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

AN: Rated M for language, grisly crime scene and sexual references.

While the Kyle sisters have been mentioned and may or may not become key players in the plot, Maggie Kyle will NOT appear as Sister Zero in Ernestina. (And for AZWoodbomb: from now on I most solemnly pledge to always spell Salazar Meroni as such. That is of course, if I remember; and unless, of course, I forget…)

Friday, August 30th

21:12 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Meroni.

I've been a fool. Distracted. Enraged. Too quick to kill. My Angel is dead, and I have both nothing and everything to lose.

Sisters of Mercy and Salazar Meroni? Sure. These goons could be here for a late night confessional. Entirely possible. But even if Gotham City wasn't on military lockdown it'd be bullshit. Only one reason a mob boss would risk the shoot first ask questions later mantra of the National Guard: money. And lots of it. These motherfuckers are just like Ugly and his cronies, taking advantage the wounded and weak in their time of utmost need. There's something going on here. Something big. Something bad. Something corrupt, and that monster within me smells blood in the water.

Then it hits me. Cold and fast. That clenched up feeling in my gut. My veins go cold. That note. That note in Angel's Bible…it was from a Maggie.

If you have lost your faith in me, please don't lose faith in God. Read this and I think you will find the answers that you seek. Love, Maggie.

…Maggie. Maggie-fucking-Kyle. Bitch. Idiot. How did you not see-!

Heart beats and breath coming faster now. I wheel. Turn my bloodshot eyes upwards to the surrounding walls, all my thoughts myhopesmyprayers resting with a silent Sister somewhere within. Maggie Kyle, I've never met you. But you were a sister and a friend to my Angel when he had no one. Did you hold him, love him, kiss him as a sister when his mother couldn't-?

And in this moment, when all is lost, the love of my life left me, Art is dead, Lawless and I forever sundered, when my son-my Angelmyeverything!-is taken from me, I find I have a final hope left: Angel's sister, Maggie Kyle. Raped six years ago this November, avenged by a sister. Stan Shillings took a shot to the chest, ruptured his vena cava. Bled out in a dark alley while looking to score. Selina Kyle confessed on the courthouse steps in front of a media circus. Case closed. But to this day no one knows how Shillings got to her inside the protection of those stone walls…

No one but Salazar Meroni.

No one but the Judas priest who sold her body to that mobster's henchman.

…No one but me. And I'm going to find out who. I'm going to find out why. And I'm going to listen to the bastard take his last, rattling breath and the hell I send him to will seem like Heaven after what I've done. I buried my grief with my son. There is room now only for vengeance.

Zsasz was right: death is an art. And I'm going to paint a fucking masterpiece. I'll turn Gotham City into a canvas so sanguine not even the rain can wash it away and I will make them see. I will make them understand. All the apathetic masses in their mediocrity and blindness, all the fattened businessmen and dirty politicians that drive the filth and corruption of urban sprawl I will wake from their stupor and selfishness and they will see justice. They will know fear. I'm caked in mud and rain and tears and the blood of my son's killers. Now I thirst for his sister's tormenters' as well. Selina Kyle might have killed her rapist, but I want the motherfuckers who put him on the scent. And I don't care how high or holy their titles might be. Don't care how messy this gets, won't hesitate to spill blood like Pyrrhus on the flagstones before the altar…

Any Priest who deals with murders and lets a rapist walk free deserves communion the god he really serves; and the demons of Lust, Greed, and Bloodshed are waiting for him just as impatient as I am.

But I have to plan. Have to know how deep, how nasty this shithole gets…but how? Think, bitch, think-! I close my eyes. Press my fingers to my aching temples. It's there, there in the back of my mind masked by rage and hate: Mafia taskforce. Murray. Dan Murray will know. He'll know faces. Names. Locations. Meroni can't take a piss without the FBI knowing about it. Whatever la casa nostra's got going in Gotham City Dan Murray will know. Murray and that Nashton…

You ready to join the apocalypse, boys?

I walk the perimeter. Hide. I wait three hours in the mud and wet. Long after the bell tolls midnight the bastards leave. From the shivering shadows and cold I memorize their license plate and faces…

I will not forgive. I will not forget.

