Chapter 87: The Deal
"A deal?" Bruce said, a dry chuckle escaping. "I don't usually shake hands with strangers."
"Oh, refusing so quickly? You don't even want to hear what the deal is about?" George replied with an indifferent smile.
"At least first tell me who you actually are, and where you're from," Bruce said, arms crossed now, but his tone even.
"Hmm, not impossible," George said, shrugging. "But even if I told you, you probably wouldn't believe it. I come from the magic world—a small pocket dimension attached to your Earth's reality."
"The magic world," Bruce echoed, the words dry but not entirely dismissive. He didn't interrupt, just listened.
"Why seek me out?" Bruce asked after a beat.
"As I said—a deal. The war that shook Earth a few years back, the one that took down Superman? It shook us, too. The magic world took a hit. So I returned, curious, only to find your Earth… well, let's say it's accelerating faster than expected."
He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the armrest.
"After a little digging, I chose you. I figured what I offer is exactly what you need."
Bruce tilted his head. "A good story, sir."
"Don't believe in magic? That's fair." George smiled slightly. "But let me show you something."
He flicked his wrist.
"Transfiguration."
A soft green light shot across the office. Bruce flinched, his instincts snapping to high alert—until he saw it wasn't aimed at him. The beam struck a pen sitting on his desk. Slowly, under Bruce's watchful eyes, it twisted and reshaped until a miniature figurine stood where the pen had been. A ten-centimeter-tall Batman, carved in gleaming metal, cloaked and posed mid-leap.
Bruce reached for it. The detail was absurdly precise.
George grinned. "Since Wonder Woman exists, surely magic isn't that much of a stretch."
Bruce looked up, still holding the figurine. "Alright. What kind of deal are we talking about?"
"An AI—your design—and some non-critical advanced tech. I'm not after your 'black box' secrets. Just clean data."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Magicians deal in technology now?"
George shrugged. "Magic and tech are both ways of explaining the laws of the world. One looks inward, the other outward. Either way, they're just tools."
Bruce thought a moment. "And what do you offer in return?"
Now George sat straighter, his voice a touch lower.
"I can make you younger."
Bruce blinked.
"Enhance your body. Move you past the line of peak human potential. Stronger, faster, more resilient than you've ever been."
For once, Bruce didn't have a quick reply.
"You've spent your life one step ahead of everyone else," George continued. "But your edge isn't tech. It's time. And it's running out. Let me fix that."
"I can't trust you," Bruce said at last, flat and even.
George didn't argue. He stood, walked behind Bruce with casual ease.
"If I meant you harm, Bruce," he said softly, placing one hand on Bruce's shoulder, "we wouldn't be having this chat."
Bruce didn't move. His body was tense, ready, coiled—but he didn't react violently. The moment passed.
George let go and stepped back.
"Well?" George asked, settling back on the sofa. "Have you thought it over?"
Bruce stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded once.
"Alright. Come with me."
They left the office. Bruce's secretary stood up quickly as the pair passed. "Mr. Wayne?"
"I'm stepping out for a bit," Bruce replied.
She looked confused, clearly unsure how this unknown man had gotten into the building. George offered her a polite smile and a tiny wave as they passed.
In the garage, Bruce slid into a sleek black car. George followed and buckled in.
"This is nice," George said, eyes tracing the dashboard. "Get me one later?"
Bruce smirked. "You can drive?"
"Only on Tuesdays."
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
George grinned. "I've been out a while. Driving's charming. It's like magic, but with leather seats."
"You want me to set up a place for you to stay?"
"No need. I sensed a dark magic ripple near Gotham City a few days ago. I need to check it out."
Bruce glanced at him. "Dark magic?"
"Magic is neutral. The user isn't. Stay in the dark too long, and it messes with your head. Think of it like radiation with feelings."
They drove in silence for a bit.
"You know," George said eventually, "I expected you to spring a trap on me. Activate some hidden vault or neural gas."
"Would it work?" Bruce asked.
"You're welcome to try."
Bruce let the engine answer instead.
They arrived at Wayne Manor. From the garage, an elevator took them underground into the massive steel and stone expanse of the new Batcave.
Standing beside a workbench, Bruce asked, "What now?"
George reached into his satchel. "Now you drink this."
He held up a heart-shaped herb, deep violet with black veins.
"I've used it. So has my friend. One sip, and you'll be more than human—but still yourself."
Bruce studied it for a moment. "Any side effects?"
"You might see someone from your past. But only if you've got ghosts."
Without another word, Bruce crushed the herb and poured it into a thick test tube. The liquid turned a deep, royal purple.
He downed it in one go.
Within seconds, he collapsed.
George watched him carefully. When the color returned to Bruce's face, he smiled. The herb was working.
