FIC: "Hello, Goodbye" (PG-13) (Superman/CSI universe)
Hello, Goodbye
(prequel to “ Goodnight and Godspeed”)
"Goodnight and Godspeed" is still in progress, though it's mostly done. It takes place in a universe where the Superman/DC Comics superheroes coexist with the CSI TV show characters, primarily the ones in Las Vegas. This story is only slightly spoilery for "Goodnight and Godspeed" - the events of this story are summarized in the first two thousand words of "G&G", and the most important part of "H,G" is obvious from the first sentence of "G&G". A certain DC character demanded my attention the other day and this prequel was the result. No CSI characters appear in this story.
(I will hold it against no one if you want to wait for "G&G" to be finished before reading this story.)
PG-13 for violence, language, character death
Gotham
1952
He had just come in when Dick broke the news. “Bruce,” the boy said, “I think you need to sit down for this.”
“Whatever it is, Dick,” Bruce told him absentmindedly, “just tell me.” He had his back to the door as he removed his cufflinks - his evening out had been under the guise of Bruce Wayne, millionaire, not the vigilante Bat - and set them down on the dresser.
The boy twitched in the doorway - he saw him out of the corner of his eye. “Bruce, they’re saying Superman is dead.”
Bruce’s fingers fumbled as he heard those words, having just begun to unbutton his shirt. He turned, keeping his face as staid as he could manage. “What?”
Dick stepped inside, a little nervously. “The news on the radio is that Superman is dead, Bruce.”
Determinedly - sure this was a joke, and Dick would pay dearly for it - Bruce walked over and placed his hands on Dick’s shoulders. “Dick, I swear to God, if this is a joke -”
The boy pulled out from under his grasp. “God, Bruce! You think I would joke about something like this? I like Mr. Kent! Go ask Alfred - he’ll tell you the same. He’s getting everything ready for you in the Cave. Diana’ll be here any minute to take you to Metropolis.”
“Dear God,” he whispered.
“I swear it’s the truth, Bruce - I’m telling you the truth.”
He didn’t bother finishing undressing in his room, but instead raced out and into the long hallway. “Alfred!” he called, spotting the old man emerging from the secret passage at the end of the hall.
“Master Bruce, I’m afraid it’s true,” Alfred said, keeping the passage open as Bruce finally made it. “The news reports say that Luthor lured him into battle by kidnapping Miss Lane.”
That was nothing new. It seemed every month someone kidnapped - or at least threatened - Lois Lane to get at Superman, and Lex Luthor had done it several times in the brief few years since the Man of Steel had made his first appearance in Metropolis. “What’s different this time?” Bruce asked over the noise of the service elevator.
“Witnesses say the plume had a suspicious green hue, sir,” Alfred replied, busying himself with the cable controls.
“Damn. Kryptonite.” Out of the hope of cooperation, Clark had disclosed his weakness to him early in their acquaintance; somehow Luthor knew of it as well, and after the last time Luthor had tried to use it on him, so did the public at large - especially those who read the Planet. The call to make it a controlled substance (appropriately pushed by an article with bylines from Lane and Kent) was a reasonable one - but that didn’t stop Bruce from keeping some of his own - hidden away, masked in lead.
Just in case.
“And this idea that he’s dead?”
The cage of the elevator had reached the Cave. Bruce publicly - that is to say, to Alfred and Dick, and Diana, and Clark - protested and detested the name, but secretly he thought it was clever and showed potential on Dick’s part for having come up with it. He stepped out of the cage, Alfred hot on his heels, and headed directly to the dressing area. If Superman was in trouble, Bruce Wayne could not be the one showing up on the scene: this was a job for the Batman.
Transported by Wonder Woman, though.
Even with Eisenhower’s new system of “Interstates”, it was still a half-day’s journey from Gotham to Metropolis via Batmobile (another Dick neologism). Diana’s plane was significantly quicker - and conveniently invisible.
