The old Super Saver Seven Inn on the north end of Bennett, West Virginia had been closed for only ten months. In fact, it had been one of the first businesses in town to feel the ominous rumbles of the economic storm which had begun to wreak havoc on the country earlier in the year. Its owners, two divorced sisters from Delaware, had struggled along as best they could before finally acknowledging that purchasing a falling-apart motel at the wrong end of town had been an even worse gamble than marrying their husbands had been. Although, they acknowledged ruefully, the payoff was similar enough—sleepless nights, haggard appearances, depleted bank accounts.

The two sisters had quietly packed up what they could, defaulted on their bank loans, and late one night, slipped away back to Delaware, and, one could only hope, better financial and personal decisions. They had left behind a handful of disgruntled but not entirely surprised creditors; a town which quickly enough experienced similar economic letdowns; and of course, the falling-apart motel which had been the cause of some of their woes. In the absence of owners, the motel had fallen into a predictable state of disrepair...but not, interestingly enough, disuse.

The bank manager who had approved the loan was, of course, not pleased by the failure, but he was both an optimist and an opportunist. Or, rather, he was an opportunist because he was an optimist. No need for a perfectly good building to lie fallow! If it couldn't stay in business, fine, but that wasn't to say it couldn't do business. And so, in the mysteriously efficient way that all criminals and low-lifes had, word began to spread up and down the East Coast that, for little money and even less questions, upstanding West Virginia citizen Randall Jackson could provide a basic, discreet, and conveniently-located flophouse.

It was an arrangement that suited a great many people quite well. Unsavory characters had a quiet place to rest their heads before carrying on with their illegal traffic; Randall made a nice little off-the-books extra income; the hoteliers on the nicer end of town (with a view of the mountains rather than the factory) didn't have to expose their clientele to the seedier elements, and the neighborhood diner actually noticed an increase in business. Randall's "guests" didn't make trouble, and on the few occasions they ventured into the town restaurants, they usually tipped well. All in all, a fairly decent arrangement.

Of course, not all of Randall's "guests" thought so, but those were the unfortunate guests who weren't consulted about any of the travel arrangements.

Of course, the accommodations were not spectacular, as the evening's current "guest", an overweight Gotham mafia ("Gothia," Randall had silently dubbed him) lout, hadn't hesitated to point out. Apparently, the lumpy bed, the non-existent television reception, and lack of Bvlgari toiletries weren't acceptable to a mid-level crime boss of his stature. Randall had merely thrown the lout a chilly look and offered to give him directions to the Quality Inn, over by the city jail, and the lout had fallen silent.

Shortly thereafter, Randall received his payment and exited the motel room, pulling his coat tight against the December chill and heading out to his car. He had a long-standing dinner arrangement with the Circuit Judge, the Reverend Wilkes, and a couple of Town Council members, and if he hurried, he could make it to the Moose Lodge by 7:30.

After the stringy hick banker had finally departed, Donzetti had finally allowed himself to relax. It had been a very long day—he and the others in the caravan had been going since 5 AM, setting a merciless pace and stopping as little as possible. It had paid off, too—they had made it all the way from Texarkana, and if the weather held, they'd be in Gotham within 24 hours.

And not a moment too soon, Donzetti grimly noted to himself. He'd be perfectly content passing along the responsibilities of international travel once he returned to the city. He wasn't a Gotham native—he had come to the city at 19, after being exiled from Brooklyn for an unfortunately rough encounter with a beloved neighborhood girl—but he had embraced his adopted city with gleeful zeal. And le Blanc had been very good to him. And so that was where he belonged, in Gotham, at le Blanc's side.

His romp halfway around the world had been an eye-opening experience. Unprepared for the strange food, the guttural voices, the bitter cold, and the brutal poverty, Donzetti had been frequently unsettled and even disgusted. He liked his women varied, certainly, and an ethnic mix was all good and well, but only if their beautiful faces lacked the particularly desperate expression he had come to see lurking in the faces of the admittedly beautiful but oddly enigmatic Eastern European women. He liked his American food, his American toilets, his American beds. Let Trin handle the travel and business portion of this venture; le Blanc had suggested he was getting too old for it anyway, and Donzetti agreed. And it resolved the nagging question about what to do with Trin.

