Bruce marveled at the sheer size of the stockpile.

“Why?”

“Stop them from falling into the wrong hands,” Lucius said. “Besides, I thought someone might get some use out of them—”

Bruce shook his head. What part of “retired” did the other man not understand?

“Sure I can’t tempt you with something?” Lucius pressed. “Pneumatic crampons? Infrared contact lenses?” He eyed Bruce’s cane. “At least let me get you something for that leg.”

Bruce appreciated the offer, but no. His bad knee kept him grounded, more or less.

“It’s fine for the use its gets these days.”

Lucius shrugged.

“Well, I have just the thing for an eccentric billionaire who doesn’t like to walk.”

He moved to a thick metal door that guarded an adjacent chamber. Lucius entered a code into a keypad mounted next to the door and the security barrier rolled upward, exposing the hangar beyond. Bruce’s eyes widened at the sight of a sleek, state-of-the-art vehicle that appeared to be all folding metal planes and panels. Enormous rotors waited to lift the intimidating craft into the air.

“Defense Department project for tight-geometry urban pacification,” Lucius said proudly. “Rotors configured for maneuvering between buildings without recirculation.”

Bruce was impressed.

“What’s it called?”

“It has a long and uninteresting Wayne Enterprises designation,” Lucius stated, “so I took to calling it the Bat.” He turned toward Bruce with a sly smile on his face. “And, yes, Mr. Wayne, it does come in black.”

Bruce couldn’t resist taking a closer look. He limped forward and ran his hand over one of the prototype’s many angled and overlapping elevons. The cockpit was sheltered beneath the wings in a sturdy armored module. The empty pilot’s seat called out to him. Instinctively he wondered how the Bat handled in the air.

“Works great,” Lucius said, as though reading his mind. “Except for the autopilot.”

Bruce stepped back from the machine.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Software-based instability,” Lucius said with a sigh. “Might take a better mind than mine to fix it.”

Bruce eyed him skeptically.

“Better mind?”

“I was trying to be modest. A less busy mind,” he amended. “Yours, perhaps.”

But Bruce refused to let the older man entice him. He turned his back on the aircraft with an undeniable twinge of regret.

“I told you,” he said firmly. “I retired.”

* * *

“I’ve seen worse cartilage in knees,” the doctor commented, examining an X-ray.

Bruce sat on an examination table in Gotham General Hospital. It was already dark outside, but Alfred had managed to arrange an after-hours appointment. The Wayne name still opened doors in Gotham, no matter what the latest financial reports said.

“That’s good,” Bruce responded absently, only half-listening. He had other things on his mind.

“Not really,” the doctor said. “That’s because there is no cartilage in your knee. And not much of any use in your elbows and shoulders. Between that and the scar tissue on your kidneys, residual concussive damage to your brain tissue, and the general scarred-over quality of your body, I simply cannot recommend that you go heli-skiing.” He tsked at the map of old scars criss-crossing Bruce’s bare back and chest. “About the only part of your body that looks healthy is your liver, so if you’re bored, I recommend you take up drinking, Mr. Wayne.”