Another night in Gotham.
It had been Annabeth's first day back at Safe Haven, commenced a mere twelve hours after returning to her home after the disastrous weekend at Bellingham. Because of the insanity that defined Mondays at Safe Haven, she had been able to justify holing herself up in her office and dealing with the backlog of work, thereby avoiding her colleagues and clients and their questions. She knew they were deeply curious about the weekend, and she knew she would not be able to avoid the subject forever, but she was not yet up to the task of explaining to everyone that she and Bruce Wayne had gone down in flames.
The day had passed quickly, filled as it was with little fires to extinguish, papers to file, emails and phone calls to answer. But the whole day had been curiously dull, lacking in lively conversation, humor, and spirit. Annabeth's spirit was dragging, and it pissed her off to realize it was because she no longer had Bruce Wayne's presence to anticipate and enjoy.
Now, night had fallen. It was Maya's turn to work the overnight shift, but Annabeth had eagerly volunteered to take it on. It gave her more work to do, and it prevented her from having to return home to her lonely, cold condo. And so she remained in her office, burning the midnight oil and trying desperately to ignore the unexpected hole in her heart.
Safe Haven was quiet—most of the residents had retired to their rooms, to sleep—or not, as was so often the case. Every now and then, a small moan or cry would permeate through the thin walls and floors, or a child's muffled sobs would carry through the building in that strange, powerful way that heartbreaking noises had. Annabeth paid no attention to it, however—she had long ago grown accustomed to the nighttime distresses that tormented her scared and worried clients, and while it tore at her heart each time she heard their pain, she knew that she could do nothing. Time was the only thing that would help.
Annabeth sighed and worked on.
Just another night in Gotham.
Another night in Gotham.
Down at the Naval Tricorner Yards, Barbara Gordon had managed to scout out a suitable neighborhood watering hole. This had not been difficult—her only criteria was that it had to have late hours, attractive patrons, and her favorite whiskey. The Alleycat, just three blocks away from home, happily fit the bill, and Barbara had fast become a regular.
Not that she had much time for slumming. Between her classes and her workout routine and her duties as big sister/surrogate mother, as well as her—ahem—research, Barbara had her hands quite full. But every now and then, her father managed to spend a night away from the MCU, and Barbara would get an unexpected reprieve. Tonight had been such a night, and she had left her father struggling to get Jimmy and Hannah to brush their teeth and go to bed. Tonight, it was not her problem.
At her little table, she sat quietly, alone. She enjoyed people watching, and her unusual, punk-tomboy looks didn't always encourage people to come chat her up. This didn't faze Barbara in the slightest—in addition to her blithe irreverence, she possessed an absurd amount of confidence, coupled with a very useful indifference to what most other people thought about her. And so she was able to relax at her local watering hole, uninterrupted, unharassed. Her amused, friendly countenance belied the complex multitude of thoughts that were churning about within her formidable brains...as she sipped her whiskey, she worried over her father and younger siblings, and wondered how her mother was faring in rehab. She pondered her classes, brainstormed research ideas. She reflected on the bleak nature of her re-adopted city. And then she turned her head to the mystery of the Batman...
Right as this shift in thoughts occurred, a woman caught Barbara's eye. She sat at the bar, and Barbara had an unobstructed view of the woman's classical profile, her friendly smile, her crinkled-up eyes. She was attractive, and Barbara's interest was piqued. Abandoning her table, she carried her drink to the bar and settled down beside the lady du jour. And so, her formidable brains were distracted away from the mystery of the Batman—fortunately for everyone.
The Alleycat's main bartender looked on in detached amusement as Barbara chatted up the woman, who turned out to be another regular, and a very friendly regular besides.
It was just another night in Gotham.
Another night in Gotham.
In the Arrows, down by Wharfside, existence was no better since the arrest of Boy-o. Nature abhors a vaccuum, and the space left by the arrest of Boy-o had been filled quickly enough by a handful of low-level gangbangers eager to latch onto the Arrows' rising constellation. These men were not psychotic, as their predecessor had been; they were coldly sane, and sometimes reasonably intelligent. These ambitious low-lifes did share one or two common characteristics with Boy-o: they were all every cruel and indifferent to human life.
But at least the Boy-o had the reasonable explanation of insanity.
Three of the new recruits to the Arrows were living Wharfside, full-time. Their apartment was fairly decent, for a Wharfside building, and was in fact a piece of real estate owned by Jones le Blanc. As landlords went, le Blanc was fairly ideal—his rent was cheap, and he made no remark about the nefarious activities in which his tenants were engaged. Of course, it didn't hurt that le Blanc sponsored said nefarious activities, and oversaw them, to boot.
