Chapter
One
The
smell of paper and stamp glue had become the aroma of freedom.
Everyday
now, when he walked through the doors of Wayne Enterprise, he was ready to take
in deep lung fulls of each smell. Shoe polish, machine oil, computer wiring.
Everything that eventually weighted down on the average pencil pusher was a
refreshing reminder that he, was cured; was free.
It
didn't smell like wood here. Even the desks and chairs were over masked by
thousands of reports and the perfume of high paid sectaries. It was here,
pushing a mail cart for eight hours a day that Arnold Wesker had found his
little bit of reality. His relevance. His mark to the real world.
Here
he made an honest living, doing honest things. No nasty, order-barking
marionette weighting down his right hand. No cold, heartless puppet controlling
his every move. No Scarface to drag him into a world of depression.
Here,
the tiny and mousy looking older gentlemen had found a new hope. Greeted with
smiles and friendly nods as he placed each man or woman's daily letters and
memos onto their desk.
It was hard to believe he'd use to be a criminal, or could have ever been one ever. Not such a little man. An unintimidating guy whose height was just over five feet and a couple inches. Think reflective frames in a pale mousy face. The lines and wrinkles that came with a year shy of fifty seemed almost hidden by the way he'd keep his chin dug into his white button up shirt collars. What was left of his white silken hair was always brushed neatly, taking care even to press the fluffy sideburns that still rounded his ears into place. Tie always knotted just right, brown day suit wrinkle free and tailored correctly to his thin frame.
He
had to look good. He wanted to look good. If it was he they were going to be
seeing first thing in the morning, Arnie didn't want to offend them. So he'd
subvert himself behind his mail cart, careful never to run anyone over.
And
they'd always greet him with a "Hello Arnold, How are you?" Or
"Mr. Wesker? Feeling okay today, that's a cute tie." And even the
ones that didn't say a word, merely smiled and nodded to him.
He
was shy and never managed more then a polite thank you back to them, maybe just
a light smile. But it made him feel good. You're doing a good job! He
always tried to tell himself. Just like Dr. Arkham instructed he should
do. Tell yourself good things, Arnie, and take your medication.
And
he never heard them whisper as he rounded the cubicles to head to another area.
"That's
the Ventriloquist you know?"
"I
heard he was cured. Do you believe it?"
"I
dunno, might be. He looks okay, but I wouldn't trust being alone with
him."
"Cases
like his, they don't get cured easily. One day he might snap and he'll be
pushing that puppet into our faces."
"Well
then don't do anything to provoke him. He's a freak, but we can just pretend
and smile at him."
And
they did, they always smiled at him.
Today
was no different; really, save for the aspect that he was rounding four whole months
SANE out of Arkham. Four whole months without cracking. Four whole months
without pining for that little wooden puppet. The reality of never having to
fall back on Mr. Scarface was starting to look like a true possibility for
Arnold Wesker.
All
thanks to Mr. Bruce Wayne. For giving him this chance; this job. Arnie almost
felt like whistling as he handed out the memos today. Of course he wouldn't,
that would have been disturbing. But he was smiling more. Why, the timid
little guy even managed a few "Hello, how are you today, Sir? Ma'am?"
By
the time he'd made his rounds for half the floor, Arnie's face hurt. Yet even
as he bumped the cart into the elevator to head up a floor, he kept smiling. So
good to be free.
No
more crime, No more Mr. Scarface. A real life. He was making that step.
He
was stepping right out of the elevator and running his mail cart right into
someone's waist.
"Oh!"
The little man gasped as his cart halted with a bump, and he lost his
smile. A few letters slipped off and fluttered to the ground. "I'm
s-so sorry! I should have b-been watching where I was going!"
Those
thick frames shimmered in the bright fluorinates as he immediately stooped to
pick up the fallen letters. "S-so Sor-"
He
was quieted by a strong hand landing on his shoulder, and the person he had run
into stooped to help him. "It's okay Arnold, you didn't hurt me at all, we
all forget to look sometimes."
The
timid man stiffened slightly and he turned his face to look up at Bruce Wayne.
"Oh Goodness! I'm sorry, Sir! Mr. Wayne! I didn't know it was you!"
