Another Monday arrived.

On that particular morning, Trinity found herself with a rare moment alone at home. She was all caught up on her errands and appointments and beauty regime, and so there was nothing left to do but indulge in her favorite activity of all—reading. In her elegant, well-appointed midtown condo, the newspapers had begun to pile up. She had been so busy lately, she hadn't had the time to keep up with the news; not a good development for her career. So much of her business depended on her ability to provide intelligent, well-informed conversation about everything, including current events. And now, she was scarcely able to keep up with the bare minimum. Of course, if things went the way she intended them, she'd have a bit more free time, at least for a while.

When her friend Reagan had been attacked the other evening, Trinity has gotten the message loud and clear: Donzetti was intent on her becoming his mistress, and he was willing to play dirty to make it happen. Attacking Trinity's friends wasn't his only strategy, though—more than a few of her regular clients had suddenly, without explanation, dropped away, and she suspected Donzetti had been behind that, quietly applying pressure, or possibly even making threats. Still, she had held out…but when they had attacked Reagan…that had broken her. Seeing Reagan on that hospital bed, her face and body painfully damaged, Trinity was defeated. Reagan was her closest friend, an ally as well as a colleague, and had so far managed not to come under the control of the Arrows. In fact, she was actually contemplating getting out of the business completely when this had happened. Trinity knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this had been no random attack: it was a message meant for her. As she sat there by the hospital bed, holding Reagan's hand and trying to calm her down, Trinity permitted herself to wallow in an admittedly irrational sense of guilt. It was her fault, at least partially, that Reagan had been attacked.

Guilt soon faded away, replaced with a much more useful and productive emotion: anger. Trinity silently seethed as she watched the nurses and doctors treat Reagan. Little by little, she and Reagan and countless other women were submitting to the Arrows, quietly allowing those men to destroy their lives and livelihood. They were willing to exchange what freedoms they had for a little bit of false security, Trinity realized, and immediately remembered a quote from some high school class in her misspent youth—Benjamin Franklin: "Any society that would give up a little liberty to gain a little security will deserve neither and lose both."

She was going to become Donzetti's mistress…but she was going to do it on her terms. Terms Donzetti wouldn't know about until it was too late.

It was that nurse at the emergency room who had given her the idea. Bless her heart, the girl thought Reagan had been beaten up by her boyfriend, or maybe her pimp, and passed on the business card of some woman who helped abused women and children. Trinity had almost wanted to laugh at the nurse—both common sense and good manners had intervened—until she listened to what the nurse had said.

Annabeth de Burgh can help you. She's got connections with the police—she can make sure you stay safe.

Reagan had paid no mind to the nurse, but at that point, Trinity got to thinking. And when she got home from the hospital, she got to work.

One of the great things about Trinity was that she had come from nothing, and had encountered and befriended many people who had come from nothing, too. Some of them hadn't had the same luck and success that she had, and had stayed lower down on the food chain—but Trinity had stayed in touch, even helped them out from time to time. She had a network of colleagues that she trusted, and as she began to lay her plans, she called upon them.

She'd learned a great deal about Annabeth de Burgh in a very small period of time, and she had liked what she learned. Trinity had wasted no time in acting—there was really no safe way to contact Annabeth; the blank money order in the mail had been the only thing she could think of. She had a few misgivings; it seemed as though some of the women she had helped had been connected with the Narrows and met a brutal end. But Trinity was pretty certain that plenty of women had encountered similar fates. She wasn't going to hold that against Annabeth—especially since she needed Annabeth to get her out of this mess.