These three men were not the only tenants in the rather shabby old tenement, but they were the only ones who enjoyed the relative comforts of it. At the moment, there were six other residents in le Blanc's Wharfside property, but they did not exactly benefit from the Arrows' largesse in quite the same manner. Unlike their three male roommates, these six women did not appreciate their lodgings, most likely due to the fact that they were locked into one of the smaller rooms within, and had not been outside or seen the sun in almost a week.
These six women had names, of course, bestowed upon them in the years before they had made the mistake of seeking their fortunes in the accursed city of Gotham, but their three captors had made no efforts to learn them. Names implied humanity, identity, life. The women ranged in age from fourteen to twenty-three; some were curvy, others were on the thinner side. They had only three things in common: they were all Latino, all illegal immigrants, and they all cowered in terrified silence.
They knew what would happen if they spoke to each other.
Four days ago, one particularly spirited girl, Maria, had joined their ranks. For this girl, not talking was not an option—she wanted to know who their captors were, she wanted to know the names of her fellow prisoners, she wanted to know what the hell was going on.
When Victor, the burliest of the guards, knocked out a few teeth, she finally stopped speaking.
The next day, Maria was gone, and the rest of them knew better than to ask what had happened.
It was just another night in Gotham.
Another night in Gotham.
Down by Maggie McCormick's tavern, the Monday night crowds had not yet started to thin out. The usual suspects were there—the many men and fewer women from the closest factory, stopping by for a pint or three before heading home to their families; one or two old-timers who had been present since opening hours; a handful of women who had seen better days and quite simply had nowhere better to go. They were by and large a decent crowd, more or less honest and hard-working—or at least their livers worked hard. Maggie knew most of them by name, and they all knew Maggie. She kept up a cheerful stream of chatter with all of them, pausing to ask about an ailing parent here, a newborn child there. She was liberal with the drinks, and while she never let a patron bilk her on their drink tab, she had earned quite a reputation for being very generous with food, particularly when someone was a little short before payday. Maggie knew and loved them all, saw them as family, and certainly heard all the family gossip.
Inside the tavern, all was warmth, solidarity, the comfort of other humans—but beyond the tavern, in the menacing and merciless shadows of the cold November night, it was another story. Maggie was busy inside, however, and had no way of knowing that in her back alley, more than one person was lying in wait for her.
The Batman was crouched on the rooftop overhead, at one with the Gotham night. He had a birds-eye view of the alley, and was able to see the two young men—hoodlums, really—who lurked outside Maggie's tavern, near the dumpster. They appeared to be young, relatively confident, and very aware of Maggie's schedule. As the minutes grew closer to 10:30, Maggie's first trash run of the evening, the two loiterers grew more restless, more mentally prepared for whatever they intended to do.
The Batman didn't give them the chance. A few minutes before 10:30, he decided to make an appearance, and dropped, silently, into the alley, directly in front of them. He loomed overhead, a large black mass blotting out the almost-as-black sky.
One of the males let out a startled cry and fell deeper into the shadows by the dumpster. The Batman had a split second to look at him, take in his extreme youth—he couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen—and his extremely high state, before the other male actually charged at him. It was similar to running into a very solid brick wall, however, and upon making contact with the Kevlar-clad muscle mass he almost immediately staggered backwards. He was high, too, and began gibbering in confusion and fright.
Small potatoes, perhaps, but still, useful work. The Batman actually hauled him up and away by his collar, much like an ornery cat, and held him at arm's length. When he was certain he had the attention of both of Maggie's would-be attackers, only then did he speak, and it was a voice of such menace, such coldness, that it would haunt both of them and their highs for months.
"Think again before you invade this turf. McCormick's tavern, the property, the people, are under my protection. Don't mess with anyone around here, understood?"
The Batman punctuated this with a none-too-gentle cuff to the head, and then released the kid. Both of them scampered off, and the Batman watched, with more than a few misgivings. They hadn't actually been committing any crimes, but there had been something alarming, threatening, even, about their presence in a dark alley. Their intentions towards Maggie McCormick weren't benevolent, that was for certain. But as much as he would have liked to, he could not simply deliver them to the Gotham PD for the dubious crime of loitering—this part of the city, they would more likely than not simply refuse to send out a patrol to look into it. So he had to simply settle for intimidation, and hope their visions of him would lodge into their drug-addled minds as a cautionary tale.
