The Way We Fall

It's a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you
It's too close for comfort

-"Disturbia", Rihanna.

Chapter VIII

(WARNING: This chapter contains possible triggers for PTSD, panic attacks, and brief mentions of implied past abuse.)

"I hate this," I mutter as I adjust my mask – careful to avoid touching the bloodstain – and deliberately look away from Jonathan as we pull into a run-down parking garage, the night quiet and cool around us.

"So you've stated," he replies, turning a corner to take us up a level. I don't actually know what we're doing here, just that I'd been ordered, in no uncertain terms, to accompany him wherever he goes tonight. Evidently, in the event the Nightwing decides to make an appearance and thwart whatever psychotic plan Jonathan no doubt has up his sleeve, I'm supposed to be the muscle. Or something.

I'm torn between hoping he doesn't show up, because otherwise I'd have to try to kill him, and hoping he does, in which case he'd have a chance at stopping us. Of course, he hadn't seemed like that much of a threat when we'd sparred a few nights ago, but who knows – maybe he'd been holding back and the Joker's concerns are well-founded.

But I doubt it, so it's probably best he doesn't show up, after all.

"What are we doing here?" I ask on a sigh, feeling the uncomfortable weight of my gun holster pressing into my side. I've got my batons in my sleeves, too, but I was informed by a certain glorious ray of sunshine – otherwise known as that jackass Pete – that I was to carry the weapon whenever I left the opera house for the foreseeable future.

"Need to meet with some old friends," comes the vague, but surprisingly chilly reply, and I frown at him.

"You don't have friends."

"Business associates, then."

I bite my lip in thought. "What, like your suppliers or something?"

He gives a noncommittal hum as we move up another level. What are you up to?

I already know he won't answer any direct questions about his plans, so maybe if I take the vague approach… "Are these the same guys that got your stuff to you during the occupation?"

"Yes. They're the most efficient, I've found."

"The city was locked down – nobody could so much as breathe in the direction of the mainland without being swarmed with Goons. How did they manage it?"

"Luck," he says flatly, shamelessly evading my question, and I bite back a snarl of frustration. He finally looks over at me for the first time since we'd left the opera house, a taunting glint in his eyes. "You're very inquisitive tonight. Something in particular you want to know?" He smirks, and I've always hated that expression on his face and I definitely hate it now, "Some puzzle piece you're trying to work into some grand scheme?"

"Screw you," I snap, and he laughs, low and mocking, and I consider punching him before deciding against it since my knuckles are still badly bruised, "you know I'm backed into a corner here."

"You don't have to be," he says, and this time his tone is less mocking and more irritated, "you could very easily not be here, dragging me into your mess."

"Nobody dragged you anywhere. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you to get lost," I snarl, sitting forward so sharply my seatbelt locks up, "And last time I checked, you were happy as a clam playing psycho buddies with your pal Mistah J and his demented bimbo of a girlfriend. Why else would you be here, picking up chemicals for a new toxin?" He doesn't reply, but his jaw tightens in that particular way, and as is my habit, I choose to ignore the warning signs and continue talking. "And as for me not having to be here? I do, actually, because I'm not letting anything happen to Grace, and you're gonna have to get over that eventually."

"And it's worth it to you?" he snaps back, pulling the van around a final corner and onto the roof, where we can see all of Gotham lit up around us, "That brat is worth all this?"

"Yes," I reply without hesitation, because he really should know better by now, "of course she is."

He scoffs. "That altruism of yours is going to get you killed."

I peer out the window as the vehicle slows to a halt, idling just in front of the entryway, presumably so we can make a hasty retreat if necessary. I can see the bay from here, can see the way the lights of the city dance and shiver on the water.

I've always loved Gotham and I could never put my finger on exactly why. It's huge and loud and dirty and riddled with crime, and I've lost so much to protecting its streets. But it's all I've got, the only home I've ever known – I've never, in my entire life, set foot outside its borders. The closest I'd ever come to leaving had been when Bane tried to exile me during the occupation. I was born here, I was raised here, and I've come very close to dying here – and I inevitably will, sooner or later.

A girl like me can only get lucky so many times, after all.

