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.
Sorry this update took so long. I got caught up in other projects. Hope it is worth the wait. :)
Batman stared at the keyboard of the bat-cave's computer for several minutes. The information and aid to be gained could prove invaluable. If any deserved to fall into her hands it was Deadshot. Still, he had to choke down a little bile as he began typing.
"Are you there?"
He moved the cursor over "send" and clicked. Within a minute, a return message appeared on the screen.
"Who is this?"
He typed a single word and hit "send" again.
"Gotham."
Thirty seconds passed, then . . .
"Of course." Fifteen seconds later, a full sentence followed. "Is this a request or a threat?"
He bent back over the keyboard.
"Request. All information gathered on 'Deadshot'."
He could almost see those venomous eyes light up.
"You think he's there?"
"Yes."
"Is he after you?"
"Yes."
"Avoid the outdoors and windows."
"Not possible."
"Then either do not look like his target or give him too easy a shot."
"I need to find him."
"What do I get for the information?"
"Him."
"Nice offer. Would prefer you though."
"No."
"I can send a team to retrieve him myself."
"Go ahead."
"Are you hacking my system for the data right now?"
"Perhaps."
"May the games begin."
He broke the connection between his and the almost as heavily encrypted server he had indeed hacked. Then he leaned back and came to terms with seeing her again. She would come herself for a prize like Deadshot. He almost felt sorry for the assassin. If there had been anyone else . . . but she was used to handling threats like Deadshot. She was one of the few he could trust to contain him. That was one thing he could trust her to do.
. . .
"Your hands should be recovered by this time tomorrow." Madge watched the doc study the patient's fingers, palms, and wrists. Alice's eyes shone at the doc's proclamation.
"Really?"
"Yes, but the recovery of your feet will take longer." Alice drooped. Dr. Thomkins smiled at her. "You should be able to feed yourself again.
Madge growled from the doorway. "Thank goodness." Then she turned and strode out into the basement and up the stairs into the kitchen. The voice still followed her.
"Is the kitchen close by? Can I walk there soon?"
Madge sped up. Her footfalls drowned out any sound behind her.
. . .
Bruce Wayne stood in the center of a ring of roll-away post-boards. Each was covered with crime-scene photos, case reports, victim profiles, and profiles of the self-employed sniper known as "Deadshot." The latter were written by profilers from the FBI, CIA, MI6, and Interpol.
Shootings attributed to "Deadshot" spanned a little over ten years and almost always took place in major cities; London, Venice, Hong-Kong, Rio De Janerio, Paris, Rome, Cape Town, Moscow, and Metropolis. The victims had little in common. They were tycoons, celebrities, playboys, models, politicians, activists, and the occasional general. They were diverse in race, political associations, and their prominence in the public eye. However, all of them had been shot between the eyes with identical ammunition fired from the same gun.
In spite of the similarity of the killings, authorities often wasted hours or days attempting to locate the point the shot had been taken from. The usual methods of finding such a place did not work when dealing with this Deadshot. An expert on the sniper was usually the one to find the shell casing. The shining cylinder with "D.S." carved into was always found a greater distance from the target than thought possible, in an awkward vantage point to shoot from, and with some obstacle in the way.
Most of this Bruce had known before. The assassin was someone to know about if you studied modern crime and criminals. The possibility of becoming his target had not escaped him when he started this crusade, but he had not expected it to come so soon. The Batman must have made someone with resources feel threatened indeed. Bruce glanced over his shoulder.
Behind him were several more boards. These were also covered with a mixture of mug-shots, newspaper articles, and crime scene photos. Each represented a different criminal organization that operated in Gotham. He looked back to the board in front of him. That "who" did not matter now. He needed to concentrate on finding Deadshot himself. The assassin would now be more desperate than his employer. The desperate were dangerous. He should know.
His attention was caught by a certain thread of investigation. In each area a killing had taken place, a hotel had been checked into by a similar patron. Caucasian male between 6' and 6' 4''. The man always managed to keep security cameras from catching his face by wearing hates with brims and sunglasses in hot climates. The best room in the establishment was always reserved for him by someone else.
A few sketches had been done from the memories of witnesses. He always wore the finest and latest fashions appropriate for each location. He changed aliases, hair color, and accent. He messed with his height with hats and likely shoes lifts as well. But he always had the same build, lean and athletic. Other than having outstanding reputations, the resorts and hotels themselves had little in common. The man seemed obsessed with trying new things, as long as they were the best. Bruce stabbed pins into a few spots on his map of Gotham City.
. . .
Lucius nervously watched his old student and current boss repair his own equipment. The antennae disguised as a bat-ear had not just been damaged. It had been completely taken off.
They had specifically chosen materials to make sure that would never happen. Yet, on inspecting the bullet Bruce claimed had done the deed, the hybrid Scientist and Businessman had ceased being amazed. He now rolled the slug between his glove-covered fingertips.
"This sniper's gotten away with how many murders?"
"Close to a hundred in ten years."
"How does he do it?"
Bruce removed his safety goggles to examine his work.
"Aliases, a set up created for him by his current employer, and a psychopathic mindset that lets him lie and kill without visible tells."
Bruce set down his work, satisfied. Lucius put the bullet back into its evidence bag.
"How do you always end up pitted against those?"
"As Lord Tennyson wrote, 'Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.'"
