Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 3
Action/Adventure Story: Chapter 3 - The origin story of Batman meant to capture the grit and spirit of the comics. This is just a fanfiction and is not meant for commercial use. While I do my best to honor the original story of Batman, I admit that it has my personal flair in it that you may notice if you're familiar with my work. I used AI to help me refine the book, but the dialogue, plot, and tone are all mine. I've always loved Batman and wanted to write my own fanfic that includes Gotham's full story and his legend. Enjoy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Crime Fan Fiction Superhero Science Fiction
Months Pass...
Ubu was a brutal taskmaster. Every morning before dawn, Bruce rose to the sound of iron boots striking stone, and every morning Ubu met him with the same expressionless stare—as if daring Bruce to admit he wasn’t ready. And every day, without fail, Ubu left him so battered he could barely stand. The medics grew used to seeing him sprawled on the infirmary tables, bloodied and bruised, their hands already reaching for the special salves and elixirs brewed from diluted Lazarus essence.
“Gifts of Lazarus,” they always muttered with something between reverence and fear. “Be grateful it heals what it does.”
And Bruce was grateful—because without those concoctions, Ubu might have killed him a dozen times over. The training was merciless. Some days, they fought with swords—the clang of steel echoing through the stone halls as Ubu’s blade came down with force that rattled Bruce’s bones. Other days, Ubu cast weapons aside and chose to pummel Bruce with his bare hands. Those days were often worse. Ubu’s fists hit like falling boulders; his kicks launched Bruce across entire rooms. His sheer size should have made him slow, but Lazarus blessings had molded him into a creature of terrifying speed. He wasn’t graceful like Talia—not by a long stretch—but he didn’t need to be.
Power and speed were enough. They always had been for Ubu. It was no wonder he was considered second only to Ra’s al Ghul. Yet as the months passed—hard, punishing, relentless months—Bruce began to sense the edges of Ubu’s strength. The small hesitations. The predictable patterns. The points where raw force left him open, if only for a heartbeat.
Little by little, Bruce’s muscles toughened, his instincts sharpened, and his mind grew attuned to every nuance of combat. Sometimes, in the brief instant before Ubu struck, Bruce saw the opening. Saw exactly how he could counter. Saw how, with just a little more pressure, he might even defeat him.
He didn’t act on any of it. He held himself back—just a fraction. Never enough for Ubu to notice. Never enough to reveal the depth of his growth. He didn’t fully understand why. He supposed, if he were honest, it was because he liked where he was. Not because he enjoyed the pain—he didn’t. Not because he admired Ubu—he respected his strength, nothing more. It was because of Talia.
Whenever he wasn’t being pulverized by Ubu or stitched back together by medics, he traveled with her. They patrolled Ra’s al Ghul’s territories, focusing on keeping peace among the civilians. Their work rarely required violence beyond restraining belligerent drunks, quelling petty disputes, or chasing off opportunistic thieves. These were not hardened criminals—just people going through hard nights. It suited Bruce perfectly.
He wasn’t sure what he would do the day Ra’s demanded he kill, the way so many League members did without hesitation. He avoided thinking too hard about it. For now, helping Talia mediate conflicts—protecting the helpless rather than executing the wicked—felt right.
And then there were the murders. Bruce and Talia were assigned to investigate a series of killings scattered across Ra’s’ territories. The victims were inconsistent—sometimes criminals, sometimes innocent families. Husbands, wives, children. No pattern of social standing. No shared history.
But the murders had something else in common. The bodies were destroyed. Bones shattered. Organs ruptured. Necks broken with precise, devastating efficiency. No weapons were ever used.
No blades. No guns. No poison. Someone strong had done this. Someone who didn’t just know how to kill—someone who knew exactly how to break the human body with his bare hands.
The thought chilled them both. Bruce and Talia began forming a theory: a martial artist. Someone highly skilled. Someone who knew the techniques of the League. Perhaps ... even someone from the League. And that was the most disturbing possibility of all.
Yet despite the horrors, despite Ubu’s punishing training, despite the constant demand to balance justice and duty, Bruce felt something like contentment settle into his bones. Not happiness—he doubted he remembered what that felt like. But purpose. Clarity. A role in something larger than himself.
And, when he caught Talia watching him with quiet pride or amusement, something else—something warmer—moved beneath the surface of his discipline. For the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne felt like he was exactly where he needed to be. Even if everything around him was slowly sharpening toward danger.
