I do not own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, Deadshot, or Gotham. I did create Madge, Alice, Mrs. Grant, and Elizabeth Wayne, Thomas Wayne's elder sister who died in childhood from a sickness. Though I made up the contents of the two specifically mentioned exhibits in this chapter, the two specifically mentioned artists near the end of the chapter are real.
This story is for entertainment purposes only. So please read and be entertained.
Bruce shoved the metal door open and stepped into the alleyway beyond. The man who had exited before him was striding toward the sidewalk. The man turned back to look at him. Bruce stepped further out, released the door, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. The other man stiffened.
The metallic door slammed shut with a clang that echoed against the stone and brick walls. The other man began to reach up toward the inside pocket of his own jacket. Then Bruce pulled a lighter out of his. Eyes now focused on the mouth of the same pocket, he continued to dig in it with a few mumbled words.
The other man let his hand drop to his side, rolled his eyes, and turned back towards the sidewalk. There were not so many people passing by there that jostling among them was inevitable. Yet, there were enough that one more could go unnoticed.
Bruce continued to dig in his pocket. His muttering was getting louder, but the words were still indecipherable. In his peripheral vision, he saw the other man pause to look to the right and left before leaving the alleyway. Anyone unfamiliar with the area might do so. It could mean nothing, or something.
Bruce noted the direction he went. Five seconds after the other man's form had disappeared behind the corner of the next building, Bruce pretended to give up on finding the cigarettes that had never been in his pocket. He buried his hands themselves in his outer pockets, hunched his shoulders, and stomped over litter until his shoes left asphalt and landed onto concrete. He glanced up.
Yards beyond a now familiar hat bobbed above other heads. Bruce looked down at his feet and walked after it. He glanced up every four to five steps, avoiding collisions with other pedestrians and keeping the hat in sight. Once he thought it had disappeared. Then he saw its wearer crossing the street. There, the man continued in the same direction as before. They walked parallel to each other for a few minutes. Bruce remained some yards behind the man. Then he crossed the street at a different intersection. Soon after, the other man began turning corners. Bruce turned the same. Finally, the other man ducked into another alley.
When Bruce reached the same alley, he stumbled before the opening. His hand reached out to rest his weight against a cinder-block wall. He glanced up. The tail of an expensive jacket was disappearing around the corner of the opposite building.
Bruce pushed himself off the wall and staggered after it watching only his feet. By the time he had turned the corner himself, he just saw a flash of the jacket swish around another brick wall. Bruce stumbled to the same corner and paused before turning it.
He ran through his memories of the area. This next alley was flanked by apartment buildings and led to a dead end. Was the man renting one of the apartments? Deadshot should be attempting to keep himself from being found by whoever hired him now. This man's dress and tastes would stand out here as much as a gold watch would hanging from a clothesline.
Bruce listened. If the man entered one of these apartments, there should be a groan of weight on metal stairways followed by the creak of hinges turning. Silence. Bruce frowned. Then a sound did echo to him on the still air.
Click.
Bruce stiffened. Deadshot was here to fill another contract. Bruce spun around the corner and froze.
Thin lips were curled into a smirk. Above that a straight nose was bracketed by high cheekbones. No goatee covered the chin below these features, but the mustache remained. A pair of dark brown eyes stared at him. Their black centers glinted along with the silver nozzle aimed at Bruce's chest. The colt looked more like an accessory than a weapon, but Bruce had no doubt it worked. The smirking lips above it moved.
"Well, well, well . . ."
. . .
"What are these?"
Madge's brows furrowed. A bunch of crayon and pencil drawings hung on the walls along with some splotchy water colors. In short, all the pieces in this museum exhibit screamed "amateur."
Their tour guide motioned to a plague on the wall. "This might explain the display, Miss." Madge bent down to read the message carved into the rectangle of bronze.
Works of art created by patients of Elizabeth Wayne Memorial Hospital.
As a person struggles against disease or recovers from trauma, art can be an outlet for the spectrum of emotions inside them as well as those inside the people who stay and fight by their side. This exhibit attempts to honor this function of art and those who produced it.
