trans_9 | What's he building in there?

Anyone passing by the hangar at this particular moment will hear the sound of some serious mechanical maintenance; the crackle of welding gear and the hiss of hydraulics. It's a rare indulgence for the current occupant, as intermingled with the bang and clatter of the work permeates a lilting yet bombastic tune that flares from the radio of the craft that he is currently working on.

It was one of Thomas Wayne's favourites and at this time of year, the time of his death, it was all the harder for that little boy that still hid somewhere in the caverns of Bruce Wayne's mind to ignore. All the same, he takes great pleasure from hearing it, not that an observer would be able to tell from the usual clenched jaw and eyes hidden impassively behind opaque work goggles.

That's right, even the Bat-goggles come in black. As does the craft on which he toils; an angular, wide-winged jet fighter. Or at least, it used to be, before he began cannibalising the harebrained concoction of alien technologies that had in the past been used in the designs for the Justice League Satellite and its squadron of shuttlecraft, in order to make his personal plane spaceworthy.

Anyone who wants to talk may, but they'd do well to address the Batman from a fair distance. A blowtorch and years of self-induced psychological conditioning can be a pretty lethal combination.

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Bruce smiles bitterly. The selling of flesh for whatever reason; sex, vengeance, territory; it was common enough in his own world. He didn't envy her, and conceeds, "Benefits, right?"

"Eternal life, if you can afford it," But that's not true, is it? Extended life, at any rate. Between noble rot and the thousands of incompatibilities that arise from cyberization, enough cyborgs died of their own medical causes to make it just another form of mortality, "Beauty, for as long as you want it, at any rate. A proverbial fountain of youth."

How old is this woman, by the way?

"Benefits. More, or less."

Oh, he's already considered that prospect, but had long since decided that getting her age wasn't worth the punch to the gut it would no doubt earn him.

The Major's last comment lingers in the air for some time before he counters.

"A bat flew through my window," comes the impromptu answer to one of her earlier questions, a rare exchange for the answers that she had given him, "My butler liked to torment me by hypothesising what other creatures might have come through that window at that moment. Mosquitoman was by far his favourite."

Answers? No, any child with access to wikipedia in a public internet café could learn everything she's told you without effort. Still, the reply is welcome, and she seems to think on it for a few minutes. Again that falsely detached demeanor— a thousand miles away and three places at once. If the Major were at home, it could be assumed she were on the Net or having a wireless conversation behind the scenes, but there's no network save the Omnicom, here.

Eventually, an artificial shift in her weight, moving from one foot to the other, "Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live."

Bruce counters her rehearsed detachment with directionless intensity. He stares at nothing in particular while recounting the torrent of memory that came with the Bat, the second day in his life when everything changed. As much smells and tastes, gunpowder and blood. A flare in the murk.

"I wouldn't bother waiting for the fulfilment of that prophecy," is his muted response.

"I'm in no hurry," the equally muted reply. What happened to Kuze might not be the worst way to die, might technically not be death at all, but watching someone do it certainly left an impression.

Well, aren't they just two cheerful rays of sunshine?

Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

After some moments of silence, he shifts his weight from the hull of the ship and tosses the rag amid a mess of tools. Reaching for the the goggles on his forehead, he says, "There's work that needs doing."

"Isn't there always?" A sharp, attentive ear might catch the soft hiss of active camouflage going live, but by the time anyone could look up, she was already gone. Conversation finished with, neither of them were the sort to stand around and stare at each other.

He looks back and she's gone.

So this is what it's like for Jim when he pulls the disappearing act...

What's he building in there?

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