Heroes of the Squared Circle 13: You Sold Out
Title: You Sold Out
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Lex Luthor, Harvey Dent
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2900
Summary: Word starts to get out about the JLI buyout, and the fans aren't happy.
They showered me with everything from full beers to deafening chants of "You sold out." That's a chant that has always disturbed me. I didn't buy it then, and I still don't. I mean, it's not as if these fans were taking up collections for ECW wrestlers' retirement funds or taking care of my mortgage. --Mick Foley
"My last show in Gotham," Bruce murmured, looking out of Clark's hotel room at the skyline.
"The DCW does shows here," Clark said, "You'll be back."
"I suppose," Bruce said. "It's too bad the last show will be in Philly, but I guess I'm glad to get back here at all." He had been waiting outside Clark's room when Clark checked in, and now was sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the bed, his feet tucked up into an effortless lotus position. "How are your ribs?"
Clark tapped them gently. "They've been worse."
"I came here to ask you--we've got a lot of freedom in booking our last matches now, of course. So I was wondering..." Bruce looked away from him.
"It would mean a lot to me," Clark said.
Bruce turned to look at him.
"Um, I mean, you are leading up to asking if I'd fight you next week in the last show, right?"
A curt nod. "I am."
"I'd love to."
"It was the best feud," Bruce said softly. "I hope we can do another angle together in the DCW someday."
Clark sat down next to him; the bed sagged alarmingly at their combined weight. "So let's put on a hell of a match and show Luthor what we can do together."
A quick smile. "I think we can do anything together." He held up his fist for Clark to bump.
"Then let's plan."
For the next two hours they blocked out their match--the banter beforehand, the moves within it. At some point Bruce grew restless and sprang off the bed to trace out the moves physically, his body flowing through the motions of the grapples and throws. "And then I'll put you in a sharpshooter, like this--" he announced, jumping onto the bed and standing over Clark, grabbing his legs and flipping him onto his stomach.
Clark found his face buried in the pillow with Bruce sitting on top of him, bending his legs back in a way that was supposed to look painful. "Argh," Clark said conversationally. "Oh dear, how will I ever break this agonizing hold?"
"Kent goes for the no-sell!" Bruce said in a fake-announcer voice. "The crowd goes wild! The Man of Steel is invincible!"
Clark twisted under him and broke the hold, and Bruce flopped on the bed next to him dramatically. At the impact, the bed made an anguished sound and they both went very still.
Then Clark started giggling and couldn't seem to stop. Bruce joined in until they were both pummelling each other and demanding they stop it--which of course only would set one or both of them off again.
"Oh God," wheezed Clark, "My ribs."
Bruce's laughter stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said.
"That's okay," Clark said. "It was worth it. It felt good."
Bruce stared up at the ceiling for a while. "It did, didn't it?" he said.
: : :
Count Vertigo came bursting into the back room. "My God," he said, "Did you hear that?"
Clark looked up from his game of solitaire. "Hear what?"
"The chant! During my match with Nemesis!" He turned on the monitor, where Big Barda was entering the ring. "Listen, they're doing it for her too!"
Distinctly, under the cheers of the crowd, Clark could hear people chanting: "You sold out! You sold out!"
Barda's jaw was set as she smiled at the audience, pretending not to hear the chant.
"The news has leaked somewhere," said Bruce. "They've gotten wind of the buyout."
"Damn smarks," groaned Vertigo. "They're going to make us suffer for going over to the competition. And damn those dirt sheets--someone ought to hunt that Perry White guy down and break his kneecaps."
"Don't worry," said Bruce. "Watch--they'll change their tune when the angle picks up."
Barda was in the middle of wrestling Bernadeth when the first run-in happened: a masked woman in black leaped over the barricades around the ring and kicked Barda when she was down. Security attempted to apprehend her, but she laughed and shoved one of them into the crowd, then fled through one of the fire doors.
"See?" said Bruce. And he was right: the crowd noise had changed in intensity, shifting into a confused buzz. "Some of them recognized Lashina." He rubbed his hands together. "And we're just getting started."
