Gardens of Wayne Manor: Dark Knight (39/42)
Title: Chapter Thirty-Nine: Dark Knight
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Bruno Mannheim, Alfred Pennyworth, Roman Sionis, Jimmy Olsen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3000Summary: While Clark Kent stalls Bruno Mannheim, a shadowy vigilante makes his debut in Gotham.
Bruce Wayne crouched in the shadows outside the windows of Bruno Mannheim's second Gotham safehouse. His left arm ached and he still felt lightheaded from loss of blood. He shook his head and felt the makeshift cowl he and Alfred had cobbled together shift with his motion. The silken cape was gathered around him, clutched in his gloved hands.
This was madness, he thought for an instant. The cape would catch on something, leave him dangling from a fire escape like a grotesque pinata. The ridiculous ears would break off. The guards would merely laugh. Madness.
Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Remembered the implacable and unfathomable eyes of the winged shadow that haunted him. He was that shadow. He was the spirit of vengeance itself. He was the night, come to life to punish the wicked. He was more than human. Less than human. He was fear incarnate. A dark knight.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer merely Bruce Wayne.
He crouched in the shadows outside an old storage facility for garden supplies and statuary on the waterfront. The light from the Cape Carmine lighthouse stabbed by in regular bursts, sweeping across the interior. Statues inside gleamed as they caught the light for a moment: angels, gods, gargoyles. Mannheim's guards moved cautiously around the building. He counted five: four guards and an overseer. They'd have been warned that a man had broken into another safe house, had escaped despite his injuries. They would be prepared to confront a wounded, desperate man.
They would not, however, be prepared for what he had become.
He moved soundlessly to where the electrical lines entered the building, severing them in one quick cut. The building plunged into darkness, and he heard voices raised inside: concerned, not panicked.
Not yet.
Moving to one of the upper windows, he watched the vast sweep of the blinding lighthouse beam revolve by, timing it. As it approached once more, he broke the window, a sharp sound in the silence. He heard someone cry out, saw someone point upward.
As the lighthouse beam moved by, he stepped into its path against the window, lifting the cape like wings against the light, letting his shadow flash across the warehouse walls, magnified and looming.
There were more cries from within--higher this time, the sound of frightened prey rather than rational human beings, and he felt his mouth tighten with a grim satisfaction, an exultation of the hunt. The lighthouse beam rushed away and left the storehouse in utter darkness once more. Feet first, he went through the window, shooting a grapple so his cape billowed around him, a silken rustling in the shadows. He landed on the first guard, knocking him out immediately. Easily dodging a panicked gunshot from guard two, he kicked the gun from his hand and looped another line around his feet. He let the guard shriek once, then twice, before slapping an adhesive gag across his mouth. In the sudden echoing silence, he hoisted the man up toward the ceiling.
The screams of terror broke any semblance of order in the remaining three guards. As the lighthouse beam passed again, it picked out and illuminated the faces in the statues: gargoyles leered in the flickering light as the caped crusader lashed out again from a different location, knocking out the third guard with a quick jab and trussing him upside-down. Then he melted back into the shadows, waiting.
"What the hell was that?" shouted the remaining guard to the overseer. "Some kind of monster?" The guard's teeth were chattering loudly. "Some kind of demon thing! A bat-thing!"
They were heading unknowingly toward where the second guard was still hanging unconscious. "It was a man, stupid!" snapped the overseer, his voice tense.
"That thing wasn't just no man, no way! It had wings! And devil ears! It was some kind of...of...bat-man!"
The two rounded the corner and came face to face with the third guard, hanging like a spider's waiting meal, blood dripping from a cut on his face. They yelled in unison, and it seemed as good a cue as any: he dropped down behind them, cape slithering like membrane. "That's right," he said, his voice guttural with cold and merciless rage, and bashed their heads together.
Their screams cut off abruptly, leaving just the sound of the ropes creaking as their burdens swung to and fro. He leapt up to the catwalk where second guard dangled, his eyes showing ringed with white in the intermittent light, and grabbed him by the hair to yank him close.
"Where's Mannheim?" the Batman growled as he ripped the gag off. "Talk."
