Foolish Hope

[Armphid]

The two heroes watched the little blue car pull away. Silverbolt looked over at Nightwatch, "Hear that? Be nice, she said."

Nightwatch was lifting his grapnel, "She wasn't talking to me" He fired it and it caught, then lifted him skyward, "Compiler can feed you the address," he said as he took off.

The chromed young man shook his head, "Man! No gratitude." He looked after the retreating car again. That girl...she was like...a dream. A dream of the past. What was someone like her doing in this world? "Wow. Just wow." Then he blurred into motion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

There had been a few men at Killian's office; apparently sent to watch it in case the vigilantes returned. They'd even done a little cleaning, apparently out of boredom, until Nightwatch and Silverbolt burst in. There was no stealth to the heroes entry; this was not a mission of caution but one of bold, declared intent. They wanted their entrance to be noted and not just by those inside but those outside.

"So wait." Silverbolt ran by the startled group of hangers, blurring around them, and was then back by Nightwatch, his arms full of guns, knives and an aerosol can. "She beat Thunderstorm? One on one?"

"She did." Nightwatch leaped into the shocked men with a leaping sidekick that sent the tallest one smashing into the wall and sliding down to the ground. He landed and went into a sweep kick, taking another off his feet and then leaping to grasp the man's head in both hands and drive it into the ground. "I'd fought him earlier but hadn't done much. She took him down hard."

"Wow." Silverbolt zipped up to the last guard and then there was a strange sound, almost like a buzzsaw cutting wood but at a deeper pitch as his fists flew in barrage of punches. Between the time it took to blink, the final thug went from stunned alertness to black eyed unconsciousness. As he tumbled to heap, the visitor whistled. "She's something else."

"Hn." Nightwatch didn't appreciate Silverbolt's...appreciation of Concerned Citizen. But he felt oddly proud over it. "She is. She'll be great, in time."

Silverbolt blurred into motion and the three men were tied up with straps and wiring from the lab tables upstairs, "Yeah. But she's...awful nice for all of this. Especially here."

Nightwatch was silent a moment, "That's why she has the potential to be great. That purity..."

"Even if it cuts her apart. She held up great, but...I could tell...seeing all that was hard on her. Hell, it was hard on me." Silverbolt shook his head. "She could probably use someone to talk to."

The taller, stronger hero was moving, making his way up to start his investigation. The more information he could find, the better. "She has someone; I'm sure of it. Even if not...I wouldn't do any good at it."

"Not with you being all Edgelord-Man, no." Silverbolt was now doing the same. He whipped through the rooms on the lower level, searching in seconds what would take half an hour or more to do. "But you could try talking to her like, you know, you. The real you."

The other hero paused in his perusal of a note book. "This is the me that's left," he murmured.

"What?"

"I said I've found some notes on Killian's formulas. He was always a record keeper. He may have lists of his treatments...which means another list of those he used them on." Nightwatch moved into the destroyed office and began to search there. He felt more than saw the speedster stop in the door way. "What?"

"He's going to come for her."

Nighwatch paused but then kept looking through the desk. "I know."

"You know? That's all you have to say. You know what'll happen." The silver bodied hero was by Nightwatch's side in a moment.

"Better than anyone, yes."

"Yeah. Better than anyone." Silverbolt watched Nightwatch. "...I thought you might be Him for a while, you know." He shook his head, "How you got all dark and then he showed up. So many died but always the women you were close to...I thought you were Him until Recovery Girl."

Nightwatch paused again, for longer this time. His shoulders sagged. Elaine. "I...thought it might be me for a while too. Set drones to follow me and had Miss Mental erase my memory of them."

Silverbolt blinked. "You...holy shit, Nightwatch. I just figured out you couldn't be through detective work!"

"I needed more. It wasn't me. The recordings had me on them during several of the murders, so...when Miss Mental was one of them, the memory came back, I checked the film. Not me." Nightwatch pulled up a false bottom in one drawer. "Here's what we need."

"Yeah." Silverbolt was looking at the other man with unease, "Listen, I bust your chops about being too damn serious, but what you just said...man, you need he-"

"Don't finish that word," he snarled back. "Not from you. You...clown. Joking, laughing, teasing, flirting, as if they're not all dead and the world isn't the cesspit it is. As if any of it can ever go back to being good. As if it ever was to begin with!" Nightwatch turned on Silverbolt, "As if what happened meant nothing! As if they meant nothing!"

The silvery hero's cheeks were a bluish tarnished hue, his version of an angry flush, "You asshole! They were my friends too! Don't ever think it didn't matter to me because I try to fucking deal with it instead of going batshit insane like you!"

The two men stared at one another. Then Nightwatch stepped away from the desk, "...Thank you for helping her. For coming. She needs to live. This world needs her."

"...Yeah. Sure thing," the speedster replied. "Nightwatch, I didn't mean-"

"Yes, you did."

Silverbolt didn't answer for a moment. "What are you going to do when He comes?"

"I have a plan. I'll take him down." Nightwatch paused and looked back at Silverbolt. "...Afterwards, she might need your help."

The other man's eyes narrowed, "I'll help if she or Compiler call, you know it, but you'll be there to...no. No, you won't."

"No, I won't."

Silverbolt was at the front door to Killian's office. "...I can't stand seeing you like this."

"This is all there is," Nightwatch answered. "I'm sorry Compiler called you, that you had to see it."

"It was worth it to meet her." Silverbolt looked back at his one time friend, someone he'd thought was his best friend. "...Take care of her, Nightwatch. I'd say take care of yourself but that's wasted breath, isn't it?" Then he was gone; a silvery streak cutting through the night of the city.

Nightwatch stood for a few moments in the dim light of the ruined office. He thought of himself lying there, watching her shine so brightly, begging her to run. His hand tightened on Killian's ledger. "Not as much as it should be."

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Her father held her hand. His skin was rough but the touch was warm and assuring, safe. He led her through the gathering of strangers, low murmurings far above her head-she looked back down at her patent leather shoes, the shine to them in the bright, somewhat sterile lighting, her black church choir dress a little hot with her coat on over it. She was ten years old. Almost. Her birthday was this weekend. She’d been promised a cake shaped like a cat.

They came to a table with a pristine, pretty white cloth draped over it. A large closed box with brass handles lay solemnly on top, the lid closed. The wood and metal reminded her of an organ, of small graceful hands playing across the keys. And the flowers-she had never seen so many flowers-they filled the space on either side of the table, lined the wall with a jungle of foliage and bright bursts of color. Charlotte stood to one side of it, her gaze distant, home from university. She stood there and didn’t seem the same, almost a stranger-even as she gave her a small smile.

Aimee looked up at her father’s face, and he smiled too-and it was the saddest smile she had ever seen. She squeezed his hand and smiled back at him, but his face remained sad-if anything, he may have gotten sadder.

He had told her but she didn’t...believe him, not really. Something so awful could never be real. She no longer wanted the cat cake which chocolate icing and white whiskers, candy eyes. She no longer wanted anything-not unless someone could undo the undoable, make this wrong right.

Make the sadness go away.

He moved to lift her up onto his hip as Charlotte came to stand beside them, the broken family stepping up to the box. She could see there was a silver photo frame resting on top, nestled in a bundle of white daisies. The pretty woman’s portrait smiled serenely, as if she knew some wonderful secret and was about to share it with her.

And then suddenly Aimee was alone, full grown and standing in front of the rich cherry wood casket, which was no longer closed, the lid cracked open just a few inches. She had to see, but she didn’t want to see what her poor father had had to see, what Charlotte had seen. She knew who rested within, knew why families opted for closed casket funerals.

But she was a coward. She was a coward, she couldn’t look, couldn’t bear it, even now. As long as she didn’t see, it would never quite be real. Never be final. There would be no reduction of the person, no parting, painful imagery of what had been a beautiful face ruined in an undoable blink.

She wouldn’t look. She couldn’t.

She touched the coffin lid, intent on closing it-and a man suddenly screamed in agonized pain under her fingertips-Killian screamed. Aimee jerked her hands back with a dismayed, alarmed noise, looking not at a coffin but at the terrified, widened eyes of the human trafficker-they were panicked and hurting, the man bound and helpless in his den, afraid of her. Her hands came to her mouth, horror and guilt piercing her heart like a lance. What...what had she done?

“Oh my God. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Pleading with him. Pleading with a monster who had the visage of a man, who felt fear and pity only for himself. Horrible. But she had hurt him and she shouldn’t have done it, she should have never ever done it, because it made her horrible, too. But she had to, she had to do it, there were children being hurt, there were women being raped, people treated as subhuman by monsters. And the women upstairs, the torture before he broke them, before he sold them into slavery or used them in his brothels- Miss Johnson hanging on bruised and bleeding wrists- asking if she was real. That tentative, heartbreaking hope on the women’s faces as she tried to fight their captors in the brothel. Untold victims elsewhere. Concerned Citizen had had no choice.

But she wasn’t Concerned Citizen. There was no resolve, no rationalizing this.

“I d-didn’t want to.” Aimee said thickly, tears stinging her eyes. “I-I didn’t-” She hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but it didn’t matter-she had. And it hurt her in an awful, twisting way, because that had been wrong, so very wrong. Killian wasn’t even there anymore, he had vanished and she was looking down at the now broken photo frame in his den, the broken television playing light over it. She picked up the broken frame, tried to see her mother’s face through the cracks, through her tears- to see the sharing, warm smile that had been so pointlessly taken away. She couldn’t make it out through the broken and blackening, fogging glass.

“I needed him to help me, I had to stop him-” She whispered, wanting...forgiveness, absolution- and not wanting it at the same time. Had she really done all she could? Had it really been required? And she had threatened him with torture! What was wrong with her? What kind of hero, what kind of person was she?! She stared at the darkened glass, the memory she had sullied with her actions. Her trembling fingers pressed the photo out of the frame, worried the black would spread to it somehow, confused that she still couldn’t see her mother’s face, despite the photo being right here. She...she smelled smoke.

There was a dry, scorching heat then, red burning light-the sound of shattering windows and car alarms, sirens. She was in the park downtown, the frame loose in her hands, falling as she wiped soot away from the photo. Her mother’s picture was fine, the blonde woman smiling at her again, frozen in time.

She looked up and saw the city in flames, people rushing out of it and into the park with its dry grass and crisping leaves. The fire would follow them, she realized. She wiped her eyes on her jacket sleeve as she pocketed the photograph, was now looking at the scene from under the bill of her jaunty red cap, the red mask comforting against her face, making her feel determined, brave. She had to help. She would help-just needed some water, could direct people into the fountain-if they wet their shirts and wrapped them around their faces-no, if the fire reached here, that was actually more dangerous. It would help with smoke, but that was meant only for escape, and there...there was no escape. Thoughts of fire survival drifted away as she realized all avenues of escape had been cut off by the tall walls of flame. There was nowhere for them to go, and the books she had read on the matter were of no use without a way out.

Concerned Citizen took a step towards the distant chaotic scene, eyes catching on the laughably undersized, under qualified bucket of water that had appeared mere feet away. She could make it work somehow, but even as she felt that hope and conviction, part of her also knew, argued it was irrational and made no sense to even bother The city was aflame. There was nothing she could do. But she was compelled to try, even if failure was the only possible outcome.

Her left hand grasped the handle and she hefted the bucket up-but stopped mid lift when she saw a torn, familiar cowl half floating within it. Her breath caught in her throat and she reached into the icy water to draw it out, confused, uneasy. One of the opaque eye lenses had been shattered, and she stared worriedly at it as water beaded,followed the contours of the intact one and streamed back into the bucket.

She set the bucket down, a shaking hand lifting to tap her ear. “Nightwatch?” What...what had happened? The...the punk and the bullet? Oh no. Oh, please, no.

Wind and static on the line. She swallowed.

“D-Daniel?” She inquired even quieter, an awful sense of dread before she looked up from the cowl and around her, saw what she had somehow missed moments before. The path and grounds were littered with masks and costumes, colorful scraps of cloth and discarded symbols of bygone heroes. “What…?” What was this? What...what was this?! Her fingers tightened on Nightwatch’s mask, not wanting to drop it, not wanting it to join all the others, as if that would help him somehow, undo what might have...what must have already happened. The bucket contents began to bubble and hiss, drawing her gaze again as she saw it was not water at all but pitch and tar. She took a step back, staring at it with trepidation. Her mask, her torn and ruined costume were crumpled and half submerged in the stuff, even though she was still wearing it, even though it hadn’t been there just moments before. It...it was burning too, now, the pitch having caught fire in the heat, blackening the yellow emblems and searing across the bright red fabric. It all slipped beneath the surface, disappeared in a flash of flames.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the dread building into that awful, heart racing anxiety and fear, that feeling of danger, impending doom. Disturbed. Disturbed and...and heavy with the knowledge that she was going to join all these costumes. It could end no other way. She would die doing this. He would hurt her, he would slaughter her with the hate and rage He so personified.

“Like an innocent, sacrificial little lamb.” An amused, detached voice sounded somewhere to her left. Thunderstorm?! A bolt of panic as she whirled to face him-but no one was there, just the city, just the flames, just the people-no longer panickedly racing inwards but stopped short, staring at her, distant and horrified-no...they were staring just behind and above her. She felt frozen in place but knew there was no avoiding it, no chance for escape. Concerned Citizen would die. She never...she had never stood a chance, had known it since she first dared to don the mask. It had only been a matter of time.

She trembled, her mouth dry and a cold sweat breaking out over her skin- but turned anyway, those bright yellow shoes crunching the glass of the discarded photo frame. Had she really wanted to look, to confirm what...what she knew was there?

