Gotham City boasted a population of over five million souls. Of those souls, almost one percent of them—around 42,000—were attorneys. It was likely that hundreds, perhaps thousands of those attorneys were just like Robert Llorta: honest and hardworking, of limited ambition but unlimited goodness of heart. And so, unlikely to be at risk of corruption on a grand scale.

Naturally, Seth Percival did not retain the services of any of these attorneys.

His attorney was, in fact, the diametric opposite of Robert Llorta in every regard. Her name was Lucia Brown, and she was a junior partner at Stafford and Douglas, Gotham's premiere criminal defense law firm. That they had assigned him a female attorney was either great irony or greater insult; Seth Percival had not yet decided which.

Lucia and Seth had, of course, loathed each other on first sight, but they were both pragmatists: Percival needed to stay out of prison and Lucia needed a high-profile case to put her on the fast track to Senior Trial Attorney. She was relatively young, blindingly ambitious, reasonably ruthless, and utterly indifferent to her client's guilt or innocence. She didn't give a damn what it was that Percival had done—but she did give a damn about what she could persuade other people into believing that he hadn't done.

He had to admit, Lucia Brown was a broad who knew her stuff. This belief of his solidified when, three weeks after he had been arraigned for attempted murder, he was unexpectedly released on bail early one morning.

At six-thirty on the morning in question, he awoke to the routine wake-up call, heralding another day of bland montony in the county jail. But by seven-thirty that same morning, he found himself a free man, being bundled into one of Stafford and Douglas's company cars. He found Lucia sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

"Five hundred fucking thousand dollars?" were the first words out of his mouth.

Lucia shrugged, uncowed by his indignation. "Considering Gotham's going rate for bail in attempted murder is 'fuck you, no bail,' I think you got off pretty damned cheap. We had to call in some favors, and you'd better believe that those are showing up on the billing report." Lucia lit a cigar, took a puff, and blew the smoke into Seth's direction. "Scoring bail for you was a major coup. The senior partners are very impressed."

Seth wasn't about to admit it to her, but he was impressed, too. Of course, jail hadn't been too horrible. A few bribes had been offered (and of course, taken) and as a result, he had had his own cell, more than a few luxuries, and plenty of contact with the outside world. It didn't mean he was eager to stay in jail, though, and he went straight to work on making sure this would not happen. "So what's your strategy? How are you going to get me off?"

Lucia laughed rudely in his face. "Don't be that cocky, Seth. You tried to kill Annabeth de Burgh in a roomful of witnesses. There's no question that you're guilty." Seeing the apoplectic fury in his face, she smiled. "Not to worry, though. After we launch an intense PR campaign—upstanding pillar of the community targeted by left-wing extremist feminist groups, blah-blah-blah—we'll make the DA want to avoid anything that brings this to a jury—they'll be quite open to our offer of a plea-bargain. You've already told me you have plenty of information on the Arrows."

"You want me to sing?"

Lucia actually rolled her eyes. "Jesus. No one uses a word like that...this isn't a gangster movie. And of course you're going to talk. You're going to tell the DA every little thing you know about the Arrows. By the time you're done, no one in Gotham is going to give a rat's ass that you took a shot at some little self-righteous feminazi goody-goody. You'll be instrumental in bringing down one of the last remaining organized crime units of Gotham. You'll be a hero." Lucia looked pleased with herself, and took another puff of her cigar.

Seth sat back in his seat and gazed out the window, taking in the streets of Gotham as they slipped past. "If I'm turning on the Arrows, I'll be in danger. I'll have to leave Gotham."

"Danger? That's putting it mildly. But we have a private security firm on retainer. And eventually you'll probably be relocated through Witness Protection, especially once this goes Federal with the human trafficking portion."

"Witness protection?" Seth's lip curled up in disdain. "Who's to say I don't end up in a 1950s ranch house in motherfucking Fort Wayne, Indiana?"

"Better that than a lower bunk in maximum security at Gotham Pen." Having effectively silenced him, Lucia continued on in a more encouraging tone. "Our records indicate you've got plenty of money squirreled away, not even including your offshore assets. Something tells me you spending the rest of your days in Middle America is not an issue. So in the meantime, you just need to sit back, relax, and let us do our jobs." Lucia gave him a pretty, disarming smile—one of the many weapons in her arsenal—and passed him her cigar. "Now, think of more pleasant things. What will you do with your newfound freedom?"

