Chapter 86: Batman
Moreover, when George's clone entered the Small World, the chaos pearl was still steadily absorbing energy from the surrounding space, so as long as no new items were extracted during that time, the energy consumption remained comfortably within George's acceptable limits.
After George recalled his clone, he reappeared in his study. Carrying the magic bag that contained nearly ten thousand books, he headed up to the library on the fifth floor of Hogwarts Island. This massive collection originally housed tens of thousands of magical tomes, but George had shifted most of them to the restricted section for security reasons. In the space left behind, he had slowly begun collecting and organizing thousands of more mundane works—regular books from other worlds, hand-picked by George himself.
With a wave of his wand and some well-placed Transfiguration magic, George expanded the physical space of the library without changing the structure of the castle. Rows of bookshelves stretched much farther than they had any right to. Then he took his time sorting and cataloging every new book, arranging them by subject, author, and world of origin.
Dinner that night was a proper feast, cooked up by his mix of French, Indian, and Chinese chefs. He ate a lot, so why not enjoy it? Spicy South Indian sambhar and dosa, a few thick parathas, stir-fried Sichuan noodles, and just a little French pizzazz in the desserts. A proper meal to reward himself after a long day of research and sorting.
The next day, George returned to the headquarters of his empire. He reviewed a few critical proposals, signed off on some tech rollouts, and handed over several compiled documents from the Suicide Squad World. These were forwarded to his R&D teams immediately. The sooner they turned these ideas into functioning prototypes, the better.
That evening, after making sure everything was in motion, George began preparations to return.
One thing he noticed during his second entry into that world was that the location wasn't random this time. He reappeared exactly where he'd left off: in his small, rented apartment. The first order of business was getting online. He bought a mid-range laptop, found a decent cafe with Wi-Fi, and started skimming through news sites and databases. Nothing unusual. No Doomsday attack. No news of exploding cities. Gotham was Gotham. Still crime-ridden, still dark, still standing.
He only knew the vague outlines of the Suicide Squad plot—never watched the movie in his previous life, just picked up the major points through internet summaries. The world had already lost Superman, and the chaos that followed had made governments everywhere more paranoid.
The Squad was Waller's answer to the fear: a group of metahuman criminals repurposed into field operatives. People like Harley Quinn, Deadshot, Captain Boomerang, Enchantress, El Diablo, and Killer Croc. George wasn't trying to intervene in that timeline, not yet. He was after something else.
He needed access to better infrastructure, better tech. And in the DC Universe, when it came to science, weapons, and money, you went to Wayne Enterprises.
So, George made a simple plan. He'd go to Gotham and meet Bruce Wayne himself.
He bought a ticket on the next bus heading that way. Ten hours of sitting and bumping along broken roads brought him into Gotham just past dawn. City looked exactly how he imagined—gray skyline, a permanent overcast gloom, buildings packed too tight together, graffiti curling up the bricks like ivy.
He got off at the main station, hailed a cab, and gave the driver one word.
"Wayne."
Twenty minutes later, he stood across the street from Wayne Tower, clean-shaven, suit pressed, shoulders relaxed. He ducked into a small café next door, bought a tea just for show, and slipped into the restroom to change into a crisp, dark suit he'd transfigured earlier. Adjusted his cufflinks, gave himself one long look in the mirror, and walked out.
He stepped through the revolving doors like he'd done it a hundred times, passed security, and approached the front desk.
The receptionist looked up from her screen. Young, polite, professional.
"Good morning, sir. Do you have an appointment?"
George smiled. "Good morning to you, too. Just checking if Mr. Bruce is in."
"I can't disclose that unless—"
"Got it. You've already answered. Thank you."
He gave a small, gracious nod and stepped aside. No use pressing further. The front desk staff couldn't do much. But now he knew Bruce was in the building.
Outside, he found a quiet corner just out of sight of security cams. He cast a quick Illusion Charm to fade into the background. Then, he spread the magical wings he'd brought along and took off, quick and smooth, straight up the side of the skyscraper.
After circling once to find the right window, he spotted Bruce in his office, seated at a wide desk. No one else was in the room. George hovered for a moment, just to be sure.