“Or,” The voice was unfamiliar to her, a little muffled but strong, menacing and laced with hate and anger. She was holding so tightly to Nightwatch’s mask her hands hurt. Him. The flying, black clad form of her worst nightmare. Flames reflected off the black glossy surface of the full faced motorcycle helmet, her red and yellow clad reflection in the center of the face shield as he casually tossed a camera back and forth between his hands. It looked like she was burning in that reflection, was being swallowed up in flames. “Maybe you’ll deserve it.”

And then, before she could even really process the words, He lowered his shoulders and shot forward for her like a hawk sighting on a mouse.

!

Aimee sat up with a start, a strangled scream tearing past her lips, panicked squeaked noises following as she scrambled backwards into the plethora of pillows at the head of her bed, scared out of her mind and uncaring of the pain in her thigh-too caught in the sharp intensity of her terror.

Charlotte sat bolt right in bed at the scream, one of her hands going to the bedside table,the drawer she had tucked her pistol into the night before-but the door was closed and the small room empty, easily confirmed in the light from the streetlamp outside the window. She twisted to face her sister, alarmed and confused. Just a nightmare.

“Aimee-Jesus, Aimee, it’s okay, you’re fine.” She reached for the younger woman’s shoulder, trying to draw her close for a hug-but she was stiff as a board and shivering violently, gasping for air as if she were drowning-the girl had wrapped her arms around herself and was crying hysterically. She was having a panic attack, Charlotte realized. Whatever she’d dreamt, it had triggered in her sleep. God only knew what had sent her into a terror. That sick fuck Killian and his ‘enterprises’, probably. Aimee should have never seen that. Should have never even known about men like him.

Charlotte scooted closer, wrapped her arms around her, held her close. “It’s okay, you’re okay-just breathe honey, just breathe-” She soothed, rubbing her back and rocking her a little, taking deep, steady breaths-holding them a moment, then exhaling slowly. “Just breathe…” After a few moments of it, Aimee gained enough presence of mind to mimic the breathing, to try. After several catching, choking breaths, she managed to draw in air, nodding against her shoulder and copying the inhalations and exhalations with a few catches here and there.

“Good. See? Everything’s okay. Everyone’s fine. I’m fine, Dad’s fine, you’re fine-” Old habits, using the same assurances from when her sister had had nightmares as a child, after Mom.

“An-and N-nightwatch?” Her voice was small and anxious, and Charlotte found herself making a new assurance despite the deep frown that pulled at the corners of her lips, a begrudging expression Aimee couldn’t see-and a deep misgiving that she was able to keep out of her voice. “He’s fine too.” Hmph.

She felt her sister relax, another nod- and she coaxed her back down into the bed proper, settling her back to sleep as she had done when Aimee was just a kid. She wasn’t sure she’d even woken up fully, would remember this in the morning. Hopefully she’d forget the nightmare too.

Charlotte glanced at the time and winced, running a hand through her curled brown hair with a sigh. It had only been an hour since they’d gone to bed in the first place. Aimee had bawled her eyes out until she just didn’t have any tears left to shed. About the women, the kids, about how awful everything had been and was, about how she didn’t understand what was wrong with Killian, with the men working the brothels, with the patrons who went there. Heartbroken. Aimee was heartbroken, and Charlotte was worried about what the fallout was going to be.

And when the rush of words had devolved into an almost desperate confession, one Charlotte had barely been able to interpret through the girl’s tears-she found the actions completely justified. She had a feeling Aimee did too-logically. But emotionally it had about killed her to do it, to have done it. That was a hurt the doctor didn’t have a salve for.

It had been a rough night for the would be heroine. Something she had repeated over and over in the course of things was how she couldn’t do “this” but had to. Charlotte didn’t take advantage of that to try and convince her to quit, hadn’t felt right about it.

Her sister was too soft hearted for this dirty city. But Charlotte needed her help. Despite her misgivings, she knew Concerned Citizen would be an invaluable tool in their efforts. Even without the mask-this was a team effort, their combined skills, talents and brainstormed ideas needed to make a difference, bigger than either of them could do individually. And Aimee had that same special, human touch their mother had had-something Charlotte lacked.

By the time she had stitched her back up and convinced her to take a shower and get some sleep, Aimee was as tired and exhausted as she had ever seen her.

And Aimee had to work in an hour and a half, and she had to open the clinic in in two. That leg needed to heal and the would be heroine needed to sleep. Not to mention the awful shit she had to deal with tonight, the guilt and heartbreak. And whatever she wasn’t telling her about the fight the night before-Charlotte knew there was a lot more to it and didn’t like not knowing what, specially not with a knife wound like the one she’d gotten. Aimee was uncharacteristically firm about not discussing it further. Charlotte sighed, plucked the antique alarm clock from the bedside table and slipped out of the bed. She tucked the slumbering girl in carefully before giving a soft stroke to Sophie’s fur, the kitten curled up next to her battered owner.

This was costing her. Costing both of them, but Charlotte knew she could endure just fine. But would Aimee? It was hard for her to see the woman sometimes, and not the little girl she had been-something her father chastised her for often. She found herself staring idly at one of the comic book posters on the wall, the discarded bright yellow shoes in the corner. God, she hoped their efforts got them somewhere, would be worth it. How many more times would she find herself stitching up wounds and smoothing over heartbreak and hurt? As many as Aimee needed, she knew. Still. It was hard to see it affect her like it was.

But she knew her little sister was stubbornly, buoyantly resilient even in the worst of times.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Aimee sighed, curling up tighter in the ball she usually slept in, buried under the comforter in the center of her soft bed and not wanting to have to be awake just yet, not when she was so warm and comfortable, even with the aches and pains. She hadn’t dreamnt about anything more, luckily. She was glad to be home. The scent of buttermilk drifted in through the thin closed door of her bedroom, Caribbean blue eyes half opening to find sunlight filtering through her blankets. Charlotte was missing, and no kitten greeted her as she pulled back the blanket, blinked in the sunshine filled room.

Aimee rubbed her eyes with a frown. Charlotte must have called a sub for her again. That was the second day of work she’d missed now, and in a row. That...that wouldn’t do, but Charlotte was probably being smart, kinder to her than Aimee would have been to herself. Still, she felt bad for not being up and ready for her students, for being absent a second time.

She looked blearily around the room, blinking at the dingy, cream colored rabbit sitting in bed with her. Scruffles. A blush came to her face as she picked the childhood toy up, a shake of her head as she slipped from bed with a grimace-and went to put him back on the dresser. She hesitated just a moment, giving the old bunny a sheepish, quick hug before she deposited him back with the pile of books and her colorful, small amount of inexpensive jewelry in it’s little dish. She would be a lot more embarrassed about the rabbit if it hadn’t been Charlie who had caught her still possessing it, had probably put it into the bed as a joke.

“Morning, kid. Called off for you again, sorry.” Charlotte said as soon as Aimee exited the bedroom, the doctor still in her clothes from last night. “I figured if I was slacking, you ought to be too.” Her assistant must be running the clinic right now, Aimee realized. She felt bad. Charlotte had never failed to open the doors herself, six days a week and promptly at eight am. Sundays by appointment.

Aimee took a seat on the couch, rubbing at her eyes. “Thank you for making breakfast.” She said, pulling the knitted rainbow blanket around her shoulders and sliding the pile of books off the couch and to the coffee table, making room for her older sister as the tall woman brought two plates of waffles and two cups of coffee over on a wooden breakfast tray, strawberries piled high on Aimee’s. “Of course. Comfort waffles are the best waffles.” She handed her a knife and fork and opened the powder blue laptop, heading to youtube to click on the no doubt illegally uploaded “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” Christmas film.

Aimee settled back, smiling faintly at the familiar music as the title screen ran, her secret guilty pleasure-Christmas music and movies, no matter what time of year it was. In the midst of all the awful of the nights before, here was something safe and familiar, the comfort zone she could step back into at any time. She felt a little choked up, grateful and guilty feeling.

She...she was very lucky. She wished...she wished everyone could be so lucky.

“I love you Charlie…” “I know. And I love you too-you can tell, because I’m depriving myself of the bacon that CLEARLY should go with these damned waffles, you tree hugging veggie.”

And Aimee, despite everything, gave a soft laugh.

////////////////////////////////
It was eight o clock and dark was settling in, her little blue car hurtling down the road-five miles under the speed limit, always a safe and prudent driver-on her way to the Orrey.

She slipped the ear bud in and gave it a tap. “Compiler.” It had been a fairly good day, normal after Charlotte had left. She typed up her notes about the aerosol can distributors and her witnessed effects of the one Killian had used, intending to include it alongside her typed disposition on the events of the night before, what had been found and witnessed. Then, to forget about that again, she had bought yarn and started on that project-she budgeted twenty hours until completion-, reworked her patched, sad looking vest into an underlayer to her jacket-she guessed she was going with the original costume design now, which was okay, it was getting colder out-and made it in time to sit with Trisha at school, cleaning up her classroom (messy after two full days of subs) and making construction paper masks.

She had also bought half a cart of fruit, cut up most of it-apples, pears, peaches, cherries, pineapple, and, of course-strawberries, her favorite. Some of that was prep for her planned baking extravaganza for Saturday's training session, and the rest was just to send home with him for those bland shakes. She felt bad, almost like that was her being sneaky, and the plan to say she'd accidentally cut up too much was a lie-maybe she wouldn't say that. Maybe she'd just say it was extra. That was true-extra she had intentionally purchased and chopped up, but extra all the same.

She may have gone overboard with prepwork. Okay, she KNEW she'd gone overboard-but it would feel good to bake, something familiar, easy, a thing she was knowledgeable about and good at. Almost relaxing, really, despite the pile of dishes she would have to do after.

"Good evening Compiler- or, um, maybe morning?" She had waited until eight to call because that seemed like a polite enough time-she hoped she hadn't woken him up at the equivalent of 4 am or something, in the very least. "How are you?" She was cheerful, refreshed and mostly herself again.

“I wanted to be sure and call to...to thank you. Marciella Johnson was in Killian’s house, she’s getting respite care and her brother is relieved to have her back safe.” She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. “And...and for sending Silverbolt out to the place I was clearing. That...you may have legitimately saved my life, or at least-an expensive dental bill. Things were a little hairy for a minute there. Bad enough I was stalling for time rather than thinking I could...well, it was good he showed up when he did, took some attention off of me for a minute.”

She should Cookie him right the heck up too. “Thank you for...for all of it. Working with you guys...real heroes-” Her fingers slipped along the steering wheel, her voice a little quieter, grateful, and admiring. “It’s just...more than I ever could have hoped for, and now all those women are out and these kids can be tracked down and saved too. The...the good fight, thank you for fighting the good fight.”

“The other reason I called was to see if you had an email I could send something to, that you could maybe please pass along to the Feds for me?”

 

[Armphid]

Nightwatch had taken another hour and a half to search the office after Silverbolt left. There were no captives, thankfully, and no further guards. He'd found a computer in one of the labs and pulled out the hard drive; it was plugged into the computer in the living room, already uploaded for Compiler to analyze and breakdown. The ledger had been scanned and the images uploaded as well. The data as a whole was being placed into a digital file so that it could be easily transmitted.

When the police and DA failed, as he knew they would, he would be ready. The full nature of Killian's crimes, his victims, his customers, his accomplices, all would be ready.

He stood on the balcony of the penthouse as the sun just started to rise. His conversation with Silverbolt...it was lingering. He didn't like that. It served no purpose; just a distraction. He was taking care of himself. Operating at maximum efficiency. That was all that mattered in his life.

His hands slipped over his body, hitting hidden catches and triggers to disarm booby traps and then began pulling his costume off. Piece by piece it fell to the floor, until he was only in the thin under layer. He peeled that off as well and let it fall with the rest of his costume at his feet.

Daniel closed his eyes and tipped his head back, letting the wind at the top of the sky scraper whip around and over his naked body. The slowly growing light kissed his paleness. Daniel raised his arms up from his sides, standing legs apart, his palms up as if in supplication. He stood there for a few full minutes before lowering his head, opening his eyes to look into the empty cowl at his feet. "It's not enough now," he said to it. "Why?"

But the mask had no answer. That was good. He wasn't completely insane, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

"CC! My favorite hero!" The technopathic hacker's voice was cheery as well. "You are my favorite, by the way. You can tell Nightwatch that." He laughed, "And it's night here, well, evening, let's say. Anyway. I'm good; the work we did last night...it felt like old times. Almost."

He actually blushed as she went on and his voice became a bit sheepish, "Hey, you're welcome but no need to thank me. It's what I do. What we real heroes do for each other. That includes you, you know. Silverbolt wouldn't stop talking about you; he thinks you're the best thing since energy drinks. I tend to agree."

At her email question, he sent a quick message to her phone. "Use that. I should've thought of it sooner. More data from Doctor Toxin? Killian, I mean."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

That evening, Nightwatch prowled once more. He swept Concerned Citizen's Safe Places and was surprised to find no trouble there. Nor did he find the heroine herself. Hopefully she was finally listening and taking a few days to heal. In her own way, she was so reckless. As if she was running out of time and every second had to count.

Was she? He avoided learning more about her as a professional courtesy and out of personal respect. Could she be sick? Dying? It didn't fit quite right.

Was it out of fear of Him? She wasn't dumb. She had to know he was out there somewhere. Was that why? Maybe.

"It doesn't matter. She will live. No matter what," he grimly promised to the wind. He swung down towards the decaying house below where the remaining associates of Killian were meeting, those who hadn't been on duty last night. They were meeting to try and decide what to do now. He would help them. They were going to bleed, break, and go to jail.

~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Daniel frowned as he set down the empty glass that he'd drunk his morning meal from. It tasted...blah. The whole experience insufficient somehow, though he knew it was. As usual his large tv was on with the morning news on 6 split screens within the tv's borders.

He lifted his head as a doll like anchorwoman said, "Breaking news this morning from city hall."

