Metropolis.
Midday.
The restaurant was subdued tones of blue and silver and grey—a perfect match for the burgeoning storm clouds Luthor could see from his table. The best view in the entire restaurant consisted of a bird's eye perception of the Hob's River and, further out, the Atlantic.
Luthor had arrived at 11am, an hour before his meeting with Wayne. IN the interim, he made his way through the Financial Times and the National Review. At 11:30, Morgan Edge called his cellular begging to stave off another buyout. Luthor played along good-humoredly and let Edge have his way. He put in a call to his broker next and mentioned stepping down as CEO. A few minutes after that, he noticed on his Blackberry that LexCorp stock had already dipped five percent.
It was mild amusement. A paltry if entertaining way to pass the time.
A gaunt waitress, her hair tied in a Puritanical bun, brought him the wine list. He selected a '43 Shiraz and sent her away and reclined in his chair—a surprisingly comfortable red leather number. For the next fifteen minutes, over two glasses of wine, he watched the passers-by.
Watched an ex-employee go into the flower shop across the street and come out with an oversized bouquet. This prompted him to call the shop and have a single rose sent to Lois Lane's apartment. "One is more profound than twelve," he'd said.
At 11:50, the maitre d' brought him the Daily Planet. He perused the cover story—the usual muck about Superman saving a pregnant teenage welfare-recipient from a house fire in Suicide Slum--and made a mental note to harangue Perry about it over drinks that night.
At noon precisely, Bruce Wayne came striding across the restaurant's main transept, wearing a loose fitting black blazer and matching trousers; loafers with matching silver buckles, and a white oxford he left unbuttoned midway up the sternum. Wayne wore silver eyeglasses, lightly shaded cobalt, as was the style.
As ever, he carried himself with a superior kind of indifference. Look at me, I'm important but I'm also a slob.
Luthor tightened his tie and stood, grasping Wayne's hand and shaking it vigorously.
"I trust your ride down went alright?"
"Super, Lex," Wayne smiled. "Just super. Hell of a driver you got there." He pointed a hitchhiker's thumb over one shoulder, aimed vaguely at Mercy—herself standing motionless near the dining room's entrance.
"Good," Luthor replied. He poured out a second glass of Shiraz and offered the bottle to Wayne. Wayne waved his hand politely. When the gaunt waitress came again Wayne asked for a club soda.
Luthor smiled and sipped the Shiraz.
Wayne gave his order: a thin slice of the lamb, well-minced with the smallest of jelly on the side. Caesar salad and goat cheese.
"And for you?" she asked, turning to Luthor.
"New York strip. Well done, with a potato and Caesar likewise. Light vinaigrette."
She nodded and took the leather-bound menus away. Luthor watched her go and sipped his Shiraz. Wayne did the same and did it as a voyeur, lowering his glasses and staring over the rims as she slid into the kitchen.
When he turned back to Luthor, the Metropolis mogul was seated perfectly erect, his hands clasped in front of him. His expression was blank. Awaiting whatever it was Wayne had to say.
"Thank you for having me," Wayne said modestly.
"My pleasure," Luthor said and scratched his face. "Though, I must ask why you're here—"
"We've been over this," Wayne said and cocked his head.
"Yes, I know, Luthor said impatiently. "But I want to cement this. I suspect you're here to branch out. Wayne Enterprises is experiencing a bit of slump, am I right? By the looks of it, I'd say you've given up on going into work when there aren't any contracts to sign or floosies to woo or stooges to golf with. Stop me if you've heard it."
"You don't think much of me, do you, Lex?" Wayne smiled and rested his head on one arm like a wide-eyed child.
"Oh no," Luthor said. His eyes darted to the kitchen. The waitress was coming through the door again, carrying two plates and having relative difficulty with them. He want back to Wayne. "I think the world of you. As a matter of fact that's the reason I asked you here for lunch. I suspect you'll want to get in on what my tech labs are doing right now."
The waitress laid down Luthor's strip and sprinkled pepper over his Caesar without being told. Did the same to Wayne's, and refreshed his club soda. Luthor cut into his salad and waited for her to go. When she slid back into the kitchen, he switched back on.
