Wanted: Prince Charming - Dead or Alive pt. 11a

[Panther]

Ummm… hi? Yeah, sorry about the delay. I took a little r and r after finals. Hopefully this will in somewhat makeup for the wait. Pity about the lack of response on this new board – but the stories are still awesome! Keep it up everyone! I really enjoyed this story and it was so great to get such wonderful feedback throughout.

Please let me know if you want any posts from way back re-posted to refresh your memory. Here’s 11a. Part 11 will be in parts but it will be the last part, and even though I leave the door open at the end – no promises! Although, I have to say the most fun part about this story was WB’s Gossip Gerty and I hope either I or someone else can think of a story line with an excuse to bring back Gerty because it was hilarious to try and get inside her head. It just confirmed my belief that the best part of fiction writing is you can make characters do and say stuff that you personally don’t agree with. Tons-o-fun!

Also, I should mention I don’t own any of the Gothom characters and I’m only borrowing Lady Molly. The Guild, the Midwinter’s, and Henry and Eugenia are mine.


Part 11

Bruce paced around the library in the Wayne Manor. Every now and then he would grab a book at random from a shelf, flipped through, read a few pages, a page, a paragraph, a sentence, a phrase, then snap it shut and thrust it back on the shelf and resume his rapid pacing.

Now and then he would stare out the Art Deco style double windows, clearly the gorgeous view not registering as he went back to pacing, occasionally collapse onto one of the armchairs or sit tensely on the sofa, only to get up again and resume his silent but active worrying.

Again and again the phone conversation replayed in his head:

“Bruce? It’s me, Eugenia. It’s…its getting worse. The stopgap didn’t worked, and neither did your solution with the Mad Hatter’s old gadgets. I need the antidote!” her accent swung back wildly between Bostonian tones and West End London and bordered on hysterical.

“Eugenia, you can’t give up,” Bruce said in a forced reasonable, calm and reassuring tone. “We just need a little more time and then-”

“Oh Bruce,” Eugenia interrupted, “I have to! Not for me, but-” and there the conversation had ended.

The line had gone dead.

Bruce had rushed over to her apartment, not bothering with suiting up and exiting from the batcave, instead shaving time off by racing to the garage and taking the first car he came to. It was a 1966 Thunderbird. Red. It was practically a crimson blurry streak as he charged over to the east end of Gothom, narrowly missing three cars, a suburban, two trucks, a stop sign, and six pedestrians along the way.

But what ever had happened, he was too late. The rooms were in complete disarray. It looked like there’d been some sort of struggle. Even in the midst of a furious rage both at himself and the people who had done this to his friend, he had allowed himself a brief smile at the thought of the fight Eugenia must have put up.

But that amusement didn’t last long.

Now, in the Manor’s library, he finally gave up on trying to think. He went down to the cave and silently worked out in the training area, trying to get rid of his emotions to allow him to think. He allowed himself a break after three straight hours of exercise. He showered, changed, and sat in front of the Bat computer. After all, it was where he did some of his best thinking. The exercise must have cleared his head a little, because he now found himself able to think a little more un-obstructively.

He, quite literally, decided to go back to the drawing board. He took a pen and some blank printer paper and began to write out all the clues to the puzzling problems he had to solve if he ever wanted to see Eugenia alive again.

Alfred came in and interrupted Bruce in the middle of crumpling up yet another flawed theory and set down the tea tray just as it landed on top of the pile of other scrunched up balls of paper massing on the cave floor a few feet behind Bruce’s chair.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the blatant disregard to the rules of housekeeping but refrained from commenting on the mess. “Excuse me sir,” he said instead, “but you have been invited to a function being hosted by the Gothom Historical Society.” He held out the white card with gold lettering. “And,” he said before Bruce could ask, “I’m afraid there is no getting out of it. They wish to make thanking you for the large donation you made to help preserve the Old Dutch Inn a main part of the event.”

The Inn dated back to Dutch fur traders and had then been a tavern know as the Koningsstraat. The tavern had been the meeting place for many of Gothom’s famous and infamous historical figures for several centuries from 17th century witch hunters, to 18th century revolutionaries, 19th century suffragettes, and 20th century gangsters. It undergone many changes in the process and now sadly it had become derelict. It had been scheduled to be demolished and the space turned into a parking lot until the Wayne Foundation had stepped in and paid to have the building preserved and turned into a local heritage museum.

“And what is the event?” asked Bruce, mentally going though his calendar of important upcoming social events.

Alfred frowned and spoke with what approached close to distaste. “The 225th anniversary of the *cough* victorious Battle of Gothom.”

