During the day, Gotham City presented a fairly benign face to the world. To a casual observer, it was just another sprawling, vast metropolis, overwhelming with its crowds and its traffic and its generally insane pace. Just like any other metropolis, it had its skyscrapers and slums, its brownstones and businesses, its vociferous vendors, its crushing crowds, and its constant clamor. It had its warehouse district (equal parts industrial buildings and pretentious lofts owned by equally pretentious yuppies), its business district (a complete graveyard after the offices closed and the bridge-and-tunnel crowd returned home), its arts district (much talked about but significantly less patronized), its international district (the universally-agreed upon, more politically-correct term for Chinatown), and even a gay district (conveniently bordering the fashion district). During the day, tourists thronged to it all, eager to experience the entire city...but at night, they wisely retreated to the relative safety of their hotels.
For it was at night that Gotham City underwent a remarkable—and dismaying—transformation, and revealed a far grittier and more malevolent self. It was during the nights that the streets emptied out of all but the least respectable, or sensible, people. It was during the night that the stately architecture of Gotham's historic buildings took on a sinister aspect, looming overhead like a battalion of threatening bullies. It was during the night that the criminal element of the city emerged, reclaiming the streets, lurking and frightening like a horde of inelegant vampires. Few decent, law-abiding citizens cared to be on the streets after dark...which was why Bruce was very interested in finding out why Annabeth was spending her nights there. Not in Bordertown, where she lived, nor midtown, where she worked, but actually deep in the Narrows.
The first night he saw it happen was on a Monday evening, a mere two nights after the gala at the Manor. He had spent the entire day at Safe Haven, mainly talking with Donna about prospective sites for the satellite location, hammering out the terms of his donation and services, and occasionally pausing to interact with a few of the more sociable clients. A time or two, he encountered Annabeth, but neither acknowledged to the other their final, tense exchange that had closed their Saturday socializing. He did notice, however, that Annabeth took care to look exceptionally busy each time he happened to be in her vicinity. And Annabeth noticed his noticing.
He left Safe Haven an hour before she did, but didn't venture far— when she emerged from the building at 7:30 that evening, he was lurking at a newsstand across the street when she emerged and had a prime, unobstructed view of her as she quickly walked off into the deepening night. He followed her, of course, and fortunately, she was quite unobservant—in fact, had no clue that a 6-foot-2, scruffily-dressed man was following close behind, watching her every move. Bruce shook his head quietly at the utter obliviousness of Gotham City's citizens. Sometimes he couldn't help but to wonder if the people in this damned city were bred for victimhood. They embraced it so readily.
For ten blocks, she walked, her stride swift and determined. For ten blocks, he followed, his movements cautious and vigilant. She paused only once, to drop some change into the cup of an inert and clearly ailing homeless man. Finally, she came to her destination: the entrance the metro station for the Old Gotham line.
The Old Gotham Line? He pondered this new bit of information as he watched her descending the steps leading to the underground station. What route is—oh hell.
The Narrows.
Why the hell is she going there?
Only one way to find out. Without hesitation, he followed her down the stairs into the subterranean gloom of Gotham's long-neglected, but amazingly still functional subway line. He boarded the metro, unnoticed, with her and another score of people, mainly domestic workers, immigrants, and others who had little choice in their final destination, and quietly he slipped into a seat several rows back. From there, he had a relatively unimpeded view, and could watch and observe Annabeth. She was preoccupied, restive, constantly glancing up and around; it was obvious she was searching for someone. A secret, pre-arranged meeting, maybe? He frowned. The metro was the perfect place, perhaps, to meet with someone with whom you wanted to share illicit information. You were surrounded by strangers.
