2014.04.06 - The Court of Owls: Noblesse Oblige

"Mr. Wayne." The man who extends his hand out to Bruce Wayne could be his twin -- at least in body. Same broad shoulders; same build, same height. His face is different -- a sharper jaw, a slightly easier smile -- and the eyes... the eyes are considerably different. A little calmer, perhaps; more warmth to them. "A pleasure to meet Gotham's prince at last." The side of Lincoln March's mouth twitches just a little to the left; a ghost of a smile. "I was hoping you might be interested in funding my bid for mayor."

It's a small soiree; a little party meant to drum up some very much needed charity funding for the GCPD. With the Joker's recent assault on the city's veterans, there's been some humdrum about pushing for a newer, more modernized police force; Lincoln March -- another one of Gotham's so-called 'princes' -- has been on the front lines of pushing for it. His parents were famous architects who made their home in Gotham; they died when he was only a child in a tragic car accident. A fact that Bruce Wayne no doubt knows all too well.

Gotham has a peculiar tendency toward producing orphans.

Since returning from a sojourn abroad, March has rose in popularity among Gotham's social circles, taking a large interest in politics -- running (and acquiring) seats on the city council as well as pushing for more liberal reforms. His politics are progressive, but he avoids the fiery rhetoric of some of his contemporaries; he is quiet, dignified, and rarely prone to outlandishness.

"Well, that all depends," Bruce answers with a smirk, shaking the offered hand, "Are you going to turn around and be corrupt?"

He throws back his head, laughing at his own joke. The glass of champagne in his hand has been steadily decreasing over the course of the evening and he's been getting marginally more raucous as a result. Gotham's Favorite Son reaches out to slap March on the shoulder with his spare hand.

"I'm just having fun with you, Lincoln," he continues, "I like what you've got in mind for the GCPD. About time someone lit a fire under these boys."

Lincoln smiles, the expression delicate and small. He has had very little to drink; though he shares both Bruce's tragedy and wealth (though lagging considerably behind the latter; then again, who is as rich as Bruce Wayne?), he does not share his apparent appetites for excess. "--well, I suppose I won't know till I get there," he replies, with just a hint of humor in his eyes. The largely untouched glass of champagne in his own hand moves to land atop of a nearby table.

"Though if I might be frank with you, Mr. Wayne, it isn't politics that prompted me to come here and see you tonight," Lincoln admits. His eyes drift toward the nearby window, behind Wayne; Gotham's cityscape -- currently clouded with a pitter-patter of rain -- is visible. "Actually, I was hoping to get your... opinion on something else."

"That's good," Bruce answers, turning to face the window a few steps behind March, "Because I don't much like talking politics. It's painfully boring. Better you than me, I'd say."

With Lincoln turned away from him, the just-shy-of-sloppy drunk vanishes completely to be replaced with a steady grim line. He upturns the champagne glass into the vase of a nearby plant, striding up alongside the other man and holding the empty glass to his lips as though he's just finished it off. His features once more become lax and carefree.

"What's on your mind?"

"--Gotham has a habit of making orphans out of its children," Lincoln tells Wayne, glancing over his shoulder toward the man just as the glass reaches his lips. "I hope you don't find that a maudlin observation. You know, I used to think my parents' death was... well, it hardly matters now." His eyes return to the glass; is he focused on the city beyond it, or his own reflection? It's hard to say. "I want to do something positive for the city, Mr. Wayne -- may I call you Bruce? I've noticed," and again, there is the soft twitch, a slight spasm of the mouth, "that Gotham also has its fair share of the idle rich -- men and women who have more cash than sense to spend it with..."

Lincoln shakes his head. "I've been trying to put together a small network of investors -- Gotham's 'aristocracy', I suppose you could call them -- who would be willing to re-invest in the city. Re-invest in the police force, but more than just that -- education. Architecture. Infrastructure. A trust, for the city's benefit -- an act of 'noblesse oblige', if you will. I've done this largely in secret, up until now -- testing the waters. But I've recently encountered a peculiar... obstacle."

Bruce tilts his head to the side, waving away the request to call him by his first name with a nod and a flick of his wrist, "What kind of obstacle?"

And then Lincoln reaches into his suit, withdrawing something -- turning to Bruce as he does. What he offers Mr. Wayne is a knife; small, slim, metal -- no larger than one's pinkie, yet as thin as paper. Exceptionally well-balanced, designed for throwing. There are... flecks of blood upon its edge, though they appear to be long dried.

On the end of the knife is a symbol -- the shape of an owl's face, staring silently out at Bruce, as if it has come upon some deep, unknowable wisdom.

