A few points, before launching into perhaps the strangest fic I've ever worked on so far.

1. Yes, this is a Batman/Little Women crossover. It all began when I ran across a viewing of Batman Begins a few days past, thought Laurie sure did look fetching in a cowl, pictured Jo as an awesome comic-book version of Nellie Bly, and was so taken by the idea that I had to do something with it while I was still enjoying Spring Break. So essentially, Jo is taking the place of Rachel Dawes, Theodore Laurence is (of course) serving as the Dark Knight, with the rest of the supporting cast taking on various other roles.

2. Yes, this probably could serve as proof that I'm completely insane, especially given the fact that I decided to write an action/adventure Little Women fic. But c'mon. Wouldn't seeing Laurie kick some righteous ass and Jo pistol-whip some bad-guys be completely and utterly awesome crack? Even if I do have to occasionally come up with some outlandish anachronisms and comic-book logic to justify it? ;)

3. No, I can give you no assurances that this fic will continue on to a definite end. I would like it to and knowing that people are reading-- especially through reviews, hint, hint ;)-- would help a great deal but this could end up being yet another abandoned WIP from me. I hope not but if you like the story... please review. It would really help in writing!

In any case, without further do...

Title: Dark Scribe, Chapter 1
Fandom: Little Women & Batman Begins
Series: Dark Scribe Begins
Characters/Pairings: Jo/Laurie, Amy, Fred, Cast, with Jo taking Rachel Dawes' Role and Laurie standing in for the Dark Knight
Rating: R
Summary: It would all begin with a message hastily sent through her kitchen window on an otherwise unremarkable morning. But after a certain gentleman of a darker persuasion moves back into her city, Jo March's life gets all the more dangerous from there...
Note: This is a Little Women/Batman Begins crossover, with all the madness that entails. This is so AU, I almost don't even need to mention it.

In the line of work she had fallen into half a decade after she'd thrown down the mantle of fiction writer, Miss Josephine March-- formerly of Conchord, Massachusetts and now stationed in gritty New York City for the foreseeable future-- often thought of herself as being a kind of glorified courier service.

Of course, a lot of people would have disagreed with that statement, saying that much of what she did to expose the lies propping the world of politics and police business often amounted to high treason, keeping on the good side of the law merely because of a close and personal relationship with one of the wealthiest and most powerful men who made New York his home. But frankly, Miss March-- better known as Jo-- always preferred to think of her current line of work as simply taking the words from the high-and-mighty (or criminal-yet-untouchable) and breaking them into manageable enough pieces of bull-pockey so that the average poor grunt on the street could have some idea about what the bloody hell was being done on any given day to screw up their world.

Some people called her nosy. Others called her by considerably more colorful adjectives. But Jo liked to think of herself as simply a gatherer of facts; one who had a privileged position over many others, naturally, but one who was always happy to share whatever she discovered with the world via printing press and an acid tongue.

And so, life being the chaotic mess it so often was when she was immersed in it, she decided to try and sort the facts of the morning neatly in her mind before running to any conclusions.

Fact one: This day had begun like near any other day she had spent in her last five years at her home in New York, the one she shared with her equally artistic spinster sister and their equally marriage-less friend.

Fact two: For upwards of an hour, the events of the day had gone just as planned.

She had woken up. She had attempted to roll over. She had glared dazedly at the ceiling when her body refused to move. She had once more attempted to roll over. She had cursed when she finally realized that her cat had been napping on top of her the whole time. She had tossed her cat off the bed. She then finally managed to roll over. She had gotten out of bed. She had sighed at the time in her bedroom clock. She had
cursed as she had calculated the shortening distance between the day and her next deadline. She had shuffled into her slippers. She had walked to her kitchen. She had sat on the table there. She had then tapped a pen against a pad of paper while she tried to figure out what Mayor Willoby "I've Got Something Firm Lodged Up My" Bottom might be thinking in regards to trying to pass that new bill on raising taxes for docking sailors. She had wondered where the hell her tea pot had went. She had wondered if the neighbors had to be bribed to bring it back. She had finally decided that perhaps it was some evil governmental scheme to deprive the good American people of free press by stealing the caffeine of the good-hearted journalists who worked against their plots and groused about rousing her sister Amy to help her fix up something decent.

Fact three: Right after she completed that thought, she had been nearly hit upside her head with a rock that had been thrown through her window, shattering the glass quite spectacularly to deliver an elegantly written message tied to the damn thing with the help of a pretty little bow.

