Major spoilers for episode 2.20-Unleashed. Enjoy!
"Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun, and the days blur into one,
And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done…
All my nightmares escape my head.
Bar the door, please don't let them in.
Peel the scars from off my back—I don't need them anymore.
You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars.
I've come home."
"Welcome Home" –Radical Face
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Margot woke to the smell of food and blearily opened her eyes, only to find Alfred standing at the end of the bed, smiling at her with a tray in his hands. It was covered in food. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and asked, "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be in the city with Bruce."
"I was," the man answered calmly. "He's still there, no doubt with Selina."
"And you let him go alone?"
Alfred grimaced a little, trying to hide it behind a sigh. "It seems Master Bruce can handle himself without his rickety old butler to help."
Margot sensed some pain in that statement. She hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but it seemed she'd touched a nerve. Feeling badly, she accepted the food he offered her and attempted to distract him.
"Well," she stated, cutting a triangular piece off of a crepe and dragging it through the savory sauce before she stuffed it into her mouth. It was good. Swallowing, she continued, "Looks like you have some free time, then. Why don't you join me for breakfast?"
She smiled and offered Alfred a place beside her on the bed. He seemed reluctant.
"There's no way I'll be able to eat all of this," she told him, indicating the plate of food in front of her, adding invitingly, "Have some of this orange, at least."
Alfred raised his brow, knowing full well that Margot was lying. She could eat everything on that plate and probably a second serving. But he appreciated the sentiment.
He slowly took a seat on the edge of the bed and accepted a few orange slices from her.
They ate quietly for a few minutes before Margot rose and stretched. "While I have you here alone," she began, "there's something I think I should show you."
Alfred waited, watching dubiously as she reached into the backpack she'd tucked under the bed and drew out a small metal case. Opening it, she turned it towards him and exposed the contents to him.
It was a pistol, well-used and worn, but decently maintained. Alfred glanced up with the beginnings of a reproachful look on his face. He'd expressed his reserve for letting her bring a handgun into the manor before. Still, he could hardly be upset if she'd purchased it while she'd been gone, with no plans of returning.
"It's seen a lot of use, but it's reliable enough," she explained quietly, hoping that he wouldn't be too angry.
Instead, he seemed more resigned. "Reliable enough," he echoed skeptically. "I suppose that's what the man at the secondhand shop told you," he replied wearily.
Margot shook her head as she corrected him. "It was a veteran down at the VA. And no, I didn't take his word for it. We went down to the range and he let me shoot it."
Alfred frowned and considered the handgun again. "Well," he finally said in a slow, thoughtful voice, "it would seem hypocritical of me to tell you to toss the thing."
"Yes," she replied firmly, giving him a warning look that let him know how she would feel should he ask her to discard it. Pausing, she then suggested hopefully, "Why don't we go out and shoot a few practice rounds? You with your peashooter and me with mine."
He reached into the case and withdrew the gun, inspecting it. It was heavy. The frame was a classic .45 caliber, stainless steel Colt 1911 model, with worn wooden grips. "Hardly a peashooter," he commented. Handing it back to her, he shook his head reluctantly and informed her, "I need to stay close, in case Master B calls."
She nodded understandingly and started to dress. "Right. Well I'm going out for some much needed practice." Looking up at Alfred, she inquired, "Would you mind if I went into those hills down past the south grounds?"
Alfred nodded. The hills were quite a ways from the manor, behind the wooded area on the far side of the south grounds. He mused, "They're part of the estate, so you won't be shooting into anybody else's backyard." He saw her move to pick up the rifle case and frowned. The rifle had a much longer range than the pistol. One bullet could travel well over a mile. "But for God's sake, aim away from the house!"
"I am a trained sniper," she retorted. "I think I know what I'm doing." Still, she couldn't resist teasing him a little. "Just stay away from the windows and you'll be perfectly safe."
Despite the bad joke, Alfred actually did feel a little safer as he heard the distant gunshots over the next hour, first the soft pop of the pistol, and then the sharper crack of the rifle, knowing that most—probably all—of those shots were likely hitting the intended target. It was certainly comforting to have a sniper on hand. He didn't realize that he'd think the very same thing again that evening, when he received news of an unexpected and most unwelcome guest.
