In the months following the hysteria and pandemonium that the Joker and Harvey Dent had unleashed upon Gotham, Commissioner Gordon had found himself charged with a battery of duties which he found not only distasteful, but absolutely anathema to his solid sense of what was right and fair. Most of these duties involved vilifying the Batman in one form or another, and while Gordon followed through on his promise to the Batman-he denounced him, chased him, outlawed him, and raised public outcry against him, he had done it with pain in his righteous heart and shame in his honest eyes. He had come to regard the Batman as a comrade, and comrades did not abandon each other when the war was raging. Of all the actions he had had to take against the Batman, however, nothing hurt him more than when he had had to destroy the bat signal. That rainy night that he had taken an ax to it and shattered the searchlight was one of the worst nights of his career, and he had gone home that night to his family with a deep vein of bitterness taking root in his soul.

However, Gordon was a fighter, and he knew that he still had one of the most remarkable and courageous comrades that a warrior could hope for. And this comrade didn't need a signal to beckon him to the field of battle. This was why Gordon was waiting on the roof of the MCU, the night that three more women turned up murdered. Shortly after he had declared the Batman a fugitive, an encrypted cell phone had made its way into Gordon's possession—he still wasn't sure how, other than knowing that it had been sitting on his desk one morning as he arrived at work. As soon as he saw it there (accompanied by a bag of fresh bagels, lox, and cream cheese and a thermos of coffee, all undoubtedly originating from the same source) he had known who it was from, and what it was for. But even then, even with that direct link to the Dark Knight, Gordon rarely needed it. Usually, the Batman just knew when there was trouble, and while Gordon didn't like to admit it, a lot of the times the Batman knew before he did.

That night, Gordon had the not-entirely-comforting satisfaction of being the first one to know, and having to call the number on the encrypted phone. And now he waited on the rooftop, gazing up at the murky sky, waiting for his comrade to appear. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the roof, the ever-loyal Detective Montoya stood guard, prepared to chase away any cops who might be tempted to head up to the roof for a smoke break. As he waited, and considered his unit, Gordon quietly thanked his lucky stars and bats that he had at least a few honest cops on his team.

Gordon sighed and settled into a crouch. It was almost midnight, and he should have been home hours ago. Since the horrific events that had come to pass with Dent, his home life had taken a turn for the worse. Being a cop's wife was never an easy job, but in Barbara Gordon's case, she had experienced a little too much trauma in too short a period of time, and her patience had long since worn thin. She wasn't coping well, hell, he wasn't coping well, and they certainly weren't coping well together. Now their young son was having nightmares, and Gordon's insurance simply didn't cover the kind of counseling that the whole family needed. Things were falling apart, and he had no idea how to fix them.

"Taking a break?"

The all-too-familiar voice brought Gordon out of his reverie. He stood up, suddenly aware of how small, how insignificant he looked next to the man who emerged out of the shadows, and was immediately annoyed that he felt insignificant at all. Stuff him into black armor and give him a mini-tank and he'd be intimidating, too...but the everyday suit jackets that Gordon favored simply didn't have the same effect. Perhaps just as well; Gordon preferred to be the good cop. Fear was not his specialty. "No breaks," he told the Batman. "No breaks for a very long time. This just turned into a major shitstorm."

"What do you know?"

"Three murders, committed within the last eight hours. Same M.O.-each of the victims were beaten to death. I've got Detective Bullock working the crime scenes right now." Gordon closed his eyes as he recalled the murder scenes. By Gotham City's hardened, bloodthirsty standards, these murders weren't the most shocking, but there was still a disturbing element of brutality present that evoked a powerful sense of revulsion within Gordon.

"Who were the victims?" Clearly, the Batman was in an all-business mood. Behind the mask, and hidden from Gordon, however, his mind was in a turmoil; this situation was getting much messier. What on earth was going on? "Is this a serial killer?"

"I don't know." Gordon was frustrated by the rapid escalation, and disturbed, too. "The victims are Ronald Dieter, also called 'Stinger.' He was a very successful pimp in the Narrows, probably the most powerful pimp, too. Last count, he pimped about seventy-five women. Second victim: Tallulah Bellamere. She was a madam of a brothel—again, in the Narrows, but in a different part. Her business—" Here Gordon grimaced at the word—"Employed about twenty women. It was the biggest in her area. The last victim was Angie Holman...she was a higher class prostitute, operated out of mid-town."

