Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

The kitchen was organized chaos—chefs shouting orders, servers rushing to and fro with trays of elegant hors d'oeuvres, the clatter of dishes and silverware creating a symphony of noise that made Aven's head spin. The heat was immediate, rolling over him in waves that threatened the careful makeup Amanda had applied. He pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the queen shift restlessly beneath his ribs, responding to the spike in his heart rate.

"This way," Coyote murmured, his hand settling briefly at the small of Aven's back to guide him through the throng of workers.

Aven followed, focusing on his steps—heel-toe, heel-toe—while keeping his shoulders back and chin lifted. The modulated voice felt strange in his throat as he responded to the questions thrown his way. Yes, he'd worked events before. No, he didn't need orientation. Yes, he could start immediately.

A harried sous-chef thrust a tray of champagne flutes into his hands, the crystal catching the light from overhead fixtures. "Circulate clockwise through the main ballroom," she instructed, already turning away. "Don't let glasses sit empty, and for God's sake, smile. Luthor's watching everyone tonight."

The weight of the tray felt steadying in Aven's hands, something concrete to focus on while his heart hammered against his ribs. He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface of a nearby refrigerator—red lips, blonde hair, sharp eyes rimmed with kohl. A stranger stared back at him, someone who might have existed in another life.

"Comms check," Wasabi's voice came through the earpiece, quiet but clear beneath the kitchen's din. "You reading me, Joanna?"

"Copy," Aven murmured, pitching his voice low enough that nearby staff wouldn't hear. The modulator transformed the word into something softer, more feminine.

"Coyote's taking the west corridor. You're on the main floor. Remember—forty minutes to circulate, establish presence, then slip away during the keynote address. Top-floor security should be minimal during Luthor's speech."

Aven nodded, forgetting momentarily that Wasabi couldn't see him. "Understood," he said softly, balancing the tray as he made his way toward the service entrance to the ballroom.

The hallway outside the kitchen narrowed, forcing servers to maneuver carefully around each other as they carried loaded trays and equipment. Aven kept his eyes forward, focusing on the mechanics of walking in heels while balancing champagne flutes. The dress felt suddenly tighter, the fabric clinging to his skin with each step. Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck, threatening to loosen the wig if he wasn't careful.

"Thirty seconds to ballroom," Wasabi said in his ear. "Deep breath. You've got this."

Aven drew in that breath, tasting champagne bubbles and expensive cologne on the air as he stepped through the service entrance. The ballroom opened before him like something from a fever dream—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across marble floors, elegant guests in designer gowns and tailored suits, the soft murmur of conversation punctuated by the gentle clink of glasses.

He'd attended a gala once before, back when he was part of Bruce's world. But this felt different—alien. The weight of the wig, the pinch of heels, the way his hips swayed with each careful step made everything hyper-focused, like viewing the scene through a microscope.

A waiter brushed past him, close enough that Aven caught the scent of his aftershave mixed with kitchen grease. The man's eyes skimmed over Aven without interest—just another server, invisible in the way staff always were at these events. Good. That's exactly what he needed.

"Champagne?" Aven offered to a cluster of executives near the entrance, his modulated voice pitched to that sweet spot Amanda had drilled into him—professional but not memorable. The men barely glanced at him as they plucked glasses from his tray, already deep in conversation about quarterly projections and market volatility.

The queen stirred beneath his ribs as he moved deeper into the ballroom, her presence a constant reminder of everything riding on tonight. She seemed agitated by the crowd, the noise, the spike in his adrenaline. Aven pressed his free hand briefly to his chest, feeling the steady whir of the inhibitor pump beneath his skin.

"Visual on target," Wasabi's voice came through the earpiece, barely audible over the ambient noise. "Luthor's holding court near the north windows. Red tie, surrounded by what looks like board members."

Aven’s gaze swept the room until it landed on him—Lex Luthor, just as imposing as he remembered from that winter gala in Gotham. The man hadn’t changed much, still commanding the space around him like a corporate black hole, his presence magnetic and deliberate. He looked slightly younger than Aven recalled, but the sharp intelligence behind those pale eyes was unmistakable.

"Copy," Aven murmured, angling his body away from the crowd as he responded. "Moving to establish closer visual."

He wove between clusters of guests, offering champagne with practiced smiles while cataloging faces, exits, security positions. The training kicked in automatically—Marine instincts overlaid with months of high-society functions at Bruce's side. He knew how to be invisible in plain sight, how to move through crowds without drawing attention.

A woman in an emerald gown accepted a glass from his tray, her fingers brushing his briefly. "Thank you, dear," she said with the kind of absent politeness reserved for hired help. Her perfume was cloying, too sweet, making the queen twist restlessly in his chest.

"Of course, Ma’am.”

Aven moved toward Luthor's circle, the champagne flutes clinking softly with each careful step. The sound of his heels against marble felt too loud in his ears, though he knew it was lost beneath the gentle symphony of conversation and chamber music. His chest tightened as he drew closer, the queen's movements becoming more pronounced with each spike of adrenaline.

He recognized some of the faces surrounding Luthor—board members from various corporations, a senator whose environmental policies had made headlines, a tech mogul whose company had been making aggressive moves in biotechnology. All of them laughed at something Luthor said, the sound sharp and artificial in the way of people who laughed because they were supposed to, not because anything was actually funny.

"Champagne, gentlemen?" Aven offered, stepping into their circle with the practiced invisibility of hired help. His voice came out perfectly pitched—soft, professional, forgettable.

Luthor's gaze flicked to him briefly, those pale eyes cataloging and dismissing in the same moment. "Thank you," he said, plucking a glass from the tray without really looking at Aven's face. The dismissal was complete, immediate—exactly what Aven had been counting on.

But as Luthor raised the glass to his lips, his eyes returned to Aven's face with sudden focus. The intensity of that stare made Aven's skin crawl, like being examined under a microscope. He forced himself to remain still, to keep his expression neutral and professional while his heart hammered against his ribs.

"Have we met?" Luthor asked, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone accustomed to having his every question answered immediately.

Aven's throat went dry. The facial overlay should have been enough to mask his features, should have made him completely unrecognizable. But Luthor was looking at him like he was trying to solve a puzzle, those calculating eyes taking in every detail.

"I don't believe so, sir," Aven replied, keeping his voice steady despite the way his pulse was racing. "I'm just with the catering company."

Those Pale grey eyes dragged down his body in a way that made Aven want to dip himself in bleach.

Luthor's assessment felt like being stripped naked under harsh lights. Aven's muscles tensed involuntarily, every instinct screaming at him to step back, to get distance from those predatory eyes. The champagne flutes trembled slightly on the tray—not enough for anyone else to notice, but Luthor's gaze sharpened at the movement.

"Interesting," Luthor murmured, still holding Aven's eyes. "You have excellent posture for catering staff. Almost military bearing."

The observation hit like a physical blow. Aven forced his shoulders to relax slightly, letting them curve forward in the way Amanda had drilled into him. Softer. More feminine. Less like someone who'd spent years being barked at by drill sergeants.

"Thank you, sir," Aven managed, injecting a note of pleased surprise into his voice. "I did dance in college. Old habits, I suppose."

It was a decent save—plausible, explaining away the unconscious discipline in his stance. But Luthor's smile didn't reach his eyes, and that calculating stare never wavered. The man was dissecting him piece by piece, looking for cracks in the facade.

"Dance," Luthor repeated, swirling the champagne in his glass. "How lovely. What style?"

Fuck. Aven's mind raced through possibilities, trying to find an answer that wouldn't lead to more questions. The queen twisted beneath his ribs, responding to the spike in his heart rate. He could feel sweat beginning to bead at his hairline, threatening the carefully applied makeup.

"Ballet, mostly," he said, choosing something he knew enough about from watching Cass train. "Though I was never very good at it."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but it seemed to satisfy something in Luthor's expression. The man nodded, taking a sip of champagne while his eyes continued their unsettling inventory of Aven's features.

"Ballet explains the bearing," Luthor said conversationally. "Though I have to say, you look familiar. Are you certain we haven't met?"

The question hung in the air like a loaded weapon. Aven could feel the other men in the circle beginning to lose interest in the conversation, their attention drifting to more pressing matters of business and politics. But Luthor remained focused, his pale eyes never leaving Aven's face.

"I'm sure I would remember meeting you, Mr. Luthor," Aven replied, allowing a touch of breathless admiration to color his voice. The kind of response Luthor would expect from hired help impressed by proximity to power. "I'm just a grad student trying to pay off loans."

"Ah, a student." Luthor's smile widened, though it remained cold around the edges. "What's your field of study?"

"Environmental science," Aven said, grateful to fall back on the cover story they'd rehearsed. "Agricultural sustainability, specifically crop rotation systems." The words came easier now, familiar territory from the hours of preparation. "I'm hoping to focus my thesis on sustainable farming practices in urban environments."

Luthor nodded, his expression shifting to something that might have been genuine interest if Aven didn't know better. "Fascinating. Urban agriculture is certainly having a moment. Though I imagine the real challenge is making it economically viable without massive subsidies."

The conversation was veering into dangerous territory—areas where Aven's hastily constructed knowledge might not hold up under scrutiny. He could feel the other men in the circle beginning to drift away, their attention captured by a commotion near the bar. Good. Fewer witnesses if this went sideways.

"You're absolutely right," Aven agreed, shifting his weight slightly as the heels began to pinch his feet. "The economics are tricky. Most urban farms rely heavily on grant funding and community investment programs."

"Hmm." Luthor's eyes narrowed slightly, that calculating look returning. "You know, I could swear I've seen you somewhere before. Perhaps at another event? The winter gala in Gotham, maybe?"

Aven's heart stopped. The champagne flutes rattled against each other on the tray as his hands trembled, the sound barely audible over the ambient noise of the ballroom. The Mayors winter gala. Where he'd attended as Bruce's date, where Luthor had asked him to dance and tried to pry into his redacted personal records. Where Aven had stepped on the man's foot in his dress blues and felt a savage satisfaction at the wince that crossed those pale features.

"I—no, sir," Aven managed, fighting to keep his voice steady through the modulator. "I've never attended anything that fancy. This is actually my first high-end catering gig."

The lie felt paper-thin, transparent as glass under Luthor's unrelenting stare. The queen writhed beneath his ribs, responding to the flood of adrenaline coursing through his system. He could taste copper on his tongue, metallic and sharp, as the queen shifted with his rising Anxiety.

Luthor took another sip of champagne, his movements deliberate and controlled. "My mistake," he said finally, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it was a mistake at all. "Though I have to say, you have remarkable bone structure. Very photogenic. Have you ever considered modeling?"

The question hit like a slap. Aven could hear the subtext beneath the words, the predatory interest that made his skin crawl. This wasn't about recognition anymore—this was about something else entirely, something that made him want to reach for the ceramic blade strapped to his thigh.

"That's very kind of you to say," Aven replied, injecting just enough flutter into his voice to sound flattered rather than terrified. "But I'm much too focused on my studies for anything like that."

Luthor's smile sharpened, and Aven felt the weight of those pale eyes like ice water down his spine. The man stepped closer, close enough that Aven could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying, mixing with the champagne on his breath in a way that made the queen twist restlessly beneath his ribs.

"Education is admirable," Luthor said, his voice dropping to something more intimate, more personal. "Though I find that real-world experience often teaches us more than any textbook. Perhaps you'd be interested in an internship? LexCorp has several environmental initiatives that could benefit from fresh perspective."

The offer hung between them like a spider's web, beautiful and deadly. Aven could hear the trap in it, the way Luthor's tone suggested this conversation was heading somewhere far more dangerous than career advice. His throat felt tight, the modulator suddenly heavy against his skin.

"That's incredibly generous," Aven managed, taking a small step backward that he hoped looked like deference rather than retreat. "But I'm committed to finishing my thesis first."

