“All entities move and nothing remains still. The echoes of a gong strike lingered as a
black-garbed minion came at Batman, his saber high for an aggressive
overhead strike. His footwork was perfect—which made it slow.
The blow was easy to sidestep, raising his right knee into the wrist and
jostling the blade, then delivering a simple strike to the jaw as the
attacker struggled to regain his balance. The next minion was faster,
starting the swing in a full sweeping motion that gained power from his
weight moving forward—but trapping him in his momentum and leaving him no
way to adjust when Batman’s leg rose to intercept him. The kick
shattered his wrists and spun him after the blade he’d lost control of.
The move exposed his side for a final kick to the ribs, and by the time he
hit the deck, Batman had spun to confront a third opponent... Faster still,
with the same perfect footwork as the first. This time, Batman’s kick
to the wrist was expected. The minion absorbed the hit and the saber
sprung upward and back into position for another overhead strike—but this
time Batman was in close, positioned for a brutal blow to the arm-pit that
required no follow-up. After the gong, a rhythmic drumbeat had begun,
plodding and impassive, a dull tempo that still seemed like a dramatic build
as the fight progressed and Batman’s heart pounded harder and faster. Coming up under the sword arm for a flat palmed
strike at the chin… A kick under the wrists to the groin… A hopping kick to
the ribs… Stepping into the strike for a punch at the neck… Kick from
behind, taking out the knee… Leaping back out of range… A kick to the
side—leap back and lunge—poke to the throat— There was nothing but void in the masked man’s
eyes. No conscious thought—No coming home from patrol to find an
Atlantis honor guard living in his house, no half hour on YouTube learning
to pronounce their names before he headed down the stairs this morning, no
seeing that guardsman standing at the doorway off the foyer and flashing
back to his father before he said “Good morning, Szczenae Orlan,” for it
was his
father who taught him those courtesies were an
absolute obligation.
There wasn’t even a sting remembering how Bruce had been so certain it was a
courtesy he’d never need to worry about because it was a situation in which
he’d never find himself… There was no At Large list, no Joker released
from Arkham, no Hagen back-from-the-dead and menacing Selina, and no
Faustian bargain with Blood accepting magic into the house to protect her.
There was nothing but instinct guiding his movements and the familiar tang
of adrenaline. A minion tipped, the body yielding the only way it
could to keep its arm from breaking and tossing itself in a dull roll
towards the edge of the practice mat… A flat palm strike and kick to the
crotch, a straight disarm… An elbow to the throat on the disarm… The final
gong, almost done now… A jumping kick… a duck and roll, toying with
this one to run out the clock… taking a hit to drop to his knee, then
jabbing at the minion’s thigh. The last gong strike diminished, time to finish him.
Batman dropped below the strike, seeming for a moment to invite
decapitation, then punched up with both hands into the minion’s gut, sending
him flying backwards into the articulated post from whence he came. The lighting changed, the hologram sabers became
wooden bokken and the turbaned minions reset to the default Zogger practice
dummies. Alfred stood beside the control console looking
extremely unimpressed. The bottle of water Bruce had left there had
been replaced by a pitcher of fruit juice. “I thought you might wish more substantial
refreshment,” was all he said, and Bruce downed a glass, breathed and cooled
before saying more than ‘Thanks.’ Then he looked at Alfred shrewdly. “If you’re going to say it, now is the time,” he
said. “Say what, sir?” “I told you so.” “In what sense, sir?” Bruce’s eyes narrowed into the menacing slits that
terrified the darkest figures of the underworld, and then relaxed into
casual acceptance as he gestured to Zogger, changing the subject. “I was in the mood to practice
mutō dori,
fighting unarmed against an attacker with a sword,” he said mildly, then he
looked back at Alfred. “You’re really not going to say it? The
day I came down to the kitchen right after we went public with the
engagement, remember I said ‘Selina and I are living together, she’s already
running the house, nothing is going to change.’ Remember that?
And you had that skeptical… Like I was sixteen again. “We started on rooftops—fighting on rooftops,
thief and crimefighter—and now we have this partnership. Now she’s…”
He could barely speak around the smile that he couldn’t contain.
“Beyond the craziest
dreams I had then, and here we are. After all this, what change was
left?! What could possibly happen that would even register—but you had
that smirk, like I was sixteen and it was the Ferrari all over again. “I passed an
Atlantis honor guard when I got back last
night. Selina is reading the Gotham
Post. There’s a mystical-AI
drone-light ball floating around tattling on members of the Justice League.” “I see, sir.” “You see sir. Alfred, if this isn’t your
moment to ‘I told you so’ because you think there’s an even
bigger shoe to
drop, I don’t know if we’ll make it to the I dos. This house
has seen rips in
the fabric of space-time, you know.” “One is confident, sir, that whatever challenges may
occur, Batman and Catwoman will be equal to the task.” “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Bruce said sourly. “We
were half an hour on YouTube learning how to pronounce that guardsman’s name
and rank.” “Szczenae Orlan,” Alfred said without effort. Bruce stared blankly. “The guardsman currently on duty is Szczenae Orlan,
sir. Szczenae being the Atlantis equivalent of a Private First Class.
His colleague is Szczenae Ahalkea.” “Would you mind telling me how long you had to
practice that before—” “One was privileged in one’s youth to appear in
a production of Bernard Shaw’s Misalliance,
sir. There is an amusing scene where an aviator lands with a Polish
passenger who offers a remarkably succinct tutorial: ‘Say fish. Say
church. Say fish-church. Say Szczepanowska.’ The skill,
once mastered, is like riding a bicycle.” “I see,” Bruce said, shaking his head wondering why
he didn’t ask Alfred in the first place. Then he remembered his
manners. “They’re settled in okay? Water and diet and
everything?” “One has put them in the blue room, sir. You
may recall, there is a very large Victorian bathtub of the claw-footed
variety, which is sufficient to their needs for, ehm, soaking. One has
ascertained that they are able to ingest virtually all surface foods and
arrived with a soldier’s resolve to endure whatever gastronomic horrors were
foisted on them. I am happy to report they have found land-based
cuisine more agreeable than expected, and fried foods have been especially
well-received.” Bruce’s lip twitched, then he shook his head. “See, that’s exactly the kind of thing I was
talking about. Aside from Clark, the Justice League is work—Batman’s
work—and has no entry into Bruce Wayne’s life. It’s especially not a
part of my life where I bother with
pretense. If it was a mission making
demands, then of course I’d make whatever accommodations were needed,
however inconvenient. When lives are on the line—liberty, property,
matters of global or galactic import—then I’ll do whatever’s necessary, but
I don’t pretend it’s not a pain in the ass. “And when it’s not a serious matter, if it’s
West and O’Brian being silly or Diana being an ego, then I shut it down as
quickly as possible and as rudely
as possible. A little rudeness goes a long way getting the message
through.” “I’m not sure I understand, sir.” Bruce shook his head again. He knew he
wasn’t being clear. Arthur had joined Clark in the non-League side of
his life. There were obligations: the situation resulted from a
gift, someone
else’s subordinates were guests in his house because they were doing their
job. It was important to respect that, to treat them with courtesy and
dignity and this had been drilled into him
by his father,
it was part of a core that predated Batman and existed apart from Batman—yet
here it was. And it left him off-balance, like when parents come
to school. It wasn’t a hardship, but it certainly constituted change.
