Chapter Eight

The Previous Night...

Sleep had found him only moments after he'd dropped into bed somewhere around three in the morning. Exhaustion had coursed a path through his muscles and fatigue had pulled his eyelids so far that he feared he'd go blind. It was almost impossible to make his way to the master bedroom-falling into an empty bed had never felt so refreshing. With the first breath he took he felt like a new man. Batman had seemed like decades ago, while in reality it was only moments. His snores overtook the room about three minutes later.

Unaware to the world, a moan escaped his lips as he buried his head into his feather pillow. Stretching his arms out as far as they'd go, his knee popped reassuringly as he relaxed back into the sheets of his bed. Inhaling the scent of fresh linens, he peeked to see Alfred standing beside the bed, silver tray at hand. A smirk was painted onto his lips.

"Bats are nocturnal, Alfred," he mumbled, squinting against the sunlight blaring through the uncurtained window.

Alfred snorted slightly and set the tray down on the side-table with a delicate ting. "Bats maybe. But for billionaire, three o' clock is pushing it. The price for leading a double life, I'm afraid." he righted the newspaper on the tray, when something caught his eyes. Quickly unfurling it, he scanned over the headline. "Your theatrics made an impression, sir. Taking it a little too far, are we? The police don't seem appriciative."

Bruce stumbled out of bed and shielded his eyes against the intruding sun, as if it'd become his mortal enemy. In all reality, it had, since bats were indeed creatures of the night; and his escapades did place him in the middle of darkness. Scratching the back of his neck, he reached for the glass of water from the tray. He noticed through the bottom of the glass that Alfred was eyeing his torso far more intently than necessary.

"If those are to be the beginning of many injuries," he began, seating himself in the bay window of the master bedroom, "I suggest finding a suitable excuse for your lady friends would be in order."

Bruce set the glass back on the table and looked to his friend. "And you suggest?"

"Polo, for instance. A very rigorous, professional, expensive sporting activity."

Bruce threw Alfred a look and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I'm not learning Polo, Alfred."

"And what will you learn, sir?" Alfred dipped his head to make a point, "Besides how to beat human beings into a bloody pulp, that is." Bruce threw him another look, but Alfred remained unphased.

"Alfred-"

Alfred continued, "A non-existant social life, peculiar injuries, a sudden interest in martial arts? These things beg for attention, Master Bruce, and people will start asking the question: what do you do with all your money and time?"

Bruce considered this as he went into position. He stood stock-straight, placed his feet together at the ankles and shook out his arms to relieve tension. Then, releasing a quick breath, he fell to the floor and began his morning routine of rigorous push-ups at a hasty pace. Immediately heat rushed his blood and beads of perspiration trickled down his back and onto the floor-he did not care, nor did he stop.

"So," he said between pushing up, "what do people like me do, Alfred?"

Alfred shrugged and rolled his eyes as his charge continually abused his physical body to the point of exertion. "I don't know, drive sports cars, date movie stars, throw parties. All different sorts of things, I'm afraid. You must but chose one of them you like, sir."

Ignoring his butler's statement, Bruce thought about his last excursion through Gotham before completely collapsing in the haven of his home. As he forced his body down and up, the flashing memory of Reacher's "haven" brought a few questions to his mind.

It seemed like a normal abode; that of a normal person. Upon further investigation of the vigilante's home, he found nothing that could trace back to the woman behind the aggrevating masks. No pictures, just unpacked boxes. He could find nothing anywhere that could give him an idea of who this woman truly was. Everything was...normal.

After a few more moments of silence, Alfred left him to his workout. When he was finished, he collasped onto the Persian rug of the bedroom and rolled onto his back, brow furrowed in deep thought. Marianne came to mind instantly-her wounded expression at his disapproval of her charity work, the hurt flashing across her navy eyes at his unforgiveness. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He reached for his hair and pulled as much of it as he could from his scalp. Pain shot down his spinal cord and radiated through his body. He didn't care. Maybe it was a inkling of how she felt; her gunshot wound and emotional pain considered. How on earth had he strayed so far from what his father had taught him as a child? The thought sparked memories of Thomas Wayne across his mind and he pushed it away.