Ah. Here it was. "Feel free to make me a liar," he murmured. They wouldn't. He knew he'd be right.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

A pretty, soft laugh from Aimee, who had been caught off guard by the joke. Compiler was so nice and funny. Normal. She again thought Nightwatch should talk to him more. She hoped he had called him the other day...Compiler had sounded so worried, so..God, they had both lost so many friends, it was just awful.

She was so glad Nightwatch was okay, hadn’t been another one.

For the briefest of moments her mind flashed on her dream, the torn cowl. She was quick to push it aside-particularly as Compiler went on and made AIMEE blush. A real hero? Her? Sometimes she felt like one, almost-when working with Nightwatch.

“I-I just try to do what I can...” She demurred, but that hopeful beat of her heart was twilling again, felt….nice. She felt nice, somewhat legitimized. The words added to that little mental locket she had, held tightly to and close to her heart. “He was-he was a character.” She said about Silverbolt, coloring for a very different reason, remembering her embarrassment. “Um, v-very friendly.” That was the least of it, but she was going to forget all about that.

Thank goodness he had shown up when he did. The rest of it though-well, at least Compiler hadn’t been there to ALSO see her look like an idiot.

She wanted to ask about him, actually. About him and Nightwatch-Silver hadn’t seemed to like him, and the other way around-though Nightwatch was kind of like that, so-but she wasn’t a gossip, and didn’t see the point in asking, other than to feed her curiosity. No, she wouldn’t bring that up.

Hopefully he hadn’t made fun of Nightwatch anymore though, once she’d gone home.

“Well, about Killian. I wrote a disposition, about...about what we found and witnessed in his house. The other records will seal the deal just fine but-well, something I could do. I’ve also got everything I found out about the aerosol can manufacturers. I’m not sure how far he got, but the idea of a date rape drug in a can is just-” Aimee was fresh out of college. She hadn’t been a partier, but she had heard a few cautionary tales. “-anyway, rohypnol is illegal in the U.S. anyway, but I thought it was good information to pass along. Thank you again! Um-ignore the email address, that’s...that’s not my real name.” She sounded a little embarrassed.

Not long later, when she wasn’t driving-Aimee sent along the very dry, matter of fact documentation and disposition she wrote-almost reading like a police report-of what had been found in Killian’s house, the three victims. It was an account of the missing persons case Concerned Citizen had started, and how it culminated in the woman being found hanging from a chain in a shower in his house. There was a phone number for the brother’s lawyer, should the FBI wish to follow up.

Maybe Concerned Citizen was a lawyer in the daytime?

There was a more personal letter about the community impact, the connection with the brothels and the amount of damage and wreckage caused-and then what could have easily been a published report about the aerosol can manufacturers within the Northern Americas and Rohypnol .

Amusingly, and in explanation for her mild embarrassment earlier-the email address was ‘CrazyConnie@email.com’.

//////////////////////////////////

She was a tall, graceful woman, easily six feet- though it was hard to be entirely sure on television, and she appeared to be wearing dress boots with a two inch heel, so perhaps-5’10. Lean and lithe bodied, she had a dancer’s build and was dressed professionally yet neatly fashionable, black dress pants and a red blouse under a buttoned cream colored blazer, black belt around her waist. Her hair was rather curly but controlled, a side part and tucked behind her ears to reveal simple gold stud earrings. No makeup, but she didn’t really need it. She had a traditionally, if sharp featured beautiful face. She looked like a politician, the banner along the bottom of the screen said she was ‘Dr. Charlotte Summers’

The woman filled the crowd in on the busts that had taken place on Wednesday, failing to mention the vigilante involvement, focused more on a brief overview of police action and arrests. She seemed intelligent and guiding, giving the background for the purpose of her speech today, before cutting to the heart of things, still ladylike and reserved, a politician-but clearly furious under the composed exterior. Outraged, and it was somewhat contagious as she began to speak in earnest in her clear, strong but feminine voice.

“They targeted single, low income mothers with young children. These weren’t dredges on society-these were women supporting their families through honest, hard working jobs. They were kidnapped, chained or forcibly hooked on drugs, sometimes both-and made into little more than slaves. Their children were passed along child pornography and peodophile rings across the country.” The tall, graceful woman slammed one of her hands into the podium, a sound that reverberated through the speakers like a gunshot.

“Fifty seven women! Seventy six of their children, all but twenty three of which are still unaccounted for!” The curly haired brunette certainly had an arresting presence, her tone outraged but still dignified, prim. “These are just the victims of the “brothels”, and just the ones we know about. Families ripped apart, some, potentially, forever.” She let the heavy implications weigh on the listeners a moment before she continued.

“Every dollar spent in these brothels funded these horrific crimes. There were no illusions about what was going on in there-and the patrons came anyway, put money down, and bought rapes wholesale.”

“And yet-” She gripped the podium, leaning forward slightly. “And yet District Attorney Carl Matthews is content to let them all go! They were booked on Wednesday night, and released this morning, a Friday. No charges are pending. Two nights in jail. That is all the time Mr. Matthews thinks these men deserve.”

“And those that were in charge, holding these women in the establishment? They may still be in jail, but Mr. Matthews has yet to draw up charges against them either. If it weren’t for the FBI’s involvement, I’m sure he’d let human trafficker Randall Killian right out too, back onto the streets and preying on your sisters and daughters. This man is in charge because we allow him to be. For the past ten years, he has been reelected, often times without contest. Why?” People in the crowd looked to one another, almost in askance.

“Every vote for this man is a vote supporting the criminal element of this city. We all bear this responsibility. We are failing the vulnerable members of our community-and we are doing it on purpose. A vote for Matthews at the end of this month is a vote condoning the activities he has seemingly turned a blind eye to-even ones as horrific as these.”

“Who do you propose as an alternative?” A reporter called out on cue, and Charlotte leaned back a little, pretending to consider the question.

“Anyone. Anyone would be preferable. I…am aware of an up and coming attorney named Luke Sanderson. He has expressed an interest in filling the role Mr. Matthews has clearly lost sight of. Sanderson is a rising star in our city, and I recommend paying close attention when he announces his candidacy later this month. I think a new D.A. is a step in the right direction. We have to work together to change things-I implore everyone to carefully consider our options. We do not have to stand for this. We cannot.” Her blue eyes swept the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time.”

///////////////////////////////////////////

Carl Matthews turned the television off with a disgusted noise as the woman walked away from the podium. She seemed like an uptight bitch. Calling him out like that in a public forum-it was only public access television, but who knew if the local news stations would run the story-if they already were. He had pull with two of them. He picked up the phone to ensure they, in the very least, did not. And this Sanderson asshole-the punk had been rubbing elbows with the social elite, up the ass of anyone who would listen to him. He had as much to fear from the kid as he did a rodent.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Aimee drove in troubled silence, heading to the Orrery for Saturday's scheduled training session, even if she didn't plan on there being any physical training taking place, not with her poor leg. She'd get back out there Monday, for sure-but try to play it as safe as she could until the two weeks were up.

Thank God they'd gotten the Feds involved so quickly. Her promise had been kept in that regard, at the very least. Killian wouldn't be out anytime soon. No bail, no nothing while the FBI began it's investigation, though how deep it'd go as far as the brothels she had no idea. They were focused on finding the kids, no doubt, and the cross state kidnappings and involvement with the awful peodophile rings would keep him in federal custody until he died. No more hurting people. Ever.

Hm. Maybe she'd go out tomorrow. She needed to meet with that lawyer, convince him to sue Killian on behalf of as many victims as could be recruited to a class action lawsuit. Drain the former villian's funds, get a bit of compensation for the women-bring attention back to the matter and keep it there. They could file civil lawsuits against the men as much as possible too-but Aimee wasn't sure what the chances of success there were. If it kept it alive in the papers, forced the D.A. to take action-good. Charlotte thought he'd be easy to convince. She seemed to think rather highly of him, in fact.

Aimee wondered on that, a little, but Charlotte was a pretty private person, so she hadn't pried. She parked, drawing the recently "enhanced" red athletic jacket on but not zipping it completely over her yellow tshirt, donning her baseball cap and pulling her ponytail through the back.

She hadn't bothered with her mask, today. It was in her pocket but...well, it wasn't Concerned Citizen who had baked all these, was it?

She hauled the heavy backpack out of the car and slung it onto her back, hitting the hidden switch and tapping in the code. She was early, as usual-but even earlier today. She wanted to get set up nice before he got here.

She felt a little nervous, hoped he wouldn't get irritated. Though...she wasn't sure why she kept expecting him to. He hadn't really so far. He'd only been nice to her, if a little scary in spots.

He'd eaten everything she'd brought him so far too. Maybe he threw out the extras, but she liked to think not.

//////////////////////////////

By the time Nightwatch arrived there was a small party's worth of various baked goods spread out for him, and everything smelled great. She'd set up near the large glass wall overlooking the distant city, so many various fruity tarts and pastries, small little jellied pineapple cakes, apple cinnamon mini muffins with chopped walnuts-she'd gone a little overboard. There was five to ten of each type of thing, and a backpack that still held containers-though these were tall and cylinderical rather than the flatter pastry containers on the table.

She was adjusting things to look a little neater, half circle arrangements-when the elevator dinged she jumped a little, turning quickly to hide the fact she'd still been fussing over the set up.

"Hello!" A wave, one of her cheerful smiles. "I um-I sort of went a little overboard this time-but you said you didn't have any preferences and...well, that just can't be true." He had also said he couldn't remember if he liked pecans or not. That had...well, confirmed her suspicions. How long had he been taking plain, 'maximum efficiency' meals in the form of those bland shakes? He deserved better. He'd saved so many people just on Wednesday alone. Deserved better.

"S-So I thought we'd find your favorites in some of this stuff-I mean, I couldn't live without strawberries, my...myself." She side stepped the table, back to feeling a little awkward, maybe ridiculous as she dropped her gaze back to the various items. She had gone overboard. This wasn't a social call, but...Aimee shifted a little, looking out towards the distant city, her fingers tracing the CC patch on the front of her jacket absently.

"I um, I tried to use as many different fruits as possible. In case...in case I missed the one you'd like the most." She added. "I packed up the extra chopped fruit too? It'd probably just go to waste in my house, so I figured you could...mix up your favorites into your shakes, maybe?"

A glance back to him, trying to gauge if she was talking too much or not, if he found this foolish or not. He must know about the men who had been released, the customers. But he would also know Killian was still in custody, right? And that the women were being helped, protected from the hounding media.

Hopefully.

 

[Armphid]

Nightwatch stood uneasily in the elevator as it rose up to the main area of the Orrery. The smell of something warm, fresh, baked for him lingered in the elevator. It was complex and many layered. What had she made? Why did she keep doing this. He didn't want it. Didn't need it. Didn't deserve it more than anything else. But the smell was...good. Part of him wanted to know what it was and wondered how it would taste.

How weak he was. How faithless and wretched to be tempted so. He'd dedicated himself to becoming nothing but an engine of retribution, the only kind of justice left in this hateful world. And now he wanted his cookies. His right hand curled into a fist and he drove it into his thigh with a snarl. Disgusting!

The door opened and he strode out onto the floor. He jerked as if shot when his nose was hit by not one scent but many; all sweet, all beckoning. Nightwatch stared in shock at the display of foodstuffs before him and the blonde's sunny greeting. He froze like a rabbit in a car's headlights before her blushing, shy admission. A man who would dive at murderers through a hail of gunfire was now held up by a pretty girl and her pastries.

After she finished speaking, he slowly shook his head as if not understanding. "This...why...I don't need..." Nightwatch took a few breaths, rapid, as one confronted by fear might, "I don't need preferences or favorites or...what good do they...I have to be efficient. Maximum efficiency only. Always. That's..."

His hands trembled and jerked up to seize his cowl. He pulled his mask up and off, taking a deep lungful if air as if he'd been underwater. Daniel reached out for a nearby piece of equipment to steady himself. His ice blue eyes opened and looked at Aimee with confusion and surprise. "You shouldn't have done this for me. I don't-don't deserve it. Any of it. Not after..."

He shook his head. "Thank you but...I...I don't know what to do now. Should...I can't, I mustn't have any of this...can I?"

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Aimee had half expected irritation. Maybe stoic surprise and then he’d eat maybe one, two items and want to get to business. Maybe he’d strictly tell her he didn’t need dozens of pastries or fruit in his shakes. Instead, she had accidentally...upset him? Or...or-

She felt briefly frozen in place, uncertain. She hadn’t meant to upset him. Like when she had gotten angry-wasn’t okay, wasn’t right. Mishandling a very serious, very important hurt.

“I-I’m sorry-I just, it’s just something I can do-what little I know how to do, f-for you.”

Maybe this was too much too soon-she should have thought better- the bland shakes, the empty suite-he was punishing himself. Guilt for things he was in no way responsible for. Trauma, PTSD-eque symptoms-survivor's guilt. Those broken mirrors. She’d done a lot of reading and research the night of his rant, the revelation of the “them” mentality-and many nights after it. Nightwatch-no, Daniel-he needed help. He wouldn’t allow it for himself, he might even know it-there was so much hurt there.

That maximum efficiency line again. Her brow furrowed, that look of worried concern flickering across her features, in those big Carribbean blue eyes. He jerked his mask off-had she hoped for that? Was that why she hadn’t worn her own?-and steadied himself, breathing deep. Like she did when she was trying to keep herself together. When he opened his eyes and spoke again, she felt her heart just...just crack in two. It hurt her. It hurt her to...he...oh, poor Daniel! Her eyes stung, a flicker of that elusive conviction in the midst of her worry and concern, the heartache.

“Yes...yes you do.” She said fiercely, looking at him, then the table, then at him again, coming around, favoring her injured leg-but just, he-she wanted to hug him, but he might run away if she did that-he already seemed overwhelmed. If he backed up she’d follow him regardless, dared to touch his arm in the very least, if he let her-looking up at him, worried-but determined.