At the end of the day, Donzetti liked to think of himself as a connoisseur of women. He loved them, loved their beauty, loved their bodies, and on occasion, even loved their words and thoughts. And therein lay the problem with any sort of commitment to any one woman for a long stretch of time; it was dreadfully limiting. How could he stick with one woman when there were so many more to discover? Hell, he and Trin had given it a good run, but it had run its course; the trip to Russia had been good for reminding him of that, at least. Surrounded by all of those beautiful women—enigmatic and recovering Communist and slightly desperate though they might have been—Donzetti realized that there were simply too many women left for him to pursue.

But what about Trin? Would she go back to her old line of work? Donzetti hadn't liked that idea much, and so, between le Blanc and him, they conjured up a new job, a new life for Trinity. She was more well-suited for this than Donzetti was, and she certainly would do a fine job of it. He'd miss their evenings together, but upward and onward and all that.

His mind, and then other things, wandered. Two rooms over, cowering and terrified, was his latest interest, a seventeen-year-old half-Chinese beauty named Zhao. How she had found her way into Eastern Europe was any body's guess, but no one really cared. She was here now, and she was now Donzetti's.

With a lascivious smile, he headed out of his motel room. He'd make a run down to the diner and get some extra food—the meager rations they were keeping the girls on would certainly be enough to get Zhao eating out of his hand, both literally and otherwise. And once he explained how the alternative would be—once he described the stash house—she'd be begging to be his lady.

In the meantime...he decided to try to give the heating system a try. Had the stringy banker said it would work? Couldn't hurt to try. He fiddled around with the thermostat, flipping a couple of switches, but the only thing that happened was that the unit in the wall gave a death rattle and actually began to spew out what felt like air conditioning. Well, looked like he would need some of the girls to keep him warm that night anyway.

Not a bad way to spend the evening, but still...Donzetti would be glad to return to the civilization of Gotham.

If a Professor of Sociology or Urban Studies were to devote their career to the research of Gotham City as an epicenter of civilization, they would quickly learn that within Gotham, two main types of people existed: those who believed that Gotham was a hub of civilization, and those who believed that, if one scratched the surface of Gotham's wealth, architecture, and infrastructure, one would find very little civilization indeed.

The former type of person was usually a delusional transplant, the latter, a cynical native.

Seth Percival fell into the former category. He was a transplant, and he considered himself a very refined man in a very sophisticated and advanced city. Little by little, he was clawing his way to the top of Gotham's financial and social ladders and so far, he was enjoying the view. He had money, he had class—well, he was developing class— he had damned good taste. He was currently in one of the most exclusive restaurants in Gotham, enjoying his roasted squab with arugula subric (paired with a stunning Cabernet Sauvignon, of course), dressed in a custom-designed Rizzoli suit, and after his meal, he would enjoy a very delectable—and illegal—Cuban cigar.

The company wasn't too bad, either.

It wasn't his wife, the beautiful but cowed woman who had first benefitted by, and then later suffered because of Annabeth's intervention. His wife, too, was the epitome of class—one of the reasons Seth had married her to begin with—but her presence would have been a hindrance during this evening's business transactions. Because it was just business, of course—nothing more, nothing less, despite the cultivated beauty of Seth's dining companion, despite the history they shared. Just business. Not an affair.

That wouldn't be civilized.

Seth gazed across the table at his dining companion; through his small, shrewd eyes he could see that she was uncomfortable. She'd been uncomfortable with him for years, but she still kept coming back.

He wasn't complaining. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. And while she wasn't getting paid for the information she was passing along to him tonight, she was still benefiting. At least, that's what she told herself, and him.