: : :
Clark twiddled a spoon in his fingers, ignoring Mannheim's baleful glare. He had regaled his host with several stories of his childhood with Bruce, making them long on useless detail and sidetracks, and taking care to dwell on how scatter-brained and unfocused Bruce was even as a boy. He was finishing up a ten-minute digression about the benefits of proper mulch when one of Mannheim's flunkies entered the room and whispered to his boss: "Call for you from Hammett, sir. I think--I think maybe you should take it."
Mannheim stood. "Please, continue to tell Moe your delightful tale," he said, gesturing to Clark as he left the room.
Clark continued discussing the differences between peat moss and bark chips as mulch with gusto, relishing Moe's glazed eyes. Most of his focus, however, was on listening to Mannheim's conversation behind the soundproof door..
"What the hell are you babbling about, Hammett?"
The tinny voice on the other end was frantic, hysterical. "I swear, boss! It was a demon! With red eyes!"
"No, no!" broke in another voice. "It was an army of vampires! There had to be at least twenty of them! With claws and fangs--"
"--Cut the nonsense, you hallucinating ninnies," barked Mannheim.
"Venturino told the head demon where you were, boss!" Hammett tearfully announced. "It's coming for you!"
"Oh he did, did he?" Mannheim's tone left no doubt that Venturino's employment with Mannheim was likely to be terminated soon, and perhaps painfully. "Did any of you blab about the lab in the flour mill?"
"No, boss! No, no, it didn't ask, we didn't tell!"
Mannheim clicked off the phone in mid-protest, muttering an obscenity. "It's that Sionis brat up to something, I know it," he said. "The man's a rabid dog, needs to be put down."
Mannheim's smiling re-arrival in the room forced Clark to cut short his Saga of Mulch. He almost felt regretful about that, as it had become something of a Mulchiad. "Clark, old boy, this has been a delightful meal, but I'm afraid I'm a busy man and I can't entertain you all night," Mannheim announced. He handed Clark his cell phone. "And look, here is Razor at the door now. How convenient. Razor will drop you off at the train station--I'm sure you understand that we have to blindfold you again? For my privacy, of course."
Clark nodded and smiled. "I understand you perfectly, Mr. Mannheim." Whatever bizarre psychological warfare Sionis was up to, it had Mannheim rattled, and that was a good thing.
Mannheim shot him a hard look as Razor tied a silk handkerchief around his eyes. Then he slapped him on the back, hard. Clark took care to stagger a bit. "Fare well, my friend," he said, "Give Bruce my regards when you see him." He left the room at a pace that was attempting not to look hurried.
Razor didn't seem interested in hearing any gardening tips, so Clark stayed silent in the car as it traveled an elliptical route back to the station. "Get out," was the only thing his chauffeur said, and Clark was more than happy to.
As the car pulled away, he opened his cell phone, gave it a dubious glance, and dialed Bruce's number.
"Clark!" Bruce's voice sounded strained, and Clark felt a pang of conscience. "Where are you?"
"Hi Bruce. I'm so sorry, I got kind of delayed coming back to the Manor. I just got free."
"No problem," said Bruce. "None at all. I haven't been sitting around and worrying about you or anything," he said with a wry chuckle. "In fact, I ended up going out and running some errands, so I'm not at home right now anyway." There was a slight pause. "But I'll be heading back soon. To tell the truth, I'm...not feeling very well tonight. A little run down, I guess."
He sounded tired, Clark realized. There was a drag to his voice, as if he were in pain. But underneath that was a strange undercurrent of satisfaction, almost of triumph. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, fine. Just...need to get some rest, I think. I'll be home in an hour or so, no later than midnight."
"Okay," Clark said. "I've got something I need to look into, but then I'll come to the Manor." He paused, biting his lip. "You know, I just realized I haven't heard your voice in four years," he said.
"I know. Oh, I know," Bruce replied. "Are you...terribly angry at me, Clark?" The triumph in his voice was gone, replaced by something startlingly close to worry.
"You ridiculous man," Clark said. "Like you wrote, I know you well enough by now to not be surprised by anything you do." He should sound annoyed and not affectionate, he knew; but hearing Bruce made it impossible to keep even a simulacrum of irritation in his voice.
"Good. I'm glad," said Bruce. "I think...I think maybe I should head home now. I'm feeling a little dizzy."
"I'll be there soon," said Clark. He hung up the phone, looked around to make sure no one was following him, and ducked into the shadows, shifting into super-speed.
