Chapter 4

Emma Trevor began her day by taking the train into town. It was a hopeless drive by car—so much traffic and annoyances, she had no idea how her brother did it. But the trip was still a long one, and Emma wasn't one to waste her mind on the phone. She didn't like being plugged in and facing down like every other commuter on the train.

Emma Trevor, instead, took a book out her bag and began to read. Alfred had sent it to her. He sent her snail-mail packages with books and letters, and because the process took many weeks, sometimes a month, for the next book to arrive, Emma always had plenty of time to finish a book and send Alfred her thoughts.

This book in particular was about female revolutionaries in the Americas. These were tough, daring women who fought against the worst dictatorships in the last century. Emma smiled as she read: Alfred knew what he was doing. Always since she was little, he had egged her on.

Her book reading, however, made her vulnerable to sleazy-eyed male passengers who did not have the slightest politeness. Just when the book was starting to gain traction, and she finally felt herself slip into the flow of the narrative, some suit-jacketed hyena who thought himself slick would lean over to her and say 'how is that book?'

There was one such passenger on board today. He took the seat next to her, despite the fact that there were at least a dozen seats available. He was quiet for a moment. She saw him catching glances to her. She paid him no mind. And hoped he would keep his mouth shut.

"How is that?" he finally, inevitably, said.

Emma pretended to not hear him. That was her first line of defense. But then she saw he shifted a little closer, and repeated the question with such a confidence that could not go unheard.

"It's good," she said politely. She started rummaging in her purse for her headphones.

"Why are you reading it?"

Because it's my life. That's what she wanted to say.

"My grandfather gave it to me," she said. She couldn't find her headphones.

"You should read this one instead."

From his suitcase he pulled out a paperback: How to Win Friends and Influence People.

"I'm a trader," he explained matter-of-factly. "I have my own firm, right there on Main avenue. Olson and Barnes?"

"Good for you," she said. There were only five more train strops. She just had to hold it together.

"What do you do?"

Emma was fighting off the urge to throw the book at the man's face. But then she had another idea.

"I'm just trying to read my book," she said.

He looked like he had been slapped. And his kind, charming face contoured into a grimace.

"Damn, sorry for just trying to make a conversation."

Emma turned the page. Three more stops.

She had hoped he would take the hint, but instead of scurrying away with his tail between his legs, the man gained new resolve from her rejection. He cleared his throat.

"Do you think you'll get far in life with that kind of attitude?"

Emma slowly put her book down. The man was smiling at her. Maybe he thought he had finally done it; that his rude determination had broken through her defenses. Now he expected her to give up the coy act and succumb to the inevitability of his charm.

But Emma just wanted to punt him across the city. And it wasn't a metaphor. She could actually do it.

"Have a good morning," she said in a flawless and neutral tone. She stood up and gathered her purse. She would get off at the next train stop. She had to get away. This man had no idea how dangerously stupid his smile was. It was the ugliest smile she had ever seen.

The man, however, followed her as she tried to leave. "Hold on, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He put his hand on her arm. And whatever the man did or did not mean to do went out of the picture, as far as Emma was concerned. What she knew was this: a man, a stranger, had taken the liberty to touch her body. Her body. Her body.

She snapped her arm away, a gesture that cost her no effort. It was like tugging on a lawnmower to get the engine running. The man went flying forward in the direction of her arm and fell, in a glorious heap, on the floor of the train.

"Apology accepted." Emma stepped over him and his wild, confused expression. As she exited the train doors, the other commuters were whispering and muttering. The man was getting to his feet, muttering something about "slipping while trying to help that girl off the train."

Emma fought off the urge to laugh. Men. What fragile egos.

But the day didn't turn out to be as bad as the train incident might have foretold. It was a beautiful morning, and she always enjoyed stretching her legs. She was naturally athletic, blessed with powerful arms and legs – as that poor man on the train had learned for himself. So Emma walked down the Avenue. Now she was just another commuter on her way to work. She liked the anonymity, the blending in. There was a school bus with kids on the street. They wore soccer gear. Emma waved her hand at them. She always wanted to play a sport in high school. But that wouldn't have been fair to the other kids, according to her mother.