“According to the last report I heard on the radio,” Alfred told him, “Superman had not yet emerged from the demolished building. Reports are largely focusing on the good luck that Luthor chose a non-central locale for his latest tête-à-tête. Apparently the explosion not only brought down the abandoned warehouse he had drawn Master Kent to, but also significantly damaged several nearby buildings. It is believed that no innocents were caught in the midst of it all. Thank God for that.”
Bruce agreed, if only on Superman’s behalf. Clark had this annoyingly admirable preoccupation with innocent bystanders and their safety. Frankly, any bystanders were unlikely to have been all that innocent in this case, especially knowing Luthor. Something about the man seemed to rally criminals and deviant-minded minions to the villain’s side. Under other circumstances, he might have indulged a momentary pout at this: his foes never seemed to manage so well. Their number, not their intelligence, was all too often the difficulty.
He changed into his costume as quickly as he could manage - he envied Kent that spinning thing he always did; Superman could appear at the drop of a hat, while Batman required scheduling most nights - and emerged to find that Diana had already arrived.
“Bruce,” she said, cutting off her soft conversation with Alfred. He hadn’t put the cowl on yet, so he let the use of his name pass. “Diana,” he replied. “Any news?”
She shook her head, her long black curls swinging. The tiara and cuffs caught the meager light. “Nothing you and Alfred didn’t already know, I’m afraid,” she said. “Ready?”
Alfred handed him the cowl and he pulled it on in a single, always increasingly familiar motion. “Now I am.”
The damage was worse than Alfred had let on, he decided as Diana circled, looking for a spot to land. The warehouse almost looked flattened. “This is very bad,” he said softly. “Worse than I imagined.”
“Yes,” Diana agreed. “It reminds me of the Blitz, and Berlin.”
“You were there?” he asked. He was genuinely curious. Diana could be as tight-lipped about her past as he, and he had been hiking through the far reaches of the Orient at the time, not even realizing just how big the war had become until he had difficulty getting back to the United States at the end of what Alfred had, for his own amusement, called his ‘walkabout’.
“No,” she said, landing the plane at last, “but I have seen the pictures - the still photographs of the newspapers and magazines, and the moving pictures in the news reels. We should be grateful I had no inclination to refer to Hiroshima, my friend.”
He could not disagree with that. Gazing through the windshield of the plane, he took in the scene from the ground: in the distance he could see fire engines and police cars with their flashing lights, and he could hear the sirens as yet more arrived, but no one approached the rubble or aimed hoses at the flames. He and Diana were actually the closest to the scene. He wondered why the authorities hadn’t moved in closer, and said so to Wonder Woman.
An ambulance suddenly turned on its sirens and lights and left.
She pointed at one of the readouts on the dash. “Radiation,” she said. “I’ve always supposed that Kryptonite might be dangerous to mortal men if there was enough of it. And Athena only knows what else Luthor mixed with it for the explosive.”
“Then we’d better get in there and deal with Luthor and our mutual friend quickly,” he told her, thinking of the ambulance that had just left. “Despite evidence to the contrary, I am no more powerful or protected than any of those officers or firemen.”
They hiked in - there was no other word for it; they had to climb over rubble and ford the river that had appeared at a dislodged fire hydrant. Beyond the ring of concrete, steel and burning wood sat a small but deep crater. The horrid smell of burnt flesh became distinguishable from burning beams and oil as the approached, and when he looked in that direction, he could make out a human figure under the flames, sprawled over bent steel.
It was too short to be Superman. If there was a God, the dead man was Lex Luthor.
Regardless of who it may or may not have been, there was nothing he and Diana could do for him. They had to keep going. Despite the destruction, there was a good chance Superman had survived: the man could walk through flowing lava, after all, and fly into outer space. A bomb - even laced with Kryptonite - hopefully wouldn’t have hurt him too greatly.