"It's the last time, Seth," she sighed. "I've been doing this too long now. You've taken all you can from me..."

"I could say the same thing," he smirked. "So, let me get this straight...she's stashed at Safe Haven? She hasn't been farmed out? Not in witness protection? She's actually there?"

"Yes." The woman looked tired, as though she wanted to be done with this entire distasteful thing. "But I don't know for how much longer—they could take her out any day."

"So we need to get to her first," Seth said quietly, almost to himself. "We'll need to move fast."

The woman frowned. "You won't need to move at all. I can get her out of there, pass her along to you, without anyone knowing. You just pass along the information—stay out of Safe Haven. Stay away, you promise?"

Seth smiled, an oily smile that could have chilled the heart of a snake. "Promise. How soon?"

"Soon." The woman bit her lip, thinking. "Within a week, maybe? I'll be in touch with the details. Just—let them know that she'll be coming. Get ready to do what you have to do."

"You don't look thrilled by this, Donna," Seth smiled. "Not finding this to your taste?"

Donna was done. "This was never to my taste, Seth. But I did what I had to do." She rose from the table, eager to quit his company and retreat to a less tainted place, even if it was only in the furthest recesses of her scarred soul.

Seth had to have the last word, just as he always had. "That's what makes a civilization, you know—doing what you have to do, even when it's hard...and doing it in the classiest way possible."

"Dude, this is taking forever. Why the fuck do we have to wait so long?"

Annabeth glared at the young girl who sat by her side. In the weeks that Stacy had spent at Safe Haven, a few—but not many—changes had been wrought on her stubborn, punk-ass ways. She still cussed like a sailor (although, when she was honest with herself, Annabeth could admit her own penchant for profanity would not help cure that particular bad habit of Stacy's), she still seemed impervious to all appeals made to her common sense, and she still regarded many of Safe Haven's rules as below her. She had already given a nose piercing to one of the other residents, a thirteen-year-old girl whose mother was preoccupied with her own problems. And more than once, Annabeth had caught a distinct whiff of pot smoke around her. Not to mention the fact that on a semi-regular basis, Stacy shunned all company and disappeared for hours at a stretch, taking off for god only knew where.

But still...she had developed a fairly gentle way about her with the children, and often when she went missing, she usually turned up in the library, nose buried in a hefty book. Little by little, her surliness was receding, and Annabeth quite often felt encouraged, even hopeful.

Now, however, was not one of those times.

Any casual passerby would have immediately noted that the two females were a study in contrasts. Annabeth sat, as any dignified, professional lady would, with her back straight, her head cocked, her alert eyes darting around, taking her surroundings. She was dressed well, too; a pressed skirt and a conservative blouse, dark colors, low heels. Stacy slouched beside her, her head tilted back over the headrest of the bench, her kohl-lined eyes closed in sheer boredom, her hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie, her sneaker-shod feet stretched out in front of her. Foot traffic—mainly distracted cops and investigators—had to step over and around her. No one paused to admonish her, however; Annabeth suspected that sulky, indifferent juveniles were not an uncommon sight at the MCU.

"This is taking forever," Stacy complained again. "It's eleven-fifteen. Why'd that dude tell us to get here at ten-thirty in the morning if he's going to make us wait this long?"

"That dude is Commissioner Gordon," Annabeth rebuked her sharply. "Have some respect. You owe him a lot. And he didn't purposely keep us waiting. He's a busy man. Something probably came up."

Stacy didn't deign to respond, and Annabeth resumed looking dignified.

"Why do we even have to be here?" Stacy demanded after a minute.

"Gordon and I wanted to discuss the possibility of turning you back over to the Arrows."

"What?" That rousted Stacy from her studied ennui, if nothing else. "Are you fucking serious?"

"No." Annabeth bent over and began to rummage through the briefcase at her feet. "I'm just trying to prove a point—it could be a lot worse. Stop whining, you sound like you're ten. Gordon and I wanted to meet with you and go over your options, see what else is needed, review your statements, so on. Anyway, what else do you have to do that's so important?"