"Each of them were involved in the sex industry." The Batman's tone was flat and revealed nothing, but belied his restless thoughts, already jumping ahead, processing, considering. "None of them were involved with the Arrows?"

"We're still looking into that, but at first appearances, it would seem not." Gordon shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. They were killed the same way the others were, most likely the same person, but why? Why are the Arrows targeting these people? And why kill them this way? They have professional hitmen that can get the job done, no mess. This—this is messy. This is personal. Why?"

Gordon was voicing the same questions that were running through the Batman's head, questions that he could not begin to answer before looking at the evidence, the victims, their histories. Technically, in keeping with how he had operated in the past, this was not something that should concern him any more-it didn't directly tie back to the Arrows, not yet, anyway. But it was serious, and Gordon had thought it was worth his attention, and too, the Batman had an instinct which was telling him to investigate this. Perhaps it was an instinct that had been brought into the world through a painful labor, during a tour of a halfway house with a certain harridan who loathed him, but that was neither here nor there.

Annabeth. Undetected, unbidden, she had popped into his thoughts. Given this latest development, he was now confident she was in no obvious way connected to these victims, had no obvious reason for wanting them dead. This was more of a relief than he wanted to admit; the more he learned about Annabeth, the more he knew that this was not something she would be involved in, unless she was trying to save these people-even the pimp and the madam. The sense of relief he felt was both disconcerting and disturbing: the former feeling because why should her innocence matter to him, really? and the latter feeling because this was not something that he should be thinking about when trying to unleash his brand of justice upon Gotham.

Gordon was still talking, blissfully unaware of the thoughts tumbling through the head of his companion. Ruthlessly, the Batman crushed all thoughts of Annabeth and brought his mind back to the present. "...got the files for the three victims, along with initial photographs of the crime scene. I've made copies of everything," Gordon was saying. "Detective Bullock's been collecting what evidence there is; the crime scenes have been processed, but if you want, you can take a look." He passed the files along to the Batman, and as he slid them into the large gloved hand that Batman extended, felt a tiny feeling of relief come into his spirit, which instantly sparked deep shame. Since when had he become so dependent on this man? Why on earth had he ever decided to trust him? At first, Gordon's decision to accept the help of the Batman had been just something to float the city through the rough times...but the rough times just kept coming. And now he was forever in the debt of this possibly unbalanced man, whoever the hell he was, and he was compromising his career, and pissing off his wife and putting his family through hell...and what if the Batman decided, some time, that he didn't want to do this any more? What then? Could he do this on his own? Did he even have any business, being Commissioner?

"We can't do this forever, you know," he told the Batman.

The weariness and defeat in Gordon's voice caught the Batman's attention. He drew closer to Gordon, closer than he usually got, so close that Gordon was able to see the intensity in the Batman's eyes, the grim line of his mouth. "There's no such thing as forever," he told Gordon. "Only now, and the possibility of tomorrow. We have to make that possibility a reality." He tightened his grip on the files Gordon had given him. "We all do our part, and try to make things right."

Gordon snorted. "Since when did you go to cheerleading camp?"

"I like the uniforms."

The two men stood there in silence for a few moments. When the Batman spoke again, his voice had a curiously...human note to it. "How's your family?"

"Bad." Something in Gordon's voice declared this an off-limits subject, and so the Batman wisely respected the boundary, even as he then did something that broke every other tacitly-understood boundary that each man had set in their working relationship-quickly, before he could change his mind, he reached out, gripped Gordon's shoulder, and gave it a firm, brief squeeze. "Go home. Sleep. I'll see what I can find out. I'll be in touch tomorrow." Just as quickly, he withdrew, darted to the end of the building, took a leap, and was gone.

For a long time after, Gordon remained on the roof, gazing up at the sky, lost in thoughts about his city and his family, about criminals and crime-fighters, and about men who had to take off their mask and costume at some point. He thought about the Batman, and wondered where he had gone, and what he did when the suit came off. And when he was finished with the meanderings of his many thoughts, he left MCU and returned home. There, Gordon quickly fell asleep, but not before embracing each of his family and expressing his love.

The next morning, when Gordon returned to work, there was a single pom-pom lying on his desk.