Carefully, silently, they descended into the crater - and there he was. His uniform was tattered, and bruises (something Bruce had never seen on him before) mottled his entire front, broken in places by red cuts. Well, he told himself, at least he bleeds like human men, and bleeds red. That almost gives me hope. But Superman was still, unmoving. He could not even detect the movement of breathing - and through he had never asked, surely Superman needed to breathe - perhaps not as often, and maybe he required less oxygen or he took in carbon dioxide as plants did, or some other detail was different about how he breathed, but surely he had the need to do it and lungs to do it with? He looked human, and save for his powers, he acted human, after all - or was that a byproduct of his human upbringing (in Kansas of all places)?
“Batman?”
Diana’s voice brought him out of his worried musings and he realized he had stopped and fallen behind. He quickly caught up and stood at Diana’s side. “Dear God,” he whispered, seeing the injuries up close. “Is he even still alive?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper, “but do not ask again. The injured can hear, even when they are not conscious - and if he is teetering on the edge, I would not think it wise to confuse his spirit into crossing the river prematurely.”
“Of course,” he replied, in part to placate her - this was not the first time her strange Greek beliefs had made themselves known - and in part because he agreed: heaven knew he didn’t want Superman to die. The man should have the opportunity to gloat - perhaps in private, because it was not Superman’s style, to him, or to Diana, or his beloved Lois Lane -
“Do you see Lois Lane anywhere?” he suddenly asked.
Diana looked up. She had crouched beside Superman, brushing his hair - disheveled and more Clark Kent-ish in its disarray - off his forehead. “Dear Hera, no,” she said in surprise.
Her choice of deity was telling: Diana didn’t often show it, but she had long been jealous of the singular affection and regard their friend had for Miss Lane.
“If she was here,” he whispered, “then her fate is likely the same as Luthor’s.” He was vague out of deference to her earlier suggestion, but given the circumstances there was little room for interpretation.
Diana sighed - the only sign of agreement she gave. “Come and help me lift him,” she said. “He’s cooler than usual, but still warm. If he is simply ill, then we must get him away from the Kryptonite as soon as possible.” She paused. “He always feels cooler when he’s been exposed.”
He nodded and crouched down to help her. It bothered him sometimes, that Diana - a woman - was physically so much stronger than he could ever hope to be, but considering where her powers came from, he could usually brush the discomfort away: he knew better than to imagine any divine or superhuman entity gifting him with powers the way Diana had gotten hers. And today, in this moment, he was glad; she took the heavier end, under Superman’s chest, and he took the legs.
He didn’t have to look at Clark’s face as they carried him out.
It took significant effort - the man was heavier than he looked - and he was glad when they finally got to the plane. There were cheers from the police and firemen when they had emerged from the rubble, but privately he thought it was premature. Clark - Superman - was still unconscious.
This was uncharted territory.
Alfred was waiting for them in the Cave. “How bad is it, sir?” he asked as they carried Superman - Clark - out of the plane.
“Bad,” he said simply. Diana said nothing. Clark was still unconscious.
Alfred had made preparations - a metal surgical table stood ready with water and towels and a doctor’s instruments, and now-familiar tubs of ointment and every other drug he had on hand; Alfred was quite adept at patching men up. He’d certainly had ample practice these last few years. They carried Clark to the surgical table, he and Diana, with Alfred rolling up his sleeves. “Wasn’t there a doctor in Metropolis, Master Bruce, that Mr. Kent mentioned once? A fellow who had come to his aid when he was suffering from Kryptonite poisoning once before?”
Bruce - for he had removed the cowl, damp with sweat - nodded. “Emil Hamilton, I think.”
“Yes,” Diana agreed. “Kal mentioned him to me once before.” She paused. “Bruce, Alfred, do what you can,” she said. “I will fetch Doctor Hamilton. He’s likely still at Star Labs, and hasn’t even realized what has transpired this evening - this is the sort of man Kal said he was.”
“Be quick,” Bruce told her.
She left.
He was a little glad of her departure; it was easier for him to deal with Superman when he thought of the man as Clark Kent, gentle soul from Kansas, rather than Kal-El, last son of Krypton.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he whispered in Clark’s ear. “We will do everything humanly possible. And we will find her for you. Before you know it, Lois will be by your side and all will be well.”
