Batman no mans land, p.33
Batman: No Man's Land, page 33
Garrett said, without thinking not to, “You got that right.”
They both looked at him as if he’d just taken a leak on their shoes.
Miss Graves sighed, taking another long look around the warehouse. “It’s ultimately irrelevant, I suppose,” she said.
“We’ve accomplished what we set out to do. Secrecy is no longer vital.”
Penguin perked up. “May 1 infer from that statement that your employer will be arriving shortly?”
“You can infer what you like, Cobblepot. Our business here is complete. Thanks for your assistance.”
Penguin gave her his most charming smile, which Garrett thought really only made him look all the more like a short fat round guy with a long beaky nose. “My dear, I’d hate to think our association was to end on such a sour note. Perhaps there are other services I can facilitate for you and your employer? Certainly, if I have divined the situation correctly, there will be a need for… security, shall we say? I can provide you with guards for those locations you choose, at a reasonable price, to boot.”
She sighed, then made a slight gesture to the open warehouse doors, as if beckoning someone inside. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Cobblepot,” she said. “As you can see, I have taken care of that myself.”
Bane came through the door, walking calmly to Miss Graves’s side.
Garrett thought he heard Penguin swallowing, but he might have missed it, because his heart was beating awfully loudly in his ears.
“Is there a problem?” Bane asked, softly.
“I don’t think so,” Mercy said mildly, not looking away from Penguin.
“Yes, well,” Penguin began, then stopped, then coughed discreetly into his hand. “Have a very pleasant day, Miss Graves. Garrett? Let’s retire.”
Garrett thought about saying that he was only twenty-eight and really didn’t think he was in any position to retire, but Penguin had already started moving out of the warehouse. Garrett caught up to him quickly, and they left without looking back.
“Big things are afoot, my lad,” the Penguin said as they began walking back toward the Davenport Towers. “Great doings, indeed.”
“Yeah, something’s definitely up,” Garrett agreed.
Penguin chuckled. “I smell an opportunity, and I have an idea. Get ten of our lads, Garrett. I’ve a special task for you and them.”
Garrett had a thought, then, one that came upon him suddenly and surprised him with its insistence. He puzzled at it for a while, walking with Penguin in silence. At least, Garrett was silent; Penguin began talking about Miss Graves, describing her in detail.
“Mr. Cobblepot, sir?” Garrett asked just before they arrived back at the Davenport.
“Yes, Garrett?”
“You, uh… you’re not planning on, like, trying to horn in on Miss Graves’s action, are you?”
Penguin smiled broadly, in some surprise. “Garrett! You’re learning! And here I’d thought you’d remain a Neanderthal forever!”
Garrett didn’t smile at the compliment. “Maybe that’s, urn, a bad idea, Mr. Cobblepot, sir.”
Penguin’s smile disappeared and he poked a long and bony finger at Garrett’s middle. “Leave the ideas to me,. Garrett. You’re not equipped for thinking.”
Garrett had to admit that was true.
But the thought kept nagging at him, anyway.
* * * * *
Miss Graves changed while Bane kept an eye on the door, stripping between boxes in the warehouse and then putting on her suit. She took a certain amount of pleasure in putting on the clothes, not because she found them more comfortable or even more functional—in point of fact, they really weren’t; the skirt, though it came to her lower thigh, was tight enough that it restricted some movement, and the black nylons inevitably ended up torn. But they were what her employer had picked out for her to wear, from the under garments to the accessories, and he was not a man to be argued with, and she understood, in part, the purposes behind it.
The first was, simply, the statement. Image was everything.
Second, it was about control.
She understood these things, and since she liked her job and was honestly happy in it she didn’t complain. Unlike most of the people in her employer’s organization, she had his ear, and he would listen to her. For that reason, she chose her criticisms very carefully, loath to abuse the privilege.
She tucked in the white silk blouse, then pulled on the black waistcoat, buttoning it completely to her throat. She stepped into the shoes last, then smoothed the lines of the fabric with her hands. The cap she left off—it was a beacon, and she wouldn’t wear it until he had arrived.
Putting her overcoat back on, she took out the last accessory for the outfit and gave it a thorough, but quick, examination. Although he had chosen it for her, she had to admit she agreed with the decision. The pistol was small and sleek and as black as the clothes. She screwed the matching silencer onto the barrel, then slipped the gun into the customized holster at the small of her back. The holster had been made to accommodate the weapon with and without the added silencer, as well as to conceal the pistol perfectly against her body.
It was unspoken that she was always to look her best in his presence. Unsightly lumps beneath her clothing were unforgivable.
Finished, she joined Bane at the door, saying, “You’re to stay out of sight, is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“There will be media, a lot of them. If you show up on camera we will disassociate from you. It will void the agreement with my employer.”
Bane let out an exasperated sigh, then said, “You do not need to concern yourself with me, Señorita Graves. I think I have proven already that I know what I am doing, and that I know how to do it.”
“You have, and my employer commends you for it. But neither he nor I wish to see anything compromised at this late stage.”