The match between Booster Gold and Punch went uneventfully, but as the announcer was calling Mr. Miracle's name for the next match the auditorium erupted into chaos as a massive masked figure strode down through the audience, shoving anyone who got in his way. Climbing into the ring, he picked up the ring announcer and shook him like a rabbit, and the crowd noise shifted into a low roar: there was no mistaking the form of Darkseid, who had left for the DCW long ago.
Mr. Miracle charged into the ring, but the looming figure caught his throat in one massive fist, lifted him from the ground and slammed him against the mat: Darkseid's signature move, the Omega Slam. Clark could hear the commentators screaming, and the crowd was in total tumult as Darkseid turned and muscled his way out once more.
"What does this mean?" Glorious Godfrey, the heel announcer, was yelling into his mic. "Who is this dark and majestic presence who dominates the weak so effortlessly? Are we meant to follow him?"
"Are you crazy?" the color commentator, Snapper Carr, screamed back at him, straining to make himself heard over the crowd. "This is terrorism! This is an invasion!"
The audience was electric for the rest of the evening, torn between jeering smarks and mystified marks, both of them screaming at the top of their lungs. The spindly form of Desaad, masked and disguised, appeared from under the ring to interfere with Orion's match, and a black-clad form that could only be Queen Bee showed up to taunt Fire and Ice before being dragged out by security, yelling vague but ominous threats. The crowd was roiling at the sight of familiar despised wrestlers interfering with matches--what did it mean?
"Guess it's our turn," Guy said to Harvey. He turned to look at Lex Luthor, who was lounging in the Gorilla Position. "Make this good," he growled.
Luthor lifted both hands with a smirk. "I'm good at being bad," he said.
Guy rolled his eyes, finished tying his neon-yellow tassels off around his forearms, and strode out to meet the crowd.
Harvey had insisted that Two-Face not win clean over the Warrior, so after a pitched battle--Clark had never seen them fight so well together--Two-Face pulled off a complicated cheat involving a body double. In the confusion, he managed to pin the Warrior and the bell rang, declaring him the winner amid a hail of boos.
Two-Face brandished his belt defiantly at the crowd, ignoring the slumped form of the defeated Warrior in the middle of the ring. The crowd growled back at him in hatred, and slowly the chant coagulated once more: "You sold out! You sold out!" The camera zoomed in on his face and Clark could see sweat running down his face, smudging his careful Two-Face makeup. There was an honest fury in his eyes.
"I deserve this!" he yelled, shaking the belt at the booing crowd. "How dare you sit there and yell at me for making an honest living!" His music started to play, and he glared at the fans for a moment longer before turning his back on them and striding out of the auditorium, the belt slung over his shoulder.
The Warrior was left slumped in the ring, defeated and stripped of his title.
And then music started to play that had never been played in a JLI show before.
The crowd erupted into a confused roar--they all recognized the theme music of the leader of the competition--which transmuted into pure bile as Lex Luthor appeared on the balcony in an electric-purple suit and green tie.
"Good evening!" he called down to the crowd. "It's so nice to see you all here in your quaint auditorium, cheering your dear hearts out. The little promotion that could, isn't that what you call yourselves? That's cute, that's really cute." At this point he had to stop for a moment, unable to make himself heard over the crowd. "Well, I've got a message for Max Lord and all his wrestlers: your time is coming to an end. That's right, I've bought you out, and my ownership of the company will go into formal effect next week at seven P.M."
Clark heard Snapper Carr yell, "But that's an hour before our next show back in Philadelphia!"
"Oh, is it? How unfortunate for you. Or should I say how fortunate for the losers who watch your sad excuse for a wrestling show in Philly. They don't deserve anything better, but I'm doing them a favor by shutting you down," said Luthor. "This is it. This is the last show. Next Tuesday, seven o'clock, is your Zero Hour, the end of the JLI's pitiful existence!"
Clark had to admit the gusto with which he delivered a melodramatic line like that was both impressive and rather chilling.