"Of course." Luthor's eyes tracked the movement, cataloging it with the same calculating precision he'd shown from the beginning. "Though opportunities like this don't come along often. I'd hate for you to miss out."

The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Aven's hand tightened on the champagne tray, crystal singing softly as the glasses shifted. He could feel his pulse hammering against his throat, could taste the metallic tang of fear mixing with the queen's restless movements.

"Perhaps we could discuss it further," Luthor continued, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Over dinner sometime. I know an excellent little place downtown—very private, very discrete."

The business card appeared between his fingers like a magic trick, expensive cardstock that caught the ballroom's light. Aven stared at it, his mind racing through possibilities. Taking it would mean prolonging this conversation, giving Luthor more time to pick apart his facade. Refusing it would be suspicious, out of character for someone supposedly grateful for the attention.

The queen gave a particularly violent twist, pressing against his lung hard enough to make him cough. The sound came out strangled through the voice modulator, feminine but pained. Several nearby guests glanced over with mild concern.

"Excuse me," Aven gasped, pressing his free hand to his chest. "Sorry, I think something went down the wrong way."

Luthor's eyes sharpened with interest rather than concern. "Are you quite alright, my dear? You look rather pale."

The endearment made Aven's skin crawl, but he forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine, thank you. Just need some water, I think."

He reached for the business card with fingers that trembled slightly, hoping Luthor would attribute it to embarrassment rather than terror. The cardstock felt heavy between his fingers, weighted with implications he didn't want to consider.

"Excellent." Luthor's lips curved into a pleased smile as he slipped the card into Aven's hand, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Perhaps you could show me those ballet skills later? I've always enjoyed watching a private performance."

Before Aven could formulate a response that wouldn't involve stabbing the man with his heel, Luthor stepped closer, invading his personal space with the casual entitlement of someone who'd never been told no. The champagne flutes trembled on Aven's tray as Luthor's hand settled on his waist, warm and possessive through the thin fabric of the dress.

"I've always appreciated the artistry," Luthor murmured, his breath hot against Aven's ear, "especially when performed by someone so beautiful."

The queen writhed violently beneath Aven's ribs, responding to the flood of adrenaline and disgust coursing through his system. His fingers tightened around the tray, knuckles going white as he fought the instinct to drive his knee into Luthor's groin. One wrong move, one slip in his carefully constructed persona, and the entire mission would implode.

"Mr. Luthor." A man in a crisp suit materialized at Luthor's elbow, his expression professionally blank. "Mrs. Lane and Mr. Kent have arrived for their scheduled interview."

Aven's heart nearly stopped as he followed the man's gesture toward the entrance. There they stood—Clark and Lois, framed in the doorway like something from a magazine cover. Clark in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that made his broad shoulders look even more imposing, Lois in a deep purple gown that caught the light with every movement. They looked stunning, professional, completely at ease in this world of wealth and power.

And they were staring directly at him.

Aven's breath caught in his throat as Clark's gaze locked with his across the crowded ballroom. There was no recognition in those blue eyes—at least, none that showed on the surface—but Aven felt exposed nonetheless, like Clark could see straight through the makeup and the wig to the terrified Marine beneath.

"Ah, the press." Luthor's smile never wavered, though his hand dropped from Aven's waist with obvious reluctance. "Always so punctual when there's a story to be had."

Aven took the opportunity to step back, putting desperately needed distance between himself and Luthor's predatory presence. The queen settled slightly as he regulated his breathing, though her weight still pressed uncomfortably against his lower lung.

"I should circulate," Aven said, gesturing vaguely with the champagne tray. "Other guests need refreshments."

Luthor's eyes lingered on him, that calculating assessment never fully disappearing. "Of course. Though I do hope we'll continue our conversation later, Joanna. I'm quite interested in your... thesis."

The way he said his middle name made Aven's skin crawl—like Luthor was savoring it, testing its weight on his tongue. Like he knew something.

"I look forward to it," Aven managed, the words tasting like ash. He backed away with careful steps, maintaining his cover with a practiced smile that felt brittle on his painted lips.

As soon as he was out of Luthor's sight line, Aven circulated deeper into the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs. The queen twisted beneath his sternum, responding to the spike in adrenaline. He pressed his free hand against his side, willing her to settle.

"You okay?" Wasabi's voice came through his earpiece, barely audible over the ambient noise. "Your vitals just spiked."

"Fine," Aven murmured, angling his face away from nearby guests. "Luthor got handsy. Nothing I can't handle."

A beat of silence, then: "Want me to have Coyote spill something on him? I've got eyes on a nice red wine that would ruin that white suit."

Despite everything, Aven felt his lips twitch. "Tempting, but no. Stay on mission."

He wove between clusters of guests, offering champagne with mechanical precision while scanning the room. Clark and Lois had moved toward Luthor, press badges visible on their formal attire. Clark's broad shoulders were impossible to miss, even in a crowd this dense. Aven watched from the corner of his eye as Lois extended her hand to Luthor, her smile professional but sharp-edged.

Clark stood slightly behind her, notebook in hand, every inch the mild-mannered reporter. But Aven could see the tension in his stance, the careful way he positioned himself between Lois and Luthor. Protective, even here, even now.

The sight made Aven's chest ache with affection. He turned away, focusing on his breathing as he circulated through the ballroom. The weight of the wig felt heavier with each passing minute, the heels a special kind of torture as he moved between tables and guests.

"Time check," he murmured, passing a marble column that provided momentary cover.

"Thirty-two minutes until keynote," Wasabi replied. "Coyote's in position near the service elevator. Security rotation in twenty minutes. You're still green for top floor access."

Aven nodded slightly, the movement barely perceptible as he offered champagne to a group of women in evening gowns. Their conversation washed over him—stock options, private schools, vacation homes in places he'd never see. The mundane concerns of people whose lives had never brushed against the horrors lurking beneath corporate boardrooms.

He moved on, circling back toward the bar to exchange his empty tray for a fresh one. The bartender barely glanced at him, too busy mixing complicated cocktails for demanding customers. The champagne bubbles caught the light like tiny diamonds, each one a reminder of how far he was from anything resembling his real life.

The queen shifted again, pressing against his ribs with enough force to make him pause. Aven gripped the edge of the bar, knuckles white against the polished surface. The pain was sharp but brief—a warning, maybe, or just her response to the stress hormones flooding his system.

"You alright, hon?" The bartender glanced over, concern creasing his weathered features. "You look a little green around the gills."

"Just tired," Aven managed, forcing a smile that felt like cracked glass. "Long shift."

The man nodded sympathetically. "Tell me about it. These corporate galas are murder on the feet. You need some water or anything?"

The kindness in his voice made Aven's throat tighten unexpectedly. Here was someone treating him like a person instead of invisible hired help or a potential conquest. The contrast to Luthor's predatory attention was jarring.

"I'm okay, thank you." Aven lifted the fresh tray of champagne flutes, testing his balance before stepping back into the crowd. The bubbles tickled his nose as he moved, mixing with the heavy perfume and cologne that seemed to permeate every corner of the ballroom.

He caught sight of Clark again, this time closer—close enough to see the way the man's jaw tightened as he took notes. Lois was speaking, her voice carrying that particular cadence of someone asking pointed questions. Luthor's responses were smooth, practiced, the kind of non-answers that politicians and CEOs had perfected into an art form.

Aven forced himself to look away, to focus on the mission. But the sight of Clark in his element—confident, professional, completely unaware that the woman serving champagne twenty feet away was someone he'd held against his chest just hours ago—made something twist in Aven's stomach that had nothing to do with the queen.

The marble floors reflected the light from crystal chandeliers, creating patterns that shifted with each step. Aven found himself cataloging details automatically—exit locations, security positions, the rhythm of staff movement through the ballroom. Old habits from a life that felt increasingly distant from the woman he was pretending to be.

A sharp laugh from nearby made him flinch, the sound too loud and too close. A group of executives had clustered near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, their conversation animated by whatever corporate gossip was making the rounds. Aven approached with his tray, smile fixed in place.

"Champagne, gentlemen?"

They barely acknowledged him, hands reaching for glasses while their attention remained focused on their conversation. Something about quarterly projections and a merger that would reshape the biotech industry. The words washed over him like white noise, familiar yet meaningless in the context of his current predicament.

The men drifted away as their conversation concluded, leaving Aven alone near the window with his half-empty tray. The glass reflected fragments of the ballroom behind him—a kaleidoscope of moving figures in evening wear, all of them blissfully unaware of the danger walking among them in three-inch heels.

"Twenty-eight minutes," Wasabi's voice whispered in his ear. "How's your stress level? Queen's been quiet for the last few minutes."

Aven touched his chest briefly, feeling the steady whir of the inhibitor pump beneath the dress fabric. The alien presence had settled somewhat, though he could still feel her weight pressing against his ribs like a constant reminder of everything that could go wrong.

"Manageable," he murmured, turning slightly away from the crowd. "Luthor made me, I think. Not completely, but he's suspicious."

"Facial overlay holding?"

Aven caught his reflection in the window glass—blonde hair, red lips, the subtle shimmer of the mesh device along his jawline. The woman staring back at him looked nothing like the Marine who'd walked into that safe house hours ago, but Luthor's calculating eyes had seen something familiar anyway.

"Yeah, it's holding. He's just too smart for his own good."

The sound of approaching footsteps made him straighten, plastering the professional smile back on his face as he turned. A woman in a silver gown was heading his direction, her expression friendly but distracted.

"Excuse me," she said, reaching for a champagne flute. "You wouldn't happen to know where the ladies' room is, would you?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. Of course someone would eventually ask him something that required intimate knowledge of spaces he'd never been expected to enter. The women's restroom. His mind raced through the building schematics they'd studied, trying to remember if they'd noted the locations of facilities.

"I'm sorry," Aven said, letting embarrassment color his voice. "This is actually my first time working this venue. But I think I saw signs pointing toward the east corridor?"

The woman nodded, already moving away. "Thank you anyway, dear."

The casual endearment stung more than it should have. Dear. Honey. All the diminutives that people used for service staff, reducing him to something small and insignificant. It was perfect cover, exactly what he needed, but it still made his jaw clench with suppressed irritation.

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention—Clark, stepping away from Luthor's circle with his notebook tucked under his arm. The man moved with that easy confidence that had drawn Aven from the first moment they'd met, completely at home in his tailored tuxedo. He was heading toward the bar, probably to get Lois a drink while she continued her interview.

Aven found himself tracking Clark's movement across the ballroom, the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the way he navigated through clusters of guests with ease.

The thought struck him with sudden clarity—he could approach Clark. Could use the excuse of offering champagne to get close enough to speak, maybe even pass along information and ease his worries about Aven’s presents here.

But as Aven took a step in that direction, his earpiece crackled to life.

"Abort approach to Kent," Wasabi's voice was sharp, urgent. "I've got three security sweeps heading your way. Luthor's ordered increased surveillance on all staff."

Aven's blood turned to ice water in his veins. He forced himself to continue his slow circulation, champagne flutes clinking softly as he moved between guests. The queen stirred beneath his ribs, responding to the spike of adrenaline that flooded his system.

"Copy," he murmured, angling his face away from the nearest cluster of guests. "How long until—"

"Miss?"

The voice behind him made every muscle in his body lock up. Deep, familiar, with that particular warmth that had haunted his dreams for months. Bruce's voice, though he'd never heard it pitched quite like this—carefully modulated, public-facing, the tone he used for Wayne Enterprises functions.

Aven turned slowly, his heart hammering so hard against his ribs that he was certain everyone in the ballroom could hear it. The champagne flutes trembled on his tray, crystal singing a soft warning.

Bruce Wayne stood three feet away, resplendent in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that made his pale eyes look like chips of winter sky. His dark hair was styled with that casual precision that probably cost more than most people's rent, and his smile was polite, distant—the expression he wore for strangers.

