I surveyed Bruce Wayne as he walked in through the double doors to Wayne Entertainment. I was quietly reading a script that was sent in to me to proofread, but I had not gotten far. There he was, in all his glory; the man who owned the whole of Wayne Enterprises, and therefore half of Gotham.
Bruce did check in with us when he felt business was slow or our writing was poor. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, even though Mister Fox had told me so much about him. And I proofread half the things in Wayne Entertainment, so I knew most of the juice on him. There was always something more to Bruce… something even I did not know.
"Miss Sharpe?" he asked as I pretended to be going over the script that never seemed to end. I was startled to hear him ask for me. I stood slowly and nodded nervously. Why would he need to see me? "You're editor here, right?"
"Mostly," I said quietly. My picture was on the last page of the newspaper every day stating so. He knew it. Everyone knew it.
"What's this?" he snapped, making me even more nervous. I held out a shaky hand to find last week's newspaper slammed into it. On the front page was a rather stunning picture of Mayor Garcia and Commissioner Gordon. The article was explaining what happened that dreadful few days that ruined so many lives. It was a lot like a one thousand-word essay. It even included Batman and his role. But it was everyone else's view on the matter: that he killed Harvey Dent; that Batman did everything the Joker did not do. I thought Batman did it, as did everyone else. I never saw a complication in this.
"It's last week's front page, sir," I said sheepishly, reading it over again for any mistakes that would cause this scene.
Bruce let out an agitated sigh. "I know that much. The Batman bit, Ms. Sharpe… read it to me," he demanded, making the situation a lot more dramatic. I had never imagined meeting Bruce Wayne under these circumstances.
I scanned the page before I quoted the contents, "'Batman, once Gotham's caped crusader, may now be the downfall of Gotham for the murder of district attorney Harvey Dent." I was about to continue when Bruce put up a hand to stop me.
"That's fine, Miss Sharpe. But why would you put that in here?" he asked, now looking me in the eyes for the first time. I seemed to inwardly cower before looking away.
"It was confirmed by Jim Gordon, Mister Wayne. And I find it necessary to alert the citizens of Gotham what happened and to stay clear of Batman," I said, examining a vase in the corner of the office. I never noticed it before.
"I see the logic here… But what about the Joker? He was mentioned three times in the whole article, while Batman got a whole paragraph," Bruce said.
"Sorry, sir, I didn't know it would cause that much trouble… But the Joker's in Arkham, isn't he? That's what Gordon said. Batman's not, I figured he was a high priority because of that. He might not need Arkham, but jail or prison would work."
"So you're encouraging citizens to get Batman instead of trained police?"
"That's not what I said, Mister Wayne," I said without thinking. "But why are you asking me all of this? I didn't write the piece."
"Maybe so, Miss Sharpe, but you were the last person out of six to see it before it hit the presses," replied Bruce curtly. He was a challenge. Before the conversation could become any more tense, Bruce switched the topic. "Did you know Rachel Dawes?" His tone was light, yet full of what I could not place. Longing, desire?
"Yes, I did. I actually met her at one of your fundraisers. Even funnier is the fact that I've never met you, but you know my address to invite me to all of these events," I said, returning my gaze to his face. He chuckled.
"I have a list for Lucius Fox of all my employees. I invite the ones that are… higher in demand," he said.
"Higher in demand, Mister Wayne, or higher in command?" I asked, a smirk crossing my face. This made Bruce laugh some more.
"A little of each, I would think." Bruce pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. He flinched and shook his head. "Well, I've got to go… I've got a meeting. By the way, call me Bruce."
"Olivia," I said before sitting back down at my desk. Bruce left the building in a hurry, adjusting his suit and checking the time once more. The newspaper he handed me was set on top of several more papers that cluttered my desk.
The script on the computer screen seemed to taunt me, telling me I still had sixty-one pages to go… and I had already gone through thirty-two. It was an opera, not a novel. I turned off the computer and sighed. The opera could wait; Bruce Wayne owned at least three opera houses in Gotham, which always had a show. This one was not going to make a difference.
What had just happened left me confused. Bruce Wayne was critiquing – no, criticizing – my editing. And then he completely switched the topic from the article to Rachel Dawes. I guess the articles did not lie when they said he was a mysterious billionaire. But they mostly said that because he came back from the dead.
I came home with my first encounter of Bruce Wayne still fresh in my mind. It would be a lie if I said I was surprised to find an invitation to Bruce Wayne's next fundraiser taped on my front door. I tore it open when I got inside and noticed a small handwritten note at the bottom of the envelope.
"Olivia,
You have an interesting point of view on the events in Gotham. I'd like to talk about them with you when you have free time.
B."
On the other side of the note was a phone number that I'm assuming was Bruce's. I stuffed the note into my jacket pocket, mentally noting to call him tomorrow morning. I would have a day off tomorrow for the first time in a week.