(FIC) Jaevel Av En Tango: (Ch. 3) Half Truths
Here's the next chapter! Beta by the awesome jij.
Series: Jaevel Av En Tango (A Devil of a Tango)
Title: Chapter 3 - Half Truths
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Clark, Tim, Cassandra
Word Count: 1500+
Summary: The boys do some detective work, make some wrong conclusions and bring each other closer to their next meeting.
All chapters found here.
Half Truths
Today
Kal changed the microfilm, making quick notations in his notebook. ‘Norwegian philanthropist Vak Báleygr opens a new public art space in Gotham’. ‘Fundraising Gala in Gotham Harbor reveals rising star Selina Kyle with club owner Vak Báleygr’. ‘Black Weekend in the Mist, four dead and seven injured in shoot out.’
Kal checked the date for the last paper. August, two years ago. The Mist seemed to have been the scene of a month-long crime wave, with at least forty casualties and the complete destruction of the club. The Mist closed and underwent a complete renovation while the owner recovered from injures from the last shooting. Kal gathered it had been then that he has lost his left eye.
Kal went further back in time with the microfilms. The Mist had recently had its fifth anniversary, but Kal hadn’t been able to track Vak’s immigration’s papers. Apparently they had been lost in a fire, but he wasn’t sure they had ever existed, so he was looking for the first mentions of the man in the papers. He had become quite a public figure in the past four years, but he was oddly elusive. There were very few pictures of the man in the paper, and they were all from far away or obscured, which struck Kal as weird. He was a handsome man, he should have been a media darling, not a ghost lurking on the edges of group pictures in art openings and charity functions.
He couldn’t find any references to the man prior to the opening of the Mist, and even after that the first year had very few references and no pictures at all. Kal bit his thumb, frowning in thought. The steel blue eye that had regarded him as he lay on the couch on the Mist’s offices had made him feel naked, like he could see through him, read him like a book… but no. Kal could literally see through men, and it was impossible to read their innermost thoughts and secrets that way, otherwise his job would be a lot easier. He couldn’t believe that the man had been unremarkable on his arrival to Gotham, that no one had noticed when he had docked in the Gotham Harbor and decided to claim the city for his own, with his head up high and that unnerving knowing smile on his lips. It appeared that the account of Vak Báleygr’s arrival to Gotham could only be told by the man himself.
Feeling he had exhausted the venue, Kal gathered his notebook and his coat, heading out of the Gotham City Library. Not a single mention of Wotan, though the Storm was mentioned often. Still, going through the archives had given Kal some perspective on the workings of the city underworld. In the past two years, Gotham had seemed to quiet down a little, crime had gone down -implausible, yet there seemed to be less mindless violence. It could only mean that the city had stopped rebelling against the organized crime, and was now cradled in a crib made of armament and drug traffic, rocked by the firm hand of Owlman, it’s ‘protector’. It disgusted Kal to admit it, but the Metropolis underworld seemed chaotic and mad in comparison.
It was clear now -clues didn’t come clearer than being kidnapped for asking too many questions- that Vak and Wotan were somehow related, though he was still unsure if Wotan was a person or the Storm organization itself. But Vak had the resources and had been implicated in a mob war two years ago, and it was pretty obvious the man at least pretended to be Scandinavian. Kal remembered the moment before Vak had noticed he was awake, when his voice had had no trace of foreign accent. He would be a fool not to make the connection between the Norse god and his new acquaintance.
And Clark was many things, but he was definitely not a fool.
---
Bruce strolled down the empty restaurant, supervising the cleaning crew before heading for his offices in the second floor of the Mist. Dawn was breaking in Gotham and they wouldn’t be opening for hours yet, but running the Mist was a twenty-four-hour job. Running the Storm seemed easier in comparison sometimes, at least he had experience with that. But the restaurant… even after five years, he was still mystified by the way things could go so terribly wrong in one night.
He touched the eye-patch absently and then shook his head, eyeing the steel backdoors of the kitchen, the most mystifying of places. In five years, the secrets of the kitchen had only grown, denying him clarification. He was much better with drinks. Well, it wasn’t like his mother had known how to cook very well either; Bruce supposed it was a family thing.
The staff politely kept out of his way, smiling nervously every time they crossed his path, and a man discreetly mopped the muddy paw prints his dogs left all over the marble. He headed back to the front doors, letting himself in the back of the reception desk.
“Down, boys. Daddy has work to do,” he said to the pair of Great Danes, smiling at the way their blue eyes stared adoringly at him.
A figure detached itself from the shadows. Dressed completely in black, the boy -for he couldn’t be more than sixteen- stood behind him while he perused the list of guests of the night before and the reservations for the day.
“Do you have something for me?”
“Valkyrie gave us a couple of leads. We found all we could about your mysterious Mr. Starr,” the boy said, humor lacing his voice.
“Go on.”
Another figure detached itself from the shadows, coming to stand by Bruce’s left side to hand him a file. The girl’s face was partly hidden behind a mask, her mouth only hinted at through the fabric, but her brown eyes were piercing and full of intelligence, dark bangs framing her face.