Alfred began cutting away what remained of Superman’s uniform and soon they began washing him, the cloths and the water coming away from his skin tinged red, black, and bright green. They did this for what seemed like forever, Alfred keeping up a mindless chatter of stories he’d heard from Dick about West Gotham Preparatory High School, the boy himself having been sent to bed and ordered to stay there. They collected the dirty water and the wash cloths and put them in a metallic box - lead, Alfred assured him - and put it far away in another part of the caves that honeycombed the ground beneath Wayne Manor. In case the doctor needed to analyze them, Alfred told him.
Clark began to breathe. Bruce forgot how to.
For a moment.
He brought over a chair and sat beside his friend while Alfred disappeared. “You really know how to scare a fellow, Clark,” he whispered. “I trust you’ll recover, now that you’re breathing like a normal person. Don’t make me sic Alfred on your old man up in that ice castle you call a fortress. If I were a gambling man, I’d put my money on the butler.”
Silence - save for the sound (glorious sound!) of Clark breathing.
Bruce sighed. “What shall we tell your boss at the Planet? Will Mr. White believe that Clark Kent, man with a cast-iron stomach, has succumbed to food poisoning? Don’t be surprised - I have spies everywhere, of course, and I certainly did hear about that awards luncheon.”
No response.
“Or maybe you’d like to produce your own excuses when you wake up, hm? Perhaps Miss Lane will have returned home by then, and it’ll be Lois Lane worried sick about Clark Kent this time, rather than the other way around? Maybe your Lois will worry more about Clark than Superman this once, eh?”
Clark seemed to sigh - his breath was heavier than before for a moment, and then - as if dreaming - he whispered a single word: “Lois.”
It was the last word Bruce Wayne ever heard his friend say.
A year later, Batman and Wonder Woman briefly quarreled over a matter of conscience.
Wonder Woman won.
The next evening found the Batman rappelling down the side of the Daily Planet building in Metropolis. He moved as silently as humanly possible, one with the shadows. He had studied the building’s architectural plans and the directory, had recalled the few words Clark Kent had said to him on the subject.
To say that Perry White was surprised to find Gotham’s vigilante in his office was unnecessary. The dropped coffee mug sufficed.
“You know who I am,” Bruce stated, using the gruff, unfriendly voice of Batman.
Perry White blinked, as if unable to find words. “Uh, yes,” he finally said. “This is, um, it’s not exactly your neighborhood, sir.”
“I’m here on behalf of our mutual friend, Mr. White. I’ve come to tell you what has become of Superman.”
Mr. White sat down.
The Batman remained in the shadow of the corner of the office, barely visible.
“Is he -” White started, grabbing blindly for a pen and a notepad.
“Superman is dead.”
White dropped his pen. “Dear God. I mean, we’ve wondered - the whole world has wondered -”
“Superman died that same night after Luthor’s explosion.” Batman paused. “Luthor murdered him.”
White raked a shaking hand through his graying hair. “Will you - will you tell me this - do you know what happened to Lois Lane and Clark Kent? I’m sure you know that Luthor kidnapped Lane - and no one’s seen Kent since that night -”
“Kent is dead. A victim of Luthor’s explosion, the same as Luthor himself.”
White swallowed. “And Lane?”
Bruce hesitated. “I don’t know what has become of her, White. I have searched on our mutual friend’s behalf, and - I have not found her.”
“Damn,” White muttered. “I - I keep expecting her to come running through that door. And I had hoped Kent…for his mother’s sake, if nothing else - she’s so ill, the poor woman…”
Bruce took a deep breath. It would not do to think of Mrs. Kent and the news Diana was delivering to her at this very moment.
He turned to leave, but White’s voice stopped him. “Wait,” the old man said. “Will you - will you tell me the rest of it? What happened that night? What was Luthor’s plan? Where did he get the Kryponite? How was it that Luthor didn’t escape his own explosion? Did Superman suffer? Did…did Clark Kent suffer?”
“I have told you all I can tell you, Mr. White,” the Batman replied gruffly - and slipped out the window.
The next morning, the Daily Planet announced for all the world the death of Superman.
