Leslie Thompkins' Clinic

118 splinters later

I couldn't help the sigh that escaped me when the doctor proclaimed me splinter-free after a couple of hours of intense tweezing.

"If you didn't squirm so much, it wouldn't hurt near as bad," Leslie Thompkins, Bat-family medic, said. She was probably in her late fifties, though her looks hadn't really faded too much, and she had the best bedside manner.

For the most part. Let's…not get into the Black Mask Debacle.

Though, I do owe my life to her from said Black Mask Debacle. Leslie faked my death after my identity as Spoiler had been compromised and smuggled me out of the country, where I was to live out my life helping out the less fortunate anonymously in Africa. That lasted for about a year before I got antsy and made my way back to Gotham. Leslie followed not long after Bruce 'died,' re-establishing a clinic and dedicating her life once more to the less fortunate of Gotham. She had done some real good in the months since she got back, but I saw the way she looked at me occasionally, both in and out of costume. I'm not going to call her on it, but I'd bet my prized, autographed 2000 Gotham Griffins Eastern Division Championship pennant that she still felt guilty for lying to Bruce and 'killing' me.

Especially since I don't think they've made up. However, Bruce hasn't had her arrested and thrown in Arkham, so she's got that going for her, which is nice.

Of course, I wasn't exactly feeling the warm fuzzies towards her at the moment, either. "One-hundred and twenty splinters. You try not squirming after the first dozen."

She merely raised an iron-grey eyebrow. "You've had much worse injuries than this, Stephanie."

"Well, sure," I said as she began taping down multiple gauze pads on my back to keep the multitude of wounds from being exposed to the elements. It was just the two of us, as Barbara had to leave after the first hour to check on a Dick-Batman related case, which was funny, considering her months-old 'Oracle is dead to the cape community' stance. "Thankfully, I wasn't really conscious for the worst of them. And you used the good stuff to dull the pain if I was."

"I apologize," Leslie said with an audible eye roll. I don't know how that's possible, but she accomplished it. "Next time you come to me to get a splinter removed, I'll remember to use the 'good stuff.'"

"That's all I ask," I said with a nod. We fell into a silence for a bit while she worked, though I couldn't let it last too long. Quiet and me, we're not the best of buds. "So, heard from Wendy at all?"

Wow. Even I could hear the horrible fake casualness in my voice. Thankfully, Leslie didn't comment on it. "Unfortunately, no," she said, a note of wistfulness in her voice. "The journey she's on, it doesn't lend itself very well to communication with the outside world. She'll come back when she's faced whatever demons were plaguing her."

So, a super-villain, Oracle-level genius father who hijacked the corpse of her twin brother and forced another superhero named Kid Eternity to bring him back to life for bursts at a time and then killed said superhero when he burned himself out, resulting in super-villain father going nuts, talking to said corpse as if it were still alive, and siccing Darkseid nanites on Barbara in an attempt to 'win' Wendy back.

I almost wish I had said that out loud. That was a) the most complicated sentence I have ever thought, and b) the most awesome example of nutshelling known to humankind.

Oh, and let's not forget that said dead twin brother had been killed by an actual demon dog that also left Wendy paralyzed from the waist down.

"Wendy Harris has the heart of a hero, after all," Leslie continued. "Much like other stubborn young women I know. She'll want to see through what the two of you started."

"Team Batgirl, all the way," I muttered and then glanced at the clock, one of those creepy cat ones with the swiveling eyes and swishing tail to denote seconds. I had my guesses about where that came from. Felix told me it was after six, which meant that I had got tweezed for a little over two hours and crap I was supposed to have been home an hour ago. "Leslie, have you seen my phone? I need to call my mom and let her know not to panic. Actually, that's probably too late. I need to let her know not to have a go at Bruce or Alfred, whichever one is at the manor."

"Stephanie, calm down," Leslie said, grinning slightly. "Barbara called your mother on the way over here, while you were passed out in the car. You have been excused from Scrabble night, I am to inform you."

"Well, at least some good came from getting exploded," I said as I gingerly shrugged into a loner shirt that Leslie had lying around. Unfortunately, mine hadn't survived the end of the Hightower Agricultural Library. My jeans were also shredded, so I slipped into a pair of scrub pants and pulled back on my shoes, which had, miraculously, lived to tell the tale of my heroic actions. I wasn't overly worried about the way I looked at the moment, as I aimed to wear an entirely different outfit within the next half hour.