Bruce fought back a smile at his oldest friend’s aggravation. The battle he was referring to went back to 1776. It had actually more been a case of merchants wanting to protect their supply ships rather than idealistic soldiers fighting for lofty ideals, something the conservative and Republican historical society rarely pointed out.

“Right,” he said, trying not to sound as tired as he felt, “I remember, it’s going to be the building itself.”

“Indeed sir; you have the honor of cutting the ribbon.”

Several quips came to mind, and Bruce quickly dismissed all of them, but wondered if perhaps now his younger aides were beginning to rub off on him rather than the other way around.

Instead he tiredly rubbed the back of his neck and wished, as he wished everyday that he could be in two places at once. He sighed, there was no hope for it, he must put on the social mask and leave his charges with strict instructions to notify him if – no – when they found something to go on.

*****************************************

At the party Bruce was struggling to appear that he was enjoying himself when he spotted the last person he would have expected to see at a revolutionary celebration in an American heritage museum – Lady Molly. Gone were the business dress suit and raincoat, replaced by a modest but obviously expense cocktail dress and her hair had been elegantly styled. She was acting the part of distinguished foreign guest to a tea, but an act it surly was. Bruce recognized a look of surveillance on her face even as she chatted sociably; it was a look that had been on his face on many a stakeout.

He frowned, if Lady Molly was here, then ipso facto she had some sort of lead that connected the Guild of Thieves with this party; unfortunately she would think it very odd if some strange American playboy just walked up and started to talk to her about an international criminal case he should know nothing about.

Then he shrugged and thought why not take that idea and run with it. Putting on his most charming social mask he approached the group of people surrounding Lady Molly, all laughing at her anecdote concerning the royal family. Remembering a piece of advice from a magician he had once known he causally confiscated a sprig of lavender flowers from a vase on a side table and unobtrusively put it in his pocket.

“-and then the fisherman swallows and says to the Prince of Wales: ‘But your highness, I thought it was for lunch!’” The receptive audience laughed harder.

Excuse me miss,” said Bruce, joining the group, allow me to introduce myself, Bruce Wayne, and you are?” he asked, holding out his hand in a questioning greeting.

“Lady Molly,” she said friendly, taking his hand and shaking it.

“Charmed,” he said, putting on his absolute most engaging social mask. “Is this your first time in America?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Then permit me to be, if not the first, then the most sincere in welcoming you,” and with a clever slight of hand he made the flower appear in his extended hand as if from thin air.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed.

“Nowhere as near lovely as the lady,” he said, “but what brings you here?” moving into delicate interrogation mode.

“I work for Scotland Yard, and now I’m here on a visit to see how American detectives work.”

‘Sweet liar’, thought Bruce with a smirk, “And yet you managed to find time to visit our local heritage museum, how wonderful.”

“Ahh… yes,” replied Lady Molly distractedly, she seemed to be trying to see something a distance behind Bruce; he turned and scanned the room as well.

[Panther]

Part 11b

Across the room Olivia popped the hors d’oeuvre she’d snagged from one of the circulating waiters into her mouth and hastily turned her face as she caught a glimpse of Lady Molly looking in her direction. She mingled deeper into the crowd and then, satisfied she wasn’t being surveyed, she stopped to pretend to be deeply engrossed in examining a watercolor in the Norman Fortier collection but really reflected on matters far deeper than a pretty seaside painting.

‘So I meet Prince Charming – but he’s already engaged to Sleeping Beauty,’ she thought with some amusement, but more apprehension. How ironic that the hunk she’d seen at the airport was Henry Courtly. She had been able to identify him easily, despite the fact the photo she had seen had been black and white, had been taken in horrid lighting conditions, he’d been wearing army fatigues and about three days worth of stubble and at the airport he was cleaned up, shaved, and in a business suit. Of course Joe had already told her all about Operation Sleeping Beauty and now Olivia failed to curb the sinking sensation in her stomach that she had gotten mixed up in things way out of her league.

She glanced at her watch; almost time to get to work. She turned around to start moving into position, and accidentally bumped into someone behind her. “Oh, excuse- ….me.” The ‘me’ came out in kind of a gasp as she realized she had bumped into no other than Henry Courtly.

“No apology necessary ma’am.” He said formally. “Are you a fan of Fortier as well?

“Err, well, I like the storm paintings,” she waved a hand at the corner filled with paintings of black clouds, “all of the action and movement in those paintings. And you?” Outside she tired to remain calm while within she writhed. ‘I gotta get to Joe’, she thought franticly, ‘if Courtly’s here then things are probably gonna get ugly real fast!’

