I don't own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Lucius Fox. I did create Madge.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.
The target was partying on his yacht a good swim from shore. The guy had a martini in one hand while the other rested on the blonde at his side. The sniper hoped she'd move. It'd be a shame if to get blood and grey matter on that white bikini top of hers.
The choppy waters and surrounding partiers made the shot slightly more interesting. It was easy enough he wouldn't brag about it to his competitors and hard enough he wouldn't be embarrassed for them to know it was his work. Still, he'd taken this job for the money.
As he set up his equipment the assassin pondered what the target could have done to his client to make reading his obituary worth 1.2 mil. Had the guy killed someone close to the client's heart in a drunk driving accident? Or maybe he'd been overly social with their wife, girlfriend, or little girl. Could his demise mean more monetary gain for the client than 1.2 mil? It didn't really matter.
What mattered was that it meant 1.2 mil to him, and he could make a slightly interesting shot out of the work. Besides, doing this one for the cash meant he could take a more challenging job afterwards. The sniper sighed as he knelt behind his rifle. He hoped his business in Gotham would prove more interesting.
. . .
"You don't need to say it, Lucius."
Fox's eyes took in the shadow-like discoloration beneath the eyes, the extra pallor of the already pale complexion, and the rigidness in the younger man's posture that indicated to relax could also mean to collapse. He'd known something was wrong when Bruce was a few minutes late to their meetings in the forgotten rooms stories beneath Wayne Tower. Now he wished his employer hadn't come in at all.
"I'll say it anyway. You look like a man who put on his best suit after escaping from an ambulance."
"Leslie cleared me to meet with you today."
"You mean you told her you were meeting with me, and she didn't find it necessary to slip a syringe into your neck to stop you."
"Yes."
"I'll surrender to her professional judgment and your stubbornness, for now."
Bruce strode to the table, sat down in a chair across from the standing Lucius, and looked at the folders lined up in front of him.
"How's 'Escape Route' coming?"
Lucius sat down on the other side of the table and flipped aside the cover of the folder directly in front of his employer. He then slid its first page over so it would lie opposite the second. Both were fact sheets on apartment buildings a few blocks from each other. Several like papers were beneath the second.
"We've obtained a number of buildings, but I'm still in the process of hiring personnel to repair and update them."
"We can't wait until they're ready. We need a temporary shelter that can be used sooner."
Lucius straightened. He tried to meet the pair of grey eyes still studying the papers he'd presented to them. When the other man didn't look up, Fox addressed the furrowed brow. "May I ask where you suggest I look for one of those?"
"I want you to contact Evelyn Ainsley."
Lucius's brows rose. His head tilted to one side. "Ev, why?"
"Ainsley Manor is the best option."
"There's Wayne Manor."
"I can't be that closely connected to this."
"You're already connected through the rest of us, including Mrs. Ainsley if she agrees to be a part of it. Besides, you're still technically . . ."
"I can't be that strongly connected to this."
Lucius sighed. "I'll call Evelyn. The last time she contacted us was a postcard from Vienna, but she may be state-side now."
Bruce nodded.
"How's the power situation in the buildings we've acquired?"
Both men continued discussing details of "Escape Route" and other plans in motion or soon to be. Around 6:30 p.m. Bruce rose from the table. His sluggish movements and the two pain pills he took with the meal waiting for both men in the nearby fridge made Lucius berate himself inwardly for not bringing the meeting to a close sooner. The business man sighed. After listening to the one he was giving himself in his own head, he was going to get another lecture from Leslie.
. . .
Dr. Thomkins buttered the piece of toast beside Madge who was staring at the eggs frying in the skillet in front of her. Meanwhile the younger woman continued to shovel oatmeal into her mouth. The mushy grain seemed to be a staple in this house of refuge. The guest started when her hostess spoke.
"I'm going out to do a few errands. After completing them I'll work tonight. It's a twelve hour shift. When I get back, I'll head straight to my room and sleep the entire day."
