The Legend

It was almost two o'clock, and Mr. Wayne still hadn't shown up.

Mrs. Jones frowned. There were several important messages for him. Significantly, too, there was a bouquet of flowers that had arrived for him. She put it in his office, on his desk, out of everyone's sight, but the damage had been done: enough people had seen the bouquet, enough people had caught a glimpse of the envelope. In feminine-looking handwriting, it thanked him "for a wonderful evening".

The oddest thing about it was the question mark down below the note instead of a signature. Now, everyone knew why Mr. Wayne hadn't come in to work yet, but worse, the gossip and speculation about who he had been with was quietly making the rounds of Wayne Enterprises. The answer to that was known only to Mr. Wayne, although one could assume the card inside the pink envelope offered some information.

As a good executive assistant, Mrs. Jones knew it was her job to protect her boss, but there were times when there was only so much she could do. She sighed, and looked again at the clock: it was now 2:00 PM.


Rick glanced at his watch: 2:00 PM. The boss had called a meeting for a few of his key people for 2:00, and it looked like one guy was going to be a little late. But, that guy was a special agent with Gotham's Bureau of Investigation, and the boss wasn't the agent's boss; the boss was the agent's other boss. Everybody knew that the GBI man could come in late, or not at all, just as long as the others at the GBI didn't suspect anything, and just as long as he kept his other boss happy with him.

The boss nodded to one of his men -- a tough-looking guy, well-dressed, but obviously a man of the streets; everybody called him Johnny.

"A friend of ours from the mayor's office is gonna do some time," Johnny began, his heavy Gotham City accent betraying his background. "He'll be okay, as long as he keeps quiet." He looked around the room. The threat was obvious to everyone.

"What happened? Who brought him down?" The question came from an accountant named Elliot.

"He was talking when he should've been listening," Johnny answered, looking down at the table, but his voice menacing nonetheless.

That didn't ring right. Everybody in the room knew what happened to guys who talk when they should be listening; if the guy had been talking, he wouldn't be doing time, he wouldn't be doing nothing right now, Rick thought.

"That ain't what I heard at all." Rick casually looked over: it was Abdul. "I heard 'The Bat' got him."

"There ain't no 'Bat'!" Johnny looked up disgustedly.

The boss motioned to Johnny; Johnny looked at the boss, then just sat there quietly.

"One of my people saw this 'Bat' this morning," the boss began. "He gave something to some reporter. The reporter's a girl. She's been sniffing around some of our operations."

Everyone was trying to look around the room at everyone else without anyone noticing; Rick almost smiled at how funny it looked, except that now would not have been a good time to smile.

"I heard about this 'Bat'. If he got seen, it's because he wanted to get seen." The comment came from a quiet, gentle-looking man in the back of the room. Rick didn't know his name, and didn't want to know. The man was a shooter, and Rick was afraid of him.

"This is going to sound funny," began a well-dressed man with a briefcase, who was looking down at some papers. It was Tyrone. Like Johnny, Tyrone was raised in the streets. Unlike Johnny, Tyrone had made something of his life, and had become an attorney. His opinion carried weight with the boss. Tyrone continued, looking up, "but I heard this guy can walk through walls."

Abdul nodded, and added, "I heard he can read people's minds."

The boss looked at everyone. "Well, Abdul, if he reads your mind, I'll be dealing with him. If he hears your voice, I'll be dealing with you."


Wayne walked past the clock. It was 2:15. He thought he'd never make it into the office! Wayne hurried down the hallway into the elevator in the lobby. He had a private elevator that took him directly to his office, of course, but he liked being in the lobby and in the corridors; it gave him some interaction with his employees, and he wanted to be approachable and accessible to them.

Still, though, today he was wondering if he shouldn't have taken his private elevator, coming in this late. Was it his imagination, or was he getting funny looks from some of the people?

The elevator door opened, he walked quickly down the hallway, and into his outer office, where Mrs. Jones sat at her desk.

