"What reasons?"
Silver Sable's interest sparked. Even playing it out in her head, she couldn't imagine anything that would convince her to take on the thankless job of prosecuting Kingpin.
Batman stood by the window, sunlight behind him, his face hard to read.
"Oscorp's been hammered—one blow after another. The stock keeps sliding. Kingpin isn't dumping his shares; he's buying out other shareholders."
"If he keeps going, he'll go from crime lord to 'legitimate businessman'—and he'll control both Hell's Kitchen's underworld and a multinational like Oscorp."
"You think Kingpin will abandon his criminal power base?"
Silver shook her head. As head of a security firm, she wasn't a business-whitening expert. Her domain was leading a private military—now a security company—and solving problems with force.
"Exactly. Even as a 'legit' businessman, he won't give up the mob. Which means he'll spin up a security company of his own."
"One that grows with his control of Oscorp—until Sable International has nowhere to stand."
Her heart skipped. She could see it: once his mob 'goes clean,' they'd use Oscorp's national and global footprint to expand at speed. In that wave, her company would be a canoe in a tsunami.
Even if she steered clear, Kingpin would come for her. By then it wouldn't be local goons—it'd be the world's syndicates.
She didn't need more. That alone was enough to put her squarely on Batman's side.
She was about to nod when he continued:
"The downside's done. Now the upside."
That threw her. Stopping Kingpin's surge already felt like upside enough.
"What upside?"
Her boots dropped from the desk to the floor. Her voice lost its edge—tinged with expectation.
"Make Sable Security into Sable International."
Batman's tone didn't change, but to her it struck like thunder. She shot to her feet.
"That takes deep capital and top-tier tech. You sure?"
She locked eyes, unblinking. The earlier pitch would only push her into a defensive 'yes.' This made her pulse race—she wanted to file the case today.
Batman didn't answer. Action would do.
He popped a portable micro-computer from his forearm armor and tapped.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
"Alert! Unknown virus detected—security firewall compromised!"
Her desktop monitor flashed to life—giant red exclamation points strobing.
For a security firm, personnel files and weapons registries were sacrosanct; she trusted her firewall. Batman had cracked it in seconds, in front of her.
"How did you do that?" She was sold.
He didn't blink. "I'm rich." (As in: rich in capital and in tech.)
Thud.
Silver dropped back into her chair. She didn't need more convincing—she needed to push him.
"When do we file?"
Thwip!
A flat, pack-of-cigarettes–sized comm unit sailed into her hand, heavier than it looked, stamped with a bat.
"Wait for my signal."
She turned it over, ready with another question—but the window ledge was empty. He was gone.
"…Does that man not have the word 'goodbye' in his vocabulary?"
She sprang to the sill and scanned the sunlit façade. Nothing. As if he'd been a mirage.
…
"Dr. Octavius—your crimes are grave, but your talent is priceless. We all know your fusion research is inches from success.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources can make it happen—now, at scale," Agent Phil Coulson said gently in the Manhattan precinct holding cell.
"We'll give you the world's best labs, unlimited budgets, global application of your work.
"We can secure clemency—but in return, you'll support certain special operations as needed."
Octavius's hair was wilder than ever; eyelids swollen, eyes shot with red—but his reason held.
"No. I refuse. I'll spend the rest of my life in prison."
The rampage under the arms' control had filled him with dread of the very thing fused to him. He wanted them off and destroyed—not used on "special ops."
Coulson sighed. Thankfully, HQ hadn't made recruitment a must—he could still go home with a "no."
He left the cell and returned to Chief George Stacy's office. The chief didn't look up.
"Regretfully, I couldn't persuade him. Please arrange surgery to remove the arms as soon as possible—I'll need to take them," Coulson said, rapping the door to get Stacy's attention.
"And then?" Stacy asked, impatient.
"Then… you can release him. Even without his joining us, the S.H.I.E.L.D. directive stands."
"Understood, Agent," Stacy said, turning back to the files on the B3 massacre and the Smythe family murders. Octavius was in custody—but he wasn't the killer. The real perpetrator was still at large.
Smack.
After ten minutes, Stacy slapped the file onto the desk and looked up—Coulson was still there.
"We don't serve dinner here," Stacy said dryly—code for get out.
"I'm not staying to eat. In fact, there's one more matter… about New York's 'Batman,'" Coulson smiled. "He's the real reason I came."
Stacy shook his head. "Batman? You'll laugh, 'Agent' from whatever multinational outfit—"
"All we have is the name—from Octavius's statement. Rumor says he can fly, turn invisible, become a bat, teleport… like a vampire."
Coulson didn't flinch at the profanity. He kept smiling. "Get me a spotlight, some garlic, a crucifix, and silver. I'll figure out the rest."
~~~
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