James visited industrial suppliers across Gotham and nearby cities. Paid cash for everything to avoid paper trails.
CNC machine for precision manufacturing: fifteen thousand.
Industrial 3D printer for rapid prototyping: eight thousand.
Complete machine shop setup with drill press, lathe, grinders, welders: twelve thousand.
Three high-end computer workstations with maximum RAM and processing power: twenty-five thousand total.
Laboratory equipment. Biosafety cabinet. Centrifuge. Spectrometer. Microscope. Chemical storage: thirty-five thousand.
Medical monitoring equipment.
EEG machine for brain activity. EMG sensors for muscle readings. Heart rate monitor. Blood pressure cuff: eighteen thousand.
VR development kit. He couldn't get a commercial Oculus because it didn't exist yet, but he found an experimental system from a university lab that was being sold off.
Added a motion capture system with sixteen cameras: twelve thousand combined.
Transcranial direct current stimulation equipment. Medical-grade, not the cheap consumer stuff. Safety certified: eight thousand.
Security upgrades. Reinforced doors. Advanced locks. More cameras. Alarm system: fifteen thousand.
Miscellaneous components. Cables. Sensors. Raw materials. Safety equipment. Tools: ten thousand.
Total spent: one hundred and fifty-eight thousand.
Remaining capital: six hundred and seventy-three thousand.
More than enough to live on while he built the Neural Interface. More than enough to become what he needed to be.
James stood in his factory the night after the last equipment delivery, surrounded by crates and machinery.
The scale of what he was attempting hit him. This wasn't just training. This was building revolutionary technology from scratch. This was trying to compress a decade of mastery into months.
This was insane.
But necessary.
He started unboxing equipment methodically. Set up the machine shop first because he'd need tools to build everything else. Assembled the CNC machine. Calibrated the 3D printer. Organized the hand tools.
Worked until four in the morning. Fell asleep on the factory floor, exhausted but satisfied.
He dreamed that night. Batman fighting Doomsday. Superman dying.
The world ending while James watched helplessly from the sidelines, too weak to matter.
He woke up gasping.
'Eighteen months,' he thought. 'Maybe less. Clock is ticking.'
---
James joined Gotham Athletic Club the following week.
The membership cost five hundred dollars a month. Expensive, but worth it. This was where Gotham's elite trained. Business executives.
Lawyers. Doctors. Old money families. The facility had top-tier equipment, Olympic-size pool, squash courts, and a private lounge where members socialized.
James needed to learn their world. Needed to understand how rich people talked, moved, thought. If he was going to infiltrate Gotham's upper class eventually, he needed to start now.
His first day, he just observed.
The men wore expensive workout clothes. Understated brands. Nothing flashy. They moved with confidence that came from never worrying about money.
Their conversations drifted from business deals to charity galas to vacation homes.
James wore similar clothes he'd bought that morning. Fitted athletic gear. Good quality but not ostentatious.
He used the equipment, kept to himself, listened.
On his third visit, he had his first real interaction.
James was using the bench press, working through his normal routine. One hundred and seventy-five pounds for reps. Not impressive, but respectable. He finished his set and sat up, breathing hard.
"Need a spot?"
James looked over. A man in his forties, graying hair, expensive watch. He'd seen him around the club but hadn't talked to him yet.
"Sure, thanks," James said. "Going for one eighty-five."
The man moved into position behind the bar. James added the weight, laid back, and gripped the bar. Lowered it to his chest. Pushed up.
The man's hands hovered nearby, ready to help if needed.
James managed six reps before needing assistance on the seventh.
"Good work," the man said as James racked the bar. "You new here?"
"Yeah, joined last week. Figured I should invest in health along with everything else."
"Smart thinking. I'm Timothy Drake." He extended his hand.
James shook it, careful to match the firm grip. "James Carter. Nice to meet you."
"What brings you to Gotham Athletic?"
Drake asked. "Most people your age can't afford this place."
"Had some business success recently. Pharmaceutical investing. Got lucky with a biotech company."
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