Jones le Blanc loved his life.

When he stopped to think about it—which, admittedly,wasn't often—he truly pitied the poor shits, the peasants who wasted their lives away day in and day out, busting their asses to earn a living. Stuck in jobs they hated, that bored them stiff, coming home to sniveling families that bled them dry, marching ever onward towards deaths as unremarkable as their lives, so few knowing who they were, what they could do, what they could have been. Every time he sat in a restaurant in Gotham and watched them hurrying along the sidewalk, their shoulders hunched over in defeat, their expressions harassed as they contemplated their fruitless lives, Jones le Blanc pitied them. But he reveled in his superiority, too: he had the balls, the vision, the sheer desire and willpower to evade that pointless kind of life. And he had succeeded, hadn't he? So that made him better than them, the poor bastards.

Even before Falcone's mob was taken down, even before Maroni and his men fell to the Batman, Jones le Blanc had power. Sure, his Arrows mob hadn't been nearly as powerful as Falcone and his family, but they had nonetheless made a modest name for themselves. They had their fingers in plenty of pies, they had wealth, they had pull, they had friends in high places. So when Falcone and Maroni were brought down, Jones found himself in the not unenviable position of suddenly being the most powerful mob boss in Gotham.

No indeed, he wasn't complaining. Life was pretty good. All sorts had been flocking to him and his Archers: politicians and public servants and union officials looking for a symbiotic relationship; smugglers and swindlers and pornographers and thugs and counterfeiters offering their talents and services; pimps and whores seeking his protection. He welcomed them all, tried to do business with each of them personally. He was egalitarian and democratic like that.

It was one of the whores that was presently demanding his notice, although he wasn't the most attentive person in the room. His oldest friend and Under boss, Michael Donzetti, was practically drooling and hanging on to her every word.. Since he appeared to have that covered, le Blanc didn't pay too much attention to her. He was more preoccupied with their surroundings: the cavernous walls, the stale smell, the perpetually dim lighting, the lack of attractive furniture. That was one of the things that he didn't much care for, the shabby digs. He understood that smart Bosses keep a low profile, don't provoke more attention than was absolutely necessary, but really, did they actually have to operate out of a warehouse in the Narrows? Especially the same one that they had been operating out of since they began this outfit! The Arrows had gotten a promotion, so shouldn't they have a nicer office? Something in the Financial District, maybe, or even better, near City Hall. Something with a view, some natural light. It was time to move the Arrows up in the world. Let their surroundings reflect their position.

Donzetti nudged him, and he reluctantly dragged his thoughts to the present and began to pay attention to what the whore was saying.

"We're terrified." She looked from one man to the other. "Some of us work independently, and even they're getting murdered. Who the hell is this? What's going to happen to us? We're losing money, every night. That psycho's hitting every level. Call girls, pimps, street walkers, every class-he's hitting us all. Who's next?"

Since Donzetti was too busy leering at her, le Blanc answered. "Who knows...Miss...?"

"Whitney. Trinity Whitney." She didn't look happy. "I told that to your goons when I first came in here. Didn't they tell you anything?"

A couple of Archers standing close by turned their attention towards this exchange, and le Blanc sat up a little straighter. It wasn't every day people came in there looking for favors from the Arrows, and then got snippy with them. It was downright dumb. Or clever—calculated to provoke, to make her stand out above the others who had been flocking to the Arrows.

Judging by how closely Donzetti was observing her, le Blanc guessed that Miss Trinity Whitney knew exactly what she was doing.

"Quite right, Miss Whitney. You'll forgive us; we've had quite a few of your colleagues coming to us lately. I'm sure you understand."

She understood, alright. "We need protection out there. That freak's been all over the place, killing all sorts of women. We're scared." Admitting this wasn't easy, anyone in the headquarters could see that. They could also see that she was a fine specimen of a call girl-a tall woman, slender, with flaxen blonde hair and brilliant green eyes and a perfect tan; a brilliant addition to the Arrows' fast-growing fleet of women, and in possession of a badly-needed element of class. Donzetti was practically infatuated.

Jones smiled understandingly. "Of course. You deserve to be safe...and we can provide protection." He paused, and then added, "but there's a necessary audition...I'm sure you'll understand."

Clearly, she had been expecting this. And like the whore she was, she seemed to eagerly anticipate it. "What would you like?" Her voice became coy, teasing.

It was Donzetti who answered. "Get down on your knees. In front of me."