“Daniel, you saved thirty two women Wednesday alone. I almost got the crap beaten out of me and were it not for Silverbolt’s distracting arrival, I know you would have saved the seventeen women there AND me. You-of course you deserve pastries, and favorites, and, and food!” She was upset, all the nights of thinking about him, his words, his efficiency, his toxic, dark inner world-coming to a head in the face of his uncertainty and self refusal, her own hands trembling a little, tone near pleading with him. “M-more than, more than my stupid baking, an empty house, the-the punk and the bullet!”

Don’t cry! He’s the one who’s hurting!

She did hug him then, fiercely and suddenly, easily ducking right under his free arm. She didn’t know what else to do-she felt like he needed one, even if he didn’t want it, even if might cause him to flee and never talk to her again. Maybe that was why she hugged him so very tightly, wished she wasn’t so small so she could keep him there.

“P-please Daniel, you do-you do. N-no one w-would have wanted this for you. There’s apple and peach and blueberry-and I-I’m s-sorry. I-I know some things c-can't ever be made to be okay and I’m s-so sorry it’s all I c-can do.”

She was so unqualified, so ineffective. That small bucket of water in her dream-that's what this was. That's what she was, and he deserved so, so much better.

 

[Armphid]

Would he have saved her? He had been on his way to but...would he have made it or been too late? She shouldn't credit him for that. Trying to make it was just meeting what he should do; base requirements. The same for saving the women. If he was actually good enough, he would have discovered this whole dirty business and ended it months ago. But he hadn't. Not good enough.

Her blue eyes swam with emotion and the earnest belief in them was like the gaze of a serpent to a bird. She drew closer and he wanted to retreat, to pull away but those cerulean eyes pinned him to the spot. Her words shone the same way her eyes did, their light stabbing at the darkness he'd wreathed himself in, that had seeped into his heart. Nightwatch growled in the back of his mind; he had to stop this now. Say something bitter and cynical, leave, do something to keep her from doing these things, saying these things. She didn't know him. Didn't know his failures, his lusts, his crimes. How could she have spent time with him and not know he was part of the darkness she wanted to roll back?

She was so close now. Favoring that injured leg. She was even smaller up close with that slender but still figure. He sensed what she was going to do and willed himself to move but his treacherous body betrayed him.

Contact.

He pulled in another breath; the flowery scent of her shampoo now in with the mingling aromas of the baked goods. His eyes went wide and distant, softening after a few stunned moments. This...she...felt good. It hurt too somehow but it felt so...warm. Her arms were surprisingly strong and she held him tight as if afraid he'd be ripped away. To think she...that anyone cared...even after all he'd done and failed to do...his heart felt like it was trying to swell and break all at once.

He was still as a dead man for a solid five count after she hugged him. Then he heard a low sound; like a strangled gasp barely prevented from becoming a scream or a sob. That had come from him. His arms moved and he wrapped them around her, tightly embracing only for a moment or two before loosening so she could pull free she wanted to. Daniel hugged her in silence and then he spoke, his words nearly a whisper, as if he feared being heard even by himself. "No one knows what they would want because...I let them...never caught Him, don't even have a name or a face. I failed them all. Still do, everyday. I...I think I'm one of those things that can't be made okay again. You'll get hurt if you try."

 

[Ambrosia_64]

The petite blonde was soft and feminine, full curves and toned muscle on a delicate, small waisted frame-a contrast to his sheer size and hard muscled, larger one. Easily enveloped by him. Aimee didn’t go anywhere when his embrace loosened. She was a shy, quiet woman, and she somehow filled the silence without speech-she stayed with him, offering what comfort she could.

And then he spoke, and her suspicions and her worries were confirmed-her heart aching further for him, harder not to just cry and cry and cry.

And the Mask Killer. Nothing but evil, victimizing and victimizing, hate and rage and awful. Did He even have a face? A name? Could there be anything even remotely human about Him?

She said nothing for several moments, just held him. Poor Daniel. Poor, poor Daniel.

Aimee finally pulled away but didn’t step back, the bill of her hat hiding her face as she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her red jacket, her left hand catching his forearm, slipped down to his wrist. She’d pull him along with her as she turned and moved towards the table, removed her hat and tossed it onto the backpack on the floor, the fluffed, wavy ponytail swishing after being drawn through and released from the back of the hat. She wasn’t Concerned Citizen right now. She didn’t...didn’t want to be. Either because CC was a part she played and that had nothing to do with her trying to befriend Daniel-or because talk of the Mask Killer made her subconsciously uneasy, afraid to be in costume, hard to say.

“He’s...He’s evil.” Her fingers involuntarily tightened slightly on his wrist, her voice small. She didn’t like to think about Him. The dream was fresh and raw in her mind, too-making it worse to even briefly consider his existence.

“R-responsibility and...and blame are His alone, D-Daniel, even if...even if you don’t believe that. It victimizes them twice-first He…” The nape of her neck tingled, that anxiety and dread bubbling up in her stomach, her throat. “He.” She stated simply. They both knew what He had done. “And then you, their friend-you suffer.” Self flagellation and denial of...basic comforts. He hurt. Maybe he wanted to hurt. Maybe he felt he had to, that he should. Yes. That was absolutely it. Paying penance for an awful, terrible monster’s crimes.

“Y-you wouldn’t have wanted this for them.” She said softly, quietly, afraid to overstep, afraid to talk about things she, in all honesty-had no right to talk about. But if she waited, if she kept quiet until a better time, until she thought it was safer to say it-He might come for her before she had the chance. Her back had been mostly to him as she had talked, her head down, looking over the plethora of food stuffs. She had to do what she could now. There might not be a later. “I-I wouldn’t.”

Aimee picked up a strawberry pastry, turned back towards him, her hand sliding further, this time to the back of his larger one, lifting his hand to give it to him. “H-here. I b-bet you like strawberries, too.” The most fragile, anxious of smiles on those full lips and flickering, fragile hope in those large blue eyes. He wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t dirty or tarnished or less. He was hurting, but he was good, and she knew it, and she wished she could make him know it, too. But he had said...he thought. He thought he couldn't be made okay again. Not that he was, but that he thought he might be.

She could convince him. And if he didn't think himself too far gone or dark or lost, then maybe, hopefully, he could heal, even if only a little. Finally, she had a goal, a way to help, even if she wasn't sure how, entirely, she could get it done.





Nightwatch had been right in his thoughts, last night. Aimee was reckless. She threw herself into things, not blindly unaware of the risks, often terrified of them-but moving forward regardless, using a mask to pretend to be better, braver than she was. Aimee had not stayed safe on the ground and in her car when Christine West was on the ledge fifteen stories above the street. She had not fled to wait for police when Frank West attacked her with homicidal intent and a mallet, all 200 pounds and six feet of him, his little boys shivering in a tub of gasoline. She had not remained safe and hidden while those men held the security guard at gunpoint, she didn’t hesitate to piss off drug lords and approach armed dealers as she carved out territory for the city, tried to establish pockets of safety. She had faced Thunderstorm despite believing, knowing she would die, had not abandoned Nightwatch to a grisly fate. She hadn’t thought twice about Killian’s attempt to shoot her, the near miss. She had been willing to risk death or worse at the hands of cruel men in his brothel- willing to sacrifice if only to stall for time, if only for the chance of getting the victims out of there and to safety.

And she wasn’t concerned about getting hurt trying to help Daniel, even though her heart was already being tugged and pulled into pieces. It beat resiliently on regardless of how flayed to ribbons it got, both by his hurt, and by the awful in the world she never knew existed, didn’t understand.

Aimee did not care.

She had to try.

She was compelled.

 

[Armphid]

He didn't understand why she didn't pull away. She stayed with him, embracing him, even after he said things that he should not have. Why? How could she not see the truth of him? If she did, how could she stand to be close? And she was so close. Her smaller form was so warm and delightfully plush softness was around the hard core of well trained muscle. He felt...warm but not solely physically, it was a warmth for his troubled mind and heart as well.

He hadn't felt warm like this in...long. Very long. He hated it; it was so much more than they had, cold in the grave. But he yearned for it all the same. Was this...should he feel thus way? What was right?

She pulled away and he thought that was the end of it. He could put Nightwatch back on, make an excuse about the baking, an- She was still there. Still so close. She turned but her touch didn't retreat; she took hold of his wrist and tugged him along after her. There was no way she should have been able to move him; the difference in mass and strength was just too great without him already in motion. Yet that light tug drew him from where he stood to trail along behind her like an uncertain child.

Her back was to him and he almost missed that she was speaking at first; her voice was so quiet. But he heard and he turned his face away. They were victimized endlessly. The videos were out there. No matter how often Compiler swept the Net or various governments pulled them down, they were always back up. Hundreds of millions of views, possibly over a billion by now. Their victimization would never end. The crime would never end. So his failure never ended. It had to be paid for.

Those damn videos. He'd watched them, of course. He had to in order to investigate properly. He'd gone over them all with the best forensics tools he had and had nothing to show for it. Not one lead and not one identifying feature, though he'd recognize His cock if he ever saw it. God, how awful he was. They were.

Her soft "I wouldn't" drew his attention back with a snap. She wouldn't want this for him. Of course, she wouldn't. But it was the way she said it that caught his ear. It clicked in his mind with her recklessness. She was acting as if already dead; on borrowed time. Because of Him. It might as well be. Has she read The Hagakure? How strange to see a living example of it's primary tenet in this compassionate beauty.

She turned to offer him a strawberry tart. Her Caribbean blue eyes were teary and hopeful with that brilliant inner strength shining through beneath. Her smile was fragile though, the very corners of her lips quivering as if she was a few moments from crying. Aimee pressed the tart into his hand and he looked down at it with a mixture of curiosity, longing, and dread. The emotions warred on his face as he stared at the bakes delight like it might be a hand grenade.

Aimee had said he wouldn't want this for them. She was right. If he had died instead of Gwen, or Elaine, or Francine, or Tomoko, or Karen, or any of the others...or if one of them had survived as he had, he would hate to see them living as he did. Silverbolt had said that, hadn't he?

Daniel blinked. He looked up at Aimee and then down at the tart again. "Let's...find out." He raised it up and bit into light flaky pastry; the fruit and juice I side filling his mouth. It was tart and sweet and real. He groaned like a man in the throes of an entirely different kind of ecstasy. So much taste and sensation! He was only used to this much pain at once. He ate the tart completely, fast after that first bite. Daniel swallowed and closed his eyes.

Gwen, Elaine, was this really okay?

"It's...it's good. I think you might be right. About strawberries, anyway."

 

[Ambrosia_64]

The conflicting emotions were apparent, flickered across his handsome face, in his eyes as he stared at the strawberry tart. She had no idea if he would eat it or not, which side of the coin...or his mask he would come down on. If he snarled and flipped the table, she...well, she wouldn’t have been terribly surprised.

Those ice blue eyes blinked and he looked up at her, then back down to the treat. ”Let’s...find out.”

Aimee released the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, relieved. It felt like progress, somehow. He made a noise as he bit down and it brought a bit of color to her freckle dusted cheeks, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Her baking wasn’t that good-then again, poor Daniel had been taking meals in the form of bland shakes for God only knew how long, so maybe anything would have been that delightful for him.

She smiled at him, then stepped away and snagged one of the miniature apple walnut muffins, glanced back to see his eyes were closed. He liked it. It made her feel happy. It was a stupid, simple thing, but...something she could do. Something he could have that wasn’t dark and terrible and awful. Sometimes...sometimes it was the simple, silly things that helped, whether a lot or a little. Like comfort waffles and Christmas movies…

“I’ll have to make you a shortcake, sometime.” She promised, the words a little brighter as she left the heavy matters behind, calmed her anxious, skittering heart. "O-or a torte, though those can be a little messy." God, she felt so relieved he’d eaten one of the pastries. Allowed himself at least that. She also tentatively hoped she had given him something to think about. Hopefully something that would help him.

“I-I like to bake.” She didn’t always seem to quite know what to say, the petite blonde a little hesitant but friendly, venturing things forward in that shy way of hers. As if she was usually around extroverted, talkative types, wasn’t entirely used to starting or driving conversation. “It’s...it’s science for hungry people.” A small, cheerful joke that embarrassed her a little, a bite of the muffin.

It occurred to her she hadn't baked for a man before. Her students, her family, charity bake sales-never a man though. Just Nightwa-Daniel. That seemed a dangerous, somehow nervous line of thought however. Well, if there was ever a man who deserved it-

She swallowed, then popped the rest of the small muffin into her mouth.

 

[Armphid]

Her relief was obvious and it made him feel a bit of regret. Was she afraid of him? Had she been afraid he'd react badly? The latter, he was certain. He hoped. He didn't want her to be afraid of him. Which was...different. He wanted people to be afraid if him. He liked it that they were. But the thought of Aimee or Concerned Citizen looking at him with fear in her eyes was...unpleasant. Part of him didn't like that. She should be the same as anyone to him. But she wasn't. Even that first night when he had startled her near her little blue car after she saved the West boys, she hadn't been the same as other people to him.

Her comments were shy and cautious, as if she wasn't used to speaking first or carrying a conversation. Hm. Less likely to be in education then. Restricted certain medical fields or did it? He knew she could be bold and make strong declarations wearing mask. Lots of people were one way at work and another at home. He shouldn't be careless in his deductions.

Daniel looked at her curiously after she all but shoved the muffin she'd been eating into her mouth. A reaction that, with her blush, indicated embarrassment. Why? "I remember...Francine liked to bake. You might have heard of her as Invincibelle. She was so rough and tumble otherwise, you wouldn't guess she did this kind of thing. But she always said it took a lot more precision than fighting."

He looked over the table of goodies. She would want him to try more. Part of him wanted to try more. The rest of him was resisting. He couldn't just...pick something up and try it. He'd had enough already. Too much. If she gave it to him or suggested it though..."So...what's a torte?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

The two of them were sitting on a pair of dusted off chairs. A few more of the baked delights had been consumed and Daniel had grudgingly agreed to take the leftover fruit. It was a transparent ruse but he found he had no defense against it. There was little chance any training was going to be done. But maybe...maybe that was...acceptable.

