New York City Hall Subway Station
Every day, Batman funneled funds through layers of trusts, using different identities and lawyers in a nested, doll-like operation to quietly purchase parcels of land around the City Hall subway station.
Even the station itself had been legally acquired by Batman, with all surface exits sealed off in full compliance with regulations.
Aside from the lack of expansion, underground excavation, and essential facilities, this place had become Batman's makeshift, bare-bones version of the Batcave.
Even the lathes and machinery once stored in the old Parker Industries warehouse had been relocated here this morning.
Click.
A USB drive was plugged into the computer running Oracle AI.
"Barbara, analyze the audio file for me," Batman said.
"No problem, Bruce."
This kind of low-skill task could be handled independently by Oracle AI, sparing Batman the need to waste time on it.
His priorities lay elsewhere: visiting military surplus stores and black markets to track down the specific brand of gun oil he'd smelled at Ravencroft Institute.
If he couldn't find it, he'd have to meet with Silver Sable or Tony Stark to tap into their exclusive channels for items not available on the open market.
"After I'm back, I'll need to order car parts to rebuild the Batmobile, capable of switching seamlessly between driving and combat modes…"
Batman slipped unnoticed out of a nearby subway station, blending into the crowd before climbing into the nondescript car he used for everyday travel.
"Snoooore…"
Happy Hogan was slumped on a bench in the lobby of Stark Tower, head tilted back, snoring loudly with a copy of The Facial Expressions of Success draped over his face.
Tap, tap.
The sound of steady footsteps jolted Happy upright. He scrambled to pick up the book that had fallen to the floor, glancing at the source of the sound.
"Mr. Parker?"
Recognizing the visitor, Happy tossed the book onto the bench and hurried over in a few quick strides.
"Mr. Stark said the phone at Parker Industries was completely unreachable, so he told me to keep watch down here for a few days… uh, was I just snoring?"
Batman glanced at The Facial Expressions of Success, then at Happy, but said nothing.
The last time he was here, Happy had just been appointed as Tony Stark's driver and bodyguard. Back then, Happy couldn't stop grinning, his excitement uncontainable.
He'd muttered something to the elevator about needing to work on his "expression management." Apparently, he'd actually bought a book on it—though how much he'd absorbed was anyone's guess.
Looking at Happy, Batman was inexplicably reminded of Harvey Bullock, Commissioner Gordon's colleague back in Gotham.
Harvey was similarly heavyset, unkempt, and prone to cracking earthy jokes that made him seem unreliable at first glance.
Yet, in Gotham's cesspool of corruption, Harvey held fast to his principles, embodying the weary but unyielding justice of an ordinary man.
Batman let none of these fleeting thoughts show on his face. He gave Happy a slight nod and stepped past him into the elevator.
At the top floor of Stark Tower, Tony Stark was sprawled on a couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, looking thoroughly idle.
The ding of the elevator arriving made him glance up, though he didn't bother to move.
It wasn't until he saw Peter Parker—someone he hadn't seen in days—that he perked up, half-sincerely calling out, "Peter!"
"Last night's charity gala was supposed to be your big introduction to New York's high society, but you conveniently didn't show."
Tony sauntered over to the bar, pouring a glass of whiskey and offering it to Batman. "You owe me a drink for all the prep I put in for you."
Batman took the glass and set it aside. "I'm allergic to alcohol."
Last night, while perched atop the Empire State Building, the radio receiver in his Arkham suit had picked up chatter about the charity gala in New York. He'd had no interest in attending.
He'd been consumed with tracking down Schulman's whereabouts and investigating the suspiciously squeaky-clean FEAST organization—both far more pressing than mingling with New York's elite.
And now, with Norman Osborn's mysterious transfer by an unknown group, Batman had yet another problem on his plate.
"Too bad," Tony said, downing both glasses of whiskey himself. "You're missing out on a lot of fun."
Batman remained unmoved.
It wasn't an allergy—he simply avoided alcohol because it dulled his mind. The same went for anything else that might impair his thinking, including certain medications.
"Peter," Tony continued, shifting gears, "as the owner of a factory with a steady stream of orders, a future billionaire, you can't just have an unreachable phone."
"To save you the embarrassment, I didn't bother calling Empire State University again this time."
He poured himself another drink.
"Sorry, Tony. What did you need me for?" Batman sidestepped the topic. The phone number he'd left for Parker Industries was fake anyway.
Until he could design and build a phone exclusively for "Batman," he had no intention of carrying one.
"My defense division developed a new cluster bomb," Tony said, a hint of pride in his voice. "It releases a swarm of smaller explosives mid-air for saturation strikes over a wide area. No military in the world has anything like it yet. I want you to invest in its production."
"No," Batman replied without hesitation. "I'll never get involved in the arms trade. Ever."
He could tolerate Stark Industries' weapons business without playing the saint and demanding they shut it down. After all, on paper, Stark's weapons were sold to militaries for peacekeeping, not to terrorists.
Batman wouldn't go out of his way to stop it, but that didn't mean he'd join in or invest. That was a line he would never cross.
"Whoa…" Tony hadn't expected such a flat refusal. His earlier enthusiasm deflated. "So, what brings you here today?"
"I need a batch of gun oil that's not available on the open market," Batman said. "The high-precision robotic arms, hydraulic systems, and bearings on Parker Industries' production lines require high-performance synthetic lubricants and rust inhibitors. I'm considering gun oil as a substitute for standard lubricants."
"I need samples, and I'm hoping you can use your military connections to get me some."
Different people required different excuses. With Tony Stark, this explanation was airtight.
Tony stroked his chin, considering. "Extreme pressure resistance, anti-corrosion, low-temperature stability—perfect for keeping precision equipment reliable in New York's erratic climate. High-quality gun oil's a solid choice, though it's still a step below the best lubricants."
Batman delivered his pre-prepared reasoning: "But it's cheaper. And I only need samples for testing, not a commitment to using it."
Tony nodded. The logic held up. Businessmen always looked to cut costs for bigger profits, and while using gun oil was unconventional, it wasn't outlandish.
"No problem. By nine tonight, I'll have someone deliver every type of gun oil sample I can get to Parker Industries," Tony said.
"Thanks," Batman replied.
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