"Lucius. I heard you were in a car accident?"
Lucius Fox, CEO and Technical Director of Wayne Enterprises, received the call early that morning. The words weren't particularly sympathetic, but coming from Bruce Wayne, they counted as concern.
"Mr. Wayne, I'm fine. Last night was simply a field test of the autonomous driving system. No harm done."
"Good." Bruce's voice competed with background noise—a sports car engine, a woman's laughter. "I thought my most capable executive was going to take leave. I don't want to run Wayne Enterprises myself. God, even an hour in the office is torture."
"Don't worry, Mr.—"
The line went dead.
Lucius stared at his phone for a moment, then smiled slightly.
Typical Bruce Wayne. Gotham's most eligible bachelor. The Wayne heir who'd rather date supermodels than attend board meetings. The orphaned billionaire who threw parties instead of managing his fortune.
Most of Gotham saw a careless playboy.
Lucius knew better.
He set down his phone and turned to the laboratory workbench.
The wheelchair wreckage lay in pieces, tagged and catalogued.
The wheelchair itself wasn't particularly high-tech. Modified electric motor, reinforced frame, LED light strips. Impressive speed for a mobility device, but nothing revolutionary.
The origin was what interested him.
The driver—hospitalized, currently being stitched back together—was a low-level East End criminal. Multiple arrests for robbery, theft, assault, even one murder charge that hadn't stuck. Neither his education nor his finances suggested the capability to build something like this.
More interesting: the wheelchair had never appeared in Gotham before one week ago.
Wayne Enterprises' citywide surveillance had picked it up on a fixed route between 10 PM and 10:20 PM every night. Always the same path. Starting point appeared to be somewhere in Otisburg.
How it ended up in that criminal's hands, and why it rear-ended Lucius's test vehicle specifically, remained unclear.
To rule out intoxication, Lucius had run a tox screen on the hospitalized driver.
The results were... unusual.
An unknown substance in his bloodstream. Stimulant-class, but unlike any drug on record.
At the crash scene, investigators had also recovered a deformed thermos cup. Blue plant petals stuck to the interior. Chemical analysis matched the substance in the driver's system.
Lucius had tested it on laboratory mice.
Ten hours of sustained activity. No fatigue. No apparent side effects.
Either a new performance enhancer or a new street drug. Either way, if it started circulating in Gotham on a larger scale, it demanded attention.
Not that Gotham lacked more pressing concerns.
The Riddler. Scarecrow. Penguin. Joker. A rogues' gallery that would overwhelm most cities. Plus the current investigation into the Falcone family—Romans, as Batman called them.
Poison gas attacks. Potential nuclear threats. City-wide riots. The real question wasn't whether Gotham would be destroyed, but why it hadn't been already.
Lucius suspected the answer was simple: Batman always had a backup plan.
Still. This warranted investigation.
He'd extracted DNA from the thermos. Two samples. One matched the hospitalized driver. The other had no match in any database—GCPD, FBI, Interpol.
"Perhaps," Lucius murmured, watching the hyperactive mouse, "I should visit that area. Ask around. Save Batman the trouble of investigating personally."
He made a note in his files.
Otisburg district. Fixed route. Unknown modifier of electric wheelchairs.
Worth a conversation.
"Hey, Jude!"
The newsstand owner grinned as Jude stepped out of his taxi. "No wheelchair today?"
"Got stolen." Jude sighed, walking over. "Give me a paper. You sell self-defense items?"
"Fresh stock. Beretta, Colt, P229. You went out unarmed today? Not smart."
"I have one gun. Figured I'd buy a backup." Jude paused. "Wait, P229? German manufacture?"
"Gotham manufacture." The owner's grin widened. "Want something with more punch?"
"I don't want to die from a poorly-made knockoff. And I'm low on cash right now."
"You're underestimating Gotham craftsmanship, kid." The owner pulled out a revolver. "This here's a locally-made Colt Python. Any accessories you want. Bring the money tomorrow. If there's a defect, I'll pay you three times what you spent."
"If I survive long enough to collect, will three times the price buy back my life?"
"Hey now, I've got genuine imports too. Not cheap, though." The owner set the Python on the counter. "How about a game? This gun has a minimum price and a maximum price. You pick one. If it has a serious defect, I pay you on the spot. Bullets extra."
So that's the business model.
"Deal's a deal. Both parties willing. We agree, you pay, you take the goods. Problems later, don't come crying. Sound fair?"
Jude looked over at the food truck parked nearby. "Hey, Val!"
The vendor looked up from his grill. "Yeah?"
"How long's this guy been running his stand?"
"Him? Two years, at least."
Jude turned back to the newsstand owner. "Give me a Beretta and a Colt revolver."
"Pleasure doing business."
Lunchtime.
Jude sat in the break room, scrolling through his phone absently.
An unknown number flashed on screen.
He stared at it.
He'd given his number to exactly four people: Donald, the shift supervisor, Drake, and Camilla.
This wasn't any of their numbers.
Coincidence? Drake changed phones?
He didn't believe in coincidences. Not in Gotham.
Clinton tracked me down somehow?
No. Clinton was many things, but tech-savvy wasn't one of them.
The wheelchair. It caused trouble. They traced it back.
His stomach dropped.
The GCPD wasn't usually that efficient. But Wayne Enterprises...
If the wheelchair had hit a Wayne executive's car, they'd investigate. They had resources. Money. Technology.
They'd find the route. The timing. Maybe even DNA evidence if the thief had left Jude's belongings in the wreckage.
Shit.
The phone kept ringing.
Jude's thumb hovered over the answer button.
What's coming cannot be avoided.
He answered.
"Hello?"