A/N: I'm super excited for this story, so much so that I've already got another chapter for you guys. Let's hope I can keep this going!

A big, big thank you to wouldyouliketoseemymask, Velvet Red Bullet, and a guest for reviewing the prologue, and thanks to everyone who has favorited or put this in your story alerts so far. I hope I continue to amaze and amuse.

Disclaimer: Forgot last chapter, but I don't own anything in the Batman Universe or DC in general. If I did, some no good very bad things would happen-but it would still be better than the New 52, sooooo... There you have it. Now let's continue, shall we?


Fandom: Batman (Arkham Origins/Asylum/City)

Title: The Broker

Chapter 1: Broker, Interrupted


On any typical day, Sherman Fine would begin his morning early with a routine he only broke on rare occasions. Never needing much sleep, he'd rise well before the sun did and turn on the news. As joyless as it could be, it was necessary for a man like him to keep abreast of local events. On some mornings, the incoming stories featuring the Batman, the GCPD, or some mob leader were better than anything reality television—which Fine swore was all scripted shit anyway—could offer. An hour later, he'd prepare his coffeemaker, brush his teeth, shower, shave, and then dress for the day. All of this took less than thirty minutes, Fine never being the high-maintenance type. (Even his recent turn with his finances hadn't changed that.) He'd return to the kitchen—which spilled open into his living room which in turn hosted yet another television—turn on the weather and traffic information, and finally fix himself a cup of coffee. Two spoonfuls of sugar and two spoonfuls of milk exactly. Then, he'd make a large breakfast usually consisting of two eggs over medium, three strips of bacon, two pieces of toast with raspberry jam, hash browns, and sometimes a bowl of cereal. He'd remind himself that he needed to add more fruit in his diet, but then would forget about the thought usually after tasting the bacon. By seven o'clock, he'd have all his personal affairs in order, and then it was strictly the job until his head hit the pillow later on—much later on—that night.

Some days, he would work from his computer and cellphone at home. The island in his kitchen provided more than enough space to work, and Fine was never the type to be easily distracted by his surroundings. The television never tempted him to indulge in slothful behaviors, and neither did his bed. As a matter of course, the only luxury Fine would afford himself was the moments he spent on his treadmill he'd squeezed into the living room. He'd walk miles on the thing while typing away frantically on his laptop, which rested comfortably in front of him on a shelf made for such a purpose, or while he made diagnostic calls to his associates about such and such a property or with locating potential clients. On days like that, he would chastise himself of the fact that he once believed a cubicle job would suit him. He could only imagine the slew of long-term back problems he had barely avoided.

On other days, it was necessary to go into the field. He preferred those days. Gotham wasn't the most glamorous city to behold, but like any place, it hosted its share of hidden gems and wondrous spectacles; being around such things every so often revitalized him, as did scouting or touring properties. It was the talks he had with his clients that held the real appeal to his job, however. Fine wasn't pretentious enough to consider himself a psychological expert, but the classes he'd taken in college had provided him with enough insight into the human psyche to guarantee him almost endless entertainment.

Even the average grunt was interesting to categorize in his mind. Sherman would make all kinds of hypotheses on why the person before him led the life of crime he did, never voicing any of them, of course. The client himself never knew an inkling of what Sherman thought of him, because all he saw before him was the unflinching seriousness of the Broker. To break character and reveal Sherman underneath it all went against his every principle, to say nothing of the very real possibility of losing business or endangering himself more than he already was. Shooting the messenger (or the bodyguard, or the thug, or the One Who Disappointed in general) was a popular trope in Gotham. He avoided playing that role at every chance he could.

So he kept to his routine while staying as flexible as possible. It'd given him nothing but success before.

Which was why he found himself on this particular morning putting that flexibility to work. No more than two days had passed since his mysterious phone call from a blackmailer who was convinced he was a hero, and already Fine had his preciously crafted routine completely uprooted.