"I promised Dinah I'd pierce her labia this afternoon."

"What?" It was Annabeth's turn to be startled out of her composed expression. "What the fu—are you kidding me?"

"Yes."

Annabeth was rescued from any temptation to speak to her or strangle her as her attention was caught by the soft ping of the elevator bell. A moment later, the doors opened and Jim Gordon stepped into the lobby of the MCU. He was swathed in a great overcoat and looking both exhausted and chilled to the bone. His eyes immediately alighted on the two females and he hurried over. Annabeth rose to meet him. Stacy did not.

"Annabeth, I'm so sorry." He looked it, too. "There was a...ahh...personal issue that I had to attend to. I've kept you waiting."

Annabeth caught on immediately. "It's fine, Commissioner." She glanced back at Stacy. Satisfied that the younger girl didn't give a damn beyond any scheme that didn't involve mischief yield pot money, she turned back to Gordon. "How's your wife?"

If Gordon was startled by Annabeth's razor-sharp perception, he didn't show it. "Not great."

"Withdrawal should be over by now. What's wrong?"

Gordon gestured helplessly. "I suppose she's actually fine. She's fine. We're not."

The unspoken words seeped in, and Annabeth nodded. "Ah. I see."

If there was a less appropriate place than the MCU Lobby to discuss the distressing turn Gordon's life had taken, he could not think of it. And it was a measure of how low he had been brought that he just didn't give a damn. His shoulders slumped as he continued. "She called me out to the center today to tell me she's been thinking. She's been talking with a counselor. She hasn't been happy in a long time, she says, and the drinking was just one of the symptoms." He rubbed his tired eyes, carefully lifting his glasses as he did so. "Hell of a time of year for this to happen, huh?"

"Hell of a time," Annabeth agreed. She had nothing else to say—there was nothing else to say—but the compassion and respect in her voice said it all.

"Still..." Gordon soldiered bravely on. "If it makes her better, right? If off-loading me and the kids is what it takes for her to get better..." He faltered for a moment. "I wonder what I could have done..."

Here, at least, Annabeth could help. "Nothing," she told him firmly. "You can't be accountable for anyone's actions but your own. Your wife wants to leave the family—that's her choice, and you could be the most wonderful husband in the world, and it still wouldn't change her mind." Tentatively, she reached out and squeezed his arm.

"Jeez, Annabeth," came Stacy's dry voice behind them. "Why don't you wait for the divorce papers to get signed?"

"Help me," Annabeth said through gritted teeth.

It was, thankfully, enough to break the moment and for both Annabeth and Gordon to resume their normal demeanors. Gordon cleared his throat, cast a sympathetic look at Annabeth, and spoke to Stacy.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Come on back with me, and we'll get this show on the road."

They followed him through the MCU bullpen, weaving their way around the complex maze of cubicles, desks, office machinery, and file boxes. Officers and investigators swarmed all around, none of them pausing long enough to glance at the two females accompanying the Commissioner. Apparently there was enough crime around Gotham for everyone to have something to keep them occupied.

The Commissioner unlocked his office and led them in. Hastily he cleared file boxes from the two chairs facing his desk, and motioned for the two females to sit down. In the time that it took Annabeth and Stacy to settle themselves, Gordon had switched from defeated father and husband to competent and driven Commissioner. Scarcely had they sat themselves down when he launched into the updates that would inform Stacy of her future.

"Boy-o is going before a grand jury on Monday for his indictment; at that point, the prosecution's going to start aggressively building their case against him. Up until then, we're scrambling to get all the information we can to connect Boy-o and the Arrows, and implicate as many of the Archers as possible." Gordon glanced at Annabeth, and she knew that they were both thinking of Trinity, the "other women" that were being brought in, and the Batman. So much relied so heavily on the right timing of things; what if the key players in the Arrows were implicated before they could time the rescue? If the Arrows found out Gordon was tightening the noose around their neck, christ only knew what would happen to the women. And what if Trinity got in more heavily than she could handle?Dammit, things needed to happen fast.

