Heroes of the Squared Circle 4: Living the Gimmick
Title: Living the Gimmick
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Non-graphic description of someone deliberately cutting themselves.
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: After months of bad treatment at Captain Marvel's hands, Clark gets an unexpected break.
“People praised Robert De Niro for his dedication when he gained 150 pounds to become Jake La Motta for Raging Bull. How come the same compliment isn’t paid to pro wrestlers who bleed in the name of realism?” --Bret Hart
Clark Kent sat in the locker room and stared at his battered straw hat as if it were Yorick's skull. The last two months had seemed very long. Match after match with Captain Marvel, all of them lost in thirty seconds or less. Sporadic (and small) paychecks. And a gimmick as a comedic yokel.
On the plus side, he had started to hear some sympathetic cheering when he came out to the ring each night for his inevitable squashing. He'd been trying to sell himself as doggedly determined, but with little mic time, he wondered if Country Clark just came off as too stupid to know when to quit.
Maybe Clark Joseph Kent was too stupid to know when to quit.
Well, at least tonight he wouldn't get squashed, although that was because Captain Marvel was finally defending his title against Green Lantern, so Clark had the night off. He wasn't even sure why he'd come to the auditorium, he thought as he wandered out of the locker room. Though if he was forced to be honest with himself, he had to admit it was because he hoped to run into--
"Oh my God!" A shriek from one of the reception areas jerked his attention out of of his doldrums. Bea was staring at a television monitor, her face a mask of horror. Frowning, Clark joined the crowd in front of the set.
Captain Marvel was smiling out of the set, holding the JLI championship belt--and speaking into a microphone held by Jimmy Olsen, one of the commentators for Lex Luthor's DCW. "Well, Jimmy, I just felt it was time to work somewhere where the title has some meaning," he said, hoisting the heavy metal belt so everyone could see the "JLI" logo emblazoned across its golden surface. "I mean, it was long past time for me to graduate from the minor leagues and really shine," he said. "Time for me to move into the future with the DCW and leave the past where it belongs."
And then he took the JLI championship belt and tossed it into a metal garbage can.
The resounding clang echoed around a room gone eerily silent. And then Maxwell Lord's voice split the air: "That ungrateful little snot!" Lord pushed his way to the front of the horrified crowd, his eyes wild. "He told me he was planning on jumping ship, but he promised me that he'd stay long enough to hand the title over." The camera was showing the trashcan toss in slow motion now, and Lord clutched at his hair. "My God, Luthor will never stop showing that footage. Our belt, our championship, it's worthless, we're doomed!" He slumped onto a bench, pounding his knees with his fists. "That bastard! We're ruined!"
"No, we're not," Clark heard himself say. Everyone turned to look at him, and so he had to keep talking. "We just need to come up with a good story for why he left. Guy--he was supposed to fight Green Lantern tonight, right?"
Guy Gardner looked up from patting Lord's back, his face stunned. "Yes, but--"
"--Well, you need to go out there and trash talk Marvel, say how he might not have had the courage of Achilles like he always said, but at least he had the wisdom of Solomon to know he could never beat you."
Guy's eyebrows went up. "Hey, that's a good line."
"Then you need to put on a great match with someone, take their minds off it until Max decides who gets the title. You need to fight someone who you can tie into the storyline, like..." Clark looked around the room.
"Like you, man," said Guy, pointing at Clark. "You're the person in the middle of an angle with Marvel right now, you're the best choice. Right?" He looked around the room to an array of shrugs and nods. "That'll work, you can run in and say that now that the two-timing backstabber is gone you finally have a chance to--"
"--No," said Clark, frowning. "That won't work."
"What?"
"Country Clark's a simple guy, an honest guy. He really believes that Marvel was doing all this to make him a better wrestler. I mean, within the story he actually was, so it would mess up the story to have me trash him." Clark shook his head. "No, I have to run out and defend Marvel's honor."
Guy was staring at him, and he wasn't the only one. "Kent, you've finally got a chance to tell everyone what an ass Marvel was, and you're going to pass it up?"
"It wouldn't be in character!" Clark snapped, exasperated.
"He's right." Everyone--including Clark--stared at Bruce Wayne, leaning against the wall near the door. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Country Clark is too straightforward to catch any of the bullying undertones to what Marvel was doing. If he goes negative, it'll ruin his character in the long run." He nodded at Clark. "You're absolutely right."