Moments later he was in Metropolis once more, moving too quickly for most people to see, scanning different abandoned flour mills until he found one with suspiciously high security.
X-ray vision and super-hearing made picking the lock easy; he sped past security cameras and floated over tripwire laser beams until he found himself in a lab filled with humming computers.
He didn't want to risk leaving evidence of tampering on the hard drives, so he ignored the computers, looking at the bits and pieces scattered on the counters. There were no useful schematics labeled "top-secret super-weapon," but there were pieces of plastic and metal in odd shapes.
Clark picked up one of the pieces of metal--and almost dropped it again. It was ludicrous, but the metal seemed...wrong somehow, oily and vicious in his hands. He turned it and it gleamed in the dull light of the LEDs. At a certain angle there was an odd glimmer, and he suddenly realized he could see his own hands through it. The metal had gone perfectly transparent.
Frowning, he put it back on the table in exactly the position he had found it. As he looked at it, he realized he was wiping his hands on his pants as if to rid himself of something clammy and clinging. He focused his microscopic vision on it with an odd reluctance, then recoiled as the molecular structure of the metal came into view: a strange, disturbing tangle of atoms that seemed somehow fundamentally...cruel?
Shaking his head, he backed away from the chunk of metal and made his way out of the lab with a sense of relief. How Bruce would roll his eyes: a cruel metal, one that felt wrong? He was clearly on edge lately, that was it.
Thinking of Bruce rolling his eyes at him, imagining his sardonic tone, reminded him that Bruce would be back at the Manor waiting for him.
The front gates of the Manor suddenly loomed in front of him and Clark realized that he had put on a burst of speed without even realizing it. He forced himself to slow down, to land a safe distance from the grounds and walk the rest of the way at the agonizingly slow pace a normal human would.
Soon Bruce would know everything, and then--when he finished being angry at Clark for keeping such secrets for so long--Clark could be himself around Bruce, could talk to him about his double life, could invite him to be part of that life.
He was humming happily to himself as he knocked on the Manor door, and his reaction to Alfred Pennyworth opening it rather than the person he wanted to see might have been less than gracious.
"Where's Bruce?" He peered past Alfred into the dark entrance hall. "Is he not home yet?"
Alfred did not move from the door. "He is. But I'm afraid," he added as Clark broke into a smile and tried to get around him, "I can't allow you to see him."
The weight of disappointment was more crushing than Jupiter's gravity--and Kal-El knew that first hand. "What? Doesn't he want to--"
"--Master Bruce is quite anxious to see you," Alfred reassured him. "But he is not feeling at all well. In fact, he collapsed into bed shortly after returning home." Alfred's eyes searched his face for a long moment. "Frankly, I suspect he would prefer I wake him up to tell him you have arrived. But I'm sure you understand my desire to let him sleep."
"Is he all right? He's been working himself too hard again, hasn't he?" A glint of exasperation cut through Clark's worry. "When he wakes up, tell him that I'm not going to let him ruin his health, the stubborn, pig-headed..."
Alfred smiled as Clark groped for the right word, his expression a complicated mix of chagrin and amusement. "I shall pass that message on. But let me say that I'm greatly looking forward to seeing you inform him of that yourself. It should be a conversation to remember."
Clark chuckled, but privately had to admit he didn't want Alfred or anyone else around when he finally got to see Bruce in private for the first time. As he silently slipped into the bungalow, casting a last glance up at the distant darkened window of Bruce's room, he was thinking of exactly how and where he was going to kiss and touch that stubborn, pig-headed, beautiful brave idiot when he got a chance.
It was something he hadn't allowed himself to think of often, but now, with Bruce practically in sight, he couldn't seem to keep his mind off it.
No more secrets in the morning, Bruce. I promise.
: : :
Roman Sionis watched his cringing flunky through half-lidded eyes. "Something is going on," he murmured, out loud but to himself.
"Someone--or something--is attacking Mannheim," said Dr. Primus beside him, rubbing his chin.