"Arnie,
Arnie." Bruce patted his shoulder and pressed the letters he'd gathered up
into the older man's hands. "It's okay. But I have to admit, but you
rather stopped me in MY tracks when I came around the corner to see that big
grin on your face."
"Oh
I.." Arnold felt his cheeks go red as he took the memos and stood up. He
kept his chin to his chest as he fumbled. "It's.. I... just having a ..
g-good day." He was cured, he was free, but people still worried him
so. Especially anyone with the ability to fire him, for say, running them over
with a mail cart.
He
was getting better at interaction. But passing by and delivering notes was one
thing, full on conversations was another.
One
a step at a time.
Bruce
never removed his hand from the older guy's shoulder. "That's wonderful!
You always seem a little sad to me, so it's really good to see you smiling.
Don't worry about the cart, you didn't mean it. Common on, Come get a coffee
with me. I have something I want to ask you."
"Oh,
B-but my work.." Arnie's protest was quickly pushed to the side, between
two cubicles and Bruce Wayne used a strong arm to escort the smaller man toward
the coffee machine at the end of the hallway.
"It'll
still be there in a couple minutes, Arnie." Wayne gave the little guy a
nod and a scrutinized eyeballing. Arnold would never know the moralizations
that were going on in his bosses’ head about him. How Wayne had watch him
like a hawk for the first few months. But now those eyes only watched like a
regal eagle.
Coffee
was poured, sweetened and pushed into the older man's mismatched hands. The
scars and calluses from so many years of handling Scarface were beginning to
fade. They would never completely go away, a reminder of a time when he'd been
a rouge of Gotham City, but they could forgiven.
Arnold
took a sip nervously. What did his Boss want? Had he been doing a poor job?
Getting memos mixed up? He was always so careful when delivering. "W-what
did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Wayne Sir? D-did I mix up some
mail."
The
billionaire merely chuckled and patted Arnold's back as he sipped his own
coffee. "Nope, Arnold. You're doing a fine job. In fact, what I want to
ask you has nothing to do with work at all.. I was wondering, how's life for
you outside this building?"
The
small man blinked under his glasses and raised a thin brow at the question.
"O-outside, Sir? I'm afraid, I d-don't understand."
"I
mean, how's your daily life? What do you do when you get off from work? Have
you made any friends? Do you attend any clubs?"
"Oh."
Arnold bit his lip. And for the first time that day, he did feel the usually
sadness that Wayne saw on his face. Yes, while he enjoyed his job, he..
".. It's fine.. I guess. I d-don't really know a lot of people. I just go
home.. watch TV.." He didn't really know anyone was the correct
term. He was lonely. Free, but lonely.
"Nothing
at all?" Bruce raised his own brow at the small man and patted his
shoulder again. "Well, I just wanted to check on that, and I think I could
help you. Arnold, would you attend a dinner party I'm having tomorrow night at
my estate?"
Arnold
yelped as he burnt his tongue on the coffee. "Wha? D-d-dinner party?"
Cold sweat immediately sprung up on the older man's neck and he looked up at
Wayne with disbelieving expression. "M-m-me?"
Bruce
handed him a napkin and rubbed his back. "Yes, I think you would enjoy it,
get to met other people in a none-delivering-mail situation. There's more to
life then just work, Mr. Wesker. I'd be very happy if you'd attend."
"Oh
b-but I.." Had other arrangements? Hardly. Yet Arnie could scarcely
believe he was being asked this question. Gotham's biggest Gothamite was asking
him to attend something so ritzy, something so elite. Why him? Why little old
him?
"I'll
even send out a cab for you, Tomorrow night at six? I'll send it straight to
your house."
Arnie
couldn't find his voice; he just stood there with a napkin in one hand, coffee
in the other, and the palest expression on his face. He finally just nodded
with a meek mouse sound.
"Good."
Wayne patted his back again. "I'll see you tomorrow night. Keep up the
good work Arnie."
Bruce
smiled as he slipped off and headed toward the elevator, leaving the older man
just staring at his Boss as he disappeared from view.
Dinner
party? Tomorrow night? Six O'clock?
What
would he wear?