Clark blinked at him. "Um, thank you."
Guy shrugged. "Hey, whatever it takes for you, I guess. But I think you're a lunatic."
"And coming from Guy, that means something," smirked Booster Gold.
It was a sign of how rattled Guy was that he didn't even tell Booster to shut up. "Okay," he said instead, giving Clark a speculative look, "Let's you and me go over this match. We've got..." he glanced at the clock, "...about a half hour."
Maxwell Lord surged to his feet. "What are you all gawping at?" he barked at the JLI members. "Everyone start figuring out ways we can send Lex Luthor and his DCW yelping back to the pound with their tails between their legs! Move!"
Everyone scattered.
Guy Gardner grabbed Clark by the elbow and dragged him into a corner. "Not much prep time," he muttered. "I'll call the spots, you follow my lead. But we need something spectacular. Can you start off with a diving hurricanrana, a frog splash, something off the top ropes?"
Clark tried to swallow a grimace at having his personal weakness brought up. "I've worked on a diving hurricanrana," he said. "I've never done it in performance--"
"--In case you haven't noticed, you haven't done anything in performance," Guy pointed out. He stripped out of his t-shirt as he spoke, pulling his green bomber jacket on. "So there's no time like the present." He frowned. "Still, it might be time to get some color." He opened his locker and started rummaging through his gym bag.
"Color?"
Guy glanced up at him. "Yeah, we need to get peoples' attention, and some juice is the quickest way." He looked at Clark's blank expression and snorted. "That's right, you're from Munro's school. He hated getting color." As he spoke, he was wrapping bandages around his hand as though to protect an injured thumb. He extracted a tiny glinting bit of metal from his bag and tucked it into the bandages. "Well, you don't have to nick your pretty face, I'll do it."
"Nick?" Clark grimaced. "You're not going to--"
"--What, you think every time we bleed it's legit?" Guy snorted. "I mean, I'm not blading in every match, no way, but it makes an impression you can't beat. Sometimes you just gotta help it along a bit." He flexed his hand and gave Clark a lopsided grin. "I'll wait until late in the match, once I work up a sweat. Looks more dramatic that way." He rolled his eyes as Clark stared at him. "Don't be dramatic. Trust me, this does less damage than a botched dive into a table, and we risk that all the time." He stood up and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. "Stop being squeamish and get changed up. Just start off with the diving hurricanrana and follow my lead after that, we'll be golden."
"I won't let you down," Clark said, and hoped he sounded confident.
"I got faith in you," Guy said. "I can tell, you got what it takes."
As he walked away, Clark pulled out his battered straw hat and wondered what exactly "what it took" looked like.
: : :
"Don't you dare say stuff like that about my mentor!" Country Clark yelled as he charged down the ramp to interrupt Green Lantern's tirade.
Green Lantern sneered at him as he rolled into the ring and came up with his fists clenched. "Captain Marvel was a cowardly sack of crap!"
"Captain Marvel was a hero--something a blowhard like you'd never understand." Clark bounced up and down, waving his fists. "I'm gonna wipe that smug smirk right off your face, Lantern."
"Oh, I'd like to see you try, you brown-nosing little bumpkin."
"I ain't no pumpkin!" Clark ad-libbed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Guy's mouth twitch slightly. A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, the first reaction Clark had heard from them. "You take that back!"
"Well, I think you're out of your gourd," Green Lantern shot back, and the crowd snickered again.
As if goaded beyond endurance, Clark jumped at Green Lantern. The bell rang and the match was on.
They did a couple of simple moves, and then Guy whispered "Hurricanrana" as they passed by each other. Dodging a punch, Clark scrambled to the edge of the ring and up onto the turnbuckle. Turning, he saw Guy glaring and growling at him--no time to hesitate--and he jumped out to scissor his legs around Guy's head and force him down into a somersault and a pin.
Or that's how it would have gone, except Clark miscalculated the distance and slammed into Green Lantern's chest instead.
He crashed onto the mat headfirst as Guy tried to turn the botched move into something that looked good, and the impact knocked the breath out of him for a moment. Guy crumpled next to him, feigning injury, and Clark heard him whisper "No problem. Take a moment, catch your breath." Then Green Lantern lunged forward to put him in a leglock, seeming to tie his legs in knots. He could hear Guy yelling dramatic insults and he grimaced in pain for the audience as his lungs slowly relaxed and let the breath back in. When he felt able to stand up again he reached back and clawed at Green Lantern's arms, breaking the hold. The match was on once more.
