thewhysarewise:

“Ah. Well, all in a day’s work, I suppose, but one can get too much.”

He observed Jay’s face as it reconstructed happiness into sadness—or at the very least, world weariness. How did a man die and come back to life? How did he talk about it nonchalantly, all the while looking like he lost an integral piece of himself somewhere deep and dark and cavernous? 

"An ideal way to die, some might say—briefly, and returned with a clean bill of health. Do you hide them, normally—your eyes? And…how exactly does one wind up in a Gulag?”

The first question was merely etiquette, a logical thing to ask, watered down with a limited amount of curiosity. As for the second, Eddie did not expect an honest answer. Nothing verbal, at least. But perhaps he could salvage a piece of this jigsaw puzzle and put it back together. At least he wouldn’t be bored.

“Please,” he took another sip of whiskey, settled an arm across the back of the booth as he leaned into it, uncoiling. “There’s nothing honest about it. It’s hardly to my benefit to be insane in this city—the market’s very well cornered—tends to wear a purple coat, or a mask and cape…”

Or tell drunken tales of regeneration and glowing irises.

“No, I leave the theatrics to others—the last new world order that was attempted here didn’t go so well for the instigators in the end… Gotham’s grand flaw is that everyone is stupid and they all care so much, about one thing or another. Let the criminals and the mobs and the vigilantes tear each other apart—they loosen things up, all I do is…rearrange the pieces. And, for the record—I’m far too well dressed for most people.”

"Yeah man, a gulag.”

Leaning in, he whispered conspiratorially.

“Most people think they disappeared with the fall of the U.S.S.R. But they didn’t. In fact, there’s a massive network of them, some old coal mines, others fallout bunkers, all throughout Ukraine.”

He winked before leaning back, he swallowed a third of his drink.

“There’s a reason no one is allowed in Chernobyl. It’s not just the radiation, Comrade. There’s things hidden there that would make your nosing around in Wall Street seem like stealing candy from a dead baby.”

A sudden quiet came over the bar, and Jason’s gaze flicked to the entrance. A broad shouldered man was visible, making his way through the crowd. Once at the bar, he ordered a martini, then found a seat with the man whose collarbone had been tweaked by Jason. He turned his attention back to Eddie.

“Heads up. Our boy called for backup. I can’t promise we won’t get in a fight.”

Again, a wink.

“I’ll take lead, if it comes to it. You strapped?”

He hadn’t noticed a piece on Eddie, but it could be in his waistband. Everyone carried around here. Mostly illegal. People were too careless with guns, Jason thought with a snort. Like I’m one to talk.

“Doesn’t matter. No one will pull a firearm here; too many people and too many witnesses. Better off using your hands.”

Jason enjoyed fucking with people; it was one of his favorite activities. The look of nonplussed calm, twinged with just a hint of you’re fucking crazy, dude, was just evidence he was succeeding.

thewhysarewise:

Jay’s mouth said friend. His eyes did not. Eddie doubted he had many—otherwise they would be present, especially if there was so much as a shred of truth to his next grandiose statement. He certainly couldn’t complain of uninteresting conversation He felt like he was trapped inside an hourglass, searching for the one illuminating grain of sand that would reveal just how much truth was in the concoction of Jay’s tale. But the sand kept raining down on his head, getting in his mouth and eyes—everything was distorted. Eddie’s eyes narrowed by a fraction, irritated because he didn’t disbelieve.

“That is quite an achievement,” he said carefully, lifting his glass to take a sip. 27 years of brewed gasoline was what he tasted, but not a trace of his  displeasure showed on his face. “How does one go about coming back from the dead—without a considerable amount of paper work? Though I suppose it is rather a hobby for Gotham’s wealthy.”

If Jay hadn’t been part of his company’s unsanctioned missions—if he had never seen a battle before, Eddie supposed he might as well walk off the nearest bridge because his deductive skills were slipping. He nodded, biding time more than offering courtesy.

