MAYFAIR CARTE DES ETOILES
Bon Vivant Bridegroom: Billionaire
Bruce Wayne Very soon after Mayfair launched,
Bradford Dormont began his career at the magazine with Carte des Etoiles,
a chronicle of café society and its scandals by the one writer with access
to all the dramatis personae in the tangled circles of Hollywood and High
Society. From criminal trials in Boston to tummy tucks in Bangkok,
negligence-or-was-it-murder in Monaco to insider trading in Gotham, all
sides seem to take Dormont as their confidant. “The thing to remember about Bruce,” said one
of Bruce Wayne’s oldest friends at a Park Avenue dinner party, “is that he’s
trompe l’oeil, his life is crafted to deceive the eye. He created a
character that he plays, and the press laps it up.” It’s an idea that goes in and out of fashion among
Foundation donors and Wayne Enterprises investors, for it’s hard to
reconcile the debauchery on Page 6 with the high-minded philanthropy and
solid corporate citizenship reported in more respectable news. Yet for
the true cognoscenti, the link is as common as FILTH, as in the old Wall
Street acronym “Failed in London? Try Hong Kong.” Bruce seems eager to deflect attention from his
time abroad, wearing his washout from Princeton as a bad boy badge of honor
as if we wouldn’t notice he was enrolled in the London School of Economics
the next term. Studying at LSE may put him the company of Kennedys and
Nobel laureates, but it put him more literally in the company of those sons
of privilege who are a fixture in London and Hong Kong, beginning careers in
the capital markets, famous for their hunting of “Sloane Rangers,” living at
clubs like Annabel’s and Home House, blacking out on the tube and showing up
to work the next day in their tuxedos. One need only compare the
London chapters of Jon Prevel’s Tales of
the Abyss and LexCorp with Bruce’s playboy
antics when he returned to Gotham, and one might come away thinking he used
the anecdotes of those first year Salomon Brothers analysts as a script.
Bruce is expected to say goodbye to single life in
the most spectacular fashion possible, and sources close to his preferred
concierge say he does not plan to disappoint. The multi-night
extravaganza will begin at one of Gotham's most exclusive clubs, of course,
but only as a gathering point. Once assembled, the party will move via
a caravan of party busses to Wayne's private jet and then to the famous Burj
Al Arab on the southern sandy coastline of Dubai, where it's rumored that
Wayne has booked the US$24,000-per-night Royal Suite as well as the Al Falak
ballroom and Al Mahara restaurant for a three-tiered final party—potentially
four if the jet continues to circle overhead, as is rumored. The guest list has been the subject of speculation
for months, with rumoured guests ranging from rock stars to athletes,
European royalty to the Who’s Who of Hollywood and Wall Street.
Knowing Bruce, only the crème-de-la-crème need apply. And knowing
Bruce, we can expect a last look at the bad boy who’s become such a rarity
since he began escorting Selina Kyle to D’Annunzio, the Upper East Side
restaurant that caters to Gotham’s people-you-love-to-read-about…
Blue diamonds get their color from boron, an
element more abundant in the Earth’s crust than its mantle. Fine.
But saying the famously cursed Hope Diamond was “spawned in the most hellish
depths of the Earth” seemed a needlessly sensational flourish, and Jaxon
Valdorcia (known in various circles as Jax, Coop, Mason, Logan, ‘that Aussie
bloke,’ and Le Maître Rusé)
dropped the in-flight magazine into the trash wondering why he’d even taken
the thing off the plane. Jaxon lived in an exclusive suburb outside Melbourne
whenever he wasn’t living out of a $4,000 Prada go-bag in Kuala Lumpur,
Bangkok or Jakarta for a job like the one that now brought him to Japan.
Against his better judgment, he’d read an article on the plane, about blue
diamonds. He’d read it because the Hope was a blue diamond, that much
seemed like fate. The one thing he knew about the upcoming job was that he’d
be acquiring an item from a shrine near the Imperial Palace. The Hope
had famously begun as the eye of an idol in a temple in India. So…
Fate. He turned to the page with the article expecting something
interesting from a nature journal, something on the complex geologic
sequence by which boron ended up at a depth where diamonds form, not another
rehash of French royals, wealthy owners and thieves that came to bad ends
after coming in contact with the gem.
Jaxon wasn’t superstitious of course. No one on
his level could afford to be. Temples, grave goods, religious icons,
it was all part of the business. And everyone understood that
Hollywood myth notwithstanding, a good story was the only security the
ancient world had. There were men with swords, no doubt, but they’d be
as prone to sleep, boredom, bribery and bludgeoning as their modern
counterparts. In a world without retinal scans, cameras or heat
sensors, the best thing to do was scare a would-be thief into staying home.
Home. Swimming laps in his pool, puttering with
his outdoor deck—the one part of the property free of heritage conservation
rules, where he could modernize and tinker to his heart’s content. He
hated leaving, but what was he to do? DEMON offered more than any
outsider could refuse. They used their own talent whenever they could,
so if they called it was because they needed you and they didn’t waste time
haggling. When he first got the call—when he heard Ōtemachi—he assumed
the target was a corporate headquarters. He packed assuming he was
going after a prize like that Rubens from the Odawara board room a few years
back. A temple never occurred to him, though they often contained the
richest treasures. Whatever was in this one, its security must be on
par with its treasures, requiring an expertise only a half dozen people in
the world had to offer. And that translated into an awful lot of
zeroes—worth dodging a curse or two, certainly. Especially since, when you thought about it, curses
couldn’t be avoided. Everything of value was once something else: a
Portuguese ring might link gold melted from an Aztec temple with a gemstone
from ancient China. A thief actively trying to avoid curses probably
crossed as many gods as one who didn’t. So there was no point worrying
what was in this temple of Masakadonoatama and what dire fates were
pronounced a thousand years ago to whoever was bold enough to take it.
I want to live like common people, You haven’t experienced the exquisite irony of
the one-percent until you drive across the access bridge to Burj Al Arab
with Pulp’s Common People
blasting on the radio. The Bruce Wayne of foppish legend would have
loved the joke, while the real one was at least pleased to give the
experience to three men who, though a pain at meetings, had saved humanity
more than once and deserved a good party. Rent a flat above a shop The Bruce Wayne who traveled the world in reality was
very different from one who traveled in the public imagination. There
was never a week at the Hotel Byblos in St. Tropez in the duplex overlooking
the pool. No getting bottle service at Nikki Beach while fashion
models circled modeling clothes from the nearby shops. No enticing
them one by one to abandon their posts and join him at his table, then
making a triumphant entrance to Le Cave du Roy after only ten hours in the
country, accompanied by the next Vogue cover and on a first-name basis with
the entire Dior runway. There was no sailing and snorkeling in
Antigua, rotating between the beach bar, pool bar and spa, no drunken trips
to the casino charging chips to the hotel, and no bimbo raiding the gift
shop while he checked out, adding thousands to the bill in real time.
There were no four hand body massages in Hong Kong, no seafood buffets with
views of Victoria Harbor or pub crawls in Lan Kwai Fong. There was
only a punishing kwoon where Sifu Lin would decide if the rich gwáilóu was
fit to study with the master in Foshan, and the senior students who had no
intention of allowing him to be found so. There was only one point where Bruce’s years of
travel overlapped with his legend: in London, where the London School of
Economics provided cover while he picked up more important skills from
Scotland Yard and MI-6. Jon Prevel was finishing his first year as an
analyst and living the cliché as a Wall Street hedonist abroad, blowing
through five and six-finger bonuses in a matter of days. His
debaucheries became Bruce’s, though Bruce changed enough of the details that
when Prevel wrote his own account Tales of
the Abyss and LexCorp, the similarities
went unnoticed. That Bruce Wayne of legend required a sendoff.
He needed to die as he had lived, so to speak. And if that Bruce Wayne
was unlikely to meet Wally West, Kyle Rayner and Eel O’Brian in the normal
course of his private beach in St. Barth’s existence—forming such bonds of
friendship that they were the first names on the VIP guest list given to the
hotel—the real Bruce was ready to overlook it. I want to live like common people, Tim texted them first: Get to Dubai
your way.
None of them knew what it meant, but before their speculation got out of
hand, they each got a call from the ‘coordinating host’ at the hotel asking
if they would be arriving in Dubai independently or flying in on Wayne One.
Despite a rumor that the real party would be on Wayne One, they put their
faith in a Robin’s greater knowledge and said they would be flying in on
their own. They then made a mental note not to ever
underestimate Tim Drake, for the host asked which of the exotic cars in the
hotel’s pool they would like waiting at the airport, for Mr. Wayne had
covered the rentals for a select few
of his very
special guests. You'll never fail like common people, And so it was, the afternoon of the party while
Wayne One was still hours from landing, Eel, Wally and Kyle drove across the
access bridge in a yellow Ferrari, red McLaren and green Aston Martin with
Pulp’s Common People
blasting on their radios. All three meant to share the joke when they reached
the hotel, then forgot in the wonderland jolt of the arrival as doormen of
identical height and builds sprinted to open each of their doors
simultaneously. There was a quintet of staff lined up to greet them as
they entered the lobby, offering hot towels, a plate of dates and a cup of
Arabic coffee. All three meant to remark on that too—on the similarity
to the welcoming ceremony on Kilfnagon-9 after they’d prevented the Dark
Matter Incursion—but again they forgot as the kaleidoscope splendor of the
atrium lobby introduced a new level of wonders.
“We are not in Kansas any more,” Wally and Eel said
together. “I’m not sure we’re on Earth any more,” Kyle said
under his breath. They made it past the hypnotic technicolor
splendor of the fountain, the shops featuring (among other things) a vest
made of gold… Past the art works… Past a restaurant, and beneath the
Swarovski crystal ceiling to the elevators… They made it, finally, to their
room—to their suite,
that is, for the hotel had nothing as mundane as a room... Two floors. Downstairs: two sitting rooms, a
bar, and a bigger TV than any of them had at home. Upstairs: two
bedrooms with panoramic views. “Well,” said Kyle. “Well yes,” said Wally, clearing his throat. “Uh, right,” said Eel. Then they said nothing for several minutes.
They looked at each other, they looked out the window, they looked at the
bar, and then, as one, they burst out laughing. “So this is, uh, because Batman is marrying
Catwoman,” said Wally. “There’s a gold hair dryer in the bathroom,” said
Eel. “Always thought it was a good idea. Just the
way their costumes go together, the ears, and y’know, the names.
Bat-man, Cat-woman,” said Kyle. “Gold iPad too, that seems to be how we contact the
concierge or order room service,” said Eel. “I-ehhh… had my bachelor night at a Wing House,” said
Wally. “My buddy Martin went to a comedy club,” said Kyle. “The point is they’re happy. She makes him
happy, everybody’s life is better,” said Wally. “Hot tub in through there. With a mural.
Of sailboats,” Eel reported. Again they grew quiet, and again, after a minute of
silence, they began to laugh. Nobody remembered their quips from the
atrium, or the lobby, or bridge. And nobody thought of the song until
hours later in the elevator riding up to the royal suite as a faint, musical
thumping became audible in the distance. It grew more distinct as they
neared the party floor, the vague melody becoming more discernable until the
doors opened and they were hit with the full volume of a live performance
coming from the famous helipad, transformed into a stage and dance floor. “Wow,” was the universal response as they took in the
colorful opulence awash in reds and golds, and the effusive crowd awash in
sequined cleavage “Okay men, remember your training,” Wally said in his
approximation of a Bat-gravel as a cloud of sweet floral perfume hit.
“We keep our heads. We don’t get distracted. Survey.
Methodically. Do not…”
A second cloud of perfume telegraphed a bouncy,
giggly parade of softness and warm jiggling. All around them.
Pressing here, squeezing through there, bustling, squirming and moving on.
Wally swallowed. “…Do not wander,” he resumed, a slight tremor in his
voice, “and do not separate from the group until the entire field is
documented. We move counter-clockwise, left hands to the left wall at
all times. Are we clear?” Eel’s gaze had followed the women, but his feet did
not. Ascent was murmured, and the exploration began with all the
disciplined focus of a League mission. They went through a set of double doors into a large
red sitting room with two seating areas, one like their suite’s faced a
window with a spectacular view of the harbor. Nearly every seated man
had a girl on his lap, except for the chap who had two. Bottles of
vodka, tequila, wine and champagne, empty glasses and even a few beer
bottles covered every horizontal surface, and a silver Asprey wine filter
held marijuana seeds and stems… The next room was smaller: only one seating
area which faced a high def television even larger than the one in their
suite. They realized they were in the suite’s ‘private cinema’ though
at the moment it was being used for karaoke. Two girls in cocktail
dresses were singing You’re So Vain
while four others sat around a table, drinking and playing a dice version of
liar’s poker. Eel wanted to stay but the exploration mandate
prevailed.