"I know," I reply, without even really thinking about it, and then it's quiet. He's probably disgusted with me, but I'm hardly surprised by this since about eighty percent of our relationship is built around mutual disgust and annoyance. I don't like dwelling on the other twenty percent.

He bends down and reaches for the briefcase at my feet, sliding it into his lap and easing it open with a neat little click. There are papers inside, their contents impossible to make out in the dim light, and a couple of vials of what can only be his toxin. He bypasses all of this and withdraws, from the bottom of the case, a ragged scrap of burlap, sloppily stitched and fraying at the edges.

I recognize it at once – I could probably have identified it in total blackness just by the creepy aura it gives off. For a moment I'm speechless, though I know I probably shouldn't be.

"You found it." I should have put it together sooner, and the way he's looking at me tells me he thinks so too. There was only one place he could have gotten the toxin he'd used to poison John, after all, and I had buried it deep within the box that held all the other ghosts from my past.

Well, all but one – my angel's letter had been kept in a far more secure location, given that it had exposed his identity. Paranoia, after all, is only unhealthy if you don't actually have any enemies. I'd thought about destroying it, but cutting off a limb would have been easier. He'd known my name and was proud of me – there's no way on earth I'm ever letting go of a gift like that.

"You didn't hide it very well," he murmurs, taking a moment to stare down at the mask in his hands. His long, pale fingers adjust the wires and tubes hanging from the bottom almost absently.

It occurs to me then that I haven't encountered the Scarecrow since Jonathan reappeared, which is deeply unsettling. Given that he has always seemed to hover very close to the surface in my previous dealings with him, this can mean one of two things: Jonathan's time in Arkham has succeeded in helping him get a lid on his emotional control and he no longer needs to rely on an imaginary mental construct for balance, or the Scarecrow has simply been biding his time in Jonathan's psyche, waiting to erupt at the opportune moment.

Both concepts are equally terrifying, but I'm leaning towards the latter. If what Jonathan had once told me is true, then the Scarecrow manifested a little before the Fear Night when the Batman turned his own toxin against him. A few months of sub-par therapy isn't going to be enough to erase the kind of damage that causes a second personality to emerge almost instantaneously – especially if the aforementioned personality is related to trauma from when he was younger.

I think of the scars on his back and then promptly don't.

"Should I leave you two alone?" I ask, in an effort to break the peculiar, eerie silence that had settled over us, and he aims a glare at me before pulling that awful mask over his head.

If it had been anyone else, I would take a moment to reflect on how strange it was that a man so lovely would willingly cover himself with something so terrible. But there's no sense in lingering on questions I already have the answers to.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask instead, and he cocks his head at me in that familiar way of his – an action made no less horrible while wearing the mask.

"Of course," he says, and nothing else, and I'm surprised that his voice actually sounds normal, if slightly muffled. I realize that I've never heard his voice behind the mask without the filter of the toxin warping my senses, and the effect is somewhat bizarre in its normalcy.

For a long while, there is stillness, and I force myself to think of nothing, to breathe evenly, to settle. The silence between us isn't exactly companionable, because that's not how we work, but it's not antagonistic, either, and that's close enough.

We wait so long that I've begun to suspect that whoever was supposed to meet us here isn't coming, and, just as I'm about to say something, a long black car appears from behind and comes around, pulling to a stop several feet ahead of us.

What looks like five people emerge, forming a decently threatening semicircle in front of our van. All of them but one man in the front are armed to the teeth, and I feel the weight of my own weapon more heavily now. Jonathan looks over at it, and then me.

"Get out, and stay beside me – don't say or do anything unless I tell you. He won't be very happy if you blow this," Jonathan murmurs, and I don't have to ask who he's talking about. I consider snapping back, but I study the stitched lines of the mask and decide against it.

Whoever these guys are, they have the potential to be very, very bad news, and I'm immediately on my guard as I step out and move to the front of the van, taking up a position slightly behind Jonathan for a better vantage point. My immediate directive is to watch out for the Nightwing – but there's no reason I can't do that and watch the doctor's back at the same time. There's no telling what the Joker will do to Grace if we screw this up.