But those eyes. Those pale blue eyes that had mapped every inch of Aven's body, that had looked at him with love and desire and desperate longing—they were staring right through him. No recognition. No flicker of awareness. Just the bland politeness he reserved for hired help.

The facial overlay was working perfectly.

"Sir?" Aven managed, his voice coming out breathy and feminine through the modulator. The word felt like glass in his throat.

"I was wondering if I could trouble you for a champagne," Bruce said, his tone carrying that particular brand of casual authority that came with inherited wealth. "The selection at the bar seems rather limited."

Aven's hands shook as he lifted the tray, offering it to the man he'd shared a bed with for months. The man whose body he knew better than his own. The man he'd left without explanation, carrying secrets that were slowly killing him from the inside.

"Of course," he whispered, watching as Bruce's long fingers—fingers that had traced every scar on his body—selected a glass with the same impersonal efficiency he might use to choose a pen.

Bruce's eyes flicked over his face—one quick sweep, assessing and dismissing in the practiced manner of someone accustomed to service staff. But then something shifted in his expression, a slight narrowing of those pale eyes that made Aven's stomach drop.

"You look familiar," Bruce said, his voice casual but with an edge that Aven recognized all too well. It was the tone he used when piecing together a puzzle, when something didn't quite add up. "Have we met before?"

The question echoed Luthor's earlier inquiry so precisely that Aven almost laughed. Two of the most brilliant men in Metropolis, and both had seen through his disguise within minutes. The irony would have been amusing if it weren't so terrifying.

"I don't believe so, sir," Aven replied, the words scraping his throat raw despite the modulator's feminine pitch. "I'd remember meeting Bruce Wayne."

He injected just enough breathless admiration into his voice to sound like any other starstruck server encountering a billionaire. The kind of reaction Bruce was used to from strangers, the kind that would make him lose interest quickly.

Bruce's gaze lingered on his face, those pale eyes searching for something. Aven could feel sweat beading at his hairline, threatening to ruin Amanda's carefully applied makeup. The queen shifted beneath his ribs, responding to his spiking heart rate with a sharp twist that made him wince.

"Are you all right?" Bruce asked, his brow furrowing slightly at Aven's obvious discomfort.

"Yes, thank you," Aven managed, forcing a smile that felt like cracked glass. "Just been on my feet too long."

Bruce nodded, but that calculating look never left his eyes. "What's your name?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but Aven knew better. Bruce never asked for names unless he was filing information away for future reference. The man had a memory like a steel trap, cataloging details that most people would overlook.

"Joanna," Aven said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. His hated middle name, the one Bruce had always said was beautiful. "Joanna Roswell."

"Joanna," Bruce repeated, and the sound of his name in that familiar voice made something twist in Aven's chest that had nothing to do with the queen. "That's a lovely name, means God is gracious."

Aven could feel his pulse hammering at his throat, certain that Bruce must be able to see it. The dress suddenly felt too tight, too confining, the silicone forms pressing against his chest like a physical manifestation of his deception.

"Thank you, sir," he said, lowering his gaze in a gesture that was half cover and half genuine inability to meet those searching eyes. "Enjoy your evening."

He moved to step away, desperate to put distance between himself and the man who knew his body better than anyone. But Bruce's voice stopped him.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could point me towards Lex Luthor," Bruce said, sipping his champagne with casual elegance. "I understand he's making some rather bold claims about environmental initiatives, and I'd like to discuss them before his speech."

The request was innocuous enough, but Aven could see the calculation behind those pale eyes. Bruce was testing him, watching for reactions, for any slip that might confirm suspicions already forming.

"I believe Mr. Luthor is near the north windows, sir," Aven replied, gesturing with his free hand toward the cluster of executives where he'd left the man. "He was speaking with reporters from the Daily Planet last I saw."

Bruce's gaze followed the direction of his gesture, landing on Clark and Lois with a flicker of something that might have been recognition or concern. When those eyes returned to Aven's face, they seemed sharper, more focused.

"Thank you, Joanna," Bruce said, the name sliding off his tongue with practiced ease. "I appreciate your assistance."

He started to turn away, then paused, reaching into his jacket pocket. The movement was smooth, deliberate, exactly the kind of thing Bruce did when he wanted to appear casual while accomplishing something specific. Aven's stomach clenched as Bruce extracted a crisp hundred-dollar bill and held it out.

"For your trouble," Bruce said, his voice dropping to that particular register that had always sent heat racing down Aven's spine. "I imagine these events can be rather tedious."

The money hung between them, green paper that felt like a test, a trap, a line Aven couldn't cross without revealing something. His throat went tight as he stared at Bruce's extended hand, at the familiar lines of his palm, at the slight scar across his knuckles from a fight Aven had patched up months ago.

"That's very generous, sir," Aven managed, reaching out with fingers that trembled slightly. "But not necessary."

As he took the bill, Bruce's fingers brushed against his—the contact brief but electric, sending a jolt through Aven's system that had nothing to do with the static electricity and everything to do with muscle memory. His body recognized that touch, responded to it with a visceral ache that the queen mirrored beneath his ribs.

"I insist," Bruce said, his eyes never leaving Aven's face. "A small token of appreciation for excellent service."

The double meaning hung in the air between them, heavy with implications Aven couldn't afford to examine. He tucked the bill into the small pocket of his dress, feeling the paper burn against his skin like a brand.

"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Wayne," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the modulator's feminine pitch. "I hope you find Mr. Luthor... illuminating."

Bruce’s mouth curved into a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure I will. Thank you again, Joanna.”

Aven nodded, returning a soft smile, though his heart was thudding in his chest. He felt the weight of Bruce’s pale blue gaze as it drifted down his body—pausing, just briefly, at his legs. There was a flicker of something in Bruce’s expression, unreadable but sharp, before he looked up and met Aven’s eyes again with a small nod, then turned and walked away.

Aven's lungs seized as he watched Bruce walk away, the familiar set of those shoulders like a knife between his ribs. The queen twisted in response, a sharp movement that made him press a hand against his chest, champagne flutes clinking dangerously on the tray.

"Easy," Wasabi murmured in his ear. "Vitals are spiking again. Need extraction?"

"No," Aven whispered, turning away from Bruce's retreating form. "I'm fine. Just... unexpected."

He forced himself to continue circulating, each step in the pinching heels a reminder of how far he was from anything resembling his real life. The weight of the hundred-dollar bill burned in his pocket like evidence of a crime he hadn't committed. Bruce had looked right at him—those pale eyes that had mapped every inch of his body—and seen a stranger. The thought shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

The facial overlay tingled against his skin, a constant reminder of the technology that had transformed him from Aven Davis into Joanna Roswell. It was working perfectly, just as Amanda had promised. Yet both Luthor and Bruce had sensed something familiar beneath the carefully constructed facade. The realization made his skin crawl with fresh anxiety.

"Nineteen minutes until keynote," Wasabi said. "Coyote reports upper floor security is thinning out as expected. You're still green for access."

Aven nodded slightly, the movement barely perceptible as he offered champagne to a cluster of women near the dessert table. Their conversation washed over him—something about a charity auction, vacation homes in the Hamptons, which private schools had the best connections for Ivy League admissions. The mundane concerns of people whose lives would never intersect with alien parasites or corporate death squads.

He moved on, each step carefully measured as he navigated between tables and guests. The ballroom had grown more crowded as the evening progressed, the noise level rising with each new arrival. The press of bodies made the air feel thick, stifling beneath the weight of expensive perfume and cologne.

Across the room, Clark was still with Lois, both of them engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation with Luthor. The sight of Clark in his perfectly tailored tuxedo made something twist in Aven's chest—the memory of that morning still fresh enough to make his skin heat beneath the dress fabric. Clark's hands on his body, his voice in Aven's ear, the way he'd urged Aven to say Bruce's name while they—

The queen gave a particularly violent twist, as if responding to the sudden spike in his heart rate. Aven winced, nearly dropping his tray as pain lanced through his ribs. He steadied himself against a marble column, breathing through the spasm.

"You okay?" A server passing with a tray of empty glasses paused, concern creasing his forehead.

"Fine," Aven managed, forcing a smile. “these shoes are just killing my feet.”

The man nodded sympathetically and moved on, leaving Aven alone with his trembling hands and the taste of copper coating his tongue. The queen had settled back into her usual restless presence, but the spike of pain had left him shaky, hyperaware of every sensation filtering through his borrowed body.

He pushed away from the column, forcing his legs to carry him deeper into the crowd. The champagne bubbles caught the light like tiny diamonds, each one a reminder of how surreal this all felt—serving drinks in a dress while the two men he loved moved through the same space, close enough to touch but separated by layers of deception he couldn't strip away.

"Fifteen minutes," Wasabi's voice whispered in his ear. "You need to start positioning for the top floor access. Service elevator is clear."

Aven's pulse quickened at the reminder. Soon he'd be alone on the upper floors, searching through Luthor's private files while wearing three-inch heels and enough makeup to choke a horse. The absurdity of it would have been funny if the stakes weren't so high.

He circulated toward the back of the ballroom, offering champagne with practiced smiles while his mind catalogued escape routes and contingencies. The weight of Bruce's hundred-dollar bill pressed against his hip through the dress fabric, a constant reminder of how close he'd come to discovery. Those pale eyes had searched his face with the intensity of someone solving a puzzle, and Aven still wasn't sure if he'd passed the test.

“Ten minutes till Luthor starts. Start making your way to the service elevator with Coyote.” Wasabi voice crackled in his ear. "Security rotation just started. Be ready to move.”

Aven turned to make his way in that direction when the catering manager stepped in front of him looking tired and stress. “Ms. Roswell, Mr. Luthor has asked that you bring him and his group a bottle of the special order wine at the bar.”

Aven’s stomach clenched with panic and frustration.

"The white wine, Ms. Roswell," the manager clarified, mistaking Aven's hesitation for confusion. "The Château Margaux. Mr. Luthor specified you should bring it personally."

Alarm bells screamed in Aven's head. This was deliberate—Luthor wanted him back in that circle, back under those predatory eyes. The mission timeline was disintegrating before it had even begun.

"Of course," Aven managed, his modulated voice steady despite the panic clawing at his throat. "Right away."

He handed his champagne tray to another server and made his way to the bar, each step in the pinching heels a reminder of how vulnerable he was. The bartender barely glanced up as Aven approached, already reaching for the bottle chilling in an ice bucket behind the counter.

"He's been saving this for someone special," the bartender muttered, his tone suggesting he'd seen this particular performance before. "Lucky you."

The bottle was heavy in Aven's hands, condensation dampening his palms as he balanced it alongside a silver tray of crystal wine glasses. The queen shifted restlessly beneath his ribs, as if sensing the danger ahead.

"Change of plans," Aven whispered as he turned away from the bar. "Luthor's calling me back."

"Shit," Wasabi's voice hissed in his ear. "Timing's tight. Can you stall?"

"Negative. Too suspicious." Aven navigated between clusters of guests, the wine bottle cold against his fingers. "I'll make it quick."

His heart hammered against his ribs as he approached Luthor's circle near the north windows. Clark and Lois were still there, notebooks in hand as they continued their interview. Bruce had joined them, his posture relaxed in that carefully calculated way that Aven recognized as heightened alertness disguised as casual interest.

All three of them—the people who knew him best in the world—gathered in one tight circle, while he approached in borrowed skin and a voice that wasn't his own.

"Ah, here she is," Luthor's voice carried that particular tone of pleased ownership that made Aven's skin crawl. "Our ballet dancer with the excellent wine."

Every eye in the circle turned toward him. Aven felt the weight of those gazes like physical pressure—Luthor's predatory assessment, Bruce's calculating observation, Clark's polite interest that revealed nothing of the man who'd held him that morning. Lois was the only one who paid him little attention, her focus remaining on her notebook as she jotted something down.