Gordon was still talking. "...that point, the prosecution's going to be working with you, Stacy. That's when things could get tricky; we need to start finalizing arrangements for your name change and witness protection."

No response. Stacy simply managed to look bored to tears.

"Excuse her, Commissioner. She forgot to take her anti-asshole meds this morning." Annabeth managed to simultaneously shoot Stacy a dirty look at the same time as she ignored Gordon's expression of surprise. "Stacy, here's how this is going to work. Once we get the prosecution up-to-date on your statements, Gordon's going to need to put you into a safe location, probably far removed from Gotham. There are still going to be a hell of a lot of people that want to see you dead, and some of them will want to kill you just for the fun of it. So you'll go into hiding until the trial, at which point you'll resurface. Now, I know this couldn't be less riveting for you, but I don't give a damn, and I'm sure that if you don't start being a little more cooperative, Gordon will be perfectly happy to work with me to place you in an all-girl Catholic boarding school. I'm pretty sure there's a really good once in rural Illinois. Possibly Nebraska."

This made Stacy listen. She looked at Gordon. "Are you guys serious?"

Gordon shrugged. "How do you feel about prairies?"

"They've got chipmunks, too, out there." Annabeth grinned evilly.

Stacy sighed. "Shit."

It was an expression of defeat, and Annabeth recognized it as such. She nodded. "I'll head out to the lobby, and let you two start discussing details."

As she rose from her seat, she glanced down at her still-flat belly and wondered, briefly, if her child would one day be that much of an adolescent twit. Knowing her sorry luck, it was more than likely going to happen, especially considering how awful she had been at that age. And as Annabeth contemplated this, another realization stopped her cold.

Her child.

It was the first time she had thought of it as that, a living, growing organism, rather than an enormous complication and a not-entirely-welcome miracle.

Her child.

Well, their child, actually, although it wasn't clear yet how much of "their" there would be. That, too, was a frightening complication on a number of levels, but at the moment, that was not even on Annabeth's radar. Somehow, against all odds, Bruce had gotten her pregnant.

The bastard had good swimmers, she'd give him that.

A baby. A child. She was going to be a mother. It was a dizzying thought, and not one that she had entirely processed up until now. And then another thought, as unwelcome as it was unlikely, niggled its way into her head. What if Bruce Wayne entertained the same sense of wonder and amazement? What if he was contemplating a life as a father? What if...

Christ. Pregnancy hormones, making me crazy already. Guess I'm in for several more months of this.

If I'm lucky.

And as she glanced back down at her body—her fickle, traitorous, not entirely hale-and-hearty body—she had to admit that she had a long way to go before the baby was truly safe within her. So much could happen...

In that moment, she never felt more alone or terrified.

But the thing about wool-gathering in a busy police unit was that such nonsense wouldn't be tolerated for long. A few desks away, a young administrative assistant dropped a large box of files, which thumped loudly as the box struck the floor and all of the files scattered. It was enough to prod Annabeth back onto her way through the bullpen and out into the lobby once more, where she could once again be alone to process her thoughts.

No such luck.

Slouched deep into one of the benches, with her endless legs and her enormous feet thrust far out before her, sat Barbara Gordon, Jr. She appeared to be lost in thought, but as Annabeth emerged from the bullpen, she straightened up attentively enough. When she saw it was Annabeth, she slouched back down. "Oh. I was hoping you were my dad."

"No luck there, I'm afraid." Annabeth settled herself back down onto the bench. "He's meeting with one of my clients right now."

"I'm in no rush," Barbara smiled. "My semester just finished, so I've got a few weeks to kill. Something tells me I'm going to be doing a lot of chasing my little brother and sister around. They're hellions."