On her way to work she passed through the bizarre Canary Square. This area of the city was a tourist trap with ridiculously priced shops and restaurants. But the main gimmick were the giant jumbotrons mounted on the faces of the skyscrapers. Everything from perfumes to insurance was advertised on those screens.

The other noteworthy part of the Square were the rows of homeless tents along the sidewalk. It really was bizarre: the tents were made out of filthy tarp and molded quilts, but they were bivouacked underneath the wainscoting and marble paneling of the storefronts. Some of the homeless were street performers, and they played a wiry guitar or a rusted brass instrument and had a hat out before them for the donations. The others were simply watchers – they sat with dead-eyed stares that gave nothing away as to their internal thoughts about the tourists and commuters walking along the square. And accordingly, the tourists and commuters did not return the gaze.

It was like a great game of chicken. The pedestrians pretended not to notice the homeless tents, and the homeless did not condemn the pedestrians for letting their fellow man live in squalid conditions. This way, both parties walked away with something from the exchange: the pedestrians walked away without guilt, and the homeless were allowed to remain in place.

But Emma didn't take part in this stupid game. She always made sure to make eye contact with anyone who came and talked to her. It was a matter of principle. She hated the idea of looking down at someone.

And sure enough, a man in shabby jeans and grey t-shirt came walking up to her. The words Gotham Knights Football ran across his shirt. He was bald, lean, and had sunken cheeks that, with his slightly blackened gums, gave him a rather gaunt look. But his face was always jovial, and when he smiled, it possessed a jack-o-lantern charm.

"Emma, ma'am," said the man in a booming, accented voice. "You are a little late, no?"

"Nineb," greeted Emma. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Nineb fell in line with her while keeping a respectable distance. He was wearing his blackened-gum smile. "Be careful. It is not always good to look for an Assyrian. We are dangerous people."

"I thought you said you were an 'endangered' people, Nineb?"

"Same difference, ma'am."

Nineb always called her 'ma'am,' which Emma found herself not really minding, but liking.

"I usually see you here at seven-thirty, ma'am. It is nearly eight."

"I had a little family trouble. And then there was this idiot on the train."

"Family trouble," said Nineb sympathetically. "That is the best and worst kind."

"How about you, Nineb?"

"I have family trouble, too. My wife doesn't love me, my kids use all of my money. I have no purpose in life."

Emma smile politely – the horrible thing was that Nineb was lying. But not about his wife or his kids, but because he had neither of those things. His family was back in Iraq, and he was here. Nineb saw this look on her face and realized that she wasn't up to playing today. He looked a little apologetic.

"But I have report on all the doings," he continued in his jovial tone. "I have many eyes and ears for you, ma'am."

They walked together as Nineb gave her a surprisingly well-detailed accounting of the city's underbelly: petty crimes like theft and trespassing, as well as the more violent events like armed robbery and assault. Even murder, occasionally, which always got Nineb riled up.

"Today was a particular bad case, Ma'am," said Nineb. He was looking at the floor. "A body by the waste facilities. She looked eaten."

"Eaten," repeated Emma. "What do you mean?"

"Her face. Eaten off."

Emma stopped walking. "You're being serious, aren't you?"

"The police went on it. The public does not yet know, ma'am."

He said this to impress on her the exclusivity of his report; and Emma usually was impressed by how much Nineb's homeless network knew about the city. But she wasn't thinking about Nineb's report. She was thinking about William. Would he have been one of the responding officers for such a scene? She hoped he wasn't. He was moody but fragile. She didn't think it would do him any good to see something like that.

"You have that face again, ma'am."

"I'm sorry. I'm just thinking about my brother."