Saturday, August 31st

07:21 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Morning. Pale fingers of dawn crease the sky and birds sing softly from within the protective walls of their medieval sanctuary. Thick branches of oak and willow poke their boughs high above the fortified, encircling stone. For a moment the shimmering sunlight lingers above the wreckage, for a fleeting second children's laughter flutters on warbling birdsong.

Angel-?

But the moment is quickly past. I sit. Stretch. Groan with the stiffness and cold that seeps from the ground into my aching bones. I'm not vengeance. Not fury. Not even a woman with a fucking grudge to pay. Today I'm simply old. Old and damn stiff. My right knee is locked and rigid, and I must massage it to stand. Lawless was right: I need to rest. Need to stay off it. Need to give it time to heal.

And I will. I'll take the bus back to Stalton's car. Go back to my bolt-holes in the Narrows and plan. Research. Do reconnaissance. Sketch my masterpiece. Stalk from the shadows and bide my time…

…After I see Maggie.

07:59 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Sisters of Mercy soup kitchen. And all the drunks, all the homeless, all the junkies and their piss-assed smell of garbage, pot and sewage crowd the cobblestone walkway leading up to the wrought iron gates. How they Hell the Sisters can stand it day in and day out is far beyond me. But the bell tolls eight, and again the Church opens her waiting arms like liberty to Gotham's tired, her poor, her huddled masses of the hungry and sick.

I join the crowd, my ragged clothes and hair fitting well in with their neglect and despondency: Gotham has vomited her filth and reek into the immaculate stone courtyard of Sisters of Mercy. Behind me there's a deranged man with crossed eyes and a vacant expression leaking drool in his grizzly, food-stained beard. Two pregnant teenagers. An old, bent woman in rags who can barely stand. Three freshly-shaven, muscular men in prison sweats that scream parolees to every cop worth his salt. And amongst us all run a throng of young, starved children with dirty faces and dirty hands.

We stand for what seems hours as the sun rises overhead, the morning air turning from crisp and clear to thick and full of gasoline and moisture. Rays of light burn through pockets of fog and pollution and eyes tear and water in the unending bright. The line trickles on. But as more are fed and filled more still appear, and the queue stretches ever on behind us.

Finally it's our turn. I cross under that dark door, only to find there are words etched in the centuries old stone: Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd. Turning, I survey them again with softer heart. My disgust at their blind acceptance of their misery and mundane existence turns slowly to cool pity. I see anonymity. Hopelessness. Hunger, need and want. They are scattered. Divided. Leaderless…it is little wonder minds like Meroni's and the Joker's find them such easy prey.

08:56 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Steaming hot porridge, thin milk and watery orange juice await us all like a complimentary breakfast at a filthy hospital or a nursing home. And I feel guilty, cast a surreptitious glance at the pressing crowd and the long line of hungry waiting. The serving Sister mistakes my unease for hurt.

"What brings you here this morning to the Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy?"

A wry grimace. "I need some answers."

…Don't we all.

09:01 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

The Sisters offer to sit with me. I ask for Maggie Kyle. Say her story has touched me, I wish to speak with her. They smile knowingly. Wring my hand. Bring me out of the dark kitchen and sit me alone in the garden for a moment of peace and reflection while they fetch her, as they have for countless thousands of others…

But I find no peace here. All my hopes lie now in death.

09:10 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Alone.

Without solace I ponder again her empty words: If you have lost your faith in me. Maggie Kyle. Age 19. Chose instead of pressing charges, instead of identifying her attacker and sending him to prison to imprison herself instead. The Pope called it forgiveness…

Most of the public called it cowardice. And for six long years I've said the same. But I never worked sex crimes. Gordon did. Said it was common for women not to seek out their attackers. Spare themselves the indecency of the medical exam, the report, the abuse and shame they'd face at trial. She's just a kid, Gordon said. But I couldn't see it. I watched Marines take bullets at that age. Rode convoys through fucking Pakistan. I was a woman. I was a man. Already an adult, a soldier, a killer…

I'm 19. Still standing in my underwear in the female barracks while NCIS snap photos of the scene. Corporal Loisa Morris. One of only four other women on our mission. A Sister, a soldier and a friend. Dead. I found her thirty minutes ago hanging naked from the shower nozzle by her bra strap.

