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The party had dragged on for hours, and only two-thirds of the guests had even arrived, as was always the case with these sort of society endeavors. Despite the fact that all the guests were amongst the richest and most powerful people in the world, with the influence to govern western development and culture, put them all together and they were all extremely boring, reduced to snubbing each other pettily and attempting to assert status. The mansion, at least, was nice.
The designs were hardly adapted from when the Wayne brothers Solomon and Zebediah had first purchased the manor. The building itself had been rarely updated as time had passed, beyond the isntalation of the latest security systems that had been added to protect the old manor and its contents. It was a castle-like state unto itself, and was surrounded by vast and beautiful gardens in the rolling estate. If one went far enough, there was a cliff, but people never went there, unless they wished to write up their will and final words. Thanks to it's position, the manor overlooked one of the largest cities in the United States, that even gave New York City a run for its money.
Gotham was large and growing. It was a corporate center, an arts capital, a publishing center, a fashion mecca, home to a dozen embassies. It was the hub of a hundred subcultures and self-contained microcosms. Over three vast islands and three smaller islands were apartments, business enterprises, a mono-rail system, a couple of parks, port systems, a game stadium, and of course a police department that never turned off its lights. An airport was on the outskirts on the main land, and pilots would savor what they could before their next flight. Despite the grand description of Gotham, it was nothing like it's sister city Metropolis, because its grandeur was fading. The slums were getting worse. The old gargoyles were breaking away at points, making them look even more deformed. And criminals walked around the Narrows and many other places in broad daylight.
It wasn't Hell; only fools and drama queens throw that word around about a place like Gotham. It was worse, in a way, because it was man-made. There wasn't any timeless malevolence behind it all, it was just – what human beings can descend to when they let themselves forget they can be heroes. The truth is, the problems were getting worse; the guns, the poverty, the drugs, the envy, the despair, the gangs, the desperation, the greed, the violence, the decay, the corruption, the festering hopelessness…
Gotham had once been a large part of the industrial revolution. But now, so many years after the depression, people were still homeless, jobs had not come back and the underworld was as powerful as ever.
The party was a regular fixture of the Gotham social calender. Once a year, Wayne Manor hosted a fundraising gala to benefit the Foundation. Anyone who could go would, for the simple reason that it was unthinkable not to go and important to be seen. But because Fate is the only cosmic force with a tragic sense of humor, some costumed villain made an appearance and Bruce was forced to vanish from hosting his own party so that Batman could foil the crime.
Tonight's event would prove to be no exception.
* * * * *
A taxi cab pulls up along the entrance, looking very out of place among all the horrifically expensive vehicles. It's old, a little beaten and needs a wash. It sits there a moment, as funds are redistributed, then the back doors open and two ladies step out.
The first is an intimidatingly tall, classically beautiful African American woman in a red leather motor-cycle jacket and pants, with a big afro, a red purse, and more then enough attitude for three beautiful, independent women.
Her companion is a woman of Japanese and Irish decent, wearing a sparkling silver sheathe and matching jacket. Diamonds sparkle around her neck and on her fingers and ears, although as they were borrowed from her partner they feel out of place. She smells of amber incense and Chanel Number 5.
The two ladies stand in place, looking up at the mansion and all the power, money and influence it represented and trying not to feel out of place and intimidated as their companion gets out. This is Misty Knight and Colleen Wing. Their companion is Daniel Rand. The billionaire.
He's youthful for his thirty-three years of age, with short blond hair, sleekly and sparely built with a cheerful, boyish face and piercing, equally youthful blue eyes. He doesn't look like a billionaire, and seems to be making a conscious effort to project that. He's criminally under-dressed for a function, dressed in slacks and a loose shirt, with dark soft sneakers.
"You goin' to be good?" Asks a tall and muscular black man from the back-seat. Luke was huge, he had arms like a normal mans legs, and a bull-neck that you couldn't wrap your fingers around. He was dressed casually as well, arms folded over his chest.
"We're going to be good. Sure I can't make you come in?" Danny replied, turning to his best friend with an easy grin that lit up his boyish good looks.
Cage snorted. "Not for every cent you got." He replied earnestly. "You old money types make me feel all agitated."
"Suit yourself." Danny replied, ignoring the jab.
"Sugar? Remind me again why the hell we're here? You hate all these people." Misty says. "And you look like your trying to insult them."
"Eh, just the ones that don't matter. It's a status thing, that I'm refusing to go along with." Danny replied. "So I decided to show up looking young and irresponsible, and refuse to play their game." Danny replied, straightening his shirt in a parody of self-consciousness.
"But I don't hate them. The two of you have worked with Ollie Queen enough to know he's alright if you stay on his good side and agree with him about politics, and Stark's not all bad either if you can keep him away from impressionable young women. Bruce is so bad with money pretty much anyone can get him to give them as much as they want with a few well-chosen words, and as for the rest…"
Danny fished around in his pocket for his invitation (gilt-edged, engraved and slightly crumpled), then headed up the steps. "Well, this sort of function is the cost of doing business with them, and keeping big contracts that nearly ten thousand people rely on for jobs. So just one of the sacrifices you have to make in the life of a billionaire. I figure I'll just ignore the jostling for status thing and try and get them to participate and donate money into our outreach programs, while the competition all dismiss me as young and irresponsible."
