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seriousficTitle: Duality
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,059
Characters/Pairings: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne
Previous Part: Chapter 18
Next Part: Chapter 20
Summary: As Bruce loses himself to the ravages of the Joker’s poison, Clark searches for a cure.
Bruce had thought he’d known the night. He thought he understood that it was vast and dark and cold. He had no idea.
The night was so large it stretched between stars, so dark that light was not just immaterial, but denied. So cold that he would never be warm again. No matter which beach he traveled to, no matter how many friends he swaddled himself with, no matter how advanced the armor he coated himself with… in Crime Alley, he would still be freezing.
“Don’t be afraid,” his father told him, and Bruce wanted to rage at the old man for lying and telling him there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, but no matter how loud he screamed, his father would never answer.
He forced himself to center, center, center. The fear swelled up in him and he met it head-on, as Ra’s had taught him (“My wife, the mother of my child, they killed her… whenever the mission becomes difficult, I remind myself that if they are not with me, they are with my wife’s despoilers.”), as Alfred had taught him (“So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up.”), as Clark had taught him (“Truth and justice and the American way.”).
He was in bed. There was a woman there, hovering over him, angelic.
“Mother?”
“Go back to sleep, dear. I don’t want a peep out of you until your fever goes down.”
Clark, you know there’s a naked human in here, right? Does that happen often around here?
He’s a friend. Leave him put.
He smells funny.
He’s sick.
Eww.
“Supposedta go to school, big test…”
“It can wait until you’re better. Here, look what I got from the video store.”
“The Grey Ghost!”
Now he’s looking at me. And moving his lips. It’s creepying me out.
Creeping. And I told you, stay clear of him.
What’s his name, anyway?
Br—Batman.
Batman? Is that Italian?
It’s not his real name. I’ll explain later.
What’s with all the bruises and scars? Are those part of his sickness?
I guess you could say that.—No, he gets them fighting crime.
Like a policeman?
Not quite.
Like you?
I suppose so.
He’s following your example! See, I told you Earth could be redeemed!
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
“Rachel came by while you were sick. I told her you couldn’t play, but you should try to give her a phone call to let her know you’re alright.”
“Okay.”
“Now, you just stay in bed and watch your movie. I’ll bring you up some chicken soup and Sprite.”
What’s wrong with him, anyway? Can we get sick from it?
No, it’s a toxin. A man called the Joker injected him with it. I’m trying to find a cure.
Can I help?
Yes, of course. I’ll upload the file to that terminal over there.
“Are you going to go to work?”
“No, dear, I’m staying home to look after you.”
“You don’t hafta. I feel great.”
“Nonsense. It’s my job. I’ll always take care of you, Brucie.”
“Mom…”
***
Bruce was staring up at the Aurora Borealis. It was blue as gunsmoke, twisting in and on itself, eating itself whole. Gave him a headache. Everything gave him a headache. He sat up to find that brought an immediate denial of balance. Falling back to his bed for the moment. It was warm, lived in. If it weren’t for the pressure in his bladder, he would’ve stayed in it. Silver sheets, though. Weren’t his. And whatever the pillows were full of, they weren’t feathers.
He tried getting up again. It worked this time. He was naked, but he left the sheets behind. If someone attacked him, they could tangle. He did find a bathrobe on a nearby chair, as white as the rest of his surroundings. The film student in Bruce found it disturbingly Stanley Kubrick. He checked the bathrobe for bugs, then put it on. It fit him well, as well as an off-the-rack robe could. He checked the tag. Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Hunh.
There was a conversation at the back of his soundscape. Bruce wondered whether he should investigate as Bruce Wayne or as Batman… even a very unmasked Batman. He took nothing for granted, deciding to approach with a swagger that could be Bruce Wayne’s after a long night on the town, but could turn lethal at a moment’s notice.
One of the voices was Kal-El. Bruce would recognize it anywhere. He turned a corner and saw Kal swapping out crystals in the main console, apparently trying for some special combination. Above him, a holographic projection of an elderly man’s head flickered.
“Father, tell me of Zod. Was he trying to stop Krypton from being destroyed?”
“That knowledge is numerated on the fourteenth crystal…”
Kal slammed it into the console. “Tell me!”
The hologram stopped flickering. “Ask your question, my son.”
“Why was Zod trying to take over Krypton?”
“He hungered for power. He saw, as I did, that Krypton had become stagnant and hubristic under the weight of its own history. I wanted us to end our isolationism, explore the stars and help less advanced civilizations as you are aiding Earth. But his solution was to turn Krypton into a dictatorship.”
“If he’d succeeded, would Krypton have survived?”
“Yes,” Jor-El answered, immediately. Bruce winced. If it were Clark’s real father, there might’ve been some hesitation, some softening of that harsh truth. Instead, all Clark had was a computer program.
“Then why didn’t you help him!?” Clark demanded.
“Zod was a cancer, a corruption of healthy thought. If he ruled Krypton, his lust for dominance would’ve led him to conquer other worlds, enslaving their populations as he nearly did to Earth. Better a quick, clean death for Krypton than the death of all it stood for under his tyranny.”
“You let Krypton die. You could’ve saved them and you let them die!”
“It was best that Krypton die, so long as its evils died with it. The Colu… information missing, corrupted data…”
Clark ripped the crystal from its socket and crushed it in his hand. The hologram died.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Bruce.” Clark sagged against the console for a moment before gathering himself up. “But I’m glad you’re awake.”