I can only think that I'm strangely cold. And someone should cover her up. She shouldn't be seen like this. Not with officers around…

… I learned later I was still in shock.

"It's alright, Private." A voice speaks softly behind me. A hand is laid on my shoulder. My eyes are blurry and puffy with tears. I can't see. "Let's get you out of here, C'mon."

Masterchief. I fall into him. I'm not thinking. Not thinking straight. Loisa's dead. She hung herself. But a soldier doesn't commit suicide. She's dead she's dead she's fucking dead someone is repeating hollowly over and over a woman is crying-

"She was found with the body, Marine. She'll stay until we've gotten a statement-"

"She's Paltron, Private First Class. You can talk to her when she's dressed and coherent." That gruff voice continues. "She's been through enough Hell this morning."

"She's a suspect-"

"Don't be a cocksucking idiot. I don't have to be a forensic specialist to know that body's in rigor. Happens faster out here in the desert, yeah, but not that fast. Gotta be a few hours old at the least…"

They argue. Masterchief wins. The world goes from black to dazzling white. A blanket is thrown over my shoulders. Darkness again. I wake up and Masterchief and the Medical Officer are standing over me.

My face is wet and my nose and mouth are sticky. It's only then I realize I've been bawling like a baby for the last half hour. They give me some pills. Glass of water. Say it's a sedative. Drink. I'll feel better. I pop. Swallow. Masterchief asks to talk to me alone and the medic leaves.

"Private, do you know any reason why Corporal Morris would want to kill herself?"

Yes. Yes and it scares the shit out of me. I've been shot at. Watched the armored vehicle in front of me disintegrate over a roadside bomb. I've seen men die and I've killed them. Warizistan's a fucking messed up place, but I was never told to fear this. "Loisa, she, Corporal Morris, sir, she told me…"

He nods his head. "Go on."

"…she said she'd been sexually assaulted, sir." The words seem empty and meaningless. Try to calmly convey the horror. Try to cover it up. Eulogize it. But they can't change it. Can't ever change it. My best friend was fucking raped, and now she's fucking dead.

Masterchief sighs. Wipes his face with one sweaty hand. "Did she say when?"

My voice is small. "About a month ago, sir. On guard duty."

He grimaces. "Did she say who?"

Suddenly I'm terrified. "S-she, she wouldn't say." Only one reason for that. He outranked her. Outranked her and could make her life miserable. He could be anyone. Anyone with rank. And here I am sitting alone in the medical bay in my underwear. I shiver. Pull the blanket tighter around me.

"Only one reason for that, Private." Masterchief continues. "And you know what that is, don't you."

Hell, for all I know, it could be him. I've trusted him. Respected him. Looked up to him like an older brother or a father. And suddenly all that trust is shot to Hell. Someone was raped, my friend was raped on a secure United States Military base. There's nowhere safe I can ever go. No man I can ever trust again…

Suddenly he sighs. Reads my thoughts. "She wouldn't tell me either."

"What-?" I sit up straighter, relief flooding into my veins. "S-she, Loisa-Corporal Morris-she told you?"

"I'm the SAPRO Officer on this base. Something like this happens, well, you guys have the right to report it confidentially. Get the counseling and support you need without fear of retribution. She came to me. Three weeks ago." He sighs again. "Lot of fucking good it did her. Emergency contraceptives and a couple of stitches. Hell."

Couple of stitches. I want to hurl. Couple of stitches. I don't want to know where. "What are you gonna do?" I choke.

"Me?" Masterchief asks. "Nothing. My hands are tied. The report was confidential, she wouldn't do a kit. I got diddly-shit."

Disbelief. "But, but you have to tell her family-"

"Yeah, right." He snarls. "You think the US military's gonna let that go public? While the war's so popular and all? You think her family wants to know their baby got raped as well as strangled? Nah. They'll keep this quiet. They might even tell them she died in combat. If she didn't tell them, they'll never know."