"You are very good sister, ma'am. I wish my daughter was like you."

"I don't think you do," she said. Then she pushed those thoughts away. "Anything else?"

"Well, actually, ma'am. There is."

Nineb rubbed the back of his neck. He looked a little hesitant. Emma sighed.

"You don't have to ask me for money, Nineb. This is a job. You're doing something invaluable for me and I am going to pay you according to that service—"

"No, it isn't that, ma'am. It isn't that."

"Well, what then?"

Nineb was looking behind him furtively. As if he was afraid of being overheard. Emma found herself feeling drawn in by his worry. Something big must have happened.

"Nineb?"

Nineb's sunken cheeks turned a little paler. "There's big doings in the city," he said in a secretive tone. "Everyone is leaving—all of my people, are leaving."

The excitement in Emma deflated: he was talking about the referendum. "Nineb, that isn't exactly a secret. I do read the news too you know. And I promise you that we're going to file a suit against the city office—"

Nineb shook his head. "It isn't just the reform, ma'am. That's old news. No, I've been hearing things. There's something else going on in this city. Something underground. I haven't heard much, though."

"Nineb, I pay you to tell me about the underground."

She said this in a jesting tone, but Nineb did not laugh. Instead, his eyes darted uncertainly, and he was moving very tightly. She had never seen him like this.

They reached the steps leading up to the entrance to Wayne Enterprises. Emma was waiting for Nineb to elaborate, but he pretended to be fascinated by the giant W at the top of the skyscraper.

"Do you really work there? Underneath that sign."

Emma shook her head. "No, not right underneath it. I work a little to the left. In a corner-office."

Nineb brought his gaze back down. "Powerful business-woman. And you are what, only twenty-one?"

"It's really not what you think it is, Nineb. You could work there."

It took her a moment to realize what she had just said.

"Wait. That's not what I meant, Nineb."

His blackened smile appeared again. "No worries, ma'am."

Emma searched in her bag. She brought out an envelope. "Here; for services rendered."

Nineb always looked reproachful when she extended him the envelope. And this time was no different. She held it out earnestly.

"You can't do this every time, Nineb. You earned this money. I swear if you—"

He took the envelope, but what she had taken for reproach was actually embarrassment, because he had an envelope of his own to give her.

"It isn't much," confessed Nineb. "But it is a little happy birthday from me to you. It is for your family."

She looked at the envelope in his hands for a long time. Her eyes felt a little stingy. She took the envelope.

"Nineb," she said, as a slow smile crept its way on her face. "I don't know what to say—"

But before she could finish her thought, a security guard came thundering out of Wayne Enterprises. He was a thick man, with gelatinous jowls that quivered as he ran.

"Hey, you Russian prick!" the security guard pointed a hammy hand at Nineb. "I thought I told you to leave her alone! Get the hell away from her!"

Nineb jolted back. His envelope fell to the floor.

Emma turned furiously to the guard. "It's okay, Kevin. Seriously, I'm fine—and he's Assyrian, you idiot."

Kevin the security guard thrusted out his pelvis in exaggerated fashion. "Don't believe a word he says, Emma. He's a thief. I've seen him on the street before. Get away!"

Nineb stuttered. He looked to Emma for help.

"He's not hurting me, Kevin," said Emma. "He works for me."

Kevin continued coming after Nineb. "These guys spot easy marks, Emma. I'm sorry, but women usually tend to be more sympathetic. Get away from here—did you hear me? I said move or I'll call the cops!"

Kevin raised a black club over his head like it was a mighty hammer: Nineb scampered, leaving without his envelope. Emma turned her fury onto Kevin.

"What the hell, Kevin?"

Kevin stuck the club securely into his belt. He looked pleased with himself. "Just doing my job, Emma. That guy could have seriously hurt you, you know."

Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. "How so?"

"Last week he nearly took a purse at knifepoint. We got it on the security camera here. He had the same Gotham Knights shirt—it's probably been months since he's showered, you know."