Bruce stepped out of hiding. “It was a hard choice your father made. I… don’t envy him that.”
“He made the wrong choice. If there’s life, there’s hope. He gave up on Krypton. If it ever came down to it, I would always try to save people, no matter the risk.”
Bruce’s mind whipped through the obvious questions -- stupid questions, as it was obvious he’d been brought here so that Kal-El could find a cure for Joker’s poison – and sifted through to the more important ones.
“Who was the girl?”
“What girl?” Kal-El rejoined, either playing dumb or actually being dumb, in his own Clark manner.
“There was a girl here. She was…” Bruce’s lips went thin with recollection. “Pretty.”
Clark scowled for a moment, but hid it well. “Bruce. Fortress of Solitude, remember? Your mind’s playing tricks on you. Maybe you should get a girlfriend.”
And unbidden, Talia jumped into Bruce’s mind. She wasn’t wearing any clothes this time. Bruce kneaded a hand into his forehead, ignoring Kal-El’s wit/lack-of-same.
Kal-El, noting Bruce’s wooziness, flew down to his level, although he floated over Bruce’s head in what Bruce would call a peevish manner. “Bathroom’s over there,” he said, pointing. “I’ll put on some coffee.”
He went about doing that, flying to a very ordinary-looking kitchen set tucked away in the corner of the crystalline architecture. After finishing, Bruce came out of the restroom and tried to reach the Kryptonian. No easy doing on the uneven, cracked floor of the Fortress.
“Doesn’t this place have chairs?”
“Huh? Oh. Just start to sit down, the Fortress will do the rest.”
Bruce frowned, but decided Kal-El was too much of a straight-arrow to be pulling one over on a sick man, so he did. He descended into a perfectly comfortable chair that simply had not been there before. The whole thing was too clever by half. Maybe coffee would make it better.
Then Bruce saw Kal-El brewing, carefully proportioning coffee grounds into filters with a big red cape swaying behind him, and thought no.
“Where’s my armor?”
“Alfred wanted it. Something about forensic evidence.“
“You couldn’t have asked him for another one?”
“One of your rules, apparently. Don’t give out armor to strangers? Don’t worry, the bathrobe brings out your eyes.”
Bruce crossed his arms, tight. “How long have I been out?”
“Going on two days. I had to put you in stasis while I searched for a cure to the toxin. Speaking of which, I also found an unknown pathogen in your blood work. Have you been taking a lot of painkillers?”
“I thought you’d sworn this place off ever since your father’s AI crashed.“
Clark pursed his lips a little at Bruce’s insensitivity. “Alfred sent one of your lookalikes to Aspen to ski, so the Bruce Wayne angle is covered. Honestly, it kind of freaks me out that you have lookalikes. Saddam Hussein had those, you know.”
“Not all of us can get our inspiration from JFK and Pa Kent. And you’ve seen how the lookalikes can come in handy. After a while, they pay for themselves.“
“You’re saying I should build an android?” Superman asked whimsically.
“Believe me, one of you is enough.” A table blossomed in front of Bruce, and Superman set down the coffee and a bowl of some orange liquid in front of him. “What is this? Some kind of Kryptonian healing elixir?”
“No, chicken soup.”
Bruce took a tentative sip. “Not bad.”
“Mom made it as soon as she heard. There’s also a get-well pie in the fridge.”
“You’re in the Arctic Circle and you have a fridge?”
“Well, it’s more of a miniaturization stasis chamber… thing.” Whatever it was, Clark grabbed a pie pan out of it and cut himself a slice. “You mind?”
“Help yourself.”
“I will; she’s my mom.” He cut another slice and served up a plate of piping hot apple pit to Bruce.
Bruce looked at it as if trying to gauge what kind of poisons would fit into a tender, flaky crust. Clark sardonically set down a fork on his plate.
With a huffing sigh, Bruce took a deep gulp of coffee. It was thick and black, just the way he liked it. He thanked the gods, Kryptonian and otherwise, that Clark hadn’t poisoned it with cream and sugar and milk and whatever else he added to make it something that wasn’t coffee.
“I feel almost human,” he commented.
Clark paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his lips. “Yeah. Me too.”
The look in his eyes was so weirdly vulnerable that Bruce actually felt contrite. “Sorry.”
“It’s nothing.”
Bruce dug his fork into the pie and took a bite. “It’s good. Your mom’s a good cook.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her you said that.”
Bruce pictured Martha Kent running around Kansas telling neighbors that Batman liked her apple pie. “Okay.” He stood, taking another swallow of coffee. “Gotham.”
“It hasn’t exploded in your absence.” Clark laughed in sarcastic disbelief. “I know, right? Who’d a thunk it?”
“Not. Funny.” He repeated himself, infusing each syllable with even more gravitas. “Gotham.”
“It really is fine. Some crimes, yes, but what you’d expect from a major city. Although there was this streaker in East End wearing nothing but a sandwich board that said—“
“The Joker?”
Clark fell silent. “I know what it’s like for someone to come into your home and take your peace of mind,” Clark said at last.
Bruce looked up sharply. “The crystals…” He shook his head. “I don’t see why you’re worried. Even if Luthor could interface with them, he has no way to read Kryptonese.”