"The maniacal laugh at the end might be overdoing it a bit," Bruce noted. "But on the other hand, he does make it work. He might want to--"
"Shh." Booster elbowed him in the ribs. Behind Lex, the Warrior was rising slowly to his feet, swaying and staggering. "I want to see this."
Bruce's eyebrows rose, but he fell silent and watched the monitors with everyone else.
"Luthor," rasped the Warrior, enunciating each syllable of the name as if they burned his mouth, "You've forgotten one thing, Luthor!"
Luthor stared as the Warrior glared up at him, defiant.
"You've forgotten--that the JLI--never gives up!" The Warrior stabbed a finger up at Luthor to punctuate each phrase. "We're not gonna let you bring down the curtain on us or our fans! This may be a crisis--" Clark saw his face contort as Guy struggled to improvise something crazy enough for the Warrior, "--but it ain't our final crisis! And it ain't an infinite crisis! You may be a harbinger of doom, but you can't extinguish the sun that burns in all of us! We won't give into fear, no matter how dark the day or--or--or bright the night! So screw your Zero Hour, and screw you--we're gonna have that show in Philly no matter what, and you can't stop us! You can't erase us from history, Luthor! And someday--" The Warrior lowered his voice to a low growl; the auditorium went nearly silent to catch his every word. "--Someday I swear, the Zero Hour...will be yours."
The Warrior's music hit, and he dropped the mic and strode out, leaving Luthor standing with his mouth working impotently, glaring after him. The crowd frothed and roared, and a new chant slowly solidified, scattered at first and then growing stronger:
"Screw you Lex! Screw you Lex!"
Luthor's eyes darted around the hall as if making a mental enemies' list of every single JLI fan there; slowly he stalked out, hounded by triumphant catcalls.
Backstage, people were clapping Harvey Dent on the back with a strange mix of congratulations and consolation. "You're the real last JLI champion, Guy," he said, and handed him the belt.
Guy Gardner held it for a moment and a ragged cheer went around the room. Then he handed it back to Harvey with a wry grin. "It's funny, it don't bother me that much," he said. He raised his voice to address all the gathered wrestlers and crew: "Now we gotta get to work making our Zero Hour the best show ever!"
: : :
"Want a ride back to Philly?"
Clark looked over to where Bruce was leaning against the brick wall outside the staff exit, twirling his keys on his finger.
"I've got a ride back with Booster and Beetle," said Clark. "So that would be a yes."
Bruce smirked. "This way to the Brucemobile."
"You don't really call it that, do you?"
"Too much? Do you think 'Waynemobile' would be better?"
"Not really, no."
They came around a corner, still bickering cheerfully, but Bruce stopped in mid-sentence as he looked toward his car. Then he turned to Clark with his fakest smile: "Kent, I'm begging you to take a look under my hood. I'm pretty sure I have a camshaft that needs oiling, and I do so hate to get my hands dirty."
Clark managed to keep his eyebrows from rising just in time as he realized a fan was leaning against the side of Bruce's car, his hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring at them. "Look," Clark retorted, "I'd be happy to oil your camshaft, but--"
"--Mr. Wayne?" said the kid as they drew closer. He was in his mid-teens, maybe: a sullen, slouching boy with dark hair and a darker frown. "Billionaire Brucie?"
"The one and only," Bruce said breezily.
"I come to all the shows in Gotham."
Bruce nodded. "I've seen your face here and there," he said.
"Is it--is it true? Is it the end of the JLI? Did Luthor really beat you?" The kid's fists were clenched and shaking.
Bruce grinned, wide and empty. "No one beats Billionaire Brucie, kid. You should see my shiny new contract!" He waved a hand to gesture the boy away from the car door. "Come on, it doesn't mean anything, you know?"
"Stop it." The boy looked up at Bruce and his eyes were raw with hurt. "That's it? He's just gonna win? And you're gonna stand there like it means nothing to you?" His voice cracked and for an instant it was a child's voice, lost and lorn. Then he swallowed hard and got it back under control, back into fury. "Because I don't buy that bullshit for a moment! I know it bothers you, I know you care. It means something!"