Gobi Desert – Night
The moon hung low over the Gobi, hazy through a curtain of drifting sand, casting dim silver across the cluster of buildings that formed the desert village. Lanterns flickered along the streets, their glow smudged by heat and dust. At the far end of the settlement, neon letters sputtered in a garish electric blue over an entrance draped with red curtains:
THE SCARLET MIRAGE. A night club of questionable repute, and the last known sighting of the killer’s most recent victim. Bruce and Talia crouched atop the slanted clay roof of an old merchant’s home, their silhouettes swallowed by shadow. Bruce’s dark ninja garb hid him perfectly; Talia, in her sleek black jumpsuit, looked like a living extension of the night itself.
Below, clusters of Arabs and Asians stumbled toward the club in loud, drunken waves—laughing, shouting, pawing at each other as music thumped faintly from within. No one looked up. No one noticed the two predators watching from above.
Bruce sifted through a handful of photographs, the edges worn from repeated handling. Victims—men and women, young and old—each one horribly disfigured. Bones shattered. Faces contorted. Limbs bent where limbs shouldn’t bend.
He exhaled softly through his nose. “There’ve been well over a dozen victims over the past few months, Talia. What makes you so fixated on this one?”
Her eyes never left the club entrance. “Because this is the only body we haven’t been able to examine. The night club took care of it all far too quietly. Sent her off to her family without so much as a phone call to the League.”
Bruce tucked the photos away, brow tightening. “It could be they were paid off to get rid of the body quickly.”
Talia nodded slightly. “And since their policy is never to reveal the identities of their dancers, they have an excuse for being uncooperative with the authorities.”
“Convenient.” Bruce shifted his gaze downward, studying the flow of people in and out, the patterns of the guards, the watchers pretending not to watch. “All of the bodies so far haven’t had a scrap of evidence. No fingerprints. No DNA samples. Most of the victims died before they could fight back.”
He paused. “But it’s possible this one was different. The girl might’ve managed to scratch her assailant before he ended her life. That’s why he might go to the trouble of making sure we can’t examine the body.”
“My thoughts exactly, Bruce.”
Bruce cracked his knuckles once, considering the options. “So, we interrogate the club owners. Simple. A few broken fingers. A little intimidation—”
“No.” Talia cut in sharply, though her tone remained low. “I don’t want to make that much noise. If the killer really is trying to hide that girl’s identity, then we’ll only tip him off.”
Bruce looked at her sideways. “So what do you have in mind?”
“Infiltration,” she said simply. “They’ll have records on the girl somewhere. We find those records, we get her real name, and then we can track the body back to the family ... hopefully before the burial.”
Bruce scanned the building again, noting the guard rotations, the blind spots, the loading entrance, the rooftop ventilation duct. “Their security is tight,” he murmured. “But not airtight. Still, it would be better to make the infiltration as seamless as possible. If we have to take out some of the guards, they’ll know they’ve been hit somehow.”
Talia’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile. “That’s why I have a distraction in mind so the infiltration goes smoothly.”
Bruce stopped analyzing the layout long enough to narrow his eyes at her. “Something tells me I’m not going to like this distraction.”
Her grin deepened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Actually,” she said, leaning closer. “Something tells me you’ll love it.”
The Scarlet Mirage – Main Entrance
The Scarlet Mirage was louder up close—music thumping like a heartbeat behind velvet curtains, laughter spilling into the warm desert night. Lanterns flickered above the entrance, casting rippling bands of gold across the sand as Bruce and Talia approached.
Only, tonight, they weren’t Bruce and Talia. Bruce’s face was wrapped in a scarf and veil, masked as a hired Arab mercenary. His posture was rigid, controlled. But the tension bristling off him was unmistakable. Talia, by contrast, moved like she owned the earth beneath her feet.
Her disguise was a belly dancer’s ensemble—pink silk clinging to her hips, a two-piece dress adorned with sequins that glimmered with every motion. The top was barely more than a pair of jeweled cups strung together, leaving her lean stomach bare and her cleavage—by design—unmistakably prominent. The skirt was almost a suggestion, little more than a slit loincloth that revealed long stretches of toned leg as she walked. Bruce stared at her as they moved, his jaw set beneath the mask.
“I was right,” he growled under his breath. “I hate this plan.”
