As he descended, Deathstroke's armor changed styles. Strangle instantly outfitted its host in a period-appropriate long coat and suit, along with a pair of gleaming leather shoes and soft black leather gloves.
Yet even though the shoes made distinct sounds against the ground, the boy unconscious between his parents' bodies showed no reaction at all, as if he were dead.
Up close, Little Bruce's face was covered in tears and snot, and bubbles puffed from his nose with every breath.
The early-autumn night carried a faint chill. Martha's Pearl was scattered across the pool of blood, and the streetlamp flickered on and off—but that was only the shadow of bats' wings as they chased moths.
Deathstroke crouched down and shook his head wordlessly, sending Strangle's little tendrils to check on the couple.
"Eek."
Strangle meant that the two of them had undoubtedly kicked the bucket.
"What should we do?" Laurie kindly moved the boy away from the bodies and took out a handkerchief to wipe his face. Then she looked up at Deathstroke, who was lowering his head to light a cigarette.
"Phew. Of course, we call the police. This is a murder scene, after all." Deathstroke stepped around the bodies, carried Bruce to the mouth of the alley, and propped him against a dumpster. "Though Gotham at this Time Point is ruled by several major families, the Wayne couple were still important figures in the city. Now that they're dead, the police should arrive within eight hours."
More or less. In Su Ming's memories, both the comics and TV series like Gotham had subtle indications of the time involved. After all, when one family fell, the other families had to discuss how to divide up the benefits, didn't they?
The Waynes were murdered after watching a midnight movie, and