“Your employer,” Bane said, pushing the word with something close to mocking, “has nothing to worry about from me.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” She adjusted her coat once more, tucking the hat beneath one arm. “I’ll contact you when you’re needed.”
“I look forward to it.”
* * * * *
From his perch fifty yards from the warehouse, Nightwing watched the woman leave. Bane stayed in the doorway for a moment longer, then went back inside, shutting the sliding doors behind him.
Nightwing keyed his commlink. “Oracle, she’s on the move.”
“Gotcha. Batman says to follow her but to be discreet.”
“Am I ever anything but?”
She laughed. “You’re asking the wrong person. He’s the guy you have to please, remember?”
“Don’t I know it. I’m moving.”
“Be advised, I’m hacked into the National Guard Air Network, and I’ve got five incoming. ETA looks like about twenty minutes. National Guard has already warned them off.”
Nightwing didn’t immediately respond, vaulting from the ruined rooftop he was running across down to the ground, using a sagging awning as a breakfall. “Likely to shoot?”
“Doubt it. They know who the passenger is.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do. Oracle out.”
He’d lost sight of her for a couple of seconds, and he put on some extra speed, tumbling expertly from the awning and then springing up through the open side of another broken warehouse. The smell of the ocean was strong even though he was still fifteen blocks away from the water. The sky was clear and bright and cold.
He saw her again coming off Moldoff, making for Grant Park, and after another block he was certain that was her destination, but then she stopped and Nightwing thought, for a moment, that she had seen him shadowing her. But she didn’t look back, and though he couldn’t see her expression, he sure could read her body language, and she was pissed.
He raised his eyes and looked in the direction she’d been facing, saw that in the park ahead of her there were ten men or so working in a group. He instantly recognized the short man supervising them, without needing to see the nose or monocle to make certain he was right.
He keyed the commlink again. “Oracle. She’s headed for Grant Park. Penguin’s there.”
“Stand by,” Oracle said.
He used the opportunity to vault to another rooftop, then ran the length, leapt, ran, and leapt again until he was atop the building closest to the park. The last leap nearly cost him, though. As he came down he could see that a portion of the roof had given way. He twisted in the air, came down on his hands and sprang up over the gap, feeling the boards beneath his palms cracking and giving way. He landed on his feet, crouching near the edge, hoping that the rest of the rooftop wouldn’t collapse. It wasn’t the fall that worried him; he fell as a matter of course, had done so since before he could walk. It was the noise. He didn’t want to give himself away.
Oracle came back on his commlink. “Boss says that Grant Park is the most viable landing site, probably will be used as the base camp. As for Penguin, he doubts Cobblepot was invited to the party. Says to stay out of it unless it gets really ugly.”
“Confirmed.”
Somewhere across the city, he could hear the sound of helicopters.
* * * * *
Mercy Graves III swore under her breath when she saw him, contemplated shooting Penguin and his subordinates then and there, but then decided she wouldn’t have enough time to dispose of the bodies before the media arrived. She continued forward, one hand still holding the cap, the other thrust deep in her overcoat pocket. She moved the cap from beneath her arm to the inside of the coat, where it could rest against her belted middle. There was a pass-through in the right-hand pocket, designed to allow her to reach under the coat while it remained closed, and this she did, pulling the pistol from its holster, keeping it against her leg, hidden, as she approached.
Penguin’s primary buffoon, Garrett, saw her first, and she gave him marks for that. He at least knew how to keep his eyes open.
“Shake a leg!” Penguin was telling the working men. “We’re on a schedule here!”
She stopped behind him, nodding slightly at Garrett, then taking in the action before her. Penguin had ten men working the park, hastily pruning back bushes and sweeping the old paved paths, raking at the piles of dead leaves that had fallen from the trees. One of the men was even repainting the park benches.
She felt herself getting angry.
Garrett nudged Penguin, and he turned, looking up at her and beaming. “Darling!” Penguin exclaimed. “Just lending a hand. Hoping to greet the employer fortunate enough to have you.”
He reached for her left hand, and she saw again the lascivious leer, and she kept her face blank and let him take it. When Penguin kissed her hand, he moved in closer than he had in the past, bolder. She thought he smelled vaguely of fish, but knew it was just her imagination.
He lingered over her hand, looking up at her after pecking it. “Don’t suppose you would consider working for me, my dear?” he asked sweetly, and she supposed that he imagined that it sounded seductive.
Again she had to fight to keep her expression blank, because in truth, the offer made her want to laugh. If he truly knew who her employer was—and she had no doubts now that he did—he was deluding himself willfully. All Penguin could offer her was modest money and meager power and, potentially, the promise of whoring herself: None of these interested her. She was richer already than he would ever be; her power was far more pervasive than Penguin imagined, and what she could not influence, her employer could, without so much as leaving his office; finally, her body was, and always had been, her own. No man had access to it, and no woman. Her employer understood that, and respected her for it.
“I can offer you many perks,” Penguin said, still holding her hand.
She sighed and moved the gun from against her side to level with her hip, which put the barrel just above Penguin’s collarbone. Garrett hadn’t even realized what had happened until after she’d begun speaking.
