Liberty Base was not nearly as grand as the name would appear. With a name like Liberty, the incoming inhabitants expect - oh, any number of things, with liberty being at the top of the list. It's practically a foregone conclusion.
Imagine the surprise, then, on the faces of the four rogues as they were unceremoniously shoved into a bare concrete box of a room in a small building on the edge of Gotham. The big room was partitioned into little rooms - rooms with large windows in the doors and suspiciously restraint-esque clips on the sides of all the furniture. The house of Liberty was anything but free. This was reinforced by the line of cops leaning against the wall, watching Batman shoo the rogues inside.
"What a dump," Harley said as she kicked a table leg. "Doncha even have a TV here?"
"No," Batman said flatly. Ivy and Eddie shot one another a look of relief over Sorrow's head. Harley's tastes in television tended to be loud, bright, and overly cheerful - much like the jester herself - and they could definitely do without the irritation of cartoons tonight.
Sorrow was slumped in a jail-issue wheelchair. Contrary to Jonathan Crane's most fond wishes, screaming terror only lasts so long before it burns itself out. Sorrow had moved to that land beyond panicked fear where screaming is accepted as pointless and everything is equally frightful. She wasn't being tortured right now and that was enough to keep her lips pressed tight.
Her hands were clenched tightly around the arms of the chair. Unlike the others, who had simply had handcuffs attaching their hands behind their backs, she'd been clipped in with two sets of cuffs - one for each arm of the wheelchair, since putting her arms behind her back was largely impossible. The double band of shiny metal on each wrist gleamed on either side of the dull strip that was the cuff given her by Teng.
"What're we doin' here, anyway?" Harley went on, giving the table leg another kick just to annoy Batman. "I thought we were goin' back to Arkham." Sorrow winced at the thought.
"You're staying here until Arkham is safe," Batman informed them in his typical gravelly growl.
"So, what, the rest of our lives, then?" Harley smirked. "Could be all right, with this crowd. Hey, good lookin'," she cooed at a rookie cop across the room, laden with a stack of tarnished metal trays. "Wanna have a little fun?"
He gulped and the trays clattered noisily to the floor. Harley giggled, her goal accomplished, and turned to needle the Bat again. Typically, he had vanished in the moment that everyone had looked away.
"Where'd he go?" the rookie gasped.
"Who cares?" Ivy snapped.
"Okay, okay, settle down," another policeman said, coming out of the nearest little subdivided room. "You cooperate with us and we'll make this as painless as possible. Sound good, guys?"
Ivy pinned the man with a glare. "I am not a guy," she informed him haughtily.
Obviously, he thought, glancing over her tiny leotard currently serving as her only clothing. "Sound good, ladies...and gentleman?" he tagged on to the end as Eddie narrowed his eyes meaningfully.
"Get to the point, Derman," a sergeant called from across the room. A handful of the other cops, shaking their heads at Derman's casualness, clustered around the rookie with the trays.
Derman smiled cheerfully at the foursome, ignoring his coworkers. "You're here as guests of the GCPD, so we've got to check you over for contraband. The good news is you get to keep your own clothes, since I don't think we have anything around here to fit your girlish figures." The scowl on Eddie's face carved itself a little deeper. "So, hands up and we'll get going." The cluster of cops, now armed with latex gloves and trays to hold confiscated items, stepped forward as Derman filled them in on where exactly they were staying.
The rogues of Gotham had multiple lairs. And, like law enforcement officials had done for centuries, the police had looked at the lairs and learned from them. In Gotham, where crime was the primary industry, multiple secret hiding places were very, very handy indeed - and Gotham police were very fond of fighting fire with fire.
All together, the GCPD owned around twenty separate buildings outright, with an ever-changing number of rented apartments and hotel rooms booked under fake names completing the collection. Liberty Base had been converted into a high-security hiding place, perfect for stashing witnesses until they testified and as headquarters for the occasional undercover operation. There were floors that had carpet and furnishings, for citizens that wished to cooperate - but for untrustworthy types like the rogues, there was this lovely concrete cage on the third floor.
Of course, the version that Derman told the rogues was slightly different. He glossed over the building's history, devoting most of his speech to the rules they'd be following while uniformed officers probed their pockets. (In Ivy's case, since she lacked pockets, one cop tentatively probed her hair and her cleavage while thinking uneasily of Jessica Rabbit's famed booby traps.)
