“Thanks, Lydia. Ok last on the docket, we need an update from accounting. Something about an audit?”
“Yes, about that…” Timothy began, his mood dropping into a more frightful position. “The IRS guys said they noticed some money had just kind of…gone missing?”
“How much?”
“….a lot. Not all at once…but some of it all at once.”
“How much?” Wayne said, darkening his tone.
“…North of three-billion dollars.”
The room fell silent. Nobody was making noise before, now they dare not so much as creak their chair.
“It sort of trickled out over the course of four years, some in small payments, others in quite large. They demanded an explanation, I didn’t have one. They demanded to talk to my boss, I kind of stalled them, but they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“When they get here, tell them to talk to Lucious. He’ll sort it all out.”
“Where did the money go?” Arnold said, one of Wayne Enterprises larger shareholders.
“A military contract. It’s highly classified. We couldn’t keep any record of it on the books. Don’t worry, Lucious knows everything about it, he’ll clear it up.”
“I don’t like three-billion dollars just disappearing.”
“Arnold, if you didn’t notice it being gone four years ago, I promise you won’t notice it now.”
The room hung in an awkward lull. Nobody satisfied with the answer, but nobody managing to come up with a reason why they should press further. Bruce however, had no interest in dragging the meeting out any longer.
“I think that’ll about do it for today. Thank you all for coming!” He announced, standing motioning towards the door. Some of his coworkers appeared just as eager to leave as he was. They quickly packed up their work satchels and backpacks and started making banal conversation about sports or the quarter’s income. Bruce tried to keep his cool, but he was running out of social energy rapidly. Faking cordiality weighed on him like a granite fez and he was more than eager to have a precious hour all to himself.
He always made sure his lunch hour, 12:15 to 1:15 was open. He claimed it was for healthy habits. He never let his workers sacrifice their own lives or health for this job, and he wanted to lead by example. In reality, he rarely ate more than vending machine chips during this break. This was usually just a much needed mental reprieve before continuing the day. A small moment of peace and quiet where he could let the façade down and stare out over the massive reconstruction of Gotham’s Founders Island. Also, if he needed to address something Batman or Justice League related, he could do it now, in total privacy.
The top floor of Wayne International Plaza was arranged in a straight line. The elevator was at the eastern edge of the building, and it opened into a cozy, modern looking waiting room, only large enough for the receptionist desk and a couple of sofas on the opposite wall. Continuing west past the massive soundproofed doors was a conference room. A room at the top of the world with windows wrapping every wall that didn’t have a door. A massive ovular table with expensive office chairs messily around it lay as the main attraction in the room, with a coffee bar and mini fridge against the wall of the waiting room door.
Across from the waiting room door, at the other end of the room, was another massive, soundproofed portal, into Bruce Wayne’s personal office. Nobody was ever allowed in there under any circumstances, except him, Lucious Fox, and Alfred, should Alfred ever end up in Wayne International Plaza. This office was where he couldn’t wait to retire to now. He walked through the gargantuan office doors and sealed them behind him. He took a deep sigh and loosened his necktie. He sauntered leisurely up to the balcony door, and took in all the bustling scenery. He couldn’t believe how sick of it he was. The days don’t usually wear him down this much. It wasn’t just the office job, the last thing he wanted was to put on the batsuit right now. It was something else, something he couldn’t quite discern.
“I need a vacation.” He mumbled to himself, fogging the glass with his exhausted breath. He knew damn well you never got vacations in his line of work, all three of them. It just helped to vocalize it sometimes. He began to drift off. His eyes went glassy and his focus dwindled. He might’ve fallen asleep if he hadn’t been too angry. He let himself fully dissociate, and take a few seconds of much needed rest. He listened to the sounds of his office coming to life. The occasional ticking and whirring of his computer, the rhythmic clacking of his ancient, family grandfather clock, the gentle hum of construction and city life a million miles beneath him. For a moment, it all felt right, and it all felt like home.