In a leisurely fashion, she prepared a mug of tea and settled down with the papers. And almost immediately, she spat out a mouthful of Earl Grey as she saw the headline in front of her:

The Sinner and the Saint: Bruce Wayne's New Love Interest

Annabeth de Burgh begins fairytale with the Prince of Gotham

The name caught her eyes: Annabeth de Burgh. It couldn't be the same woman…since when did Wayne go around with plain-Jane social workers? Granted, Trinity had never met the man personally, but his reputation preceded him. He certainly didn't sound like the type of man who would abandon his models and sports cars long enough to fill his empty little head with anything of substance—Trinity caught herself before the thought went on any further. She didn't make it this far in her business by harboring a lot of preconceived notions about anyone, potential clients or not.

She read the article: Bruce Wayne turning over new leaf…bedazzled by the spirit and striking nature of Gotham native de Burgh…following in the family footsteps and becoming heavily involved with philanthropic efforts. The article actually mentioned very little about Annabeth, other than saying she was an extremely active political lobbyist—yeah, right—and volunteer in the community. No other information on her. After all, she wasn't really the news. She was just a tool through which the press could spin and sell a new story about Wayne. The picture was unremarkable, other than the fact that both Wayne and Annabeth looked normal—like any other person on the street. Goodness, Annabeth de Burgh must have besotted him.

So Annabeth was dating the wealthiest—and most powerful, whether or not he knew it, or even cared—man in Gotham. Not what Trinity, or probably anyone else in Gotham, would have anticipated, but then, this was Gotham. Strange and violent men dressed up as bats and clowns and tried to wage wars under the cover of darkness; other very bizarre people seemed to gravitate towards their little island and wreak havoc; entire parts of the city would immobilize at the first hint of disaster. If Gotham were a person and not a city, it would need a psychiatrist and a pharmacopeia of mood-stabilizing drugs. So Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, was dating Annabeth de Burgh, the woman who was about to become unwitting savior of sex workers all over Gotham? Stranger things had happened, especially in Trinity's line of work.

Despite the growing hostility Annabeth hwas encounrtering when she ventured into the Narrows, she could not cease her work there, not entirely. While she had wisely, and somewhat unwillingly, stopped roaming the alleys and streets, she still journeyed there at least one night a week for her time at the Y. There, at least, she was still welcome.

Normally she enjoyed the time she spent there. She taught community education classes there, mainly coping mechanisms and life skills for disadvantaged teenaged girls, but she also spent time with her Little Sister, Latoria, there. Each week she'd help Latoria with her homework, and they'd talk, and spend some time in the gym. They normally had a good time—Latoria was a nice girl, smart, knew enough to keep away from trouble, and she was mature, too. She knew a fair deal about Annabeth, and had revealed a lot of her own life's circumstances and hardships, too. The two females liked and respected each other, and they had an easy relationship.

That Monday evening, however, their normally pleasant rapport was strained. Annabeth was on edge and twitchy, and Latoria could sense it.

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded as Annabeth jiggled her leg once more. "You're impatient, or something. Give me time, I'll figure out the equation." Latoria loathed Algebra, but doggedly worked away at it. In school right now they were teaching quadratic equations, and they were pissing her off. She looked up at Annabeth. "Who needsthis crap, anyway? Do you use it?"

"Um..." Annabeth tried to make a joke. "Would you believe me if I told you that finding the square root of negative-b-squared-minus-4ac totally helps me figure out my grocery budget?"

Latoria rolled her eyes. "Just what I thought. They're trying to keep us busy with this junk so we don't try to start a revolution."

"Just wait 'till you read Marx and Engels." Annabeth was trying, truly she was, but frankly, she was nervous. Since the rash of murders, she'd reluctantly withdrawn from the Narrows, and the cryptic message she had gotten in the mail had made her twitchy. Who wanted to see her? What if it was a trap? But why would anyone want to trap her?

Stuff it, de Burgh, she scolded herself. Who would want to trap you? She was just Annabeth—a trouble- maker, but no serious contender or road block to Gotham's foulness. She did what she did because it was a compulsion and an obsession and a moral duty and because she could do nothing else, regardless of whether it actually worked. And sometimes she wondered if it did.

Latoria was eager to take a break. She threw down her pencil, stretched, and glanced slyly over at Annabeth. "What's with that guy you're dating?"

