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

AN: Sorry the flashbacks keep getting longer and longer. Paltron's a great character, but I miss getting to write everybody else!

Tuesday, September 3rd

16:00 EST

3rd Avenue and Main

Tuesday morning a downcast blonde woman in dirty, oversized men's clothes leaves the Narrows via GCPT. Around lunchtime on the opposite side of town, an outspoken brunette pharmaceuticals rep purchases a total of $1098.99 in casual wear and shoes from five fashion boutiques in Circle Center Mall while chatting candidly about her new raise. At each she pays in cash, and declines the offer of a store credit card or email updates. Then at precisely 4 pm, a well-dressed, rather feminine woman in pink pumps, white denim, and a brown, ruffle-neck cardigan appears in Gotham's business district. She's pleasantly attractive, but not ostentatious enough to turn heads. She receives faint smiles from several businessmen and gives the occasional nod in return. The only thing really remarkable about her is the silk kerchief she wears around her bald head. Most simply assume she's a cancer patient.

These three women have only one thing in common: they're all me…and no one would guess they're out for blood. The baldness is a little too memorable for my comfort. I would have preferred to stay more invisible, but the Simmons identity had only one glitch: Perci's a skinhead in her driver's license photo. It's far too ostentacious, but the DMV photo shows hardly any clothing, and at this resolution the collar of the leather jacket could be mistaken for that of a pea-coat. And when you want to buy several thousand dollars worth of camera equipment without alerting suspicions 1) you need a credit card and 2) people tend to start conversations. They remember you. Want to see you again. So if I have to be noticed, I need to plant a straw-man. I knew a lot of undercover cops who used covered jogging strollers, engagement rings, or faked pregnancies as a distraction. A bald woman with leukemia is just as memorable, sure; but once the hair's grown back in, she's nearly unrecognizable.

I don't know how much time I have—with so many Legacy victims left to ID the Coroner's office is backed up, but homicide will still take some priority. I knew from the beginning it would only a matter of time until Gordon, Lawless and Nora Fields began to put the puzzle together. I've been both cautious and careless, and I can't afford to make any more mistakes. I'm counting on these disguises to help me get through once the shit hits the fan. If the store-clerks at the neighborhood pharmacies recognize my picture on the air, they'll only know I bought hair-dye. Nine colors from nine stores and a do-it-yourself perm kit-all in cash-to be exact. So while the GCPD are looking for a possible very-berry- blonde/charcoal/ripe chestnut/austere auburn/midnight coal/exotic eggplant-haired woman with tight, bouncy curls, Mall security will over look the straight-haired brunette. And on the off-chance someone makes the connection, they'll only know what clothes I've bought-assuming they'll go back that far through footage. But the owner of Candidly Cameras won't recognize me at all. He'll remember a pleasant woman with leukemia who spent what would ordinarily be a large sum on new photography equipment. Her name was Persephone, and she's decided to live life to it's fullest and pursue her hobbies and dreams in case there's no tomorrow. She might remind him of someone he sees on the news, a mass murderer amongst all the other whackos plaguing his city, but he won't consider for a minute it could be her. She was nice. She was patient. She was a good customer and more importantly in his mind, who the fuck lies about having cancer?

5th Avenue and Main

16: 09 EST

I'm well on my way to Candidly Cameras. The store has several appeals: one, it's far from home; two, I've never visited before; and three, it's near the University and has an established reputation for the avant-garde. It's the sort of place new customers come in to browse, chat, and spend large sums of money on state-of-the-art technology nearly every day.

There's only one problem-everywhere I look in the shopping district the first story windows have been smashed out. The sidewalk along the entire block is coated with fine glass particulates, and the storefronts of Louis Vuitton, Prada, Tiffany's, and Nordstrom have all been sacked. There's a faint hint of sulfur in the air, and the trees and potted plants in the medians are scorched and seared. That's when my feet cross it: white, reflective paint. Stark, harsh lines of white reflective paint tracing the outline of a human figure on the sidewalk. I look around, and the damn things are everywhere. Either some graffitist has a sick sense of humor, or fifty people died here recently, maybe more.

…Shit.

There's a newspaper stand twenty yards up the sidewalk. I walk cautiously over and purchase a copy of the Gotham City Gazette with growing dread. The ominous, bold lettering all in caps is visible through the glass: JOKER FANS RAID GANG-RALLY

by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press. I find myself involuntary sitting on the curb to read the rest.

Last night the GCPD and the National Guard spokesmen held a joint press conference to confirm what many had already feared. On the night of August 30h-

…The night I buried my Angel. All of Gotham wept.

-more students from Gotham University staged a protest in the downtown shopping district against the continued presence of armed troops and military law in Gotham City. But what began as a peaceful protest quickly escalated into a mayhem of lootings, riots, and heckling of the Police and National Guard forces deployed to monitor the situation when a gang-believed to be Rulz's-invaded the scene.