Talia’s grin was audible even without looking at her. “But you don’t hate my outfit, I bet.”
Though half his face was hidden, the fury radiating from him was palpable—sharp as a blade, hot as desert wind.
“That’s the problem,” he hissed. “A lot of men will like it. I thought the point was not to draw attention to ourselves.”
Talia corrected him breezily, utterly unfazed. “The point is not to draw attention to you while you search through their records.” Her grin turned wicked. “Meanwhile, I’ll give them a show they haven’t had in years. They’ll be blind to everything else that moves.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, equal parts irritation and concern. “Your father entrusted me with your safety, Talia. I don’t think—”
She turned to him abruptly, her smile a taunting curve. “Such a long way we’ve come. Like when we first met and you were the helpless novice. Or when I was the one training you and frequently bearing you to the floor.”
Bruce rolled his eyes as he leaned down, voice low. “Things are a bit different these days, Talia. Now that my skills have surpassed yours, the responsibility for your safety lies with me.”
Her eyes warmed—just slightly—as she slipped her arm through his. “How chivalrous.”
He allowed her to lead him to the main entrance. Two stocky bouncers in turbans stood guard, their arms crossed. Their eyes roamed over Talia’s attire, grins spreading across their faces in a way that made Bruce’s fingers twitch toward the daggers hidden beneath his robe.
They muttered to each other in Mongolian before switching to broken English. “Yostoi goyo yum baina. New girl?”
Talia brightened with practiced charm. “That’s right. I’m already set to go on for the next performance. You can talk to Batu and confirm it if you like.”
They laughed. “That okay. Batu already say you comin’.”
Then their smiles faded as they turned their attention to Bruce. “Who he?”
Talia giggled and clung to Bruce’s arm, leaning in enticingly. “My bodyguard. Just so you know, he’s very protective of me. So no touching the merchandise.”
The guards snorted with laughter. One winked at Bruce. “You not mind if have little squeeze, right?”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. His growl was low, genuine, and lethal. The effect was immediate. The guards stepped back, hands lifting slightly in wary surrender. Whatever they had seen in his eyes—or sensed in his presence—told them he wasn’t bluffing.
Talia laughed lightly. “See? Very protective.”
She gave a teasing wave as she tugged Bruce forward. “Well, it’s almost curtain time, boys. We’ll see you later.”
Inside, the music hit them like a wall—drums and strings, sensual and loud. Talia led the fuming Bruce deeper into the haze of incense and lights.
“This is such a dumb idea,” he muttered darkly.
She slapped his shoulder playfully. “No, it’s not.”
The Scarlet Mirage – Main Stage
Talia led Bruce through the crowded interior of the club, weaving past gamblers hunched over card tables and men crowded around the bar with glazed, hungry eyes. Incense smoke curled lazily along the ceiling, blending with colored lights that pulsed to the beat of the drums. The air was thick—perfume, sweat, spiced alcohol, and the heat of too many bodies pressed together inside a building too small. A low hum of voices rose above the music, punctuated by laughter, shouted bets, and the rhythmic clack of dice cups.
But all of it shifted as Bruce and Talia approached the large circular stage in the center of the room, raised high and framed by velvet curtains and brass lanterns. The musicians to the side lifted their instruments. A hush traveled through the space like a ripple as the spotlight flickered in anticipation.
Talia smirked at him. “Well, it’s time. Wish me luck. Or—what do stage performers say? Break a leg?”
Bruce crossed his arms. “I do kind of feel like breaking your leg right now, but I’ll just wish you luck, instead.”
She giggled at his irritation. “Don’t stay through the whole dance ... no matter how difficult it might be. Remember, you have a job to do.”
“I’m well aware,” he replied dryly.
She shot him one last teasing glance, the kind that made his jaw clench beneath the mask, and then ... she moved. Talia flipped onto the stage like an acrobat, landing without a sound. The crowd gasped. The spotlight slammed down on her, glittering across her sequined pink costume and revealing every angle of her toned, lithe body. Gamblers froze mid-bet. Men at the bars dropped their drinks. Even the guards—trained, disciplined, suspicious men—stopped scanning the room. Exactly as planned.
Talia rested her hands on her hips, surveying her captive audience with a playful, dangerous glint. Then the music began. The sounds swelled into a lush fusion of Arabic drums, Mongolian strings, and sultry flutes—a hypnotic rhythm built for seduction, acrobatics, and shifting shadows. Talia’s movements were slow at first as the music built to a crescendo. And then ... she flew.