The rules were fairly simple. They would agree to sit quietly and not do anything that hinted of mayhem, and in return the cops would not shoot them in the head. Since the cops in question were holding some serious weaponry, the rogues decided to cooperate. If there was one thing that they had learned through the years, it was that a perfect moment to escape always comes along - and that being seated in a room full of uneasy policemen with guns was definitely not that moment.
After the search (which was entirely too personal, in Sorrow's opinion - it's not like she carried weapons, after all) and a brief stop for Harley and Sorrow to have their makeup scrubbed off with baby wipes, the cops guided them to the table in the middle of the room and suggested that they have a seat. This suggestion was elegantly transmitted via the use of hands on shoulders and abrupt downward pressure, accompanied by a few official-sounding grunts.
The police obviously wanted to keep the four of them in plain sight for as long as possible. They could get up to all sorts of mischief in their individual rooms. The Riddler could tease a lockpick out from some hidden pocket in his clothing and sneak away. Poison Ivy could coax some kind of man-eating mold out of the ceiling. (Well, it was possible. Many things were, in the minds of jumpy cops.)
But sitting at a table for hours didn't sound very enjoyable for the rogues. Harley wriggled in her seat, flexing her fingers and rattling her handcuffs. Then, with an impish grin, she waved dramatic fingers and produced a tiny deck of cards out of thin air. "Anyone up for poker?"
"Where did you get those?" the sergeant snapped as she strode up to the little table.
Harley shrugged. "I always keep 'em with me. Hey!" she yelped as the cop snatched them away. "Those are mine!"
"Do you honestly think we're going to let you keep playing cards?" the sergeant sneered. "We're not stupid."
Harley drew herself up and, mockingly, snapped back "Do you honestly think I'd play poker with Red using poisoned cards?"
"You might, since she's immune and the other two are wearing gloves," the sergeant pointed out. "Did you check her wrist ruffles?" she asked the cop who had searched Harley.
The sergeant sighed and detached the ruffles. "Hey!" Harley protested, making to snatch them back.
"You move one more inch and you're going to be full of more holes than a prairie-dog patch," the sergeant informed her. She held them up and searched through them. "Yeah, here's an empty pocket that's the size of those cards...a few bullets..." Something that sounded a lot like a small, plastic wrapper crinkled under the cop's fingertips as Harley blushed a furious red. The sergeant did Harley the favor of bypassing that particular item. "...and a little picture of the Joker with lipstick on it. Cute." She tossed the ruffles to another cop.
"We were just gonna play cards," Harley sulked.
"Here." A well-worn full-sized deck of cards, rubberbanded together, thudded down on the table. The sergeant glared at the one that had thrown it. "Reynolds, why do you have cards?"
He shrugged. "I get bored."
"Reynolds is our precinct poker champ, Stace," another cop offered. Sergeant Stacy, peeved at his casual attitude, went over to have a private word with him involving using nicknames in front of the master criminals.
The master criminals in question wasted no time in cracking the deck open and starting the game. In place of tokens, Eddie pulled out a double handful of pocket change. "Why are you carrying so many pennies?" Harley asked him.
He beamed. "Well, my target was the National Mint, and I'd thought up this great riddle. 'How is a chocolate like a -'"
"Just play the game," Ivy interrupted. Eddie sighed the deep, soulful sigh of the unappreciated and divvied up the coins. Sorrow, who had never played cards before - of any sort - waved her pile away, content to watch.
A sea of copper coins gleamed in front of Harley. Eddie and Ivy had silently, reluctantly joined in a partnership familiar among all gamers, the core belief of which is that the current winner must lose, and must lose hard. Between the two of them, though, they'd barely managed to weasel ten cents out of Harley's grasp.
Sorrow was only visually paying attention to the game. In fact, her attention was focused entirely on the conversation taking place behind her. Sergeant Stacy had finished lecturing her subordinate, and now they were quietly discussing the night ahead.
"Put Isley in the room to the left," Stacy ordered. "That's the furthest away from the street. And put Nygma between Isley and Quinn - that'll keep them from talking through the walls to one another."
"What about the other?"
"She's pretty harmless. Put her in the one at the end."
"That one's got a window in it, though."
"So? We're two stories up, and that window's almost impossible to open. It's not like she's going to climb out."