Then—pop.
He Apparated directly into the room, landing silently on the couch opposite the desk.
"Ah, Mr. Bruce—there you are."
Bruce's head snapped up. Calm eyes, sharp as ever.
"Batman's reputation truly precedes him," George said lightly. "Your reflexes don't disappoint."
To his credit, Bruce didn't even flinch. Years of dealing with aliens and lunatics had dulled his sense of panic. Instead, he reached slowly for something beneath his desk. George didn't move.
He just crossed one leg over the other.
"I wouldn't, if I were you. That thing you're about to grab won't work."
Bruce paused. His eyes narrowed, barely.
In his ear, the AI implant whispered data. Infrared, biometric scans, and facial recognition. Ten seconds passed. No match.
Bruce didn't show any surprise. Just leaned back and studied the man in front of him.
"Mr. Pietro," Bruce said coolly. "That's not your real name. Should I ask who you are?"
George stood, brushed imaginary dust from his lapel, and allowed the illusion to fade.
"You may call me George Orwell Swent. I thought it would be more respectful to show my real face. And please inform your AI not to scan me again. It will find nothing."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"
He sat back down.
"As for why, because I'm here to make a deal. A real one. Clean, transparent, and profitable for both sides."
Bruce didn't answer right away. The name meant nothing to him yet. The face was unfamiliar. But something about the way the man carried himself—something about the confidence, the control—it made Bruce hesitate.
Not because he was afraid.
But because people like this didn't show up often.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Pursuit of Happiness – Part 4: Fitting the Sail
The next two days passed in a blur.
Gardner didn't say much about the interview—not to the nurses, not to the other men in the bunkroom. He kept his thoughts tight, locked away like a fragile photograph in his coat pocket.
Every time someone asked how it went, he just nodded and said, "We'll see."
He didn't want to jinx it. Didn't want to let the idea of "maybe" stretch too big inside his head.
He still took on small jobs around the shelter—helping stack boxes in the food pantry, scrubbing the dining hall floors, making runs with the donation team when they needed extra hands. It wasn't paid work, but it was something. And it kept his mind from spiraling.
His boy was getting stronger, too. No more fevers. Color had returned to his cheeks. The nurses doted on him like he was one of their own. Little Christopher laughed easily now, especially when someone made a silly face or dangled a sock puppet over his crib.
That laugh was the only thing that kept Gardner upright on the tough days. That laugh, and the hope that somehow—somehow—they'd climb out of this mess for good.
It was early morning on the third day when the trucks rolled in.
Gardner was outside sweeping the steps when he saw them—two big gray flatbeds pulling into the alley behind the shelter, kicking up slush and gravel. A few men in heavy coats hopped down from the back, followed by a couple of nurses in pale green scrubs. One of them carried a leather case.
At the front, stepping out of the cab with his cane in hand, was Mr. Cole.
He looked the same—wide hat, dark overcoat, and a kind of no-nonsense presence that made people move a little faster without being told.
Gardner stood straight as Mr. Cole approached.
"Morning," Cole said, glancing up at the shelter.
"Sir," Gardner nodded, unsure if he should speak first.
"Where's the floor nurse?"
"I can take you."
They walked together inside. The hallway smelled like oatmeal and bleach. Mr. Cole said nothing, just tapped the cane lightly as he walked, his eyes sweeping over the sleeping bags, cots, and bundled families tucked in quiet corners.
Gardner cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure if I'd hear anything, sir."
"Still not sure if you're hired," Cole replied evenly. "That's not up to me."
That answer nearly buckled Gardner's knees, but he held his face steady.
"Today's a round of tests," Mr. Cole continued. "Medical screening. Motion tolerance. Basic assessment. We're prepping the shortlist. If you're not fit, you don't go."
"Yes, sir."
"Some of you will be placed on land posts. Others might not pass at all. No one's guaranteed. Not even you."
Gardner looked down at his boots. They were borrowed. The sole was peeling.
"I understand."
Mr. Cole stopped walking.
"I think you do."