"Good morning, Mrs. Jones!" he said cheerfully.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne," she responded, glancing at the clock. "There are several important messages for you. Also, someone left a surprise for you. I put it on your desk. It was drawing some attention as it was being delivered this morning."

"Thanks," he said, walking into his inner office.

There on the desk was a big bouquet of flowers. He walked around his desk to his chair, and froze: a pink envelope was slipped inside the flowers.

He looked around quickly, then picked up the envelope. Outside, it said

Bruce,

Thank you for a wonderful evening.

?

He opened the envelope, and looked at the card: a big, fluffy cat with a raised paw was toying with a piece of yarn.

He opened the card. No pre-printed caption, just feminine-looking handwriting:

Riddle me this, riddle me that;
Who's afraid of the big, black bat?

For the first time in a long time, Bruce Wayne was scared.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Wayne?"

He looked toward the door. Mrs. Jones looked worried.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm alright," he answered, but his voice was a whisper. And, his breath was shallow. "Just give me a few minutes, please."

"Let me know if you need anything," Mrs. Jones said, closing the door behind her.

His mind was racing, his heart beating fast.

Wayne looked at the card again. Someone was using him, and using Batman. Someone was reaching out and touching him, manipulating him, toying with him, getting Batman to do his or her work. Bruce Wayne had no idea who it could be, but whoever it was, that person knew all there was to know about Bruce Wayne.

"Fear is a paralyzing instinct, Mr. Wayne." The voice belonged to one of his masters when he studied martial arts in Asia. It was years ago, but he could hear it now, plain as day, as he relived the memory, a memory brought back to him by the paralyzing instinct that now controlled him.

He had wanted to learn more martial arts, but his master sat him down to play chess, instead. Wayne was young and impulsive then, and would have fired him on the spot, except that this instructor was not an employee. For all the martial arts training that he had had, with the best instructors money could buy, the best training came from an instructor who refused to take any money; he merely insisted that his young student, Bruce Wayne, apply himself and master his lessons.

His father had tried to teach him chess when he was younger, but Bruce had never been good at it. Then, after his parents' death, he had even more trouble with the game; he associated it with his dad.

The master sat him down at the table and insisted that he concentrate.

"Martial arts is more than punching and kicking, weapons and fighting, Mr. Wayne," he explained. Odd how it sounded, such a mature, accomplished master addressing a young upstart as "mister"....

"Martial arts is here," the master said, pointing at his head, "and here," he said, pointing at his stomach.

Wayne moved his queen. Two more moves, and it would be checkmate.

"When I wish to avoid battle, Mr. Wayne, I may do so merely by drawing a line on the ground." Wayne looked up at him, as he continued. "My opponent will be unable to attack me, because I divert him from going where he wishes." The master moved his knight, jeopardizing the spot Wayne was going to move his queen to.

Wayne studied the board. He moved a bishop. On his next move, he would capture the knight, and then, two more moves... unless the master removed his knight, in which case he was only two moves away from victory again right now.

"When I wish to give battle, Mr. Wayne, my opponent, though well-hidden and well-defended, cannot help but engage me at the time and place of my choosing." The master leaned across the table. "I attack a position he must protect." With Wayne's bishop out of the way, a quick move by the master's bishop placed his king in check.

"You can only win by checkmating me, Mr. Wayne. But that is not possible if you yourself are checkmated," the master explained. "Offense and defense. One offers the possibility of victory; the other offers the possibility of survival."

Wayne moved out of check, but the master moved the knight that was protecting his king, and placed Wayne in check again.

"Offense and defense are like interlocked rings; who can tell where one ends and the other begins?" The master's words were sinking in, as Wayne struggled desperately to get out of check. "One can become the other, and the other can become one."

Checkmate! From a pawn!!

"An opponent can be checkmated, Mr. Wayne, as you were just now," the master continued. "A man can be killed, as your father was." The master leaned back in his chair. "You must become more than a man in the mind of your opponent."

Wayne's breath was shallow, his heart beating fast, thinking about his father, about his father's life, and about his father's death.

"And what might that be?" he asked the master.

The master leaned over and whispered, "A legend, Mr. Wayne."