Heroes of the Squared Circle 37: #DeathInTheFamily
Title: #DeathInTheFamily
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Joker, Lex Luthor, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Bloody violence.
Rating: R for violence
Word Count 4300
Summary: Jason reaches a breaking point in the DCW and has a fateful match with the Joker.
As the two men came to know one another. . . . their plays became increasingly intricate, jockeying between sadism and surrender. --Shaun Assael
“After the chokeslam, I’m going to use the Kryptonite on you, but this time--”
“--Kryptonite?”
Bruce scowled at Clark’s smile. “Yes, Kryptonite. You’re the Kryptonian, from the planet Krypton, and the green powder is from asteroids made up from the chunks of your long-dead planet. Thus, ergo, Q.E.D., Kryptonite.”
“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
Bruce rolled his eyes--Of course I have--and continued: “This time I’d like you to sink to your knees as though it’s sapped all the strength out of you, maybe have your face go blank.”
“So you’re saying you want me on my knees in front of you?”
Bruce glanced around the gym full of wrestlers: Joker was jogging on the treadmill, Diana was lifting weights (an impressive amount of them), Jean Paul was doing chin-ups and Jason was taking a break with a jug of water and his laptop. “It’s a rather nice image, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice. “I was thinking that once I had you there, helpless and kneeling before me, I might just lean down slowly, grab you by the hair and--”
“--knee me in the chin, knocking me into the turnbuckle?” Clark said more loudly.
Bruce blinked and realized Jason was coming toward them, laptop in hand. “Right,” he said, recovering quickly, “and then you could counter with--”
“It’s over, isn’t it?” Jason was oblivious to any undertones of their conversation as he stood there with his computer in hand, his expression caught between furious and forlorn. “It’s finally over. I’m almost relieved.”
“What do you mean?” Clark asked.
“I was looking at the promotional materials for the upcoming pay-per-view,” Jason said, his voice flat. “And it’s--well. Look.” He held the laptop up so they could see the web page.
Bruce looked at it for a moment. “Ah,” he said softly.
“What am I missing?” said Clark.
“I’m not on the card,” Jason said. “I was supposed to be against Joker at the next one, and they’re putting him up against Killer Croc insead. They’re starting a new angle for him, one without me in it. And look at the lineup for the show after the pay-per-view. Bruce and I were supposed to be in a tag team match together. That’s off the card too.” He hoisted the laptop, looking at the screen with a bitter twist to his mouth. “The bastard hasn’t even bothered to tell me yet.”
“Jason, you don’t--”
“--But I do know, Bruce.” Jason snapped the laptop shut, glaring at him. “Face it, I’m just not getting enough pop to be paired up with the great Dark Knight. I’m the Sucky Second Robin, that’s what they call me in the forums.” He tossed the laptop onto a chair, not gently; it bounced off with a loud clatter. “And don’t give me any more of that bull about paying my dues and sucking it up!” His voice was rising; Bruce grimaced but he kept going: “You know, I had a good thing going with the MMA, I didn’t have to get into pro wrestling. There’s a bigger world than your DCW playground, Bruce, and I’m beginning to think I was stupid to limit myself to your nice tidy little kayfabe universe!”
“Todd.” Jack Napier appeared behind Jason before Bruce could respond. “You’re kidding. Luthor’s going to let you go? But--we’re a team, you and me! We work so well together!”
“I guess that doesn’t matter,” muttered Jason.
Napier frowned and threw an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry to hear that, Todd. I truly am. We’ve had a good run, you and me.” He shot a sly look at Jason, his serious frown tilting upward into a grin once more. “But hey, if you’re going to go out, shouldn’t you do it with a bang?”
Jason’s sullen look brightened. “What have you got in mind?”
“Oh, there are so many possibilities!” warbled Napier, launching into full-on Joker Mode once more. “We’ve got this cage match coming up, right? Last thing you’re on the card for. You’re booked to lose, and I think we can come up with some creative ways to make that happen, don’t you?”