Seth smiled back, thinking of the research and observations and conversations he had had over the past few weeks. He waited until he exhaled a mouthful of delicious smoke before he uttered a single, devastating word. "Payback."

Annabeth was a nervous wreck.

She had gotten very little sleep the night before—the reasons for this still made her blush, hours later—and as pleasant as the reason had been, it had not been a great way for her to shore up her strength for the day ahead. And when she had finally fallen asleep, only a few hours had passed before she woke up to the morning light...and an empty bed.

Bruce was gone.

Disconcerted, she had taken a moment to get her bearings, and then located her robe—pooled up on the floor where she had discarded it the night before. No garments of Bruce's, anywhere; if it weren't for the rather vivid memories in her head, as well as a couple of red spots on her neck—now that, she blushed at all over again; when had she reverted back to middle school?—she would have thought she had dreamt it.

A long shower had helped her awaken, and one of Alfred's gourmet breakfasts should have gone further towards restoring her fortitude—but after she had seated herself in the dining room and started to launch into the eggs benedict placed before her, something about Alfred'd demeanor had caught her attention. "Are you alright, Alfred?"

"Quite fine," he had promptly assured her, and passed her a cup of coffee. But his voice was distant, his manner preoccupied...much in the same way Bruce had often seemed, before she had come to understand him.

Annabeth had tried again. "Bruce woke up early, did he?"

Aahh, there's the trouble. Alfred's eyes were troubled, although he tried to speak lightly. "He did arise early this morning. Up at sparrowfart, if you will." He offered a smile to accompany the quirky British phrase, but he turned his eyes away from Annabeth's frank gaze. What she didn't know, what Bruce hadn't told her, and what Alfred wouldn't tell her, was that Bruce had awakened early because they had picked up on some private emails going around the DA's office. Bruce had gone down to the Cave to investigate further—and within the hour had torn out of the Manor, driving his newest Lamborghini like hell bent for leather. He hadn't given Alfred an explanation, but Alfred, in monitoring the news feeds, soon found out for himself. A judge had unexpectedly reversed the no-bail stance with regards to Seth Percival, and so bail had been posted, quietly and quickly, in the very early hours of the morning, before the media could catch wind of it. It would take a braver—or crazier—man than Alfred to tell her this, and in fact, the only man suited for that job was no doubt in Gotham right now, raising hell on behalf of his girlfriend.

And now, Annabeth was awaiting the imminent arrival of Timmy Drake and his social worker. Given what she had overheard between Bruce and her attorney the evening before, she was deeply and obviously anxious, but at least she was ignorant of Gotham's latest miscarriage of justice.

She was waiting in the Entrance Hall, perched stiffly on the edge of a Jacobean bench that had likely been occupied by only three people during its entire existence. It had been a piece of furniture designed solely for ornamentation and intimidation, not function or comfort. Alfred briefly considered informing her of this, but thought the better of it, and went a safer route. "Would you like some tea?"

"No coffee?"

"Not bloody likely." Alfred shook his head. "I do not wish to even imagine what you would be like with any more stimulants in you. Green tea is all you'll get."

"I'll pass," Annabeth sighed regretfully, but she knew Alfred was right. She was feeling wretched—not just tired from the lack of sleep, but now clammy and shaky, too. God, please, not a relapse. Leslie said I was fine. To distract herself, she glanced at her watch, even though she knew the time: five minutes later than the last time she has looked at her watch, and thirty minutes later than the appointed arrival time of Timmy and his social worker.

"I'm quite certain they're fine, Miss Annabeth." Alfred had seen her glancing at her watch. "No doubt they got caught in traffic."

"No doubt," Annabeth muttered. Certainly, she had no doubt—no doubt that whatever the hold-up was, traffic certainly wasn't it. She also had no doubt that she knew the bureaucracy of Gotham inside and out, and she knew their mind-games, too. She had no doubt that she was experiencing the opening salvo in the battle for custody of Timmy Drake.

As if to underscore this point, a soft knock caught their attention. Had they have been any further from the door, they would not have heard it. Alfred moved towards the door, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annabeth rise—not with haste, not with so much as a twitch to betray her anxiety, but with deliberate and conscious dignity. Head held high, shoulders pulled back, eyes shrewdly, watchfully narrowed, Annabeth looked almost like a queen.