"Well that explains you. And we're here because?" Colleen asked, with a quirked eyebrow.
"Misery loves company. Why do you think?" He replied easily. "Besides, if I don't show up esquiring two beautiful women, people will think I'm slipping, and I figured you two could use the exposure to the wealthy socialite demographic."
"I work with two billionaires who fight crime, and know at least three more. That's quite enough," Misty says with a roll of her eyes, though she did link her arm in his. "Lets get this over with."
Colleen pouts a bit, self-consciously. "We still look stupid."
"All a part of the act. And you look hot. You'll be getting propositions all night, and only some of them will be professional."
It was Colleen's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"It might be. You never know."
* * * *
There was a punch bowl in almost every room, but the contents were all the same. Lemon-Lime soda flavored with cherry syrup, making Shirley Temples. Around each table were cookies, little brownies, fudge, chocolate covered strawberries, sweet (and steaming) rolls, shrimp, and tiny plates for the guests so they could help themselves.
Waiters came through the crowd, serving tiny savory hors d'œuvres and caviar. Their host was languid, but his confidant and friend, his trusted servant ALfred Pennyworth was as close to frantic as the unflappable British gentleman could get and was trying to keep the party running smoothly. It was expected, after all.
Out on the patio was dancing. The sun had set a couple hours ago and the bright moon and stars (away from the bustling city, where the smog meant it was always dark. Dark as it gets) shone down and provided what light the torches did not. There was a sparkle to the water that could been seen far out by the cliff.
Danny Rand walked into the party, a man at one with his world, a giant who breathed the rarified air of Gotham's high life as ordinary men breathe oxygen, even if he was offensively under-dressed, and faintly contemptuous. There was an air of danger about him, a difficult to define sort of power that faintly contrasted with his manner.
Danny had managed to grag Misty to these functions before, much as she held them in absolute contempt, and the two of them had established a silent language of subtle facial twitches invisible to the untrained eye that evolved into running commentary on their surroundings, dinner companions, and the inanities of social chitchat. It could even include discussion and usually heated debates on some topic of no importance. And it was important now. Because even to Daniel Rand the CEO, with twenty duty appearances a month for corporate and Foundation events, this was one hell of a dull party.
•*•*•*•*•
Luke Cage sat on the king-size bed in the Royal Suite at the Gotham Imperial Hotel, enjoying the minibar, the enormous television, and all the trimmings. He closed his eyes as the lonely tones of Schubert's Impromptu #90 wafted through the air from the costly ultra-sleek stereo, and pressed the remote desperately until the channel changed back to the blues guitar he had been enjoying.
The Royal Suite of the Gotham Imperial Hotel was a bit much for just four people, even on a billionaire's treat it was decadent. 6,000 square feet, five bedrooms, five and half baths, and two livingrooms, it was bigger then anyone needed, to be honest, and at eight thousand a day it was more then anyone should. The suite comprised the whole of the 33rd Floor of the grand hotel with all of its palatial furnishings, frescoes, a Roman style bath/jacuzzi, and its 2,000-bottle wine cellar. The entire skyline of the cityscape beyond the bulletproof glass windows was truly spectacular, the room service was prompt, and the comforts were overwhelming.
Luke wasn't working, despite having come along to Gotham with Danny. He didn't have anything much planned for the evening either. He and his wife were going to talk about their respective days over the phone, then he was going to read a bed-time story to Danielle because she was in her formative years and it did her good to hear her fathers voice every night. Then he was going to relax in unaccustomed luxury and decadence, taking advantage of the room-service being on his best friends tab until Danny and the girls got back, and then he'd listen to them gripe and complain about it because he was an understanding friend. At least, that was the plan.
Except, while Luke was best at, in his own words, beating fools down who should know better then to tangle with him, he had also become a pretty good detective, at least enough to always keep his eyes and ears open, and observe things a bit better then most perhaps would.
And when he'd come up, he'd seen a man who either was, or was a dead ringer for Icicle Jr hiding out (if you could call that hiding) in the stairwell, and he'd known something was up. That meant something bad was about to go down.
Except he wasn't working. And… well. For pitysake. It's Icicle Jr. A killer, but also a bottomfeeder. Nobody Luke Cage knew would associate with the likes of Icicle Jr! Nobody Luke Cage beat up would associate with the likes of Icicle Jr! He probably wouldn't bother giving his guy the finger on the expressway! This was beyond pathetic. And he certainly didn't want to waste a perfectly good night he already had lined up dealing with him.
No, he wasn't going to get involved.
…Though he could check. Just to be safe.
Luke got to his feet, and went looking for the boy. Just to make sure.