--
Alfred: Your standard Gotham social
event would be fitted without a player piano, an ice swan and a champagne
fountain; polite conversation amongst the rich and a certain number of mildly
disgusted servants who would keep the hors d'oveur table stocked and the
glasses full.
Wayne manor, however, was not known for hosting standard events. The Wayne family's constant friend and advisor; Alfred Pennyworth; slipped past the large oaken organ that sat in the middle of the large hall, giving a cursory tip of his head to the man playing it.
Alfred
was the head servant, tonight and every night; but calling him a 'servant' was
rather like calling a phoenix a 'rather interesting bird'. He was a tall
man, nearly as tall as Bruce, and the discrepancy was purely the result of his
age stooping him ever so slightly. That miniscule decline in height was one of
time's few marks upon the man's appearance, the others being the thinning of
his silvery hair and the faint wrinkles under his cold, dark eyes. A perfectly
groomed moustache, a perfectly clean monocle, a perfectly tailored suit.. His
shoes shone. It seemed that no matter how hard he worked, his appearance was
never affected.
Alfred
passed a large ice sculpture that dispensed a rare type of alcohol that he'd
rather not think about, being that the whole morning was spent finding enough
bottles of it in the various liquor cabinets in the manor to fill the
repository under the table. The cold Chernobog that was perched over the
milling well-dressed guests was frozen in a point, a cooled stream of the drink
flowing from his fingertip into the mouth of a cold demon that sat gaping at
his feet. The chandeliers above Alfred's head were decorated with fall leaves
and black feathers, and the light was a dusky orange. This party wasn't as
festive as the Halloween ball a while back, but it was an autumnal celebration
to be envied.
Alfred
stepped up beside his employer without a word, only a little dry smile, and
Bruce returned the secretive grin.
"A
rather tame crowd, Master Wayne. Would that the staff were so easy to work
with." They stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching the
swaying bodies moving in the warm light, and after a moment Bruce spoke.
"My
special guest will be here any minute, Alfred. Why don't you go and show him
in?" Bruce smiled good naturedly, strolling off through the crown to have
a word with one dignitary or another. Alfred shrugged, a little puzzled
expression showing across those normally stoic features, and he made his way to
the vaulted doors of the main ballroom, heading for the front entrance. Nearly
everyone invited had already arrived- And then some! Who could he be speaking
of? It was nearly seven, and as wild as parties got in Gotham, people generally
didn't like heading out after dark. At least, MOST people didn't. The good
people didn't. Maybe one or two would risk it.. But..
When
Alfred opened the door he was greeted with a burst of cool air and the sight of
a solitary black limousine.
Wesker: One with such an impeccable
height as the butler, would have to lower his expectations to behold who stood
in the winding path that lead to the doorway. If the short stature had not been
enough, with still a good six steps to climb, the late arrival must have seemed
utterly miniature.
Fumbling a bowler hat between his mismatched pale hands, Arnold Wesker, formally renowned as the Ventriloquist, squeaked low to himself as Alfred appeared in the doorway. Engulfed in the surrounded flood lights of the walkway, the small man was a silhouette of black with two perfect beaconing glasses that would have chilled the hearts of better man had they fallen sight upon them a year ago.
I'm
probably late. I know I'm late. I hope Mr. Wayne isn't mad at me. Good, God,
why did I even come?
The smaller man shuffled half way up the steps with nervous motions. Behind
those thick frames his eyes were latched to the Butler. He'd particularly never
SEEN the man in person before, but he knew who he was. Mr. Wayne's Butler,
Alf... something. He wasn't quite sure on the name.
Once
the excriminal reached the top of the steps, the more direct lights from the
poach and inside the mansion revealed it was actually a well-tailored tuxedo he
was wearing. Quite similar to the ones he used to wear while carting that
despicable puppet around on his arm. Spats tapped so lightly onto the welcome
carpet, and he finally raised his head to looked up at the man's face in the
doorway.
A
hand left his hat to adjust his red bow tie. "H-h-hello, I'm here... Uh..
Mr. Wayne Invited... I.. Uh... am I late?"