Annabeth had been anticipating this ever since she had seen that wretched article in the paper. While it hadn't been a surprise, she still wasn't particularly thrilled. Fortunately, the press had painted her as a political lobbyist, and not a woman who went about wrecking the traditional nuclear family and hiding women and children and getting involved in the torrid and nasty underworld of Gotham's lower classes. Just as well...neither she nor Donna particularly wanted Safe Haven to get dragged into it. In occasional moments of anxiety, though, Annabeth wondered how long the media spotlight could stay away.

"He's just a guy." Annabeth didn't want to mislead Latoria too much-after all, she was supposed to be a role model. "Just a guy I'm seeing. A guy that wears too much Armani."

"He's more than 'just a guy.'" Latoria was only fifteen, but she was no fool. "He's Bruce Wayne! Even I know who he is! What's he like?"

"A raving moron. Come on, finish your homework. Only two more equations to go." Annabeth was starting to get jittery again. She caught the disparaging look that Latoria gave her and relented a little. "Fine. Sometimes he acts like a little boy, always looking for something to keep him entertained."

"And the other half of the time?" Latoria prompted, her eyes shining. "Come on, you know my ma doesn't let me date. Let me live a little through you!"

Annabeth actually laughed. "Dating in your teens and dating in your thirties are very different." Especially when you're NOT actually dating. "The other half of the time-when he's not being a total fool-he's really great. Not what you'd expect at all."

"How so?" Latoria actually looked a little bit dreamy. Damn it, the kid was actually going to make her think about it. Between Janey, Donna, and Latoria, she might actually start to appreciate Bruce; but frankly, Annabeth preferred not to think of it at all. Much safer and easier that way. Nevertheless...

"He's...very considerate. Sweet. And he puts up with a lot."

"He must put up with a lot, if he dates you." Latoria cackled at her own joke, but stopped when she saw Annabeth's face. "What? It's the truth! You're not exactly warm and fuzzy when it comes to men. Even I can see that."

"Well." Annabeth feebly tried to defend herself. "When you do my job, you don't see a lot of the good in men. Or anyone, for that matter."

Latoria had heard a fair amount of Annabeth's job, so understood the reference. Still, she retained more hope than Annabeth did. "There's got to be some good men out there. Why can't Bruce Wayne be one of them?"

She sat there, all of fifteen years old, more than a little aware of the cruelties of life, and yet, Latoria was hopeful and idealistic and seemed completely energized by, and not terrified of, all the possibilities that danced through the world. Watching her, Annabeth was put to shame. It was at times like this that Annabeth realized that she had as much to learn from her Little Sister as Latoria had to learn from her, perhaps even more.

"Yes." Annabeth smiled. "I suppose you're right."

They continued working until almost ten, at which point Latoria reluctantly gathered her things and stuffed them into her school bag, a nice canvas messenger bag Annabeth had purchased for her at the beginning of the school year. "My ma's gonnanwalk me home. I don't want to keep her waiting." She grinned at her mentor. "Besides, sounds like you should go spend some time with your boyfriend."

"Scram," Annabeth said affectionately. She watched as Latoria took off, and then started to gather together her own things. She hoped that Latoria would be gone by the time she headed out into the alleys; the last thing Annabeth needed was for someone for whom she was trying to set an example see her duck into the nastiest part of the city. She bundled her leather jacket around herself and took a moment to gather her thoughts and fortify her spirit. Only a very short while had passed since she had last lurked in this area, but it always took a gathering of her courage.

And then she headed out into the night.

There were actually a lot of alleys behind the Narrows Y, but Annabeth had a strong suspicion she knew exactly which one she was supposed to head to. After checking to make sure that neither Latoria nor Latoria's protective mother had lingered, she made tracks for the darkest, dankest alley, just adjacent to the Y's dumpsters. She was bound to encounter someone there, even if it was Gotham's legendary rats.