Having made certain that the two youths had departed, the Batman launched himself up the wall and back onto the roof, where he settled back on his heels to wait for Maggie McCormick to emerge. As he waited, he tried to ignore the rising sense of weary despair. Nothing had changed in his brief absence, that was for certain—he and Alfred had spent the day culling the papers and the police reports for the past weekend, and each had noted that the crime rates were as steady as ever. The only triumph was that nothing exceptionally violent had unfolded over the weekend, when they had been at Bellingham; the crime was more of the standard, big-city variety. But then, the crime which distinguished Gotham from the rest—the mobs, the corruption, the exceptionally creative psychopaths and sociopaths—rarely just happened. They took a while to develop, and plot, and reveal their evil deeds. And the Batman could only hope his vigilance would be enough to thwart it all.
These morose ruminations were suddenly interrupted as the work entrance to the tavern crashed open and Maggie came out. Her brassy blonde hair glowed weirdly in the dim alley lights, and she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. She had a trash bag in each hand, but she promptly dropped them both to fish out her cigarettes and lighter.
He gave her a few moments with her smokes, and then casually, slowly, leaned out over the eves and let drop a batarang. It clattered to the ground, right by her feet, and succeeded in catching her attention. The Batman watched as she knelt down and picked up the rather over-priced emblem. She examined it for a moment before lifting her head and scanning her surroundings. After a moment, her eyes caught the hulking mass of shadow which lurked overhead, and she gave a silent wave.
Once again, he dropped into the alley, but this time, not with the intention to scare anyone senseless. Maggie gazed approvingly at him, took a drag on her cigarette, and exhaled the smoke before remarking, "Looks like you've developed a non-invasive way to announce your presence."
"You're more useful to me if you don't have a heart attack," the Batman agreed quietly. "How are things?"
Maggie deliberately misinterpreted his question. "Believe it or not, this recession's great for business. When you're unemployed and miserable, what other choices do you have except to drink?"
"That wasn't what I meant."
"No, but it wouldn't hurt if you mastered the art of small talk." Maggie took another drag. "Things are...weird. Since they arrested that creep, some of the women are coming out of the woodwork, but they're still scared. And I've been hearing something strange."
The Batman drew closer. When he spoke, his voice was menacing. "Strange how?"
Maggie glanced back towards the tavern. "I got friends down here, other bar owners. We...pool our knowledge, try to look out for each other. Other night, one of them was telling us that he'd been hearing something scary. He runs a canteen in the Barrio—" she cut herself off and looked sharply at him, and he nodded, understanding. The Barrio was the neighborhood within the Narrows where a large portion of the Latin American immigrants, legal and otherwise, lived. "He runs a canteen down there, and he was telling us that some of their customers down there were talking about missing girls. Seven in the past week. Young, he said, and most of them here without families. No one really to make a fuss. All of them undocumented, so even if someone did want to make a fuss, it wouldn't do any good, they'd likely just get deported."
The Batman was silent, his mind leaping in a thousand different directions as he processed the information and tried to place it in context with all of the other worrisome things in Gotham that seemed to tie back in with the Arrows. Maggie fell back into silence, contentedly puffing away on her cigarette and contemplating heaven only knew what. She had plenty of her own problems, and could not be drawn too deeply into his.
It never ended. Each time he began to think that they were coming to the end of the Arrows and their ambitious trafficking plans, he learned something new that just complicated the case even more. Would they never limit their damned ambitions? How did this newest information synthesize with everything else regarding them...and more to the point, how could he go about finding the missing girls?
As little as he liked to admit it, both actions would require a consultation with Annabeth de Burgh.
Beside him, Maggie had grown restless and cold. Her cigarette was almost completely gone, but she still took one last drag, sucking as much cancer as she could from it.
"You could just light up a new one," the Batman pointed out.
"Nope. Doctor's getting on my case about it—I'm trying to cut back." Maggie's tone of disgust spoke volumes of what she thought about this advice, but nonetheless, she didn't light up another. "I'll let you know if I hear anything else about those girls. The canteen's called Milagro, if you were planning on paying them a visit. Owner's name is Mike—be nice to him."
She picked up the bags of trash and began to make her way past him and head towards the dumpsters, but the Batman was not yet ready to depart. "I wanted to tell you something."
Not much surprised Maggie any more, but this was one of the rare exceptions. "What is it?"
"Be careful out here. I caught two punks out here earlier...it looked like they knew when you were coming out."