It went for twenty minutes, and aside from the missed hurricanrana there were no other errors. Guy called all the spots and Clark carried out what was whispered to him with as much flair and melodrama as he could, a man defending his hero from the vile slander of a madman. Considering it was his first match to last for more than a minute, he was relieved to find he wasn't winded even at the fifteen-minute mark, although they were both soaked with sweat. In fact, he was just starting to enjoy the match--Guy was a solid worker and was making him look good even as he was clearly "defeating" poor hapless Country Clark yet again.
Clark jumped forward and delivered a flying forearm smash, knocking Green Lantern into the turnbuckle again. Green Lantern clutched at his head, bending over, and Clark intuitively swiveled to gesture at the crowd, an appeal for support and applause that dragged attention away from the tiny motion Guy made as he swiped at his "injured" face.
When Clark turned back to Green Lantern, blood was trickling down his face, mixing and spreading with the runnels of sweat to create a truly horrific effect. Guy was smiling through the veil of scarlet: a dangerous, inhuman smile devoid of sanity, and Clark knew the tide of the match had turned for good as the crowd howled in anticipation.
Clark sold Green Lantern's "berserker frenzy" as well as he could, wide-eyed and appalled at the devastating offense unleashed on him. "I'll reverse your kick, and let's go home, buddy," muttered Guy as they locked up one last time, and Clark staggered away to deliver--in seeming desperation--a wild spinning heel kick. Green Lantern grabbed his leg out of the air and reversed his momentum, slamming him into the mat in apparent agony. Clark flopped and gasped for air until Green Lantern pinned him, then went limp as if unconscious.
"Great match," Guy whispered in his ear as the referee counted nearby. Clark realized with dim surprise that his voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. "Good work."
The bell rang and the match was over, but Clark could barely manage to keep his slumped posture and look of defeat intact as he slunk from the ring yet again. Elation kept stretching his mouth: he'd done it. He'd delivered a full professional match.
A hand reached out from the crowd to slap his shoulder as he walked up the ramp, and Clark almost flinched before he realized it was a fan, smiling and reaching over the barricade to console him. "Maybe next time!" yelled the guy. "Don't give up!"
And now Clark did let himself smile, a smile full of hope and determination. "I won't!" he yelled back, and headed up the ramp back to the locker room.
His good mood dissipated as he went backstage once more; Batson's betrayal and sullying of the championship belt were not to be overcome with one good match. Guy shot him a grin and a thumbs-up from the corner where he was slapping a bandage on his forehead, and a few people congratulated him, but most were still absorbed with gossip and agonized speculation. Clark showered, enjoying the feel of hot water pounding his tired muscles, and changed into his Smallville High sweatshirt and jeans.
"Hey, Kent!" called the wiry little assistant for Max Lord, banging into the locker room. "Mr. Lord wants to see you in his office right away!"
"Sure thing, Ron," said Clark, biting back a grimace, and made his way to the room with a hand-scribbled "Mr. Lord's Office" sign taped to it.
"Good job there tonight, Kent," said Lord, not looking up from his papers.
"Thank you, sir."
"Now that Marvel's gone, you're going to need a new angle," Lord said.
For one insane moment Clark let himself wonder if maybe Lord meant to make him the JLI champion. No, he knew that was impossible. But what Lord actually said still managed to take him aback:
"We're going to put you in a feud with Billionaire Brucie."
Clark felt his eyebrows rise. A feud with one of the company's top heels was a big jump in status for a wrestler who was getting mortifyingly squashed until tonight. "I appreciate your confidence in me, sir."
Lord waved a hand and snorted. "It's not me, Kent. Wayne's the one who suggested the angle. Said he wanted to work with you. Even suggested you get your first win over him in the next show."
"Uh, really?"
"Yeah," said Lord, looking at him for the first time. He jabbed a finger in Clark's direction. "Are you willing to work with him? Wayne can be a bastard to work with, let's be clear about that, so don't come whining to me about it later if you can't handle it."
"I can handle it, sir."
Another snort. "We'll see," Lord said. "You'll be beating Billionaire Brucie in Philadelphia next show. Work out the details with him. Now get out of my office."