“Jason,” said Bruce. “Just--don’t burn your bridges, okay? It’s possible that--”
“Forget it, Bruce,” said Jason. He was still smiling, but there was stone underneath it. “I’ve had enough of playing the game by your rules. It’s time I do something that I’ll at least be remembered for.”
He walked off with the Joker’s arm still slung around his shoulders.
Joker was facing down Luthor in the ring: “A little proposition,” he had called it. “Considering the DCW is working so hard to get everyone using social media these days, I think we should hop on the bandwagon--” Joker leaped into the air; Lex Luthor stepped backwards, clearly unnerved but schooling his face to not look startled, “--and start giving the DCW Universe more say in how the matches go! Don’t you agree, Lex?”
“Yes, of course,” Luthor said carefully. “I’m a firm believer in increasing fan involvement.”
“So I say let’s do a poll of the DCW Universe! We’ll give them some choices in how my cage match will go against the Boy Blunder. It’ll be fun!”
The audience cheered as Luthor considered, then nodded. “Okay, Joker. We’ll do it your way.”
Two hours later, Joker was standing on one side of the ring, Robin on the other, and Luthor in the middle announced the results: “The DCW Universe had three choices. Once, Robin and the Dark Knight against the Joker. Two, Robin against the Joker, one on one. Three, Robin against the Joker--and Mr. Crowbar.” He gestured to the Jumbotron. “And the results are…”
The numbers spun up onto the screen and Luthor read them off.
“Five percent wanted to see the Dynamic Duo together against the Joker. Fifteen percent wanted the Joker and Robin to go mano-a-mano. And a whopping eighty percent chose Joker and his ‘tag team partner’ Mr. Crowbar against Robin alone.”
The Joker burst into whoops of maniacal laughter as Robin gesticulated wildly. “That’s not fair!” Robin yelled as the crowd cheered. “But I’ll take you anyway, Joker! No matter what!” His voice was a blend of panic, disbelief, and resolve--just as if this wasn’t exactly the result he had counted on. “As if they’ll pass up the chance to let Joker wale on me with a crowbar while I’m trapped in a cage,” he had said with a kind of bitter satisfaction. “They’re totally predictable. The only question is whether it’ll be a hundred percent or not.”
“Well, it...wasn’t a hundred percent?” said Clark, looking hopefully at Bruce backstage.
Bruce gave him an opaque look and went back to putting on his cowl in preparation for their match.
“--And you’ll do a run-in at the end, pick up my broken body and hold me, gazing at the sky in anguish,” Jason said. “Come on, Bruce,” he said when Bruce grimaced. “You know it’s necessary for closure. At least pretend you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Bruce took a careful breath as though Jason had punched him in the stomach. “I will miss you if you go, Jason. Luthor might not be planning on cutting you. You can lose tonight and still come back from your defeat. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
“It’s a good story, Bruce,” said Jason, shaking his head. He spread his hands and recited: “The kid stood alone against impossible odds, against an implacable foe. You know Luthor’s going to can me soon. I just want--I just want to finish up in a way that’ll be remembered. This way I’ll have an excuse all ready--they can kayfabe put me in a coma or even kill me. I won’t just suddenly vanish. There’ll be some kind of closure.” His mouth twitched. “Help me out, here.”
After a moment, Bruce nodded.
Robin stood in the middle of the ring, facing off against Joker, the steel cage trapping him inside. For all of his fighter’s muscular frame, he still looked small compared to the gangling height of the clown.
“Mr. Crowbar asked me to remove his eyes, little boy,” said Joker, tapping his hand with the weapon, “Because he didn’t want to see what was about to happen to you. I just want you to know that I’m not responsible for this!” He wheeled around, his hands encompassing all of the arena. “They’re the ones who demanded I bring Mr. Crowbar! They’re the ones who hate you, boy.”
Clark saw Bruce flinch at the rumble of approval from the crowd. He was in his cape and cowl, preparing for his run-in at the end of the match, standing backstage and waiting for his cue. Clark was still in his ridiculous Kryptonian suit from their earlier match; after a moment he decided that a brotherly gesture wouldn’t be interpreted wrongly and clasped Bruce on the shoulder. It was tense as iron, and Bruce didn’t turn to look at him.