Madge felt her cheeks warm. She drew back from the plague, straightened, and glanced around. She gave each piece that caught her eye a few seconds of study. She noted the drawing of a sad face poking out of a simplistic hospital cot. Her eyes widened slightly at a crayon drawing of a giant needle with narrowed eyes and fangs. Madge's gaze lingered longest on a picture of a boy jumping on his hospital bed with a huge grin as two larger figures, a man and woman, stood by grinning as well. A few "congratulations" balloons were scattered about and a nurse was wheeling in a chair the patient did not seem to need any longer.
. . .
Deadshot had completely ignored reaching his destination for blocks. He would find his way back. Memorizing maps and layouts had never been difficult for him. Knowing the terrain of the urban jungle where the hunt would take place was as necessary to the profession as steady hands and clear vision. Understanding the area better than native prey took time, but a newcomer often saw things those overused to them no longer noticed. Few realized their favored watering-hole could be seen through a scope blocks away and several floors up.
He had first noticed the man who had exited after him in a reflection of a custom tailor's window display. The contrast of the images could not have been greater. A beautiful tuxedo ensemble was suddenly obscured by the image of a man with the build of a wrestler wearing a hooded sweater, faded jacket, jeans with spots torn and frayed to loose threads, and shoes with holes the size of dimes. A man who indulged in cigarettes without being able to afford decent evening wear had no self-respect. Upon seeing him the second time, the sniper walked on while trying to keep an eye on the ill-dressed smoker in other reflective surfaces. He had turned a corner and the other man did the same. As the ill-dressed pedestrian had repeated his action again and again, Deadhot had begun to grin.
Oh this was rich, too rich.
After the pattern had continued for some time, the assassin had led his pursuer to a worse part of the city before stepping into an alley. Then Deadshot had kept turning down alleys until he reached a dead end. There, he had only had to turn around and pull out his colt. It had been years since he used this beauty for anything but target practice. Perhaps she was as eager for blood as he. When the sniper had clicked the safety off, his shadow had leapt around the corner.
Dead-shot didn't even try to stop the smirk that spread over his lips at the way his stalker's eyes widened. He did manage to keep the chuckle inside from entering his voice as more than a note of amusement. "Well, well, well . . . You my friend have taken the prize for picking the worst mark in this city to rob today. You want my wallet?"
He reached inside his jacket pocket. Funny, this little adventure had begun with the other man doing the same thing. The irony was delicious.
Deadshot drew out his wallet and almost tossed it at the man. After another moment of consideration, he instead raised it above his head. His smirk widened. Have a good look at how it bulges. And no, it isn't stuffed with family photographs.
Of course, the man would have to look away from the gun pointed at him to truly appreciate the sight. Deadshot was both impressed and amused at how the mugger did just that. A glint of interest appeared in the bum's red, bleary eyes. He must not have been faking his earlier stumbling and groaning then.
Though it would not be the kind the man had come looking for, he could certainly provide relief for his condition. Deadshot raised the colt slightly. The heart was too easy, especially at this distance. He aimed at the little area between the eyes and just above the nose.
The mugger took an extraordinarily long time to react. Then he raised a hand to lean against the nearby wall, and gave a nervous smile mixed with a wince. "Don't need that. Put it away, so I can make my feet move again. Then I'll split." The thief jerked his head in the direction of the way he had come.
A jolt ofexcitement shot up Deadshot's spine. Split? He fought to keep from squeezing the trigger. The thief might travel yards if he gave him enough time before turning the corner after him. Then he would have to aim for the spot at the base of the skull hidden behind the hood. That would be a challenge. Deadshot flashed his teeth in his smile.
"Tell you what, I'll just keep the gun out and you can run for it."
. . .
"More hospital art?" Madge spun about in the center of the room, taking in a collection of play-do sculptures, crayon drawings, and a few painting in bright, primary colors.
Lucuis waved an arm to gesture to all the displays at once. "Not this time, these are works created by several generations of students from a dozen elementary and high-schools in Gotham City. Martha Wayne wanted a display devoted to the artists of the future. She taught some of the art classes these pieces are products of."
Madge's gaze swept over pieces of fired pottery, sketches, and acrylic and water paintings. There were stick-figures with wild hair and smiley faces, a few works that almost looked like professional art, and examples of everything in between. The subject matter spanned animals, flowers, gardens, buildings, and people. Some had identifying names written under them.
