![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Duality
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,291
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, Oswald Cobblepot
Previous Part: Chapter 23
Next Part: Chapter 25
Summary: Lex and Bruce have a few things in common.
Oswald missed his limo. The AC had made the temperature plummet to the comfort of his native Alaska, while the sound system played the aria of wind whistling by and birds chirping, making him feel he was a bird in flight. The Hummer his present predicament had forced him into, on the other hand, was noisy and smelly and seemed to moonlight as a pothole detector. It made Cobblepot extremely car sick.
The newspaper did nothing to decrease his nausea. “Look at this! He cried, waving the paper around. “Batman returns, but too late! The Joker’s infection has become a full-blown epidemic! He’s robbing Gotham blind in broad daylight, while every hoodlum in the city flocks to his side!”
“Flocks. Ha ha, that’s a good one, boss.”
Cobblepot hit his driver with the newspaper. “I am deadly serious, you nincompoop!”
The Hummer stopped. They’d arrived at their destination. Cobblepot waddled out, followed by the driver. The steel mill at the edge of the city had been condemned ever since lead had leaked into the water supply and killed seven. It was too useful a meeting place to tear down, so the Mob kept it open as a museum. Cobblepot thriftily bypassed the donation jar and entered the least popular museum in America – it’s only regular visitors were the pigeons that roosted in its dusty innards.
“You know, Mr. Cobblepot, the Joker’s put a pretty big price on your head,” the driver said.
”Of course I know that! You imbecile, why do you think I now favor your classless transportation?”
“That bounty could buy me a much nicer car…” The click of a gun being readied perked Cobblepot’s ears. “Along with a lot of other things.”
Cobblepot turned slowly, fixing his eyes on the traitor’s dove-shaped lapel pin. “Allow me some last words?”
“Haven’t you said enough?” The driver sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag.”
”What? That doesn’t even make sense! That--” The lapel pin emitted a high-pitched whine. The driver held his ears before the pin’s noise left the range of his hearing. Cobblepot had taken a step backwards. “Where do ya think you’re going?”
“Me? I’m not going anywhere.”
A bird dove at the driver’s head, raking his cheek with its talons. They went deep, leaving bright scarlet trails across his skin. The driver beat at it, when two more pigeons scratched at his wrists. More followed, Cobblepot considerately getting the door for them as they streamed in to descend upon the screaming driver. Cobblepot turned away from the bloodshed as the screams died down.
“I so abhor violence,” he said, cleaning his face with a handkerchief. “And hiring new drivers.”
The birds were still pecking at the corpse when Cobblepot’s sponsor arrived. His limousine grinded to a halt outside the museum, along with two black SUVs. Cobblepot heard the crunch of feet on gravel as the place was surrounded and cleared. Silent as wraiths, the security men checked every inch of the location with efficiency and speed. They wore body armor and balaclavas, goggles and gas masks covering the rest of their face. In all that black, they were sexless, skinless. In five minutes, they were done. The soldiers adjourned to the sides and went rigidly to attention; those on the outside started patrols. Cobblepot continued to wait patiently while a single set of shoes traveled toward him.
“Oswald, Oswald, Oswald…” Lex Luthor peeled his leather gloves off, smiling gently. “I gave you two simple tasks. Do you remember what that was? Take control of Gotham’s underworld. Find the hoard. To that end, I gave you ample resources. And yet, here we stand. With you, begging me for more.”
“There was an unexpected variable, Mr. Luthor.”
“The Batman?”
“I can handle that pest! No, it’s far worse. The Joker!”
“Ah. Yes. A clown. One, single, psychotic clown has beaten you at your own game.”
“I need more men,” Cobblepot said, frantically cleaning his monocle. “Once I kill that insane aberration, everything will proceed according to schedule?”
“Schedule? Schedule, Oswald? The schedule is that Superman is already back, our benefactor is on his way, and I have no more time to waste on fat little mobsters with delusions of grandeur.”