Fact four: Amy had long warned her that ever since she had broken that latest scandal about the mismanagement of the building of the insane asylum, the mob would come after her. Never mind that no arrests had ever been made or charges even brought up against anyone for doing so-- Amy quite sensibly pointed out that the mere fact that Jo had learned of such a business made her a very attractive target. And, though Jo hated to admit it, her sister might even have a point there.

(Frankly, there were times when Jo had to wonder if it wouldn't have been a better idea to have decided to go on writing fanciful little stories for a living, even given all the outrage she had garnered after she had made her most famous heroine turn down the proposal of the handsome swain she had grown up with. Jo's current profession clearly hadn't endeared her to many people over the last few years, and though being an author who had thwarted the course of true love in her books had garnered her disapproving mail as well, none of them had been accompanied by attempts to actually smash her brains in and rearrange the thoughts within it after.)

Fact five: After she had finally recovered from her eyes rolling over to the back of her head in a way they hadn't done since the last time that she had fended off an unwanted proposal, her eyebrows went hiking up on her forehead like a whore's skirt at a cheap tavern when she read the message that had been incongruously attached to the rock with a sketch of a... a rodent of some sort? with wings? a bat?!... attached at the end.

Fact Six: The message was as followed:

Dear Miss Josephine March:

Forgive me for handing-- or possibly throwing, mailing, hustling, or dive-bombing-- this message to you on such a short basis. I hate to be so terribly rude on first acquaintance but I'm afraid the time for subtlety has long come and gone, on the back of crime and the tolerance of what ought to be intolerable in the city you've long since made your lair. Though I know your schedule to be stuffed to the brim in your efforts to combat the forces of injustice, I was wondering if you could spare a few weeks of your new life at my disposal? It might just change the course of destiny-- both mine and yours, as well as that of a few hundred thousand others. If this intrigues you in the least, I would be much obliged if you could meet me in midnight three days from now at the old Bowery Theater-- I trust you know where that will be-- whilst you disguise yourself as a man. I recognize this may be an abrupt way of contacting you but I hope you will have the courage to meet me half-way. And I do trust that any fear you may experience will be squashed quite quickly by your curiosity. After all, Miss March, I am not quite the stranger you believe me to be. I've watched you for a long time and I believe you may very well be one of only two people I can count on implicitly in this city.

Yours For As Long As You Can Spare It,
A Certain Winged Admirer of An Unusual Persuasion

Even by Jo's standards of an unhinged fan, it was an unusual... message to have received, even without factoring in the unorthodox manner of delivery. But her eyebrows only hiked up higher, glancing on the stratosphere of her hair-line, when she saw the little addendum added to the note.

P. S., it added rather cheekily, Do remember to give my regards to your sister and her very special lady friend. If you were wondering, you will in fact find that they took your beloved teapot to a picnic with them recently and forgot it therein, much as they forgot to inform you of such an event. If you were to come to the theater, I swear upon my honor to give you a replacement. You do like the color scarlet best, yes?

And with that, Miss Josephine March, after wishing for all the strength and courage she could garner from the God she very much hoped was now looking out for her, gingerly poked her head out of the gaping hole in her window and scanned the street to see who on earth was either trying to kill her or woo her at present-- if not combine the two activities together in some peripheral form of madness.

Rather predictably, she saw nothing that could incriminate anyone in particular in this most peculiar of crimes. Even worse than that, she had a reporter's hunch that if she tried to canvas the neighborhood for clues, everyone would conveniently forget to mention anything that could help. She hadn't made herself very popular after reporting on the fact that a good third of the people around her were only a few months away from losing their homes to sharks on the streets. And it really didn't help that even the morally upstanding in her neighborhood all thought of her as some strange, mannish creature that should have been married off and had her mouth stitched shut far before she had gotten to work on trying to reform this infernal city.

Not that it mattered. After all, she thought she had a rather strong hunch-- call it woman's intuition-- about what would be fact number seven.

After all, Miss Josephine March (ace reporter for the only half-way major newspaper in New York that had not bent yet to the organized interests of unions, mobs and crime-bosses) knew what it was like to have unwanted men watching her every move and showering her with gifts that did not come from the department store catalog. Honestly, when an otherwise prim-and-proper unmarried young woman in the city spent her time ferreting out whatever corruption she could possibly find, her social life tended to be the opposite of sedate-- though even she had to concede that she'd never had something so enormous thrown at her skull until today, a fact she did not wish to celebrate.