The artist wandered about the room with a softer expression on her face. Memories wound through her mind like ribbons of paint through clear water. Years ago, there had been a backyard and garage a short walk from her house. The lady there gave smiles instead of slaps. She expected you to spill and stain things. She said each mistake was an opportunity to make something unexpected. You always got a piece of candy before you left.
Madge wondered if Mrs. Grant still had her drawings, paintings, and pottery around the house. After the first few times, she had decided not to take her "masterpieces" home with her. They were safer at the art-teacher's house, and more appreciated too.
. . .
Bruce ran his eyes over the gunman's form. Not just the hands, but the arms, legs and trunk of the body were held still. Only the face and lips moved to widen the smirk at times. This man was disciplined, physically strong, and enjoying himself for someone confronting a mugger. In fact, Bruce now realized he had been lured as well as entrapped. His eyes narrowed.
The other man's lips were pursing. The tip of a tongue and flash of teeth appeared, then disappeared into an even wider, close-lipped grin. The gunman shifted his weight forward. Light flashed in eyes whose pupils had widened slightly in spite of how they were facing the sun.
A wave of nausea swept up from Bruce's stomach. He just kept the revulsion from showing on his face. This man was . . . addicted . . . to killing.
That alone might have convinced him. The way the man shifted from aiming at the bigger target to the smaller one, the wealth and international goods he flaunted, and the ego blaring in his word choice were further confirmation. This was Dead-shot.
A dozen countries at least had devoted years to tracking the sniper. Agents across the globe had files on the assassin laying on their desks. The criminal's face had never been recorded on footage or photographs, just police sketches. And he was staring at him.
The man was how Bruce had pictured him except more attractive. There was no tall, short, red-haired, bald, sinewy, beefy suspect, but there were suspects easily confused with a majority of the populace in a certain area. A man who did jobs in Morroco was not commonly sent to commit like crimes in Moscow.
However, the dark-brown hair, even darker eyes, and fading tan could place this man as a member of several different ethnicities. The wealth he exuded could take him anywhere on the planet. His confidence, charm, and sex-appeal could ease concerns.
A short, stutterer with blackened teeth wearing a stained shirt was first noticed, then ignored, then suspected. The tall, bright-smiled, man in a tuxedo was first noticed, then approached, and usually trusted. This gentleman was too great an opportunity to be suspected. He could afford to stand out.
Bruce blinked. He himself was not presently disguised as the vigilante who confronted criminals. He was playing an addict suffering from withdrawal and looking for cash to purchase what was needed to end the misery he was in. How frightened should that man be now?
Bruce raised his hands, leaned his shoulder against the nearby wall, and gave the gunman man a wavering grin. "Don't need that. Put it away, so I can make my feet move again. Then I'll split." He jerked his head in the direction of the way he had come.
Deadshot's smirk and pupils widened again. "Tell you what, I'll keep it out and you can run for it." Another glint flashed in the man's eyes.
The muscles in Bruce's jaw tightened. The man's advice was suspiciously sound. Moving targets were challenging. The success rate of dodging flying bullets was better statistically, than escaping an abduction once bound and caged. The farther one got and smaller a target you made yourself, the better one's chances became with a gunman . . . usually . . . not now. Deadshot never missed.
Bruce slapped his back against the brick wall and slid down it to crouch on the ground. He moved his hands to clutch his stomach. He allowed himself to relive a few of his worst memories. His body shivered. He let his head loll back. With his peripheral vision, he noted the corners of Deadshot's mouth had turned down and brows had furrowed. The gunman walked toward and then around him until he stood over his huddled form. The gun was still pointed at his head.
"Run."
Bruce shook his head and gave the gunman a weary smile. "Can't run nowhere, man."
A snarl washed over Deadshot's face. His foot flashed out and connected with Bruce's shin. Bruce had braced himself just in time and only doubled over. His jaw clenched. His nose sucked in a deep breath. A growl rolled over his head. "Run."
Bruce kept his gaze on the ground and shook his head again. "Can't."
A moment of silence followed. Then, the hinges of a door creaked above them. Both men froze. A gasp wafted down to their ears. The tone sounded high and immature. It was a child's voice.
Bruce's hands flashed out and grabbed the gun. He shoved it to the right. The barrel pointed past his head. His fingers wrapped around the stock and tightened.