"Me?” he drawled the word as harmlessly as he could, before flicking his eyes up to meet Jay’s iridescent ones. “I own half the patrons in here—and they’re all so…blissfully unaware of the fact.”

Eddie allowed the smallest of smiles to tug at his lips. Two could play at the game of vagueness.

“Let’s just call me an entrepreneur." 

Jay’s eyes twinkled, the humor of Eddie’s words not lost on him.

"Oh, you know. The heart stops, you get supposed brain death. They toe tag you, then you wake up in a body bag. The usual, right?”

Amusement crossed his face, then sadness. The thousand yard stare is back, aimed at nothing in particular.

“Oddly enough, they say I’m healthy as an ox now. No lasting effects, but…well, for some reason, the eyes changed. Nothing I could do about it. Kinda funny that way, you know? You never get to control the things that matter most to you.”

“Managed to stay alive after that, however. From Gulags to the plains of Africa to the alleys here at home, nothing else was as bad as that night.”

Why the hell was he talking so much? The challenge of knowing that this stranger was dangerously smart? The whiskey? Maybe, although Jay’s liver was nearly indestructible these days. Maybe it was the sentimentality of it being his dying day.

“A businessman. Good ol’ honest capitalism! Except, come on now Eddie. You’re not a frontman for any company. What are you, on a board? Shadow organization for a new world order? You’re far too well dressed to be insane, so I’d have to assume you’re well off-or very good at pretending.”

thewhysarewise:

“Sure,” he supplies as if the answer absolutely doesn’t matter. “If you like…”

The man was entirely too stable as the tipped glass hovered over the tumbler, especially when one considered his rather prolonged state of inebriation. There was limited-if any-swaying, he poured the drinks with precision, Eddie watched the ripples fill the glass. They barely trembled. He glanced at the bottle, now almost entirely emptied. Jay’s level of balance would take a control that was more than practiced, that was instinctual. A need to defend, to be sentient at all times, it was ingrained in him. Even by Gothamite standards it was excessive—it had to be bred. Childhood habits either shed themselves like snake skins against bark and stones, or clung on like an armor—eternal.

Eddie’s blood had been shaped into a consistent state of flight over fight—until he’d clawed it all out of his system. He had been a pitiful, frightened child…But this, this was not a man born out of fear—or at least, not fear cut of the same cloth as Eddie’s. This man had realized his power much earlier—and Eddie wondered why.

“So, Jay…Tell me, what is it you do?” he kept his tone polite but vaguely disinterested, people felt more obliged to reveal secrets when he pretended he had no interest in hearing them. “No offence…but this bar seems a tad…snooty for your tastes.”

“Snooty?” Jason snorted. “This is twenty-seven year old whiskey, Friend. Not just every bar has this stuff.”

But he was right. Men of Jason’s size and disposition didn’t normally associate with coked out Wall Street types, not in Gotham. There was a caste, a system of who-was and who-wasn’t. Jason was not in his assigned group.

“You’ve got a point, though. I’m here for an-oh, how do you say this. Fifteen years ago, I was murdered. I came back. It’s a celebration party.”

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting the shrewd man’s response. It wasn’t often that he told truths like this, but there were just so many variables to dying that he felt confident in his ambiguity. Plus, no one would believe the real story.

“I have a private security business. Army for hire, government contractors, the works. Cut my teeth in the East, mostly Mongolia and Russia. A little bit of Italy.”

He grinned, swirling his whiskey. 

“Man of many hats, Eddie. You?”

thewhysarewise:

“Luckily for you, I am not in the uncomfortable habit of following people into bathrooms, then. Besides, it would only make you hostile, willing to disclose less.”

Eddie’s gaze did not waver beneath the scrutiny, though perhaps it would have been wiser to fake it. He had endured a life time of people trying to stare him down, because they were bigger, brutish, and thought they could frighten him. There was no malice here though, instead, Eddie felt as if this man with his strange iridescent irises was trying to bait him into asking questions. He wasn’t sure if it was bait he was willing to take.