"Tell your girl to put her gun down, Dr. Crane," calls the unarmed man, who stands directly in front of us and is presumably the boss.

"You first," I reply coolly – this is hardly my first showdown, and power plays are always the opening act. Gaining the upper hand is always the most ideal if you can manage it, but gaining equal footing is typically safest in the long run – even if the attempt is usually riskier.

Jonathan doesn't seem to agree with my theory, flicking a hand at me without turning in a clear instruction to do as they say. I scowl, incredulous. Everything in me wants to hold my ground – but as much as it irritates me, he's the one who knows how to deal with these guys and their particular way of working, so I decide to save my annoyance at him for later.

It's not like I want to use the gun, anyway.

With a sigh, I move my fingers along the holster at my hip and remove it, before slowly setting it down on the ground, careful to keep both hands visible at all times.

"Kick it away," demands the man, and I roll my eyes but comply. Once he believes me to be sufficiently unarmed – because everyone needs a gun to be lethal, apparently – he turns his gaze back to Jonathan.

"You make a move for that toxin of yours and we'll turn you into Swiss cheese, man. You got that?" I can't actually believe they're talking to him like this, or that Jonathan would actually do business with someone who isn't terrified of him, but he appears to be used to it and merely cocks his head in clear annoyance.

"Yes, Carter, I know the routine. Would it make you feel more comfortable to continue posturing or can we get on with things?"

"How much you want?"

"Three full shipments," Jonathan replies without missing a beat, and Carter seems surprised. My stomach drops. Whatever he and the Joker are planning is going to be ugly, I already know, and I won't be able to do anything but sit back and watch.

"I hope you're good for it," the man says, and the doctor merely sighs and reaches into his inner jacket pocket. A pristine white envelope is withdrawn, heavy with cash, but instead of extending it towards Carter, he holds it out to his side in a clear direction for me to take it.

The incredulity is back, this time mixed with something like revulsion – it's bad enough I have to witness and allow this, but now I have to participate?

Snarling under my breath, I snatch the envelope out of his hand and march forward, the haste in my movements surprising Carter's friends enough to train their weapons on me more levelly. I hear the familiar click of safeties switching off, and at once my hands are shaking. I can feel my heart start to pound, and my arms begin to numb from the blood rushing to my legs.

Cognitively and rationally, I'm not concerned about the guns – these morons won't shoot me unless I give them a reason to, and I don't really have any intention of doing so at the moment. But I trigger easily now, and my shoulder and side both twinge from the phantom memory of bullets tearing through skin; my stomach drops as I remember the sight of Stitches lying dead at my feet, of Captain Jones and his friends in Wayne Tower, of John's partner we'd freed from the sewers, lifeless before his body hit the ground.

Get it together. We don't have time for this.

I clench my trembling free hand into a fist so hard my palm bleeds and extend the other to Carter, who has watched my approach with a smirk on his face. He takes the envelope from my hand, sliding his own along the backs of my fingers as he does so, and I recoil in disgust.

"Didn't realize you were working with the Mad Maestro, Crane. She's prettier than I thought she'd be, even with the mask." This close, I can smell his awful breath, see the way the dim light glistens on his oily skin.

He's not a Goon. He's not a Goon. He's not a Goon.

"Piss off," I snarl with a stability I don't feel, making my way back to Jonathan's side. I don't have to see the doctor's eyes to know he's watching me, cataloguing my reaction with interest. He can piss off too, and the look I give him tells him so.

Behind me, Carter chuckles as he counts his money. After a moment, he looks up, a smirk on his features. "This isn't enough."

I might have imagined the sigh of annoyance that emanates from behind Jonathan's mask. "That amount has more than covered the cost of your services in the past. You don't want to play this game, Carter."

"Price went up, didn't it?" Carter snaps, and his friends shift their weapons at the sudden malice in his tone. But then he gives a slick smile, and it's a testament to how often I've seen expressions like that in the past that I know exactly what he's going to say next. "But if Miss Mad would be… amenable to letting me show her a good time, I could be persuaded to lower it."

