Gotham offered the perfect space for his plans. The city was a chaotic landscape of old money, high-tech industrial waste, and desperate brilliance. Unlike the polished streets of Metropolis, Gotham's "weirdness" was so frequent it was practically background noise. His actions would still draw attention, John was a realist but in a city drowning in eccentric crime, a man obsessively collecting aerospace scrap was just another Tuesday.
He already had a mental list of names, disgraced engineers, black-market tech brokers, and "fixers" who could be moved by the right amount of untraceable currency. These were figures he could learn from, experts who could provide the specialized knowledge he lacked, all while keeping the League's intrusive hand at a manageable distance.
John eventually made his way back to his quarters, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ebb. The sight that met him was jarringly domestic, a maid was fussing over Dog, and the little dog was panting with a ridiculous, tongue-out grin on his face.
John let out a slow sigh, leaning against the doorframe. In the cold calculus of his survival, he hadn't planned on baggage, yet here he was. He had unknowingly saved this animal's life, and now, he had one more soul to account for in his quest to leave this planet behind.
The head maid looked up as John entered, her sharp eyes quickly cataloging his return. John didn't give her a chance to speak, he simply delivered his first official directive with the weight of his new status.
"Inform the League that I want my first payment upfront," he stated, his voice cool and businesslike. "And notify them that my training class will begin next month."
The maid bowed deeply, but before she could retreat, John added a final, more pressing point. "I also plan on leaving the island shortly. Who do I need to clear that with?"
The maid's composure flickered for a fraction of a second, a brow arching in mild surprise. To most, the League's island was a sanctum or a cage, few spoke of leaving so casually. "I don't have an immediate answer for that, sir," she admitted, her tone regaining its professional neutrality. "But I will look into the protocols and extend your request to the higher-ranking members."
John gave a curt nod of dismissal and crossed the room toward the television. The digital glow was his only real tether to the outside world, a window into the chaos he was about to dive into. "I'm hungry," he remarked, the simple statement causing the two maids near Dog to spring to their feet.
"What would you like, sir?" they asked in unison.
"Surprise me," John replied, his focus already shifting to the screen.
As they hurried out to fulfill his request, John settled in. The flickering news reports were more than just entertainment, they were his recon. Gotham was waiting, and if he was going to build a bridge to the stars, he needed to know exactly which madness were currently roaming its streets.
The flicker of the television screen provided a rhythmic strobe light against the darkened room as John scanned the global headlines. S.T.A.R. Labs breakthroughs, WayneTech acquisitions.
The silence was broken by the rhythmic chime of ceramic and silver. The two maids returned, wheeling in a cart that smelled of seared duck and expensive spices. They moved with a practiced efficiency, setting a small table near his chair without blocking his view of the screen. It was a meal fit for a high-ranking lieutenant, a subtle reminder of the "gilded cage" the League provided.
As John picked up his utensils, the head maid re-entered the room. Her expression was unreadable, but her posture was slightly more rigid than before.
"I have conferred with the Master's adjutants regarding your request, sir," she began, her voice dropping to a respectful near-whisper. "Your initial stipend has already been authorized. A secure account has been established in your name, accessible through the League's encrypted channels. The funds will be available by dawn."
John didn't look away from the TV, but he paused, a piece of duck halfway to his mouth. "And the departure?"
"You are a free agent of the Demon's Head, not a prisoner," she replied, though there was a lingering edge to the words. "However, for security and logistical coordination, you are required to submit a flight plan to the Master's inner circle twenty-four hours before leaving the island's airspace. A private transport will be at your disposal, provided you maintain a check-in schedule."
John nodded slowly. A leash, just as he expected.
"One more thing," the maid added, glancing at the television where a blurry image of the Gotham skyline was currently being broadcast. "The League suggests that if your destination is indeed Gotham City, you should remain mindful of the current climate. The city is currently under heightened state due to some villain outbreak."
John finally turned his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. It seemed the "genius criminals" he was looking for were already busy at work.
"I'll keep that in mind," John said, dismissing her with a wave, and turned back to the news. He had his money, he had his transport, and now, he had a lead. Gotham was calling.
The next three days passed in a blur of quick recovery. John's body, bolstered by the league medications, knit itself back together with unnatural efficiency. Between bouts of rest, he was presented with a sleek, matte-black bank card delivered on a silver tray, his first physical tether to the League's vast financial empire.
By the third morning, John stood on the tarmac of the island's private airstrip. A high-altitude stealth transport sat idling, its engines a low, predatory hum against the tropical heat. Accompanying him were Dog, who trotted happily at his heels, and the head maid.
He had requested her presence specifically. It was a calculated move, by keeping a familiar face from the Pagoda's staff near him, he was essentially offering the League a "volunteer" handler. It gave Ra's the illusion of control and a direct line of sight into his daily life, satisfying their need for surveillance while allowing John to operate without the clumsiness of hidden bugs or shadowed assassins. They had already handed him an encrypted phone for routine check-ins, but John knew that it was never enough.
As they boarded the plane, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to his arrival. There were no blindfolds, no sedative mists, and no heavy-handed guards. He was a guest of honor, or perhaps more accurately, a long-term investment.
John took his seat in the pressurized cabin, his gaze drifting to the window as the lush green of the island began to pass by fast. The head maid stood nearby, her hands folded neatly. "Do you require anything for the duration of the flight, sir?" she asked, her voice steady over the drone of the engines.
John shook his head, a silent dismissal.
Cruising at thirty thousand feet, John pulled the matte-black card from his pocket, turning it over in his fingers. It felt heavy, made sense considering that it held the influence of a centuries-old empire. This trip was to set up a foundation. His primary objective was to secure a studio, a personal sanctuary that could double as a base of operations, and if possible gain a site large enough to house a starship's skeletal remains.
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