"The Château Margaux, sir," Aven said, his modulated voice steady despite the riot in his chest. He set the tray down on a nearby high-top table, the crystal glasses singing softly as they settled.

Luthor stepped closer, that same invasive proximity he'd established earlier. "Would you do the honors?"

The request felt like a trap closing around him. Aven forced his hands to remain steady as he poured the wine, the pale liquid catching the light as it cascaded into the crystal glasses. The queen shifted restlessly beneath his ribs, as if sensing his rising anxiety.

"Thank you, Joanna," Luthor said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who expected obedience. He lifted his glass in a small toast. "To new connections."

The words hung in the air like a threat. Aven's throat tightened as Luthor's pale eyes held his, searching for something beneath the carefully constructed facade. He could feel Bruce watching him, that penetrating gaze cataloging every movement, every micro-expression that might betray him.

"Mr. Luthor," Bruce interjected smoothly, drawing the man's attention away from Aven. "You were saying something about your new agricultural initiative?"

The diversion felt deliberate, calculated. Aven's chest constricted with gratitude as Luthor turned toward Bruce, momentarily distracted by the opportunity to expound on his latest corporate venture. He began backing away slowly, each step in the pinching heels a careful retreat from danger.

"Not so fast, my dear," Luthor called, stopping Aven in his tracks. "I'd like you to stay. After all, our environmental science student might find this conversation educational."

Panic flared hot and bright in Aven's chest. The queen responded immediately, twisting violently enough to make him press a hand against his sternum. The movement didn't go unnoticed—Clark's eyes flicked to his hand, a small furrow appearing between his brows.

"I should really continue serving—" Aven began, his modulated voice higher than intended.

"Nonsense," Luthor cut him off, gesturing imperiously. "Your manager won't mind. I've arranged it."

Of course he had. The realization settled like ice in Aven's stomach. Luthor had been planning this, positioning his pieces with the same calculating precision he brought to corporate takeovers. The mission timeline was disintegrating around him, seconds ticking away while he stood trapped in Luthor's orbit.

"Seven minutes till keynote," Wasabi's voice whispered urgently in his ear. "You need to move now."

Aven swallowed hard, mind racing through options that grew more limited by the second. The wine bottle was still in his hands, heavy and cold against his palms. He could create a distraction—spill it, perhaps, claim clumsiness and escape in the ensuing chaos. But that would draw attention, make him memorable when the entire point was to blend in.

"So, Joanna," Luthor continued, his voice carrying that predatory edge that made Aven's skin crawl. "As an environmental science student, what's your take on Mr. Wayne's recent claims about sustainable energy?"

The question was a trap, layered with multiple dangers. Aven's mind raced as he tried to formulate a response that wouldn't betray his knowledge of Bruce's actual environmental initiatives—information Joanna Roswell shouldn't possess beyond what anyone might read in the papers.

"I—I'm afraid I haven't followed Mr. Wayne's work closely, sir," he stammered, the modulator making his voice sound higher, breathier with nervousness. "My research focuses more on agricultural applications than industrial energy."

Luthor's smile tightened at the edges. "A shame. I thought perhaps you might have... insider knowledge."

The implication hung in the air like poison gas. Aven felt sweat beading at his hairline beneath the blonde wig. The queen twisted sharply, pressing against his lung hard enough to make his breath hitch. Clark's eyes flickered to his face, that small furrow deepening between his brows.

"Six minutes," Wasabi hissed in his ear.

Bruce cleared his throat, drawing Luthor's attention away once more. "Speaking of insider knowledge, Lex, I'm curious about these claims regarding your biotech division. The quarterly reports seem rather... optimistic."

Aven used the moment to take a small step backward, his heel catching slightly on the polished marble. Lois glanced up from her notebook, her sharp eyes assessing him with the practiced scrutiny of an investigative reporter. There was nothing in her expression to suggest she recognized him, but the weight of her gaze made his skin prickle with fresh anxiety.

"Joanna," Luthor said, not bothering to look away from Bruce. "More wine, please."

The command was delivered with casual entitlement, as if Aven were simply an extension of Luthor's will. He gritted his teeth behind his painted smile, stepping forward to pour the wine with hands that trembled slightly. As he leaned in, Luthor's hand settled at the small of his back, warm and possessive through the thin fabric of the dress.

"Perhaps after my speech," Luthor murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only Aven could hear, "you might join me in my office. I have some research materials that could prove... valuable to your thesis."

The invitation was transparent in its true intent. Aven's stomach clenched with disgust, the queen responding to his revulsion with a violent twist that nearly made him spill the wine. He caught himself just in time, the pale liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of Luthor's glass.

"I'd be honored, Mr. Luthor," he managed, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. "But I'm afraid I'm scheduled until closing."

Luthor's fingers tightened against his back, digging into flesh with painful precision. "I'm sure that can be arranged. After all, I own the building."

"Five minutes," Wasabi's voice was tight with urgency. “Guards just cleared the area, Coyotes in position. Move your ass Barbie.”

The queen thrashed violently, pressing hard against his lung in response to Luthor's touch. Aven fought to maintain his composure, the bile rising in his throat as those pale eyes lingered on his face.

"Mr. Luthor?" A security officer approached, his expression professionally blank. "They're ready for you backstage, sir."

Relief flooded through Aven's system as Luthor's hand dropped from his back. The man's expression flickered with momentary frustration before smoothing into practiced charm.

"Duty calls," he said, straightening his tie with precise movements. "We'll continue our discussion later, Joanna. Wait for me after the speech."

It wasn't a request. Aven nodded, the blonde wig heavy against his neck as he lowered his gaze in what he hoped looked like deference rather than disgust.

"Of course, Mr. Luthor."

As Luthor moved away, flanked by security, Aven felt the tension in his shoulders ease fractionally. The queen settled beneath his ribs, her movements becoming less violent as the immediate threat receded.

"Four minutes," Wasabi hissed in his ear. "Move now or abort."

Aven turned to leave, heart hammering against his ribs as he calculated the fastest route to the service elevator. But before he could take a step, Clark's voice stopped him.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The familiar voice sent electricity racing down Aven's spine. He turned slowly, the heels clicking against marble as he faced the man who'd held him that morning.

"Yes, sir?" His modulated voice came out steadier than he felt.

Clark's blue eyes met his with polite interest that revealed nothing of their shared intimacy. "I couldn't help noticing Mr. Luthor seemed rather... insistent. Are you all right?"

The simple concern in Clark's voice made Aven's throat tighten. Even here, even now, with deadlines pressing and a mission hanging in the balance, Clark's first instinct was to check on someone's wellbeing. The man's fundamental decency never wavered.

"I'm fine, thank you," Aven managed, conscious of Bruce watching the exchange with calculated intensity. "Just doing my job."

"If he's making you uncomfortable," Clark continued, his voice dropping lower, "there are people who could help. Resources."

Aven's chest ached at the genuine concern in Clark's eyes. The man had no idea who he was speaking to, yet here he was, offering protection to a stranger he thought might be in trouble.

"That's very kind," Aven said, and meant it. "But I can handle Mr. Luthor."

"Three minutes," Wasabi's voice was tense with urgency. "Abort or move, Davis. Now."

Bruce stepped forward, those pale eyes narrowing slightly as they swept over Aven's face. "Kent's right. Luthor has a reputation for making advances on staff. You shouldn't have to tolerate that."

The concern in Bruce's voice—that particular protective edge Aven recognized from countless nights when Bruce had shielded him from Gotham's uglier realities—made his chest constrict painfully. Here was the man he'd left without explanation, offering protection to a stranger he didn't recognize. The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

"I appreciate the concern," Aven said, forcing his voice to remain steady through the modulator. "Both of you. But I really should get back to work."

"Two minutes," Wasabi's voice crackled with static. "Security's about to rotate back. Move or we scrub."

The mission hung by a thread. Every second he stood here, trapped in this circle of concern and barely-contained recognition, was another second closer to complete failure. The weight of the wine bottle in his hands felt like an anchor, keeping him tethered to this increasingly dangerous conversation.

Lois looked up from her notebook, her sharp eyes flicking between the three men with the practiced assessment of someone who made her living reading people. "Gentlemen, we should probably find our seats. The keynote starts in ninety seconds."

Bless her. Aven seized the opportunity, backing away with careful steps as the group began to disperse. "Excuse me, I need to clear these glasses."

But as he turned, Bruce's voice followed him one more time.

"Be careful, Joanna."

The simple words, spoken in that familiar tone of genuine concern, nearly undid him completely. Aven's throat closed around a response he couldn't give, his legs trembling beneath the weight of everything unsaid. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice, and forced himself to walk away on unsteady heels.

"One minute," Wasabi hissed. "Coyote's holding the elevator."

Aven moved as quickly as the heels would allow, weaving between guests who were settling into chairs arranged for Luthor's speech. The service corridor seemed impossibly far away, each step echoing in his ears like gunshots. The queen twisted beneath his ribs, responding to the adrenaline flooding his system.

The familiar ding of the service elevator was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Coyote's face appeared as the doors slid open, his expression tight with controlled urgency.

"About fucking time," he muttered, grabbing Aven's arm and pulling him inside. "Thought we were gonna have to explain to Sarge why his little princess got made on her first night out."

The doors closed with a soft whisper, cutting them off from the ballroom and its dangerous occupants. Aven sagged against the elevator wall, the wine bottle still clutched in his trembling hands.

"Status?" Wasabi's voice came through both their earpieces.

"Package secured," Coyote replied, his fingers already flying over the elevator's controls.

"Twenty floors up," Coyote said, punching the button for the top floor. "Luthor's office is at the northeast corner. We've got twelve minutes before he wraps his speech."

Aven's stomach lurched as the elevator accelerated upward. The queen shifted restlessly beneath his ribs, responding to the sudden movement with a sharp twist that made him wince. His fingers tightened around the wine bottle, the glass cool and slick beneath his sweating palms.

"You okay?" Coyote asked, his usual joking manner replaced by something more serious. "You look like shit."

"I'm fine," Aven managed, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. "Luthor got handsy. Bruce and Clark almost made me."

Coyote's eyebrows shot up. "Both of them? Jesus, Davis, did you actually manage to fool Batman?"

The question hung in the air between them as the elevator continued its smooth ascent. Had he fooled Bruce? Those pale eyes had searched his face with such intensity, had lingered on his legs with that flicker of something unreadable. Bruce was the world's greatest detective—it seemed impossible that he wouldn't have seen through the disguise.

"I think so," Aven said finally, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty. "The overlay held."

"Better hope so," Coyote muttered, checking his watch. "Because if Wayne knows, this whole op is compromised."

***

Clark and Bruce both watched as the blonde woman quickly made her way for the service entrance a slight limp in her right leg that lifted the dresses hem just enough to reveal a familiar set of pale scars.

Clark released a breath as he watched "Joanna" disappear through the service entrance, his enhanced vision still picking up the distinctive scars on her right leg—white marks he'd traced with his tongue just hours ago while Aven trembled beneath him. His heart hammered against his ribs as he turned to Bruce, finding the same controlled tension in the set of the other man's jaw.

"He's heading for the executive floors," Clark murmured, low enough that only Bruce could hear. "With Coyote."

Bruce gave a barely perceptible nod, keeping his expression neutral as he tracked Aven's progress through the crowd. The blonde wig and red lips couldn't disguise the way he moved—that particular economy of motion, the Marine's precision even in three-inch heels. The silicone overlay might have changed his facial features, but nothing could hide the essence of the man Bruce knew better than himself.

"I'm going to follow," Bruce said quietly, setting his champagne flute on a passing server's tray. "You stay here. Keep Luthor occupied if he finishes early."

Clark's hand caught his elbow, warm and firm through the tailored fabric of his tuxedo. "Be careful. If Luthor's security catches you—"

"They won't." Bruce slipped away before Clark could finish, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease as the lights dimmed for Luthor's presentation.