After he finally returned to the Manor, after he finally shed his armor, after he finally became Bruce Wayne once more, he collapsed into his bed and waited for sleep to come. But sleep had other ideas. As the clock ticked on towards dawn, he lay in his massive bed, wide awake, gazing up at the ceiling and out into the darkness of his bed chamber. Normally he could shut out his thoughts and go into a deep, regenerating, trance-like sleep, but this was not one of those nights. There were too many thoughts, too many emotions. He could shut them out while operating within his Batman persona, but that meant that they came crashing into his awareness twice as noisily when he finally acknowledged them. Tonight, there were many people in his thoughts: Commissioner Gordon, his face worn and haunted; so many of the people of Gotham whom he had helped; more of the people of Gotham whom he had failed...Rachel. She was never far away in his mind, her voice always echoing in his ears, her striking face seared into his memory. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the woman that he had loved and failed, trying to forget her wide, intense eyes, her subtle smiles, her strong spirit...and as he tried to forget Rachel, his thoughts somehow transitioned themselves to another strong woman with blazing eyes...

His eyes popped open and he sat up quickly, more than a little surprised at the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken. Thinking about Annabeth in bed was not only disturbing, but also felt a little inappropriate...until he remembered how she looked at the party, dressed in that black gown, her hair pulled back, revealing the graceful sweep of her neck...perhaps thoughts of her in at this particular location aren't that misplaced, he thought ruefully as he settled back against the bank of goosedown pillows. As he tried to concentrate on breathing deeply, evenly, as he tried to bring on sleep, he remembered how Annabeth looked as she leaned over Jessie, trying to keep the poor woman in the land of the living. As he recalled her concern, her tenderness, her devotion to the forgotten people of Gotham, it became clear to him that the thought transition from Rachel to Annabeth was not so surprising—the two women were remarkably similar. Neither one of them had ever been in awe of either Bruce or the Batman, both of them had committed their lives to an endless crusade; both of them were, in their own way, beautiful, and it was their passion and strength and drive which were the ultimate hallmarks of their beauty. As Bruce burrowed deeper under the blankets, he realized that this was the first time he had thought of Rachel since she was killed without feeling like his heart was being skewered within his chest. When had his grief begun to subside? What had been the catalyst? Meeting Annabeth? Where did Rachel end and Annabeth begin? More to the point, where did his feelings for Rachel end and his feelings for Annabeth begin? And come to think of it...he had feelings for Annabeth?

Bruce groaned audibly and hoisted himself out of bed. There would be no sleep for him this night.

Four hours later, as Alfred began his morning rounds, he poked his head into the master bedchamber and saw the empty bed. The bedding was mussed, but Master Bruce's silk robe and pajama set had been carefully folded and set at the foot of the bed. The velvet drapes were already pulled back, letting in the sunlight that always shone more brilliantly when one managed to get away from the murk and smog and gloom of the city.

After pausing in the kitchen to acquire some breakfast foods, Alfred headed down to the Batcave. The Batman was right where Alfred expected him to be: a his work area, poring over files, papers, photographs, just as he had been the night that—

Oh no. "Has someone else died, sir?"

The Batman glanced up briefly. "Three more people. Have you read the papers yet?"

"Not yet, sir. I was bringing them down to you."

The Batman rose and came over to where Alfred stood. "This is top priority. There's something wrong here...things aren't adding up. I think there's something bigger going on here, and I don't know what. There's not enough clues." He ran his fingers through his dark-brown hair and then rubbed his eyes. Alfred noted immediately that he hadn't slept—the signs were subtle, but obvious to his sharp eyes ."Take a look at the files, see what you think."

He watched as Alfred accepted the files, fished his spectacles out of his shirt pocket, and settled down at his own workspace, an elegant antique Chippendale that Bruce has specially ordered for him when they rebuilt the Manor. If Alfred had ever resented being brought into Bruce Wayne's second life, he had never expressed it. If he had ever had any misgivings, he kept them to himself. The man was loyalty personified. He believed in what the Batman stood for, yes, but more than that, he believed in Bruce Wayne.

Finally Alfred looked up from the files. He had schooled his refined British features into an expression of neutrality, not revealing any dismay over the brutal details. "A prostitute, a madam, and a pimp?" He pursed his lips. "No connections, other than the sex trade?"

