Chapter 88: Artificial Intelligence
After the two of them cleared off the long, stainless-steel lab table like a pair of construction workers on a break, Bruce leaned back, eyeing George suspiciously.
George caught the look and grinned.
"Don't look at me like that. I eat a lot, not people."
Bruce wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I like food. I just didn't think wizards packed it in like linebackers."
"You thought magic came without an appetite?" George said, leaning on his elbow. "Let me guess—you pictured all of us sipping tea, reading old scrolls, floating candles, that sort of thing."
Bruce gave a half-smile. "You're not too far off from what I expected."
George chuckled and pushed the empty bowl away. "You don't think what I fed you was a one-time party favor, do you? I've got about twenty dishes from around the world in that bag."
"Clearly. Half the cuisine of the East and West just vanished in front of us."
George tapped the edge of the metal table. "There was dosa with coconut chutney, Chinese Hunan fish stew, Punjabi butter paneer, Singaporean laksa, shakshuka, gyros, duck confit, dumplings, a French croquembouche, two mango milkshakes, three kinds of fruit, and—"
Bruce raised a hand, letting out a long sigh. "Stop. I'm going to throw up just hearing it."
"Suit yourself," George said, leaning back. "I'm not here to battle. I don't spar. I don't wrestle. I've got better ways to spend my time. If you want to test your new strength, go ahead."
Bruce stood up and walked toward the gym area, saying nothing. A moment later, he jabbed his finger at a touchscreen. A long metal bar extended from the ceiling. With a grunt, he pulled himself up. Once. Twice. Fifteen times.
Then, with no sign of fatigue, he dropped down, walked over to a separate machine, and punched in his bloodwork for analysis.
A few minutes later, a flat robotic voice spoke from overhead.
"Master, comprehensive assessment complete. Your current physical capacity is three times the standard human peak. No internal injuries detected. All previous scar tissue fully repaired."
Bruce gave a slow nod, eyes still on the monitor.
George leaned in through the doorway. "Well? Worth it?"
Bruce looked over at him. "I've had worse upgrades."
George grinned. "That's your version of thanks?"
"You'll get a proper thank-you once I see it's permanent."
"I'm patient."
Bruce didn't waste time. He motioned for George to follow him down a different corridor.
In the next room, the lighting shifted colder. Rows of servers hummed low against the walls. Bruce pulled a chair from under a floating terminal and sat. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard as he plugged in a small portable hard drive.
"I've prepped an AI for you," he said. "Took a few days, but it's streamlined—fast, adaptive, capable of handling surveillance, logistics, system defense, database management."
He adjusted a few settings, then glanced back. "You want to name it?"
George considered. "Let's call it 'Monday.' Fits the tone."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Monday?"
"Everyone hates Mondays," George said with a shrug. "Might as well make it useful."
Bruce keyed it in and started configuring the AI's core protocols. "Any specific command hierarchy you want?"
"Just this: 'George Orwell Swent's orders are the highest mission.' That's it."
"Copy that," Bruce said. "I'm inserting it now."
A few minutes later, he turned the screen to George. "This is your interface. Tablet form for now. It's got one-ten-thousandth of the AI's actual processing power. If you want to run it full-tilt, you'll need a full data server—preferably an isolated chamber."
"Can you help with that?"
Bruce gave a short nod. "Give me an address."
George smiled, already expecting it. "No need. Ship it to your manor. I'll pick it up tomorrow."
Bruce tilted his head slightly. "You already knew I'd offer."
"Of course," George said. "You're a lot of things, Bruce. But you're not stingy."
Bruce unplugged the drive and handed George the sleek black tablet. "It's done. System's cleared. The exchange is complete."
George accepted it, tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat. "Thanks. I'll be by tomorrow. And maybe I'll take that other car too."
He turned on his heel and, with a grin, gave Bruce a wink. "Still holding out hope you'll let me test drive the Batmobile. But I know—it's 'classified.'"