As the metro carried on to the Narrows, more people boarded. Annabeth gained a seatmate, a very worn out-looking woman who jiggled a fussing baby on her lap. The two women began to talk, and he concentrated on their lips moving, their facial expressions, their body language. As far back as Bruce was seated, he couldn't tell what the two women were saying, but it was quite clear that Annabeth was speaking in earnest. He watched as Annabeth took the baby for a few minutes, continuing to talk to the older woman as she tickled the baby and tried to coax a smile from him. At the metro stop just before the Narrows, the woman arose and took the baby—Bruce watched as they made the switch and saw Annabeth quickly slip something small and white into the woman's hand-a business card. Annabeth and the woman looked at each other for a moment, and then the woman glanced around at the various tired, defeated passengers, as though trying to ascertain that none of them had noticed the exchange. And then the woman and the baby were gone.
Finally they arrived at the Narrows. The last of the metro passengers, Bruce and Annabeth included, trickled off and headed up to the surface streets, where they dispersed into the night. Annabeth moved quickly, now, even faster than before; she crossed the street and a moment later, disappeared into a building that had seen clearly seen better days-the YWCA. Bruce remained across the street, and slunk down into an alley. He'd wait until she emerged, and see what transpired next.
Two hours later, Annabeth reappeared. At this point, she looked nothing like how when she did when she had gone inside: she had traded her suit for jeans and a sweater, a heavy coat, and sturdy steel-toed boots. Her face had taken on an even more forbidding expression, and her hair had been tied back into a ponytail. Surprisingly, she did not head back to the metro, for her home in Bordertown; instead, she took off in the opposite direction, heading straight into the heart of the Narrows. What the hell was she thinking? She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and she walked with an unwavering purpose, her posture challenging anyone who might think to screw with a single female in a nasty neighborhood. Clearly, she was insane. And he was following her right into whatever mess was waiting, so what did that say about his state of mind? Bruce was fairly certain Alfred would have plenty of answers to that question.
The next few hours passed in a most surreal manner. Annabeth wandered the streets of the Narrows, wandering into bars, staying sometimes as few as ten minutes, sometimes as long as forty-five. She paused and spoke with prostitutes and homeless men and women; not all of whom welcomed her presence. Others did, however. More than once, she passed women small, brown-paper-wrapped packages. Drugs? Stole goods? Payment of some sort? She made her way through a vast network of alleys, seeming to know her way through them all. And all the time, she talked and listened and distributed unidentifiable items. Intent as she was on her activities, Annabeth was completely oblivious to the fact that she was being followed, and this, Bruce found the most disquieting of all. How on earth did she survive?
Towards 1 AM, Annabeth began to wind down and make her way back to the metro station, her shoulders slumped in fatigue. How many mornings did she come into Safe Haven, still sleepy from a night in the Narrows? How often did she do this? And what was she doing, anyway?
He watched her safely board the metro, and then he called Alfred for the car. He was going to call it a night, too. The night had been frustrating and fruitless: It seemed like the more digging into Annabeth's existence that he did, the more questions arose, while he found less and less answers. Tomorrow night, it would be time to call in some favors, and see what he could discover.
For Tuesday night's venture, he made sure to suit up—the previous night he had had to venture down into the Narrows in civilian garb, and he didn't like it one bit. He was too vulnerable, obviously, and too ill-prepared for any of the multitude of problems that could and usually did arise in that area. So when he paid his visit to the Narrows the next night, the Tumbler was close by, and he was in full battle gear, ready to intimidate, persuade, fight, or frighten, whichever the situation would call for.
His first stop of the evening was one of the many taverns that populated the Narrows—this one was on the outskirts, and while it was as seedy and depressing as the rest of the bars, this one was a little different. This one was run by Mick McCormick's daughter, Maggie, and with the tavern she had inherited all of Mick's larger-than-life personality, along with his determined grit to hang on to the business no matter what. She ran a tight ship—no drugs, and no underaged drinkers. She paid her bartenders well, and treated the regulars like family. She had lived her entire life in the Narrows, and when her parents had grown too old to run the tavern, Maggie took up the cross without a word of complaint. She made enough to pay for her parents' care, to keep the place afloat, and to pay her rent—but in the days when Falcone's men owned the streets, much of the tavern's revenue went straight to them. Oh, how she had begrudged them every hard-earned dime that they had extorted from her, and oh, how happy she had been when Falcone and his men were forced to relinquish their control over the Narrows. Maggie McCormick knew who to thank for it, too, and she had put the word out on the streets that she was happily in the debt of the Batman.