The great thing about Barbara Gordon, Annabeth was beginning to see, was that you could wind her up and she'd just go. Sunny of disposition and uninhibited in language and personality, she could—and did—maintain a steady stream of chatter that, while quite intelligent and even rather amusing, didn't require much response. It gave Annabeth a few moments to collect her thoughts.

"...here I am, running on as usual. Enough about my bullshit...what about you and your client?"

Damn. "Sorry?"

"Your client," Barbara repeated. "At least, that's what you called her. Although she looks a little young to be employing you."

"It's a courtesy term." Annabeth studied Barbara's alert face and realized the younger woman was genuinely interested. "I work at a halfway house here in Gotham; that girl is one of the residents there."

"Must have committed a pretty big crime to get my dad involved."

"What?" Annabeth was temporarily confused. "Oh. No, your dad is...ah...helping with something else concerning her."

"Oh. I see." Barbara had been in and around law enforcement long enough to know that there was usually a damned good reason for vague answers, and she also knew not to pursue it. "So what's the halfway house like?"

"Safe Haven? It's just one of many in the city, but we're one of the newest. We're usually filled up, especially around this time of year."

"Who comes there?"

"Teenaged girls, scared wives and mothers, and their children, with a few single women—usually recovering junkies, or homeless, or prostitutes."

"Or all three."

"Or all three."

Barbara glanced back towards the doors leading into the bullpen and the scurrying cops and problems within. "Well, one thing's for certain, you have job security. Gotham's probably always going to produce more people who need your help."

"And we're always going to need help, too." Annabeth agreed glumly. "Money, political support, manpower, materials...it's always something or another to keep the place afloat in a city of sharks."

"'Sharks'?" Barbara echoed. "Who'd want to eat up a battered woman's shelter?"

Visions of Mayor Garcia danced in Annabeth's head. So too did any number of a dozen men who had gotten on the wrong end of Annabeth's anger and zeal. "Plenty."

"Well..." Barbara tilted her head in consideration. "You need manpower? Like volunteers?"

"Yup. Always. Or donations. Got money?"

"Not enough to help you, I think. But I can volunteer."

Annabeth eyed the eyebrow piercing and the hint of a tattoo that crept its way up from the collar of Barbara's sweater and wound its way around the base of her neck. "What can you do?"

"Self defense."

All doubts flew out the window. "Sold."

Barbara grinned. "Thought so."

Just then, the doors opened and Stacy slouched out from the bullpen, followed by Gordon. He took in Annabeth and his daughter and smiled briefly. "Hello, there."

"Hey, Pops."

Stacy was taking in Barbara. While she didn't say anything, she was clearly more impressed with Barbara than any other adult she had encountered lately. Seeing this, Gordon seized the opportunity.

"Barbara, would you mind keeping an eye on Stacy? I have to consult with Annabeth in private."

"Sure," Barbara agreed amiably, clearly not having any idea what she was in for.

"Swell." Stacy said this sarcastically as she threw herself back down on the bench beside Barbara. While she was more tolerant of Barbara than most of the lame people she encountered, she wasn't about to become bosom buddies with her. "Can't wait."

"Shut it, punk." Barbara said this indifferently.

Annabeth and Gordon glanced at each other and retreated into the bullpen.

Back in Gordon's office, Annabeth settled herself into one of the chairs facing his desk. "Seems like I just left here."

"Get comfortable. You'll probably be in here a lot before this is all over."

"You're probably right. I'll just count myself lucky if it's not because I get to be held legally responsible for Stacy and her shenanigans."

"Don't worry, no chance of that." Gordon frowned. "But 'shenanigans'? What sort of trouble is she getting herself into?"

"Nothing too awful...yet. She takes off a few times a week, comes back smelling like pot smoke. Won't say where she's going, or how she's scoring it." Annabeth shook her head in grudging admiration. "If I weren't so annoyed, I'd be impressed with her resourcefulness. She certainly has quite a few escape acts up her sleeve."

"Hmm. Perhaps we shouldn't let her be spending time with my daughter."