The National Guard confided last night that volleys of tear gas and rubber bullets were repeated employed against the growing mob, as well as no less than fifty warnings and reprimands to cease and desist. Several students then voluntarily surrendered to Police custody. The arrival of more protestors, this time wearing grease-paint which Police believe to be in ode to criminal mastermind The Joker, added to the growing chaos and unrest. These so-called 'Joker fans' were led by a single man dressed in familiar purple, who Commissioner Gordon now denies was ever the Joker himself. Efforts were made to capture this man alive to bring in for interrogation, but the Joker fans resisted arrest. Four GCPD officers were bludgeoned to death and three more remain hospitalized with severe burns at an undisclosed location. The Commissioner confirms their conditions, although serious, have been stabilized. The Joker fans continued to aggress not only fellow protestors and cops, but purposefully engaged the National Guard as well with home-made explosives, fire-works, and smoke-bombs. Governor Stephanie Miller gave explicit orders to contain the situation and bring the perpetrators in for interrogation and NOT to engage this mixed crowd of civilians, gang members and Joker fanatics with lethal force.

However, after a military escort vehicle caught fire and subsequently set off all rounds stored within, several soldiers of the National Guard-who at this point remain anonymous and in military custody-then panicked, believing they were being fired upon by the crowd. This led to the firing of live ammunition, which was only met with more retaliatory violence against the occupying forces, and volley after volley of live rounds were then fired into the frenzied mob until it was dispersed.

Rumors of the Batman's presence at this bloodbath remain unsubstantiated by the Police. As the Coroner's office is still backed up from the overwhelming death toll of the Legacy and the identification of the Joker fans was deemed top priority in hopes of a lead to the whereabouts of the Joker himself, Commissioner Gordon could offer no hope to parents of missing students as to when the bodies of their children may be identified and/or returned to them. "We recognize this event as one more in a string of recent tragedies," the Commissioner stated. "I offer condolences to the families of the missing victims, and again strongly urge the public to cooperate with the curfew enforced by the National Guard in this time of unrest. This curfew is not a request, it is a command. The deaths of these innocent students is a tragedy, yes, but one which the GCPD is inclined to believe entirely preventable."

Governor Miller, who authorized the presence of the National Guard in Gotham City, could not be reached for questioning on this horrific turn of events, the second in so many weeks. The people of Gotham are left to wonder, then, whether this military occupation will be prove protective, or simply continue to be a cause of contention and growing civil unrest.

…and suddenly, Christopher Holden's anger at Baxter for concealing the presence of these nut-jobs in our city doesn't even begin to staunch the ire in my veins. Gordon-Holden-Lawless was right: This-all of this-could have been prevented…and these people will never trust the government again. And I'd be willing to bet if those students had known these fanatics existed and what they wanted, not a one of them would have left their dorms that night. I scan the article again, hands white and shaking. Purposefully engaged the National Guard…

Suicidal. Fanatical. And yet they did it. Did it to create public unrest. Enrage the people against the soldiers trying to protect them. Discredit the Police. Discredit the government…these Joker fans worship Chaos and Anarchy; and if it's an urban war they're after, they're well on their way to achieving it.

The paper crinkles in protest in my lap as I curl over. Place my face on my knees, hug them closer. My heart is racing, racing so fast it hurts, my head aches and throbs and I'm shaking, shaking inconsolably.

Minutes pass. The fit is over. A childish hand reaches out from beyond the grave, lightly brushes the tears clinging to my lashes. Angel. I sniff. Pull a tissue from my purse, wipe my nose, my streaming eyes, wonder how the fuck the business district was still so full of dry-eyed, self-absorbed attorneys and stock-brokers…how the Hell the shops on this street could still be open…

But cold, hard logic wins out. Gordon is right. Just like with the schools, if these shops were to close, they'd only show the Joker and his followers how much power they had. But to stay open, to remain open despite what happened here just four days ago is to reject every semblance of our own humanity.

…Either way, we lose.

And either way, my war on Gotham can't come soon enough.

5Th Avenue and Main

16:23 EST

There's a smaller article on the inside, page A12, that catches my eye as I fold the paper to tuck in my-Persephone's-new purse: Police Investigate Subway Shooter. I scan it quickly, searching desperately for the important detail: leads…

Police have no leads as yet, but Gang Task Force remains confident these murders fall in the domain of gang violence, either discord among the Latin Kings or the retaliatory work of a rival gang.

I let out my bated breath in relief. Just keep thinking that, I tell them. I'll have to make it believable-and with Rulz's involvement here four nights ago, I know who I will frame-

A shadow falls across me. Doesn't leave. I glance surreptitiously at the cast on the sidewalk to see the figure of a woman, standing above me. I fold the paper, tuck it into my purse, and ignore her.