Word had trickled back to him the way it so often did—he had established contacts and networks in the criminal community, mainly small-time dealers whom he had persuaded to mend their ways. They still had their ear to the ground, and they let the Batman know what they heard.
It was time to see how much Maggie McCormick really felt she owed.
He knew that around ten-thirty at night, she made a trash run to the dumpster behind her tavern, and so he made certain to be there then, lurking in the shadows. He stepped forward, into the weak light, as she chucked the bags into the foul-smelling dumpster. She caught sight of him, and merely stood there, not as surprised as she should have been.
"Well now." She gave him the once-over. "You certainly don't look that much like a bat."
"You don't seem surprised to see me." He stepped closer to her, noting that she didn't step back. Maggie McCormick, it seemed, was not intimidated by much, including hulking intruders dressed in black armor.
"I figured you'd be by one of these days," she shrugged. "I've been expecting you for a while." She began groping around in her shirt pockets, presumably for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Reckon you'd be needing something, someday."
He watched as she withdrew a cigarette, lit up, and took a long, satisfying drag. "I need information."
She grinned. "You're in the right place then. Most everything comes Maggie McCormick's way." She exhaled a puff of smoke, considerately blowing it in the direction opposite him. "What do you want to know?"
"Annabeth de Burgh. What do you know about her?"
"Annabeth?" Maggie was surprised. "Works down at the Y some, and at some battered woman's shelter, midtown. Some of us call her Jane."
"Jane?"
"Our own little Jane Addams." Maggie chuckled as she said this. "She's a real do-gooder, bless her. What do you want to know about her?"
"She walks around the Narrows at night. Why?"
Maggie took her time in answering his abrupt question. She took a few more drags on her cigarette, and then tilted her head upwards to gaze up at the tiny patch of sky that was visible. She appeared to be thinking, debating what she wanted to tell him. "I don't know why you want to know about her, but you'd better not be wanting to mess with her. She's not very well loved among some of the people down here, but those of us who do like her—we try to look out for her."
"Who doesn't like her?"
"Mainly men. Who else? She comes around here, hanging out in the bars, listening to the neighborhood gossip…trying to recruit clients for that shelter. She gets women and their kids out of bad home situations, tries to help the prostitutes, too. Pissed off more than a few pimps. More than once, she's turned negligent parents in to Social Servics. One mom's kids were taken away—thank god—for and she and a couple of her friends came after Annabeth. Jumped her outside the Y, so thank god there were friends of Annabeth's right there who pulled 'em off of her. They messed her up pretty good—cracked a few ribs, gave her a nasty black eye." Maggie smiled grimly. "But Annabeth held her own pretty well. She throws a mean punch."
"So that's what she's doing at night? Walking around and trying to find people to help?"
"Crazy, huh? But basically, yeah. Since so few cops come up this way, I guess she figures someone needs to be out here helping folks. Not that she can do much, and I gotta say—I think she's a little nuts. She's been doing this for a couple of years now, and I'm amazed she's gone this long without trouble. It's only a matter of time before she gets effed up." She didn't look pleased by the prospect, either.
"I want to know something else. What can you tell me about the Arrows?"
Maggie's reaction was both interesting and alarming to observe. All the bluster went out of her, and her face went completely pale. "Shit. Don't even talk about them."
"I need to know."
"You're worse than a shrink, you know that? Some things it's better for us down here not to think about, but then there you are, probing, asking questions, making us relive this shit." She glanced at him, saw him staring at her, still waiting, unaffected by her words. "Okay. Fine. The Arrows? The biggest game in town, now. Not as powerful as Falcone and Maroni, but give them time. And in some ways, they're scarier. There's some freaky men in that mob—real shits. The main pimp who oversees their women, they call him Boy-o, I think. He's a real piece of work, from what I hear."
