Witness me, old man, I am the wild

Well. That had not gone well.

It wasn't her Harley. She had to remember that. It wasn't her Harley looking at her with all that hurt and anger, and yet that hadn't stopped Pam from spending most of the previous evening curled up in her bed, crying her eyes out.

And then, the next morning, she'd done what she should have done a week ago: she found a phone. She called Janet. And that hadn't been easy either, not that she'd expected it to be--

"You said you'd stay as long as I needed you to!"

"You don't need me to stay right now, Janet. I'd say you need the opposite. Your life is in danger as long as you're with me."

"But I feel SAFER around you than I do anywhere else!"

--and that had taken another chunk out of whatever emotional reserves she had left. It was funny, in a way; she'd come so close to cutting the cord, ending all of humanity and herself with it, dispassionately prioritizing the world itself over all those tiny little lives. Now, all those tiny little lives were taking a bite out of her. She'd given them the opportunity.

So what next? She couldn't stay here. Couldn't go back to Seattle, to Janet. Or to Harley in Gotham. Not yet.

Pam sat down on the steps by Pick Your Poison's door, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Staring out into the street, begging it for an answer, a clue. (Maybe a helpful titan of industry nearby who needed culling.) So far, it wasn't providing.

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