The boy continued his debriefing once Bruce started scanning the file. “Clark Starr, age thirty-three, was born in New York to a Lara Starr. Home birth, his mother passed away and he was left to be raised by his cousin, Karen Starr, who apparently lived with them. Status of the father is unknown.
"He lived in New York with his cousin until age five, when both of them went under the radar for the next six years. We couldn’t find any trace of them, but Cassandra thinks they left for Alaska. They set shop in Metropolis upon their return, where Clark attended school. Excellent student, terrible athlete despite his physique. Up until his last year of high school, he and his cousin would disappear during summer break and winter break, only to return as classes started again. We could trace some of those trips back to Brazil, Japan and Italy, but there’s at least a dozen more that were undocumented.
"At seventeen he enrolled in Metropolis University, graduated with a journalism major at twenty two. During these five years, he kept leaving the country at least twice a year, but his cousin no longer went with him. Karen Starr successfully founded and presides over Starrtech, also based in Metropolis.
"Mr. Starr has been working in the Daily Planet for the past ten years. The gap year between his graduation and his incorporation to the news team is also unaccounted for. Following previous patterns, I would say he left to travel the world with his cousin’s money, only to return when the money ran out or he got bored, and then got back to Metropolis to play the bleeding heart and iron fist of justice with his articles and exposés. Though I doubt you need us telling you about those, Vak.”
Bruce smiled, a finger tracing the contour of strong shoulders in a picture from the file. “No, I don’t need you to tell me about those. He’s good… not that it will ever be enough to clean up Metropolis.” He sighed, turning his head slightly towards the boy by his right and nodding. “Good job, Crows. I need you to deliver a message to Quizmaster. Tell him to clean the board, because everything that isn’t put away by this weekend, I’ll take for mine.”
Both kids nodded, and started to slip away.
“Wait,” Bruce called them back, eyeing their black suits, the leather gloves, the combat boots and the blue feather motif on their chests. It was already morning in Gotham, there was no use for the Crows anymore. “Change first, then stop by my office, Tim. Cass,” he nodded towards the dogs. “Would you mind taking them out?”
The face of the young woman, all danger and sharp edges, quickly changed into something else behind the mask. There was a smile on her unseen lips as she beckoned the dogs.
The youths turned, quickly disappearing in the shadows.
Clark Starr was Metropolis’ bleeding heart, his passion pounding in every word he wrote. Which, of course, only made it more ironic that he looked so much like Ultraman. Bruce didn’t believe in coincidences, not when they were that big.
Perhaps it was time to have a word with Owlman, see how his brother liked having the Syndicate’s powerhouse infiltrating his city.
Series: Jaevel Av En Tango (A Devil of a Tango)
Title: Chapter 3 - Half Truths
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Bruce, Clark, Tim, Cassandra
Word Count: 1500+
Summary: The boys do some detective work, make some wrong conclusions and bring each other closer to their next meeting.
All chapters found here.
Half Truths
Today
Kal changed the microfilm, making quick notations in his notebook. ‘Norwegian philanthropist Vak Báleygr opens a new public art space in Gotham’. ‘Fundraising Gala in Gotham Harbor reveals rising star Selina Kyle with club owner Vak Báleygr’. ‘Black Weekend in the Mist, four dead and seven injured in shoot out.’
Kal checked the date for the last paper. August, two years ago. The Mist seemed to have been the scene of a month-long crime wave, with at least forty casualties and the complete destruction of the club. The Mist closed and underwent a complete renovation while the owner recovered from injures from the last shooting. Kal gathered it had been then that he has lost his left eye.
Kal went further back in time with the microfilms. The Mist had recently had its fifth anniversary, but Kal hadn’t been able to track Vak’s immigration’s papers. Apparently they had been lost in a fire, but he wasn’t sure they had ever existed, so he was looking for the first mentions of the man in the papers. He had become quite a public figure in the past four years, but he was oddly elusive. There were very few pictures of the man in the paper, and they were all from far away or obscured, which struck Kal as weird. He was a handsome man, he should have been a media darling, not a ghost lurking on the edges of group pictures in art openings and charity functions.
He couldn’t find any references to the man prior to the opening of the Mist, and even after that the first year had very few references and no pictures at all. Kal bit his thumb, frowning in thought. The steel blue eye that had regarded him as he lay on the couch on the Mist’s offices had made him feel naked, like he could see through him, read him like a book… but no. Kal could literally see through men, and it was impossible to read their innermost thoughts and secrets that way, otherwise his job would be a lot easier. He couldn’t believe that the man had been unremarkable on his arrival to Gotham, that no one had noticed when he had docked in the Gotham Harbor and decided to claim the city for his own, with his head up high and that unnerving knowing smile on his lips. It appeared that the account of Vak Báleygr’s arrival to Gotham could only be told by the man himself.