"Idiot," said Sionis without heat, merely stating a fact. "That's what he wants you to think. It's a facade, a mask to fool the unwary and unsubtle mind." He rose from his carved ebony chair, feeling energy coursing through him, a new resolve, a certainty he had been lacking. "But my mind is neither! I see through his little games. He attempts me to distract from the fact that he is ready to strike. He plans to smash me down, to obliterate me and create a gang than spans both our cities." His hands clenched in front of him. "But the fool hasn't counted on my seeing through all his veils and smokescreens to the rotten heart beneath. He hasn't counted on my striking first." Fresh indignation made his heart race with something like exhilaration as Roman remembered Mannheim's sneering laugh at his party--his party, his house. Seizing the attention of his guest.
Mannheim had caused him to lose face in front of Gotham society, and now Sionis would reveal his true face to all of them. The true face of his power. The true--
"Roman, this is unwise," said Dr. Primus, wringing his hands. "To reveal your hand now, so precipitously after all our work--you will ruin our advantage! I must protest!"
Without ceremony, Roman Sionis drew his gun and shot Dr. Primus between the eyes.
As the scientist's body slumped to the ground, Roman looked at his men. "Does anyone else feel the need to protest?"
Nobody did.
Gun still drawn, Roman strode through the conference room and flung open the double doors to stand on the veranda that overlooked the courtyard filled with gleaming black powersuits, lined up like an army, waiting to be filled with Roman's men. He looked down and they looked back up at him, each one a mask that revealed his power, turning his men into extensions of himself. He saw his face reflected in the mirrored black visors a hundred times over, magnified and multiplied into glory. He raised his free hand to them in benediction.
"Go with my blessing." His whisper echoed off the walls until it sounded like it was coming from the rank on rank of silent warriors. "Today I crush my enemies. Today I take my place as the ruler of Gotham and of Metropolis."
: : :
Three long and sleepless hours later, and Clark was still gazing at the closed and unmoving curtains of the Manor in the pearly grayness of dawn when his phone rang. He glanced at it and frowned--what was Jimmy Olsen doing calling at four AM?--then picked up.
"Mr. Kent?" Jimmy's voice was breathless and hushed. "Ms Lane didn't want me to call you, but...I think you need to get back to Metropolis. There's something going on."
His breath caught, and Clark could hear over the line a vast distant roar, like a swarm of metallic bees.
"Something...really big."
( Chapter 40)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Bruno Mannheim, Alfred Pennyworth, Roman Sionis, Jimmy Olsen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None necessary
Continuity: The Gardens of Wayne Manor is an AU series in which Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne's lives intertwine at an early age. Click here for the complete series and series notes.
Word Count: 3000Summary: While Clark Kent stalls Bruno Mannheim, a shadowy vigilante makes his debut in Gotham.
Bruce Wayne crouched in the shadows outside the windows of Bruno Mannheim's second Gotham safehouse. His left arm ached and he still felt lightheaded from loss of blood. He shook his head and felt the makeshift cowl he and Alfred had cobbled together shift with his motion. The silken cape was gathered around him, clutched in his gloved hands.
This was madness, he thought for an instant. The cape would catch on something, leave him dangling from a fire escape like a grotesque pinata. The ridiculous ears would break off. The guards would merely laugh. Madness.
Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Remembered the implacable and unfathomable eyes of the winged shadow that haunted him. He was that shadow. He was the spirit of vengeance itself. He was the night, come to life to punish the wicked. He was more than human. Less than human. He was fear incarnate. A dark knight.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer merely Bruce Wayne.
He crouched in the shadows outside an old storage facility for garden supplies and statuary on the waterfront. The light from the Cape Carmine lighthouse stabbed by in regular bursts, sweeping across the interior. Statues inside gleamed as they caught the light for a moment: angels, gods, gargoyles. Mannheim's guards moved cautiously around the building. He counted five: four guards and an overseer. They'd have been warned that a man had broken into another safe house, had escaped despite his injuries. They would be prepared to confront a wounded, desperate man.
They would not, however, be prepared for what he had become.
He moved soundlessly to where the electrical lines entered the building, severing them in one quick cut. The building plunged into darkness, and he heard voices raised inside: concerned, not panicked.
Not yet.
Moving to one of the upper windows, he watched the vast sweep of the blinding lighthouse beam revolve by, timing it. As it approached once more, he broke the window, a sharp sound in the silence. He heard someone cry out, saw someone point upward.
As the lighthouse beam moved by, he stepped into its path against the window, lifting the cape like wings against the light, letting his shadow flash across the warehouse walls, magnified and looming.