"B-but he's still out there," I whisper hoarsely. "He's…whoever he is he's…" still out there. And he'll do it again. And he could be anyone. Sitting in the medics office on the exam table where Morris sat a month ago with blood pouring down her legs scared shitless to say anything she had blood pouring down her legs not a soldier not a Marine just a woman a woman scared to death…

"Ain't the first time." Masterchief snarls. "Won't be the last. You put women on a base and this sort of thing happens. Hell, before they put women on bases this sort of thing happened. Only difference is men don't talk about it. And men can't get pregnant. Once the evidence is gone, it's gone. No offense, Private, but women have no fucking business being deployed, active duty or not my ass. And you can quote me on that."

Fear. Anger. Disappointment. Grief. "You're not going to do anything."

"No, I'm not. I can't. You hear me, Private? I can't." He enunciates slowly. "You been listening closely?" The words are punctuated with meaning. My eyes narrow and my heart nearly stops. His words go round and round in my aching head the room is spinning spinning nauseating and spiraling down, down and it comes to this:

I can't. Men can't get pregnant. Ain't the first time. Won't be the last.

"Sir, what are you saying-?" I finally ask.

Masterchief rises. Walks to the door. "I ain't saying anything," he responds cryptically. Then he's gone.

Masterchief gives me an official mission. Compile post-service psychological statistics of female soldiers from our mission. He's got to give a debriefing. Wants to know if our stats deviate from the norm. Gives me the title of Researcher and gets me clearance. But it's not the official report we're interested in. I go through records. Personnel files. Every woman who's worked on this mission. Three hundred names in all over 8 years of the War on Terror. I see the faces of the dead or decommissioned. I read about divorce, PTSD and suicides. Red and Bear say I'm losing it. I think they're right.

It takes me two jumpy months to find out. Two months to get leave to go stateside and do some digging. Two months of terror on night watch, two months of looking over my shoulder and tossing and turning in restless sleep. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone. He could rape me. Beat me. Hang me by my bra in the showers and no one would ever know. But I'm sick of being terrified. Sick of fear. Sick of not even being able to confide in Jon because the rapist bastard could be reading my letters. I won't live in the Valley of the Shadow anymore. My terror turns to zeal. Red and Bear tell me I need more sleep. But they don't know what I need. I need to find him. I need to know. I need to see him pay for what he did.

…I need to know I can feel safe again.

We get our leave. I get to go back to Gotham for 21 days with Jon. I don't want to lose him. Not like all those other women. I won't be like them. Don't ever want to be like them. I won't be raped or abused or driven crazy. I won't kill myself. Jon takes me to dinner. We go dancing. He kisses me, tells me I'm everything he'll ever need. I don't tell him I'm terrified. Don't tell him there's a rapist loose on my base and my best friend from basic killed herself. Don't tell him why the war's changed me so much. Try to keep it in until it's too late. He brings me home. Lays me down. Undresses me. Touches my face, my thighs, my breasts, and suddenly I'm bawling.

He holds me. Holds me close. Kisses my hair while I sob and moan and he never says a word about us not making love.

Later that I night I lie awake, Jon's arms around me and I swear l'll find him. Whoever he is I have to find him. He's taken my friend and now my marriage as well.

Fourteen days. Only seven left. Jon says I need sleep. I need to rest. Awkwardly asks me if I need to see a counselor. He'll go with me he says. He doesn't understand. Is it something he did. Something he said. Has being away changed my mind. I tell him there's something I have to do. He wants me to let him in.

Emotionally. Physically.

I find eight. Eight women who were dishonorably discharged, unexpectedly transferred or given medical leave. Those our base didn't want to deal with. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe they reported a sexual assault. Maybe it was better for them to just get away and forget. Maybe the military was just covering their ass.

Maybe nobody cares. Nobody cares but me.