Kevin pointed at the security camera above the glass door to Wayne Enterprises.

Emma shook her head. "Kevin, everyone in town has that shirt. They gave them away for free when the Knights won the cup last year."

That answer only made Kevin swell with pride. He was shaking his head too understandingly, as if she were a five year old child who did not understand how the world worked. "You're just too nice, Emma. But that's why I'm here, huh? To keep the division between us and them."

Emma picked up Nineb's envelope and put it in with the envelope he had given her into her purse. Kevin held the door open for her, which forced Emma to walk across his jutting belly in order to get inside the building. He watched her walk with a strange, unsettling smile. His entire head swiveled as if on a stick.

"I'm off at five you know," he said. "Maybe you want to hang out?"

"I'm not interested, Kevin," she said in her most tone-neutral voice. "Thank you."

Kevin's eyes went narrow. "There's not that many good guys like me, Emma. As you can see."

Kevin pointed back at the street, back at Nibem. Then he hiked up his belt impressively, which was an action that unavoidably caught the attention of Emma's eye. She quickly averted her eyes. Now she disgusted more with herself than Kevin.

Unfortunately, Kevin saw the quick dart of her eyes. And his face suddenly changed, becoming more relaxed, more assured of the situation. In his mind, he had caught her looking at him, and now he was completely convinced of her interest.

"It's alright, Emma," he said in a mischievous tone. "We're both adults here."

Emma pressed the button on the elevator. She prayed it would come soon. Otherwise, the top news-story of the evening would be: Security guard punted across Gotham City.

The elevator opened. She stepped inside.

"See you around, Emma," said Kevin. He was doing his best to sound mysterious.

Emma pressed her floor level on the elevator. She leaned on the chrome handrail in the elevator. She didn't look at Kevin but through him: she was picturing the wall behind him. She said nothing.

Before the elevator closed, she was sure she saw Kevin mutter something underneath his mouth. She couldn't hear it because of the elevator ding, but she was confident it rhymed with 'twitch.'

Emma closed her eyes. She breathed to the gentle hum of the elevator's whirring. Suddenly, the elevator screeched with metal. Emma opened her eyes, searching for the noise, only to find that it came from the handrail – she was gripping it, and the metal, underneath her duress, had crumpled.

She got out on the penultimate floor and walked down the hall to her corner office. It overlooked the entirety of the Gotham financial district, and it had one hell of a view. She felt like she was supervising the entire city.

"Another beautiful day," she said, taking in the view. She hated to admit it, but she losing was the optimism battle. She always tried to see the good in people, but today the men of the world were making it exceptionally hard.

She put down her purse and slid around her seat, with her back facing the city because she was, apparently, 'easily distracted.' On her desk was a series of briefs she was expected to read for the day's meetings. The briefs weren't difficult readings, but they were boring. There was nothing even remotely interesting about bonds and loans and interest rates. She willed herself through an hour of reading before she pushed the briefs away and sighed. She looked around her office: Barcelona chairs, teak paneling, abstract paintings on the walls. She was clearly somebody powerful and important. But she didn't feel useful.

She opened her desk cabinet and pulled out a wafer-thin laptop. It was her fourth replacement laptop – the things were so fragile that they could always reliably break underneath her fingertips. And she didn't really type all that hard.

She typed in her passcode and opened up a folder that read "IPOs." This brought up a catalogue of scanned newspaper clippings, journal articles, soundbites, press publications, interviews, podcasts, and documentaries. And all of these information mediums, in one form or another, focused on one topic: the Dark Knight.

When she and William were children, they fell inevitably underneath the spell of the Dark Knight mythos—it happened to any child who grew up in the preschools and kindergartens of Gotham City. As children, they all took turns playing a game with one child as Batman who had to stop the rest of the 'villains.' And Emma developed clear ideas of who was 'good' and who was 'bad' according to this game: the child playing the Batman was the dark hero who always found a way against the rest of the bad guys. The Batman always did the right thing. So when the adults in Emma's life later told her the 'truth' about the Bat, claiming that he was a criminal, that he betrayed this city, she was hooked. She had to find out more about this mysterious man.