"Why? Barbara was a trouble-maker?"

"Very discreetly, sure. Sneaking out, piercings, getting into the liquor cabinet, that type of thing. But she rarely got caught, she was always respectful, and she always made good grades. I couldn't complain too much."

"It'll be interesting to see where she ends up in life. Probably some sort of high-level computer systems hacker." Annabeth steered the conversation into more relevant waters. "So...where are we at with everything else?"

Gordon smiled as she cut through the chase. No bullshit about Annabeth, that was for sure. "I'm working with Diana over at INS and Sean and Abilene at the FBI Gotham Field Office. They all sound amazingly receptive about working with the women we get from the Arrows. Diana's already starting to prep the paperwork, and she's poised to contact several advocacy groups. Sounds like she might be trying to pull strings to shortlist the applications of those who want to stay in the U.S."

Annabeth let out a low whistle. "This has to be a first."

"I'm pretty sure they all knew who I was working with. No one wants to be on the bad side of the girlfriend of Bruce Wayne." Seeing her suddenly stony expression, Gordon hurried on. "There's one thing, though. Short of the city jail, there's no place for the PD to stow these women once we get them out of the Narrows. We'll be able to line up semi-permanent places fairly quickly, but we'll need temporary places."

Inwardly, Annabeth groaned. She had had a feeling this would happen, and at the worst time of year, too. Safe Haven only had three empty spots at present, and god only knew how the other houses were faring. Still, no need to add that concern to Gordon's furrowed brow. She nodded. "We'll figure something out." Already, her mind was leaping ahead to places to contact, favors to call in. "So, what about getting these girls out? Where are we on that?"

"You know as much as me." Gordon gestured helplessly. "Waiting to hear back from our source. We can't do a raid before the contraband is in place."

"Better hurry up, that's all I have to say." Annabeth looked beyond Gordon's shoulder to the large windows she was facing. Outside, the weather was turning threatening, with a stony-grey sky and a sharp wind. Sleet was forecast for later.

"Why? You got somewhere else better to be?"

"Maybe," Annabeth said cryptically. "A lot of stuff is up in the air right now, but there's a possibility that very soon I won't be in Gotham any longer."

Gordon had been around long enough not to betray the surprise he felt. From what little he knew of Annabeth de Burgh, he wouldn't have pegged her as the type to ever leave Gotham. In a twisted way, she was as loyal to their warped city as a battered woman was to her twenty-plus year marriage. Bad analogy. "Time for something new?"

There was an oddly vulnerable look in her face as she focused away from the weather and back onto Gordon. "Maybe. I'm slowly creeping up towards forty, and this is the only place I've ever known. It hasn't exactly given me a lot of joy. And in fact, Gotham's taken a lot from me." She paused, than added, "Or maybe I've just given a little too freely. Either way...let's just say I'm feeling the need to get out of here before Gotham can get anything else from me."

In the lobby, Barbara and Stacy were actually involved in a fairly in-depth conversation. Both Annabeth and Gordon watched, amused, as Barbara quickly took off several outer layers to display an intricate tattoo that covered the majority of her shoulders.

"Dude, that's kickin'," they heard Stacy say wistfully as they walked back in. Barbara looked over at Annabeth and gave a slightly impish grin as she began to pull her sweater back on over her tight tee. Stacy gave Annabeth a far more hostile look. "Don't you two have anything else to talk about? I don't want to leave yet."

"Don't worry, Stacy," Barbara smiled. "I'm going to be back at your place soon enough."

"Really?"

"Really. I might be volunteering."

Beside Annabeth, Gordon rolled his eyes heavenward.

"So you'll be able to see me more then," Barbara added helpfully.

"Or maybe I'll just take off and find you."

Three pairs of adult eyes, Barbara's included, turned and stared at her, until Stacy slumped back in defeat. "Fine. I'll just wait." And as the three older people released their bated breath, they didn't hear her muttered addition. "Maybe."