I neither own nor created Batman, Deadshot, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Lucius Fox, Martha Wayne, Thomas Wayne, or Alfred Pennyworth.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained. :)
Lucius Fox got into the small plane's cockpit. After buckling himself in and turning its engine on, he steered the "bird" to point down the runway. He shouted into the microphone poised before his mouth. "All ready, Mr. Wayne!"
An answer came through his headphones. "Go now!"
Lucius Fox maneuvered the plane down the runway with a mutter. "Here goes nothing."
. . .
Leslie watched two girls hand the man in the bright-red vest their tickets. He took them with a grin and stepped aside. The grade-schoolers walked through the gate hand in hand. A woman also wearing a red vest helped them into an empty Ferris Wheel cab. The little ladies looked at each other and giggled. Leslie bit her lip.
What would Elizabeth say about all this? The woman looked around. Who would die if she just left? Would her kidnapper shoot those girls, the father with his son on his shoulders, the man in the hooded sweater and jacket hunching some ways behind her? She didn't remember him standing there before. Who was she choosing over the son of Elizabeth's little brother?
Leslie turned her eyes forward again, but saw nothing there. She was seeing her childhood best friend as she promised her to always look out for Thomas. She'd told Thomas she'd always look after Bruce.
"Tickets ma'am."
Leslie started. Yes, she was next in line. In fact, there was a gap between her and the gate she almost had the right to pass through. Annoyed stares were burning into her back.
Leslie stepped forward and handed the man her stiff slips of paper. He took and glanced at them, looked up to meet her gaze, and squinted. "Hey aren't you ..?"
"Just let me by." Leslie darted around him and strode to the empty Ferris Wheel cab before her. The two girls were already some feet off the ground. They were waving to their watching moms.
Leslie entered her cab and sat down on its metal seat. Folding her hands in her lap, she stared straight ahead. The lady in the red vest closed the little door to keep her safely inside. Leslie stared out the glass-less window before her. She was not safe, nor were the girls before and above her, nor the man getting on with his son waiting as she moved forward and up herself, nor the solitary sloucher staring at her.
. . .
"Tickets, please, sir."
Deadshot gave a polite nod as he handed the colored slips of paper to the man in the red vest. Then he strode to the empty seat on the ride. While he was strapped in, he looked up and smiled. By letting some go ahead of him he had accomplished his goal. He'd be rushed to the top just as "she" reached the high-point of her ride as well.
. . .
Leslie heard the click and felt the jolt of resistance halt her cab. She slid forward, braced herself, and stopped as well. Then she looked out to her left and down. Below were the rides, the lights, the figures, so many figures ...
She barely noticed the rumble of the plane's engine above her: the thing always circled over the pier with its add-banners. Screams of excitement from "The Drop" caught her attention instead. She looked up at the ascent of the other ride's seating, and stared right at her kidnapper. At that distance all she recognized was his height, the dyed-blond hair, and shine of polished silver in his hand.
. . .
Deadshot grinned. All the others were shutting their eyes and gripping the handles on their chairs with digging fingernails. The few who dared to look, looked down. He stared forward and aimed at the spot just under the grey hair-line and between the eyes. He was about to click off the safety when a bang sounded overhead. He started and looked up.
A dark cloud hung just over the Ferris Wheel, and a figure fell from it. Smoke clung to the form for a few moments and then fell away to reveal a man in black breaking his fall with a large cape he held out like a parachute. Deadshot grinned. He raised the gun and re-aimed following the progress of the falling form. Now this … was a target.
Deadshot's grin widened as he pulled the trigger. The bang filled his ears just as the ride lurched. He fell with a rush, and laughed all the way down.
. . .
Even as Leslie's chin went up her jaw fell open. She leaned out of the cab gazing upward. The plane was veiled from view, but a form fell from the smoke. Then another bang sounded in front of her. She turned to look and saw the raised arm and grin before both fell away. A scream left her mouth. "No!"
A thunk sounded on her cab's roof. Her cab jolted moved forward and down. There was a rolling sound.
"No!" She shouted again before rushing to forward side of the cab. A figure in black fell past her, through the bars of the great wheel, and landed on the giant axle. She stared down at the still form.
. . .
"Here!"
