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Chapter Two: The War
A string quartette was playing Mozart near by and waiters in black tuxedos strutted about, making sure no one was lacking in Champaign or hors d'oeuvres. Bright light from the high chandelier reflected off the polished floor and shone on the bright skills and jewelry of the women walking about on the arms of their dates. There were three women on Bruce's arms and he entertained them with a little small talk here, a flirt and a wink there and a steady flow of drinks, while the majority of his attention focused on the rest of the room.
Parties such as these were a regular duty of the rich and famous and he could have walked through it in his sleep if he had to. Smile, smile, nod "Such a pleasure to see you, Sir." Smile, nod, shake hands, "You look radiant tonight!" Speech, smile, nod, shake hands. Every now and then he actually met someone interesting and managed to have a worthwhile conversation, but for the most part there was little difference between these parties and the generic Christmas cards everyone sends out once a year. "Yes I still exist and I have deemed you worthy of a smile and a nod."
He knew almost everyone, or at least recognized their faces. Most were local Gothamites, some were from other cities like Metropolis or New York. For the most part they were people who had received money or business from Wayne Enterprises, or else were hoping to. Bruce could only assume such was the case for the man who next approached him. It was one of the few faces in the crowd he didn't know, but he had the tell tail signs of both a military man and an academic about him.
Military research, thought Bruce and added, widower and idealist, once the man was closer.
"Mr Wayne? How do you do? William Striker," greeted the man, shaking Bruce's hand with a firm grip and a pleasant smile."
"Striker? Don't think I've had the pleasure before, but it's always nice to see new faces at these things. What's you're business in Gotham?"
"Same as it is everywhere, Mr Wayne. I'm here to serve humanity and seek out the necessary resources to do so. I'm a researcher, worked for the military most of my life, but recent cuts in the budget have, shall I say, given me the opportunity to try expand my horizons."
Bruce allowed an easy chuckle to pass his lips. "It's good to meet a man who can view the loss of funds in such a positive light," he said and took a sip of Champaign. "What's you field, Mr. Striker."
"Colonel," Striker corrected politely swishing his own Champaign in his glass, "Colonel Striker. I've done a lot of research in the psychology of solders, the stress they face in the battlefield and the sort of men best suited to be fighters, killers and heroes. However, for the past fifteen years, my main focus has been the mutant phenomenon." He met Bruce's eyes a keen light in is own. "From what I've heard you've had a taste of mutant terrorism yourself. That attack on your life last year must have been most frightening."
"Dear lord you have no idea," Bruce said and downed the rest of his glass, "Nothing like a near death experience to bring an issue to the front of one's concerns." Setting his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, Bruce added, "However, besides that horrible indecent, I know very little about the matter, save what we all hear on the networks." He took a moment to tease the ear of one of the girls at his arm, whispering a sweet word, as he ran a hand down the open back of her dress and shared a sip from her wine glass. She giggled and Bruce could see Striker frowning slightly. He wasn't surprised by the man's presence. In fact he was more surprised that some mutant fanatic hadn't come begging for funds sooner than this.
"I admit it seems complicated to an outsider," Striker said, "But once inside the issue, it becomes rather simple. It's another battle. A battle in the war for survival that mankind has waged since the first ape stood up on two legs."
"War?" Bruce asked, "That's a pretty strong word. My company is well known for its anti-war policies. We don't fund any research that goes into the making of weapons or offensive technology."
"You misunderstand me. I simply refer to man's struggle for survival, a struggle we all take part in and do are very best to contribute to. You're as much a fighter in it as I am. Weather we are fighting to find the cure to cancer, or stave off enemy forces, we are all fighting this war."
Bruce nodded, "I see where you're coming from. Are you saying mutants are a threat to our survival, Colonel?"