"I've started up an organic technologies wing. Our first project is a synthesized form of Kryptonite."
"But…haven't you had that for years?"
"You're quite right, Bruce. Much like gasoline—or, if you prefer the microeconomical, street drugs—whatever private sectors make represents a sliver of potential. Even one of my labs isn't large enough for the production scale we'd need. And given the eclectic nature of the alien's arrival, that's saying something. Had he not arrived, I'm almost sorry to say it wouldn't have spurred industry and science such as it has."
"The price we pay for the problems of super-people," Wayne said glibly and sipped his club soda. "Only what do you intend to do with it? Halloween costumes for the accident-prone?"
"Hardly," Luthor reproved. "It's no water-powered-car myth, but Kryptonite has amazing properties. I expect other minerals of his home world are similar. When my labs were first able to synthesize Kryptonite several years ago, we only managed to get it in trace amounts—no bigger than, say, one of your knuckles. Enough to pass it off as cheap jewelry. A bonus of our research was the discovery that its radioactive."
"And what does that hold for your stock offerings?" Wayne was half-done with his salad.
"Hard to see, at this point. But you understand my position."
"I do," Wayne said emphatically and finished off his club soda. "You're at the ledge of progress, is that it? Ready to jump off or jump back."
"Correct," Luthor nodded. "We're on the verge of something big here, and I'm quite interested in seeing it play out. You're not here because you want in on my Kryptonite venture—I suspect Bruce Wayne has little interest in an alien mineral—"
"One could ask the same for you. What does Lex Luthor get from a Kryptonite factory?" Behind the glasses, Wayne's eyes narrowed.
Luthor smiled and reclined in his seat. Tapped the table playfully. "Never afraid to ask me questions—I've always admired that about you."
"I get that a lot."
Luthor's eyes locked on Wayne, pleased. "You must."
Later.
The Halldorf Hotel.
Wayne was in the middle of pushup number seventy-five when Tim Drake came in, bedecked in the familiar accoutrements of the worst kind of tourist. Wayne stopped the exercise and lay back lazily on the Persian rug.
"I give you the cards and this is what you do with your day?"
"What else is there to do? You told me not to go out—'lest I attract Clark'—and meditating has lost its flavor."
"Then you're missing the point. What would Shiva say?"
"Probably that I'm doing it wrong and that she'll break my legs for it."
Wayne shrugs. Boy's got a point.
"Find out anything about our elusive Mister Luthor?" Tim asked and began to change into another pair of denims and a dark green oxford. Wayne went to the bathroom and splashed water in his face.
"Only that he's hiding something."
"Oh?"
"He went into a long speech about factory-wide synthetic kryptonite production. It was his way of starting conversation. Thinks I'm one of his damn Board Members."
Tim snickered. "Did you bring up Joker, or is that more of a second-date thing?"
Wayne grunted minimally. "He thinks I want a piece of riverfront real estate for 'WayneTech Metropolis.' Probably thinks he'll buy me out in a few more years."
"Y'know, I always wondered who had more money."
"It varies. His stock dipped this morning on a tip that he was stepping down. So...me. For the moment."
"Neat," Tim lied. "Does this mean we don't get to fire Alfred?"
"He's lying," Wayne disregards. "He leaves that office and he won't have a life. He could go underground, but his money would dry up quickly. His obsessions would drive him mad."
Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I know a guy like that."
Wayne turned off the water and went back to the parlor. Tim was laying with his eyes closed in the chaise-lounge.
"Wrong," Wayne said. "Lex Luthor's insane."
Behind closed eyes, Tim chuckled. "There but for the grace of Rogaine go you."
Wayne smiled. "I ordered dinner while you were gone."
"Great, what are we having?"
A knock came at the door, a swift three-note staccato.
"Thai," Wayne said. That should be it now."
He walked swiftly toward the door and threw it open. Ready to sign a ledger of receipt, only…
No room service. Not even a teenager with a glandular problem and bad social mores.
Just a Man of Steel, hovering a foot in the air, arms folded over the shining red and yellow diamond on his chest. Wearing an expression of concern and as much resentment as possible.
"Oh," Wayne heard himself say. "Hi."
Continued...