Her body became motion incarnate. Her legs kicked high in arcs of impossible flexibility. Her hips swayed with hypnotic precision, her lean stomach tightening and releasing in a sensuous rhythm that drew every eye to her. She spun and twisted, pivoted on the balls of her feet with deadly control. At times, she dropped gracefully to the floor in fluid undulations, only to rise again with a crack of movement that sent silk fluttering around her.
She balanced on one hand—one—her legs rising above her in a perfect, sultry split that made half the audience forget how to breathe. Mouths fell open. Cards slipped from hands. No one cheered; no one dared. They watched in total, reverent silence, spellbound.
Talia returned to her feet in a single, liquid flip. She smiled at the crowd with feline confidence—then aimed a slow, deliberate wink toward Bruce. A roar of cheers finally erupted, shattering the silence.
Bruce realized only then that he had been staring a little too long. Heat pricked the back of his neck—not desire, but irritation at how effective her plan was ... and at how the men around him were reacting. He forced himself to ease back into the shadows, slipping between the columns until darkness swallowed him completely.
Then, with a jump that defied physics, Bruce vaulted upward into the rafters. His fingers caught a beam without a sound. He crawled along the shadowed supports with superhuman finesse—silent, invisible, unstoppable.
Below him, an entire nightclub remained riveted under Talia’s spell. Which meant Bruce had the perfect window to disappear into the restricted corridors and begin his search.
Bruce slipped deeper into the club’s shadowed passages, the distant roar of cheers and pounding music echoing behind him like the pulse of a living beast. Talia’s performance still carried through the walls—shimmering flutes, rolling drums, sultry strings—and every so often the crowd gasped in unison at whatever impossible feat she’d pulled off next.
It made his job easier. Much easier. He moved like a wraith. Hand and foot spikes—shuko and ashiko—bit into the walls as he scaled them silently, pressing himself flat against the ceiling whenever guards ambled past. His breath was slow and measured, each movement calculated, each sound nonexistent. The narrow hallways twisted in cramped turns, lit by cheap flickering bulbs that provided more shadow than illumination. Good. Shadows were his element.
He crossed a narrow stretch of wall above a drunken accountant stumbling out of a side office. Another guard leaned against a railing, too busy craning his neck toward the sound of music to notice the phantom hanging upside-down above him.
Within minutes, Bruce found the room he was looking for: the Records Office. A rusted padlock hung over the latch. Pathetic. After tinkering with the lock a bit with a pick, he removed it with a single twist.
Inside, the room was cramped and thick with dust—shelves crowded with overstuffed ledgers, handwritten forms, binders with frayed spines, and stacks of receipts tied in twine. A single dusty lamp flickered weakly as Bruce lowered himself soundlessly to the floor.
He began rifling through the files—efficient, quick fingers unfurling papers across the desk as he scanned for terminated employees, missing dancers, recently deceased staff members. Receipts. Schedules. Payroll. Stage rosters.
Then—there it was. A page marked DECEASED / REMOVED FROM PAYROLL. “Saranbayar Khulan.”
Her portrait was clipped to the corner—a young Mongolian woman with amber eyes, long dark hair braided with sequins, and a bright smile meant for the stage. The file noted her as a “dancer,” nothing more. No emergency contact listed. No address. But the club’s ledger listed a final payment—sent to a family on the southern edge of the desert. Exactly what Talia needed.
Bruce memorized the details instantly. Then, with deliberate precision, he returned every single document to the exact angle and placement he found it. When he left the room, not a single sheet looked disturbed. The padlock slid back into place with a soft metallic click.
He turned to leave—and froze. Footsteps. Voices. He vaulted up the wall and pressed himself to the ceiling just as two bouncers pushed into the hallway. They muttered to each other in Mongolian.
“Ashiggui, ashiggui...”
“Yamar hetsüü tsagaan odör ve. Odoo ergej yavah uu?”
The second guard groaned. “Shine ohin üzesgelentei yum baina. Bi yavj üzeh gej baisan.”
“Tiim shüü! Batu bidniig yavuulakhgui.”
Bruce remained utterly motionless above them, fingers and toes dug into the stone, breath controlled to the point of invisibility.
