I neither own nor created Batman, Alfred, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Gotham City, or Deadshot. I did create Madge Robertson, and Alice.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.
Alfred wavered when the phone rang upstairs. He disliked leaving the Batcave while Master Bruce was out on the hunt. He needed to remain near the contact center in case the Batman required assistance. However, if someone was phoning this late, it likely was an emergency.
The manservant took the elevator to the secret door into the library. The fact the phone had kept ringing further convinced him there was a crisis. Alfred strode past the sliding bookcase and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Wayne Manor."
"Teach, it's Madge."
Alfred's already straight form stiffened. Why would his student be calling? If anything was amiss at that address surely Leslie would call about it. Unless Miss Alice was having a health emergency. The Englishman's eyes cleared as he raised his chin in determination. "Yes, Miss Robertson, what might I do for you?"
"Uh, the Doc should be home by now, right? She didn't have a late date or something, did she?"
Alfred's chin went back down as a slight furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "Not that I am aware of. She has not arrived there, yet?"
"Ah, no. Should I call the police or something?"
"Not yet. I will look into it, and be right over."
Alfred hung up the phone and took the hidden elevator back down to the Batcave.
. . .
"Batman."
Atop a building in the South Side district across from a warehouse where a shipment of drugs was being brought in to be divided up among various dealers, Batman reached for the earpiece in his cowl. He tapped it. There was a pause as the device sent the message he was listening. Then Alfred's voice sounded in his ear again. "A mutual friend of ours has not returned home from the clinic."
Batman's eyes widened.
. . .
He stood before the car. The driver door had been left open. On the seat, lay a tranquilizer dart and two, metal cylinders. Batman reached in and picked one up with a gloved hand. He turned to let the glow of the nearby street-light shine on the object. It was an empty chamber from a high-powered sniper rifle. He rolled it between his fingertips, and then stopped. A script of two letters in swooping cursive were etched into one side. "DS."
Batman's gloved hand wrapped around the gun-shell and clenched into a fist.
. . .
The darkness was his friend, the shadows, stay in the shadows. That was what his father had said. What if ..? What if … what if the man with the gun was still around, somewhere, waiting around the next corner, standing across the street. Bruce froze, closed his eyes, gulped in a deep breath, and listened.
There was no sound of footsteps. There was no sound of cars. He released his held breath. Now there was only the sound of his own gasps.
Bruce shivered. The night was seeping through his evening jacket to chill his sweating skin. He took another breath and glanced out around the corner. He stared at the familiar porch. Its light beckoned him reflecting off the white door and flashing off its ornate window.
Bruce clenched his jaw. Dad had said to get help. He crouched and gathered himself.
Bruce sprang forward. His feet sprinted off the asphalt and onto the sidewalk, across the concrete to jump the curb and land on asphalt again, across the street to jump up onto concrete once more, across the concrete to throw the gate open and race up the stone path to the stairs, up the stairs, onto the porch, across the porch, and to the white door with its ornate window. He pounded his fists on it. "Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt ..!"
. . .
"Leslie ..."
The assassin had her. He had taken her as bait. Did that mean he knew?
Then the Batman noticed the cartridge was slightly heavier than it should have been. He turned it over so the light would shine into the chamber, only it didn't. It just lit up something white filling it.
The desire to know what it was burned in his stomach, but he resisted. Instead, Batman lifted his free hand to his cowl and activated the receiver in the cowl. Then he lifted the small radio to his mouth. He almost never used it, but this was an exceptional situation.
"Those plans need to be made ready now. Get our associate to the cave. Our target has Dr. Leslie Thomkins."
. . .
Leslie closed her mouth and raised an eyebrow at her abductor "Bait? For a night critter? I would think cheese draws rats better than doctors."
Deadshot smirked without looking up from the silver pistol he was cleaning. "I'm not hunting rats. I'm hunting The Bat. I figure a fellow saint should draw out a vigilante as well as a damsel in distress."
Leslie kept a straight face that made Alfred, his cousin, and Lucius say she should play poker. She wriggled her wrists in their bonds. They didn't even think about giving. Instead they only dug further into her skin with every movement. She kept the pain out of her voice. "You want to shoot a vigilante?"
"Now you have it right."
"What happens to me if he's only a myth?"
"He's not."
"What if I fail to draw him out?"
"Well," Deadshot pulled the baking-soda white handkerchief away from the piece of engraved silver. He lifted the latter to shine in the light of the lamp. He smiled at his work. "I guess then I'll have to plug you, dump your body on the beach, and try again."
. . .
Leslie jumped. She had just been lying on her sofa reading a book she would never be able to finish. She set it aside with a thump and strode to the shuddering door.
Why didn't Thomas or Martha just ring the doorbell or even have Bruce do it? Was the doorbell broken? If so, couldn't they simply knock instead of beating it so the wood would crack?
Leslie froze. Now she could hear the high-pitched voice on the other side. "Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie! Aunt Leslie!"
She stepped forward and flung the door open. Bruce stood trembling on the doormat. His raised fists lowered to his sides. Leslie's eyes were drawn to the white dress shirt under his black jacket. Her eyes widened. "Bruce!"
She knelt down. Her hands went to the blood-stained buttons and began undoing them to see the wound she assumed was beneath. She opened her mouth, but Bruce spoke first. His words froze her.
"They've been shot, Aunt Leslie! Mom and Dad were shot!"
. . .
Leslie closed her eyes as she sat on the bed still facing her kidnapper cleaning his engraved, pear-handled pistol. She prayed without moving her lips or making a sound.
Oh Lord, please don't make him lose me too. Or I him.
. . .
Batman lifted the shell to the light over the metal table. He raised the pliers to its opening. The tweezers gripped the white filling. He pulled it free. Out came a tightly rolled piece of paper.
Bruce unfolded it on the table with the same tweezers. Alfred's frozen-hard gaze was locked on the sheet also. Another man stood leaning against a nearby file cabinet. He watched with his arms crossed over his chest.
When unfolded, the paper proved to be a map of a certain area of Gotham with an "X" and a time written in red ink on it. Bruce straightened from his crouch over the table. His hard, flat voice echoed off the cavern walls. "Carnival Pier."
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