Metropolis.

The City of Tomorrow.

It is very different from Gotham and for that reason alone I try to stay away. Today, however, is different. I'm back in Metropolis—against my wishes—because I'm on a manhunt.

Four days ago, during a riot at Arkham Asylum, the Joker slipped away unnoticed. In league with The Riddler and the Scarecrow, Joker engineered a riot and ensured no one was getting into Arkham without exceeding difficulty. They killed all or most of the guards inside, let loose the Maximum Security inmates, and blew every bridge that led from the island to the rest of Gotham. It took the combined efforts of Robin, myself, Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon to take control.

When it was over, the Asylum was secure and the instigators were sent to Blackgate until the bridges could be repaired. Mayor Krol tells me they'll be back up by the end of the month, and the inmates will be in reinforced cells.

All of them except the Joker.

I've come to the City of Tomorrow tracking a madman, and I've brought Tim along to assist.

There aren't many reasons for Batman to be in this city, but Bruce Wayne can pretend to look interested in new markets. And curry favor, for however brief a time I'll be here, with the resident philanthropist.

Luthor can lead me to Joker. I'll make certain of that.

Downtown.

LexCorp International is the official title of a massive firm, its fingers in countless technological and political pies across the country. It's also the weekday occupation of its eponymous founder, one Alexander Joseph Luthor, himself solely responsible for its birth and genesis into a consistent Fortune 500 ranking. In the course of fourteen years, Luthor brought his company up from nothing—from the top floor of the Daily Planet building to its own building in the heart of Metropolis.

From nothing to something.

And what a something it is.

The LexCorp Tower itself is a glittering monolith, the highest (or so the tour guides say) skyscraper in all of downtown Metropolis. Its façade appears as sheer glass and metal, and a bird's eye view suggests the building's spire is nothing more than a slanted capital letter L. Indeed, the entire building follows the L shape, from the slanted highest point down to an indiscriminate loading dock on the building's rear. Of course, only the best and shiniest and most inspiring parts of the tower are visible, either by plane or by passers-by.

Its very existence is a message to Metropolis.

Welcome to Lex Luthor's City of Tomorrow.

The 97th floor is the topmost. It's occupied almost totally by Luthor's office, as well as a small corridor that leads out of his office, past his secretary's desk, to a single bronze-paneled elevator.

A smaller part of the floor—accessible only from inside Luthor's office, one that doesn't show up on schematics—is for his private use.

His office is colored in muted, darkened tones: Deep purple carpeting and twin leather chairs, colored rich faux green, are at angles in front of a wide oak desk.

Luthor sits slouched behind that desk, using one hand to sweep through the morning crossword. His other hand wraps itself around the stem of a wine glass and raises it every few minutes, tasting the Merlot.

A Bose stereo across the office belts out the Habanera from Carmen. A meter away, a flat-panel television plays the WGBS evening news on mute.

Luthor's laptop automatically scrolls through the Daily Planet's RSS feed.

In the middle of his Merlot, his phone rings. Slender, tapered, hands slip away from the laptop, grasp the phone lightly and raise it to his ear.

"What is it, Eve?"

"Bruce Wayne is on line three, sir. Should I put him through?"

Luthor smiles thinly. "Yes."

Teschmacher complies. The other end of the line hisses as she transfers the call. Luthor cradles the phone between his ear and his shoulder and opens his email client. The line hisses again. Luthor composes his message to Tech Support on the fortieth floor and asks them to check network connections from the fortieth on up.

Wayne bursts in with an annoying baritone.

"Hello, Lex! How are you?"

Luthor shuddered and held the phone an inch away from his ear.

"I'm fine Bruce."

"Glad to hear it, very glad."

Luthor cradles the phone again and began scrolling through his email. "May I ask," he says to Wayne "why you're calling me at this hour?" He drafts a message to Lois Lane at the Planet with succinct times for a dinner date the following day. He doesn't craft it as a question.

"Well," Wayne says and coughs loudly. "I was in the tub the other day when I had an epiphany—"

"That must've hurt."

"What? Anyway, I figured I haven't been to your city in…well, who knows how long, and I wanted to pay the old girl a visit. See how things are treating her and how they're treating you, catch my drift?"

"Yes," Luthor says. "Same old city. Same old problems."

"That bad, huh?"

"I'll spare you the details, Bruce." The email to Lois bounces back with her monosyllabic reply: yes. Luthor smiles. "When are you flying in?"

"Oh I'm already here."

Luthor's eyebrows angle as he considers his options. Rich this idle...he deserves to be played. "Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I'll send Mercy for you at 11:30. Where are you staying?"

"That'll be fine, Lex. And I'm at the Halldorf."

"Wonderful. See you then."

Wayne disconnects first. Luthor dials his secretary.

"Eve. Lunch tomorrow for two. Something exotic. The Thai place on Broadway, if it's still in business."

"Yes, Mister Luthor."

Luthor disconnects unceremoniously and drafts another email to Lois, thanking her and asking her where she wished to dine.

The Halldorf Hotel.

Tim Drake sat in the center of the parlor, cross-legged (though he really wanted to call it Indian-style), naked except for his shorts. Deep meditation: the name of the game. Complete relaxation or so he's told and utter readiness.

It served a purpose. The parlor is the centrality of the room; the door to the hallway is only a meter away. It's highly unlikely that anybody would, but should somebody decide to break in…well, he'd be ready.

Or paranoid.

Tim's eyes opened slowly and he allowed himself a sigh.

"You need to concentrate, Tim," he said quietly and wiped a hand across his brow, taking a layer of sweat with it.

"Agreed."

Bruce Wayne stood on the far side of the parlor, nursing a club soda and leaning against the wall, next to the wet-bar. His hair hung loose in his face, his glasses almost dangling from his nose. He smiled, but only a little.

"But," he said and took a drink. "You're getting better."

"Thanks," Tim said and stood. He threw a towel over his shoulder and went to the window. It was almost midnight, and Metropolis was still aglow with the glow and hum of life. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I hate that expression," Wayne said. He pulled off his tweed jacket and threw it over a wingback chair, rolled up the sleeves on his Oxford. "What's on your mind?"

Tim frowned, looked out the window a moment longer, and then turned back to Wayne.

"How sure are you that he's even here?"

"Quite," Wayne says and finishes off the club soda. "I know him well enough, Tim, I can assure you of that."

"And what about Luthor?"

Wayne lowered his glasses even more and smiled discreetly. "If I want to get inside Luthor's head, it means lowering his defenses with a damn good impression of myself."

"And what does a billionaire like Lex think?"

"That people are predictable," Wayne said pointedly. "I intend to call his bluff."

Continued...