Bruce Wayne had never hated a lie so much.
[END]
(prequel to “ Goodnight and Godspeed”)
"Goodnight and Godspeed" is still in progress, though it's mostly done. It takes place in a universe where the Superman/DC Comics superheroes coexist with the CSI TV show characters, primarily the ones in Las Vegas. This story is only slightly spoilery for "Goodnight and Godspeed" - the events of this story are summarized in the first two thousand words of "G&G", and the most important part of "H,G" is obvious from the first sentence of "G&G". A certain DC character demanded my attention the other day and this prequel was the result. No CSI characters appear in this story.
(I will hold it against no one if you want to wait for "G&G" to be finished before reading this story.)
PG-13 for violence, language, character death
Gotham
1952
He had just come in when Dick broke the news. “Bruce,” the boy said, “I think you need to sit down for this.”
“Whatever it is, Dick,” Bruce told him absentmindedly, “just tell me.” He had his back to the door as he removed his cufflinks - his evening out had been under the guise of Bruce Wayne, millionaire, not the vigilante Bat - and set them down on the dresser.
The boy twitched in the doorway - he saw him out of the corner of his eye. “Bruce, they’re saying Superman is dead.”
Bruce’s fingers fumbled as he heard those words, having just begun to unbutton his shirt. He turned, keeping his face as staid as he could manage. “What?”
Dick stepped inside, a little nervously. “The news on the radio is that Superman is dead, Bruce.”
Determinedly - sure this was a joke, and Dick would pay dearly for it - Bruce walked over and placed his hands on Dick’s shoulders. “Dick, I swear to God, if this is a joke -”
The boy pulled out from under his grasp. “God, Bruce! You think I would joke about something like this? I like Mr. Kent! Go ask Alfred - he’ll tell you the same. He’s getting everything ready for you in the Cave. Diana’ll be here any minute to take you to Metropolis.”
“Dear God,” he whispered.
“I swear it’s the truth, Bruce - I’m telling you the truth.”
He didn’t bother finishing undressing in his room, but instead raced out and into the long hallway. “Alfred!” he called, spotting the old man emerging from the secret passage at the end of the hall.
“Master Bruce, I’m afraid it’s true,” Alfred said, keeping the passage open as Bruce finally made it. “The news reports say that Luthor lured him into battle by kidnapping Miss Lane.”
That was nothing new. It seemed every month someone kidnapped - or at least threatened - Lois Lane to get at Superman, and Lex Luthor had done it several times in the brief few years since the Man of Steel had made his first appearance in Metropolis. “What’s different this time?” Bruce asked over the noise of the service elevator.
“Witnesses say the plume had a suspicious green hue, sir,” Alfred replied, busying himself with the cable controls.
“Damn. Kryptonite.” Out of the hope of cooperation, Clark had disclosed his weakness to him early in their acquaintance; somehow Luthor knew of it as well, and after the last time Luthor had tried to use it on him, so did the public at large - especially those who read the Planet. The call to make it a controlled substance (appropriately pushed by an article with bylines from Lane and Kent) was a reasonable one - but that didn’t stop Bruce from keeping some of his own - hidden away, masked in lead.
Just in case.
“And this idea that he’s dead?”
The cage of the elevator had reached the Cave. Bruce publicly - that is to say, to Alfred and Dick, and Diana, and Clark - protested and detested the name, but secretly he thought it was clever and showed potential on Dick’s part for having come up with it. He stepped out of the cage, Alfred hot on his heels, and headed directly to the dressing area. If Superman was in trouble, Bruce Wayne could not be the one showing up on the scene: this was a job for the Batman.
Transported by Wonder Woman, though.
Even with Eisenhower’s new system of “Interstates”, it was still a half-day’s journey from Gotham to Metropolis via Batmobile (another Dick neologism). Diana’s plane was significantly quicker - and conveniently invisible.