She shivered. The harsh and oppressive heat of summer was now only a very distant memory, and it was getting downright cold. Of course, a certain amount of her chills were probably nothing more than nervousness. She reached into her coat pockets and traced the familiar form of the can of pepper spray in one pocket, and in the other, the much-newer taser gun. Only after much internal debate had she purchased it, and she still wasn't completely sold on the idea. But being away from the Narrows for only a couple of weeks was enough to put her off her game, and she had ultimately came down on the side of the taser.

She made a mental note to do a refresher course on women's self defense, and aloud she muttered, "I'm getting too old for this crap."

"Maybe."

Annabeth whirled around sharply and found herself facing a tall woman. At least, that was what she appeared to be—in the darkness, it was hard to make out her features. She was bundled into a bulky grey hoodie, and it was her voice, husky yet feminine, that gave her away. "Where the hell did you come from?" Annabeth demanded, struggling to keep the fear out of her voice.

"The direction you weren't looking in."

The two of them stood there, regarding each other for a moment before Annabeth relented. "You sent me a message, didn't you?"

"I did."

Annabeth's nerves were already on edge. "Well? Are you going to tell me who you are, or what you want? Or should I be trying to sign a lease here?"

"I don't think you'd want to live here, Annabeth. It's really too far from your day job, don't you think?"

"What do you know?" Annabeth's hackles were raised. "You'd better stick to business here, without making threats."

"No threats," the woman told her, and there was amusement in her voice. "Just curious as to how much of your two jobs go together. You're quite an interesting woman."

"You have me at the disadvantage." Annabeth's survival instincts were now really kicking into gear, and her eyes were constantly darting around, even as she was becoming mindful of the woman's every move. "You seem to know plenty about me, but I know next to nothing about you."

"That's how we're going to keep it for now. I have information for you."

Annabeth wasn't impressed. "Why should I trust you?"

The woman shrugged, seemingly indifferent to Annabeth's lack of cooperation. "I think you and I have similar goals."

"Yeah? Which would be what?"

"We both would like to see the Arrows go down." The woman paused, and then smiled. "Go down spectacularly, in flames, with no chance, no hopes of recovery."

Annabeth let out a short laugh. "You're not serious. You're hardly the type that mixes with the Arrows." It was true, too—even in the darkness, even though Annabeth couldn't get a good look at her, she could tell-the woman had an air about her, in the way she talked and carried herself. This woman was classy, and therefore this situation stank of duplicity. "You're not an Arrows woman. I've met plenty. I don't know who you are or what you want, but it's nothing good, and I'm not wasting another second here. You've got something up your sleeve, and I'm not going to put myself at risk."

She turned to leave, and a few things happened as she did-the woman lunged for her; Annabeth plunged her hand into her coat and came out with the taser gun, and a shadowy mass descended from above in a sudden, silent blur and landed in the space between them. The Batman had decided it was time to bust up the hen party.

"Jesus!"the woman cried, her previously cool composure rattled. "What the hell is that?"

"Get out of here!" Annabeth hissed at him. "This has nothing to do with you!"

Trinity hadn't bargained on this when she had arranged this secret meeting—but she could see how it could help. She had stepped back a few feet, but now she was closing in on them once more. "Wait-are you-" she shook her head in disbelief and turned to Annabeth. "Is that the Batman?"

"It is." The Batman answered for himself, and took the opportunity to draw himself up into his most imposing posture. Annabeth might not be cowed by it anymore, but here was fresh blood. His voice became a snarl as he demanded, "What do you want with Annabeth?"

She didn't acknowledge him, but looked at Annabeth for answers. "I thought he was an urban myth...what's up with his voice?" she added in an undertone.

Annabeth shrugged. "I think he eats gravel. Look," she said to the Batman, "You don't need to be here. You weren't invited."

"What do you want?" he asked the woman again, ignoring Annabeth.

