Heroes of the Squared Circle 25: Heel Turn
Title: Heel Turn
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Diana Prince, Jean-Paul Valley, Oliver Queen, Hal Jordan, Billy Batson
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 1900
Summary: Clark hears the details about his new heel persona.
Managers are assigned to new wrestlers or to ones that need help getting over with the crowd. They walk their charges to ringside, make threats on their behalf, and stand by the ring in case someone needs to be hit with a metal chair or a tennis racket in the heat of the moment --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks"
"Oh Clark!" Diana stared at him in shock, leaning over the back of the bus seat. Then she beamed. "What wonderful news! I'm so pleased for you!"
She turned and addressed the rest of the wrestlers, sprawled in their seats and largely half-asleep. "Everybody! Luthor has decided to finally give Clark a heel turn!"
A smattering of applause and whistles rose from around him. "You totally deserve it, Kent," said Big Barda, nodding.
"About time," added Oliver Queen, looking up from his crossword puzzle and raising his hand as if to high-five Clark. When Clark didn't slap his hand, he looked puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"But...I don't want to be a heel," said Clark.
Hal Jordan snorted. "You're kidding, right? How long have you been in the business, and you still don't understand how it works?" He shook his head at Clark's expression. "No one's ever made it to the top of the card without a good solid heel turn at some point. Oh, maybe some old-school wrestlers like Alan Scott could do it, but not in the modern business. Heels are where it's at. I mean, look at me." He spread his hands and smiled. "I didn't get any real traction until I took that turn as Parallax, the Living Embodiment of Fear. Then, wham, superstar!" Queen grumbled something under his breath and Jordan socked him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm just saying making you a heel is proof that Luthor thinks you're up to really carrying a full storyline. It's a real vote of confidence."
"But--"
"--Look, Kent." Jordan sounded annoyed now. "Being a heel is the only real way to break into the top and become a headliner at the huge pay-per-views. Do you want a chance at being the best of the best? Or do you want to be stuck in the mid-card forever, jobbing to the big guys like Billy here?"
Billy Batson muttered something extremely obscene under his breath without looking up from his GameBoy. "Shut up, Jordan. If Luthor doesn't see I'd be a fantastic heel, that's his loss."
"Looks more like yours, Billy-boy," shot back Queen, and the GameBoy clattered to the floor of the bus as Batson jumped to his feet, his fists clenched.
"They're right, you know," said Jean-Paul quietly to Clark once the bristling wrestlers had been calmed down. "It's a necessary step in moving to the top. Heels gather energy, they're narrative dynamos. When you turn face once more, all that energy carries over into the new face persona, but now with positive valence." Jean-Paul had an unnerving tendency to talk about wrestling as if it were either an engineering equation or a religion.
"I guess. But still…"
Jean-Paul nodded. "Not all of us are able to find that ruthless persona within us. It causes some psychic harm. Others find it all too easy," he finished in an undertone, and turned to look out the window, ending the conversation.
All right, then. Clark looked around the bus at the faces both congratulatory and envious. He suspected that Luthor knew how he hated the idea, and this was the man's slow-simmering revenge against him for his involvement in the Grayson case. But he was clearly alone in his visceral revulsion at the idea of being a heel, of having audiences boo him instead of cheer him, children cringe from him rather than smile at him. He was just being silly. Probably even Bruce would tell him so.
He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to catch a little sleep before he arrived at the next venue and had to meet with the bookers to discuss his new persona.
"You're kidding," he said.
"No, we think it will totally work," one of the three bookers said, and they all nodded earnestly.
"You want me to be a spaceman. An alien."
"It worked for the Martian Manhunter," said Elliot, the oldest booker. "But we don't think you'll need all the green face paint."
"I've drawn up some ideas for your new costume," said John. He pulled out a piece of paper and spread it out on the table. "Very modern, very dramatic. I think you'll like it."
"You're kidding," Clark said again, staring down at the sketches. Head-to-toe black, with--were those white ruffles running down the sleeves? Another sketch had a pale blue surplice worn loosely over the tight black bodysuit.
"You want me to claim to be born on another planet--"
"--last son of a doomed planet, yes," put in Mark, the youngest booker.
"--and shot here in a rocket as a baby?"
"You weren't actually born until you arrived on Earth," said John. "Your genetic material arrived in a birthing matrix and--"
"--Birthing matrices are a dumb idea," cut in Mark. "He was born on a doomed Paradise--"
"--No, it was a sterile, cold place of total intellect--"
"--a utopia of progress and enlightenment!"