They returned to the foyer, bypassed the stairs and
went through the opposite set of doors into a dining room where two feasts
were laid out. A spread of rock shrimp salad, hamachi sashimi with
ponzo, and black cod with miso flown in from Nobu was arranged on the
circular dining table, while the sideboard presented a buffet of lamb, beef
and quail—as well as a drunken attempt at art arranging greasy kabob sticks
on a canvas of hummus depicting, one supposed, the Battle of San Romano by
Paolo Uccello. A kind of office or library lay beyond that with
another good-size TV. This one displayed a live feed from the dance
floor on the helipad with a digital clock counting down to either a light
show in the harbor or fireworks, no one was quite sure which. There
was also a guestbook of the suite’s celebrity occupants, more ashtrays
strewn with joints, cigar butts (and inexplicably a wad of blood-stained
Kleenex), and an overturned plate with traces of white powder on it (which
at least explained the Kleenex). Upstairs, before the bedrooms, they came to another
large sitting room, this one arranged with the largest stuffed animals the
ceiling would accommodate and a dancer performing on the giant plush bunny
as if it were a stripper pole. Another reveler sat with two girls on
his lap who appeared to be twins. In front of them, a table with
several elaborate and exotic fruit plates—and next to the fruit, a pile of
cocaine. Johnny Walker and iced green tea seemed to be the preferred
drink in that quarter… Bruce wasn’t there. He never was.
Clark Kent slid his glasses up his nose in the steamy
confines of the bar and smiled at the proprietor, ordering another Yebisu in
shy, fumbling Japanese that was, seemingly unbeknownst to him, saturated in
his Kansas accent. Bruce had been quiet since they walked into the
narrow, cluttered alley lined with microbars, though he’d been animated
enough when the night began. He brought them first to another basement
establishment almost as small, in Roppongi. A twelve-seat sushi bar
where Bruce spoke of the sushi chef reverently as Yasuda-san. “Look at his hands, look at his
knuckles,” he’d
whispered, his enthusiasm apparent despite the volume and discretion of a
mission directive. “That’s years of Kyokushin karate right there.
You can tell by his posture: low center, deep stance, the sweeping motion
when he turns, look at that. “Now watch his
timing.
Adapting to each customer’s pace of eating, coordinating, the order he
serves them. His focus—middle to left, middle to right, watching them
all, adjusting constantly. The speed,
whether it’s managing the temperature of the rice or dispatching your
opponent as quickly as possible, every second is measured. Controlling
the space, managing his distance from the diners—watch how he turns, that
deep fighter’s stance—moving in and out, never out of position…”
Bruce the martial arts nerd. The laser-lock on
weirdly specific details and sharing them with an intensity only his son and
best friend could love… Yasuda saw them then, and there was a lot of bowing
and nodding through the introductions. They drank sake from Yasuda’s
home town, chatted about the dojo in Asakusa, the boxing club in Toshima,
the fish market, and baseball. Bruce was more relaxed than Clark had
ever seen him outside the manor. But since they reached Shinjuku, the old Bruce had
emerged, the pre-Selina Bruce. The silent intensity the younger
leaguers called brooding but Clark knew was more complicated. They’d
come through a network of dark, rundown alleyways that Bruce navigated with
such familiarity they might have been in Gotham… But the silence made
Clark uncomfortable. It didn’t seem like a good omen as Bruce led them
through the maze of ramshackle buildings and narrow alleys packed tight with
narrower doors, lighted signs, printed signs and chalk sidewalk boards.
Clark made a few observations about the architecture,
trying to make conversation. “Like walking into another time,” he’d
said, and without slowing the pace, Bruce drew attention to several features
of the surroundings that felt like an old Japanese shantytown, dropping easy
phrases about the “direct contrast between the pre and post ‘economic
miracle’ architecture.” Then the broody silence returned.
And then, suddenly, a density shift. The
palpable density shift that meant Batman without the mask as they approached
a blue door on a painted red building, a blue shuddered window next to it
where he turned abruptly into a new alley. It was darker than the
others, still crammed with doors and signs but fewer lit signs and almost no
neon. Another turn and another alley—narrow, neon-lit,
semi-populated—through a quartet of locals holding beer cans… Past the
window of a microbar crowded with five laughing neighborhood regulars…
Past some chained bicycles, another bar with a kid playing guitar, another
with a pair of salary men singing karaoke… to this low, red painted door
that looked like any other to Clark, but which transformed Bruce yet again.
He wasn’t ‘Batman’ anymore, though the forceful intensity was still present.
It was just… unfocused. For the first time since Clark had known him,
the purposeful, pressurized, super-concentrated, super-disciplined potency
that defined ‘Batman’ was... inert. Two beers later, the transformation was still
unexplained, but it had done nothing to dampen the party atmosphere (such as
it was for two married men and their friend who posed as a wild playboy for
his job but never enjoyed it and was glad to be rid of the tiresome chore).
They’d talked about first crushes, first kisses and first times...
Bruce guessing that Alfred knew he’d lied about that ski weekend, Dick
horrified to learn Bruce and Alfred both knew he used the West Side safe
house as a bachelor pad the whole time he was at Hudson, and Clark
confessing to the ethically sketchy use of x-ray vision and speed-running to
contrive a series of accidental meetings with his freshman crush.
(Followed by Bruce and Dick’s judgment that it
might have been
ethically sketchy if he’d managed to secure anything more than a cup of
coffee and a warning that Professor Donnor’s Astronomy 100 had the nastiest
mid-term on campus and if he didn’t find the science library and read the
practice tests, he’d wind up in a parade of students leaving the mid-term
and walking directly to drop-add.) Brunettes were discussed, which Bruce and Clark both
favored, and redheads… They teased Dick that at least a few of his beloved
redheads were brunettes to begin with. A learned debate commenced
comparing golden age beauties like Vivien Leigh, Liz Taylor, Bianca Jagger
and Audrey Hepburn to more contemporary stars like Blake Lively and Kate
Hudson. That resolved into contemplative silence… and an increased
awareness of the synth strings and quavering croon of that ancient enka hit
buzzing from the radio behind the bar. “I wonder what’s happening in Dubai?” Dick asked
philosophically. “And what that tragic wailing is about.” “And if diplomatic relations with the U.S. will make
it through the night?” Clark added. “You should talk,” Dick chuckled, then cleared
his throat from the smoke. “The most
anyone who
wasn’t there knows about your
bachelor night is the Seattle-Phantom Zone Accord of 3016 YZ ‘that means
Year of the Zone,’ and ‘Jagermeister mixes with Stoli; Green Chartreuse with
Lantern energy and not the other way around.’” Kryptonian muscle control suppressed the grin but not
the blush. “Well…” was the typically Smallville response. “Think we should have left a reminder for Kyle?” Dick
asked, raising his finger for another Kirin.
Finally Bruce spoke: “Rayner isn’t Hal,” he said with a flick of his eyes
to one side and a grim smile. “He’s not about to give the Jager ‘a
little shot’ to make it glow under a black light. And as for the
radio, the woman in the song sacrificed her familial ties to marry the man
she loves against her father’s wishes. She then learned that he plans
to leave her and marry a younger woman, so she throws herself from a bridge
into the river beneath the moonlight.” “Ah,” said Dick, though his eyes met Clark’s
with an indignant “See?! Music my
alcoholic great aunt would kill herself to, did I lie?” “Poison Ivy invaded your bachelor party,” Clark
reminded him lightly. “Ironically, it’s only the great playboy here
whose send-off isn’t going to land us all in trouble.” “It’s a little early to say that,” Dick warned, as
the radio’s passionate wail reached a new plateau of anguish, and then
subsided. “No, we’re going to be fine,” he amended. “We’re not here for the enka,” Bruce said with a nod
to Morinaga, to which the barman returned a broad smile, an enthusiastic nod
and the hiss and smoke of the fryer behind him. “We’re here because
Morinaga-san makes the finest okonomiyaki in Japan,” Bruce concluded. Morinaga Shunsuke bowed, with a proud grin. “No, no,
Osaka is better,” he said in English, “Osaka is origin city of good
okonomiyaki.” “Of course,” Bruce replied, with a knowing glint in
his eye, “Mr. Morinaga moved here from Osaka when he was twenty-three and
brought his family recipe with him. What you’re about to taste, gentlemen,
is hands down the finest okonomiyaki in Japan.” “Wayne-san, you speak too kindly,” said Morinaga, but
Bruce only bowed his head to him slightly and lifted his glass. “How’d you find this place?” said Clark. “Wayne-san has been coming here for many years,” said
Morinaga, his back turned, his gravelly voice competing with the next enka
classic on the radio and with the hiss of cooking okonomiyaki, steam rising
in puffs from the plate, “Since he was very young man.” Bruce almost smiled. There was a thoughtful
distance in his gaze before he turned it back to his company. Clark,
his best friend. Dick, his son in all the ways that mattered. He
hadn’t said the words, assuming they’d guessed, but it was time to remedy
that. “I studied at a dojo not far from here,” he
said mildly. “It… was still fresh, then. The anger and grief.
Especially the anger, my first days on the mat brought it all back to the
surface. And the years since the alley, the emptiness of the manor,
the absence
of them, being alone in a strange city brought that back too. It was
everywhere, inescapable. It made everything feel...bigger.” “You were very quiet man, first time you came,” said
Morinaga, wiping sweat from his brow on his bare forearm. “Not like most
Americans. Especially tourist.” Bruce chuckled. “I was lost. Like a lot of young
men, I was convinced that all I needed was a wise old sensei to teach me the
arts and I’d find the path of my life.” “And did you?” Clark prompted.
“Not the way I imagined,” Bruce drummed his fingers
on his glass and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “It was my first time
in Tokyo. The city felt too big, despite all the close alleys.
Empty, despite all the crowds. I’d left to get away from that feeling
of hugeness, the silence at the manor, and ended up somehow just… finding
the world to be a bigger manor. I didn’t find any wise master on a
mountaintop. Instead I stumbled into this place, completely by
chance.” “And he ate so much okonomiyaki,” said Morinaga. “I
thought ‘this is not good for young man’s health’. This is the okonomiyaki
eating of despair.” Dick held in a laugh, putting the pieces together.
“And this is your sensei?” “In many ways, Morinaga-san is my first sensei, yes,”
Bruce said, “Others taught me the things I’d come seeking. But this
man taught me the first important lessons I learned after leaving Gotham.
A significant part of my journey and part of my life started right here,
with a sympathetic stranger and a plate of okonomiyaki.” “See,” Morinaga laughed, pointing his spatula
over the bar at his well-dressed guest, “I tell you, he is too kind.
Now, sumimasen—”
he deftly slid the flat, round pancakes of egg, flour, bacon and cabbage
onto plates and slid them in front of the three men. “The food is ready.
Douzo.” “Itadakimasu,”
said Bruce. A half hour of steaming egg batter and seaweed and
thin-sliced pork belly deliciousness later, the three travelers sat in a
kind of religious silence, staring into their golden beers and, at most,
nodding slowly. Bruce was indeed correct; Mr. Morinaga was an absolute
master of his craft. Suddenly, Clark’s eyes flicked up and to the west
wall. Into the silence came a sound; an intrusion of clipping narrow
shoes on the cobble. And a face manifesting at the doorway.. “Hey, Bruce, this place is hard to find,” said Edward
Nigma, poking his head into the bar, “And finding the three of you here like
zen monks in a temple is a puzzle indeed.”
The Bat-scowl froze Bruce’s features. “Nigma. You
can’t be here,” he said, though the impossible arrival had already come
through the door and was barreling down on them with unnerving perkiness.
“Your best man needs no introduction,” he said to
Clark. “Mr. Kent, Edward Nigma. Rewarding number of question
marks on your book cover,” offering his hand, then turned to Dick. “And Mr.
Grayson, had the pleasure of looking in on your wedding. Beat the
Wayne Manor curse, well done. Edward Nigma.” “Consider your next words very carefully, Ed,” Dick
said, “What the hell are you doing here?” Nigma thrust up a finger, off the baffled faces of
the three, “Gentlemen, I am not here for hostility, and I regret having to
intrude on what’s obviously a private party. I need a few minutes with
the groom, that’s all. Then I’ll crawl off to my
one-step-above-a-capsule hotel, sleep off my jetlag and perhaps go spy some
Harajuku fashion or pick up some new tech in Akihabara tomorrow. I’ll
be completely out of your perfectly coiffed hero hair, pinkie swear.” “How did you find us?” Clark managed, blinking. “Don’t ask him, it will only prolong the
conversation,” Bruce said while Nigma chirped “Riddle me this, when is a
bachelor party in Dubai not
a bachelor party in Dubai?” After a round of eye contact out of
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,
Bruce quietly stood and bowed to Morinaga-san before turning his gaze on
Nigma. “You have five minutes,” he said. “Five minutes and two requests beforehand—” “No.” “Simple ones, Bruce, simple ones. One…”
he winced, “Look you really needed to hear this
from me, but I
want your absolute
promise, pre-emptively, that you will not, and I cannot reiterate this
strongly enough, break my legs again. Or any other limb or appendage.
