Chapter Six

Managing to stumble secretively through the streets of Gotham proved somewhat successful for Reacher. She managed to stay somewhat in the shadows as she crossed the city, and thankfully she'd been able to control some of her bleeding with a bandange "borrowed" from a nearby drugstore. It'd been an easy lock to break; a simple Guard-All commerical brand. She'd left a twenty behind in place with the opened box and signed it "R".

Leslie Thompkins didn't live too far into Gotham's Narrow's; her clinic was right at the skirts of the wasteland. She'd traveled many times down this place in her youth; her passion for medicine was fed here thanks to Thomas Wayne's many lectures and tutorial's. Leslie had been the first person her father had recommended to volunteer for; and volunteer she had. Most of her freshman year in college she'd spent her time in Leslie's office, practicing sutures on oranges and pig's hooves. Leslie had drilled her hard in the basics of medicine and pharmecutical drugs. It was with her that Marianne Lancer truly found the courage, strength and desire for medical school.

Thankfully the chilly night had suspended rain hopefully until tomorrow morning, making the journey to the doctor's abode somewhat easier and warmer. Reacher was dripping with her own perspiration by the time she'd managed to get into the Narrow's, and even then she was barely standing. It was difficult to dodge the people's stares, glares and curiosity; and some even their approaches. She'd just been able to manage to duck into the shadow's and hazily disappear before their eyes. Reacher didn't have much time to sneak around; her blood was dispersing from her body faster than her heart could replenish it.

By the time she'd reached Leslie's clinic, she was struggling to stay conscious. She'd managed to shakily fire a grappel into the darkness of the roof and retract herself up. Stumbling across the shingles, she was able to carefully release the window above the back door and slip her body inside. She moaned somewhat loudly as her abdomen bent for her arrival, her wound sparking with fire and sending a coursing pain up her spine. It felt like a firecracker had exploded in her belly and sent her enire body into flames. She bit down hard on her tongue and dropped into Leslie's back porch, pain spiking into her belly. She collapsed on the rug and clutched her side, wheezing for breath.

A light flicked on in the kitchen. There came Leslie, scuffling through the kitchen, and much to Reacher's surprise, a Remington at hand. Reacher held out a blood-stained glove to her to stop the mad-woman, and gasped for breath as she fell forward, catching herself with her good arm. "Leslie..." she managed.

"Dear God," the woman gasped, tossing the Remington to the side where it thumped onto the rug in front of the washing machine. She rushed Reacher and dropped to her knees before the woman and gently helped her onto her back. Reacher closed her eyes and forced air in with short gasps of breath, palms pressing into the rug and fingers digging into the shaggy softness beneath her. Leslie reached for the round zipper pull and tugged it down, exposing Reacher's breasts and bloodied, discolored abdomen. "what have you done, girl?"

"Gu-nman," she sputtered, "docks. Batman was there..." she trailed.

Leslie pushed herself up off the floor and huffied away. Reacher tilted her head back against the floor to watch the woman, and she closed her eyes. Leslie reappeared and knelt down again, slapping her palm against Reacher's cheek and forcing her awake. "Don't go to sleep just yet, girl! Who is Batman?" he inquired. She frantically removed Reacher's glove and tossed it into her lap, then forced the needle into her vein and looked into her eyes. "Who is he?"

"I'm not su-re," she gasped as the medicine immediately began to travel her bloodstream and affect her senses, "Lidocaine...?"

Leslie nodded. "A friend?" she asked, removing the bandage from Reacher's abdomen, "Or a foe?"

Reacher breathed deep, senses beginning to haze deeply. Darkness began to spot her vision, and she fumbled for Leslie's hand. Leslie immediately took it and squeezed it and looked to Reacher's face. For a moment his pointy ears and striking eyes flashed across her mind, and she gasped out the sentance. "Let's pray, a friend."

"Okay, Marianne. Okay."


He followed her as far as the Narrow's and then stayed behind a few more yards after she'd slipped into the shadow's and looked over her shoulder a few times. So, she was at identifying a tail, too. She had many skills he'd underestimated. He'd have to be much more careful about his approaches with her; she was not stupid. Indeed, she was wise; but he noticed she was lacking in hand-to-hand. That could be a weakness he would be able to prey on.

