I did not create nor do I own Bruce Wayne/Batman, Deadshot, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Gotham City.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.
Madge watched the old lady cross the street and enter the house right beyond it. The babysitter had looked after her and Alice again today. She'd weathered the lady's chatter even less graciously than before. She'd stayed so quiet and her face had been so red, their babysitter had asked if she was "feeling well."
Yet, it had been Alice who'd voiced her thoughts for her. "Where is Doctor Thomkins today?"
The old lady had shrugged. "Alfred said he would look into where she's got to this time. She and Dr. Wayne would both pull disappearances now and then. It seems to run in their family. Bruce has been gone for years you know. They usually show up again. Don't worry, Deary."
Madge's teeth ground as that reply echoed in her mind. She turned and went to the kitchen. She yanked open the drawer right of the sink. What she wanted was right there on top.
Madge strode back out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs. She opened the door of the second guest room. Alice looked up from her book. "Peter Pan" was being read again. As her gaze focused on the other woman's face, Alice's voice wavered. "Madge?"
Madge stepped up to the bedside and held the kitchen knife so the point hovered about a foot from her fellow guest's chest. "What did you do?"
Alice shrank back. "Madge?"
"Don't say my name again! You have a phone in this room! Who did you call? Who did you tell where we were and who we live with now? Samson?"
Alice shook her head as she scooted to the opposite side of the bed and away from the knife. "Nnnnnnnoooooo! I didn't tell anyone!"
Madge spat at her. "Don't give me that! You always tell on us! What did you do?!"
Alice's mouth opened in a wail. "Nothing!" Her face was red now too. Her eyes were welling up.
Madge ground her teeth. "Don't try to look innocent. You've never been innocent. What did you do! She and the Bat were the only ones who looked out for us and you squealed on them!"
Madge turned the knife over in her hands, placed a knee up on the bed, and crouched over Alice. The younger woman pressed back down into the mattress and held up her hands in front of her face. "Heeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllpppppp!"
Madge froze. She stared at the other woman. The hand holding the knife began to shake. Then she turned and left the room slamming the door shut behind her.
Madge pressed her back against the wood and sank down while sobbing. She hadn't cried since she was ten. Had she really cared about anyone since then? Doc, where are you?
. . .
At around 9:45 pm, Leslie found herself being guided through a crowd at Carnival Pier. She felt neither fresh nor festive since she still wore the clothing she had been kidnapped in. Thus, she was uncomfortable in the social and celebratory atmosphere.
What discomfited her still more was the gun. Deadshot was hiding it well in the pocket of his trench-coat. "He" was giving a carefree, mischievous grin to whoever met his gaze, especially if they were young, female, and attractive.
Surrounding them were the sounds of a carnival. Squeals of excitement rose and fell with the mechanical whirrs and whooshes of the rides. Sales pitches for foods and game booths were shouted at them. Balls hit glass bottles with clunks. Plastic rifles popped . . . Leslie turned her head at this last sound.
When he was … seven … (if she recalled correctly), Bruce had played that game. In fact, he had played for fifteen minutes straight until he'd hit the center of every target. He'd spent twenty dollars of his father's money to learn to do so.
Thomas had shelled it out without protest. His grin of pride and amusement had contrasted sharply with Bruce's scrunched up eyes gazing down the plastic barrel. That was the last time Leslie remembered her godson touching anything resembling a gun.
Something hard beneath a cloth covering pressed into the small of her back. A hot breath wafted over the side of her head, yet the voice was smooth and tone light. "Keep moving, Doctor Mercy."
Leslie rolled her eyes. He kept using that ridiculous term the Gotham Gazette had labeled her with
several years back. She heaved out a breath and clunked along the planks of the pier again. At least the area still felt familiar.
She, Thomas, or Lucius would bring Bruce here while Martha entertained certain guests at the manor. The small eavesdropper had tended to offend guests with no children, or senses of humor. There had even been rare occasions Martha had simply wanted a quiet and responsibility-less night at home.