“Fat? Fat, dear sir!?”
“You’re fired, Cobblepot. I’m giving your job to the Joker. Given what he’s accomplished with just a percentage of your assets, I’m extremely curious to find out what he’ll do with all of them.”
Cobblepot was beside himself with rage. ”You can’t! He’s a madman, he’s a monster--!”
Lex and his men were already clearing out. “As it so happens, Oswald, I’m in dire need of monsters. They get things done. Deal’s off. Best of luck in future endeavors.”
***
“Where to now, Mr. Luthor?” Mercy asked as Lex got into the backseat of the limo she was driving.
“Wayne manor.”
***
Bruce emerged from the Batcave with a dressing gown over his armor. With his boots, gloves, and cowl off, no one could tell. His hands were black with paint, which he was wiping off on a paper towel. “Doesn’t anyone knock?”
Alfred was still holding his shotgun. “I’m afraid not. Shall I call the police?”
“No, I’ll handle it. Go down to the cave, shut the alarm off… and stay there.”
“Would you be expecting trouble, sir?”
“I’m expecting Luthor to be Luthor.”
***
Lex walked through the ruins of Bruce’s ballroom, running his fingers over the broken crime scene tape, the plastic sheeting over the broken window, the bullet holes in the tile like cavities in rotten teeth.
“Isn’t it a shame, the mess these freaks make? You should see Metropolis. The alien brought a lot of property values down for one little helicopter.”
“I don’t recall inviting you here,” Bruce said; eyes flitting over Lex, his toughs.
“Into your quaint little mansion?”
“Into my city.” Bruce stepped forward, feeling Lex’s bodyguards flanking him. Mercy – Lex’s valet, Lex’s chauffeur, Lex’s guardian, but mostly just Lex’s – stepped between them. Bruce stopped, though he towered over her. By her stance, she could put up a fight.
“You’re not the dumb playboy you make yourself out to be,” Lex commented, wagging a finger.
“And you’re not the reformed philanthropist you make yourself out to be. We’re even.”
“Offer me a drink,” Lex said.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Your call,” Lex said brightly. “Mercy, if you please.”
She took a briefcase from one of Lex’s associates and opened it on the counter. Inside, all the accruements of the social drinking were waiting in plush packing. Mercy mixed Lex a drink with ice-cold intensity.
“We’re men of vision, Bruce. The rules don’t apply to us. How could they? They’re meant for lesser men, yesterday’s men. But because we are ahead of our time, we have to wear masks. I’ve never distrusted a mask. It just means someone is smart enough to wear one. What I worry about is the man who trumpets how he doesn’t need a mask.”
“I know you’re too cynical to believe this, but Superman genuinely cares about humanity.”
“Cynical? No, I’m a humanist. I’ve considered the possibility that ‘Big Blue’ really is the boy scout everyone thinks he is. That would only make things worse. ‘Of all tyrannies a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies, The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.’”
“He can’t win with you, can he?”
“Or you. When I got out of prison, revenge was my sole priority. I scoured the Earth for Kryptonite, but there wasn’t a shard to be found. Why do you think that is, Mr. Wayne?”
“Did Bigfoot take them?” Bruce asked innocently.
“Someone bought them all up,” Lex corrected, equally guileless. “Every prohibitively expensive piece. Oh, he used shell companies, aliases, outright theft in some cases, but I found him.” Lex took his glass from Mercy. “You’ve been hoarding Kryptonite, Bruce.” He drank.
“Now why would I do a silly thing like that?”
“The same reason I want to. No matter how perfect he is… in fact, the more perfect he is… we can never trust Superman.”
“Lex…” Bruce leaned against the wall. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be working too hard. You should go yachting, maybe visit one of those islands you bought.”
Lex drank again, altogether slower. “I apologize, Mr. Wayne. You’re obviously not as smart as I credited you to be.”
“I try not to let it get me down. I’ll thank you to leave now. I need my beauty sleep.”