"The Gazette?" My stalker calls hawkishly. "Over five-hundred thousand copies sold a day. Do you know how many trees are cut each year for this paper alone?"

I turn to face her in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"It's a blatant waste of natural resources! Trees are an important part of our ecosystem-" she continues passionately, green eyes flaming under her ridiculously red hair. "There are countless outlets of electronic media where these same articles can be read, free of charge, sponsored by advertisers and powered by renewable resources such as wind power-"

Renewable resources? Wind power? Ecosystem? Just what my day needed. A brush with a goddamned tree-hugger.

She continues her rant, oblivious to my growing ire. She's young, fiery, gorgeous and shapely, dressed to a T under her white lab coat and carrying empty canvas shopping bags with the ostentatious label Go Greener. She's also drawing a Hell of a lot of attention to us, and it's making me uneasy. The bitch is wearing an ID badge of some sort-Gotham University, just blocks away. Dr. Pamela Isley, it reads, Biosciences Faculty. I decide to send her scampering back there.

"Look, Dr. Isley," I begin considerately, "I'm sure your points are valid but in case you'd forgotten, four nights ago a bunch of teenage thugs raided this very block, bludgeoned four cops to death and killed students from your university with the help of some fanatic suicide-bombers before getting the living fuck shot out of them by the National Guard and you're asking me to give a damn about a fucking tree?" I snarl. Our growing audience breaks into scattered applause.

But this Isley remains unperturbed by their withering glares. "Not just a tree, 200 million trees! 200 million trees a year! Just for the simple pleasure of newspapers in this country alone! Do you-do any of you-have any idea what sort of impact that has on our national environment? What sort of message that level of carelessness sends to our youth-?"

Probably not any less careless than yours, I think scathingly, for once just turning and walking away from a fight. The small crowd hisses and boos, jeers her as she tries to argue with my retreating back. I continue walking, and the further from her I get the more my smoldering rage gives way to pity. I've been there. Been so blinded by a personal vendetta that I've overlooked the suffering of the innocent. Been poisoned by my own anger and bitterness…

The Feds do role-call. Everyone security shows checked into the Amerikaans campus has to be accounted for. Smoke. Ash. Pungent fumes of gasoline. Finally the count is in: Thirteen dead. Sixteen, if you count the Aryan fuckheads.

…Two missing. Sixteen year-old delinquent 'volunteer' Raanan Frye, and one Jimmy Connolly. A goddamn kid and a goddamned rookie cop. As if this day couldn't get any worse. "I told him to stay with the car," Lawless says furiously. "Where the hell is he?"

Allen radios him, and the sound of static greets us from the melted asphalt. Lawless' anger turns to cold, hard panic.

"Shit," Montoya says, peeling the plastic up with stringy tar. "Someone go check with EMS. See if he's being treated or something-"

I radio tech support. "Bradley, do you have anything else to trace him? Cell phone?"

"No, Kid doesn't have one registered. I'm tracking his mic now…"I put a hand on Lawless' arm. "They're tracing his mic," I tell him. But seconds, then minutes tick by, and still Bradley maintains radio silence. Lawless snatches the radio from my hand and calls Eugene again.

"Bradley, can you raise him?" He repeats sternly.

"Um…negatory. He's not responding. I'm showing no movement. Registering no movement. I'm uh, I'm calling a code for Officer Down-"Within seconds, the 10-00's been issued. Almost everyone left inside the Amerikaans perimeter goes silent, listening. "The missing officer is Connolly, Jimmy from Homicide division. Be advised officer is Caucasian male, plainclothes-"

"I told him to stay put," Lawless swears again. "I told him to stay with the fucking car-"

"This isn't your fault," I try to tell him, but I'm too angry myself to counter his frustration.

"Reception on the signal is poor, advise a search radius of seven square blocks, alerting EMS-" Bradley's voice comes again from the scanner. The gathered throng of GCPD, EMS and FD workers heads out, splitting into two man pairs, Allen and Montoya at the lead. We follow, heading East at a steady jog, scanning every alleyway, storefront, and suspicious person…and at this rate it'll be Goddamn Christmas before we even leave the block.

"He'll turn up."

"He's a goddamn rookie gone missing in the Narrows, Paltron." The weight of that responsibility lays heavy on his shoulders. Welcome to the fucking club, Lawless, I think.

"Then it's a good thing he was undercover, " I counter. "If he was in uniform he'd be dead already."

Lawless snorts. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

Rotting garbage, hot sun, crowd of sleeping drunks and homeless. Next alley. Interrupt a drug deal, send six men bolting. No sign of Connolly. Lawless' worry escalades by the second. A feeling of numbness and resignation begins to eat through me: I lost another one. A fellow cop, just like Norton…only this one wasn't a Sergeant, wasn't a veteran. He was just a novice, a recruit. A rookie…

…just a goddamned Kid.