Isn't it? Sorrow thought meaningfully to herself. A window, huh? That sounded promising...
"...and anyway, we only have to watch them for tonight," Stacy was whispering. "They're going back to the nuthatch tomorrow."
Back. They were going back. They weren't going to listen to Batman and wait until it was safe, they were going back tomorrow and Teng was going to be livid that she'd escaped...oh god, she was dead.
"I don't see why you're still mooning over him," Ivy's harsh, angry voice said, breaking her out of her reverie. She turned her attention back to the table, where Harley was toying with a face-up Joker card on the table, ignoring Ivy's angry glare. "Look what he did to her!" Sorrow twitched as Ivy pointed at her.
"Hey, she attacked him," Harley muttered.
"Not that," Ivy dismissed. "Tell me that's not Smilex he used on her, Harley."
"It's not!" Harley said firmly. "That woulda killed her."
"It almost did," Ivy shot back.
"Not like that, though," Harley tried to explain. "If Puddin' had done it, she'd be dead already. No offense," she shrugged to Sorrow.
"It does seem suspicious," Eddie agreed, toying with his cards and glancing sidelong at the deck. "It's definitely how he works."
Sorrow was inclined to disagree. Teng had seemed so proud of his...his invention, and he certainly detested the rogues enough to make her think that he'd never willingly work with one. But...who says he'd have to work with one? Smilex had been around in one form or another for years. It was believable - probable, even - that Teng had snuck a sample away from an evidence locker somewhere and altered it somehow.
Harley slapped Eddie's hand, making him drop the card he'd carefully palmed. "No cheatin', Ed," she admonished him solemnly. He muttered something under his breath and tossed his cards to the table. "I fold," he announced glumly.
Sorrow wasn't paying attention to the game anymore. What if Teng was in league with the Joker? What if the whole thing had been some massive setup to break and kill her for their own amusement? What if...she shook her head violently. What-if conspiracy theories would have to wait until she had the time to think about them.
With a yawn composed entirely of exhaustion, she eyed a cop. "Can I go to bed?" she asked.
The cop looked to Stacy for orders. "You can," she said guardedly. "Danielson? Take care of it."
Officer Danielson, a man with more beard than face, took the back of her chair and wheeled her away. "Good night," she called to the rogues.
"'Night," they called back absently, watching Eddie deal the next hand. The cop pushed her into the room at the end of the row - the one with the window! - and began untangling her from the mess of handcuffs that pinned her arms to the chair. When he had her fully unwound, he lifted her up and dumped her on top of the bed like so much garbage.
"Hey," she said, weakly, trying to pack as much little-girl innocence into her tone as possible. "Can I have the window open? It's stuffy in here." Danielson considered her for a moment. She gently eased herself into a position that mimicked the most lost and pitiable of people. "Please?"
He leaned over her and yanked the window open with one powerful shove. "Better?"
"Much better, thank you. Good night," she said quietly.
"Yeah. Night," he muttered, scooting out of the room to watch the end of the poker game.
Sucker, she thought triumphantly. She leaned out of the window and eyed the distance to the ground. It didn't look good. At least there was an open dumpster down there...if she aimed just right, she probably could hit it. With quick hands, she balled up the blankets and sheets and tossed them out. They'd be better padding than nothing. The pillows went on top of the pile.
She didn't even consider making them into a rope. Climbing down a rope required a lot more strength than she had left - and climbing down a rope, legless, was virtually impossible unless your upper body was ruggedly ripped. Sorrow's was not.
Now all she had to do was wait for the right moment...
The three remaining rogues were having a lighthearted conversation over the remains of the poker game. It's difficult to have a conversation of any kind in the presence of guns aimed at your vital organs, but since the trio were more than used to lethal weapons being pointed at them, they dismissed them as unimportant.
The conversation was currently touching on Batman and his worth in relation to the police. Now, the more corrupt examples of Gotham's police departments wouldn't have given a damn about Batman. Unfortunately for them, they'd been kicked out of Gotham long ago. The remainder, particularly the newer recruits, were desperately trying to prove that they could do just as good a job at crimefighting as some freak in a mask. It was just too bad for them that this particular masked freak was superhumanly good in all areas of crimefighting, and they didn't stand a chance. The rogues were having a wonderful time watching the cops get more and more irritated with every word that they said.