"You're more to me than just a guardian, Alfred. You're my friend."
Despite the timing, which couldn't have been worse, Bruce's words echoed in the butler's mind, weaving in and out of the plans he was carefully forming in his head. He'd known it already, of course, but to hear the boy finally say it… Well, it was about bloody time.
Still, there would be plenty of opportunity to dwell on that later, if they survived. That was the top priority, and that's why Alfred called Margot down from her room, which she had been reorganizing since dinner.
"What's wrong?" she inquired, catching sight not only of Bruce and Alfred's expressions, but also the gun in Alfred's hands.
"Jim Gordon just called and said that Galavan is likely coming here."
Margot's face blanched at the news, but she didn't interrupt as Alfred continued, "Master B and I are going to lock up the house, but it'd be useful to have eyes on the outside." He shot her a pointed look.
"I'm on it," Margot replied quickly, reaching for her pistol, which Alfred noticed she'd kept tucked in her belt against the small of her back.
"Don't do anything reckless!" Alfred called after her as she disappeared through the window.
Margot waved the comment off and soon found herself in the near-complete darkness of the grounds.
She walked slowly and placed her footsteps carefully to cause the least amount of noise, her senses all on alert. Fortunately, this was when her training became very useful. As a sniper, she'd been taught to move stealthily. As she walked, she cast surreptitious glances between the wall that surrounded the estate, the ground, and the manor. She could see as one by one the lights were doused and the curtains shut as Bruce and Alfred closed up the house. The lack of extra light meant that she would have to rely solely upon the wan moonlight as she kept a sharp eye out for any sign of intrusion.
It was that sharp gaze that noticed the footprints in the soft soil near a row of shrubbery that wound around towards the back of the manor. Crouching down to investigate them, she noted that they were fresh and deep, created by a relatively tall person, probably male. He seemed to be moving quickly, headed straight towards the east wing of the manor.
Cursing, Margot ran towards the house, hoping to arrive there and sound the warning before the intruder could break in. Unfortunately, she never thought that the man she was pursuing might be waiting unseen behind a shrub, and then catch her in the head with something heavy and hard.
Which is exactly what happened.
Reeling, Margot raised her pistol and managed to squeeze off a couple of rounds, but it was difficult to see with her head spinning and blood dripping into her eyes. The figure struck at her with a foot, catching her squarely in the gut. She stumbled backwards and nearly lost her footing. Steel glinted in the moonlight, and Margot noticed that her attacker was wielding some sort of sword—he must have caught her with the pommel as she ran past. The blade sang through the air as it came down towards her, and she realized how lucky she was that he hadn't come at her pointy end first.
She threw herself out of the way of the sword, tumbling onto the ground. She rolled to the side, felt the blade catch in the turf inches from her shoulder, and took the chance to squeeze off two more rounds. The man grunted and stumbled. Margot emptied her clip in his direction, trying to blink the blood from her eyes as his footsteps receded quickly.
Getting to her feet, Margot quickly took stock of her injuries, wiped her eyes clear, and reloaded the pistol before following her attacker. She was sure now that it was Galavan. Funny, though, she had never thought of him as much of a fighter.
She tracked him towards the manor, but she had difficulty locating him once she reached it. He moved so much faster than her with her limp, and he was behaving erratically. She assumed he would have gone through the nearest window or door, but all the windows on the ground floor seemed undisturbed.
A crash sounded from above suddenly, and Margot looked upward—the one direction she'd forgotten to look. There he'd gone, right through a second-story window. He must have scaled the building to reach it.
She growled and dashed for the nearest window, choosing to smash through it instead of trying to unlock it. Though she held her arms defensively in front of her face, she could feel the glass biting through her skin as she went through it and tumbled into the room.
Margot stood unsteadily, her leg protesting painfully, her head throbbing, her eyes stinging as more blood trailed into them. She oriented herself quickly and forced herself through the door and out into the corridor. Bruce and Alfred would likely be in the study, she reasoned, recalling the secret entrance behind the fireplace that led to the cavernous room below the manor. Sealed inside that room, they'd be safe from any attack.
She only hoped they were already there.
