Note: I know diddly squat about lockpicking and hand-to-hand combat. I also never was very good at roller skating, thought I've always wanted to try it again.

Ellie will have her first case with John in the very near future! I have no idea how it will go, so expect more seat of the pants writing (which is really what this entire story has been so far).

Thank you to everyone reading the story!

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One Year and Six Months prior

John was four feet away. I blinked, and John was in my face, giving me hardly any time at all to deflect the punch.

I stumbled backwards, tripped over my own feet. Landed flat on my back, knocking the breath out of my body with a soft oomph! Yet again, I was greeting with a very familiar sight: the exercise-room ceiling. After three weeks of self-defense lessons at the gym, I had become intimately familiar with that ceiling. I could've probably drawn a picture of it from memory. The staggered, narrow wood panels, the fire sprinklers, the recessed lights, the smoke detectors...

"Not again," I said, propping myself up with my arms.

"Don't feel bad, Ellie," said John. He offered his hand and helped me to my feet. "Your defensive tactics have improved a lot."

"Should've stuck with beer bottles," I grumbled.

"You know enough now to get you out of a pinch," he said.

"Yeah. Poke someone in the eye. Best plan ever."

"If you can get to their face, it works pretty well."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Let's try again," John said. "We'll go slower this time."

I nodded, settled into a defensive stance. John's fist sailed towards my chest. This time, the movement was slow, exaggerated, giving me plenty of time to block or duck away. I pushed his arm to the side.

"Good," he said, sounding unflappably calm even as his body leaned close towards mine. "Throw me off balance."

Grabbing his outstretched arm with both hands—God, I could feel his muscles ripple beneath my hands—I pulled him forward, shifting part of my weight to my right foot, which was behind and to the side of my left foot. When it came to balance, my bow-legged stance gave me a clear advantage over John, who had foolishly thrown all of his weight forward. His center of gravity moved further ahead of his body until it passed the point where he began to topple. He faltered, and when he did, I shoved him backward, releasing my hold. He tripped, recovered, then retreated several feet away.

"Good, Ellie," he said. "What would you have done if I had been moving faster?"

"I would've used your momentum," I said. "Pushed you behind me."

"Let's try it. Smooth the movements out."

This time, he built up a little speed, and the punch came a little faster, but still not as fast as the first time. I knocked his arm to the side, grabbed it, and this time I let my body move on its own, pulling John around until he was stumbling away behind me. He regained his balanced with his usual flawless grace—I was pretty sure the stumbles were just for show—and turned to face me, still looking like he was just out for a casual morning walk.

In his T-shirt. And shorts. And nothing else.

"Very good," he said. "Once you have their arm—if you can grab it safely—there are a lot of useful things you can do. Armlocks are good for subduing someone. Or, if you're quick, you can break their arm..."

I made a face at that. John shrugged.

"You should know these things in a life-or-death situation, Ellie. It doesn't take much strength to break somebody's arm if you do it right. I'll show you how later. Now, let's review your stance—it was a little sloppy just now..."

We practice for another hour. I ended up on my rump six or seven more times: once from one of John's demonstrations, the other times, from my own damn feet getting in the way.

There was a reason I'd never danced in high school...

#####

John and I met two, three, even four times a week at that fancy gym off 44th street. His whole saving-the-world schedule made our meetings unpredictable. We preferred meeting on Saturday or Sunday whenever possible, but Gotham City was quite the crime-ridden slum during the weekend, so we often met during the work week instead, usually in the afternoons just after I left Landis or the 94th street library.

For the first time ever, I found myself clocking out from the Landis offices at precisely 5PM, rather than staying "just a few more minutes" to squash bugs or write a response to an issue ticket. Or two. Or ten.

Don't get me wrong, I still enjoyed my work at Landis—but I had something more worthy to do with my precious second chance at life, something far more important than fixing other peoples' mistakes in some router firmware. I had a purpose now; an opportunity to really make a difference in the world. John was teaching me how to protect myself, and by extension, how to protect other people. Innocent, unwary people. Like the person I'd been before Tara Dodson had tazed me in the back alley at the Landis building.

Even on the days John and I couldn't meet, I still went home as soon as possible, either to practice the warm-up moves John had taught me or to exercise. All sarcasm aside, I really was out of shape. (Okay, and maybe just a tiny bit tubby, not that I cared.) I'd never really paid attention to my fitness in the past, but that had been before Batman had taken me under his wings. Cape. Whatever.