"So, I'll have to entertain myself, huh?"
"For a few hours, my friend is coming at 10 A.M to show you how to keep this household clean while you stay in it."
"She'll teach me how to be a nice little housewife, huh?"
Madge concentrated on removing an egg from the pan and slid it onto her doctor's plate. So, she didn't see Leslie raise her brows at her. "How you take advantage of the lessons after you leave here is your choice to make."
"How do I know if whoever shows up at the door is this friend of yours?"
"Arriving at exactly 10 O-clock, knowing who I and you are, along with why they're here are all good signs of that."
"I don't get any more details?"
"My friend is my age and gives me a look that gets on my nerves if I'm late for anything." Leslie stuffed the last bite of toast in her mouth, rinsed her hands at the sink, dried them on a nearby towel, turned and strode toward the door. Madge called after her retreating figure.
"Sounds like a fun gal."
Leslie smiled. Madge didn't notice. She was busy scraping out the last spoonful of oatmeal from her bowl before she started eating her eggs.
. . .
He watched the police cars continue to pass by on the street below his hotel suite's window. He took another sip of brandy, swallowed, and popped another shrimp into his mouth. The important thing to remember about not being caught was to not run.
Looking like the exact opposite of a man who should be getting away allowed one to stay without repercussions. After the shrimp was swallowed he chuckled to himself at the thought of a poor sap who suddenly left the city from a place a few minutes travel from where he took the shot. Such an innocent's day could be ruined explaining himself to the authorities. He on the other hand would enjoy a fabulous night.
At an appropriate moment he'd make sure the money had been wired to his account. In the mean time he'd take advantage of the accommodations, cuisine, and companionship this city could offer. When his business here had been properly reported in the news he'd purchase a copy to add the article to his portfolio, book comfortable transport to Gotham, and stroll out of Dodge.
. . .
The second hand ticked upwards to aim itself at the twelve. At the same moment, the small hand moved to point to the ten. The doorbell rang.
The sound was like a bell of Notre Dame being rung somewhere in the attic. She'd never heard the sound before, so Madge jumped when it shattered the silence. Then she scowled at the stray, purposeless, pencil mark she'd made across her sketch.
She rose from the couch, stalked to the door, peeked out through its glass pane, and froze. Without undoing the chain lock, she slid the door open enough to peek out. There was what she thought she'd seen through the patterned glass.
A man stood on the porch, a six-foot-something tall man. He had precisely combed and cut iron grey hair, an equally neat moustache, shoes that fairly glowed with polish, and a suit that looked like it was still on a mannequin. He was even wearing a chauffeur hat, which he removed with a hand covered in a stark white glove. He bowed slightly at the waist.
"Good morning Miss, Alfred Pennyworth at your service."
. . .
In the southern end of Gotham, Lenny "Nails" sat at a diner with "Stu the Undertaker." Stuart Russo, ten years Lenny's senior, had been known as "Stu the Sour" until he'd gained his reputation for prompt, untraceable body disposal. Both men were eating a late breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and black coffee in the only booth that didn't face a window.
Lenny stabbed a strip of bacon with his fork and lifted it from his plate. He stared at the mouthful as if contemplating its merits. "So, which piece of meat do you think the boss should string up for the Bat?" The man stuck the thin, fried slice of pork into his mouth while he listened for his companion's answer.
"I can think of a couple of expensive disappointments I wish he'd string up." The older gangster replied while viciously cutting through his pancake stack.
"Got to be sympathetic looking, he says," the younger man murmured while lifting his coffee mug toward his mouth.
"Who gets to spend tonight picking her out?"
"Nails" lowered his glass enough to smile over its rim. "Well I owe a good night's work. Guess I could make the sacrifice."
The older mobster gave him a cold look over his plate. "You wish. You owe a hard night's work."
The other man's smug smile didn't waver as he answered. "The boss will decide."
"Better yet, why don't we make ourselves useful and make Bat-bait unnecessary?"
"Keep dreaming Russo."
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