Thomas' eight-year-old let go of her hand and darted forward. She called after him as his black evening jacket melded with the shadows. "Bruce get back here!"
He instead ran to a figure sitting slouched against a dumpster and slid to a stop before the form. "I brought Aunt Leslie, Dad! Dad!" He turned to a figure lying out on the cobble-stones. "Mom?"
Leslie rushed up to stand beside the child. Even before she turned on her flashlight, she recognized the stupid hat Martha kept trying to throw away and the mustache they could never convince Thomas to shave off. The beam of light showed blood, lots of blood staining the abdominal area and left leg. She reached out and pressed her fingertips to the right carotid artery. She spoke in a lower, but sharper tone than the man's son had used. "Thomas, Thomas!" No response. No groan, no flutter of eyelashes, no pulse … Nothing.
"Mom! Mom!"
From the heightening pitch of voice, Leslie guessed Martha was giving no response either. She waited for a minute, then stood and went over to study Martha. The pupils of the open eyes didn't shrink as she directed the beam of light into them. The mouth was open and its insides were illuminated as well. Something there made Leslie bend down for a closer examination. Then she jerked back. After a moment she knelt down and turned her friend over. The bullet had gone right in, through, and out the back ...
Leslie rose, turned, and walked back to the figure slumped against the side of the dumpster. Bruce's angry voice rang after her, "Help them!"
Leslie didn't answer. She knelt beside Thomas, lowered him onto the ground, and began chest compressions. Bruce ran up to her side. He was panting, hyperventilating maybe. She glanced at him. "Bruce, take deep breaths, count!"
He obeyed. She continued performing the chest compressions on Thomas. Minutes passed. Finally, she stopped, drew her hands back and placed them on her knees. She took a deep breath, then turned and looked at Bruce.
All color drained from his face as he stared at her. "They're dead." She nodded. He turned away and braced his legs to run. She sprang forward and caught him. He wriggled in her grasp. "Let me go!"
Her voice came out sharp, forceful. "Bruce! Bruce, stop!"
He slumped and trembled. "I failed!" Then he fell onto his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Leslie drew him into her embrace. He was shaking, not crying yet, just shaking against her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
She began rubbing his back even as her own eyes filled with tears. Her voice was choked as she spoke. "Shhh! Shhh! It's not your fault. I'm here Bruce. I'm right here. I'm here."
. . .
Dr. Leslie Thomkins looked down at the crumpled form lying on the metal rod beneath her. It still hadn't moved. Was that tiny light spot between the eyes of the black mask just her imagination? Did it matter?
Her blue eyes gazed blankly. Her lined lips moved in a whisper. "Bruce ..."
"Dr. Leslie!"
Leslie turned. The cab across from hers had a man standing in it, the sloucher. Grey, intense eyes stared into her. Hers widened in response. "Bruce?"
The man got out of the cab and climbed the metal spokes toward her. She was too shocked to protest. So, apparently, was almost everyone else now staring at him. There were just a few warning shouts from below.
Finally, he reached and pulled himself into her cab. His large frame barely fit in it. The man pulled her bony, five-foot-six form into his arms. She clutched him. Her body trembled. His head bent over hers. A low voice whispered into her right ear, "I'm here. I'm right here."
. . .
Deadshot smirked, barely kept himself from laughing outright, as he swept through the gate of the fence surrounding "The Drop." He threaded his way through the crowd rushing toward the Ferris Wheel. The swarming figures barely glanced at him as they dodged around and on toward the crime scene. He couldn't wait to read the next edition of "Gotham Gazette." Hopefully, the discovery of the bullet casing on the seat of the other soon to be infamous ride of Carnival Pier would be discovered by then.
Suddenly, he felt a sting on the back of his neck. Deadshot paused, grimaced, and raised his hand to the place. Something cold met his fingertips.
At the slight resistance, he pulled. Then he held the object up toward his face while bending his head. A dart?
His surrounding swam. Deadshot blinked just before his knees buckled.
An arm went around and pulled him back up. "Steady there chap!" Deadshot turned his head. A pair of blue, hard eyes looked back into his. The ends of an iron-grey mustache curled up in a smile as the head covered in a chauffeur's cap nodded. "We'll have you home soon."
Sorry this chapter took so long. I hope it was worth the wait. :)
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God Bless
ScribeofHeroes