Bruce looked down at the keys in his hand for a moment; Clark saw his shoulders settle somehow, his stance change subtly. He took a breath and looked back up at the boy. "You're right," he said. "It does mean something. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He put a hand on the kid's shoulder and looked him in the eye, and his voice was the deadly-serious one that Clark knew well, the one so few people got to hear. "No matter what, kid, I swear to you: someday we will bring Luthor down."
The boy stared at him for a moment, then threw his arms around him and hugged him tight. After a moment, Bruce returned the embrace, and they stood there in the alley together.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," choked the kid. "Thank you." He stepped away from Bruce, dragging a sleeve across his face, and turned to go.
"Hey, kid," Bruce called as he walked away. The boy stopped and looked back, his tear-stained face pale in the dim alley light. "I hate to break it to you, but all the money in that wallet is fake."
"I--what?"
Bruce reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his real wallet. "But I'll give you a twenty to get it back," he said.
A grudging smirk transformed the boy's face; he hoisted an identical wallet in his hand and came back to trade it for the crisp twenty. "I want to be a wrestler," he said. "Like you."
"Well," said Bruce, "You're fast, and you're smart, and you obviously know how to sell a gimmick. But I'm not a trainer. Be cool, stay in school and all that."
The boy's eyes flicked downward. "It wasn't just an act," he muttered. "I meant it, too."
"So did I," said Bruce. "Now shoo. And kid," he added as the boy turned to leave again. "A bit of advice if you really want to break into wrestling: don't steal from your fellow wrestlers." He grinned. "That's the promoter's job."
The kid smirked. "Yes sir!" He ran out of the alley and into the night.
"Good grief," sighed Bruce, looking after him. "Kids."
"You know," said Clark as he went to the passenger side door, "I'm beginning to suspect, Billionaire Brucie, that you may not be an entirely bad person after all."
"Oh God," Bruce said, "Don't tell anyone."
"It'll be our little secret."
Bruce looked down to open his door; his eyes narrowed and then he smiled in admiring disbelief at Clark.
"Can you believe it? I think that kid was trying to jack my tires!"
---
( Chapter 14: Zero Hour)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Guy Gardner, Lex Luthor, Harvey Dent
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 2900
Summary: Word starts to get out about the JLI buyout, and the fans aren't happy.
They showered me with everything from full beers to deafening chants of "You sold out." That's a chant that has always disturbed me. I didn't buy it then, and I still don't. I mean, it's not as if these fans were taking up collections for ECW wrestlers' retirement funds or taking care of my mortgage. --Mick Foley
"My last show in Gotham," Bruce murmured, looking out of Clark's hotel room at the skyline.
"The DCW does shows here," Clark said, "You'll be back."
"I suppose," Bruce said. "It's too bad the last show will be in Philly, but I guess I'm glad to get back here at all." He had been waiting outside Clark's room when Clark checked in, and now was sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the bed, his feet tucked up into an effortless lotus position. "How are your ribs?"
Clark tapped them gently. "They've been worse."
"I came here to ask you--we've got a lot of freedom in booking our last matches now, of course. So I was wondering..." Bruce looked away from him.
"It would mean a lot to me," Clark said.
Bruce turned to look at him.
"Um, I mean, you are leading up to asking if I'd fight you next week in the last show, right?"
A curt nod. "I am."
"I'd love to."
"It was the best feud," Bruce said softly. "I hope we can do another angle together in the DCW someday."
Clark sat down next to him; the bed sagged alarmingly at their combined weight. "So let's put on a hell of a match and show Luthor what we can do together."
A quick smile. "I think we can do anything together." He held up his fist for Clark to bump.
"Then let's plan."
For the next two hours they blocked out their match--the banter beforehand, the moves within it. At some point Bruce grew restless and sprang off the bed to trace out the moves physically, his body flowing through the motions of the grapples and throws. "And then I'll put you in a sharpshooter, like this--" he announced, jumping onto the bed and standing over Clark, grabbing his legs and flipping him onto his stomach.
Clark found his face buried in the pillow with Bruce sitting on top of him, bending his legs back in a way that was supposed to look painful. "Argh," Clark said conversationally. "Oh dear, how will I ever break this agonizing hold?"