The bell rang and the match started.
At first it was a fairly even match. Robin got a decent offense in, pulling off his best moves, a sort of “greatest hits” match. But then Joker got in a good hit with the crowbar, and the tide began to turn. Robin punched him and he just laughed. Clark could hear the announcers babbling excitedly--“impossible odds” and “plucky lad”--just the kind of phrases Jason had been hoping for. Everything was going just as Jason wanted.
And then Clark heard Bruce take a sharp breath, staring at the monitor. “Jason, no,” he whispered, harsh and pained.
Clark looked up just in time to catch the glint of a tiny bit of razor blade in Jason’s hand as he sliced into his own forehead, the trickle of crimson blooming into a steady stream.
“Oh man,” he heard Batson groan from the common room. “Right on camera! It’s gonna be hell to edit that out.”
It was a clumsy job, done in haste, and the cascade of blood running down Jason’s face soon became a torrent, masking Jason’s features and splattering onto the mat. Jason stumbled, blinded by the blood in his eyes, and Clark could tell that despite his maniacal laughter the Joker was having to take extra pains to make sure Jason didn’t accidentally walk right into a crowbar blow.
And despite it all, he was pulling off the match of his career with the Joker. He sold his fear and desperation with every movement, jerking at every impact of the crowbar. His flurries of offense grew fewer, fainter.
He’s finally learned how to sell a beating, Clark realized dimly.
“God,” said Bruce. His voice was thick and he couldn’t seem to look away from the monitor. “No.”
Clark could see camera crews scrambling around the edge of the ring, looking for an angle that would obscure some of the blood, but it was no use. Blood pooled and puddled on the mat, streaked Joker’s face. Jason’s hair was sopping with it. His knees gave out and he sagged to the mat, unable to stand any longer, one red-splashed hand reaching up futilely as if to stop the inevitable blow.
Joker stood above him, crowbar lifted. He paused. Looked out of the cage at the audience, his mouth twisted with bitter laughter. “What do you say?” he called, and his voice was a white-hot stiletto. “Do I pin him and end the match, or do I keep going?” He grinned. “All those in favor of a beaten bird, say ‘Aye!”
And the crowd roared, a deep low sound of hungry approval. Clark felt Bruce flinch as if it were a blow to the chest.
“Those who wish me to spare the poor dear boy,” fluted the Joker, “Raise your voices!”
The response was pitched higher, lighter: younger voices, on the whole. And so much weaker.
“Let me just clarify,” said the Joker. “You want me to keep hitting this Robin with a crowbar even though he’s broken and bleeding at my feet?” He shook his head at the rafter-rattling approval. “Oh,” he said softly. “You are funny.”
And then he raised the crowbar once more.
As it came down, Clark heard a young voice in the audience cry out “No!” as if his heart was breaking, but the arc of the crowbar slowed not a bit.
The last five minutes were a blur to Clark, a bloody smudge of memory. He remembered hearing the announcers gleefully announcing that “#DeadRobin is trending on Twitter worldwide!” He remembered spotting Luthor’s face in the crowd milling backstage, pale and set with fury. He remembered the feel of Bruce’s shoulder under his hand and the sound of Bruce’s breaths.
And then it was over, and the Joker was clasping his bloody hands over his head in victory. Harley was unlocking the cage door, and he was climbing out.
“Wayne! Wayne! You’re on! Get the hell out there!”
Bruce flinched at the sound of Hal Jordan’s voice, tearing his eyes from the monitor. He broke into a run and headed out into the arena. Clark watched him go, then switched his attention to the monitor to see the Dark Knight appear at the top of the ramp.
The crowd had gone quiet as the Joker slipped away through them and disappeared rather than face the Dark Knight. The cowled figure paused at the top of the ramp, staring at the huddled form in the blood-soaked ring. “Jason,” he rasped, and the crowd murmured--it was always “Robin” in public.