It began with a series of harsh knocks pounding on Sherman Fine's front door at four in the morning.

Luckily for Fine, he was just getting up when he heard the racket. Despite this, a flash of annoyance stirred in his breast and crept into his movements. He didn't bother straightening the covers of his queen-sized mattress like he normally would have, and the black, linen bathrobe he snatched from his closet resulted in a broken hanger. When the poundings continued, he paused just long enough to don the robe and reach for the handgun he kept in the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed. Noting that the silencer was already firmly attached, Fine left his bedroom and crossed the living room to the front door. Now to see who was disturbing him at such an ungodly hour and how much trouble they were willing to get into.

On the other side of the door stood a stumpy man wearing at least three layers of winter-appropriate clothes, his head clearly too small for the beanie hat he wore on his bald head. Despite the way his fist was raised in determination to hammer on the door again, his expression was one of uncertainty, as if someone had left him like a baby on a doorstep, lost and abandoned. As if he couldn't be any more unappealing, the man also reeked strongly of cheap cigar smoke and fish. The Broker registered these things in an instant before he leveled the gun point blank at the man's forehead. The thug—and that's exactly what he was, sent by the man from two days ago, Fine had no doubt—froze, his eyes locked in their crossed position on the gun barrel.

"Can I help you?" the Broker said coolly. The man's chest suddenly heaved in panic. He looked close to hyperventilating.

"W-whoa, whoa, whoa, guy! E-easy!" said the goon hastily. He raised his hands—both empty of any weapon or threat—in surrender and took two retreating steps back. Gaining some distance away from the gun, the man's eyes uncrossed, but they didn't appear entirely clear. Now that he could gain a better profile of the thug, Fine noted his twitching hands, yellowing skin and eyes, and the way the glassy orbs fought to stay focused on any one thing. So, a thug and a drug addict. What a thing to be greeted with first thing in the morning.

"Answer me." The Broker jabbed the gun in the man's direction, silently reminding him to get on with whatever business he was here for.

"A-alright, alright, man! Just take it easy! Uh," the man stammered, throwing shifty glances around to double-check that they were alone in the hallway. "L-look, I was just told to come up here and see if a Sherman Fine lived in suite 206." His murky eyes darted to the number gleaming in cheap, gold paint on the half-open door behind Fine. "So, uh, you him?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Da boss."

Fine would have rolled his eyes if he were a less disciplined man. Instead, he simply said, "Yeah, I got that. What I don't have is who 'da boss' is supposed to be."

"Oh, well, uh, he's sorta new in town. Goes by the name E—uh—Enigma? Yeah, that's it. L-look, could ya lower yer gun, please? It's makin' me nervous."

A small sigh escaped his lips, but the Broker humored the request. The man before him still twitched noticeably, but he seemed to relax when eminent death was no longer staring him in the face.

"So what does Enigma need? I assume you're here about the deed for the Burnley place?"

"Uuuuh, well, I don't know nuthin' 'bout that. Hang on a minute. I'm supposed ta let him know that you're here."

The Broker tensed and tightened his hold on the gun when the thug brought something out of his thick but tattered coat pocket. At the sight of a flip phone—and not a gun as he'd assumed—in the man's hand, the Broker relieved the harsh grip he had on his gun. Nevertheless, he remained alert and couldn't seem to unclench his teeth as he watched the man fumble with the phone in his meaty hands. Instead of making a call, the goon was hurriedly texting away on his keypad. If there was one thing the Broker could not tolerate, it was being kept from pertinent information about a potential business transaction.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. The thug jumped and looked at the Broker like he just remembered he was there.

"Ah, yeah, uh, sorry. Da boss never calls or accepts calls from nobody. Always wants us to text him. Fuckin' weird, right? But it's what he wants, so it's what we do."

So Enigma didn't make calls to people. Well. Didn't the Broker feel special?

Fine moved to return to his one-person suite—a cup of coffee sounded divine right about now—but the thug stopped him.