"Shortly after I began," Lincoln tells Bruce, "someone started sending these to me -- each and every time I spoke to someone, I received another. This was the last one I received. The first with actual... blood on it." Then, a little more softly: "I haven't informed the police. I suppose I don't know who to speak to about this, really. It's hardly a threat; just... unusual. But it makes me wonder -- you travel in the circles of the rich far more extensively than I do. Are any of Gotham's aristocracy..."

Lincoln pauses, as if searching for the right word, here. Before...

"...dangerous?"

Bruce reaches out to take the knife, turning it over in his hands curiously as though he's never quite seen anything like it before.

"Some of them are over protective of their trust funds," he points out, offering a light-hearted chuckle that is tinged with concern, "But I've never met anybody I'd call dangerous, no."

He looks up from the blade, "What're you trying to do exactly, Lincoln? What kind of changes do you want us to invest in?"

Lincoln laughs at the comment about trust funds; the laughter continues, slightly more subdued, at Bruce's question. "What don't I want to change?" he asks, his tone briefly strained. "The problems Gotham faces are so numerous, I don't even know where to begin -- our police force is strained; mad men run the streets, murdering whomever they please -- our education system is floundering, our approach to mental health is horrific, the economy is struggling -- entire sections of the city are a fire-trap. You've done extraordinary work," he quickly adds, "but you're only one man, Bruce."

Lincoln's gaze drifts back toward the windows, scanning the city-line -- as if searching for something. Or someone. "And to top it off, we have our own solution -- Gotham's local legend. 'Batman'. Some manner of vampire who runs around at night, terrifying criminals. It's lunacy. And you want to know the worst part, Bruce? It makes sense."

Again, Lincoln turns -- and now, he actually is smiling. "My father used to tell me: You'll know you have entered Bedlam when the actions of the mad begin to seem reasonable." The smile fades. "I want a holistic solution. A trust that will attack the problem from multiple angles. Rebuild Gotham; physically, spiritually, psychologically, emotionally."

His eyes drift down to the knife Bruce still holds. "And I think that thought -- for some reason -- frightens someone out there."

Bruce shakes his head, laughing and holding out his glass for a passing waiter to refill it, "Oh, come on, Linc. Don't tell me you're one of those Batman believers? It's bad enough that I heard a couple of the boys in blue talking about him while I was walking up."

He leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, "You ask me? I think the whole Batman thing is a story the GCPD made up to put the scare on the crooks. When they need to make it real they put one of their guys in the suit and have him flap around. Not that I'm complaining, of course. The mob all but disappeared since they started with the whole story."

"I like what you're saying here," he continues, "About rebuilding Gotham. I want to get in on the ground floor. I'm willing to make a generous donation to your cause and maybe even your mayoral campaign if you're willing to back up your ideas in office."

"Even if he's not real," Lincoln replies, "Gotham needs him to be real. Does that make sense? We need the notion that there's someone out there who isn't part of the system; who stands outside of it. Someone who's fighting for Gotham..." The words trail away to nothing; Lincoln shakes his head, a soft, serene smile settling over his features.

"...you know," Lincoln replies, turning to completely face Bruce again, "I bet you're not going to believe this, but... your money isn't the main thing I'm interested in. I think, most of all..."

Lincoln takes a breath. "Gotham took your parents. If there's anyone out there who has reason to lose their faith in this city, it's you. And I just wanted to see if I could convince you that... there are people who recognize the good you've done for this city. And people who are willing to follow your example."

The smile twitches, again. "Not that I'm going to turn down the money, mind you."

"I believe in Gotham City," Bruce says, the solemnity ringing through the intoxicated air he puts on, "And you're right about people needing to believe in the Batman. I mightn't believe that he's real but I'm not complaining about the good that the story is doing."

He straightens up, as though the decision has finally been made, and slaps March on the back once more before tucking his free hand into his pocket, "I'm behind you all the way in this. I might have a couple ideas of my own, though, if you'll hear them. I think that's only fair, no?"

Lincoln seems to have entirely forgotten about the dagger; the slap on his back causes his smile to falter, half-way splitting toward a grin. "--I expect you would. Most of the people interested have opinions on how the money should be best put to use. But..." Lincoln's smile returns, full-force, his eyes becoming soft once again. "...I do think that's only fair, Bruce."

"Then we agree," Bruce smiles, the throwing dagger now neatly tucked into his pants pocket, "It's been good to meet you, Linc, but I've got a date with a particular little blonde number who wants to get the next big exclusive on 'Who Bruce Wayne really is?'"

He chuckles, raising the glass in a salute before turning about, "Call me about those plans of yours, okay? I want in."