[Not my characters, not my money]
"There are many things of which a wise man might wish to be ignorant."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
...
The cave is still roughly hewn, but it shows potential. If Alfred could see the full extent of Bruce's sketches, blueprints, it would likely crack his indomitable butler. Bruce wisely files them away.
The cave is his garage, work room and office. That the cool, exceedingly dry air is kind to his sprawling bank of computers is an added benefit.
Few personal touches alleviate the brutal efficiency. The eccentricity, of course, of what he already calls his "Bat-Cave". The suits, neatly arrayed as any museum pieces. Dazzling equipment, so many prototypes that Ted Kord funneled his way before the ink was dry on the patent applications.
In the vastness, the small glass display case is overwhelmed. No larger than a postcard, habitually shoved in a drawer beneath the bank of keyboards to be forcibly ignored.
Three bullets. Non-lead bullets, or they would be multitudinous fragments rather than crumpled shells. One for Mother. One for Father. One for young Bruce Wayne. Identical to its mates, he only knows it because he can't help but know it. The police determined that the shot ricocheted, when it came back and took the mugger through the throat.
They're not incorrect, for all that the detectives have never established -what- the bullet simply bounced from. Maybe brick, maybe a dumpster. The assailant was dead, all the loose ends neatly bundled. Minus three missing bullets, which no one would ever look for. If bribing police officers were -difficult-, Gotham would be a very different city. The evidence lockers' inventory lists read like Swiss cheese.
Bruce remembers perfectly well how his older brother -grabbed- him, and the bullet bounced off Clark's forearm like steel.
"Absolutely not."
Perry White's hand freezes comically in midair, cigar never reaching his lips.
Over the years, he has become -relatively- certain that Tyrone Power isn't an ax-murderer by night. Relatively. Power is just very large, to the tune of nigh on six and a half feet that don't bear -considering-. And constructed from, what, nearly three hundred pounds of muscle? But even professional football players can be charming. If they talk.
Talking isn't Power's strong suit. And a man his size -needs- to be talking a bit, to put people at ease. There sure as hell isn't anything reassuring about his stolid expressions. You could always tell a new secretary at the Daily Planet – they freeze like wide-eyed mice when Power walks by. The veterans cross themselves, and never look up.
If he were to make the slightest effort to be less -terrifying-, the journalist could be receiving a very different manner of female attention by the boatload. Tyrone Power the matinee idol had been dark-haired and handsome. Power (very potentially an ax-murderer and Perry would concern himself with weapons in the building but really, if Power decided to kill someone on the spot, he wouldn't need any more than his massive -hands-) is. Well. Dark-haired and handsome. Exceedingly masculine, like the clean-cut all-American answer to some Soviet super solider. Three hundred pounds of nothing but muscle that looks solid as granite and no, Perry isn't thinking with some seriousness about whether he'll make it to the door of his office in time to escape, if Power has chosen today to snap.
Man doesn't utter more than eight to ten words a day, according to Lois' calculated average (she's explained that some days may earn a few sentences, but then Power will be silent for a -week-). When he does, they're flat and – he'll never say creepy out loud, not when his staff can hear, but creepy is the word. Low and dead.
Which made it pretty goddamn stunning when Power -snapped- at him. That 'absolutely not' over what, Bruce Wayne? It had seemed reasonable. Wayne is a polished young shark, he hardly needs a guiding hand, just a chimp to hold the tape recorder.
Not that he plans on calling Power a chimp in this lifetime or any other. Man happens to be an excellent writer, if distant. Maybe just muscle, to jolt implacable fucking Bruce Wayne into a moment of vulnerability. Even Wayne would feel vulnerable, if Power decided to trot out that restrained violence Perry is still- examining. Never thought he'd miss the creepy flatness...
Maybe the two of them would knock together like sociopathic boulders until one or the other was ground to dust...
"Is that all, Mr. White?"
There it is. Blankness. Devoid. Blue eyes shouldn't be this unnerving, and Perry's never been one to balk because another man intimidated him-
This is not a man. This is a tank. On his payroll.
"Yeah, that's it. Your loss, Power. Back to your desk."
The giant nods, departs, and Perry is pleased at his own steadiness.
There will be no more written applications. Prospective employees will come to the office -in person-, bearing their resumes and clippings. They will submit to psychological evaluations, and Perry White will never wind up hiring a lunatic like Tyrone Power again.
"You realize I have no intention of answering you."
Well, it has been five minutes of that bitch-queen silence, but a girl can always be patient. Lois will never say these words. She smiles at Bruce Wayne with all her teeth. Bastard. But that is a gorgeous suit. Are the pinstripes really white, or the palest possible shade of blue because he just -knows- what it does for his eyes?
Pretty, if they weren't chipped ice.
Hn.
"As much as I've enjoyed taking all manner of careful business statements – your public relations department must -swoon- at your dedication- you realize I'll require some indication that you have a pulse."
"I would expect the project to be a viable human interest story."
"And it will be."
"Youth shelters are much-needed in Gotham."
"Of course they are. But you're naming the initiative after your brother."
"No, another Clark Wayne. Quite unrelated."
If that little twitch at the corner of his mouth is Wayne's version of laughter- Well. That's horrifying. How is this man only twenty-five? Maybe it's the manor. Lois finds herself imagining a strange childhood. Without parents, a house like this would be cavernous and cold. His staff has it warmly lit, and this may be the loveliest kitchen she's ever sipped delicious coffee in, but-
Did a team of image specialists push this interview into the kitchen, not the office, to try and humanize the man? Soften the sharp edges?
Good fucking luck.
"You understand why I would ask."
"I can imagine why you might -refrain-." Maybe those bared teeth are meant to pass for a grin.
"Mr. Wayne, it's the question on every mind in Gotham, Metropolis, the nation. You're naming this project for your brother, and he's been missing for ten years."
...
Next Chapter: What was, and what will never be.
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