Chapter 88: Lines That Must Never Be Crossed
City Hall Station.
Every day, Batman used layers of trusts—different identities, different lawyers, nested shell operations—to purchase parcels of land surrounding the subway station piece by piece.
He'd even acquired City Hall Station itself, legally and properly sealing every surface entrance.
Aside from needing expansion, deeper excavation, and various essential facilities, this location had already become Batman's true bargain-basement Batcave.
Even the lathes and machine tools originally stored in Parker Industries' old warehouse had been transferred here this morning.
Click.
The flash drive slid into the computer equipped with the Oracle AI.
"Barbara, analyze the audio files for me," Batman said.
"No problem, Bruce."
This kind of routine technical work the Oracle AI could handle independently, without Batman wasting time on it himself.
He needed to visit military surplus stores and black market dealers, finding the specific gun oil he'd detected at Ravencroft Institute.
If he couldn't locate it through normal channels, he'd need to meet with Silver Sable or Tony Stark, accessing the specialized products that didn't circulate on the open market through their connections.
"When I get back, I need to order automotive components. Time to recreate that Batmobile capable of switching between standard driving and combat configurations."
Batman emerged from a nearby subway entrance, blending seamlessly with the crowd, and climbed into his car.
....
Happy Hogan sat on a bench in Stark Tower's lobby, head tilted back, snoring softly. A book titled "Facial Expression Management for Success" covered his face.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Steady footsteps gradually approached. Happy jolted upright, simultaneously looking toward the sound's source while fumbling to retrieve the book that had fallen to the floor.
"Mr. Parker?"
Recognizing his visitor, Happy tossed the book carelessly onto the bench and hurried forward in two quick strides.
"Mr. Stark said the number you left at Parker Industries doesn't work. He told me to wait downstairs these past few days... Wait, was I just snoring?"
Batman glanced at "Facial Expression Management for Success," then at Happy, saying nothing.
Last time he'd visited, Happy had just been appointed as Tony Stark's driver and bodyguard. Back then, Happy couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from twitching upward.
Happy had told Batman in the elevator he needed to master expression management. Apparently he'd actually bought a book about it—though how much he'd absorbed remained questionable.
Looking at Happy, Batman found himself unexpectedly reminded of Harvey Bullock, Commissioner Gordon's colleague back in Gotham.
Harvey shared a similar build—somewhat overweight, perpetually disheveled, occasionally cracking blue-collar jokes, never appearing particularly reliable.
But in Gotham's corrupt depths, Harvey had always held the line, embodying a weary but unbroken ordinary person's sense of justice.
Batman kept these fleeting thoughts to himself, merely nodding slightly at Happy before stepping into the elevator alone.
At Stark Tower's penthouse, Tony Stark lounged on his sofa, swirling a drink, apparently doing nothing in particular.
Hearing the elevator arrive, Tony glanced over reflexively, too lazy to stand.
Only when he recognized Peter —whom he hadn't seen in several days—did Tony offer a greeting that was half-genuine, half-performative.
"Peter!"
"I planned to introduce you to New York's high society at last night's charity gala, but you were conspicuously absent."
Tony approached the bar, pouring a drink and extending it toward Batman.
"You need to have one. Make up for all the preparation I did on your behalf."
Batman accepted the glass but set it aside immediately. "I'm allergic to alcohol."
Last night while perched atop the Empire State Building, the radio receiver built into his Arkham suit had picked up news about the charity gala, but he'd had zero interest in attending.
He'd been busy investigating Schulman's whereabouts and that suspiciously spotless FEAST center—both matters a hundred times more important than rubbing elbows with New York's elite.
Now Norman Osborn's mysterious transfer by some unknown organization added yet another item to Batman's growing list of concerns.
"That's a shame. No wonder you didn't drink last time either."
Tony regretfully downed both glasses himself.
"You're missing out on so much fun."
Batman remained unmoved.
He wasn't actually allergic to alcohol—drinking simply impaired his thinking. By the same logic, Batman avoided anything that might affect his brain function, including certain medications.
"Peter, as the owner of a factory with constant incoming orders, as a future multimillionaire, having an unreachable phone number won't do."
Tony's tone shifted.
"To save you embarrassment, I didn't contact Empire State University this time."
He poured himself another drink.
"Sorry, Tony. What did you need?" Batman deflected the question. The number he'd left at Parker Industries was completely fake.
Until he designed and built a phone that belonged exclusively to "Batman," he had no intention of acquiring such a communication device.
"My military division developed a cluster bomb capable of releasing multiple small explosives mid-air, delivering saturation strikes across wide areas."
Tony looked somewhat smug.
"No military force in the world currently possesses this cutting-edge weapon. I wanted to bring you in as an investment partner for production."
"No. I will never involve myself in the arms trade," Batman replied without hesitation. "Never."
He could accept Stark Industries dealing in weapons without self-righteously demanding they shut down.
After all, on the surface, Tony's weapons were sold to military forces for peacekeeping operations, not to terrorist organizations.
Batman wouldn't actively interfere—but that didn't mean he'd participate or invest. This was a line he would absolutely never cross.
Tony hadn't expected such complete refusal. His earlier pride and eagerness to show off evaporated instantly.
"Then why did you come see me today? What do you want?"
"I need gun oils unavailable on the commercial market," Batman said. "Parker Industries' production line uses high-precision robotic arms, hydraulic systems, and precision bearings."
"These components require high-performance synthetic lubricants and rust inhibitors. I'm planning to test gun oils as alternatives to conventional lubricants."
"I need samples. I was hoping you could provide some through your military channels."
Different people required different explanations. At least for Tony Stark, Batman's reasoning was completely bulletproof.
Tony considered this thoughtfully.
"Extreme pressure resistance, anti-corrosion properties, low-temperature stability—ensuring precision instruments operate reliably long-term in New York's variable climate... High-quality gun oil would work reasonably well, though it's still a step below the best dedicated lubricants."
Batman presented his prepared justification.
"But it's cheaper. Besides, I only need samples for testing. I'm not committed to implementing it."
Tony nodded. Batman's reasoning held up. After all, businessmen always sought to minimize costs while maximizing profits. Using gun oil stretched conventional thinking, but wasn't outrageous.
"Don't worry. Before nine tonight, I'll have someone deliver samples of every gun oil variety I can source to Parker Industries," Tony promised.
"Thanks," Batman said.
***
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