"Whoa, hang on! Da boss is supposed to reply if he's on his way or not."

"I'm not going anywhere." The Broker spared the thug a final glance. "Just knock once if he is, and get lost if he's not." The thug's protests failed to breach past the door that was closed with a snap in his face.

So, it was coffee first this morning. Already, Sherman was feeling unbalanced. He wanted to put on actual clothes before his "guest" arrived, but he couldn't bring himself to do that without taking a shower first. Allowing himself to be that vulnerable with a stranger in his home wasn't an option. Fine snapped the lid closed on the coffeemaker and then looked down at what he was wearing. It definitely wasn't fit for normal business—he wasn't even wearing socks for Chrissake—but all he could do was hope Enigma was fine with bathrobe-chic. This early in the morning, Fine was rather indifferent to the whole thing. Of course, there was always the possibility that he wouldn't show…

A frantic knock and then the muffled sound of someone running away down the hall interrupted his thoughts. So he was alone again but, as he'd assumed, not for long. A shower was definitely out of the equation.

All the same, he kept his gun on him. Fine didn't know if his guest would react hostilely or become subdued at the sight of a firearm, but waltzing around unarmed in nothing but a bathrobe wasn't Fine's idea of a thrill. Maybe he could overpower Enigma in a physical confrontation, or maybe he couldn't. He'd never met the man, and he wasn't about to dick around and find out the hard way if it was the latter.

When the coffee was close to being finished, Fine left it alone only to retrieve his laptop from the bedroom. He turned it on, logged into his account, and made sure it was sufficiently charged before bringing it with him to the kitchen.

Only to discover that he was no longer alone. And that he would have to make himself another cup of coffee, since a young man was already drinking his intended portion and sitting on the only barstool he had. At Sherman's entrance, the man perked up and swiveled in his direction.

"And the rumored Champion of Underworld Real Estate makes his appearance at last!" The man's eyes swept over Fine—bathrobe, bedhead, and all. Fine could tell the moment the man registered the gun in Fine's hand by the way an indulgent smile crawled across his face. "A little anticlimactic, I admit, but this brew makes up for that a little."

His voice came out bright yet derisive all at once, and Fine had no doubt that this truly was the man he'd spoken to over the phone two days ago.

"I think you're overacting there, my friend," the Broker said, coming around the island to begin his own brew of coffee. Again. "'Champion' is a bit much." He set the gun down by the sugar bowl; it wouldn't be needed, that was clear now. The atmosphere in the room was bar none the least hostile he'd ever experienced during a deal. In fact, he'd call it almost homey.

"Hmm, true," his guest admitted shortly, raising the mug in his hand in a salute. Fine scowled at the words scrawled in a messy handwritten print on the front, which proudly read, "I Came to WERK!" Needless to say, he and his agents would be doing something other than White Elephant for Christmas this year.

To take his mind off of his occasional bad luck, Sherman took the time to finally study his guest. The man in front of him looked nothing like the criminal Fine truly took him to be. With his neatly combed, dark auburn hair, stylish glasses, purple sweater vest, and green slacks, the man looked like he belonged in a coffee shop somewhere, broadcasting opinions to people who never asked for them.

It seemed, though, the man really didn't need the coffee shop for that. He'd done nothing but voice his true feelings about Fine, Gotham, and a host of other things without Fine's prompting. Something was off about it, though. While Fine was certain the man's feelings were genuine—for who could doubt that confidence he displayed?—Fine noted that it was strange for someone to repeatedly insist on one's own strengths and remind others of their failures. So the man was smart. Did he need to point that out to his audience with nearly every breath he took?

Apparently, Enigma did, and Fine couldn't help but wonder why. Was he constantly put down and held back as a child? Maybe his performance levels were compared without end to those of his peers, making the need to be better a priority that carried on into his adult life. Or maybe the man had a deep-seated inferiority complex he was attempting to bury. The possibilities were numerous, but Fine was certain of one thing: despite the man's boasting and put-downs, Sherman couldn't find it in him to be offended or angry. Not when the urge to laugh bubbled so near to the surface. It was all too amusing.

