I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, or Dead-Shot. I did create Alice and Madge.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.
The red "x" on the map had been made over the center support tower of "Blood Bridge." Batman lifted his binoculars to study the area. His jaws clenched. There she was. His index ran over the magnifying dial.
The arms were stretched up towards the crossbeam above her. He increased the magnification of his binoculars again. Her wrists were in handcuffs hanging from the crossbeam above her head. She was pulled up so high her toes barely rested on the crossbeam beneath her.
His grip on the scopes tightened. All of his muscles had tensed. Batman lowered the binoculars and breathed slowly, methodically. Calm. He needed calm.
When his heart-rate had slowed, he lifted the binoculars again. His index finger spun the dial the other way. The magnification decreased significantly.
He studied the bridge's support system from right to left. The network of iron beams and their shadows could hide several shooters. Or . . . .
He swept his gaze over the buildings on either side of the bridge. Nothing visible, but that didn't mean nothing was there. He focused his instrument's gaze back on the hostage.
A sigh escaped his nostrils. The situation had a high likelihood of not ending well for either of them. He reached for his radio, lifted it to his lips, and pressed the button.
"Guardian to Nightingale. Come in Nightingale."
. . .
Leslie was lying in bed reading a medical journal. The radio on her nightstand crackled. A low voice came out of it. She set the magazine down, picked the gadget up, and pressed the button. Her godson was lucky this was her night off at the hospital.
"This is Nightingale, over."
"Your assistance may be needed within the hour."
Leslie's eyebrow rose.
"May?"
"It depends on what transpires in the next hour."
Leslie pushed the button again, but the line was dead. She scowled at the device. Then she slammed it down on her nightstand as she threw the covers off herself. She needed to remind Bruce it only made her worry more when he did that.
. . .
Batman tucked the radio back into his belt and leapt down into the portal barely emerging from the surface of the river. At least his journey to the bridge itself had a high likelihood of going unnoticed.
. . .
A door slam reverberated down the hall. Madge sat up in the guest room bed. She barely heard a few floorboards squeak as someone walked past her door and down the stairs. Madge blinked and rose from the mattress she had flopped onto an hour earlier. She grabbed the robe, because it was slightly chilly in the room, and looked out from the slit the slightly ajar door offered. A light was on downstairs.
Holding her breath, she heard the kitchen door swing open and closed. She slowly edged the door open another foot and a half or so and squeezed out. Then she tiptoed down the hall and stairs herself.
. . .
Batman stood atop the hull of his submarine beneath the bridge. He was just beneath the walkway of the structure. He reached to his belt, removed something from its place, and held it up towards the sound of traffic.
A soft explosion of air was followed by a zipping sound. Then a clank echoed off the concrete and iron. His thumb pressed the button. With a soft whir, Batman was pulled into the air. He climbed over the guard rail and landed on the walkway with less noise than his equipment made. Ahead he saw the still open door to the stairwell inside the center support beam. They'd left it open for him. Cute.
. . .
Madge winced as the kitchen door groaned on its hinges, but she still stuck her head in. The room was deserted. She slipped into the room and fixed her gaze on the door to the basement.
. . .
Batman opened the door and fixed his gaze on the victim. She seemed to be in the same state as when he studied her through the binoculars. He stood for a moment listening.
Her breathing, it was the gasping of someone hyperventilating. Car horns and spinning tires below. A continual gust of wind. Any of these could be masking the breaths of one or more gunmen several feet away. If they were farther away than that it was no use anyway.
In one smooth, slow motion he lowered himself into a crouch. His muscles tensed. His eyes narrowed. Then he sprinted forward.
As if aiming for the legs of an opponent, he kept his head nearly even with his bent waist. Only the crown on his cowl should be visible over the guardrail. Five feet away, four, three, two, he stopped in front of her.
He looked up. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, which both indicated and induced panic. He could almost hear her elevated heart-rate. He raised his gaze higher. His eyes met others that were like plates of blue china. They were widened with terror, brittle with near panic. Anything could break them.
He let the muscles in his face and frame relax. His hands left the floor and then turned palms up to show they were empty and not in a strike pose. His voice was a low, monotone.
"I need to free your hands, and then get you to a safe place where you can get medical treatment. Nod if you understood me."
She nodded. The light of terror in her eyes faded slightly. Her limbs continued to shake with exertion.