No ruptured organs either, please, I need those. Like I said I’m not
here to fight, and I came here with the very best of intentions…” Bruce grabbed Nigma by the collar and started to drag
him from the bar. “What did you do?” “Second… second, second! Before we go!”
Nigma wriggled as close to Morinaga as he still could, “Biru
hittotsu, kudasai… I’m going to need it.” Warily, Mr. Morinaga passed him a bottle of Asahi
from the fridge. “Put it on my tab, Morinaga-san. And I
apologize for this,” Bruce said stonily, and then the two were gone, Bruce
crowding Eddie down the narrow alleyway outside the bar like a pair of
drunken gaijin
stumbling back to a hotel after a night out on the big town. “Well?” Bruce
asked when they reached a secluded spot. “Do you want
to hear how I found you?” Eddie asked impishly. “Edward, understand that I am taking this time to
share a quiet drink with my son and my best friend in a place that is
significant to me. All I want from you is to state your business and
go away so I can get back to it.” “You’re already mad,” Eddie sighed, “Listen, I have
your wedding present. I wanted to give it to you when Selina’s not
around, you know how women are.” “I thought the hashtags were your gift,” Bruce said. “My gift is taking care of the other rogues so
you don’t have to worry about it. The hashtags covered all but your
biggest problem, Brucie.
You can’t pretend you don’t know who I mean, and you can’t have forgotten
what he did at the Pelacci-Marcuso wedding and that bit about giving the
bride away.” “I’m equipped to handle him.” “Since when? Nobody handles him, nobody’s
equipped to handle him. So I took care of it.” “Edward…” Bruce’s fists creaked. “We had an agreement on the leg-breaking, right?
Witnesses, multinational—” “...what did you do to J—?” Before he could speak the name, a bloodied man came
skidding around the corner and clipped the pair of them, leaving a smear of
red on Nigma’s arm as he recovered, stumble-running a few more steps until
he gained full speed, and finally collapsing outside Morinaga’s door.
He would have fallen flat on his face if it was anyone other than Batman and
Riddler that he’d passed, but both men were accustomed to pursuit and
neither paused at the sight of blood. They reached him as he was going
down and caught him under the arm on each side. “His shirt’s bleeding,” Nigma said in English as they
helped him inside.
“His shirt’s not bleeding;
he’s bleeding,”
Bruce corrected. “I told you we shouldn’t have left them alone,” Dick
said to Clark, as Clark said “What’s th—” and Morinaga cried “Yuuto!”
“This is Yuuto, my brother Riku’s boy,” he told Bruce
in Japanese. “It’s his nephew,” Bruce told the others, while Eddie
had taken a small kit from his jacket and was using a thin probe to pull
blood-soaked cloth from the wound. “That doesn’t look so bad,” he said like an
expert, and then in Japanese asked Morinaga for vodka and napkins. He
turned back to his patient and said “Well actually it
looks terrible,
but it’s not as bad as it looks. Nice bit of wordplay in English,
doesn’t translate, and you wouldn’t care anyway because nobody wants a pun
when they’ve got O-negative on the outside.”
“What are you talking about?” Dick asked, disgusted. “We should take him to a hospital,” Clark said. “Nobody goes running to their uncle’s bar if they’re
clear to go to a hospital,” Eddie answered. “You can’t see this guy is
scared?”
Yuuto had just enough English to follow
what was being said from the tone and he agreed
vehemently—vehemently
enough to start the blood flowing, and it took Bruce agreeing with Eddie in
Japanese to calm him down. By now, Morinaga had brought the vodka and
as Eddie expertly cleaned the wound, Yuuto told his story, principally to
his uncle, though Bruce occasionally cut in with a question and translated
in snippets: “He works in a hotel in Ōtemachi, the business
district. It’s like Tokyo’s Wall Street; a lot of offices, corporate
HQs, thick with skyscrapers. Not a lot of hotels compared to other
parts of town. The few there are, they’re very high end. He says
men came in today. Into the staff area. The kitchen and break
room. Closed them off… Nobody else could come in, nobody could
leave… He says they were Yakuza… This would happen sometimes when he worked
in Shinjuku. You’d go into work one day, boss would be at the door and
say ‘Go home, you can’t come in.’ It would happen in Shinjuku, doesn’t
happen in Chiyoda. It doesn’t happen in Ōtemachi…” There was an ominous clap of thunder outside,
punctuating the word like a radio play. “He says they didn’t care about us, the kitchen
staff. Just told them to stand by the wall... They brought in the
doorman. A girl from the front desk. Then an older man from the
front desk, one at a time they brought them in… Itsuki, who he knows;
he works at the concierge desk. And Sora who works in the lobby
bar… One at a time, they take them through the kitchen into the break
room. They take them past the knives. Sometimes they pick one up
and take it in with them… Few minutes later, they come out again.
White. Scared. No blood but white and scared and shaking…
Finally they go. These Yakuza, they left and he ran out to see his
friend, this Itsuki… But the Yakuza hadn’t gone. They were still
in the lobby. They saw Yuuto and Itsuki talking… Grabbed Yuuto, beat him up.
‘You don’t see anything, you don’t know anything, we were never here.’” “I think we can all fill in from there,” Eddie told
him. “Those conversations never have much variety.” The heroes gave Eddie a nasty look but Yuuto nodded
gratefully and managed a smile. Bruce drew Morinaga into the corner
where they talked quietly. After a minute he waved Clark over and Dick
followed. A minute later Eddie joined them. “If the question you guys are debating is whether you
should suspend the wild bucks’ night and look into this, the answer is yes.
‘Cause the Yakuza boys took his wallet,” he reported. “That means if
anything goes wrong with whoever/whatever they were asking about, it’s going
to come back to him and his buddy and they both end up in the tuna nets with
the dolphins.” “Since when do you care?” Dick snapped. Eddie pointed to the smear of Yuuto’s blood on his
jacket.
“That’s his. There is an obligation,
which I am discharging like any lucid person who’s been
bled on. I
am pointing out what you should already know unless you’re all drunker than
you appear: Yakuza were asking questions about somebody booked into that
hotel because something is going down connected to that person, and if that
thing does not play out exactly the way they want, the dumbest
oyabun going
will figure Yuuto’s buddy told him something and he went and talked to… to
people like you,
which he kind of has.
Since what they’ll all assume he’s told you could very likely get him
killed, it’s probably a good idea if you actually find out what it is.” “This might be the Yebisu talking, but he has a
point,” Dick admitted.
Near the Imperial Palace Gardens, another patch of
lush, beautiful greenery flanks the entrance to a 40-story glass tower.
It would appear small in any other part of the world, but in the
ultra-expensive business district where every square foot of real estate
must pay its way, leaving even that tiny area undeveloped is a wild
extravagance. The building is principally an office tower,
the hotel occupying only the top six floors. Its tiny receiving lobby
on the ground floor appears like a tranquil oasis, apart from the city.
Earthy hues with the creamy-golden glow of indirect lighting, bonsai tree
against a shoji screen, a world apart from the noise and bustle of the
street. The main lobby on the 33rd floor is reached by special
elevators that complete the feel of escape from noise, grime, and worry into
an alternate reality of calm, balance, and peace. Under a 90-foot
ceiling of washi rice paper (designed to suggest a shoji lantern but to some
suggesting The Matrix,)
a water pond, rock gardens and ikebana flower arrangements are placed to
convey a sense of timelessness and harmony.
In the midst of this, an older woman sat alone on the
most comfortable of the sofas near the window. From a distance she
appeared about sixty, though if you got closer her eyes made it hard to
tell. She was dressed in a very expensive business suit, perfectly
fitted, yet there was a maternal plumpness that kept her from looking chic.
The whole idea of fashion seemed too artificial somehow. Though the
deep sofa was made for lounging, she sat upright, her legs crossed at the
ankles like the grand duchess of another age receiving visitors. She
was poised but not stiff, dignified but not proud. And when she looked
out at the city, she exuded warmth and contentment.
She’d ordered tea, which was just arriving and drew
her attention from the two men she’d been studying. Two men at odds
with the zen-like atmosphere of the lobby.
Something about them radiated… agitation. It
buzzed around them so that even now that they’d settled in the lobby bar,
even at this great distance, it disturbed her. Like a hive. It
sat over there, tense and restless. An errant bee flying out now and
then and chittering, then returning to its den but apt to return at any
time. It was not… as it should be. The air was not as it should
be while those men continued to exist in her field of vision… In the bar, Fifth Fang and Second had no idea they
did not blend invisibly into their surroundings. Both skilled
assassins, trained to be shadows, they were disciplined and detached, their
unwavering focus clamping down on any visible sign of stress. And stress there was. Jaxon Valdorcia was late.
It was thirty-eight minutes past the meeting time. They should be in
his room right now, inspecting the Masakado head. “How long do we wait?” asked Second. “As long as it takes. Anything could have
delayed him. He’s a professional. Most likely, he is being
cautious.” A long rumble of thunder went unnoticed by most in the
tranquil lobby, but Fifth was one of the few who glanced at the window.
“Besides, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to go out into
that.”
The force of the downpour was not as present as it would
have been in daylight, but even against the night sky he could see
near-opaque sheets of rain blurring the distant lights. He could
imagine the harsh whistle of winds and the clacking of windows being
buffeted in their frames, and the chill of that punishing wind cutting
through whoever was so unfortunate as to be out there.
“Yeah, it’s a Wayne party; should have seen this
coming,” Eddie said as the four men crowded under a few feet of cover while
the wind blew every bicycle in sight against its chain, tore advertising
flyers off their posts and turned any errant bit of litter into flying
shrapnel. “Do it in Japan, you’re gonna get a tsunami.” “Get ready to move,” Bruce barked. “Cloudbursts
like this don’t last long. If we keep up the pace, we can get there
ahead of the rain.” Their goal was a McDonalds near the train station
that closed at nine and became a known pick-up spot for prostitutes.
The men came to a stop across the street, happily ahead of the rain, for
they had no idea where the girls might go to wait out the storm.
With a wrist-flick of a street magician, Bruce’s hand
contained a 5 000 yen note held in front of Eddie’s nose.
“Get what we need,” he ordered. When Nigma
hesitated, Bruce went on “They’re both married, I’m getting married, and
you’re here. Get what we need.” “Fine,” Eddie said, taking the bill in disgust and
adding ‘wusses’ under his breath as he stepped away.
He approached the women, talked for a minute, there
was pointing down the street, and he returned with a satisfied grin.
“Pimp is an older woman, should be in that bar with the pink sign, sometimes
watching through the window. The protection is in that steep stairwell
next to the shop with the green awning.” There was a loud clap of thunder and, knowing their
time was short, they quickly debated starting with ‘the protection’ or the
pimp. In the course of the cross talk, Bruce’s eyes met Clark’s more
than once…
Wally and Kyle had returned to their suite.
The party was fun for a while, until the third time one of their League
signals was mistaken for a coke signal and they were passed “the bag.”
Eel was occupied, so they’d let him be. He’d met a model of the type
that existed exclusively on Instagram and in magazines—or so they thought.
Apparently these wild and exotic creatures not only existed in nature, they
wandered free range
through Bruce Wayne parties. Their brains collectively shorted out.
There was no way to reconcile this—any
of this—with the grim, inflexible and
all-knowing hard ass they knew in the Justice League. They didn’t know
Bruce Wayne—though
the muscle memory of Kyle’s time as the jetsetting artist Kyray threatened a
Dutch accent when he found himself talking about his work with—oh God—with
the topless girl from the blue jeans ad. He, Kyle Rayner, was talking to the Guess Jeans
girl. Eel had slunk off to a corner to suck face with the girl from
the Gucci perfume ads— none of them could say how they came to be at this
party, it wasn’t possible
they were Bruce Wayne’s special guests
at the party of the decade at the Burj al—And Wally was probably left
fidgeting with his wedding ring, so a pal really should go find him and—
and— Kyle had looked around, and saw Wally was not
fidgeting but looking with contempt at the liquor bottles displayed on one
particular bar at the far end of the party. Wally being the least
snobbish person he knew, Kyle went to investigate. This smaller bar was apparently where the very
select, outrageously expensive liquors were being offered, and Wally’s
disgust was for a tequila which owed its ridiculous price tag to the
bottle more than
its contents. He said he pitied the rich, so desperate to drop a
bundle on a drink but not knowing how to do it. Then his eyes
twinkled, he ‘flashed out’ for a split-second that wasn’t exactly visible to
the eye, but Kyle was used to it so he knew what was happening. When
he ‘returned,’ he gestured with a speed-blur finger-tip, and Kyle followed
back to the elevator. A half hour later, they were back in their suite
having the night of their lives watching IP Man on their oversized TV
screen… when Eel came in. They pointed to the selection of films they
had racked up: Commando, Predator, John Wick… Tried and true boys’ night fare, but not quite
enough to justify passing up the opportunity to press the Fashion Week flesh
and being so darned happy about it. …“Remember how Monaghan spent half of last year
trying to get us to call him Baba Yaga?”... Yes, Eel remembered, but it still didn’t
compete with these women who spend, like, 80% of their waking hours in
nightclubs. Did Kyle and Wally not know what happens when you get
those women on the dance floor? They have
moves! … “and the concierge is trying to find Old Boy in the
original Korean.” That… was impressive, Eel admitted, but still.