"Forgive the bathrobe, Mister…?" trailed the Broker, feigning ignorance. He wondered if the man would solely operate under the alias his thug had slipped out earlier, or if he would give him his real name. The way the thug had acted so unsure about his own employer's name made the Broker believe this was a new development. If it was possible to learn something—anything—definitive about Enigma, then he was willing to play as dumb as he needed to.

"Enigma, as I know you're aware, Fine, so don't act more ignorant than I'm sure you already are. It bores me."

Well, there went that plan.

"Apologies, Mr. Enigma," the Broker amended. "As I was saying, just think of this as my Casual Friday." He didn't feel the need to add that the man had no right to judge the state of dress of the person whose home he'd just invaded. If Fine had stated this, the bite in his voice would jeopardize the deal for sure, and that was unacceptable. For the Broker, business was everything.

"From what my informants told me, I'm surprised you own anything other than a three-piece suit."

"Is that what they said? Pretty on point," the Broker offhandedly replied as he filled his coffee cup. His hands moved on autopilot as he tended to the milk and sugar in his drink. "This ratty thing is a well-kept secret of mine. I usually sleep in the nude, but what can I say? Winter in Gotham can be a real bitch."

Enigma didn't look a bit abashed. In fact, a cheeky smile lit up his face as he took another sip of coffee. "And they're already estimating that this winter will be one of the coldest Gotham's ever had."

"Well, naturally, of course."

Fine rubbed a hand tiredly across his face, wincing at the feel of tiny but rough pinpricks of hair against his fingers. He needed to shave. Again. It was becoming an almost everyday thing now…

For some reason, the Broker felt like stalling the deal. He was usually more direct, but something about Enigma prompted him to relax and enjoy himself. It wasn't often he felt this comfortable talking about nothing with others. Plus, hearing what the man could come up with to say was a riot.

"I'm actually somewhat astounded, Enigma, that someone as…intelligent as you claims to be associates with hired hands like the one I met today. The man looked incapable of tying his own shoelaces." Now what do you have to say to that, smart ass?

Enigma propped his head in one hand and set down the coffee mug to adjust his glasses with the other. He seemed to be thinking about his answer, but his movements were a bit too exaggerated. The term "overacting" fit him more than Fine originally thought.

"Let me see. How do I break this down for a simpleton like you? How about this? A popular saying is that sex sells, but I disagree. Money, now that's the thing that sells, wouldn't you agree, Broker?" A soft snort escaped Fine at that. No arguments there, not when he was so comfortable with the profession he was in. Enigma continued, unhindered. "These cretins flock to it. Are willing to do or put up with anything for it. And fortunately, all I have to do is pay these idiots to gather information, not to be intelligent. I'm not about to waste my time teaching a fish to climb a tree when he's perfectly capable of swimming in the pond he always has."

"Very well said," the Broker replied, taking his first sip of coffee. The warmth passed through him, and all he could think was, Bliss. But the moment soon passed, and he placed his mug down on the table to pull his laptop over to them. "Now, we've had our coffee and our niceties. I doubt you came all this way for small talk, Enigma, so let's get serious. I have the blueprints of the property I described earlier if you want to look over them, make sure you like the place. I have a few photographs available as well, and if you wish to sign the deed today, I can make that happen. The property should be ready for you within the next five days."

"I need it tonight actually."

The Broker paused in his movements at the declaration. "Tonight?" That was intriguing. Christmas was still a little ways off, and wasn't that when Enigma had planned to reveal his extortion data to the public? "Why so soon? I know the reason goes beyond my business, but—"

"It certainly does, Broker," said Enigma. "Fortunately for me, it doesn't really make a difference whether you know what I'm up to or not. You couldn't stop it, even if you wanted to. Although," the bespectacled man trailed off, muttering to himself, "Black Mask may not be too pleased about it…"

That pricked up Sherman's ears. "You're working with Black Mask?"