What happened then was of little relevance, other than the fact that Trinity did her job well, working her mouth and her hands simultaneously, applying just the right pressure, the steady speed, a few surprising strokes of the tongue, some well-placed fingers. It was clear to Donzetti that she was truly an expert, and an enthusiastic one at that. Even though Donzetti was enjoying himself immensely, however, he was quite capable of multi-tasking. He turned to le Blanc. "Any word from our Russian associate?"

Ah, a subject that pleased le Blanc immensely. "Yes, I spoke with him earlier. Things are coming along nicely on his end-he's acquiring some of the goods as we speak."

"When does he think we'll go live?"

"Probably the beginning of next year. It'll take us that long to get the property over here, and take care of the competition..." le Blanc slid his eyes towards the kneeling figure of Trinity before he continued on. "We still have to secure some financial backing on our end, anyway." He grinned. "All in good time, my friend. No immediate rush. We've been doing just fine up until now, this is just another little business-"

"Not so little," Donzetti reminded him. "This is pretty damned big." Any other reasonable thoughts he might have been about to voice were suddenly lost to him as Trinity hit a particularly sensitive nerve with just the right pace, and he let out a sudden, guttural groan of release. As he sat there, panting slightly, Trinity leaned in closer to him, her blonde hair swinging forward, her eyes staring up at him longingly. "Did you like that?"

Quite clearly, Donzetti had iked that. He liked her pretty little face, and her pretty little personality. He had access to many women, but it took someone special to capture his attention for more than the requisite fifteen minutes to half an hour.

Jones spoke again. "I'd say you passed. Welcome to our family. You're one of us, and we'll protect you."

Out of the shadows, a tall figure emerged. Jones continued talking. "Of course, we require a very reasonable cut of your fees—but given your obvious appeals, I doubt it'll cost you much. You're under our protection now, and no one's going to fuck with you. I encourage you to tell all of your colleagues the same thing, and bring them to us." He turned to the tall figure. "Now, I think you should meet the person you'll be working with. Trinity, this is Boy-o. Boy-o, meet Trinity."

As Jones watched, Boy-o took Trinity's arm and gently led her away from them. Beside him, Donzetti fished out a couple of Cuban cigars and passed Jones one of them. They lit up and puffed away companionably for a few moments, neither saying anything. When life was this good, really, what was there left to say?

Jones loved his life.

Trinity Whitney had loved her life.

She had loved it very much, and had been fiercely proud of it. She had made it for herself, built it up little by little, established a good reputation for herself. She had made for herself a career based on charm, talent, and above all, discretion. Certainly, being a high-class call girl was not something most wrote home about, but then again, her mother wasn't complaining. Trinity made good money, amazingly good money, and a fair chunk of it went home to her mother in West Virginia. She made regular payments on her mortgage, she had money saved up in the bank, she even had a Plan B waiting for the day when she became too old for her current line of work. And that day would come, that much she knew.

A few months back, one of her colleagues asked her, in passing, how she had ended up in Gotham City. Trinity hadn't been able to explain it very well—of course, that could have had something to do with how many martinis she had consumed—but what it came down to was that she had wanted a city where she could remake herself. Charleston, West Virginia had been far too small, too conservative, too stifling for Trinity. She knew she wanted more, she wanted lights and life and glamor and beauty and space, enough room for her to operate without the eyes of everyone watching, judging. She chose Gotham because it was the closest, and it was less expensive than Boston or New York. She hadn't had noble goals; she didn't intend to get an overpriced college education, she didn't care to change the world, and she didn't have any delusions of breaking into the modeling scene in any major sort of way. But she did have ambitions.

All those years of cultivating charm and manners and internalizing rules of etiquette; all of the care she had always invested in her personal appearance; all of her other...studies...with willing pupils (usually handsome young businessmen, and a few older ones, too), all of it had paid off. She had come into Gotham determined to make a living and enjoy herself, and against all odds, she had done exactly that, and with considerable success. In the beginning, she did a few cinematic masterpieces of sensuality and eroticism (she had introduced those euphemisms) to make ends meet, but that was before she met the right kind of man—the kind who knew other men, who was willing to give referrals, who was capable and happy to pay money for the pleasure of her company. And that was how her career had started.

Trinity didn't try to fool herself. She could call herself whatever she wanted—"courtesan" or "escort" or or "companion", it didn't really matter...to many, she was a whore, and an overpriced one at that. Not that it bothered her. Trinity liked what she did. In her own way, she worked hard. She met interesting people, had traveled to wonderful places, had experienced some truly delightful social events and equally delightful company. She enjoyed sex, made sure her clients did too, and generally, her clients respected her. Sometimes, she secretly entertained the fancy that she was a Westernized, modern-day geisha.

Geisha. Right.

Not after today.