“It is…an interesting effect." 

How did you do it? Surely it had to be natural….But it didn’t look it at all. No infection he could think of off the top of his head, expansive database that it was, would produce such an effect. Jay didn’t appear to be high, and he would know if a new drug had been introduced into the respective club and bar scenes. And still, it was rare to find something that effected the eyes so profusely. 

"Eddie,” he said evenly, watching the bottle with mild interest. Definitely not fond of not getting his own way, this one. “Nicknames don’t suit me.”

He relaxed, just barely, as he admitted his name. Something wasn’t right about this man, but what, he couldn’t tell.

“Eddie. Good to meet you. Come here often?”

There was no emotion, no flicker of interest in Eddie’s eyes. It was as if his surroundings utterly disinterested him. It reminded Jay of the Generals that he’d encountered in the Gulag, wholly unimpressed with anything not directly causing them harm. It was the look of a man who had seen hell, seen lives taken and spilled blood. Eddie didn’t seem the type to have served, and unless he had grown up in Eastern Europe, Jason doubted that he had been in war.

So what was it? Sociopathy? Drug addled psychosis? No, not drugs. He was too lucid, too clear. Perhaps just extreme apathy. After all, Jason could sympathize with not caring-hell, he’d made a living out of being uninvolved in his contemporary’s activities. He’d watch. Watch and deduce, see what exactly was going on with this unusual man with the sharp eyes.

thewhysarewise:

Alright. In hindsight, it may have been better to have just let bygones be bygones—not mention the untreated heart condition he suspected the lout to have, stolen his car keys and, far more importantly, the flash-drive in his pocket and called it a productive night. He probably shouldn’t have suggested that the bodyguard was having an affair with the man’s wife either. He had no basis of that knowledge, but he was…unimpressed with the dialogue exchange and felt like ruining a few lives would be pleasant. For him, anyway. Too much long term gratification, not enough immediate planning.

And then the standing and the swearing, spittle flying everywhere and of course, the shoving. He had no time to plant his feet, and doubted it would have made much of a difference. He stumbled back, tripping over his own shoes, landed heavily in a nearby booth. Right. Bottle of some expensive liquor or other to his left. A sigh, barely concealed. Addicts were such animals. He used to be one of them—dreadful. Disgusting. He considered his options, calculating. Smash the bottle on the table and jab into the eyes? Or smash the bottle over big-wig’s head and hope for a concussion? Not hard to aim for the temple. Eyes were more effective though, a far better target. He supposes he could kick out and break the nose. As it turned out, he didn’t have to because the booth’s patron is standing.

He, whoever he was, was quite frankly, huge. Easily over two hundred pounds, and even at a glance, this was a man who knew how to handle himself. Went straight for a pressure point—maximum pain, minimal force or exertion. Knew what he was doing, definitely. Interesting. Protective too, didn’t like authoritative figures. People pushing weaker people around. Eddie folded one long leg over the other, settling back against the bench to observe the rest of the scene. The finance…whoever he was—lab rat really, inconsequential—his employers were far more interesting…went staggering off. He suppressed a chuckle, rearranged his lapels.

When the man turned…His eyes. There was something wrong with them. Not heterochromia, no he had that himself. Iris implants, perhaps? Unlikely, hard to schedule and to justify. He felt like it was rude to stare and to ask fbgj he wanted to blurt out the question, regardless. He considered the volume of liquid missing from the bottle, decided to hold his tongue. The tone was friendly enough when he was spoken to, Eddie refrained from rolling his eyes.

“God, no.” Extremely evident disdain. “You couldn’t pay me to touch a hooker of his”

Blunt, as always. He supposed he could summon up a thank you, make it sound relatively genuine.

"Thankfully I’m not his waitress, and thank you…Jay, for your…intervention. Well timed.”

He’d avoided the main question, wondered if he ought to buy another bottle for his new acquaintance.