The Gucci perfume girl had her hands under
his shirt. She pinched a
nipple—she actually put her fingers under his shirt and pinched— Kyle held his hand high over his head as like a rock
star signaling the crowd, and a lantern energy liquor cabinet materialized
between their chairs. Wally took over the explanation in words: “A pre-prohibition bottle of Old No. 7
whiskey—that’s bourbon if you need to be told such things—plucked from the
time stream in 1896 when it was made, eh, probably 30 years prior, give or
take, by one Jasper Newton Daniel, more commonly known as
Jack.” “You… used Speed Force, to zip through time and
pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels made by
Jack Daniels, aged 30 years,” Eel said in
awe. “That one is
Don Lunas Grand Reserve 10-year aged tequila,” Wally continued as if he
hadn’t been interrupted. “Not old by whiskey standards, but trust me,
it is something special. Now that one—” He looked at Kyle quizzically, which one is that? “I couldn’t let him off thinking he’s the only one
that can make a liquor run in the time stream,” Kyle explained and pointed
to the first bottle. “World War I, bottle of Rhum Clement from the old
creole sugarcane plantation in Le Francois, Martinique, it’s not a bad
attempt, but it is something Bruce could pick up at auction, which defeats
the whole idea. This one…” a golden-green halo began to glow
around the remaining bottle, and Kyle’s voice took on the deep quiver in
which proud fathers speak of their children “…is a Barbados Private Estate
dark rum from The Year of Our Lord 1780. Behold. And then
be-holding a glass and pour some.”
The level of Yakuza thug assigned as protective
muscle on an insignificant street far from the red light district isn’t
exactly the A-team. The guy wrote off four dripping wet gaijin the
moment he saw them. When one approached the girls and then returned to
the huddle, it wasn’t cause for concern. He watched them, but not with
concern. The only question was if they could pay, and the girls knew
what to do if there was any doubt. The thunder was the biggest worry. It was
getting louder, and suddenly there was a loud crack and an explosion of
white. The streetlight in front of his stairwell erupted into a hail
of sparks and he ran out with a yelp through a shower of red glowing dots,
hitting his hair, his jacket, his hand—and burning flesh in the second it
took to flick off. Before he knew what was happening, something—an
arm—was around his shoulders, half guiding-half pulling him along. In
a burble of English, the Japanese words for ‘lightning’ and ‘fire’ popped
out, and then suddenly, the burbling stopped and he was surrounded by the
rain-soaked gaijin—who seemed concerned more than drunk or hostile.
And it turned out they spoke passable Japanese.
Neither his hair nor his jacket had caught fire, but
their concern was understandable. Being that close to a lightning
strike was a dramatic thing, and it was actually pretty nice of them to rush
in and help him get clear that way. There was also more thunder, long
rumbles unlike the loud clap that came with the lightning strike but
threatening a deluge to come… and maybe it was the thunder, but the rescue
party suddenly didn’t seem that nice. Three surrounded him, the fourth
stood in front fingering a tempting roll of cash. He croaked a
question in a voice out of a nightmare, and an answer came tumbling out of
his mouth as a reflex—another question and “the Nigerians in
Kabukicho”—another and “Love/Pain in Roppongi”— another— crackle of thunder.
Another crackle of thunder and he was alone again, holding a 5000 yen note.
MAYFAIR CARTE DES ETOILES
Haute couture, or ‘high sewing,’ dates back to
the court of Louis XVI (and more importantly, of Marie Antoinette) though it
wasn’t formalized in France until, ironically, the English born Charles
Worth opened a Paris atelier in 1858 and soon founded the
Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne
to regulate and codify the craft where the most gifted designers from Coco
Chanel to Cristobal Balenciaga would display their art. Couture became synonymous with garments made entirely
by hand and of the very best materials, and created by the most accomplished
craftspeople who complete a twelve year apprenticeship before being
considered full-fledged seamstresses and tailors. Garments are fitted to a
client’s shape and then sent to workshops for the incredibly intricate
embroidery, beading or feathering which takes three to four months or more.
No more than ten examples of any particular design are made, and it has
been estimated that there are no more than 4,000 haute couture clients in
the world. One of these is Selina Kyle, long time
companion and soon to be wife of Gotham’s Bruce Wayne. It was
therefore shocking, though perhaps not surprising, that the tabloid eager to
strip her of every semblance of her true background has alleged everything
from the black lace pilfered by the Harry Potter franchise from the 2008
runway of Alexander McQueen to Ms. Kyle herself doing the pilfering from a
Gotham dress shop. As if any woman known to Couture Week in Paris was
unaware
such garments are built to the body of the wearer requiring numerous
alterations and fittings. Miss Kyle’s patience with these slurs is the
truest testament to her breeding, but the rest of us need not be silent. For the edification of those inventing these
stories, accustomed no doubt to the outlet malls of Bludhaven and
imagining the (alleged) theft of Rembrandts and rubies would equate to the
stealing of a dress,
let us provide more informed speculation: The future Mrs. Wayne would have begun with a visit
to her designer, most probably before the engagement was made public.
Fashion houses keep their clients’ secrets as scrupulously as a doctor, and
there is not a moment to be wasted as the work will take months to complete…
“’…and while couture houses never speak of the
price,’” Lois read aloud, “’any more than they bandy the names of their
customers, these are the wedding gowns of royals and billionaires. To
reach a likely amount, take the price tag offered by the tabloid scribblers,
double it, and then add a zero.’ My
God, the prose is painful!” “Reowrl,” Doris said, making a cat scratch motion.
“It may not be the AP Style Guide, Lois, but he’s sure got the claws out on
Selina’s behalf. I say more power to him.” Lois set down the magazine and picked up her
daiquiri. The women were seated around their villa’s infinity pool,
surrounded by towering palm trees, hibiscus and wild orchids. “Easy for you to say, you didn’t have to read it out
loud,” Lois laughed, her judgment tempered by the cool, soothing drink.
“Not to mention dancing with him,” Selina
added, remembering the rumba at the engagement party. “And
dodging him through the museum, that’s only fun with hunky crimefighters.” “I would’ve thought you’d be happy. Somebody’s
finally punching back against the Post,” Doris said with a wicked smile. “I punch back fine,” Selina said. “Remember
Cat-Tales?” “Yeah but now you’re not
alone; isn’t
that a good thing?” Selina didn’t answer, she just glanced at Lois who
said “Well I’m grateful anyone is laying into the so-called reporters making
up this nonsense, but I still don’t see how anyone can get through his
books.” “You get used to it. Like ceviche,” Doris said,
then she turned to Selina. “Speaking of, where’s Anna? I haven’t
seen her since lunch.” “She’ll be back, she’s trying to find out who that
guy was, when we got on the ferry.” “The smoking hot one checking you out?” Lois teased. “Neither of us think it’s because he’s into leggy
brunettes. He didn’t look twice at you, Lois. Just me and Anna,
the fence and the thief.”
The commercial areas of Roppongi were dark and still,
but the night was just getting started in the bar-nightclub-strip
club-hostess club-cabaret areas. Every third usher, barker, and
salesman identified Clark Kent as the quintessential tourist, and he was
shown Polaroids of the beautiful girls dancing at a club right down the
street. The storm had been and gone in this part of town, a
smell of charred wood and a dead neon sign indicating where the lightning
had hit. The foursome found their way to Love/Pain without much
trouble. There were a few Western faces in the crowd, but not
many. The club obviously didn’t seek out Western tourists like some
places, but it seemed to welcome those who found it because they were
brought by a local. Near the door, Bruce, Clark, Dick and Eddie stood
together looking up at a stripper dancing on a low table while some other
newcomers squeezed past. “Apparently you can thigh-fuck her,” one of them
announced... “Like dry humping?” “Yeah” “Right up there on the table?”
“I suppose.” “More like knee-fuck her.” …and they were gone. While Bruce, Dick and Clark argued who was going to
pony up and cause a disruption, Eddie noticed a small square on one of the
posters by the door. His phone was out and he scanned it as the
argument raged on:
“From what happened on the street, it’s clear
Clark gives off a vibe. He should do it.” “I may have a look.
That’s different from a vibe, and it’s why I
shouldn’t do it.
They won’t be expecting anything from me. It will seem more natural
from one of you—” “Exactly. Never give them what they expect.”
“The element of surprise isn’t a plus here.” “I got this,” Eddie said, brushing past them and
walking quietly up to the girl. He didn’t unzip, merely beckoned with
a fingertip for her to bend down and then whispered something. She nodded, glanced at Bruce and the others, and
stepped off the table. “C’mon, we’re in,” he announced happily, as she waved
for them to follow and led the way to a backroom. “What did you—” Bruce started to ask, when Eddie cut
him off. “Password,” he said, flashing his phone which
displayed the club’s website. “QR-code on the banner over there led me
to it. The whole site is Lorem ipsum text, y’know, the
placeholder stuff. ‘Lorem ipsum
dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit.’
Except for right there.
Kin Gorudo.
I figured that’s the password.” Bruce grunted, and they were led into the back room
where a manager, presumably a low level boss, sat with two young toughs
behind him and a third who came forward to search the newcomers—but shrank
back by a four-headed wave of death glares that caused his stomach to drop,
his muscles to seize, and the blood to drain from his face. The boss
merely smirked at his failure. “My English is not probably up to task of what you
will speak asking about,” he said pleasantly. “That’s not a problem at all. We’ll speak in
Japanese,” Bruce said swiftly in that language, and with perfect
pronunciation and inflection.
A blur of questions and answers followed, during
which Eddie leaned over to Clark and whispered: “It’s from Cicero, you know.” Clark looked down on him warily, but he continued
without encouragement: “The Lorem ipsum thing.
‘Neque porro quisquam est qui dolorem ipsum quia
dolor sit amet, consectetur, adipisci velit.’” “Mhm,” Clark managed, deciding it was one of those
bizarre moments that happened with Gothamites where politeness was the best
course. “It’s from Cicero. It means ‘There is no one
who loves pain itself, who seeks after it and wants to have it, simply
because it is pain.’ Just imagine, 2000 years ago there were people so
messed up, something like that needed to be said out loud. 2000 years
later—” he nodded like the stupidity of the masses was an in-joke with his
new friend “—still just as messed up.” “Why are you talking?” said Dick. “Oh I’m sorry, am I interrupting your enjoyment
of the Kurisawa movie without subtitles,” Eddie said, gesturing to the other
conversation. Before Dick could respond, there was an abrupt
jolt—under the floor and rattling objects on the desk.
“What was—” Dick started to say as a more persistent
vibration began and continued for several seconds. The boss had stood
and his men were filing out the door as calmly as if it were a fire drill
when, almost four seconds into the tremors, it stopped. “Was that what I think it was?” said Dick, alarmed. “What do you call a gin mixer in Silicon Valley?”
said Eddie reflexively, amazed at the natives’ complete lack of concern. “Let’s go, we’ve got what we need,” said Bruce,
leading them out. As they left the club, Clark rejoined them, stepping
in from the side. “Techtonic,” Eddie said dully, answering his earlier
riddle but staring at Clark, confused. “Weren’t you just…” Clark cut him off with a homespun smile. “An
earthquake is what we call breaking news, Mr. Nigma,” he said, holding up
his phone. Bruce changed the subject with what he learned: the
man the Yakuza were looking for was Jax, aka Jaxon Valdorcia, the Australian
cat burglar. After a remark from Eddie that “your night
keeps getting better and better” which led to Dick swatting him on the back
of the head, there was a brief debate on Bruce making a two-minute call to
Selina that could save them hours
chasing their tails around Tokyo versus the
monumentally stupid idea
of calling the bride in the middle of your bachelor night. The ground
shook again, as if the Earth itself was casting a vote in favor of the call.