Three sharp gunshots pierced the still air, shattering Margot's hopes. She ran towards the sound, heard more gunshots, then shouting, then crashing. It all seemed to be coming from direction of the study. Margot cursed the architects who'd designed such a massive house as she hastened towards the room, wondering if she'd make it in time.
She recalled a similar incident, when the manor had been under attack by the assassins hired to dispose of Cat. Suddenly her mind flooded with images. Mr. Harrison, dead in the shrubbery. Gunshots. The panic and bile that had risen in her throat as she'd wondered if everyone else was dead as well. Finding Alfred with blood pouring down his arm. More gunshots. The acrid smell of something burning. Singed clothes, burnt flesh. Helicopters whirring above. The taptaptap of rapid gunfire. A woman in black, turning, reaching towards her, only to explode in a pillar of light and heat—
Margot stumbled, her breath coming in short, agitated gasps. Oh God, she was having a panic attack. She tried to shake herself out of it, but her attempts only made it worse. She could barely force herself to move. One thing kept her moving forward, despite the panic. She had to help Alfred and Bruce. She had to protect them.
Finally, she lurched through the door to the study, only to find it empty. Debris littered the floor, and there were signs of a struggle, but not bodies. Her eyes lit on the broken window across the room. Heart in her throat, Margot ran towards it, sure she'd find somebody out there, lying dead in the flowers outside.
Glancing through the window, she caught sight of Alfred lying prone on the ground, and felt her knees go weak. For a moment, she feared the worst.
Then the man groaned and shifted, shaking his head slowly as he sat up.
"Damn it, Alfred," she gasped breathlessly, tumbling through the broken window. "Are you all right?"
"Where the hell were you?" he growled irritably, trying to get to his feet and wincing as he did so.
"The bastard ambushed me, all right?" she growled back, reaching out to help him.
He merely waved her away. "We have to find Bruce."
"You stay put," she insisted, catching sight of the blood that soaked through the left leg of his trousers. "You can hardly walk." Racking the slide of her pistol back, she added darkly, "I'll take care of Galavan."
Alfred held her back with a hand on her arm. "That pistol won't do you any good," he told her. "He's got some sort of armor on. Where's your rifle?"
Biting back a curse, Margot remembered that she'd left it upstairs. Carrying a concealed pistol around all day was easy. A rifle was less convenient. "New plan," she said. "You find Bruce. If Galavan is there, buy me some time. He may be wearing armor, but even Kevlar can't stop a .300 Win Mag slug at point blank range."
Alfred nodded and Margot climbed back through the window, feeling the jagged edges of the window cut at her.
She moved as quickly as she could, reaching the case just as she heard a car engine rev up, followed by a loud crash and tires squealing across the pavement below. Alarmed and wondering what the hell was happening, Margot didn't try to rush herself, though her mind screamed at her fingers to move faster as she readied her rifle. It wouldn't do a damn bit of good if she merely fumbled around in a panic. Finally she clicked the last round into the magazine, jammed it into place, and hobbled toward the source of the sounds.
She knew instinctively that she had no time to get outside, so she went to one of the windows that overlooked the driveway and instantly took in the scene. She saw Bruce on his knees, Galavan raising the blade above his head, saw the man stagger as bullets buried themselves deep into his torso. He stumbled, turning to face the new threat.
Jim Gordon.
A stab of relief shot through Margot as the man approached, bearing down on Galavan, emptying his clip into the attacker, who fell lifelessly to the ground. She leaned against the window and sighed with relief, unable to tear her eyes from the scene. Soon Alfred had joined Bruce and Gordon, and they shakily examined one another and exchanged a few words that were too distant and too quiet for Margot to hear.
Then, to her horror, Margot caught a glimpse of movement behind them. Galavan's prone figure was suddenly turning, rising, his hand going for the sword. She automatically reached for her rifle, peered into her scope, and sighted it on the man. But from her position, he was too close behind the others, and she couldn't get a clear shot without risking one of them. An idea struck her, one of those foolish and dangerous ideas. Aiming upwards, she squeezed the trigger.
The bullet shattered the glass of the window and soared well above the scene below, posing no threat, but the sound echoed with startling clarity into the night. Its message was clear: the danger wasn't over yet.
While the others glanced back at the manor in surprise, Bruce noticed the figure first, pointing with a shaking finger. Gordon and Alfred whirled simultaneously, the latter stepping protectively in front of the boy while the former raised his gun and advanced on the attacker.
