The next morning, when Elliot woke up on the old wooden bed, his whole body ached. No one in this era advocated firm mattresses yet. Most grand estates had large, soft, comfortable beds that one could sink right into, their enveloping embrace providing a powerful sense of security.
Elliot had grown up in such comfortable, luxurious surroundings. He had never expected to one day be reduced to sleeping on bare wooden boards. When he got up the next morning, he felt as though his entire body were about to fall apart.
But a problem even more serious than the hard bed was that he had no money for food. Elliot could never possess Bruce's level of morality. He could certainly break into someone's home, kill them, and rob them, but given Gotham's martial culture, attempting a home invasion without a firearm was practically suicide.
Elliot decided to get a gun. He deeply resented having to do it, because he felt this was not the kind of life Batman should have. But he had no other choice. He could not wear the Batsuit, he did not know how to use Batman's equipment, so wasn't a gun the best option?
But just then, the only telephone in the house rang. After Elliot picked it up, he heard a somewhat familiar female voice.
"Hello, Bruce. I called your home, and your butler gave me this number. Are you free?"
"Pamela?" Elliot asked with a frown.
"That's right, it's me. I called to tell you that I need your help. The crop cultivation project we discussed should be making some new progress."
Elliot was about to impatiently say that he had no time when Pamela added from the other end, "The funding Victor provided has come through. I bought some new improved seeds, but