Suddenly, his peace was shattered by the shrieking sound of his cell phone ringing. It was a special ringtone. One scientifically calculated to be the most disruptive and attention grabbing as possible. It wasn’t coming from his work phone, or the one in his office, it was coming from the other one. The emergency cell phone. The rectangular device he kept on him at all times, so that if any Justice League member had an emergency, they could dial him up and catch his ear in an instant. He pulled it from his pocket and beheld the caller ID. “Clark Kent.” He swallowed, the anxiety of his broken peace carrying into his mind as he imagined what wretched thing could warrant this call. He swiped his finger along the bar and accepted the call, placing the speaker to his ear with exhausted dread.
“Yes?” He said, keeping his voice hushed, despite the soundproofing of his double doors.
“Hey Bruce! It’s Clark. I’m in the elevator, be up in a minute.”
“….Ok.”
“Great! See you in a bit.”
Clark then hung up, leaving the droning beep of a finished call playing in ear. Bruce hung there, frozen in disbelief and anxiety. Clark didn’t sound distressed. He might’ve been covering up in case someone heard him, but Clark is a miserable liar, Bruce would’ve been able to tell. Was it not a big deal? Then why was he coming? He supposed he would soon find out.
Bruce cast his tie completely off his body, and adjusted his sleeves to better sit on his arms. He marched through the sealed doors to his personal office, and stood ready behind the chair just right of the head of the table.
Clark Kent emerged from the elevator doors and strode confidently into the office waiting room. All six-foot-four inches of solidified handsome proudly marching with close to immaculate posture towards the elephantine doors marking the entrance to Bruce Wayne’s conference room. He carried a bounty of items in his massive arms. Hanging from his left wrist was a plastic bag bearing the logo for “Ahmet’s Deli” and in his left hand was a cardboard drink carrier with two beverages in either corner. Tucked under his left armpit was a classic, carboard Hasboro chess set. It’s pieces sit idly, unable to jingle or toss due to their wrapping still being fresh. He kept his right arm free, for opening doors for people, shaking hands, and waving at friends as he strode through the lobby and elevator of the illustrious Wayne International Plaza.
Nobody could say why, but something about Clark was so magnetic. Even people who had never met him before instantly wanted to be his friend. Just with one smile and a firm handshake he won over hearts across the world, a fact that Clark was very proud of. He loved everybody, and everybody loved him. He wished everybody could be like that. He especially wished that now when he came face to face with Bruce’s secretary, Margaret.
Margaret was a brick wall of a human being and that’s why Bruce liked her. If she didn’t want you getting in somewhere, you weren’t getting in. She was firm, and downright abrasive, forcing her will on any who tried to access Mr. Wayne without proper appointment. Clark understood the need for security, but he wished that he of all people could be spared the charades.
“Sir! Excuse me!” Margaret exclaimed, stopping him dead in his tracks. “You can’t go in there.”
“It’s ok, Margaret. Bruce is expecting me.” Clark said in his usual bubbly way, with a smile that shone as bright as the evening sun. His attitude struck Margaret like splash of water to stone, and she did not move.
“No, he’s not. Mr. Wayne isn’t expecting anyone until 1:15. You can’t go in there.”
“I’m pretty sure he is expecting me, I can call him if you want and confirm.”
“No sir, he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
Clark suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and instead pulled out his cellphone with his free hand. He pulled up the recent call history and hit Bruce’s name, the phone redialing and Bruce answering quickly.
“What?”
“Your receptionist stopped me at the door.”
“Put me on speaker.”
Margaret reacted with utter abhorrence. He called Bruce anyway, against her express orders. She had half a mind to call security. Clark hit the speaker button and pointed the phone at her screen first, revealing that this was indeed Bruce Wayne he was calling.
“It’s fine, Marg. Let him in.”
