Molossus, the EDITED version!
Disclaimer: Don't own Bats and all that jazz.
Bruce Wayne was angry. No, not just angry. He was infuriated. His face showed nothing as he exited the restroom, readjusting his jacket, and it remained blank as he headed for the elevator. The minute he was alone in the small car, he let out a frustrated grunt.
"Who does she think she is?" he asked himself, referring to the red headed, not to mention caught spying red handed, woman. Bruce's mind told him to calm down and to ignore Evelyn's comment about his wound. She didn't know anything about his life, or his second life. What she knew was the mask Bruce wore whenever he decided to appear anywhere around Wayne Tower. She didn't know his life, nor was he too inclined to divulge her in his secrets.
So where did she get off telling him that "That wasn't the kind of wound you'd get while spelunking?" At this Bruce chuckled at himself. Of course this isn't the kind of wound you'd get while spelunking. This was the kind of wound you get when a grenade explodes a mere four feet from where you had been standing. Even nomex and Kevlar can't make you invincible against something like an explosion.
It had, however, protected Bruce enough and he had managed to escape with only one major injury. Alfred, on the other hand, considered it near fatal and almost had Bruce sent to the hospital. Wayne had refused, saying it was not as bad as it appeared. It was, but not enough for a hospital. Not that Bruce would have let Alfred take him there willingly.
Alfred Pennyworth. Every time Bruce's thoughts traveled to his old butler it brought up words like compassion, love, care, and hope. Alfred had been there to take care of young, scared, eight year old Bruce when his parents had been murdered. He had acted as a father-figure for the rest of Bruce's years at Wayne Manor, and would continue to be until he finally passed. Surprisingly enough to Bruce, Alfred had never given up on him, even when times seemed hopeless and plans simply ludicrous.
As Bruce Wayne brought his thoughts back to Evelyn, he scowled again. The elevator reached the parking garage, and he headed for his snazzy silver Lamborghini. He lifted the door, climbed in, then roared out of the garage, heading for home.
Five stories up, looking out the window at the end of the hallway, I stood, watching as Bruce tore from the tower. I sighed, turning and heading back to my office. As I planted myself begrudgingly on the swivel chair, Michelle stared at me.
"You had to follow him, eh?" she asked. "Did you convince your knight in shining armor that you were a damsel in distress?"
"Pfft," I sputtered. "My knight in shining armor turned into a toad at the last minute," I replied, rather sullen.
"You want to tell me about it?" Michelle asked, placing her hand over mine. I shook my head.
"No. I'll get over it. What about your knight, Michelle? What's his name again? Bob?" I questioned, getting out of my depression and back to my normal self.
"Robert Cotterill," she corrected. "He's British."
"Of course he is. Is it just me, or do you always have a boyfriend from Britain?" I asked, giggling. Michelle frowned.
"So what? British men are well defined and nice! They're perfect gentlemen!" she retorted. "Besides, his ex-wife died recently, and he and his daughter need a mother figure!"
"Michelle, no offense, but you're no more a mother figure than I am a political figure," I chided. Her frown deepened."And you're just going to swoop in because his ex died?"
"They'd been divorced for—!"
Ignoring her next remark, I looked at the clock. My eyes widened. "Shit!" I cursed, standing and pulling on my shoes. I snatched up my small purse and turned to Michelle as I ran for the doorway.
"It's lunch, I'm leaving because I'm late, and I'll be back soon!" I said, shouting the last three words as I rushed down the hall, dodging between my co-workers.
Every day for lunch I left the Tower and headed to my favorite coffeehouse a few blocks away. The lateness today was due in part to the fact I was to be picking up someone at the airport in about five minutes.
I entered the elevator, which was packed, and hopped from one foot to the other the best I could as I waited to get to the parking garage.
The second I was in my car (an old, beat up station wagon) I opened my purse and pulled out a small tube of lip gloss, pulling down my mirror. "Can't believe it," I murmured. I took my hair down from its holder, letting it fall over my shoulders. Then I started my engine and took off, nearly taking the back end off a Corvette as I made a mad drive to the exit
Luckily enough for me Gotham Airport was only twenty minutes away (the way I drive) and I actually arrived at Gate E on time. The passengers of the flight were just getting off, and I looked for the locks of black I knew too well. Once they were spotted, I made my way to their owner.
"Hey Sunshine," Isaac greeted.
Isaac Fischer was, and is, my best guy friend I have. Michelle is my best girl, and Isaac is my best guy. They, however, have never met. I plan to introduce them.
Someday.
Isaac and I have been friends since three years ago, when I met him after college. He was working at the same mall store as me at the time and we made an acquaintance. We soon made nicknames for each other, not knowing just how long they'd be sticking with us. His for me was 'Sunshine.'
"Took you long enough to come visit, Shorts."
Mine for him, was 'Shorts.'
His nickname came about in a swimming pool one summer, involving a diving board and a bored five year old boy (whose mother wasn't watching him, which is why he was bothering us), afterward resulting in a pair of neon blue Hawaiian print swim trunks to be floating atop the chlorine water. My nickname, quite differently, comes from the fact I am entirely not a morning person. I could care less for mornings, wishing the day started at noon. These feeling are indeed remedied by coffee, but I am still in no way, shape or form, a morning person.