"Kid, this is Lawless. If you can hear me pick up the damn mic-" Lawless swears, keeping a running stream of chatter on Connolly's wavelength as we search the streets. More drunks. More garbage. More suspicious, hooded eyes watching us from every direction as the public slowly realizes I'm not a freakish whore with a john and makes us for what we truly are: cops. Doors and windows are pulled shut. CLOSED signs are placarded in every business window. No one wants to talk to us. No one wants to see us. No one wants to help us…no one here gives a shit about a missing person if it means pissing off the Mob. Especially not for a rookie cop.

I can't stand the tension any longer. I radio Bradley. "Any sign of him?"

"Negative. Allen just reported in. They're about 6 blocks West of you guys. They've got nothing-"

This approach is getting us nowhere. I broaden the search parameters. "Anything at all radioed in from this neighborhood? Anything at all from the 29 dispatch?"

"Uh, negative on the police waves…but EMS got a call, responding to a little old lady getting knocked down, she's en route to Methodist with a suspected broken hip and wrist, but it wasn't even a mugging-" In the Narrows? It's got to be a clue. I stop cold.

"Where?"

"Two blocks North of your current position-"

"How long ago?" I pant.

"What?"

"How long ago was the call radioed in?" Think, Eugene, damnit! "Was it before or after EMS got the call for-" for our complete and utter fucking fiasco. But Bradley understands my silence, and for once has nothing witty to say.

"Right after. Right fucking after." He swears. "Get your asses over there now-"

I call for Lawless. "We've got a lead, if we hurry there might still be witnesses-"We take off at a sprint down the dirty, pockmarked street. A slick, silver sportscar begins to tail us, and thugs bare white teeth and broad grins as they crank up their rap-shit music to bone-jarring levels, and the mandatory catcalls begin:

"Get a load of that piece of ass!"

"Work it, baby!"

"Ditch ginger and come ride with us!"

Wordlessly Lawless takes the curb, for my protection…or theirs? "Do. NOT. Engage." He growls vehemently, voice barely audible over the deafening thump-thum-thumpas of the blaring subwoofers. Theirs. We're outnumbered, four to two, and they have the advantage of shelter in the car. But I'm sick. Heartsore. I've got a missing officer on my guilt-laden conscience, and these wannaberapgangsters and all their rims and bling can just suck my dick.

I-Perci-turns, flashes them a vicious smile. Much to their surprise she saunters slowly into the street, and bends low beside the driver's side door, one booted leg resting on the hood. She's greeted with whistles, hawt damns and fuck, yeahs. "You boys like that?" she asks dangerously, "Then you're going to love this-" Seamlessly she draws, puts the barrel of the Berretta straight to the driver's shaved head and digs it in deep. Even drowning in that deafening excuse for music their world goes suddenly silent. Someone wets their pants. She pulls the trigger-

…and Click-! The safety catches.

"That's right, fucktards," Perci seethes with a flash of my badge, "I'm a cop. So you've got exactly seven seconds to get your punk asses out of my sightline or you're all about to 'reach for something', do I make myself clear?"

Tires screech. Rubber burns. Their music dies. No shots are fired-those goons put the pedal to the floor and never look back. Smart move. Maybe Perci was bluffing…maybe she wasn't. "You good?" Lawless finally asks, lowering his weapon in turn.

"Better," I consent, wrestling that reckless anger in check. "Now let's go find that Kid. And if he's alive, I'm going to kill him."

The next block our search is rewarded. All the storefronts are lit, but no one seems to be inside. "They're all empty." I whisper. But Lawless shakes his head.

"They're all hiding. Something went down here." We draw, and shove through the glass doors of a 7/11. Screams greet us from the floors, under the counter and behind the back displays. "GCPD!" Lawless shouts, holding his badge high for the frightened crowd to see. "I'm Detective Lawless, this is my partner Paltron, we're looking for info on-"

"Thank God you came!" A woman squeals from under the counter. "It was over there-somewhere over there-"

"You saw her get knocked down?" I question.

"The gunshots!" She nearly shouts. "I mean, you pigs are here about the gunshots, right?" The hooker pouts, crawling from under the display and eying us doubtfully. Shit. Gunshots. It's the Narrows. Maybe it means fucking nothing…

…Maybe it means my missing officer just got himself killed.

"Gunshots?" Lawless pants in alarm. "Hell yeah, honey. Sure thing. Where'd they come from?"

"I dunno. Further down the road. Maybe like a block away? Three of 'em. I heard 'em and I got down, you know?"

"And you called the cops?" He asks. She raises a stern eyebrow in approbation.

