think I would have survived."

Blomkvist tried his very best not to imagine his daughter in Lisbeth's position. Once again, he was reminded of the true horror story that was Lisbeth Salander's life. He shivered, too.

"She's strong," Tish remarked. Then she looked up at Blomkvist. "Do you know where she is?"

"Running around Europe, last I heard. Can't really expect her to hang around Sweden while people shove cameras in her face." Blomkvist shrugged. "I tried writing…"

"Aunt Anika talked to her," Pernilla reminded him.

Blomkvist nodded. "Yes. There's that, at least."

"I'd love to meet her. She seems fascinating," Tish said, resting her elbows on the counter. She stared at Blomkvist with intent eyes. Blomkvist realized then that his daughter's new roommate shared certain qualities with his long-time lover, Erika Berger, as well. Strange, it seemed the comparisons never stopped. With her persistence, and curiosity, Tish would probably make a decent journalist.

"I never asked you what she's like," Pernilla said. She too, seemed oddly curious about LIsbeth Salander. Blomkvist wondered how such an introverted, socially disconnected person even became a national phenomenon.

He realized he didn't blame her for leaving.

"She's the most hard-headed, perseverant person I've ever known," Blomkvist said, finally. "Outsiders… think she's crazy," he continued. "But really she's just different. It's like her mind works on a completely different track or something." He shrugged. "She's absolutely brilliant, and no one gives her credit for it. That's the most heartbreaking thing about Lisbeth. She's a complete genius, but no one will ever know, because their heads are full of inaccurate, preconceived notions about her. It's ridiculous. It's devastating. It kills me, and I don't fully understand why."

Salander carried her helmet under her arm, into the 7-11 around the corner from Pernilla Blomkvist's house.

She gazed at the decrepit selection of stale Hostess cupcakes, dented paper milk cartons, and burnt hot dogs, spinning on a rotisserie.

"Can I help you?" a man behind the counter asked.

Salander grabbed three bottles of coke, two packs of cigarettes, and a lighter. She bought a slice of questionable-looking pizza, had it microwaved, then went outside, sat in the snow, smoked, and had a late lunch.

At this point, Salander was beginning to think that maybe following Mikael hadn't been her smartest move. The moment she arrived at Pernilla's— close to an hour after he did— she found herself paralyzed— unsure of what to do, or say. She didn't feel like she could just walk up to the door and introduce herself. Even if she did, what would Mikael do? Salander's reunion with Blomkvist was beginning to seem equally as daunting as her dreaded reunion with Holger Palmgren. Lisbeth ate the rest of her pizza and brooded in silence. When she finished, she dumped her plate in the trash, smoked two cigarettes, and rode out to an Internet café she saw on her way into town.

Only there did she think to utilize a near-forgotten resource.

Welcome to Hacker Republic, Citizen Wasp. It has been sixty-seven days since your last visit. What would you like to do?

Lisbeth decided to compose a message.

To: Plague and Trinity

From: Wasp

Any interest in doing a big hack? A good deal of money is probably involved.

Her response came less than two minutes later.

To: Wasp

From: Plague

Who are we hacking? Hypothetically, of course.

To: Plague

From: Wasp

Hypothetically, we're hacking the Vanger company.

To: Wasp, Plague

From: Tinity

Why?

To: Plague, Trinity

From: Wasp

I need some info.

To: Plague, Wasp

From: Trinity

And you say there's cash?

To: Plague, Trinity

From: Wasp

There always is.

To: Wasp, Trinity

From: Plague

Count me in.

To: Plague, Wasp

From: Trinity

Me too.

To: Plague, Trinity

From: Wasp

Details to come…

Salander closed her laptop, bought a coffee, and left. She drove past Pernilla Blomkvist's apartment again. She wondered if Mikael was still there. Salander circled the apartment at least six times, looking for any sign of him. Ideally, she could find him alone and explain herself… or something.

Finding no trace of Blomkvist, Salander rode on. She stopped at another Internet café. She looked at Blomkvist's computer, and found nothing of any importance. She had three more slices of pizza. She smoked her way through both packs of cigarettes. Finally, she got back on her bike, and drove to Pernilla Blomkvist's apartment again. Salander camouflaged herself in the bushes across the street, leaned back against a telephone poll, and stood stalk-still, waiting.

She would wait until he came out of the apartment. He had to eventually.

Eventually proved to be a very long time, though. Long enough for Salander to grow antsy again, and begin to wonder if Blomkvist was even there, or if he left. She stepped off the curb and crossed the desolate street, climbing the stairs to Pernilla Blomkvist's flat. She stood by one of the frosted back windows, and rubbed it clean with her shirtsleeve. She couldn't see well through the cloudy glass, but Salander thought for sure that she could make out three, distinct figures. She took a step away from the window, lit her final cigarette, and leaned over the balcony, wondering what to do next.

It was then that the door opened.

Salander shot off like a dart, kicking her feet up over the railing and lowering herself onto the terrace below. She clambered down slowly, listening for a familiar voice.

"It was nice seeing you daddy," someone— presumably Pernilla Blomkvist— said. Her voice was quiet— soft.

"Drop by again some time," a second female's voice crooned. Salander frowned and pulled her coat closer in the frigid air.

"I'll try to drop by on my way home."

Blomkvist's voice sent a jolt of energy down Salander's spine. She hadn't anticipated that. Salander gulped, and scrambled across the icy side yard, towards the street. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then paused, pressing her back against the cement stairwell.

Salander listened carefully. She could hear footsteps coming down the staircase. Slowly, she retreated back under the porch. She stood in the shadowy darkness for a long moment, waiting for Mikael Blomkvist to emerge— and then disappear.

Why am I here? Salander wondered, for the millionth time. Why had she followed Mikael all this way?

The front gate clattered open, and Blomkvist appeared in the front courtyard. Salander followed him, keeping a safe distance. When his taxi arrived, she got onto her motorcycle, and followed him to the train station. She lingered there for half an hour until she knew his train had departed.

Then she set off on the long trip to Hedestad.

Three hours later, Salander crossed the bridge on the Hedeby Island. She once left this god-forsaken place with the feeling of closure. Now, she felt as if she were on the cusp of something new and undiscovered.

Salander wasn't sure she liked that.