He closed his eyes again, and what he found frolicking through his mind surprised him; Marianne and Rachel, senior year in high school. How Marianne was lost in last hour, bustling around the hallways in desperate search of health class. A smile pulled at his lips as he recalled her appearance that day: ripped jeans, a faded camoflauge tanktop, and flip-flops. She had looked exhausted having never really gotten used of the public school setting.

Marianne. The woman continually surprised him. Though he found it hard to believe she'd actualy gotten shot-it was far out of her comfort zone to even approach the Narrows-he saw the sincerety in her eyes, if only for an instant. Getting up from his position on the floor, he walked to the armoire to pluck out a white cotten v-neck. Pulling it on, his thoughts moved to Reacher; the mysterious, alluring female night-watcher.

He remembered the way her curly hair and sprang in different directions around her face; a very light brown color with enough bounce to confuse a spring. He'd never really compaired the blueness of her eyes; a deep color, like the ocean. Interest seized him and he headed out of the master bedroom and throughout the mansion, slowly making his down the columns of steps. Aimlessly he wandered until he found himself in his father's den, standing before the cold fireplace and staring at the picture of him and Marianne at high-school graduation. Rachel was to his left, Marianne to his right. All three of them had been all-smiles, ecstatic at their accomplishment in life. Why did it feel like so long ago?

He studied Marianne for a moment. Untamed curls pulled into a half pony-tail at the temples, bangs put into her favorite style-a puff with bobby pins. Her hot-pink frames stuck out awkwardly on her face, clashing with the brightness of her eyes that day. He shook his head and scratched his chin, Marianne was truly a character. He loved the way she was always so...expressive; and her opinions! Heavy enough to confuse a philosopher. Their senior year she'd been asked to run for class president; even though her absence ninety percent of the time was the deciding factor of her disagreement. She was by far intelligent, funny and...excuisate.

He turned away from the photo and headed out of the den.


Present Evening...

"Good evening, Miss Clark," I stated as cheerfully as possible despite the occurances earlier during the appointment. "I'm Dr. Lancer. I hear you're having frequent urinate?"

The teenage girl, not much older than sixteen, stared at me and blinked as if she didn't understand the question. In the next second, she popped her bubble gum between her lips. I seated myself on the rolling chair in front of the exam table, laying the clipboard across my lap. My brows rose a few inches and I contemplated if this girl was even goign to answer the question for a second. She sighed and crossed one leg over the other and examined her fingernails in the next instant.

"Yeah," she stated with a shrug, "it's gotten worse. I decided to come have it looked at," she rolled her eyes, "my mom would kill me if she found out I'd skipped phy ed."

I nodded and pursed my lips together. "How long has this been going on?"

She shrugged again. "A few weeks. It's gotten worse over time."

Glancing down at the medical chart, I went through the questions mentally. The first one slipped through my lips by accident. "Are you sexually active?"

She popped to attention and glared at me, "Why do you care?"

I sighed and then replied carefully. "Being sexually active can have alot to do with the symptoms of your complaint," I began to count on my fingers, "it could be an STD, UTI, or even pregnancy," I gave her a sympathetic look.

Her face paled a few shades and she straigtened, letting her leg fall from atop her knee. She folded her hands in front of her and looked down at her Jimmy Choo flip flops. Then, biting her lower lip, she looked back up at me. "Pregnancy?"

Yes. Check.

I nodded and folded the clipboard across my chest and tilted my head to the side. "Rachelle. When was the last time you had intercourse? With anyone?" I asked the question as kindly-and sensitively-as I could. She hung her head and then looked back up at me, tears welling her eyes.

"Three weeks," she whispered. "you really think I could be pregnant?"

Deciding to add some hope to this girls seemingly hopeless case, I stood up and began marking some things off my list. "It's a possibility. But, we'll run some tests first to determine if it's an infection or not. Then, if nothing comes up in your bloodwork, we'll do a urine dip," she looked terrified, "and if that's negative-" I smiled kindly, "we'll probably do a pelvic exam."

She gulped. "Okay," she said quietly, almost seeming to choke down a sob, "whatever you say."

