7:37PM

I suddenly felt the strain of gravity when I saw her, pulling down on my heart and my soul.

Brittney was sitting alone on a curb beneath the monorail tracks about a half of a block from the pool hall crying helplessly. Her face was a muted canvas of dejection, streaked with makeup, blood, and bruises. Her neck was covered with finger marks and scratches. And, her clothes were cratered and torn. Not a single passerby stopped to see if she was okay.

Damn Gotham to hell.

No one in this city cared about anyone. Gothamites just didn't want to get involved, fearing retaliation from the gangs and criminals. So, Brittney sat on the sidewalk drowning in her on grief without anyone to throw her a raft.

"Brittney," I said kneeling in front of her and rubbing her knee to assure that I meant her no harm.

She didn't look up. Her face was buried in her arms and her shame dripped onto the street.

"Brittney," I figured I wouldn't ask the questions that were obvious no's—so I went with my gut, "where is he?"

She shook her buried head.

"Brittney, where is he at? Is he still inside?"

She nodded without looking up.

"Okay, honey," I said rattling my car keys in my hand, "I want you to sit in my car. I'm going to run inside real quick. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded again coughing and sobbing alternately. I helped her to her feet and then to the car. She dragged the soles of her shoes as she walked—hobbled really—not wanting to move her aching thighs. I lowered her into the passenger seat and then aided her in lifting her legs into the car; she winced as I did so. Then I reached across and started the engine, switching the heater on in the process. "Okay, sit tight," I said. "I'll be right back." She didn't acknowledge me. I shut the door and started making my way back to the pool hall.

Good thing it was autumn and frigid, otherwise I may have spontaneously combusted with the anger that was building. There was a hotspot growing at the base of my skull that threatened to erupt into wildfire of violence. I checked that my sidearm was still in its holster beneath my armpit. If the wildfire grew to a fever pitch, I would need it. I was going to make Derrick pay for this and I was trying to decide whether I should use the two bullets that had his name on them.

I got to the front door, threw it open, and stormed into the bar. The patrons, numbering maybe fifteen in total, paused briefly looking in my direction and then, uninterested, went back to their drinks. There were three men playing pool in the basin off to the right.

I assumed he was one of them.

I stalked over, my fists clenched. "Which one of you losers is Derrick?"

"I'd be Derrick. Who's asking?" He was a fair-skinned man of average height and a stocky, medium build, if not a bit overweight. His face was nearly square with almond shaped eyes, a goatee, and receding dirty blonde hairline.

"The Gotham City Police Department, you asshole. You're under arrest," I asserted pulling my sidearm.

Everyone stopped and he put his hands up. "Watch where you're pointing that thing, you crazy bitch!"

"Funny," the dark-haired man next to him said drawing a weapon in response. "I wasn't aware of any warrants for his arrest."

I recognized the guy. He was a beat cop from the precinct that had jurisdiction over this area. My aim bounced between them.

"This is an opportunistic arrest." My mouth filled with disgust. "This man assaulted and raped a woman tonight. He'll be lucky if he makes it to the station alive."

"We don't make arrests of opportunity on this side of town."

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

"I don't think you heard me correctly," he retorted.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was a cop. He was supposed to protect and serve. But the only thing he was protecting was this animal, not the innocent woman who had her dignity taken from her.

I cocked my head in his direction to speak; it was the wrong move.

Derrick grabbed ahold of my gun and yanked it, dragging me along, and buried his fist in the side of my face. I felt the floor shift beneath my feet and the world became instantly blurry as my eyes filled with tears. I managed to catch myself against the pool table behind me, realizing that—like a true Marine—I still had my gun in my hand.

Derrick was coming at me. I tried to clear the haze in my head so I could regain my footing and raise my gun but he was too quick—or I was too dazed. I felt a beer bottle smash against my eyebrow causing at first a sharp pain and then numbness. The impact didn't help my blurred vision.

I fell back onto the pool table again and heard Derrick make another move but the cop stopped him.

"Whoa!" cautioned the guy. "Chill-out, slugger!"

"This cunt just pointed a gun at me!"

"This cunt is the police commissioner's daughter. Let's not make this messier than it already is."

They were silent for a few seconds. I was debating whether to stand up and try to shoot him or just admit defeat. They made the decision for me, though. "Help me get her outside."

The cop wrenched the gun from my fingers and then grabbed my arm, Derrick grabbed the other.

"Way-to-go, man. She's bleeding everywhere."

I heard my feet scraping across the floor followed by the jingle of the door as it opened. Then, I felt the concrete as the sidewalk rushed up to hit me. At least I didn't hit my head; it landed against the back of my hand.

Dammit.