For as long as she lived, she would never forget what had transpired this day. Even now, as the sun set over Gotham, as the September twilight settled over the city landscape, as she sat on her balcony and fondled her highball glass, she tried to put the whole experience from her mind...and failed miserably. For the first time, Trinity began to relate to her less-fortunate counterparts, the women of the streets. Was this how they felt? This insignificant? This degraded? This objectified?

She rattled the ice in her glass, and reflected back upon the whole interaction. Even worse than Jones' oily condescension, worse than the feel of Donzetti's indifference to her as anything other than a wet and accommodating orifice, worse than the conversation that they held as if she were less than human, not even present...even worse than all of that, she had to admit, was the 40 percent of her fees that she would have to pay them. "Very reasonable", those scumbags had told her. "It's for your protection. You don't have to tell us who your clients are, but you'll have to let us know when and where your appointments are. That way, we can keep an eye out for you. We have associates everywhere who can take care of you."

The implication being, of course, "Shortchange us, cross us, and we'll know. And you'll be sorry."

She could still taste Donzetti. He was vile. There was no respect from him, no interest in her as a human being. She hated him for that; she hated all of them for robbing her blind with that 40 fucking percent, and above all else, she hated all of them for making her regret, for the first time in her life, her career choice.

40 percent. That was why she had decided, when she first started six years ago, to operate independently, without a pimp or a manager. She wanted to keep every cent that she earned. If she started paying out now, things would change. She'd have to book more appointments, just to make up the difference. She'd have to relinquish some of her daytime hours, which up until now had been free for her gym workouts, her leisure reading, her various pointless hobbies and activities. She'd have to relinquish some of her luxuries-less designer clothing, fewer taxi rides, no more classes at the community college. Sending less money home to her mother wasn't an option, so she'd have to choose to save less money for herself.

No, if she had to be honest, it was that 40 percent that hurt the most.

There was something else that was bothering her, though. That man that had explained the "protection fee"-Boy-o, they said his name was. He was a disconcerting fellow, a very disturbing man to talk to. He had the most angelic face, just like a young boy or a cherub, and initially, that put Trinity at ease. Her ease was as badly assumed as it was short-lived, however; as he began to speak, his low, gentle voice somehow terrified Trinity. There was a knife under that voice, just below the surface, ready to slip through and cut without warning. Boy-o was an odd one-he hadn't expected any "auditions" the way Donzetti had, but he certainly enjoyed physical contact with her, mainly reaching over every now and then to stroke her silky hair; every now and then placing a hand on her shoulder or arm in a proprietary manner that somehow was far worse than anything Donzetti had expected or done. Boy-o and his associates would be who Trinity answered to, and that scared the bejesus out of her.

Enough. She headed back inside, to the bright lights and warmth of her condo. Inside, she would wrap herself in a satin robe, fix a simple salad, listen to some jazz, drink some wine. It was a rare night in for her—soon, they would become even more elusive—and she wanted to enjoy it while she could. She had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning, a lot of information-gathering. She didn't like this situation one damned bit, and the moment she had knelt and took Donzetti in her mouth, she knew that it was unacceptable. She would put up with for the present, but not for long. Trinity was no victim, and she never had been. When she didn't like things, she changed them. And she was going to do her damnedest to change them for her and all of her colleagues.

She just had to figure out how.

Headline from the Gotham Gazette, Friday, September 12 2008:

Murder Rates Down; Domestic Violence Rates Skyrocket

In the first officially-released research since the advent of Gotham's hooded vigilante, ;law enforcement authorities have revealed that murder rates in Gotham City for the year of 2007 decreased by 35 percent, to 1,735-a dramatic indication that someone, somewhere is doing something right. This is a marked decrease from the statistics for the year of 2006, in which murders increased 47 percent to 2,669, from the previous year of 2005's 1816 murders.

In the light of the recent rash of murders that have taken place among the employees of Gotham's thriving sex industry, however, it might be considered too soon to declare a downward trend.

However, an almost-equally promising statistic indicates that that reported petty thefts in 2007 decreased 19 percent to 34,724 from the 2006 statistic of 42,869.

When asked for comments, newly-appointed Police Commissioner Gordon professed the opinion that the promising trends owe much to the increased efforts of Gotham's Police Force to purge their own of the more unethical elements which have, in recent years, hampered justice. "Our fine police are doing everything in their power to purge our force of those who have followed careers of corruption, and this means more honest and decent cops, cracking down on more crime. We intend to forge our City's police force into an honorable team of dedicated and compassionate professionals who are committed to redeeming our City, and ensuring that citizens can lead their lives in relative security."