Lex gestured curtly and his men filed out. “Don’t worry about it. One great thing about capitalism… if you’re not willing to sell, there’s always someone who is.”
“Think about that yacht trip.”
***
If John Corben felt any irritation at being processed, he didn’t let on. He did, though. He felt profound irritation at being fingerprinted and photographed and strip-searched like a common criminal. Didn’t these idiots know he’d been fighting for them? No. No, they were cheeky enough to bump against him in the hallways and ignore him when he asked for a cup of water. All because those sickening cultists were offended at his treatment of their precious Superman.
But at last he was alone in a five by five cell, up on the thirtieth floor of police headquarters. The cops had been smart enough not to put him in gen pop, knowing that even the criminals would want to pay him back for doing what he’d done to Superman. So he had the cell all to himself, to think and seethe and plan for what he’d do when Luthor got him out of this mess.
Then Corben heard it. Felt it, really. Something was coming, a presence, like a freight train about to hit a railroad crossing or a plane about to land. He moved to the bars and looked around. No one coming up the corridor from either direction and the guard was dead-set on his newspaper, giving Corben the silent treatment.
But years of conflict had left Corben with a sixth sense for danger, and it was rattling his head like crazy. Something was about to hit. Something big. Suddenly, Corben realized: the window. He looked out through the squat bars. Nothing out there. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right…
A strand of blonde hair flicked across his narrow field of vision like a cat’s swishing tail. Corben backed up. More hair rose, Medusa-like, buffeted by the wind. They were thirty stories up, owing to Metropolis’ intrinsic upward stretch, and there was a woman outside. Her eyes were icy blue filaments, staring into him. Corben understood then what alien truly meant. With Superman, there was an element of warmth, of humanity. With her there was just—revulsion. Blank revulsion.
“Who are you working for?” she said in deeply-accented English, though he couldn’t place the accent for the life of him.
“I’m self-employed.” In his head, it was a bold statement of defiance. It came out as a pathetic whimper.
The woman calmly took hold of the prison bars and ripped them out, leaving a hole in the wall that took up all but the corners of his cell. The action seemed to let in all the noise of the world; he was bombarded with the traffic far below and the howling of the winds. She was wearing a white jumpsuit juxtaposed with flowing robe elements, almost like tassels, almost like a headband and cape. She reached up to the top part of the shattered wall and pulled herself in like an astronaut in zero-G. “Who are you working for?”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
She frowned slowly as if tasting the words and finally them sour. “Insults, correct?” Suddenly he was being lifted off his feet and Corben belatedly realized that her hand was around his throat. “You are being uncooperative.”
Over the blood pounding in his ears, Corben heard the cops rushing it, trying different keys in the jail door lock. Kara simply looked at the lock and it melted. The cops backed off, their key dripping molten steel.
Kara turned her attention back to Corben, regarding him coolly before she smashed him against the wall. Corben felt a rib give, felt a concussion that close-range explosions hadn’t produced. Against all his instructions, his body slumped to the ground with nothing to break his fall. He was picked back up and walked out of the jail cell and into open air. Over the woman’s shoulder, he could see the cops ramming the door with an ashcan.
“Your employer,” she said with careful enunciation.
He didn’t answer, on account of not being able to hear her or much of anything. So she stared at his hand the flesh bubbled, sizzling for a moment before Corben got enough of a scope on the pain to feel it. By then the skin was black and he could see bone where his fingers used to be.
“Your employer.”
“Lex Luthor!” he cried.
The woman nodded. Then she looked at his other arm. “And where can I find him?”
Corben told her.
“Thank you for your belated cooperation.” And she dropped him.
Corben didn’t get an impression of falling beyond the prison rushing past, barred windows and glass windows and blank concrete, and then he hit. His body shattered and his charred hand broke off like the crisp of a burnt newspaper.
And he lived.