“They’re all that’s left, Bruce. My heritage. My memory.” He stared into Bruce, his prolonged gaze so intense that words like “inhuman,” “alien,” and “immortal” crept up the human’s brainstem. “Surely you can understand that I need them back.”
“We’ll get them back. As soon as we find Luthor, I’ll…”
Clark shook his head. “If I can’t find him, you can’t. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the—“ Superman paused, cocking his head. “One moment, there’s a crime being committed.”
Bruce had just one question: “Where?”
Superman reached deep into the console and pulled out a red phone handset.
“You have a phone?” Bruce said, dubious.
“It’s no giant spotlight with an S on it, but I get by.” He shook the handset patronizingly. “Hotline to the Metropolis police department. Relax, the satellite scrambles the signal.”
“You have a satellite?”
Superman, who’d had a finger held up to stall him, hung up. “STAR Labs is being robbed. I have to go.”
“And what about me?”
“There are ski-mobiles in the garage. Be sure to fill up the tank when you’re done, you can afford it.”
He took off, spiraling up, up, and away through the Fortress’s oculus.
Bruce looked around at his alien surroundings. “Where’s the garage?”
***
Breaking into STAR Labs had been easy. Lexcorp had made the security system and Mr. Luthor always left himself a backdoor. With impeccable authorization, they’d landed a prototype Lexcorp assault helicopter (reported stolen that morning) on the roof helipad and infiltrated the facility. One of the bigheads, Dr. Hamilton, was performing experiments on the Kryptonite to see if it was any good as a power source. Bad news was, Hamilton had added his own twist on security: A lead-lined vault. That’s when the guns came out.
They all wore ski masks, duh, but John Corben recognized Mr. Blue from the acetylene-torch he wielded. Two edges of the thick safe door had been cut through. “Hurry it up, my trigger finger’s itching.”
“The fucker’s thick, okay? Next time I’ll pack some C4.”
Hamilton and his three assistants were duct-taped in their office chairs. One of the male assistants had a goose egg rising where Corben had butt-stroked him.
Hamilton had a pretty fierce expression for an old guy. “You won’t get away with this.”
Corben calmly walked over to him, took the good doctor’s glasses off, and crushed them in his hand. “Watch me. Blurrily.”
The smell of melted metal was acid in his nostrils. With one last look at the safe to confirm three edges had been cut, he went to their perimeter room. It was a couple of floors above the sealed-off lobby, with windows looking out on the front of the building. The back was already covered by fields of experiments that the police couldn’t get through.
Mr. Orange was setting up a rocket emplacement. Experimental anti-tank weaponry, fast reload, with variable rounds able to target both aircraft and land vehicles. He’d already used an air hammer to stake the legs into the ground, and pointed the barrel out the window. The targeting display was set up on the side of the peculiarly tarantula-like construction.
“Mr. Red, we got problems.” Mr. Orange pointed to the LCD display. “SWAT van’s here.”
“Rocket emplacement set?”
“Locked and loaded.”
“Then give ‘em a taste.”
Mr. Orange took careful aim and fired. It was as if a dragon had awakened. Flame erupted from the cannon, briefly resolved into a sabot round, then lost itself in the SWAT van’s destruction. The armored vehicle came to rest on its side, smoke bleeding out a ragged hole on the top.
“Nice shooting,” Corben said, watching the driver stop, drop, and roll. He patted Mr. Orange on the back and went back to check on the safe. Three edges cut. He smiled, heard his satellite phone trill. Twisted the knobs to scramble it and answered.
“Yessir?”
It was Luthor, not that anyone would ever recognize the voice. “Do you have it?”
“Just a matter of moments, sir.”
“You don’t have moments. NORAD just reported a supersonic object approaching Metropolis. The only thing standing between you and our country’s penal system is in that vault. Get it done.”
Corben hung up and tuned to Mr. Orange’s frequency. “Load another round. Flying target.”
***
Superman eased down from Mach 5, friction and wind chill combining to slightly disorient his senses. He dipped out of the stratosphere on the familiar approach to Metropolis. The trouble was easy to find. A black tongue of smoke was licking the purple sky, its root an overturned SWAT van. Superman dived like an eagle.
He heard the roar of a rocket attack; time slowed as his super-reflexes took over. The sabot which had been darting toward him now hung in the sky like an infant’s mobile. He caught it, stared at it with one eye X-ray one eye heatvision, then pitched it back the way it came.
The dealt with, he landed on the SWAT van and ripped it open like a bag of microwave popcorn. The cops inside were injured, but their battle wagon’s armor had spared them the brunt of it. He put out the fires with his Arctic breath and took a flying leap into STAR Labs.
Upright, he floated through the wall and windows like a wrecking ball. The rocket emplacement was crushed underfoot.
At the other end of the room, Mr. Orange laid doubled over, the sabot cradled in his stomach. His lungs were desperately trying to hold air.
“I disarmed the warhead,” Kal-El explained. Then he tapped the man on the forehead. “Like so.”
The man slumped into unconsciousness.
X-Ray vision pinpointed the hostages in the next room. One of the captors was standing next to the wall. Superman exploded through it, grabbing the man by the throat and thrusting his head into the ceiling. Mr. Green hung there, flailing.
Now there were two. One was opening a safe. The other had a gun to Dr. Hamilton’s head. His voice was familiar. “Walk away or I waste him.”
Superman’s eyes flared. “With what?”