So, naturally, that's when I emerged from the room to find myself eye-to-incredibly well-defined chest with a freaking statue of David.

He had dark skin, like melted chocolate, and smelled strongly of body odor, as if he had just finished a work out. It said a lot about me that I wasn't completely put off. His eyes locked on mine and I about fainted underneath those intense, black eyes. I couldn't tell you what his hair looked like, because I stopped taking him in once our eyes met.

His lips quirked a little and he said, "You okay?"

"Sure," I said mechanically. What was I doing, again? Something about…wheat? That doesn't sound right.

"You positive?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because you're kind of just standing there staring blankly."

"Sure."

"Uh huh," the Greek God grunted. He folded his arms over his chest, almost protectively. "Maybe I should try to find Dr. Thompkins. She should be able to fix you right up."

OhmigodbrainthisyourmouthspeakingMAKEMESAYOMETHINGINTELLIGENT.

"I'm fine," I said. Way to go, Brain. Nice start. "Really. So, uh, you come here often?"

Well done, Dork Knight.

"Just started this week," he said, shifting slightly to his right, as if to maneuver around the crazy girl eyeing him like a prize steak. "I, uh, I've got a thing out back."

"Right," I muttered, turning to the side and letting him pass. He tossed me a glance back, but it was of the worried, 'Is she following me?' variety. I smiled weakly and muttered to myself, "It was nice meeting you. I look forward to your restraining order."

Leslie picked that exact moment to leave the examining room. "Did you say something, Stephanie?"

I sighed. "Just reaffirming my vow of celibacy."

She followed my gaze down the hallway, where a very, very attractive back was quickly making its way towards the exit to the basketball courts behind the clinic. Leslie told me she had chosen the location both for the medical facilities and for the recreation opportunities that could be made available to area youth in need of something constructive to do with their time. I know the courts were in constant use, especially by the wheelchair group that played basketball three or four times a week. Barbara was even known to join in, though she liked murderball a bit better than straight basketball. Probably because of the violence involved in it.

"Ah," Leslie said, breaking into my thoughts. "You met Lucas."

"I don't know that met is the right word," I said. "It was more like I ran into him, he asked me questions, and I stared like a moron. So, really, par for the course in the Many Loves of Stephanie Brown."

"I'm sure it wasn't so bad," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "You should have heard what Ginger at the front desk said the first time he came through. Over the intercom."

I sighed. "At least my embarrassment was limited to the two of us. So, who is Lucas, anyway?"

"Lucas Fox," Leslie said as we began making our way towards the front of the building. "He's been helping out with some of the after school programs since he got back into town."

"That's nice," I said, my mind still on my close encounter with his chest. Her words did manage to penetrate the fog, though, after a few seconds. "Wait. Rewind. Lucas Fox? As in, Lucius Fox?"

"That would be Lucius' oldest," Leslie confirmed. "I believe three years older than Tamara, but don't quote me on that, obviously. He's just graduated M.I.T. A year early."

Interesting. "And he's hanging out at an inner-city clinic because?"

Leslie made a face that could only be politely described as disapproving. "He has certain…attitudes about societal status that Lucius felt would best be corrected before he joined Wayne Enterprises."

"Ah," I nodded sagely. "He hates poor people."

"Stephanie," she admonished me, though I noted it wasn't too forcefully. "That's not exactly…"

I met her eyes and raised an eyebrow expectantly. After a moment, Leslie coughed and turned her head away. We had reached the front desk, where a plump woman with the most obviously dyed red hair was chattering away on her cell phone, ignoring a few of the patients huddled in yellow, plastic waiting chairs. Leslie gave her the Grandmother Stare. It was a look I had learned to fear in Africa; she managed to communicate multiple levels of anger, disappointment, and annoyance with one slight quirk of her eyebrows and a small frown. It was pretty much the exact opposite of the Care Bear Stare.

It was the Grandmother Stare that had, in all honesty, kept me from running back to Gotham for longer than six months after arriving in Africa.

Leslie suitably cowed the receptionist, who quickly ended her conversation and dutifully turned back to the computer and whatever data entry she had been neglecting. I caught Leslie's eye roll as she reached for a note pad and started scribbling. I tried to feel bad for the girl, really, but my back was oozing a little and I felt no sympathy for anyone.