Initially, the mythology of the Bat had enthralled the both of them: Will and Emma. They begged their mother for stories about him but she refused to give them more than bread crumbs. Then they asked Uncle Clark, and he initially fed their great curiosity until Diana caught word and put a stop to it. But they were hooked, the siblings. And for the long stretching years of their childhood, the two of them stayed up well past midnight underneath their bedcovers with a flashlight combing over cheap newspapers for the Batman. The stories in those cheap papers were outrageous, and now, looking back on it, Emma laughed at how ridiculous those stories really were. But they believed them, they believed in him.

Emma clicked through her folder. William had long since lost interest in their mutual fascination with the Bat. The conspiracy theories no longer held his attention, and she no longer pressed him for his opinions on what 'really happened' twenty years ago when everything came crashing down. Now it was Emma alone who did her research. And the more digging she did into his story, the more the Dark Knight vexed her, teased her, laughed at her. His story was like a patchwork quilt that took years to stitch together, and, once seen at a distance, had no coherence, no unity to its finish. He was an enigma. A man whose moral code was as unreadable as the midnight skies that were his haunt. He spent a decade saving people, saving this city, and then in one year, he undid it all.

With that, masked heroes were banned. Their mother and Uncle Clark moved into hiding. They began to have families. They had William and Emma.

Emma suddenly felt someone watching her. She looked up from her laptop: Lucius Fox was at her doorway. He was a staple at Wayne Enterprises –a man with a head full of frizzy white hair and a leathery smile. He looked much younger than he was, which gave off the impression that he would remain with the company forever. In a way, he was Wayne Enterprises— he moved throughout the building quietly, wantonly, and independently. And somehow, as Emma was just now realizing, he always knew where his presence was needed – in the present case, when an employee was doing something they shouldn't.

"Emma Trevor," said Lucius in his long, soft voice. "I heard you had some 'trouble' this morning with our security."

"Did you?" she said guardedly. She exited the folder on her laptop.

"Yes, I just received a call from security that Kevin Martin saved Emma Trevor from being robbed at knifepoint on the streets of Gotham City."

Emma closed the laptop. She sank back in her chair. "Is that what you think happened?"

Lucius walked toward her desk. He was smiling. "No, I think that it was the other way around: you did Kevin Martin a favor by not knocking him into next week."

That made Emma feel a little better. Outside of her family, there were only two people who knew what she really was: one of them was her grandfather Alfred, and the other was Lucius.

Lucius came over to the side of her desk. "Reading your briefs?"

"Absolutely." She gave him an indignant expression, as if she was irritated that he should think otherwise.

He leaned against her desk and folded his arms – on anyone else, the gesture would have looked like a reprimand, but Lucius looked only amused and understanding.

"So what's on the agenda for today?" said Emma in her best casual tone.

"You tell me. Those briefs are in chronological order."

"Oh, right."

Lucius unfolded his arms. He was chuckling. "We have the meeting with the financial chief in Accounting to go over new billing procedures for our government contracts; then a table discussion with some of the board who want to discuss the new city reforms; we break for a short coffee break with Human Resources; then followed by a meeting with the Gotham Gazette who want a quote on our recent acquisition of the Sionis Steelmill in Old Gotham—something about the potential for a steel resurgence in the industrial sector. And then we go lunch."

"Then we go to lunch," repeated Emma. Her eyes went a little big.

"Don't be overwhelmed, Emma. All you have to do is show up and pretend like you know what you're talking about. Everyone does it."

She looked at him with a half-smile. "Really?"

Lucius nodded. "I've been doing this job for nearly forty years. Most of the stockholders and board-members are high on cocaine or opioids. This job does itself."

