Authors Note: Wow chapter three is finally up! Feels great to have it uploaded. I will also be looking over the last two chapters and correcting some mistakes I noticed-I got a few facts wrong and I should check the spelling as well-ill be updating those as soon as I can!
Patton Isley was a man of many words, and very profane ones escaped his mouth as he received news from his assistant Clem Doyle.
"What? How could we lose five batches of Powder C? I thought that it was packed away in the back of the factory!" He blurted out followed by shouts of swear words.
"That's just it. Shipping departments recall moving five batches of the new synthesized plant for a company in Metropolis, but apparently they miss-shipped the boxes. We had security check it out, and the five boxes of Powder C were gone, and the ones with Plant Gh5 were still here!" Doyle muttered out.
"Great! Just Great Doyle! We already tested the effects of Powder C on plants, and do you recall what it did?" He demanded angrily.
"Their stems bulged as if hooked on a steroids, and they bended as if on their own will. They became almost warrior-like-they attacked one and other and even when pieces of each plant broke, they continued to attack." Doyle said looking away.
"It turned them into bloody cannibals Doyle! Think of what that could do in the wrong hands! We need that shipment locked down ASAP, or we could be facing lawsuits or even worse. Now contact security and alert them of the matter. Keep this under locks-we don't want news of this getting out to the public." Patton Demanded.
Turning on his heel, Doyle quickly made his way out of the room, not wanting to anger Isley. Isley on the other hand, could not be more angered at the moment, as he furiously stared down from his second story window at the lab below.
Powder C was a new formulaic powder that Isley's company and been working on for nearly three years now. While the general public knew nothing of the product yet, Isley knew it could be the next big thing to hit the market. Isley had been working on the product alone before the company even started studying it three years ago, and after the recent buyout of the Storks, he felt secure in knowing that his powder was nearing completion.
So far, testing for Powder C resulted in cannibalistic plants, and was known for giving an orange tint to the stems of the plant. In intended purpose of Powder C was for a much different effect however.
Isley had come up with the concept for Powder C when on an agricultural visit in the sweet fields of Kansas, near the town of Smallville. There he met several farmers who were competing to raise the best crops for the annual harvest, and tempers and rivalries were running hot after a recent drought that inflected the worst conditions since the Dust Bowl. The solution for the farmers there was to have their crops grow faster and more aggressively, and in such beat out competitors for the annual profit.
To Isley, who had been doing research in plant and environmental studies for over fifteen years, it was the chance to cash in big. At the time, he had spoken to several of his researchers and agricultural engineers in their respective departments, and he conceived a fertilizer of sort which would add to more aggressive plant growth. Shortly later, Powder C went into production.
The goal for the project was clear-the powder would be injected into the plants themselves or the soil around the plants, and then it would be absorbed into the plants. Once inside of the plants, it would run through the veins, giving off the orange tint, but all the while causing faster growth. The powder inside of the plants would gather more efficient sunlight, and then store it into the cell membranes of the plant. From there it would act as an interior building block, working as a serum for plant growth.
What Isley had to make sure was that no steroids or known growth hormones could be implanted into the powder. If any such were detected, then he would surly have several agencies and companies on him, and the last thing he wanted was to be caught mass producing products with illegal supplements. Instead, for Powder C to have its raging effect on plants, he had to turn to a different source.
When studying a remote growth of new flowers in northern Africa, a team of Isley's had come across some abandoned pots filled with a strange barley-like substance than had been grounded into a fine powder on the outskirts of Cairo. For all they knew, it was not owned by the locals, who could not identify it and had nothing to do with it. Nor was it part of any of the archeological checkups being done by one Lank Downey, who also could not identify it or find any use for it. Interested, they took it back to Nano-Corp, where an interested science division took their turn at it. Finding nothing, they reported to Isley the find, but not even he could find anything to do with it. For some time, the powder looked like a lost cause.
That all changed when Nano-Corp Scientist Manfred Greenberg replicated an advanced form of the powder with a rare chemical serum, which was only available to top scientists at the time. The serum, which was a mixture of irridated plant extract mixed with a liquidized fertilizer, was then injected with the powder, which Greenburg had discovered had a reverse enzyme within it. Therefor, the enzyme, instead of eating and digesting, could replicate and grow. Shocked by this discovery, he sought to find the perfect serum to awaken such potentials within the powder. After three months of testing, the new replicated mixture was complete, and dubbed Powder C.
The minute Patton was informed of the powder, he immediately demand that it be tested, and if successful, then would be mass produced. Early testing however, as Patton had said, led to cannibalistic plants-ones that seemed to have a driven fury for attacking and killing. Isley knew this could not be marketed to the general public, and would surely put his company in a bad view. The last thing Isley wanted was to have federal agents and scientists swarming him for a killer plant.
Mulling it over in his mind more, he waited until Clem was fully out of view and earshot, and then pulled out his phone.
"Now would be a good time," Was all he spoke, and no sooner had he spoke it then he heard the shuffling of feet from the shadows behind him and turned to face a figure shrouded in the dark side of the room.