Enigma waved his hand in a blasé manner, as if the very idea was too far beneath him to humor. "It's a separate project. He wants the GCR towers rigged. Something about jamming the Batman's signal." Enigma shrugged carelessly. "Personally, I don't even understand why he wants to bother about some thug masquerading as a hero. But gaining access to the towers makes it easier for me to gather information over a larger network, so I agreed. What I can tell you for sure is that something big is happening on Christmas Eve, something with which the Batman will have his hands full. If nothing else, it's sure to be amusing. Any further prying, though, and I'm afraid you'll be forcing my hand, Broker."

Fine hardly thought that he'd been prying. Enigma offered that slew of information all on his own. But he couldn't think too much on what he'd let slip about Black Mask and the Batman, not when there were threats being made to him in his own home.

"And what hand is that, Mr. Enigma?" The Broker raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Are you going to blackmail me, too?"

"Maybe I found a little something on you, Fine, maybe I didn't. Do you want to risk finding out?"

Normally, Fine wouldn't have given two shits about whatever this punk had uncovered. He'd been hauled in for questioning a few times before with the GCPD, but they never charged him with anything. After all, selling property wasn't a crime in Gotham, even if the property would eventually and knowingly be used for illicit activities. If anything, the cops were trying to find concrete information that would finally lock away the worst of the worst in Gotham for good. But Fine wasn't a snitch by any means; the money didn't swing that way. As for Sherman himself, he usually got off on a mere technicality, and during the few times where certain deals looked like they'd be tougher to wish away, one of his clients usually had his back. Cops were being paid left and right to turn a blind eye to even worse crimes than what Fine could be accused of, so what was paying off another cop to ignore this charge in comparison?

Still, though, there was that Maroni deal that went sour a few months back. A judge ended up getting his head blown off, and Fine had been there to see it. He'd learned a new meaning to the phrase "laying low" after that. And yet if any idealistic lawman found out he was there and was a witness to the crime, it could lead to all kinds of trouble and unpleasantness.

So the Broker raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Like we established before, it's not my business. Besides, it's not like I have anyone to tell."

"Then I fail to see any further relevance in this discussion, Fine, so tell me: can I have the place ready by tonight or not?"

The Broker thought for a moment. "For an additional 5K to the original offer of $32,000, sure."

Enigma scowled. "Why the increase? You did say you had all the necessities already available, yes?"

Fine fixed an apologetic look on his face. "I assure you I wasn't lying about that. I have it all here in fact." He patted his laptop with his hand twice. "But I was notified yesterday that the current owner isn't due to leave the premises anywhere between tomorrow and sometime next week. Now, this shouldn't affect you. If you want the place tonight, you'll have it tonight. It just means a couple of my people will have to go over there and…convince him to relocate now. Consider it a service charge."

"Wonderful." Enigma rolled his eyes and crossed his arms like an overgrown and petulant child who failed to get his way.

"Hardly something to be upset over," the Broker replied, allowing a smug smile to tug at his lips. "Weren't you the one that said money sells?"

Enigma heaved a sigh. "Yes, sometimes it's a real burden, being so much more percipient than the average primate."

"I can't imagine."

Fine opened his laptop, keeping an eye on Enigma as the young man rose from his seat. When all the man did was place his empty mug carefully in the sink, Fine shook his head, feeling like laughing at himself. For the Broker, there truly wasn't a thing as being too cautious, but Enigma had to be one of the most non-threatening clients he'd ever worked with. He was a nerd with a computer and a lot of lip, not some experienced killer. Still, Sherman made a note to avoid having deals made in his home in the future. Combining his private life with his professional one was fucking with his inner serenity in the worst way.