Lucius leaned back against a wall and crossed his arms.
"I always hated that poem."
Bruce actually chuckled.
A half smile appeared on Bruce's face.
"Did you make those calls?"
"I did. Do you know how many white men between 6' and 6'4'' check into each luxury hotel in Gotham City on a daily basis? However, there was one who stood out. The best suite of the Gotham Palace was reserved in advance for a non-regular who left with half his stuff nine hours ago and has yet to come back for the other half."
Bruce's head jerked up to meet the other man's eyes.
"They have him on tape?"
Lucius gave a curt nod.
"Already watched it. He was always wearing a brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes that blocked the camera's view of his face."
Bruce stood up from the work table.
"I'd like to look at the footage myself."
Fox smiled.
"Help yourself, Mr. Wayne."
. . .
Bruce fast-forwarded to the time stamp Lucius had written down. He had slow-motioned, freeze-framed, and rewound the tapes so many times a few frames had begun to show wear. He had learned more than expected, but less than he had hoped for.
There was no frame where anything was visible of the face. The man always held his head at an angle keeping the cameras focused on the back of it for four out of five angles. The hat brim blocked the upper two-thirds of the face in the fifth. The chin was covered in an easily shaved goatee.
There was something in the figure's saunter, though. The man moved with relaxed casualness, yet no movement was without purpose. Though he was shy with the cameras, he had no problem making eye contact with others, and staring at attractive women he passed, even if they were being escorted by someone else. There was no body language that indicated inner turmoil, hidden nerves, or a need to connect on an emotional level with other human beings. These things did not equal proof, but he was almost certain. He had seen just enough men who gained confidence from killing to recognize the signs.
. . .
What were they thinking? Why didn't they just dump her on someone else? Send her somewhere, like the West coast.
Madge turned over in the bed that was just beginning to feel familiar. It wasn't like she couldn't appreciate their generous hearts, but there was a big difference between helping someone and turning your back around so they could stab you in it. She punched her pillow with the excuse of fluffing it and set her head back down.
Why wouldn't they listen to her? Madge's mind drifted back to that first night, that walk home, her threat to hock his cape. She rolled back over. Man! Why hadn't he punched her in the mouth for that?
Because he doesn't do that. None of them do. They don't give people what they deserve. They give them what they need and then some, even the ones with knives. They live dangerously like that.
Madge thought she could feel something stabbing her, but not in the back, in the chest. She threw the covers off. That's it! She was done.
She stripped and dug around in the drawers of the dresser. There was nothing in here for walking the streets! She found a blouse with a little lace, tights, and and a black skirt. No heels, she'd have to make do without them, maybe with enough undone buttons of the blouse it wouldn't matter.
She slid the dresser drawers shut, got dressed in record time, and slipped out the bedroom door. She wouldn't take anything else. She'd have left in the clothes she'd arrived in if they had still been around. She hoped they would realize this. All they had tried to do was appreciated. But when Alice, or someone else they took in, did what people do to the trusting type she was not going to be the one to find the corpse and clean up the mess.
She got to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the porch . . . A shadow moved across the street. She stared at it with an open mouth. It took a full minute to realize it was being cast by some laundry hanging on a line that had moved in a breeze. She shut the door and leaned back against it.
None of the possibilities that frightened ordinary people, drunks, druggies, mobsters, muggers, rapists had been what made her first thought. She had met members from all those categories a couple of times or more. Tapping her head back against the wood paneling, she let the truth about what had made her stop breathing for a moment sink in. She had thought it was The Bat.
Why had that scared her? Wasn't she way past being scared of him. Sorta. But . . . she hadn't wanted him to catch her leaving. She hadn't wanted him to see her leaving because she cared what he thought about her. She cared, because he cared.
If he, sooner or later, found her mess to clean up out there, he would care a lot. She didn't want to think about that. But, could she keep herself from thinking about it? Then there were the others, Doc and Teach. They would probably care too. A groan echoed through the hall as her head bowed to land on her knees. She wasn't . . . free.
For years she had been free. Nobody cared. So it hadn't matter where she went, what she did, what happened to her. Nobody gave a . . . But now they did.
It wasn't fair. What was she supposed to do? Just go from being a hooker our for herself to a decent citizen and good friend, just like that? She'd never had to be that before! She slumped further down on the welcome mat and stared into the darkness.
What are you going to do Madge girl?
. . .
Alfred knew he should turn off the monitor. Leslie had just barely let him, Lucius, and Bruce put in the camera for the entryway. And this was no burglar or killer who had opened the door and set the alarm off in the cave. This was his young student obviously in the middle of some crisis.
That was why he could not make the image disappear. If she walked out again, they would need to respect her choice. She was no prisoner. They could feed her, train her, finance her attempts at trying something new. They could not force her to stay and accept any of it.
Master Bruce had been clear about them not crossing that line. And he was not one to do so himself. However, Master Bruce would be miserable not crossing it with this young lady if she walked out. And if he found her in worse condition than he had already found her in before . . . Alfred's unblinking gaze remained fixed to the screen.
Please, do not give him another burden to carry, Miss Robertson.
Finally, the young woman got up. Stomping and moving her lips like she was muttering to herself she moved further inside the building and out of camera view. The manservant's shoulders sank slightly. One side of his mustache was quirked up by a half smile.
Thank you . . .
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God Bless
ScribeofHeroes