"Goodness you got here fast!" Patton said a little angrily.
"In our business Mr. Isley, getting the job done quickly is a must. Do you have what we require?" The figure asked.
"Yes-but do you have the money? And remember that this will be kept under wraps." Patton said in a grave and near dead tone.
"Mr. Isley we have enough money to finance half of the rundown corporations of Gotham. We can pay you, but we need constant results from this stuff."
"And did it work for use after the first time?" Patton asked keeping his eyes locked on the figure.
"Almost too well-after reading your lab report, the boss was curious to say the least. Eventually we did give it to one person. . ." He said trailing off.
"And how did it do on him?" Isley asked in a low tone.
"It turned the durned fool insane," the figure spoke with a harsh sign.
"Define insane friend," Isley asked.
"Overly aggressive . . . look of a hunter in his eyes . . . and that orange tint, it covered his veins by the end . . . killed him out of existence." The figure spoke slowly.
"So Powder C in the early stages affects humans the same as it does plants-interesting." Patton spoke softly.
"Well, it drove him insane. And, well the boss, he wants that- it's a perfect kind of torture device. We need much more of it, in-fact, will need at least a dozen boxes of it."
"A dozen?" Patton blurted out while visibly shaking.
"A tall order," The figure said simply.
"Good heavens man-what could one person do with that much Powder C? That's enough to effect seven miles of crops! What on earth could you want with that?" Patton demanded harshly.
"You leave that up to us. The boss has some plans for this stuff." The figure responded.
"So help me if you even try and use this against me . . ." Patton started to say before the figure cut him off.
"Were not in the business of using this stuff against you Mr. Isley-all we want to do it use it to our good cause. And for that we need a dozen."
"I don't have a dozen-I had eight before, but due to shipping errors we lost five of them. I have my officials tracking it down as we speak." Isley said angrily.
"That's just too bad. You realize that the payment will be heavily reduced then, right?" The figure spoke in mock sympathy.
"Whatever. I can give you three-we can work out possibly getting you five later. But this stuff takes time to make-heck were still in the development phase here-it's still incredibly unstable. Twelve is a large amount." Patton answered.
"Well, you will just have to work quicker then, or we are out of the deal-who knows, we may even have to take this matter into our own hands." The figure suggested gravely.
"Like you really scare me-I am doing these deals so that we can finance the costly process of making a perfect form of Powder C. I have enough connections and allies to run your operation out of Gotham. You do not pose a threat." Patton said in a slow syllabic tone.
"Do not underestimate the boss. Mr. Falcone has worked up a little deal with some other friends from the back lots of the streets. This powder seems to be more useful to them than to us-were sort of the middlemen here." The figure spoke.
"So you're paying for the powder, only to sell it for more money?" Patton asked incredulously.
"Not for money, Mr. Isley, but for something much more. A lot is going on in the crime lots of Gotham-Rupert Thorne recently took over the Gravel Gang, and word on the street is Scarface is backing up his play. The Maroni family is striking bid deals with a few businesses, and then there's talk of some man running around in a-"black mask". Were all making deals Mr. Isley-do your part and you could reap a handsome reward." The figure answered.
"Very well-I'll give you the three boxes-I can deal with a reduced pay. Tell your boss to be patient though-this will take time." Patton said.
"I could try, but can make no promises. A good day to you Mr. Isley," The figure said as he disappeared back into the shadows, walking away.
Listening to him walking away, Patton knew he was standing on thin ground. While Patton never considered himself an evil man, most did not that he was never below turning to the Gotham Crime lords to earn a hefty price for his products. In truth, replicating Powder C to be the perfect growth fertilizer for plants needed much more work-but enough signs had been shown in testing to prove that if replicated correctly, Powder C could be very successful. There for, to get the money needed to fund more work, especially in the downward spiraling Gotham recession, Patton had to turn to more "sketchy" sources.
The deal was simple-the early forms of Powder C were unstable and seemed to have the same effect on any living material-overly aggressive and hungry behavior. Every subject it was tested on made the creature like a thirsty killer, with an aggressive attitude wanting to fight and hurt. While most were being scared to death of such a product, the crime lords of Gotham saw perfect uses for it, and if it turned out it possessed to use to them, then it would be sold off to the next person. By doing this, Isley had firmly planted himself within the Gotham underworld, but his key was to keeping that his secret alone.
Besides himself, no one else in his company knew of his secret dealings, and his connections offered good protection if anyone ever expected anything. His dealings were done when no one was around, and everything was always kept under wraps. For seven years now he had been connected to the crime lords and the underworld, but only until the testing of Powder C did he really start making deals with those groups. He knew the cards he was holding for this, and if anything went to wrong he could face massive fallout. Several times after beginning to replicate Powder C, he had had second thoughts, but the same thing always stopped him-the drive to sell a perfect Powder C.
When he had gone to Smallville, and he had talked to the farmers of the area, he saw the competition in their eyes. Each wanted to have the best crop, and were fighting to receive it. The agricultural community was large in the Midwestern United States and in other parts of the world, and if one perfect product could raise the efficiency of the crops, then the creator of such a product could become a very rich and well off man. Patton could rule the agricultural industry, and with such he could take his company to new levels.