"How?"
"I've heard he's got some creative methods for keeping the women in line—he gets really rough. Not a nice man." Maggie wasn't happy with the turn this conversation had taken. "Look, the Arrows haven't made their way to this part of the Narrows yet. But I hear a lot more about them than I used to, and I really think they're going to be expanding. You should be watching out for them."
He watched her for a moment as she stubbed out her cigarette and peered nervously up and down the alley, as though she expected some goon to take her out, right then and there, for the information she had just passed on. Maggie had fought long and hard for her business, small and struggling though it was, and still hoped for some version of the American dream. But he knew deep down that this little tavern on this shabby street would be as close as she would get. She would toil, year after year, aging and working hard and waiting, always waiting for her ship to come in. Here was an area that both god and Gotham City had long ago forgotten, and partially because of this, hard-working, essentially good people like Maggie would never experience what life beyond the Narrows could be like. Maggie's American dream would only lead to a nightmare of disappointment. The pity and guilt he felt at that moment, as he watched the woman light another cigarette as a way to numb the awfulness, were profound and awful, yet also a relief to feel—because at least that meant he could still feel.
"Thank you." The words were gruffly spoken, but heartfelt. And then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Maggie alone once more, to struggle on with her evening, her business, her life.
Wednesday night, and Annabeth was out again in the Narrows. The Batman suited up to follow her much as Bruce had done in civilian clothes earlier in the week, but this time, he followed her by way of the rooftops and fire escapes. Again, she wandered the sidewalks, streets, and alleys, talking with the locals, eliciting information, passing out tiny packages. He watched her closely—and when she began wandering back into an amazingly intricate maze of poorly-lit alleys, he finally decided to make his presence known.
He dropped down behind her, silently. Given her previous history of lack of observation, he assumed that she wouldn't notice him right away, but here he was surprised—as soon as he landed behind her, she somehow sensed him, and jerked around with a switchblade gleaming in her hand. She lunged at him, but it did no good, of course; she had no technique, and he blocked her attack and disarmed her with almost insulting ease. The blade ended up on the ground and her wrist in his iron grip.
Nonetheless, she glared at him, unfazed by her failure and spitting defiance. "You should really be careful about sneaking up on a girl in a dark alley."
The retort came to his lips before he could stop himself. "Maybe a girl should be careful about going into a dark alley in the first place."
The Batman was not expecting the sudden rage that lit her eyes on fire, nor was he expecting the steel-toed boot that she swung back and into his shin. It was the hardest kick she could deliver, but even then, there was little satisfaction to be had—with his armor, he barely registered the contact. Still, it was impressive that she had managed to go on the offensive while still in his grasp.
"You're a fucking bastard," she spat. "You know that?"
He neither answered nor released his grip on her wrist. His eyes moved to her overcoat's bulging pockets, and before she could protest, with his free hand he began groping through her coat pockets.
"What the hell?" The rage in her eyes became maniacal but also tinged with a little fear, and she began to struggle, attempting to extricate herself from his grip. The only result was a wrist that she was certain would be sore and bruised in the morning. A moment later, he yanked out one of the packages she had been passing out to the prostitutes.
"What's this?" he demanded. "Drugs? Are you their supplier?" He let her go then, and she backed up, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him tear open the package.
He gazed in disbelief at the contents he held in his hand. A plastic case with twenty-eight individual, multi-colored pills. It took a moment for him to register and recognize them—and when he blurted out his reaction, it was all he could do to keep the surprise from altering his voice into non-Batman timbres.
"Birth control pills? You're giving them birth control pills?"
Annabeth was beginning to calm down, and she was simultaneously regaining power over her sharp tongue. "I'm surprised you know what those are. Somehow I didn't think you got laid enough to worry about contraceptives."
"But why are you giving them birth control?" Incredulity was definitely beginning to creep into his voice.