"I'd rather swallow nails," I reply, and weirdly enough my hands aren't shaking anymore. Instead, everything about my body has gone still, internally and externally, practically frozen in time. It reminds me a little of the split second before the bomb went off over the bay, when the whole world had screeched to a halt to witness the destruction that would follow.

I expect Jonathan to back me up, to make one of his usual territorial displays, to growl and grumble about how I'm "his" and Carter better not ask again or he'll be hallucinating his skin melting off, or something, but instead the doctor turns to stare at me. I can't see his eyes, but I know he's meeting mine, and everything about his body language and that infuriating tilt of his head suggests he's measuring me, trying to decide if I'm up for the task he wants me to perform.

"He won't be very happy if you blow this."

I think about Grace, tiny, beautiful Grace asleep in her crib so far away from where I can protect her, and I think about the promise I'd whispered to her the night she was born, and the conviction that rattled me down to my bones. I think about how I've already failed her, so many times, and about that switchblade she was holding, and how next time I might not be able to save her.

In that second, I realize what Jonathan is about to do, what he expects me to accomplish, and I breathe out, deeply.

"Deal," the doctor says, and I feign a snarl at him, lunging at him for show. I allow him to catch me by the hair, to yank my neck back and bend down to hiss in my ear. This close, his scent is overwhelming, and I close my eyes against the fresh onslaught of memories – and this time they aren't at all unpleasant.

"Carter has a nine millimeter in a holster on the back of his belt," Jonathan murmurs, and I pretend to struggle.

"We're going to have words about this, later," I hiss back, the anger in my voice very real, and he gives a soft 'hmm' of acknowledgement before shoving me away towards Carter.

The people watching us laugh as I stumble, which burns my blood and steels my resolve as I make my steady away in his direction. The revulsion I'm displaying is entirely real. Carter's grin only grows as I advance toward him, looking like it's going to split his face when I come to a stop close enough for him to touch me. He tosses the envelope of money to one of his men, appearing utterly delighted to be about to take advantage of me.

"See? I knew you could be reasonable, man. I'll get her back to you in one piece, promise."

"You should hurry," Jonathan calls, sounding for all the world as though he's bored out of his mind, and if I'm not mistaken he sounds just a tad bit closer, as though he'd taken a few languid steps in our direction. I know immediately he's not talking to Carter.

I peer up at the man before me, and he's no less disgusting from this angle – and I've seen my share of disgusting people. Done a lot of disgusting things too, and witnessed them done to others, but this is one method I've yet to have to resort to.

I almost pray to my mother for strength, and then promptly abandon the idea – I don't want her to watch what I'm about to do. I gather every ounce of hate in my soul, every speck of courage and resolve and determination and spite and anything else I can use for fuel, and reach up, and slam my mouth against Carter's.

It's just as revolting as it sounds – for a terrible few seconds I'm nearly overcome with panic, because I hate physical contact and I hate disgusting, perverted men and I hate it when the two situations are combined, and there's a very real moment when I believe I'm going to vomit all over myself and him. He's making gross, eager noises and tastes like cheap beer and he's pressing closer closer closer and I want this to stop, it has to stop make it stop stop stop –

But then I remember Grace, and my goal here, and the fire in my blood. I'm an entertainer – I can put on a show. I've done it before.

I press against him, feigning belated eagerness – mostly because the male ego will convince itself of anything in situations like this – and drive him back, back, back, and now that I'm not panicking as much I can hear the sounds of his cronies around me, shifting away from us and lowering their guards.

This is my chance. I press him back just a little more, and he gives a surprised laugh as his heels make contact with the low wall that runs along the edge of the roof of the parking garage.

Gotcha.

"You're pretty good at this," he says as he draws back, panting heavily, and I smirk at him as my hands slip down his back – ew ew ew – and around, light fingers coming to rest on cold steel, just where Jonathan said it would be.

"Well," I say with a smile, bringing my left hand to lay delicately on his chest, "I had a good teacher."

And then I give a quick, forceful shove, and he's tipping over the side, his height working to my advantage as he angles down, and the only thing keeping him from landing with a splat seven stories below is the grip I have on the front of his shirt. His startled cry alerts his friends, but in my free hand his is nine mil, and I fire twice in their direction before they can so much as raise their weapons, felling one and grazing another.