Alfred:
"Not very.." The voice rang out cool and level, though
his brows rose ever so slightly. This man seemed familiar, rather like the
shadow of someone else, someone whom he had known long ago. Those
spectacles and that peculiar timid mouth; the white hair and the way he carried
himself.. It all rang a little bell in the back of Alfred’s head. He stepped
forward and inclined politely, brows dropping slightly, a pleasant-enough
expression on his face.
"Master Wayne and myself are honored by your
attendance. Please, step inside." He turned as the Former Ventriloquist
moved closer, and opened the door with one gloved hand. As the two moved
through the entry hall, they neared the room that was being used as a coat
check.
"May I, erm.." Alfred began, but blinked,
silencing himself when he realized that the guest wasn't wearing a coat.
"Ah, Master Wayne told me you would be coming.
However, I'm not sure I've had the honor of your acquaintance..?" The
butler offered a hand to the man, who seemed to be about his own age.. Though
the nervous manner and the shy expression made him seem a bit younger. "My
name is Alfred. I'm the head of staff here at Wayne Manor."
Alfred had learned to keep quiet around most of
the guests, choosing to watch their peculiar games from afar.. The socialites
who attended these parties kept a cool attitude to the wait staff, and Alfred
kept his good-natured condescension to himself. However, this little old man
seemed like the type to be polite to everyone, to not be offended by
conversation with a servant.. And there was something so naggingly familiar
about him.. Maybe it would be helped if Alfred knew his name.
Wesker: A coat! A coat! He'd forgotten it! In his rush to
greet the ride at his rather poor apartment, Wesker had scarcely enough time to
finish ironing out the jacket of his tuxedo when there’d come a knock on the
door.(He briefly panicked on wither or not he'd shut the iron
off.) Goodness knows he'd barely gotten his bow tie straight. He'd be
sorry later, no doubt, when it was time to leave and it was twenty degrees
outside.
"T-thank
you." Arnold stammered as he stepped past the butler and into the manor.
Once inside the little man straightened enough to peer around and then down the
long hall way. He could hear the festivities and the piano music drifting
toward him in what should have been an alluring invite to follow along and join
the party. But it just made Wesker more nervous where he stood.
He
didn't know how to join a party! Sophisticated by training only! By Scarface's
backhand; by his mother's nagging. He never tried to slide along
side aristocrats and blue-bloods for the hell of it. He was here.. because
he'd been asked, and he had such a hard time saying no.
The white haired excriminal bit his lip and turned his full attention to the butler that was addressing him.
Alfred.
That was the name. Head was tilted up so he could study the man with that
impeccable white glove held out toward him. He looked around his age; tall and
sleek with a neatly trimmed mustache above his stiff upper lip. He seemed
proper and refined. Certainly he had more important things to be doing then
escorting Arnold's pathetic little posterior to the party.
No
wait, he wants your name. He's trying to shake your hand!
"Oh!"
Wesker shook himself out of his deer-in-headlights state and softly slipped his
scarred up right hand into the butler's smoothly gloved one and gave a light
timid shake. "A-arnold Wesker, I uh.. give your boss.. his m-mail."
Yah,
the real life of the party had arrived.
Alfred:
Alfred
shook that hand gently for a moment or two, and the combination of hearing the
name and seeing the scarred fingers in his own made him blink in surprise. If
he was not mistaken, this was.. Yes, this had to be..
THE
Arnold Wesker, the one who'd been in Arkham for so long, the one Bruce
mentioned that he was helping rehabilitate. A pet project, almost, he seemed..
And Bruce didn't exactly ramble on about the projects he took on, but he did
confide to Alfred. The butler knew better than to feel fear at the revelation..
After all, if Wayne had invited the man, he was likely very close to being
completely cured.. And without the puppet at his side, he was almost
unrecognizable. A shadow of his former self.. A smaller and meeker but
altogether healthier man.
"It's
a pleasure to meet you, Mister Wesker... Follow me, the party is this
way." Alfred released the hand and turned to lead him down the hall. The
two entered the main ballroom a few moments later, and Alfred thought it would
be best to escort Wesker to Bruce's side and excuse himself. After all, if
Bruce insisted that a reformed criminal come to his party, it might be best if
the Batman himself could keep a close eye on a potential danger. Alfred looked
about, scanning the room with dark eyes, and could not locate the Master, but
didn't bother with puzzlement or alarm. Bruce was likely talking to someone
slightly richer and grossly less intelligent than himself, and he'd turn up..