"Why not, more like? Jesus fucking christ, It's not like the women down here working the streets have health insurance. And a lot of times their pimps don't give them enough money for the pills. I help them out where I can." She glared at him. "At least I'm trying. Who the hell are you, anyway? The morality police? Did the Ayatollah take over last weekend or something?"
It made sense. It made a great deal of sense, he had to grudgingly admit to himself. There was no time to feel foolish, however—he was still determined to get more answers from her. But before he could ask any thing else, press her for more information, a loud crash and a strangled cry reverberated through the alley in which they stood.
The Batman moved quickly, grabbing Annabeth by the arm and tugging her behind him, backing up until she was sandwiched between his back and the wall. "Be quiet," he growled.
In vain Annabeth tried to move out from behind him. She had a fairly strong suspicion about the origins of the noise, and every instinct she possessed now screamed at her to get to the source of the noise so she could try to help. But instead, she was stuck between a rock and a hard place—or more accurately, a wall and an overly-muscled man with a misguided notion of protection. "Let me go!" she hissed.
He moved then, cat-like in his grace and speed, heading towards the commotion. "Stay here."
Of course, she didn't stay there—while he was moving forward with stealthy yet steady speed, Annabeth was bolting past him, her boots pounding the pavement as she sprinted ahead, deeper into the alley, both guns blazing, at least figuratively. She heard voices up ahead, and more of that crying, too. Behind her, she heard the Batman running now, too, and now they were racing side by side, hurtling towards the unknown danger—
And then they were there: Two men, standing over the prostrate, possibly unconscious form of a young woman. Annabeth instinctively knew what they were starting to do, and she didn't hesitate—one of the them glanced up at Annabeth and the Batman as they finally realized they weren't alone, and all he had the opportunity to see was Annabeth's heavy boot coming up to meet his chin. And then he was out cold. The other man reacted with a little more speed—he was on his feet and was about to lunge for Annabeth when the Batman landed on him like a ton of vengeful, cranky bricks.
Both men safely then immobilized, Annabeth turned to the woman lying on the ground. She knelt beside her and swore softly.
The Batman joined her. "Who is she?"
Annabeth gently cradled the woman's wrist and began to feel for a pulse. "Her name's Jessie Lucas. She's a prostitute that works this area…she went missing a few days ago. That's who I've been looking for…some of the women around here were worried, said she'd been fucked up a lot more, lately." Annabeth gently lifted the woman's eyelid and peered closely. "Jessie…hey, Jessie."
The woman moaned softly, but didn't sit up.
"Shit. I can't see a goddamned thing." Annabeth turned to him. "You got a light?"
Of course he did, a tiny, ultra-strong maglight in his utility belt. He immediately pulled it out and passed it to her as she continued to examine the woman.
"Pupils are constricted. Lips and fingernails are blue." Annabeth frowned. "Jessie, can you hear me? Can you breathe?"
The woman moaned again, and began to stir.
"I think she's overdosing." Annabeth pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. "She's breathing. Can you put her into the recovery position while I call an ambulance?"
He nodded once, and began to gently move Jessie's body. He listened as Annabeth called in the overdose, but froze when he heard her high, panicked voice, so very different from her previous, calm tones.
"There was just a drive-by shooting here in the Narrows, and a child's been hit…in the alley between Dunn and Kingston Avenues. Oh god, please hurry, I think she's bleeding to death!"
Annabeth snapped her phone shut and turned back to Jessie. "You got her in recovery? Good –wait, tilt her head up a little more." She reached down and stroked Jessie's forehead, once, with surprising tenderness. "Christ, Jessie."
"Why'd you tell them it was a gun fight?" The Batman was speaking quietly now, his voice slightly less menacing.
Annabeth grimaced. "Yeah, that was a bit of a whopper, wasn't it? But you think they'd come out here if I told them it was a drug overdose? They'd come out two hours later. It's just another junkie, to them. But give them a child, potentially bleeding out? Bad PR. So we get an ambulance out here on that pretext. They'll see her and do the rest"
"What's she to you?"