Smiling to himself at the thought of it, Patton went over to his office window to look down at the streets of Gotham below him. It was a broken and demoralized city, and if done right it could be taken. That would not be so bad-to be known as the man who put Gotham back on the map. He could earn so much for replicated a perfect Powder C, and for such the city would thank him for everything. He could be the most powerful man in Gotham.
Of course he would have competition-The Powers were among the top, and he had heard talks of young Bruce Wayne wanting to resurrect the old Wayne Enterprises. He had bought out Stork, but there were plenty of other businesses trying to come to great standing in Gotham. It was a struggle to be at the top, but then again, wasn't it always supposed to be?
Shaking his head, Patton told himself not to worry about it too much. With a perfect form of Powder C, he could achieve great things in Gotham, and soon, be the best man around.
Bruce Wayne was nearly wiped when he exited the steps of CGT, waiting for Jim to appear. His later classes had been easy enough but the as the day drew on he found his lack of sleep from the previous night getting the best of him. Silently slipping between students, he made his way onto the side walk and rounded a corner, and waited.
By now the sun was high in the sky, but lowering, and patches of white clouds floated above him. Skyscrapers beamed with reflected sunlight, and the traffic of the city blared and echoed through the alleys. It truly was a beautiful afternoon in Gotham. Finding himself lost in its odd majesty with his tired eyes, Bruce nearly fell asleep when a hand on his shoulder startled him. Turning quickly, he crouched and threw up in a defensive position, ready for anything.
"Whoa there friend! It's just me-Jim," Gordon said to him.
Calming down, Bruce lowered his stance and cast an apologetic look on his face.
"Where did you learn to do that?" Jim asked, as if pleasantly surprised.
"After what happened to my parents, my guardian and I thought it would be good for me to start taking self-defense. From there I took other classes-learned judo from a master, took martial arts from somebody in Starling City, and learned boxing from an old trainer. I even did a little free-running and parkour for some time-behind my guardian's back however." Bruce answered.
"Wow, really impressive. You sure you don't want to do a sport here?" He asked.
"Not for now, though I thank you for thinking so highly of me. It's all about me just fitting in right now-perhaps in the next few years I may take a sport." Bruce said with a small smile.
"You definitely should. Anyway, I suppose you want to hear why I wanted to talk to you, right?" Jim asked in a now serious tone.
"It's about Floyd right?" Bruce asked.
"Quite. You mentioned earlier today why the teachers did not stop him sooner, and why they were so light on the punishment. It's because they know what that boy is capable of. You must understand Bruce, the administration here is practically paid to oversee that kid-he is an unholy terror if rubbed the wrong way." Jim said.
"Why is that?" Bruce questioned.
"Bruce, he almost killed a kid once . . ." Jim started to say.
"He what?" Bruce asked, a bit stunned.
"He got into an argument once with a student from a rival school of campus. The boy he was up against, he was a trouble maker-we all knew he just hunted fights for the fun of it. Well, the kid approached Floyd, and brought up something about his father, and he did not get put more than two sentences before Floyd had knocked five teeth out of his mouth."
"So he hit this kid?" Bruce asked, scratching his head.
"More than that-he tortured the kid. That day the kid suffered three broken bones excluding his teeth, and was said to have gone into physiological remission for over a year. Bruce the kind of stuff he muttered out after that fight was the stuff one hears from wounded war vets recalling old times. He seemed to be mentally broken."
"And when was this?" Bruce questioned.
"Fifth grade," Jim stated simply.
That was something to certainly keep an eye on in the eyes of Bruce. He was no stranger to cruelty-he had seen it on that night long ago. But to see such infernal rage coming from someone like Floyd concerned Bruce, and from the way he has seen Floyd fight earlier that day he was convinced that it would not be hard for him to so such a thing.
"So because of an incident where he almost nearly tortured some kid to death he has protection? How is that?" Bruce asked.
"Bruce, Floyd has more behind him than that. He's been found with drugs, illegal weapons, and even has a connection to an underground wrestling organization." Jim stated, looking up at the sky.
"Wrestling organization? What does that have to do with anything?" Bruce wondered aloud.
"It all comes back to his father, and that's perhaps the reason why he is in the position he is in now."
"His father?" Bruce asked a bit surprised.
"His father might just be one of the most dangerous men this side of the entire world. The facts are blurred about him, but he racked up quite a record south of the border." Jim responded.
"So this father's reputation is what keeps Floyd the most feared?"
"His father's past is what scares the living daylights out of federal agents and is the stuff of legend in the underworld. Heck, the facts have become so intertwined with the fiction that many believe his father is the equivalent of a demonic mad man. When those who know about the stories see Floyd in action, it's easy then one thinks to see the connection.
"Surly Bruce you must understand-Floyd is a monster. I can't give away the full reasons for the protection he has, or why he is so brutal, but my family has connection to the law in several states, and I have seen what Floyd can to certain people.