Trinity could read men and women very well—part of her job description, really—and even if the Batman was in a mask and a costume, she could tell right away that he was more receptive than Annabeth. "I have information," she told him. "Information that might, in time, bring down the Arrows."

"What kind of information?"

Trinity saw that Annabeth was listening, too. Good. "I'm not sure yet. But they're about to get involved in something new, somethingbig. They're bringing something over from Russia. And they're trying to get investors over here to get on board with it."

"How do you know this?" Annabeth was, despite herself, being drawn into the intrigue. Unconsciously, the three of them began to inch closer together.

Trinity's face was grim. "I'm Donzetti's woman of the week. You know he and Jones le Blanc have control of practically all of Gotham's sex industry, right?" She didn't wait for them to answer. "I'm one of their recent prized acquisitions, and Donzetti decided he wants me for himself. I've already heard this much, so I'm going in. And I'm going to find out the rest."

The Batman had cocked his head in such a way that Annabeth could tell that he was listening, and giving serious consideration to the woman's plan. "No!" she said sharply. To the woman, she said, "I don't know who you are. But I can tell you that you don't want to do this. It's too dangerous. Come with me." Her voice had taken on a pleading note. "We can hide you, move you, get you started in a new city. Just...don't do this."

"This is my city," the woman said flatly. "My life and my work are here. And I want them back. And I want it to be safer." She turned to the Batman. "You see what I mean, don't you? That this needs to be done?"

"What do you propose?" he asked, neither condemning nor endorsing the plan. He saw Annabeth turn her gaze upon him, disbelieving and accusing, all at once.

"No." Annabeth's voice was taking on a slightly desperate note. "I'm not going to be part of this."

The woman smiled grimly. "I think you will. After all...you don't want it to get into the papers that you're concerting with a known felon, do you? 'Annabeth de Burgh, accomplice to the Batman'. Not good for business, is it? And I bet it won't help your new boyfriend's reputation, either, will it?"

Fleetingly, Annabeth thought of Bruce, literally half a city—and figuratively an entire world—away, innocently, blissfully unaware of the madness threatening to engulf them all. She couldn't involve him in this; for once, he hadn't done anything to deserve his name dragged into the gutter. "You're blackmailing me?"

"Not yet."

Tension built between the two women, and finally, when Annabeth spoke, her tone indicated she was outflanked. "What do you suggest?"

"It's simple. I'll contact you when I have information. I want you to act on it, because I know you have connections to Commissioner Gordon." Trinity turned to the Batman. "And rumor has it that you do, too. Start investigating. I'll be in touch."

Finally, the Batman spoke. "It's a dangerous plan. There's no one to protect you if things go wrong."

"Nothing's going to go wrong. You don't even know who I am. Not yet, anyway." Trinity turned to Annabeth, grabbed her hand and thrust a wad of cash into it. "Sorry about the blank money order. Put this to good use." She began to back away. "Don't follow me, don't try to find out who I am. I'll be in touch."

And just like that, she was gone. She left Annabeth and the Batman standing in the darkness of the alley, listening to her footfalls as she darted away.

Annabeth glared at the Batman. "Are you insane? That's a civilian! You're letting her put herself in danger! You should be helping her get out of danger!"

Her voice was rising, he noted dispassionately. As he listened to her rail on against him, he also noticed that a late night fog was creeping its way into the alley, reducing visibility. He became, if possible, more alert, trying to focus on individual noises, but Annabeth's shrill voice was making it difficult for him.

"...not her fight! Do you know how many women they've killed?"

Slowly, he began to walk away from her, focusing his eyes further down the alley.

"-not even listening to me! We aren't your pawns!" Annabeth stopped for a moment as she realized that she was staring at his back, fifteen feet away. "Do NOT walk away from me!"

