Batman 3 - Batman Forever (23 page)

Bruce wanted to grab him and shake sense into him. “Listen to me, Dick. Killing damns you. I know. All this isn’t about revenge.”

Dick glanced at a framed headline over Bruce’s desk. It carried the story of the murder of Bruce’s parents . . . a story that, obviously now, Dick had been brought up to speed on. “Right.”

Bruce stroked his chin tiredly, feeling the start of five o’clock shadow. Where had the night gone? “It’s an addiction. You fight night after night, trying to fill the emptiness, but the pain’s back in the morning. Somewhere along the way it stops being a choice.”

“Save the speeches about how great you want my life to be, okay, Bruce? You want to help me? Train me. Let me be your partner . . .”

“No.”

Dick eyed Bruce with anger born of pain. “You said we’re the same. Well, you were right. I’m going to be part of this. Whether you want me or not.”

He stormed out and Bruce watched him go, feeling a lot older.

B
ruce decided to take the day off. With everything that was going on in his life, he figured he would do more harm than good. They might ask him a simple question and he’d wind up selling the entire Tokyo office. So he called in to Margaret, who ran down a few quick outstanding questions that had to be attended to.

“Oh, and Gossip Gerty and her sisters of scandal are all over us,” she concluded. “They want to know if you’re bringing Dr. Meridian to the Nygmatech ‘do’ tonight.”

“The what?”

“I’ve only mentioned it to you seven times, sir,” she said, trying not to sound as if she were scolding him.

“Eight’s the charm. Run it past me again.”

“Big brouhaha at the Ritz Gotham Hotel, celebrating a new model of that silly little Box thing. Naturally a new model is required since they sold their first million.”

“That was fast. And you sound disapproving.”

“He was a creepy little man, Mr. Wayne,” said Margaret, which was fairly strong language for her because Margaret was the most diplomatic person in his employ. “I don’t like seeing creeps become successful. Makes you wonder if there’s any justice in the world.”

“I don’t wonder about such things.”

“If you ask me, I think he’s nuts.”

“Well, Maggie, no offense . . . but I don’t think I’ll ask you.” He thought a moment. “On the other hand . . . I know someone who I
can
ask. A close-up and personal opinion might not hurt at that. Maggie . . . call back the gossip ladies and tell them that I will indeed be taking Dr. Meridian with me to the Nygmatech soirée tonight.”

“All right, Mr. Wayne.”

“Then call Dr. Meridian and ask her not to make a liar out of me.”

The red carpet had been rolled out that night at the Ritz Gotham Hotel. The Ritz was one of the older hotels in Gotham. In fact, directly across the street another hotel was going up that threatened to dwarf the Ritz, once the showcase of Gotham.

For now, though, the Ritz Gotham was still a hive of activity. A banner was draped across the front that read “NYGMATECH—IMAGINE THE FUTURE.” At the curb, finely dressed folks poured from luxury cars. A battalion of valets scurried about.

Bruce Wayne’s Bentley, driven by Alfred and carrying Bruce, Dick, and Chase, pulled up to the curb. Bruce stepped out and assisted Chase. Dick vaulted over the back of the car.

The party was in the rooftop ballroom. The place was packed with people sipping cocktails, munching hors d’oeuvres. A band was playing and couples were dancing on an elaborately decorated dance floor.

Lining the walls were curtained show booths. Partygoers were being invited to step in and sample the “new Box.” People were emerging from the booths, giggling as if they were drunk.

Bruce, Chase, and Dick headed down a large staircase to the center of the ballroom. “Gotham high society,” said Dick, unenthusiastic. “I’m excited.”

“You needed to get out of Wayne Manor for a while. Too many . . . distractions,” he said significantly.

“Oh, right. Whatever you say, Ba . . . Ba . . .” and several times he stammered, almost saying “Batman” until Chase finally turned to look at him, at which point he said casually, “Bruce.”

Bruce fired him a look that, to Dick, seemed to say, “Please, Dick. Don’t make me have to kill you.”

