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

Tuesday, September 3rd

Crime Alley

Five dead, one wounded. White denim pants and not a drop of blood. Now that's one clean kill. But I have to get going—it's nearly curfew.

It's not smart to leave them—too much trace evidence. I don't have any hair to leave, but they'll find footprints, skin cells, sweat, and any form of DNA is equally incriminating. It's not smart to take them either, but the Six Stooges left their Hyundai on the curb, parked and running, and the blacked out windows and the extra cargo space come in handy.

...Six I leave moaning in the dust.

It's not smart to check up on my new-found friends, either, but I have to make sure Karl and Ji Yeon make it home. I find them on Broadripple, and follow at a distance. No point in scaring them…

The night deepens. It's fifteen minutes 'til curfew. Shit. I'm running out of time…but finally Ji Yeon stumbles over the curb, and hauls Karl into the lobby of a turn of the century high-rise, lower windows and sides still decked in strange, sculpted motifs from the days when buildings weren't just practical, they were works of architectural expression and community pride, that pre-depression elated America built on immigrants' dreams. They're probably still sharing what was his undergrad studio apartment. It wouldn't be big or glamorous, but it's in a 'safe' part of town, and that's what counts. Six and his Khongpae cronies would stick out like a sore thumb. No way in hell they'd bother them here. Not unless it was night, and not unless they got really desperate…say unless five of their thugs got whacked in an alley and the big bosses want to know why.

It's not smart to be out this close to curfew. It's not smart to call in police protection, either. But I'm sick of Gotham, sick of callousness, sick of walking away for a perceived threat when the wounded and hurting are all around us. Maybe Perci scared off those Korean killers, maybe not. Maybe she just pissed them off, and pissed them off bad. Either way, those bastards and the Aryan Brotherhood will be on edge, and either way Karl and Ji Yeon will get caught in the crossfire.

…but I made a promise to my Angel not to waste innocent lives. No human collateral. Not in this war.

Marius Marina

I've been here before.

…Twice.

I'm deep in Meroni territory, standing in Gotham's self-proclaimed Mafioso Marina, la Cosa Nostra's preferred dumping site, with the putrid stench of dead fish, polluted sewage water, and the Narrows wafting across the salt-water bay. Too many checkpoints, too much military presence to risk taking the Carl Finch across. And if the remaining bridges are patrolled, you can be damned sure the tunnels are as well.

Yeah fucking right. No one takes the Tunnels these days. Not after the Joker. Not after last summer. Three hundred dead from an engineering malfunction, Lawless' wife and young son almost among them. GCPD cleared the tunnels even before that Motherfucker's capture, but even after a year in Arkham the collapse—like the Legacy—was attributed to him.

I remember the crowd, the wailing, waiting, wishful expectation. Each mother, father, sister, lover told their loved ones were missing, were drowned, were crushed, electrocuted, were dead. And each refusing to believe it, each desperate to cling to the last vestiges of hope and delusion until the evidences were presented.

The leak was contained in less than twenty-four hours. I was only onsite for six. But those hours-stretched to days-stretched to eternity-were some of this City's longest.

And I remember a woman, a dead woman with green eyes, buried anonymously in the Potter's Field, her family still missing her, never knowing. Her final command: Protect him!

…And now her son—my son! my Angel!—is dead. But the death we can bear. We bring forth life, we must prepare for its end. But the not knowing is a torment too great for words, beyond wounding, a weight—like Andromache's—we were never meant to bear.

I gave mercy to Rosaria, to her son Hernán. Let her mourn him, weep over his body.

I am Mother. My decision is made for me.

…Soon-yi's parents deserve to know.

Marius Marina

What are you doing, bitch?

But the second thoughts come too late. The batteries are back in my phone, it's on, and the call's already connected. "Paltron—?"

"Yeah. Need to ask a favor."

"HIjo de puta!" Renee Montoya swears. "You know how worried sick I been for you? You have any idea how preocupada Lawless is, yeah? You even care about him at all—!"

I just killed five men, maimed a sixth, and harbor no guilt whatsoever…but the mention of Lawless' name sends a twinge into my very soul. Lawless. Worried. Wondering. Wounded. I left him four days ago in the alleyway behind Arimathea…and to him I'm still a lone, wounded woman, wandering the Narrows on her own.

"I'm fine, Renee."

"Bullshit you are," she swears again. "Where the Hell are you?"

"Downtown," I lie cryptically. "About that favor—"

"No. No nononono!" Montoya races in Spanish. "No favor. I'm coming to get you. Gordon's orders."

My heart begins to race. Gordon's orders—? Can he know—? "Orders?" I repeat calmly. "Why?"

"Por qué?" She shouts into the receiver, sending my right eardrum into a high-pitched whine. "Porque four días ago you were hallucinating loca, un choque de carro and you disappeared in the Narrows carrying a pound of prescription narcotics!"

"Look, Renee, I'm fine," I insist. "I just need a favor."

"No, you need an ass-kicking," she pouts. "I ain't never seen Lawless so goddamn worried, yeah? That man already lost one partner," she adds soberly, and my heart breaks. "An' here he's thought he lost another."

I'm silent. She waits for my reply, but there is none.

"Look, about that favor—"

Her sigh wafts through the receiver. She's not happy, but at least this time she's listening. "Yeah. Dígame."

"You still have contacts with immigration?"

"Yeah. Bartolomé Rivieras."

"I'm thinking some one a little more…Asian."

"I know of someone. Mitsuoko Harris. Don't know her so well, but she's good shit."

"She know any Korean?"

"Japanese and a little Mandarin, too," Montoya says suspiciously. "Why?"

"I need you to pick her up, and I need you to get to Broadripple Terrace and take a Karl and Ji Yeon—married couple—into protective custody. I don't have any last names, sorry."

She clicks her tongue. "Ji Yeon? She an illegal or something?"

"Not anymore. I also need you to re-open an investigation of a Fear Night fatality, a Soon-yi. Khongpae just tried a hit on them. Whatever they know about that case, or whatever these bastards think they know is worth killing them over."

Silence greets me over the receiver. She's either tracing my call, or writing my instructions down. "Need me to repeat it?"

"You know what, 'mano? You're as cold as fuck," she growls. "And you're fuckin' welcome." She hangs up with vehemence.

I turn off the phone. Crack the case and pocket the batteries, knowing it's the second time I've lied to her.

I look out over the bay, the harsh light of Gotham's sins dimmed by a rising fog. A sea-breeze comes in with the evening tide, washing the city's taint away.

It's not the truth, nearly the truth, the whole truth, or nothing but the truth…but justice, true justice for Soon-yi and her family doesn't taste quite like a lie on my tongue.