But..
Alfred looked over his shoulder at the man who seemed to shiver in his shoes and wondered briefly about how such a timid creature could ever have the capacity for evil.. He felt as though the hand he placed on his shoulder wouldn't offend. "Perhaps you'd like me to show you around..?" The cool exterior was not stopped but lowered, and that set mouth curved into a warmer smile. Wesker inspired.. Not exactly pity, but.. He was a creature one WANTED to empathize with, feel concern for.
Wesker: Yes, indeed. The famed Ventriloquist, scourge of the
Gotham Underground. Borgata to the Gotham Mob, well ex-Gotham Mob. That's why
he was here wasn't he? Because he'd been such a good boy, taking his
medication and going to work every day. Just like Dr. Arkham had told him to
do. Why this was the first time in months that a stop outside work and home was
some place other then the shopping center, or a visit to Arkham for his weekly
therapy.
"O-okay."
Was nodded when the butler insisted that they head toward the party. Much like
a mouse, the excriminal scampered and/or crept slowly as he followed along.
Eyes hidden under those thick frames obscured where his vision actually was
going, but with the turning of his head each and ever way, it was obvious, it
was never on one thing. He looked at the decor walls, the fancy carpet,
Alfred's trailing tuxedo tails. Everything.
Once
they reached the entrance of the party room, the smaller man halted with a
sudden well up of uncertainty. There it was, Gotham's crème deli crème.
There was snobbish businessmen with fat wallets, and beautiful women in
thousand dollar dresses with expensive string pearls around their ivory
necks. Fine wine, dancing. Everything across the large hall looked,
smelled and radiated money.
Mr.
Scarface's jaw would have hit the ground. Wesker shook himself. Don't think like
that. He's not here. You're not even suppose to dwell on him.
But
asides from the aspect of the party. Oh, it looked such a grand party, but it
nearly made Wesker want to wet himself. All their voices jumbling
together; the clanks of glasses and high snotty laughter. By the time Alfred
had turned around and addressed him, the small meek man was wrinkling his own
poor perfect white shirt nervously in those mismatched hands of his.
"Huh?"
He could feel the sweat cooling on the back of his neck as he jerked his face
up to meet Alfred's again. Show him around? But what about Mr. Wayne? Come to
think of it, he couldn't spot the billionaire.. and he really didn't want to go
into that crowd. With alll those people; those people he didn't know.
"I
d-don't want to take up your time!" He added quickly, he felt even the
help was far too important to bother with him. But then again, walking around
with the butler seemed a lot better then all those strangers. Alfred was a
stranger too, but less then everyone else.
"If you'd like to s-show me." Wesker finally peeped out.
Alfred: Alfred was a man of conviction, that couldn't be
denied. He was just as dedicated to fighting crime in Gotham as Bruce was, and
though he was primarily resigned to working behind the scenes, his role was
just as important as Batman's. If Batman was the warrior; Alfred might have
been something like the guardian angel.. The savior's savior, or at least the
one to catch Bruce when he fell. Alfred being the sort of person he was,
villains would naturally make him wary! The initial seconds after hearing that
name, he'd been rather conflicted, but.. Though this Wesker was the
Ventriloquist, it seemed as though Bruce had been so kind to the man as to help
him turn around; find a better place for himself.
Fighting
crime was, for Bruce, more than putting on a cape and going out at night to
punch and kick and drag in criminals.
Fighting
crime was not something he only did when the moon was out and the mask was on.
Bruce Wayne himself was a hero.. Only human, he had his flaws, but he
was sweet and kind to people who needed it most.
It
made Alfred feel rather old to think that he was responsible for most of that
man's upbringing.
So,
if Bruce were fighting crime by being kind to the Ventriloquist, why shouldn't
Alfred? It was surprisingly easy to forget the small old man's crimes.. That
unsure expression and the glasses.. That odd little bowtie! They were
disarming.. Very close to charming, in an odd way.