"That's good," she said, but the words felt empty. There was nothing good about a job that dumb rich idiots could do.

"Of course, it's not good," said Lucius. "There's nothing good about a job that any rich idiot could do. But it's the reality of what we have here. I'll push back our meeting with financial chief and let you, ah, 'refresh,' yourself with the briefs. You have twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Lucius."

At the threshold, Lucius paused again. "And you might want to consider visiting our IT department and getting a VPN for your laptop. Anybody can see what you're looking up, you know."

Emma frowned at Lucius. "You hacked my laptop?"

"Of course not. I'm given a weekly update on the internet browsing histories of this company's web servers. It's a way to make sure people aren't abusing this company's good name. Most of it is harmless like social media and whatnot, but recently we've had a slew of subscriptions to various newspaper and trade publications."

"Maybe you have some employees who want to be better informed, not influenced."

She expected Lucius to flash her another amused smile; but his face was pensive, almost regretful. "Just a suggestion," he said. Then he walked out.

Emma sat forward in her chair. She could not put it into words, but she had long suspected that Lucius always knew more than he let on. It was the way he held himself around her: a friendly patronizing attitude. Except that he never abused it, never really made her feel inferior. Sometimes Emma wondered if it was simply all in her head. It was an itch just underneath her skin that she couldn't scratch. She read her briefs, hoping to forget that knowing smile.

The day passed in a blur of boredom and monotony. She met everyone: the board members, the stockholders, the clients. Everyone looked the same: the men in the same grey suits, and the women in business skirts with some type of gold or pearl necklace hanging down their chests. Emma's job was to shadow Lucius: she sat in on boardmeetings, listened, pretended to understand what was going on and at the end, shake everyone's hand. It wasn't exactly a difficult job, but she had to fight to stay awake.

At some point, while Lucius was droning on about the homeless reforms to the dozen boardmembers, Emma found herself looking outside. The building across from the street was being remodeling with new exterior windows. About half a dozen contractors hung suspended by a scaffold attached to the side of the building. The way the scaffold moved in the wind made her uneasy, like it was unbalanced or loose from its bearings. Yet none of the contractors seemed to be aware.

"…we will of course wait to see what the City Hall says on the zoning regulations of the Avenue," said Lucius. "And if we cannot get through the clogged gears of the city council, we can adapt a 'convert and conquer' strategy: we convert the old buildings into residential and commercial spaces."

"We should have kicked all of those deadbeats out ten years ago," complained one of the boardmembers. This man had a thick flab of skin at his neck that moved when he talked. His skin was oily and sweaty, and he was rubbing his fingers together as he spoke. "All that precious real-estate depreciated. Now it all belongs to non-profits and cooperatives who are going to want to convert it into affordable housing."

"Yes, how dare they want to establish cheap apartments instead of shopping duplexes, Dreedle," muttered Lucius.

"Do we have a list of those 'holier-than-thou' companies who currently lease or own those proprieties?" said Dreedle contemptuously.

Lucius sighed. "I believe Ms. Trevor has that report. Ms. Trevor?"

But Emma was still looking out the window: the scaffolding swayed precariously in the wind, and it was a twenty-story fall.

"Ms. Trevor," insisted Lucius in clearer tone. "Mind you telling us about the report?"

"Wha—?" said Emma, turning around to the patient, expectant faces of the board. Mr. Dreedle was still rubbing his fingers, looking intently at Emma.

"A little slow are we now?" said Mr. Dreedle in an obnoxiously understanding tone. His oily face was shiny underneath the lighting of the room.

"She's faster than you," murmured another boardmember – a bony, ruddy faced man whose suit seemed much too big for him. His fingers were like long spiderlegs. "At least she's pleasant to look at—you look like a melting wax figurine, Dreedle. And you have the personality of one, too."

But before Emma could snap at the men, the scaffolding was suddenly in freefall. And the dozen men on it were gesticulating madly, crying out for help. Emma pushed the boardmeeting table away. She flew out of her seat, ready to launch herself out the window.