So even as Jo withdrew her head from her poor, mutilated window, one coherent thought dominated over all others in her head, which was as followed.

God help me, this had better be a one-time occurrence for both me and this... Mister... Crazy... Rodent... Bat... Person... Thingy. Because if I ever get desperate enough to run into this idiot just to keep him from following me around and interfering with my work, I'm going to show him how to angle his throws better by throwing the largest rock I can find at his bloody and completely unbalanced brain!

"I swear," Jo began after marching into her employer's office in a great big huff over the morning's lack of chivalry, "is it just me or do the morals in this grand old American city degrade consistently by the day?"

In response, Mr. Fredrick Vincent Vaughn, a good man, a generous philanthropist, and the owner of the only half-way major newspaper in New York that had not bent yet to the organized interests of unions, mobs and crime-bosses, looked up fearfully from his desk splattered with copy. "My god," he said, letting the article about corruption in lower Manhattan districts slide past his fingers as Jo continued to furiously glare at nothing in particular. "What is it now? Are you all right? Did someone come after you? Is it the mob? The union? The crooked police? Or did someone manage to mail you yet another horse's head?"

"It wasn't a horse's head that one time," Jo reminded him, irritable that her point was being displaced in the conversation by something far less important, such as her health. "That was really sort of more a-- well, a picture of the horse's head. With a bit of blood and brain and skull bits to illustrate what could happen. I suppose they couldn't be bothered to get the money to mail the whole bloody thing."

Eyes a bit wide at her unexpectedly salty language, Fred cleared the seat next to him so that it would be ready for Jo to angrily flounce upon, her entire body seemingly thrumming with enough frustration to permanent rattle her skeleton. "But they mailed you a horse's hoof right after, didn't they?"

"Oh yes," Jo agreed, her mouth twisting into a wry smile as she recalled it. "That was a little more threatening, I imagine, and actually compact as well. Although it was hard to fear for my life after Amy managed the take the poor thing and make a still life out of it. Threatening Horse's Hoof With Bloodstained Copy of a Newspaper-- I swear, if I was writing another autobiography, that'd be the title exactly."

As was Fred's wont, his eyes got a little bit sadder at any mention of Jo's artistic sister, though he kept his piercing green gaze still trained on his employee. "And you managed to survive that rather well. So what exactly is it that has you up in so fine a lather this morning?"

She gave him a speaking look; indeed, it was a look that not only spoke, it practically orated its disapproval at operatic levels that could put most of the demagogues in New York to shame. "Do I really need one particular thing to signal discontent, Fred, dear? If you asked me to, I could probably sing and dance a whole litany of what it is that annoys me about New York at the present moment, starting with Mayor Wobbly Bottom and working my way down to the streets."

At that, Fred's face broke out into what as, for him, an almost demonstrative smile-- one that actually tilted the corners of his usually mild mouth. "I've no doubt that that fine mind of yours probably composed an entire opera as you made your way into the office today. Your creativity, dear Jo, is completely wasted on my poor little bit of printing."

She waved the compliment away with an assured air, although a few years back, she would have blushed from forehead to feet. As it was, her ears merely turned a bit red. "It was either spend it here or waste it endlessly revising my life story so I ended up something more than the literary spinster I am today. In any case, even more than mere generalities, I was stirred to action by some most outrageous calumny I have ever inspired whistle past my head presently. It was outrageous, good sir, and it was nothing less than calumny!"

Fred's kind, handsome face looked more than a little pained. "Please tell you didn't have another encounter with a police officer, Jo, I beg of you. Especially not near one of those... erm. Houses of... ah... Well. You know. Please make my life a little bit more bearable. Please, old friend."

Jo lifted her formidably molded nose to the air and sniffed. "No, although I wouldn't have hesitated to if I had! It's something even stranger, if you can imagine, and I must protest it hence. Did you know that apparently, some new lunatic in the city have taken to stalking reporters while they sit astride their kitchen table, attempting to peaceably eat?"

Fred blinked at said reporter as she sat before him, fuming and prim-lipped, about as spinsterish as she had ever been. "That is indeed news to me, Miss March. While you were sitting at your kitchen table? I assume it meant he interrupted breakfast completely? I know how peckish you get when you hadn't a decent bit to eat."

She didn't particularly feel as though that last detail needed to be added and so, ignored it in her answer. "Yes, it was news to me as well, even though I just experienced it! And indeed it did, although I couldn't imagine how it wouldn't. It's a bit hard to enjoy a nice spread of marmalade on toast when you have to check it for skull fragments!"