"I know he has not gone after you yet, but I am warning you that he might. For that matter, he could go after anyone!" Jim said in an underlying tone.
"Then why warn me so heavily? Why mention his father? Why not just tell every student?" Bruce questioned.
"Everyone who saw that fight will be sure to know to leave Floyd alone. But you come from a powerful family Bruce, and if he ever needs to single out anyone, he'll want to do it to someone with connections. That boy ain't right in so many levels, and if he sets his mind to do something he will do it." Jim responded.
"Ok then, well then, thanks for the tip Jim." Bruce said politely, realizing that his ride was probably ready.
"Bruce," Jim said with seriousness, "I'm sorry if I came off so strong and warning about this, it's just that . . . there have been other kids who he has overrun. I have clashed with him multiple times, and never won. He said in the fight that he runs the school-that's partially true. Just take some advice form a senior and don't mess with him, ok?"
"Can do-I'll see you around Jim," Bruce said with a wave, walking away.
"You to Bruce, you to," Jim said.
Pamela Isley was scared, and there was simply no other word to describe it. Clutched within her hand was a small packet containing an orange powder-like substance, and it was something she knew. Powder C, the name, was unfamiliar to her, but Powder C, the actual powder, was. Pamela was no stranger to the work of her father-his experiments in plant studies often interested her and was something she was fond of. What she held in her hand now, however, was something she knew was trouble.
As she walked to the car that would take her home, she felt an uneasiness take over. She recalled her dad telling her of a great new product he was working on-a formula that would revolutionize the agricultural business, and he sounded confident about it. Whenever they ate dinner he spoke of the product with great enthusiasm, positive that the product would net them millions.
For Pamela, the money was more or less secondary. She wouldn't deny to anyone that she enjoyed living a more wealthy life, but for her it was never the biggest piece of it. While she knew her father was a proud businessman and scientist, she often found he was more in his deals for the money and power than for the scientific discoveries. Yet Pamela found great things within the discoveries, and thought very highly of advancing the study of plant life.
Pamela's mother, the late Amanda Isley, was a devout gardener, who, in her early life, had operated a thriving flower shop. She had taught the very young Pamela the joys of gardening, the hard work put into it, and the vast resources such planting could provide-fresh food to eat, shelter for animals, shade on a hot day, or simply to create works of natural art. Pamela took great joy from this, and from an early age on became completely interested in plant life. She got the same ideas from her father as well.
Coming from a rural background deep in the heart of the Midwestern United States, Patton Isley knew just about everything about farming yet hated everything that came with the society that surrounded it. He was, he decided at a young age, not cut out for small time life-instead he craved a large city world from which he could start his own grand business. All the moves he made in his life led him to where he was currently, and the quickest way he decided to get big was to apply his skills of farming and agriculture to the big business level, doping whatever was necessary on the way to get the top spot.
Despite his want for greater power, Patton knew his science well and was still fond of it. Often he spoke to his daughter about the work they were doing in the labs, and sometimes took her along to see it. Seeing her dad working so many miracles and create new ideas with plant life made Pamela's interest in the subject only greater.
So when her father had told her his newest formula would go on to change an industry and feed thousands, she was all ears. Her father had not told her too much about the formula, but his confidence in the product caught her by surprise. More than anything else he had worked on in the past, this was the one he was really excited about. Naturally, this too got her excited, and she asked her father to see the work on the formula that was being done in the lab.
"I'm afraid I don't want you doing that honey-the tests, while mostly harmless, are still too early in development to work. I fear you shouldn't be around it now-but rest assured, I will show you the completed sample as soon as I can."
Pamela, ever the curious daughter, wasn't too pleased with the answer her father had given her. Determined to see this fantastic new product her father had made, she waited until later that night, and as her father prepared to leave their house for a late night in his office, she asked to go along to work on homework. Satisfied to have his daughter come along, he willingly accepted.
Upon reaching his office not too long later, Patton began to work on financials as Pamela kept a curious eye from the sides. In reality, she had no homework to work on-that had already been finished earlier that day. She was here because the main lab where her father worked was in this same building, and with luck she could find some way down to that lab to figure out just what this product her father was working on was.
As luck would have it, she didn't have to give a distraction to slip away.
As Pamela was reading through a book she had already read twice for class before, his father's cell phone rang, and moving over to pick it up she saw his face go nearly white as he glanced the number. Flipping it open quickly, he angrily whispered into the receiver.
"You are not supposed to call this number," He stated angrily.
"There's been a breakthrough with a new deal-I recommend you not hang up on us. You wanted our help . . . and you won't get it if you ditch now." The voice on the other end replied.
"Fine . . . fine. Let me excuse myself to a more . . . quite area to discuss this matter. But you are not to call this number again understood?" Patton asked.
"No promises Mr. Isley. I'm just a man with a job." The voice replied.
Patton Isley got red at the comment, and quickly stormed out of the room. Waiting a full minute after he was gone, Pamela quietly shut her book and walked to the door, where she checked the hallway twice. Where exactly her father had gone she did not know-only that now that he was gone, she would have a chance to examine the lab.