"One more move and I drop him!" I snarl, and their compliance is encouraged by the ferocious swearing of their leader as he dangles over open air.

"Drop your weapons and kick them away," I continue, watching as they slowly obey. Jonathan steps forward almost lazily to move the gun away from the person I'd hit, who looks to be severely injured but alive. I nod at him in thanks, and then look back to the three others who are still standing.

"You had a chance to do this the easy way, and even get paid for your trouble, but now you're going to do it just to stay alive. Because you know what? You've pissed me off enough that I'm gonna go back and tell the Joker exactly what happened here tonight, and that you tried to rip him off. And I don't have to tell any of you how volatile he can be," I hiss, and even in the low lighting I can see the way their faces go pale.

"The Joker's in Arkham," protests a woman weakly, apparently the one I'd grazed, and I cock my head at her, giving a sardonic smile.

"Yeah? So is Dr. Crane."

A beat of terrified silence as they look from me to Jonathan and back again.

"Look, we're sorry, alright? We didn't know you were working for him, honest. We'll make sure you get your stuff, on the house. Just… just don't say anything," says a man to my right, and I smirk at him.

"Thanks for cooperating."

With that, I turn back to Carter, who's gripping my wrist tightly enough to bruise and looking at me with such a black expression I almost want to laugh. I don't though, because there's something welling up in me, something dark and cold and vindictive that I haven't felt since an alleyway, and a dead medic, and a traitor.

I wish I can say what happens next is borne out of the heat of the moment, or that I'm not in my right mind, or that I'm forced to do it to protect my interests. And yeah, maybe he'd make trouble for us later and maybe he's a liability, but there's no guarantee that he wouldn't just comply and then disappear again, never to cause another issue.

But in that second, it doesn't matter, because I make a conscious, deliberate choice.

"And, just so you remember to continue to cooperate in the future…"

That stillness is back, the eye of the storm and the moment before detonation, and I'll never forget the look in Carter's eyes as he realizes my intention.

And I let go of him, my wrist slipping easily through his sweaty grasp, and he goes toppling, end over end, to the pavement below.

He screams as he falls, and then abruptly stops. I don't know if anyone else heard the sound he made when he hit. I do, and now I'll never stop.

Working the tension out of my freed wrist, I turn back around to face the people watching me. "You have a week to get what we need," I say to the man whom Carter had given the money to, and he hurriedly tosses it towards me now.

With that, I tuck Carter's gun into the waistband of my pants and walk towards Jonathan, who is just as unreadable as ever. Together, we move back towards the car, stopping only to pick up my own gun before climbing in.

"Well done," he says as we drive away, "didn't know you had it in you."

I swallow back the words that are forming on my tongue, and clench my hands together tightly in my lap. They're shaking again.

Neither did I.

~DK~

"Stop," I gasp out, a command that feels abrupt but is clearly something that Jonathan has been expecting, because he guides the car smoothly to a halt without so much as glancing in my direction.

Somehow I manage to stumble out of the car and halfway down an alley before I'm immediately sick, falling to my knees and bracing one arm against the wall. It's all bile and stomach acid because I haven't eaten today, and my throat burns and my head aches and I can't stop shaking to save my life.

I just killed a man. In cold blood. Because I wanted to.

The vomiting continues until my body physically can't anymore, and the world spins as I slump forward to press my head against the filthy wall in front of me.

Footsteps then, behind me, languid and steady and familiar, and for a moment he doesn't say anything. I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into the back of my neck. He'd taken his mask off almost immediately after we'd left the garage and I'm grateful for it.

"If you're quite done with the dramatics?"

I don't even have the energy to retort – I can only sit there, huddled over a pool of my own sick, wishing for oblivion.

"Wren, look at me."

What have I done?

"Wren."

Gradually, I turn to face him, bracing myself to see the scathing derision in his eyes for my hysterics. Instead, his expression is neutral, and he's extending a bottle of water in my direction.

"Sip it slowly, or you'll be sick again. You might be anyway, but there's no reason to exacerbate it."