Her employer made a noise of acute distress and Jo, rather approving of his disapproval, leaned back in her chair and went on loftily. "Not that I let that ruin my morning of course. In fact, after a large bit of rock with a pretty little message sailed past my kitchen window, I had to spend the entire morning cleaning up. So if you would like to give me enough of a bonus to pay for repairs after nearly being killed in the line of duty..."

Her friend gave her another small smile, this one even more genuine than before; the little lines at the corner of his striking eyes actually even crinkled a bit. "I would be glad to, Jo, and there's no question you deserve it. That asylum story of your was one of our biggest scoops of the year... although it would have been nice to have perhaps a bit more corroborating evidence."

Jo bristled a bit, although she knew that he hadn't meant it as a rebuke. "It's difficult to gain as much when you actually have to sneak out of what's more-or-less an armored fortress with only the clothes on your back, Fred. And I found more than enough to show that the mob had a healthy stake in helping to build the place, didn't I?"

News-printing guardian angel that he was, Fred merely lifted his hands and shrugged at her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth again. "You did indeed, Madam, and no one could dare doubt your bravery unless he did thrive on being very foolhardy. Still, going back to this stalker of yours... he threw a rock at you? While you were at your kitchen table?"

Cooling down a bit more from the outrage she had been nursing before-- Fred always had this effect on her-- Jo nodded. "Oh yes, completely ruining my entire breakfast spread. Have you ever tried to chew down toast liberally sprinkled with glass fragments? Even the worst quacks of the city wouldn't recommend that method as an aid to indigestion!"

Fred blinked and Jo took it as a signal to dive into her bag, extract the note that came with said sprinkled glass, and slap in down on the desk before him. "And not only that, whoever did this apparently thought it would be a sweet way of getting my attention, before he tried to woo me into helping him save the city or-- or whatever it was that he was looking for. I've received plenty of attention from people who've read my work before but usually, they don't try to send me fan-mail while simultaneously caving my skull in."

Another blink from her employer. "So I'm assuming that the two of you already have a... complicated relationship?"

Her eyebrows went soaring majestically off the rampart of her head once more. "I've met some strange men in my time but this was even more bizarre than the responses I usually get. So yes, I suppose you could put it like that. Not that there's anything complicated about what I would do to this man if I ever got my hands on him..."

Still scanning the note, Fred subtly blanched. "I know you're brave and all, Jo, but please tell me you aren't about to actually walk into the meeting-- or rather, ambush-- that he's proposing for you in three days."

She waved her hands once more, dismissing the very idea. "Oh, don't worry. I know there are far better ways to exit this human coil of misery if I wanted to. Such as trying Amy's cooking after she's spent hours a few hours huffing paint."

Another small, swift smile came from Fred's end; he really was a bit more mobile around her than among even his usual set of stuffy, upper-crust men. "Sometimes, you almost make me glad to be a confirmed bachelor, Jo."

"I do my best," Jo said, smiling a bit at the funny notion of two of the most different people she knew actually being wed. "And trust me, I wouldn't be stupid enough to actually do what he wants. Not when I've got far better ways to deal with men who would happily tan my hide to use as a reporter-skin throw rug to decorate their mansions. So, moving away from my stalker, we may as well get on to business. Any news or new assignments you want me to tackle today?"

Though Fred didn't quite look reassured at her promise to never intentionally share breathing space with Monsieur Flying Rodent Man, he did get a bit of a twinkle in his eyes at her inquiry. Given how that would translate into a roar of approval from most other, less emotionally constipated men, Jo knew whatever he had ferreted out for her would probably be nothing less than absolutely splendid. "If you're sure there's nothing else I could do to help you with your situation, Jo, my friend..."

"Besides possibly putting a spell on me that would make me far less enchanting to mad, bad and dangerous to know men?" Jo asked dryly. "I sure can pick them. Well, you could arrange for a private hired escort or two to maybe stand watch outside a window for a while-- I don't want lunch and dinner to be interrupted by any more archeology lessons. And of course, the very best thing would be to take my poor, fretting mind away from my worries..."

So with a raised blond brow and a slight answering grin of his own, Fred did just that. "Then how would you feel about being my guest of honor at the ball that Mayor--"

"Wiggly Bottom," Jo interrupted, with a perfectly straight face. "Or was it Wobbly? I never could pronounce that name very well."