Perhaps more accurately, she looked like a general girded up for battle.

Alfred gave her an approving nod and a smile of encouragement. And then he opened the door.

Annabeth held her breath, willing her poker face to stay in place until she understood the lay of the land. Of course, that was a lost cause—as soon as she saw Timmy standing in the doorway, it didn't matter. Not at that moment, at least. Every one ceased to exist—Alfred, standing aside with an expression of benign pleasure; the social worker, still an unknown opponent but an opponent nonetheless...neither of them mattered. Only Timmy mattered.

"Ann-beth!"

Timmy didn't care one jot about the strange, scary house that he had been brought to without explanation; he didn't care about the silent, mean woman who had brought him there. None of that was on his mind. What he cared about was that for the first time in almost a month, he was seeing a familiar face. Ann-beth was nice, she was Mommy's friend. "Ann-beth!" he cried again as he tore away from the grumpy woman's side and flung himself into Ann-beth's waiting arms.

Annabeth swung him up into the air and then hugged him close, delighting in his squeal of joy. "Timmy! I'm so happy to see you!" She felt his arms tighten around her at the same time she felt her heart constrict. This was not only Donna's son, this was her little brother. Her family. Realizing this was a profound experience, and she found herself trying to swallow the lump in her throat that this experience caused. "How are you?"

Already Timmy was overcoming his initial delight, and moving on to thoughts and people that he associated with Annabeth. "I miss Mommy...Ann-beth, where's Mommy?"

Over the top of Timmy's blonde head, Alfred and Annabeth's eyes met. The older man's face was a study in agonized compassion; instinctively, Annabeth knew he was remembering Bruce as a child, struggling to comprehend the loss of his own parents and come to terms with his own orphaned childhood. "Mommy... Mommy's gone, Timmy. She had to leave."

From the look of intent concentration on Timmy's face, Annabeth could tell this was not the first time that someone had told him this—but who? Oh, god, it should have been me who told him, Annabeth thought to herself. But it didn't matter. What mattered is that Timmy had not yet processed Donna's death. She tried a different approach. "It's going to be a long time before you see Mommy again. But even though you won't see her or hear her, she'll still be here. All the time. She loved you so much, and she made sure that I'd take good care of you."

"Ahem."

The social worker had finally decided to assert her presence. Annabeth turned and surveyed the woman cooly for a moment before giving her a small, chilly smile. "Thank you for bringing Timmy out here."

The social worker nodded once, curtly. "It's quite far out. But it's an exception we're willing to make once or twice."

Annabeth studied her while making no effort to disguise it. The woman was of a certain age, certainly well past her forties, and the harsh lines in her face belied her unnaturally dark hair, which had been done into braids piled on top of her head. She was quite tall—a bit of a battleaxe, really—and dressed in a navy suit.

"I'm Clara Briggs," the woman told her. Her voice lacked any warmth, any openness.

For a moment, Annabeth was silent, reaching deep into the few memories she had of the drug-induced haze of her hospital stay. "You're not the social worker that I talked to when I was in the hospital. ..what was her name? Danielle?"

"I'm not the same one." Briggs, as Annabeth had decided to call her, didn't offer any other explanation, but that didn't mean Annabeth was not going to demand one. She fixed Briggs with a look of sharp scrutiny.

"What happened to Danielle?"

"She was re-assigned."

"Really. When?" Annabeth's inability to be cowed, along with the speed with which she fired these questions must have caught Briggs off-guard, because she answered quickly enough.

"She was reassigned this morning." Then Briggs snapped her mouth shut, knowing already that she had revealed too much.

This morning. Warning bells were going off in Annabeth's brain, but her expression betrayed nothing. "I see. So you're new to Timmy, too?"

Silently, Briggs nodded.

In her arms, Timmy was beginning to squirm, and so reluctantly, Annabeth set him down, loathe to relinquish him. "Well, how about while Timmy and I visit, Alfred takes you out to the winter garden? The blossoms there are beautiful—a brilliant splash of color—"

"Supervised visits."

For the first time, Annabeth found herself at a disadvantage, visibly taken aback. This was not a move she was expecting, and it showed on her face. "Pardon?"

"I said, supervised visits. That's all you're allowed."