One's at Arkham. Raving nuts. Killed her husband and three kids and tried to kill herself. Another died in an automobile accident. Both her parents being treated for depression. Can't believe she's gone. Can't believe their little girl survived Hell to be hit and killed by a drunk driver. I say I'm sorry. Say I'm sorry for their loss. Another's separated but left no forwarding address. Husband opens the door and says she doesn't live her anymore. I ask him if he had any reason to suspect his wife had been sexually assaulted. He only laughs. "Sexually she's a lot of things." He says bitterly. "But assaulted isn't one of them." She came home from war and made love to 13 of his buddies, and one of their wives. I feel sick. I have to lay down.

Another's a student at Gotham University. Trying to get a degree while partying and using drugs to forget the war. I find her in the ICU of Gotham General for her third marijuana overdose in the last six months. She's comatose this time. They don't think she'll ever wake.

Two were discharged with psychiatric illnesses. Schitzophrenia related to severe emotional disturbance due to psychological trauma. The military provides them with free medical care and drugs at the local VA hospital. They'd send them their disability checks, too, if they could provide a home address. That's when I learn the awful truth: no one gives a shit about homeless vets, not even the US Military. The last anyone saw one of them was over a year ago. Two women in their late twenties. Homeless. Sick. Wandering the streets…

…No one even bothered issuing a missing persons report. They just fell through the cracks. No one misses them but me.

Two are married. Refuse to talk when I mention sexual assault. One bitch-slaps me. Their husbands ask me to leave. Slam the door in my face. I stand in the yard and beg them to reconsider. To get some justice. She throws books at me from a second story window, screaming she'll call the cops. The other ignores me. I'm close. So close. But no one will help me. No one wants to help me. No one wants to help themselves.

Four days left. Jon wants to know why I'm so upset. Wants to know what happened. I tell him nothing. He's angry. We fight. We shout. He leaves. I curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep. I hate being a woman. Hate being so goddamned vulnerable. I hate being so goddamned weak.

The last 'isn't home'. A Latina nanny opens the door, says she's gone on vacation. It's bullshit, the car's in the drive and someone's walking around upstairs. My heart breaks. Last hope shatters. There's a beautiful, beautiful little blonde girl playing and prattling on the porch too young too innocent to know about sex let alone rape let alone have her mother confess she's the product of rape. It's here. Everything she needs for justice is right here on her porch, just her baby and her statement and in three long years she's done nothing. Absolutely, fucking nothing.

...And now she won't even give me the time of day.

Jon apologizes. Says he loves me, but he needs me, too. Says he can't get deployed again not knowing where we stand. We try. It hurts. I can't. I'm naked and bleeding all over the sheets. It won't stop. Jon's frustrated and horny and has to dress me and drive me to the hospital.

Gotham General. The ER is cold and sterile. Unfeeling. They don't give a shit about your modesty. I'm crying and ashamed and terrified. They take my clothes. Make Jon leave. I'm naked under a gown with my legs spread and open and they bring in a male cop who tells me I've been raped. I'm empty and angry and I want to go home. They want to run a kit. Want to arrest Jon.

I tell them I'm 19 and goddamn married. It was consensual sex-I can't even have consensual sex with my goddamned husband!-and I want to go home. The nurses get my clothes. Tell me to leave the bastard. One tells me I'm a stupid teenage whore and that she warned me and she won't be sorry if I come in next week in the morgue. I tell her to go to Hell.

The doctor won't check me out. Threatens me that insurance won't pay for it. I have to write a check to cover a five-hundred dollar ER visit while Jon asks me why the Hell I called the cops. The nurse calls him a bastard. The officer a rapist. They both call me an idiot. We go to the car. Jon turns on me and shouts, "What the Hell do they mean by rape-!"

I break down. Want to cry into his chest but he's too angry to goddamn touch me. I'm losing it I'm losing him losing everything I'm alone and empty and no one cares…no one cares but Jon.

So I tell him. I tell him everything. I tell him about Morris and Masterchief and all these other women too afraid too afraid to say anything do anything why doesn't somebody do something tell him I'm terrified of being raped terrified of going back to war terrified that bastard's out there if I don't find him he'll rape again if I can't stop him I'll never feel safe, never feel strong, never be able to have sex again and I'll lose Jon lose him like all these other women deranged divorced or dead…

My man comes through. I wake in the morning and Jon smiles at me. Tells me it's all over. He took me home then went back to those addresses. Pounded on the doors until the husbands came down. Two called the cops. The other listened. Listened to another man tell him his own wife was terrified of being raped, so terrified she couldn't even tell him, so terrified she couldn't even have sex because her friend's rapist was out there somewhere and that same man had raped his. Asked him how terrified, how pressured she had to feel every time they made love. Asked him if he wanted her to live like that. To live a lie. To live in fear. Asked him if he wanted to be married, to be sleeping with a woman who thought all sex was rape. Asked him if he wanted his wife to think he was a rapist.