Moving on autopilot, I take the bottle from him, twisting off the cap and bringing it to my lips. I'm gulping it down before I can stop myself, but his hands, large and cool and familiar, settle over my own to bring it away from my mouth.

"Slowly, Wren."

A part of me knows that this show of helping me isn't sincere on his end, that he wants something from me, but it's hard to care at the moment, when I'm sick and scared and exhausted and he's looking at me the way he is.

I nod, and feel a pang of regret when he moves his hands so I can drink again. The water helps clear my head, and while the shaking doesn't stop, the nausea gradually subsides.

For a moment, it's quiet, the silence broken only by my deep breathing and the rustle of cloth as he places his hands in his pockets and waits for me to collect myself.

"Do you know why you did it?"

"Stop, Jonathan."

"Do you?"

"Because I wanted to."

He gives a sigh that sounds vaguely amused. "Yes, but do you know why?" My lack of response must be enough of an answer for him, because after a moment he continues.

"Would you like me to tell you?"

He'd asked this question before, under different circumstances, and at the time I'd resented it, resented the idea that he knew me as well as he claimed, that he'd been observant enough to unearth truths that even I had been unaware of.

Now, however, I welcome it. Maybe if I know where the impulse had come from, an impulse I'd denied having while driving to the roof, then maybe I can prevent it. Maybe there's no need for anyone else to have to die. If I can master myself…

Yes, because you're the queen of restraint. And what about the Nightwing? You're going to have to try to kill him – that showdown is inevitable.

"Yes," I murmur, ignoring the thought as I set the water down and put my head on my knees.

If my answer surprises him, there is no sign of it in his voice. "It's not so unexpected, Wren. You have difficulty separating your emotions from your ideals when you're relatively well-fed and rested, but I haven't seen you eat anything in the two days I've been at the opera house and your sleep schedule is erratic at best."

"You actually sound concerned." He doesn't really, but I know the accusation will irritate him – and I'm not wrong.

"My point is that your psyche is already under remarkable strain. With the hormones that come after giving birth, combined with your currently less-than-ideal living situation and the stress you're intentionally putting your body under, it's a wonder you haven't cracked before now. You killed Carter –" I flinch at the casual statement, "– because he made you feel powerless. You have never responded well to that particular offense, as I recall."

"I feel powerless all the time," I confess, and I don't have to look up to know what his reaction will be. I may not know him as well as he knows me, but I do know how he responds to my rare admissions of weakness, and it's always with a smirk.

"Yes, that's the point. Carter was the only one you could do something about. You saw an opportunity to take out your rage on someone, to gain some kind of upper hand, and you did."

"That doesn't make it right," I rasp, and he scoffs.

"We're not talking about morals. We're talking about why. And as far as murders go, you could have picked a worse victim. Carter was as morally deficient as any of Bane's men, as you nearly experienced firsthand."

"Gotham isn't at war anymore."

There's another beat of silence, and then I hear him shift, hear him crouch down to my level. It takes me a minute to raise the energy to lift my head, but when I do his face is very close to mine. He's not about to kiss me, and I don't blame him because I'm disgusting at the moment, but he is studying me, and if I hadn't known better I would have said I could see something like fondness in his expression.

"You are."

There's naked curiosity there too, but for whatever reason he doesn't analyze anything else as he rises and steps away. "We need to go. He'll be expecting us back."

He extends a hand to help me to my feet, which surprises me, but since I doubt I could have made it up on my own I don't comment. Instead, I start to follow him back to the car, eager to be back with Grace again.

And then I realize where we are.

"Hang on," I call, and Jonathan turns to look back at me in annoyance. It doesn't matter though because I'm already making my shaky way back down the alley. Another left and then a right, and there I am, right in front of the gate leading to the part of the bay where we'd buried our dead during the war. Every one of the Young who had died, excepting Matchstick and those who had been killed in the final battle, had been laid to rest here.

They had dragged the bay, after the city was freed, to give the bodies what was deemed a more suitable burial for children. Some were recovered and identified. Most weren't, Stitches among them.