There were more cries from within--higher this time, the sound of frightened prey rather than rational human beings, and he felt his mouth tighten with a grim satisfaction, an exultation of the hunt. The lighthouse beam rushed away and left the storehouse in utter darkness once more. Feet first, he went through the window, shooting a grapple so his cape billowed around him, a silken rustling in the shadows. He landed on the first guard, knocking him out immediately. Easily dodging a panicked gunshot from guard two, he kicked the gun from his hand and looped another line around his feet. He let the guard shriek once, then twice, before slapping an adhesive gag across his mouth. In the sudden echoing silence, he hoisted the man up toward the ceiling.
The screams of terror broke any semblance of order in the remaining three guards. As the lighthouse beam passed again, it picked out and illuminated the faces in the statues: gargoyles leered in the flickering light as the caped crusader lashed out again from a different location, knocking out the third guard with a quick jab and trussing him upside-down. Then he melted back into the shadows, waiting.
"What the hell was that?" shouted the remaining guard to the overseer. "Some kind of monster?" The guard's teeth were chattering loudly. "Some kind of demon thing! A bat-thing!"
They were heading unknowingly toward where the second guard was still hanging unconscious. "It was a man, stupid!" snapped the overseer, his voice tense.
"That thing wasn't just no man, no way! It had wings! And devil ears! It was some kind of...of...bat-man!"
The two rounded the corner and came face to face with the third guard, hanging like a spider's waiting meal, blood dripping from a cut on his face. They yelled in unison, and it seemed as good a cue as any: he dropped down behind them, cape slithering like membrane. "That's right," he said, his voice guttural with cold and merciless rage, and bashed their heads together.
Their screams cut off abruptly, leaving just the sound of the ropes creaking as their burdens swung to and fro. He leapt up to the catwalk where second guard dangled, his eyes showing ringed with white in the intermittent light, and grabbed him by the hair to yank him close.
"Where's Mannheim?" the Batman growled as he ripped the gag off. "Talk."
: : :
Clark twiddled a spoon in his fingers, ignoring Mannheim's baleful glare. He had regaled his host with several stories of his childhood with Bruce, making them long on useless detail and sidetracks, and taking care to dwell on how scatter-brained and unfocused Bruce was even as a boy. He was finishing up a ten-minute digression about the benefits of proper mulch when one of Mannheim's flunkies entered the room and whispered to his boss: "Call for you from Hammett, sir. I think--I think maybe you should take it."
Mannheim stood. "Please, continue to tell Moe your delightful tale," he said, gesturing to Clark as he left the room.
Clark continued discussing the differences between peat moss and bark chips as mulch with gusto, relishing Moe's glazed eyes. Most of his focus, however, was on listening to Mannheim's conversation behind the soundproof door..
"What the hell are you babbling about, Hammett?"
The tinny voice on the other end was frantic, hysterical. "I swear, boss! It was a demon! With red eyes!"
"No, no!" broke in another voice. "It was an army of vampires! There had to be at least twenty of them! With claws and fangs--"
"--Cut the nonsense, you hallucinating ninnies," barked Mannheim.
"Venturino told the head demon where you were, boss!" Hammett tearfully announced. "It's coming for you!"
"Oh he did, did he?" Mannheim's tone left no doubt that Venturino's employment with Mannheim was likely to be terminated soon, and perhaps painfully. "Did any of you blab about the lab in the flour mill?"
"No, boss! No, no, it didn't ask, we didn't tell!"
Mannheim clicked off the phone in mid-protest, muttering an obscenity. "It's that Sionis brat up to something, I know it," he said. "The man's a rabid dog, needs to be put down."
Mannheim's smiling re-arrival in the room forced Clark to cut short his Saga of Mulch. He almost felt regretful about that, as it had become something of a Mulchiad. "Clark, old boy, this has been a delightful meal, but I'm afraid I'm a busy man and I can't entertain you all night," Mannheim announced. He handed Clark his cell phone. "And look, here is Razor at the door now. How convenient. Razor will drop you off at the train station--I'm sure you understand that we have to blindfold you again? For my privacy, of course."
Clark nodded and smiled. "I understand you perfectly, Mr. Mannheim." Whatever bizarre psychological warfare Sionis was up to, it had Mannheim rattled, and that was a good thing.