For one quick instant, Dick wasn’t sure whether Bruce was kidding. Bruce satisfied himself with that moment of uncertainty on Dick’s part. And Dick, opting for the better part of valor, allowed his attention to be drawn away by a showgirl.

Bruce and Chase paused at a landing. He helped Chase off with her cloak. She was in a tight-fitting black dress, with a string of pearls, and she looked ravishing.

“About last night,” Bruce started, “I want you to know . . .”

“It’s important to me we stay friends,” she said, overlapping.

“Yes. Definitely. Me too.”

She smiled. “Then it’s settled. Friends.”

Yet neither of them looked, or felt, particularly pleased with the accord.

Edward Nygma laughed a little too loud and a little too long. Once upon a time, such behavior would have gotten him annoyed looks and the backs of people’s heads.

Now it got him imitated. Reporters pressed in closer, snapping pictures and tossing questions.

“Edward, you sweet, bold, dashing darling,” said Gossip Gerty. “How does it feel to be the city’s newest, most eligible bachelor? Gotham
must
know.” Suddenly she spotted a new arrival and called his name. “Oh! There’s Bruce Wayne! Brucie!”

Edward stiffened slightly, but then relaxed. He had nothing to fear. Nothing to be angry about. He was Wayne’s peer now . . . no. Not peer. Wayne’s superior.

He was about to continue his performance for the crowd when abruptly the crowd evaporated. They surged toward Wayne.

No. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen that way. A fury of red, and then a blinding green of envy, flashed before Edward’s eyes. He’d gone to all this time, this effort, this agony, built everything up from
nothing,
and Wayne was capable of pulling away his audience with his mere presence.

And on top of everything, they were wearing the exact same suit.

Edward’s date for the evening, Sugar, sidled up to him. He waited for her to say something comforting.

“Ow. Wayne’s too cute. Eddie”—she looked him up and down—“how come your suit doesn’t hang like that?”

He wanted to pop her one. Instead he managed to say, “Shut up. You’re here to work.” Then, rather forcefully, he grabbed her by the elbow, plastered a smile on his face, and headed over toward Wayne.

He heard the bansheelike tones of Gossip Gerty asking Wayne in a sprightly manner, “Nygmatech stock is outselling Wayne Enterprises two to one. Edward Nygma’s charitable contributions threaten to dwarf yours. Are you yesterday’s news, Bruce?”

Before Wayne could get a word out, Edward had draped himself around Bruce’s shoulder. “Yes, Bruce old man! The press was just wondering what it feels like to be outsold, outclassed, outcoiffed, outcoutured, and generally outdone in every way?”

He waited eagerly for the desired reaction. He wanted Bruce to shout, or tell him off, or throw some sort of tantrum that would look absolutely scrumptious in tomorrow’s headlines.

But Bruce Wayne merely smiled. Could he really be that self-confident, that unconcerned? No . . . no, it had to be that he was doing it out of spite. That was it.

“Congratulations, Edward. Great party. Nice suit . . .”

Edward’s fist clenched, flexing, wishing he had his cane. But then he spotted . . .
her.

“And what light through yonder window breaks? ’Tis the east. And you are . . . ?”

“Chase,” she said.

“Ah!” His voice, and hopes, soared. “And what a grand pursuit you must be.”

Endeavoring to return the small talk, Bruce turned to the stunning woman standing next to Edward. “Miss . . . ?” he prompted.

She ran a finger along the curve of his ear. “You can call me anything you want.”

“Bruce,” said Edward, managing a voice that was both
entre nous
and, at the same time, playing to the press, “how humiliating my success must be for you. There you were, a real genius, and yet you couldn’t recognize my own. Come. Let me show you what could have been ours together.”

Visions of lawsuits danced in Bruce’s head. Edward was admitting, in front of witnesses, that he’d worked on the Box during his employ at Wayne Enterprises. But as he’d told his lawyer, he didn’t need the money. Sure, there was the principle of the thing. And, granted, he wouldn’t mind wiping that smug look off Nygma’s face. But he brushed off the notion, even as Nygma propelled Wayne and the rest of the group through the party. Now, more than ever, it would seem like envy or revenge rather than a justified suit. Bruce had an obligation to the image of Wayne Enterprises and its stockholders’ concerns. Having the company’s namesake look like a bad sport would help neither.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” gloated Nygma. “The future!”