Clark obeyed with alacrity.
The door closed behind him and Clark started to make his way through the maze of corridors toward the exit, frowning thoughtfully to himself.
A voice echoed down the empty corridor: "So what's the verdict?"
Clark whirled to find Bruce Wayne standing in the shadows of the corridor behind him, wearing a leather jacket and battered jeans, thumbs looped through the beltloops, waiting. His face was in shadow.
"Verdict?"
Bruce stepped forward into the light that washed across his unsmiling face. "Are you willing to work with me?"
"Of course!"
Bruce's eyes flickered slightly, but his expression didn't change. "Not everyone would be."
"Then they're idiots. You're brilliant. But...why me?"
A shrug. "Country boy, city boy. Rich kid, farm kid. I think our gimmicks would play off each other well. And I think..." He paused and looked away for a moment, then back to Clark's face, "...I think we could work together well too."
"Well, I certainly hope so," said Clark, stepping forward and putting out his hand. "I hope so, partner."
After a moment, Bruce reached out and shook his hand. "I believe so...partner." He released Clark's hand and tilted his head to the side. "The gym I use when we're in New York opens at six tomorrow. Too early for you?"
Clark shot him a look. "I had to be up to milk the cows at home at five most mornings. Six is sleeping in."
The very slightest of approving smiles. "Staying in character. I like it."
"In character?" Clark snorted. "Pa would have had my hide if I'd forgotten the milking."
Bruce's eyes widened, and his smile became a snort of laughter that seemed to escape him despite himself. "Country Clark," he said. "Honest, straightforward, and true. Living the gimmick."
"Billionaire Brucie," Clark retorted. "Devious, sly, and opaque."
Bruce bowed. "Living the gimmick." When he came up, his face was unsmiling once more, but he looked satisfied. "I think we're going to make a great team," he said.
"See you at six," Clark said, hoisting his gym bag and turning toward the door.
"It cannot come soon enough." The distorted acoustics of the hall stripped Bruce's voice of mockery and turned his light tone strangely serious, but when Clark turned around to look at him, the hall was empty.
---
( Chapter 5)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Captain Marvel, Maxwell Lord
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Non-graphic description of someone deliberately cutting themselves.
Rating: PG
Word Count 3800
Summary: After months of bad treatment at Captain Marvel's hands, Clark gets an unexpected break.
“People praised Robert De Niro for his dedication when he gained 150 pounds to become Jake La Motta for Raging Bull. How come the same compliment isn’t paid to pro wrestlers who bleed in the name of realism?” --Bret Hart
Clark Kent sat in the locker room and stared at his battered straw hat as if it were Yorick's skull. The last two months had seemed very long. Match after match with Captain Marvel, all of them lost in thirty seconds or less. Sporadic (and small) paychecks. And a gimmick as a comedic yokel.
On the plus side, he had started to hear some sympathetic cheering when he came out to the ring each night for his inevitable squashing. He'd been trying to sell himself as doggedly determined, but with little mic time, he wondered if Country Clark just came off as too stupid to know when to quit.
Maybe Clark Joseph Kent was too stupid to know when to quit.
Well, at least tonight he wouldn't get squashed, although that was because Captain Marvel was finally defending his title against Green Lantern, so Clark had the night off. He wasn't even sure why he'd come to the auditorium, he thought as he wandered out of the locker room. Though if he was forced to be honest with himself, he had to admit it was because he hoped to run into--
"Oh my God!" A shriek from one of the reception areas jerked his attention out of of his doldrums. Bea was staring at a television monitor, her face a mask of horror. Frowning, Clark joined the crowd in front of the set.
Captain Marvel was smiling out of the set, holding the JLI championship belt--and speaking into a microphone held by Jimmy Olsen, one of the commentators for Lex Luthor's DCW. "Well, Jimmy, I just felt it was time to work somewhere where the title has some meaning," he said, hoisting the heavy metal belt so everyone could see the "JLI" logo emblazoned across its golden surface. "I mean, it was long past time for me to graduate from the minor leagues and really shine," he said. "Time for me to move into the future with the DCW and leave the past where it belongs."
And then he took the JLI championship belt and tossed it into a metal garbage can.