An hour passed before Bruce sat up, sweat on his forehead.
"See anyone?" George asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bruce didn't answer.
"Heh. I'll take that as a yes."
Bruce stood slowly, grabbing a protein bar from a small fridge. He looked exhausted—but grounded. Focused.
"Hungry?" he asked.
George snapped his fingers, and from his enchanted bag, dish after dish began to appear.
On the long counter beside them, in neat rows, came:
South Indian dosa with spicy sambar
Paneer tikka and soft naan
Fragrant Chinese fried rice and Schezwan noodles
Steamed dumplings, spicy tofu, kung pao chicken
Moroccan tagine, couscous with grilled vegetables
Shawarma wraps and lamb kabobs
Japanese curry rice, miso soup
Korean bibimbap and bulgogi
A rich Thai green curry with jasmine rice
Creamy mushroom risotto
French onion soup, croque monsieur, and buttered escargot
Italian bruschetta and tiramisu
German bratwurst with mustard
Mango shake, banana smoothie, and sweet coconut water
Fresh berries, citrus slices, and a dish of chilled lychee
Two trays of fine desserts: chocolate mousse, lemon tarts, mango cheesecake
Bruce stared. "You carry a restaurant around?"
George handed him chopsticks. "Wouldn't you?"
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, eating quietly in the depths of the Batcave—one in a suit, the other in magic-silver robes.
At last, George leaned back against the table and looked at Bruce with a soft grin.
Bruce didn't say anything. But his expression—just for a second—softened.
He picked up another piece of naan, dipped it in curry, and nodded once. "Try these—they're absolutely genuine."
Bruce gave George a curious look but picked up the plate. Without speaking further, the two began to eat heartily, the silence filled with mutual respect and anticipation for what lay ahead.
________________________________________________________________________________
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Part III: The Interview
Gardner had never owned a suit.
Not a real one.
The closest he'd ever come was a secondhand blazer and slacks combo from a church drive back in '28. He wore it to Maria's funeral, and by the time the rain stopped, the cuffs had given up, and the lining was half detached. He hadn't touched it since.
But today, when he stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the sleeves of the charcoal-gray suit the shelter issued him for the interview, he hardly recognized the man staring back.
Clean-shaven. Hair combed tight. Shirt pressed. Tie a little crooked — he tried three times before giving up and asking the nurse to fix it.
"Don't worry," she'd said with a smile, "most men don't know how to tie it anyway. You look fine."
Gardner exhaled slowly.
Today wasn't just an interview.
It was a chance. A real one.
The hall outside the shelter's main office had been turned into a waiting room. Seven chairs lined the wall. Gardner was the fourth one in.
Most of the men looked like him — lean, nervous, dressed in clothes too new for comfort. One younger guy tapped his foot nonstop. Another, older, sat with his arms crossed, staring ahead like he was ready for war.
They all had shelter tags clipped to their chest — white tags with names written in neat black ink.
Gardner's reads: "Gardner Senior. Logistics."
A volunteer came by with a clipboard.
"Next two," she called.
Gardner stood when the man next to him did. They followed her down a narrow hallway, past doors labeled "Inventory," "Admin," "Medical," until they reached the double doors of the interview suite.
There were three desks inside.
Two were occupied by young shelter coordinators — staff Gardner had seen helping with laundry or meals. The third desk — the one farthest from the door — was different.
Wooden. Heavy. Looked like it came from a courthouse or maybe an old war office.
And behind it sat a man Gardner had never seen before.
He was older — maybe late 60s, maybe more — with a deeply lined face, a thick gray mustache, and a brown fedora he hadn't taken off.
He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just looked down at the paper in front of him and scribbled something slowly, with an old brass pen.
No one said his name.
But Gardner noticed something — the way the younger interviewers straightened up when he shifted in his chair. The way the other staff glanced over at him was like students checking if the principal was watching.
This man wasn't just here to help. He was watching. Judging. Maybe more than any of them realized.
Gardner's interview started at the middle desk.
A short woman named Sheila asked most of the questions.
"What areas have you worked in?"
"I used to do shipping and stock. Mostly backroom inventory, order tracking, and some light logistics. I kept track of numbers, kept things moving."
"Any leadership?"
"No, ma'am. Just hands-on. I trained new guys, sometimes."
She scribbled a note.
"Are you comfortable traveling for extended periods?"
"Yes, if my boy can come."
She paused. "We'll get to that in a minute."
Another note.
The interview lasted about fifteen minutes.
Nothing fancy. No trick questions.
But it was the last one — the final note on her clipboard—that made Gardner's heart thump a little faster.
Sheila glanced past him, toward the man at the wooden desk.
He nodded, just once.
"Mr. Gardner," she said, "could you take a seat at the end there?"