Fandom: Nolanverse Batman, Superman Returns
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,291
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, Oswald Cobblepot
Previous Part: Chapter 23
Next Part: Chapter 25
Summary: Lex and Bruce have a few things in common.
Oswald missed his limo. The AC had made the temperature plummet to the comfort of his native Alaska, while the sound system played the aria of wind whistling by and birds chirping, making him feel he was a bird in flight. The Hummer his present predicament had forced him into, on the other hand, was noisy and smelly and seemed to moonlight as a pothole detector. It made Cobblepot extremely car sick.
The newspaper did nothing to decrease his nausea. “Look at this! He cried, waving the paper around. “Batman returns, but too late! The Joker’s infection has become a full-blown epidemic! He’s robbing Gotham blind in broad daylight, while every hoodlum in the city flocks to his side!”
“Flocks. Ha ha, that’s a good one, boss.”
Cobblepot hit his driver with the newspaper. “I am deadly serious, you nincompoop!”
The Hummer stopped. They’d arrived at their destination. Cobblepot waddled out, followed by the driver. The steel mill at the edge of the city had been condemned ever since lead had leaked into the water supply and killed seven. It was too useful a meeting place to tear down, so the Mob kept it open as a museum. Cobblepot thriftily bypassed the donation jar and entered the least popular museum in America – it’s only regular visitors were the pigeons that roosted in its dusty innards.
“You know, Mr. Cobblepot, the Joker’s put a pretty big price on your head,” the driver said.
”Of course I know that! You imbecile, why do you think I now favor your classless transportation?”
“That bounty could buy me a much nicer car…” The click of a gun being readied perked Cobblepot’s ears. “Along with a lot of other things.”
Cobblepot turned slowly, fixing his eyes on the traitor’s dove-shaped lapel pin. “Allow me some last words?”
“Haven’t you said enough?” The driver sighed. “Go ahead.”
“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag.”
”What? That doesn’t even make sense! That--” The lapel pin emitted a high-pitched whine. The driver held his ears before the pin’s noise left the range of his hearing. Cobblepot had taken a step backwards. “Where do ya think you’re going?”
“Me? I’m not going anywhere.”
A bird dove at the driver’s head, raking his cheek with its talons. They went deep, leaving bright scarlet trails across his skin. The driver beat at it, when two more pigeons scratched at his wrists. More followed, Cobblepot considerately getting the door for them as they streamed in to descend upon the screaming driver. Cobblepot turned away from the bloodshed as the screams died down.
“I so abhor violence,” he said, cleaning his face with a handkerchief. “And hiring new drivers.”
The birds were still pecking at the corpse when Cobblepot’s sponsor arrived. His limousine grinded to a halt outside the museum, along with two black SUVs. Cobblepot heard the crunch of feet on gravel as the place was surrounded and cleared. Silent as wraiths, the security men checked every inch of the location with efficiency and speed. They wore body armor and balaclavas, goggles and gas masks covering the rest of their face. In all that black, they were sexless, skinless. In five minutes, they were done. The soldiers adjourned to the sides and went rigidly to attention; those on the outside started patrols. Cobblepot continued to wait patiently while a single set of shoes traveled toward him.
“Oswald, Oswald, Oswald…” Lex Luthor peeled his leather gloves off, smiling gently. “I gave you two simple tasks. Do you remember what that was? Take control of Gotham’s underworld. Find the hoard. To that end, I gave you ample resources. And yet, here we stand. With you, begging me for more.”
“There was an unexpected variable, Mr. Luthor.”
“The Batman?”
“I can handle that pest! No, it’s far worse. The Joker!”
“Ah. Yes. A clown. One, single, psychotic clown has beaten you at your own game.”
“I need more men,” Cobblepot said, frantically cleaning his monocle. “Once I kill that insane aberration, everything will proceed according to schedule?”
“Schedule? Schedule, Oswald? The schedule is that Superman is already back, our benefactor is on his way, and I have no more time to waste on fat little mobsters with delusions of grandeur.”