A change that had nothing to do with Selina, yet was intertwined with the
wedding. “I’m not sure I do either,” he admitted.
“Beyond the fact that you’re entitled to an ‘I told you so.’ Selina
is already
my wife, I told her that when I proposed. I’m already her husband,
we’re already ‘us.’ But things are changing, all around us.”
Kyle Rayner was camping under the Northern
Lights, his tent shining like a lantern in a snowy landscape pocked with
pine trees, a canopy of stars overhead, more than you ever saw beneath an
atmosphere. And through it, a gauzy highway of green mist—the most
exquisite gradient from grass green to mint, achingly beautiful, a
progression from cumulus thick to near-transparent wisps, and twisting
so gracefully—he
wanted to paint it, and he wanted to fly through it. It was just bright
enough to turn the black around it into a velvety blue-green that sucked you
in and made you want to fly up there and roll around in it. But then the trees began to quiver. It didn’t
feel like the ground was moving, except for a weird vibration in his teeth.
The quivering became violent, like the trees were bending to a monsoon he
couldn’t feel. And then they bowed, the shimmering green light
contorted to resemble a shape—to resemble a face. A face of Judgment: “You're not worthy of the ring, Rayner. Even
Gardner would have managed to get Tamaranean strippers into the hotel.
Perhaps you should be wielding the yellow power of Fear!” Kyle lurched up in bed, his eyes wide, his heart
pounding. Reputations throughout time and space were riding on
this. He could not let them down.
The Demon compound was alight with activity, as if
deliriously upbeat music was playing in one of those decadent Western movies
about fluff. Whimsical strings, a piano, perhaps a flute as the camera
moved with rambling excitement through a country house being opened for the
season. An exhilarating tempo as dust covers were whisked off the
furnishings, an enthusiastic trill as kitchens were opened, fires lighted,
and baskets of provisions marched through the doors and heaped onto a laden
table or marched before the cook standing like a general, inspecting the
offerings with a stern eye and barking orders that belied his joy to be back
at work. That was the spirit at least, even if the
activity resembled Caesar’s Legions prepping for Pharsalus more than a
country house preparing for guests. Swords were sharpened, guns
cleaned, buckles polished. In the communication center, shelves with
ancient codebooks were dusted while a few feet away, modern keyboards were
vacuumed with USB-driven mini-vacs and screens polished with pre-moistened
wipes. The pit stirrers were given new cloth. A square was cut
from each of their old garments for the special cleaning rags that would
polish the altars and relics around the Lazarus Pit. The rest were
burned in a ritual fire, after which they would roast special mallow cakes
and sing and dance into the night. It was a tremendous occasion, for Ra’s al Ghul had
made contact with Demon! True, they didn’t know exactly what he’d said.
But the Gang of Six running things since his incarceration would figure it
out. To the average minion, there was only joy. In the throne room however, at a round table in the
outer chamber where the Six met so they could look through the doorway and
take inspiration from the sight of Ra’s al Ghul’s throne, the joy was
blunted with anxiety. “Survey the olive groves of the world.”
What could it mean? “Present me a
list of six or eight locations known for unparalleled quality.”
The mention of six was a clear directive. “Within
each center of superior olive oil production, acquaint me with the four best
producers along with a timetable of their respective harvests and pressing.”
Third Fang thought four olive groves must
be an instruction to Fourth Fang just as the six referenced them all as the
Gang of Six. Fourth Fang did not agree. He was fairly certain
they were being asked to assemble an actual list of six or eight
somethings—Demon bases, operations or… or
somethings throughout the world—Six or
eight somethings with four smaller somethings related to each. The
smaller somethings presumably having significant dates attached, or else
some designation that could be disguised as a date. “We have wasted an hour on this,” said Sixth.
“I really think we must pack up our speculation and move on.” The grumbling was brief, and First Fang read the next
paragraph aloud: “If my food taster Pikhai lives, place him on standby
for he has an excellent palate. If not, determine among yourselves who
is best equipped to go in his place. On my order, he will fly to the
country I select to sample their olives as near to the time of pressing as
can be arranged, given our constraints. He shall use that excellent
palate to choose, and make a custom blend of that region’s oil at the peak
of freshness.” Ubu was summoned, for he was best acquainted with the
Great One’s food tasters, and the Six recessed until he arrived. Second Fang shuffled casually into the inner throne
room and was soon joined by Fifth. They talked together before the
empty throne like players in an especially stilted Shakespeare play. “The Great One may be sitting here soon,” it began. “He may. If we divine his meaning.” Through the careful words, a different
conversation was taking place. The two men least pleased with the
development had found each other and confirmed it. The others might
rejoice that Ra’s was coming back and their burden would soon be lifted.
But for Second and Fifth, the ‘burden’ was quite… validating. The
authority, the self-determination,
making the very decisions
that governed your fate (to say nothing of the
perks at the top of the pyramid), it was very agreeable. Neither was
so disloyal that they would wish harm on Ra’s al Ghul (Perish the thought,
may He walk always in the shadow of the Dragon with the Breath of Marduk
burning warm in His blood), but they might take steps to ensure that when He
did return, they would remain where they stood now: apart from other
minions, a few short feet from the throne with all the authority and perks
that proximity implied. They needed only to find an opportunity.
Selina entered the Zogger cavern, hair pulled into a
ponytail, a hand-stitched gi over her catsuit and a frustrated snarl Bruce
remembered from vaults when he’d thwarted her one time too many. “Are you through?” she asked, pointing to the combat
floor. When Bruce nodded, she went silently to the control
console and dialed up a Daito-ryu Jujutsu profile. “Do I want to know?” Bruce asked when she added
Shotokan Karate and Enhanced Physics to the settings. “Oh, nothing dramatic,” she said wearily.
“Faust wants me to add salt cellars to the registry
and give an
interview here at the house to call attention to Arthur’s gift—it’s not like
I can walk them past an Atlantis Dress Marine and not say what it’s about.
It’s not a big deal, just eating a little crow. When I registered at
Scully, I told the girl I’m not the typical bride setting up housekeeping
with no idea what she’ll need and is going to be making a lot of changes as
she goes. Now it turns out, I can actually use more salt cellars, so I
tweaked the registry… It’s nothing; it’s silly. It gives me an
anecdote for the interview that doesn’t have to be edited or flat out
invented to cover how we really met or what we were actually doing when you
asked me to move in…” “An interview here at the house,” Bruce said like an
expert holding each word up to the light to examine its facets. Selina smiled at the master strategist’s mind at
work: trying to figure out what the aim of the interview might be. “Faust says if I give a single interview,
there’s a 41% chance it will prevent GCN or the Daily News trying to sneak
onto the grounds, bribe gardeners, stalk the most likely caterers, etc.
If I give two
interviews it jumps to 63% and three interviews takes it all the way up to
86. There’s also a 21% chance it will counteract the Post’s hatchet
job on my family. I swear if I read one more reference to my learning
to survive on ‘the streets’, I swear
I’m going to invite that directrice
from Chateau L'Aigrette and seat her where she has a wide view. Let
her sit there and judge them the entire time.” “There is room on your side of the guest list,” Bruce
noted. “I’d never do it to Alfred,” she laughed.