Margaret was savvy enough to know you could change the name of anyone in your phone to say Bruce Wayne, but she couldn’t deny her employers voice. So, after staring at Clark with a passionate mix of confusion and rage, she reluctantly replied “right away Mr. Wayne” and pressed the button on her desk, disabling the lock on the door, and allowing Clark Kent entrance.
“Thanks, Margaret.” He replied as he opened the door and walked in. He did really mean it, but he regretted saying it later, thinking he accidentally came across with an attitude.
Then they were there. The two most powerful men in the world standing before each other, neither aware of what the other will say, and neither aware of how they will react to it. Bruce’s jet black suit jacket was unbuttoned, and contrasted with Clark’s baby blue suit so perfectly kept you’d expect it to be in a museum. They stared at one another patiently, waiting for the soundproof door behind Clark to shut and seal. Bruce scanned him up and down, and took note of the odd assortment of items he was carrying. What ridiculous supervillain could involve a chess set? Did Riddler break out?
The door closed and sealed, and without allowing even a moment of silence, Bruce spoke.
“Yes?”
“Hey Bruce, how are you doing?” Clark said, his radiant smile doing it’s best to shatter Bruce’s unmoving cynicism.
“…I’m fine…what’s going on?”
“I just stopped by seeing if you wanted to have lunch. I know you don’t often eat, and I thought it would be a good idea to get to know each other better.”
The room hovered in a nonsensical quiet.
“…You just came by…to see if I wanted to have lunch?”
“Yeah, you want to? I brought sandwiches.”
“…Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“…”
“…”
“…you know this is a secure room. You can tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. You’re work schedule is still in the Watchtower database, I saw you were free for lunch, I thought I’d come by and see you.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious” Clark replied. He remained patient, friendly and calm the entire time. The constant questioning bothered Clark a little, but he knew Bruce would be like this. He knew that Bruce wouldn’t take well to this idea, so he had to remain polite.
“Are you an idiot?” Bruce asked, realization slowing hitting him like the sun setting on a valley.
“What?”
“You used the emergency phone to call me about lunch?”
“Well I’ve tried your cell in the past and you never answer.”
“Are you out of your damn mind? How many people saw you in my lobby?”
“Oh a ton,” Clark replied “you know me, I love being friendly. But it’s totally fine.”
“How is it fine, Clark?!”
“What? I’m a reporter, I think it’s totally reasonable that I’d come and interview the wealthiest man on earth.”
“Not if it’s not on my calendar! Not if my receptionist has to push you away at the door!”
“Bruce, please. I just wanted to have lunch with my friend. We’ve saved each other’s lives countless times, but somehow I barely know you. Come on, I’m here. I already bought the sandwiches. Just let it slide and throw caution to the wind for once. Who knows? You might actually like it.”
Bruce had every intention of turning him away, but cunningly Clark had trapped him like a rat in a cage. He had already bought the sandwiches. He was already here. Sending him away would only raise more questions. People had seen him in the lobby. If they see him leave again within only moments of arriving that would make the questions only more probing. So after a moment of stuttering and boiling in rage Bruce decided the best way to get rid of this annoying reporter was to get through the interview as fast as possible.
“Fine.” He growled, marching back into his office to retrieve his coffee cup.
While he marched away, Clark set the table. He reveled in this momentary victory.
“Yes,” he thought. “I’m wearing him down. Soon, he might actually want to be social for once.”
He took the sandwiches out of the bag and set them at their appropriate spots. He put Bruce’s sandwich in front of the seat he had been standing behind. It was a foot long on wheat, with ham, salami, mayo, pickles, and mustard, with Swiss cheese substituted for the usual cheddar. It was Ahmet’s twist on the classic Cuban that was rated quite high among his menu items. Clark assumed that’s what Bruce would order. He had no evidence to back that up, he just thought Bruce was a Cuban kind of guy.