"Now, Stephanie," Leslie began, holding up the note. "These are very specific instructions on what to do to prevent infection on your back. I assume you will have someone available to put some salve on your wounds?"

"Is this your way of checking to see if I still live with my mother?"

"I recommend avoiding any strenuous physical activities for at least seventy-two hours," Leslie said, ignoring me. "I, of course, realize you will cheerfully disregard that, so please change your bandages at least twice a day."

"Will do," I saluted and pocketed her note. Leslie turned her attention towards Ginger and I skedaddled out the front door of the clinic, exchanging a quick nod with a tall, athletically built blonde man with a soul patch and a rapier attached to his hip. Leslie's head of security. He's a Musketeer. Don't ask; I regretted it when I did.

The sun had sunk a little lower in the sky, but it was still solidly light out and would be for another two hours yet. Which meant that I wouldn't go looking into the explosion in an official capacity for a while, yet, as it was frowned upon to venture out in costume during the daylight hours. Not that I hadn't done just that a time or two. Instead, I began the trek from Leslie's clinic to Barbara's apartment building.

Well, technically, her former apartment building. She had upgraded to a better place closer to Kord Tower about a month ago. In fact, one of her secret entrances to her new Not-Oracle Cave ran underneath the building, which wasn't at all coincidental and, most likely, funded by certain Darkly Avenging benefactors. The upshot was that she could easily roll to the tower, though, somewhat ironically, she was now even farther away from the day job. I had asked her if she was planning on keeping the assistant professor gig, but Babs was unsurprisingly cagey.

Firewall, however, did not move with her to the waterfront. Team Batgirl, such that it was, still called Barbara's old, run-down apartment not far from the rail yard home. The rent was controlled (barely), the pipes were usable (sort of), and the air conditioner only worked on Tuesdays following a full moon. I really wish I was making that up, but Proxy and I tested the theory in a very scientific manner.

Not that I really cared about the apartments, not anymore. Firewall was deep beneath the building, in a sub-level that I don't think the superintendent had been aware of. There was a freight elevator that amazingly worked, considering the state of the rest of the building, though access to that had been reworked with Batman, Inc.'s massive overhaul of my subterranean Den of Justice. Now, access was by invitation only, though I was a little fuzzy on who, exactly, had access. Barbara, Proxy, and I, obviously. Bruce was a given, considering. Probably Dick and Tim. I really hoped Damian wasn't on the list. Or that Misfit girl.

The elevator slid to a smooth stop and the door slid open, revealing one on of the brightest rooms you will ever step foot in. Batman, Inc., had taken my secret lair and pimped it out from a dingy, leaky basement that happened to have a giant, not internet-connected computer set up and a nifty personal vehicle called the Ricochet to…well, a crimefighter's wet dream. We're talking hologram projectors, digital spectro…graph…isotope…things.

Okay, full disclosure. I know very little about how to run most of the new equipment. Database searches and the batarang press are about as far as I really get when it comes to Firewall. Don't get me wrong, I'm trying to learn. The detective part of the gig isn't exactly second nature to me. I'm more of the 'point me in the direction of the bad guys and let me make up the plan as I go along' type. It's unorthodox, but I can safely say, in an odd family of meticulous planners and thinkers, I punch to the beat of my own drummer.

I had to shield my eyes momentarily as I exited the elevator, as the difference between the dim car and the holycrapthat'sbright settings of Firewall's fluorescents was overwhelming. Bruce had to have taken stock in a light bulb company, because my hideout was lit to a ridiculous degree. Even the floor was lit in places. I don't know what the point was, unless it was to create a polar opposite to the Batcave. Which it does nicely.

The computer bank on the left wall hummed to life when I put in the password into one of six different keyboards on the console. Firewall boasted six giant monitors, plus eight smaller ones. I barely could figure out how to get the smaller ones to work, so the big ones were almost always dark, except for when I needed the television feed. As a teenager, even if it is only by a few more months, I could always figure out the TV.

At that moment, I had the center-most big screen tuned to a live feed of WGBS, who had a reporter live in the Hamilton Hill Free Speech Zone doing a breaking news update. This, apparently, had been an ongoing report for the last two hours, as they bounced between the studio crew and ace reporter Lillian Seabrooke live on scene, who was presently interviewing the pixie-like girl I had physically thrown out of the library as it collapsed.