As the Dark Knight ran down the ramp, there was a cackle of Joker laughter from the loudspeakers, and the pyrotechnics in the four turnbuckles went off with a thundercrack, turning the corners of the ring into pillars of scarlet flame for a moment.
Bruce had known about the fireworks, but he staggered backwards at the crackle of sound as if he had utterly forgotten about them, throwing his hands up in front of his face. As the flames died down he threw open the cage door and knelt at Robin’s side, covering his face for a moment. His shoulders shook. Leaning down, he gathered Jason’s broken form into his arms.
And then he raised his head and looked out at the crowd, and Clark drew in a sharp, helpless breath at the expression in his eyes.
Slowly, he stood and he carried Jason out of the arena, ignoring the jeers and cheers of the crowd that rained around them. He didn’t falter, he didn’t look to either side.
And then they disappeared around the corner. The match was over--and it was a match that would appear on “greatest hits” compilations forevermore, but no one backstage was thinking about that at the moment.
“What the hell were you thinking, Todd!” Luthor was pale with fury, his green eyes blazing. “Blading like that--you think I want sports commissioners breathing down my neck again like they did when my father was in charge of this promotion? Do you?”
“It’s not illegal,” said Jason, scrubbing his face with a towel that came away crimson. “And did you hear that crowd pop?”
“People start thinking I encourage my workers to deliberately mutilate themselves, and this whole business will become illegal. You want all your friends to lose their jobs? Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay for this one, Todd.”
“Oh come off it,” snarled Jason. “You’re canning me anyway. You think I’m blind? You think I can’t see I’m not on the card after tonight? How were you going to break it to me, huh--by an email?”
All of the rage in Luthor’s face shifted to ice-cold impassivity. “Maybe I was just going to send you back down to a developmental promotion, Todd. Maybe I just thought you needed more time to figure out your style, find an approach that was your own.” He stalked up until he was right in Jason’s face. “But you’ll never know, because now I am going to fire you. Pack up your things and get the hell out.”
And he turned on his heel and walked away.
All the other wrestlers were avoiding eye contact with Jason, giving him a wide berth as they picked up the gear, as if his ill-fortune might somehow rub off on them. Only Joker gave him a furtive thumbs-up as he slipped out the door, leaving Clark and Bruce alone with the former Robin.
“Well,” said Jason, his voice cracking with the attempt to sound cheerful. “I guess I put on a hell of a final match. No one will be forgetting that anytime soon.” He looked at Bruce, who was standing immobile next to Clark, his cowl pulled down and his gaze distant, and his own hard stare softened. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” he said, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know you hated it, but I thought it was a good story.”
“It was a good story. It was a great match.” Bruce’s voice was abstracted, unmoored. “But the crowd cheered for the Joker. Robin was unarmed, he was helpless. And they called for Joker to kill him. Just a boy, all alone against a killer.”
“Hey,” Jason frowned, concerned; he shook Bruce’s shoulder slightly. “I’m not a boy, you know. And Joker’s not a killer. The audience knows that. They didn’t really want me to die. They know it’s all fake anyway.”
Bruce recoiled from Jason, knocking his hand aside. “How could they cheer for that? What’s wrong with them?”
His voice was angry; it didn’t seem to be directed at Jason, but Jason’s temper flared in response. “Well, maybe they thought it was a good match! That ever cross your mind, Bruce?”
“That wasn’t what they were--”
“God damnit, Bruce, give me a little credit!” Jason shook his head angrily, and drops of blood spattered Bruce’s face. “I’ve had it with this business anyway, man. I was never cut out for it. You’re welcome to it.” He turned and held out his hand to Clark. “Thanks for all the help, man.” He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “No hard feelings.”
It was caught somewhere between a statement and a question, but Bruce didn’t say anything in response. He reached up and clasped Jason’s hand for a second, silently. Clark could see his throat working.
Jason sighed. “Thanks for everything,” he murmured, and then was gone.
“Bruce?” Bruce hadn’t moved to wipe Jason’s blood off his face; he seemed to be thinking of something else. “You should probably take a shower, you’re a mess.”