Clark set his sandwich down at the place next to Bruce. They’d have to rotate their chairs sort of diagonally, but that was fine with Clark. It was far from the weirdest place he’d ever eaten. Clark had a custom sandwich, the same thing he had always ordered his entire life. Turkey, provolone, tomato, onion, mayo and lettuce. All placed on a foot long on white and set beside a bag of Lays. It hit all the right bases, and was perfectly fulfilling. He set the two Coke’s at either place, and laid Bruce’s Sun Chips next to his sandwich, another assumption on Clark’s part.
Bruce came back in with his coffee cup in hand and sat at the spot obviously laid for him. He took a second to review the meal before him. A Cuban? Where did Clark get that idea? And Sun Chips? What kind of statement was that? He thought about asking but then Clark spoke up.
“Want to play chess while we eat?”
Bruce looked over at the carboard box being undone. It was a new chess set, all the pieces were still wrapped in plastic. He bought a chess set for this?
“This one comes with checkers as well, we can play that if you’d rather.”
“Chess is fine.”
For a guy with super speed, Clark took his sweet time getting all of that unwrapped. Pawns were in their own bag, in both colors, and then the special pieces had their own bag, again separated by color. The board unfolded once, leaving that ugly crease down the middle where the folding line was.
“So much plastic!” Clark grumbled. “How big a carbon footprint did I leave with this one game?”
He crumpled up the bags and threw them away. Walking back, he said
“Do you want to be black or white?”
“Black.”
“Of course you do, you’re the Dark Knight.” Clark said. Bruce could hardly stand the shit-eating grin on his face.
Clark sat down, and the two men started eating. The oddity of it all was not lost on them. The alien with god level power, sitting at a table on top of the world beside the richest man on the planet, eating sandwiches from a small time deli on the brink of closing down, on either sides of the cheapest chess set Walmart had to offer. But while the Dark Knight couldn’t help but stew in this unusual meeting, eating slowly and pondering how in the world his partner managed to keep that stupid hair swirl so still, the Man of Steel pretended like everything was normal. Superman ate as quick and as full as he wanted to. He tried so hard to make this seem normal and happy, because that’s desperately what he wanted it to be. Clark had friends, but that never stopped him from wanting more. As far as he was concerned, if everyone on earth was his pal and wanted to have lunch with him, that would be just fine with Clark, and he’d hang out with all seven billion of them one day at a time, enjoying every moment of it.
Bruce didn’t really have any friends, and that’s part of what made Clark so desperate. Bruce was such a sad figure to behold. He goes around every day investigating murders, stopping criminals with foul mouths, and taking little care of himself. He goes to work, and he’s surrounded by people that only care about him for his money, or people he has to lie to and around all day long because he can’t give up his great secret. Everyone he was ever around was for some purpose, not just companionship, and Clark couldn’t think of something more depressing. Bruce was human, and humans need companionship. They need to eat, and they need to enjoy it. They have to take time off and do fun things. So no matter how hard Bruce resisted, Clark was going to be the bigger man and take care of his best friend, no matter what. Therefore, he ate, and played like everything was normal.
“How’s your sandwich?” He asked.
“It’s, good.” Bruce stammered. “Good uh…good…ingredients.”
“Oh, I know!” Clark exclaimed. “He only ever gets the best produce, and the best meat. It makes such a difference. This is by far my favorite sandwich place.”
Silence took over the room again, but for the gentle tapping of chess pieces moving across the board. Superman played fast, sort of careless. Like he wasn’t paying attention, or like it was just a game to him. Batman played much slower. Taking time to react to, and read his opponent before making his next decision. Every move Clark made confused and upset him more and more. Did he have any idea what he was doing? He tried not to say anything, because every blunder Clark made brought him closer to losing, but still. His last move was the final straw.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmm?” Clark responded, oblivious to the question at hand.
“Why would you move there? I can take your queen for free now.”
“Well yeah. I’m protecting my pawn.”
“What? That’s ridiculous why would you sacrifice a queen to keep a pawn?”
“Because, I don’t want to lose my pawns.”