Mark and John glared at each other and seemed likely to come to blows until Elliot addressed Clark directly.
"Obviously we don't have all the details hammered out yet. I know we'd be happy to hear your input."
Clark cleared his throat and tried to banish the images of his new costume from his mind. "Well, I suppose I probably have come as a conqueror, right? I could do a spiel, like Tremble before me, Earthlings, for none can stand against my terrible might, and--"
Elliot grimaced. "Can you give us a growl?"
"A...growl? Like: grrrrrhhgh?"
A smile of relief from Elliot. "Yes, that'll be perfect. See, Luthor says your new persona is going to be a monster heel, one that doesn't, you know...talk."
"We've got a manager picked out for you and everything," said John. "You just have to look menacing and snarl a lot."
It was the final indignity, and Clark felt his indignation drain out of him, leaving nothing but bleak resignation. This was going to be it, then--he was going to wear skintight black spandex with white ruffles and be a laughingstock. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
"So do you have an opinion about your home planet?" Elliot asked him. "We still need a name for it."
"No we don't," snapped John. "It's Argon, he's the Argonian."
Mark rolled his eyes. "It's Xenon, idiot. The Xenonite."
Elliot sighed as the two continued to bicker. "What do you think, Clark?" He looked concerned, and Clark tried to muster up a smile for him, but it felt stiff and unnatural.
"It's fine," he said. "Whatever you want to do with it is okay."
The details were decided around him over the next few weeks, but Clark didn't pay much attention. Milton Fine--AKA "Brainiac," the guy with the hypnotist gimmick--was going to be his manager. Clark's character would beam his thoughts directly into Fine's psychic brain and communicate that way, without having to actually speak. "Sounds creepy, I like it!" Fine said cheerfully when informed of the gimmick shift. Clark just shrugged.
His final storyline as Country Clark started: the infamous Dumas Brothers were hunting down Azrael and were going to use his friend Clark to get to him. Country Clark was eventually going to be beaten so badly that he would have to quit wrestling, allowing Azrael to swear vengeance for his friend. Going out as a minor plot point in someone else's story: that seemed about right. He went through the motions, but considering both Selina and Harvey had pulled him aside to ask if he was okay, he wasn't sure he was fooling anyone.
And then, when he was checking into the hotel in Topeka, the woman behind the desk smiled brightly. "Mr. Kent? There's a letter here for you."
Up in his room, Clark stared at the envelope of heavy Japanese paper, his name written on it in familiar broad strokes. He won't text, he won't email, but he'll write me an actual letter on actual paper, of course he will. After a moment, he broke the seal and took out the carefully-folded paper.
Clark, the letter started with no formalities. I hear that you're going to be getting a new gimmick as a heel. I'm sure everyone around you is telling you this is good news for your career. They're right, of course.
Clark sighed and forced himself to keep reading.
But I also am sure that you hate the idea. You love having people smile at you. You love inspiring people. Being a heel violates every sense of self you have. This is also right, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
So I'm not going to tell you to be happy about being a heel. You will never enjoy it; that's just the kind of person you are. But I'm writing to remind you that heels are valuable. They are the driving force behind stories, the spur that evokes heroism. Without darkness, the light could never shine so brightly. I'm hoping you can remember that, that you can find some value in being, for a time, the start of stories rather than the end, the shadow that calls forth the light. I think that you can be a good heel, because I think you understand and love stories and you are willing to sacrifice yourself to make a good story.
Let me say that again: because you are a good and selfless man, I think you will be an excellent heel.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, if you let this break your spirit (as I suspect Luthor wants it to) we might not get to wrestle again. And that would be a damn shame. We still have so many stories to create together. I think we--
Here the angular handwriting broke off. Beneath it was written in a more hasty hand, Dick sends his love, and then Bruce's signature.
Clark looked at it for a long time, imagining Bruce with his pen hovering above the paper, glaring at it as if he could make that last sentence end satisfactorily by sheer willpower. He folded the paper gently and slipped it back into its envelope, laying the envelope on his luggage. Frowning, he turned on his laptop and did a search for the periodic table, then spent a long time looking at the list of "noble gases" and drumming his fingers on the table.
Then he shut his laptop with a satisfyingly emphatic click, stood up, and headed to the arena where preparations were in place for the show that night.
Elliot, Mark and John looked up in surprise as he walked into the bookers' room. Clark smiled at them.
"The planet's name is Krypton," he announced. "And I'm the Kryptonian."