Quietly maneuvering down the ever dark hallway, she made it to an elevator and proceeded to set the contraption to the lab floor. Imputing the code she had seen her father use before, the machine quickly sprang to life and sent her down to the lowest levels of the building's basement.
Upon reaching the destination the elevator stopped to a sudden halt, and as the doors slid open Pamela felt an uneasy feeling take over her. She had been to the lab underneath the main building of Nano-Corp many times before, so she knew what to expect. Only this time, she recognized none of it.
The overhead lights, which usually stayed on all night to help with photosynthesis and solar growth in the labs were all out, and only a small set of illuminating blue lights lined the walkways of the labs, with the tiny colors of control panels and buttons providing the only other light in the room.
In the center of the lab stood a massive bio-dome bowl in which the major plant mutations and research would take place. In this very dome Pamela herself had seen her father create miracles using a few serums and powders. Here her father had replicated rare plants, created virus free strains of ground dwelling vegetables, and produced a gene in wetland plants that would allow them to grow in even the driest deserts on the earth.
But the sight she saw in the dome now was nothing like she had ever seen before . . . and not in a good way.
The normally clear exterior of the dome's glass had turned sickly yellow, and an apparent mist seemed to hang over the inside of the dome like a thick fog. Within the dome's center was a small plot of dirt in which a few agricultural products were being grown, such as corn and soy beans. The strangest thing about those plants in the middle was their color, and the way they were shaping.
One of the corn stalks in the middle was instead of green almost completely orange, and the stalk was not standing straight up, but instead has twisted around some of the other stalks and the small soy bean plants, almost in vine-like fashion. The other plants had an orange tint too, but they seemed to be almost wilting and decaying under the squeeze of the big corn stalk. Pamela also noticed the corn pods on the stalk were nearly double the size of normal ones, and they almost seemed to be growing twice as fast as they naturally should.
Frankly, there was nothing beautiful to look at all in the dome. The state inside it gave a graveyard vibe, with one plant seeming to empower the others-the stronger it grew, the weaker the rest got.
Pamela stared the dome down for more than three minutes in pure shock before thoughts started to emerge in her mind. She wondered if this was the product her father had been talking about. If so, then she was failing to see the hope that her father had spoken to her proudly of a few times before.
"What good could possibly come of this?" Pamela whispered to herself.
As if to answer her questions, she heard a voice come from the far edge of the lab, where she heard a door slide open.
"You here what this stuff is supposed to do? Isley says the serum he's added to these plants with increase agricultural production in the Midwest to an all-time high. He says that the produce from them will be bigger and more hardy, and that they will feed and produce at a remarkably fast level."
"So pretty much like the growth of zucchini except on steroids." Another voice responded.
"These are plants injected with steroids-plant steroids that are harmless to anyone who eats them." The first voice responded.
"You sure about that, I mean just look at the dome down there-looks more like a mucky swamp than anything else to me right now. Does Isley really think this stuff is gonn'a sell?" The second voice asked.
"He seems confident-you're from South Dakota Branson-do you think the people back in your hometown would buy it?" The first voice asked.
"I can't say I'd know for sure Clarence. The farmers up there have a system they've been using for years now-they are satisfied with what they have." Branson replied.
"Ok, maybe that's true-but have you heard the reports coming in from towns like Smallville and West Creek? They have had a drought the past 2 seasons-water is running almighty low there, and the dust clouds from the plans have people worrying about the Dust-Bowl 2.0." Clarence noted.
"I thought that was more of a problem they were having out more California way. Anyway, this stuff still seems very sketchy. You saw the results it had on the plants right?" Branson asked.
"Every one of us who works down here in Lab 13 does-cannibalistic plants-seem to drain the energy out of the others to make themselves bigger. Some of the scientists are getting scared of what we created. I just laugh at them-a few more replications and this stuff will be ready to make us all rich!" Clarence spoke with enthusiasm.
Pamela then noticed how their conversation briefly stopped, and she heard the sound of footsteps coming closer. Ducking down behind a large Computer system in a far corner of the lab, Pamela hid herself as the two men got closer to the dome.
"Downright ugly that is I tell you what!" Branson said with disgust at the appearance of the dome.
"Patience Branson-were getting there." Clarence said as he also looked at the dome.
"You hear what they tried the other day with this stuff, you know, with the mice?" Branson said quietly after a slow minute.
Clarence was silent for a minute, and then spoke.
"Yeah . . . wasn't a pretty sight. Five mice, all injected with the stuff. They each turned highly aggressive-started attacking each other as time went on. They were only driven by a blind type of fury. We observed nothing else from them-no hunger, or thirst, or drive to reproduce. All they could think about was eliminating every other creature alive in the dome they were placed.
"Eventually they all killed each other off . . . one remained . . . then it tried desperately to get out of the cage too . . . what it appeared to be, attacking everything else. It still wouldn't eat or drink, and eventually that killed it-starvation and dehydration."
"It was animal abuse Clarence, that's what Nano-Corp did to them." Branson said quietly in response.
"That's debatable." Clarence responded, although not with much positivity.