Her diatribe came to an abrupt end as she saw him turn around and begin to run towards her, his cape billowing behind him, and a few seconds later, he brought his body down low, ramming into her shoulder and chest as he barreled into her, his weight and momentum bringing them both to the filthy ground. He heard her grunt as he knocked the wind out of her, but any other noise was overpowered by the loud crack of gunshots ringing out in the alley. He stayed still for a moment, crouching down over Annabeth, who was struggling beneath him. "Hold still!" he commanded, straining to get a sense where the attack was coming from.

Another volley of gunshots split the air, and the Batman grunted in pain as he registered the impact of a bullet hitting his shoulder. The armor caught the brunt of it; there was no penetration, but he'd be sore as hell for a good week after-if they got out of the mess that had unexpectedly erupted. Cautiously, he came up out of his crouch, realized that his knee was digging into Annabeth's arm. He shifted his weight but kept low, quickly assessing the surroundings. No dumpsters or doorways nearby to provide shelter, so there was no choice between fight or flight. Had he been alone, fight would have been the only option, but with Annabeth here, flight it would have to be.

Annabeth struggled into a sitting position, rubbing her shoulder. Her face was pale, and fear made her features stand out in sharp contrast. "What's going on?"

He held up a hand to quiet her, and then disengaged his grappling gun from his utility belt. Before he could do anything else, however, there was another salvo of gunshots; thankfully, all of them missed, but one struck a window ten feet above them, and it exploded in a shower of wicked glass shards that came showering down upon them.

His reaction was, thankfully, lightning-fast; once more, he threw himself down low, jerking Annabeth beneath him and wrapping his body around hers, and doing his best to cover her with his cape and armored limbs, so as to absorb the rain of glass. He heard Annabeth cry out in pain beneath him, but before he could assess the damage, several shouts caught his attention.

"It's him! It's the Batman, I can see him!"

"Don't kill! Just incapacitate!"

Running footsteps were coming their way. They were out of time. The Batman aimed and fired his grappling hook, watching with satisfaction as it launched and attached itself to the rooftop of a building no small distance away. Alfred had assured him that the line was reinforced and could carry several hundred pounds; silently the Batman prayed that he had been serious. "Come on," he muttered to Annabeth. "Hold on and don't look down." His movements were fluid and without hesitation; nimbly he leapt to his feet and at the same time, hauled Annabeth up with him. She was dazed, that much he could see, but she had enough sense to latch on to him for dear life, and a moment later he had vaulted them into the air. Below, he could see almost half a dozen men closing in on where they had been mere seconds before. He checked to make sure Annabeth was hanging on—she was, like a monkey, keeping a tight grip on him and burying her head was buried in his armored chest, her eyes squeezed tightly shut—and so with his free hand, he managed to hurl a couple of batarangs down at the men. A moment later, he heard the promising roar of a small, controlled explosion. The explosive batarangs had been Alfred's idea, and this was the first time he had had the chance to use them. Nice to know they worked.

Higher and higher they flew as the line retracted, and a moment later, they came skidding to a halt on the rooftop of a building almost half a block away. Annabeth released her death grip on the Batman and staggered backwards, trying to get her bearings. As she crouched down on the roof, gasping, the Batman circled the area, making sure it was clear, and shot his grappling hook onto the next building. He didn't want to stay here; they were still in the Narrows, and it was clearly a hostile place.

"Annabeth!" he said sharply.

She didn't respond.

Swiftly he strode over to her and crouched down beside her. "Are you hurt?" He gripped her shoulder to get her attention, and saw her flinch. He had charged into her hard when the thugs had attacked ; there would be extensive bruising there. "Annabeth!"

Slowly she shook her head and began to struggle to her feet. "No...I'm fine." She glanced back at the direction from where they had come. "What happened? Who were those men?"

"Bounty hunters, probably. I'm not the most popular person down here. Come on." He stared off into the distance, calculating the rooftop path they would take. "We have to leave. Now."

"Oh god." Annabeth hadn't appreciated their mid-air flight. "Make it quick."

"I'll get you to your neighborhood. Hang on."

