See No Evil: Precipice (ch. 66) (Patreon)

I really wished that killing the Joker magically unfucked Gotham, because it felt like I was even busier now than I had been with the actual disaster. There were so many things I needed to do -- finishing deals, making new ones, planning ways to get around refusals, using all the tools in my tool belt to make sure Sainthood Enterprises made the most of the windfall that we had received. I was spending ludicrous amounts of money -- Cobblepot's fortune had been billions, but even it was being drained away by the sheer hunger of Sainthood Enterprises.

I was in the world's spotlight at the moment. There was no evidence to prove it, but everyone suspected that I had killed the Joker for the final time. It was everywhere online, but that suspicion simply brought attention to Gotham. The media was calling the reconstruction of Gotham a miracle -- completely ignoring the actual work that went into rebuilding the city. Two weeks after the Joker's death, Gotham was well on its way to being restored better than ever.

The last holdouts eventually realized that their property value was never going to recover with one of my buildings next door, and with the economic slump hitting the world due to the Joker, most had been eager to sell the land for pennies on the dollar. Some I purchased with shell companies, then used them to hire myself to build the buildings. I even got contracts from the mayor to rebuild government-owned buildings.

Gotham was hardly recognizable. Construction was at least a month away from being complete, but already, it was like a completely different city.

To that end, I smirked at the newspaper title before tossing it on my desk, "Gotham: The City of Today?" I quoted, reading a rather generous article by Lois Lane about her findings in Gotham. "Luthor is going to be pissed." How many years and resources had he dumped into Metropolis to make it the city of tomorrow? It was at least a decade and hundreds of billions of dollars. And I plucked the crown from him just as easily as I had from Bruce Wayne.

It was a difference of approach. Luthor implemented steps of progression to maximize profit. Each generation of tech possesses one new unique feature to get people to buy whatever product that he produced, with the next generation possessing that feature and a newer one. It was a model that worked. It's why he was the richest man in the world, several times over.

But I chose quality to become the standard that others would be compared to.

And Gotham was what I intended the future to look like. It was a city designed to endure the fights of superheroes and villains. Bandaids combined with brick and mortar, to make self-repairing concrete. Foam dispensers that would douse people and metas alike -- stopping villains and protecting citizens. The buildings construction was inspired by building blocks, allowing for such rapid construction and deconstruction. The city was made to endure and thrive. You could drop a nuke on the city and Gotham could shrug it off.

People saw that. They saw what the future would be like. Now, it was up to the rest of the world to keep up with my pace. All the while, people wanted what I offered. The police wanted the foam dispensers for subduing criminals, the cars for protection, and the tools for fighting crime. The military wanted more advanced versions of everything I was offering -- hard light projectors, antigravity tech, and weapons. While kids wanted every toy and app. Parents wanted to live in my buildings, they wanted the appliances I made, and to consume the products I released.

Sainthood Enterprises was in high demand. To the point that I was struggling to remain on the ball.

The fact that I was balancing so many other obligations… it was an honest wonder that I had any time to think.

"You knew that going in," Miranda remarked as she took the paper and presented me with a manila folder. "He's been proactive -- he's attempting to infiltrate every division." she informed as I looked over another contract -- a celebrity promotion connected to one of my products. Their agent was fighting to get every single penny they could out of me. I signed the agreement, knowing that if I rejected it, then the number would increase.

"Poach her," I ordered Miranda. Good agents were hard to find. So far, our hiring model was to hire those that gave us the most trouble and point them at our enemies. Miranda smirked, taking another folder and presenting it to me, expecting my signature. A contract to hire the agent in question. "And Luther isn't getting much luck in that regard."

He was trying various angles, but he was having a shocking amount of difficulty flipping people that were already a part of the Sainthood Enterprises' hierarchy. People like Preston, the head of my entertainment division, were fiercely loyal. I watched them blatantly reject dozens of offers to give a bit of insight into the company, then they reported the attempts without fail. Luthor quickly gave up on that end in favor of putting plants in my company. All of them were exceptionally competent workers that would rise in the company.

I hired them, despite knowing that they were agents for Luther. A competent worker was a competent worker, after all. And better the devil I knew than the one I didn't. He and others were hacking into my systems, planting bugs, and so on. Most of which I observed being placed and watched install backdoors into my systems. I allowed it, for the same reason I accepted their double agents, and in the hope I could feed them false intel.

Regardless, Sainthood Enterprises had become a force to be reckoned with. One that couldn't be ignored. It was an odd feeling, I could admit. For so long, I was determined to be underestimated so people wouldn't see where I was strong. Now, I had to project overwhelming strength in every direction so that they couldn't see where I was weak. I had to be powerful, which painted a target on me, but to overcome that I needed to be so powerful that no one would dare take a shot.