Gwen would say it was good to bond, to create connections that would make you stronger. Hn.

Daniel was considering if he dared reach for something on his own when his mask vibrated slightly. He blinked and then slipped his earbud out of the cowl. "Compiler, I'm here."

"That was a long pick up." The hacker's voice was suspicious. "You're not wearing your mask. At this time of night? What's going on?" Then he sighed, "Never mind. Tell me later. Is CC with you?"

"Yes." Daniel looked over at the wholesomely beautiful and accidentally sexy blonde. "She's here. With me."

"Uh huh...okay. Anyway, it looks like Matthews is about to fire back. Fire up one of the local channels, he has a live press conference airing in five." He made a grumpy sound, "I think you should hear it, even if you'd rather not."

"Understood." His voice was lower, more gravelly, closer to Nightwatch's voice. "Baldrick! See if the monitor is working and get Channel 10 on. Find a radio if not.

"Capital, sir," came the robot's reply from somewhere in the near distance.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

“She beat up Gunsmoke.” Aimee responded, her face lighting up with instant recognition of the moniker, fond admiration. She had grown up reading comics and hero news stories, from her younger childhood through her teens, and then a renewal of such in college. “And she took down Roderick Haynes by herself, too.” And had liked to bake? That only made her better, in Aimee’s opinion.

///////////////////////////////

It was nice. She’d talk about the pineapple cakes, the blueberry tarts, the peach pastries-and he would eat one or two of whatever she pointed out. She would remember the ones he had two of-those he must have liked more. She was happy he agreed to take the fruit home, another small victory. It made her more hopeful for the project she had started on at home, too.

She also showed him how she’d taken apart her ruined vest and had sewn the stab proof kevlar underlayer into her red jacket-which she had removed to show him before setting it over the arm of her chair. Aimee seemed rather proud of this, and it was, admittedly, a clever bit of recycling. Jacket removed, it left the petite blonde in what appeared to just be a coordinated running outfit-matching bright yellow shirt and shoes, matching red hair tie and ankle socks. Black running capris.

Aimee gave a small little wave when Daniel looked over at her after taking the call, an indication of an hello for Compiler. Smiled, too.

“I’ve got a radio app.” She provided helpfully, her pink blackberry drawn from that jumbled pouch on her discarded, also over the arm of the chair, nylon belt. The baton was still in her car, as was the sap-no need for them here, and they weighed the belt down kind of awkwardly anyway.

She clicked and changed from the top forty station to local radio news, catching the end of a woman’s rundown on something.

“-the humanitarian's harsh rebuke of the D.A. is not the first time he has been called into question-but it is certainly one of the boldest in recent years. We take you to his response now-”

Aimee was careful to keep her expression neutral. She was both proud and anxious about Charlotte putting the D.A. on blast-her sister was so much braver than she was, wouldn’t be cowed in the slightest by the corrupt regime currently in place.

“Kind of late for a press conference.” She noted with a frown, snagging another mini apple muffin. It was a good thing she worked so much-she’d had two of these and a strawberry pastry herself already. A man’s booming voice filtered through the sound of a mic adjusting itself, starting off with a rundown that, oddly, lacked the POLICE involvement, this time-unlike Charlotte’s, who had left out the vigilante angle-though it seemed to be Matthew’s focus, instead.

“There was no evidence and there IS no evidence of wrongdoing in these establishments. Escort services and entertainment companies are not illegal in our fair city-” Aimee set the untouched muffin down, her eyes narrowing a fraction. There had been women literally chained to beds-she had been there, she had seen it. There would be no forgetting, ever-and there was no way the police bust hadn’t had more of the same.

“-and the word of a vigilante and several drug users against legitimate, tax paying businesses simply isn’t going to hold up in court-a system already tied up with more cases than most cities in the U.S.”

Matthews was out of his mind if he thought the nature of those places could be covered up. The FBI case would show he was full of it, and-she had just read news articles of Killian’s crimes right on BBC just last night! Did he really think the public would just dismiss the victims as a bunch of drug users who had what, sold their own children?

They...they wouldn’t, would they?

...no, no of course not, how could anyone look at these poor women and...and see fault, blame? Matthews probably didn’t even think that-he was just...what was he doing? Was Killian paying him off somehow, or was there another motive?

“Why is he lying? It wasn’t just-I mean the Timberwoods location was hit with police-good police-” Aimee started to say over a reporter’s question about the zoning in the area-as if that mattered. She went quiet again as Matthews regained his wind.

“What this was, ladies and gentlemen, was an act of terrorism.” The young woman’s eyes had widened, were almost comically large-full lips parted in shock. What?

“She may call herself a “concerned citizen”, but in fact she is an extremist terrorist- acting with impunity and often illegally in some of our worst areas. Putting her and the vigilante Nightwatch in check should be one of our highest priorities.”

Terrorism?! What about the accompanying police raid, Killian’s connection, the entire missing families? W-was this because of the baton usage? No, no, that didn’t make any sense, THIS didn’t make any sense.

He was corrupt-maybe he just wanted to discredit her? Maybe. Nightwatch had warned her about the city turning on her. But...the city was its people, and Matthews was just a single, very questionable man in power. The women they had helped far outweighed him. Aimee slipped her hand into her jacket’s pocket, drawing out the bright red mask and staring at it a moment. Still. Terrorist? He was branding Concerned Citizen a terrorist? Good Lord.

Deep breaths Aimee.

“W-well, if a man like Matthews disapproves of Concerned Citizen…” She started to say, opting for...for bravery-when the newswoman mentioned a warrant for her arrest being signed that afternoon.

Her fist closed tightly around the mask in alarm, her head snapping up.

This just kept getting worse, didn’t it? A warrant?! For her arrest?! Aimee felt a little dizzy and cold, maybe even slightly frantic. She had never been in trouble in her life, not even a speeding ticket. Her father was a retired police officer! She couldn’t be getting herself arrested!

“W-what do I do? Do I t-turn myself in?”

Could she really expect a fair trial if she did, or to keep her identity secret? But if she didn’t, did that make Concerned Citizen a criminal now? Would it look like she was hiding something?

Would...would people think she was a masked villain instead of a hero?

 

[Armphid]

Daniel listened grimly to the broadcast, absently chewing on a blueberry tart. It was the third one of them he'd eaten. Apparently he liked blue berries a great deal, even if he wasn't really tasting them now. Matthews was taking a far bolder approach than he anticipated. Why? He had to have some idea of the extent of the information now in the hands of almost every media outlet on the planet, not to mention the Feds. So why go this route? Was he really that confident that he was untouchable? He stood and paced, like a big cat confronted with strange reactions in it's prey.

He was so intent on the motives behind the speech and their implications that he didn't notice Aimee's dire reaction at first. It was until she asked if she if she should turn herself in that he looked at her. His ice blue eyes swept over her stunned face, the mask clutched in her hand, and he felt a surge of sympathy for her and a molten fury for Matthews. The anger felt good. The sympathy...was frightening.

"Don't be absurd," he snapped, immediately regretting it. Daniel shook his head to push his rage away. "Turning yourself in would accomplish nothing. You'd never live to see trial and you can be sure Matthews and his cronies would go after your family." Her boyfriend/girlfriend too. "This was always going to happen. Putting on a mask and fighting crime ends up breaking plenty of laws, even when done as carefully and respectfully as you." He hesitated and then reached out to touch her small hand; it was a cautious contact, as if he worried his mere touch would pollute her or she would sense the monster inside him and recoil. "Some corrupt official was always going to do this. It means nothing. Most people will recognize it for what it is; the flailing of a rat in a trap."

Most? No, he didn't think so. Some would. But far too many if the rotten world's rotten people would choose to believe rather than admit that they'd elected a monster.

"My first warrant was issued on my fourteenth birthday," he said. "My mentor thought it was hilarious; she got me ice cream to celebrate." Then he pulled his hand back. Too much. That was too much.

Daniel stood abruptly, faster than he should, almost knocking his chair over. "They're not going to come after you. Because I'm going to remind them who the terrorist here is." He reached back to take hold of the cowl and paused. "...It makes sense to be afraid and worried. It's natural. But don't let it control you. You haven't yet. I know you won't disappoint me."

He slid the cowl on. His bearing changed and he let out a sighing growl in Nightwatch's low, distorted voice. It was like slipping into a familiar and comfortable coffin. "Get some more rest. You've earned it. This shows how much you've hurt them. Above all...this just proves you're getting results."

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Aimee dropped her eyes to her lap when he snapped at her, color coming to her cheeks. She felt very, very stupid, now. She listened worriedly to what he said, her stomach twisting in anxiety. They...they would kill her for doing the right thing, in turning herself in? Really? And her family-her father. He couldn’t have known it, but she was already nervous and worried for Charlotte, who wasn’t hiding behind a mask, was challenging Matthews openly. She didn’t think-surely no one would attack-oh God, what if Matthews would resort to violence? Charlotte’s clinic was in a bad part of town, and she lived alone!

Surely he wouldn’t.

But Daniel knew better than she did. She trusted him implicitly. No, she wouldn’t turn herself in. It didn’t feel good, but she wouldn’t. Matthews was the sort of man to call a bunch of rape and kidnapping victims drug addicts, to try and cover up heinous crimes for unknown reasons and let bad men back on the streets. Maybe it wasn’t that much of a stretch. It was bad enough what she and Charlotte were risking, doing. And if she were exposed, she didn’t want the drug lords she was angering going after her father.

He touched her hand and she looked up at him, still upset at being branded a terrorist but...he made her feel a little better, somehow. That he thought she was being careful, respectful of the law. That this accusation and warrant meant nothing. “Th-thank you, Daniel.” She said with a nod, finding a smile for him, small, anxious-but a smile all the same. She almost...almost turned her hand face up, to hold his-but that probably wouldn’t be a very good idea.

And then, to her surprise, he shared something about himself, about Starlight. Before she could say anything about it however, he retracted his hand and stood up so fast she jumped, a brief bit of startlement before she slowly rose to her own feet, a bit of trouble flickering through her eyes, the mask still tight in her hand. Oh no.

“Daniel-” And then he paused before donning the mask, before going back to being Nightwatch-offering encouragement as he did periodically-Aimee’s cheeks turning a pretty shade of rosy pink as her eyes widened on his icy ones. She was instantly tongue tied, distracted from her worry about him hurting people, about him...being a terrorist? In response to this. Her heart had also quickened, and that was...that was not professional.

N-no, she wouldn’t disappoint him. She desperately hoped not.

And then his mask was on, and she felt too nervous to try and tell him what to do. He told her to get some more rest. Said she had earned it, that she was getting results.

He was set and ready to go, and she was standing here feeling worried, warm, and conflicted. “J-just, it’s okay. He’s a bad man. I’d be worried if he did like me.” She glanced back to the table of baked goods. It had been a nice time, but the world went on, didn’t it? She started to pack things back up, short work given the nature of the containers.

“Please don’t...um. N-not on my account.” He...he was one of the good guys. He was good. “Y-you’re a hero. You're not a t-terrorist, either.” A slight worry to her bottom lip, not brave enough to specifically say what she was worried he would go and do, but unable to say nothing. She stacked the containers neatly in the backpack, on top of the fruit ones. She'd bought the backpack so he could get everything home easily, on his motorcycle.

“The truth always shines through.” She said softly, believing it with all her heart. It would. “He’s wrong for trying to downplay what those poor women went through. There’s no hiding it. I’ve...I’ve got a plan for that, we’ll see if it works.” She brought her hands up to grip her upper arms, feeling anxious, cold as she remembered what she had seen, the awful. She suppressed a shiver, shook her head-as her hands took the backpack again, a little heavy-but nothing to him, probably.

Vibrant eyes flickered back to him as she held it out for him.

“Be careful out there, Daniel. Please.”

 

[Ambrosia_64]

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry-are you okay? Are you home? I can be right over-”

“N-no, that’s okay, I-” Aimee felt her face burn a little as she drove down the road, intent on getting more done, tonight. Nightwatch had told her to rest some more. He told her she had earned it. He was so nice to her, he really was-but had wasted enough time, past few nights. Her leg hurt her, but she wouldn't go fighting tonight. She hoped her Safe Place Patrol could wait a few more days. No, tonight she'd work on her budding network, and enact her hopeful, flimsy plan against Matthews.

She didn't have time to rest. She wasn't going to tell Nightwatch that, though. She never refused outright, just...didn't agree to stay home. Sneaky, maybe? Or perhaps he expected it from her, by now.

He was so nice. She hoped...she hoped he wasn't going to do anything too...too-not because of her.

"You must be upset." Her sister continued. Her calling Charlotte the other night seemed to undo a bit of the progress her older sister had made at seeing-and more importantly treating- her as an adult. She loved her older sister to pieces, but-

“DON’T go to the police station, for the love of God.” She followed up with, and Aimee felt her face redden further. Daniel and Charlotte both were so much smarter than she was-and that Charlotte knew what her first thought had been made her feel even more stupid for having it.

“I-I wasn’t.” Was that a lie? Aimee rushed to correct it. “I-I mean, Nightwatch was very firm on me NOT doing that.”

“Good. Whatever he said, he’s probably right. It’d be handing yourself over to the wolves.”

”Like a sacrificial, innocent little lamb.”

Aimee shivered.

“He thought he’d kill me. Go after you and Dad.” Aimee worried. “D-do you think…?”

“I don’t know Aimee. Let’s not find out.”

“But you’re…”

“I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry, kid-I’m armed and locked in tight every night. And no one is going to go bother Dad. Everything’s fine on this front, okay? Just...just don’t go do anything foolish. You’re a good person Aimee. ...these people aren’t. They’d love to get a hold of you.”