He wasn’t blind, and the stranger wasn’t subtle. He caught the lingering stare, knowing what had caught his attention. Jason’s eyes weren’t exactly normal, and they attracted attention. Very nearly luminescent, and a pale blue that seemed to glow with an electricity that came off as supernatural. Blame Talia, and her secrets about his resurrection. 

“That’s probably best, man. She’s damaged goods." 

He laughed, then swirled the remnants of his whiskey around his glass, looking down.

"You show a lot more restraint than most at a bar, friend. I’ve had people follow me to the bathroom just to ask about my eyes. Nice tact." 

He was looking up now, drilling into the man’s own eyes, letting him see just what Jay was talking about. 

"Don’t mention the rescue. I’ve wanted an excuse to hurt him for a while now. Drink?" 

He lifted the bottle, tipping it to the stranger. 

"And I need a name, pal. It’s that, or you get a new nickname.”

The smile showed it as a joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

No, it’s okay bartender. Just give me the bottle. Yeah, the big one. Why am I drinking? Well, you see, I died a while back. Got my skull crushed in by a maniac with a crowbar. Today is the big one-five, the crystal anniversary. Nah, I’m okay. Just let me take Jack here and we’ll have a nice long talk in private.

Nestled in a back booth at Finnegan’s, a hole in the wall financial district bar, Jason sipped his third-fourth?-highball of Gentleman’s Jack, not even bothering to look up at the commotion a few tables over. Henri hadn’t wanted to come gloom and doom with him, and…well, there wasn’t much of anyone else left. Isabel had been some sorta spy, Batgirl wasn’t speaking to him, and Roy was dead. Kory was furious that he’d almost died fighting Batman in a stupid pissing contest. Dick…Dick didn’t care.

He was startled out of his thoughts when a tall brunette man in an eggplant trenchcoat fell backwards into the empty bench seat across the table from him, catching himself on an extended hand. Looking up, Jason saw a man in a suit, white powder and blood traced on his nose. His face was red, veins and tendons bulging out of his perfectly tailored shirt. He was yelling, but the words weren’t registering in his ears yet. Looking back at the fallen man, he saw no emotion but thinly veiled annoyance, and he immediately decided to back the man. Standing, he drew himself up to his full height, clearing his throat to get the Wall Street asshole’s attention. 

His eyes widened as Jason loomed above him, the color and confidence draining as two hundred and forty pounds of denim and leather stepped towards him, putting a massive hand on his shoulder. Leaning down, Jason peered into the man’s huge pupils, looking for the fear past the dilation. 

“Come on, Shitstain. That’s no way to act. Get the fuck outta my booth.” He squeezed tight on his clavicle, feeling the bone strain under his thumb. The man winced, then attempted to squirm away as the pain increased. Finally, Jason let go, chuckling darkly as the man practically sprinted away, clutching his shoulder. Sitting back down, he swept a hand through his hair, glad he’d dyed the streak. He hated attracting attention when it was showing, and this was exactly why. The fewer identifying marks, the better. He’d even taken to wearing contacts, but tonight, he had chosen to let his pale aquamarine eyes go natural. The bartender had his name, but that was all. Nothing would come of the search, anyway. The League had erased his identity over a decade ago, not like it was difficult. All that had been under his name was a birth certificate, and even that had been erroneous. HIs parents hadn’t ever actually gotten married, but a common law marriage had been been applied the year after Jason was born. In any case, his birth name had been Jason Peter Winick, with his mother’s maiden name given to him. After her death, he’d adopted his father’s surname, not wanting to bring any attention to the only legacy Catherine had left him.

"Financial guys can be real assholes.” He was addressing the fallen man now, watching as he readjusted that purple coat. He was…unique looking, to say the least. Wideset eyes, a huge chin, and cheekbones that looked so out of place Jason wondered if he’d had them implanted. “Name’s Jay. What’d you do to piss him off, anyway? You try to rent his favorite hooker?” He laughed, tossing back the last bit of his glass. “I’ve seen him knock a waitress out for getting his martini wrong before.”