“Get your men out of here right now or I’ll kill you,” Graves said. Not a threat, she was careful with her tone. A simply factual recitation, but not a threat. If not A, then B.
Penguin dropped her hand and looked up at her, and she saw that the lust had gone from his eyes and that he was now smiling at her almost dopily.
“You’re perfect,” he said. “You know that?”
She almost smiled. She wasn’t, in fact, perfect.
But she was damn close, and she knew it.
Penguin backed away, looking at Garrett, still smiling. “A change of plans,” he said, mildly. Then he raised his voice, shouting to the others. “The lady has asked us to leave, gentlemen! Let us depart in haste!”
He offered her a small bow, and with Garrett at his side, left the park, the rest of the men following, carrying their tools with them.
She could hear the helicopters, and she moved to the edge of the clearing, standing on the wet grass, unbelting her overcoat. She slid the gun back into its holster, returned her cap to beneath her arm, and looked up, tracking the progress.
There were five of them, four news copters led by one that she recognized, gleaming white and slightly larger, and even in the air it made its intentions known. The downdraft from the blades buffeted her briefly as the helicopters flew over, and then the lead bird began to hover, turning in the air until it faced her. She began moving toward it even before it settled onto the ground.
The other copters were landing too, but being far less ceremonial about the procedure, which didn’t surprise her. She could see the markings on the different helicopters, WGBS, WGMC, CNN, NewsChannel, and with the blades still turning their doors began sliding open, reporters and camera-people pouring out, busily setting up their shots.
At the white helicopter, she opened the front passenger door, acknowledging the pilot with a brief nod of her head, then removing her overcoat and laying it properly on the seat. Then she shut the door and moved alongside the passenger’s compartment.
She put the chauffeur’s cap on her head and gave her waistcoat one last tug, just to assure herself that she looked as she should.
Then she slid the door open and offered her hand to the passenger, saying, “Welcome to the No Man’s Land, Lex.”
“Mercy,” Lex Luthor said, climbing out of his personal LexCorp chopper. His smile was small, and his eyes gleamed, and she knew he was pleased with her work. He looked good, too, his tailored suit making him appear even stronger and fitter than Mercy knew he was.
Luthor waited until Mercy had slid the door shut, turning his bald head slowly, taking in the park. The media began heading their way, already shouting for comment.
“Lex! Lex—”
“—government approval of your presence—”
“—LexCorp’s involvement will be—”
Luthor’s smile grew, his public face settling comfortably into place. “Well, Mercy,” he said. “Are we ready to rebuild Gotham City in our own image?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and she was smiling, too.
“Then let’s get started.”
ORACLE
PERSONAL
Entry #692—NML Day 327
2046 Zulu
Lex Luthor.
The richest man in the world.
Founder and CEO of LexCorp.
If people have totem animals, then Luthor’s is the great white shark. He has that same focused intensity, the same directed purpose. He is power personified; the power of money, of business… and of greed.
Living in Metropolis, controlling his empire from “the City of Tomorrow,” he had always found Gotham beneath his notice. But suddenly he was here, in person. Suddenly Metropolis’s second-favorite son was standing in front of the cameras, a champion of Gotham City, a foe of the No Man’s Land.
Within twenty-four hours of his arrival. Luther had transformed Grant Park into his base of operations, with over two hundred LexCorp personnel arriving and nearly twice that number in support services. They flew in on helicopter after helicopter, bringing equipment and people, and the flights continued throughout the night and into the next day, with more and more arriving from outside the No Man’s land. They built tents, including an executive Quonset hut for Luthor himself, and a huge military-style one they labeled HUMAN RESOURCES. They brought medical supplies and food, gasoline-powered electrical generators and construction equipment from bulldozers to backhoes. They erected huge arc lights to illuminate the surrounding area, and LexCorp security patrolled the grounds, armed with MISs and .45s.
The media dubbed it Camp Lex, and they were eating out of his hand.
The day after Luthor arrived, he held a press conference, which he started by reading a statement he had prepared.
“The No Man’s Land is a disgrace.” he told the cameras, and his righteous indignation transferred perfectly through the medium. “An embarrassment, a betrayal of the fundamental precepts this country was built upon! To deny citizenship, existence even, to our own people is nothing less than criminal!
“For the better part of a year politicians have squabbled and lawyers have debated. They’ve squandered time and resources, spending more money to justify doing the wrong thing rather than simply making it right! And all the while, the soul of Gotham—its people—suffered.”
He paused, giving the cameras a good beat with which to zoom in for a close-up an him or to swing around for reaction shots. He was selling it beautifully. I watched on my A/V monitor, using my NewsChannel hack to pick up the live feed; even I believed it, and I knew what he was really up to. But Luthor was that good, that charismatic and that passionate, and the fact was, people wanted to believe him. They wanted to believe they were doing the right thing. If he was taking the lead, giving them a chance to feel good about themselves, they were going to jump at it.
“Well,” he said, after a weighty pause. “LexCorp says enough is enough. We have committed ourselves to rebuilding Gotham City. Starting today.