Aimee fumbled with the CC patch on her chest. “...okay. I’m sorry.”

“For what kid? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“...I want to talk to Mr. Sanderson. Do you have his contact info?”

“I know where he’s at, right now. There was a soiree I didn’t attend…”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Luke Sanderson was a tall, lean figured man, a runner’s physique topped with broad shoulders. He dressed well, always, and kept his dark brown hair military short on the sides, with short hair on the top. Dark, intelligent eyes were warm and charming, a constant quirk to his lips, a near smile that often spread into a full toothed grin. A politician’s smile, his girlfriends had termed it.

Maybe.

He wasn’t sure how she had found him, known he’d be here. When he received the text, he also hadn’t been sure what to think. He’d heard of her out there. Saw the news about the bombing, saw the clip of her dragging a man out. He wasn’t sure how to feel about her, really. Heroes weren’t a thing anymore-everyone knew that. They’d gone the way of the dodo, nearly. Luke couldn’t blame them. He probably would have retired too, the way the people had turned against them, forgotten them. That lunatic Mask Killer. And here, the city’s vigilante was more myth than man. People were afraid of him. Hell, Luke wouldn’t want to run into him in a dark alley, and he was as law abiding as you could get.

But this mysterious newcomer on the scene, this girl-she was throwing herself into it in spite of that near extinction, trying to clear pockets of the city of the grime, clean and shine them up for...what? The people? The community? Did she just...not know how things always turned out for women in that game? Or that the days of wholesome innocence and neighborly protection were behind them, and nothing could bring them back?

The doctor sought to topple the corrupt leadership currently in place. The masked girl wanted to inspire hope and build something in the muck, saw potential where Luke wasn’t sure there was any. And him? What did he want?

He wanted to law to matter again. Justice in this chaos, not a mockery of it. It should be protecting victims-not used as a bludgeon against them, as a tool of suppression. Smack some sense back into the system.

The girl in red and yellow was persuasive. He maybe didn’t need much persuading in the first place, but she was. It would be an odd little triangle, what she wanted, what Charlotte wanted. A doctor, a heroine, and a lawyer.

“I think you’re a good man, Mr. Sanderson.” She continued, interrupting his thoughts. “And good men can still triumph over bad ones.” That matter of fact voice was tinged with hope, the heroine’s Carribbean blue eyes shining with it.

Luke wasn’t sure that was still the case. Then again, he must believe it-why else was he here, schmoozing with these scumbags and uncaring elite? Why had he let himself be roped into Charlotte’s grand plans and machinations? Representing domestic assault victims that came to her clinic, suing rapists the law didn’t deem dangerous on behalf of rape victims-all pro bono, all in his increasingly shrinking free time? And here was this masked girl, this self described ‘concerned citizen’-talking him up like he could champion this cause, this fight for the city, for good.

He was arrogant in his own way, but he wasn’t sure he deserved the earnest belief she seemed to have in him. In the face of it, he didn’t have to think very hard on his answer-he almost couldn’t tell her no. “Alright. I’ll do it. The FBI case against Killian-suing him on behalf of the women will keep that in the news. Discredits Matthews without us even needing to do much. And we’ll sue the men-customers and jailers both. There may or may not be any money in it for them, but it’ll be something. Some sort of justice for the victims.” This would be the biggest thing he’d taken on, would draw attention. Bigger than the lawsuit against the corrupt landlord of those apartment buildings-what had gotten Charlotte’s attention in the first place.

What had been going on...what had been revealed-it sickened him. He knew the city was a damned, sinful place- but this ugly, and the D.A.’s response to it exposed just how damned, just how dirty. He was disgusted to live here, nearly.

The girl gave a nod. “Shame the D.A. into action. If not-at least something was done, someone fought for them. They didn’t deserve this. No one does.”

“I’ll continue to...to fight the good fight, as you called it. I’m not sure what it’ll do for my politics but...it’s more important to try and do things right than to do them successfully, to me.” He was almost embarrassed to hear himself say it. He came up in a world of harsh political maneuverings, sharpened his teeth in a ruthless firm. But he still believed in the law...or what the law was supposed to be. He had no idea what his chances were against the entrenched Carl Matthews, or if he could better them by fighting for the women-but someone had to do it. And he was clever enough to get it done. Maybe.

“And that’s why the people will rally behind you, sir.” She said brightly, a smile lighting on her lips. She was adorable. He worried about her being out there, worried about the sort of monsters she was going after. At least he could assume safety-whatever the D.A. did to him politically, he was in no physical danger. This small crime fighter though…

“You be careful out there, Miss Citizen. You’re a lynchpin in all of this-a call to the past. How things were, how things should have stayed. Safe Places is...is a good start in all this mess.”

The smile faded to a look of embarrassed anxiety, a bit of color to her face. “Every movement needs a symbol-I’m poorly qualified but...I’ll try my best. Assuming my name isn’t stained beyond repair with the...the terrorist allegations.”

Poor kid. “Hey. It’s like you said-good men can triumph over bad ones. Good women, too.” He thought a little harder, wanting to say something comforting, wanting to...what, encourage her?

“The only people who will believe Matthews’ bullshit are the ones who were against you in the first place. They’re people willing to overlook the crimes happening in there-no one you need to impress. You did good, Concerned Citizen. You and Nightwatch, those cops-you all did good.”

She smiled again. It wasn’t quite as bright, embarrassed and a little nervous-but he felt warmed by it all the same.

She extended her hand and he shook it. “Thank you for helping.” She said softly and sincerely. Luke immediately felt he had made the right choice, no matter the outcome. “I’ll be in touch.” She assured-and then she was climbing over the marble railing and dropped to the soft grass below, slipping off into the hedges and fauna, disappearing from view. Luke tapped on the rail, thinking. He’d do what he said. He could file the suits tomorrow, after getting a list of participants from Charlotte. It’d probably get him dropped from the firm, but he had enough savings to take the hit. He’d paid the house off already, working his twenties and early thirties away as he had. At thirty six, he had expected to be a partner in some big name firm-but it hadn’t panned out that way. He was something of a joke in that world, wasn’t he? Well, he brought in enough in fees to have been useful, in the least.

The cases would be the leg he stood on in his campaign, no doubt. He’d see how that went.

He slipped the silver Iphone from his pocket and selected the pretty doctor’s clinic from the list. It was late, but he was sure she’d be there. She seemed to always be there. Did she even sleep? It rang a few times, then picked up. “Doctor Summers.” A brisk, no nonsense voice answered. “Hey there Doc.” He greeted warmly, as always. She pretended to remain aloof, but he thought he might be winning her over, little by little. As unattainable as she seemed, he was determined to find out just what was under her hard exterior. “Guess who I just met?”


///////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Look, all I did was my job. We were having shitty diner food around the corner when the call came through-it’s a small fucking world sometimes, boss.”

“It just seems a little too convenient, Lieutenant.” He groused, having just grilled her like she was a suspect in something nefarious. Marie stuck to her guns. He wouldn’t admit to being on the take, to the protection money the joints must have been paying-damn it all-and Marie wouldn’t admit to it being a planned set up. None of her men would talk, either.

...she hoped. Then again, they all had been horrified. Every one of them.

“You’ve kept your head down like a good little girl, and you need to keep it down. I would hope you aren’t in league with vigilante terrorists.”

Marie felt her face burn at his condescending tone and phrasing, barely suppressed rage in her chest as she glared holes into the floor, her hands curled into fists against her thights. “Of course not. For fuck’s sake, who the hell would be?”

God damned Summers. Marie wasn’t sure she would have went if she had known, and while she didn’t regret going-it didn’t make her look good, Nightwatch and that girl hitting the other two locations at the same time. Especially Nightwatch. The mythic, dark figure in their city was no end of trouble for the cops. Especially with the tear he’d been on lately. His bouts of violence against petty criminals had been a welcome respite to the corrupt department-and now he was back at it in full force after years of...well. She’d seen the results of his work first hand. Grisly, but she didn’t have much sympathy for the criminal element, the city was so awash with it, how could she?

And God, the terrible shit that had been going on in that house...and the police had known about it. Had been caught partaking. She had never felt more disgusted to be a cop. If she didn’t get fired, she might just quit.

But then who would be left to try and police the corruption? Fuck, like she was doing anything about it, these days. Like she could do anything. The FBI was involved now, with that piece of shit Killian. Maybe they would...hell, no they wouldn’t. There were corrupt police across the country. Their hands were already full. If not for the kids, they probably wouldn’t have bothered with the case or the man at all.

“Get out of my office. See that you stay in yours.” He snarled, and she rose to her feet and did as he ordered, not daring to look at him. If she did, she might come across the desk and beat the ever loving shit out of him.

She was so angry. If she was younger, maybe SHE’D take on a mask, Mask Killer or no Mask Killer, Jesus. As it was, they’d be back to watching her closely, now. She could file another report with Internal Affairs, but they were a joke too. And he’d know where it came from. Hell, even if he couldn’t prove it, he’d assume.

Maybe Nightwatch could pay his stupid ass a visit, someday.

 

[Armphid]

"Nightwatch," he corrected absently. But then he shook his head, "No, I...never mind. Yes, I'll be careful." He could tell she didn't mean physically. Well, she did, but it was more about something else. She thought he was going to cross a line. To a certain extent...she was right.

"You're wrong about me." He took the backpack from her, not needing her to tell him that it was for him. It was sweet. It was too much. This...he shouldn't have this and neither should Daniel. But he would take it. He would eat them and use the fruit. And she would shine a little more light into a dark part of the world. But did he want that in his world? "I might have been a hero once...that was a long time ago. That little girl...from the house that was on fire...she ran after me when I went to help, telling me to leave her family alone. That's what I am. There's no point pretending otherwise."

"Thank you, for this. Good night." He didn't want to hear her reply. Her belief and faith in his worth, that there was still good in him was...it hurt. It hurt and it worried that him that she wrong. And it worried him that...maybe...just maybe...she might be right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Carl Matthews sighed as he sat down in a huge office chair. The grey haired District Attorney was a broad man, heavy set without being fat and dressed in a suit that cost far more than he should have been able to afford on a government job. The same thing with everything in his office, even his office chair. His desk itself cost as much as a small car; it was a thing of beauty, perfectly stained wood, big, heavy, and well decorated. And this was just the office in his luxury apartment, not the one in City Hall. He lit an illegal cigar and leaned back in his chair, taking a puff. He'd sorted that little blonde bitch out; she'd be running out of his city, and if not, the cops'd get her. He and Chief Early had a clear understanding on that.

And when they got her...he'd get a chance to fuck her before she hung herself in her cell, the cunt.

He felt the presence behind him a full second before he turned, only to be met with a hard right cross that sent his cigar tumbling and knocked him half out of his chair. Nightwatch loomed over him, jerking him back into the chair and quickly and deftly tying his wrists and forearms together, looping whatever he was using around for sturdiness and stability. Matthews shook his head, "Y-you! What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Convincing you to resign. The governor's been calling and telling you too. The AG as well." The vigilante walked around the desk, eyeing it. "Hn. Sturdy. Heavy." It would probably work.

"Look, you don't scare me you twisted freak," Matthews said. Despite his words there were beads of sweat on his brow and his face was pale. "I'm not going anywhere. I win and freaks like you lose. That's how it is and you know it. They can call for my resignation all they want. I know where the bodies are buried, I know who did what, nobody can touch me."

"I can." Nightwatch lifted his grapnel, pointed it down at the top of the desk, and fired it. It blasted through the rich wood with a cracking bang to snap open and then jerk back to anchor against the solid piece of furniture. "And I will, over and over, unless you resign."

"Wh-what, you think wrecking my stuff is going to do it? I can just buy more!" Matthews sneered, "That's nothing!" Then he noticed the line tied to his arms was the same line as was now anchored by his desk. "W-wait, what are you-"

Nightwatch smiled viciously.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

Glass broke and fell over a dozen stories to the sidewalk below. A man screamed as he plummeted, his office chair falling with him, having been used to kick him out the window of one of the luxury apartments. The chair hit the cement and shattered into pieces.

The line suddenly went taut and snapped back, swinging the helpless, screaming man into the side of the building. His arms were jerked up over his head, leaving him hanging in the air, still a good fifty feet off the ground. Matthews screamed, his arms having been pulled from their sockets, muscles torn.

Nightwatch stepped up to the broken window and looked down. The few people out at this time of night, including the few reporters he'd tipped off that something would happen, were gawking up at the dangling district attorney and then panned up. He waited, wanting them to see him there. Wanting everyone to see him there. Only when he was sure they had did he fire his grapnel with a new line, leap and swing away into the darkness of the pre-dawn hours. One more stop tonight...

~~~~~~~~|​

As Maria shut the office door behind her, Chief Early shook his head. He thought she knew how things worked. She hadn't made waves in years, her and her whole goody two shoes team...not one of them on the take. After a stunt like this, that made him nervous. He'd put the pressure back on, just in case. And split up that unit. It was past time for that.

And maybe, just maybe, Maria would tragically die in the line of duty. He didn't like doing that. She was still a cop. But if she did keep her head down, he just might have to.

He stood up from his desk and walked to the liquor cabinet he kept in his office against regulations. "Need a fucking drink."

"Better make it a double," Nightwatch said from where he stood by the now locked office door.

~~~~~~~​

Marie paused as she stalked angrily away from the Chief's office. Had he just locked the door? When he was in there alone? What was the fat bastard up to now? Then there was a muffled shout and a crash. Marie blinked; had he had a heart attack and fallen? Was God finally making something good happen in this hellhole? There was a second louder crash along with the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood. "Shit."