“This is the matron of a Swiss boarding school. She’d call him
majord’homes,
speak nothing but French, pretend not to understand a word of English,
and I’m
not sure either of us would pass muster. Our names are in the news too
often and we’ve got reporters in the wedding party.” “Ah,” Bruce said. “That reminds me, Clark is a
little on edge that he’s going to be occupied with me while Lois is at your
bachelorette.” “Oh he is?” Selina said, glancing at the Zogger
controls. “Clark’s bachelor party was an interstellar and
interdimensional incident. Accords were signed; the Phantom Zone had
to change the locks. Psycho-Pirate got
shorter.
All I’ve ever done to Lois was introduce her to the best shoes on Via
Tornabuoni; where does he get off?” “In the course of the official Catwoman-as-villain
kidnappings, yes, that’s true. But the two of you finishing dessert by
yourselves at d’Annunzio’s turned into a séance with Poison Ivy to chat up
the goddess of death. You can understand Clark’s concern with Ivy
being at this thing.” “Oh is that all,” Selina laughed. “Tell him to
relax. Lois and Ivy are not at the same party.” “They’re not?” Bruce’s eyebrow shot up. “I told you, ‘nine lives.’ Faust ob—” “Faust again,” Bruce rolled his eyes. “Relax,” she said, placing a nail like a
clawtip just below his chin. “Faust
and Alfred both made the same observation
and took it to the same place: Multiple champagne companies have been
courting me to become the official bubbly served at the wedding.
Alfred had a stack of their offers in his pantry. I went through them,
narrowed them down to the most promising. I let Veuve Clicquot put me
up at the Mark for party 1: Harley, Ivy, Doris. The bad girls,
so I can be myself.
Tattinger does party 2: Lois, Barbara and Cassie, who know the truth about
the man I’m marrying. So I can be myself. Party 3 is Perrier
Jouët. Whoever makes the cut gets to come with me and Anna to a
private island off Antigua for the real fun.” “Anna your fence.” “Anna my best
friend at school, my first real friend
period after… you know. And in Paris. And you’re finally going
to meet her, so have Psychobat suck it up.” “Selina, I want to meet your friend, really. I know
how it looked, but I had every intention of meeting the both of you at
Piping Roc—” “Stayed to finish your workout as if
you needed to do
six more sets of bent over rows—” she said over him. “You’re right that was a lie, but not because I
didn’t want to meet her. I wanted to give you time alone to get all
the reminiscing out of the way before I joined you.” “Which you never did.” “There really was a Deadshot situation in Brooklyn.” The tone was light, playful. And Selina tilted
her head. “A very convenient Deadshot situation,” she noted. “Do you have any idea how often it happened when I
dated other women?” “The dates you didn’t want to be on the in first
place and were happy Batman gave you an excuse to ditch? Yes, I know.” She grinned. “Impossible woman,” he said, and kissed her.
Then he indicated Zogger. “Do you still need this?” She looked down at the jujitsu-karate profile and
then at him. “I’d rather have a piece of you,” she said with the
old rooftop growl. He glanced at the Zogger combat floor and then at
her… There was an Atlantis honor guard living at the manor. Selina was
reading the Post. They were getting a wedding gift from Ra’s al Ghul
and already had a magic one from Jason Blood. He’d said nothing was going to change. “Let’s go,” he said.
Ubu stood in the outer throne room, prepared to give
the Gang of Six all the information he could. Unfortunately, it wasn’t
much: the food taster Pikhai who succeded Omal was very much alive.
When Ra’s al Ghul did not return from Atlantis, Pikhai was reassigned to
assist the keeper of the wine cellars. He also returned to his former
posting with the Galata 4th, where he specialized in throwing the axe for
distance and accuracy. The Six all looked at each other—quizzically,
hopefully, and then resignedly. “So we’re stumped,” First Fang declared.
“Ubu, we may as well confide in you. Maybe you’ll figure out what none
of us can. You know the Master sent a message.
This is the
message.” He handed the printed email to Ubu and waited while the
bodyguard read. “As you see, the Great One is using the network of the
enemy. Their eyes are upon him and he is forced to write in code.
This… wedding gift,”
he spoke the words like they carried plague. “Send his taster to
choose olives, creating a special blend of oil… We have not been able—” “Not yet,” Third Fang interjected as if First was
dictating a letter on behalf of the group where each word might have
political or diplomatic implications. “We have not
yet been able to divine its meaning,” First
amended. “My own opinion is this bit about Pikhai is directing us to
speak with him. We thought it best to talk to you first, the master
would expect that. One of you must know something or have some
insight. Maybe Pikhai was present when some key event occurred,
perhaps he had a conversation with the Great One, a chance remark that will
shed light on this olive oil business.” Ubu tried to look thoughtful. Handing back the
letter, he had only looked confused and that’s presumably why First Fang was
treating him like a moron. “Do you understand?” Sixth asked with unbelievable
condescension. “Of course he does, he’s not a dribbling imbecile,”
Fifth said, and Ubu dared the slightest of nods at the unexpected ally.
Before anyone could respond, he started talking. “I hope it is understood I mean no disrespect to the
Great One,” he began, stalling. He wasn’t sure what he was going to
say, but he wanted ‘not a dribbling imbecile’ to be the last word on the
previous subject. “That goes without saying, may He walk always in the
shadow of the Dragon,” Second said quickly. “You must tell us anything
that may help us understand the master’s message; no judgements will be
made. For if anything seems odd or foolish in Ra’s al Ghul’s behavior,
the fault must lie in us. His ways are beyond our understanding.” Ubu nodded gratefully and began again. “In that case, I will say that the food taster is
something of a vanity. No one has attempted to poison the Demon’s Head
in six hundred years. No minion privileged to serve the Demon’s table
is capable of treachery, and if the impossible happened and the kitchens
were infiltrated and the master succumbed to poison, there is always the
pit. A food taster is therefore… vanity. The Caesars and the
Pharaohs had them by necessity. Ra’s al Ghul has one as a statement of
his rank.” There was a lot of nodding and more looking at each
other among the Six, and Ubu had his revenge, having belabored the obvious
twice as long as First Fang. “As to Pikhai personally, he knows quite a lot about
food. Many days the Great One was preoccupied with his affairs and had
no time for trivialities, but very often, with the evening meal especially,
he enjoyed Pikhai’s showing off. How he would pucker and swish the
wine. ‘I know this one. It’s from Kolios. They had a very
bad summer, the grapes didn’t get much sugar.’” “Do you recall any conversations about olives or
olive oil?” First prompted. Ubu shook his head. “You’ll have to ask him; I never paid much attention
to their talk. I can tell you that Pikhai and the Great One had very
similar tastes, apart from the use of garlic and the stuffing of vine
leaves.” “This cannot possibly be the information we’re meant
to be pursuing,” Third said through his teeth. “We can’t know that,” Fifth insisted. “The
Master was speaking in code, he pointed us to a food taster. What can
we expect but stuffed grape leaves?” “How did
their tastes differ?” Fifth asked, smiling. “The Great One favored both, Pikhai was less
enthused,” Ubu said.