Several responses crowded their way onto Annabeth's tongue—but wisely, she remembered Timmy, who was even now attaching himself to Annabeth's leg. And so Annabeth chose the least provocative response. "All right. Then let's make ourselves more comfortable in the library, shall we?"

At this suggestion, the little party began to make its way through the Manor, Annabeth leading with a rigid majesty that she could have only acquired from the time she had spent in recent months, rubbing shoulders with some of the snobby self-appointed queens of society. Walking at her side and clutching her hand was Timmy, who alternated his awestruck gazes at his surroundings with adoring looks at Annabeth. Behind them followed nasty Clara Briggs, self-important and fairly radiating disapproval, and bringing up the rear was Alfred. As he followed them, he glanced up and saw Leslie standing on the grand staircase. From her intent expression, he knew she had been watching for a while, and so, desperately, he beckoned for her. To his relief, she began to head down the stairs—there was no way Alfred was going to allow Annabeth to take on this dragon lady alone, and if he and Bruce could not be there, then Leslie was the best alternative.

By the time they had reached the Library, Leslie had caught up to them. Alfred gave her a smile of open-hearted, grateful warmth, which was immediately justified as he realized her presence caught Briggs off-guard. "Who are you?"

"Dr. Leslie Thompkins. House guest and long-time family friend." Her normally pleasant face now offered not even so much as the tiniest smile, and she made no attempt at any courtesy beyond the most basic of introductions. She was now an enemy to Clara Briggs, and she would not pretend otherwise.

The tension stretched its way across the room, affecting everyone but Timmy, who appeared to be happy enough to simply be with his Ann-beth, particularly after she settled on a couch and plopped him down in her lap. Leslie chose to arrange herself in an armchair nearby. No one offered Briggs a seat, and after a prolonged moment in which she waited expectantly—and in vain—she silently chose another seat close by.

As Alfred retreated from the room, satisfied with the look that Leslie and Annabeth had exchanged, a look which had silently established a closing of ranks, he heard Annabeth begin what could only be a difficult conversation.

"Timmy, why don't you tell me about the people you're living with?" Annabeth asked this as she smoothed down his hair, wishing she could smooth down the endless road of their obstacles with as much ease.

The child shrugged, overcome with one of the periodical fits of shyness that overcome toddlers in uncertain situations. His hand stole up to his mouth, and he began to suck his thumb. It was an old, familiar action, and all the more comforting to him for that reason. Annabeth knew this—but she also recalled, with a pang of sorrow, Donna's pride and triumph of having trained him to overcome the habit. "Hey there," she told him softly, gently tugging at the offending hand, "No thumbs, remember? Mommy doesn't like you doing that."

It was the wrong thing to have said, and the wrong tense to have said it in, and both mistakes caught Timmy's attention. "Where's Mommy?"

Damned good question. This bitter thought passed through Annabeth's brain before she pushed it back down again, along with all the other old grievances. There could be none of any of that now, not with Timmy in her care. "Mommy can't be here any more, Timmy."

He nodded once, and then, with obvious reluctance, pulled his thumb away from his mouth and then snuggled close against Annabeth's breast. She held him right and rocked him back and forth and thought, woefully, of the twists of fate that had brought them to this point. How to explain to Timmy all the turns of the path that had brought them here? How to adequately explain to Timmy that, in losing his mother, he had gained a sister? And how could that ever seem like a worthy exchange?

Slowly, the painful, awkward visit passed—first with the aid of the miraculous tea that Alfred concocted and presented to them. In addition to the normal delights that he presented to the adults, he managed to conjure up all sorts of unlikely confections for boy gobbled down peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, followed by some Hostess cupcakes (here Annabeth and Leslie had exchanged looks of silent consternation; how on earth had Alfred managed to come up with those?), followed by homemade caramel corn and then, finally, chocolate milk.

And then, in addition to these culinary indulgences, Alfred performed one more miracle. As Timmy was polishing off his second glass of chocolate milk, he happened to notice Alfred pulling from underneath a credenza a couple of colorful boxes. His eyes widened in delight when Alfred confirmed what he saw. "Do you like Legos, Timmy?"

In answer, the young boy flung himself off the couch and across the room, and in a matter of moments, the 18th century Ottoman rug was obscured by close to a hundred Lego blocks.