"Kent goes for the no-sell!" Bruce said in a fake-announcer voice. "The crowd goes wild! The Man of Steel is invincible!"
Clark twisted under him and broke the hold, and Bruce flopped on the bed next to him dramatically. At the impact, the bed made an anguished sound and they both went very still.
Then Clark started giggling and couldn't seem to stop. Bruce joined in until they were both pummelling each other and demanding they stop it--which of course only would set one or both of them off again.
"Oh God," wheezed Clark, "My ribs."
Bruce's laughter stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said.
"That's okay," Clark said. "It was worth it. It felt good."
Bruce stared up at the ceiling for a while. "It did, didn't it?" he said.
: : :
Count Vertigo came bursting into the back room. "My God," he said, "Did you hear that?"
Clark looked up from his game of solitaire. "Hear what?"
"The chant! During my match with Nemesis!" He turned on the monitor, where Big Barda was entering the ring. "Listen, they're doing it for her too!"
Distinctly, under the cheers of the crowd, Clark could hear people chanting: "You sold out! You sold out!"
Barda's jaw was set as she smiled at the audience, pretending not to hear the chant.
"The news has leaked somewhere," said Bruce. "They've gotten wind of the buyout."
"Damn smarks," groaned Vertigo. "They're going to make us suffer for going over to the competition. And damn those dirt sheets--someone ought to hunt that Perry White guy down and break his kneecaps."
"Don't worry," said Bruce. "Watch--they'll change their tune when the angle picks up."
Barda was in the middle of wrestling Bernadeth when the first run-in happened: a masked woman in black leaped over the barricades around the ring and kicked Barda when she was down. Security attempted to apprehend her, but she laughed and shoved one of them into the crowd, then fled through one of the fire doors.
"See?" said Bruce. And he was right: the crowd noise had changed in intensity, shifting into a confused buzz. "Some of them recognized Lashina." He rubbed his hands together. "And we're just getting started."
The match between Booster Gold and Punch went uneventfully, but as the announcer was calling Mr. Miracle's name for the next match the auditorium erupted into chaos as a massive masked figure strode down through the audience, shoving anyone who got in his way. Climbing into the ring, he picked up the ring announcer and shook him like a rabbit, and the crowd noise shifted into a low roar: there was no mistaking the form of Darkseid, who had left for the DCW long ago.
Mr. Miracle charged into the ring, but the looming figure caught his throat in one massive fist, lifted him from the ground and slammed him against the mat: Darkseid's signature move, the Omega Slam. Clark could hear the commentators screaming, and the crowd was in total tumult as Darkseid turned and muscled his way out once more.
"What does this mean?" Glorious Godfrey, the heel announcer, was yelling into his mic. "Who is this dark and majestic presence who dominates the weak so effortlessly? Are we meant to follow him?"
"Are you crazy?" the color commentator, Snapper Carr, screamed back at him, straining to make himself heard over the crowd. "This is terrorism! This is an invasion!"
The audience was electric for the rest of the evening, torn between jeering smarks and mystified marks, both of them screaming at the top of their lungs. The spindly form of Desaad, masked and disguised, appeared from under the ring to interfere with Orion's match, and a black-clad form that could only be Queen Bee showed up to taunt Fire and Ice before being dragged out by security, yelling vague but ominous threats. The crowd was roiling at the sight of familiar despised wrestlers interfering with matches--what did it mean?
"Guess it's our turn," Guy said to Harvey. He turned to look at Lex Luthor, who was lounging in the Gorilla Position. "Make this good," he growled.
Luthor lifted both hands with a smirk. "I'm good at being bad," he said.
Guy rolled his eyes, finished tying his neon-yellow tassels off around his forearms, and strode out to meet the crowd.
Harvey had insisted that Two-Face not win clean over the Warrior, so after a pitched battle--Clark had never seen them fight so well together--Two-Face pulled off a complicated cheat involving a body double. In the confusion, he managed to pin the Warrior and the bell rang, declaring him the winner amid a hail of boos.