"You have your meeting down below," Miranda informed me, making me check the time. It was three in the morning, meaning that she was right. In actuality, I was late. With little ceremony, I stood up and thanked Miranda with a nod. As I headed for the door, she spoke up, "I do hope that you meant it when you told Tifa that you were getting an additional secretary," she said.

Did she and Tifa talk? I must have missed when.

"I'm going to hire a team," I corrected, pulling up various digital copies of paperwork up with my contacts. I preferred it, but some people insisted on paper contracts in Gotham. It kept people honest. Digital stuff was altered with alarming frequency after the signature was placed on the dotted line. A paper contract wasn't so easy to alter post-agreement, or so they thought.

I saw one that was flagged as important as I stepped into the elevator outside my office and began to descend. As soon as I saw the title, I smiled. "What a guy," I remarked, seeing that the President's end of the deal had been officially upheld. Some parts of the deal had been granted already -- like access to the Belle Reeve prisoners to use them as a think tank. And the contracts for the military were also favorable. However, the real cherry on top was delivered at the last possible second.

The IRA could kiss the entirety of my ass. Sainthood Enterprises was officially tax-exempt, saving my company billions. Hundreds of billions. I hadn't even paid taxes for our first year as a company yet.

It has been a close call. And I'm sure it would cause some controversy considering that the decision was made as the president was being impeached, but I never expected it to be smooth sailing. Already, I had the most likely suspects to try to overturn the decision for that sweet, delicious tax revenue that my company was sure to provide. And if so much as started to make a peep about the issue, I was getting ready to bury their careers.

Or bury them.

The deal had been sealed right as he was being shown the door. Having the President in my pocket would have been nice, but it was unrealistic. America got a lot of flack for the Joker -- first, for allowing him to come back, then ignoring his warnings that caused international catastrophes. At least ten million people were dead in Beijing, with more bodies still being found, while three million were dead in London.

It just wasn't in the cards for him to remain president after that, even if the death of the Joker made sure he at least left on a high note. So, I was putting out feelers for the vice president -- a middle-aged woman who was the definition of no-nonsense. Which could be a boon or a curse for me.

The elevator doors opened, and I was greeted by the sounds of construction. A constant in Gotham these days. Stepping out, a number of Androids greeted me as I cast a look at the wide-open area carved out before me. Floodlights illuminated most of it, but there were long shadows.

At the heart of it all was Pamela Isley.

There was a soft smile on her face as she spread her hands out wide, coaxing the behemoth root system to take shape. She did so with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. I still don't think that she liked me, though. But she didn't need to. With her help, the next stages of Lowtown were being developed -- a secondary housing layer was established, this one even larger than the first, allowing for six-story buildings with even wider roads. It was being constructed at the same time that Gotham was, which might seem wasteful now, but I considered it future-proofing.

The human population increased about one percent every year for the past couple of years. Assuming that it stayed the same, in fifty years, humanity would have nearly sixteen billion people on the planet. Cities needed to be able to handle the increase in population because most of humanity was driven to cities.

It would be years from now, but I fully anticipated that Gotham would be crowded above and below, housing upwards of twenty million people.

Likewise, I had more pressing concerns being built beneath us. "How is the foundation coming?" I asked Pamela as I approached, making her open her eyes as she looked at me, thankfully not noticing that I was late. Her gaze wasn't unkind. That simmering anger that had been in her eyes before was gone, and I only realized it had been there when it disappeared.

"Progress is steady. Growing so many roots is taxing the soil, which is a delay, but one that was accounted for," Pamela answered, her tone even, though I thought I heard a note of approval. "I do hope that these efforts aren't merely for appearances. I will be most upset if I discover that your production facilities poison the earth with your waste."

While she was willing to work with me, she still didn't trust me. "No waste of any kind. Everything that won't be used will be recycled for something else. All the way down to the pencil shavings," I dutifully swore, making an X across my heart. An action that made her roll her eyes. But, I meant it. Below, Sainthood Enterprises would be making its own factories for every single product on our lineup.

My expo hadn't gone to plan, but there was a huge demand for every single thing I had on offer. Some clearly did better than others, but as soon as the factories were up, they would be running around the clock. Materials were in high demand, and with a little clever negotiating for waste products in addition to contracts with various suppliers, we should be able to meet the demand.

Pamela hummed lightly, giving me an even look. "And what of me?" Pamela questioned, her gaze boring into mine. "It seems rather dangerous for such a rising star to consort with one of the most wanted terrorists in the world."

She was right about that. Which is why she was here, out of sight. And hopefully, out of mind. "I'm a man well suited to managing risks," I gave her a non-answer. "And I've decided that your abilities are worth the risk. Who knows, perhaps things could be arranged for you to be able to step into the light." To that, her eyes flashed.