The prospect of chasing their tails around a
tectonically unstable
Tokyo was even less appealing than doing it in a thunder storm. That led to a new discussion of the time zones:
Selina would be in the middle of her real bachelorette party, a spa weekend
of ultimate indulgence on a private island in Jumby Bay—as was Doris and
Lois—and none of the three ladies’ partners could agree if the island was an
hour ahead of Gotham or behind, which would be two hours ahead of Metropolis
(or not) and how that related to their time in Japan, and how waking her,
catching her at breakfast or interrupting a sunrise massage ranked on the
list of things that would get you off to a bad start... Bruce found a quiet place to make the call—while the
thugs who’d followed them from the strip club watched. It was the
perfect time to strike. Jo, the youngest and greenest of the three,
who also happened to be the biggest, took the lone man who spoke Japanese
and was silly enough to separate from his friends. Riku, Ogura, and
Sando would take the other three.
Since Bruce was isolated, Jo’s fate was sealed in
under a second. The block and takedown were nearly simultaneous and
Bruce had checked that his phone hadn’t been damaged and was performing his
post-battle neck-stretch before Jo’s colleagues even reached their targets. That scene was slightly more complicated, since Eddie
gallantly tried to escort civilian Kent away from the violence—leaving the
junior bat to handle the three hulking brutes, which was of course his job
more than Edward Nigma’s—while Clark tried to help Dick by keeping Nigma’s
back to the fight. The chaos and crossed purposes drew that fight out
for nine seconds. A minute later, Bruce returned. He glanced at
the heap of unconscious Yakuza muscle and then looked at Dick. “Three,” said Dick. “One,” said Bruce. “Nine,” said Dick. “One,” said Bruce.
Dick’s eyes flicked to Nigma and Clark as if to say
“Well I had an audience,” and Bruce grunted. Then he laid out his
leads: This thief hunt was almost certainly taking
place before
the heist. The thief was probably hired by a third party unconnected
to the Yakuza. Ōtemachi is filled with corporate headquarters. Jax
started in the Australian S.I.S., the kind of talent you’d bring in for a
very high security target. The Yakuza somehow got wind of it (possibly
because he had to acquire special equipment once he got here) and figured
whatever he was brought in for, it was too valuable a prize to let anyone
make off with without paying a cut.
“Boy, she’s something, isn’t she?” Eddie said,
bursting with pride. Bruce shot him a look that was… not quite the
judgmental disgust of the crimefighter. His lip twitched. Then
he said: “Now that we know who we’re looking for and why, we
can investigate the hotel.”
The beautiful people had gone. The shamisen
player had packed up for the night. The lobby itself was timeless,
still projecting that zen-like atmosphere that existed apart from the world
with its lunchtime rushes and checkout times, early risers and night owls.
But time still existed with its ebb and flow. The crowd was now
sparse, it defied easy categories, and it presented a difficult problem for
four westerners in search of answers. “Okay, we’re here. Where do we start?” Dick
asked, unmoved by the tranquil beauty that awed most visitors. Clark suggested the staff. Bruce analyzed the
traffic patterns, the sightlines, the exits, and the spot in the lounge that
offered an ideal location to sit quietly and observe. If anyone had
installed themselves there for an hour, nursing a scotch… “What about her?” Eddie suggested. Nodding
slightly and with a polite smile to a plump, older woman in an elegant
business suit, seated alone. “She’s been watching us since we came
in.” He was ignored. Bruce agreed with Clark,
but rather than questioning “the staff” generally, he wanted to begin with
the bartender in that lounge
and any wait staff still on duty there. Unfortunately, the servers
were gone and the bartender was only a half-hour into his shift. But
he did mention “Mrs. Ami” as he fumbled with a package and extracted small
green balls dusted with sugar, which he arranged on a plate with similar
white ones. Mrs. Ami, he said, is a regular. On the
evenings she’s in the lobby, she would be there for hours. If anyone
could tell them about the comings and goings, it would be her. “Told ya,” Eddie said under his breath, while Dick
grinned about “the Japanese Miss Marple.” The bartender set the plate of sweets onto a tray
with a pot of tea and said it was for her, if one of the gentlemen wanted to
take it to her… Eddie had already picked up the tray without waiting for a
consensus and the others started to follow, almost as if to keep an eye on
him in case he was a bewitched child on his way into the witch’s gingerbread
house—when Clark grabbed Bruce’s elbow. “Problem with a train in Kashiwa,” he whispered.
“Probably caused by the quake. I may be a while.” Bruce nodded and Clark was gone. When he caught
up with Dick, Eddie was serving the woman expertly, addressing her as
Ami-san and asking if the green daifuku were flavored with green tea. “They are. They serve western sweets here, as a
rule, but I am a very good customer and they indulge me,” Ami was saying as
she then looked up at the new arrivals before including one in her remarks.
“You speak Japanese very well for an American,” she said to Eddie, though
she was looking at Bruce. “As does Wayne-san,” she added with a nod.
“I remember your, what was it called, ‘town hall’ for stockholders late
last year, and you spoke at the Economics Summit some years before that.”
She switched to English as she said “Welcome back to Tokyo. I’m sure
you find it more agreeable than Dubai.” Her smile was warm with good-humor and maternal
indulgence, and Bruce cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed. He
said he hoped she would be discreet with the information, and she told him
not to worry. “In this lobby I’m afraid there
is the
possibility of a CEO of a multi-national being recognized, but those who do
know Bruce Wayne by sight wouldn’t dream of snapping a picture or tweeting
about it.” She asked them to sit, offered tea and explained
about the sweets which Americans know as mochi. The white rice cakes
stuffed with red bean paste were the originals while the green, “as your
clever friend guessed,” are flavored. A relatively modern innovation.
The rice cake is flavored with green tea and the filling has white cream in
addition to the red bean paste…
Gracious hostessing dispensed with, her manner
returned to that of a charming business woman: “Now I gather you have questions,” she said amiably.
“But before I answer yours, I have a question of my own about the dreadful
weather out there. What did you make of it?” She took in every detail about the rain and
lightning, and projected worse to come if there was flooding or if the
lightning took out electricity for any substantial part of the city.
The earthquake, even if they didn’t feel much here in Tokyo, could have been
more severe elsewhere. Halting factory lines in key industrial areas,
bursting water mains… “Look, I realize a lot of ‘business’ amounts to
thinking through contingencies,” Dick broke in uncomfortably, looking from
Ami to Bruce and back again. “But I don’t see what the benefit is to
listing—” “To say nothing,” Ami said with calm insistence, “of
what the markets will do when they open if this situation is not resolved.” “How can a
thunderstorm be resolved?” asked Eddie. “Or an earthquake,” asked Dick. “And as for the
markets—” “Japan is what you westerners consider
‘superstitious,’” Ami explained in that same calmly insistent tone.
“Take this neighborhood, for instance, very much like your Fifth Avenue or
Wall Street or… what is that English one called… Kensington. And yet,
did you pass a courtyard as you came here. You must have, it’s right
down the street. With the stone frogs, four steps up to a shrine, a
tall stone marker with flowers left before it. Does it not seem
strange to you that such an extraordinary piece of real estate would remain
undeveloped? Well there’s a reason. It’s because that is ‘The
Hill of Masakado's Head.’” “Come again?” asked Dick. “Taira no Masakado?” asked Bruce.
Eddie ate one of the green mochi. “Taira no Masakado, the samurai?” Bruce repeated. “Arguably the first samurai,” Ami said, nodding
to Bruce. “Though hardly the life of honor and service the term now
implies. A warrior landowner who quarreled with influential relatives,
killed several in battle, led a rebellion, declared himself emperor…” she
sighed. “And just generally never walked past a fire without pouring
gasoline on it. The theory, I suppose, is that a raging inferno might
create opportunities. Chaos
creates, though at a dreadful cost. Masakado was one of those who
didn’t mind the cost, since he wouldn’t be the one paying. The powers
that be caught up with him eventually, he died in battle and was beheaded…
That was not the end of his story.” “That’s not usually how it works,” said Dick. “You’d be surprised,” said Eddie, and Bruce shot him
a nasty look, though Ami seemed to regard the interruptions with maternal
indulgence. She continued: “The government had put a bounty on his head, and
that wasn’t a figure of speech in those days. The head was sent to
Kyoto as a trophy while the body was buried. The head didn’t care for
the arrangement and went flying back to the small fishing village where
Masakado was from, which became Edo and is now Tokyo.” “You can’t be serious,” said Eddie. “A flying samurai head?” said Dick. “A demon head,”
Eddie whispered through his teeth. “A
literal demon’s
head.” “Ghost head,” Dick countered. “If we’re being
literal.” “I remember Luthor was trying to get his hands on a
prime lot in Ōtemachi at one time,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “That
would have been this shrine?” “There have been several attempts to develop the
land,” Ami nodded. “In each case, disturbing the head was followed by
tsunami, flooding, mudslides, typhoons, plague, cyclone, volcanic eruption
or war. In 1923 when they got as far as taking down the shrine to
build a Ministry of Finance, it was the Great Kanto Earthquake.
Leveled the building and killed the minister. They restored the
shrine.” “Ready to call him a demon?” Eddie whispered to Dick. “Are you saying something’s happened to the shrine,
and that caused the storms tonight and the tremors?” Dick asked, ignoring
Nigma. Ami smiled with tolerant affection. “I am saying that Japan is superstitious. Today
alone in this hotel, a man had a heart attack, another in the restaurant
choked on his steak, there was a kitchen fire and out front on the street, a
woman was hit by a car. Now, you all are from Gotham, which the world
considers a great metropolis. Is it? Or is it like Tokyo, a
thousand cozy villages laid by side by side and stacked on top of one
another, making up hundreds of distinct neighborhoods? Ōtemachi
is a village like any back street on Aoshima, and come morning, it will all
be known: the heart attack and the fire and the woman hit by the car.
Together with the quake, and the lightning… Japan is superstitious.
There will be panic in this small, close-knit village—that just happens to
be where the business of the nation is conducted. “I tell you, gentlemen, if this night continues
as it is going, if the situation is not resolved by morning, I fear the
markets will crash. The stock market, the currency markets, the
economy could collapse. Compounded with the damage of a quake, or
worse to come, the economy will
collapse. In a day, three or four at the most. “Masakado is what we call ‘onryo,’ not a demon
exactly,” she directed the last words at Nigma with another tolerant smile,
“but a vengeful murder ghost targeting all his rage on the Imperial Family
of Japan, and therefore on Japan.
Bringing economic ruin would be an effective way to begin a new assault.
What is happening must be uncovered and dealt with by sunrise. It
simply must. Do you understand?” “We don’t, but we don’t have to,” Bruce said.
“Thank you for the extensive information. May I ask my questions now?” “We do understand each other,” she said with an
inscrutable smile. “I didn’t expect that. My office is in this
building. Taiyōsama Limited, two floors down. You can find me
there when you’ve done all you need to do.”
Bruce pointed out the spot in the lounge that was of
interest, and Ami described the men she’d seen who had lingered there for
quite some time. All three thought they sounded like Demon, though for
different reasons.
As they got up to leave, Clark quietly rejoined the
group as if he’d been standing behind Nigma’s seat all along. They
split up then, Bruce, Clark and Dick questioning a doorman, bellman and maid
respectively while Eddie left a riddle. It was Dick who found out the
man the Yakuza were asking about was in room 319, a one-bedroom suite, and
Clark who learned he was checked in under the name Mason Vash. Bruce
and Clark went to search the room while Dick returned to the lobby to keep
an eye out for Eddie. “Don’t say it,” Bruce graveled, sensing Clark’s smile
as he pulled a card from his wallet, coding it with a mysterious swipe
across his watch strap as if he and not Jaxon were the notorious cat
burglar. “No, uh-hm, not a word,” Clark murmured as Bruce
opened the door. Bruce then waited as Clark scanned the go-bag, the
drawers… bathroom… and finally declared “He doesn’t stay long. Doesn’t
unpack. Toiletries in the bathroom are the hotel’s…” “This isn’t,” Bruce said, pulling a black case
resembling an airline’s amenities kit from the go-bag and unzipping it. “Not much to search,” Clark said, making his way to
the living room side of the suite. “Quite large for Tokyo,” Bruce said.
“I meant not much that’s his. Tourist flyers
for Sensoji Temple, Meiji, Nezu… He does seem very interested in
shrines and temples.” “Might be why he’s here,” Bruce said, bringing
the black case from the bedroom. “Selina said a likely scenario for
winding up on the Yakuza’s radar is having to get specialty gear after he’d
hit town. Staying in Ōtemachi, he probably assumed he was going to be
hitting a corporate HQ. The gear he brought,” he waved the case,
“would be ideal—infrared paint, black light, silicone polymer,
fast-expanding polystyrene, a wave cancellation box—but he didn’t take it
with him.” “He comes assuming that’s the job,” Clark nodded.