I'd always thought it fitting, that they hadn't been found. They hadn't died like children, after all – they'd died like soldiers.

Rest in peace, my friends. Every one of you was braver than I was.

I open the gate and slip through, ignoring Jonathan's sigh of irritation behind me. It's dark here, with only a single streetlight fixed to the wall, just above the gate. Further down, by the water, it's almost pitch black, save for the lights of the mainland across the water.

There's a penlight in my pocket and I switch it on, walking swiftly to where I know the memorial plaque is. There are a little over fifty names and dates here, some under given names and some, who had never been identified or claimed by family, buried under the aliases they had taken when they'd joined the Young. Some had special symbols beside them, Crucifixes or Stars of David for those of faith, and there was a special section for those who'd died alongside the police in the final battle.

On the ground below the plaque are bouquets of flowers, and pictures of the deceased, drawings and candles and letters and crosses and wreaths, all bearing the name of one person or another. A group of women from the local church had made lovely, expensive wreaths for the unidentified children, so no one here is left out. They refresh them every month, I'm told.

Jonathan doesn't say anything, which surprises me, merely glances at the wall a moment before passing by and standing at the edge of the water, his back to me.

I study his profile for a moment, and then sweep my light down, one last time. He'd been right when he said the Joker would be expecting us back soon, we should probably get going –

Wait.

I flick my light back over the spot that had caught my eye, crouching down to look at a tiny picture and bundle of roses towards the back. It's Stitches, or Violet, as her family knew her, looking bright and young and happy in a pair of new hospital scrubs, her V pendant twinkling at her neck.

The sight is like a physical blow, and I almost stagger to my feet, almost leave the alley, almost don't look twice. But I do, and that's when I notice it: the three white roses in a small glass vase by the picture, they're fresh. As in, probably not even a day old; they aren't even a little bit wilted.

That leaves two possibilities. Either Gordon is taking time away from his busy schedule to visit her, which isn't entirely as preposterous as I'd once thought, or Scout's the one doing it.

An idea comes to me in a flash, so quickly I almost reject it. Do I dare involve her? This isn't Bane, the controlled, leashed monster with a set agenda, this is the Joker, whose agenda is only ever chaos and destruction.

I don't want to drag her into this, but I can't have a repeat of tonight. I can't afford to snap like that again, I can't.

I need help, I know that, but it has to be done delicately. If the Joker even suspects I've done something to lead anyone to his doorstep, he'll kill Grace and probably make me watch.

Then I really will crack, and what happened tonight will look tame in comparison.

Moving quickly but quietly, I take a pen from the jar provided for those who want to leave notes and slide a letter addressed to one of the kids who'd died from its envelope. I reverently put the letter back and turn the envelope over, scribbling as fast as I dared. My handwriting is borderline illegible on a good day, but in the dark when my hands are shaking from adrenaline and haste? Hopefully Scout can still remember how to decipher my chicken scratch from the notes I'd given her during the occupation. I place the paper beneath the vase of roses just as Jonathan turns back around.

"We need to go," he murmurs, and I give a slight nod of agreement before rising and turning away from the wall. Everything in me wants to look back at it, to let my eyes linger over the faces and the names one last time, but I resist the urge, instead following my companion out of the alley and back to the car.

I can only hope Scout is up to the task.

A/N: Look who's still alive and stuff! Try not to be too surprised. I would never, ever abandon this story, Maestro is my homegirl. This chapter was awful to try to write, but I'm happy with it so there.

I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter is "Disturbia" by Rihanna.

Special thanks to my lovely beta, Magic of Every Kind, for her incredibly helpful feedback. She's the bomb, you guys.

Special thanks also to: thebison, keeleymcgregor213, AngelxPhoenix, YoursAnnie, clueless1164, JeanieBeanie33, densrl, TwilightWorshipper14, notcrackers, Ybs, AssassinsCreedFAN, anayu123, laughingduck, AnadoraBlack, TashaLiz, LyrebirdSong and my Guest for reviewing! You guys are the best! Thanks also to those who fav'd or alerted!

You guys all rock! Let's see if I can update sooner this time!

Sincerely,

Starcrier.