She ran to the door, "Chief! Hold on!" The sounds of violence inside continued as she reared back, lifting a foot, and kicked hard at the door jam. Once, twice, on the third kick, the jam splintered and the door swung open. The lieutenant drew her weapon and swung in the door, sweeping the room. The place was trashed; pictures and civic awards were off the walls and on the floor. The desk itself had a crack in the top and one of ty he legs had broken, making it lean. The liquor cabinet was destroyed, broken bottles and glasses were strewn across the room. The chief was slumped against his now leaning desk. "Jesus."

Marie moved to the falls lawman taking his pulse. Alive but knocked the fuck out. What had happened?

"Someone I know says you're a good cop." She whirled at the sound of that voice to see the shockingly agile bulk of Nightwatch by a window to the office that hadn't been open when she'd been getting chewed out. "I don't believe in good cops. You've got a chance to prove me wrong." Then he turned and crouched on the window sill. "If you don't shoot, they'll be sure you're working with me."

He leaped as her service weapon fired twice, the bullets placed in the frame of the window he'd jumped out of. "Hey," she shouted "get the squad here, the Chief's down!" She walked to the window and looked out. No sign of him. Shit! How did someone that big pull a fade like that? And breaking into police HQ just before the shift change? He had balls. Nice ass too. "Speak of the devil," she mused.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

"You're wrong about me."

The second time he’d told her that. Aimee had immense respect for Nightwatch. She trusted that he knew his stuff, trusted him as a teacher and trainer. But this...this she was sure she knew better than he did. He...was wrong. About the city, about himself. He’d gone back in for the family cat. The only way that could have been more stereotypically herolike was if the pet had been in a tree.

"I might have been a hero once...that was a long time ago.”

What...did he think he was now? What had he thought the little girl thought he was? A terrorist? A villain? Did he even have a term of what he thought he was, or was the name Nightwatch enough? If he wasn’t a hero, what did he think he was training her to be?

She paused mid brush stroke, a blink in the mirror. That right there. That. His encouragement, his OWN little niceties, kindnesses-a villain couldn’t train a hero. He might wish she was harsher, tougher, more extreme than she was-but he was proud of her. Or, or at least, said she hadn’t let him down, and he’d said that NOT under the influence of a date rape drug. A villain or a terrorist would have continuously tracked her down and hounded her off the streets. Not that that would have worked.

...he would have had to hurt her, bad to make her stop. And she didn’t think he-or anyone!-would have done that, no one good. Still, could have made it very, very difficult for her.

No point in pretending otherwise…? She wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t evil. Or...a monster?

Did Nightwatch think he was a monster?

Aimee frowned at her own reflection, a noise of frustrated worry. She should have said something! She’d been too nervous, too...scared? After he had corrected her when she’d called him Daniel, put that mask between them. She...tried to make Concerned Citizen another person, compartmentalize. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to do this, probably not at all. Thunderstorm would have killed her. Christine West would have jumped. She would have collapsed at Killian’s and been useless for conducting any raids on his awful brothels.

But Nightwatch...it was different, somehow. Like he had left Daniel completely behind somewhere, tried to forget he even WAS anyone under his mask.

Thought he might be a monster…?

Aimee finished brushing out her hair and looked away from the mirror, blinked back tears. He had given up so much, lost so much in this life. And she’d let him down. He didn’t know it, but she had. She should have said something. Shouldn’t have been such a coward.

Next time. Next time she’d-well, there had been a lot of progress tonight, at least, so maybe she hadn’t entirely let him down. She hoped.

She set the hairbrush down and scooped Sophie up, turned the light out. Terrorist. Aimee sighed with a shake of her head. She wasn’t a terrorist. The license plate thing was illegal, but that was a fix it ticket. Breaking and entering Killian’s was...well, that was shakier ground. Technically, she’d been investigating a possible kidnapping, but really-she had no suspicion that a crime was taking place in THAT particular building at THAT particular moment. She had been looking for information, not victims, and certainly not trouble. But...most everything else had been within the law. Actually...wasn’t the baton illegal in this state?

Dang it.

“Well, Sophie, all we can do is try, right?” Aimee baby talked to the kitten, climbing into bed with her with a wince. She’d put a LOT of neosporin on her leg as she had done every night, hoping against hope it wouldn’t scar TOO badly, once the stitches were taken off. A scar was a good trade for having saved Nightwatch, but she would...rather not have one.

No one saw that high on her legs anyway, but still. Vanity.

Aimee felt a little embarrassed, pulling her phone off the nightstand to read the news as she did nearly every night...but she set it down again, not wanting to. She didn’t want any more bad news today, right now. She’d get some sleep, recharge, and be better for it tomorrow.

She thought about poor Daniel, the things he had said. The returned hug.

Aimee fumbled with the corner of the comforter before sliding further down it. He liked blueberries. What about lemons? She could make Lemon-Blueberry biscuits, did he like tea? Or...blueberry almond bars. Maybe...mini...pies?

She yawned, curling up under her blankets, tired despite all the laziness she’d been doing the past few days. Charlotte had already gotten home nice and safe-now both sisters were texting each other once home. Aimee was worried for Charlotte, despite the assurances. Nightwatch thought the D.A. would kill. That scared her. It scared her that she could have turned herself in and died before defending herself in court. That wasn’t right. It wasn’t right she had to ignore a judge’s summons to answer for Concerned Citizen’s actions.

But..they weren’t even holding the men who had gone to the brothels, there were still no pending charges against the awful men who had been running them. How seriously should she really be taking them and their judgement of who was a threat or not? And now she had to worry about and avoid the police…?

Did Nightwatch really think he was a monster?

“But...you’re not.” She murmured, already starting to drift off, so very tired.


///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
He’d brought her a coffee. Charlotte tried to be annoyed, agitated at him showing up unannounced and without calling ahead-but he’d waited patiently in her office for a full forty minutes before she finally had time to sit with him-and didn’t seem a mite annoyed by it. She had been tempted to make him wait all damned day, nearly-but hadn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. Sanderson.” She inclined her head as she accepted the coffee, taking a seat behind her neat desk and unlocking the right filing drawer, retrieving a file folder that she slid to him. “These are the women who were willing to share their accounts and leave statements. They should be open to joining the suit. Most are in shelters now, though a few are still in the Holiday Inn.”

“Luke.” He provided, not for the first time, genially, a smile. “On who’s dollar?” He inquired curiously, and Charlotte’s lips pursed. “Mine. Now that they’re ‘drug addicts’, it’s a bit harder to obtain support...and keep what I had in place.” She shook her head, a draw on the coffee.

“You saw the news?” He inquired, flipping through the documents in the folder, grimacing at something he read in a statement.

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. On one hand, the D.A. was a Goddamned travesty for this city, for legal representatives in general. On the other...on the other, Jesus. Dislocations were immensely painful. And what if he had fallen, slipped out of that line? What if it had been tied wrong, and it took his hands clean off and THEN he plummeted? How long before Nightwatch killed someone, and would it even be accident?

Glorified thug. This wasn’t the mafia days.

“...yes. What he does has nothing to do with us. He’s a variable I don’t like trying to calculate around.” This was surprising action, too...more than he’d done in a long time. And letting himself be seen…? A statement.

He was back in full force and form, it seemed.

Aimee couldn’t have been part of that, obviously. She had been talking with Luke, and for damned sure she wouldn’t have let anyone get shoved out of high rise windows.

“...our police friend said he was there for Early, too.” Charlotte said slowly, thinking. “That’s not in the news.” What was his game here? Was he willing to work with Marie? Or…

Internally, she growled. Nightwatch was too dangerous, too unknown. It was bad enough Aimee was involved with him-good for the training, she reluctantly, begrudgingly had to agree-but bad for everything else, in her opinion. There was no controlling him, and Charlotte had little interest in variables she couldn’t control. This operation was locked down tight, and while she was ready to adapt, she was dead set to be as far removed from the vigilante as possible, if possible. Marie, meanwhile, had been almost ecstatic someone had shown her boss up.

She had also warned they were coming down hard on her, but she would continue to do what she could.

Charlotte felt uncharacteristically impatient. She had zero pity for either Early or Matthews. If anything, maybe this would unsettle them enough there’d be less of a fight against them-or their replacements. But she wasn’t sure Marie was ready for the next step. Not yet. They had to get Sanderson in place first. Then Marie could bag his first few cases and hopefully, hopefully it would seem natural to vote her in to replace Early, when it came up.

Unless Early quit. Then there’d be a power struggle, and maybe she could maneuver Marie into place sooner than expected...assuming she could fight the political fight, there. Hm. Hm, hm, hm.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

The park belonged to the city now. She’d helped plant the last of the flowers and shovel in gravel at the newly installed playground alongside Charlotte and a bunch of other volunteers during a sunny, if brisk Sunday, had been surprised-and embarrassed-by the sign Charlotte had had installed at all four entrances to the park.

“A Designated Safe Place” was printed at the top, followed by the simple park rules- closed after dark, no weapons, drug free-the usual stuff. And then there was Concerned Citizen’s symbol, the slanted to the upper right corner, double C emblem in yellow with a red bordered edge on the left- stamped bold and clear on the lower right side of the sign.

She felt proud, and then bad for feeling proud, but warm about it all the same. It had been hard work. The persuasion and the fighting. Staking a claim on such a large piece of real estate. But she had managed. And she would keep it that way, as best she could, for as long as she could.

The police had started sweeping through the parking lots at night, here and there. Looking for her, but still-it helped keep it clear of bad guys, didn’t it? Marie had her men cruising through the connecting areas, Sixth Street, Safeway Bridge.

...signs were up on the bridge, but that was still pretty contested. At least once a week she was having to talk somebody out of dealing or fight someone there. There were two different drug lords who just...would not give it up. No matter how many messages she sent back with the men she’d roughed up and left for the police. Still...she was making progress.

The website was simple, talked about the goal of Safe Places, had a nice little map of what was clear so far-eventually, she hoped you could walk from one end of the city to the other and stay safe while doing so.

There was a night parade planned later this month that would do just that. She’d take the night off hero-ing so she could attend as herself.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////

A plain, unassuming binder had shown up just a few days after the pastry extravaganza and Matthew’s conference, sat lying flat next to that mysterious framed article about the family being rescued from a fire, their pet cat. The binder was full of page protectors and printed articles of Nightwatch’s recent activities on his tear through the underworld, and before those-a nice little piece done up on the History museum having been spared the fiery fate of the Art and Science Museum thanks to him. Elk’s prison sentence, the connection laid bare. There were empty page protectors to fill the rest of the binder, waiting for more articles, it seemed.


Her leg had still been healing, and while she’d long since returned to her patrols and nighttime activities, Nightwatch had her working on less physical hero tasks-such as handling simple types of bombs and explosives. She hoped that wouldn’t ever be an issue again, but better to know what to do than not.

By the end of the second week, Charlotte had removed the stitches and it was just a matter of hoping the wound faded completely away-she wouldn’t know if it’d leave a scar or not for a year or more, Charlotte had said. In the meantime, it was a little ugly, but not bad thanks to the stitches. A thin but jagged, raised line from a very nasty blade and fight.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////

Sanderson was making waves. It was a problem. They were all problems, and the loudest and most vocal of them was a no nothing doctor who seemed to think she could challenge the status quo without consequence. Was above them.

She ran a clinic and seemed to be a bleeding heart humanitarian-but she spoke the worst damned smear campaigns, Jesus. They could keep only so much off the local channels-but with the damned FBI case against Killian and the connections with the brothels and the men that had been released-and Sanderson’s damned lawsuits against them-it was impossible to keep a lid on it entirely, and national coverage was bad coverage.

Matthews had acted like a neutered dog ever since that first run in with Nightwatch-and he’d been pulling the strings since. It was time to get rid of the thorns digging into his side, once and for all-time for things to go back to the way they should be. And he knew just where to start.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It’d been a long day. They were always long days. The flu was going around-she’d sent three kids and an elderly man to the bigger hospital-on her dollar, again-with severe symptoms of possible pneumonia on top of that-and saw a dozen more before and after. By one she had cleared the clinic when a gunshot victim came in-some banger, some kid getting into confrontations he shouldn’t have.

She neglected, as she often did, to report him, but had had a very stern talking to as she fixed up his arm. After that, she set a broken arm, dealt with a sick toddler, administered prenatal care to several teen mothers-and the hours just whiled away until the clinic closed, her nurse went home, and she was finally alone to sort through paperwork and finish her reports.

Tomorrow, she’d have to take a long lunch and make some follow up calls. Sanderson was gaining steam, but they’d need some big name supporters if they hoped to get anywhere.

Locking up, she noted the damned street lamp was out again-the last one that’d been on, too. There were the distant lights of the parking garage and the one that lit the red cross on white wooden sign above her door-but that was it. Dark and foreboding.

She loosened her shoulders, shifting her medical bag to one so her hands were free. A slim, taller figure, she wore a long women’s jacket belted at her waist and dress pants, comfortable tennis shoes she’d forgotten to change out of before leaving. Her brown, very curly hair was mostly in a bun at the nape of her neck-a few shorter curls framing her face. She started down the sidewalk, her head up, eyes intent on her destination. There wasn’t really anyone around-not even Henry, the bum who was usually down the side alley near her clinic. She’d posted him up several times, but he never stayed. He had to be “movin’” he had told her. Untreated mental illness was the cause of many of the city’s homelessness issue. Eventually, she was sure she could talk him into staying at a shelter, getting the care he needed. If she couldn’t, she’d just have to introduce Aimee to him.

It wouldn’t be the first time her little sister had managed where she had failed, in such a task.

She was on the first level of the garage. She arrived early enough for it, and there wasn’t much of interest around-so the three story fixture was usually fairly empty, anyway. Tonight however...tonight there was a rusted blue van parked on the opposite side of the garage. Charlotte’s eyes slid to it, noted it-but she didn’t think much on it, entirely. She would have missed it if she hadn’t been paying attention.

Her eyes flickered back to the tan Buick. She wasn’t all that worried. But Aimee was, and that made her feel...less settled, than usual. Particularly as she thought she heard footsteps behind her, on the sidewalk.