When asked if the notorious "Batman" has influenced the decrease in crime, Commissioner Gordon could only offer this: "While the Batman has taken on a very dangerous—and misguidedly noble—task in assisting and protecting Gotham, we can assure all Gotham citizens that is our Police force who provide the first line of defense, and that vigilante mavericks cannot provide the long-term stabilizing influence that our city needs."

While these major crime statistics do indicate a trend towards stability and safety, however, not all of Gotham's citizens are benefitting. The Bureau for Criminal Justice and Victim's Advocacy also released statistics this week, which analyzes on reported incidents of domestic violence and rape for the year immediately past. The numbers are bleak: 2007 rapes statistics are up 11 percent from the previous year of 2006, from 5421 to 6,017, and reported incidents of domestic violence in 2007 are up to 428,734, a 27 percent increase over 2006's statistic of 337,586.

Commissioner Gordon expressed concern over these statistics, and vowed to dedicate more of the police force to prevention and intervention, but warned that matters could grow worse before they improved: "Unfortunately, incidents of domestic violence tends to spike during years in which the economy experiences a downturn, and this is to be expected, given the current job market, credit crisis, and inflation rates. While Gotham's finest will do everything in their power to combat this disease, it remains ultimately in the hands of our citizens to intervene and report crimes or suspected behaviors that put individuals and families at risk."

Donna and Annabeth looked at each other, the newspaper lying between them on Donna's desk.

"It's not enough." Annabeth was defeated. "It won't ever be enough." She closed her eyes, imagining all of them, their fear, their hopelessness.

Her mentor regarded her kindly. "Maybe not," Donna conceded. "Maybe it will never be enough, but it definitely won't be enough if we just quit altogether. Then the city's down another halfway house, and we're just another bunch of quitters. And if you're a quitter, you're a loser."

"Donna...we had two more families come in last night. Two families in one night alone." Annabeth leaned forward. "It's happening again. We're starting to run out of room. We're down to two bedrooms left."

"Marjane's leaving soon," Donna reminded her. "And maybe some of the others. But you need to focus. Focus on the big stuff. Let Maya work out the details about housing and meals...seriously, if it weren't for her, this place would collapse around us. You worry about bringing more women and children in here. You worry about the funding. You let Maya worry about the details."

"Then what do you worry about?" Annabeth wanted to know.

"You."

"That's a waste of time," Annabeth scoffed, but she had started to get the uncomfortable look she always got when someone began fussing over her. "Seriously. I'm fine."

Donna arched a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Oh? How much sleep did you get last night?"

"That's besides the point. Have you taken a look at the utility bills for last month?"

"How often do you eat a good, solid meal?"

"And really—I think you should take a look at some of the reports we're getting from some of the other shelters in the city. Their utilities are up, too. I bet the City thinks they can put the squeeze on us, somehow." Annabeth was determined to change the subject, but she had learned a fair amount of her stubbornness from Donna, and Donna would not be deterred.

"And when was the last time you went on a date? Kissed a man? Had sex?"

"The grocery bills were pretty high, too. We should see about purchasing more in bulk...sex?" Annabeth glanced up, her determination to ignore her boss temporarily overruled.

Donna smirked. "I knew that would grab your attention. Seriously, Annabeth, when was the last time you enjoyed the company of a pleasant male in your bed?"

"A pleasant male? That would be never. Seriously, Donna, we're not having this conversation." Annabeth tapped the newspaper. "Over four hundred-thousand reported incidentsof domestic violence last year-and that's just the reported cases. And what about the child abuse? And the rapes? No." She shook her head vehemently. "When would I have the time to take someone into my bed? I'm barely there, myself."

"You'd be there more if you'd stop spending your nights in the Narrows." Donna sharpened her voice. "Annabeth, it's dangerous. It's a miracle nothing too horrible has happened to you there. When's it going to be enough? What happened to you, Annabeth—it's done. You can't change it, you can't stop it. When will you stop trying to re-write history? "

Annabeth's eyes gleamed with the zeal of a woman demented, hounded by something visible only to herself. "Never."

They sat in silent for a few moments, each woman with her own thoughts. When Donna spoke again, it was with amused resignation. "I have the perfect man for you. I think you'd get along great."

Annabeth smirked. "Can I stick him in my pocket? Is he mute?"

"Almost." Donna grinned then, unable to stay exasperated with her protégé. "He's as busy as you are. Hard-to-get, too, I'd bet. I think you and the Batman would be perfect for each other."

"You want me to date a costumed nutjob who is currently wanted for the murders of several Gotham citizens?" Annabeth's voice hiked up in disbelief. "And they think I'm the crazy one."