Originally posted January 9, 2011
((I felt I needed some help with this one. This is what the original introduction said:
"Hey folks. I wanted to post this here in advance of sharing this tale with a larger audience in the hopes of getting some feedback. Actually writing a story that included Batman intimidated me and I could use some thoughts from people I trust. What I'm most concerned about it the characterization of Bruce Wayne. Does it seem true? Would this bit give people enough of an introduction to Chance and Mercedes? Would it leave an audience wanting to learn more?"
After some kind words and the correction of a few spelling errors, I posted it to a new board.))
For a Charm of Powerful Trouble
"Chance."
"Bruce."
Chance Thomas regarded the man standing in the elevator lobby of the penthouse apartment: dark, thick hair, rock solid jaw line, an athlete's physique poured into a casual suit that cost more than an average month's rent. This man never seem to age. Chance stroked his neatly trimmed beard, feeling the toughness of the gray hairs there. He thought about the popping on his knees when he rolled off of his futon in the morning. It felt that all Chance did was age.
"Won't you invite me in?
"I'm considering it." Chance pondered the purpose of this visit. Bruce did nothing without a purpose; a swirling engine of efficiency in word and action. What did he hope to gain by showing up here unexpected at the dinner hour? The blond man lifted his hand from his beard and looked over his shoulder. "Des," he called. "Set another plate for dinner. We have a guest."
Chance turned back to the man standing in his hallway. "Mr. Wayne, my daughter and I would be delighted if you joined us for dinner." He stepped back into the room to hold open the door. "I hope you like it hot, Bruce. I made a vindaloo."
"Chance, I think you'll find I like it hot, just fine."
"Va, who is...." Mercedes Thomas-Arasaka turned the corner, holding a white plate in her hands. Too tall for a gymnast, her frame held that same sense of coiled grace and strength. Short, red hair framed a pale, nearly elfin face. Violet eyes looked out over a small nose. "Mr. Wayne?"
The dark haired billionaire flashed a bright, perfect smile. "No Uncle Brucey?"
The corner of Des' lip curled and her eyes rolled up. "What was I? Twelve?" Bruce extended his arms as the teenager graced him with a loose hug. He and Chance lingered a moment in the hallway as the red head slipped back towards the kitchen.
"She looks like her mother," Bruce remarked. Chance nodded slowly, once. "She has a few centimeters to go, but yes, she does." The two shared a look and the moment of unspoken words lingered longer. Eventually, Chance led them into the kitchen.
They ate on a long island of a great room on tall stools. Chance served out portions of rice, a dark red sauce, and naan. They ate without utensils and drank Masala cha. The host knew better then to offer alcohol.
The three of them made small talk, Chance taking quiet delight in Bruce's careful questioning of Mercedes. Uncle Brucey's gentle probes earned three eye rolls, but Des spared him the dismissive eye roll with the hair flip combo. Chance had forgotten just how charming his guest could be; the easy way his attentions could lure you into a comfortable lull. Just before he struck.
Chance watched and listened to facade of the distant if interested acquaintance. He had seen the dark haired billionaire play the bored playboy at parties. Like so much about Bruce Wayne, it was just another mask.
Bruce turned his comments towards Chance, remarking on the restoration of the building and the four guitars hanging on the wall of the great room. Chance responded cordially, expressing the difficulty of obtaining a particular ornamentation for a banister and agreeing that the instrument on the left had seen much better days, but it was still his favorite. He did not offer too many details. His guest would categorize and store anything said on the off chance it would prove useful later.
Mercedes left the two of them after a suggestion she finish her homework. She looked back and forth between the two men, got the notion it was "adult time," and went to her room with only the meekest of protests. Chance cleared the table and led Bruce to the penthouse patio.
They stood for some moments in the cold night air, cradling spiced tea, and listening to the pulse of the East Side.
"You're both fully recovered?"
Chance furrowed his brow and blinked before gaining the context. "Yes. No permanent damage done." He blew across the handleless mug and took a sip. "It explains a few things, but doesn't really change anything I suppose."
Bruce nodded.
"What do you want, Bruce?"
"I want you to come out of retirement."
"I said no five years ago when you asked me the first time. What leads you to believe I've changed my mind since then?"
"I believe your 'no' has come to mean 'maybe.'" Chance snorted. "You've started renovating another classic, if dilapidated, example of Art Deco architecture on the East Side. Once complete, it's slated to offer low rent housing, much like this building. You've made a number of substantial contributions to job training and college prep programs. A trust you've established will provide full ride scholarships to 1,000 public school students. Should I go on?"
"My philanthropy does not indicate a desire to change my style of dress or noctural habits." He smiled gesturing at his thick, knit pullover and jeans.
"There is no crime in a two block area around this building."
"Crime goes largely un-reported on the East Side, Bruce."
Mr. Wayne did not change his expression as he repeated, "There is no crime in a two block area around this building." Chance closed his eye and frowned. Bruce Wayne would know about crime on the East Side, in all of Gotham.
"We need all hands," he continued. "The young, the untrained." Bruce let those worlds hover in the night air. Chance felt his hands tighten around his mug. "We've established a system of mentors."
"I..." Chance struggled to loosen his clasping fingers. "I think I'll show you out." He succeeded in freeing a hand to gesture towards the patio door. Bruce set his mug on a low table, along with his perfect smile. They said nothing as they walked through the apartment.
"Chance," Bruce said as the blond man watched him press the button to summon the elevator, "This is something you can do." Mr. Wayne turned away from the double doors. They looked at each other across the distance. "This is something you both can do. This is something that needs to be done." Chance slowly closed the door to his apartment, not uttering a response.
Every word. Bruce Wayne would categorize and store anything said on the off chance it would prove useful later. Chance could have used those closing words ten years ago, twenty. His hand lingered on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, trying to regain a sense of control; the illusion of control, at least. That's the best you could hope for when dealing with that branch of the big three.
Chance heard the footsteps of his daughter behind him. "Va? What was that about?" He turned slowly, twisting his lips into a sardonic smile.
"Des, I think we've just been drafted."
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