"None that are coming to the attention of investigators." The Batman moved closer, so that he was standing over Alfred's desk. "Look at the photographs of the victims. They were beaten to death, just like the others."

The two men studied the photos, each deeply disturbed by the bloodied remains of the victims. Whoever had killed them had done a very thorough job, as though he or she were driven to bludgeon every part of the victims that could be recognized as human.

"Why beat them to death?" Alfred wondered aloud. "That seems to indicate, sir, that these are crimes of passion. Is this a serial killer, striking at random, or does he have an agenda? And what is the significance of these three? Why them? How do they tie back into the women who were killed previously?" He looked up at the Batman, his eyes brightening as a possibility suddenly occurred to him. "Do you think it's a message?"

"A message about what? To whom?"

"A message to people in the sex industry, perhaps. Perhaps these murders aren't about passion or insanity or revenge. Perhaps there's supposed to be a purpose here." Another thought occurred to Alfred. "These murders...they don't tie in to your friend Miss de Burgh, do they?" A satisfied smirk indicated that he had already guessed the answer.

"Annabeth? No. And she's not my friend."

"Of course not, sir. Because your social calendar is completely booked up with hordes of reasonably attractive female social workers that you decide to take under your wing, as mere acquaintances. How could I have assumed otherwise?"

"Alfred..." the Batman growled, but it simply didn't work. Alfred was no more intimidated by the Batman than Rachel or Annabeth had ever been. "I was investigating her, hence my interest." He avoided Alfred's shrewd eyes as he said it, and knew that Alfred knew the truth.

"She's a very lovely lady, your friend Miss de Burgh." Alfred spoke with confidence. "And after what you told me about her the other night, I think she is every bit as unhinged as you are. But I knew that she had nothing to do with the murders-she couldn't have. She wouldn't have."

The Batman's interest was growing, in spite of his attempts to curb it. "Oh? How do you know that?"

Alfred's silence spoke volumes, and for once, the older man looked guilty. "Alfred, what do you know that I don't? What did you do?"

The expression of guilt deepened.

"Alfred?" The Batman was beginning to be disturbed. Had his butler gone renegade on him? "Did you hack into her files? Find out something that's classified, confidential?"

Alfred busied himself with the files, shuffling the papers and photographs back into order. His silence confirmed the Batman's suspicions. But before the Batman could say anything, reproach him, press him for details, Alfred finally broke his silence. "I did hack into some files over at County, sir, after the party."

"Why then?"

"I saw the way you looked at her, sir, all night." Alfred's gaze was penetrating, all-knowing, and the Batman found he couldn't protest or deny anything. Alfred was older, wiser, and probably knew him better than he knew himself.

"Are you going to tell me what you learned?"

"No." Alfred's tone brooked no argument. "It was wrong, what I did, and I won't compound that wrong by revealing what I learned. It's not my story to tell." He paused, and the Batman could see a struggle taking place within Alfred's heart. When he spoke again, the Batman could see the deep concern in his eyes. "But I will tell you this, sir. Watch over her. Someone needs to."

In Gotham City, as in most places across America, Sunday nights were generally peaceful and relaxing, the calm before the storm of another workweek, when family or friends gather togethered for a few last minutes of pleasant companionship and activities to sustain them until the next weekend. It was a lovely concept, really, but a concept completely lost on Annabeth. While Donna was out at swanky bar with her current lover, while Janey and Jason were popping popcorn and watching a movie, while Maya was staffing the night shift at Safe Haven and swapping gossip with the clients, while Bruce Wayne and Alfred were working together in the Batcave, while even Commissioner Gordon and his wife declared a temporary ceasefire for to conduct board game night in an atmosphere of strained cheer, Annabeth was holed up in her apartment, alone.

She fucking hated Sundays.

Completely aside from the fact that she had no family with whom she could while away the peaceful hours, she hated Sunday nights because she knew, all over the city, for every family spent in pleasant pasttimes, there were husbands and wives and partners and boyfriends and girlfriends who were unhappy to return to work and drudgery and misery and monotony of Monday, and so they would drink and grow angry, and they would take it out on each other and their children. As Annabeth sat on the floor by her couch—the couch being occupied by her two completely slightly spoiled pets—on a Sunday evening almost two weeks after Bruce Wayne had waltzed into her work and turned everything upside down, she allowed her mind to drift beyond her home and into the Gotham evening, where she knew that men and women were doing horrific things to each other and their children. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to ignore the heavy burden on her heart, and then tried to force her mind away from the unhappiness she knew was currently unfolding throughout Gotham. There would be time enough to fight it tomorrow.