Gardner nodded once more, eyes forward.
By mid-morning, the entire first floor had turned into something between a clinic and a training depot.
The rear rec room was cleared and fitted with a strange contraption that looked like half a boat mounted on springs. The shelter staff called it "the rock box." You climbed in and braced yourself while the machine rocked violently side to side, testing your tolerance for sea motion.
In the dining hall, folding tables were covered with blood pressure cuffs, stethoscopes, thermometers, and vials. The medical team worked quickly, moving through people one by one. Some were old, some too thin, some shaky with nerves or stiff with pride.
Gardner sat quietly with his son bundled against his chest, watching names get called.
Christopher dozed on and off. A nurse brought him apple slices. One of the doctors let him play with the stethoscope.
Finally, they called Gardner.
The exam was quick but thorough. Pulse, temperature, reflexes, eyes, blood draw, quick physical endurance check—pushups, squats, lung capacity. Then the "rock box."
He lasted seven minutes before staggering off, barely holding down the oats he'd eaten that morning.
"You'll adjust," the technician said, scribbling notes. "Better to puke here than onboard."
Back in the hallway, Gardner sat on the floor next to the water cooler. His legs ached. His vision swam a little. But he was still upright.
Christopher reached up from the crib nearby, hand curled around his father's thumb.
"Not bad," a voice said behind him.
Gardner turned to see Mr. Cole standing just a few feet away, arms crossed.
"You held up longer than most."
"Thank you, sir."
"You still look half-starved."
"I'm working on it," Gardner said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Trying."
Cole didn't respond. Just watched him for a moment, then turned and walked down the hall.
__
That night, Gardner helped the kitchen crew scrub the steel pans from dinner. His hands were raw from soap. His back hurt.
But when one of the teenage boys in line asked him if he worked there, he didn't deny it.
"I help out," he said. "Sometimes."
The next day, the shelter posted a handwritten list on the message board near the front desk.
Names. Just a few.
Gardner stood back, hands in his coat pockets, heart rattling in his chest.
He didn't rush to read it. Didn't want to look too eager.
He waited until the crowd thinned.
When he finally stepped forward, his eyes scanned the list once.
There it was.
Gardner. Christopher Sr.
He let out a breath so deep it nearly bent him in half.
Still, he didn't cheer. Didn't shout or dance. Just rubbed a hand over his face and stood there, staring at the name as if it might vanish.
"Congratulations," someone said from behind.
It was Nurse Julia, the kind woman who had been tending to his son since their first day at the shelter.
"Thank you," Gardner said. "He—he passed the health check, too, right?"
"He did. Healthy little guy."
Gardner nodded, eyes fixed on the board.
"It's just training next, right? Then… then the ship?"
She smiled gently. "Yes. You've still got a bit to go. But you're in."
He finally turned to face her. "Thank you. I don't know how to explain what this means."
"You don't have to."
She looked down the hallway where the baby slept, then back at Gardner.
"Sometimes, people don't need a miracle. Just a door that opens."
__
The next day brought orientation—nothing fancy. Just an open room and a man with a chalkboard going over sea protocol, food handling, sanitation rules, and basic expectations onboard the Golden Ship.
Gardner took notes on scraps of paper. Most of it was stuff he didn't understand, not yet. But he wrote every word like it was scripture.
Later that afternoon, Mr. Cole gathered them all in the back lot by the trucks again.
"All right," he said. "You've got one more week. We'll be testing for final assignments. Everyone will pull duty here—food prep, supply checks, laundry, inventory, and minor repairs. Show up on time. Don't slack. You do, you're off the list. Got it?"
A sea of nods.
Mr. Cole pointed to Gardner.
"You'll report to storage. You've got hands. Let's see what you do with 'em."
"Yes, sir."
As the men were dismissed, Gardner caught sight of his son from the window upstairs—tucked in a rocker cradle, a tiny knitted cap on his head, warm and safe.
He didn't wave. Just looked up at him like someone anchoring his heart to something steady.
That night, Gardner slept for six full hours without waking.
First time in a long, long time.
And for the first time in a long time… he dreamed