“ARRGH! ow-woof-damnit,” Selina cursed as she hit the
mat with a thud. It was their fifth workout since deciding to take out
their pre-wedding frustrations on each other. The second occurred only a few hours after the first,
when she returned from Scully & Scully. At Faust’s suggestion, she’d
gone into the city to change the registry in person rather than calling.
She’d run into Richard Flay, who was indecently pleased when he heard why
she was there. He’d made himself part of the excursion in much the
same way Clayface appointed himself her bodyguard at Vault, and Selina
played along in case this “chance meeting” was exactly what Faust intended.
Un-wowed by the offerings at Scully, Richard suggested they try A La Vielle
Russie (again Selina went along with what was presumably Faust’s plan) where
they ran into Doris, who had a passion for all things Russian and valuable. Selina had returned to the manor with the wet cat
expression Bruce knew from countless thwarted burglaries. “Let’s go
again,” she said, twiddling her manicure like claws, and as they fought, he
got the details: At A La Vielle Russie there was a cobalt and
white master cellar from the Imperial Porcelain Factory, a modern piece
after Dmitry Vinogradov’s design for Empress Elizabeth’s dinner service in
1750. Hauntingly
similar to a piece from a Paris townhouse where she’d cut her teeth as a
burglar. There was also an amber one that was undoubtedly some 18th
Century aristocrat mimicking the Amber Room at the Winter Palace—if not an
actual piece from the Amber Room lost when the Nazis looted it, aka another
link to Catherine the Great’s court necklace, aka another piece straight out
of her loot sack, a feature that Doris and Richard both seemed to sense and
delight in. She registered for both pieces at their insistence—they
practically high fived each other behind her back as she did it—and Selina
was sure they each planned to give her one, Doris probably planning to steal
hers (and possibly Richard’s too) at this very moment. “This is what they mean when they say the wedding is
really for the guests more than us,” she concluded as their fight wound down
to a pin she didn’t bother countering. “I hope not,” Bruce grunted, releasing her, and they
bowed.
Ubu raced to the Galata barracks to reach
Pikhai before the Gang of Six messenger. He explained what was going
on so Pikhai wouldn’t panic when the summons came. His interview with
the six went considerably longer than Ubu’s. First there was the
classical bouquet garni
which Pikhai had discussed with Ra’s al Ghul more than once as an
alternative to garlic, and which First Fang and Second went off to
investigate. Then there was Macau. Ra’s al Ghul himself had
declared Macau to have the best Chinese cuisine—they had discussed it more
than once—because it had been a Portuguese colony for so long and in
addition to the soy sauce used on the mainland
they often cooked with olive oil.
Third Fang and Fourth went off excitedly to research Macau, leaving Fifth
and Sixth alone with Pikhai. Since they were one fang short of a quorum, Sixth
thought it would do no harm to acquaint Pikhai with the rest of the master’s
orders: He shall then obtain a photograph of the most
picturesque of the chosen olive groves, this of a size fit for framing and
presentation. Also a letter on the grove’s letterhead and signed by
its lord and proprietor, attesting to the oil’s provenance and any details
of interest. This document may present as flamboyant a signature as
pleases the signer and be affixed with as many stamps and seals as are
customary, for such always impress the fair sex. Pikhai, or his
successor, should affix his signature also with the title Oleologist. This is the
command of Ra’s al Ghul, delivered this 10th
day of the Minotaur Moon by the hand of atlantisnet.justiceleague.zirch
“Argh.” This time it was Bruce hitting the mat.
The third round of sparring came after Selina’s first interview. She’d
chosen Martin Stanwick who wrote Hermione’s Society Chit Chat for the Times.
He’d been an ally since Dick and Barbara’s wedding, though his manner had
cooled in recent months. He was downright frosty when he’d first
arrived. Selina explained why there was an Atlantis guardsman in the
foyer, explained the gift he was attached to, and Martin was downright
acidic about the Wayne Foundation’s ties to Atlantis through Sub Diego: how
it became a flashpoint for Gregorian Falstaff after they made ‘such a
display of it’ at the Water Ball. For someone like Martin, it was rude. To
remind her of Falstaff? Selina couldn’t figure out where it was coming
from, and she was envisioning worse coverage than the Post now that she’d
invited an unexpectedly hostile columnist inside to tell her story.
She thought through her options for damage control as they sat down in the
morning room: There was Lois, sympathetic of course, but an out of town
paper and she was hard news. Even if Selina asked and even if Lois
agreed, the job was so obviously beneath her—a puff piece on a Gotham
society bride—it wouldn’t have any credibility. It was a favor for a
friend and would be dismissed as such… There was Ford Dormont of
course. He’d have to be handled; she couldn’t simply tell him what she
wanted like she could with Lois. And Bruce wouldn’t like it, though he
admitted Ford was going to write something,
with their blessing or without it, so it made sense to be proactive.
In his favor, Ford had the right attitude about money and social position.
He knew Selina never ‘got her dinner from a garbage can’ as the song went,
and he
knew that was a good thing. He also had his foot in the door; he’d
been to the engagement party. In his way, he was the best qualified,
more than almost anyone at the Post and certainly more than those who
claimed… Then suddenly the point was moot. They
had settled in the morning room. Alfred brought tea and a plate of
cookies (presumably at Faust’s suggestion) on a dish Selina
knew he didn’t
care for. It was a bold red and white design, and Martin commented on
it (which wasn’t surprising it was so out of place with the rest of the tea
things). He said he recognized it from the MoMA Design Store, and
Selina said it was a gift from Kyray. She got no farther when Martin
had his breakdown: Despite an active presence in the top tier of
Gotham’s social whirl that placed him at a dozen event crashed by rogues,
Martin had never experienced fear gas before the Man’s Reach exhibit.
The horrors—the horrors—that
had played out before his eyes, he’d relived it fifty-eight times—the last
was a week ago Thursday—it was awful—awful. He could never—his
father—and Elena—and the banshees—the rotting flesh—poor little Buster—and
the razors—the
razors— Selina sat there for an hour patting his shoulder,
holding his hand and listening to his story. Giving him a napkin to
dry his tears… Giving him a second napkin… And then listening to
a complete chronicle of his encounters with Gotham crime prior to the Man’s
Reach horror. As she listened, she glared malevolently at the dish
Kyle Rayner had given as a thank you for bringing him in as the artist Kyray
and sponsoring his entry into the world of art… It ended. After he got himself together
and accepted a whiskey instead of tea, Martin went through the motions of
the interview. His hostility was exorcised, he had nothing but
apologies and thanks for her patience and understanding—but there was no
telling what he actually heard
or what might make it to the page. Selina saw him off and went to find
Bruce for the most vehement sparring up to that point.
Second Fang knocked excitedly on Fifth’s door.
The research on bouquets garnis had proven quite revealing. They
started in the kitchen naturally, and the
chef al ghul, the Great One’s personal chef
M’tolk, confirmed Ubu: Pikhai always complained about the garlic. He
then said bouquet garni is nothing but a bundle of herbs tied with string.
It’s added to soups, stocks, casseroles, marinades and courts-bouillons for
cooking and removed before the dish is served. “First Fang thought that would make an excellent way
to introduce poison to a dish, and he’s probably right but there was no
point in saying it right in front of the chefs. M’tolk was insulted,
all his assistants were insulted, the whole kitchen became hysterical and I
was ten minutes calming them down.” Fifth laughed. First Fang’s idiocy was a
recurring chorus of his days now. He asked what happened then. “It looked like a dead end,” Second continued.