Theoretically, she could have spent her evening patrolling the Narrows, but while she may have been obsessed—"certifiably psycho," according to Donna—Annabeth knew her limits. She had been out every night for the past week, either at Safe Haven or the Y or the hospital or the Narrows, only getting five hours of sleep a night, maximum. Add all this to the thirteen-hour days she regularly put in at Safe Haven, and anyone could see that she was about two good deeds away from collapse.

Hence being at home on a Sunday night, doing nothing more than dreading the week ahead. Normally, she loved her little condo—she had purchased it shortly after starting to work at Safe Haven, and she had only been able to afford it because of the housing grant offered by the Wayne Foundation to "conscience workers"—teachers, nurses, social workers, librarians, cops. And of course, the condominium building itself was a spawn of the unholy godhead that was the Wayne Real Estate Holdings, Wayne Enterprises, and Wayne Construction. The damned building was well-built and reasonably attractive; Annabeth had to admit that the Wayne Family certainly believed in quality and responsibility. But oh, how it burned her up to know that she owed something else to Bruce Bloody Wayne, especially when that something she owed came in the form of a cozy, lovingly-decorated home that she would have never have had a chance to own, otherwise.

Annabeth gritted her teeth and briefly considered finishing off the bottle of Merlot that had been in the fridge for almost a month. That wouldn't help matters either; she couldn't hold her liquor worth a damn, and the last thing she needed was to be hung over on a Monday evening.

Her cell phone rang, and she heaved herself up and headed to the direction where the chimes were coming from. It was sitting on the counter, right where she'd left it when she'd come in at five-thirty AM that morning. No one had called all day, up until now, and of course, the caller was Janey.

"Hey Janey."

"Hey you. Happy Sunday! Are you sulking?"

"I'm not sulking," Annabeth said sulkily.

"That's right! You try to stir it up every now and then—I forgot. Tonight you're moping."

Annabeth smiled in spite of herself. "You're an asshole."

"And you're a jackass. What the hell are you doing sitting there all alone? Come over here and watch a movie with us! Jason picked up a really good one from the library."

"What's it called?"

"No clue. But you'd like it. I think the characters frown a lot. And die." Janey chuckled at her own joke. "C'mon, come over. It'll be fun."

Annabeth began puttering around the kitchen, trying to decide if she wanted to make some dinner, or if it wasn't worth the bother. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay in this damned condo until it's my home again, and I've chased him out of it." She didn't have to elaborate on who or what she was referring to; since the Batman had paid her that nocturnal visit, she had felt unsafe, violated, exposed in her own lovely home. And Janey knew it; Annabeth had described the uneasiness that plagued her waking hours, and the nightmares that had begun to plague her sleep.

Janey sighed. "You sure do like to be intimate with your demons, don't you?"

"Who the hell else is there to cuddle?" Annabeth decided not to bother with food, and instead pulled some coffee out of the freezer. "Anyway, I've got an early morning tomorrow. God only knows what shit has come up since the weekend. And Wayne's going to be back again tomorrow, and Donna's going to make me babysit him. I can guarantee it."

"Wayne? Wait—he hasn't moved on to the next diversion? I think I read somewhere that there's some dingo show coming to town. Try to distract him with that."

Annabeth sighed. "The whole damned place is in an uproar. The clients have practically made him a mascot." Actually, if she weren't so resentful of his presence at Safe Haven, she would have been impressed with how much success his patronage was bringing to them.

"I think it's time you get over it, Annabeth. Sounds like he's going to be there for a while. And what are you complaining about—a cute rich guy trying to flirt with you as he throws money your way?"

"When, exactly, did I become a prostitute? And why the fuck am I not getting paid more?" Annabeth demanded. "I just know that this is some damned little hobby of his, and he doesn't get the enormity of what we do. It's just another game to him. And in the meantime, my boss has me practically whoring myself out to him to keep his patronage. I think she thinks it's funny…How the hell did I become a joke?"

"Probably because you take yourself way too seriously. I mean, come on. You think Donna would have this much fun if she had had Maya bring in Wayne's sponsorship? Let's face it, your boss has a twisted sense of humor. But at least she has one."