The resounding clang echoed around a room gone eerily silent. And then Maxwell Lord's voice split the air: "That ungrateful little snot!" Lord pushed his way to the front of the horrified crowd, his eyes wild. "He told me he was planning on jumping ship, but he promised me that he'd stay long enough to hand the title over." The camera was showing the trashcan toss in slow motion now, and Lord clutched at his hair. "My God, Luthor will never stop showing that footage. Our belt, our championship, it's worthless, we're doomed!" He slumped onto a bench, pounding his knees with his fists. "That bastard! We're ruined!"
"No, we're not," Clark heard himself say. Everyone turned to look at him, and so he had to keep talking. "We just need to come up with a good story for why he left. Guy--he was supposed to fight Green Lantern tonight, right?"
Guy Gardner looked up from patting Lord's back, his face stunned. "Yes, but--"
"--Well, you need to go out there and trash talk Marvel, say how he might not have had the courage of Achilles like he always said, but at least he had the wisdom of Solomon to know he could never beat you."
Guy's eyebrows went up. "Hey, that's a good line."
"Then you need to put on a great match with someone, take their minds off it until Max decides who gets the title. You need to fight someone who you can tie into the storyline, like..." Clark looked around the room.
"Like you, man," said Guy, pointing at Clark. "You're the person in the middle of an angle with Marvel right now, you're the best choice. Right?" He looked around the room to an array of shrugs and nods. "That'll work, you can run in and say that now that the two-timing backstabber is gone you finally have a chance to--"
"--No," said Clark, frowning. "That won't work."
"What?"
"Country Clark's a simple guy, an honest guy. He really believes that Marvel was doing all this to make him a better wrestler. I mean, within the story he actually was, so it would mess up the story to have me trash him." Clark shook his head. "No, I have to run out and defend Marvel's honor."
Guy was staring at him, and he wasn't the only one. "Kent, you've finally got a chance to tell everyone what an ass Marvel was, and you're going to pass it up?"
"It wouldn't be in character!" Clark snapped, exasperated.
"He's right." Everyone--including Clark--stared at Bruce Wayne, leaning against the wall near the door. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Country Clark is too straightforward to catch any of the bullying undertones to what Marvel was doing. If he goes negative, it'll ruin his character in the long run." He nodded at Clark. "You're absolutely right."
Clark blinked at him. "Um, thank you."
Guy shrugged. "Hey, whatever it takes for you, I guess. But I think you're a lunatic."
"And coming from Guy, that means something," smirked Booster Gold.
It was a sign of how rattled Guy was that he didn't even tell Booster to shut up. "Okay," he said instead, giving Clark a speculative look, "Let's you and me go over this match. We've got..." he glanced at the clock, "...about a half hour."
Maxwell Lord surged to his feet. "What are you all gawping at?" he barked at the JLI members. "Everyone start figuring out ways we can send Lex Luthor and his DCW yelping back to the pound with their tails between their legs! Move!"
Everyone scattered.
Guy Gardner grabbed Clark by the elbow and dragged him into a corner. "Not much prep time," he muttered. "I'll call the spots, you follow my lead. But we need something spectacular. Can you start off with a diving hurricanrana, a frog splash, something off the top ropes?"
Clark tried to swallow a grimace at having his personal weakness brought up. "I've worked on a diving hurricanrana," he said. "I've never done it in performance--"
"--In case you haven't noticed, you haven't done anything in performance," Guy pointed out. He stripped out of his t-shirt as he spoke, pulling his green bomber jacket on. "So there's no time like the present." He frowned. "Still, it might be time to get some color." He opened his locker and started rummaging through his gym bag.
"Color?"
Guy glanced up at him. "Yeah, we need to get peoples' attention, and some juice is the quickest way." He looked at Clark's blank expression and snorted. "That's right, you're from Munro's school. He hated getting color." As he spoke, he was wrapping bandages around his hand as though to protect an injured thumb. He extracted a tiny glinting bit of metal from his bag and tucked it into the bandages. "Well, you don't have to nick your pretty face, I'll do it."
"Nick?" Clark grimaced. "You're not going to--"
"--What, you think every time we bleed it's legit?" Guy snorted. "I mean, I'm not blading in every match, no way, but it makes an impression you can't beat. Sometimes you just gotta help it along a bit." He flexed his hand and gave Clark a lopsided grin. "I'll wait until late in the match, once I work up a sweat. Looks more dramatic that way." He rolled his eyes as Clark stared at him. "Don't be dramatic. Trust me, this does less damage than a botched dive into a table, and we risk that all the time." He stood up and punched Clark lightly on the shoulder. "Stop being squeamish and get changed up. Just start off with the diving hurricanrana and follow my lead after that, we'll be golden."