Margot hoped that this time Gordon would manage to place a bullet directly between the assailant's eyes, or else step out of the way and give her a chance. She wouldn't disappoint.
But then something very unexpected happened. Another figure stepped out of the shadows behind Galavan, framed in the ornate gateway. It looked like…
Penguin?
Before she had time to wonder what the hell he was doing there, she caught sight of his friend, Butch, who seemed to have what looked suspiciously like a rocket launcher in tow. Gordon, Bruce, and Alfred all dived for cover, and Galavan went up in a pillar of fire and smoke, pieces of him littering the driveway.
Even as relief swept over her, Margot didn't envy Alfred the job of tidying up that particular mess. Then she realized with gut-wrenching dread that technically the driveway was part of the grounds and therefore her responsibility.
Still, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of respect for Penguin, that strange little man who had once irked her so much. She'd seen a particular nastiness in his eyes before, but she'd never thought much of it. Now she had to admit that he knew how to get things done.
Then, as quickly as he'd appeared, Penguin was gone, leaving the others to face the aftermath alone. Margot, seeing that he'd departed, decided she ought to regroup with the others.
As she descended hurriedly out onto the driveway, rifle still in hand, she reminded herself not to get on Penguin's bad side…provided she wasn't already on it.
She limped toward Bruce and Alfred, meeting them both with a grin of relief. Alfred jerked his chin at her rifle and cast a warning glance in Gordon's direction. Gordon wasn't a detective anymore, and the case of the mysterious sniper assassin had never been under his investigations anyway, but it never hurt to be careful.
Before Margot could hide it, however, the man had noticed her, his eyes riveting on the weapon.
"Was that your shot?" he inquired tersely, obviously talking about the warning shot.
"Couldn't think of a better way to warn you," she replied with a shrug.
He considered her with a frown for a moment before nodding his head. "Nice shooting."
She couldn't tell if there was some sarcasm in his voice or not, and she opened her mouth to inform him that he'd been in the way of her clear shot, and that she was a sniper, trained by the Marine Corps to be a deadly assassin. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it away, realizing that that was exactly what she shouldn't say.
Instead, she simply smiled wanly and shrugged once more.
"Well, I'd better get on the horn with Bullock. He'll want to know about this." Looking them over, Gordon added, "I'll tell him to send over some medical help while he's at it." He stepped over a smoking shred of clothing and added quietly to himself, "I don't envy the poor bastard who has to clean up this mess."
As Gordon retreated, already pulling out his phone, Margot glanced at Bruce and Alfred and realized that all three of them had some degree of injury. "Damn!" she muttered, glancing at the burnt spot on the ground where Galavan had once stood. It was still smoking. "Who thought one man could cause so much trouble? It took a motherfucking rocket to kill him!"
Alfred shot a reproving look at her. "Language," he hissed, nodding his head at Bruce.
The other two protested simultaneously.
"Oh, like he hasn't—"
"Alfred, I'm perfectly aware—"
"All right, all right!" Alfred cut in over the top of them. "Quiet, the pair of you. Now," he continued once they were silent, "At best we have twenty minutes before this place is swarming with cozzers and medics, so why don't we take advantage of the remaining peace we have and pop inside for some tea?"
Bruce and Margot exchanged a glance before nodding.
"I'll take a splash of whiskey in mine," Margot stated.
"I was planning on one of those myself," Alfred replied, wincing and holding his leg as they limped side by side back to the manor. "Actually," he amended gruffly, "I may forget the tea altogether and just take the whiskey."
Margot nodded her agreement.
"Someday I'll be twenty-one," Bruce sighed wistfully.
"There's a bottle of Nyquil in the back of the medicine cabinet," Margot suggested helpfully.
Bruce pretended to consider it for a moment, while Alfred seemed less than amused. The boy broke down into a short peal of laughter. "Don't worry, Alfred," he reassured the butler. "If I wanted to drink, there's plenty of real liquor that's just as easily accessible."
"Oh, that's comforting," Alfred retorted.
Margot grinned, simply relieved that they were all still alive. She tried not to think about anything beyond how she would spend the next twenty minutes. She doubted that tonight was to be the last of their deadly encounters.