Ouch. "I have a sense of humor!" Annabeth protested. "It's just subtle. You have to dig a little to get to it."

"A little? I'd hit China before you'd crack a joke."

"Janey!"

"Okay, fine. You have a sense of humor. But you have no joy. No sense of living." Janey could banter as well as anyone, but she could not hide the concern in her voice. "I worry about you. There's more to life than what you're doing."

And she doesn't even know the half of it, Annabeth thought grimly, but wisely kept her mouth shut as Janey continued on with her well-intentioned lecture. Getting a life…meeting people…taking some time for herself…not getting discouraged and losing sight of the good they did—oh, that one's new, she hasn't used that before—

"Annabeth. Did you listen to a word I just said?"

"Um." Annabeth wouldn't lie to her oldest friend. "Parts of it? It was a good speech. I'll pay attention more the next time. Promise."

"Asshole. Oooh—Jason just brought in the popcorn. And sour patch kids!" Janey's love of food overruled everything, including her love of Annabeth. "Look, I've got to go. But seriously, try to get over Bruce Wayne. At least for now, you two are working towards the same end. Sounds like you're going to be stuck with him for a while, so be nice! He won't know what to think. And anyway, it takes less effort than being mean."

Annabeth hated it when Janey was right—because when she was right, she was very right.

After hanging up, she puttered around the apartment, cleaning in a desultory fashion, brewing coffee, painting her toenails. Finally, as the night outside deepened, she hauled out her laptop and began doing work. She wanted to hammer out a proposal for a women's issues course at the community college, and she still a long way to go; furthermore, she was busy composing an editorial commenting on the latest in the string of murders that someone was committing.

Ah, yes. The murders. Her thoughts turned about the latest deaths—she had heard about them at work last week, and that was another nightmarish day. None of the clients knew any of the three latest victims, but some of them, mainly the former prostitutes, were still quite upset. Annabeth was stumped—she had no idea what was going on, but it was frightening, especially given her nighttime escapades. Not that there was anything she could do—she would continue going out, doing what she could to help, to hell with the risk. In all honesty, Annabeth had never really stopped to consider the dangers involved; she knew of the many potential fates that stalked those who ventured into the Narrows, but as far as she was concerned, she had no choice. She was a woman obsessed, she knew that, and powerless to do anything other than yield to the compulsion that drove her to the Narrows, night after night.

A muffled thump came from the other room, and Annabeth jumped a little. As she had told Janey, she had not yet grown to feel secure in her home again, a fact which she found endlessly frustrating. She still jumped at every little sound and sensed things when there was no one there—no doubt a side effect of being oblivious to the presence of an intruder in your home until it was too late. Reluctantly, Annabeth rose from her spot on the floor to investigate the source of the noise, but a moment later, her enormously fat cat Wurzel came ambling out of the bedroom. The muffled thump had been him jumping to the floor from his favorite perch at the foot of her bed.

She released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and sighed with relief. It was only then that she noticed her hands shaking, and cursed the Batman for bringing terror into her home.

Not long after, she went to bed, and curled up under the antique quilt that she had splurged on when she vacationed to the Appalachians, a couple of years back, after saving and scrimping as much as she could. Wurzel and Jed had fallen asleep with her, and the bed was a cozy cocoon of warmth that enveloped Annabeth. Even as the fear still pulsed through her, she slipped towards the land of sleep. If she had been aware that someone was watching her from beyond her window, the cozy scene would have dissolved into chaos and terror.

The Batman had come, not to terrorize, but to watch over her, as he had promised Alfred that he would. He sat on her fire escape for a long time, watching as she tossed and turned and eventually settled into a fitful sleep. But even then, he could sense her fear; Annabeth could hide almost anything while she was awake, but when she was asleep, it was a different story—she was vulnerable, unable to suppress the emotions that she kept guard over during all her waking hours. As he watched her, tormented by nightmares that twisted and contorted her body into a frightened fetal position, as he saw her awaken at one point, sweat and tears blending together on her face, he realized that Annabeth he had encountered as Bruce Wayne and the Batman were just a front, a character, just as he was, hiding something deeper. This was the true Annabeth, this woman who cried in her sleep and ran from god only knew what in her nightmares. She was becoming more complex by the day.

As he watched her torments, he was dismayed to realize he was more intrigued than ever.