"...and that time that Puddin' and I robbed that bank," Harley was giggling. "I heard that when Batsy showed up, one of the cops actually shot him!" Still laughing, she reached out her hands and scooped the last of the pennies into her massive pile.
Ivy threw her cards down in disgust. "Harley, I don't believe you won that much. Nobody wins that much."
Harley turned and gave Officer Reynolds a hearty wink. "You do when they're marked cards!" she sang triumphantly.
It was well known that Harley Quinn had a gift for generating chaos. In this particular case, her chirpy little statement set off a near-riot - among her fellow players, among the cops, and particularly involving those cops that had previously been the victim of Officer Reynolds' 'card skills'. Voices raised in loud shouts of protest screamed over one another, trying to be heard.
And in her room, Sorrow grinned at the cacophony and pitched herself headlong out the window.
The moon rose high over Gotham that night. It seemed to glimmer extra-bright, as if it was trying to drown out the ever-present Bat-signal planted firmly on a nearby cloud. The moonlight turned the sidewalks into glittery, twinkling paths that stretched endlessly into the night.
They stretched particularly long in the mind of Sorrow as she dragged herself away from the hateful little building. She had to get away. Had to. And if that meant tearing her clothes and skin on the rough cement, then that's how it had to be. At least she hadn't hurt herself too badly in the dumpster...
She pulled another numb leg into position. All of her good humor had faded as she'd started painfully hauling herself away from the so-called forces of good. How could they take her back to that horrible place? Weren't they supposed to care about justice? Where was the justice in delivering her back to hell?
At least she couldn't feel the skin on her knees as she left it in scraps and shreds on the pavement. She shuddered to a halt, looking frantically for a hiding spot as the sticky sounds of tires on asphalt advertised a vehicle's presence. A canary-yellow taxi rolled gently to a stop next to her. The window descended. "Miss? Need a lift?"
A friendly cab driver. She nodded weakly and somehow managed to climb into the car. "Docks…the warehouses on the docks," she said, falling back on the seat.
"You got friends down there?"
She was too tired for tears. "No."
The bread was frozen, and the knives were all dirty. It didn't matter. Food, that was the important thing. Sorrow sprawled in front of the toaster, waiting for the two slices of bread she'd chipped loose to thaw. The strawberry jelly was sitting out on the cold linoleum, the peanut butter already open and waiting next to it.
She was a mess, and she knew it. She'd pushed herself too hard to get here. But what choice did she have? She couldn't just let them take her.
She looked herself over. No wonder the taxi driver had picked her up. She looked like she'd been hit by a bus - a spiky bus made out of sandpaper, piloted by a porcupine. It would probably be a good idea to bandage over some of the nastier scrapes...but then again, what was the point? Someone might need those bandages for something important someday.
The toast popped up. She made her sandwich quickly, slathering on the peanut butter and jelly, eating huge bites. Food. Her food, safe, untampered with, deliciously tasteless. She finally stopped, stuffed beyond fullness, and curled into a ball, sleeping on the floor of the kitchen.
The sun began to climb over the rooftops of Gotham.
Liberty Base came alive at sunrise. The guards knew that the next shift would be coming in soon, so they perked up at the thought of going home. Babysitting rogues was definitely not their chosen way to spend a night.
Officer Danielson, who had spent the night at Sorrow's door, leaned heavily against the doorframe. He hadn't heard a sound from inside all evening. With a smirk on his face, he waved at his less-lucky co-officers, who had had the privilege of listening to Harley Quinn's out-of-key songs through her door all night long after the semi-riot had died down long enough to get the trio locked firmly in their separate rooms. At least he hadn't had to do anything other than stand outside. Paraplegics hardly required a heavy guard.
"Get them out," Sergeant Stacy ordered. "The van'll be here in ten minutes."
And after the van left, he could go home! With a smile on his face, Danielson grabbed the wheelchair leaning up against the wall and used it to knock Sorrow's door open. "Wakey wakey," he said cheerfully. "Did you...sleep...oh, shit." The bed had no sheets, no blankets, no pillows, and, most importantly, no Sorrow. Panic gripped him for a moment. Well, she couldn't have gotten far, could she? He stuck his head out of the window - the window that he'd opened, he remembered with a grimace - and looked down. Directly beneath him was an open dumpster, covered over with the missing bedding. A trail of garbage and...was that blood?...led not two blocks down the sidewalk, where it abruptly disappeared after veering to the curb.