Maggie wasn't surprised. "Sounds like my godson Kingston and his friend. Little fucker got Kingston hooked on meth a little while back—now he tries to rob us all blind. I don't think they would have tried to hurt me—just make off on whatever they could get their hands on."
Thankfully, his mask and cowl hid the look of pity and incredulity the Batman was giving her. Maggie, normally so tough and weathered, now appeared as deluded as the next Gothamite. Inside his head, a voice came back, from across the years, reminding him of a different time, a time of black-and-white thinking: "Criminals thrive on the indulgence of society's understanding."
Maggie was still speaking. "I've got no illusions about where I live, and how I will die. Look around." She gestured the filthy, dark alley for emphasis. "Not too pretty, is it? You're about the only one I know who willingly comes here. Shit, I'm not even sure why I stick around. I guess inertia's a pretty powerful concept."
She waved half-heartedly at the Batman as she headed back inside, not even waiting to watch his departure.
It was just another night in Gotham.
Excerpt from the Monday, November 24 edition of the Gotham Gazette, Society Column, Section B1:
Gotham's Prince Reigns Supreme
Single women of Gotham, rejoice! It appears that Gotham's most eligible prince is not lost to us just yet. Sources report that he was present at the grand opening of the ultra-chic and very exclusive new nightclub, Rumours. Located less than a block from Wayne Tower, it's reputed to become the flagship nightclub owned by Kingston Stewes, the owner and founder of the popular gentleman's magazine, Frisky. Similar nightclubs are scheduled for opening in Las Vegas, New York, and Los Angeles in 2009.
Most remarkably, Wayne attended alone. Notably absent was his current paramour, Annabeth de Burgh, although it is unlikely one would find her present at such a blatantly regressive venue; such places are hardly likely to appeal to a woman's rights activist such as she...However, the real news story is this: while Bruce Wayne arrived alone, he most certainly did not leave alone. While enjoying the hospitality of the VIP room, he encountered none other than Natascha Cherkesov, Prima Ballerina for the Russian Ballet, whose recent marriage is reputed to be on the rocks already. After carousing through the midnight hour, they departed, reportedly to carry on the festivities at an impromptu private party back at Wayne Manor.
What this indicates about his fledgling relationship (or was it fling?) with Miss Annabeth de Burgh remains to be seen, but next week's society column no doubt will have more information...
That morning, as tongues were wagging all over Gotham, discussing the latest twists and turns in Bruce Wayne's social movements, the man in question was sound asleep, oblivious to all. But not for much longer.
The sound of the Gotham Gazette being slapped down onto Bruce's dressing table resounded sharply throughout his bedchamber, and did not fail to have the intended effect of stirring Bruce into wakefulness. He jerked up, for a moment disoriented, and gazed around. It was a moment before he caught sight of Alfred, sitting by his bed and glaring mightily.
"Oh, good, Master Wayne," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through Kevlar. "You're awake."
"In a manner of speaking." Bruce leaned back against the bank of pillows. "What time is it?"
"Seven twenty-five, sir." Alfred answered this in a voice much louder and in a tone much more pointed than his normal, unruffled manner.
The two men squared off in a staring contest that Bruce knew that he didn't have a hope of winning. His eyes kept drooping shut. Dammit, he had come home at two-thirty that morning—a relatively early night for him—and after evenings like that, it was not Alfred's way to wake him up before noon at the earliest. It was more than "not his way", really, it was what the two of them had tacitly agreed upon when Bruce had commenced his nocturnal activities. The fact that Alfred had awakened him early, and none too politely, indicated that the older man was very irate, indeed.
Finally Bruce gave up. "Dare I ask, Alfred?"
"Saturday night, sir. What were you doing?"
"I was...out. Like I told you. Thought I should make an appearance on the social scene." Bruce was being honest, if not entirely forthcoming on all the facts. "Would you...mind closing those drapes? That sun is really bright.
"Not just yet, sir." Alfred had stepped out of the role of benevolent and long-suffering butler, and it was not at all clear when he would return. "I'm interested in hearing a little more about what it was, exactly, that motivated you to go to that bloody party and drag Miss Annabeth's name—to say nothing of your own—through the dirt and have us all exposed to ridicule in that bloody gossip rag."
Bruce was finally beginning to register the source of Alfred's anger. "Ah. Someone caught wind of that club, I guess. Let's see the newspaper."
He accepted the paper that Alfred held out, deliberately avoiding the accusing gaze that came along with it. Quickly he scanned the article, his face betraying nothing until he got to the end. "Private party, eh? Alfred, what have you been doing when I'm out at night?"