She pretended not to notice, didn’t pick up her pace as she continued into the parking garage. Her keys were already in her left hand, the same shoulder that had her bag. Her right was free. She subtly loosened the belt around her waist, let the coat fall more open. She was being ridiculous, paranoid. Matthews and his ilk were scumbags, but they couldn’t possibly be ballsy or stupid enough to think they could eliminate the competition so easily, sending someone to intimidate her.

...if that’s all they’d send someone for.

Shit.

She was to her car. They were too far away to catch her, now-she slid the keys into the lock-and was shoved violently forward into the door with a curse. Two of them, and one had been waiting near her car. Great.

Her free hand smacked against the glass and hood, and before he could shift his weight against her she shoved violently back at him-dropping her medical bag to reach behind and grab him by the balls, a crushing, jerking motion there, poor bastard-before her elbow snapped back and caught him in the face, given their similar heights.

She had twisted with the movement, her back now against the car as she gave the crumpling man a shove-her other hand already slipping inside her jacket, fingers wrapping around the butt of her pistol.

“Okay assholes-” She had been about to-admittedly quickly-run through the legal spiel-I’m armed, I’m afraid for my life-all that good stuff-and draw on the other guy, but-

 

[Armphid]

As Dr. Summers swore and rose, the brawny form of Nightwatch swung in from the open space between garage floors. He flew in at a faint arc nearly parallel to the ground and drove his shoulder into the man who had been following her before entering the garage. Both men hit the cement, the would-be mugger's snub nosed revolver clattering across the hard surface. The vigilante rolled onto his back and delivered a trio of flat handed strikes; the first to the man's forehead, his head bouncing back to hit the concrete beneath, the second just below where his neck joined his chest to stagger the thug's breathing, the third to his gut to blast any remaining air from his lungs.

Nightwatch rolled up to his shoulders and kicked to his feet, his right hand flashing forward. A shining throwing knife seemed to sprout from nowhere in the back of the hand of the man Charlotte had knocked down; he screamed and his pistol fell from his hand. He dropped to smash his left knee into the forehead of the prone man to ensure he was down, and then dashed at the one near Charlotte. He came in low with a rising palm strike that jerked his head back and broke his jaw, then slammer his left into the stooge's groin as hard as he could.

As he toppled over, Nightwatch straightened up to his full height. "Doctor Summers. Are you all right?" He bent to pick up the nearby revolver opening the cylinder and emptying the bullets onto the concrete floor. He'd get the other one in a moment. "Looks like you've gotten someone's attention."

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Charlotte had worked hard to get to where she was. She'd stared down thugs and zoning committees to keep her Clinic open, had chased corrupt cops and rival gangers looking for information out with a look. She was uncowed and unafraid of anything this city had to throw at her. She had seen...some awful things in her lifetime, in becoming a doctor, in the course of her career. Had been hardened by it.

She liked to think she was tougher than most men, let alone most women. Untouchable? No. But hard to rattle, hard to get a handle on. She only had the one weakness.

Still- even she was speechless, mouth a little dry- because Jesus Christ, he was a massive blur of violence. Everything happened so fast-by the time he had straightened to his full height, easily towering even over her-and she was 5'10!- she was still standing there with her pistol half out of it's holster, her other hand still holding the edge of her jacket where she'd pulled it back out of the way of her draw.

He looked like he weighed a ton in straight muscle. And Aimee was hanging around this guy, training with him? She was only what, two, maybe three inches over five feet? A hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet?

Charlotte knew about that first encounter, some of it. She half couldn't believe her shy, cautious little sister had ever set foot out there in a mask again after being told to leave it off and stay home by the dark vigilante.

He was more frightening in person than she could have imagined, and she'd seen the broken teeth and bones he left in his wake first hand, on men who weren't exactly twigs themselves.

Shit, she was more alarmed by him than she had been shoved against her car and possibly about to get shanked or shot.

He spoke and she made a concerted effort to collect herself, and quickly-an impassive mask slipping over her features to replace the brief one of shock. She released the butt of her gun, straightening her jacket as if she had been briefly, irritatingly interrupted rather than attacked-and moved to check on the guy who's head had been smashed into the concrete as well as kneed.

It wasn't just that. She didn't want to be standing too close to him. And she needed a minute to think. He knew who she was, and he seemed to think this was not a random attack.

"Congratulations, Nightwatch." She said flatly and a little cold, not betraying her discomfort in his presence. "You may have just saved the lives of both of these men."

Because while she would have said that nice little legal spiel, she would have most certainly been following with firing in a t formation across his chest. Maybe before finishing the sentence-and then turning the gun on the second man, the one who'd been gasping in pain from her ruthless assault on his pride. She sank down to her knees beside the knocked cold, previously following man.

"...I'm fine. We haven't met, but I see you know who I am-as I do you, Nightwatch." Didn't they all. He was no better than most of the monsters out there, terrorizing the city, acting judge, jury, executioner. She didn't trust him, and certainly did not like he and Aimee working together. Assuring Aimee he was fine the night of the nightmare had left a bitter taste in her mouth that had lasted for days afterward...she was fairly certain she hated him. But at the same time, he had helped clear those damned brothels, saved those women.

Her feelings about all of that were...complicated.

"Nice to meet you, though I'm plenty familiar with your work." Disapproval was obvious. "Do you...know something I don't? Because as it stands, I just see two thugs with guns in a shitty part of town." Feeling him out for information, mostly. She didn't think this was a goddamned coincidence either. This guy was in poor shape. The other one had a bleeding hand and a broken jaw.

She would have shot them, though, so they were better off. Maybe.

 

[Ambrosia_64]

Elsewhere:


They’d been waiting for her on Sixth Street. A trap. Concerned Citizen had followed a shady looking character down an alley after having watched him exchange...something? With another shady looking character, intent to find out who he was working for and send him packing. Hopefully through words, if she was lucky-when his compatriots filled the mouth of it behind her. They had been waiting inside one of the dilapidated buildings, must have been-she hadn’t seen them out there moments before.

There were four of them, plus the original shady guy. She suspected it was a trap because the buyer was there, too. Drug or arms deal seemed kind of unlikely, now-why would he stick around?

She was caught between the four and the man behind her-a brick wall splitting the alley into two. They hadn’t started in on her yet, but she was sure they would. “G-good evening, everybody.”

The greeting made them hesitate, before a man wearing a heavy silver cross shook his head and spoke up, his hands still shoved in his pockets. “Listen bitch, Neil Dog is sick of your shit.”

Neil Jacobs! Didn’t he realize by now it was hopeless? She’d beaten up more of his dealers on more nights than she could count, and convinced three of them to quit altogether! He was more persistent than the bigger drug lords who’d had the park! Persistent, and maybe kind of dumb?

Why would he set a trap here? This hadn’t even been his territory-Mr. Reeds had had men here, and he’d given it over to her with his ‘compliments’!

“Um...okay. I’m sorry to cause him trouble.” Concerned Citizen said, her hands partially up, open, empty-she seemed genuinely regretful about it, too-though her eyes were alert and moving. Silver Cross was probably in charge here, given he’d spoken first. A larger, bear of a man stood just to the left of Silver Cross, his hands NOT in his pockets, but loosely fisted at his sides. Then there was a slim red haired man who was grinning at her in an unsettling way, and another, matching ganger who might be his brother. The man behind her was smaller, maybe 5’6, and seemed a bit...cautious for a thug. She didn’t think he’d join the fight, given his druthers. She felt kind of bad for him, really, that he was here-she could have probably talked him into giving up this sort of life, had they been alone.

She also felt really, really nervous about being in an alley with a bunch of intimidating looking men, but she was trying not to think too much about that-or the anxious fear that never seemed too far behind, out here.

Silver Cross had grimaced, then shot a confused glance to the bulkier ganger beside him before fixing her with a disbelieving look. “What?”

“I said, I’m sorry to cause him trouble.” Concerned Citizen repeated. “But this is a designated Safe Place, and not any territory of his.” Polite, but firm. It felt good to say, too.

“This some kind of trick?” “Stop talking and just gut her already-” “Fuck, man, I don’t know if-”
The doubting, non grinning brother was shoved aside by the bulky second in command, starting for her. She raised her hands a little higher and backed up with each of his steps forward, towards the smaller man behind her.

“H-hey, we d-don’t have to get unfriendly!” She blurted-and for once, it didn’t sound entirely lame! Silver Cross though-he had withdrawn his hands from his pockets, and he had a gun. With the bear of a man mostly in the way and one of his own gangers behind her, there wasn’t much to do with it yet-but that would change. It was time to go. They were here for her and her only, not to sell drugs or guns in a Safe Place. There wasn’t anyone here to protect.

She turned on her heel and blew past the man she’d followed down here, catching his arm with her shoulder to spin him around-before continuing her sudden, explosive sprint for the wall at the end of the alley. Heavy foot falls behind her, but too late-she ran at an angle for the side of the building, jumped and kicked off of it-catching the top of the wall and hauling herself up and over it just as the first gunshot went off far over her head, the heroine already falling and landing on the other side.

She didn’t stay there though-they were almost all tall enough to climb over if they wanted to, unlike she had been. She could hear them cursing and demanding just that of each other.

Aimee ran, her yellow sneakers coming down hard against the pavement as she cleared the alley and hung a hard left, ponytail swinging, a quick adjustment to the bill of her hat. Even if they climbed the wall, they’d never catch her now-she turned right to be sure she'd be clear of gun sight, too.

Good! Good. And Mr. Jacobs- well, she was going to have to figure out what to do about him, because she couldn’t have these interruptions on her patrols-or a cleverer set of thugs with a better trap, next time.

 

[Armphid]

Nightwatch walked over to pick up the other gun, rendering it empty like it's brother. Her cold hostility was a slap in the face and a breath of fresh air all at once. This is what he was talking about when he told Concerned Citizen that the people would turn on her. Even if they know you saved their life. Maybe she didn't; she carried a gun...lots of people thought that made them invincible. "Shooting here isn't like the range, Doctor, but you can pretend you're the dangerous one if you want."

At her question, he just stared at her for severs moments and then said, "You're too arrogant to play dumb well." Too lovely to as well, for that matter. "This was a hit, if a cheap one. Probably from someone in the DA's office, though one of the drug gang leaders "your" Safe Places are displacing..but they'd wear colors. Almost certainly the DA or one of his subordinates." Safe Places belonged to Concerned Citizen, not this politician. She wasn't running for office yet. But she would. "So. city council? Or are you angling for mayor?"

 

[Ambrosia_64]

He did have a point there-this wasn't a controlled enviornment. Maybe she would have gotten one but not the other. Maybe she would have been gunned down and bled out alone on the concrete.

With the last bit of his words 'pretending she was the dangerous one' came a noise of amusement-but she didn't seem very amused.

She also failed to be insulted-he was probably right. She wasn't very good at playing dumb. Rising to her feet, Charlotte exhaled, a hand coming to her forehead as she looked between the two downed men. "It's not my symbol on the signs, Nightwatch." No, not gang members. The only person she had been on the news attacking was the D.A.

She knew Matthews was a scumbag. Maybe she just didn't want to believe how much of a scumbag. Well, he wasn't going to frighten her into compliance. She had a whole host of former thugs and enforcers to chose from, should she need to hire a bodyguard.

...good God, was she actually considering that? Did she really need one?

Her attention snapped back to him, a slight narrowing of her eyes as he asked the question. "If you'd rather keep the mayor we have, Nightwatch, by all means-vote for him."

Her tone turned a little bitter, slightly heated as she spoke again. "But yes, I'll probably run for mayor-there isn't anyone else. I've been working to better the city for years without political motivations, thanks-but there's only so much I can do with men like the ones we have in charge." God, she wished there was someone else. She didn't want the job. She'd be more than happy to provide a support role, fine. The city deserved better-but she was what there was, and damned if she wasn't better than what they had, currently.

Charlotte shook her head. "But that's another, distant election. Right now, I'm doing my damndest to oust Matthews and put Sanderson in his place. Sanderson is representing the victims of the brothel, suing the men Matthews released-he's already won the case against Killian. It's more justice than Matthews was willing to deal out-but you're not exactly the D.A.'s biggest fan, are you?"

Charlotte unfolded her arms, her impassive mask slipping for a slightly troubled, thoughtful expression.

"...he may not be upbraiding Matthews, but he's actively working against him. And it's not my symbol on the Safe Place signs..."

Realization struck home and the chilly doctor was suddenly animated, pulling her phone from her pocket. Her first instinct was to call Aimee, but she knew there'd be no answer this time of night, not while she was out-so instead she scrolled for Luke's.

"If Matthews and his cronies are trying to get rid of their annoyances, I am only one leg of it." She clicked the nondescript contact listed as "Attn. Sanderson" and held it up near but not against her ear, the ringing audible. In her brief distraction, she said something she probably wouldn't have, in a worried, anxious tone she most CERTAINLY wouldn't have. "I didn't think they'd be this blatantly fascist."

 

[Armphid]

"Save the bitter, spleen venting act for your press conferences, Doctor," he snapped back at her comment of voting for the incumbent, "I don't need it. I'm not one of the people you're trying to court." She was frightened of him but not as much as he'd want. It was less fear and more caution. She had guts. But that didn't mean anything she said could be taken at face value. "You'd be amazed how many reformers I've met who gave me the same lines before they realized where the money was. How long will it take you?"

He hadn't found anything on her yet. Yet. She seemed to be exactly what she seemed to be. That made him exceptionally suspicious.

But if she was attacked...they seemed to reach the same conclusion he had. Nightwatch strode to the outer wall of the garage and pulled himself up onto the lower wall's top. Her comment made him pause, "If you didn't think they'd do this...then get out now. Where's Sanderson?"

He tabbed his earbud as he spoke, "Concerned Citizen."