“According to the last report I heard on the radio,” Alfred told him, “Superman had not yet emerged from the demolished building. Reports are largely focusing on the good luck that Luthor chose a non-central locale for his latest tête-à-tête. Apparently the explosion not only brought down the abandoned warehouse he had drawn Master Kent to, but also significantly damaged several nearby buildings. It is believed that no innocents were caught in the midst of it all. Thank God for that.”
Bruce agreed, if only on Superman’s behalf. Clark had this annoyingly admirable preoccupation with innocent bystanders and their safety. Frankly, any bystanders were unlikely to have been all that innocent in this case, especially knowing Luthor. Something about the man seemed to rally criminals and deviant-minded minions to the villain’s side. Under other circumstances, he might have indulged a momentary pout at this: his foes never seemed to manage so well. Their number, not their intelligence, was all too often the difficulty.
He changed into his costume as quickly as he could manage - he envied Kent that spinning thing he always did; Superman could appear at the drop of a hat, while Batman required scheduling most nights - and emerged to find that Diana had already arrived.
“Bruce,” she said, cutting off her soft conversation with Alfred. He hadn’t put the cowl on yet, so he let the use of his name pass. “Diana,” he replied. “Any news?”
She shook her head, her long black curls swinging. The tiara and cuffs caught the meager light. “Nothing you and Alfred didn’t already know, I’m afraid,” she said. “Ready?”
Alfred handed him the cowl and he pulled it on in a single, always increasingly familiar motion. “Now I am.”
The damage was worse than Alfred had let on, he decided as Diana circled, looking for a spot to land. The warehouse almost looked flattened. “This is very bad,” he said softly. “Worse than I imagined.”
“Yes,” Diana agreed. “It reminds me of the Blitz, and Berlin.”
“You were there?” he asked. He was genuinely curious. Diana could be as tight-lipped about her past as he, and he had been hiking through the far reaches of the Orient at the time, not even realizing just how big the war had become until he had difficulty getting back to the United States at the end of what Alfred had, for his own amusement, called his ‘walkabout’.
“No,” she said, landing the plane at last, “but I have seen the pictures - the still photographs of the newspapers and magazines, and the moving pictures in the news reels. We should be grateful I had no inclination to refer to Hiroshima, my friend.”
He could not disagree with that. Gazing through the windshield of the plane, he took in the scene from the ground: in the distance he could see fire engines and police cars with their flashing lights, and he could hear the sirens as yet more arrived, but no one approached the rubble or aimed hoses at the flames. He and Diana were actually the closest to the scene. He wondered why the authorities hadn’t moved in closer, and said so to Wonder Woman.
An ambulance suddenly turned on its sirens and lights and left.
She pointed at one of the readouts on the dash. “Radiation,” she said. “I’ve always supposed that Kryptonite might be dangerous to mortal men if there was enough of it. And Athena only knows what else Luthor mixed with it for the explosive.”
“Then we’d better get in there and deal with Luthor and our mutual friend quickly,” he told her, thinking of the ambulance that had just left. “Despite evidence to the contrary, I am no more powerful or protected than any of those officers or firemen.”
They hiked in - there was no other word for it; they had to climb over rubble and ford the river that had appeared at a dislodged fire hydrant. Beyond the ring of concrete, steel and burning wood sat a small but deep crater. The horrid smell of burnt flesh became distinguishable from burning beams and oil as the approached, and when he looked in that direction, he could make out a human figure under the flames, sprawled over bent steel.
It was too short to be Superman. If there was a God, the dead man was Lex Luthor.
Regardless of who it may or may not have been, there was nothing he and Diana could do for him. They had to keep going. Despite the destruction, there was a good chance Superman had survived: the man could walk through flowing lava, after all, and fly into outer space. A bomb - even laced with Kryptonite - hopefully wouldn’t have hurt him too greatly.
Carefully, silently, they descended into the crater - and there he was. His uniform was tattered, and bruises (something Bruce had never seen on him before) mottled his entire front, broken in places by red cuts. Well, he told himself, at least he bleeds like human men, and bleeds red. That almost gives me hope. But Superman was still, unmoving. He could not even detect the movement of breathing - and through he had never asked, surely Superman needed to breathe - perhaps not as often, and maybe he required less oxygen or he took in carbon dioxide as plants did, or some other detail was different about how he breathed, but surely he had the need to do it and lungs to do it with? He looked human, and save for his powers, he acted human, after all - or was that a byproduct of his human upbringing (in Kansas of all places)?