Alfred said nothing, just fixed Bruce with a baleful glare.
"Okay, yes." Even Bruce knew when to concede, particularly when the person to whom he was conceding had the sole responsibility of making sure all of his life-saving equipment was in top working form. "It was a little...insensitive. But it wasn't really as bad as all that—Vicki Vale didn't write this article, so you know the facts were distorted."
"And what facts were those?" Alfred's voice was still icy.
"We-e-ell...we didn't leave at midnight. It was more like eleven. And I didn't do any 'carousing' with her—I dropped her off back at her suite at the Ritz, where her husband was nursing a bad head cold and most decidedly not drawing up divorce papers, I might add. And then...I went to work."
He didn't have to specify what kind of work, and Alfred didn't have to ask. But...
"And the club? Rumours, was it?" Alfred's mouth puckered in distaste as he repeated the name. "They made it sound as though it was a high-priced gentleman's club."
"Not far off the mark, I'm sorry to say." Bruce didn't look much happier about it. "I don't think anyone who worked there could have been older than twenty-five. And the outfits..." Bruce shook his head in bewilderment. "How could they move around?"
"How could you go there?" Alfred demanded. "It's exactly the type of disgusting place that Miss de Burgh reviles."
"And that's exactly why I went." Bruce's face was taking on its stoic mask. "It'll be easier for her to move on if she has clear and present reason to loathe me."
There was twisted logic to it, Alfred had to admit, but he didn't have to like it. His heart ached for Bruce, for Annabeth, at the same time that his mind raged against the both of them for their dogged determination to pursue the path of greatest misery. "I think you're both very foolish."
"You're probably right, Alfred. But I don't think it matters any more." Bruce's eyelids were drooping again. "And she probably agrees wholeheartedly."
The anger had gone as abruptly from Alfred's sails as it had entered, and the older man was filled with nothing more exasperated pity for them both. "I repeat, I think you're both very foolish. And I'm sure you would both agree wholeheartedly if you were outside spectators."
"Very likely," Bruce yawned.
"You're agreeing with me, Master Wayne, to get me to leave you to your beauty sleep."
"Very likely." This was a slurred mumble. Bruce was almost gone. "I know you disapprove...can you just disapprove after I wake up?"
Alfred sighed and gave in. He drew the drapes shut, and the room was enveloped in a strange twilight darkness once more, all the more eerie for the fact that it was a bright morning beyond. He moved quietly from the room, casting one last glance at the sleeping form of Bruce, breathing deeply and evenly, looking for all the world as though he were oblivious to the uproar he had undoubtedly caused in Annabeth de Burgh's world.
"Are you completely oblivious?"
Janey stared across the diner table in sheer amazement, taking in Annabeth as she calmly turned the page of the newspaper and took another sip of coffee. "Annabeth, are you even listening to me?"
"Not when you're talking about what I think you're talking about." There was a razor-sharp edge to Annabeth's voice, the same tone of voice she had used when she had informed Janey a week prior that under no circumstances was she to bring up the name of Bruce—the modifying expletive had made even Janey blush—Wayne. It was a tone of voice that was hard, brittle, and perilously close to wobbling. Janey still recalled the grim set of Annabeth's jaw, how she could practically hear Annabeth's teeth grinding. She would tell Janey nothing about the weekend, absolutely nothing; her eyes had glittered with tears the one time Janey had pressed the issue.
But a week had passed, and Janey's patience was giving way to her curiosity. "Annabeth, what on earth happened between the two of you?"
Annabeth lowered the newspaper and glared at Janey. A tense silence stretched between them.
Suddenly, a frightened squawk startled them both out of their staring contest. Both Janey and Annabeth turned to the source of the noise, and observed Madison Rose huddled in a booth, occasionally batting at invisible tormentors as she babbled incoherently. They watched as Sara set her food-laden tray down at an empty table and settle down across from Rose, speaking soothing words of comfort as she did.
"She's getting worse, isn't she?" Annabeth asked rhetorically, and then turned back to Janey, who was still expecting an answer. "Look, Janey, I really don't want to talk about it. It...it actually hurts. And I feel like I made a right fool of myself."
Janey snorted, in either frustration or exasperated amusement. "That doesn't surprise me. But what the hell am I supposed to think—you guys left and everything was hunky-dory, you come back with a fucked-up face and my evening gown ruined—the drying cleaning bill for that will be astronomical, by the way. Now Bruce Wayne's back to acting like a buffoon and you look like you're chewing glass every time someone says his name. I think I should get to know something."
Annabeth still wasn't giving in.