Striker smiled. "In some cases they are. You yourself can testify to that, but overall I'd say no. Some people claim them to be the next step in Evolution, a higher species of being, but these people don't really understand the nature of mutation." Striker turned from Bruce slightly, looking out over the rest of the party and through the glass windows with their commanding view of Gotham City. They were above most the other city buildings, but a small plain was flying past, a long advertisement for life insurance flowing behind it. It almost seemed to be surfing on the many lights wafting up from the city below like some luminous flood.
"Mutation may have been the key to the advance of Evolution, but for every mutation that took us forward a hundred million more were steps backwards, freak accidents of genetics, ugly deformities and weaknesses amid the strength of the main strain. This is still the time of men, Mr. Wayne. Whatever mutations Nature arms these freaks with, it will always be trumped by human ingenuity." Striker smiled and turned back to face Bruce. "That is our mutation, Mr Wayne, the key difference that sets us above the animals. Whatever Nature throws at us and we turn it into a tool to our advantage. These mutants are just Nature's latest volley and I have no doubt we shall find a way to overcome."
Bruce had been listening attentively and frowned slightly. "So I take it you don't see them as human then. That seems rather harsh. Would you have us exterminate them?"
"No Mr. Wayne," Striker laughed, but Bruce could tell from the change in his tone that the sincerity of his previous words had been pushed aside for a socially acceptable mask, "At least we can pray to God that it never comes to that. I simply said we shall overcome. Weather that means learning to live in peace, curing them, or sending them or live on a far distant planet of their own, I can not yet say. Such is the purpose of my research. To find the best possible way to deal with mutantkind. It's my belief that mankind's ingenuity can lead us to a better result than bloody warfare and genocide. If you were to consider lending some funds to my research then, God willing, we will find that result all the sooner and will no longer have to worry about feral mutants attacking us in our own streets."
"I admit you have my interest, Colonel," Bruce said, "Lets exchange cards and maybe we can arrange some time to talk about this in more depth." They exchanged business cards and shook hands one more time, before going their own ways. As he flirted with one of his girls, Bruce watched Striker make his way to the bar, making a mental note to do some thorough investigation on the man later, before turning back to the tedious routines of the occasion. He had the feeling there was much more to the Colonel than what had been presented on the surface.
"Still making the usual rounds, Boss?" came Lucius Fox's grave voice, "Seems like it's been the same damn faces and same stream of empty words for fifteen years running. Only the dress fashions change with the times."
Bruce smiled and managed to shake loose of his female companions for a few moments, as he walked with Lucius away from the main crowd to a spot near the outer windows. "Same faces, except that one," he pointed toward Striker, "What do you know about Colonel Striker?"
"Hrm…" Lucius peered over the heads of the crows at the gray haired Colonel, before saying, "Not as much as I'd like. He worked for the military, extreme top-secret development stuff. Pretty sure he was heading up some super powered special forces type project, before getting shut down and thrown into the military's equivalent of the basement. That was several years back. Have no idea what he's doing these days. However, I don't suppose you remember Dr. Kurt Van Dyke? He worked in one of our development departments for a few years, until we had to let him go for mal practice in his experiments."
"I remember him. He was pretty angry about getting let go. Received more than a few hate letters."
"Well, Van Dyke worked with Striker back in the day. The files were top secret, but our background checks go beyond routine. If Striker is anything like his underling, then he's not the sort Wayne Enterprises will want to be affiliated with."
"Nonetheless, I'd like you to dig up whatever you can on the man and sent the reports to my desk. I found his…"
Bruce broke off midsentence when the window beside them cracked with a sound like a breaking iceberg. Behind them, the chandelier shuttered and fell half off the ceiling as a bullet hit it near the base. Then there was the loud reports of gunfire and the whining grind of an airplane going out of control.
Amid the startled and alarmed screams of those around him, Bruce turned in time to see the little plane that'd been flying an advertisement careen off course and crash through the glass of a neighboring skyscraper.
Logan woke up when they placed an oxygen mask over his face. The usual burn and ache of healing wounds was slowly receding and some smashed bullets slipped from his bloody clothes as he sat up with a start, roughly shoving away the mask and the emergency attendant.