Two-Face brandished his belt defiantly at the crowd, ignoring the slumped form of the defeated Warrior in the middle of the ring. The crowd growled back at him in hatred, and slowly the chant coagulated once more: "You sold out! You sold out!" The camera zoomed in on his face and Clark could see sweat running down his face, smudging his careful Two-Face makeup. There was an honest fury in his eyes.
"I deserve this!" he yelled, shaking the belt at the booing crowd. "How dare you sit there and yell at me for making an honest living!" His music started to play, and he glared at the fans for a moment longer before turning his back on them and striding out of the auditorium, the belt slung over his shoulder.
The Warrior was left slumped in the ring, defeated and stripped of his title.
And then music started to play that had never been played in a JLI show before.
The crowd erupted into a confused roar--they all recognized the theme music of the leader of the competition--which transmuted into pure bile as Lex Luthor appeared on the balcony in an electric-purple suit and green tie.
"Good evening!" he called down to the crowd. "It's so nice to see you all here in your quaint auditorium, cheering your dear hearts out. The little promotion that could, isn't that what you call yourselves? That's cute, that's really cute." At this point he had to stop for a moment, unable to make himself heard over the crowd. "Well, I've got a message for Max Lord and all his wrestlers: your time is coming to an end. That's right, I've bought you out, and my ownership of the company will go into formal effect next week at seven P.M."
Clark heard Snapper Carr yell, "But that's an hour before our next show back in Philadelphia!"
"Oh, is it? How unfortunate for you. Or should I say how fortunate for the losers who watch your sad excuse for a wrestling show in Philly. They don't deserve anything better, but I'm doing them a favor by shutting you down," said Luthor. "This is it. This is the last show. Next Tuesday, seven o'clock, is your Zero Hour, the end of the JLI's pitiful existence!"
Clark had to admit the gusto with which he delivered a melodramatic line like that was both impressive and rather chilling.
"The maniacal laugh at the end might be overdoing it a bit," Bruce noted. "But on the other hand, he does make it work. He might want to--"
"Shh." Booster elbowed him in the ribs. Behind Lex, the Warrior was rising slowly to his feet, swaying and staggering. "I want to see this."
Bruce's eyebrows rose, but he fell silent and watched the monitors with everyone else.
"Luthor," rasped the Warrior, enunciating each syllable of the name as if they burned his mouth, "You've forgotten one thing, Luthor!"
Luthor stared as the Warrior glared up at him, defiant.
"You've forgotten--that the JLI--never gives up!" The Warrior stabbed a finger up at Luthor to punctuate each phrase. "We're not gonna let you bring down the curtain on us or our fans! This may be a crisis--" Clark saw his face contort as Guy struggled to improvise something crazy enough for the Warrior, "--but it ain't our final crisis! And it ain't an infinite crisis! You may be a harbinger of doom, but you can't extinguish the sun that burns in all of us! We won't give into fear, no matter how dark the day or--or--or bright the night! So screw your Zero Hour, and screw you--we're gonna have that show in Philly no matter what, and you can't stop us! You can't erase us from history, Luthor! And someday--" The Warrior lowered his voice to a low growl; the auditorium went nearly silent to catch his every word. "--Someday I swear, the Zero Hour...will be yours."
The Warrior's music hit, and he dropped the mic and strode out, leaving Luthor standing with his mouth working impotently, glaring after him. The crowd frothed and roared, and a new chant slowly solidified, scattered at first and then growing stronger:
"Screw you Lex! Screw you Lex!"
Luthor's eyes darted around the hall as if making a mental enemies' list of every single JLI fan there; slowly he stalked out, hounded by triumphant catcalls.
Backstage, people were clapping Harvey Dent on the back with a strange mix of congratulations and consolation. "You're the real last JLI champion, Guy," he said, and handed him the belt.
Guy Gardner held it for a moment and a ragged cheer went around the room. Then he handed it back to Harvey with a wry grin. "It's funny, it don't bother me that much," he said. He raised his voice to address all the gathered wrestlers and crew: "Now we gotta get to work making our Zero Hour the best show ever!"