"Emma, what are you doing—!?"

Suddenly the scaffold right itself. It was just the wind. The men weren't crying for help – they were gesturing to the operator to lower them more slowly. There was never any real danger.

And this left Emma standing in the middle of the boardroom, in a diver's position, with her legs squatted and her butt sticking out—in short, looking extremely foolish.

"Um," said Emma. She slowly stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" exclaimed Dreedle, his flabby neck swinging indignantly. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Calm down," said another boardmember. This woman was white-haired with very blue eyes and hawkish features. And she was extremely thin, which only added to her bird-like appearance. "Something clearly startled the poor thing. I don't blame her. The coffee in the lobby is too strong, I keep saying."

The ruddy faced boardmember suddenly tapped the table. "Hold on a second. This table is solid metal. It must weigh at least two hundred pounds. Maybe even three hundred."

This got them all to test their weight against the steel table. It didn't budge. Then they all looked at Emma with amazement and anticipation on their faces. They were waiting for her to explain herself.

Emma gulped. "I, um, had momentum."

"Momentum," repeated Dreedle. "What hell does that mean?"

"It means I think we've gone over everything today," said Lucius all of a sudden. He was already at the front door, holding it open. "Let's break for lunch."

This was not a suggestion but a command, and the boardmembers, initially eager to hear Emma's explanation, finally gave up once it became clear that there would be no explanation. The members all slowly filed out of the room, which not due to their curiosity but to the literal reality of their age. Emma hadn't realized, up until that moment, just how old all these people were.

Suddenly the hawkish woman appeared and took Emma to the side.

"Better lay off the snow, my dear, if you catch my drift. It can have all sorts of jittery effects on the body. It made me spasm like an electric eel in the eighties."

Emma turned beet red. "Oh, right. I forgot about that."

"Youthful innocence," said the old lady, smiling. "I miss those days, but watch yourself, darling. It all catches up with you in the end."

The room emptied out, and only Emma and Lucius were left. Now it was perfect silence.

"In twenty minutes, they'll forget all about this and move on with the rest of their rich, stuck-up, boring lives," said Lucius. "You don't have anything to worry about, Emma."

"Other than that lady thinks I'm on cocaine."

"They'll forget that, too. All those people are a walking pharmacy, you know that."

"Right."

Lucius walked over to her. He was frowning. "I'm surprised, Emma. Last week you had quite a lot to say on the new homeless referendum. I was expecting a bigger showing from you today."

Emma stayed silent. Lucius followed her eye out the window: he saw the scaffolding. And his face slowly shifted into an expression softer.

"You have a good eye, Emma. And a better heart. But sometimes the world doesn't need saving."

"There's still bad things happening out there," said Emma. "There are several unsolved murders out there, Lucius: Two in Canary Park and the Storm drains. Today on out by the Waste facility." and the week before that, a bank robbery on the city bank."

"And what are you supposed to do about those events? Jump into a costume and stop them with your bare hands?"

"My mother did it."

"Because she had to, Emma. Their world was a much different place. They fought to make it better, and it is."

"A better place?" she repeated skeptically. "They're kicking out the homeless to the other side of the city, and this is a better place?"

"I didn't say it was a 'perfect' world, Emma."

"I just want to make a difference." She turned around to face him. Her eyes were hard. "I could be doing more for Gotham City than listening to boring board meetings—no offense."

Lucius chuckled. "It is boring. But I don't work here because I enjoy it, either, Emma. I wanted to be a musician."

Emma found herself laughing in disbelief.

Lucius smiled like a kid caught in trouble. "No, it's true. When I was a little boy, my grandfather had an old double bass lying around, and when I leaned that wood against my shoulder and started plucking at those strings…something just felt right."

Lucius had his hands out before him, like he was playing an imaginary bass. "In high school my family would come see me play at the local clubs. I was pretty good, too. I probably could have been a decent studio musician."