Oh, he was going to be in so much trouble for this...
Every news channel in town was represented at Arkham that day. The leading story of the morning was the firing of Dr. Teng, who was suspected of illegal and highly immoral practices. (The press, naturally, were over the moon with joy at the thought of their upcoming ratings.) The secondary story, conveniently enough, was also located at Arkham - the return of three rogues to their rightful cells.
A police van, windowless and armored, skidded to a halt outside the forbidding asylum. Harley Quinn was the first down the ramp, decked out in her spandex, tassels waving merrily in the breeze. Poison Ivy was next, glaring venemously at the guards that hustled her quickly onto the concrete steps leading inside. The Riddler was last in line, blinking as the bright sunrise smacked his retinas. He tipped his hat with handcuffed hands to a member of the press as his guards urged him along.
A shadow seated atop the Asylum narrowed its eyes at the spectacle. One was missing.
The press babbled questions at Harley and Eddie as they waved and bowed, posing for pictures and playing celebrity. Ivy pointedly ignored the chaos. "Why did you escape?" "Why did you take that Shadow girl with you?"
Harley turned and snapped at the reporter "Sorrow! Her name's Sorrow!" She went back to waving and grinning for the cameras.
"Well, where is this Sorrow gal? Off crying somewhere?" the man joked to his friend from channel 7, nudging him in the ribs. His smile faded as the three rogues focused their attention on him.
"You'd have to ask Officer Danielson about that," Ivy said sweetly. She turned to the aforementioned officer, who winced as twelve separate cameras swung in his direction.
"No comment," he barked gruffly, tugging meaningfully on Eddie's arm to get him moving.
"He let her go!" Harley said to the nearest camera. "Wish he'd been my guard."
"Officer Danielson! Officer Danielson!"
"NO COMMENT!" he bellowed, abandoning his charge in favor of a strategic retreat to the inside of the armored van.
The trio of rogues sat in the intake room, chained to the floor in separate corners. Harley made a silly face at Ivy, who rolled her eyes.
The door swung open, but instead of the doctor or the orderly that they all expected, it was -
"Batman!" shrieked Harley, trying to leap to her feet. Since her cuffs were fastened to a chain in the floor, she ended up overbalancing and falling to the Bat's feet. "Ow."
"What are you doing here, Bat-boy?" inquired Edward. "I assumed you'd be back in your cave by now." He leaned back as much as he could on the uncomfortable bench and smirked.
"A riddle we'd all like answered," Eddie said.
"Don't play games with me, Nygma."
"Games? Me?" Eddie asked, innocence coating his words like chocolate on a raisin. "Never."
Batman tended to respond to sarcasm in one of two ways: with his fists, or with his feet. Since Eddie was firmly chained to the ground by his wrists, he settled for grabbing him by the collar and jerking him upward. He was used to doing this kind of thing, and years of experience had taught him how to judge the exact amount of pressure he could apply before dislocating joints or doing other, more serious injury.
Eddie was hardly in a position to appreciate it. His arms started to lengthen under the enormous amounts of Bat-pressure. "Let me go!" he yelped.
"I'll ask you one more time," Batman growled, bending down and shoving his very angry face into Eddie's. "Where is she?"
"She jumped out the window and disappeared!" Eddie gasped, trying to hook his heels under the bench to drag himself earthward.
"That's what happened!" Eddie insisted.
The door slammed open and a green-suited orderly scrambled in. "Batman, I'm glad I caught you!" he panted, not paying attention to the Riddler taffy-pull going on in the corner. "Killer Croc escaped last night and-"
"I'll deal with it," Batman interrupted, dropping the Riddler back onto his bench. Eddie, arms dangling limply over his legs, glared daggers at the vigilante as he stalked away.
Post-traumatic stress disorder does not exist in the movies. On the silver screen, when the struggling teenage heroine breaks free from the psychotic killer with the big knife, she runs away and is safe forever (that is, until the filmmakers decide to make a sequel). Oh, the near-victim may have nightmares, but that will generally be it. The Will Grahams and the Paul Sheldons of the fictional world are rare indeed.
In the real world, they are more common than not. Part of overcoming the fear is realizing that you are safe. It's over. It cannot happen again. But in Sorrow's case, it wasn't over. It could happen again, at any minute - and she was left with one hiding spot, the one in which she'd been captured in a mere month ago.