The day after our first session at the gym, I went out to jog. There was a small park adjacent to the apartment complex, with lots of rolling hills and a cement path that wound between and over them, passing through a grove of massive oak trees. I figured the park was as good of a place to start as any. So I put on my sweatpants and a sweater and donned the blue-and-black sneakers that I'd worn maybe five times since I'd bought them. I headed out the door. The sky was a ruffled layer of gray overcast—there would be no rain today, or so the news anchors claimed—and the world was washed out, desaturated, cold.

I had this crazy notion that I was going to jog around the park a dozen times or so, up and down all the little hills, but halfway into the first loop I was already winded. By the time I made a full circuit, I was exhausted. My leg muscles burned and I couldn't get enough oxygen into my frozen lungs. I stopped and leaned against a lamppost. My breath turned to fog as I panted.

He's right, damn him, I thought. Stamina? What stamina? I don't have any damn stamina.

Once I caught my breath, I started running again, a little slower this time. All right, so twelve laps had been optimistic. I'd settle for six.

Okay, five.

Maybe four...

I made another lap, took a different fork in the path this time. Had to stop again to catch my breath at a park bench. I was surprised to find that I was overheating beneath the sweater. I pulled it over my head, tied it around my waist, leaving me with just the tank top protecting my torso against the chill. The air bit at my bare arms. It felt good, especially when I started moving again.

Okay, Mama. Maybe, maybe you're right about me needing to get out and about more often. Maybe. But you're still wrong about the Allman Brothers!

I ended up making five laps before I threw in the towel, staggering back to the apartment. I was exhausted, yet at the same time, I felt a peculiar sense of energy and contentment.

The next afternoon, I went to the park after a long, long shift at the 94th street library. It was a little warmer today and the sun deigned to peak out from behind the clouds every now and then. I was hoping to get further than yesterday, maybe six laps, but at the same time, I knew that pushing myself too hard could be disastrous. So I went slow. Rested every few park benches. I didn't care if it took me all afternoon to go six laps.

Turns out I made seven.

And so it went for about two weeks. The next time I met with John, I told him what I was doing to stay active, and he nodded thoughtfully.

"That's good," he said, and then we spent the next few hours going over defensive moves and by the end of it I was all out of breath.

John barely even broke a sweat.

Damn Bruce Wayne.

#####

One cold Saturday morning, after eating a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, I padded to my bedroom and searched the closet for something more suitable for jogging than the long nightgown I was wearing. While sliding the hangers around, I happened to glance up to the shelf above my hands, and there I saw a little patch of black and pink behind a stack of old CD jewel cases. Curious, I slid them aside and saw my old pair of roller skates lurking behind them.

You used to love roller skating, I thought to myself.

I stood on tip-toes, reached up, took the skates down from the shelf. They were heavier than I remembered and they looked like the kind of skates a little kid would wear: bright pink quad wheels mounted to chunky, low-cut black sneakers. The skates were decorated with pink and white accents. I dusted them off. Spun the wheels with my fingers. They still moved easily.

What the hell. They count as exercise. John even said so.

I found the knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards in one of the boxes in the closet (I was going to unpack those boxes some day, really I was) but couldn't find my helmet anywhere. No big deal. The only times I'd ever fallen on while skates had invariably been the many times when Gray had run into me because he'd never been able to skate worth beans.

Shedding my nightgown, I dressed quickly—black tights, blue dress, and a wool sweater. I sat down on the bed. Fastened the plastic guards around my knees, elbows, and wrists. Then, one at a time, I put my feet into the skates and bent forward to lace them up. The skates were a little on the tight side, but that was better than them being too loose.

I stood. With the protective gear around my knees and elbows, I felt as padded as the Michelin Man. The skates didn't do much rolling on the carpet, so I made my careful way out to the kitchen. I paused at the threshold between the carpet and the linoleum and thought, All right, Ellie. Let's see how well you can skate after all these years.

Turns out, after a few wobbly false starts, I did pretty well. Skating was like riding a bike. After five minutes, I found that the kitchen was much too small to contain me, so I decided to head for the park. I skated the whole way there from my front door, feeling freer than I had in eons. This beat the pants out of jogging. Hell, skating was way more fun that I'd remembered. A rough, cracked asphalt driveway in the mountains of Colorado was nothing compared to the silky smooth sidewalks of New York. I could go so much faster than I'd ever been able to go back at the mountain house. Here, it felt like I was gliding.