…He said no.

She calls me later. Her voice is monotone. It's brief and short but she gives me what I need. What she needs: Her statement. Captain Travis Bingham. My commanding officer. Marine. Soldier. Husband and father of three…and a rat-bastard rapist.

One night left. I ask Jon if he wants to try again. He says no. He'll wait for me. Wait until I'm ready. Wait for me as long as it takes…

I fly through Paris. Connect to Pakistan. Try to sleep on the dusty, bumpy convoy back to base. Every mile brings me closer to justice. Red and Bear say I'm looking better. Joke that 'a good lay-er, trip stateside, was what you needed.' I find Masterchief. Tell him I have information on the briefing. He says it can wait until after orders. Orders from Bingham. Orders from a rapist.

I tell Masterchief I have to tell him now.

"You're sure?" He asks me. "Absolutely sure?" He'd heard most of the stories before. Knew times. Dates. Had whittled it down to a handful of officers who'd had the opportunity of being in the right place, right time. But he'd never suspected this. He shakes his head. Grunts. "My hands are tied."

I explode. "The Hell do you mean your hands are tied? I have the evidence! That baby proves it!"

"If she's willing to testify. And from what you've said, she's not."

My words are desperate, my thoughts are racing. "We can get a court-order-"

"It's confidential, don't you get it?" Masterchief barks. "I was breaking privilege even telling you! Any one of those women you interviewed tries to press charges my ass will be court-martialed, you hear? Those women came to me because they thought I'd keep it private, do you understand? And now you want a fucking court-order for DNA? You have any idea what that will do? How many women won't come forward if they fear they're going to get dragged in front of court?"

I bite back my retort: they're already not coming forward. And a fat fucking lot of good SAPRO's done for the ones who have. "Maybe we can convince her to testify-"

'I couldn't." Masterchief sighs. "And you couldn't. What makes you think you'll have better luck next time? And it's too late, Paltron. Without a rape kit, without any other physical evidences all that baby proves is they had sex. Getting charged with having sex with an enlisted women, that's a demotion. Not justice."

I'm devastated. Reel against the wall with a groan. So close. We're so goddamned close! "Why the Hell don't women come forward," I choke.

"Because they're ashamed and embarrassed and a rape trial's Hell." Masterchief snarls. "You wanna know why I asked for this job? My daughter was raped at a college frat party. Went to trial. Back before they had all these victim protection laws and they ripped her to Hell and called her a drunken whore. The bastard walked with a slap on the wrist and she spent the next three years drinking herself to death."

Hot tears. I shudder. Had no idea…

" Even nowadays a civilian lawyer would tell you it ain't worth it. Better to just forget about it, better to settle things out of court. It's a he-said/she-said, and the best attorney wins. If you don't have the kit it ain't worth it. And hell, even that doesn't prove anything. And getting that kit, well, I don't blame women for not. It's like getting raped again. Cold-blooded rape by a doctor and a witness-"

I think back to Gotham General. I agree.

"Best to just let it go. To spare yourself the indecency of a trial. Wish my Katie had, and she might still be here today. Morris is dead. Your key witness gave her statement to you, not JAG, not the cops. And I'm damn-well betting the only other person she'll ever let know is her fucking therapist. We don't have a case, Private. We have no witnesses. No testimony. No evidences. Nothing. It's all circumstantial. All coincidence."

"There has to be something." I choke. "She has to have justice."

"Justice?" Masterchief laughs. "She's dead. You can't give her justice. It's over, Paltron. Legally there's nothing more we can do."

