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ENTER from ICEBERG LOUNGE



"I haven't had time to attempt to contact our friend, via me clinging onto you for dear life Kori. But yes, I am having fun." She replied.

Star nodded and gave Raven a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Then the bronzed redhead turned toward Danny, "So, where are we looking into first, Danny?"

Star shrugged, "Well, let's check this place first, and we'll see how we like it. Then, we'll check out New York." Star beamed that beautiful smile of hers.

Star noticed Raven's hug, "So, are we going to be the roommates?" The Tamarian arched an eyebrow.

Star nodded, "I would like that very much. Oh, are you needing 'the job' as well?" The female alien cocked her head to one side.

Star gives a big shrug and says, "I could ask Mr Copplepot, If you would like."

Star gives Raven a big hug, "Wonderful. I'll let him know, and we can work at the Lounge together." heart heart

//gtg//

{Enter Batman and Alfred from Batcave}

It was like watching one of those first person shooter games that Tim was constantly asking for; he was just an observer. He watched numbly as he deposited Alfred on the kitchen floor and then reached for the telephone. 9-1-1. "911; what's your emergency?" asked a harried-sounding woman.

"Y-yes," he dimly heard himself say in Bruce Wayne's lighter, more musical voice, "It's my butler; I just came home and found him on the floor! I don't know what's happened, and he-- he's alive, there's a pulse, but it's really uneven, and... Should I be doing something? CPR?"

"What's your name, sir?" the woman asked in the tone of someone who has asked a question a thousand times and expects to ask it a thousand more.

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Please hurry!"

"The Bruce Wayne?" A bit of interest in her tone, now.

A flash of hot anger briefly cut through the fog of numbness. "Good God; YES! Don't you have caller ID?"

"S-sorry," she said, sounding genuinely contrite, "We have your address on record, Mr. Wayne; an ambulance is on its way. Would you like me to stay on the line with you?"

"N-no," he said quickly, "I don't want to tie up a line, and I should stay next to him. Please hurry!"

"They'll be right there," she promised.

He hung up.

And realized that he STILL looked like Deathstroke the Terminator. ... This wasn't going to work. He had to go change. Now.

... And leave Alfred alone, possibly dying?

The ever-present, traumatized eight-year-old at the back of his mind, who had been putting forth a fairly valiant effort to remain calm until this point (mostly out of sheer, uncomprehending shock), gave up, curling into a little ball, and started sobbing. He didn't know what to do. He was useless. Once again. USELESS. Too little, too late.

"NO," he growled, "WAY." Briskly, he knelt at Alfred's side, pulling out a small vial and sample collector. Quickly and carefully, he collected a blood sample (to rule out poisoning), pulled Alfred's cell phone out of his pocket, then ran upstairs, grabbed some clothing, and shot back down to the kitchen. After checking the butler's pulse again (still weak and possibly getting weaker), he quickly changed out of the Deathstroke costume and into a casual pair of jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt, and an expensive pale blue cashmere sweater. He had to look like he'd been out. There couldn't be any questions. The whole thing took less than two minutes; being Batman and Bruce Wayne necessitated being very good at very, very quick costume changes.

As he pulled the sweater over his head, he heard approaching sirens. Glancing around the kitchen, his mouth pressed into a grim line, his eyes fell on the freezer. Without wasting another second, he grabbed the Deathstroke costume and the blood sample and stuffed them in, right on top of the ice cream and those stupid frozen pizzas that Tim liked so much.

Then he ran to the door, pocketing Alfred's cell phone as he went, and opened it before the EMTs could knock. "Right in here," he said, a little breathlessly. They followed him in, and then knelt over Alfred while he tried not to hover.

After what seemed like hours, they loaded the butler onto a gurney and wheeled him out, an oxygen mask over his face. The older man looked almost peaceful, and Bruce suddenly wondered when he'd last gotten the chance to actually sleep. Guilt twisted his stomach. He trailed after them, then stopped when the EMT gave him an odd look. "What?" he asked, confused, tired, and more emotionally drained since he'd felt since the fiasco with Hush, "I can't ride with him?"

"Sure ya can," the man said slowly, "But you might want to get some shoes on."

... Oh, no. He was supposed to have stumbled on Alfred right after getting home; the idea that he would have thought to remove his shoes was pretty hard to swallow. Completely unacceptable. If Tim had made that kind of slip, Bruce would have been furious with him. Shaking his head, he murmured, "It's fine. I'll manage." The EMT's face softened, and he nodded.

He slipped into the cramped space in the back of the ambulance, and took a seat towards at Alfred's side. He looked very pale, and very old. The technician on the butler's other side looked up from checking his pulse, studying Bruce's face. "He must be some butler," he said quietly after a moment.

"... He is."

{Exit to Gotham General}