It really didn't matter what they called her.

Olivia or Opium or that damned Jenkins girl. They could have called her Fido or Phone and still been miles off. Her name, her real name, was a series of high pitched squeaks and trilling whistles. So, sometimes bats could make it out. There were tons of excuses tossed around for her disappearance, too.

She had offed herself. She'd been murdered. She'd faked her own death, changed her name, gotten plastic surgery but all of them were wrong.

Olivia had simply been promoted.

She was never meant to be lawyer, though a damned fine one she was, and you would be hard pressed to find any balance on the corrupt playing field of a courtroom floor. It made her money, it gave her recognition but each failure stripped away a little bit of what she was; what she was supposed to be.

The only balance around was found at the bottom of a bottle or a baggy. Bourbon, heroin, vodka, coke; it didn't matter. None of it did. So they took away her right to defend, to accuse, to spout out lies in front of a jury. Big deal. She still had her buzz.

Everything that came before and after and in-between was all filler.

That was why her supervisors, the non-human bosses, packed her up and sent her off.