Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.

AN: Current date is eleven days past the Legacy's fall. The flashback containing Paltron and Jimmy Connolly takes place on August 19th, just hours before the parade and the fall of the Wayne Legacy Foundation building. Hope that helps!

Friday, August 30th

4:03 EST

Aramathea Apartments and Leasing

It is hours later. Hours later and Nora has combed every corner of the abandoned building. I am numb with grief.

"You're sure." Lawless asks again. "You're sure."

"These goggles are chromatography, Lawless. They sense methane, let off by-" Nora stops. "We've done visual scans and specialized sweeps for gases let off by decomposing tissue. If there were any more human remains we would have seen them."

"He's not here." Lawless says, one large hand tightening on my left shoulder.

"No." I say numbly. "He's not."

Of course not. It was the only scenario we would never anticipate, the only cruelty we felt him incapable of. Crushed hopes and disappointed dreams, even nightmares, quell the spirit and break the heart. Better not to feel. Not to hope. The only way to stay sane, to find him and stop his regime…

…but to ignore our emotions is to deny humanity. Become something less. Become like him. Either way, we lose.

4:11 EST

Aramathea Apartments and Leasing

There is a long smear of brownish dust, a path cut through the empty storage room now lit with Nora's lights.

"He was dragged," I whisper, wiping my eyes. From dust we were formed, to dust we return…

"Oh, hell." Nora says, rising stiffly from her knees. "Lawless, smell this." Wearily, achingly, he kneels down beside her, kneels in the trail of our son's dried blood.

"Ammonia." He states emotionlessly.

"What's it mean."

"It means it's ruined." Nora snaps, temper rising. "Means not a drop of this is any good. I can't get typing, can't get DNA-"

"Don't you fucking yell at her," Lawless whispers dangerously. He is breaking. Breaking and his quaking fist on my shoulder has grown painful and hot. "And what the fuck you need DNA for, Nora. You saw the fucking video-"

"Temper, Lawless." Nora says unabashedly, like a mother chastising a disrespectful child. "You're a good man. Good cop. I know Jim depends on you-both of you-and damn if I'm not fond of you but if you can't keep it together I'll have you taken off this case. You're too close to this one, Lawless." She says, gentler. "You're just too close."

"Don't, Lawless." I counter before he can protest. "It's what he'd want." Trembling in rage. Writhing with sorrow. The Joker meant for us to find this place…and the lack of any other form of trickery means he's already won. After the despair comes Bickering. Fighting. Disunity. That was all he was trying to accomplish.

"Yeah." He says, with little conviction. "Yeah. You're right. Yeah."

"Why don't you two go outside." Nora suggests. "Get out. Get some air. There's no need to be here. No reason to stay." Don't let it get to you, she tells us.

"Right." Lawless mutters, jaw set. "You're right. C'mon." He hauls me to my feet. "Let's go."

4:23 EST

Aramathea Apartments and Leasing

Walking. Walking down the trail of tears. Aramathea hasn't had the electricity running here for years, and we walk again by the light of Lawless' flashlight. We are leaving the dark, dank interior, the Joker's Hell, for the reek and smoke of Gotham City. More bloodstains. More ammonia. "Why bother?" I ask Lawless hoarsely. "We saw the tape."

"And we have his prints and DNA from his last arrest." He responds, rising from the dust-covered ground once more. "It's all games to him, Paltron. Puzzles and games. We'll waste our time on wondering why, worry, get distracted. And when he hits again we'll be weaker for it."

Legacy. Dead children still buried in the streets. Closing schools, parents dying in a frenzy to reach their child. The Joker has Gotham by the balls, and there's only one way to stop him. "Someone has to stop him." I whisper in the dark. "Someone has to find him. Someone has to kill him."

"At least arrest him." Lawless says, voice tinged with doubt. "Get him off the streets and away from us." But he's a city cop. Tired of watching friends and families die, tired of handing criminals to the courts to be released or labeled mentally unstable and incapable of normal lives, not responsible for their crimes. He is tired of watching murderers go free and rich men get fatter from it.

"You really think that Clown belongs in prison, Lawless?" I ask him. Prison. Asylum. They both have the same flaw: people get out. Escape or let loose, people get out. Hell has no doorways. The dead do not come back to life.