That’s when Corben realized he was holding only the grip of his pistol. The slide was melted on the ground.
He threw the grip at Superman. It bounced harmlessly off his S-shield.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
With a sputtering hiss, the blowtorch cut out. The safe door fell open, exposing the room to the deadly light of its contents. Superman staggered. It’d been six years since he’d felt that old wound flare up, but he could never forget the experience. It hit all seven of his senses – rotten meat in his nostrils, spots in his vision, a foul taste on his tongue, and pain burning across his skin.
Smiling his cat that ate the canary smile, Corben picked up the pistol grip.
“Let’s try that again.”
He fastballed it into Superman’s gut. Kal-El doubled over as if he were about to vomit. Felt worse than Zod’s Sunday punch. He hadn’t taken a blow that bad since before his powers, playground fights with playground bullies. Playground was bigger, bullies stayed the same. And he still wanted Jonathan Kent to step in and make things better.
Be strong, Clark. That’s what dad would’ve said. Superman charged, trying to remember how Bruce would fight like this. Corben swirled out of the day like a bullfighter. Superman slowed to a stop, the radiation severing every sinew in his legs. He slumped against the opposite wall like a man who’d just run a marathon. Even the texture of the wallpaper was torture to his enflamed senses.
At Corben’s clipped military gesture, Mr. Blue picked up the Kryptonite and brought it closer. Hamilton and his people struggled to get free as the green light passed over them. They knew the radiation was harmless to them, but any one of them would’ve risked their lives to get it away from Superman, if only they could get free.
Snarling, Corben swept Superman’s legs out from under him with a karate kick. Superman fell, a dizzying sensation, the complete antithesis of flight’s freedom. He was out of control, plummeting, his senses ping-ponging between extremes until the floor hit him with enough force to break bone. Something dropped next to him. It was Corben’s ski mask. Discarded. Like the wolf’s sheep-clothes.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good—“ Mr. Blue began to say, but Corben cut him off.
“Just keep the Kryptonite on him.”
Corben kicked Superman in the ribs, the force actually picking him up and sending him skidding across the linoleum floor. Superman grunted, a physical exhalation of pain that he wasn’t sure was even in his vocabulary.
“Thief…” he said like it was the most dire insult in the world.
“A thief? Thieves take things that don’t belong to them because they want money. I’m doing this because Luthor’s right. You’re a threat and you’re going to be neutralized.“
Superman stared into Corben’s face, a glimmer of recognition at the center of his fading vision. “You were… at the park…”
Corben shut him up with a jab to the throat. “Yeah. You humiliated me. The big strong Kryptonian showed up the puny little Earthman with his super-special powers.” He boxed Superman’s ears, jerking him down to get a knee in the face. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”
Superman wiped a trickle of blood from his nose and tried to get to his feet. Corben literally slapped him down, leaving his ears ringing.
“You don’t wanna kill me…” he said weakly.
Corben snatched the Kryptonite from Mr. Blue’s hands. “I don’t?”
“People… I save people.” His voice descended into hysterical babbling, like his brain was deprived of oxygen, as Corben brought the Kryptonite closer. “If you kill me… I can’t… please… let me…”
“Only the weak will die. Those of us who are strong enough to survive will. The way it should be.”
Superman closed his eyes, the cruel words sparking a connection among his neurons. “Luthor.”
Corben took the Kryptonite, grabbed Superman by his spit-curl, and pulled his face against the radiation. “You should’ve stayed gone. There’s no place for you here anymore.”
Pain. Torment. Agony. Words insufficient to describe the death that trawled his skin, killing him from the outside in. It seeped into each pore, traveled along his jaw, blackening his skin and blinding him in his left eye. He could see the darkness spreading from left to right, wiping away the world like a drawing on a chalkboard that someone was finished with.
He reached deep into his vast reserve of strength, into his very soul, just to lift his arms. He shoved at Corben in an effort so pathetic he doubted it would have moved a tinker toy. But Corben backed up anyway, giving Kal-El some breathing room to fill with suffering.
Superman tried to rein in his poisoned senses, but his eyes zoomed in and out like a broken camera while his ears brought him snippets from a conversation in Baghdad one moment, then deafening white noise the next. He sounded out each word as he spoke. “There… are… witnesses…”
Corben glanced at the scientists. “Who, them? Soon as I’m done with you, they’re not witnessing anything ever again.”
Superman’s heart stopped dead at those words. When it pumped again, the blood was pure and hot as molten metal. Corben came in, Kryptonite held high like an idol to some dark and pagan god. Its approach sent fresh waves of pain through Clark’s nerves, but couldn’t touch his steel heart.
He lunged, knocking the Kryptonite from Corben’s hands. It slid to the middle of the room, offering Superman a little hard-won relief. He collapsed on top of Corben, pinning him to the ground. Corben roared in fury as he struggled. He managed to lift Superman up and almost dislodge him, but Superman dropped a hammer-blow of a punch on Corben’s nose.
Mr. Blue rolled Superman off and helped Corben to his feet. “C’mon, Red, the cops are probably on the way up right now!”
Corben grabbed Mr. Blue’s pistol as he shoved him away. “Not just yet…”
He racked the slide as he stomped back to roll Superman over with the steel toe of his boot. The gun lulled up on Superman’s head like a bad moon rising.
“Bounce this off,” Corben said, and Superman heard a sound of thunder.