I nodded and clicked my pen, then stuck it behind my ear. "Don't jump to any conclusions, Rachelle. It's not always the worst case scenario."

She nodded and shrank back, bringing her knees up to her chin so her heels planted firmly agains the edge of the table. She let her forehead fall onto her arms and she began to cry. I sighed and decided that bowing out gracefully and letting her be alone would probably be the best course of action.

Kathie, one of the RN's, started passed me and I grabbed her arm. "You mind doing a workup for a blood-draw? I'm going to write this on the board and get ready for a pelvic. That okay with you?"

She nodded. "Sure thing."

So I began my workup. Quickly jotting the scenario on the board, I studied the others. Dr. Carson, a UTI. Dr. Phelps, a mammogram. Dr. Ridge, a sport's exam. Everyone seemed busy-no one to ask to take over the potential pregnancy. I guessed I'd be ruling out a pregnancy on my own today. Replacing the dry-erase marker back with the others, I looked to the filling lobby and puffed out a breath. It would be a long day, and it wasn't even the evening rush yet.

Running an aggrevated hand through my curls, my eyes scanned the computer screen as I clicked away for a print out of a few different diagnoses. Teen pregnancy, STD's, and UTI's. That seemed to cover almost everything, so I headed towards the huge Xerox printer underneath the counter and fished through the old print-outs. The warm computer paper touched my fingers and I quickly snatched them. Shuffling them to an orderly perfection, I tucked them underneath Rachelle's chart and put retreived the pen from my hair. Biting down on the tip, I ignored the figure leaning against the desk.

"That could give you ink poisoning, doctor," I popped my head up to look at the male figure and a smile played at my lips. Setting the pen and clipboard down, quickly I rounded the counter and pressed the release button on the wall. Immediately and air-tight doors seperating the ER from the lobby opened with a pop and I bustled through. Arms outstretched, I welcomed the character to my domain with a giant hug.

"Carter!" I chuckled, his arms protectively wrapping around me. He smelled of jet fuel and cologne, and a hint of his favorite gum dashed across my nose. We rocked back and forth good naturedly, and we finally parted. He planted a friendly kiss on my forehead.

"Hey, Lance." he smiled at me and re-shouldered his jockey bag, "How's my favorite student?"

I beamed up at him. "Just fine, thank you. And my favorite teacher? What are you doing back in Gotham?"

John Carter III, millionaire ER doctor and devoted teacher. Carter had accepted a job as a teacher at GCU, teaching ER medicine and anatomy. He was originally from Chicago, Illinois. Mostly working at hospital called Cook Country General, he sacrificed a life in the OR for the beloved ER, and had a record at the same hospital for going on 5 years. He'd been my favorite teacher in school; being not much older than myself and other fellow students. He had a dream for missionary medicine (much like myself) and had been to Africa on two occasions. He was massively attractive and wealthy, much like someone else I knew.

He shrugged. "GCU asked me to teach another semester as a sub this year," he looked around the bustling ER, "you working here now?"

I nodded and turned on my heel, beckoning him forward. "Yeah. Just until my residency is done. Then I'm going to work in a clinic down in the Narrows." I glanced at the clock on the wall. "Where are you staying?"

He entered the doors behind me and set his stuff on the ground. "The Gotham Claire. How long are you on?"

I picked up my chart and marked off a few things. "Not much longer. 45 minutes, then I'm home-free." I looked to my belongings under the desk and face-palmed myself lightly. Carter chuckled at me and shook his head. "I just forgot. I'm busy the rest of the night." Jonathan Crane and slipped my mind! All those files needed to be sent to him, and Arkham needed some serious recon. "I'm sorry."

He waved it off. "Not to worry, Marianne. I'll order in tonight and maybe tomorrow we can meet up for lunch or something? I'd really just like to hang out and get reacquainted with my home-away-from-home."

I nodded and folded my chart to my chest, looking up at him. "Okay. Give me a call then, John. I'll see you tomorrow."

He saluted playfully and grinnd. "Tomorrow then."

I laughed at him. "Until then. Bye." I wiggled my fingers in a good-bye wave and went off to see to my teenage patient.