"I won't let you down," Clark said, and hoped he sounded confident.
"I got faith in you," Guy said. "I can tell, you got what it takes."
As he walked away, Clark pulled out his battered straw hat and wondered what exactly "what it took" looked like.
: : :
"Don't you dare say stuff like that about my mentor!" Country Clark yelled as he charged down the ramp to interrupt Green Lantern's tirade.
Green Lantern sneered at him as he rolled into the ring and came up with his fists clenched. "Captain Marvel was a cowardly sack of crap!"
"Captain Marvel was a hero--something a blowhard like you'd never understand." Clark bounced up and down, waving his fists. "I'm gonna wipe that smug smirk right off your face, Lantern."
"Oh, I'd like to see you try, you brown-nosing little bumpkin."
"I ain't no pumpkin!" Clark ad-libbed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Guy's mouth twitch slightly. A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd, the first reaction Clark had heard from them. "You take that back!"
"Well, I think you're out of your gourd," Green Lantern shot back, and the crowd snickered again.
As if goaded beyond endurance, Clark jumped at Green Lantern. The bell rang and the match was on.
They did a couple of simple moves, and then Guy whispered "Hurricanrana" as they passed by each other. Dodging a punch, Clark scrambled to the edge of the ring and up onto the turnbuckle. Turning, he saw Guy glaring and growling at him--no time to hesitate--and he jumped out to scissor his legs around Guy's head and force him down into a somersault and a pin.
Or that's how it would have gone, except Clark miscalculated the distance and slammed into Green Lantern's chest instead.
He crashed onto the mat headfirst as Guy tried to turn the botched move into something that looked good, and the impact knocked the breath out of him for a moment. Guy crumpled next to him, feigning injury, and Clark heard him whisper "No problem. Take a moment, catch your breath." Then Green Lantern lunged forward to put him in a leglock, seeming to tie his legs in knots. He could hear Guy yelling dramatic insults and he grimaced in pain for the audience as his lungs slowly relaxed and let the breath back in. When he felt able to stand up again he reached back and clawed at Green Lantern's arms, breaking the hold. The match was on once more.
It went for twenty minutes, and aside from the missed hurricanrana there were no other errors. Guy called all the spots and Clark carried out what was whispered to him with as much flair and melodrama as he could, a man defending his hero from the vile slander of a madman. Considering it was his first match to last for more than a minute, he was relieved to find he wasn't winded even at the fifteen-minute mark, although they were both soaked with sweat. In fact, he was just starting to enjoy the match--Guy was a solid worker and was making him look good even as he was clearly "defeating" poor hapless Country Clark yet again.
Clark jumped forward and delivered a flying forearm smash, knocking Green Lantern into the turnbuckle again. Green Lantern clutched at his head, bending over, and Clark intuitively swiveled to gesture at the crowd, an appeal for support and applause that dragged attention away from the tiny motion Guy made as he swiped at his "injured" face.
When Clark turned back to Green Lantern, blood was trickling down his face, mixing and spreading with the runnels of sweat to create a truly horrific effect. Guy was smiling through the veil of scarlet: a dangerous, inhuman smile devoid of sanity, and Clark knew the tide of the match had turned for good as the crowd howled in anticipation.
Clark sold Green Lantern's "berserker frenzy" as well as he could, wide-eyed and appalled at the devastating offense unleashed on him. "I'll reverse your kick, and let's go home, buddy," muttered Guy as they locked up one last time, and Clark staggered away to deliver--in seeming desperation--a wild spinning heel kick. Green Lantern grabbed his leg out of the air and reversed his momentum, slamming him into the mat in apparent agony. Clark flopped and gasped for air until Green Lantern pinned him, then went limp as if unconscious.
"Great match," Guy whispered in his ear as the referee counted nearby. Clark realized with dim surprise that his voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. "Good work."
The bell rang and the match was over, but Clark could barely manage to keep his slumped posture and look of defeat intact as he slunk from the ring yet again. Elation kept stretching his mouth: he'd done it. He'd delivered a full professional match.
