(IC: Bruce Wayne)
The door opens, pending my arrival. I take a deep breath, before hearing Alfred's version of the phrase "Have a good evening". I look up at the sky. Strange thing about Gotham City... the sky always appears red. Like a cloud of wine... or blood, hanging over it. In some respects, it's breathtaking. In others, it's a reminder that what I'm about to do is a waste of time.
I give Alfred a nod, before heading inside. Okay, Bruce... Keep focused. If you do that, the evening will go by with much more of a swiftness.
A tiny gulp enters my throat as I realise there will be questions, naturally, about where my new, as the tabloids call it... 'fling' is. "Why, she's recovering at home from being attacked by a burlap sack wearing madman weilding a fear inducing chemical toxin!" ...To say the least, I need to think up a plausible excuse.
I enter the front part, where the tickets would usually be collected.
"May I see your invitation, Sir?", The man behind the desk asks.
I put on a grin. Time to put on the old Thomas Wayne charm, here...
"Actually, I believe I'm on the VIP list."
He gives me a skeptical look. Apparentally, He hasn't read the tabloids... Because it doesn't seem he recognises me.
"Everyone is, these days."
I smirk.
"Well, not 'everyone' is named Bruce Wayne.", I say, narrowing my eyes.
The man pauses, as it sinks in. His jaw nearly drops, realising it.
"Oh! Oh, terribly sorry, Mr. Wayne! I... didn't realise... ...Right-Right this way...", He says, indicating the entrance to the lobby. I nod.
"No problem. I can understand the confusion.", I say, walking off.
...Actually, I can't. But it really doesn't matter to me, anyway.
I'm escorted to the large fundraiser room. Hundreds of people are already here, to my dread. I look around, taking in the champaigne glasses, aswell as diamonds, 50's music being played by the band, and the slow dancing on one end. Socialites sit at their tables, by candlelight, laughing at things that shouldn't be laughed at by other people. People I'm pretending to be.
Overall, it's a pretty typical event. I've been to similar ones. But, it's for a good cause, at least...
I immediatley grin as a familiar face walks up to me. He's actually one of the more dignant men from this class of society, despite his garish features and almost laughable figure. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, Owner of the 'extravigant' Iceburg Lound.
"Bruce! So glad you could make it, dear boy!", He says, putting his trademark umbrella under his arm, and extending a hand. I shake it, despite it being somewhat deformed, under a silk glove...
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Ozzie.", I say, still showing off my, as my mother used to refer to them, 'pearly whites' as I take in the crowd in attendance.
I'm getting alot of looks, naturally. Being apart of the Wayne family usually comes with that. Most of them are the same people, actually.
Except... Two, that I don't believe I recognise. Both women. Both strikingly beautiful, actually... But in different forms of beauty. One, in a red dress... Her beauty is that of the newer, exotic age. Darker skinned, darker haired, gorgeous eyes... Her beauty isn't a rarity. The other's... Her's is a rarity. The one in the black dress. Exotic by no means, she makes up for that with a sort of classic beauty and elegance in her looks. Her form of beauty can be dated back to the late 30's, but is timeless, all at the same time. Though... She'd be much better suited as a blonde, I feel.
I stop.
...What am I thinking? I have someone of my own. One I should be with, tonight. Analyzing other women's forms of beauty isn't what I should be doing to pass the time.
I focus back on Oswald.
"I'm surprised to see you here alone. Usually, You have at least two exotic ladies on your arms, you lucky devil.", He laughs.
I join in.
"Well, actually... I met someone, believe it or not. But the 'lucky devil' comment can still stand."
"Oh? And who would the young lady be this time?"
I smile.
"She's a reporter. Spunky, charming, stunning... Basically what every other reporter in Gotham isn't.", I laugh.
"Ah. A news type. Never been a fan of those, really... But good to know. And why isn't she here this evening?"
I pause. Well... I knew this was coming. Have to think something up...
"She's... well, actually, she's recooperating. Nasty Ski-accident, you see..."
"Don't I know it. At least you're alright, then."
"Who, me? Oh, I don't ski. Gives me a frightful headache.", I say, putting on the 'weakling' part of my act. What better way to lead suspicion away from me being a masked vigilante who takes on Gotham's criminal underworld on a nightly basis?
Oswald takes me aside.
"Now, Bruce... you know that I respect you. You're family helped me in alot of ways, in aqquiring the Lounge. But... Take my advice. Lose the reporter. She's trouble waiting to happen, believe me. I've met that Lane woman from Metropolis... They're all the same, from what I've seen."
I nod, pretending to listen.
"My advice? Find someone here. There are nearly hundreds of chaming women in attendance tonight. You'd be saving yourself alot of trouble.", He says, with a... what I call a 'waugh'.
I smile.
"Got anyone in mind?"
"That's the spirit! Now, go find one. And give them a glass of champainge, on me.", He says, handing me a wad of fifties. I take them, stuffing them into my tuxedo.
"Will do, Ozzie. And thanks."
"My pleasure, boy. Enjoy the evening.", He says, walking away.
Oswald is, perhaps... and I use that term strongly... a kindred spirit, but when it comes to charm, He's a few Penguins short of an Iceburg, to put it as kindly as possible...
I begin walking around the room, starting up conversation with various people.
God, let this be over soon...