Fifty minutes later, I left the hospital, exiting the suffocating ER and entering into the chilly September evening. The whistling wind bit through my light jacket and I hustled towards the parking ramp. Gripping my leather bag with white-knuckle strength, I hurried between the parked cars until I spotted my olive-green Outback. I slowed my pace considerably.

Dancing beams of light struck the cement wall of the parking ramp. I looked up as the sound of squealing rubber on pavement echoed across the empty, dark ramp. My shadow enlarged as the beams surrounded me in their white light and I spun around. My curls fwapped in my face as my eyes went wide, as if I were a doe in the headlights.

Every nerve within me turned to steel. Even without my mask, white-hot rage burned within my soul. My teeth clenced, and danger glanced across my glasses. Trying my best not to position myself for an attack. I finally settled my frangled cells and played the best innocent bid I could muster. Forcing my hand to block out the white-light, I squinted my eyes and gripped my bag.

"Excuse me?" I managed, "Can I help...?"

Within an instant, two figures appeared from the windows on either side of the car. In the shadows, I spotted two black boxes the men where holding. I took a step forward to approach the Suburban and shook my curls in confusion. "Did you need some help-"

Immediately the boxes exploded into flashing bursts of light, gunfire smacking the air with a jolt. I screamed and ducked behind the nearest car I could find, which happened to be a Ford F-150 duelie. I instantly looped the strap of my bag over my shoulders and took off my pumps, stuffing them inside while they continued to fire. Their guns echoed across the seemingly vanishing air, my lungs choking for the extra oxygen. My side burned hotly, and I winced as I crouched behind the tire of the truck.

"Time to bail," I told myself quietly. I stayed low and crouch-crawled my way in-between some more cars, careful to stay below the windows. The motion made my abdomen ache, but I forced the pain from mind. I thought of the sweltering days in Australia, the days when the cobra venom seemed impossible to overcome; the bullet holes like fire erupting within my soul. I forced my nerves to remain strong and stopped at least ten cars away from the truck.

Bang. Two car doors slammed back into place, and two sets of foot steps out of rythm sounded on pavement. Dropping to my knees, I hit behind a Volkswagen bug and dropped to my belly. Pain overcame me and I squinted, watching as they approached my car.

The one tried the driver's side door, but fortuneately I'd locked it tight. They whispered something and then without a second thought, both of them slammed the butts of their rifles into my windows. Shattering glass rained down to the pavement, and I watched as they unloaded their weapons into my interior, and then my tires. Sorrow struck my heart as if it'd been one of my arrows, that was my favorite car! Gunfire exploded across the ramp, echoing across the expanse and rattling off the cars. With every round the cement seemed to vibrate beneath my fingers.

Perhaps it was anger more than the gunfire.

They stopped suddenly. Suspicious, I watched as they ransacked the Outback for anything valuable. I watched as a round object fell to the ground, a familiar red CD-undoubtedly my favorite Everfound one. A hefty boot slammed into it and then it was shattered. I rolled my eyes. Then they muttered a few other things-harsh, fould words-and then hustled back to the SUV. Two doors slammed, and the exhaust sputtered, a sign that they were leaving.

I slowly rose, hand at my side. I looked to my bullet-holed, flat car and my stomach sank. Immediately questions began to pop into my head like popcorn: who where these people? Why did they want me dead? Who had sent them to kill me? I listed a few people in my head that would want me dead. Carmine, Icechest, Miranda. Three names from my past that rang like bells in my brain. Carmine was locked up, Icechest was somewhere over the Atlantic, and Miranda, well...who knew where that billionairess was?

Watching as the tail-lights lit red, I winced as a shattering thud sounded around the area of the SUV. Immediately the hazards went off, the car alarm started to blare, and four men exited the car in a blaze of black bodies. They aimed their rifles at the front of the SUV and began to fire. Gunfire ransacked the air and I took off for the action, curiosity spiked.

I stopped a few feet from the scene. Kneeling behind a Impala, I witnessed these men attack the front of their own vehicle. Instantly a figure rushed up on top the car, a black sheet whisking out behind him. Two pointy ears and a titanium laced suit later, Batman front flipped off the SUV and hit the ground gracefully, then disappeared into the row of vehicles; not terribly far from my own hiding place.