"Do I look goddamn stupid to you, sugar?" She says stiffly. "Go do your job. Let me do mine." Lawless swears again. We head off at a run, still trying desperately to raise Connolly on the mic.

Shouting. Yelling. Crying until our voices are hoarse. Bradley's sending the team our way, but if Connolly took three shots-if Connolly's still alive-we're running out of time.
"Kid!" Lawless' grating voice breaks. "Kid!"

And that's when I hear it. "Lawless, shut it!" Static. "Stop yelling and turn on your mic again-"

"What-?"

"Radio him but don't say anything!" He does. Static. High, screeching whine.

"What the Hell is that?" Lawless asks.

"It's feedback." Bradley's voice interrupts us. "Interference from the mics. It means he's close." Lawless pales, and I'm sickened. Bradley's wrong-what it means is he's not responding-

We round the next alleyway. Overturned trash cans, rotting garbage, rats and a scattering flock of pigeons greet us. Half-way through there's a chain link security fence lined with razor wire-probably some drug-dealer's idea of security. And slumped at the base of that impassable wall is the shape of a human body, sprawled in a pool of scarlet. "Kid?" Lawless shouts. "Kid-!"

No time no thoughts I scream into the mic. "Bradley, send a bus!"

"You've got him?" But something's wrong. Off. There's too many limbs sprawled across the pavement. Four arms, four legs-but 16 people are dead and an officer is missing there were shots fired I don't care don't have time to care-

Blood is plastered over Connolly's pale face. His clothes are soaked, slick and dark. His eyes are hollow, empty, unresponsive-he's either dead, or in deep shock-

"Kid?" Lawless calls shakily, hands pressing, groping, trying to find that gaping wound to staunch the flow. "Kid?"

"Bradley, call a bus!" I shout, fingers slimy with hot blood, probing, pressing, checking that lifeless face, neck, and chest for punctures- "He's got a pulse!"

Dark eyes blink. Roll to face me. They're hollow, dazed, only now registering life, movement-

"Kid, can you hear me? Kid?" Lawless asks, "Kid?"

He makes a chirping cough. Whispers something. "Connolly?" I ask, cupping his face. "Connolly!"

"It's Latin," Lawless says, dread, relief and realization dawning on his worried face. "Sacrament-"

Slowly I understand. The extra limbs. The blood. Arms crossed over his chest, clutching a wretched burden, looking like a goddamn Kid himself, as shocked as Abel to have struck down Cain in self-defense Jimmy Connolly holds the dead boy tightly, places tender lips to those unhearing ears, plants a gentle kiss in blood-soaked hair and whispers a shaky prayer for his soul.

Oh shit, oh fuck, oh hell. I found my missing officer…and the missing volunteer as well.

"Bradley, send a bus NOW!" But Lawless simply shakes his head: Frye's dead. Dead as hell, and Jimmy Connolly just made it to the IAB shit list, and psych Hell. He's soaked in blood and splattered in brains-a kid's brains. There's pieces of bone, yellow marrow and greasy chunks of flesh like vomit in his lashes, his brows, his hair. His first real day on the job he watched 15 people die in a blown undercover op and now he's shot and killed a kid. Shot a kid and held him helplessly while he bled out in his arms.

…and suddenly all I can think is none of this would've happened if it weren't for me.

Connolly curls up. Cuddles the lifeless body closer, crosses limp hands across the chest and crosses himself as well. Lawless'll be lucky if he ever comes back…Connolly'll be lucky to keep out of Arkham.

I lift the radio, and both it and my tongue feel impossibly heavy. "Belay that, Bradley." I whisper. "We need Nora."

Seconds tick by. Minutes pass. We wait for CSU, and the whole time Connolly's too horrified to even weep. Lawless tries to comfort him, puts hands on his shoulders, closes Frye's eyes. "He's gone Kid," he soothes. "He's gone. There's nothing you can do. Let's get you up-"

Connolly shudders. "Don't touch me," he mumbles.

"You've got to get up." Lawless says again, pulling him effortlessly up as Connolly writhes to get free. "We've got to get your story straight before IAB gets here. Kid?"

But this misguided gentleness is getting us nowhere. IAB's on their way- it's time to be stern. "What the hell happened?"

"He wouldn't put his hands up." Connolly cringes, twisting to evade Lawless' firm grasp on his shoulders. "He wouldn't…Let. Go." He whines insistently. "Let go-"

"He reach for something?" Lawless coaxes gently. "You saw him reach for something?"

"There was the fence and he turned around, and I yelled for him to put his hands up. I said it in English, said it in Spanish, I, I, oh God, what if he didn't understand-?"

"But he reached for something?" I press. And that's the important part. Cop has every right to defend himself against a potential attack. First day on the range in academy they teach you to aim for the head. Three round burst. Killshot. Shoot first and sign the fucking paperwork later. Gotham City's like the Middle East-you wear the uniform long enough, and some motherfucker will take a shot at you. Only here he's not fighting for religion or independence, just fucking selling drugs.

