Lance was thoroughly satisfied with his harvest in Gotham. His dream pet, enforcer, subordinate, watchdog, and adopted child, all in one.
In terms of age, there was hardly any difference between him and Waylana Jones.
But that did not matter. What Lance wanted, Lance got.
In Gotham, things were always that simple.
Batman continued to diligently play the role of a foolish playboy by day, while taking time at night to act as a vigilante.
He seemed to have already made contact with Officer Gordon, who had yet to become Commissioner. For now, none of it concerned Lance.
After confirming that everything in Gotham was in order, Lance woke from a nap and returned to Hell's Kitchen.
...
Hell's Kitchen.
The window suddenly burst open, followed by a gust of cold wind. A silver-white mech shot inside, circled the room in a swift arc, then landed with a sharp hiss of jets.
"Cool!"
No matter how many times he saw Tony Stark show off the Mark II, Lance always played along.
He genuinely thought the thing was absurdly cool.
With a soft mechanical hum, the faceplate of the Mark II lifted. Stark stood in front of Lance's desk, glanced around the office with open disdain, and spoke.
"Your place is really quite pathetic."
Lance rolled his eyes without the slightest restraint.
"Yes, yes, yes," he drawled lazily. "How could it possibly compare to Stark Tower? After all, poor lawyers like us have to settle for discount coffee beans."
"Good. At least you're self-aware."
Stark disengaged the armor, dropped onto the guest sofa without ceremony, propped his feet up, and gestured for Lance to serve him.
"Coffee. Three sugars. No milk."
A textbook arrogant playboy.
Anyone else might have given in to Tony Stark for one reason or another.
Lance was not one of those people.
He looked Stark up and down, but no matter how he examined him, he could not see any real change since Stark's return from Afghanistan.
If anything, the man had gone from extremely annoying to merely ordinarily annoying.
Still punchable.
Lance had no intention of indulging him.
"If you want coffee, get it yourself," he said, lifting his own cup and speaking slowly. "If you want my help, that's also possible. One million U.S. dollars per cup."
"One million?!" Stark shot to his feet, pointing at Lance with a trembling finger. "That's robbery. Daylight robbery!"
"If you want to insult me," Lance raised a finger and gave it a small shake, "that's two million per sentence. Friendly reminder, that last one already counts."
Stark's anger was extinguished almost instantly.
"Stark Industries' money isn't for you to make like this, Prescott."
He was convinced he had seen through Lance's trick. Provoke him, bait him, then walk away with a perfectly justified check.
A mature Tony Stark would not fall for something so obvious.
What the self-proclaimed mature Stark did not realize was that Lance had already mapped out every trigger that could strip that so-called maturity away in seconds.
Three topics guaranteed to set Tony Stark off on the spot. Money, masculinity, and telling him he was not as good as his father.
Lance smiled faintly at him.
"Mr. Stark, I'm glad you're willing to keep wasting time here with me. Just a reminder, from the moment you stepped into this law firm, our service fees have been calculated by the second..."
"And also, drop the little-girl-style complaining. With all due respect, even the socialites of Manhattan's Upper East Side wouldn't tiptoe around just because there's dust on the floor."
Tony Stark's eyebrows shot up. Before he could snap, Lance picked up the pace.
"I admit the environment here is average. I wasn't born a billionaire like you, after all. But people who start from nothing usually understand hardship better. If I remember correctly, your father, Mr. Howard, started from scratch as well. It seems only those who've truly experienced it understand the value of struggle."
He shook his head with mock regret.
"A playboy like you, born with a silver spoon in your mouth, probably wouldn't get it. No wonder Miss Pepper was so worried when you locked yourself away for three months after returning from Afghanistan. She even spared no expense to hire me..."
Bang!!!
With every trigger hit in succession, Stark finally snapped.
He drove his fist into the Mark II beside him. The poor suit had only just been repaired by its creator not long ago, and now it took another heavy blow.
"Hey! Easy!" Lance frowned, stepping forward to inspect the armor.
"What a poor little thing. Made by Stark Industries, yet it can't even retaliate against a single punch from its own creator..."
He looked up at Stark, who was too furious to speak, and delivered the final cut.
"If you don't appreciate it, why not give it to me? I'll take good care of it."
"...In your dreams!" Stark forced the words out through clenched teeth. Then, without another word, he re-equipped his armor and blasted out through the law firm's window.
Clearly, if he stayed any longer, Hell's Kitchen would be getting a new homicide case.
Thirty seconds later, he was back, hovering outside the window with the faceplate half-raised.
"I called you," Stark said irritably. "You didn't pick up. I had to fly all the way to this dump myself."
Lance pulled out his phone. Sure enough, it was dead.
He shrugged innocently.
"Congress has responded. They're willing to agree to all the conditions you originally proposed, but there's one small additional request. They need me to cooperate with them for a bit of a show."
"What kind of show?" Lance walked over to the window, raising an eyebrow at Stark.
"I don't know yet. S.H.I.E.L.D. will come talk to me about the details, but it's probably the usual routine." Stark replied.
Lance understood immediately. Nick Fury wanted Stark to perform another "prodigal son returns" act to appease the public and the military.
"I get it, I get it." Lance waved it off. It was nothing more than another staged press conference. But the current Stark was no fool. After the secret congressional hearing, he wouldn't easily agree to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s demands.
The rights Lance had secured for him included the freedom for Stark to act as he pleased.
In other words, that press conference probably wasn't happening.
"Contact me anytime if you need anything. You know my rates," Lance said.
"Of course I know!" Stark snapped through gritted teeth. "And get a proper phone line installed in this broken dump of yours. I'm not flying over in this suit again just because you can't answer a call!"
"Understood, Mr. Stark."
___
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