“But I stuck around after First left, mostly because I didn’t want to deal
with him right away. M’tolk wanted to go on complaining, so I let him.
He said Pikhai is a fool, that bouquets garnis is no substitute for garlic,
it is its own thing—except
when the Great One is at the compound and the chefs do not have a proper
kitchen. For those occasions, he uses special bouquets garnis in these
little paper sachets like tea bags. Well, I couldn’t care less about
the tea bags, but this is something that’s used only when the Great One is
at the compound, the compound nearly always means the name that must not be
spoken, his great Gotham foe, I figured this must be it! An important
clue.” Fifth Fang agreed and nodded excitedly, and Second
chuckled watching Fifth repeat his mistake. “So I made him show me the dishes he would prepare
this way. The dishes Ra’s al Ghul is only served in his tent at the
compound.” “Yes,” Fifth said eagerly. “This, I was sure, is our message.” “Yes, yes.” “I watched them being prepared.” “Yes, yes, yes.” “I saw the recipes, I saw the chef reading from the
book.” “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” “Classical
bouquet garni is thyme, bay leaves, parsley, onions, majoram and pepper;
the assortment selected and recommended by Le Cordon Bleu since 1895.” Fifth blinked. “And it’s right there on the plate as it’s presented
to Ra’s al Ghul: the little teabag of spice is not removed. It lays
there in the bowl, its little paper tag reading LCB 1895. Do you see?
Our clue isn’t a conversation Pikhai had with the master. It’s this
1895 visible on his plate whenever he ate in his tent.” “I suppose it could be,” Fifth Fang said. “Have
you told First Fang?” “Not yet. I wanted to look up this date in the
private archive. It was an exceptionally active year for the Demon.
See here are my notes: The Dreyfus Affair in France, London rocked by the
Oscar Wilde scandal, U.S. gold reserve was saved when J. P. Morgan and the
Rothschilds lent $65 million in gold to the Treasury, the Treaty of
Shimonoseki signed between China and Japan, Rudolf Diesel patents the Diesel
engine; also the first U.S. patent for an automobile. Workers killed
by soldiers of the Russian Empire during the Yaroslavl Great Manufacture
strike. Wilhelm Röntgen discovers a type of radiation later known as
the X-ray, and the Duck Reach Power Station opened in Tasmania, that first
publicly owned hydroelectric plant in the Southern Hemisphere.” “The Treaty of Shimonoseki,” Fifth said warming to
the subject. “The Treaty of Shimonoseki. Let’s just scratch this
one,” he said, taking a pencil from his pocket and running a thin line
through the words. “Take it out before you show the others. I
doubt First will notice the omission. If he does, tell him the year
was wrong.” “The archive
wrong?” Second exclaimed. “Pieces of paper get misfiled all the time,” Fifth
said smoothly. “Besides which, First Fang will not notice, and by the
time we all meet to discuss this, Wikipedia will certainly confirm this
treaty was not signed until 1896.” “As you wish,” Second Fang said with an obsequious
nod, and then shrewd eyes snapped up as if to say ‘But it doesn’t come
free.’ “Why?” he asked. “What is so important about this treaty?” “It involves China. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
He smiled hungrily. “Yet.”
Selina’s back slammed into the floor, punctuated by a
soft cry that ended in a grunt that stood in for a curse. “Fall for that every time,” she muttered as Bruce’s
proffered hand helped her up. “Can’t help it. If you’re not fully committed
to the attack, I’ve got double the torso strength to block. If you’re
committed, momentum’s going to land you right back on the ground.” “Yes, I get that,” biting off the words as she
left the mat and went to the short stalagmite where a shelf was rigged to
hold their water bottles. “What I don’t get is how
you get out of it
a third of the time.” “That took a lot of practice,” he said, watching the
muscles of her throat as she gulped. “And even so, I can only pull it
off about thirty-percent of the time.” “It’s more than practice, you have to know
what to do.
Between old rooftops and now, I have to assume I’ve felt the technique more
than anybody in Gotham, and I have no idea what’s going on.” She had started to screw the lid back on the water
bottle, but now noticing his smug little pre-lip-twitch, she stopped… slowly
removed the lid… and poured the water down her chest. “Ahh, that’s better,” she cooed, letting her head tilt back as she savored the cool shock of the water on her overheated body. “I know what you’re doing,”
came the dry gravel.
“It’s one of your
insane voodoo moves from Foshan, isn’t it?” she said, taking a step closer. He grunted,
locked onto a droplet of water that held its form on the slick of sweat on
her skin. “…Until you did
something at the
kwoon in Hong Kong that convinced them. Yes?” His lip twitched. “Tell me, Dark Knight, how’d you learn it?” “I felt the technique.”
She was close enough to press against him, the
sopping shirt and rock-hard nipples pushing insistently into his bare chest. “Feel this technique.” … Thirty minutes later, as they sifted through a pile
of discarded gis, street clothes and costumes putting themselves back
together, Selina helped herself to Bruce’s shirt. “I’m taking this as punishment,” she announced.
“You’re holding out on me.” Bruce didn’t exactly gesture to his crotch as he
stared in affronted disbelief, but the message was clear. “Not that way,” she said with a satisfied purr, then
she explained. “When I’m the one blowing off steam, I tell you what
it’s about. This round was for you, and I still don’t know a thing.” “I was going to tell you,” said Bruce. “After.
It’s not a mid-fight conversation. But you do have to know so you
won’t worry.” “That sounds ominous,” she said, making a face. “It would be if I did nothing,” Bruce said.
“Faust reminded me of a disturbing phenomenon going back to the First World
War: a pilot flying his last combat mission before being rotated out was
significantly more likely to crash. The statistics before going on
leave to get married weren’t great either. I was aware of this, but
there was nothing to be done about it, so I’d just resigned myself to being
careful.” “’Was nothing to be done,’ past tense,” Selina noted.
“Faust came up with something you can do.” “What the Air Corps did was simply not tell a man
when he was flying his last mission. He’d land and they’d say ‘That
was it.’ I can’t do that. Selina, if I said ‘Last night was my
last patrol until after the wedding,’ and something awful happened that
Batman could have prevented, it would haunt us both. It would hang
over our marriage that the arbitrary choice of date cost lives. It’s
no better if I leave it to the Batcomputer to randomly choose a date of the
last patrol and tell me only when I get home from it. There’s the same
guilt if something avoidable happens when I’m not out there, compounded with
the exponential risk if the randomly chosen date is a late one. As it
gets close to the wedding day and I’ll know the probability is increasing
every night and the danger of subconsciously dropping my guard is
magnified.” “So what does Faust want you to do?” Selina asked. “It’s basically time travel, patrolling out of
sequence. I change places with myself from a few months down the timeline.
These nights leading up to the wedding are covered. Nothing terrible
happens that haunts us because I was playing it safe. Because Batman
will be there, but it’s a me who’s already made it to the wedding so that
psychological time bomb doesn’t apply.” “But you’re going to be covering future you’s
patrol,” Selina said. “Isn’t that rolling the same dice?” “Say that again slowly and think about it,” he said
in the patronizing tone used to tell a villain the flaw in their epic
scheme. “Jackass,” Selina said, and he laughed.