I decided I'd better get out of there. Those men would spread out faster than butter in July, and I had no chance fighting them without a bow, arrows, and a mask. So, I bit my lower lip and slowly backed from the Impala, weaving my way between a Jeep and a Hyundai. Looking over my shoulder, I gasped and fell on my backside, pressing myself against the Hyundai at the sight of him.

He looked over the hood of the Jeep and then back at me, eyes dark and flashing with anger. His scowl was fiercer than I'd seen it before, and my stomach pooled with frustration. He couldn't leave me alone out of costume! Deciding to play this one out, I faked my breathing and made it as shaky as possible without overdoing the acting. He looked for the men again and crouched, reaching into the depths of his overly impressive cape to retrieve an object. One of those fancy bat-shaped toys, I presumed.

"You okay?" He rasped. He'd been working on the voice, quite impressive.

I nodded and tucked some hair innocently behind my ear. "Yes, fine. You must be Batman." Duh, of coarse he was! I shook the pestering argument away from my head and swallowed thickly. "You know who those men are?" Better to get information out of him as an innocent bystander than an overly aggrevated vigilante archer.

He nodded. "Falcone's men. He sent them to kill you."

"Why?"

"You tell me."

I frowned at him. "How would I know? I'm a doc-tor!" Gunfire attacked the side of the Jeep and he lifted his cape to block the fragments of metal and shrapnel from his eyes. I curled myself into a ball and looked between my arms at him. The gunfire stopped, and he popped up, flicking one of his tools in their direction. One of the men screamed and rattling hit the cement. He'd dropped his rifle, and then his body hit the floor. Footsteps came in our direction.

"Oh God," I mumbled. He looked to me and then we both looked up. Just at the edge of the ramp, we could easily get up their with one of his grapnel guns. We then looked to each other and he retrieved the golden colored tool, then raised it in the air.

"You afraid of heights?" he asked, voice scratchy and rough.

I shook my head. "Not today anyway."

He extended a gloved hand and I took it, and he pulled me into him. Immediately his strong arm wrapped around my abdomen and I forced myself not to wince. My entire body was almost enveloped in his massive cape, which surprisingly wasn't that heavy. He fired the gun and hit the release and we went soaring into the air. Quick pops of gunfire below us, and then they stoppd. Their faint curses stung the air as magazines hit the pavement to reload. Before they could even consider firing at us again, we were already on the second floor of the ramp.

"Reach up," he ordered. I did so, and wrapped my fingers around the steel reinforcer. He swung himself up easily, and it took great restraint not to do the same. Ever the innocent bystander, I allowed him to roughly help me up to a standing position. We both straightened and I pushed up my glasses.

"Thanks," I managed quietly. Oh how I absolutely detested him!

"What associations do you have with Falcone?" he bombarded. I shrugged and reached into my bag. I fished around a moment and for a second debated whether or not I should give the information to him.

Give it to him.

I pulled out the copy and handed it to him.

"I know someone...she gives me information to poke around with," I shrugged, "Carmine Falcone's been raking in some big drugs off the water from an unknown source. Been in cahoots with somene called 'Scarecrow'? Operates with toxins and whatnot," I hated telling him this. Something told me to continue on, that same little voice in my head. "I'm not exactly sure what she's got herself into, but-"

"-her. Are you talking about Reacher, the archer?"

I nodded. "How did you kno-?"

"We have...association. She say where this is taking place?"

I shook my head. Don't push your luck, bud. "Don't know. She doesn't tell me everything."

He nodded once and then shuffled through the papers before folding them into a perfect box. They vanished into his belt, and I looked at me and turned on his heel. "Stay low. I advise staying with someone."

"And who would that be?" I asked, somewhat aggresively.

He took out the grapnel gun again and aimed it up again.

"I'd advise Bruce Wayne."

He fired the gun, and released it, vanishing into the unlighted shadows of the third story. I furrowed my brow and raised my hands in disbelief, looking out into the fading sunlight casting shadows across the skyscrapers.

"You really know how to push a girl's buttons, don't you?"