Chapter 2

A light but steady downpour, dying remnants from the previous night's thunderstorm, greeted the citizens of Gotham City as they awoke to another end of the work week. There was no hint of sun from the dull grey sky, only an absence of darkness which barely illuminated the wet streets and provided no motivation to go to work. For the most part, however, the need to make a living outweighed any temptation to slip back under the covers.

Life in Gotham is that of a fish in the ocean: forever keep swimming forward, or sink.

By seven in the morning downtown traffic was already at a standstill, and tempers were rising fast. Congestion spread like a virus from the Wayne Tower district and its still-crippled roadways out in all directions, until even those in the highest towers and penthouses could hear the cacophony of honking cars far below. Taxi and truck driver, suburban commuter and limo-driven captains of industry, all were equal in the logjam. Yet amid the cacophony of car horns, music, talk-radio chatter and insults being hurled in a dozen tongues, a solitary figure managed to bob and weave through the stalled columns of Uptown Gotham.

"Move your damn ass!" screamed a portly cabdriver named Sal. Sticking his head back in, he let loose another stream of curses and pounded the wheel in frustration. It wouldn't be long before the last of the railway commuters would arrive and he would miss out on being able to pick them up. Waiting for what seemed like hours, the car ahead finally moved, but just as he began accelerating, someone--a cyclist!--suddenly cut in front of him. He barely avoided hitting him before stopping.

"You sonofabitch!" Sal couldn't believe it; who in their right mind would be crazy enough to try and ride a bike in downtown Gotham at the height of rush-hour traffic? He was all of one mind to go after and run him off the road, but of course traffic had stopped again, and he had no choice but to sit and stew. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and glimmers of sunlight pierced down from above, while the lone cyclist had disappeared into the forest of vehicles ahead. Sal sat back and chuckled, thinking that at the rate he was going, he'd likely end up squashed.

The lone cyclist continued on with fearless--or perhaps reckless-determination, weaving through the stalled cars as if they weren't even there. More shouts and curses followed the cyclist, but they were all ignored as the rider single-mindedly continued on, pedaling furiously. Those in traffic who bothered to pay attention would see a very tall, thin figure with a large satchel backpack riding a battered old racing bike. Wearing a dirty white labcoat and faded blue jeans, a large black helmet hid the rider's face from view.

Slowly but steadily the cyclist cut a path through downtown Gotham, finally stopping in front of a large, plain building whose only adornment was a stark blue sign: Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. Pulling up around the block, the cyclist gracefully got off and locked the bike to a nearby lamppost, pulled off the helmet and walked into the building.

At Cataldi's main security entrance, one Martin Fuller sat at eager attention, constantly scanning the faces of crowd of people filing past, hardly bothering to check their identification—there was only one person he was waiting for in at the moment. At last he saw her, waiting at the end of the line. Quickly admitting those in front with a wave of his hand, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, then opened his mouth and spoke in the most confident assertive tone of voice he could muster:

"Good morning, Doctor Isley. May I see your identification, please?" Without saying a word Pamela Isley impassively handed her ID card to him, a somewhat weary expression on her face. As always, she wore a faded grey Yale sweatshirt over her tie-dye T-shirt, while her lustrous dark red hair was tied up in a tomboyish ponytail and thick square plastic glasses sat askew on her long nose. Today, her long white labcoat was glistening wet from the rain and clung tightly to her upper torso (Yes!)

Smiling, he savored the view. From the moment she started working at Cataldi Pharmaceuticals less than a year ago, Martin knew every red-blooded male in the building from the midnight janitor to old Cataldi himself, spent many a night and day fantasizing about what Pamela really looked like underneath her unflattering choice of wardrobe. No amount of dressing down could hide that to-die-for face of hers: long, elegant and unblemished, milky white skin, with killer blazing green eyes that haunted his dreams, staring at him, beckoning... Far from hiding her features, her shabby dress instead provoked ever-more fevered fantasizing.

Lost in his indulgence, he hardly noticed the look of impatience on her face as she tapped her foot, waiting. He was hardly the only one--many other men (and a few women) were doing the same, although none so blatantly. A loud clearing of her throat finally awoke him from his reverie.

"Did you have a good weekend, Doctor Isley?" Martin asked solicitously as he casually examined her bag, which was filled mainly with books.

"Nothing special," she replied laconically. That voice! I could think of a hundred things I'd pay good money to hear her say! Struggling not to literally pant after her, he handed back the bag and gestured for her to step through the metal detector. As she did so, he pressed a button on his console, and the metal detector alarm went off.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Isley, will you please step aside." He didn't even bother to conceal his grin. Wordlessly, she walked over to the side and raised her arms in a well-practiced move. Martin came over and began doing a slow deliberate search with his handheld metal detector. Stepping behind her, he deeply inhaled to get as much of her scent as he could, passing the rod around the contours of her arms, her waist, her legs...

Finally, he had enough fresh sensations to last the rest of the day and motioned for her to move on. "Have a nice day," he called out behind her, watching her legs move, ignoring the protests (mostly female) from the growing backlog at his security station.

Oh well, if I can't have her, at least I get to see her every day. As the morning crowd dissipated, he went back to conjuring up another fantasy involving himself and the dear Doctor.