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,059
Characters/Pairings: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne
Previous Part: Chapter 18
Next Part: Chapter 20
Summary: As Bruce loses himself to the ravages of the Joker’s poison, Clark searches for a cure.
Bruce had thought he’d known the night. He thought he understood that it was vast and dark and cold. He had no idea.
The night was so large it stretched between stars, so dark that light was not just immaterial, but denied. So cold that he would never be warm again. No matter which beach he traveled to, no matter how many friends he swaddled himself with, no matter how advanced the armor he coated himself with… in Crime Alley, he would still be freezing.
“Don’t be afraid,” his father told him, and Bruce wanted to rage at the old man for lying and telling him there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, but no matter how loud he screamed, his father would never answer.
He forced himself to center, center, center. The fear swelled up in him and he met it head-on, as Ra’s had taught him (“My wife, the mother of my child, they killed her… whenever the mission becomes difficult, I remind myself that if they are not with me, they are with my wife’s despoilers.”), as Alfred had taught him (“So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up.”), as Clark had taught him (“Truth and justice and the American way.”).
He was in bed. There was a woman there, hovering over him, angelic.
“Mother?”
“Go back to sleep, dear. I don’t want a peep out of you until your fever goes down.”
Clark, you know there’s a naked human in here, right? Does that happen often around here?
He’s a friend. Leave him put.
He smells funny.
He’s sick.
Eww.
“Supposedta go to school, big test…”
“It can wait until you’re better. Here, look what I got from the video store.”
“The Grey Ghost!”
Now he’s looking at me. And moving his lips. It’s creepying me out.
Creeping. And I told you, stay clear of him.
What’s his name, anyway?
Br—Batman.
Batman? Is that Italian?
It’s not his real name. I’ll explain later.
What’s with all the bruises and scars? Are those part of his sickness?
I guess you could say that.—No, he gets them fighting crime.
Like a policeman?
Not quite.
Like you?
I suppose so.
He’s following your example! See, I told you Earth could be redeemed!
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.”
“Rachel came by while you were sick. I told her you couldn’t play, but you should try to give her a phone call to let her know you’re alright.”
“Okay.”
“Now, you just stay in bed and watch your movie. I’ll bring you up some chicken soup and Sprite.”
What’s wrong with him, anyway? Can we get sick from it?
No, it’s a toxin. A man called the Joker injected him with it. I’m trying to find a cure.
Can I help?
Yes, of course. I’ll upload the file to that terminal over there.
“Are you going to go to work?”
“No, dear, I’m staying home to look after you.”
“You don’t hafta. I feel great.”
“Nonsense. It’s my job. I’ll always take care of you, Brucie.”
“Mom…”
***
Bruce was staring up at the Aurora Borealis. It was blue as gunsmoke, twisting in and on itself, eating itself whole. Gave him a headache. Everything gave him a headache. He sat up to find that brought an immediate denial of balance. Falling back to his bed for the moment. It was warm, lived in. If it weren’t for the pressure in his bladder, he would’ve stayed in it. Silver sheets, though. Weren’t his. And whatever the pillows were full of, they weren’t feathers.
He tried getting up again. It worked this time. He was naked, but he left the sheets behind. If someone attacked him, they could tangle. He did find a bathrobe on a nearby chair, as white as the rest of his surroundings. The film student in Bruce found it disturbingly Stanley Kubrick. He checked the bathrobe for bugs, then put it on. It fit him well, as well as an off-the-rack robe could. He checked the tag. Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Hunh.
There was a conversation at the back of his soundscape. Bruce wondered whether he should investigate as Bruce Wayne or as Batman… even a very unmasked Batman. He took nothing for granted, deciding to approach with a swagger that could be Bruce Wayne’s after a long night on the town, but could turn lethal at a moment’s notice.
One of the voices was Kal-El. Bruce would recognize it anywhere. He turned a corner and saw Kal swapping out crystals in the main console, apparently trying for some special combination. Above him, a holographic projection of an elderly man’s head flickered.
“Father, tell me of Zod. Was he trying to stop Krypton from being destroyed?”
“That knowledge is numerated on the fourteenth crystal…”
Kal slammed it into the console. “Tell me!”
The hologram stopped flickering. “Ask your question, my son.”
“Why was Zod trying to take over Krypton?”
“He hungered for power. He saw, as I did, that Krypton had become stagnant and hubristic under the weight of its own history. I wanted us to end our isolationism, explore the stars and help less advanced civilizations as you are aiding Earth. But his solution was to turn Krypton into a dictatorship.”
“If he’d succeeded, would Krypton have survived?”
“Yes,” Jor-El answered, immediately. Bruce winced. If it were Clark’s real father, there might’ve been some hesitation, some softening of that harsh truth. Instead, all Clark had was a computer program.
“Then why didn’t you help him!?” Clark demanded.
“Zod was a cancer, a corruption of healthy thought. If he ruled Krypton, his lust for dominance would’ve led him to conquer other worlds, enslaving their populations as he nearly did to Earth. Better a quick, clean death for Krypton than the death of all it stood for under his tyranny.”
“You let Krypton die. You could’ve saved them and you let them die!”
“It was best that Krypton die, so long as its evils died with it. The Colu… information missing, corrupted data…”
Clark ripped the crystal from its socket and crushed it in his hand. The hologram died.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Bruce.” Clark sagged against the console for a moment before gathering himself up. “But I’m glad you’re awake.”