Her statement had been false, that was for certain. As soon as she'd said it he knew she was injured; the wa y her eyes squinted somewhat behind her mask as she raised her arms indicated the injury. Also he'd compaired her run to their first encounter; somewhat lacking and in favor of her left side. She was wounded, and she was wounded good. Something flooded through his stomach, but he couldn't place it.

She was obviously somewhat harder off than he was; her suit was not Kevlar or bullet resistant; much to her disadvantage. Her most effective tools were obviously her arrow and bows; she'd most likely spent her budget more on her tools instead of her outfit. He frowned upon that instantly; one should protect oneself before protecting others with tools and weapons.

It was interesting-and intriguing-how she'd managed to keep the people at bay through her stumbling upon the inhabitants of the Narrow's. He was impressed she was able to navigate her way through it with speed, precision, and authority. Also, she'd kept her persona well hidden from their sight; she made appearance to the public only when necessary, but kept her bruised pride concealed without darkness. He'd followed her from the rooftops, and then had taken it to the shadowy alleys when it was no longer acceptable. She'd somehow managed to sense him and had ducked away for good; but her small, almost unidentifiable trail of bloodlets kept him on her.

Now, standing before the Thompkins Medical Clinic, he managed to scope out the building farely well. It was a small, cottage looking thing, warn and run-down from disrepair. It was a two-story building, the above floor the housing facility of Leslie Thompkins, the lower the clinic itself. From the slightly opened window above the back door, he figured she had somehow managed to get up there and slip inside-leaving her work halfway undone, he noticed.

He recalled his meetings with Leslie. Brief, unexpected, and brutal. She was a fine, hard-headed doctor; stuck in her ways and beliefs. She disregarded his work as nothing more as criminal, though he tried his best to prove her otherwise. She helped him, though, insisting that "billionaire's don't fight" for the rightness in the world; they buy it. He quickly defended himself as something more than just Bruce Wayne; as a new someone here to say. She'd silenced her opinion and had helped him without complain since then.

Jumping onto the porch, he swung himself up to the window and looked inside. Immediately the blood stained rug by the descending staircase caught his attention and blared a message to him. Kneeling, he felt the largest blood spot and removed his hand-still wet. He rubbed the ruby substane between his fingers and then looked ahead, to see Leslie standing before him, terry robe stained and stringy grey curls laying limply around her face. She looked exhausted, and her hands were unwashed; bearing a scalpel and cup of coffee in the other.

"You hurt too?" she croaked after the steaming mug left her lips, "Or did you just come for a visit?"

"The girl," he rasped, "is she alive?"

Leslie nodded. "Quite. She's banged up pretty good, but she'll be fine," she looked him over and then gestured to his headpiece. "Better than the ski-mask, that's for sure."

"Thanks." he said deeply.

"She mentioned you." Leslie changed the subject quickly, "You two partners or something?"

"No," he repied hastily, "no. She's-a complication."

Leslie's brow rose a few inches and she set the mug down on the end-table by the stairs, the fingered the bloody scalpel in her hands, careful to mind the blade. She leaned against the railing and looked at him, then to the tool. "A complication that's been doing this since before you got back, Bruce. She's been working at this for almost a year-just recently got involved in the drug world."

He stood stone-still, unmoving. The memory-cloth caught in the breeze from the window and rustled around his ankles. "She's not ready. Countless faults make for countless mistakes."

"And countless ignorance makes for countless suffering. You're doing nothing but hindering her. Competitiveness is something she'd not good at-she'll run you over. She doesn't do well with male attention. And besides; she has something to fight for too. You can't judge her for the works he does, when you do the exact same thing she does. It's unethical, and it's hypocritical."

He turned sharply on his heel. "This is my city, Leslie. My parents gave their lives for this place, and they will not go unavenged. And if she's what's standing in my way; I'll get rid of her."

Leslie immediately went after him and her hand touched his shoulder, whipping his broadness to face her. He sneered at her and she stepped back hastily. "What? You'll kill her?"

He was quiet a moment. "No. I'll expose her."

She looked hurt, her eyes flashing with disappointment and anger for an instant. "And what of Rachel? You'd do the same to her, would you? What if she decided to get involved-without a mask?"