"It's
not a trouble at all.." Alfred smiled, feeling rather comfortable around
this particular guest.. He sensed from Wesker not cool recognition but an
actual kind of meek awe that bordered on true respect. It was refreshing, and
it gave Alfred a new sense of social confidence that hadn't been refreshed in
quite some time. "Here, this way.." The British accent that was cast
over his voice was almost easy to miss, it had faded over the years but was
still present, and somehow this made him just a touch more trustworthy and
dignified. Odd how merely the sound of a man's voice can help define how his
personality is viewed..
The two circled the room, pausing occasionally so
that Alfred could point out an important guest or bit of architecture[two
eye-catching sorts of things that could both by wooden and boring upon further
inspection] and ended up near the middle of the large hall, beside the ice
sculpture. Alfred was rather glad that Wesker had kept himself faintly
together.. And that no one had noticed him or took offense. "Would you
like a drink, perhaps?"
Wesker: In coincidence, it was also almost impossible to
tell how other people truly were by sound of voice or mannerism. Take the
Batman for instance. No one ever accused the social playboy that was Bruce
Wayne to be the mighty Cape and Cowl. How he was social lighting and
swinging girls in his arms one moment, and dawning a scowl and swinging himself
from a black nylon rope the next. None of this, The ex-Ventriloquist knew, it
was just theory.
But
yes, it was easy to forget, especially when it came to Wesker, what an
evil evil little man he'd been in the past. Of course if asked, Arnie would
have stated it had never been him but Scarface all along. Wesker himself hated
violence, hated crime, and had been the victim of each many times. Gotham was a
city of turn around. Scarface had been Wesker's ace up his sleeve, Wesker's way
to proverbially bitch slap Gotham back for what it had done to him.
Yet..
he was here because he'd left that all behind. And one couldn't certainly think
Wesker a brute by the way he followed Alfred around so timidly, nodding and
doing his best to seem interested in everything the butler showed him.
Honestly, he couldn't quit wrap his mind around all these riches. He was happy
with just his little apartment and enough money to pay rent. He didn't miss the
'finer' things in life his puppet-side loved to soak in the spoils of. So he
just followed along, almost puppy-like behind the butler, keeping close
to the other's side.
And
he had to admit, while the party worried him greatly, walking around with
Alfred was quite nice. The butler, wither by nature, or perhaps just being
generally polite, didn't make Arnie feel like an outsider. As if the other man
could see past those frames into the eyes of a desperate and tired old man, who
just needed some friends and was too afraid to make any.
Alfred
made him feel welcomed. He didn't have to do this. Show him around. He could of
just left him waiting in a corner for Mr. Wayne. So by the time they made it
back around to the party, Wesker wasn't cowering so much. His usually
stuttering had ceased and almost had a smile on his face.
"Well..
I.. don't hold alcohol well, but I guess one drink wouldn't hurt." He said
as he looked at from the butler to the sculpture. After all, he'd offered, it
would be impolite to decline, not after such a nice tour.
He
wasn't perfectly relaxed, but he was leaving his shirt alone. It was probably
Alfred's good doing alone, that Arnie only mildly yelped when a strong
hand landed on his shoulder!
"Arnold!"
Bruce smiled as he stepped up between the two. "I'm glad you came. Are you
giving Alfred trouble now?" Bruce nodded over to his butler and smiled.
Alfred: "Not at all, Master
Wayne." Bruce might have been the only person he knew at this point to
whom he could speak in such a manner.. Polite, refined, but with an odd sort of
humor, as if he were subtly, good-naturedly making fun of Bruce with every
word. That wasn't unlikely, the two were very close. "Mister Wesker was
just about to have himself a drink." He reached out with one gloved hand to
pick up an empty flute from the table, held it under the stream that hissed
from the demon's finger for a few seconds and then drew it away, handing it out
to Wesker. Not a drop of the fluid had spilled or fallen- Perfect, but not
irritatingly so. That phrase basically summed up what most people thought of
the old butler.
"And you won't have a drink yourself,
Alfred?"
"Of course not, Master Wayne. I am, of course,
working."
"It's your job to walk Mister Wesker around
like a child?" Bruce grinned, filling a glass for himself. "Suit
yourself.." Dark hair and a charming face that was very good at
belying the type of work he did at night, a lovely black suit. Among such tall,
pressed men, ones with above reasonable reputations, Wesker must have felt-
"A bit odd, Master Wayne, this guest you've
brought."