“Batman?”
Diana’s voice brought him out of his worried musings and he realized he had stopped and fallen behind. He quickly caught up and stood at Diana’s side. “Dear God,” he whispered, seeing the injuries up close. “Is he even still alive?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper, “but do not ask again. The injured can hear, even when they are not conscious - and if he is teetering on the edge, I would not think it wise to confuse his spirit into crossing the river prematurely.”
“Of course,” he replied, in part to placate her - this was not the first time her strange Greek beliefs had made themselves known - and in part because he agreed: heaven knew he didn’t want Superman to die. The man should have the opportunity to gloat - perhaps in private, because it was not Superman’s style, to him, or to Diana, or his beloved Lois Lane -
“Do you see Lois Lane anywhere?” he suddenly asked.
Diana looked up. She had crouched beside Superman, brushing his hair - disheveled and more Clark Kent-ish in its disarray - off his forehead. “Dear Hera, no,” she said in surprise.
Her choice of deity was telling: Diana didn’t often show it, but she had long been jealous of the singular affection and regard their friend had for Miss Lane.
“If she was here,” he whispered, “then her fate is likely the same as Luthor’s.” He was vague out of deference to her earlier suggestion, but given the circumstances there was little room for interpretation.
Diana sighed - the only sign of agreement she gave. “Come and help me lift him,” she said. “He’s cooler than usual, but still warm. If he is simply ill, then we must get him away from the Kryptonite as soon as possible.” She paused. “He always feels cooler when he’s been exposed.”
He nodded and crouched down to help her. It bothered him sometimes, that Diana - a woman - was physically so much stronger than he could ever hope to be, but considering where her powers came from, he could usually brush the discomfort away: he knew better than to imagine any divine or superhuman entity gifting him with powers the way Diana had gotten hers. And today, in this moment, he was glad; she took the heavier end, under Superman’s chest, and he took the legs.
He didn’t have to look at Clark’s face as they carried him out.
It took significant effort - the man was heavier than he looked - and he was glad when they finally got to the plane. There were cheers from the police and firemen when they had emerged from the rubble, but privately he thought it was premature. Clark - Superman - was still unconscious.
This was uncharted territory.
Alfred was waiting for them in the Cave. “How bad is it, sir?” he asked as they carried Superman - Clark - out of the plane.
“Bad,” he said simply. Diana said nothing. Clark was still unconscious.
Alfred had made preparations - a metal surgical table stood ready with water and towels and a doctor’s instruments, and now-familiar tubs of ointment and every other drug he had on hand; Alfred was quite adept at patching men up. He’d certainly had ample practice these last few years. They carried Clark to the surgical table, he and Diana, with Alfred rolling up his sleeves. “Wasn’t there a doctor in Metropolis, Master Bruce, that Mr. Kent mentioned once? A fellow who had come to his aid when he was suffering from Kryptonite poisoning once before?”
Bruce - for he had removed the cowl, damp with sweat - nodded. “Emil Hamilton, I think.”
“Yes,” Diana agreed. “Kal mentioned him to me once before.” She paused. “Bruce, Alfred, do what you can,” she said. “I will fetch Doctor Hamilton. He’s likely still at Star Labs, and hasn’t even realized what has transpired this evening - this is the sort of man Kal said he was.”
“Be quick,” Bruce told her.
She left.
He was a little glad of her departure; it was easier for him to deal with Superman when he thought of the man as Clark Kent, gentle soul from Kansas, rather than Kal-El, last son of Krypton.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he whispered in Clark’s ear. “We will do everything humanly possible. And we will find her for you. Before you know it, Lois will be by your side and all will be well.”