“Fat? Fat, dear sir!?”
“You’re fired, Cobblepot. I’m giving your job to the Joker. Given what he’s accomplished with just a percentage of your assets, I’m extremely curious to find out what he’ll do with all of them.”
Cobblepot was beside himself with rage. ”You can’t! He’s a madman, he’s a monster--!”
Lex and his men were already clearing out. “As it so happens, Oswald, I’m in dire need of monsters. They get things done. Deal’s off. Best of luck in future endeavors.”
***
“Where to now, Mr. Luthor?” Mercy asked as Lex got into the backseat of the limo she was driving.
“Wayne manor.”
***
Bruce emerged from the Batcave with a dressing gown over his armor. With his boots, gloves, and cowl off, no one could tell. His hands were black with paint, which he was wiping off on a paper towel. “Doesn’t anyone knock?”
Alfred was still holding his shotgun. “I’m afraid not. Shall I call the police?”
“No, I’ll handle it. Go down to the cave, shut the alarm off… and stay there.”
“Would you be expecting trouble, sir?”
“I’m expecting Luthor to be Luthor.”
***
Lex walked through the ruins of Bruce’s ballroom, running his fingers over the broken crime scene tape, the plastic sheeting over the broken window, the bullet holes in the tile like cavities in rotten teeth.
“Isn’t it a shame, the mess these freaks make? You should see Metropolis. The alien brought a lot of property values down for one little helicopter.”
“I don’t recall inviting you here,” Bruce said; eyes flitting over Lex, his toughs.
“Into your quaint little mansion?”
“Into my city.” Bruce stepped forward, feeling Lex’s bodyguards flanking him. Mercy – Lex’s valet, Lex’s chauffeur, Lex’s guardian, but mostly just Lex’s – stepped between them. Bruce stopped, though he towered over her. By her stance, she could put up a fight.
“You’re not the dumb playboy you make yourself out to be,” Lex commented, wagging a finger.
“And you’re not the reformed philanthropist you make yourself out to be. We’re even.”
“Offer me a drink,” Lex said.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Your call,” Lex said brightly. “Mercy, if you please.”
She took a briefcase from one of Lex’s associates and opened it on the counter. Inside, all the accruements of the social drinking were waiting in plush packing. Mercy mixed Lex a drink with ice-cold intensity.
“We’re men of vision, Bruce. The rules don’t apply to us. How could they? They’re meant for lesser men, yesterday’s men. But because we are ahead of our time, we have to wear masks. I’ve never distrusted a mask. It just means someone is smart enough to wear one. What I worry about is the man who trumpets how he doesn’t need a mask.”
“I know you’re too cynical to believe this, but Superman genuinely cares about humanity.”
“Cynical? No, I’m a humanist. I’ve considered the possibility that ‘Big Blue’ really is the boy scout everyone thinks he is. That would only make things worse. ‘Of all tyrannies a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies, The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.’”
“He can’t win with you, can he?”
“Or you. When I got out of prison, revenge was my sole priority. I scoured the Earth for Kryptonite, but there wasn’t a shard to be found. Why do you think that is, Mr. Wayne?”
“Did Bigfoot take them?” Bruce asked innocently.
“Someone bought them all up,” Lex corrected, equally guileless. “Every prohibitively expensive piece. Oh, he used shell companies, aliases, outright theft in some cases, but I found him.” Lex took his glass from Mercy. “You’ve been hoarding Kryptonite, Bruce.” He drank.
“Now why would I do a silly thing like that?”
“The same reason I want to. No matter how perfect he is… in fact, the more perfect he is… we can never trust Superman.”
“Lex…” Bruce leaned against the wall. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must be working too hard. You should go yachting, maybe visit one of those islands you bought.”
Lex drank again, altogether slower. “I apologize, Mr. Wayne. You’re obviously not as smart as I credited you to be.”