"You saw him reach for something?" Lawless asks again. He's silent for a long, long time. His face is ghastly pale, still smooth-skinned and boyish, looking both as young and as dead as the mutilated corpse. He squirms pitifully under Lawless' iron grip, but Lawless is unrelenting. "But you saw him reach for something?" he demands.

"I don't know." He finally answers, dark eyes earnest and pleading. "I, I think I just sorta panicked…"

Instinct. Ire. I don't know what possesses me but suddenly I heave him up by the collar. In less than a second he's slammed against the dumpster with the wind knocked out of him. I let out a snarl, "What the fuck do you mean you just fucking panicked-!"

"Paltron!" Lawless' voice of reason does little to deflate my anger. "Paltron, cut it out! Christ, can't you see he's in shock-!" But I'm pissed. Operation blown, officer dead, and now another civilian, too. I've been this Perci Simmons for far too long and it's taking its toll. I want to kill something, someone, make them hurt, make them bleed…make them pay. Shit. Fuck. Hell. I release my shaking white hands and Connolly falls like a puppet with cut strings, sprawling onto the concrete, face and shirt still soaking in bright, wet trails of arterial blood. I take my frustration out on a plate-glass window instead. The shattering sound is musical, and the pain-the pain!-from my bleeding fist makes me feel goddamned alive.

Connolly staggers clumsily back to his feet, looking utterly dazed. "I-"

"You are in so much shit right now." Lawless interrupts lowly, voice grating. "IAB's coming. You have to get your story straight. You defied a direct order, Kid. What the Hell were you thinking?"

But the boy only blinks stupidly. "Connolly!" I bark.

"H-h-he grabbed a box. From the pallet. While everyone else was looking away. I thought, I, I thought he was going after the bomb. Then he ran. So I chased him."

"Think about it, Connolly!" I snap. "Is a fucking Jew likely to be helping the Aryan Brotherhood?"

"So you chased him." Lawless continues. "You thought he had a bomb and you chased him. By yourself. Without calling for backup."

"I-I dropped my radio in the parking lot-when all the shooting began-" he stammers.

"You're a cop, not the Lone fucking Ranger." Lawless chides. "Not the Batman. We have a unit for a reason, damnit! We are not Rambo, our bodies are NOT Lethal Weapons, and we most certainly do not Die Hard! Do I make myself clear?"

"W-what?"

"It's called teamwork, Kid. And you're lucky ignoring it didn't get you killed. Next time, when I tell you to stay with the car, you stay with the goddamned car. Okay?"

He nods. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good. And now that that's settled I'm fucking relieved you're alive."

"Don't touch me," Connolly insists again, resisting Lawless' embrace. "I said don't touch me!" Lawless lets him wrest free. Lets him go. He staggers away down the alleyway, stumbles blinkingly into the sunlight and sits down on the curb, face in his bloodied hands. Even from this distance I can see his small shoulders begin to hitch.

Dead kid. 16 years old. Raanan Frye. His killer is sobbing on the sidewalk but I find I have not the tears nor heart to cry.

"You ever see someone respond like that?" Lawless asks me thoughtfully.

"You still carry an unregistered gun?" I return. Call it corruption, call it lying, call it planting evidence…I call it job insurance. One of us has to think with their head, not heart. And in 6 years of partnership, it's always come easier for me, yet another piece of my femininity stolen away, in it's place a man's head, a man's heart.

He shakes his head. "Danny told me to get rid of it last year. Something about the Batman investigation," he mumbles, still distracted. "Is it just me or did he respond like a victim-?"

"You ask me he responded like someone who's in shock from killing a kid and getting the shit beat out of him and now wants to be left alone." I finally say. And it's my fault. Get a grip, bitch. Way to make it worse than it already was. But my anger is assuaged only by blood and pain, I find sorrow no longer can quench it.

"I can't do that. He's my partner. Christ, Paltron, he's just a fucking Kid himself-" I want him to stay. Want him to say it's not my fault, he doesn't blame me, doesn't blame me for any of it. But Jimmy Connolly's a Kid. His fucking partner. My goddamn replacement, and if I know anything about Lawless after six years of working with him it's that his sense of duty is both his best quality and worst fault. He'll leave me. He'll leave me alone to deal with all of this shit to go help Connolly cope.

...But he's Aaron Lawless. That's the way it has to be.

"Go," I say numbly, watching blood dribble from my still clenched fist. I find I can't look him in the eyes. "Help Connolly. And for God's sakes take that gun away before he hurts someone else." I'm alone when Nora Fields and her assistant finally show up. Watch as the CSU techs establish a perimeter. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS is the only recognition they give this sanguine-soaked ground.