"What were you doing in the library?" Lillian asked.

The girl shifted a little, the fringe of her short, orange-red hair falling over her glasses. "I work there, y'know? Shelving, filing, that kind of thing."

"And you were in a computer lab when the explosion happened?"

"Yeah. I was monitoring some students in there when there was this deafening BOOM and the room shook like that earthquake a few years back. Next thing I know, y'know, the stairs start falling down, blocking in me and about ten others."

Pixie was kind of adorable here, as she couldn't stand still for a second, constantly bobbing on her feet and shifting. She was like a puppy. The reporter offered her most sympathetic look and asked, "And how did you all escape?"

"We got lucky," Pixie admitted, again shifting uncomfortably. "The smoke was, y'know, really thick and we couldn't budge the debris. One of the girls trapped in there with me was losing her mind, screaming at people that were running out. Then some blonde girl was hitting the window with an axe and got us out."

"Do you know who your savior was?" And just like that, the sympathetic reporter was gone, replaced by a shark that smelled a Pulitzer in the water.

Pixie shook her head. "I didn't really see her face. She saved my life twice, y'know? Threw me out of the library as it started to collapse. Never saw her get out, herself."

"I see," Lillian Seabrooke, future bitter drunk during the Pulitzer ceremony, said. "Just one more tragic story to add to this horrific day. Recounting our top story, an explosion occurred on the campus of Gotham University at approximately four p.m. this afternoon in the Hightower Agriculture Library. Gotham City Police have not released whether this was an accident or the work of a person or group of persons. What we do know is that, officially, eleven people lost their lives, but, as we just heard from GU student Carrie…"

I clicked off the feed after that, not wanting to really hear how it could have been worse. Utilizing my rudimentary computer skills, I pulled up the scanner band for emergency services, listening helplessly for about forty-five minutes to the chatter of the rescue teams combing the rubble for any sign of survivors. They only found about four more bodies, bringing the total up to twenty. Lillian had been working off some old information, apparently.

"Listening to that will only drive you crazy," Barbara's voice rose over the constant stream of progress reports. I craned my head from where I sat at the computer and saw her rolling her way out of the elevator shaft. I hadn't even heard it open.

"I'm waiting for the rescue crews call it a night," I replied. "That way I can do the sleuth thing all sneaky like."

"Uh huh," Babs raised a dubious eyebrow. "In the meantime, you're making sure you hear it each time they pull someone from the rubble, allowing you time to brood. That's not a 'you' move, Steph. That's Bruce or Tim."

I bristled. "Tim hasn't always been that way."

Babs raised an eyebrow. "We are talking about the same Tim Wayne née Drake, right? The one who figured out Batman's identity at nine? Who just got back from working for Ra's Al Ghul?"

"We agreed we weren't mentioning his you-know-what," I chastised. And by we, I mean myself, Dick, Barbara, and Alfred. Bruce had just returned and was getting his bearings, so we didn't want to drop our concerns on him until we were sure there was an issue. And Damian…is Damian. Always the jealous little brother.

And, by you-know-what, I meant Tim's obvious mental breakdown. He had been depressed, obviously, though undiagnosed because therapists? What self-respecting superhero goes to a therapist? Tim had lost his dad, Superboy, Kid Flash, his step-mom, his 'uncle,' and me all in less than two years. The fact that I wasn't really dead, and both Superboy and Kid Flash got better, didn't diminish the fact the boy was messed in the head. Bruce 'dying' just pushed him over an edge that none of us could pull him back from.

He very much had to work through it himself, though the way he did it was both perplexing and troubling, as he threw his lot in with the League of Assassins. He didn't kill anyone (we think), but he does have his own, personal, bald-headed bint of an assassin following him around like a puppy. It was enough to make all four of us, plus Superboy, Kid Flash, and Wonder Girl have to hold back on massive, 'What the hell, Red Robin?' speeches.