"So that's it, then." I say bitterly. "I trusted you. I trusted you and you let me down. You lied to me. You lied. You ruined my life. You took my innocence. You nearly destroyed my marriage and I told myself it would all be worth it, I believed you it would all be worth it and now you're standing here in your goddamn officer's uniform with your goddamn sob-story and now you're telling me you that you won't fucking do anything-!" I'm panting and choking and crying like a spoiled, sniveling kid at Christmas who didn't get her way. I'm selfish and ashamed. It's not about Morris anymore. It's about me. This, all this, everything I've done and sacrificed and nearly lost hasn't been for Morris. It's all been for me.

"I, I…I'm-I'm so sorry about Katie-" I finally choke.

Masterchief waves me off. His eyes are sad. Strained. Somber. "You're wrong, Private." He whispers. "I only said legally we've run out of options. I never said I wasn't going to do anything." He takes my hand gently like a man would do his daughter's and he kisses it. I blink, dry my tears, and understand this conversation-like this kiss-never happened.

Two nights later there's a horrible explosion on our base. Fragmentation grenade in the commanding officer's quarters. The next morning at mess we're informed of the tragic death of Captain Bingham. JAG and NCIS would be back to investigate and we would all cooperate fully. But every one of us knows the truth: there's not enough evidence left from a fragging to close a case.

Sunlight. Elation. The fear is gone. It's over. It's done. The bastard's dead. He'll never rape again. And those three women, Morris and anyone else who was too afraid to report him…they finally have their peace. I skype with Jon. Tell him I love him. Want him. Need him. Make him promise next time we're together he'll fuck me silly. We laugh and chat and giggle until we're red in the face almost 4,000 miles apart it feels like he's right here beside me; and I want, yearn, need him here beside me, inside me…

That night before I sleep I get a strange feeling: for the first time in my life I've actually killed a man. I wasn't fighting in a war to protect my country, wasn't forced to pull the trigger on a 13-year old kid with an AK 47 in self-defense…I simply, cold-bloodedly murdered him. Maybe I didn't pull the pin. Didn't toss the grenade. But I helped to hunt and kill a man just the same…

…And I feel giddy and content and not one bit guilty about it.

By the time Maggie was raped I was blinded by bitterness. By age and years of regret and loss. I'd lost my innocence a long, long time before. I was an adult at 19. She was only a child, a naïve college freshman with only nineteen years of sheltered experiences. Forgiveness or fear. Could Maggie Kyle's reticence have been a bit of both?

…and accepting that, believing that, even fucking thinking of thinking that I find myself at a hollow loss: would she, and did she, ever condone her sister's revenge-?

And another spiraling, plummeting thought knots my gut like that grenade in Pakistan: would Angel-? And I remember. Remember those horror-stricken eyes, that deep intake of breath, that spine-shattering shudder as Angel buried his face against my neck. That same innocence, that same naivety that led him running back to those bastard's arms…that same fucking forgiveness Maggie Kyle proclaimed…would Angel have ever once wished those heartless men living instead of dead-?

It's a question I never once asked Angel. And now I never will.

09:17 EST

Blessed Sanctuary of the Sisters of Mercy

Soft whisper of cloth. I raise my eyes. Squint against the sun: Maggie Kyle. Soft, sad smile; freckle-strewn, innocent face, crystal clear green eyes. She looks much younger than I expected, like a photograph frozen in time. It's like she hasn't aged a day since her attacker brutalized her; she might as well still be nineteen.

She might as well be fucking dead. The dead never age. Never grow old. Never change. We see them exactly as they ever were, enshrined in our memories. And that's when I know it: Stan Shillings didn't just rape Maggie Kyle…he murdered her as well. This is not the ghost I would have my answers of. But she's the only link to Jimmy Connolly I have left, a gateway, a shaman, a speaker for the dead.

I stand. "Maggie Kyle?"

"Sister Teresa Margaret," she says kindly. "What can I do for you?"

Habit by now. Instinct. Reflex. I flash my badge, and that smile falters. "Gwen Paltron. GCPD. I have a few questions for you."

Her eyes harden instantly. "I don't have anything to say to you, Detective." She says coolly. Shit. I've never been good with conversation. Never been good at approaching people. In 39 years I've never known how to ask for help.