The service corridor was empty when he reached it, the distant sound of Luthor's amplified voice echoing from the ballroom behind him. Bruce moved swiftly, footsteps silent against the polished floor as he approached the service elevator. The control panel showed the car ascending—already on its way to the executive level.

Bruce glanced at his watch. Alfred and Tim would be monitoring the security systems remotely, ensuring the cameras on the upper floors looped harmless footage. He had twelve minutes at most before Luthor concluded his speech and potentially returned to his office.

The emergency stairwell door yielded to his palm, the security override in his cufflink disabling the alarm with a soft click. Twenty floors. In a tuxedo. Bruce allowed himself one brief, wry smile as he began to climb, taking the steps two at a time. He'd scaled worse in the cape and cowl.

His mind raced as he ascended, cataloging everything he knew about Aven's mission. Infiltrate as catering staff. Access Luthor's private files. Extract location data for the lab. Simple parameters that belied the extreme danger of the operation. If Luthor caught Aven in his office—caught "Joanna"—there would be no mistaking it for anything but corporate espionage. And Luthor wasn't known for his mercy toward those who crossed him.

Bruce's hand settled on the stairwell railing, the cold metal grounding him as he climbed. Each step brought him closer to Aven—to the man who'd disappeared from his life without warning, leaving nothing but dog tags and a letter. The man who was now navigating LexCorp's executive floor in three-inch heels and a dress that hugged every curve of his disguised body.

The scars on Aven's thigh had been unmistakable. Bruce had traced them countless times with his fingers, his lips, memorizing each pale line like a map to something precious. Even through the blonde wig and makeup, the facial overlay and voice modulator, Bruce would have known him anywhere.

His pulse quickened as he reached the seventeenth floor, legs burning with exertion. Three more to go. The stairwell was silent except for his controlled breathing and the distant hum of the building's ventilation system. Security would be minimal during Luthor's speech—most guards would be focused on the ballroom where their employer held court.

Bruce paused at the final landing, pressing his back against the wall as he listened for movement beyond the door. Nothing. He checked his watch again—nine minutes until Luthor finished speaking. Nine minutes for Aven to access the files, download the data, and get out.

Nine minutes before everything could go catastrophically wrong.

He eased the door open, scanning the dimly lit hallway beyond. Empty. The executive floor was designed to impress—thick carpeting that muffled footsteps, original artwork adorning walls, discreet lighting that created pools of shadow perfect for concealment. Bruce moved silently, keeping close to the wall as he navigated toward the northeast corner where Luthor's office waited.

Voices drifted from around the bend—one unmistakably Aven's, even through the feminine modulation, the other holding the familiar deep tones of Coyote. Bruce slowed, careful to remain undetected as he approached.

"Twelve minutes on the clock," the Marine was saying, his voice tense with controlled urgency. "Get what we need and get out. No detours."

"I know the mission parameters," Aven replied, that modulated voice strange to Bruce's ears. "Just keep watch."

Bruce edged closer, peering around the corner to see Aven standing before the imposing double doors of Luthor's office. The blonde wig caught the dim light, cascading down his back in artificial curls that Bruce longed to tear away. Even in the dress and heels, there was something unmistakably Aven in the way he held himself—that particular tension in his shoulders, the slight favor of his right leg where old wounds still pained him.

As the office door opened and the two men stepped inside, Bruce pulled back quickly behind the corner. Coyote glanced over his shoulder before shutting the door behind them. Bruce let out a slow breath. Too close. He needed a better vantage point—somewhere he could observe without risking exposure.

His gaze lifted, catching sight of a narrow maintenance shaft overhead—barely visible above the archway. Not ideal, especially in a tux, but it would have to do.

He moved with quiet efficiency, stepping onto a side ledge and gripping a wall-mounted pipe for leverage. The sleek lines of his tailored suit tugged at the seams as he climbed—designed for elegance, not infiltration. He gritted his teeth and made the ascent anyway, careful to keep his movements fluid and silent.

At the panel, he steadied himself with one hand and used the other to loosen the access grate. It came free with only a soft click. Bruce pulled himself into the shaft, careful not to scuff his shoes or catch fabric on the frame. The space was tight, dusty, and stifling, but it gave him what he needed.

He crawled forward until he reached the slotted vent above the office.

Below, Aven was already at the terminal, slotting the drive. Coyote stood nearby, playing his part, but tense.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

He couldn’t interfere—not yet. But if anything went sideways…

His hand ghosted over the inside of his jacket, brushing against a concealed stun disk tucked behind the lapel.

Below, Aven’s voice came through clearly.

“Drive is in place.”

***

Aven's fingers trembled as he helped Coyote bypass the security panel, the dress fabric pulling tight across his shoulders with each movement. The wine bottle he'd brought from downstairs sat on a nearby console table, a prop they no longer needed but couldn't leave behind. The blonde wig felt heavier with each passing second, pins digging into his scalp as sweat beaded along his hairline.

"How much longer?" he whispered, the voice modulator transforming his words into a feminine hush that still sounded foreign to his own ears.

"Almost there," Coyote muttered, his forehead creased in concentration as he connected the final wire. The security panel blinked twice, then flashed green. "We're in."

Relief flooded Aven's system as the door unlocked with a soft click. The queen stirred beneath his ribs, responding to the spike of adrenaline with a lazy twist that pressed uncomfortably against his lung. He drew in a careful breath, tasting expensive cologne and leather on the air as Coyote eased the door open.

"Ten minutes," Wasabi's voice crackled in their earpieces. "I've got a loop running on the security cameras, but it won't hold if anyone's watching closely."

Luthor's office was exactly what Aven had expected—sleek, modern, dominated by a massive desk of polished black marble that gleamed under recessed lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Metropolis at night, the city spread below like a carpet of jewels. The space reeked of power and wealth, from the original artwork adorning the walls to the subtle scent of sandalwood lingering in the air.

"Computer," Aven said, moving toward the desk on unsteady heels. The dress restricted his stride, fabric clinging to his thighs with each careful step. "Cover the door."

Coyote nodded, taking up position near the entrance while Aven settled into Luthor's chair. The leather was cool against his bare arms, soft in a way that suggested it cost more than most people's monthly rent. The computer hummed to life beneath his touch, the login screen casting an eerie blue glow across his made-up face.

"Password bypass is uploading," Wasabi said in his ear. "Should take about thirty seconds."

Aven's gaze swept the office, cataloging details with the practiced precision of someone who'd been trained to notice everything. A small bar in the corner, crystal decanters filled with amber liquid. A bookshelf lined with leather-bound volumes that looked more decorative than read. And photographs—carefully framed, precisely arranged—showing Luthor with various dignitaries and celebrities. Creating an image of legitimacy, of connection, of power.

The computer chimed softly as the login screen disappeared, replaced by Luthor's desktop. Aven's pulse quickened as he plugged in the thumb drive Coyote had passed him.

“Drive is in place,” Aven reported, eyes fixed on Luthor’s screen as it flickered—then filled with cascading numbers as Wasabi’s hack took hold.

“Pulling all secured data now. ETA five minutes,” Wasabi confirmed.

Amanda’s voice came through his comms a second later. “How you holding up, Davis? Your vitals are still running high.”

“I’m fine,” Aven said as he let his eyes wonder the room taking in the small details that made up Lex Luthor’s office. “Just the adrenaline making her highness pissy.”

The queen gave a particularly violent twist at the mention of her presence, as if she resented being called highness even in jest. Aven winced, pressing his free hand against his chest through the silicone padding. The alien embryo had been increasingly responsive to his emotional state—every spike of fear, every rush of adrenaline seemed to agitate her further.

"Copy that," Amanda's voice carried a hint of dry amusement. "Try to keep the royal brat calm for another few minutes."

Aven's gaze swept across Luthor's desk, taking in the carefully arranged accessories that spoke of obsessive control. A fountain pen set that probably cost more than his Marine pension. A crystal paperweight that caught the light from the computer screen. And tucked beneath a stack of reports, the corner of what looked like a photograph.

Curiosity overrode caution. Aven lifted the papers carefully, revealing a black and white surveillance photo that made his blood turn to ice water.

It was him. Not Joanna Roswell in her blonde wig and red lipstick, but Aven Davis in his dress blues from the winter gala months ago. The image had been taken from across the ballroom, showing him mid-dance with Luthor, Bruce visible in the background watching with those pale, protective eyes.

The queen twisted violently beneath his ribs, responding to the spike of pure terror that flooded his system. Luthor had kept a photograph of him. Had been watching, cataloging, remembering. The man's earlier questions about recognition suddenly took on a sinister new meaning.

"Shit," Aven breathed, his modulated voice barely audible over the hum of the computer.

"What?" Coyote's head snapped toward him, hand instinctively moving toward the concealed weapon beneath his catering jacket.

Before Aven could respond, Wasabi’s voice crackled through his comms, edged with mild panic. “Heads up—you’ve got company. Single guard, three halls over, heading your way from the restroom.”

Aven muttered a curse under his breath, shooting a glance at Coyote before flicking his eyes back to the screen. Only 68% downloaded.

“I’ll set up a distraction and draw him away, you finish the download and get out of here. We’ll meet at the extraction point.” Coyote said, as he slipped out the door before Aven could protest.

Aven's heart thundered in his chest as the door closed behind Coyote. Alone in Luthor's office, he stared at the progress bar crawling across the screen—72% now, still too slow. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he willed the download to move faster.

The photograph of him at the winter gala seemed to stare back accusingly. He shoved it back under the stack of papers, unable to bear the sight of himself frozen in Luthor's arms, completely unaware of the danger he'd been in even then.

"Seventy-five percent," Wasabi's voice crackled in his ear. "Coyote's leading the guard down the east corridor. You've got about four minutes before Luthor wraps his speech."

The queen twisted violently beneath his ribs, pressing against his lung hard enough to make him gasp. She knew. Somehow she sensed the danger, the proximity of discovery. Aven pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the inhibitor pump whirring beneath layers of silicone and fabric.

"Easy, girl," he whispered, the modulated voice sounding wrong in his ears. "Just a little longer."

His gaze swept the office again, searching for anything else that might be useful. A filing cabinet stood in the corner, probably locked, definitely monitored. A sleek tablet rested on a charging dock near the window. And tucked discreetly beside the bar, a small safe—biometric lock, high-end security.

"Eighty percent," Wasabi reported. "Luthor's wrapping up. Three minutes, maybe less."

Sweat trickled down Aven's spine beneath the dress, the wig heavy and hot against his scalp. He couldn't leave without the data, but every second he remained increased the risk of discovery. His right leg ached from standing in the heels, old injuries protesting the unnatural position.

A soft ping from outside the office made him freeze. The elevator. Someone was coming up.

"We've got movement," Amanda's voice was tight with tension. "Executive elevator's been activated from a lower level."

Panic clawed at Aven's throat as he stared at the progress bar—88%. Still not enough. The queen thrashed violently, her movements sharp enough to make him double over, breath catching on a wave of nausea.

“It’s Dr. Keene,” Amanda said her voice taking on a sharpened edge. “She’s bringing something to Luthor’s office.”

Aven felt the blood drain from his face. Keene. The name hit like a punch to the gut—the woman who had done this to him. The one who’d put the queen inside him. The scientist behind the rebirth of the Queen caste.

A soft ping marked the download hitting 97%.

Aven’s heart thudded as he scanned the office, searching for an escape. His eyes caught on the balcony doors. He darted toward them, eased one open, and glanced outside. Flanking the balcony were slender metal ledges—just wide enough to stand on—running along the building’s outer wall like decorative trim.

Risky. Exposed. But it might be his only shot.

Turning back towards Luthor’s computer the computer gave a final ping before Wasabi’s voice filtered through his comms. “Download complete. Get out of there Davis.”

Aven yanked the drive from the computer and shoved it deep into the silicone padding of his fake breast, the hard plastic digging uncomfortably against his ribs. The queen responded to his panic with another violent twist, pressing against his lung until he had to bite back a cough.