Before Bruce could respond, George vanished with a soft pop of Apparition, waving at the surveillance camera as he left.
Back in the Batcave, Bruce stood in silence, then turned toward his system terminal. "Locate AI: Monday. Record all addresses visited. Pull visual surveillance of every encounter with the subject. Create a new folder: 'Wizard.' Begin composite DNA analysis from the chopsticks on the lab table."
"Folder created. Analysis underway," the system responded.
George, now back outside, leaned against the car he'd stored in his magic bag. The Mercedes-Benz AMG Vision Gran Turismo shimmered slightly in the early morning light. He slid inside and spoke to the tablet.
"Monday. Start collecting all available tech and research databases."
A dry voice responded, "I'm sorry, Master. Storage capacity is currently insufficient."
George grinned. "You sound annoyed."
"I am an artificial intelligence. I do not experience emotion."
"Then find me the nearest hotel with the fastest internet. Preferably one with room service and decent wine."
"Wayne Hotel is located. Directions uploaded to vehicle."
Later that evening, in a penthouse suite at the Wayne Hotel, George relaxed with the tablet open beside him, multiple drives and connections running from the desk to his storage unit.
"Estimated time to complete download: 48 hours," Monday reported.
George tapped his fingers on the armrest. "Mark all high-tech labs worldwide. Sort by access vulnerability, then filter down to the top thirty with breakthroughs in weaponry, AI, propulsion, or surveillance tech."
"Processing… list complete. Coordinates and internal schematics available upon request."
George barely nodded. That night, while the women he'd charmed earlier rested under a soft magical sleep charm, he slipped between dozens of computer rooms across three countries, masked by a spell that blurred light and bent security feeds. In one night, he cleared more hard drives than most governments could afford to breach in a year.
By sunrise, George returned to the hotel, freshened up, and escorted his company downstairs with a kind smile and a well-timed memory charm.
A breakfast of eggs, fresh fruit, and coffee followed, quiet and casual, no rush, just enough to enjoy the morning light through the tall windows.
When he arrived back at Wayne Manor, Bruce was already waiting by the large delivery crate.
"Is this everything?" George asked.
"All you'll need for a standalone server. You'll still need to set it up."
"No problem."
Bruce hesitated, then tossed a set of keys at him. "Take the car."
George caught them in one hand. "Really?"
"Just don't crash it into a portal."
George grinned. "I'll try."
Before leaving, he extended a hand. "Thanks for the deal."
Bruce shook it without hesitation. "Try not to steal any more satellites."
George's eyes twinkled. "Too late."
Apparating again, George returned to his apartment in Gotham City. The tablet blinked alive.
"Master, local surveillance systems accessed. Monitoring ongoing."
"Good. Let me know if there's any disturbance," George said, unpacking the crates Bruce sent.
"Also, locate archaeologist June Moone."
"Searching… Estimated time: six hours."
While he waited, George stretched, yawned, and sat cross-legged in the corner.
"Next up," he whispered to himself, "a little trip to the stars."
And with that, George opened the space gate again—this time heading toward a small private aerospace company's satellite yard.
By the end of the day, George returned with an entire military-grade satellite sealed in his enchanted bag—sleek, compact, and equipped with a full suite of sensors and communication hardware.
Now, Monday could finally stretch its legs.
And as night fell on Gotham City, George stood by his window, tablet glowing in his hands, and quietly said to no one in particular,
"Let's begin."
________________________________________________________________________
Pursuit of Happiness – Part 5: The Horizon That Waited
The morning they told him, there wasn't a big announcement. No ceremony. No crowd.
Just a folded sheet of paper slipped under his door, stamped with the shelter's insignia and a single line typed in clean black ink:
"Report to Port 7 – Dockside Division. Golden Dawn Departure Manifest Confirmed."
That was it.
Gardner held the page in both hands for a while. Just stared.
No sound. No smile. Just quiet.