“But isn’t losing a queen much- “
Then suddenly, Bruce realized it. He was using his big pieces to protect the little pieces. Because that’s how he sees himself. Superman is the big powerful piece protecting the little pieces from danger. The saccharin messaging in there instantly offended Wayne. He let out an exacerbated sigh and threw his head back in frustration.
“What?” Clark bellowed. “Let me play how I wanna play. If it makes you win than good for you.”
The game continued in this manner, and Bruce secured a victory in only a few more moves. Clark sat dumbfounded, trying to decipher how in the world he ended up in checkmate so fast.
“Wow. Nice job. You’re good at this. No wonder your bad guys always say you’re one step ahead. Let’s run it back.” Clark said, genuine amazement adorning his face.
Clark reset the board and made his first move. Bruce looked down at the board in front of him, and couldn’t help but view it as a waste of time. Clark opened with that same stupid move, taking the far corner pawn and moving it two spaces forward. This game was going to play out just like the last one did. He was going to blunder his high value pieces, Bruce was going to corner him, and the game would end.
“Isn’t there something better you could be doing?” Bruce asked, bemused.
“Nope.” Clark replied, with the matter of fact joy of a toddler saying no to cleaning their room.
“Really?”
“Yep. I’m good.”
“In the entire world, there’s not a single person getting robbed, or about to commit suicide, or getting raped?”
“Nope. We’re all good. It’s your move.”
“Not one bank heist, not one workplace massacre, not one cat stuck in a tree?”
“You know that doesn’t actually happen that often.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I am not kidding you. Everything’s cool. I’m wearing my suit underneath this so don’t worry. If something happens, I’ll go handle it. It’s your turn.”
Batman sighed and sat forward again, begrudgingly executing Caro-Kann Defense.
“Clark this is ridiculous.”
“*clip clop* Your turn.”
“I get what you’re trying to do.”
“*clip clop* Your turn.”
“I’m fine, I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“*clip clop* Your move.”
“I’m a grown adult. I know how to take care of myself, and the last thing I need-“
“*clip clop* Checkmate.”
Bruce looked down and nearly choked. He WAS in Checkmate. How? How did he not notice it was happening? How did it happen so fast? Was he being hustled?
“Should I reset the board?” Clark asked, with a mixture of smug self-satisfaction and sincerity that Bruce couldn’t help but gawk at. Bruce waved his hand dismissively, the defeat burning in his heart way hotter than he would normally have allowed.
“But seriously Clark, this is stupid.”
“*clip clop* Your turn.”
“While I appreciate the concern-“
“*clip clop* Your turn.”
“It’s a little rude of you to assume that I can’t-“
“*clip clop* Checkmate.”
“What the FUCK?!”
“Hey, watch your language please.”
“Are you fucking with me?!”
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who chose not to castle.”
“Clark this is insane!” Bruce said, standing. “Look you, have to go.” He stuttered a little. He had all the confidence in the world but for some reason he felt so guilty about saying it. “I’m sorry, I just. I have a meeting with R&D in fifteen minutes and then legal after that and…it’s just crazy. You should probably go. Thank you for the sandwich. It was delicious.”
“Oh, ok. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. Time flies huh? Well thanks for having lunch with me.” Clark said, standing and shaking Bruce’s hand.
“Yeah, thanks for uh, yeah.” Bruce said, still struggling over the game.
“I’ll leave the chess board here. Thanks again, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure you can, wait what? See me, what?”
Bruce followed him out trying to get clarity but Clark was gone in an instant. By the time Bruce made it to the waiting room door, the elevator door was already closing.
“Clark! Wait! We’re not-“ and the door closed, leaving Bruce standing in the middle of the waiting room, completely red in the face.
He stood pondering the ridiculous moment for a whole fifteen seconds. He could not believe what just happened.
“Want me to call security?” Margaret asked.
“No he’s…on his way out.”
“What was all that? Mr. Wayne?”
“I…was interviewed.”
“Over lunch?”
“…yes.”
“How did it go?”
“…good I…think…he might’ve been one step ahead the whole time.”