"What happened?" said Emma. But she already had a suspicion that it involved money.

Lucius's hands fell away from the imaginary strings. He dug them back into his pockets. "Responsibility," he said solemnly. "My mother was sick all her life, and my sisters couldn't support her. So, I went to engineering school. Then one thing led to another, and I ended up here."

"Do you still play?"

"No. I haven't played in years."

"Why haven't you picked it back up? You got time now, and you—"

"My wrists are bad, and I got weak fingers," said Lucius in a slightly annoyed tone. "But I don't regret what I did, Emma. I would do it again, if given the choice. And do you know why?"

He looked at her with a proud intensity. "Because people depended on me. I was the only one who could go to college. I was the only one who could help my family. It was my responsibility."

Emma looked to the floor. His gaze was overpowering. And he made good points.

Lucius's voice suddenly softened and became encouraging once more. "A CEO of a Fortune 500 company is a powerful position, Emma. I can't even begin to stress how much good you could do: city ordinance, political elections, international treaties—you could influence the world for yearsto come. You could make it so that the city never passes a bill like this again."

"I know," she repeated quietly. She was still looking at the floor. "I know, Lucius."

Lucius put a hand on her shoulder. He meant it as a reassuring gesture. "Wayne Enterprises is a family company," he said proudly. "A Wayne should run it."

That ticked something in Emma. She always hated that argument—her mother tried it years before.

"I'm not a Wayne, Lucius," said Emma with a little heat in her voice. "Steve Trevor is my father."

"I know, I didn't meant to . . . I just meant that this company was passed onto you and your brother.

Emma suddenly felt emboldened. She raised her eyes from the ground. "Didn't Bruce Wayne leave the running of this company to you while he went wining and dining? I've heard the stories, Lucius. About him sleeping in boardmeetings."

This time it was Lucius's turn to look at the floor. "It was more complicated than that, Emma. Your father was—"

"He's not my father," she said a little more coldly.

Lucius raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I know, I know."

Emma looked back out over the view of the city that wreaked of power. She was angry. "And if Bruce Wayne wanted me to run this company, he should have asked me himself. I didn't ask for any of this, Lucius. I didn't ask to be a . . ."

She stared at her hands. They looked perfectly ordinary. Pedicured, smooth, and feminine. But they were shaking. She felt so much electricity, so much rage, rushing through her. She was trapped. She couldn't get the energy out of her. It was going to erupt from within.

Lucius's voice was even quieter, more subdued. "I'm sorry that I made you upset, Emma. Why don't you take the rest of the day? I'll handle the rest of the agenda."

Emma shook her head. "I can't take the rest of the day, Lucius. I have to get Alfred at the airport—"

Emma's exhaled loudly: She had completely forgotten about Alfred.

"Crap. What time is it, Lucius?"

"It's 1:30."

"Shit," she hissed. "He gets in at 2."

"Oh," said Lucius. He peeked over the edge of the window to the streets below. It was jampacked. "You'd be better get going," he said matter of factly.

Emma whipped out her phone and started dialing.

Lucius frowned. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to get a ride to the airport."

"You'll get there faster driving on your own."

"I don't have a car."

Lucius fished into his pocket. He brought out a ring of keys. "Here. Take mine."

Emma looked at the keys. She felt something sink in her stomach.

"You have your license, right?"

"Of course," lied Emma. "But I don't want to put you out, Lucius."

Lucius tossed her the keys. "I rideshare to work anyway. Say hi to Alfred for me."

Emma caught the keys. She didn't have her driver's license. She lived in Gotham City, where everything was accessible by train, cab, or trolley. Plus, she could fly to where she needed to be: why would she need a car?

But she was not going to tell Lucius that.

She clutched keys. She was already sweating. "Thank you, Lucius."

Lucius smiled at her again – that same knowing smile that had all sorts of secrets hidden in the contour of his lips.