: : :
"Want a ride back to Philly?"
Clark looked over to where Bruce was leaning against the brick wall outside the staff exit, twirling his keys on his finger.
"I've got a ride back with Booster and Beetle," said Clark. "So that would be a yes."
Bruce smirked. "This way to the Brucemobile."
"You don't really call it that, do you?"
"Too much? Do you think 'Waynemobile' would be better?"
"Not really, no."
They came around a corner, still bickering cheerfully, but Bruce stopped in mid-sentence as he looked toward his car. Then he turned to Clark with his fakest smile: "Kent, I'm begging you to take a look under my hood. I'm pretty sure I have a camshaft that needs oiling, and I do so hate to get my hands dirty."
Clark managed to keep his eyebrows from rising just in time as he realized a fan was leaning against the side of Bruce's car, his hands stuffed in his pockets, glaring at them. "Look," Clark retorted, "I'd be happy to oil your camshaft, but--"
"--Mr. Wayne?" said the kid as they drew closer. He was in his mid-teens, maybe: a sullen, slouching boy with dark hair and a darker frown. "Billionaire Brucie?"
"The one and only," Bruce said breezily.
"I come to all the shows in Gotham."
Bruce nodded. "I've seen your face here and there," he said.
"Is it--is it true? Is it the end of the JLI? Did Luthor really beat you?" The kid's fists were clenched and shaking.
Bruce grinned, wide and empty. "No one beats Billionaire Brucie, kid. You should see my shiny new contract!" He waved a hand to gesture the boy away from the car door. "Come on, it doesn't mean anything, you know?"
"Stop it." The boy looked up at Bruce and his eyes were raw with hurt. "That's it? He's just gonna win? And you're gonna stand there like it means nothing to you?" His voice cracked and for an instant it was a child's voice, lost and lorn. Then he swallowed hard and got it back under control, back into fury. "Because I don't buy that bullshit for a moment! I know it bothers you, I know you care. It means something!"
Bruce looked down at the keys in his hand for a moment; Clark saw his shoulders settle somehow, his stance change subtly. He took a breath and looked back up at the boy. "You're right," he said. "It does mean something. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He put a hand on the kid's shoulder and looked him in the eye, and his voice was the deadly-serious one that Clark knew well, the one so few people got to hear. "No matter what, kid, I swear to you: someday we will bring Luthor down."
The boy stared at him for a moment, then threw his arms around him and hugged him tight. After a moment, Bruce returned the embrace, and they stood there in the alley together.
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," choked the kid. "Thank you." He stepped away from Bruce, dragging a sleeve across his face, and turned to go.
"Hey, kid," Bruce called as he walked away. The boy stopped and looked back, his tear-stained face pale in the dim alley light. "I hate to break it to you, but all the money in that wallet is fake."
"I--what?"
Bruce reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his real wallet. "But I'll give you a twenty to get it back," he said.
A grudging smirk transformed the boy's face; he hoisted an identical wallet in his hand and came back to trade it for the crisp twenty. "I want to be a wrestler," he said. "Like you."
"Well," said Bruce, "You're fast, and you're smart, and you obviously know how to sell a gimmick. But I'm not a trainer. Be cool, stay in school and all that."
The boy's eyes flicked downward. "It wasn't just an act," he muttered. "I meant it, too."
"So did I," said Bruce. "Now shoo. And kid," he added as the boy turned to leave again. "A bit of advice if you really want to break into wrestling: don't steal from your fellow wrestlers." He grinned. "That's the promoter's job."
The kid smirked. "Yes sir!" He ran out of the alley and into the night.
"Good grief," sighed Bruce, looking after him. "Kids."
"You know," said Clark as he went to the passenger side door, "I'm beginning to suspect, Billionaire Brucie, that you may not be an entirely bad person after all."
"Oh God," Bruce said, "Don't tell anyone."
"It'll be our little secret."
Bruce looked down to open his door; his eyes narrowed and then he smiled in admiring disbelief at Clark.
"Can you believe it? I think that kid was trying to jack my tires!"
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( Chapter 14: Zero Hour)