City in Pieces II
Chapter Three: Daggett and Stryver
Daggett Industries was a corporation that was most famous for having some shady deals passed under the table. Evidence would be destroyed, so any prosecution would be lacking in data. Compared to what Gotham had tolerated in the past, a rich snob's dirty hands didn't even touch the muddy underbelly of Gotham's ravenous wolves in the nastiest parts of town. Even in the Old Town, nicknamed 'Poor' Town by the locals, worse things happened compared to a rigged game of chaps or a gambling habit gone awry.
Chance appreciated the funds that Daggett expelled toward the renovation in the sewers, how his money was affording the highest amounts of concrete concentrate, and although she wanted to at least tolerate the son of a bitch, she couldn't gain enough fondness for him in order to pretend that she cared if he died. Chance could take the risk of being seen in broad daylight; no one would arrest her. She wasn't foolish, though; she walked in the shadows. Barsad had offered to escort her, should Daggett get any ideas, but the business man was not a pervert, nor was he so stupid. Bane appeared before him once, and despite how brave Daggett had seemed, standing three feet inches shorter than Bane, Chance knew that he feared him. She didn't enter through the front door. Chance went through an open vent on the outside duct behind the dumpster, slipped through the ventilation shaft, and climbed her way through the system.
Daggett was sitting comfortably on a fine, red couch, sipping tequila on the clock. He was seated in front of a large television screen, clearly enjoying the sweet life. Phillip Stryver sat beside him, a leg crossed over the either, sharing the valued antiquities of being wealthy businessmen.
Chance scoffed at the appearance of the two men. With an almighty kick to the vent cage, Chance slipped through the ceiling, landing on her feet. The cage of the vent fell to the hardwood floor noisily. If the body that fell out of nowhere hadn't disturbed them, the cage door did. They were startled out of their calm reserve. Daggett nearly dropped his glass. Stryver straightened suddenly. Their eyes went to the woman standing in the middle of their office, hands on her attractive hips, her own eyes glancing at them, annoyed.
"What the hell are you doing here?" said Daggett rudely, obviously angered about his spilled milk. Chance approached him and took the glass out of his hand. She sipped the leftovers of his alcohol and placed it back in his hand. Stryver hardened beside Daggett, staring at the messenger with little fondness.
"Why are you here?" he asked her.
"It's our weekly meeting," said Chance. She was clad in fresh military fatigues. The clash of dark blue and black flattered her face and eyes. Daggett looked her over quickly before he replied to her, more calmly,
"Oh, yes." He attempted to gather his reserve. "I apologize."
"No, you don't." Chance said, crossing her arms. "You're not sorry at all. Hoping to skive off one of our little therapy sessions, John?"
"I was enjoying some tequila, Chance. It happens when men do this on occasion."
He strode pass her to fetch another glass for her and to refill himself. Chance gave him a disapproving look.
"We've been meeting here on a weekly basis, and every time I see you, you are drinking. Might want to stop soon." Chance shrugged. "Lowers a man's libido like the image of his naked grandmother." A smile crossed her lips when Stryver shuddered. Apparently, he saw the image for himself and could testify its worth. Chance turned back to look at Daggett. He held up a bottle.
"What's your poison?" he asked her sweetly.
"I don't drink." Chance stated coldly.
"You seem like you enjoyed my leftovers," said Daggett, a slight menace in his eyes.
"Old habits die hard. I gave it up." Chance then pressed on. "The matter of payment, Daggett."
"Hm, he's got you trained like he wants you," said Phillip Stryver appreciatively from the couch. Chance gave Daggett an annoyed look before turning to the other man. "Awfully hard to do that with women these days. All they do is talk."
"Perhaps I'll write that on your grave." Chance said hardheartedly.
Daggett raised his eyebrows. She was all business. That's all that it ever was. Bane had her wound so tight that no one could make a joke. Daggett wasn't going to say much of anything. Her eyes watched him retreat to his desk to fetch the envelope containing valuable bills. From behind his back, Daggett heard Stryver press on with a bit of a dare.
"I hear that Ace," said Stryver, circling his wine in his glass with interest, "is serving, what? Her…" he counted in the air, "eleventh term this year. Such a long time in the can, I think."
Chance's gaze toward him was heartless.
"Even so," continued Stryver, "that I hear from a buddy of mine that Ace was sent to see some psychiatrist, though she refused. Mad with love, I think is the expression that applies here. She's got it for the Joker, I was told. Fell ruthlessly in love with him, and then he was carried off. You were there, apparently. Or else I—"
"Chance!" Daggett cried out from his position, staring wide-eyed as Chance's hand wrapped threateningly around Stryver's throat. He strode quickly toward her. "Let him go!"
Her eyes bored through Stryver's weak, green ones. Unblinkingly, she narrowed them into Stryver's soul. He gasped for air, penetrated by her grip so tight into his throat that she pinned him to the back of the couch.
"Let him go, I said!"
Chance released Stryver, but she turned on Daggett. The color vanished from her face; then she was up in his.
"I've nearly had it," she said darkly, "with your friend's snide comments about my friend, Daggett. He's on thin ice." She showed him just exactly how thin with two fingers. "This thin."
Daggett tried a smooth recovery. He set a hand on her shoulder to calm down such a high-strung woman. In such a way, she was very attractive when she was angry. Daggett almost nearly wondered if she and Bane were lovers. His move to calm her only stirred her angry brew. Chance swung his hand away from her.
"I'm not happy with you, Daggett. Honestly," she said spitefully, "I don't like you."
"Well, gee," said Daggett, less than hurt from her remark, "that isn't good."
"Living in a penthouse, drinking, and watching TV while the rest of the world burns. It's your kind that made Gotham such a hole." She grabbed the envelope from his hand. The paycheck. Daggett merely shrugged. It was only money.
"Not everybody likes my company. Join the club." Daggett said carelessly. He strode back to the couch. "Phil, you all right?"
"Yeah."
"Of course, he is," said Chance pitilessly.
Stryver looked at her.
"You could have killed me." Stryver said.
"It's not me that you have to answer to," said Chance, striding toward the ventilation shaft. She turned to look at their unimpressed faces. "Thanks for the cash. It's appreciated."
"Ah, a thank you." Daggett said from his seat.
"I'm not thanking you." Chance said seriously. "It's just money."
Daggett held up a finger to stop her from moving. She waited for his reply.
"Money makes this world go 'round, dear."
"Right." Chance said sarcastically. "Well, when you're trying to pay off thugs who are invading your home for jewels and fine wines, you see just how valuable your money is to a couple of starving men."
"I could pay them off." Daggett said confidently.
"They'd use it to stoke the fire. It may have some value now. Flaunt it as you please," said Chance with a slight hint of understanding. "But wealth only lasts so long. Everybody's money eventually runs out. Just like time. And time cannot be bought."
Daggett's smile vanished when Chance leaped back into the shaft, climbing like a writhing snake back through the dirty, metal tubes, and ended up in the shitter of a hole in the back of the building.
The rich, thought Chance in hatefully, really are arrogant.