I'd made maybe four circuits around and through the park when I spotted John walking near one of the lampposts. John was wearing an ominous dark overcoat today and his hands were buried deep inside his pockets to ward off the December cold.

Putting one foot back, I dragged the toe stop against the ground to slow myself.

"Where's your helmet, little girl?" John asked as I skidded to a stop in front of him.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head. "Really?" I said. "You're going to start on that today?" I couldn't help but notice that those mysterious, vivid blue eyes of his seemed a little closer than usual; the skate wheels gave me an extra inch or two of height.

He said, "Think of it as a disguise, Ellie. People see an innocent young girl, they don't see a danger. You're not a threat."

"Sure. No danger." I poked him in the chest. "You remember that when I get your ass on the mat one of these days."

"I'm sure I will," he said. The corner of his mouth rose. "One of these days." He glanced around and said, "How'd you like to go on a field trip today?"

"A 'field trip?'" I rolled one foot back and forth, tried to hide my excitement. "Where are we going? Is it another haxpedition?"

"You could say that."

"That sounds vague."

"It did, didn't it?"

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"It's a surprise, Ellie. I don't want to spoil it."

"Well, c'mon, let's go! I've been dying to do something fun lately. But I need to get some shoes first. Unless you want me skating everywhere?"

John tilted his head towards my apartment. I shifted my weight, started rolling again, and just when I'd gotten back up to walking speed, I hit a rock on the sidewalk. Hell, it wasn't even a rock. It was a pebble—but it was enough to stop my skate wheels cold. My foot halted like it'd been glued in place, but the rest of my body didn't.

Aww, shit, I thought. My arms windmilled as the concrete rushed up to say hello to my face. But before I could fall too far, John caught my arm, swung my body around. I suddenly found myself pressed face-first up against his chest, pinned against his body by his arms. Gasping, I craned my neck to look up at his face.

He looked down, raised his eyebrows, and said, "This is why you should wear a helmet, Ellie."

If he hadn't been holding me so tight, my feet probably would've gone right out from under my body. I felt warm, very warm, and the blood was rushing to my face.

"Couldn't find my helmet," I mumbled.

"I'll buy you one. What do you think, Ellie? Pink, with little white flowers on it? White, with Hello Kitty decals?"

"Don't you dare," I said. I chewed my lip. "Make it plain black or dark blue, and I'll forget you called me a little girl today."

"Deal," John said, chuckling. He released me, but kept his hand on my shoulder all the way back to the apartment.

#####

I had to wonder where John kept getting these different cars. I mean, he had a different one every time I saw him. Either he owned a used car dealership lot or he was really rough on his automobiles. This particular one was light blue; an old Honda with a cross hanging from the rearview mirror.

John had never really struck me as a religious man...

"This isn't your car, is it?" I asked.

"Is it that obvious?" he said.

"Do I want to know whose car this is?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know if I want to know or you don't know whose car this is?"

John glanced at me, smiled, but said nothing. It figured. It just figured.

"I hope you give it back in one piece," I said, shaking my head in amazement.

"I do try..."

After about thirty minutes of driving, John pulled the car into an aging lot squeezed between two crumbling brick warehouses. He parked the car, pushed open the door, got out. I did the same. Looked around. Weeds grew up from cracks in the buckled asphalt and half the panes were missing from the tall windows in the brick walls. An obese weatherproof security camera hung from the side of one of the buildings. The fence protecting the lot was topped by barbed wire, but the gate had been torn away and was lying flat on the ground next to a dumpster.

Nobody was around.

"Okay," I said. "Where are we?"

"At a creepy old warehouse," John said. He headed towards an exterior metal door set in the wall of the nearer of the two warehouses. The door was right in the middle of the camera's field of view.

John stopped next to the door and motioned towards it.

"You're not going to open it?" I said.

"You can have the honors, Ellie," he said.

Suspicious, I reached for the doorknob. Turned it.

It was locked.

"It's locked," I said.

"Oh no," John said, sounding a little too happy about it. "And I left my key at home."

"You have a key to a creepy old warehouse?"

"No," he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a little leather case, slightly smaller than a paperback novel. He handed it to me. Wary, I opened it. Inside were a bunch of little thin tools, like dental picks.

"What are these?" I asked.

"That is a lockpicking kit, Ellie."

"A what?" I snapped it shut.

"It's now your lockpicking kit. A good one."