"Another one of yours?" Nora asks dully, surveying the body while gloving.

"Rookie." I grunt in return. "Claimed the perp had a gun. We have to find it."

CSU's Andrea Taylor sniffs in disapproval. "Detective, if it's not there, it's not there."

"Of course it's there." I say through gritted teeth. If Taylor knew just how crucified Connolly would be if it weren't, she wouldn't be so self-righteous. Killing an unarmed kid…that's hard to live down. I've known good men who've ate bullets for less…

"Which officer discharged their weapon?" Taylor asks.

"Connolly. Jimmy Connolly." Nora stiffens. She doesn't say it aloud, but she mouths the word shit and blanches away.

"You know him?"

"I wrote him a letter for the academy," she sighs, reluctantly surveying the body. "I thought he was…I thought he was ready. I was wrong."

"Not so fast, Dr. Fields," Taylor calls from her perch on the ground, hurriedly bundling something metallic into a GCPD evidence bag. "Detective, you'll want to see this."

…paydirt. Colt .45, fully automatic. The little beauty's got an 12 round clip. Illegal as Hell, and fucking deadly. If Connolly hadn't shot first there wouldn't be an ounce of blood left in his veins and not a thing a trauma surgeon could ever do. He'll have to grow a pair if he wants to stay on the force, learn to suck it up…but he's in the clear.

"Little fuck had a gun on him." I snarl as Nora's nose wrinkles in distaste. She prints him, dead fingers mashing against the portable scanner. In less than three seconds we've got a match, and the computer knows now what I've known all along: the dead boy is our missing volunteer, Raanan Frye, age sixteen. Three arrests for aggravated assault, five for possession, and fresh from a two-year stint in juvy. Little prick was already a career criminal, already a gang member. In the wrong place, at the wrong time, stealing from a charity-most likely to re-sell donations and use the money for drugs. But in my book if you're old enough to use drugs and try to kill people, you're an adult…and you're old enough to pay the fucking consequences.

Suddenly nothing is as important as getting the news to Connolly. He needs to know. Needs to know he can stop panicking, he won't be fired, won't be arrested, won't lose his badge. I leave Nora and Taylor to do their work. My task is done.

Flocks of bystanders crowd the street. The rest of our search team-EMS, FD, and now even the Feds-work to fend them off. Someone called the press, and Trisha Tanaka asks Jim Gordon for a statement. I find Connolly in the middle of it all, sitting on the tail of the now useless ambulance, head and hands hung low in shock as two CSU specialists tweeze bone fragments and bits of flesh from his hair. Montoya and Allen are there, pressed around him, while Lawless kneels in front and talks him through.

Lawless sees me, and perks up. "Well?"

"He got lucky." Is all I have to say. He breathes a sign of relief.

"How's he holding up?"

Lawless sighs. "It's starting to hit him." Connolly looks down at the spiraling blood trails, completely mesmerized. He traces the lines on his hands, brings them trembling up to touch the scabbing streaks across his face-

Panic. "Oh my God there's blood-!"

"Yeah, yeah there's blood. Just hold still, Kid. Keep holding still-"

"Get it off, get it off!"his small fingers make contact with his wet, matted T-shirt. He begins to tug, cry out-

"Stop him." The CSU tech warns. "He can't take that off, he'll ruin the blood smears-."

"Well he's not going to wear it, dumbass." Montoya says hotly. "Get some goddamn scissors."

But it's a mistake. They're overcrowding him. He needs room to breathe. The techs swarm in, Renee fusses like a mother cat, Lawless restrains his hands and Allen looms over it all. As the techs start cutting his clothes off he begins to whimper and thrash. I try to tell them, but no one listens-they're all too busy trying to fucking help they simply make it worse. "Hold still, Pint-size!" Allen insists. But with this fourth and final touch Jimmy Connolly lets out a strangled shriek like an abattoir of retarded children and starts kicking. He's still wearing street shoes and he kicks HARD.

Lawless swears and lets go, blood dripping from his teeth. Allen catches a good one in the shins. The two CSU techs aren't quite so lucky and take several straight to the balls.

"Jesus, Kid, calm down!" Renee cries, trying to stifle a snort of laughter. "They're just trying to help, yeah?" She cuts his clothes, peels them off and bags them. He's scrawny and hairless, sitting on the back of an ambulance bumper in nothing but underwear and socks still crying in shock and shame. He looks anything but a cop, an adult, or a Man. Renee gets him a blanket, lets him sob against her and work it out. "How come I gotta be on bitch-duty?" She glares up at me.

"Because I'm about to get my ass handed to me by IAB," I shrug. "I just came to tell him he's off the hook. Perp had a gun."

"H-h-how does that even m-matter?" Connolly sniffs suddenly.