He fixed his gaze onto the chain holding her up. His right hand reached for his belt. From one pocket he removed a small object he then transferred to his left hand. Then he gripped the chain cutters and pulled them free from their belt loop. For a moment he held both objects loosely. Then he met her gaze again and spoke in the same calming voice.
"Close your eyes."
. . .
Deadshot had seen someone moving low, but fast, across the walkway. He'd also noticed the bait's reaction and downward stare. He moved his finger to the trigger. Deadshot smiled. He tried not to blink behind his night-vision monocle. This mark was supposed to be quick.
The vigilante couldn't rescue the girl without freeing her hands. And he couldn't do that without standing up. Within seconds he'd be the assassin who ended Batman.
A burst of light flooded his vision. It stabbed through the green lens of his night-vision monocle, through his eye, and to the nerves behind. Deadshot shrieked.
He jerked back. His hand left the rifle to cover his eye. His retina burned. He blinked like it could end the pain. Whether it was the blinking or no the sensation eased to a dull ache in seconds. But those were seconds lost. Grabbing his own binoculars the sniper rose into a crouch and focused on the same spot that had cost him so much pain just moments before.
A broken chain waved in the wind. The bait was gone. His grip nearly cracked the twin scopes he held. A different burning built in his gut and chest.
. . .
Batman knew how long the light from the flash-bomb lasted. A moment later his eyes reopened. He had shot to his feet, raised the chain-cutters into position, squeezed, and caught the victim as she fell. When they were both behind the cover the guardrail provided, he released the breath he'd been holding. They were both alive.
. . .
"Hey Doc, what are you doing?"
Leslie turned from opening the door to the hidden make-shift examination-operation-overnight observation room. Her guest and new maid-in-training was watching her from the top of the stairs. Leslie let out a sigh.
"I suggest you go back to your room and get some sleep, Miss Robertson."
She turned back to enter and prepare for whatever situation she was going to be presented with. She froze as her house guest spoke again.
"It's him isn't it?"
She turned back. "Miss Robertson you should really . . ." Miss Robertson was already coming down the stairs.
"Is he okay."
Leslie puffed out a breath. "I won't know until he gets here."
Madge met her gaze. "I'd like to know then too."
The women stared at each other.
. . .
Batman turned his gaze to the open door they needed to reach. Now another dangerous part began. If he survived it, the chances of their both surviving the night increased dramatically.
If not, at least her chances had been increased. He swept his left arm under her legs. His right he wrapped around her back. The fingers of his left hand were curled around something. He released it. A sphere with the diameter of a quarter dropped the few inches to the walkway floor.
. . .
Deadshot glared through his backup eye-piece. His right eye saw nothing, but black, so he had switched to his left. It worked almost as well.
The bait was free, but the mark still had to get up unless he wanted both of them to crawl all the way back to their exit. Something rose from the walkway, but it wasn't a figure. A mist, no, steam, no, smoke poured upwards like a fire had caught down there. The wind caught it, carrying it towards the door and doing nothing to dissipate it. The sniper frowned.
. . .
Batman rose to his feet. There, the light he had stuck to the door-frame was barely visible through the smoke. Their cover was not going to last much longer in this wind. But he was still grateful for the gust all the same, it was blowing in exactly the right direction. He stood and sprinted forward holding the victim against his chest. He forced himself forward through the darkness. His jaw tightened, not with exertion of body, but will.
Instinct told him to stop, to slow. His feet fought going where his eyes could not see. His mind fought back.
The path was clear. The path was straight. No objects were there to trip him. One step more and they'd be out of range.
. . .
Deadshot adjusted the aim of the gun. Perhaps that smoke had obscured the shot he had wanted to take, but he had seen the quarry's entrance. He also knew his exit path. He knew his mark's height, could guess his stride, could guess the time it would take him to reach the tower. Perhaps at the end of all this, his reputation might just get better than it otherwise would have.
. . .
The Batman was one step away from safety when what he feared occurred. He heard the sound of his mask breaking. His head felt the impact. His body did what it had been screaming it would. He stumbled. The victim screamed and gripped him tighter.
He turned as he fell, so he would land on his back and not her. Thankfully, his momentum would carry both the rest of the way. The air was slammed out of his chest by the impact. Maybe it was the last he would ever take. He would have released it in a sigh anyway. They were both in front of the door.
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