Dr. Leslie Thompkins

Hope for the best, expect the worst. It's one of the many valuable lessons Leslie has learned over the years. Taught by her father, reinforced by experience. She had hoped the bomb delivered maliciously to the clinic would not be an indication of things to come. Somehow she knew that wouldn't be the case.

A week later, there are three patients in residence. Black Mask has had his revenge. Leslie and a select few are left to pick up the pieces.

There isn't any time for tears in the middle of an operation. The brain is focused entirely on the hands. The hands are occupied with the patient. This patient, Leslie knows somewhere in the back of her brain, doesn't have a chance. She's too stubborn though to admit it.

Hours pass. The bleeding is stopped. The slugs are removed. The wounds are stitched. There's nothing else she can do. Leslie looks sideways at the readouts. Blood pressure is low. Pulse is weak. Her professional judgment battles with her stubbornness.

Stephanie doesn't have that long to live.

Leslie's eyes move to the assisting nurse. "Don't move her."

The nurse glances up in surprise but Leslie is already moving away. Towards the sink. To strip the blood covered gloves from her hands. They hit the biohazard bin with force. She doesn't even bother to wash before she leans heavily against the wall. Fingers tighten involuntarily. She strains her neck, trying to wipe her face on the sleeve of her scrubs.

She wants nothing better than to collapse. There's one last duty she has to perform before the tears can come though. She has to find a phone.