On another man, that horrified little gasp of his would have translated into a laugh. "You probably shouldn't tell him that to his face, Miss March. And as I was saying, I would be happy to have you be my guest of honor at the ball that Mayor Willoby Bottom is throwing tomorrow at seven. I have no idea whether we would find anything interesting or worthwhile but if you've got a ready mind..."

"...Then there's always something to salvaged from the scions of high society," Jo concluded, her own gray eyes sparkling as she thought of the possibility of cornering one of the high and mighty to extract the truth from them once they felt safe within one of their countless havens. But then her face fell as she remembered what else she would have to do to be admitted into said haven in the first place. "Though I'm assuming I'll actually have to dress like someone a little higher up on the social ladder than your average rag picker to arrive on your arm without comment."

Being the kind man he was, Fred carefully directed his clear gaze away from her unkempt hair, her plain, honest face, and the festively ink-stained dress she was wearing, the one that made her look rather like a gigantic, mobile Rorsarch test. "You could have all your expenses compensated, Jo. It's the least I could do after all the trouble I and the paper have put you through."

Damn straight, though Jo was careful only to direct a melting look of sweet thankfulness and humility to her boss as he made the kind offer. "Oh, would you, dear Fred? I couldn't thank you enough for your kindness! You are just about the most considerate employer in all the world."

He didn't look very convinced at that, though his eyes softened a little as he took her somewhat-less-sour-than-usual visage in. "You're kind to say so, Jo, but I think you exaggerate. I'm sure I've made your life much harder. Haven't you ever thought of how peaceful and serene your life could be if you weren't attempting to overthrow Nellie Bly as the most courageous woman journalist in the country?"

"All the time," Jo said, grinning despite herself. "But then, I always imagine myself chained to a stove somewhere, trying fruitlessly to write while juggling a husband on the one hand and half-a-dozen children in the other. I think I have rather the better deal here. Especially if you keep your end of the deal on the pretty new dress you'll let me buy... and the escort that'll keep me safe from all further attempts at rough, rodent-based wooing."

"Fair enough," Fred said, the left side of his face twitching again, either amused or having an allergic reaction to something. "I shall be by to pick you up tomorrow night at seven in the evening. Be sure to run down to the usual dressmaker's and arrange to have something suitable fit for you on my credit. And remember to try and enjoy yourself a bit while working. After all it wouldn't do to lose my lead reporter to fatigue!"

Jo snorted, even as she stood up, stretching a bit and not in the least caring that Fred's eyes were still on her. He was probably just checking to see if she had sustained any damage earlier, knowing that she had a tendency to downplay such things. "Believe me, Mr. Vaughn, if you lose your star employee, it shall be due to other reasons entirely. Let me just finish the last few details on the story about the woman who claims she was saved from a grisly death by some dark phantom of the night and I'll be off to equip myself for the evening."

"Fair enough," Fred said, his eyes temporarily falling away from her, so that his pale lashes ended up falling against his cheeks in what would have been, in another man, hand-wringing. If Jo hadn't had her mind occupied with happy thoughts of free dresses and new chances to wring information out of the unwilling, she would have actually been concerned. As it was, the concern in his voice as he spoke again actually came as a surprise.

"Although, I suppose, before you decide to attend, you ought to know..."

It wasn't like Fred to speak so hesitantly. Even in her had stupor, as she was almost through the door and out to her own cluttered work, Jo swung her head back to see what could possibly make Fred suddenly sound so hesitant and even... sad? "Sorry, Fred? What was that? Don't tell me that we've got something else to worry about at the party?"

Not that she minded a challenge, of course. Jo often did her best work when there was little to no chance of victory on the horizon. Where lesser men and women trembled to tread, she had, more often than not, galloped in with her dirty boots and her complete lack of tact and her ink-blotted dress with her notes stuffed down the front, and somehow managed to return from enemy territory with her skin intact and more than enough notes for a thrilling morning story.

She was, as Amy had delicately put it more than few times before, one of the oddest and bravest people most would ever meet. And she was all the better a reporter for it, even if it did make her dear Marmee fret about both her spinsterhood and her life almost equally.

But even she wouldn't have been able to guess at the scope of the challenge that was about to hit her across the face, or the way that Fred would try to break it to her: gently, evenly, almost carefully, as though afraid the Unsinkable Josephine March might finally meet her match yet.

"Yes," he said, and his low, careful voice actually made her stop cuing up a victory theme in her mind, still glorying in the advantages of working with such generous employee benefits. "Well. I may indeed, although it all depends on how comfortable you feel with your assignment. After all, it isn't every day that someone from our past-- someone we all thought was dead-- ends up resurfacing again."