She didn’t join in. “Look, from your point of view, you’re still
getting married ‘tomorrow’. Why aren’t we worried you actually
can die in the
future and set up one of those paradoxes that leads to cosmic sparks
burning—not to mention the you-dying part that makes me not care so much if
the fabric of space time wants to unravel us all into unexistence.” He held her arms and kissed her cheek. “If there was any risk of a time paradox, Faust
wouldn’t have suggested it,” he said like a mathematician working through a
proof. “Okay then,” Selina said. “Why aren’t we
worried that we’re suddenly making a lot of compromises because of something
called Faust.
Magic, now time travel. It’s not like you, Bruce.” “I’m not doing it for Faust, I’m doing it for you.
For us. You said the prospect of my dying made you not care so much
about the cosmic spark, what makes you think I feel any differently?
If it’s a compromise, this is the time to make it. Jason said the
thing’s not magic. Clayface said he’s coming for you next. I’m
choosing to believe Jason, there’s nothing to think about.” “Bruce, I love you,” Selina said, closing her eyes.
“But doesn’t it creep you out just a little? Its name is Faust, and it
offers what we want most—we get married without a hitch—we just have to bend
this one little principle.” “Its name is Faust because that’s Jason’s idea
of a joke and a fifteen hundred-year-old wizard’s sense of humor doesn’t age
well. A fifteen hundred-year-old wizard’s idea of a
gift, on the
other hand, is pretty spectacular. Selina, I spend my life trying to
anticipate the possibilities. I do it because my life and the lives of
everyone I care about could depend on it. I try to anticipate and then
make a plan. And this… what we’re about to do… this wedding is
something I never considered
possible.
For so many years, I never began to think through the contingencies and
develop protocols… And since I proposed and you said yes, I have to admit
it’s not comfortable being that far behind. Once I started to think
about it, the number of things that could go wrong is staggering. The
scale of
the disasters. The permutations just on Clark as best man. On
you as the bride. Bruce Wayne as the groom and Batman as the groom are
two distinct sets of variables with virtually no overlap… Knowing if I work
on nothing but this every second between now and the ceremony, I can’t
possibly anticipate everything that might happen… And then suddenly it’s
gone. With that one gift, the weight of that is gone. 51,600
trillion calculations per second that thing is capable of. Every news
blurb that might get past me that would be a heads up on how Hagen will come
at us, it won’t get past him. I don’t care if its name is Lucifer
Satan von Joker III.” Selina could not contain the snorting laugh. “Lucifer, Satan, von…” “I don’t say I would call it that,” Bruce
backpedaled. “I’d call it LSJ or something.” “LSJ the Third,” she nodded, now containing her
laughter but just barely. “Three. LSJ3,” Bruce said. “Okay, fine,” Selina breathed. “You’re giddy,”
she then noted approvingly. “How long are you going to be like this?” “I don’t know,” Bruce said, looking into her eyes.
“I’m marrying the woman I love. I didn’t think I would ever feel
this.” He kissed her, and then turned serious. “There is one
thing though. About the time travel, this is just to cover patrols.
We cannot risk messing with the timeline, so I do not want you seeking out
‘future me’ and trying to find out what’s going to happen. None of
your teasing, no games, no indulging your kink for messing with me when you
know I can’t touch you.” “You love it when I tempt you,” she said. “Selina, this is important. This is using the
ability to move through time for our own convenience. We have to be
responsible, good citizens.” “You’re telling me to be a good girl,” she laughed.
“You really are committed to this ‘life is change’ thing if you’re standing
there telling me to be a good girl and expecting it to take.” “Selina—” “I’m teasing. I won’t throw a soda can out the
window while we’re driving in the time lane. I won’t track down future
you and find out if you wanted La Perla, Lise Charmel or Wanda’s House of
Leather on the honeymoon. Your loss.” He grunted.
From the musings of Ra’s al Ghul, year of the Green
Wood Ram, Fifth Moon How I have waited. The fixed element of Fire rules the Year of the Wood
Ram. The house ruled by the Ram is that of the high sun, the hours
between one and three, and his principle season is summer. And summer
approaches at last. There have been eddies in the two great empires, but
as the high season comes, I fear I must abandon the West, for now.
Oscar Wilde’s arrest and trial consumed London, yet its aristocracy remains
gallingly impervious to the currents that took down the nobility in other
countries. We did what we could. That Victoria is a durable one.
A maddening woman. It savages my bowels to say it, but her reign
cannot be destabilized. May the Prince of Wales bring us better
prospects. For now I look East to that damnable Qing Dynasty in
China. Early this year, Japanese troops captured Liaoyang and Taiwan
and now the defeated Qing Empire has signed this Treaty of Shimonoseki.
It renounces their claims on Korea, Taiwan, Fengtien province, and the
Pescadores Islands. They paid a huge indemnity besides, and the
Japanese have used it to establish iron and steel works. Foolishly in
my opinion, mimicking the West and their mad obsession with industry.
Nothing will come of it, this modern mania for progress. The future is in the treaty itself, not the payout.
Our petition, the Gongche Shangshu as it is known in China, 10,000 words
strong expressing opposition to the treaty, though we have allowed the
native operators to insert a few bits about reforms that they want.
That too will come to nothing, but it is a political movement in modern
China and we shall direct it. That Zaitian chap would have made an
excellent husband for Talia, but there was no point pursuing it while he let
his aunt do the ruling for him. If this auspicious summer proceeds as
I hope, the Dowager Empress Cixi will be put down, and then we shall see… Fifth Fang read it
through again, committing the names to memory though he suspected the key
name was not listed. The Dowager Empress Cixi was long gone; so was
her nephew Zaitan aka Guangxu, the Eleventh Emperor of the Qing Dynasty.
The Hundred Days of Reform certainly hadn’t played out the way the Demon’s
Head intended, and the entire Qing Empire was no more. Even the
Japanese Empire on the other side of the treaty hadn’t made it through the
20th
Century. The only
entity connected to the Demon Head’s musings of 1895 related to China that
endured was the one Ra’s al Ghul dismissed (may the lapse of the Demon Head’s
wisdom be unseen by his unworthy minion save at those times the noticing
will serve His Great Purpose): Yawata Iron and Steel Works, founded with the
indemnity exacted from the Qing Empire at the Treaty of Shimonoseki, became
Nippon Steel and then the Nippon Steel & Sumitomo Metal Corporation, second
largest steel producer in the world, headquartered in the Chiyoda ward of
Tokyo.