---
( Chapter 26: Making People Hate You)
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Diana Prince, Jean-Paul Valley, Oliver Queen, Hal Jordan, Billy Batson
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count 1900
Summary: Clark hears the details about his new heel persona.
Managers are assigned to new wrestlers or to ones that need help getting over with the crowd. They walk their charges to ringside, make threats on their behalf, and stand by the ring in case someone needs to be hit with a metal chair or a tennis racket in the heat of the moment --Shaun Assael, "Sex, Lies, and Headlocks"
"Oh Clark!" Diana stared at him in shock, leaning over the back of the bus seat. Then she beamed. "What wonderful news! I'm so pleased for you!"
She turned and addressed the rest of the wrestlers, sprawled in their seats and largely half-asleep. "Everybody! Luthor has decided to finally give Clark a heel turn!"
A smattering of applause and whistles rose from around him. "You totally deserve it, Kent," said Big Barda, nodding.
"About time," added Oliver Queen, looking up from his crossword puzzle and raising his hand as if to high-five Clark. When Clark didn't slap his hand, he looked puzzled. "What's wrong?"
"But...I don't want to be a heel," said Clark.
Hal Jordan snorted. "You're kidding, right? How long have you been in the business, and you still don't understand how it works?" He shook his head at Clark's expression. "No one's ever made it to the top of the card without a good solid heel turn at some point. Oh, maybe some old-school wrestlers like Alan Scott could do it, but not in the modern business. Heels are where it's at. I mean, look at me." He spread his hands and smiled. "I didn't get any real traction until I took that turn as Parallax, the Living Embodiment of Fear. Then, wham, superstar!" Queen grumbled something under his breath and Jordan socked him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm just saying making you a heel is proof that Luthor thinks you're up to really carrying a full storyline. It's a real vote of confidence."
"But--"
"--Look, Kent." Jordan sounded annoyed now. "Being a heel is the only real way to break into the top and become a headliner at the huge pay-per-views. Do you want a chance at being the best of the best? Or do you want to be stuck in the mid-card forever, jobbing to the big guys like Billy here?"
Billy Batson muttered something extremely obscene under his breath without looking up from his GameBoy. "Shut up, Jordan. If Luthor doesn't see I'd be a fantastic heel, that's his loss."
"Looks more like yours, Billy-boy," shot back Queen, and the GameBoy clattered to the floor of the bus as Batson jumped to his feet, his fists clenched.
"They're right, you know," said Jean-Paul quietly to Clark once the bristling wrestlers had been calmed down. "It's a necessary step in moving to the top. Heels gather energy, they're narrative dynamos. When you turn face once more, all that energy carries over into the new face persona, but now with positive valence." Jean-Paul had an unnerving tendency to talk about wrestling as if it were either an engineering equation or a religion.
"I guess. But still…"
Jean-Paul nodded. "Not all of us are able to find that ruthless persona within us. It causes some psychic harm. Others find it all too easy," he finished in an undertone, and turned to look out the window, ending the conversation.
All right, then. Clark looked around the bus at the faces both congratulatory and envious. He suspected that Luthor knew how he hated the idea, and this was the man's slow-simmering revenge against him for his involvement in the Grayson case. But he was clearly alone in his visceral revulsion at the idea of being a heel, of having audiences boo him instead of cheer him, children cringe from him rather than smile at him. He was just being silly. Probably even Bruce would tell him so.
He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to catch a little sleep before he arrived at the next venue and had to meet with the bookers to discuss his new persona.
"You're kidding," he said.
"No, we think it will totally work," one of the three bookers said, and they all nodded earnestly.
"You want me to be a spaceman. An alien."
"It worked for the Martian Manhunter," said Elliot, the oldest booker. "But we don't think you'll need all the green face paint."
"I've drawn up some ideas for your new costume," said John. He pulled out a piece of paper and spread it out on the table. "Very modern, very dramatic. I think you'll like it."
"You're kidding," Clark said again, staring down at the sketches. Head-to-toe black, with--were those white ruffles running down the sleeves? Another sketch had a pale blue surplice worn loosely over the tight black bodysuit.
"You want me to claim to be born on another planet--"
"--last son of a doomed planet, yes," put in Mark, the youngest booker.
"--and shot here in a rocket as a baby?"
"You weren't actually born until you arrived on Earth," said John. "Your genetic material arrived in a birthing matrix and--"
"--Birthing matrices are a dumb idea," cut in Mark. "He was born on a doomed Paradise--"
"--No, it was a sterile, cold place of total intellect--"
"--a utopia of progress and enlightenment!"