"Holy crap!" exclaimed the attendant looking at him with wide eyes. "Sir, I need you to,"
"Out of my way," Logan growled, scrambling to his feet. Wreckage and broken glass was everywhere and the wail of sirens pounded against his head like hammer on anvil. All around were people bustling about in various uniforms, communicating urgently via radios. However, all Logan cared about was the smell. The smell of his target's blood, a trail left behind and leading away from the chaos. He staggered for the door.
"Hold on, you," started a man in a police uniform, "Where do you think you're…" The man advanced, but Logan grabbed his vest and threw him vicious out of the way, before running into a long hall.
"Stop!" There were more yells and sounds of men shouting into their radios, but Logan ignored them.
The plane had crashed. That was the last thing he remembered. He'd leaped onto it as it passed, just in time to mess up Dead Shot's precious aim. They'd fought briefly and he remember getting shot a few times, before the whole plane had careened into the glass side of a skyscraper. This was why he hated flying.
He was still in pain, as he turned a corner and he stumbled against a pastel wall, leaving a smear of blood. Logan looked down and realized that a piece of the damned plane was still stabbing through his gut. Grimacing, he took hold of it with both hands.
"Freeze!" two cops with guns out stepped from behind the corner. One of them was the man Logan had thrown aside at the door.
"GerrrAH!" Screaming in pain and rage, Logan pulled the shrapnel from his body and threw it at the cops. Aghast, they both dodged back around the corner, more in shock than fear.
Extending his claws, Logan snarled and attacked the blood-stained wall. With a few powerful digs and a booted kick, made a hole large enough to climb through, and pushed broken drywall aside. The sound of the cops could be heard behind him, as he entered a dark room and he rushed for the door, eager to get some space between him and his pursuers.
Logan hated fighting police. He knew they were just doing their jobs, but it was hard not to kill them, when they made things so very difficult. For a moment he thought of Batman and his never-kill rule. Were all his battles as difficult as Logan's with police, using all your drive to succeed and yet continuingly holding yourself back from a really fighting, like a stallion tangled in hobbles? Probably not, Logan decided. After all, Batman was just human, not a mutant like him.
Thankfully, he didn't see anymore of the Boys in Blue for a couple minutes. Finding a stairwell, Logan rushed headlong down the cement, using his claws to keep from slipping. Catching Dead Shot's sent stronger than before, he gave a wolfish grin. His prey had left the building by this same way and…
He hesitated, when the trail suddenly turned off the stairs and onto the fourth four. Growling low in his chest, Logan pushed the door open and followed. The fourth floor was full of more dark halls and offices and very quite compared to the scene of the crash. Another sent hit him and the hairs on the back of Logan's neck stood up, as it stirred a familiar rage and bloodlust. It was Bruce Wayne.
Logan didn't see him until he was in the room and even then the first his he noticed was the open window, not the dark figure hidden in the shadows.
"You," came a deep voice. Logan's eyes fixed on the man as he stood up, long cape and pointed ears silhouetting against the window. "What's your part in this mess?" demanded Batman.
His eyes fully adjusting to the dark, Logan slammed the office door closed behind him and smirked at he looked the taller man up and down. "Bats," he greeted cheerfully and cracked his knuckles then his neck. "Long time, no see. Guess your wounds healed up just fine after all?"
"I still have the scars," Batman replied darkly, "Makes it very easy to recognized you handiwork when I find in it the streets… or the morgue."
Logan snorted. "I never meant to be here, but I got to say I've found plenty to do in Gotham."
"This is my city, Wolverine."
"Whatever you say, Bub. Now get your rodent's ass out if my way. I've got an assassin to hunt down."
Batman moved to face Logan more directly, standing squarely between him and the window. "Don't worry about Dead Shot." Batman murmured, "I'll handle him, but first I'm taking you back to Arkham."
Logan snorted and there was a snikt as he extended his claws. "We'll just see about that."
AN: Thanks for reading. Please leave a review!