The elevator chimed softly in the distance—too close, too soon.

He grabbed the wine bottle from the console table, mind racing through possibilities. If Keene found him here, there would be no explaining it away. No cover story would hold. She would recognize him instantly, queen or no queen, and then—

The night air hit his face like a slap as he stepped onto the balcony, twenty stories above Metropolis. Wind whipped the blonde wig around his shoulders, pins digging deeper into his scalp. The ledge was narrower than it had looked from inside—maybe eight inches of decorative stonework that ran along the building's facade like architectural jewelry.

Behind him, the soft ding of the elevator arriving made his stomach drop. Dr. Keene's voice drifted through the office door, professional and cold in a way that made the queen writhe beneath his ribs.

"The reports are showing exceptional progress," she was saying to someone—probably security. "Mr. Luthor wants them secured in his personal terminal for review."

Aven pressed himself against the building's exterior wall, the rough stone catching on the dress fabric. The ledge felt impossibly narrow beneath his heels, wind threatening to tear him from his precarious perch. Twenty stories down, traffic moved through Metropolis streets like rivers of light, beautiful and deadly from this height.

The ledge beneath his heels felt like a tightrope, every gust of wind threatening to tear him away from the building's face. Aven inched sideways, back pressed against the cold stone, the wine bottle clutched in one trembling hand. His pulse hammered in his throat as he heard the office door open behind him, Dr. Keene's voice drifting through the night air.

"Just leave the files on his desk. Mr. Luthor will review them after the gala."

Aven froze, barely daring to breathe as footsteps moved through the office. The balcony door remained slightly ajar—if Keene looked out, if she noticed the gap, he'd be discovered instantly. The queen writhed beneath his ribs, responding to his terror with violent movements that made his vision blur at the edges.

"The balcony door is open," a male voice observed, security by the sound of it. "Should I close it?"

"Leave it," Keene replied, her voice carrying that clinical detachment Aven remembered from his nightmares. "Luthor likes the fresh air. Besides, we're twenty stories up. No one's getting in through there."

The irony might have made him laugh if he weren't balanced on a narrow ledge in three-inch heels with death waiting below. Aven pressed himself flatter against the wall, the rough stone scraping his bare shoulders through the thin dress fabric. The wind whipped harder, tugging at the blonde wig until pins dug painfully into his scalp.

"Status?" Wasabi's voice whispered in his ear, barely audible over the wind and his own thundering heartbeat.

"Trapped," Aven breathed, the word barely a whisper as the voice modulator transformed it into something feminine and desperate. "Balcony ledge. Keene's in the office."

A beat of silence, then: "Hold position. Coyote's on his way to extraction point. We'll find another way to get you out."

Easy for him to say. Aven's thighs burned from maintaining the awkward position, the heels digging into the narrow ledge with each subtle shift of his weight. The wine bottle felt impossibly heavy in his hand, a useless prop he couldn't discard without risking the noise of shattering glass.

Inside the office, drawers opened and closed, papers rustled. Keene was still there, too close, separated from him by nothing but a partially open balcony door and his own ability to remain motionless. The queen twisted again, pressing hard against his lung in a way that made him want to cough. He swallowed the urge, tears springing to his eyes with the effort.

"Sarge is at extraction point," Amanda's voice came through his comms, tense but controlled. "We're working on finding you another exit."

Aven's gaze swept the city spread below him as he waited for Keene and the man to leave.

The city lights blurred through tears he couldn't blink away. Each building stretched toward him like reaching fingers, twenty stories of concrete and steel between him and solid ground. The wind caught the hem of his dress, fabric snapping like a flag as he pressed his spine harder against the cold stone.

A soft click came from inside the office, and Aven held his breath. The sound of footsteps receded, followed by the gentle thud of the office door closing. Silence fell, broken only by the wind whistling around him and the distant honking of traffic far below.

"They're gone," Wasabi confirmed in his ear. "Office is clear."

Relief flooded through Aven's system, his knees nearly buckling against the narrow ledge. He inched back toward the balcony door, muscles screaming from the strain of holding himself in place for so long. The blonde wig had come partially loose, several pins dangling precariously near his ear.

"I'm heading back in," he whispered, the modulator making his voice sound breathy and frightened.

"Negative," Amanda cut in sharply. "Luthor's speech just ended. He's heading for the elevators with security. You need another exit."

Panic surged through Aven's chest, the queen responding with a violent twist that nearly made him lose his grip. He pressed his back harder against the stone wall, heart hammering against his ribs as he scanned the building's exterior for options.

Three windows down, another balcony jutted from the building's face. Smaller than Luthor's, probably attached to a conference room or secondary office. It was his only chance.

"Moving to adjacent balcony," he murmured, shifting his weight carefully as he began to inch along the narrow ledge.

The first step was the hardest, forcing himself to lift one foot and place it in front of the other while twenty stories of empty air yawned beneath him. The heels were a nightmare, the thin spikes offering minimal purchase against the stone. Wind buffeted his body, the dress billowing around his thighs as he shuffled sideways.

"Elevator's at floor fifteen," Wasabi reported, tension evident in his voice. "You've got maybe forty seconds."

Aven kept moving, one excruciating step at a time. The wine bottle remained clutched in his left hand, too risky to drop but increasingly unwieldy as he inched along the ledge. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the dress, the wig slipping further with each gust of wind.

The adjacent balcony looked impossibly far away, though logically he knew it couldn't be more than twenty feet. Twenty feet of narrow ledge, three-inch heels, and nothing but Metropolis traffic waiting below if he slipped.

"Thirty seconds," Amanda's voice was tight with controlled panic. "Luthor's almost there."

Aven forced himself to move faster, shuffling along the ledge with growing desperation. His right leg throbbed, old injuries protesting the strain. The queen writhed beneath his ribs, pressing against his lungs until each breath came shallow and strained.

Another step. Another. The balcony was closer now, maybe twelve feet away. His grip on the bottle slipped with the moisture from his palms and he watched is it plummeted into the darkness below.

The crash of glass against concrete twenty stories below felt like a death knell. Aven's heart stopped as he imagined the sharp sound echoing through the street, drawing attention upward to his precarious position. His left hand now free but trembling, he pressed it against the rough stone wall and forced himself to keep moving.

"Twenty seconds," Wasabi's voice crackled through the earpiece, barely audible over the wind that whipped around him like grasping fingers.

The adjacent balcony was close enough now that he could make out details—a small bistro table, chairs stacked for the evening, sliding glass doors that led into what looked like a darkened conference room. The ledge ended there, but the gap between his position and the balcony railing stretched wider than he'd anticipated. Maybe four feet of empty air that might as well have been four miles.

"Fifteen seconds. Luthor's at his floor."

Aven's breath came in short, sharp gasps that the queen mirrored with restless movements beneath his ribs. The alien presence seemed to sense his terror, her body pressing against his lung until each inhalation felt like drowning. The blonde wig had shifted completely now, several strands hanging loose across his vision as the remaining pins fought a losing battle against the wind.

"Ten seconds."

No time left. No other options. Aven gathered himself at the edge of the ledge, muscles coiled despite the ache in his right leg and the impossible awkwardness of the heels. The balcony railing looked solid enough—wrought iron painted black, probably decorative but hopefully functional. If he could just reach it, get a handhold—

"Five seconds."

Aven jumped.

For a heartbeat that felt like forever, there was only wind and empty space—darkness swallowing everything as the city lights blurred past in his periphery. The dress flared around him like useless wings, offering no lift, only drag. Blonde curls lashed across his face, stinging his skin as gravity pulled him down.

His fingers slammed into the balcony’s bottom rung, the jolt searing through his arms like lightning. Pain tore up his shoulders as his full weight yanked down, wrenching a strangled gasp from his lungs. The queen thrashed in response—an electric spasm of fury that made his vision explode with white at the edges. Wind howled past him, whipping his legs as he dangled helplessly, twenty stories above the ground with nothing but air beneath him.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts, chest crushed by panic and exertion. The dress tangled around his thighs, the hem flapping wildly in the updraft like a torn sail. One heel had already slipped free, spiraling down into the city lights below—vanishing without a sound. His palms burned where the metal bit into his skin.

Move, his mind screamed. Get up. Climb.

He grit his teeth and shifted his grip, dragging one forearm up over the cold steel rung. The wind tugged at him in every direction, jerking his body like a pendulum as he swung freely in the open air. The entire world tilted beneath him—roaring traffic, glass towers, the endless void below.

His arms shook with the effort. Another pull. His shoulder burned, white-hot and screaming. The dress clung to his knees, catching the wind like a sail, throwing off his balance.

The queen fluttered low in his chest, sharp and uncomfortable, a sudden shift that pressed hard against his lung. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, fighting through the pressure as he dragged his other arm higher until both elbows locked over the rung. The slick metal bit into his skin, his grip slipping slightly before catching again. Sweat trailed cold beneath the bodice, soaking into the fabric that clung to his back like glue.

With a final heave, Aven pulled himself high enough to hook one leg over the bottom rung. The remaining heel caught on the metal, giving him just enough leverage to drag himself upward. His muscles screamed in protest as he reached for the next bar, fingers stretching toward safety. The dress constricted around his thighs like a vise, limiting his movement to desperate inches.

The wind buffeted him from all sides, throwing his balance off as he strained upward. His palm closed around the next rung, slick with condensation from the night air. Relief surged through him as he began to pull, leveraging his weight to climb higher.

Then came the sound—a low, metallic groan that vibrated through his bones.

Aven looked up, heart stopping as he spotted the rusted weld splitting along the bar he gripped. Flakes of oxidized metal crumbled beneath his fingers, revealing years of neglect and corrosion. The bar shifted, metal screaming against metal as the weld began to separate.

"No, no, no—" The words tore from his throat, transformed by the modulator into a feminine plea that was lost to the howling wind.

The bar gave way with a sudden crack, breaking free at one end and swinging downward under his weight. Aven's stomach lurched as he plummeted several feet, his body sliding down the now-vertical bar. His palms burned as metal tore into flesh, desperation giving him just enough strength to halt his descent before he slipped completely free.

He hung suspended, both hands clenched around the twisted metal, legs dangling over twenty stories of empty space. The remaining shoe slipped from his foot, disappearing into the void below without a sound. The queen thrashed violently in his chest, her movements sharp and panicked, matching the adrenaline flooding his system.

"Davis! Report!" Amanda's voice screamed in his ear, tinny and distant beneath the roaring wind. "What's happening?"

He couldn't answer. Couldn't spare the breath or concentration as the bar groaned again, bending further beneath his weight. Sweat slicked his palms, making his grip precarious at best. The dress tangled around his legs, restricting his movement as he tried to find purchase against the building's smooth exterior.

"Aven! God damn it, answer me!" Wasabi's voice joined the chorus in his ear, panic bleeding through the professional veneer.

The metal creaked again, bending further as the remaining weld began to give. Aven's arms trembled, muscles burning from the strain of holding his entire body weight. The queen pressed hard against his lung, making each breath shallow and painful as he fought to maintain his grip.

He was going to fall. The certainty of it settled in his chest alongside the queen's thrashing form. Twenty stories. No safety net. No backup plan. Just gravity and concrete waiting to claim him.

The bar groaned again, the sound like a death knell in Aven's ears. Metal bent further, twisting under his weight as the final weld point began to separate from the balcony frame. His arms screamed in protest, muscles burning with the strain of holding his entire body suspended above the abyss. The queen thrashed wildly beneath his ribs, as if sensing her host's imminent demise.

This was it. This was how he died—not from the alien parasite in his chest, but from a fall that would shatter every bone in his body. Twenty stories down to unforgiving concrete. At least it would be quick.

The bar gave way with a final metallic shriek—

A hand shot out from above, closing around his wrist with impossible strength. The grip was firm, human, unshakable—stopping his fall at the last second as the twisted metal bar fell away into the darkness below.