Bruce stepped out of hiding. “It was a hard choice your father made. I… don’t envy him that.”
“He made the wrong choice. If there’s life, there’s hope. He gave up on Krypton. If it ever came down to it, I would always try to save people, no matter the risk.”
Bruce’s mind whipped through the obvious questions -- stupid questions, as it was obvious he’d been brought here so that Kal-El could find a cure for Joker’s poison – and sifted through to the more important ones.
“Who was the girl?”
“What girl?” Kal-El rejoined, either playing dumb or actually being dumb, in his own Clark manner.
“There was a girl here. She was…” Bruce’s lips went thin with recollection. “Pretty.”
Clark scowled for a moment, but hid it well. “Bruce. Fortress of Solitude, remember? Your mind’s playing tricks on you. Maybe you should get a girlfriend.”
And unbidden, Talia jumped into Bruce’s mind. She wasn’t wearing any clothes this time. Bruce kneaded a hand into his forehead, ignoring Kal-El’s wit/lack-of-same.
Kal-El, noting Bruce’s wooziness, flew down to his level, although he floated over Bruce’s head in what Bruce would call a peevish manner. “Bathroom’s over there,” he said, pointing. “I’ll put on some coffee.”
He went about doing that, flying to a very ordinary-looking kitchen set tucked away in the corner of the crystalline architecture. After finishing, Bruce came out of the restroom and tried to reach the Kryptonian. No easy doing on the uneven, cracked floor of the Fortress.
“Doesn’t this place have chairs?”
“Huh? Oh. Just start to sit down, the Fortress will do the rest.”
Bruce frowned, but decided Kal-El was too much of a straight-arrow to be pulling one over on a sick man, so he did. He descended into a perfectly comfortable chair that simply had not been there before. The whole thing was too clever by half. Maybe coffee would make it better.
Then Bruce saw Kal-El brewing, carefully proportioning coffee grounds into filters with a big red cape swaying behind him, and thought no.
“Where’s my armor?”
“Alfred wanted it. Something about forensic evidence.“
“You couldn’t have asked him for another one?”
“One of your rules, apparently. Don’t give out armor to strangers? Don’t worry, the bathrobe brings out your eyes.”
Bruce crossed his arms, tight. “How long have I been out?”
“Going on two days. I had to put you in stasis while I searched for a cure to the toxin. Speaking of which, I also found an unknown pathogen in your blood work. Have you been taking a lot of painkillers?”
“I thought you’d sworn this place off ever since your father’s AI crashed.“
Clark pursed his lips a little at Bruce’s insensitivity. “Alfred sent one of your lookalikes to Aspen to ski, so the Bruce Wayne angle is covered. Honestly, it kind of freaks me out that you have lookalikes. Saddam Hussein had those, you know.”
“Not all of us can get our inspiration from JFK and Pa Kent. And you’ve seen how the lookalikes can come in handy. After a while, they pay for themselves.“
“You’re saying I should build an android?” Superman asked whimsically.
“Believe me, one of you is enough.” A table blossomed in front of Bruce, and Superman set down the coffee and a bowl of some orange liquid in front of him. “What is this? Some kind of Kryptonian healing elixir?”
“No, chicken soup.”
Bruce took a tentative sip. “Not bad.”
“Mom made it as soon as she heard. There’s also a get-well pie in the fridge.”
“You’re in the Arctic Circle and you have a fridge?”
“Well, it’s more of a miniaturization stasis chamber… thing.” Whatever it was, Clark grabbed a pie pan out of it and cut himself a slice. “You mind?”
“Help yourself.”
“I will; she’s my mom.” He cut another slice and served up a plate of piping hot apple pit to Bruce.
Bruce looked at it as if trying to gauge what kind of poisons would fit into a tender, flaky crust. Clark sardonically set down a fork on his plate.
With a huffing sigh, Bruce took a deep gulp of coffee. It was thick and black, just the way he liked it. He thanked the gods, Kryptonian and otherwise, that Clark hadn’t poisoned it with cream and sugar and milk and whatever else he added to make it something that wasn’t coffee.
“I feel almost human,” he commented.
Clark paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his lips. “Yeah. Me too.”
The look in his eyes was so weirdly vulnerable that Bruce actually felt contrite. “Sorry.”
“It’s nothing.”
Bruce dug his fork into the pie and took a bite. “It’s good. Your mom’s a good cook.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her you said that.”
Bruce pictured Martha Kent running around Kansas telling neighbors that Batman liked her apple pie. “Okay.” He stood, taking another swallow of coffee. “Gotham.”
“It hasn’t exploded in your absence.” Clark laughed in sarcastic disbelief. “I know, right? Who’d a thunk it?”
“Not. Funny.” He repeated himself, infusing each syllable with even more gravitas. “Gotham.”
“It really is fine. Some crimes, yes, but what you’d expect from a major city. Although there was this streaker in East End wearing nothing but a sandwich board that said—“
“The Joker?”
Clark fell silent. “I know what it’s like for someone to come into your home and take your peace of mind,” Clark said at last.
Bruce looked up sharply. “The crystals…” He shook his head. “I don’t see why you’re worried. Even if Luthor could interface with them, he has no way to read Kryptonese.”
“They’re all that’s left, Bruce. My heritage. My memory.” He stared into Bruce, his prolonged gaze so intense that words like “inhuman,” “alien,” and “immortal” crept up the human’s brainstem. “Surely you can understand that I need them back.”