The summer after he turned eight, Bruce hadn't asked to be taken to Carnival Pier. She and Lucius had taken him anyway. Once there, he hadn't asked to do anything. He'd only listlessly done whatever they suggested, except for the shooting game. He had shaken his head when Lucius suggested that, turned, and began moving away toward the Ferris Wheel. That was the closest thing he had come to taking initiative all that night.
After they had taken him home, Leslie had passed near Bruce's room and heard Alfred chiding him for not taking the opportunity to hone his sleuthing skills. Bruce and Alfred had gone to Carnival Pier by themselves a few times after that. She had not accompanied them. Leslie had wanted nothing to do with encouraging their folly. But she had enjoyed that last Ferris Wheel ride with Bruce all those years ago. Leslie looked up and realized the Ferris Wheel was where her captor was guiding her.
. . .
Bruce pursed his lips and cast his gaze over the scene from his perch. A voice came from behind his left shoulder. "Where did you say she'd be again?"
Bruce didn't glance at the speaker as he answered. "The note said she'd be at 12 o'clock, at 10 o'clock."
The other man's eye riveted on the Ferris Wheel. Along the circumference hung twelve baskets. "Ah. Wouldn't that be almost too easy a shot for him from here?"
"Look for something that will make it difficult."
. . .
"This is where I leave you, Doctor Mercy."
Leslie whirled around. Her captor had bribed her and himself to the point in line where she now stood. The grinning man was already stepping away from her. The grin became a smirk under her stare. "Just use the ticket I gave you go right to the top. I've got my own ride to catch."
Leslie's own mouth turned down into a frown. The man paused and patted his heavy pocket. "Just remember what will happen if you don't." He lifted the same hand with its index and third finger together and his other fingers drawn in. His thumb lifted to form a right angle. He pointed the gesture at a child on the shoulders of his father. The soft sound her "escort" made sent the pimples of Leslie's skin rising. "Bang . . ."
Then he turned and walked away. She glared after him, but stood in place. Not many men could shoot someone in a crowd and walk away. With this man, she didn't want to take the chance. As Dr. Thomkins watched her kidnapper leave, she wondered if she could really continue choosing a crowd of strangers over her god-son.
. . .
"There she is."
Bruce pointed his binoculars in the direction the other man had pointed his scope. Yes, there was his godmother. She was glaring at a man over six-feet tall, with light blond hair walking away from her. Bruce dropped another set of magnifying lenses into the binoculars. The hair of the man holding Leslie's interest was brown at its roots.
The Batman lowered his binoculars while keeping his gaze upon the man. Where was the target walking to? Bruce looked toward the tallest ride in that direction. His companion's English accent grew thicker as he noticed the same sight. "Oi! Even this bloke can't be that balmy!"
"He can."
. . .
Deadshot turned his grinning face upwards at the sound of screams. They were not shrieks of startled horror like those surrounding his victims gave when they dropped. He was never close enough to hear them. No, these shrieks were from those enjoying having their adrenaline spiked. He relished the biological jolt himself. He just preferred to get high another way.
The man got into line and put both hands into his pockets. One wrapped around a few paper tickets. The other wrapped around a handgun with an extra long barrel.
He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes fixed upon the metal basket hanging from the top of the Ferris Wheel. The distant wouldn't have been impressive with a rifle, but with a pistol. Only he could do it.
Deadshot looked back to his own ride. The timing though, would be the real trick. The Bat better be on time. The vigilante had had nearly twenty-four hours to notice the bait was missing and find his clue.
The police had found the car. As he'd watched, Deadshot had noticed none of the men in uniforms had bagged darts. The assassin didn't let himself consider someone other than his quarry might have found and confiscated the breadcrumbs he'd left for The Bat.
As the Ferris Wheel turned the "Gotham Drop" would rise. At the top, he would have five seconds. If the vigilante didn't show, the Saint from Crime-Alley clinic would do almost as well. Dropping her there, from up there would prove his reputation and resolve real. Even Gotham City must have a supply of decent citizens to draw from. The Bat would show sometime.
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God Bless
ScribeofHeroes