I was dangling a dangerous carrot in front of her, and she zeroed in on the issue with it, "That's quite a promise to make," she remarked, her voice cold. "How do you expect to fulfill it?"

I wore an easy smile on my face, "Precedent," I answered. This little gambit relied on me establishing enough of a rapport with her so she would… well, not immediately kill me for the suggestion. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a microchip. "One member of the Injustice League managed to get away scot-free after your defeat."

Pamela narrowed her eyes, knowing exactly who I spoke of. "I'm lacking any nation to claim diplomatic immunity," she remarked, sounding unimpressed as she eyed the microchip, wondering what it had to do with anything.

"True. But that was only part of it," I continued. "Count Vertigo claimed that he had been mind-controlled into joining the Injustice League. Why else would he join such an obviously villainous group?" I questioned, and if looks could kill… but, I continued on. "At least, that's the story he told his countrymen."

A snarl started to tug at the edges of her lips, "You want to put a chip in me? You think I'll allow you to mind control me?!" she snapped, and my slight smile didn't waver. My threat recognition was all kinds of fucked up after No Man's Land. I didn't even so much as bat an eyelash despite standing before a pissed-off Poison Ivy in the heart of her terrain -- a giant root that could kill me with ease.

"Not without your express consent," I said, pocketing the chip, my tone even. "I don't expect you to agree now or without reassurances. As of right now, it's the most surefire way to clear you in the view of the public and to get the charges dropped -- claiming that you were being mind-controlled absolves you of guilt." I didn't expect her to jump on board with the idea.

This was merely putting it on the table. Give her some time to consider it, maybe warm up to it, and then we could address it at a later date. "But, that could change in the future. In time, I might have more options for clearing your name."

Pamela wasn't convinced, her hands clenching into fists. "Then why do you already have that chip?" she questioned me, and my smile widened a fraction.

"Proof of concept," I answered without telling her anything. The chip that I had installed protected my thoughts from mental intruders, disguising them so no one would be the wiser. A few weeks later, I had a thought. A dangerous thought. Because protecting thoughts was only a stone’s throw away from influencing them. Pamela narrowed her eyes, making me cock an eyebrow, "Mind control seems like an odd hill to die on, Dr. Isley. With your pheromones and all."

That, I saw, struck a chord with her. She had a history of using mind control, using a simple kiss to enslave the hearts of men and women. But, it seemed that despite having no leg to stand on in the argument, that didn't mean she had to like it.

"You are a dangerous man, Vergil St. Jude," she spoke slowly, "but you are playing a very dangerous game."

"Like I said, I'm a man well suited for managing risks," I returned, not flinching at her tone. "I understand you are upset, but I meant no harm in the offer. I believe that we could accomplish a great deal together, but your status as a terrorist is a hindrance. If the current arrangement is satisfactory for you, then please, forget that I said anything at all." I offered, meeting her gaze flatly, not backing down in the slightest.

"Do you really think I'll forget about it?" she asked me, her lips curling back into a snarl. My smile fell a fraction as I continued to meet her gaze.

"If I intended to force the issue, Dr. Isley, then we wouldn't have had this conversation at all," I pointed out, my tone heavy with implications. She tensed, picking up on them, but I quickly continued before she could get a word in. "But I don't. Your status as a terrorist is a hindrance, but not one I can't workaround. It's merely an option on the table." I stated, making my position clear.

She didn't relax, but some tension did ease out of her as the message was delivered loud and clear now that her knee-jerk reaction was out of the way. What I was asking for was a great deal of trust, even with assurances. Because the moment the chip entered her, then I could control her. And if I had ill intentions, then she wouldn't get control of her body back.

I understood. I did. I was just hoping that going forward, I would give her enough reasons to believe that I was a man of my word.

Sensing that I had overstayed my welcome, I offered a polite smile, "I'll leave you be. Keep up the good work," I told her, turning around. I watched her watch me as I walked away through a feed in my contacts, her hand unclenching as she seemed to consider it. Just for a moment. I had countermeasures of course, but Poison Ivy was someone tough to beat and she had a Sword of Damocles hanging above my head. I already gave her my threat if she used the tunnels of Lowtown against me. However, that was also the reason why I wanted her on my side.

Clearing up her past, while a gross injustice, would make things easier for her and indebted to me. Then I could use her powers to really push when it came to plant-related fields -- like medicine or food production. My cards were a cheat code, but there was too much at stake for me to be the single point of failure. My company needed talent -- geniuses, metahumans, whoever had something to offer that I could exploit to get an edge over the competition.

Because I was in the big leagues now. And it wouldn't be long before the heavy hitters came knocking at my door.