"I dunno." He returns slowly. "It takes a certain sort of mind to do the things he does. Kill. Torture…Something's not right. And whether he choose to become that way or he was just like that…I don't think I'm the one to make that call. I'm…I'm not qualified to be judge and jury." He pauses. Confesses. "But damned if I don't want him dead."

Don't be weak, Lawless. I need you. "If a gun were in your hand and had the shot, would you pull the trigger?" I ask him lowly.

He stops. Blinks. Stares at me a long, long time. "Paltron…" He is uneasy. Wary. Whispers, "I hope I never have to make that decision."

"But would you?" I press again.

GCPD. We've all asked ourselves that question. Carmide Falcone, Salazar Meroni, Joe Chill…we've all talked about cases over beer or coffee, whispered things in dark corners of dark bars, entertained dark thoughts in dark places in our minds…every last one of us has said the words in our mind. Someone should find that motherfucker. Someone should kill him. And I'd shake his hand. Buy him a beer.

…and it is not so great a leap to wonder should we be the ones to do it.

Press conference. Three years ago. "The GCPD will never ally themselves with a vigilante." Commissioner Loeb states. "We don't care about public opinion or popularity, the Batman will be brought to justice. He is a criminal, not a celebrity, not a hero. A criminal, and a menace. The only difference between the Batman and men like Carmide Falcone is that to our knowledge, the Batman has never killed anyone."

But he did. Harvey Dent is dead, and the people have turned on him. Once I too admired the Batman…then he became a killer.

But it's not that he killed, it's who. The Joker should have been the one to die. Never should have been allowed to live. To escape. To kill Gotham's innocents…

…to take my son.

That's why locker room talk never goes anywhere, why good cops, good men are afraid to act, to cross that line. Fear that rage, fear that mistake, fear that one action a man may never take back. Believe in order to kill, one must become a killer.

Good men have families. Friends. Neighbors and peers. They fear to lose trust. Respect. Companionship. Freedom. Jobs. Wives and children…Why men like Jim Gordon can't fathom taking a life in vengeance. Why a man like Aaron Lawless could contemplate, even condone…but never kill.

"Justice or not, right or not…." Lawless chokes, his hazel eyes swimming with sadness and anger, fingers tinged with Angel's blood. "I'd like to think that, that yeah. Fuck yeah. But I don't know, Paltron. I…it'd seem too much like, like killing in cold blood and I, I just don't know."

I hope I never have to make that decision. Don't worry, Lawless, I promise him in the darkness. You never will.

4:42 EST

Arimathea Apartments and Leasing

Sunlight. It blinds my eyes. Sears my soul. There is warmth. Light. Life. Traffic grumbles on the distant street. A hot breeze wafts gasoline and garbage fumes. I blink. Squint. Black blots on my retinas. Let my eyes, let my heart adjust-

…Jimmy Connolly is standing in the middle of the alleyway.

I let out a gasp, a short cry. Angel-!

Angel is dead, my heart says numbly. It's a mirage, an illusion, the wavering heat shimmering off melted pavement, nothing more. I blink back tears, and my eyes adjust fully. He's gone.

But there is something there, something small and reddish, tattered and trampled in the middle of the filthy alley. For a horrible, shrinking second, I remember my dream and fear it's his head-

Frantic footsteps. Nausea. Dizziness and ice-cold doubt…

But no. It's a shoe. His shoe. A goddamned red Chuck Taylor with white and black laces. I kneel. Kneel and weep. Here in the garbage-strewn alley, here in the scorching afternoon sunlight I have found my closure. I reach out a hand, reach out a hand and with trembling fingertips caress that dirt-stained canvas…

Fast food grease. Pushcarts. Glaring August sun. It's finally August 19th, and Stop the Violence is underway. "Hey!" A freckle-faced girl shouts to us. "Wanna buy a balloon?"

I ignore her. Keep on walking. But Connolly stops. Asks her how much they cost. "A dollar." She says, smiling shyly up at him.

"And what's it for?"

"It's for Stop the Violence, silly!" She giggles, rolling her eyes and gesturing all around giddily. She can't be more than seven or eight.

"Cheerleading fundraiser." A kindly woman interrupts. "Westside Elementary."

"I'm a Bulldog." The girl informs us, grubby, chubby fingers pounding the silk-screened mascot on her chest. 'We're the best!"

"Then you must have the best balloons." Connolly laughs. "We'll take two." White, taut helium balloons rising in the scorching summer air. The streets and skies are rife with them, clutched in or released from every child's hand.