I was pretty sure I would get ignored, two of the Titans would also be brushed off, though in a more polite manner, Babs and Dick would at least get listened to, and Superboy and Alfred would have the best chance of getting through to him. I noticed over the last few months, since Bruce's return from…whenever the hell he was, Tim hadn't allowed himself to be alone with any of us. Alfred, especially, which told me he had already deduced as much, himself. He had hung out with the Titans a lot recently, though, from what Superboy had told me when he brought his concerns to me about a month ago, he was spending more and more time with Ravager. Which thrilled exactly no one.

Still, we bit our tongues, let him continue to play out his grand chess matches to (hopefully) catch criminals, and prayed to our various deities that Tim knew what he was doing.

"I know, I know," Barbara held up her hands defensively. "But not talking to him about it is only making us complicit in his spiral."

"We are not doing an intervention," I said with as much force as I could. "Those never work well for us."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "I assume you mean the 'Bruce Wayne, Murderer' situation. I didn't realize you were aware of that."

"Cass may have filled me in," I said. Or I may have, accidentally mind you, stumbled upon Bruce's notes on their 'intervention' (which, in reality, was little more than an actual fight between Batman and Nightwing) when I went through the Batcomputer after being fired as Robin. For a paranoid, magnificent bastard-type, using his parents' date of death for his passwords is just lazy.

Also, with the previous statement, I understand and accept why everyone told me to get out of the superhero gig as Spoiler.

Babs didn't even have to grunt for me know she didn't buy the lie for a moment. Which meant it was time to deftly change the subject. "So, shouldn't you be out getting your groove thang on?"

"I'm meeting Dinah and Helena there," Barbara said. She gave me this look over the tops of her yellow-tinted glasses that told me we weren't finished with this discussion, which I expected. Hopefully, it wouldn't be for a while, though. "I wanted to make sure you weren't brooding and to let you know I checked in with some of my contacts at the police department. Bomb squad will be doing their sweep of the library in about forty-five minutes."

I held up a finger to pause. "Shouldn't they have already done that?"

"They did a cursory, 'let's make sure there aren't any more' check," Barbara said. "This is the 'let's find out what brought a library down' investigation."

"Ah," I nodded and made my way to the costume vault on the back wall. I had already changed into the purple body stocking that I wore underneath the suit. Chaffing, the superheroine's true bane. "Well, then, I feel it's my civic duty to ensure the safety of the investigating team."

"It scares me when you talk like that."

I shrugged, mostly to myself, as I began pulling the bat-suit on. The suit was a Kevlar-reinforced material that Barbara had explained and I had dutifully spaced off. Thankfully, it was somewhat breathable, though that might have something to do with the built-in cooling slash vital signs monitoring system. It was black with purple, padded stripes on the sides, and a yellow Bat-symbol over my chest. The cowl and cape were one piece that was perfectly molded to my head and tricked out with all sorts of nifty optics. We're talking heat, infra-red, webcam, and I'm pretty sure there's Netflix if I could figure out the ear wiggle combination.

Babs designed the suit and her and Alfred built it. The purple, including the inside of the cape, and the thigh belt they included were such obvious nods to my roots as Spoiler that none of us felt comfortable mentioning it, out of fear that tears would fall shortly afterwards. Well, that's my fear. Of the other two, Alfred would be a little misty, but I'm pretty sure Barbara would rather fight Doomsday than admit she cried over how far I've come.

When I came out of the costume vault, cape in hand, Barbara was at the computer bank, typing away at something while one of the gizmos whirred and beeped constantly. "Whatcha doin? Besides avoiding your date with the Dougie."

"I don't know anyone named Dougie," Babs said distractedly. "I'm running an analysis on the substances on your shoes."

"To see if there's any residue on them," I nodded. That was something I would have totally done, had I know which doohickey was the spectro-analytical thingy. I swung the mantle around my shoulders, the heavy, leather weight settling down on them comfortably. The cowl was next, which somewhat uncomfortably crushed my hair to my skull until I was able to pull it out through the hole in the back.

Barbara made a gesture that could, generously, be considered a nod. "Should be done in about two hours or so. You know what to do to cross-reference the results with known criminals who use a particular brand of explosive or accelerant?"

"Shift F-five?"

A long pause followed while Barbara just stared blankly. "I'll just set the computer to forward me the results, then."

"Probably for the best."

Nose pinch. "I need to get going. You'll call if you run into trouble?"

I shot her a bright grin as I walked towards the vehicle bay. "What could possibly go wrong?"