“We’ll get them back. As soon as we find Luthor, I’ll…”
Clark shook his head. “If I can’t find him, you can’t. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the—“ Superman paused, cocking his head. “One moment, there’s a crime being committed.”
Bruce had just one question: “Where?”
Superman reached deep into the console and pulled out a red phone handset.
“You have a phone?” Bruce said, dubious.
“It’s no giant spotlight with an S on it, but I get by.” He shook the handset patronizingly. “Hotline to the Metropolis police department. Relax, the satellite scrambles the signal.”
“You have a satellite?”
Superman, who’d had a finger held up to stall him, hung up. “STAR Labs is being robbed. I have to go.”
“And what about me?”
“There are ski-mobiles in the garage. Be sure to fill up the tank when you’re done, you can afford it.”
He took off, spiraling up, up, and away through the Fortress’s oculus.
Bruce looked around at his alien surroundings. “Where’s the garage?”
***
Breaking into STAR Labs had been easy. Lexcorp had made the security system and Mr. Luthor always left himself a backdoor. With impeccable authorization, they’d landed a prototype Lexcorp assault helicopter (reported stolen that morning) on the roof helipad and infiltrated the facility. One of the bigheads, Dr. Hamilton, was performing experiments on the Kryptonite to see if it was any good as a power source. Bad news was, Hamilton had added his own twist on security: A lead-lined vault. That’s when the guns came out.
They all wore ski masks, duh, but John Corben recognized Mr. Blue from the acetylene-torch he wielded. Two edges of the thick safe door had been cut through. “Hurry it up, my trigger finger’s itching.”
“The fucker’s thick, okay? Next time I’ll pack some C4.”
Hamilton and his three assistants were duct-taped in their office chairs. One of the male assistants had a goose egg rising where Corben had butt-stroked him.
Hamilton had a pretty fierce expression for an old guy. “You won’t get away with this.”
Corben calmly walked over to him, took the good doctor’s glasses off, and crushed them in his hand. “Watch me. Blurrily.”
The smell of melted metal was acid in his nostrils. With one last look at the safe to confirm three edges had been cut, he went to their perimeter room. It was a couple of floors above the sealed-off lobby, with windows looking out on the front of the building. The back was already covered by fields of experiments that the police couldn’t get through.
Mr. Orange was setting up a rocket emplacement. Experimental anti-tank weaponry, fast reload, with variable rounds able to target both aircraft and land vehicles. He’d already used an air hammer to stake the legs into the ground, and pointed the barrel out the window. The targeting display was set up on the side of the peculiarly tarantula-like construction.
“Mr. Red, we got problems.” Mr. Orange pointed to the LCD display. “SWAT van’s here.”
“Rocket emplacement set?”
“Locked and loaded.”
“Then give ‘em a taste.”
Mr. Orange took careful aim and fired. It was as if a dragon had awakened. Flame erupted from the cannon, briefly resolved into a sabot round, then lost itself in the SWAT van’s destruction. The armored vehicle came to rest on its side, smoke bleeding out a ragged hole on the top.
“Nice shooting,” Corben said, watching the driver stop, drop, and roll. He patted Mr. Orange on the back and went back to check on the safe. Three edges cut. He smiled, heard his satellite phone trill. Twisted the knobs to scramble it and answered.
“Yessir?”
It was Luthor, not that anyone would ever recognize the voice. “Do you have it?”
“Just a matter of moments, sir.”
“You don’t have moments. NORAD just reported a supersonic object approaching Metropolis. The only thing standing between you and our country’s penal system is in that vault. Get it done.”
Corben hung up and tuned to Mr. Orange’s frequency. “Load another round. Flying target.”
***
Superman eased down from Mach 5, friction and wind chill combining to slightly disorient his senses. He dipped out of the stratosphere on the familiar approach to Metropolis. The trouble was easy to find. A black tongue of smoke was licking the purple sky, its root an overturned SWAT van. Superman dived like an eagle.
He heard the roar of a rocket attack; time slowed as his super-reflexes took over. The sabot which had been darting toward him now hung in the sky like an infant’s mobile. He caught it, stared at it with one eye X-ray one eye heatvision, then pitched it back the way it came.
The dealt with, he landed on the SWAT van and ripped it open like a bag of microwave popcorn. The cops inside were injured, but their battle wagon’s armor had spared them the brunt of it. He put out the fires with his Arctic breath and took a flying leap into STAR Labs.
Upright, he floated through the wall and windows like a wrecking ball. The rocket emplacement was crushed underfoot.
At the other end of the room, Mr. Orange laid doubled over, the sabot cradled in his stomach. His lungs were desperately trying to hold air.
“I disarmed the warhead,” Kal-El explained. Then he tapped the man on the forehead. “Like so.”
The man slumped into unconsciousness.
X-Ray vision pinpointed the hostages in the next room. One of the captors was standing next to the wall. Superman exploded through it, grabbing the man by the throat and thrusting his head into the ceiling. Mr. Green hung there, flailing.
Now there were two. One was opening a safe. The other had a gun to Dr. Hamilton’s head. His voice was familiar. “Walk away or I waste him.”
Superman’s eyes flared. “With what?”
That’s when Corben realized he was holding only the grip of his pistol. The slide was melted on the ground.