Mannheim shot him a hard look as Razor tied a silk handkerchief around his eyes. Then he slapped him on the back, hard. Clark took care to stagger a bit. "Fare well, my friend," he said, "Give Bruce my regards when you see him." He left the room at a pace that was attempting not to look hurried.
Razor didn't seem interested in hearing any gardening tips, so Clark stayed silent in the car as it traveled an elliptical route back to the station. "Get out," was the only thing his chauffeur said, and Clark was more than happy to.
As the car pulled away, he opened his cell phone, gave it a dubious glance, and dialed Bruce's number.
"Clark!" Bruce's voice sounded strained, and Clark felt a pang of conscience. "Where are you?"
"Hi Bruce. I'm so sorry, I got kind of delayed coming back to the Manor. I just got free."
"No problem," said Bruce. "None at all. I haven't been sitting around and worrying about you or anything," he said with a wry chuckle. "In fact, I ended up going out and running some errands, so I'm not at home right now anyway." There was a slight pause. "But I'll be heading back soon. To tell the truth, I'm...not feeling very well tonight. A little run down, I guess."
He sounded tired, Clark realized. There was a drag to his voice, as if he were in pain. But underneath that was a strange undercurrent of satisfaction, almost of triumph. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, fine. Just...need to get some rest, I think. I'll be home in an hour or so, no later than midnight."
"Okay," Clark said. "I've got something I need to look into, but then I'll come to the Manor." He paused, biting his lip. "You know, I just realized I haven't heard your voice in four years," he said.
"I know. Oh, I know," Bruce replied. "Are you...terribly angry at me, Clark?" The triumph in his voice was gone, replaced by something startlingly close to worry.
"You ridiculous man," Clark said. "Like you wrote, I know you well enough by now to not be surprised by anything you do." He should sound annoyed and not affectionate, he knew; but hearing Bruce made it impossible to keep even a simulacrum of irritation in his voice.
"Good. I'm glad," said Bruce. "I think...I think maybe I should head home now. I'm feeling a little dizzy."
"I'll be there soon," said Clark. He hung up the phone, looked around to make sure no one was following him, and ducked into the shadows, shifting into super-speed.
Moments later he was in Metropolis once more, moving too quickly for most people to see, scanning different abandoned flour mills until he found one with suspiciously high security.
X-ray vision and super-hearing made picking the lock easy; he sped past security cameras and floated over tripwire laser beams until he found himself in a lab filled with humming computers.
He didn't want to risk leaving evidence of tampering on the hard drives, so he ignored the computers, looking at the bits and pieces scattered on the counters. There were no useful schematics labeled "top-secret super-weapon," but there were pieces of plastic and metal in odd shapes.
Clark picked up one of the pieces of metal--and almost dropped it again. It was ludicrous, but the metal seemed...wrong somehow, oily and vicious in his hands. He turned it and it gleamed in the dull light of the LEDs. At a certain angle there was an odd glimmer, and he suddenly realized he could see his own hands through it. The metal had gone perfectly transparent.
Frowning, he put it back on the table in exactly the position he had found it. As he looked at it, he realized he was wiping his hands on his pants as if to rid himself of something clammy and clinging. He focused his microscopic vision on it with an odd reluctance, then recoiled as the molecular structure of the metal came into view: a strange, disturbing tangle of atoms that seemed somehow fundamentally...cruel?
Shaking his head, he backed away from the chunk of metal and made his way out of the lab with a sense of relief. How Bruce would roll his eyes: a cruel metal, one that felt wrong? He was clearly on edge lately, that was it.
Thinking of Bruce rolling his eyes at him, imagining his sardonic tone, reminded him that Bruce would be back at the Manor waiting for him.
The front gates of the Manor suddenly loomed in front of him and Clark realized that he had put on a burst of speed without even realizing it. He forced himself to slow down, to land a safe distance from the grounds and walk the rest of the way at the agonizingly slow pace a normal human would.
Soon Bruce would know everything, and then--when he finished being angry at Clark for keeping such secrets for so long--Clark could be himself around Bruce, could talk to him about his double life, could invite him to be part of that life.
He was humming happily to himself as he knocked on the Manor door, and his reaction to Alfred Pennyworth opening it rather than the person he wanted to see might have been less than gracious.