‘And to think this started out simple!’

****************Flashback*********************

When she got to the privacy of her hotel bedroom Olivia opened her suitcase and dumped its contents onto the bed. The motley black garments shimmered like cloth cut from the night sky itself. The vest’s many pockets still held her “tools of the trade” and she couldn’t resist trying on one of the black gauntlets. She flexed her fingers, excitement building at the thought of being back in her old stomping grounds, and the plans and audacities that waited to be carried out.

The very thought of carrying out another job made her near giddy with excitement. Her grandfather had never said a truer word as when he had warned her thievery gets into the blood and holds you as desperately as any drug. However, it still didn’t feel like a bad thing. Olivia still had no qualms about it. Everyone she and the Guild robbed were all rich anyway and with all that insurance were often compensated within days for their loss. Olivia had nothing but contempt for the elite and their decadence.

Amidst her belongs was also a copy of the newspaper she’d been reading earlier. There had been an article about one of the Bat’s latest successful apprehensions, and Olivia shivered. She may have learned from the best, and picked up a few new tricks, but he was still the Bat. The Guild always dared ‘em, but this year it felt like they’d been dared back.

She actually learned quite a lot form the Guild, and not just new techniques. She learned about Jacque de Tousmetiers, Josephine’s uncle, now senile and in a country home, who had once upon a time had been a heartbreaker. He had left a Jack of Hearts playing card after a job, after he had dated the woman long enough to learn exactly where all valuables were kept; she’d learned the fact that her grandpapa had left a white business card after with a gold cat’s paw print in it - many had been left around Paris after a busy night’s work - Orlando had preferred sharks, and today’s present members had their own traits, like Mademoiselle Papillion who left a delicate and colorful paper butterfly, and Blanche Lapin, who lived for the chase, and you can guess what she had on her card.

Olivia then took out a small bag and upturned into on the bed as well. There was a showering of bits of glass. They were all copies of the remaining five from the original bracelet.

She picked up one and examining it thought of something Mark Twain had once said – ‘Be good, and you will be lonesome.’

***************end of flashback********************

‘What am I doing?’ She thought as she pretended to hobnob with Gothom’s elite, ‘am I crazy or what? Only insane people try to pull off stunts like this.’ She had graciously left Henry Courtly and was now in the hallway trying to quietly get to the staircase.

Suddenly she felt a strong tug on her arm and was pulled into the closet underneath the stairs. The door was slammed shut behind her and she was in darkness – with someone else.

“Scream and I break your arm,” promised a harsh voice. Olivia knew that voice.

“Nightwing,” she said in a quiet gasp.

He got straight to the point. “Olivia Midwinter,” he growled, “I don’t know why you’re here, but I suggest you *don’t* do whatever you have planned. I’m a little too busy with serious matters right now to deal with *you*.”

“My life is no concern of yours.”

“But this city is.”

“And I have nothing against this city.”

“But what about some of the people in it? Say…a certain Vreeland?” Nightwing felt, rather than saw, Olivia’s mouth twist into a sneer of distaste but before anything else could be said a loud commotion could be heard through the door. Nightwing flung it open to revel more darkness in the hallway; it appeared there had been a sudden power outage, and it was creating a panic among the guests.

[Daughterof_Evil]

Excellent, as always, my dear. The descriptions of the people, the backround info on the thieves and heroes alike, is of a quality none but you can execute. Did I mention I finally got around to reading The Scarlet Pimpernel? Your writing is indeed up to par with the Baroness!

I loved the party scene. Lady Molly trying to act normal around a gaggle of debutantes was cute and suspicious. Does she know more than she lets on? And Nightwing threatening Olivia!? What a boor! But, where Olivia is, the Guild is sure to follow, and if the darkness is any clue, we're up for a good show.

I'm so happy you finally got around to posting. I was so worried we'd scared you off. I promise, there will be a great deal of comments of your story, and those to come.

[Isis]

Panther,

I'm so glad you're still writing this story! And-yay!- you have Nightwing in there too. Is it just me or does no one truly appreciate how cool a character he really is...

Keep writing!


Isis

[Batgirl]

Hey! You have no idea how glad I am to see you back! I love it! Esp. how Olivia knew exactly who it was! That must have made NW feel pretty good. Loved it! Please finish it soon! Um, just out of curiousity, did I miss something? Before part 11 the last Part I read was about the grandpa flashback... It's a great story, please let me know if I missed something. Other then that, keep it up!