So why I work at Wayne Enterprises, where the day starts as early as seven am, I'll never know.
Oh, wait. Of course I know. The hunk that runs the place. Not that I'm terribly keen on speaking with Mister Wayne right now. Asshole.
After Isaac and I exchanged hugs, we shoved his bags into the back of my car, then drove to a small café for some much needed coffee and food.
"How's everything been?" he asked, sipping at his cappuccino as I drank my espresso.
"Routine question, Isaac. Be more creative, will you?" I said, smiling, then adding, "It's been going great. The crime in Gotham's decreased, but not much. Though I do have to admit that the Batman is helping. Even if I hate the fact he's all over the news, and no one else is doing a damn thing to stop the crime and poverty in this city." I swirled my espresso around, irritated.
"It takes nothing to sit and watch, but it takes everything to get up and do something," Isaac said, grinning. That was his favorite thing to say whenever things weren't going his way. If he didn't like something, he did something about it. Isaac had always had little quotes and things. To be honest, I never knew if he's taken them from someone or had come up with them himself. "If you want to change something, Evelyn, then take the initiative and do it."
"Pfft. Like Batman?" I asked. "Half of the police force hates him because he's 'taking the law into his own hands.' If I thought I could do something without getting tossed in jail for it, trust me Shorts, I would. But the thing is, I honestly don't think I can just throw on a cape and go running around the city, trying to end poverty and the gangs."
"You have your magic."
As yes, my mediocre magic I had learned from my father. Sleight of hand, illusions. All fake, nothing real. I could do card tricks, make balls disappear, turn handkerchiefs into doves. Practicing magic had been my father and my hobby since I was nine. Now, at twenty-five, I had doubled what I could back then. However, I was still nowhere as near as good as those such as Burton and Siegfried and Roy. I did know, however, how to do the simple things master illusionists could do. Illusionists such as Criss Angel, 'Mind Freak's' big star.
Simple things included the following: levitating several inches from the ground and walking through walls.
Isaac thought this sounded crazy at first as well. That is until I showed him.
My key item in my illusions is my chalk. Whether you believe it or not, I can draw a door on a wall, the ground, basically anything, and open it. It's not magic, it's an illusion. I could tell Isaac and Michelle how I do it, but I can't because even I don't know how. It's something I've mastered, just like my card tricks and my sleight of hand. So, as Isaac brought up my magic abilities, an idea stuck me, and I smiled.
"Oh no. Now what have I done, Sunshine? You're thinking again, I can tell. It's like your cranium has turned to glass, and I can see the miniscule gears of your cerebrum spinning like mad," Isaac said, laughing. My grin grew as I stared at his pale green eyes.
"It's not a crime to think, is it?" I said. "I'm afraid, dear Isaac, that I must leave. My lunch break's nearly over, and it'll take me twenty minutes to get back to the Tower. If you want to wander around Gotham for a couple more hours, I'll be off and can come pick you up."
Isaac shook his head, telling me it wouldn't be necessary. He would get a taxi, he just had to get his suitcase from my trunk first. I allowed him to, then departed back to my job.
As I entered the elevator, I saw someone head for the stairs. His head was bald, and he had a strangely cut goatee. I stared as long as the closing elevator doors permitted, then thought about his attire. Hmm. All black. Not that that would be odd in Gotham, but usually people take elevators when in suits. I smelled myself quickly to be sure I hadn't offended him. I concurred I hadn't, but still thought about the man. Something about his demeanor, the way he carried himself in the few fleeting seconds I saw him, made me uneasy. Not to mention the fact that he looked like some villain from a 70s ninja flick.
As I made my way to my office, I decided to stop by and make sure Mister Earle wasn't angry I was almost ten minutes late. I entered his office, not seeing him anywhere. I closed the door behind me and walked over to the computer screen on his desk.
I'm nosy, and I'll admit it with pride.
Unlocked computer screens intrigue me, even if it is in my boss's office. They're even more intriguing when it's someone I know on the screen.
On the screen Earle had pulled up a file on Lucius Fox. I wonder for a second why, when I heard footsteps in the hall. I rushed to the door, opened it and retreated from the office. Luckily enough for me, it was someone I didn't know (which wasn't surprising; Wayne Enterprises probably had half the Gotham workforce on its payroll, an d I pretty much stayed on one floor) and I fled quickly to my office.
When I reached it, Michelle wasn't there. This was odd, since she's always on time, even at the end of lunch (and at the beginning of the day and to meetings; hell, she's probably got a foolproof schedule set up so she's never late to anything, ever, unlike me, who's late to everything, always). I set my purse in my chair, then nearly shrieked at what was on my desk.
There, on top of all the papers I had to read over, sat a .38 caliber pistol. I picked it up quickly, running to the window at the end of the hallway. I opened it, then chucked the pistol down into the dumpster, five stories below. I closed the window then stood, my heart racing as fast as my mind. I began thinking that, in retrospect, I probably shouldn't have tossed the gun out the window. Well, too late, now. I started back toward the office, but before I reached the door Michelle appeared from around the corner and suddenly had my arm and was dragging me away.
"Eve! Mr. Earle's been shot!" she exclaimed.