"You're really going to teach me how to pick a lock?" I looked past his shoulder, straight into the dark lens of the security camera. The unusual size of the camera made it look even more ominous. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "In plain view of the camera?"

John turned around, looked right at the camera, and waved.

"The hell are you doing?" I hissed.

"It doesn't mind us, Ellie," John said. "Now, do you want to know how to pick a lock or not? If you're uncomfortable, I can take you back to your apartment."

My fingers shook as I worked the clasp on the case again and slowly opened it. Hell yes, I wanted to know how to pick a lock—but doing it while a camera watched? That was more than a little creepy...

"I'll demonstrate first," John said. He picked up two of the lockpicks and inserted them into the lock. "Watch closely. I'll explain what I'm doing the second time—then you can try it..."

He had the door opened in less than ten seconds.

"Right," I said, as it squeaked open a crack. "That totally made things clear for me. I know everything there is to know about lockpicking now. Thanks, John."

He ignored my sarcasm, reached around for the inside door knob, locked it, and closed the door again. This time, he showed me how he was placing the picks.

"Do you know how a lock works, Ellie?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "The key forces the pins into alignment with the barrel so it can turn. Each pin is split at a different place, and when the key goes in, the ridges and valleys push against the pins and make the splits all line up."

"Close enough. This is a very cheap lock—good for us to practice. What I'm doing is called raking. Now, the tension wrench twists the barrel a little, which makes a little ledge for the pins to catch on. If the upper part of a pin is raised high enough, it will clear the barrel. Raking will force most or all of the pins up at once if we're lucky. Watch."

I watched. John moved slower, but it still took him less than a minute to open the door. He locked it again. Then he handed me the squiggly pick and the tension wrench. I set the case down and held them, gingerly, like they were red-hot.

"Don't rush," he said. "If you don't get it today, we can always come back tomorrow."

I glanced at the camera again, gulped, stuck the tension wrench in the slot, applied torque, and tried picking the lock. I must've worked at the damn lock for at least five minutes. I concluded that raking was some trick of the wrist or something, because I didn't seem to be able to do it no matter how many times I tried.

"What happens if raking doesn't work?" I said.

"Then you have to pick each pin individually. Raking usually gets most of them in place, but there's often a straggler or two..." He reached down to the case and brought out another tool. "Keep up on the tension," he said. He gently took the first pick from my hand and inserted the new pick into the lock. "Listen carefully. You can hear the pins when they slide past the ledge."

I put my ear to the door and watched John carefully move the pick. Sure enough, a second later, I heard the faintest click.

"That's one," John said. "Now, there might be another one...that was the one in the front, so try the other ones." He handed me the pick. My hand shook as I inserted it into the lock and started feeling around for the pins, poking at them one at a time.

When the lock finally turned, I very nearly dropped the wrench and pick out of surprise.

"Congratulations," John said, opening the door wide. "If I hadn't OK'd this with the guy who owns this property, you'd have just committed your first B&E." John tilted his head. "Ellie? Are you alright? What's wrong?"

My eyes were fixed on the narrow corridor behind the door. The lights were off, and the hallway was dark, and I mean dark, like pitch black, and it looked like the shadows were oozing towards me, reaching with dark tendrils. My heart began to thud against my ribs. My knees wobbled. I felt very ill.

John looked at me, then the hallway, then made a silent "ah" of realization. He reached inside the doorway and clicked a switch. Old florescent light fixtures kicked on, flickering orange, then white.

"Sorry, Ellie," John said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I hadn't thought about that."

"S'ok," I said. "It was just—sudden." I took a deep breath. Another one. Reached down and picked up the lockpicks, put them neatly back in the case. "So what's inside?"

"More locks," he said. "A whole building filled with lots of cheap, easily-picked locks. Different brands too, just to shake things up. If you're in the mood, of course."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I want to try it again."

But I made him go inside first—and I wouldn't let him close the door behind us.

#####

The next morning, I opened my front door to find a cardboard box, about a foot square, on the doormat. I took the box inside, set it on the table. Fished a pair of scissors out of the kitchen drawer and used them to cut the tape. Reached into the packing peanuts. My fingers met something hard, and I pulled it out.

I laughed.

Inside the box was a skating helmet. The surface was shiny, dark navy plastic—but there were little styled cat faces stenciled all over the thing in delicate white lines. Obscenely cute cat faces.

"John, John, John," I sighed, shaking my head.

But I wore the helmet anyway.

#####