Annabeth had never realized how little she liked the sensation of flying until that night. For almost the entire time, she kept her eyes tightly closed, only opening towards the end as they made their way closer to the center of Gotham and the bright lights of the city began to burn against her eyelids. As she reluctantly opened one eye, then the other, she let out an involuntary gasp-Gotham had never looked so beautiful as it did just then, a blur of glittering, shimmering golden lights against the silky blackness.

A moment later, they landed on a low rooftop, and Annabeth quickly relinquished her hold. She looked up at the Batman.

"Fire escape's right there." He motioned behind him. "Your building is a block away." He aimed his grappling hook again in preparation for departure, but paused when he heard Annabeth's voice.

"Wait."

He looked at her, his mask and cowl hiding his surprise. She looked furious.

"We didn't finish what we were talking about," she told him. "This is unfinished business, and we will discuss this, or I won't have anything to do with it, blackmail or not." She paused. "You'd better be at my place in fifteen minutes."

With that, she began to head down the fire escape—but paused long enough to yell, "And this time, you'd better knock."

After the mere hour that had just lapsed since she had said good-night to Latoria—how did time pass so quickly when fighting for your life?—it seemed strange for Annabeth to step back into the relative safety of her own home. And yet, it was quiet, dark, still-just as she left it when she left for work that morning, looking for all the world as though nothing awful ever happened, within its walls or without.

Annabeth knew better.

She slammed her door shut and sank to the floor, utterly spent. Her cat Wurzel meandered over, belly swinging gently side to side, but wandered away again as soon as she realized that no food would be forthcoming in the immediate future. Jed let out one low bark in greeting, but did not bestir himself from the couch.

For one ludicrous moment, she felt like she was going to cry. At some point, shock had set in, possibly to numb the terror that had engulfed her since the first sounds of gunfire. She had been in plenty of sticky situations, but never one with guns. And never in one that required she spend any time a few hundred feet in the air. Now the adrenaline was fading and normal emotions were beginning to set in. But resolutely, she took a deep and calming breath and scrambled to her feet; there was enough time for her to change into something a little less filthy. When the Batman had plowed into her and knocked her down, it had been into a very dirty, nasty gutter.

As she changed into yoga pants and a tank top, she realized she was bleeding. Panic almost set in-had she been hit?–but a cursory glance over her limbs revealed that a large amount of glass shards had embedded themselves into her right hand.

It was then that she heard the knock on the door—only one knock, loud and sharp. Cradling her hand awkwardly, she made her way back to the front door, peered through the peephole, and hauled the door open.

There was no one there.

She sighed and closed the door. She knew, she absolutely knew, that when she turned back around into her apartment, the Batman would be there.

And there he stood, looking ridiculously oversized and far too Gothic for her current decor.

"I knocked."

"You sure did." Annabeth walked around him and headed into the kitchen. She began opening cabinet doors, hauling out various items: a bowl, a glass, a bottle of whiskey. With a hand far steadier than he would have thought possible, given the ordeal she had just been through, she poured a generous amount into the glass and took a hefty swig. "You want some?"

Watching her try to soothe her nerves with alcohol was almost amusing. Alfred would have approved.

Suddenly, she turned, and he frowned as he saw her right side-her shoulder had began to swell up, angry and purple. "You're hurt."

"I got hit by a two-hundred-pound-plus tree trunk wearing armor." Annabeth took another gulp. "Damned straight I'm hurt."

His eyes traveled to the blood she was dripping on the floor. "You should go to the doctor."

Annabeth was having none of that. She headed into her bathroom and emerged a moment later with a bottle of peroxide, a pair of tweezers, a lighter, and some bandages. "I'm not going to the doctor." She lined the items up on her kitchen table, sat down, and started to go to work. He watched as she flicked open the lighter and held the tweezers over them for a few moments, and then as she doused her hand liberally with the peroxide. She flinched a little, but then mentally braced herself and began trying to extract the glass from her hands.