She'd tried to get back to her old routine. She'd dragged herself around the warehouse alone, without the distractions of newspapers or television, and tried to put together a plan - a bank robbery, a museum heist, something - and every time, she ended up shaking at the thought that she'd just end up back under Teng's thumb in the asylum.
How could she not go back? She'd reform!...and it wouldn't do any good. She'd tried living legally, long ago, and had quickly discovered that being different means that no one wants you around...and that included employers. It had taken only a few months on the street to drive her into crime.
She couldn't sleep, she no longer wanted to eat, and she was a bad person. That was the thought that haunted her minute to minute - she was a bad person and she deserved all this pain.
It may sound odd that she cared. She was, after all, a rogue - second or third-string, perhaps, but still, a member of Gotham's most infamous. She'd had her own moral code, though - perhaps not quite as stringent as the average person's, but she stuck to it. She never hurt anyone unless she had to. She never stole from anyone who couldn't afford it. And, most importantly, she never killed anyone unless they deserved it.
But it wasn't good enough. Living that way had gotten her hurt, and semi-paralyzed, and tortured, and almost killed. She was living the best life she could and it wasn't enough.
She couldn't keep being a rogue and she couldn't go straight.
There was really only one option left.
There were no henchmen. There were no traps. There were no grandiose plots, there were no trademark weapons, no people in danger, no vats of dangerous bubbling chemicals. There was just a girl on the roof, staring at the moon, propped up on a makeshift railing wrapped around the gaping hole in the shingles at her feet.
She heard the tread of his boots on the crackling rooftop before he thought to mask it.
"You found me," she said softly, forcing the emotion out of her voice so that it rang flatly in his ears.
"Yes." He was walking carefully now, but she could still hear him.
"Don't come any closer."
He froze and analyzed the situation. Her back was to him, she could have anything in her hands. She was looking up, though, not down, looking up at the moon. Her night vision would be affected. He crouched, tensed his muscles, and prepared to leap.
"The moon is so beautiful, isn't it? So bright…" She sighed. Then, with a weird wrenching of her body, she twisted around and tossed something in his direction. The momentum carried her backward through the hole in the roof.
He reacted before he thought, spinning away from the object, running toward the hole, following at all costs. She wasn't going to get away this time. The batarang and the cord looped itself around her waist and caught her securely before she could run…He paused. There was nowhere for her to run to. The hole led straight down onto the warehouse floor. There was nothing but empty space for three stories leading to cold concrete.
She hadn't been trying to run.
She was sobbing now, and tearing at the cord with both hands. "Let me go, damn you," she snarled. "Let me go! It's what you want, isn't it? It's what all of you want!"
"No, it isn't." He pulled her up to him and deftly caught her clawing hands, tethering them together with a twist of his rope. The rest of it went in loops around her arms and legs. Then, carefully, he eased her to his shoulder and padded quietly past the limp grey rose laying on the shingles. Using the rope he'd left attached on his arrival, he lowered the two of them off of the roof and down into the darkness of the alley.
She was crying, and howling, and trying her best to kick him with her lashed-together legs. The members of the press, gathered at the waiting armored van, hoisted their cameras into the ready position.
He didn't want to take her out there - but he'd already passed up two calls on the scanner for this. Other people needed him. He strode into the dim, orange streetlights, dumped her in a waiting cop's arms, and disappeared into the night.
She writhed once, twice, spasmed again and again, growling, groaning, kicking futilely against her bonds. She didn't even notice the news camera zooming in on her, getting the full shot of her torn and dirty clothes, bloodied, ripped, coming up to rest on her face as they shoved the needle into her neck and she pulsed once, again, teeth bared, screaming, then sagged down into darkness.
Harley covered her eyes. Ivy put her arm around her shoulder, patting her, still staring vacantly at the evening news. Edward shook his head silently, closing his eyes.
"She's…gonna be all right, isn't she, Red?" Harley asked, finally.
"Of course she is. She'll be fine," said Ivy reassuringly. She only wished that she believed it.
Author's Note: Paul Sheldon is from Stephen King's Misery, and Will Graham is from Thomas Harris' Red Dragon.
Sorrow's story will continue in 'Shattered'. In related news, I think I need a hug.