"I think my work here is done," Alfred told the women. "If you'll excuse me." He gathered the various abandoned dishes and tea cups, but as he began to head out of the room, a belligerent voice arrested his departure.

"Where are you going?"

Alfred started at Briggs for a moment, carefully weighing his distinctive distaste for her against the pleading message he knew was in Annabeth's eyes. Don't antagonize her, her eyes pleaded, Just answer her.

So, for the sake of Annabeth and Timmy, he answered pleasantly, "Just to the kitchens. Master Wayne is entertaining tonight, and the caterers should be coming soon."

Unexpectedly, Clara Briggs seized upon these words with zeal. " I see. Does Master Wayne entertain often?" As she asked this, she leaned over and reached into her bag, and to Annabeth's horror, she pulled out a pen and notepad. Without waiting from a response from Alfred, she began scribbling away.

Alfred's eyes narrowed in uncharacteristic hostility as the implications of her words and actions struck him. Only a glance at Annabeth's white, pinched face forestalled him from delivering a sharp, angry response; the final answer he gave her was courteou,s yet revealed very little. "He entertains only the same amount, more or less, as the others in his income bracket. His social activities these days tend mostly towards business and philanthropic pursuits." He saw Brigg's lips part in preparation of another question. "If you'll excuse me."

He ducked out of the room before any more intrusive questions could be lobbed his way. He felt terrible, abandoning Annabeth to what he had no doubt would be a terribly invasive interrogation—but he knew his presence good only do more harm than good. With a sigh and grimace of resignation, he headed back to the kitchen to continue planning the evening's dinner party. It was, perhaps, the one thing left in this day that still had the potential to be a success.

Within the library, Leslie found herself becoming the reluctant witness to two simultaneous, epic battles.

Briggs was waging a determined campaign to discomfit Annabeth in any way she could—abrupt and invasive questions, lightning-fast changes in subject, subtly hostile remarks and interjections, and evasive non-responses to Annabeth's own questions. Anything that had the potential to psychologically rattle Annabeth, Briggs was trying. Annabeth's own battle was more complex, and all the more exhausting because of its complexity. She found herself on the defensive, struggling to pick her way through this minefield, struggling to keep her cool, struggling to anticipate Briggs' next attack, all the while trying to give Timothy the attention he needed. Leslie could only sip silently at her now-cold cup of tea, wanting very much to help, but also knowing it could do no good.

And then, Briggs launched a particular barrage to let them know that the gloves were coming off.

Annabeth had gotten down on the floor with Timmy, and was helping him put together his building blocks. "You have blocks where you live now, Timmy?"

Silently, he nodded.

"Is the family you're living with nice?"

Before Timmy could answer, Briggs had leapt into the conversation. "Of course Timmy's foster family is very nice. They adore him. They live up in Poplar Heights—the suburb just north of Gotham. Do you know it?" Her tone indicated that she had no doubt that of course Annabeth wouldn't know of it.

"Of course I know it," Annabeth answered sweetly. "At Safe Haven, we've sheltered a lot of young women who grew up there."

Briggs wasn't going to be trumped by Annabeth's implications, and she continued on. "Gotham's foster system has a policy of only two-parent homes, did you know? And our adoption rate is very high."

Annabeth clenched her jaw as she formulated a response. She felt two sets of eyes upon her as she did this—Leslie's, mutely sympathetic, and Briggs', suspicious and probing. And then, too, she noticed Timmy's eyes upon her as well, wide and anxious. He didn't understand the atmosphere, of course, but he felt it, nonetheless.

"Two-parent home, eh? My word, things have changed." Annabeth gave Briggs a pointed look. "As I'm sure your research on me will tell you, that wasn't a luxury Gotham spent much time worrying about when I was in the foster system."

"Things have changed," Briggs said smugly. "And while it's unfortunate, the dysfunctions of the foster system that dictated your childhood can't explain the dysfunctions of your adulthood." She smiled grimly as she saw, from the stunned, hurt look on Annabeth's face, that she had struck home.

Here, at last, Leslie intervened. "You know, Timmy's had quite a bit of sugar. What do you say I take him to one of the guest rooms for an N-A-P? That way you two can discuss business. I'll keep an eye on him. I'm sure you can trust me without your supervision."

Briggs chose to ignore Leslie's nasty tone. "Yes, that would be lovely. You can leave the room to Annabeth and I so that we can talk."