Refocusing his attentions on his computer screen, Fine began pulling up all the relevant documents on his laptop. At the same time, Enigma took to pacing around the room, taking in the outdated wallpaper lining the walls and the sparse belongings Fine had spread around the room. Aside from the television and the treadmill, there wasn't much of value to be found. The couch he owned was made of green velvet that may have looked lush once upon a time; now it appeared faded and spotty in places. Fortunately, Sherman was the only one in the room who knew about the gaping hole in the back of the couch, which he'd strategically placed against the wall. The table in front of the couch hosted a number of drink stains from spills and overflowed rims as well as an unsightly burn mark left over some years ago from one of his father's cigars. Funny. It took having a guest in his apartment for once to reveal these little blemishes. With the way business was going, though, perhaps it was time to trade in the family heirlooms for some newer models. At the very least, Sherman could say he kept the place tidy. He followed the old adage, "A place for everything and everything in its place" religiously.

"This is supposed to be a suite, right?" Enigma said, sounding none-too-convinced. Following his gaze to the fraying, off-white carpet that had come loose in places along one wall, Sherman could clearly see why he doubted it so strongly.

"They're all suites," Sherman said, sending his files to print via his wireless printer. From his bedroom, he heard the soft whirring of the device starting up. "That's how they sell these places. Haven't been renovated in over 20 years, I think. I was lucky to even get one with this." He knocked on the island in the kitchen.

Enigma snorted. "Such creature comforts. How quaint."

"Thou shalt not covet thy broker's kitchen bar, Enigma."

The man laughed. "And here I was, believing you were supposed to be some dour jackass. Either I've caught you on a good day, or you've allowed your reputation to be misleading."

"It's a little hard being intimidating in a bathrobe. I've given up on that image for the day, but I'll make it up to you next time."

"Oh? How presumptuous. Who said I'll ever need your services again after the holiday?"

Fake surprise lifted the Broker's countenance. "You mean you're planning on getting caught and put away for life?"

A sneer curled along Enigma's face, and his eyes flashed with contempt. "I won't get caught, and I won't be back. I told you: I'm not a bad guy like you or your other ill-fated associates. I happen to want to change this city for good."

"And I'm sure it will be, if you or Black Mask have your ways." Fine heard the printer go quiet, so he closed his laptop and moved to retrieve the documents. Enigma's voice called reprovingly after him.

"I thought I told you to drop the Black Mask thing!" He seemed more annoyed at being potentially overshadowed by the mob king than anything else. Now, that was quaint.

"Last time, I promise," he called back, grabbing the paperwork and a spare pen. And Sherman Fine kept his promises. Usually.

Returning to the kitchen, the Broker sorted the documents accordingly. In one stack rested the offer from the original owner and details about the building. Another held the few blueprints and pictures the Broker had available of the place as well as a map of where it was situated in Burnley. The last stack held the deed and certain permissions Enigma would need to allow before the Broker could legally act on his behalf. Everything else, Fine would take care of himself.

His auburn-haired guest resumed his seat on the barstool and pulled the documents closer. Enigma's cobalt gaze sharpened on the blueprints first. He trailed his finger along the pathways and dimensions of the hideout, pausing to tap on certain rooms and skimming over others. Fine left him to it. The man's mind was practically emitting a hum into the room, he was thinking so rapidly. The Broker would probably be better off talking to his coffeemaker rather than try to disturb Enigma from his planning process. So he did exactly that by getting another cup of coffee started instead.

A few minutes and a warm cup of caffeine later, Enigma emerged out of whatever state he'd submerged himself into.

"Everything seems in order, exactly as you said," stated Enigma, fixing the Broker with a stare that still managed to be so keen even through the lenses of his glasses. "So where do I sign?"