Deadshot jerked back pulling Bruce up to his feet. Deadshot's eyes widened. He hadn't realized how tall his prey was. The assassin shoved his target into the brick wall. Pain radiated through Bruce's back. He managed to refill his lungs. Then he swept his gaze over the assassin's body.
He had wanted to only use the sloppiest hand-to hand combat in this disguise, but this was an emergency. Alfred, Leslie, and Lucius would never forgive him if such considerations got him killed. He wouldn't forgive himself if someone else got killed because of them. Right after these thoughts flashed through his mind, the gun went off.
The explosion of air and lead occurred an inch from his right ear. The sound-wave punched through his eardrum. His reflexes sought to protect the delicate membrane. His body jerked back. His head slammed against the brick wall. Pain and a flash of white light were snuffed out by darkness.
. . .
Deadshot blinked down at his target. You've got to be kidding me. All that for this? Almost out of habit he aimed the gun at the spot between the eyes, just above the nose. He gave the body another kick. This time there was no reaction.
The assassin stared down at the now truly slumped form. A door slammed shut somewhere above and behind him. He grimaced. Then he shook his head and lowered the colt. Even if the witness didn't call the police themselves, someone who heard the shot would.
The disappointment of another wasted bullet rankled in his stomach for a moment. He slipped his beauty back into his inside jacket pocket, turned, and began strolling back the way he'd come. This was one instance for a quick if still smooth exit.
The sniper sighed. Oh well, he still had a little excitement to look forward to. He gave some thought to forming a statement should a policeman question him on the events in the alley. He was, after all, still the near victim of a mugger. There was nothing to fear really.
He also went back to the train of thought he'd been traveling before this little distraction. He still had a plan to form, detail, and put into action. His smirk returned. Oh yes, a hunt still lay before him. That piece of fun would go as planned, and it would fully make up for this disappointing incident.
. . .
Lucius Fox led Madge and Leslie through many other rooms and displays of sculptures, sketches, paintings and crayon drawings. Along with the creations of school children and hospital patients, the American and international masters were represented. Madge was somewhat overwhelmed by the variation in the collection. There was the gripping, simplistic style of Jacob Lawrence and the aloof, yet detailed style of Jan Van Eyck among others.
While she was glad to have had this welcome change from cleaning lessons in the same house day after day, Madge was also relieved when their guide showed them back to the front entrance and bid them adieu. He literally said "adieu" Madge thought that a bit over the top.
The two women walked back to the car in silence, which Madge kept up until their vehicle was caught in a traffic snarl several streets away from the museum. She stared out the window without really seeing the vehicles, sidewalks, and buildings beyond. Perhaps her eyes were exhausted. Or maybe it was her brain. Hadn't the doc mentioned a phrase like "visual overload?" However, Madge had just enough energy left in her brain to wonder about something. She was just tired enough to want to get the question out of her head and shut it up. "So, what was the point of all this?"
"A day out for the both of us."
Madge turned and raised an eyebrow at the older woman. "Really, that's it?"
The traffic ahead moved enough for Leslie to pull forward and turn a corner. After she had done so, the doctor replied. "Well, we had also hoped it might give you a bit of inspiration."
Madge raised both her eyebrows. "Inspiration?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
"The rest of your life."
Madge rolled her eyes and looked back out the window. "What life?"
"Whatever life you choose and have given to you."
Madge made a face. Her brain was still more grinding than gliding along, but she though the wording of her driver's answer sounded familiar. She looked back at Leslie.
"I think the Bat said something like that. He get it from you?"
The corner of Leslie's mouth not visible to her passenger turned up. "Perhaps."
"What makes either of you think you know so much?"
"Experience."
"What kind of experience?"
The corner of Leslie's mouth drooped. Her eyes stared straight ahead. She seemed to see something other than the street. "The kind that proves to you that having full control of your life and having no control over your life are both deceptions."
"What's that supposed to mean to me?"
Leslie's gaze momentarily flicked to her passenger before fastening itself on the road ahead again. "You have abilities, Miss Robertson, artistic and otherwise."
Madge leaned back into the seat of the car and muttered under her breath, "Especially otherwise."
"You cannot choose what others do to or for you. You can choose what you do to and for them and to and for yourself."
Madge pursed her lips and the silence stretched on until the sedan pulled up in front of Leslie's house.