Janey hauled out the big guns, the time-honored way of all women. It could always backfire—sometimes when women started talking about their defective love lives, it would be the only topic of conversation for another five months—but it was the last resort. "And...it might make you feel better."
It never failed.
Annabeth's shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right...you're right. I know this. But...it's easier not to talk about it. Not to think about it."
"Coward."
The disgust in Janey's voice was a little hurtful. "Hey!" Annabeth protested. "That's a little unnecessary, don't you think?"
"Nope." Janey glared at her. "I don't know what's gotten into you. You face things head-on, even the things that suck. But when it comes to Bruce, and all things about love, you're a big baby. Jesus, Annabeth, grow up and tell me what the fuck happened."
As Janey had suspected, Annabeth responded more positively to rough-and-tumble frankness than to mollycoddling.
"Bruce and I slept together," she blurted out, a little more loudly than she had intended. It had the unexpected result of being overheard by Sara and Madison Rose, who stopped having conversations with her invisible tormentors. Apparently there was still enough lucidity in her to pick up on a choice piece of gossip.
"No shit?" Janey was surprised. "'Bout damned time. So—the question now becomes, why are you sitting around moping like a wet weekend, and not over there continuing to screw each other silly?"
"Oh, we're screwed alright," Annabeth snapped. "Both of us. I don't know what he's playing at, what sort of creepy thing he's involved in, but I can't be involved in it." And so she finally told the sorry story—an abbreviated version of it, anyway. Janey had been correct, of course; some burdens of pain and disappointment were just too much to carry alone, and it felt good to finally have someone else know and see.
"I don't get it." Janey clearly thought her best friend had gone round the bend. "What's the big deal? So he's got a few bruises. He's probably involved in some sort of extreme sports. Spelunking...or BASE-jumping or something. Who knows?"
"It wasn't like that, Janey. Not anything like that at all. I've seen bruising like that before, lots of times. Someone had done some serious damage to him, and not only recently." Annabeth frowned as she remembered his broad back, illuminated in the morning light. "There was extensive scarring, too."
Janey knew Annabeth better than anyone, anywhere, and that meant she knew her strengths and virtues as well as her flaws and neuroses. She was a chippy woman, difficult and overly cautious and too obsessed for her own good...but not irrationally paranoid or prone to imagining trouble where there was none. She had damned good instincts, actually, and if Annabeth thought something was up...well. Janey began to give the matter more thought.
"See?" Annabeth was triumphant. "Something's not right, something hasn't been right for a long time with him, maybe ever. He's always acted a little strange..."
"This is Bruce Wayne we're talking about." Janey felt the urge, still, to see all points of view. "He's always been a law unto himself."
"I don't give a damn. It's shady, whatever's going on. And Janey, goddamn it, I had just about made up my mind that I maybe loved him..." Janey's eyebrows flew up, and Annabeth's innate honesty compelled her to amend it. "Okay, more than that, I did figure out that I did. And dammit, I probably still do. But I can't get caught up into whatever's going on with him. I actually...implied that Alfred was abusing him."
Janey had just taken a sip of water, but upon hearing that, she spat it back out, all over her breakfast plate. "For real?"
Despite her persistent depression over the situation, Annabeth smiled, albeit reluctantly. "In hindsight, I was barking up the wrong tree...but what on earth was I supposed to think?"
Janey's eyes twinkled. "Maybe he likes it rough?"
"A lady never tells." Annabeth said this primly, and added, "Anyway, it doesn't matter. The first time was the last time. I prefer my men to be honest with me."
"I can't argue with that." Janey looked at her best friend sympathetically. "Lord, you really do know how to pick them, don't you?"
"Mmm." The pain would not have been evident to most people, but Janey could see it in Annabeth's dulled eyes, the listlessness in her voice. God knew she remembered how the sparkle went from her days when a love interest didn't pan out. Annabeth was struggling to put a brave face on things, though. "Look, it'll be fine, long term. And it was worth it, almost, to see Bruce beat the stuffing out of Seth Percival. But things would just have been too complicated for us. Now I just...move on."
"You think it's just a question of getting on with your life and forgetting you were in love with Bruce Wayne?" Janey smirked. Annabeth was blissfully clueless sometimes.
Any chance of responding was cut off as Annabeth's cell phone trilled, and just like that, they were jerked out of girly confidences. As Annabeth picked up her phone, and saw it was Donna calling, she caught sight of the time. "Shit!" It was just past eight forty-five, and she and Donna had scheduled a meeting at eight-thirty. How the hell had she lost track of time?