With hungry eyes, Annabeth watched as Leslie took Timmy's hand and gently led him from the room—she hated to let him out of her sight, but she knew that he could not be there to witness the conversation that was about to transpire.

Scarcely had the door been closed before Annabeth launched straight to the heart of the matter. Subtlety had never been her strong point, and she was not going to waste valuable resources on a skill that she could not develop at a moment's notice. "Leaving aside your incredibly offensive remarks, how about you just come out and tell me: how is Timmy doing, truly? And when may I assume guardianship?"

Briggs looked bored by this straightforward approach. "Timmy's in good hands with his foster family."

"That's not an answer," Annabeth said flatly. "That tells me absolutely nothing. Is he in counseling? Has he resumed preschool? Is he often upset? Does he understand what happened?"

"These are questions which you may ask, but I am not at liberty to say." Briggs could not help but to look slightly gleeful at the power she felt from withholding answers. "You have no confirmed legal sway over Timothy Drake as of right now, and so are not entitled to information. As for you assuming guardianship of him—well, that depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On the results of my investigation."

Annabeth had been prepared for this, but the words still kicked her in the gut. "Just what are you investigating?"

"Your ability to provide Timothy Drake with adequate parenting and a stable home environment." Having decided to be forthcoming at last, Briggs now had the bit between her teeth. "We've received reports that we find worrisome—there are claims that, given your various traumas and current lifestyle, you won't be able to provide Timmy with what he needs to have a healthy and thriving childhood."

"My 'past traumas'," Annabeth spat, "as you put it, can be in large part attributed to the department you represent. As for my 'present lifestyle', just where do you get off-"

"It appears that you are cohabiting with Bruce Wayne, which is hardly a ringing endorsement for morality, stability, and positive family values. And if you aren't, which I find difficult to believe, then you are living in Bordertown, an area of Gotham which is situated perilously close to the inner city. Furthermore, it appears that your work often occupies up to sixty hours of your time each week. How on earth do you expect to provide Timmy with a suitable home? We have to act in the best interests of the child," she added, clearly indicating that this was an afterthought that didn't really matter too much.

"The best interests of the child...?" Annabeth shook her head in incredulity. "Do you forget, I know your language inside out. If you think that playing lip-service to them is going to intimidate me, you've obviously not done your research. What's 'in the best interests of the child' is for him to resume a stable existence with his sole remaining blood relative."

"That is merely your opinion. And as long as you and Timothy Drake reside in the jurisdiction of Gotham, you will be subject to the legal processes which govern this jurisdiction. If you have any objection to this, I think it's time you retain legal counsel."

"Count on it," Annabeth snapped. Even as she said it, she despaired of her situation: of course, there was no question of her getting a lawyer. What little cash savings she had would be devoured in less than a month of legal battles with the notoriously slow and uncooperative Gotham government. She would not accept help from Bruce—and even if she could, it would be impossible; it would only tie her further to him and therefore make him subject to the investigations and scrutiny she was about to undergo.

Briggs smiled, as though she knew exactly the predicament Annabeth now found herself in. "Did you wish to commence my first investigative interview now? Or did you want to postpone until you can consult with an attorney?"

Postponing meant more time to strategize—but it meant prolonging Timmy's tenure in a foster home. Annabeth didn't give a damn how much Briggs talked up the foster homes now; she wasn't about to trust her only immediate kin to that system a second longer than she had to. She was backed into a corner, and she knew it.

"Let's start the interview now."

Close to an hour later, Briggs was finally finished. She closed her notepad, capped her pen, and smiled at Annabeth; having won that particular battle, she could afford to be magnanimous. "That should be enough to get us started."

Annabeth didn't answer. She was exhausted, mentally, emotionally, intellectually, physically. Briggs had fired what seemed like hundreds of questions at her, asking about everything in her life, from her work to her social life, from her neighborhood to her condo building. Most devastating were her explorations into Annabeth's long-ago past, most of which had been spent in the same foster system that Briggs now represented. She didn't doubt the wretched woman knew every inch of her old files; her interrogation had been, simply, to force Annabeth to re-live it, to see if she would now lie or obfuscate or commit any dishonesty that she could then use against Annabeth.

A headache, a truly grinding, pounding headache, was beginning to lodge itself into her skull. At this point, Annabeth wanted nothing more than to get rid of Briggs and retreat to her room. "Shall we see where Leslie took Timmy to?"