Alfred began cutting away what remained of Superman’s uniform and soon they began washing him, the cloths and the water coming away from his skin tinged red, black, and bright green. They did this for what seemed like forever, Alfred keeping up a mindless chatter of stories he’d heard from Dick about West Gotham Preparatory High School, the boy himself having been sent to bed and ordered to stay there. They collected the dirty water and the wash cloths and put them in a metallic box - lead, Alfred assured him - and put it far away in another part of the caves that honeycombed the ground beneath Wayne Manor. In case the doctor needed to analyze them, Alfred told him.
Clark began to breathe. Bruce forgot how to.
For a moment.
He brought over a chair and sat beside his friend while Alfred disappeared. “You really know how to scare a fellow, Clark,” he whispered. “I trust you’ll recover, now that you’re breathing like a normal person. Don’t make me sic Alfred on your old man up in that ice castle you call a fortress. If I were a gambling man, I’d put my money on the butler.”
Silence - save for the sound (glorious sound!) of Clark breathing.
Bruce sighed. “What shall we tell your boss at the Planet? Will Mr. White believe that Clark Kent, man with a cast-iron stomach, has succumbed to food poisoning? Don’t be surprised - I have spies everywhere, of course, and I certainly did hear about that awards luncheon.”
No response.
“Or maybe you’d like to produce your own excuses when you wake up, hm? Perhaps Miss Lane will have returned home by then, and it’ll be Lois Lane worried sick about Clark Kent this time, rather than the other way around? Maybe your Lois will worry more about Clark than Superman this once, eh?”
Clark seemed to sigh - his breath was heavier than before for a moment, and then - as if dreaming - he whispered a single word: “Lois.”
It was the last word Bruce Wayne ever heard his friend say.
A year later, Batman and Wonder Woman briefly quarreled over a matter of conscience.
Wonder Woman won.
The next evening found the Batman rappelling down the side of the Daily Planet building in Metropolis. He moved as silently as humanly possible, one with the shadows. He had studied the building’s architectural plans and the directory, had recalled the few words Clark Kent had said to him on the subject.
To say that Perry White was surprised to find Gotham’s vigilante in his office was unnecessary. The dropped coffee mug sufficed.
“You know who I am,” Bruce stated, using the gruff, unfriendly voice of Batman.
Perry White blinked, as if unable to find words. “Uh, yes,” he finally said. “This is, um, it’s not exactly your neighborhood, sir.”
“I’m here on behalf of our mutual friend, Mr. White. I’ve come to tell you what has become of Superman.”
Mr. White sat down.
The Batman remained in the shadow of the corner of the office, barely visible.
“Is he -” White started, grabbing blindly for a pen and a notepad.
“Superman is dead.”
White dropped his pen. “Dear God. I mean, we’ve wondered - the whole world has wondered -”
“Superman died that same night after Luthor’s explosion.” Batman paused. “Luthor murdered him.”
White raked a shaking hand through his graying hair. “Will you - will you tell me this - do you know what happened to Lois Lane and Clark Kent? I’m sure you know that Luthor kidnapped Lane - and no one’s seen Kent since that night -”
“Kent is dead. A victim of Luthor’s explosion, the same as Luthor himself.”
White swallowed. “And Lane?”
Bruce hesitated. “I don’t know what has become of her, White. I have searched on our mutual friend’s behalf, and - I have not found her.”
“Damn,” White muttered. “I - I keep expecting her to come running through that door. And I had hoped Kent…for his mother’s sake, if nothing else - she’s so ill, the poor woman…”
Bruce took a deep breath. It would not do to think of Mrs. Kent and the news Diana was delivering to her at this very moment.
He turned to leave, but White’s voice stopped him. “Wait,” the old man said. “Will you - will you tell me the rest of it? What happened that night? What was Luthor’s plan? Where did he get the Kryponite? How was it that Luthor didn’t escape his own explosion? Did Superman suffer? Did…did Clark Kent suffer?”
“I have told you all I can tell you, Mr. White,” the Batman replied gruffly - and slipped out the window.
The next morning, the Daily Planet announced for all the world the death of Superman.
Bruce Wayne had never hated a lie so much.
[END]