“I try not to let it get me down. I’ll thank you to leave now. I need my beauty sleep.”
Lex gestured curtly and his men filed out. “Don’t worry about it. One great thing about capitalism… if you’re not willing to sell, there’s always someone who is.”
“Think about that yacht trip.”
***
If John Corben felt any irritation at being processed, he didn’t let on. He did, though. He felt profound irritation at being fingerprinted and photographed and strip-searched like a common criminal. Didn’t these idiots know he’d been fighting for them? No. No, they were cheeky enough to bump against him in the hallways and ignore him when he asked for a cup of water. All because those sickening cultists were offended at his treatment of their precious Superman.
But at last he was alone in a five by five cell, up on the thirtieth floor of police headquarters. The cops had been smart enough not to put him in gen pop, knowing that even the criminals would want to pay him back for doing what he’d done to Superman. So he had the cell all to himself, to think and seethe and plan for what he’d do when Luthor got him out of this mess.
Then Corben heard it. Felt it, really. Something was coming, a presence, like a freight train about to hit a railroad crossing or a plane about to land. He moved to the bars and looked around. No one coming up the corridor from either direction and the guard was dead-set on his newspaper, giving Corben the silent treatment.
But years of conflict had left Corben with a sixth sense for danger, and it was rattling his head like crazy. Something was about to hit. Something big. Suddenly, Corben realized: the window. He looked out through the squat bars. Nothing out there. Nothing to the left. Nothing to the right…
A strand of blonde hair flicked across his narrow field of vision like a cat’s swishing tail. Corben backed up. More hair rose, Medusa-like, buffeted by the wind. They were thirty stories up, owing to Metropolis’ intrinsic upward stretch, and there was a woman outside. Her eyes were icy blue filaments, staring into him. Corben understood then what alien truly meant. With Superman, there was an element of warmth, of humanity. With her there was just—revulsion. Blank revulsion.
“Who are you working for?” she said in deeply-accented English, though he couldn’t place the accent for the life of him.
“I’m self-employed.” In his head, it was a bold statement of defiance. It came out as a pathetic whimper.
The woman calmly took hold of the prison bars and ripped them out, leaving a hole in the wall that took up all but the corners of his cell. The action seemed to let in all the noise of the world; he was bombarded with the traffic far below and the howling of the winds. She was wearing a white jumpsuit juxtaposed with flowing robe elements, almost like tassels, almost like a headband and cape. She reached up to the top part of the shattered wall and pulled herself in like an astronaut in zero-G. “Who are you working for?”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
She frowned slowly as if tasting the words and finally them sour. “Insults, correct?” Suddenly he was being lifted off his feet and Corben belatedly realized that her hand was around his throat. “You are being uncooperative.”
Over the blood pounding in his ears, Corben heard the cops rushing it, trying different keys in the jail door lock. Kara simply looked at the lock and it melted. The cops backed off, their key dripping molten steel.
Kara turned her attention back to Corben, regarding him coolly before she smashed him against the wall. Corben felt a rib give, felt a concussion that close-range explosions hadn’t produced. Against all his instructions, his body slumped to the ground with nothing to break his fall. He was picked back up and walked out of the jail cell and into open air. Over the woman’s shoulder, he could see the cops ramming the door with an ashcan.
“Your employer,” she said with careful enunciation.
He didn’t answer, on account of not being able to hear her or much of anything. So she stared at his hand the flesh bubbled, sizzling for a moment before Corben got enough of a scope on the pain to feel it. By then the skin was black and he could see bone where his fingers used to be.
“Your employer.”
“Lex Luthor!” he cried.
The woman nodded. Then she looked at his other arm. “And where can I find him?”
Corben told her.
“Thank you for your belated cooperation.” And she dropped him.
Corben didn’t get an impression of falling beyond the prison rushing past, barred windows and glass windows and blank concrete, and then he hit. His body shattered and his charred hand broke off like the crisp of a burnt newspaper.
And he lived.