A woman was just stepping inside the first booth. Noticing that she suddenly had an audience, she waved gamely, like an astronaut climbing into the capsule. She moved into the booth, but everyone was able to watch her on a monitor, where she was turning and looking down in amazement. She was covered in glittering jewels.

“My new, improved Box offers fully interactive holographic fantasies.”

“Edward, you’re dashing
and
a genius,” burbled Gossip Gerty. “How do you create the images, hon’?”

He waggled a finger. “That, my dear, is my little secret.”

“Fully interactive holographs,” said Wayne, thinking out loud. “Only a high-frequency carrier wave beamed directly into the brain could—”

Nygma laughed loudly and nervously. “Enough shop talk! Behold!”

In a second booth, a bald man was entering and discovering, as the monitor indicated, that he had a beard and full head of hair. To his astonishment he was even able to finger it. It was solid . . . real . . .

“It’s real because they believe it to be real,” Nygma said. “An end to mundanity. Out of the darkness, Nygmatech brings you a life better than life itself!”

“Of course,” Wayne was observing. “The Box’s zombielike effects must result from an electroneural link with the viewer’s brain.”

Nygma’s entire body quivered with what looked like rage. “Zombies! Worse than nonsense!” he sputtered.

Gossip Gerty was scowling disapprovingly at Wayne. “That’s what they said about the first TVs,” she sniffed.

“Yes, and they’re still saying it,” Bruce remarked amiably. “Except now the term is ‘couch potatoes’ instead of zombies.”

But Gerty wasn’t listening. She already had her angle, and a comment that pertained to common sense didn’t fit in. “Wayne Whines Sour Grapes,” she scribbled.

“Yes, Brucie,” said Edward, quickly feeling back in control of the situation. “Don’t be such a sore loser.”

Screw it. Maybe he
should
sue the little creep.

Edward was gesturing toward the booth. “Go ahead, Brucie. Try it. Step on through to the other side.”

Bruce glanced at another monitor where a man was enjoying a Hawaiian fantasy. “Edward,” he said slowly, “if you can introduce images into the mind, what keeps you from drawing images
out
of the mind?”

Once again panic clawed at Nygma, but this time he didn’t succumb to it. Instead he sneered and said, “Too timid to try my machine? Say so!” He smiled graciously at Chase. “If such cowardice before so fair a lady doesn’t embarrass you. Shall we dance?”

Chase was about to say no, but then she noticed that Bruce, with a subtle nod of his head, was indicating that she should. Immediately she understood why. Bruce was still concerned about Nygma’s behavior and just how obsessive it might be, or might become, and he was very interested in her assessment of him. Now would be the ideal time to gather some data. So when Nygma scooped her up in his arms, she did nothing to resist . . . although she couldn’t help asking him, “Have you ever considered therapy?”

The crowd of reporters had seemed to dissipate, giving Bruce Wayne the distinct feeling of being old news. He didn’t mind overmuch; garnering headlines as Bruce Wayne—or even as Batman—was never a top priority for him.

But now the girl with whom Edward had been was pulling at Wayne’s arm. He looked down at her politely, curious if she was going to ask him to dance.

Instead she indicated a booth and whispered, “Come try one with me. You can’t imagine what we can do in there.”

He could, actually. Furthermore, he certainly didn’t need having his fantasies displayed on a monitor for everyone to see. If that happened, he would likely move quickly from the gossip columns to the front page. He smiled and shook his head.

“Your loss,” said Sugar, although her expression made it clear that she considered it hers as well. She disappeared into the crowd.

But Bruce now felt his curiosity piqued. His conversation with Edward, and Nygma’s tensing up at certain points during it, indicated to Bruce that he’d been fairly on target about some of his observations. And if that were the case, there were potential ramifications that simply had to be dealt with. It didn’t matter to Wayne at that point if people did claim that he was out to harass Nygma. If there was a question of public safety, or of potential tampering with people’s minds, Wayne was going to have to take action.