Stepping into the elevator, I turned around and met eyes with Pamela for a brief moment before the elevator doors closed. As a pleasant tune echoed in my ears, I went about doing more work. Deals, information, and so on. Even with Miranda taking on a huge portion of the work, there was just so much of it. Adding the moonlight stuff…

The more some things changed, the more they stayed the same. Just as criminals adapted to Batman so many years ago, they adapted to No Man's Land. Mobsters formed alliances. Some even went into business together and formed companies to compete with me. Gangs had followed suit, becoming more like mobs -- several of my proxies included. How exactly things would shake out remained to be seen, but with an official announcement from the Justice League, the change that was upon Gotham was finalized.

Batman had announced his retirement from the Justice League.

That had been the plan, but even I was shocked by the development. It had felt like Batman wouldn't ever stop, no matter what anyone did. That killing him would be the only way to put down the mantle and even then, that wouldn't really stop him. Even I had, deep down, secretly doubted that I would succeed in pushing him to hang up his cape. But, just like the Joker, the only way to make him stop was to make him want to stop.

I arranged that fight to keep them both busy and in one location… and for Batman to vent. To let loose. In doing so, I pushed him to break his golden rule. I stopped him from actually breaking it, but only barely. The point being was to push him so far that he wanted to kill the Joker, that he was willing to break his rule. That mattered more than if he actually killed him or not.

Gotham had officially entered a new era for the city. The gangs were changing, Batman was now Bruce Wayne… who knew what the future held.

The elevator came to a stop, the doors opening and I wasn't surprised to see 2B standing on the other side. She looked good. Better than I did, at any rate. Being an Android definitely has its perks. She wore a pair of signature high heels, skintight black jeans, and a loose black and white long sleeve top with an overly large collar that left one of her slender shoulders exposed. Underneath that was a dark colored tank top -- she liked her white and blacks, I had noticed.

"2B," I greeted her as she stepped inside. The elevator door closed behind her as she looked at me. It has been weeks since the last time we got a chance to speak. About what we almost did. I opened my mouth to speak, but then 2B activated the emergency break on the elevator. "2B?"

"Have you received enough time to process Jack's death?" 2B questioned, delivering a verbal gut punch. I opened my mouth, but for a split second, the words wouldn't come. Jack was dead. We even had a funeral. Which was more than most people got in recent times.

I found the words a moment later, "I've made my peace with it," I told her. It might not be completely true, but I was getting there. For all the power that I had, raising the dead wasn't one of them. The Lazarus pit was a possibility, but I doubt that Jack would have wanted to be brought back like that. "What brought that up?"

"Tifa said that you needed time to process your grief. That it was our duty to be there for you should you need it, but that you would like your space over comfort." Tifa really did know me too well in that regard. "But, now that you've processed your grief, things have changed."

I raised an eyebrow, "How so?" I questioned, wondering where this was leading. In response, 2B dropped to her knees, making my eyebrows shoot up. Though, my hopes were quickly dashed when she patted her lap.

"You require rest," 2B spoke, her voice calm, but there was a definite 'or else' in her tone. I narrowed my eyes. "Tifa and Miranda will take care of your duties for a time."

I could override the elevator. Make a break for it. Or I could use my contacts to finish my work. But, that seemed like a rather extreme reaction. "I'd love to, but there's too much to do," I spoke -- there was so much to do. So many deals to make, so many meetings to attend, details to finalize… Sainthood Enterprises was becoming an international company. More than that, it was becoming a major international company. There was no time for rest. No time for sleep. There…

"You're killing yourself with overwork," 2B spoke, her tone just as calm as before, but now there was an undertone of 'go to sleep before I knock you out.' "Tifa is very worried. As is Cassandra. And… myself." 2B admitted, her gaze dipping so she was looking away from me. "You pushed yourself through No Man's Land. We believed that once the crisis was over, you would return to normal, but you… are pulling further away."

Shit. A sigh escaped me, one that betrayed how utterly exhausted I was. I had been ignoring it as best I could. My brain felt like mush, my eyes felt like they were coated in sandpaper, and my muscles ached. I had been firing on all cylinders for too long. Far too long. But… I was capable of ignoring all of that. I didn't mind sleepless nights, or feeling like shit, or subsisting only on coffee. If it meant my company's and Lowtown's success, I could deal with working a hundred and thirty hours a week.

Yet, 2B words struck home. Because I had regrets with Jack. Regrets that I had been too busy to speak to him as often as I could. That I didn't take a day off to do something simple like go fishing with him down at the docks. I regretted that I wasn't there as much as I could have been and now it was too late.

"Five minutes," I bargained with 2B as I dropped to the ground in an unceremonious heap, my head dropping onto her lap. I had heard of a lap pillow, but I always thought they would be rather uncomfortable -- for me, and for the girl. But, to my surprise, it felt rather nice. 2B was surprisingly soft.

"Five minutes," 2B agreed, her tone gentle, but there was a trace of amusement in her words. Which was fair.

Because I was out like a light the moment I closed my eyes.