“And after he gets here, he finds out he’s hitting a temple. Some of them
do have museum quality security, I suppose, museum quality artefacts.” “Many do, but not Masakado’s head.” “Did you say—” “I’ll explain later,” Bruce said quickly.
“Right now, we need to take advantage of Nigma’s absence. Fly down the
street to the courtyard with stone frogs and a concrete marker. Give
it a good scan. See if there’s still a human skull buried
underneath or if anything’s been disturbed.” “A skull. You know, Bruce, it isn’t necessary
to try and ‘top’ my bachelor party. The thing with the Phantom Zone
was just—” “Get out of here,” Bruce chuckled, and Clark was
gone.
Bruce continued to search, pocketing a receipt from
the wastebasket when he heard a noise outside the door—
Eddie knew he had no one to blame but himself.
That was his thought as he charged through the hotel towards room 319,
pleased that he’d unearthed the room number but piqued that he found himself
swept up in a Wayne party spiraling towards chaos as they inevitably do. He was giving
Batman a wedding
gift, what did he expect? He had compromised the principles of any
right-thinking rogue, and clearly Nemesis had it in for him as a result.
Demon minions—Bruce was Batman and Batman had to know the two men described
by Ami-san were Demon minions—and that was a nasty coincidence at the very
least. He might even realize they sounded like two “Fangs” from The
Gang of Six, and that was a very nasty coincidence too, if you believed in
them, which Eddie didn’t.
Nemesis on the other hand, Nemesis
sticking it to him
because he’d compromised the principles of any right-thinking rogue and gone
to such lengths to get Bruce and Selina a nice gift, that was all too easy
to believe. That’s why he wasn’t sitting happily in his capsule-bed by
now, watching Japanese Netflix and resting up for a full-bore electronics
binge in the morning. That’s why he was running instead through the
kind of hotel ONLY a Bruce Wayne escapade would uncover, and chasing a story
about a flying samura— He froze. He’d reached room 319, but before he
could begin appraising the lock, the door opened at the slightest
touch—unlatched.
And before he could register—bfwitmp—what
that sound was, he saw Bruce hurling a Demon fang to the ground, holding him
down with his foot on the man’s neck while he twisted another attacker into
a vicious human knot, wrenching a knife from his hand before—oh OUCH, those
look even worse than they feel—before finishing him with one of those
punches that make you question if the bone in your jaw really is harder than
the ones in Batman’s fist. Eddie cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay.
Come the revolution when they introduce CEO cock fighting, my money’s on
you,” he said flatly. Bruce looked at him with Hell Month hatred, which
Eddie optimistically chalked up to the adrenaline of the fight. Still,
it wouldn’t hurt to offer an olive branch, so he pointed to the Demons and
named them. “Second Fang, and Fifth, two of the big shots running
things since Ra’s is up the river. Or down the ocean, I guess we
should say... Or whatever.” “And you know that how?”
Bruce asked. “It’s part of the wedding thing we’ll talk about
later.” “The wedding thing involving
Joker?
Joker and
Demon are involved in this gift of yours?”
Eddie glanced down at the freshly bat-pummeled men on
the floor and, remembering his broken legs, reiterated that they should talk
later.
“We’ve got this whole flying head thing to work on,
remember? One demon head a time, I always say.” He pointed.
“You didn’t hit that one so hard. He’ll be conscious in a minute and
we can get some answers. Or I should say, get confirmation because I’m
pretty sure I’ve figured it out.” Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow, which was all the
encouragement Eddie needed. “These Demon guys are idiots, we can agree on that,
right? Nobody that knows which end is up needs to be told Ra’s al Ghul
is a joke, but these dweebles drink the Kool-aid, smack their lips and ask
for more. To them ‘The Demon’s Head’ is a big deal, so they assume
this Masakado’s Head is also a big deal. It’s just how their pinheads
operate. So they hire this hot shit cat burglar in the mistaken belief
that there’s all kinds of elaborate security to get past. Not, y’know,
a box under a hidden panel in the middle of urban Tokyo.” Bruce’s lip twitched.
“My theory is along those same lines,” he
admitted. “The French police call Valdorcia
Le Maître Rusé,
‘The Wily Master.’ He brought IR paint, an ocular counterfeiter and
silicone polymer. The Yakuza got wind of his coming to town—” “—they make assumptions about what he’s here for.
Decide they want a piece, wet their beak—” “Yes, of course. I was focusing on how they got
wind of it, possibly because once he got here and saw the nature of the job,
he needed a different kind of equipment. There’s a receipt in the
waste bin for a hole-saw bit. Attach that to a silenced drill to bore
his way in without attracting attention—but muzzling a drill isn’t exactly a
modification you pick up at a corner hardware store.” Eddie stared as Bruce continued thinking out loud in
an intense, contemptuous murmur: “Assuming the skull’s in a box. (They
wouldn’t just drop a head they’re afraid of into the dirt; it must be in a
box.) Wood would’ve decomposed long ago, and it is the golden age of
Japanese sword-making we’re talking about. They certainly had the
technology… Best to go in prepared for the steel crates museums use to ship
priceless paintings. Can’t use a torch; it’ll damage the paintings.
Has to get his hands on a small, hydraulic
cutter.” “What the hell kind of dates did you and Selina go
on?” Eddie asked, making a face. “I haven’t confirmed it yet,” Bruce said,
ignoring him, “but judging by the weather, Valdorcia
got the head but
neve—” “Never made it to the hand-off,” Eddie chimed in,
happy to be back on solid ground outside the inner workings of a cat
burglar’s mind. “That’s why these two numbskulls were downstairs so
long waiting for him. When they figured he wasn’t coming, they found
his room somehow and came up themselves to search,” he concluded, and Bruce
grunted. “Since these two didn’t grab him,” Eddie continued,
“gotta assume it’s the Yakuza that grabbed him and they’ve got the head.
So we’re stuck? Dead end?” “Not just yet,” Bruce said slowly. “Keep an eye
on these two.” He’d taken out his phone as he walked into the
bedroom, and Nigma made a slight ‘whip-crack’ motion and smiled.
It was nothing but yawns for a half-minute
after Selina answered the phone, followed by a sleepy
..::Oh, right, your Tokyo thing.::.. Bruce wondered about that. It was over an hour since
the first call and she was wide awake then, but he had more important things
to focus on now: ..:: If the Yakuza got their hands on a priceless
jewel like you’d find in a temple? Well… They wouldn’t bother cashing
out in my opinion. Just use it as currency on the black market, for a gun
buy probably. Much simpler than having to launder funds.::.. “That’s what I was thinking,” Bruce said quickly.
“Now suppose they got a surprise. Expecting a valuable jewel, they
found themselves with an artifact instead. Something they couldn’t
identify. Probably valuable, given how they came by it, but they’re
not sure. With no fence standing by, who would they go to?” ..:: Bruce, the last four times I was in Tokyo
was with you.
It’s—::.. she yawned again.
..:: —been a while. Let me think… I
guess it really depends on who we’re talking about.::.. “Yakuza.” ..:: I know that, but I mean what level. The
little guys (What are they called? Kyodai?) they’re just going to bump it up
if they know what’s good for them. A regional boss, second lieutenant,
maybe the same. Shateigashira or higher… maybe there’s a guy in
Ginza.::.. “Forget the Yakuza. It’s you. Middle of
the night in Tokyo, authorities closing in—” ..::This is me?::.. “Batman’s closing in.” ..:: Kon'nichiwa, Dāku Kishi.
Hoteru ikou.::.. “Something that you
actually consider a threat
is closing in and you need to act quickly. In the middle of the night,
in Tokyo. Where can you find out what this thing is, get what you can
for it and be rid of it? Where do you go?” ..:: Okay, um… Yoyogi-Uehara in Shibuya.
There’s, like, a trendy slow-drip coffee place above a tiny fashion boutique
behind a workshop for tatami mats next to an old family run noodle shop.::.. “Are you kidding me?” ..:: Bruce I haven’t had coffee yet. And—I
don’t believe I’m saying this but—whatever it is you got Tommy Pearl into
over there, may I remind you that it’s illegal and you don’t approve of that
kind of thing?::.. “I don’t approve of Yakuza snatching cat burglars
hired by Demon either.” ..:: … ::.. ..:: … ::.. ..:: … ::.. ..:: Bruce, you’re supposed to, like, go to a titty
bar. Drink a lot of vodka. Maybe have a stripper or
something—::… “Selina.” ..:: I know, I know, we’ll never be like normal
people and we can’t make sense of our relationship using their standards…
but there aren’t supposed to be demons and yakuza and hot thieves auctioning
stolen intel on Venezuela’s oil reserves.::.. “Excuse me?” ..:: Yeah, well, we sort of took a break from spa
treatments and went to the casino last night. There was a private
party upstairs that turned out to be more of a Zanzibar marketplace to sell
this… y’know what, never mind. The Yakuza thing, there is a place in
Ginza.::.. “A hot
thief you said.” ..:: Get off the grand boulevards and promenades.
From Mitsukoshi, head up towards Armani, Dior, that place we stopped for
candied chestnuts, and duck down this opening beside some vending machines,
I’m sure Clark can find it. There’s a big blue and white curtain
covering a locked door with a buzzer.::.. “How hot is this thief?” ..:: Ganbatte, darling. I really need coffee
before my massage. Ciaomeow!::..
Clark and Dick reached room 319 just in time to see
the door open. They stared as two Demon minions were marched out as
prisoners, the one’s arms twisted behind his back, wrists held high with the
nerve torqued in a brutal sankyo by Bruce. The other equally compliant
from a simple thumb lock courtesy of Edward Nigma. “Oh God,” said Dick. “What are you
doing?” asked
Clark. “Not here,” ordered Bruce. The Demons were
awkwardly turned and marched back inside—Eddie’s prisoner followed by Eddie,
Bruce’s prisoner followed by Bruce—leaving Clark and Dick to look at each
other for a moment, shrug, and then follow. The full war council was delayed by a second
earthquake several seconds longer and a Richter point higher than the
first—which cemented a truce among everyone present except Clark, who had
run for the bathroom, presumably to vomit, and who looked frantically
uncomfortable with the situation when he returned. With exquisite
condescension Eddie signaled Dick to keep an eye on Fifth Fang (who, truce
or not, he considered his responsibility) and he led Clark aside and argued
with surprising insight for the leads a talented Daily Planet reporter would
have as a result: Tokyo underworld, Tokyo real estate, Japanese superstition
and the financial markets, Demon… Because let’s face it, that wife of his
has a tendency to lap him. As a reporter and a writer, Clark Kent, the
author of Strange Bedfellows and the guy who arguably took down the Luthor
administration singlehanded, generally came out looking less brilliant than
he might at another paper out of her shadow. And she was now, at this
very moment, with Selina and Selina’s friends on Jumby Island doing who
knows what— Bruce’s ears perked up at that, and Eddie moved them
farther away and whispered intently that Clark really should snap up
whatever opportunities Tokyo-with-Bruce-Wayne handed him.
Clark allowed himself to be persuaded, and when the
pair finally returned to the group, information was pooled and equipment
inventoried: the Demons each had grappling hooks and an assortment of hidden
blades, shuriken and a syringe, while Eddie had lock picks and an app with
real-time listings and a GPS locator for whatever stores were open in a
given square mile of Tokyo, indexed by the type of merchandise offered.
And everyone had bone-conduction mic-earpieces they pretended were
run-of-the-mill accessories for their smart phones. Bruce considered
it all, as well as the sophisticated burglary tools Jaxon had left behind,
and then he looked over his companions: Clark, Dick… Nigma… and the Demons. “Okay,” he said finally. “Here’s what we’re
going to do.”
Six men in cheap, plastic Tengu masks synchronized
identical diving watches in a dark corner of a Ginza parking garage.
The group then split up, two going back towards the convenience store that
sold the masks, two south towards a Pokka Sapporo vending machine, and two
taking the stairs straight up.
The last pair took a position on the roof of a camera
store. “So even
Americans know that guards watch windows
and doors,” said Second Fang. “And if the roof is nothing but plywood
and asphalt tiles, it’s a quick, easy way in for anyone with a saw blade and
drill to make a hole. Insert a small mirror to look around. Add
a few ounces of C4 on the brackets holding the door and this would be a two
minute job.” “Luckily, you don’t have any of that,” Clark
said, keeping his disapproval low-key. “Saves us having to talk you out of
using it. It would be too much of a risk damaging the Masakado head.”
Though he mentally added ‘Not to mention
the people inside.’ The first pair were crouched behind a parked car on a
side street, mixing a strange concoction.
“Olive oil and cheap motor oil,” Eddie said happily.