"Rachel is entirely differe-"

She continued. "And what about Marianne?"

"What about her?" he snapped, "She loved my parents just as much as I do." he slipped up into the window sill and stared at Leslie harshly. "She would do the same thing if she could."

Leslie crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at him from her place on the floor. "You don't get it, do you?"

He stared at her, silent.

"Those two women completely adore you," she whispered, "and you're running around like Robin Hood on steriods. If something ever happened to you-again-both of them would shrivel up and die inside. Rachel might continue with the law; might find another friend," she messaged her temple with one hand, "but Marianne...she would...she would;"

"Would what?" he snapped.

She shook her head and looked up at him. "No. You have to find out for yourself." She spun on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. Placing a hand on the door frame, she looked back at him and blinked twice, carefully taking in his presence. "That's something every man should find himself."

She disappeared around the corner and the light flicked off.


"Alfred," he spoke into the communicator fifteen minutes later, overlooking the city from his perch. He knelt and looked down the scrambling streets, locked in midnight traffic and people jamming the sidewalks with bustling busy-bodies all trying to get somewhere.

"Yes, Master Bruce?" the man replied casually.

"Call Lucius," he said darkly, looking over his shoulder to the direction of Leslie's clinic and the wounded female vigilante. "Ask him if he has anything like the suit he gave me."

Alfred sounded puzzled, "What for?"

"A woman..." the next words came like venom from his throat, "...friend," he said with a heavy sigh.

He closed the communication line and disappeared into the night.


It was well into the deepness of morning when I finally awoke, finding myself in a t-shirt and jeans I'd kept at Leslie's clinic. Is that where I wound up last night? The throbbing in my head pounded like a war-drum throughout my skull, leaving my midnight memories hazy and somewhat blank in my head.

I roused in my bed, forcing the covers off me and lifted up the hem of the shirt. Gauze was wrapped around my hips and crawled up my waistline partway. Red splotches dotted the white material around the affected area, and a dull throbbing resided there at my touch. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the pillow, taking in deep breathes of the cooling air. So, Leslie had fixed me appropriately.

Then, catching my eye across the room, was the sleek instrument tray holding of Dr. Leslie Thompkins fine surgical equiptment. They were sitting, stationary; waiting for their next patient and case to be used. My head swam for a minute and I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to get the immense pounding to cease. Then I looked to my hand, where a small, clear tube protruded through my vein. I fingered the tubing with my other hand and followed it with my eyes, to the inevitable IV stand beside my bed. The bag was clear liquid, and I figured it was a steady antibiotic or pain-killer.

In the corner of my room, I saw the closet door opened a sliver. Inside, my cunning secret identity laid tucked away in the bowels of the clothing and shoes which belonged to Leslie. A smile floated onto my lips as I recalled her willingness to help me at every turn. Even in my time of confusion and harsh lifestyle, she'd been there to bandage my wounds-heal my scars. She was the angel God had sent me to help me through the darkest parts of my life.

A soft knock sounded on my door. "Marianne? Are you awake?"

Her soft yet gruff voice soothed my frangled nerves. "Yeah, please; come on in Leslie." the door opened and exposed Leslie in her true form-common Wrangler jeans and red v-neck t-shirt, matched with sandals and a messy bun, even in the cooler September weather. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen and entered, seating herself on my bedside.

Leslie was more of a grandmother to me than my own flesh and blood one. While my Grandma Jean spent her days basking in the Louisiana sunlight, Leslie resided here, in the slums and dankness of Gotham's underbelly; ever a shining light of God's grace and mercy; true evidence of love in a loveless world. Her greying black hair and shining emerald eyes-though marred with slight cataracts and hidden behind petite glasses-held power and adoration that I'd never seen before. She was a firey spirit, strong willed as if she'd been young her entire life. Her calloused hands and experience weary mind were only signs of a life spent helping people through hard times-people like me.

"How are you holding up, child?" she rubbed my arm gently, "Pain okay?"

I nodded and touched my throat. "Fine. How long have I been asleep?"

"Most of the night," she replied casually. "You came in about midnight. It's-" she checked her aging wristwatch, "-eleven fifteen right now."