"You did the right thing, Kid." Lawless says kindly. "You did fine. You came out of it alive-"

"But I shot a kid! I killed him! He's as dead as hell and I, I-"

"You did the right thing." I say bluntly. "Perp had a gun on him. Automatic. He would've killed you without a second thought if you hadn't shot first."

"A kid's dead because of me. I took an oath to serve and protect and I just killed a kid. We're supposed to be the good guys and I just killed a kid. And all anybody can say is I did the right thing." Connolly shakes his head in a rare moment of hollow lucidity, face awash with salty tears, scabbing blood and wet, sticky strings of snot. He turns to Renee. "W-what if he went to Hell?"

It should have been me. Me who held him. Comforted him. Offered a shoulder-offered a mother's arms-in which in to weep. I was younger even than he is when I took my first life in a military Op. Know first-hand the guilt, the horror, the relief of shooting terrorists, soldiers…and trying to live with having killed innocent women and children. At 20, I killed four men in an dark alleyway in Paris in self-defense and panic. I know what it is to be in shock, alone and scared shitless in need of comfort, support and sense…But in my bitterness I've become Perci Simmons—become Pharaoh—and now even the suffering of my first-born son can no more move me to pity.

"You'll be fine." Montoya soothes awkwardly as he sobs into her breast. "You'll debrief with the department pshrink-"

"Naw, fuck that." Crispus Allen says, limping up with one large, dark hand quashed around a steaming Styrofoam cup. "Drink this," he offers. "You'll feel better."

Connolly takes the cup with trembling hands. Montoya steadies him, raises it to his lips and coaxes him to drink. He calms down. His hands stop shaking. Within a minute he goes from survivor's shock to nodding sleepily against her shoulder. I've been on the force long enough to recognize when one of my officers is being drugged. It was merciful, heartfelt…and illegal as hell.

I round on Allen. "What the Hell was that?"

"Forget juice." Allen says bluntly. "Starbucks with a two shots of vodka. It calms the nerves."

"You just gave my officer a shot of straight ethanol."

"Kid needed it."

"No, Allen, what he needs is a good swift kick of testosterone and a glass of grow the fuck up. I've got an officer dead, an op blown to hell, and now another civilian casualty. And now any decent defense attorney will get the rest of the Brotherhood acquitted on reasonable doubt, let alone the suit against the city because a responding officer was found to be intoxicated while on duty-!"

"And since when did you stop thinking like a cop and become a bleeding-heart DA?" Allen says coldly.

"Since this case is already blown to Hell and IAB already has my ass, that's when, Allen!"

"Oh, gee, I'm so sorry you're having such a shitty day. All that paperwork must be such a burden on your virgin conscience." But it's not the two of us speaking. It's this Op, this day, this shitty costume that makes me look and feel like a Nazi megalomaniac.

"Get over yourself, Crispus," I snarl. "Grow up."

He whips dark glasses from furious eyes. There's a second-only a millisecond-where both of us are convinced he'll slap me...but somehow he refrains. "Grow a soul," he finally whispers.

With great difficulty he walks away. I turn around, and Andrea Taylor is standing feet from me, dark eyes wide yet intent, her posture firm; my would-be protector. She tries to speak. Can't find the words. "Did he really just drug that cop?" She finally asks.

I let out a disgusted laugh. "You should've let him hit me." I deserved it. And right now pain is the only thing that can ever hope to ease my hurt. Over her shoulder I see IAB beckoning, and Taylor's muttered words to herself are the last thing I hear for six hours as I wait for debriefing: "As soon as this shitty internship is over, I'm moving back to Dallas."

But Taylor's wrong. You can't get out. Can't escape. There's nowhere you can run when the darkness and Hell you want so desperately to leave behind dwells within your own festering soul.

Candidly Cameras

16:46 EST

The display window has been sealed with plastic and duct tape. My heart is heavy as I enter the store. I force a smile on my face, and prepare to act my part. And if I seem distracted or unusually solemn, the owner will understand. In light of so much death, so much suffering, only a heartless bitch could go unaffected…

Racks upon racks of smooth, seamless plastic and LCD screens greet me. There's a customer at the register so I try to blend in, immerse myself like I'm browsing. I find a sweet section devoted to lenses and lighting and pull a display Canon telescoping lens from the shelf. It's small and compact, but offers clarity to images out to several hundred meters, or so the packaging boasts. Perfect for bird-watchers in those hard to access locations, allowing viewing of subjects difficult to capture…just like a rifle scope, I find myself thinking, and just what I need. But my concentration is soon interrupted.

"What do you mean it was taken in the raid? This never would have happened in Seattle!" An angry, female voice berates the clerk…and it's a voice I recognize. Slowly I replace the lens and peek around the display to see a familiar mane of deep, rich, red.

"You again," I say wearily.