The guards trudged a few steps farther. Then the taller one caught a glimpse of color from a high window overlooking the stage.
“Har daa! Look!”
They pressed to the glass. From his vantage point, Bruce allowed himself a single glance. Talia was mid-spin—pink silk flaring around her in a cyclone of light. She arched backward, balancing on one hand before flipping gracefully into a soaring kick, her legs slicing the air like a dancer forged from blade and fire. The crowd below erupted. The guards whistled in awe.
“Burkhan min’, yamar goyo ohin ve.”
“Bi ene shöniig hezee ch martahgui.”
Their attention stayed glued to the window. Bruce was gone. He slipped down the opposite corridor, vanishing into the deepest patch of shadow like smoke drawn away by wind.
By the time the guards turned away from the window, muttering dreamily, the phantom who had walked between their footsteps and stolen their secrets was already well beyond their reach.
Later that night...
The back alleys behind the Scarlet Mirage were cooler than the club’s main halls, but no quieter. Music still throbbed through the walls, muffled now by layers of stone and sand-packed stucco. Bruce waited in the shadows, arms crossed, irritation simmering in his chest. Every second she took to emerge from the club only made the tension worse.
Then the back door burst open. Talia stepped out, laughing breathlessly, a sheen of sweat glistening across her pale skin as rowdy men inside continued to cheer even after she’d vanished from sight. She wiped a strand of hair from her forehead and grinned the moment she spotted Bruce.
“Well?” she asked, still glowing from the performance. “Did you find it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Her name is Saranbayar Khulan. I already took the liberty of looking her up. Her family is from a neighboring village. The funeral preparations are being made, but they’re not yet complete.”
Talia’s playful demeanor vanished. She nodded sharply and started walking at his side, all business now. “Good. Then we still have time to examine the body before—”
They stopped. A group of roughnecks blocked the alley’s exit—a messy gathering of Mongolian drunks and Arab mercenaries, armed with knives, clubs, and alcohol-stained breath. Their eyes were glued to Talia’s costume, or what was left of its modesty. A few muttered comments in Mongolian drifted out.
“Saihan ohin ... tenger shig...”
Others barked out crude Arabic remarks before finally switching to slurred English. “Ya helwa ... ta’āli hina!”
“Wallah, shu hay el-malabis? Betnadi ‘alena?”
“We saw the performance, pretty,” one of them said, swaying in place. “We were hoping for a...” He and his companions laughed wickedly. “Autograph.”
Talia giggled coyly. “Oh, that’s so sweet of you, boys. Really. But I’m already late for my next show across town.”
Their smiles curdled. One man stepped forward, drawing a knife that glinted in the alley’s dim lanternlight. “We insist on an autograph,” he growled.
Another snorted drunkenly. “And the pleasure of your company.”
Talia cast Bruce a sidelong glance, arching an eyebrow. “Was this the kind of wrong attention you were afraid of?”
Bruce shrugged. “I wouldn’t say afraid, but yes, it was a concern.”
One of the Arab mercenaries snapped something vulgar at Bruce in Arabic. “Imshi ya ibn el-sharmouta! Shu bit’mal ma’ el-bint?”
Bruce replied in flawless, calm Arabic—an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Irgau la wara. Mafeesh moshkila. Khallīna namshi, min faḍlik.”
Then he leaned toward Talia and whispered, “Let’s just go. They’re not worth the effort.”
Unfortunately, Talia stepped forward instead, her voice turning cold and sharp. “I’m afraid I must insist on better decorum from you gentlemen,” she said. “I warn you. My bodyguard will not take kindly to your rudeness.”
The men jeered at Bruce, emboldened by their numbers and the haze of alcohol. A couple drew more knives.
“And why does a dancer even have a bodyguard?” one sneered. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway? The undertaker?”
Bruce crossed his arms. “If you boys know what’s good for you, you’ll walk away.”
A particularly drunk man stumbled forward, waving his blade. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll—”
He never finished. Instead, the man lunged, knife arcing straight for Bruce’s eye. Bruce’s hand flicked up, fingers snapping shut around the blade—two fingers, no more. The steel halted a breath from his face.
The man froze in shock, completely powerless against those two digits as he failed to pull his knife free. With a twist of his wrist, Bruce snapped the knife clean in half. The mercenary staggered back, gasping. Then all hell broke loose. Knives flashed. Arabian swords were drawn. Howling war cries filled the alley.