Gardner turned slowly and walked toward the big desk.
The man behind it didn't speak right away.
He finished whatever he was writing, laid the pen across the paper, then looked up.
His eyes were sharp. Cold, maybe, but not cruel.
"What do you know about the Golden Ship?" he asked flatly.
Gardner blinked. "The what?"
"The Orwell Golden Ship."
Gardner cleared his throat. "I've heard of it. Not much. Just stories. That it travels the world, that it's… It's big."
"It's more than big."
The man leaned back. "It's not just a ship. It's a city. It doesn't dock. It doesn't stop. It houses close to ten thousand workers at any given time. It runs manufacturing, trade, logistics, research, entertainment, education — the whole works. Orwell's little floating miracle."
Gardner nodded slowly.
The man went on. "
The man went on. "That ship runs on order, timing, and trust. If one thing falls behind—delivery, paperwork, movement—everything else backs up. Have you ever worked in a place where everyone depended on you getting something done exactly right, exactly on time?"
Gardner hesitated, then nodded. "Not on a ship, but… back when I worked freight. I managed warehouse inventory for a supply depot near the railyard in D.C. Stuff came in and went out, and if we missed something, it meant troops didn't get fed or supplied on schedule. So yeah. I've been there."
The man stared for a long beat.
"That's good," he said quietly. Then: "And your son?"
Gardner sat up straighter. "He's just over one. His name's Nick. He… he doesn't cry much. Sleeps through most nights. I know kids make things complicated, but I can carry my weight. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't."
For the first time, the old man looked up fully. Something softened, just a little, around the eyes.
"You've been at the shelter… what, two and a half weeks now?"
"Yes, sir. Been helping in the kitchen. Inventory mostly. Scrubbed floors, restocked, that sort of thing."
"And you keep showing up."
"I got nowhere else to be," Gardner replied, then corrected himself. "Actually, that's not true. I've got somewhere to be. It's just—I need the work to get there."
A brief silence stretched between them. The old man flipped over a paper, glanced at a handwritten column, then picked up his brass pen again.
He scribbled something, then asked without looking up, "What would you do if I offered you the job today?"
Gardner blinked.
"I'd start tonight," he said. "I'd carry cargo in my arms if I had to. I'd learn fast. Just give me the chance."
Another pause. Then the old man closed the folder.
"You got a decent eye," he said. "Honest, too. You don't dress up your answers. You just say what you mean. I like that."
He stood slowly, placing the folder into a thick leather bag behind him. Then he glanced toward the door and gave a short nod.
Sheila reentered the room and walked up quietly.
The old man turned back to Gardner.
"You can go back to the main hall. They'll let you know in a few days."
Gardner stood, nodded, and mumbled a quiet, "Thank you."
As Gardner stepped out of the room, the heavy door clicked softly shut behind him.
He walked down the quiet hall, each step slower than the last. A hundred thoughts swirled behind his eyes, but none landed. His heart still beat fast — too fast — and he couldn't tell if it was fear or hope or both.
Out in the main wing, the warm smell of soup lingered in the air, mixed with faint antiseptic and baby powder.
He moved toward the sleeping area where his son rested, bundled in layers of worn cotton and soft wool. The baby stirred once, then stilled, his breath slow and shallow.
Gardner crouched beside him, ran a hand across the blanket to smooth it.
He didn't say anything. Just stayed there, hand still, gaze distant.
Then came footsteps. Soft ones.
A familiar voice broke the quiet.
"Hey," said the nurse, the young woman who'd helped with the baby's fever last week. "How'd it go?"
Gardner looked up at her. She had that same calm face, the one that didn't rush you but didn't miss much either.
He gave a half-smile. "It went. I think I answered most things correctly. At least, I didn't fall over."
She smiled too. "That's a start. Mr. Cole doesn't talk much, but… if you impress him, you'll know soon enough."
"I hope so." Gardner glanced back down at his son. "They said it's a floating city. A ship that never stops moving."
"Sounds like something out of a storybook," she said softly.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Too good to be true."
"Doesn't mean it isn't," she said gently, then gave his arm a light squeeze. "Get some rest, Chris. You've done what you could today."
He nodded.
But after she left, Gardner didn't sleep. Not yet.
He just sat by the cradle, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, watching the slow rise and fall of his son's chest.
He tried to hold on to the hope.
But a small part of him — the part that remembered every slammed door, every unanswered letter, every long walk that led nowhere—whispered something else.
What if it was another almost?
What if the world just didn't make room for men like him?
He didn't answer that voice. Not out loud.
Just stayed quiet, watching over his boy.
The night rolled on, and outside, the city kept moving — loud and uncaring.
But in here, under dim lights and warm sheets, there was still a little space carved out for the waiting.
End of Part III.(The Interview)