‘WAYNE TECH A Wayne Enterprises Corporation’ and ‘DO
IT RIGHT’, the bundled boxes read, and then the words vanished into a blur
of ice blue as Eddie was pushed back by the recoil of Victor’s freeze ray
and the blast of cold from a rapidly growing glacier that resulted from the
test. Hm. Nearly as much of the blast ricocheted off the boxes
as went into them. He repeated the experiment on the brick wall and a
pair of caution signs illustrating how to lift correctly and warning
intruders the warehouse was guarded by zombies. In each case, the
stick figures vanished into the glacier as a sound out of Star Trek emanated
from the gun, and again Eddie was forced back by recoil and cold. Hm. He adjusted the distance and tried on a storage
container, which was satisfactory. Then climbing on top of the storage
container he shot down at some wooden crates. The higher angle did not
help, and again he was nearly caught in the rapidly growing ice ball. So, distance. Distance was the only way to go
without the shielding of a cold suit and the built-in protection of Victor’s
metabolism. The warehouse would be tricky, a lot of narrow aisles and
short range obstacles. Very tricky shooting, though those same
features made it the best location he’d seen to trap his prey. He took
out his list and stared at the words… There was nothing special about the warehouse where
Bane had brought Kittlemeier, other than it was a corner of the war unknown
to non-participants. The address would mean nothing to Batman, which
gave his riddle a fighting chance. The riddle that he had yet to write. His
greatest riddle. It had to be. It had to be so subtle it
wouldn’t be recognized as a Riddler-clue at all. If only he could not send it. It would be
so easy if
just this one time he could not send a riddle announcing his crime
beforehand. Just this ONE TIME. He closed his eyes as if
squeezing his brain trying to force the plan into being— — — — His eyes popped open, his right eyebrow
mysteriously arched on its own as if the ‘birthing’ process locked his
facial muscles into this new contortion. He stared in unfocused shock
until the pain of his eyeballs drying snapped him out of it. He…
actually had… there actually was… a way to do this. A part of his plan
that had nothing to do with Batman directly, that Batman would see but think
nothing of, would never recognize as a clue because it wasn’t one. And
yet it was. It could be—it certainly
could be. All he had to do was
pretend it was, pretend he’d done it on purpose. YES! He checked his list. There was only one
location still to check: the catacombs under the cathedral. Now that
it didn’t matter for the clue, it wasn’t so important. Still, he may
as well be thorough.
Second Fang was furious. He couldn’t wait for
the meeting to end. When it did, when Fifth Fang did his usual ambling
towards the inner throne room, Second marched up to him with all the
indignation of a minion who had wasted his time in the private archives for
nothing. He stood before Fifth Fang aggressively—to the extent
that one can ‘stand’ aggressively—and then looked guiltily towards the
throne. “Come,” he said. “What I have to say to you is
not worthy of these hallowed surroundings.” Fifth looked put out by the drama more than anything,
and he followed reluctantly to the outer chamber, to the receiving room
beyond that, and then to the hallway. Where Second slapped him. “Why didn’t you tell me about Macau?!” he
demanded in a peevish whisper. “After we left to research the herbs,
Pikhai told you
about a conversation he had with Ra’s al Ghul where the Great One referenced
a city directly because it used olive oil.
Clearly
we are to strike Macau!
Clearly we’re meant to do something
in Macau! Why didn’t you just tell me I’d wasted my time! Why
didn’t you tell me instead of letting me go through my whole pointless story
about outraged chefs and sachets of spice, useless research on 1895.
Why didn’t you tell me before I walked into a meeting about our mandate to
strike Macau?!” “Are you finished?” Fifth asked. “I didn’t tell
you because the rest of them will chase Macau. Only you and I know
there is any alternative target.” “There isn’t an alternative target. The answer
is Mac—” “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Fifth said, taking a small
notebook from his pocket. “Look at this. Only 1.4 kilometers
from the headquarters of Nippon Steel. 1.4 kilometers—you can get
there in three minutes if the traffic is with you. Three minutes!” he
hissed. “In the vastness of the globe, from far away Atlantis, the
master’s clues point to a target only 1.4 kilometers from THAT! I say
that cannot be coincidence.” Second stared at the words in the notebook, wanting
to be skeptical but unable to do so. “Even if it
isn’t what the master intended, we will
distinguish ourselves,” he said finally. “We will,” said Fifth. “We surely will.”
“ARRGH! ow-woof-damnit,” Selina cursed, then rolled
over onto her back. “C’mon, Kitten, you can do better than that,” Bruce
said, dropping his hand to help her up. “I seriously doubt that,” she said, shaking it off
and twiddling her claws like a tennis player bouncing between sets.
“Have you noticed I’m doing worse with each round.” “I have,” he said, bowing and then taking a ferocious
swing. “You’re letting the emotions drive. You know it’s less
effective.” “It’s not a choice at this point,” she hissed. Things might be changing at the Gotham Post,
but Selina was not about to sit down with one of their reporters for that
second interview. After Martin Stanwick, the most qualified writer
was Ford
Dormont. His books were so-so beach reading when she was laying low
after a heist, and he was as apt to make up shit as his rivals. But
judging by the first date he invented for them at the engagement party, he
knew the type
of shit to make up. Whatever he fabricated in Mayfair would contrast
whatever the new girl spun at the Post, and any interview would accomplish
the primary objective: taking the heat off Alfred, Mr. Harriman, the
gardeners, caterers, florists, and whoever else the paparazzi decided to
stalk. So she floated the name past Faust, and receiving no warnings
that there was a 45% probability Ford would turn into Clayface and smother
her, she told it to set up the interview. Then she forgot about it. That night was to be
the last Date Night with Batman for quite some time. He would be
replaced by his 6-months-from-now doppleganger until the wedding, and after,
Catwoman couldn’t be seen in Gotham until Selina returned from her
honeymoon. Nothing special was
planned.
Like any date night, it was to be an ordinary patrol she tagged along on,
but there was word of three factions competing for the drug business in a
particular nightclub—and they had delicious synchronicity in nightclubs.
Typically Catwoman went in first, deliberately voluptuous, deliberately
visible, picked her target, asked questions, occasionally started some
trouble. Once people started moving, Batman watched. Depending
on who ran, who texted, who tried for a discreet exit or pulled a weapon, he
picked his targets and intercepted, detained, pummeled or followed.
Tonight looked like a pummel-pummel-intercept/detain/question and Catwoman
did her bit taking out wildcards, removing outliers from the perimeter and
watching his back… It was 49 seconds of prime date night action,
another 28 until she could join him outside in the alley—where he was
finishing off the goon that she assumed he’d pulled outside to question. The guy fell unconscious as she approached, but
before she could ask why Batman had knocked him out, he turned with a look
that was—quite pissed. “It’s for you,”
he growled, and Selina saw the muted brownish-orange glow appear from behind
his cape. “Faust, what the hell?” she said. “You are having breakfast with Mr. Dormont tomorrow
morning at Café Boulud,” it said. “That could wait. Go away,” Selina ordered. “It is advisable that you retire now and have an
ample night’s sleep to appear fully rested as I have made a lunch
reservation for yourself and Patrick McKael, the society photographer at
Sant Ambroeus. This will allow you to cut off the meeting with Mr.
Dormont. There is a 71% chance he will follow you, a 64% chance he
will visit Mr. McKael’s website where you appear in almost 2,000
photographs. It is advised that when you leave Mr. Dormont, you
arrange to meet him for drinks to complete your interview. He is
likely to suggest Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle. It is recommended you
propose Belvue Wine Bar as an alternative.” “You think you’re feeding me enough, Faust? I
thought we’d just do it at the house like with Martin.” “Do I have to be here for this?” Batman growled,
rubbing the knuckles of his glove. “I have analyzed the works of Mr. Dormont and
selected the Gotham eateries most likely to appeal as a setting in future
novels and cross-referenced with those unknown to him because they did not
exist or were not prominent when he was actively living and writing in
Gotham. This is the recommended course of action. Mr. Dormont
will not be intrigued by the presence of the Atlantis honor guard… Batman’s
continued presence is immaterial to the success of the interview.” “It was a rhetorical question, Faust; he was being
sarcastic,” Catwoman said as Batman fired a line behind her and ascended
rapidly to the rooftops. “Or maybe he wasn’t,” she said softly.