He watched, closely, and then, suddenly, sat down beside her.

"Make yourself at home." Alcohol may have steadied her nerves, but it was also making her even more snarky than usual.

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled the tweezers from her hand. "The glass is in your right hand and you're right-handed. You're just going to push it in deeper."

He took her hand into his and spread out her fingers, examining the damage. Somehow, glass had worked its way into both the back of her hand and her palm, but none of it appeared to have been driven in too deep. Soon he was gently cradling her hand with one of his while he worked the glass out with the other, maneuvering the tweezers with surprising skill and grace, given the gloves he wore.

This did nothing to distract her. As he silently doctored her, Annabeth started in on him. "We don't know who that woman is. But we can't put her into danger like that."

He didn't pause in his work. "She's already in danger."

"We don't even know if we can help her!" She paused. "You don't even care about helping her. It's just another way to take down some of the big, bad guys, right?"

No response.

"This is a person!" Annabeth was beginning to plead. "She's not a fighter."

Finally, she provoked a reply. "I wouldn't be too sure of that." He softly massaged her hand, working more of the glass shards to the surface. "She seemed like she was looking for a fight."

"This is all just part of your bigger goal, isn't it? Everyone is just a tool for you to use and manipulate, another way to achieve your own end."

He tightened his grip on her hand. "Hold still," he said sharply as he concentrated on a particularly large shard of glass. It was in a little bit deep, and if he didn't get it out, it would cause a painful infection.

Annabeth went on. "These are people you're toying with! What happens when le Blanc and Donzetti find out who's leaking information? They found out all those other times! Don't you care? You just barge into peoples' lives and homes, uninvited, scaring them to death, wreaking havoc-and what good does it do, ultimately?" They both knew now that she was no longer referring to the events of earlier that night.

With a little more roughness than was strictly necessary, he pulled out the large shard, and saw with a tiny nudge of guilt that Annabeth had been momentarily silenced by the pain. Swiftly he doused the hand with more peroxide and blotted away the blood, and after that was done he wrapped it with the bandages. "It's done."

"Are you even going to answer me?" she demanded.

Hastily, he stood up, and she saw that she had provoked him, if not to anger, than at least to mild irritation. "I don't have to answer," he said flatly. "But I will ask you this: what else can we do? How many more of those women have to die before we figure this out?"

She didn't have an answer for him.

The Batman rose to leave, but then paused for a moment and turned back to her. With a light touch, he placed his hand on her bruised shoulder and said, "Soak a bandage in comfrey tea and wrap your shoulder in it. That will help the bruising."

Annabeth didn't turn around to watch him leave.

The next afternoon, Bruce coaxed her out for a hastily-arranged lunch. Alfred picked them up, and as they piled into the Rolls, Annabeth accidentally bumped her shoulder on the door and let out an involuntary groan.

Alfred glanced in the rearview mirror. "Alright, there, Miss Annabeth?"

"I'm fine, Alfred," Annabeth said through a pained smile. "Just a little sore. Bumped my shoulder."

Beside her, Bruce was pulling out a newly-purchased iPod and gleefully reviewing all of its features.

Alfred smiled sympathetically. "Bruises are nasty things. Awful to look at, hard to treat. Seems like I heard somewhere you should treat it with comfrey-soak a bandage in comfrey tea, I think. I'll have to look it up later."

A funny expression came over Annabeth's face. She glanced over at Bruce, still intent on his new gadget, and back to Alfred, who was now minding the traffic. She gave a mental shrug.

Suddenly Bruce looked up, concern written all over his face. He had been paying attention, after all. "How'd you hurt your shoulder?"

"Oh..." Annabeth paused, struggling to think of a plausible excuse. "I can be kind of clumsy-I fell down the stairs."

Bruce accepted it readily enough, but Annabeth cursed herself. Of all the excuses, that was the best I could do? I guess this makes me a bat-tered woman.