A hand reached out from the crowd to slap his shoulder as he walked up the ramp, and Clark almost flinched before he realized it was a fan, smiling and reaching over the barricade to console him. "Maybe next time!" yelled the guy. "Don't give up!"
And now Clark did let himself smile, a smile full of hope and determination. "I won't!" he yelled back, and headed up the ramp back to the locker room.
His good mood dissipated as he went backstage once more; Batson's betrayal and sullying of the championship belt were not to be overcome with one good match. Guy shot him a grin and a thumbs-up from the corner where he was slapping a bandage on his forehead, and a few people congratulated him, but most were still absorbed with gossip and agonized speculation. Clark showered, enjoying the feel of hot water pounding his tired muscles, and changed into his Smallville High sweatshirt and jeans.
"Hey, Kent!" called the wiry little assistant for Max Lord, banging into the locker room. "Mr. Lord wants to see you in his office right away!"
"Sure thing, Ron," said Clark, biting back a grimace, and made his way to the room with a hand-scribbled "Mr. Lord's Office" sign taped to it.
"Good job there tonight, Kent," said Lord, not looking up from his papers.
"Thank you, sir."
"Now that Marvel's gone, you're going to need a new angle," Lord said.
For one insane moment Clark let himself wonder if maybe Lord meant to make him the JLI champion. No, he knew that was impossible. But what Lord actually said still managed to take him aback:
"We're going to put you in a feud with Billionaire Brucie."
Clark felt his eyebrows rise. A feud with one of the company's top heels was a big jump in status for a wrestler who was getting mortifyingly squashed until tonight. "I appreciate your confidence in me, sir."
Lord waved a hand and snorted. "It's not me, Kent. Wayne's the one who suggested the angle. Said he wanted to work with you. Even suggested you get your first win over him in the next show."
"Uh, really?"
"Yeah," said Lord, looking at him for the first time. He jabbed a finger in Clark's direction. "Are you willing to work with him? Wayne can be a bastard to work with, let's be clear about that, so don't come whining to me about it later if you can't handle it."
"I can handle it, sir."
Another snort. "We'll see," Lord said. "You'll be beating Billionaire Brucie in Philadelphia next show. Work out the details with him. Now get out of my office."
Clark obeyed with alacrity.
The door closed behind him and Clark started to make his way through the maze of corridors toward the exit, frowning thoughtfully to himself.
A voice echoed down the empty corridor: "So what's the verdict?"
Clark whirled to find Bruce Wayne standing in the shadows of the corridor behind him, wearing a leather jacket and battered jeans, thumbs looped through the beltloops, waiting. His face was in shadow.
"Verdict?"
Bruce stepped forward into the light that washed across his unsmiling face. "Are you willing to work with me?"
"Of course!"
Bruce's eyes flickered slightly, but his expression didn't change. "Not everyone would be."
"Then they're idiots. You're brilliant. But...why me?"
A shrug. "Country boy, city boy. Rich kid, farm kid. I think our gimmicks would play off each other well. And I think..." He paused and looked away for a moment, then back to Clark's face, "...I think we could work together well too."
"Well, I certainly hope so," said Clark, stepping forward and putting out his hand. "I hope so, partner."
After a moment, Bruce reached out and shook his hand. "I believe so...partner." He released Clark's hand and tilted his head to the side. "The gym I use when we're in New York opens at six tomorrow. Too early for you?"
Clark shot him a look. "I had to be up to milk the cows at home at five most mornings. Six is sleeping in."
The very slightest of approving smiles. "Staying in character. I like it."
"In character?" Clark snorted. "Pa would have had my hide if I'd forgotten the milking."
Bruce's eyes widened, and his smile became a snort of laughter that seemed to escape him despite himself. "Country Clark," he said. "Honest, straightforward, and true. Living the gimmick."
"Billionaire Brucie," Clark retorted. "Devious, sly, and opaque."
Bruce bowed. "Living the gimmick." When he came up, his face was unsmiling once more, but he looked satisfied. "I think we're going to make a great team," he said.
"See you at six," Clark said, hoisting his gym bag and turning toward the door.
"It cannot come soon enough." The distorted acoustics of the hall stripped Bruce's voice of mockery and turned his light tone strangely serious, but when Clark turned around to look at him, the hall was empty.
---
( Chapter 5)