Wayne Manor sits at the outskirts to Gotham City, a large monument to the greed that infects her like a virulent plague. The mansion is big and it is opulent, its outer façade of red brick and polished wood doors giving way to elegant marble floors and expensive paintings placed carefully on the walls. Guests are filed through the massive double doors to the ballroom, handed champagne flutes, and mingle among the crowd, some dancing to the live band. As with all things Thomas Wayne Junior, this party is lavish; no expense has been spared.
The man of the hour stands atop the stairs to the upper level, flute in hand. He is pensive, lost in thought, when a hand claps him on the shoulder, a loud boisterous voice filling his ears. "Thomas Wayne, Junior! Man, I was just talking about you." Thomas immediately slips into his public persona; a braggart little rich boy who does well enough at business to throw his money around. "Mayor Falcone! Good to see you. Your golfing game improve any?"
Carmine Falcone has been the mayor of Gotham City for a number of years, a hardliner with an incorruptible stance on crime. Thomas has been investigating him for a solid year, probing for weaknesses or blackmail material. Alfred suggests just killing him and be done with it, but Thomas has dismissed the idea for the moment. Mayor Falcone has been too much of a public figure, too well liked to be killed without a thorough investigation. Without allies within the GCPD, Thomas can't afford to make a move, yet.
It is a bit of a source of frustration for Thomas, which is why he has shifted priorities to the police. Searching for corruption in a city built on it is not hard. "Oh, you know me, Tom." Mayor Falcone replies. "I just can't get that swing on hole 15 under par. "
Thomas' grin is forced, his teeth grind under the tension of his jaw. Were it under different circumstances, he would have killed this man here and now. No one called him "Tom." Bruce called him Tom, or perhaps Tommy. But Mayor Falcone did not know this. Mayor Falcone was trying to be a sociable man at a party, and so Thomas faked his way through it.
"I'm sure you'll get there, Mr Mayor. Say, while I have you on hand, did you get a chance to look over my proposal for the Municipal Building? WayneTech has the best toys, and I can assure you if we don't, I'll buy out whoever does." The two laugh, and the Mayor makes very noncommittal platitudes about his office getting back to him on that.
"Prick." Thomas mutters under his breath. Then he turns around and bumps into Helena Bertinelli, the business owner by day, mob queen by night. She is smiling and her champagne flute is empty, setting it on a passing waiter's tray. "Mr. Wayne. Or is that Mr. Wayne, Junior? I never can tell with appropriate manners." He smiles and also disposes of his flute, turning and placing his hand on the small of her back. "Call me Thomas, please. Mr Wayne is for business associates."
Their shoes click against the marble floor as they begin dancing in tune to the band. "Alright, Thomas. Tell me, what's it like to be the richest man in Gotham?" He laughs, a deep rumble in his chest. "Well, there's a lot of people whose ears prick up every time I mention I'm going somewhere. I imagine you can relate." She nods, smiling wider, like a cat that ate the canary. Thomas has long suspected that she held feelings for him, as have the tabloids, and the look on her face confirmed it. Well, well, even the tabloids can be right once a year.
"What about you? Do you like living in Gotham? I hear we have a giant owl problem." Helena's smile falters at that. His eyes narrow, and he knows that she will die when all of this is over. There is no mistaking that. In his line of work, theirs, really, there are no friends; relationships never work and love doesn't conquer for people like them.
"I know that either way, he's going down."
We'll see about that, Helena, Thomas thought. We'll see. However,just as he was about to reply, Alfred walks over and whispers into his ear. He throws Alfred a nod, and extricates himself from Helena's embrace. Her expression crumbles and he finds himself throwing platitudes to her, telling her he'll be sure to call her later.
In truth, he is relieved to be rid of her, and rid of the party as a whole. Thomas follows Alfred out of the ballroom and into the library, where he picks up a phone from its cradle, taking it off of hold.
"Mister Fox, I assume you have some word for me?" He makes it sound like he is irritated to leave the party, as if speaking to those whom work for him is a Herculean effort. "I would say I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Wayne, but that would imply I care. You wanted word on if any of our WayneTech trucks' alarm systems went off. I'm giving that word now." The phone hangs up abruptly, and Thomas turns to Alfred. He nods and Alfred sets about quietly informing the security staff hired for the event to begin quietly escorting the most inebriated from the event.
Thomas walks back into the ballroom composing himself. He takes a champagne flute from a nearby waiter, and ascends the stairs to the railing overlooking the ballroom. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. Unfortunately, I have a business meeting to get to in the morning, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to rest up. Goodnight, and enjoy your evening elsewhere; security will escort you out."
As the collective groans and hushed whispers of gossipers takes over the silence left by his words, Thomas turns and exits the ballroom through another set of doors into a hallway, heading for his master bedroom. Normally, protocol would dictate he personally oversee the party's end, but Lucius' call meant something had happened and Thomas had to find out what.
Reaching the room, he closed the door behind him, divesting himself of his tie and walking over to the far wall, where a bookshelf rested. His hands ran over the tomes, most of which were first editions, before coming to rest on a book on a shelf at eye level. Tugging on it, the book moved slightly, then slid back into place. The spine slid up to reveal a retinal scanner, which he used and then disappeared as the entire bookshelf slid aside to reveal an elevator.
When the elevator comes to a stop below, Thomas steps out as lights come on to a bunker built out of a cave, the mouth of which felt like a gaping maw with stone fangs where teeth would be. Along one wall is a series of computers, flanked by a state of the art forensics lab. In another corner is the chamber holding a mannequin bearing his suit, and opposite this is the Car. In addition to that, there is gym equipment and training dummies along with a range designed for testing out new projectiles. And of course, there was an armory nearby as well. This is his home, as warlike and bare bones as it is, far more than the mansion above.
Thomas sits down at the computer, hands poised against his chin as his jaw clenches in anger. Another WayneTech truck had been hit carrying raw parts for some proprietary weapon that hadn't yet hit the testing stage. That made four this month alone, 15 in total. The mob was specifically targeting his company, his trucks, on Huntress' orders. The puzzling question was what she planned to do with what she had.
He slid the keyboard closer to himself, and began to type, fingers sliding over the keys like a master pianist playing Bach. The truck had been hit around four hours ago, and the system report stated the cargo door to the truck hadn't just been forced open, but ripped off at the hinges. The security attached to the truck had been ripped from their seats and their heads smashed in on the pavement.
It was quick and dirty, and in all honesty, rather sloppy, but the assailants, the police report states, were all wearing masks and all wielding weaponry built by his company. But, as Thomas looks to previous reports, and their increasing security measures, a pattern begins to emerge.
At first it's small trucks, nothing major. Small, handheld devices already released to military contractors. Then, they began to hit the long haulers, the ones meant to leave their depots for spots across the country with parts meant to mass produce military grade technology. For a while, the pattern held, he noted, as it was only trucks hit. Then it seemed Helena got impatient or someone under her as the warehouse from the other night was the first stationary target hit. Either way, more and more supplies were being taken, and it only meant something big.
"Damn it." He swore. "She's gearing up for a siege."