Jimmy Connolly hands me one. I look into the little girl's sunburned face, her bright, expectant eyes, and reluctantly take it from his grasp. Our fingers brush. Cold, sick chill. I let it go, let it go and it soars up, graceful and weightless to the sky above, lost in a host of a million white balloons like fallen petals in an everlasting spring. I am sick. Numbed. It's something you do with a child. Something I never had the chance to do with mine. It should be Angel here, Angel here and not this strange girl, not Lawless' partner but Angel-

The balloons are lost into the searing glare of the sun, scarring my eyes like my soul.

"Hey, wait a minute," The kindly woman gapes. "Aren't you-?"

"What?" Connolly asks innocently.

"Never mind." The middle-aged woman apologizes "I thought you looked like…never mind. Thank you!" The little girl waves goodbye to us, her pigtails bobbing frantically. I have to get away-

I walk faster. Push my way through crowded street. Crowded sidewalk. Connolly jogs to keep up. Calls out for me to stop-

"Fucking A!" I snarl, sprawling onto the hot pavement on my knees and wrists. Every parent in earshot looks affronted. I roll to my ass, and rip the goddamn shoes from my feet. About broke my fucking ankle coming over that curb.

Connolly is sweating and panting, wipes beads of perspiration into his already salt-slicked hair. He offers a hand, but I ignore him. I stand, soles burning against the melted asphalt, shoes clenched in one fist.

The sun is hot overhead, high noon. Bodies press and whirl all around us, a drove of parents and children hemming towards Gotham City Plaza. It's hot. Humid. My skin is slick under the confines of the dress uniform, panty hose murderous. I'm overheated. Exhausted. Surrounded by a sea of mothers and their children, children I can never have, pressed into a crowd the target of god-knows-what and dressed up like a fucking Barbie.

Too much sun. Too many emotions. I want to bawl my fucking eyes out in jealousy and grief. I don't feel safe. Don't feel secure. Know if something terrible were to happen I'd be powerless to avert it. Not here in this crowd. Not dressed like this.

"I've heard they're bad for your back." Lawless' partner offers timidly as we walk. "Not really great for long distances."

I'm irritated. Physically and emotionally drained. My adrenaline surges, heart aches. I'm cranky and bitchy and want to go home. Not great for walking long distances, my ass. If someone had been to work on time we might not have had to park two miles out, I seethe.

"Yeah." I finally grumble. "But at least they match." I glance pointedly down. He follows my gaze, confused.

And there, peeking out from under his uniform pants, are the bright red canvas and white rubber soles of goddamned Converse sneakers. "My shoes!" He yelps. "They're on Mr. Lawless' desk!"

"I don't know what you want me to do about it." I snap. "You were four hours late. Unless you can fucking fly there's no going back for them now."

"I can't go to Stop the Violence in tennis shoes." He moans in disgust. "Great. Just great. First coffee, now this. My luck that little girl was a pickpocket…"

Burning feet. Tight, uncomfortable hose around my thighs and hips. Shredding slowly up my calves. Fuck it. "Tell you what, give me your shoes and you can wear these goddamn stilettos." I say, reaching up my skirt to yank the hose from my hips. It's sticky with sweat, ripped ragged with runs.

Fuck the sun. Fuck the heat. Fuck being a woman and fuck today. I have hop on one bare foot, skirt half hoisted up, and rip the damn things straight off. I might have lost my dignity and modesty, but damn if the first breeze against my bare skin doesn't feel delicious.

"Um…I think they'd be a bit, a bit, um, a bit…big?" He finishes lamely, absolutely horrified at my antics.

"That was a joke, Connolly. Like the kind you laugh after."

He flushes pink as I wad the panty hose and shove it into an overflowing trash bin. "I knew that." But he's still staring-more like fucking gawking-at my exposed skin. I raise one eyebrow and cross my arms. He turns scarlet and mumbles something I can't quite hear.

It's the scars. It always is. Death and pain are so horribly captivating, so heinously curious. "What, you're not going to ask me?"

"Ask what?" I caught him staring, and his elfin face has gone ghastly pale.

"Wanna know how I got these scars." I state as dryly as I would read the instructions from a tube of caulking.

"No." Connolly says, either unperturbed or oblivious to the Joker reference. His eyes are soft and sad. "I think if you wanted people to know, you would've told them already."