Bruce bloody Wayne, that's how. Damned man persisted in screwing things up, even now.
"Annabeth, where the hell are you?" Donna didn't sound angry, but then, she rarely did towards Annabeth. It was one of her many redeeming boss qualities. "We were supposed to firm up some of the plans for the Take Back the Night rally."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, time got away from me." Even as Annabeth was struggling to reassure her boss, she was rising to her feet, simultaneously digging around in her purse for money and signaling her apologies to Janey. "I'm just down the block, I'll be there in a few minutes."
"I suppose I can wait a few more minutes." Donna's tone was wryly amused, and she hung up.
"I still want to hear the details!" Janey called at Annabeth's retreating back as she sailed out the door and onto street, immediately getting swept up into the city crowds. It was a bright day, sunny and cold, just a few days before Thanksgiving, and in the air, the last vestiges of autumn clung before winter finally tightened its grip. A blast of chilly wind nudged her forward as a few leaves scuttled past on the same gust, and she could not help but to smile. Between the suffocating mugginess of Gotham in summer and the painful frigidity of Gotham in winter, there were days like this, clear and bright and beautiful.
There. She'd show them all—or, more specifically, Janey, who seemed skeptical of her ability to move past the disillusionment of the past couple of weeks. Bruce Wayne had not contacted her since their return from Bellingham, and while this should not have surprised her, it did disappoint her. Annabeth had reacted in the only way she knew how: she had thrown herself into her work, pulling long hours at Safe Haven, then returning to her home and spending more hours on her work there. But something had changed, some strange thing within her had shifted...she found herself craving more company, eager for more diversity, more stimulation. She had actually signed up at a neighborhood gym, was thinking about taking night classes at one of the community colleges...
She was keeping herself busy, that was it. Annabeth had to be honest with herself, keeping busy was the only way—and not even a particularly good way—to keep herself from wallowing in misery. It had been unexpected, really, how depressed she had become since her return, and today's article in the Gotham Gazette had hurt her far more than she had let on to Janey. But still—it was clear to her that Bruce didn't give a damn about her. That she has chosen to sleep with him when she had meant so little to him was particularly galling...
"Enough," she told herself, quietly. Mulling over this was not moving on. It would take time, but she would get past it. Damn it, anyway.
Ninety minutes later, Annabeth finally settled into her own office. She plopped her briefcase and a stack of mail at her already-cluttered desk, settled down, and prepared to face the day. The meeting with Donna had been productive, but good lord, they still had a lot to do.
"And this isn't exactly the best environment to do it in," Annabeth remarked aloud. She gazed around in exasperation and took in her overcrowded, messy office. She really needed to go through and do a thorough cleaning, but there never seemed to be the time.
And there's sure as hell not time today,Annabeth sternly admonished herself. Another day. She booted her computer and prepared to answer the mass of emails she knew would be waiting.
Date: 24 November 2008 7:36 AM
To: ANNABETH DE BURGH
From: COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON
Importance: High
Subject: Legal Proceedings
Annabeth,
Earlier in the month, we conferred about the necessity of implementing an immediate name change for the Jane Doe currently in your protection. Normally this legal procedure requires the petitioner to present him or herself at the district court, but given the sensitive nature of the request, in addition to the fact that the petitioner has not yet reached her majority, this is difficult to say the least.
To that end, I had a word with the new D.A., and as a favor, they are expediting the petition and waiving some of the requirements. To that effect, I've attached the legal documents that need to be filled out by Jane Doe. Print them up, have her sign them, and hand deliver them personally to me, and this should be taken care of very quickly.
I thank you for your continued cooperation in this matter, as in so many others.
Sincerely,
Jim Gordon
As Annabeth read this last line, she rolled her eyes. Nonetheless, she printed up the email and the attachments, and moved on to the next email.
Date: 24 November 2008 8:03 AM
To: ANNABETH DE BURGH
From: GARCIAMAN
Subject: Better left unwritten
Miss de Burgh,
It has come to my attention that you and your organization have overstepped your bounds regarding this rally that you have planned. While it is commendable that you have such high hopes for a large turn-out, the unhappy truth is that the Christmas holidays and the inevitably cold weather will deeply undermine your attendance. Therefore I must ask that you revise and resubmit your proposal to the city, this time using far more reasonable numbers for your projected turnout. Eight thousand attendants at a feminist march, particularly a first-time event, is simply not a realistic number.
-Mayor Garcia
This one, too, Annabeth printed up. The bastard was slippery, that was for certain, and knew better than to send such a condescending email from his city email address. That he could very well be correct was beside the point entirely.