Bruce moved. He surged forward, grabbing a wrist mid-swing and twisting until bones cracked. His elbow shot back into another man’s ribs, dropping him instantly. A Mongolian swung a club—Bruce ducked and swept his legs, sending him crashing into the wall. Another charged with a curved sword—Bruce stepped inside the arc, palm struck the man’s throat, then pivoted and hurled him into his companions. A knife skittered across the ground. A groan echoed. Someone hit the dirt and didn’t rise again.
Talia didn’t intervene. She watched—fascinated and utterly proud—as Bruce dismantled the gang with surgical brutality. The frustration he’d built up all evening finally had an outlet, and he moved like a man reclaiming something that was his.
When the last thug hit the ground, Bruce hadn’t even broken a sweat. He turned to Talia, tugging off the mask of his disguise and glaring at her with mild annoyance.
“We didn’t have to fight them. We could’ve just left, and they wouldn’t have been able to catch up.”
Talia flicked imaginary dust off her shoulder. “I felt like you needed to release some frustration.”
Bruce didn’t argue—because she was right. A little. He sighed. “And the reason you didn’t bother to help your ‘bodyguard’?”
She shrugged, eyes roaming over him appreciatively. “It was nothing you couldn’t handle.” Her voice dipped into a purr. “Besides ... I like watching you work.”
Bruce had never been the type to blush. But this time? He came close. He turned away with an annoyed huff, which only seemed to amuse her more. Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. One of the fallen thugs groaned, fumbling for a gun. The weapon clicked as he raised it.
Bruce spun to finish the job—but Talia was faster. Her bare leg whipped out with precise grace, her heel snapping into the man’s temple. He collapsed in a heap, unconscious.
She smirked at Bruce, flicking her hair. “See? I helped.”
Then she turned and walked away, hips swaying in that effortless, maddening rhythm. Bruce watched her go, and—despite himself—felt the corner of his mouth almost, almost curve upward.
The Tomb of Saranbayar Khulan – Midnight
The wind outside whispered over the desert stones like a mourning spirit, carrying grains of sand that hissed against the sealed wooden doors of the Khulan family tomb. Inside, the air was still—heavy with incense, old prayers, and the lingering ache of freshly carved grief. Bruce and Talia stepped carefully into the torch-lit chamber.
Bruce wore his dark ninja gear, though his face was unmasked, jaw tight with solemn focus. Talia had shed her dancer’s disguise for her usual black leather jumpsuit—form-fitting, sleek, and unapologetically revealing despite the gravity of their task. Her boots clicked softly against the polished stone floor as she approached the raised bier at the center of the chamber.
The body upon it was covered with a white ceremonial sheet, embroidered with silver thread. Two candles flanked the bier, their flames trembling as if shivering in the presence of violence.
Bruce exhaled slowly. “Ready?”
Talia only nodded. Bruce lifted the sheet with reverent care. Saranbayar Khulan lay in her funerary garb—a traditional silk dress the family had chosen to honor her. They had braided her hair, painted her lips, smoothed the bruises with careful powders. They had done everything a grieving family could to restore dignity to someone torn apart. It wasn’t enough.
The bruising beneath the cosmetics was still hideous. Her wrists bore crushing finger marks. Her face was mottled purple and black. Her neck hung at a broken angle. The ribcage was sunken in, caved by a single, devastating blow. Her arms and legs had been snapped like twigs. Worst of all—her eyes had been gouged out.
Talia’s lips trembled. She brought a hand to her mouth. “He was monstrous. It seems like he went out of his way to mutilate the body this time.”
Bruce swallowed bile and forced the sickness down. Objectivity had to win here.
“If that’s the case, then there are two possibilities,” he said quietly. “Since the body is even more disfigured than the others, it could mean that we’re dealing with a different killer entirely.”
He paused. “Or ... it could mean that she did something to aggravate him. Maybe she managed to scratch him.”
Talia steadied her breathing, mastering her own rising emotions. “Check her fingernails.”
Bruce leaned in, taking her small, delicate hands in his own. He examined around and under the nails—searching for skin, blood, anything.
“Clean,” he said. “The fingernails are just about the only thing about her that seems relatively intact.”
He let out a frustrated sigh. “Well ... it was worth a look anyway.”
Talia rubbed her temple, jaw tight. “Do a full examination. Make certain it fits with previous patterns.”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.