"We tortured creatures with that stuff. By "we" I don't mean I-I never heard of it until word of it leaked throughout the lab section of the company 2 weeks ago. Apparently this had happened over 5 months ago, and Isley and his heads of their respective branches never said anything about it. It was so . . . wrong Clarence, and the thought sends shivers down my spine." Branson said with a deadpan tone.
"Well then why are you still working here?" Clarence now asked with a hint of anger.
"Dang it Clarence you know I need the job! You know how hard it is to find any sort of work in Gotham right now. This city has gone to the depths. Look at us-were all broke, were all depressed from all the murder and crime on our streets, and now we got a major company producing from what I can see is a poison! It is not a good time to live in Gotham!" He retorted back in anger.
Silence fell over the room for a few minutes. From behind where she was hiding, Pamela could barely make out Clarence's figure, who gave a small sign after a few moments, and then raised his hands in a defensive gesture.
"Yeah Branson . . . times sure are tough for all of us. But you should be lucky. With all the companies in Gotham that are falling, Nano-Corp is on the rise-you have a good job here, so why ruin it? You know Dorsey needs the money to go to college, and your wife Loretta isn't getting any younger." Clarence said quietly.
"I can't be at peace with this though-what we're creating here. You say that more replications will make this product safe-I do not think the same. This thing is a killer, and no matter what Isley says it will not be safe for the public. I grew up with farmers, and their old systems worked just fine. Today we have all sorts of farming unions and types of genetic crops. This world doesn't need another right now-surely not something like this." Branson replied.
"What are you trying to say Branson?" Clarence asked.
"There's been talk going around the company-Scott Topper, one of Isley's associates for years, is breaking away to start his own small agricultural plant in Montana. He has let many of us lab workers know he will be hiring for chemical works their and wishes to have some familiar faces around when he starts the new plant. I've been invited to join." Branson said.
"So you're leaving?" Clarence said deadpan.
"The family isn't ready or willing to move right now, but I cannot stick with Isley if this product makes it to the market. There is a petition going around the company right now-many members of Nano-Corp want to halt the production of this product. We are going to present this petition to Mr. Isley himself next week, and I will be one of the ones leading the conference." Branson said.
Upon hearing this, Pamela saw Clarence simply shake his head and mutter a curse under his breath. Then he turned to walk out the lab, and a few moments later Branson followed, both heading for the sliding door. As they were about to leave, Pamela heard Branson say one more thing that left a cold reminder in her mind.
"You just remember this Branson-Mr. Isley does not like to be told he is wrong by those around him. If you defy what he wants, you will be gone the next day, and never allowed back near this factory ever again."
As she heard the sliding door close, Pamela remembered deep within herself how true that statement was.
Looking back on the situation now, she realized she could not remember much of the rest of that night. She had slipped back into her father's office before he returned, pretended to do her homework, and left the building with her father that night with him none the wiser to her activities.
Ever since that night however, she grew more and more worried with each passing day about what she had heard her father's serum could do. She too remembered the conference that had been had not more than a week after she heard Branson and Clarence talking in the lab. Indeed Branson and several colleagues had signed a petition, and demanded the stop of what was becoming more and more clear a dangerous project to several.
Patton Isley would have none of it. A total of 65 workers had signed the petition, and the next day, all but four of them were gone. Scott Topper had taken off for Montana, and a total of 45 people left Nano-Corp to join him. Of course her father had no difficulty replacing them-open jobs in Gotham's tough market these days never were open for long, and everyone was hungry for work.
But she knew what she had seen in that dome that night however was not a good product. Over time she had learned this had been the product her father had been talking about that would revolutionize agriculture, but even she could tell he was still trying to perfect it. Years had gone into this project, but the experiment sounded like it was just getting worse.
Furthermore, she could see the strain it had on her father. Patton was much more angered these days, and his failures to make his project work were beginning to make him short tempered, and anxious to get his product on the market.
Pamela did not know the name of the substance her father had been working on, but she knew she held something in her hands now that was dangerous. The orange glow of the one boy in the fights teeth . . . and he had a bag of powder in his pocket she thought she recognized. She had no idea for sure-in fact, she was certain none of her fathers unfinished products would ever leave the lab, but suppose this stuff was the very stuff her father had been working on!
The orange glow, the aggressive nature, and the desire to do nothing else but fight and destroy any competition seemed to fit the description of the boy, and if such was the case, then where had the student gotten some of her father's product?
The car was now quickly approaching her home, but the closer it got, Pamela found herself wishing that was not so. She knew she couldn't face her father about this right now . . . but if his product has leaked into Gotham she needed to find a way to inform someone.
But she was scared . . . and as she stared at the bag of powder in her hands an icy chill went down her veins. She was holding something very dangerous . . . and worse, it was probably something that came from very close to home . . .
In one of the abandoned buildings In Gotham's long forgotten Paradise district, a small group of haggard looking criminals hunched together over a table in a dimly lit room, looking at a map.
"I'm telling you boys, these graves are stockpiled. Golden Bridge cemetery is where all of Gotham's finest are buried, and the amount of valuables inside those graves could net us a fortune!"