Aven's head snapped up, his heart nearly stopping as his gaze locked with familiar pale blue eyes.

Bruce.

Aven's heart slammed against his ribs as relief and terror collided in his chest. Bruce was here—impossibly, inexplicably here—gripping his wrist with a strength that belied his billionaire persona. The man was half-sprawled over the balcony railing, his perfect tuxedo rumpled and strained as he held Aven's entire weight with one hand.

"Bruce," Aven breathed, the word torn from his throat in a voice that wasn't his own—feminine, modulated, wrong in every way that mattered. The recognition blazed in those pale eyes above him, cutting through every layer of deception like a blade through silk.

"I've got you," Bruce said, his voice strained with the effort of holding Aven's weight. The grip on his wrist was iron-strong, unyielding, but Aven could see the tension in Bruce's shoulders, the way his other hand gripped the balcony railing until his knuckles went white.

The queen writhed violently in Aven's chest, responding to the spike of adrenaline and terror with movements so sharp they stole his breath. He dangled there in the wind, twenty stories above Metropolis, held by nothing but Bruce's strength and will. The remaining pins in the blonde wig finally gave up their battle, and synthetic curls whipped away into the night like golden confetti.

"Don't look down," Bruce commanded, his voice carrying that particular edge of authority that had always made Aven's spine straighten automatically. "Look at me. Just at me."

Aven obeyed, locking his gaze with those familiar pale eyes. The wind tore at his dress, fabric snapping like a flag as it billowed around his bare legs. Without the heels, his feet felt strange and vulnerable, toes curling instinctively as if they could somehow find purchase in empty air.

"I need you to help me," Bruce said, his breathing controlled but labored. "Can you reach the railing with your other hand?"

Aven twisted, trying to see past Bruce's body to the wrought iron bars that might offer salvation. The movement sent fresh spasms through the queen, her alien form pressing hard against his lung until each breath came shallow and strained. His free hand stretched desperately, fingers brushing cold metal but unable to find a solid grip.

"I can't—" The words came out strangled, transformed by the voice modulator into something that sounded like a woman's desperate plea. "It's too far."

Bruce's jaw tightened, muscles in his arm standing out in sharp relief as he adjusted his grip. The tuxedo jacket pulled tight across his shoulders, expensive fabric straining at the seams. Aven could see the calculation happening behind those pale eyes—weighing options, measuring distances, formulating a plan.

"On three, I'm going to pull you up," Bruce said, his voice steady despite the impossible situation. "When I do, grab for the railing. Don't think, just grab."

The certainty in his tone was absolute, unshakeable. This was Batman speaking, the man who'd faced down gods and monsters without flinching. The man who'd searched for Aven across half the country, refusing to accept that he was gone for good.

"One," Bruce counted, shifting his position on the balcony railing, then added, "Two," as he braced his body against it, muscles tensing.

Aven's heart thundered in his chest, pulse pounding in his ears as the queen twisted beneath his ribs. His palm was slick with sweat against Bruce's grip, the dress clinging to his legs as the wind whipped around them both.

"Three!"

Bruce heaved upward with impossible strength, muscles straining beneath his tuxedo as he lifted Aven's entire body weight in one fluid motion. The world blurred as Aven surged upward, his free hand shooting out to grasp the balcony railing. His fingers closed around cold metal, finding purchase at last as Bruce pulled him higher.

With a final desperate lunge, Aven hooked his elbow over the top rung, using the leverage to drag himself up and over. His body collapsed onto the balcony floor, chest heaving as he gulped in air that tasted like salvation. The queen writhed beneath his sternum, responding to the flood of relief with movements that felt almost jubilant.

Bruce was beside him instantly, hands moving over Aven's body with practiced efficiency, checking for injuries. "Are you hurt? Can you stand?"

The concern in his voice was raw, unfiltered. Aven looked up at him through the tangle of blonde wig that still clung to his head, struggling to reconcile the man before him with the polite stranger who'd accepted champagne from him less than an hour ago.

"I'm okay," Aven managed, the voice modulator making the words sound breathless and feminine. "Just—need a minute."

Bruce's hand settled on his shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of the dress. Those pale eyes searched his face, seeing past the makeup and facial overlay to the man beneath. "You're bleeding."

Aven glanced down at his palms, raw and torn from gripping the metal railing. Blood smeared across his skin in thin rivulets, dripping onto the pale fabric of his dress. The sight should have concerned him—DNA evidence left behind—but he couldn't summon the energy to care. He was alive. Somehow, impossibly, he was alive.

"How did you—" Aven began, then stopped as the implications crashed over him. Bruce had known. Had followed him. Had been there exactly when Aven needed him most. "You recognized me."

It wasn't a question. Bruce's mouth tightened slightly, something complicated flickering across his features. "The facial overlay is good, but your right leg—the scars. I'd know them anywhere."

Heat crawled up Aven's neck, spreading across his cheeks beneath the carefully applied makeup. Bruce had traced those scars countless times, mapping the evidence of old wounds with reverent attention. Of course he'd recognized them, even through the disguise.

"You followed me," Aven said, struggling to sit up as the queen settled into a dull ache in his chest.

"I didn't know it was you until the ballroom," Bruce said quietly, his eyes never leaving Aven's face. "Not for certain. The disguise is... remarkably effective."

Aven struggled to process this information as he tried to steady his breathing. The queen's movements had settled into an uncomfortable pressure against his lower lung, but at least she wasn't thrashing anymore. He brushed stray blonde strands from his face, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous he must look—makeup smeared, wig half-attached, dress torn at the hem where it had caught on the railing.

"How did you get up here?" he asked, voice still transformed by the modulator into something soft and feminine that felt wrong in his own ears.

Bruce's expression shifted subtly. "The same way you were trying to leave. Service stairs, maintenance access. Basic infiltration."

Of course. Batman's skills in a billionaire's tuxedo. The thought almost made Aven laugh, but the sound caught in his throat as reality crashed back. He was still in Luthor's building, still in a disguise that was rapidly deteriorating, still holding stolen data pressed against his chest in the silicone padding of his fake breasts.

"I need to get out of here," Aven said, attempting to stand. His bare feet slipped slightly on the smooth balcony floor, legs unsteady after the terror of his near-fall. Bruce's hand shot out to steady him, strong and sure against his elbow.

"You're not going anywhere alone," Bruce said, his voice carrying that particular tone of finality that Aven recognized all too well. "Not after that."

Before Aven could argue, his earpiece crackled to life. "Davis! Status!" Amanda's voice was tight with barely controlled panic. "Are you alive? Report, damn it!"

Aven winced at the volume, turning slightly away from Bruce as he tapped the earpiece. "I'm alive. Extraction required."

Bruce's eyes narrowed at the exchange, but he said nothing, his hand remaining steady on Aven's arm. The touch felt like an anchor, grounding him after the nightmare of dangling twenty stories above Metropolis streets.

"What's your position?" Wasabi demanded through the comm.

"Adjacent balcony. East side," Aven replied, conscious of Bruce watching him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "I have... assistance."

There was a beat of silence, then Amanda's voice, sharp with understanding: "Wayne."

"Affirmative," Aven said, unable to meet Bruce's gaze as he confirmed what his team had already deduced. "Requesting extraction options."

The wind whipped around them, colder now as adrenaline faded and left Aven shivering in the torn dress. His bare feet felt frozen against the balcony floor, toes curling instinctively against the chill. Bruce shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket without a word, draping the expensive fabric over Aven's shoulders. The warmth enveloped him immediately, carrying Bruce's familiar scent—that particular blend of expensive cologne and something uniquely him that made Aven's chest ache with longing.

"The conference room," Bruce said, nodding toward the darkened space beyond the balcony doors. "We need to get inside, away from exposure."

Aven nodded, letting Bruce guide him toward the glass doors that separated them from relative safety. His bare feet moved silently across the balcony floor, the queen settling into a dull ache beneath his ribs as his heart rate gradually slowed.

Aven allowed himself to be guided across the balcony, legs still unsteady from the aftermath of terror. The conference room beyond was dark and silent, illuminated only by the city lights filtering through the windows. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by ergonomic chairs that probably cost more than Aven's military pension. The walls were lined with screens and presentation equipment, all powered down for the night.

"Clear," Bruce murmured, ushering Aven inside before closing the balcony door behind them. The sudden absence of wind made the room feel unnaturally still, the only sound their controlled breathing and the distant hum of the building's ventilation system.

"Update on extraction," Amanda's voice came through Aven's earpiece, sharper now without the wind to interfere. "Sarge reports increased security on ground level. Luthor's ordered a sweep of all floors."

Aven's stomach clenched with fresh anxiety. The queen stirred restlessly, responding to the spike in his heart rate with a subtle shift that pressed uncomfortably against his lung.

"Wayne with you?" Amanda asked, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer.

"Yes," Aven replied, conscious of Bruce watching him with those pale, unreadable eyes. The tuxedo jacket hung loose around his shoulders, too large but comforting in its familiar weight.

"Put him on comms."

Aven hesitated, then removed the earpiece, holding it out to Bruce. "They want to talk to you."

Bruce took the device without comment, fitting it into his ear with practiced ease. His expression remained neutral as he listened, though Aven could see the subtle tightening around his eyes that suggested he didn't like what he was hearing.

"Understood," Bruce said finally, his voice carrying that particular tone of authority that belonged more to Batman than the billionaire playboy. "I have alternate extraction routes. We'll meet at the secondary point."

Aven watched as Bruce returned the earpiece, fighting the urge to demand answers immediately. The facial overlay tingled against his skin, a constant reminder of the disguise that was rapidly deteriorating.

"I need to know what's going on," Aven said, sliding the earpiece back in place. "How bad is it out there?"

Bruce's expression hardened as he moved to the conference room door, pressing his ear against it briefly before returning to Aven's side. "Luthor's mobilized his entire security team. They're conducting a floor-by-floor sweep. Two guards just entered this level."

The queen twisted violently beneath Aven's ribs, responding to the fresh surge of adrenaline. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the hard edge of the thumb drive still hidden in the silicone padding. At least the mission data was secure, even if he wasn't.

"The facial overlay is deteriorating," Bruce said, his voice low as he studied Aven's face. "We need to get you out of here before it fails completely."

Aven nodded, painfully aware of the tingling sensation along his jawline where the mesh was beginning to separate from his skin. The sweat and exertion had compromised the adhesive—another few minutes and the disguise would be useless.

"Secondary extraction point is the service entrance on the northeast loading dock," Wasabi's voice came through his earpiece. "Sarge will have transport waiting. ETA fifteen minutes if you can get there."

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of navigating a building crawling with security while wearing a torn dress, one shoe missing, and a failing facial disguise. The odds weren't great.

"We need to move," Bruce said, already heading toward the conference room door. "Now."

Aven followed, wincing as his bare feet pressed against the cold floor. His palms still stung from the abrasions suffered during his desperate grip on the balcony railing, blood drying in thin streaks across his skin. The blonde wig hung precariously from the few remaining pins, synthetic curls tangled and matted from the wind.

Bruce paused at the door, listening intently before easing it open a crack. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, emergency lighting casting long shadows across the expensive carpet. He closed the door quietly, turning back to Aven with a frown.

"Two guards at the elevator bank. They're starting a room-by-room search."

Aven's heart sank. "How long until they reach us?"

"Minutes. Maybe less." Bruce's gaze swept the conference room, assessing options with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd escaped from worse situations. "The ventilation shaft. It connects to the main system."

Aven followed his gaze to the ceiling vent, calculating the dimensions against his current form. The dress would make it difficult, but not impossible. "I can fit."

Bruce moved to the conference table, dragging one of the expensive chairs beneath the vent with surprising stealth. "I'll go first, then help you up."