He threw the grip at Superman. It bounced harmlessly off his S-shield.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
With a sputtering hiss, the blowtorch cut out. The safe door fell open, exposing the room to the deadly light of its contents. Superman staggered. It’d been six years since he’d felt that old wound flare up, but he could never forget the experience. It hit all seven of his senses – rotten meat in his nostrils, spots in his vision, a foul taste on his tongue, and pain burning across his skin.
Smiling his cat that ate the canary smile, Corben picked up the pistol grip.
“Let’s try that again.”
He fastballed it into Superman’s gut. Kal-El doubled over as if he were about to vomit. Felt worse than Zod’s Sunday punch. He hadn’t taken a blow that bad since before his powers, playground fights with playground bullies. Playground was bigger, bullies stayed the same. And he still wanted Jonathan Kent to step in and make things better.
Be strong, Clark. That’s what dad would’ve said. Superman charged, trying to remember how Bruce would fight like this. Corben swirled out of the day like a bullfighter. Superman slowed to a stop, the radiation severing every sinew in his legs. He slumped against the opposite wall like a man who’d just run a marathon. Even the texture of the wallpaper was torture to his enflamed senses.
At Corben’s clipped military gesture, Mr. Blue picked up the Kryptonite and brought it closer. Hamilton and his people struggled to get free as the green light passed over them. They knew the radiation was harmless to them, but any one of them would’ve risked their lives to get it away from Superman, if only they could get free.
Snarling, Corben swept Superman’s legs out from under him with a karate kick. Superman fell, a dizzying sensation, the complete antithesis of flight’s freedom. He was out of control, plummeting, his senses ping-ponging between extremes until the floor hit him with enough force to break bone. Something dropped next to him. It was Corben’s ski mask. Discarded. Like the wolf’s sheep-clothes.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good—“ Mr. Blue began to say, but Corben cut him off.
“Just keep the Kryptonite on him.”
Corben kicked Superman in the ribs, the force actually picking him up and sending him skidding across the linoleum floor. Superman grunted, a physical exhalation of pain that he wasn’t sure was even in his vocabulary.
“Thief…” he said like it was the most dire insult in the world.
“A thief? Thieves take things that don’t belong to them because they want money. I’m doing this because Luthor’s right. You’re a threat and you’re going to be neutralized.“
Superman stared into Corben’s face, a glimmer of recognition at the center of his fading vision. “You were… at the park…”
Corben shut him up with a jab to the throat. “Yeah. You humiliated me. The big strong Kryptonian showed up the puny little Earthman with his super-special powers.” He boxed Superman’s ears, jerking him down to get a knee in the face. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”
Superman wiped a trickle of blood from his nose and tried to get to his feet. Corben literally slapped him down, leaving his ears ringing.
“You don’t wanna kill me…” he said weakly.
Corben snatched the Kryptonite from Mr. Blue’s hands. “I don’t?”
“People… I save people.” His voice descended into hysterical babbling, like his brain was deprived of oxygen, as Corben brought the Kryptonite closer. “If you kill me… I can’t… please… let me…”
“Only the weak will die. Those of us who are strong enough to survive will. The way it should be.”
Superman closed his eyes, the cruel words sparking a connection among his neurons. “Luthor.”
Corben took the Kryptonite, grabbed Superman by his spit-curl, and pulled his face against the radiation. “You should’ve stayed gone. There’s no place for you here anymore.”
Pain. Torment. Agony. Words insufficient to describe the death that trawled his skin, killing him from the outside in. It seeped into each pore, traveled along his jaw, blackening his skin and blinding him in his left eye. He could see the darkness spreading from left to right, wiping away the world like a drawing on a chalkboard that someone was finished with.
He reached deep into his vast reserve of strength, into his very soul, just to lift his arms. He shoved at Corben in an effort so pathetic he doubted it would have moved a tinker toy. But Corben backed up anyway, giving Kal-El some breathing room to fill with suffering.
Superman tried to rein in his poisoned senses, but his eyes zoomed in and out like a broken camera while his ears brought him snippets from a conversation in Baghdad one moment, then deafening white noise the next. He sounded out each word as he spoke. “There… are… witnesses…”
Corben glanced at the scientists. “Who, them? Soon as I’m done with you, they’re not witnessing anything ever again.”
Superman’s heart stopped dead at those words. When it pumped again, the blood was pure and hot as molten metal. Corben came in, Kryptonite held high like an idol to some dark and pagan god. Its approach sent fresh waves of pain through Clark’s nerves, but couldn’t touch his steel heart.
He lunged, knocking the Kryptonite from Corben’s hands. It slid to the middle of the room, offering Superman a little hard-won relief. He collapsed on top of Corben, pinning him to the ground. Corben roared in fury as he struggled. He managed to lift Superman up and almost dislodge him, but Superman dropped a hammer-blow of a punch on Corben’s nose.
Mr. Blue rolled Superman off and helped Corben to his feet. “C’mon, Red, the cops are probably on the way up right now!”
Corben grabbed Mr. Blue’s pistol as he shoved him away. “Not just yet…”
He racked the slide as he stomped back to roll Superman over with the steel toe of his boot. The gun lulled up on Superman’s head like a bad moon rising.
“Bounce this off,” Corben said, and Superman heard a sound of thunder.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-22 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-22 05:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-17 09:51 pm (UTC)Only Bruce would say it like that. Only Bruce.