“The poor man’s Ethan Hunt diversion. Low smoke point, smelly
automotive odor. What do you call a spanking good way to get
everyone’s attention without sending them running for their lives?” Fifth Fang studied him.
“Yes, but what are you doing here?” he asked
suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be at home securing Gotham? Your
great enemy is…” he trailed off then said “Is this not the time?” “That’s my business,” Eddie said in a casual
sing-song, never lifting his eyes from his work. “You know how to
hotwire a car, don’t you? I mean, you’re not so high up in the
super-demon-ninja ultra-elite-assassin hierarchy that you’ve forgotten the
basics, right?” “I can hotwire the automobile,” Fifth said, coating
each syllable with contempt. “Great,” Eddie said, producing a toothbrush.
“Then as soon as I get the exhaust pipe coated with this, we’ll be ready to
go.” The final pair found the blue and white curtain
Selina described. “Tengu masks, really?” Bruce complained, and Dick
shrugged. “They are masks. I figured we’d have to
improvise something with bandanas and sunglasses, wind up looking like a
gang of biker-pirates.”
Behind the red, knob-nosed Tengu face, Bruce
glowered… The Roof Team fired the Demons’ grappling hooks to a
lower roof and rappelled down one-handed, one like a Special Forces operative
trained to keep a hand free to hold a machine gun; the other like a man who
could fly and was only using the rope to fit in. The Car Team finished coating the exhaust pipe.
The Curtain Team swabbed the syringe with alcohol.
The Roof Team bored through the ceiling and inserted
a small mirror. The Car Team started the engine and walked quickly
but unobtrusively away from the car and towards a particular alley. The Roof Team reported three guards on the top floor,
two windows, and no sign of a safe or vault. Bruce acknowledged the report and rang the buzzer.
In seconds, the intercom crackled. “Car! Your car is on fire,” he said anxiously in
Japanese. “You need to get down here! It’s on fire! Pouring out
smoke!” There were anxious voices on the intercom. From
their vantage point in the alley, the Car Team reported a man looking out
the window. In seconds he came running out the door, where Bruce
seized him and shoved, Dick twisted him into a choke hold and let him feel
the bite of the syringe at his neck. His imagination would do the
rest, and Dick released him with a lighter shove against the wall.
Again Bruce spoke in Japanese: “You’ve just been injected with three ccs of
benzanine methylchlorate. You’ll be dead in five hours without the
antidote, which I have right here.” He gestured with a breath mint.
“The first tablet can be yours in ten minutes if you cooperate. Not
enough on its own, but it will slow the poison down, buy you another twelve
hours. Plenty of time to make it to ten o’clock tomorrow when—as long
as we don’t run into trouble after we leave here—I’ll come back and give you
the second pill. You understand?” The fence nodded vigorously, and Bruce and Dick
marched him back inside. On the roof, Clark scanned for the alarm box, wires
and radio waves. Identifying the alarm proper and the point where it
interfaced with the phone line, he stumbled, drawing Second Fang’s attention
as he clumsily righted himself. Second congratulated himself for
finding it so quickly and went to work with Jaxon’s polystyrene, the
fast-expanding fire foam filling the box and silencing it. While he
was busy, Clark picked up a chunk of asphalt tile and palmed it—and he
listened. Two floors down, he heard the fence returning to his home
with Bruce and Dick in tow. He called off the guards in what was
certainly a coded message, and Clark kept his eyes peeled for any sign of a
silent alarm attempting to call out. When the moment came, he tossed
the asphalt, drawing Second Fang’s attention away from the wire box and
watched—sensing the invisible surge, he shot a quick beam into the wires,
frying the attempt to call out and then directing a puff of cold before the
smell of sizzling wires could be noticed. Downstairs Bruce was getting answers, none of them
good: War was coming to the Yakuza. A large faction
of over 2,000 had splintered from the main syndicate and formed a rival
outfit in the Kansai region west of Tokyo. They complained about
profits being squeezed, high membership fees, and the boss favoring his own
faction. The old cash cows like loan-sharking, drugs and protection
weren’t paying like they used to, and the Yakuza were moving into financial
crimes: corporate takeovers, financial fraud, insider trading… It made the
prospect of this burglary in Ōtemachi very appealing.
Yes, they were expecting a
corporate prize
not a samurai head, but the boss who heard about it—a powerful wakagashira
called Nakamura—wasn’t disappointed. “Because this war is coming, and the battleground is
going to be Tokyo. This head is a powerful symbol to possess.
Many Yakuza trace their roots back to the 17th Century samurai warriors…” The fact that a bloody mob war raging across the city
was exactly the kind of destruction the head was known to bring didn’t seem
to bother him. And then it got worse— “This Australian can’t be allowed to go home,” the
fence was saying. “It wasn’t my decision, you understand.
Came from high up. ‘Send a message.’ Usually a body goes into
the foundation of a building; never found. This Jaxon, they want to be
found. They are going to arrange for him to ‘fall’ free climbing in
his gear.” What Second Fang saw was no longer important, and
Clark scanned the horizon in all directions—suddenly and inexplicably
transformed into a hyper-alert lookout—while in reality looking much farther
and processing more detail than a squad of lookouts with thermal-
telescopic- and alternate-spectrum scopes. “What’s that?” Bruce’s voice asked sharply—and Clark
didn’t have to look through the roof and ceiling to know it was a cue: Bruce
would be looking up, drawing everyone’s attention to the ceiling and giving
him the opening he needed. “They’ve heard us, we have to go!” Clark cried,
dragging Second by the back of his shirt and ‘running’ to the edge of the
roof just fast enough that the Demon’s feet lost touch with the surface.
At the roof’s edge he shoved/dropped Second Fang to the fire escape and shot
straight up into the air too fast for human eyes to process. From a
high vantage point, he continued to scan—two—three—five seconds before he
spotted them. Back in Ōtemachi— Four men on a roof, three hustling a fourth to the
edge. He was begging. Superman could hear him as he flew towards
the scene—two held him while the third hit him hard—he went semi-limp and
the begging stopped for several beats—then he was screaming—and then— Then he was clawing wildly at Superman’s arm—trying
to gain purchase before he processed what was— happening. He— He
wasn’t falling anymore. He wasn’t falling anymore.
He was— Superman. Up. Superman caught him. He wasn’t falling
anymore, Superman caught him and they were going back
up! “I know none of us approve of thieves, but I don’t
think you gentlemen are legitimate law enforcement,” Superman said when they
landed back on the roof.
No one used the word ‘coward’ when Clark caught up
with the group. Eddie had seen enough movies where the bad guy gets
squirrely and shoots up a ceiling, and the Demon Fangs knew how often
assassins really did come in that way. Shooting up a ceiling was the
thing to do if you suspected something, and so Clark’s fear of being shot,
given where he was and what he heard, was perfectly valid as far as they
were concerned.
The prospect of
continuing this
misadventure burdened with excitable civilians, however, that was a lot to
ask. They didn’t want to perish in an earthquake, but if local
gangsters wanted to go at each other with grenades and machine guns after
they’d left, or for that matter, if they wanted to commission motorcycle
gangs to attack third parties with baseball bats, well, that was none of
Demon’s business. Unless it happened to create an instability that the
Demon’s Head could take advantage of, which was probably why Ra’s al Ghul
wanted to acquire the head in the first place. So the Demons were
ready to go— In the interests of prolonging the truce for a few
more hours, Eddie proposed that the two Fangs go back to partnering each
other. That way they would have a partner with all the same training
and the same fashion sense, and the same obvious devotion to a moldy old
head that hadn’t been used for thinking for several hundred years… at which
point he’d maneuvered Fifth Fang to step back into the same puddle Second
was standing in. His fist was suddenly swinging at Fifth as if to stab
him in the throat, when the taser he held in place of the knife took down
both men in 1.4 seconds of jaw-droppingly brutal efficiency. “Forgot I had this,” Eddie said with a happy smile,
waving the taser like a toy wand. And then, noticing the stares from
the heroes he added “Oh like you guys didn’t hold anything back during
Inventory Share Time.” When he still got no reaction, he continued “I
say put ‘em in the back of that van and we get going on this Nakamura thing,
and pray it’s the endgame. Every hour this goes on is cutting into my
electronics shopping in the morning.” More stares. “Morning,” he said enthusiastically. “Reward
for living through the night, nature’s way of saying ‘Sunrise Achievement
Unlocked.’ I don’t know about you, I am flying out tomorrow, assuming
we put the tsunami cork back in the bottle, and before that happens I’m
going shopping for—” “Nigma, what are you talking about?” sputtered Dick.
“Why are you strutting like it’s all downhill from here.” “You got the guy’s name, kid. Nakamura.
In Tokyo that’s all you need. Yakuza are more open than Rogues about
who they are and where they live. They carry business cards.
They’re in the telephone directory. Offices with a little brass
nameplate on the door reading ‘Sumiyoshi-kai.’ Sure, there’s a big
sumo-size guy on the door, but it’s not like
that’s going to
be a problem with this crowd, right?”
The ‘endgame’ at Nakamura’s wasn’t quite as
effortless as Nigma predicted, but it was close. He was only a few
streets away in another Ginza back street, and as predicted, the name of the
boss’s Yakuza clan was displayed boldly on the door. A synchronized effort
coming in through the roof, the trash disposal and the sewers rendered the
sumo-sized doorman moot. A second trip to the convenience store had
supplied a broom, a block of styrofoam, electrical tape and hairspray, which
thwarted almost a million dollars worth of thermal cameras, motion
detectors, and a light sensor so sensitive it could detect the glow of an
uncovered watch. “That motion sensor won’t see anything move for
weeks,” Eddie giggled, offering Bruce a high five which he scowled at and
then hesitated. “C’mon,” Eddie gestured at the at the block of
styrofoam on a broomstick, then at the tape on his watch. “We just
beat almost a million dollars worth of security with an $18 trip to the
7-Eleven. The girls would be proud.” Bruce completed the high-five with a reluctant smile,
then said “Let’s not tell them. There’s a WayneTech R&D lab in Oregon
with a security set up very much like this. It would kill Selina if
she knew.” “Then we shall not speak of it,” Eddie said.
“Lips sealed or Ad Ellipses,
you might say.” A more elaborate five-and-fist bump followed that
might have been the secret handshake of men bedding world-class cat
burglars. Dick and Clark merely looked at each other, confusion and
shock competing with shock and confusion, as Eddie and Bruce considered the
fingerprint pad on the door to Nakamura’s private office. “Got the Silly Putty?” Eddie asked casually. “The silicone polymer,” Bruce graveled, pulling a wad
of the stuff he’d taken from Jaxon’s kit at the hotel. “People never wipe off the scanner after they’ve used
it,” Eddie explained as Bruce applied the putty to the lens like a pro.
“So there’s usually a beautiful print sitting there right on the glass.” On cue, there was a click and the door unlatched.
Again, the men married to non-cat burglars looked at each other, then Clark
signaled for Dick to keep Nigma distracted while he surreptitiously
approached the safe. There was no time for Bruce or Nigma to cold-crack
it—if they even could without special equipment, where all Clark had to do
was look through the door and watch the cylinders as he turned the dial.
Quickly determining that the combination was 19-14-33-81, he scribbled it on
a slip of paper and left it in the desk drawer which would be the first
place the others would look… An hour later, they waited in Ami’s office in the
same sleek high-rise as the hotel where they’d met her.
Bruce and Dick, Nigma and Clark, Second Fang, Fifth,
and Jaxon Valdorcia had all filed into the Taiyōsama offices approximately
an hour before dawn with the head of Taira no Masakado in an ancient iron
and lacquer box. A savvy business woman, Ami quite understood Bruce
Wayne’s desire to keep up the illusion that he was in Dubai, and she readily
agreed to deal with the police on their behalf. A prominent figure in
Ōtemachi, she could turn over the head, with or without the thief and the
ninja cult that hired him, and tell whatever story she liked. The
police would make do because they knew it was all they were going to get.
She had sent all but Jaxon to an inner office while
she received the officers. Bruce, Clark and Dick had settled on the
right side of the room, Eddie and the Fangs on the left. But then
Fifth Fang took out a shuriken, apparently using it to clean under his
fingernail while studying Eddie. His eyes drifting from pocket to
pocket until they settled on the crinkle of fabric that revealed where he
hid the taser. Eddie edged silently to the heroes’ side of the room
and smiled at Clark amiably. “So… Metropolis…” he said, doing his best imitation
of henchmen standing around talking sports. “How about those Meteors.” The door opened, Mrs. Ami said the coast was clear,
and everyone returned to the outer office to see that both Jaxon and the
head were gone. Ami dismissed Bruce’s thanks with vague amusement,
repeating that she was sympathetic to his situation but it wasn’t her only
reason for dealing with the police herself.