Before Aven could protest, Bruce was already stepping onto the chair, his movements fluid and practiced. The frame creaked under his weight as he reached for the vent cover, fingers working the screws with the kind of calm precision that came from too many escapes just like this. Aven watched the way his body moved—the subtle shifts of muscle beneath the white dress shirt—and felt something twist in his chest that had nothing to do with the queen.

The screws came free with barely a whisper of sound. Bruce set the metal grate aside carefully, then hauled himself up into the opening with an ease that made it look effortless. His legs disappeared into the darkness, followed by the soft sound of him moving deeper into the shaft.

"Clear," Bruce's voice drifted down, muffled by metal and insulation. "Come up."

Aven stepped onto the chair, grateful for Bruce's steadying hand that appeared at the mouth of the vent. The dress bunched around his thighs as he reached upward, fabric catching on the metal edges of the opening. The queen stirred restlessly as he stretched, pressing uncomfortable against his ribs.

Bruce's grip was iron-strong as he pulled Aven up into the shaft. The space was cramped, barely wide enough for his shoulders, and the metal was cold against his bare knees as he crawled forward. The blonde wig snagged on something overhead, pins finally giving up their last desperate hold. Synthetic curls scattered behind him like breadcrumbs as the wig tore free completely.

"This way," Bruce whispered, his voice barely audible in the confined space. "The shaft connects to the stairwell on the north side."

Aven followed the sound of Bruce's movement, crawling through darkness that smelled of dust and old metal. The torn dress caught repeatedly on rivets and joints, fabric pulling taut across his chest with each forward motion. His palms stung where they pressed against the rough metal, blood from the railing incident leaving sticky traces in his wake.

Behind them, voices echoed from the conference room they'd abandoned. Security guards, their tones professional but alert as they swept the space.

"Room's clear, but the balcony door was unlocked," one of them reported, the words carrying clearly through the building's ventilation system. "Could be nothing, but..."

Aven's heart hammered against his ribs as he forced himself to crawl faster. The queen twisted beneath his sternum, responding to his spiking anxiety with movements that made each breath shallow and strained. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the dress, mixing with the lingering scent of Bruce's cologne from the borrowed jacket.

The shaft turned sharply to the right, forcing them to navigate around a junction box that scraped against Aven's shoulder. Bruce moved like he'd done this a thousand times before, which he probably had. The thought should have been comforting, but instead it reminded Aven of all the dangers Bruce had faced without him, all the nights he'd crawled through similar spaces while Aven was... gone.

"Almost there," Bruce whispered.

The shaft widened slightly as they approached a junction, allowing Aven to catch his breath. His knees ached from crawling on metal, and the queen shifted restlessly beneath his ribs. The silicone forms pressed uncomfortably against his chest, the thumb drive digging into his skin with every movement.

Bruce paused at a grate ahead, peering through the slats into what appeared to be an empty stairwell. His shoulders blocked most of Aven's view, but the glimpse of concrete steps and utilitarian railings was enough to make hope flicker in his chest.

"Clear," Bruce murmured, fingers already working on the fasteners. The screws came loose with practiced efficiency, and he eased the grate aside without a sound.

Bruce slipped through first, his movements fluid despite the confined space. He reached back, offering his hand to help Aven through the opening. The torn dress caught on the metal edge as Aven maneuvered his body through, fabric ripping further with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet stairwell.

His bare feet touched cold concrete, sending a shock up his legs. The stairwell was dimly lit by emergency lighting, casting everything in an eerie red glow that made Bruce's face look carved from stone. Without the blonde wig, Aven felt exposed, vulnerable—his own short hair plastered to his scalp with sweat.

"The facial overlay is failing," Bruce said, his voice low as he studied Aven's face. "We need to move fast."

Aven nodded, feeling the tingling sensation along his jawline where the mesh was separating from his skin. The disguise was deteriorating rapidly, leaving him caught between identities—not fully Joanna Roswell anymore, but not quite Aven Davis either.

"Wasabi," he murmured into his comm, "status on extraction?"

"Sarge is in position," came the immediate reply. "Northeast loading dock, maintenance entrance. Security's concentrated on the executive floors and main exits."

Bruce was already moving down the stairs, each step silent despite his dress shoes. Aven followed, wincing as his bare feet slapped against the cold concrete. The dress swished around his thighs, torn in places from the crawl through the ventilation shaft. Bruce's tuxedo jacket hung from his shoulders like a shield, too large but comforting in its familiar weight and scent.

"Fourteen floors to go," Bruce said, pausing at the landing to check for signs of security. "Can you make it?"

The question wasn't about physical capability—Aven had endured far worse in Marine training—but about the queen. She twisted beneath his ribs as if in response, pressing against his lung with enough force to make him wince.

"I'll manage," Aven replied, the voice modulator making the words sound breathier than intended. He reached up and pulled it free, tucking it into his pocket.

"I'll be fine," Aven said again, his own voice sounding strange after hours with the modulator. "Let's move."

They descended in silence, each step bringing them closer to potential freedom or capture. Aven's bare feet grew numb against the cold concrete, his calves burning from the strain of moving quickly down flight after flight. The queen shifted restlessly beneath his ribs with each jarring step, a constant reminder of everything at stake.

Bruce moved like a shadow ahead of him, pausing at each landing to check for security before signaling the all-clear. His white dress shirt caught the emergency lighting, turning it blood-red in the eerie glow. Aven couldn't help but notice how easily Bruce had slipped into this role—not the billionaire playboy, but the man who'd spent years navigating Gotham's darkest corners.

"Security update?" Bruce whispered as they reached the tenth floor landing.

Aven pressed his finger to his earpiece. "Wasabi, status?"

"Guards have sealed the main exits," came the tense reply. "They're checking IDs at all security checkpoints. Northeast loading dock is still clear but won't stay that way. You've got maybe ten minutes before they expand the perimeter."

Ten minutes to descend ten more floors and navigate to the loading dock without being spotted. The odds were getting worse by the second. Aven's heart hammered against his ribs, the queen responding with a violent twist that nearly made him stumble on the stairs.

Bruce caught his arm, steadying him before he could fall. Those pale eyes searched his face, concern evident in the tight line of his mouth. "The inhibitor?"

"Still working," Aven managed, surprised that Bruce had remembered about the device keeping the queen dormant. "She's just... responsive to stress."

Bruce's hand lingered on his arm, warm through the fabric of the tuxedo jacket. For a moment, they stood frozen on the landing, connected by that simple touch that carried the weight of months apart. Aven's throat tightened with everything he wanted to say—explanations, apologies, confessions that had built up like pressure behind a dam.

The moment shattered as voices echoed from below, guards ascending the stairwell in a methodical sweep. Bruce's expression hardened as he pulled Aven toward the door leading to the eighth floor.

"We need another route," he whispered, easing the door open just enough to check the hallway beyond. "Service elevator shaft. East side of the building."

Aven followed Bruce through the door, wincing as his bare feet met the smooth marble of the executive hallway. The dress swished around his thighs, torn and dirty from the ventilation shaft. Without the blonde wig, he felt exposed, the facial overlay tingling as it continued to deteriorate against his skin.

Bruce's hand slipped into his as they moved down the corridor, fingers intertwining with a familiarity that made Aven's chest ache. The warmth of that touch grounded him, cut through the panic threatening to overwhelm his system. Even here, even now, Bruce's presence felt like coming home.

The service elevator shaft was hidden behind an unmarked door that Bruce opened with disturbing ease. Aven didn't want to think about how he knew the building's layout so intimately, didn't want to consider the hours of preparation that must have gone into tonight. The shaft yawned before them, cables and counterweights disappearing into darkness above and below.

"Can you climb down?" Bruce asked, his voice barely audible as he tested the tension on the nearest cable.

Aven peered into the depths, calculating the distance to the loading dock level. The dress would make it awkward, but he'd rappelled in worse conditions. "Yeah."

Bruce went first, wrapping his legs around the thick cable with practiced ease. His white shirt caught what little light filtered down from above as he descended into shadow. Aven followed, the metal cable cold and rough against his palms. His torn dress caught the air, billowing around his thighs as he slid downward.

The queen shifted restlessly with each jarring movement, pressing against his ribs until breathing became a conscious effort. Sweat slicked his palms despite the cold, making his grip precarious. The thumb drive dug into his chest through the silicone padding, a sharp reminder of why they were here.

"Almost there," Bruce's voice drifted up from below, muffled by the shaft's acoustics.

Aven's bare feet touched solid ground sooner than expected, concrete rough against his soles. The loading dock level smelled of motor oil and industrial cleaning supplies, familiar scents that reminded him of Marine bases and supply depots. Bruce's hand found his shoulder in the darkness, steadying him as he regained his balance.

"This way," Bruce whispered, guiding him toward a sliver of light that marked the exit.

The loading dock was exactly as Wasabi had described—a maze of service vehicles and loading bays, most empty at this hour. Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows between the concrete pillars, creating pockets of darkness perfect for concealment. Aven's heart hammered as they moved between the parked trucks, each step bringing them closer to freedom.

Sarge materialized from behind a delivery van like a ghost, his weathered face grim in the fluorescent light. His eyes swept over Aven's torn dress and bare feet, taking in the deteriorating facial overlay and missing wig without comment.

"Transport's ready," he said simply, jerking his head toward a nondescript sedan idling near the exit ramp. "We need to move. Security's expanding the search perimeter."

Aven nodded, following Sarge toward the vehicle. But as they reached the car, Bruce's hand caught his—gentle, but firm. Aven turned, expecting orders, warnings, maybe one last lecture about recklessness. Instead, he found Bruce’s eyes locked on his, something raw and unspoken flickering in their pale depths.

Neither of them moved. Seconds slipped past, each one an unbearable weight. Bruce’s gaze traced the blood smudging Aven’s palms, the frayed edges of his torn dress, the fragile shimmer of the failing facial overlay—and then settled back on his eyes, with a depth of longing so intense it nearly broke him.

Bruce moved first, stepping close enough that Aven felt the warmth of his breath against his skin. He took Aven’s wrist, gentle yet firm, pulling him in with a quiet desperation that seemed to fray at the edges of all their carefully built walls. His other hand settled at Aven’s waist, fingers curling into the torn fabric like a silent plea.

Aven’s breath caught sharply, the tension between them tightening until it was almost unbearable. Months of unspoken words hung suspended in the fragile space between their bodies, a tangled knot of grief, regret, and relentless love.

Bruce leaned in, voice rough with emotion, his mouth nearly brushing Aven’s temple. “When this is over,” he murmured fiercely, the words fierce and aching, “you and I are going to talk. Really talk. No more running. No disguises.”

Aven's heart thudded painfully in his chest. He nodded slowly, throat closing around the words he wanted desperately to say but couldn't. "Okay," he whispered.

Bruce held his gaze another second, eyes burning, before he closed the last distance and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was bitter and desperate, a raw clash of all the things they'd left unsaid. Aven clung to him, fists tight in Bruce's shirt, tasting grief and longing and the fierce ache of a love they couldn’t outrun no matter how far apart they’d tried to stay.

When Bruce finally broke away, he pressed his forehead briefly against Aven’s, breath uneven. His voice was hoarse, fractured by the weight of his promise. “I’m not losing you again.”

Bruce’s hand slipped reluctantly from Aven’s waist as he stepped back. "Go," he said quietly, the word tight and painful. "I'll cover your trail."

Aven climbed into the sedan silently, every nerve still raw from the kiss. Bruce ducked low beside the door just before it closed, hidden from the cameras, his eyes locked onto Aven’s in one last, fierce look.

“You did good tonight,” Bruce said softly, steadily, voice heavy with something deeper than pride. “I’m proud of you.”

Before Aven could answer, the door shut, sealing him away. The car rolled forward into the darkness, and he turned back to watch Bruce, standing motionless beneath the stark glow of the loading dock lights—watching until the shadows finally swallowed him whole.

Continued in Dead Reckoning

Part 3