A long day, for Bruce Wayne. Not the socialite, but the owner of a multibillion dollar conglomerate; he is careful and surgical in the way he keeps the company under his control, but just barely. There are hawks and sharks desperate to pry the reins from the faded tabloid darling, and some of them are even on the board. Now and again (and especially when they want to 'renegotiate' employee health care, or try to contract with the Department of Defense), he has to set his careful chess game aside and go in with a shotgun. So to speak.
It's more annoying than being Batman. Definitely more tiring.
But it means he quarters in the city proper, and not the lake house. (Definitely not the ruins of the manor.) He can almost taste the ghost of it in the air in the elevator, which would be a giveaway if he lacked his particular security. No lock can keep out a magician's teleport, but his automated surveillance can still send him a polite text about it.
Motherfucker. Cigarettes in his penthouse.
"One of those windows had better be open," he says, shrugging off his jacket. The sprawling rooftop estate has plenty, the whole of this awful city visible from end to end, broken up by dark ribs of art deco steel.
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It's more annoying than being Batman. Definitely more tiring.
But it means he quarters in the city proper, and not the lake house. (Definitely not the ruins of the manor.) He can almost taste the ghost of it in the air in the elevator, which would be a giveaway if he lacked his particular security. No lock can keep out a magician's teleport, but his automated surveillance can still send him a polite text about it.
Motherfucker. Cigarettes in his penthouse.
"One of those windows had better be open," he says, shrugging off his jacket. The sprawling rooftop estate has plenty, the whole of this awful city visible from end to end, broken up by dark ribs of art deco steel.