Feeling he had exhausted the venue, Kal gathered his notebook and his coat, heading out of the Gotham City Library. Not a single mention of Wotan, though the Storm was mentioned often. Still, going through the archives had given Kal some perspective on the workings of the city underworld. In the past two years, Gotham had seemed to quiet down a little, crime had gone down -implausible, yet there seemed to be less mindless violence. It could only mean that the city had stopped rebelling against the organized crime, and was now cradled in a crib made of armament and drug traffic, rocked by the firm hand of Owlman, it’s ‘protector’. It disgusted Kal to admit it, but the Metropolis underworld seemed chaotic and mad in comparison.
It was clear now -clues didn’t come clearer than being kidnapped for asking too many questions- that Vak and Wotan were somehow related, though he was still unsure if Wotan was a person or the Storm organization itself. But Vak had the resources and had been implicated in a mob war two years ago, and it was pretty obvious the man at least pretended to be Scandinavian. Kal remembered the moment before Vak had noticed he was awake, when his voice had had no trace of foreign accent. He would be a fool not to make the connection between the Norse god and his new acquaintance.
And Clark was many things, but he was definitely not a fool.
---
Bruce strolled down the empty restaurant, supervising the cleaning crew before heading for his offices in the second floor of the Mist. Dawn was breaking in Gotham and they wouldn’t be opening for hours yet, but running the Mist was a twenty-four-hour job. Running the Storm seemed easier in comparison sometimes, at least he had experience with that. But the restaurant… even after five years, he was still mystified by the way things could go so terribly wrong in one night.
He touched the eye-patch absently and then shook his head, eyeing the steel backdoors of the kitchen, the most mystifying of places. In five years, the secrets of the kitchen had only grown, denying him clarification. He was much better with drinks. Well, it wasn’t like his mother had known how to cook very well either; Bruce supposed it was a family thing.
The staff politely kept out of his way, smiling nervously every time they crossed his path, and a man discreetly mopped the muddy paw prints his dogs left all over the marble. He headed back to the front doors, letting himself in the back of the reception desk.
“Down, boys. Daddy has work to do,” he said to the pair of Great Danes, smiling at the way their blue eyes stared adoringly at him.
A figure detached itself from the shadows. Dressed completely in black, the boy -for he couldn’t be more than sixteen- stood behind him while he perused the list of guests of the night before and the reservations for the day.
“Do you have something for me?”
“Valkyrie gave us a couple of leads. We found all we could about your mysterious Mr. Starr,” the boy said, humor lacing his voice.
“Go on.”
Another figure detached itself from the shadows, coming to stand by Bruce’s left side to hand him a file. The girl’s face was partly hidden behind a mask, her mouth only hinted at through the fabric, but her brown eyes were piercing and full of intelligence, dark bangs framing her face.
The boy continued his debriefing once Bruce started scanning the file. “Clark Starr, age thirty-three, was born in New York to a Lara Starr. Home birth, his mother passed away and he was left to be raised by his cousin, Karen Starr, who apparently lived with them. Status of the father is unknown.
"He lived in New York with his cousin until age five, when both of them went under the radar for the next six years. We couldn’t find any trace of them, but Cassandra thinks they left for Alaska. They set shop in Metropolis upon their return, where Clark attended school. Excellent student, terrible athlete despite his physique. Up until his last year of high school, he and his cousin would disappear during summer break and winter break, only to return as classes started again. We could trace some of those trips back to Brazil, Japan and Italy, but there’s at least a dozen more that were undocumented.
"At seventeen he enrolled in Metropolis University, graduated with a journalism major at twenty two. During these five years, he kept leaving the country at least twice a year, but his cousin no longer went with him. Karen Starr successfully founded and presides over Starrtech, also based in Metropolis.
"Mr. Starr has been working in the Daily Planet for the past ten years. The gap year between his graduation and his incorporation to the news team is also unaccounted for. Following previous patterns, I would say he left to travel the world with his cousin’s money, only to return when the money ran out or he got bored, and then got back to Metropolis to play the bleeding heart and iron fist of justice with his articles and exposés. Though I doubt you need us telling you about those, Vak.”
Bruce smiled, a finger tracing the contour of strong shoulders in a picture from the file. “No, I don’t need you to tell me about those. He’s good… not that it will ever be enough to clean up Metropolis.” He sighed, turning his head slightly towards the boy by his right and nodding. “Good job, Crows. I need you to deliver a message to Quizmaster. Tell him to clean the board, because everything that isn’t put away by this weekend, I’ll take for mine.”
Both kids nodded, and started to slip away.
“Wait,” Bruce called them back, eyeing their black suits, the leather gloves, the combat boots and the blue feather motif on their chests. It was already morning in Gotham, there was no use for the Crows anymore. “Change first, then stop by my office, Tim. Cass,” he nodded towards the dogs. “Would you mind taking them out?”
The face of the young woman, all danger and sharp edges, quickly changed into something else behind the mask. There was a smile on her unseen lips as she beckoned the dogs.
The youths turned, quickly disappearing in the shadows.
Clark Starr was Metropolis’ bleeding heart, his passion pounding in every word he wrote. Which, of course, only made it more ironic that he looked so much like Ultraman. Bruce didn’t believe in coincidences, not when they were that big.
Perhaps it was time to have a word with Owlman, see how his brother liked having the Syndicate’s powerhouse infiltrating his city.