The Broker brought the document forward, and to his ever-increasing surprise, the man actually sat there and read the thing down to the fine print. Especially the fine print. The man really was as intelligent as he boasted. How many times had Fine been through this exact situation and the client signed the thing without even a moment's hesitation? Countless by this point. Fortunately for them, the Broker wasn't the kind of malignant or sadistic person that would try to trap someone via some unread Terms of Agreement. That, and he actually enjoyed living.

Eventually, Enigma made a small sound of approval, signifying that he'd found whatever he was looking for. Fine handed him the pen, watching as he signed the page with a flourish. A true John Hancock. It was by far the largest thing on the page.

And he'd signed it with his alias, lovely. Fine supposed he'd gotten to the part allowing for pseudonyms in place of legal names. He'd never regretted being so nice before.

Sherman took the signed deed, blueprints, and pictures off the table. "I'll need to make copies of these for you, but you can take the rest there, sir."

"Yes, I figured as much," replied the man sarcastically, before withdrawing a smartphone from his pocket and rapidly typing away at it. Fine gladly left man and machine to bond while he had a similar experience with his copier.

Not even five minutes later, the Broker handed Enigma the duplicates then said, "All that's left is to settle the matter of my payment. I prefer it to be wired to my—"

"Checking account with Gotham Merchants Bank? Already taken care of. Check it for yourself if you don't believe me."

Why was he surprised anymore? "At the risk of offending you, I think I will."

Enigma didn't seem bothered by it at all, as he merely went back to scrolling on his phone.

A high-res picture of the bank's Seasons Greetings sign stretched across the bank's homepage. Quickly signing into his account and answering the security questions, Sherman pulled up his recent transactions.

And there it was. Deposited into his account just a few minutes earlier was his commissioned payment along with the extra $5,000 he'd be due to split with his enforcers. They could check tonight whether the owner had been paid his due as well or not. Knowing Enigma's efficiency, however, the Broker was certain loose ends wouldn't be an issue.

He closed his laptop with an air of finality. That was it, then.

Sherman said as much.

"Excellent." Enigma sprang from his seat and pocketed his phone. After withdrawing a suitcase—which Fine hadn't even noticed he'd had with him—from its resting place on the floor, the man gathered all his paperwork and stuffed them inside it. Before Fine could get a good look of what else was inside, Enigma closed the suitcase and clicked the locks shut. "Glad that's over with."

"You're welcome, Mr. Enigma," the Broker said pointedly. Enigma rolled his eyes and crossed the room to the front door.

"Yes, yes, thank you very much for all your help and all that," he replied hurriedly, waving a hand in an exaggerated gesture. "Not so much for the conversation, but I didn't really have my hopes up about that. So no harm, no foul."

"I should be the one thanking you," the Broker admitted before taking a long draught on his coffee. "You've given me something to look forward to on Christmas morning with your little escapade."

"Ho, ho, ho," replied the man dryly as he opened the door. "So glad to be your source of entertainment, which even I realize is pretty pathetic for you."

Sherman smiled. "Depends on how you look at it. Best of luck with all the blackmailing and with that other thing I'm not supposed to mention."

"Don't need it, thanks." And Enigma slammed the door behind him, his retreating footsteps growing fainter and fainter before fading away completely.

Sherman Fine's suite seemed abnormally quite and empty now that Enigma's loud and egotistical personality had left it.

Fine released a sigh of relief and downed the rest of his coffee.

He could finally take a shower, have breakfast, and relax. And on top of that, he'd just gotten paid again.

Who knew that a day could begin so far from his usual routine and still turn out so well?


A/N: Pretty big words from a man who was forced to schmooze around in nothing but a bathrobe, Fine. If you can't tell already, I'm going to be putting this man through some pretty awkward and interesting situations. Because that's just the kind of writer I am i.e. an asshole. I hope you enjoyed this one. Please don't be shy about it one way or another. Let me know. I'm a deeply lonely person.

As always, if you have any Rogues or other characters to suggest, I'm still accepting them. I've got most accounted for, but in the event that I don't have yours in with this story already, I'll do my best to fit them in.