Date: 24 November 2008 8:30 AM
To: ANNABETH DE BURGH
From:VICKI VALE
Subject: Request for Comment
Annabeth,
You're a tricky person to get a hold of these days, you know that? I was wondering if you wished to meet for coffee or drinks sometime in the near future—you see, I'm interested to hear if you wish to comment on the recent rumors that Bruce Wayne is back on the Gotham dating scene. I doubt you'll wish to say anything, but you cannot blame an ambitious woman for trying, eh?
Happy Thanksgiving,
Vicki Vale
That one got deleted. And it was unfortunate she read it before the very newest in her inbox.
Date: 24 November 2008 8:56 AM
To: ANNABETH DE BURGH
From: CHRISTY WELLS
Subject: Save the Date!
Dear Honored Guests,
The holiday season is almost upon us, and even during this time of celebration and plenty, it is vitally important for us to remember those less fortunate, particularly those who are our fellow Gotham citizens. The impending recession further underscores the gravity of our city's precarious financial situation.
There are many charities and civic organizations within Gotham dedicated to meeting the ever-growing needs of this underprivileged population. Perhaps you are a generous donor, or perhaps you are a dedicated member of one of these organizations—either way, you are invited to attend the 2008 Annual Wayne Foundation Christmas Gala, to be held Saturday, December 13, 2008, 7 PM, at Wayne Manor. Formal invitations will be forthcoming, but please save this date and plan on attending a wonderful holiday gala and fundraiser!
Sincerely,
Christy Wells
Event Coordinator
Wayne Foundation
Annabeth's throat was suddenly dry. She swallowed and brought her cursor up to the "delete" button, and it was only then that she noticed that her hands were trembling. Well, maybe moving on had not quite happened yet...but it would. And she'd certainly have to get herself together before she ran into Wayne, either there at Safe Haven or somewhere else around town. It was already surprising he hadn't been by to visit Safe Haven in the week since they had returned.
"Annabeth." Donna poked her nose inside the door, and the the rest of her body followed suit. She had on her long, velvet-trimmed overcoat, and clutched her purse. "I take it you saw Garcia's email?"
"Unfortunately, yes. He's just as much of a pill as ever."
"Indeed." Donna's eyes twinkled mischeviously. "I think we need to take a trip down to his office to get this sorted out..."
Annabeth's entire face lit up. "A field trip to torment a misogynist politician? I'm in."
"That's my girl." Donna nodded approvingly. "And maybe on the way, you can explain why it is that we haven't seen hide nor hair of your boyfriend lately?"
Annabeth was struggling into her coat, but she paused, just for a fraction of a second. "He's not my boyfriend...and you'll have to ask him." She grabbed her briefcase and purse. "I'm ready."
"Good." Donna nodded. "I thought afterward, since we'll already be at City Hall, we could go down to the Planning Division, see what they think of the initial blueprints for the satellite branch of Safe Haven. And then go down to the main library branch and talk to the Programming Coordinator about running a series of programs on women's self defense."
"Sounds like we'll be out the majority of the day."
"Most likely, but Maya's got things covered. Now, let's go."
The two of them left soon after. Annabeth had hustled out of her office so quickly that it was every bit as messy as when she had arrived earlier, and in fact, a little bit worse, as there were now printed emails and a stack of mail scattered all over her desk, examined and quickly forgotten.
Much, much later, long after the residents of Safe Haven had turned in for the night, Annabeth's office door creaked open. The lock on the door had been on its last legs for a while, and Annabeth had, in frustration and misguided trust, finally ceased to use it.
Fool.
The intruder worked quickly and silently, with movements long accustomed to stealth. The lights stayed off, of course—it would not help if some insomniac resident was struck with curiosity and decided to see what quixotic soul was working at this late hour. But a tiny flashlight did the trick just fine, and gave the intruder just enough light to locate what was being sought.
The printed emails, abandoned and forgotten by Annabeth much earlier in the day, caught the intruder's eye. Bringing the light closer, the intruder carefully picked up the papers, making a note of their exact location, and began to scan them. The email from Gordon, with the attached legal documents, were particularly priceless. Score. A petition for change of name, from Stacy Baker to Allison Smythe. Expedited due to the petitioner's minority and the security issues—
Ah-ha. This was the informant and witness the Arrows had been searching for so frantically, right under all of their noses this entire time. The intruder smiled grimly. Lots of very useful information, right here.
The only question was, what would she do with it?