"I don't know Jack," The large man sitting at the end of the table said, "You usually sell your services as a hitman. Since when did you beside to become a grave robber?"
"Why Boris I think it's time we take a step up in this competition. I've been gunning down enough figures lately-you know the problem with doing people dirty work all the time?" Jack Napier asked Boris.
"I could think of a few answers to that," Boris replied flatly.
"You never get anywhere-you simply serve the big boys. And as it stands in Gotham today, Thorn, Falcone, and that guy in the "black mask" are rising higher than anyone else. I'm tired of kissing the boots of men who can't do their own killing, and I say it's time we take over this city for our own-I say we start having . . . fun!" Jack said with a sadistic grin on his face.
To say Boris Planter was uneasy around Jack Napier would have been understating it greatly. Jack was among the top hitman in Gotham, but those who knew him well enough knew it was so because he enjoyed doing it so much. That something was extremely messed up in his head only few knew, and that he came from a rather bizarre circus background was only know by a select few.
Boris had worked on and off with Napier over the past few years, and the man was a puzzlement. He enjoyed the benefits being a hitman gave him, but also seemed to greatly enjoy the killing aspect of his job. He didn't mind taking anyone out, and seemed to particularly enjoy some of the stranger sensations in life. Somewhere back Boris had heard that his father was said to be a clown, and that his mother ran a wicked narcotics ring through their circus, which was known for their legendary Halloween shows.
All of it made Boris feel very uncomfortable around Napier. He was not a man to be trusted-a business partner at best, but nothing more. And what he was offering up this time sounded crazy, yet Boris would hear him out.
"We would need something to finance our rise to a higher position. What better than taking away from those who cannot fight back?" Jack asked.
"Golden bridge is a highly guarded cemetery though-state of the art technology, with trip wires, sensors, and even a few guards every now and then." Morty, a mob man sitting across from Boris noted.
"Leave that to me-I have a way of getting around all of them. And if there is any trouble, believe me the reaping will be great and will outweigh any issues we come across. There is a killing to be made here gentleman . . . a killing!" Napier said confidently.
"What's in the graves that is so valuable?" Another mobster asked.
"Many of Gotham's big socialites were buried with priceless jewelry on them, and a few even desired possessions of theirs to be buried with them as well. But that's not what we are after! They are side prizes sure, but we have a bigger target to hit." Napier said in a low voice with a cold smile.
He now had their full attention. Most grave robbers in Gotham went for treasures buried with their owners, but if they were not after jewelry or priceless objects in the coffins, then what? Morty asked as much.
"Do any of you remember the great "Five Way Deal" that occurred in Gotham 25 years ago between five of Gotham's major enterprises?" Napier asked.
"Sure," A slim but tough man seated beside Morty named Tom said, "Gotham's biggest names in clean water, the auto industry, public health, and recreational management-Dawton, Hazel, Marcellus, and Antonio, teamed up under Thomas Wayne to start a business fund and plan to help reinvigorate the city. Lots of promotional planning was put into it, and then stockpiled up a massive some of money to help get the city more progressive, clean, and peaceful. That was before Mayor Renson suddenly shut it down, to the dismay of many.
"For whatever reason, Wayne and his four partners never retaliated against the mayor for doing it-they all kept shut and moved on with their companies-which was shocking to a few-some of my own family included.
"For whatever reason, they chose to never mention it again, and the funding was broken apart, and split up amongst the five. Such a plan was never attempted again."
Boris was surprised by Tom's knowledge of so many facts, but he had once heard that before he entered into the criminal life Tom had been in law school and came from a wealthy background.
"Except what if the money never went back to the five?" Napier questioned hungrily.
All eyes turned to him, and if relishing the moment, he began to tell of how he knew that the plan was never abandoned, in fact a secret fund for it was continuing, and was still stashed somewhere to this day.
"I have a source telling me that one of the five had the locations to where the funds were stashed on them when they were buried, only they couldn't pinpoint for me which one it was. Fortunately, all men are buried in Golden Bridge-if we can find the location from the grave, we can take the funds, and start our ascent to the top of Gotham's underground empire!" Napier exclaimed triumphantly.
Boris was less than convinced-more than anything, Napier saw each other man at this table as part of his own agenda to advance his standing in the criminal empire. He, Morty, Tom and the others were all certainly tough and able enough men to pull criminal jobs with, but advance in the criminal world by grave robbing? To Boris it sounded a bit more than farfetched, and yet at the same time he knew that nearly everyone in the room would likely go along with Napier's plan.
Why would they? Fear-fear of Napier's viciousness alone would keep them in line. Of course, that would always be the final answers to everyone working with Napier-going against him was a fool's move. Even though he was no major head of the underground empire, all the major bosses had at least some concern over him-he was a loose cannon that was by all account hell-on-wheels in any scenario-something was not right about Napier, and the man was deadly-deadly and frightening. By his own nature, he kept everyone around him in line.
"Fear will keep the locals in check," Boris spoke silently to himself, recalling those as the words Grand Moff Tarkin had uttered after the completion of the Death Star in Episode Four of Star Wars.