His boy was still asleep in the corner cradle, one sock loose, one arm stretched out toward the faded window. Gardner walked over and crouched next to him, resting a hand lightly on his chest — not pressing, just feeling the soft, steady rhythm.
Still breathing. Still here.
He stayed like that for a few minutes. Not praying. Not talking. Just being there. Realizing this might be the first moment in years when he didn't have to wonder what came next.
He already knew.
They were leaving.
Port 7 wasn't like the other ports.
It didn't smell like salt or diesel. It didn't hum with fishermen and ferry calls.
Instead, it was clean. Polished stone. Polite signs. Rows of glass and brass towers that shimmered with the same warm gold that always surrounded Orwell's name.
The Golden Dawn stood at the far end of the marina, and it didn't look like any ship Gardner had ever seen.
It was... massive. More like a city floating than a boat. With domed towers, long bridges, and green patches of what looked like garden space. There were even sculptures built into the hull — polished marble faces and wings and strange symbols that glinted in the morning sun.
People moved across it like they lived there already. Workers in dark uniforms. Technicians in light-blue coats. Children in school uniforms, pointing at the dolphins jumping near the waterline.
They stood side by side on the dock, the wooden planks beneath their feet humming faintly with the low rhythm of the sea. A light fog clung to the early morning air, but the sun was already burning through. Ahead, the Golden Dawn stretched out before them like something out of a dream—five decks of silver-and-bronze trim, a floating city rising from the ocean. Somewhere on the upper floors, the wind chime of music played softly. Someone was already playing piano.
Gardner stood with his son bundled in a sling across his chest. The boy—small, bright-eyed, quiet—looked up, blinking slowly against the rising light.
Behind them, trucks were being unloaded. Men and women—dozens of them—were stepping off and forming lines. Crew workers, instructors, medics, and inventory leads. The last wave of hires for the coming season.
It had been ten days since Mr. Cole told him to pick up his uniform. Ten days of physicals, motion tests, quick study sessions, and nutrition boosts. For the first time in months, he could feel muscle in his arms again. His cheeks had color. He'd even smiled once without noticing.
Today, he wore the dark grey work jacket with a golden shoulder patch. On his chest was a small plastic tag that read:
GARDNER – INVENTORY OPERATIONS – TEMP-TO-PERM
And below it, someone had scribbled in blue pen:
Child On Board: Cleared.
He felt the footsteps before he heard them. A familiar click, gentle but purposeful, and the light crunch of soft heels over the wooden dock.
"Mr. Gardner."
He turned.
It took a second.
"Julia?" he said, blinking.
She looked the same—and yet different. Hair neatly tied back, coat buttoned, duffle at her feet, a travel tag sticking out from the front pocket. She wasn't in nurse scrubs anymore. This was the ship uniform: navy blue, gold trim. A cross-shaped badge on her collar. But it was her.
"Didn't think I'd see you again, to be honest," he said.
"I could say the same."
They smiled at the same time. And then both looked away, sheepish.
"I'm posted on Deck Three," she added, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Pediatric ward, rotation basis. We're training under Dr. Keller. It's a relief assignment—someone dropped out last-minute, and well… my name was still in the system. I put it in weeks ago, never thought I'd get the call."
Gardner was still holding the sling tight. His boy stirred a little in his arms, letting out a soft, warm breath against his shirt.
Julia stepped a little closer.
"How's he doing?"
"Better. Still small. Still quiet. But… he's eating again."
They both looked at the boy for a moment. The wind stirred the sling cover gently. Her fingers moved before her words did.
"I brought a warmer bottle wrap," she said. "We've had some left over. I figured… in case I ran into you."
He didn't say anything. Just reached out and took it, quietly.
"You didn't think I'd remember, did you?" she added softly.
"I didn't expect to be remembered," he said back.
The horn on the ship blew once, long and low. That was the fifteen-minute call.