“A gang of Americans could only raise the profile of
the situation, not really what we want to calm the markets and forestall
economic chaos.” Her eyes then fell on Fifth Fang who didn’t hide his
sneer when she mentioned Americans.
“I will see the two of you next,” she said, the
slightest edge in her tone as she pointed the way to the inner office where
they’d all waited before. The Demons filed in as instructed, and an awkward
silence descended among those left behind. Eddie looked around the
beautifully appointed corner office. “This is nice,” he observed. The washi
screens, the pinewood floor and tatami rug, the kind of less-is-more the
Japanese do like no one else. The footprint was larger than Jaxon’s
room in the hotel, but it had a similar layout and view—though as a corner
it had two
walls of windows, so the panoramic view of Tokyo was extended into the east
where the sky was quickly easing from pre-dawn purple into a light
lavender-orange-gold. Clark giggled suddenly and clutched the edge of a
table subtly as if to steady himself. “Whoa,” he said, the hoarse rasp in his voice
associated with marijuana. Bruce turned, expecting to make eye-contact for the
silent communication often engaged in between partners. Instead he saw
only a deep flush and a goofy smile on his friend’s face. Before he
could comment, his attention—and everyone’s—was drawn to the door to that
inner office. A new voice could now be heard from behind it—familiar
in that it was female and must be Mrs. Ami, but intensely commanding unlike
anything they’d heard before now, and completely at odds with her gracious,
charm. It was also… “What is she
saying?”
Bruce murmured. …speaking some sort of ancient dialect barely
recognizable as the Japanese he knew. Bruce took a step towards the
door, presumably to hear better, when— “There he goes,” Clark laughed. “C’mon,
Bruce, give it a rest. I know you like to stick your nose in
everyone’s business, but your quiet, no-drama bachelor party turned into a
hunt for the Samurai Headless Horseman. Accept that the plan has gone
a-wry.” “Are you
drunk?” Dick asked. “I think I might be, just a little,” Clark said, a
slight roll as his head turned to Dick. “It’s been a long night for someone like him,” Eddie
said kindly. “Will you all be quiet?” Bruce hissed, trying to make
sense of the bits and pieces he was getting through the door—when the whole
room flashed with a blinding flare of solar energy and the Demons behind the
door began screaming their heads off. The commanding voice continued
over them for another few sentences, and then… Silence. The door opened. Fifth Fang and Second filed out numbly. They
didn’t look at anyone, or speak, as they passed through the outer office and
made their way out the door. “Um,” Dick managed. Clark did his best drunk-trying-to-look-sober while
Eddie eyed Bruce expectantly. “Well?” he prompted. “What little I got can be summed up as ‘Go tell your
little fake god that he’s been beneath the attention of the real ones until
now. If he so much as contemplates sushi for lunch in the next five
hundred years, we’ll know. Sayonara now.’” “In Rao’s name,” Clark said. “You’re closer than you think,” Bruce replied,
turning to the door to the inner office, which remained open. He took
a tentative step towards it, and the others followed.
Mrs. Ami looked precisely as she had before except
that her previously pink and red suit was now a solid, dazzling white. “Gentlemen,” Bruce said solemnly, “I introduce you to
Amaterasu-ōmikami, the Shinto goddess of the sun.” “I have many names, Wayne-san. I am Hae-nim in
Korea, Xihe in most of China. Here in Japan, yes, Amaterasu, and the
Imperial Family are my children. You might say Japan is as well.
What mother wouldn’t keep watch when a child is in peril. You
gentlemen have been very helpful.” Then to Bruce she added in that
ancient Japanese dialect, “But then you take these false demons as your
special burden, do you not?” “If I understand you,” Bruce said, clearly struggling
with the strange dialect, “I didn’t track them here. It was only
chance that we got involved in this.” “Modern minds and western minds,” Amaterasu
laughed. “You know just enough—you’ve learned to
see just
enough—that you think what you can’t see isn’t there.” She glanced up
at Clark, and continued in English. “There are always connections.
That’s why it troubled me, all this…
finance growing up around Masakado when the
Bay receded.” “You don’t approve of big business?” Clark asked, a
reporter asking the obvious follow-up. “It’s fine for buying a fish,” she said, smiling.
“You walk away with your dinner, the fisherman walks away with his money. A
fine alternative to violence for distributing this world’s resources, I
approve entirely.” “But?” Bruce prompted. “But. The transactional mentality, debits and
credits... You believe that you borrow, you pay back and it’s done.
You wrong someone, you apologize and it’s done; do harm, you make it right
and the matter is finished.”
She shook her head sadly. “But there are always connections you don’t
see,” she looked down at Clark’s hand, and looked as though she was about to
say something about it, then changed her mind. Instead she said “Drink
water from a well and it becomes a part of you, always. These bodies
of yours are composed of little else, the particles of you before you drank
intermingle with the particles of the water itself. They become one
and the same. Honor the spirit of the well you draw from, that honor
becomes part of you. Offend
the spirit of the well, the offense will always be with you. “The grievances of the onryo cannot be paid off
like a bond at six percent interest. They are always with us.
The debt is.” She considered each man, and seeing only confusion in
their eyes, she moved on. “But tonight the four of you shouldered the burden.
Allow me to offer a token of thanks.” She presented Clark, Eddie and Dick with a piece of
metal she called “menuki,” the decorative ornaments woven under the
handle-wrapping of a katana. She intimated that they were from the
sword of a samurai who had done her a particular service, and each was
etched with a sun and sun-dragon. She held a fourth, but rather than
handing it to Bruce, she gestured with a playful twinkle that almost
resembled Catwoman teasing him back in the day. “Walk with me,” she said, stepping towards the door.
He followed and when they were out of earshot for all
but Clark she said “So, Wayne-san. Your ‘last night of freedom’ (that
is the phrase, is it not?) before beginning a new phase of your life, and
you managed to spend it apprehending a cat burglar. Jaxon Valdorcia.
Skilled in the art of thievery, but not what I would call a person of
quality. Not like your charming feline.” “You know Selina?” he asked, nearly skipping a step. “Many years ago she was employed by a Jason Blood to
recover some items I had given the Imperial Family that were taken for…
reasons best not delved into after tonight’s upheaval. But I liked
her. We understood each other right away. And she made me laugh. “I teased her. Her heart was so clearly spoken for,
and she was so utterly unaware. I said I would introduce her to
Tsukuyomi, my brother. Because of her name; he is god of the moon.
It was quite sweet, how she demurred. Trying so hard to hide her
complete lack of interest. So you are her samurai of the shadows.” “Um,” was the best Bruce could manage, and Amaterasu
laughed. Then she became quite solemn as she looked him up and down: “Fear, Justice… the avatar of a Bat. Honor the
spirit of the well you draw from, Wayne-san.” She handed over the menuki,
not like a Shinto goddess bestowing a token of thanks, but like a Japanese
business woman presenting her business card. “I wish you joy, progeny
worthy of your name, honor that lives on in their memories and inspires
generations to come.”
Bruce had pointed Clark and Dick to a café-bakery in
Akasaka that boasted “a taste of Gotham in Tokyo.” He told them to try
the American breakfast and said he’d catch up with them in an hour for the
trip home. He allowed ten minutes for Clark to become fully occupied
with his pancakes, then made his way to the modest hotel where he knew Nigma
would be staying. Ordinarily, there would be no question of Clark
eavesdropping on something that was clearly none of his business, but Bruce
had seen Best Man mode reengage as soon as they were free of Nigma, and it
was best to be sure. His timing was perfect, reaching the hotel just as
Nigma was checking out and intercepting him as soon as he stepped onto the
street. “Well?” was
the minimalist greeting. “Good morning,” Eddie said, as if setting an example
for someone unfamiliar with non-rogue/bat interaction. “Good morning,” Bruce echoed, then resumed the
deep bat-gravel. “What did you do to
Joker?” Eddie sighed, and then pointed to a convenience store
where he was going for breakfast and began walking that way. “Your instinct will be to hear this a certain way,
without context, and react. But if you just wait and hear the whole
thing, you’ll see it’s really the best outcome possible. I semi-killed
him. Now don—” “You what?” “—flip out, it was temporary. I took Victor’s—” “Edward” “—ice gun, which is not a precision weapon. The
recoil is something—” “Nigma!” “—fierce and it puts a weird spin on the spray, but
the ice balls are big enough that it doesn’t matter so—” “Stop talking.” “—much. Still took like six shots to really get
him in there.” “Edward.” “I know, I know, you’re impatient, I’ll skip to the
good part.” “The good part?!” “Point is, he was stone cold. Dead for
all intents and purposes. And that’s where Demon comes in. See
it turns out something’s happened to Ra’s al Ghul, and as we saw last night,
the bozos running things while he’s gone aren’t exactly bright. You
see that story in the Gotham Post, ‘The War of Jokes and Riddles’?
That was me.” He smiled proudly. “I planted the story. Little
riff on the drama with Falcone, was all it took to convince them
I’m a homicidal maniac
with such a hate-on for Joker
that I’d off him— “Temporarily!” Eddie squeaked, off the
completely indiscernible emotion
in Bruce’s eyes. The thought of the death of his hated foe—of another
actually doing what Bruce himself had surely wrestled with doing but stepped
back from time and time again. Would it engender relief? Guilt?
Wrath? Or a stormy mixture of all? Nigma had riddled himself silently how
many of those paths would lead to broken bones, and now, faced with those
unfathomable but definitely impassioned eyes, he riddled again. Still,
he pressed on. So far, his legs were unbroken and the only way was
forward: “It’s not like I ever considered
leaving him dead.
Even though it might be the best wedding present I could possibly give you
kids, I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a murder-eyed
Harley hovering over me with a sledgehammer ready to reenact that scene from
Misery with a pair of starving hyenas thrown in for fun.” Bruce closed his eyes, tipped his head forward, and
rubbed his temples. It looked like progress, and Eddie continued: “I had intermediaries pretending to be ‘Team Joker.’
They made contact with Demon, worked their way up to the ‘Fangs’ and
convinced them the best way they could stick it to you was to plop Joker in
the Lazarus Pit and bring him back.” “And suppose they refused?” “Brucie, I told you, they’re
dumb. That
Demon crowd are really, really dumb. You think I can’t maneuver them
to do whatever I want as easily as you do?” “Go on.” “This War of Jokes and Riddles made it perfectly
plausible that I had murdered Joker, and anyone with a rudimentary grasp of
the situation could see the best way to stick it to Batman was to make sure
it didn’t take. Joker is in the Making-Batman-Miserable business, it’s
a natural. Demon droogies bought it and put him in the pit.” “And?” “And? What do you think? The stuff makes
Ra’s crazier with every dip. What was there a 99.974% chance it would
do to Joker, maxed out on crazy since Day One?” Bruce closed his eyes, envisioning it. “It made him sane.”
“It made him sane!” Eddie crowed triumphantly.
“It’ll wear off, unfortunately, but for now he’s
curled up in a ball,
just paralyzed with horror at all the terrible things he’s done. It’s
great! Now, I know you’re not going to say anything that sounds
remotely like approval, but trust me when I say it’s a sight to see and you
would’ve enjoyed it.” Bruce glared. “Right, so, point is, he will not be showing up
at the wedding making a nuisance of himself. You and I are even for
that… delay
coming after me when Doris came back, and everything can go back to the way
it was.” The angry glare hadn’t faded and for a moment another
ominous Bat-declaration seemed to hover on his lips, but something stopped
him. Instead, it was the voice and manner of Bruce Wayne at the Empire
Club feigning sympathy for a colleague whose stock dropped a quarter point. “Edward, she’s
invited you to the wedding.
Doris ‘made the cut’ and is with her right now on Jumby Island. Back
to the way it was isn’t in the cards for any of us.” “I can dream,” Eddie said with a stubborn smile.
Then he glanced sideways at Bruce’s eyes which only moments ago glared with
the sinister Bat-intensity that was expected given the Joker news.
Eddie had planned for it, was prepared to weather the storm—but he never
expected the storm to pass as quickly as this. Back to the way it was isn’t in the cards for
any of us… Yeah, okay, but he’d
killed Joker—temporarily
but still. He had hoped after the initial outburst Bruce would calm
down and take the gift in the spirit it was intended, but he didn’t
realistically expect him to calm down as quickly as this! “Speaking of Jumby Island, Edward, apparently between
spa treatments and ceviche they’re doing something with, ahem, ‘a hot
thief.’ If you find out what, I would appreciate a detailed report.” “Y-yeah,” said Eddie, thinking this was the weirdest
riddle he’d ever come across. “Will do.”
Gracious Lady,
It is my hope this union brings joy to yourself and
to Him whose name must not be spoken. Pikhai,
NEXT
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