…and now I fucking need it.

"Maggie, please-" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"The case is closed. A man is dead and my sister's in prison. What more can you possibly want from me?"

I begin anew, nervous, desperate. "Even before your sister killed Stan Shillings-"

She sighs, eyes downcast. "May God have mercy on his soul," she murmurs.

"Even before she killed him you refused to testify," I continue. "You came here. Why?"

"If you're looking for guilt there is none." Maggie responds guardedly. "I had nothing to do with that man's death."

But I cannot read that look. Not honestly. There is a part of me-too much of me-that wantsneedsdemands her sanction of his death. "Then if it's not penance, who are you protecting?"

"I'm not protecting anyone, Detective," Angel's sister chides. "Your work has corrupted your heart. Must the police always be so suspicious? So judging? I made a choice, and I've chosen to show others that our God is a God of love. Of compassion. Of Forgiveness."

"You've forgotten justice." I add.

"You have much anger. You are angry at Him, I can tell," she continues. "Rash things are done in anger. Rash and horrible. Do not forget He loves you."

"Yeah." I snort. "Well, if God loves me, Maggie, He sure has a fucking hilarious way of showing it." Disability. Divorce. Dead son…

"Those He loves He chastens," she answers humbly. But that answer is rehearsed. Trite. Glib. Something snaps, and I'm done being nice. Done playing games. Rape or not she has no right, no reason to mock my pain. For six years she's been brainwashed, the Church's puppet…now I will make her speak.

"One last thing, Maggie."

"Teresa Margaret," she amends.

"No. I'm not talking to you, Sister." I correct the composed young woman standing before me harshly. "I'm talking to Maggie Kyle. The bleeding, naked teenager with some stranger's semen inside her who lay in a coma for three and a half weeks after some motherfucker raped her, beat her and left her for dead. The thing about forgiveness is that you have to ask for it, Maggie. Stan Shillings ever ask you to forgive him?"

Shock. Outrage. She couldn't be more shaken had I bitch-slapped her Raphaelian face. And there she is. The façade is dropped. Maggie Kyle stands before me no more than the broken girl she really is. "Stop," she sobs.

"Not once? Not once during the three hours he brutalized you? What about when you lay in the hospital on a ventilator for a month dying? He write to you? Come to you in a vision? He ever turn himself in-?"

"N-no-" she begins, but I'm not done. Not nearly done.

"Not even after every major news network in the world covered your story and the Pope himself congratulated you on your acceptance to the Convent-he never showed up here? He never came to confessional-?"

"Shut up!" She cries, "Just shut up-!"

"Did he, Maggie?" I insist.

"G-God f-f-forgave him!"

"No, Maggie. He didn't," I tell her coldly. "You did. And you let him fucking walk away and rape again."

Silence. Those wide, tear-streaked green eyes blink once and crystal turns to cloudy jade. Innocence and naivety are gone. The time for sorrow and grief is past. Maggie Kyle's face is a mask of horror and hate and for one split-second I see the sinister shadow of her sister on her face. Then Angel's sister whispers those three hissing words to her tormenters that she's denied herself for six long, unforgetting years: go to Hell.

Watching her weep I feel guilt. Shame. Complicity. Wish I could lift up embracing arms and ease her pain, but I cannot. I am Gotham, her police brutality, her corruption and her sin. I'm a cruel, conniving cunt and Maggie Kyle hates me for it. I came here for answers. For consolation. Was it worth it, Bitch? I berate myself. Terrorizing a little girl? Making her re-live that Hell? You happy now?

I have my bitter answers: I'm a better monster than I am a mother, and everything I touch turns to rottenness and death. It is my curse. It is my gift.

…I am a Killer so my Angel-like Maggie Kyle-will never have to be. Don't worry, Maggie, I promise her retreating back. They will.

AN: For those of you who may have wondered, Master Chief is a military ranking that is WAY up there. However, in Ernestina, Masterchief is an affectionate nick-name given to the Mortalis Master Sergeant Paltron serves under in Warizistan, due, no doubt, to his apparent resemblance to a character of the Halo game universe.