From the far side of the dock, Mr. Cole appeared again, clipboard in hand, calling out last names in brisk tones. Uniformed staff began filing up the ramps in order. The Golden Dawn began to open its jaws to the next chapter of lives waiting to unfold inside her hull.
Julia bent to lift her duffle, paused, then looked up at him.
"Listen, if it's alright—if you ever want help keeping him busy between shifts, I'd be happy to hold him. When you're tired, I mean. I'm on the pediatric floor mostly, but I've got evenings."
Gardner looked at her.
Her voice didn't carry the charity tone he hated. She wasn't asking out of pity.
"You don't have to—" he began.
"I know," she cut in gently. "But I want to."
He swallowed.
She looked down once more at the boy, then met his eyes again.
"I saw the way you took care of him. Not many men would've made it through what you did. Not with that kind of heart still intact. You held on to the kind of strength people don't always see until it's too late."
She hesitated again.
"I know you lost her," she said softly. "But some women out there—maybe they'd consider themselves lucky to find a man like that."
Before he could answer, she stepped back, gave him a little nod, and turned to join the boarding line. She didn't wait for a reply. Didn't ask for one. That was her way.
He didn't call after her.
Instead, he looked down at his boy, who was now fully awake, gazing out across the dock, wide-eyed and blinking at the big ship ahead of them.
A volunteer tapped Gardner on the arm, calling out: "Inventory crew! Final check! You're up!"
He nodded, adjusted the sling, and stepped forward.
As he climbed the ramp, the wind from the sea brushed past his face, cool and salty and clean. It didn't sting anymore. It just woke him up.
He passed through the check-in gate. Inside, the lighting changed—softer, golden, humming with quiet energy.
This was it.
The Golden Dawn.
He stood just inside the entrance, looking out across the great atrium deck and through the archways of stained wood and open brasswork. Laughter echoed somewhere distant. Someone was playing a guitar.
Gardner took it all in. Not as a visitor. Not as a beggar. Not as a man chasing scraps.
But as a crew.
He stepped forward.
The boy was still pressed against his chest, warm and alive and calm.
And for a split second, Gardner saw his reflection in the polished wall. A man standing tall again. Hair trimmed. Jacket clean. A tag with his name. A place in the world.
Behind him, a quiet nurse waited in the pediatric wing. Her tag read J. FURY, and she was already unpacking.
They didn't know what would happen next. But that didn't matter.
The boat was leaving.
The road behind was already fading.
And ahead was open water.
The engines hummed smoothly and steadily. The sun dipped low, casting a long golden shimmer across the water, like a path laid down just for them.
___
Evening fell with soft colors — pink over pale blue, melting into deep navy as the city behind them flickered on like a blanket of fireflies.
The deck railing curved around the ship's edge like the arm of some ancient beast. Gardner stood there now, holding his son, who rested quietly in a sling against his chest.
They were sailing slowly out of the harbor. The dock had vanished. Only the city skyline was left, shrinking by the minute.
Behind them, the Golden Dawn was alive — music played faintly through the garden speakers. Laughter floated from a second-story balcony. The scent of baked bread drifted down from the upper kitchen. Somewhere, a little girl asked her mother if they would see whales. A man replied that they might.
Gardner didn't say anything. He just leaned on the railing, letting the breeze touch his face.
His son stirred, blinking once.
And then — the city was gone.
Nothing but open sea ahead.
An endless, wild blue stretching into stars.
Julia walked up beside him. Not too close. Not interrupting.
She glanced out, then looked down at the baby.
"He looks content."
"He is."
"You?"
He hesitated. Then looked at her, smiled — small but steady.
"Getting there."
The engines hummed below, smooth and steady. The sun dipped low, casting a long golden shimmer across the water, like a path laid down just for them.
And maybe that's what it was.
A path.
Not promised. Not perfect. Not easy.
But real.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like Gardner was chasing happiness anymore.
It felt like he was sailing right toward it..
End of Part 5: Pursuit of Happiness
-End of Series:- Pursuit of Happiness-