Every nerve in my body tensed. "In the afternoon?" Whipping my covers off, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and my world spun. Pressing fingertips to my temple, I steadied myself and looked out the window. "No, no, no," I frantically looked around for my shoes and other belongings. "It can't be that late! I-I have things to do! Everyone will be wondering-"

"-where you are?"

I whipped my attention to the doorway, where Bruce Wayne leaned casually, hands in pockets, as usual. My eyes widened and I looked to Leslie who gave me a reassuring "don't-worry-he-doesn't-know" look. My heart stopped palpatrating inside me like a time-bomb and I managed to stand. "What are you doing here?" I began to take the IV from my wrist, strength slowly beginning to rise from my legs.

"I called Bruce after you spiked a post-op fever," Leslie said calmly, helping my shaking hand slowly and carefully remove the IV line. "He came about six. Been checking on you ever since." she stopped the IV and looped the tube around the stand. "He's been a good boy, don't worry."

I frowned at him and shook my head. "You shouldn't be down here," I began to search the room for some of my "belongings"; things I kept as cover at Leslie's. Watches, shoes, socks, a checkbook, things of that matter. "The Narrow's isn't good to people like you, Bruce." I looked up at him after accepting some things from Leslie. "Not like it once was, anyway,"

He entered the room and shrugged a shoulder, wrinkling his face as if it were nothing. "Eh, don't worry about it. I heard you might need a ride." he winked in my direction, "Figured I could be of service."

Nodding, I ran a hand through my hair. "Does Rach know?"

He shook his head. "Didn't tell her. I thought you might not want such details exposed to the world." He gestured with his head towards the door. "You hungry? We left you some juice and half a slice of toast. Leslie said you could eat on a light diet."

The sound of food spiked an upset flow in my stomach, and I pressed a palm to my unaffected area. As he spoke, my brain flew into overdrive. What was he thinking? Did he know? What would he think if he did know? Was he concerned...? "Eck, no. I'm still feeling sick from the Lido."

He ran his fingers through his hair, "Well, alright then. You ready to go? Curl's been missing you," my eyes widened and he held up to hands as if to stop my bombardment of oncoming questions, "don't worry. I checked on him at eight. He's fine."

Relief washed over me. "Yeah, I'm ready to leave. No offense, Leslie." she shrugged and began to make the bed. I took a shaky step forward and blood rushed through my ears, and I leaned to the side as the world turned. Thrusting out my arm to stable myself, I suddenly felt two strong hands seize my arms and right me immediately. I looked up slowly to see Bruce smiling softly at me.

"You okay, Champ?"

I shook my hand in the "sort of" gesture. "Not quite there, but working on it. Thanks." He nodded in affirmation.

"Alright then. Let's get you home, Marty. Think you can handle the stairs?" he raised an ebony brow, his chocolate eyes boring into the side of my head. My stomach mixed with butterflies and nausea from the Lido, and my head swam slightly. Shaking my curls slightly, I nodded slowly.

"I think so."

After a few sad attempts, it was true. I made it to the sidewalk, where I reassured Bruce I could handle the rest of the way. He nodded and retrieved his sunglasses from his jean's pockets and slipped them over his eyes-giving him a very sexy, playboy affect. I rolled my eyes as he headed towards the car, twirling the keys to the Camaro around his finger. I turned to Leslie and she wrapped her arms around me in a good-bye hug.

"Thank you again, Leslie," I said quietly into her ears. "You're a Godsend."

She chuckled, "I know, angel. Be careful," she patted my back gently, "try and stay away from the firepower, okay? Don't scare me again."

I nodded and pulled back. "Will do, chief. I'll come and get the suit later tonight. Stow it away, would you?"

She saluted playfully and winked. "Will do, angel. Take it easy. Call me if you need anything."

Chuckling, I smiled and planted a quick, good-bye kiss on her cheek and hurried down the few steps and towards the '69 Camaro. Then, popping open the passenger door, Bruce leaned over the seat and waved good-bye to our favorite Physician. She waved back before retreating into the house again.

I slipped slowly in the car and the first thing Bruce did beside slip the car into first gear was look dead at me and pushed up his sunglasses.

"What in God's name where you doing to get yourself shot?"