"Where's Bruce?" He peered past Alfred into the dark entrance hall. "Is he not home yet?"
Alfred did not move from the door. "He is. But I'm afraid," he added as Clark broke into a smile and tried to get around him, "I can't allow you to see him."
The weight of disappointment was more crushing than Jupiter's gravity--and Kal-El knew that first hand. "What? Doesn't he want to--"
"--Master Bruce is quite anxious to see you," Alfred reassured him. "But he is not feeling at all well. In fact, he collapsed into bed shortly after returning home." Alfred's eyes searched his face for a long moment. "Frankly, I suspect he would prefer I wake him up to tell him you have arrived. But I'm sure you understand my desire to let him sleep."
"Is he all right? He's been working himself too hard again, hasn't he?" A glint of exasperation cut through Clark's worry. "When he wakes up, tell him that I'm not going to let him ruin his health, the stubborn, pig-headed..."
Alfred smiled as Clark groped for the right word, his expression a complicated mix of chagrin and amusement. "I shall pass that message on. But let me say that I'm greatly looking forward to seeing you inform him of that yourself. It should be a conversation to remember."
Clark chuckled, but privately had to admit he didn't want Alfred or anyone else around when he finally got to see Bruce in private for the first time. As he silently slipped into the bungalow, casting a last glance up at the distant darkened window of Bruce's room, he was thinking of exactly how and where he was going to kiss and touch that stubborn, pig-headed, beautiful brave idiot when he got a chance.
It was something he hadn't allowed himself to think of often, but now, with Bruce practically in sight, he couldn't seem to keep his mind off it.
No more secrets in the morning, Bruce. I promise.
: : :
Roman Sionis watched his cringing flunky through half-lidded eyes. "Something is going on," he murmured, out loud but to himself.
"Someone--or something--is attacking Mannheim," said Dr. Primus beside him, rubbing his chin.
"Idiot," said Sionis without heat, merely stating a fact. "That's what he wants you to think. It's a facade, a mask to fool the unwary and unsubtle mind." He rose from his carved ebony chair, feeling energy coursing through him, a new resolve, a certainty he had been lacking. "But my mind is neither! I see through his little games. He attempts me to distract from the fact that he is ready to strike. He plans to smash me down, to obliterate me and create a gang than spans both our cities." His hands clenched in front of him. "But the fool hasn't counted on my seeing through all his veils and smokescreens to the rotten heart beneath. He hasn't counted on my striking first." Fresh indignation made his heart race with something like exhilaration as Roman remembered Mannheim's sneering laugh at his party--his party, his house. Seizing the attention of his guest.
Mannheim had caused him to lose face in front of Gotham society, and now Sionis would reveal his true face to all of them. The true face of his power. The true--
"Roman, this is unwise," said Dr. Primus, wringing his hands. "To reveal your hand now, so precipitously after all our work--you will ruin our advantage! I must protest!"
Without ceremony, Roman Sionis drew his gun and shot Dr. Primus between the eyes.
As the scientist's body slumped to the ground, Roman looked at his men. "Does anyone else feel the need to protest?"
Nobody did.
Gun still drawn, Roman strode through the conference room and flung open the double doors to stand on the veranda that overlooked the courtyard filled with gleaming black powersuits, lined up like an army, waiting to be filled with Roman's men. He looked down and they looked back up at him, each one a mask that revealed his power, turning his men into extensions of himself. He saw his face reflected in the mirrored black visors a hundred times over, magnified and multiplied into glory. He raised his free hand to them in benediction.
"Go with my blessing." His whisper echoed off the walls until it sounded like it was coming from the rank on rank of silent warriors. "Today I crush my enemies. Today I take my place as the ruler of Gotham and of Metropolis."
: : :
Three long and sleepless hours later, and Clark was still gazing at the closed and unmoving curtains of the Manor in the pearly grayness of dawn when his phone rang. He glanced at it and frowned--what was Jimmy Olsen doing calling at four AM?--then picked up.
"Mr. Kent?" Jimmy's voice was breathless and hushed. "Ms Lane didn't want me to call you, but...I think you need to get back to Metropolis. There's something going on."
His breath caught, and Clark could hear over the line a vast distant roar, like a swarm of metallic bees.
"Something...really big."
( Chapter 40)