"Be polite, now, Alfred.."
"Apologies. He does seem the nervous
sort.." Alfred had taken the opportunity to lean nearer to Bruce and speak
as Wesker gazed about the room, rather oblivious to their conversation.
"All he needs is a friend. That's why I invited
him."
"Well, who
could be his friend..?" Alfred began, but met Bruce's pleased smile with a
reproachful one.
Wesker: "Well, I’m going to try
and find out, Alfred." Bruce smiled and shifted his hand out toward all
the dancing and chattering people, while keeping up his whispering. "I
figured a polite and well mannered crowd would help him out of his shell."
A shell that the excriminal was slowly slipping back into. Now that Bruce had stolen Alfred's conversation from him, Arnold felt the paranoia starting to creep up on him again. His drink that the butler had been so idyllic about pouring was spilling a little around the edges as he brought it to his thin pale lips and took a small sip.
Those
covered eyes were watching the crowd. There were so many people here, and he
didn't know a single one of them. He was tempted to just squirrel behind the
butler and hid till it was time to go home. You can't do that, and you know
it. He's got work to do.
The
small man stiffened when Bruce was suddenly petting his shoulder again.
"Mr. Wesker, common, I'm glad you had a good tour with Alfred, but allow
me to introduce you to some of my friends here."
And
then like that, before Arnold could protest, Bruce was walking him onto the
dance floor. Toward the scores of people that seemed so high and mighty, so out
of touch with how Wesker felt. The small balding man clutched his drink tighter
to his chest and felt a whimper bumbling up in his throat.
"This is.... and this is.... " He could hear Bruce saying. He could hear them laugh lightly, and see them nod in his direction. He chocked out 'hellos' and 'nice to meet yous', and slipped his now sweaty hand into peoples perfectly dry ones.
"Arnold
Wesker?"
"Arnold
Wesker?"
"Oh
I know you, aren't you that Ventriloquist fellow? Cured? How interesting."
Bruce
kept smiling, but he'd let his hand slip from Arnold's shoulder. Slowly
stepping back. This was why he'd invited the little man, to let him mingle, and
he was happy to see his guests were starting to respond to the little guy.
He
just had no idea how bad of an idea it really was.
Alfred:
Alfred watched the two as they moved through the crowd, Bruce's
voice growing more distant and less distinct.. But even though Alfred could no
longer hear them through the low roar of crowd and the organ, he watched.
Poised and composed, but his eyes made his concern apparent.
'Cured' might be true of the nervous old man, but
only in the right circumstances. He said that he brought Bruce's mail.. Working
in an office, even in a bustling one, was quite different than mingling at a
party. He could hide behind his little cart, organizing letters in an empty
mailroom, his thoughts calm and unthreatened. Likely, the people there were
kind to him.. If only out of fear.. And didn't give the famed ventriloquist any
trouble. And so be was safe there, had a guardian in Bruce, had a steady income
and a quiet life.
The wizened butler
knew Bruce well, but couldn't read his mind. He wasn't sure what thought
processes led him to believe that Wesker was ready for this sort of event; and
though he knew that the former Ventriloquist would not be left to his own
devices, he still watched, worrying. People were human and base.. People with
alcohol in them even more so. This was not a rowdy crowd, but the chances of
someone saying something offhand that might trigger hard feelings in the poor
little creature was not exactly a distant one. Alfred watched, brows set,
though after a minute or so he wasn't watching the two as much as staring
unfocused at the opposite wall, lost in thought.
Bruce had never been a very optimistic fellow, which
was understandable considering his childhood and chosen path. But lately, he'd
been growing more idealistic, a little bit too faithful in the kinder nature of
man for his own good. Bringing Wesker here like this was not unlike a child
bringing home a wriggling snake with the intent of keeping it as a pet. Who
knew when it would strike, who knew how much venom would flow- Who knew how
deadly it could be?
He was startled out of his reverie by one of the
other servants, a young chef in a white costume that seemed a bit darkened and
frayed around the edges.
"Mister Pennyworth.. Mister Pennyworth! There's
a small fire in th'kitchen, I think ya'd better come'n'help us.." His
breathy, clipped speech was hushed so as not to alarm the crowd, and Alfred
sighed at the neophyte employee.
