I Have Money

Bruce ignored his nonsense. He pulled a brown paper envelope from inside his coat and tossed it onto the iron table.

The envelope fell open, spilling several high-resolution photos.

In the pictures, a red-and-yellow blur streaked through a convenience store and pushed a girl out of the path of an oncoming truck.

Barry shot to his feet.

"This is a misunderstanding. I don't know what you're talking about." Barry backed away. "I'm just a competitive skater. I like skating in a skintight suit. That's motion blur!"

"Skater," Bruce repeated.

His right hand snapped up, and a black metal Batarang flew straight at Barry's face.

Barry's pupils contracted.

The Speed Force kicked in on instinct. The air around him instantly turned thick, and time sank into a mire.

Drops of spilled cola hung in midair. The video on the screen froze. The hem of Bruce's coat stopped in mid-swing.

Barry sighed. Moving at his normal speed, he reached out with two fingers and easily caught the Batarang.

Time resumed its normal flow.

Barry looked at the Batarang in his hand, then at Bruce on the sofa.

"Gotham's Dark Knight. Batman." Barry swallowed. "Why aren't you in Gotham dealing with that red-eyed lunatic? What are you doing in Central City?"

"I came to find you." Bruce stood. "We need to put together a team."

Barry pointed at the screen.

"Did you see that video? That Chu Men guy tore through the army like paper! I just watch over a warehouse. What am I supposed to do there? Run circles around him until he cuts me in half with those red beams?"

"Your abilities are powerful." Bruce walked toward him.

Barry leaned against the wall, watching Bruce's cold face.

"You need me. Fine. But I have one question." Barry pointed at Bruce. "I've always wondered what your superpower is."

Bruce stopped and straightened his suit cuff.

"I have money."

Barry froze.

"How is that a superpower?"

Bruce took out a custom phone, opened a document, and handed it to Barry.

"This is the acquisition contract for Oceanic Aviation Materials Manufacturing Plant. All the scrap you've collected in your garage belongs to you now. This is your appointment as a senior researcher at the Central City Forensic Science Center. You can start tomorrow. And Wayne Enterprises' lead legal team has taken over your father's case at Iron Heights. We expect a new hearing next week."

Barry stared at the documents on the phone, his eyes widening.

"You investigated everything about me." Barry looked up, his expression conflicted.

"I came prepared." Bruce took back the phone. "I'm going up against a god. I need the best fighters. Are you in?"

Barry glanced at the footage of Chu Men's brutality on the screen, then at the Batarang in his hand.

Bruce's financial firepower and the resolve in his eyes won Barry over completely.

"I'm in. But I'm designing my own suit. The materials I'm using now build up too much static."

"WayneTech will provide a heat-resistant, friction-resistant memory-metal suit."

Bruce turned toward the garage exit.

He had barely taken two steps when the tactical terminal on his wrist let out a shrill red alert.

He raised his wrist, and a holographic screen unfolded in the air.

It displayed a map of the East Coast.

Near Port of Mercy, a massive high-energy signature was moving wildly through the waters.

"Large-scale anomalous tsunami." Bruce stared at the screen, his brow furrowing. "Aquaman's position has shifted."

"Aquaman?" Barry leaned closer. "There really is a guy who talks to fish?"

"Stay in Central City and wait for instructions." Bruce pressed the garage door switch.

The roar of a jet engine sounded outside.

The wind howled through Port of Mercy.

Waves several meters high slammed into the breakwater.

The shattered surf came down like torrential rain on the town's dilapidated streets.

At the Old Sailor Tavern, the wooden door creaked in the sea wind.

Inside, the light was dim. The air reeked of fish, cheap rum, and damp, rotting wood.

A dozen rough-looking fishermen sat around wooden tables, loudly cursing the foul weather and their dwindling catches.

In the darkest booth in the corner sat Arthur Curry.

He was bare-chested, his muscles knotted like rock and ancient tattoos covering half his body.

He gripped an enormous glass beer mug and stared coldly at the cloudy liquor at its bottom.

Bang.

The wooden door was shoved open.

Wind and rain rushed into the tavern.

Several kerosene lamps on the walls went out.

The fishermen stopped talking.

Every head turned toward the door.

Bruce stood there in a black windproof coat.

Water dripped from its hem. Ignoring the hostile stares around him, he headed straight for the corner.

The patrons parted to let him through.

No one dared stop the cold, imposing stranger.

Bruce reached the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

Arthur did not look up. His right hand tightened slightly.

The thick glass mug cracked with a dull pop and crumbled into shards. Liquor spread across the table.

"Get out, city boy," Arthur said in a low voice.

Bruce took a solid-black card from his coat pocket and slapped it onto the wooden table, amid the spilled liquor and broken glass.

"Help me fight a war," Bruce said without preamble.

Arthur raised his head, his gaze fierce.

"Have you lost your mind?" Arthur sneered. "Why would I help you?"

"This card has no spending limit." Bruce pointed to it. "There's enough money behind it to turn this town, which can't even afford to repair its breakwater, into the richest port on the East Coast. Enough to buy every household here a state-of-the-art ocean-going fishing boat."

Arthur surged to his feet. His massive frame loomed over Bruce.

He seized Bruce by the collar and lifted him off the floor with one arm.

"You think you can insult me with money?" Arthur roared in Bruce's face, his breath thick with alcohol. "Your money's worthless in the sea! We don't need your charity! Go back to your big city!"

The fishermen throughout the tavern stood, grabbing bottles and iron hooks.

Bruce's feet dangled above the floor, but his expression did not change. His deep, cold eyes stayed fixed on Arthur.

"Three minutes ago, Wayne Enterprises purchased all fishing rights within fifty nautical miles of here," Bruce said evenly. "Every transaction was legal. Then I transferred all those rights to the Port of Mercy Guild, free of charge."

Arthur went still.

"Money isn't all I have," Bruce continued. "I also have a reason you can't refuse."

Arthur snorted and slowly let go. Bruce landed and straightened his collar.

He raised his left hand and pressed the miniature projector on his wrist.

A blue beam shot out, casting an image onto the tavern's weathered wooden wall.