. . .
"Mister? Mister?"
Bruce's eyes blinked. He felt a knife cut through his skull. His eyes squeezed closed again and his jaw clenched. The voice stabbed through his brain again. "You awake mister?"
He blinked again. This time he managed to keep his eyes open. A small, round face, the color of chocolate came into focus. His vision cleared. Masses of black curls held in place by hair ties with princess-pink bobbles surrounded the speaker's head. Eyes not as dark as the hair, but darker than the face stared at him. "Do you need an ambulance mister?"
He sat up. The blade pierced deeper into his head, but he kept moving. "No." He began to rise to his feet, raising a hand to lean against the wall as he did so. Once his feet were beneath his standing form he realized they did not want to hold him. He leaned his whole back into the wall. He waited for the stabbing sensation to lessen. The voice came up from below him now.
"You sure? Cause my cousin Bobby is a paramedic. My uncle Josh used to drive an ambulance, but Bobby said he wanted to work inside an ambulance. He got a scholarship from the Wayne Foundation and went to Med school. Then he came back and we had a party for him. There was rainbow cake, and root-beer, and jellybeans, mostly red ones. I like red ones. I haven't gotten to see Bobby take anyone away in an ambulance yet. I saw him in his uniform once. Bessy on the first floor had a heart attack and was taken away in an ambulance, but Bobby wasn't in that ambulance. Bessy's back now. I'm glad. She sings hymns and makes sugar cookies. Did the man with the gun shoot you?"
Bruce's gaze snapped down to fasten on the six-year-old's face. His expression must have been harsher than he meant it to be. The girl shrank back from him with a frown. He softened his stare and lowered his voice. "Where is the man with the gun now?"
The girl's frown melted away in an expression of puzzlement. She shrugged. "I don't know. I think he left after I went back inside. I waited a while before looking back outside to look for you both. He was gone and you were laying down. I thought you were dead."
Bruce had opened his mouth to reply, but a screech echoed through the alley.
"Tasha Jennifer Lawrence! You get back in this apartment right now!"
His companion turned with a yipe, dashed down the alley, and turned the corner. Bruce's mouth twitched up in a slight smile. Smart girl.
He leaned back against the brick wall, carefully keeping his head bowed to avoid bumping it against the bricks that had already left their mark on it. He concentrated on ignoring the pain and learning about his surroundings. Everything in the alley was still. Except for his breathing, there were no sounds but those muffled by walls and windows. No movement met his stare either. He turned his attention back to the pains screaming for it.
His right shin throbbed. There must be a bruise there. The sensation coming from it was trumped by the one still slicing through his head.
A door slammed somewhere above him and to the right. Bruce grimaced and looked up to see a window cracked open over a fire-escape. The sound had come through it, and was followed by a different kind of noise. "What have I told you about talking to strangers! Do you want to end up on the news?"
A mixture of empathy for the speaker and the spoken to added to his discomfort as well. If it helps, Jennifer Tasha Lawrence, I'm going to get scolded too.
. . .
Madge and Leslie stepped through the door to see Alfred sitting in the nearby armchair of the living room. Alice was laying on the matching couch with her feet elevated on an armrest and pillows propping her into a sitting position. The cherub-faced backstabber grinned at them. "You're back."
Madge glared at her fellow house-guest. "What are you doing up here?"
"Alfred said since you were out and I was getting so much better, it would be a good day for him to help me make it up the stairs. He said I needed to get a bit of different scenery around me. Isn't he sweet? He's been reading to me from 'Peter Pan.'"
Madge continued to scowl at her fellow house guest, but before she could form a satisfyingly scorching response, the phone rang. Leslie was still hanging up her scarf. So, it could have been for that reason or from pure habit that Alfred picked up the receiver. "Doctor's Thomkin's residence, whom am I addressing?"
Alfred had a tremendous poker face. But Leslie saw his eyes widen and the skin of his face go taunt for half a second. Then his facial expression went back to neutral. Without taking off her coat she strode over to him. Alfred saw her coming and spoke into the mouth piece again. "Here is the good doctor now, sir."
Leslie snatched the phone from the manservant's fingers and held it up to her own ear. "This is Dr. Thomkins." A silence followed during which the doctor's own eyes flashed. "You've sustained a what?"
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ScribeofHeroes