"No need." Leslie's voice, unexpected but not unwelcome, pulled both Annabeth and Briggs' eyes to the doorway, where she stood with Timmy. "Timmy's nap was short-lived, and he decided it was time to find 'Ann-Beth.'"

"Good timing." Briggs rose and strode towards them. "It's time to go, Timmy. You need to say good-bye to Annabeth."

His reaction came as a surprise to no one, but it made it no easier for them to witness. "NO! NO NO NO!" He tore away from Leslie and darted towards Annabeth, tears already starting to form in his eyes. "Don't wanna go! ANN-BETH!"

Briggs caught him before he could reach Annabeth. "Yes, Timmy. Time to go. Wave good-bye."

To hell with that. Annabeth strode over to them and knelt down so that she was on eye-level with Timmy. "Hey, sweetie. It's okay. You'll see me again really soon, alright? I promise. It's okay."

Seeing his savior so close by spurred Timmy into action. He tore away from Briggs and flung himself at Annabeth. Without thinking, she gathered him into her arms and held him close, feeling his arms as they wrapped themselves, koala-like, around her neck. His tiny body convulsed with sobs that were steadily rising in crescendo. Annabeth's own chest hitched as the first involuntary sob escaped and lodged itself in her throat. But already, Briggs was prying Timmy away, making no attempt to hide the disapproving look she gave Annabeth.

"NO! NO! ANN-BETH!"

"It's okay, Timmy," Annabeth managed to choke out. "Be a good boy. I'll see you soon. I promise."

Over the sounds of Timmy's screams, Briggs managed to make herself heard. "We'll see ourselves out. Don't follow us. The longer we draw this out, the more upset he'll become. Stay here—don't make it worse."

Annabeth nodded, too upset to speak. She wrapped her arms around herself—as though she were attempting to hold herself in place, or restrain herself from ripping Timmy from Briggs' possession.

And so, Briggs and her inconsolable charge departed, and as they did, Timmy's screams changed—he began crying not for Annabeth, but for Mommy. Only Leslie's hand, suddenly gripping her arm, holding her back, kept her from following them. "Don't. Don't make it harder."

With Timmy no longer present, requiring her to put on a brave front, Annabeth collapsed. She crumbled. She sank into the nearest chair and began crying as hard as Timmy had been just a few minutes before. Leslie said nothing, offered no words of comfort. She could only gently rub Annabeth's back and let her cry, and allow her the time to accept this latest, brutal blow.

Author's Message, Edited 7/20/2012

I'm in the middle of writing the penultimate chapter, but I felt this message took precedence. I've taken down my original author's note. In the aftermath of what happened in Colorado-which occurred after I posted this chapter-I feel like I should say something.

All day, I've been troubled. It's not that "it could have been me." That much is obvious. It could have been any of us. And maybe someday it will be. The randomness of Aurora can and maybe will repeat itself-in Bloomington, Indiana; or Poughkeepsie, New York; or Valmora, New Mexico. Or Canberra, Australia, or Reeth, England, or Antananarivo, your town. Or my town. Or wherever. It could have been me, it could have been you, it could have been us. We are all of us fans of something or other, all of us movie-goers, all of us potential victims. And while we are still alive today, in a way, it was us.

I repeat, we are still alive. I do not intend to minimize what happened to those who were actually there. You and I are still alive, so in that way, it wasn't us. But the potential is there, and the fear is there. And the people in that theatre were part of OUR community. They were our people. They were fans enough to be watching the movie at midnight, just as I have been fan enough to write this goddamned story for four years, just as you have been fan enough to be on this site to begin with. This was our community, and so I mourn, not because it could have been me or you, but because the victims were part of our tribe. They may not have read our stories, but they shared our passion.

My love and prayers and thoughts go out to the families and friends and recovering victims; my thanks and admiration go out to the emergency personnel and the "everyday heroes" that I know were born by and during this event. I salute you all, and I honor you. And for those who died, I know this: The Dark Knight Rises is playing in heaven right now, and the popcorn won't make you fat.

And I'll leave with this thought: the Batman is appalled. He eschews guns, for pity's sake.

All My Love, as a human first, and only after then as an American, a writer, a female, and a fellow foot-soldier in life,

-Anonymous2004, AKA Melissa