"You'll have
to take care of it yourself, Billington. I'm going to be busy tonight. Special
concern," He explained quietly before he turned to make his way through
the crowd. He felt an odd sort of empathy for the fellow.. Not only a worry for
the safety of his guests but a hope that Wesker would be kept safe from himself.
Wesker: It wasn't that Bruce was trying to test Mr. Wesker.
He was just going with the assumption that if a job and being surrounded by
people had helped Arnie this far; a few friends to brighten up his life might
help him along further. It wasn't a wild party Bruce had invited Wesker
too. It was controlled; these people were cultured, refined. He was just a few
feet off now, and it was the Bat that loomed so close. If things did get out of
hand, he could handle it. If Wesker suddenly ripped off his sock and began
chattering through it, Bruce was here. The billionaire was not out to see if
this could happen. It was just a good natured test.
An
experiment.
There
was many a doctor at Arkham that would have creamed themselves at the chance to
witness this event in action. To see if the true psychosis of the mind,
especially one like Arnold Wesker could handle the strain he was suddenly put
into. To see if he truly reverted back to a state of needing his secondary
personality, or if he could cope with the strain of such a crowd.
To
the effect, it was neither.
Another
hand slipped into his soaked one, another pat on the back. Arnie suddenly
couldn't remember where he was. A party? Mr. Wayne had invited him? He was just
so overwhelmed. The carbon dioxide from a hundred hellos it seemed, the over
powering stench of a twenty women wearing a different perfume a piece. Their
voices all muddled together and became a demonic slow twist that seemed hell
bend on squeezing the life out of his very subconscious.
His
head was woozy, his body felt heavy. Faces winded together as the
exventriloquist couldn't focus anymore. He lost his drink first. A slow motion
clatter to the ground, before the rest of him followed.
And
just before he blanked out, he heard Bruce's voice "Arnold! Arrrno-"
-
Wayne
caught the older man by the arm before he had a chance to crack his head open
on the ground. He'd started to see him stagger, and realized his intentions
might of not been so keen for Arnold. Polished shoes had kicked off the
expensive carpet, barely getting there in time to catch the older man as he
utterly and completely fainted away.
The
bowler hat rolled between astonished feet and Bruce nearly had to growl at the
crowd. "Stand back. Stand back! Give him some room! " Bruce
lowered Arnold to the carpet and looked over his shoulder. " ...
ALFRED! ALFRED!"
Alfred: He didn't need to call for
long. Alfred had been trailing Bruce very closely for the past few minutes, a
feeling in the back of his head that started as a gnawing worry growing darker
and fiercer, slowly but surely.. A worry that very soon, something would go
wrong. It wouldn't take someone with the butler's usually-right intuition to
figure that out.
As he reached
Bruce's side and stooped to crouch near Arnold's shoulder, he only gave a
cursory glance to the man who was practically his foster child. He didn't need
to ask questions, or be reproachful.. Not now. One arm slipped under the
unconscious man's shoulders, and he straightened his legs to stand.. Wesker was
not terribly heavy, but Bruce grasped him around the middle and helped Alfred
escort him from the room.
"One too many to drink, I think," Bruce
called out with a half-smile to the crowd, and he was met with a slow wave of
nervous tittering. The party resumed and the socialites forgot, and the three
men were alone as they moved through the hall.
"This seemed like a foregone conclusion to me,
Master Wayne."
"I'm sure, Alfred.. " Bruce sighed, using
his other hand to wipe his forehead. "I.. misjudged. Alfred.."
His brows rose and he turned his head to look past
Wesker's, at Bruce's apologetic expression.
"D'you think you could.. Well, we'll bring him
to one of the guest rooms, and.. Can you watch him, Alfred?"
A slow sigh, and his eyes flicked down to the
spectacles that sat lopsidedly on that little turned-up nose, the white hair
and the mouth frozen into a lax expression of fear. That nagging almost-pity
again, the desire to see him off well.
"Of course, Master Wayne." Though he was
sure he'd be quite bored, spending the evening with an unconscious old man,
but.. Who knew, in this house, with these people..
Pervious Chapter