Officially, any minion is thrilled at any
order, for it is a chance to serve the Demon. Officially, no minion
feels joy, frustration or disappointment beyond that, for an order is a
chance to serve the Demon. That said, Pikhai was excited, overjoyed
and downright giddy at the orders read to him. Traveling to Spain,
Italy or Chile to sample the freshly picked olives and dictate a pressing…
an Oleologist.
It was a dream! Having no belongings beyond the clothes on his back,
“packing” was not something he could do in any meaningful way. He
tried. He’d gone to the drawer that constituted the communal arsenal
of the Fourth Galata Division: Tokatlıyan War Dogs. There were
shuriken of varying shapes, caltrops, tekken, a throwing knife, a sai,
various picks, a grappling hook, a spiked ring, a poison ring, climbing
claws, tekko-kagi claws, kusari-fundo, nunchucks, a blow pipe, a rope dart,
kyoketsu shoge, kusarigama… none of it would do. None of it suited the
task before him. But the mission before him was so exciting, he had to
prepare in some way. Technically, he should care nothing about the
recipients beyond Ra’s al Ghul’s desire to honor their union with a gift.
But he felt an energy that simply had to find an outlet, and there was that
phrase in the Demon’s order calling for stamps and seals on the presented
letter: ‘for such always impress the fair sex.’ The bride’s
sensibilities were therefore of special interest to the Demon’s Head.
It was his particular wish that she look on his gift with favor. A
study of her tastes would not be amiss to prepare for his trip. How
could he weigh the viscosity, bitterness or fruitiness of the olives to
create a crisp, vibrant and structured oil without knowing the kind of
palate he was dealing with? So he crept from his bed, unearthed the two packs of
cigarettes he kept for barter (no food taster would dull his palate by
smoking them) and bought his way into the south communication center where
the night crew was more lenient. Four cigarettes bought him a little
over three hours internet access, enough to watch a typical Bollywood film
which was the usual reason for these transactions. The first night,
his research into Selina Kyle was sidetracked almost before it began. There was a monsoon of data on the name alone, and
cross-referencing with Bruce Wayne didn’t help. Combining both names
into a search and cross-referencing with food did the trick: there was
mention of the restaurant D’Annunzio’s where the couple was first seen
dining together. Reasoning there could be no better introduction to
the cuisine of Gotham City and the tastes of his subjects, he looked for
more on the restaurant and found himself down a rabbit hole of culinary
wonders that left him shaking. He knew Gotham was a great city with many
rivers, which always meant diversity in the population and cuisine, but he
had no idea, no glimmer of an idea. How was it even
possible for one
place to hold so many eateries? How was there even room? Did
they build them on top of one another? How could so many be staffed?
How could enough fish be caught? Enough pigs slaughtered? Enough
rice—to say nothing of the variety. D’Annunzio’s wasn’t merely Italian
or Northern Italian but Tuscan-Venetian Fusion. There were simple
‘French’ restaurants but also bistros specializing in the regional
specialties of Provence, Gascony, Burgundy, Roussillion... even French
Guiana, French Creole, and French Moroccan! There was a
bakery offering
nothing but the breads of Northern India! There was a place for West
Indian curries. There was a ‘pop up’ restaurant specializing in dishes
brought to India by Persian invaders! When his time ran out, Pikhai
realized he hadn’t read a word about Selina Kyle. Rather than buy
another three hours, he went to bed to dream about Gotham, no longer the
city of Him Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken but a place where you could eat
your way from Osaka to Tabriz to Jamaica in only a few steps. The next night he returned to research Selina Kyle
and this time he actually got to her as a subject. Once again he
searched Selina Kyle Bruce Wayne xref food, ignored the siren song of
D’Annunzio’s the palace of Tuscan-Venetian Fusion, and delved into the only
other hit: Le Grand Festival d'Oenologie et Gastronomie Françaises. He blinked. He read the words again.
He clicked through and read… He translated the blurb into his native Farsi
just to double-check his English… These people, this Selina Kyle knew
a great deal
about wine. This Bruce Wayne—this Wayne Manor—had hosted a great
festival
of food and wine. No wonder the Great One had commissioned such a
gift. Pikhai’s hand had risen to his chest, his chest puffed out with
pride. The honor that was to be his! He would devise such an
olive oil for this happy couple that would bring honor to the name Ra’s al
Ghul!
Bruce blocked the sparring claws that would have
threshed the scars of his first cat scratch. “Maybe it’s not letting the emotions drive,” he
taunted. “Maybe Faust bouncing you through every bar and restaurant on
Museum Row’s slowed you down.” Selina hissed, but she didn’t take the bait.
Rather than swing, she tumbled sideways and when his weight shifted to turn,
she vaulted past him and snatched a smoke pellet from his belt, landed, and
held it up triumphantly. “Score! Now I toss this at your feet and get away.” “Woof,” Bruce said, conceding the point. “So,
we’re back to deuce?” “We’re back to deuce. Call it a draw?” “I have time for one more round before patrol.
And I want to hear more about this Torrick.” The first half of the Ford Dormont interview
went as expected. Selina broke it off citing errands she had to run
before a lunch engagement. She offered drinks later to finish up, and
that’s when Ford threw her a curve—he
brought another writer with him. Ash
Torrick was a younger man in his late forties, not bad looking if you went
for the Lex Luthor thing. He’d been a rather serious novelist for a
few books and then abruptly cashed out. He lent his name to a lurid
magazine of the ‘Finding Big Foot’ variety, followed almost immediately by a
TV show Ash Torrick’s Ancient Mysteries,
rebranded after a season to cover a broader spectrum of pseudo-science and
conspiracy theories. In short, he seemed an unlikely friend for Ford
Dormont and an even less likely colleague. But there they were, and
Selina made it through the second half of the Dormont interview with an
extra audience member. When she got home, she asked Faust if he
planned it and got only silent glowing in reply. “And now you’re popping off into the future,” she
told Bruce, blocking his kick more efficiently than his Zogger playmates and
leading him by his own momentum down to the mat… “Swapping patrols
with future-you on the principle that Faust knows what he’s doing.” The move cost her, for the same momentum she used
against him made it impossible to get away quick enough. He pulled her
down on top of him, spun them into a roll and pinned her hard. “It will be fine,” he said, his lip grazing her cheek
in a pseudo-kiss before adjusting to prevent her counter. “The AI may
be keeping things from us, that’s not a bad sign. Sixty percent of my
protocols rely on not giving participants all the information. I can’t
expect people to react naturally and plausibly if they know too much.” His struggle to control the pin ground his hip
against hers, while her squirming to get out from under his superior torso
strength brought her arm under his to grab his shoulder from behind, using
the strength of his pin to pull herself up and pressing her chest fiercely
into his. “Ahem, excuse me, sir, miss,” Alfred said as if he’d
walked in on them reading the newspaper. “There is a visitor upstairs.
One was told to announce ‘The Artist Formerly Known as Kyray’ is here for
Miss Selina.”
To be continued…
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