I blink, speechless.

"You're not as naïve as you let on." I say after a long, long pause.

"I get that a lot. 'Smarter than you look' and stuff. My da-Mr. Lawless says I'm a decent judge of character, I just don't know when to keep my mouth shut. I hardly ever get to sit an interrogation cause I always mess it up." Connolly shrugs. "He misses you, you know." He says suddenly. "I know he loves me but there's times I just know he misses you."

Jab the knife in. Twist. I feel it. Jimmy Connolly, you are cruel to be so kind. Let me alone in my misery. You are young. Innocent. Uncrippled. Don't waste your compassion on me. I don't know what to say to this young man who balances childlike along the crumbling curb in faded Converse sneakers and buys balloons from little girls and laughs when the sun comes out from behind a cloud. In that moment he reminds me of everything I've ever missed. I feel old. Tired. Sick and sore. Leave me alone, my aching heart whispers. Just leave me alone.

"Don't leave me," I beg him. "Come back…"

But my Angel is gone. I may go to him, but he will not return to me.

4:50 EST

Aramathea Apartments and Leasing

I sniff. Wipe my eyes and running nose. Grab the strap lying between my breasts, go to place Angel's shoe in the bag with that list of passwords and medications. But I am stopped.

"Paltron," Lawless says, heartbroken. "That shoe…that's evidence." GCPD property. Until the Joker is caught, case closed. It is public property…indefinitely.

I turn. Face him and stand. "You gonna take it from me?"

Slow, sad smile. He shakes his greying head, and touches that canvas as gently as he would Angel's sleeping face. "No." He admits. "I'm not."

And we are silent. Awkward. Man, woman and child. Pigeons fly overhead, a church bell tolls the hour. Still we stand, uncertain. Grieving. But finally, finally a siren wails in the distance, familiar and full of purpose. I open Connolly's GCPD gym bag, and place that filthy Converse inside gently, lovingly, the only piece of our son I have to bury. Lawless has his photos and a year full of memories. I have only this shoe.

"What are you going to do?" Lawless finally asks.

"What am I gonna do?" I ask unblinking. What has to be done. What Jim won't. What you can't. No parents should have to bury their child. Not even in Gotham. I will find them. Anyone and everyone responsible. Anyone who may have profited. I will hunt them down, one by one…and I will kill them. Oh, Gomorrah, the reek of your sin and sacrilege rises heavy above you, an Angel's bones burnt on the altar.

"I just…need some fresh air." I lie. "A walk, you know. Just some time to be alone."

Hazel eyes squint in the afternoon sun. Silently, Lawless nods. Acquiescence? Understanding? Compassion? Which of the three I do not know, but that uncertainty will not deter me from my path. This is no faerie-story, no epic of there and back again. No crusade to conquer a Holy Land. It is an Ernestine. An embittered, bloody battle, a long and lonesome road to shadows and death.

…I don't go merely to avenge Gotham's dead. I go to join them.

Graffitied dumpster. Rotting garbage. At the end of the alley traffic rolls on, unchanging. And this is Gotham: Squalor and filth. Stench and brick. A never-ending, repeating pattern, a matrix of ingrained habit and subconscious decisions that drive life and meaning until both are smothered into this ordered chaos. Yet against it all stands Aaron Lawless. Manhood personified. He is strength, he is shelter. With him I may have been a woman. Had things been otherwise, time changed, life less cruel. But every choice, every step, every decision of every day alters the face of our existence, the ripples of consequences marring not the surface but very soul. We are but mortals, and know not which choices will prove catastrophic…

Lawless would save me, would seek to spare me pain, and in doing so we would destroy each other. So I would kiss him, kiss him once on his bearded cheek for all he could be, never has been, never will…

But no. I am a man. It is better this way. I hold his gaze, hold his gaze for an unblinking afternoon in the August sun to say my thanks. Aaron Lawless. MD. Detective. Partner. Soul mate. Friend. Father to my only son…

…Goodbye.

"Don't go far." Lawless whispers. I promise not to. Perhaps he believes me, perhaps he doesn't. Perhaps we are both so blinded by inconsolable grief and rage that truth and lie no longer hold any distinction.

I begin to walk. That grey, colorless curtain falls with finality between us, every stumbling step stretches time further and further, already our paths are eternally sundered.

I am Gotham. There is no going back.