Mark and John glared at each other and seemed likely to come to blows until Elliot addressed Clark directly.
"Obviously we don't have all the details hammered out yet. I know we'd be happy to hear your input."
Clark cleared his throat and tried to banish the images of his new costume from his mind. "Well, I suppose I probably have come as a conqueror, right? I could do a spiel, like Tremble before me, Earthlings, for none can stand against my terrible might, and--"
Elliot grimaced. "Can you give us a growl?"
"A...growl? Like: grrrrrhhgh?"
A smile of relief from Elliot. "Yes, that'll be perfect. See, Luthor says your new persona is going to be a monster heel, one that doesn't, you know...talk."
"We've got a manager picked out for you and everything," said John. "You just have to look menacing and snarl a lot."
It was the final indignity, and Clark felt his indignation drain out of him, leaving nothing but bleak resignation. This was going to be it, then--he was going to wear skintight black spandex with white ruffles and be a laughingstock. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
"So do you have an opinion about your home planet?" Elliot asked him. "We still need a name for it."
"No we don't," snapped John. "It's Argon, he's the Argonian."
Mark rolled his eyes. "It's Xenon, idiot. The Xenonite."
Elliot sighed as the two continued to bicker. "What do you think, Clark?" He looked concerned, and Clark tried to muster up a smile for him, but it felt stiff and unnatural.
"It's fine," he said. "Whatever you want to do with it is okay."
The details were decided around him over the next few weeks, but Clark didn't pay much attention. Milton Fine--AKA "Brainiac," the guy with the hypnotist gimmick--was going to be his manager. Clark's character would beam his thoughts directly into Fine's psychic brain and communicate that way, without having to actually speak. "Sounds creepy, I like it!" Fine said cheerfully when informed of the gimmick shift. Clark just shrugged.
His final storyline as Country Clark started: the infamous Dumas Brothers were hunting down Azrael and were going to use his friend Clark to get to him. Country Clark was eventually going to be beaten so badly that he would have to quit wrestling, allowing Azrael to swear vengeance for his friend. Going out as a minor plot point in someone else's story: that seemed about right. He went through the motions, but considering both Selina and Harvey had pulled him aside to ask if he was okay, he wasn't sure he was fooling anyone.
And then, when he was checking into the hotel in Topeka, the woman behind the desk smiled brightly. "Mr. Kent? There's a letter here for you."
Up in his room, Clark stared at the envelope of heavy Japanese paper, his name written on it in familiar broad strokes. He won't text, he won't email, but he'll write me an actual letter on actual paper, of course he will. After a moment, he broke the seal and took out the carefully-folded paper.
Clark, the letter started with no formalities. I hear that you're going to be getting a new gimmick as a heel. I'm sure everyone around you is telling you this is good news for your career. They're right, of course.
Clark sighed and forced himself to keep reading.
But I also am sure that you hate the idea. You love having people smile at you. You love inspiring people. Being a heel violates every sense of self you have. This is also right, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
So I'm not going to tell you to be happy about being a heel. You will never enjoy it; that's just the kind of person you are. But I'm writing to remind you that heels are valuable. They are the driving force behind stories, the spur that evokes heroism. Without darkness, the light could never shine so brightly. I'm hoping you can remember that, that you can find some value in being, for a time, the start of stories rather than the end, the shadow that calls forth the light. I think that you can be a good heel, because I think you understand and love stories and you are willing to sacrifice yourself to make a good story.
Let me say that again: because you are a good and selfless man, I think you will be an excellent heel.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, if you let this break your spirit (as I suspect Luthor wants it to) we might not get to wrestle again. And that would be a damn shame. We still have so many stories to create together. I think we--
Here the angular handwriting broke off. Beneath it was written in a more hasty hand, Dick sends his love, and then Bruce's signature.
Clark looked at it for a long time, imagining Bruce with his pen hovering above the paper, glaring at it as if he could make that last sentence end satisfactorily by sheer willpower. He folded the paper gently and slipped it back into its envelope, laying the envelope on his luggage. Frowning, he turned on his laptop and did a search for the periodic table, then spent a long time looking at the list of "noble gases" and drumming his fingers on the table.
Then he shut his laptop with a satisfyingly emphatic click, stood up, and headed to the arena where preparations were in place for the show that night.
Elliot, Mark and John looked up in surprise as he walked into the bookers' room. Clark smiled at them.
"The planet's name is Krypton," he announced. "And I'm the Kryptonian."
---
( Chapter 26: Making People Hate You)