"She's Jessie. She's twenty years old. She's been out here for three years, doing this. I don't know what her life was like before this, but now it's hell." She lifted Jessie's arm so that he could see the web of angry trackmarks creeping up the wasted limb. "She's been doing heroin for a while now."
"How'd it happen?"
"Her pimp gave it to her, and keeps her supplied. It's easier to control your prostitutes if you get them addicted, they'll do anything for a hit. Makes them a lot more compliant. Jessie. Come on, sweetie, stay with us."
Another moan.
Annabeth's attention turned back to the still-unconscious men nearby. "And christ, those two were about to do god knows what with her. I'd really like to go over there right now and castrate them—do you still have my blade?"
"Don't." His voice had some of his former command, but there was less hostility than there had been before. "You don't want to do that. Help Jessie."
Help Jessie. They returned their attention to Jessie, who occasionally moaned and twitched. Annabeth fell silent, maintaining a vigil over her alongside the man who had suddenly, unexpectedly become an ally. In the distance, they began to hear the wail of the sirens, and reluctantly, the Batman arose. "I have to go. They can't see me here."
She nodded, glancing away from Jessie for a moment to contemplate him as he stood over her. Almost unwillingly, but with heartfelt sincerity, "Thank you," she told him.
The Batman gave her a long, steady look, but said nothing. A moment later, he withdrew his grapple gun, aimed for the flanking building, and shot. His wire thus secured, he began scaling the building and commenced his escape into the night—but not before he and Annabeth gave each other one final look.
When the paramedics and police finally arrived, they found no gunshot wounds, no guns, no blood, no child, even. Just Annabeth, hovering over Jessie, and ready to give them for taking so long.
Back at the Batcave, the Batman and Alfred conferred over all that they had learned and observed that evening.
It was late—early in the morning, rather, and Alfred's handcrafted chamomile tea brew was beginning to have a relaxing affect on the Batman, just as the butler intended. The cape, utility belt, and cowl were off, thus putting him into the strange, halfway point of the transition between the Batman and Bruce Wayne. He sat at the work table, gazing across at Alfred, who sat, listening and processing all he had been told.
The Batman began to pull off the arm guards. Sleep was close at hand, and suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to spend it in his own bed, with none of the Batsuit anywhere in the vicinity. "What do you think, Alfred?"
The older man shook his head. "I think Miss Annabeth must be insane for doing what she does. It's dangerous, pure and simple. Dangerous—and courageous and noble and kind."
The Batman was forced to agree with him. "She keeps tabs on women in trouble in the neighborhood. She passes out birth control to some of the prostitutes. She's like a woman possessed—why does she do all this?"
To this, Alfred had no answer—but he did have a question. "Should I take this to mean you are abandoning your investigation into her involvement in those murders?"
The knee guards came off next, and then the leg guards. "I think I have to, Alfred. There doesn't seem to be any evidence to implicate her…and it just doesn't make sense." He paused in his disrobing, thinking of Annabeth, her fierceness, her dedication, her compassion...and her blazing eyes, her tightly-coiled body harnessing so much energy, and her rare but compelling smile. "The truth is, the more I get to know her, the less I think her capable of it." An uncomfortable thought began to niggle its way into his head. "And Alfred…the more I get to know her, the more I want her to be innocent of it. I don't want her to be involved." As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. Which was perhaps the most disturbing revelation of the evening.
Not long after, they made their way back up to the Manor, and Bruce Wayne was soon in his bed, burrowed under a down comforter, slipping into a deep sleep…in which his dreams were filled with fleeting images of Annabeth and the Narrows and a sinister sense of foreboding.
It was a most horrible set of circumstances that finally, completely exonerated Annabeth in the eyes of both the Batman and Bruce Wayne. Two days later, the Batman got a terse communication from Commissioner Gordon—three more women had been killed, all in one night. All were killed just as Carrolly Cooper, Lizzie Salvadore, and Jeana Wilson had been, and none of them had any connections with the Arrows. Someone was still killing women, and it wasn't because of Annabeth.