Boris did not like this plan one bit . . . Yet neither would he go against it. Napier had a larger plan here that he was not telling them, but he knew in any event he was no match for Napier. Pull this last job and then get out-that's what he would do. The prize for this job would be big, and if he managed to get a considerable sum, he could just take off. He could be out of Gotham in days, and then . . . well who knew?
Maybe he would head to his old stomping grounds in the Windy City, or catch a tan in L.A.-with money that great the options would be endless. One more job with Napier-and then he would leave.
"I'll admit Napier," Morty said, "I don't have much of a desire to rise in standing in Gotham criminal world, but you do know how to get the job done, and if the amount of money I get from my cut is sufficient enough I suppose you can count me in."
"We've worked on and off on a few jobs before-guess this one won't be too hard-I'm in." Boris added.
"Might as well-sounds easier than a bank job or a hit," Tom said.
Several others shook their heads in agreement, and for a brief second, it seemed like all in the room were in favor of the job.
"A solid choice gentleman-most of you know my desire of being more than just a gun for hire to the top crime bosses of Gotham, and whether you desire to advance your own standing is up to you-those who participate will have a share of this massive intake, and . . ." Napier said before being cut off.
"How much is stockpiled in the fund right now?" One of the men asked.
Napier signed, then smiled a wicked grin, and said quietly, "10 Million dollars".
Someone in the room whistled, and if there had been any in the room who disagreed with the plan before, they were on board now. Napier was about to go further into the proceedings when he was interrupted by a shady man who stood in the corner of the room.
"A foolish idea Napier-from a foolish mind. No one of those five would have been so crazy as to bury it with themselves, and even if you did, grave robbing the most famous and well protected cemetery in Gotham would draw loads of media attention. Someone would find us, and then we would be in real trouble!
"The money would not even be on the bodies-it would only have a location to where the money might be located. We don't even know how far we can trust this source you talk about!"
Napier had had his back towards the man, but now he slowly turned around to face him, and the man, who had been confident before, felt a sudden chill course throughout his body. Boris who shook his head silently while watching, knew that this man was a goner.
"You are talking crazy Napier-I don't know what kind'a joker you figure yourself for, but this is not a good idea!" He asserted, but with less confidence.
"Strong words my friend-those are strong words . . . fighting words!" Napier said, with the last words sounding truly dark.
"You all can get killed for his crazy plan-all this man wants is more power, which will only drive his insane mind further. He will all just use you in this!" The man stammered out, his body now seeming to quiver.
Boris found himself starting to advert his eyes from the two. What the man had said was probably true-Napier was likely using them-but he also knew what Napier would do to those who tried to cross him. He turned his head towards the musty window in the corner, and looked at it thoughtfully for he did not want to see what happened next.
"Friend, you have called me out, and quite frankly that's something I don't like. Is anyone else in this room against the plan? Anyone else wann'a call me a fool?" Napier exclaimed.
No one in the room moved, and all seemed to try and show their support for Napier. Boris was still staring at the window, hoping to loose himself in its musty haze.
"You have challenged my brilliance and planning at the same time, and tried to mock me in front of these men. I suggest you leave now, before . . . well before something bad happens!" Napier said with a low chuckle.
The man was too paralyzed to speak, and as he turned for the door he felt his whole body shaking with every step. He had just made it to the door when two men moved in front of him to block his leaving.
"Hannibal, George-on second thought why don't you two send him back. We got all angered over nothing-if he doesn't agree then he doesn't agree, why not let bygones be bygones and send the man back over-as a parting gift I want to show this man something." Napier said almost childishly.
Boris knew Hannibal and George would do as they were told-they were Napier's two henchmen-brutes for hire who while not as crazy minded as Napier was were just as dangerous to handle as he was. They would do what Napier suggested, no questions sked.
Both men shoved the terrified man back forward towards the table that Napier stood over. Reaching into his pocket, Napier pulled out a pencil, and placed it on the table.
"You know my family has a circus background some ways back, and when I was growing up I loved to see the shows the magicians put on in front of a crowd-boy they knew how to make me smile. In fact, I became so interested in them over the years that I learned a trick or two . . . and now my friend, before your very eyes-I am going to make this pencil disappear!" Napier said happily as he pushed the man towards the table where the pencil was.
Boris did not turn from the window, and his body tensed from what was about to happen. Morty had tuned himself out, and Tom had gotten out his phone and was seemingly reading a text. For those who watched what happened next, terrified images and a single short chilling scream would stick in their memory for a long time to come.
On the walkway just outside of the building, a lone ragged dog walked along the cracked pavement, search and sniffing for something to eat. As it sniffed and searched, it found its way to an old abandoned building that looked completely deserted. Intrigued by the building for some strange reason, he looked at it for a moment, and then shifting his head elsewhere to leave when a scream filled his ears-a powerful scream that at a distance might have been mistaken for an injured animal wailing.
It was the scream of a man, and the dog seemed to sense one of a man in pain. Lingering for only a second, the dog turned again and walked further down the pavement, still in search of its food.