For a minute, Jo couldn't quite understand his words; after the span of a several heart-beats, she knew she wouldn't be able to forget them. "I... Fred? Do you mean--"

"It's Dora," her employer blurted out, his eyes glancing everywhere but at her frozen figure, her hand still arrested on the door's knob, her stomach sudden spasming. "I mean, it's your Laurie. Theodore Laurence. I know it's been almost eight years but somehow... well. He somehow made his way back from New York from God knows what forsaken land he's been in and he's already been tearing up high society for the last three days. Not many people even know about his arrival yet but I have my sources and I can verify them. And I'm told he will be at Mayor Bottom's ball as well, as the guest of honor even. So I thought that perhaps, since you have a history together, you could maybe get him to open up a bit about... but I mean, only if you wish to of course, Jo. I wouldn't press you to actually do anything you didn't want to, obviously. I wouldn't, Jo-- you know I care-- I wouldn't ask you to do it if. If you didn't want to, just then."

And just then, her figure frozen, her hand arrested on the door knob half twisted, her stomach in a spasm and her breath trapped in her gullet, her entire body so tense that she could have been shattered by a breath--

Just then. She was barely woman enough to admit she didn't want to just then. Come to think of it, she didn't want to at all, 'just then' or a week from 'just then' or ages and ages from 'just then', whatever 'just then' might be.

If she could get away with it, Jo would be happy never to run into Mr. Theodore Laurence ever again. Especially considering the role she had played in keeping him away from what seemed to be the entire civilized world for almost all the past eight years.

However, she had a job to do and by God, Fred in all his generosity and kindness was expecting her to do it. And what could she possibly tell him if she turned this opportunity down? Sorry, Mr. Vaughn, but though you've given me all the support I could have possibly asked for for the past five years we've worked together, I'm too much a moral coward to talk to the man I jilted more than seven years back, sending him out into the world to do God knows what with his rage?

No, it was even worse than that. She could add to the condemnation.

Even after I saw how he had reacted to what had happened to his grandfather in this very city? Even after I spent years knowing him and realizing just what was underneath that perfect surface of his when it came to the murder of his family?

Oh yes, very fine excuse. She was sure it would play very well with Fred, especially after all that he'd done for her and her miserable hide over the last few, extremely dangerous years.

And so, being much too much a moral coward to tell Fred she was a moral coward, Jo forced one last dazzling, if utterly counterfeit, smile on her face before she left her employer's office.

"Don't be ridiculous," she cheerfully blustered, hoping Fred wouldn't pick up on the panic lurking just below her bright words. "This would be a splendid opportunity to catch up with an old friend and perhaps get a scoop for our readers! Laurie always was a tricky one, after all, and it would nice for us both to spar with him again, wouldn't it? Maybe we could arrange a nice little exclusive introducing a new scion to New York. The ladies alone would love it. He always was so very charming when he was young and I'm sure that hasn't worn off any."

The thought of meeting Laurie again primarily to package him into fodder for the masses almost made Jo's stomach empty from the burning hypocrisy. But when Fred nodded appreciably at her and Jo nodded back, as chipper as could be, she knew there could be nothing else done for it. She had agreed and she was now condemned and she was most definitely going to see the man she had almost loved and most definitely lost nearly eight years ago at a high society ball tomorrow night...

All while pretending it meant nothing, could not mean anything, and that little business of driving him away because she was an insensitive twit who couldn't understand the very severity of his feelings?

Ahahaha, Teddy, so sorry to have rejected you so harshly after the murder of your entire family! So sorry I was such a little bint earlier but you seem perfectly hale and hearty now and... look, you're even back into the loving bosom of the corrupt society that helped kill your parents! No hard feelings, right?

She was doomed. Utterly, completely and probably very justifiably doomed.

It was enough to make a girl wish that the rock that had sailed through her window earlier this morning really had connected in the first place.

Author's Note: So. Loved it? Hated it? Want to read more chapters? Want to never read anything like this again? Please do let me know what you think of this story, since this is by far an unstable experiment and I would love to know whether it's working or not working. I want the writing to be fun and pulpy, Jo to be bad-ass and yet still recognizably herself, and Fred to be an endearing soul who will most definitely play an important role in future chapters. Have I succeeded in your eyes, dear readers? I write primarily for your pleasure, after all. ;)