Bruce nodded slowly. But soon, standing under the heavy spray of water and letting it rinse the last remnants of the Kryptonian’s paint from his face, Clark realized that Bruce had never joined him.
“Bruce?” No answer; throwing on a towel he hurried out into the locker room, hair still dripping.
Bruce was gone.
Clark glared at his phone as if willing Bruce to answer his texts and calls. Nothing. Clark had checked the local gyms, thinking maybe he’d be working out--sometimes he worked out until he could barely walk, until he was too exhausted to talk--but there was nothing. Should he call the police? And say what, “My friend is late coming back to his hotel room?” They’d laugh. Should he text Dick? But he didn’t want to worry him.
Clark Kent paced his hotel room and fretted.
His phone buzzed and he pounced on it, but the text was from a number he didn’t recognize. About your friend…
Attached was a fuzzy picture of a bar with a crowd outside it. You might want to be here for him, the next message read, followed by an address.
Clark hit the hallway at a run.
“Clark!”
Clark turned to see Dick hurrying toward the same street corner he was, phone out.
“You got the same text?” Dick asked as he drew close.
Clark nodded. “Do you know who it was?”
“No idea.” Dick looked at the bar that matched the one in the photo. “You think Bruce is inside?”
Their phones buzzed simultaneously: Another picture of a bar with a crowd out front, and an address further down the street. Where r u guys
Clark and Dick looked at each other, then broke into a run together.
“Rip his head off, the bastard!”
“Get him, Joe! Break his knees!”
“Re-arrange his face!”
Clark and Dick muscled through the seething crowd to find Bruce facing off against a hulking bald man--presumably “Joe”--surrounded by furious bar patrons. Based on the four groaning, limp bodies on the ground behind Joe, the crowd had some reason to be seeking vengeance.
Bruce’s face--still streaked with Jason’s blood--was calm and still as Joe lunged at him. He stepped out of the way, then tossed his opponent face-first into a brick wall. Joe collapsed without a sound.
“Who else wants to prove they can beat a fake athlete?” Bruce’s voice was utterly dispassionate.
The crowd growled angrily and it looked like they were about to abandon the one-on-one format and just pile onto their nemesis when Clark and Dick shoved aside the last people in their way and joined Bruce, shoulder to shoulder.
“Come on then,” Dick yelled, beckoning at the angry mob. “What are you waiting for?”
Clark put on his most dangerous Kryptonian sneer and made deliberate eye contact with the men who looked like the ringleaders, one by one. Suddenly there was a lot of foot-shuffling and looking down at the pavement, and the crowd suddenly trickled away into the night.
“I didn’t need your help,” said Bruce. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like he was speaking from a very great distance--a terrifying height, or perhaps a terrible depth.
“I know, Bruce,” said Dick. “You don’t need anyone’s help.”
“That’s the storyline,” Bruce agreed remotely. There was no alcohol on his breath, but he had started to tremble as the adrenaline rush faded.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” Clark said.
Bruce looked at him as if at a stranger. “They were cheering for the bad guy to win,” he said. “They were cheering for chaos and suffering. I don’t understand.”
“Shh,” said Dick. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got you.”
He and Clark slung an arm around the shaking Bruce and led him back to the hotel.
“You know how he is,” Dick said, shrugging. He and Clark were out in the hotel corridor, speaking quietly; they had left Bruce apparently asleep in the hotel bed (Clark had checked to make sure the hotel windows were the kind that opened only the barest crack). “Even when he seems to be letting you in, it only goes so far, and then you bounce off this…shield. Like how he never invites anyone to his home.” Another shrug. “It’s just who he is.”
“It isn’t like I’ve invited any of you to meet my folks or anything,” Clark said, feeling stung.
“That’s different. It isn’t like we’re swinging through Smallville every couple of months, after all! But every time we’re in Gotham he goes and spends the day with his father--”
“You mean his ‘butler,’?” Clark said, making air-quotes, and Dick laughed.
“Yeah, the mysterious Alfred--but he never asks us. I mean, he and I are really close, but there’s a lot he keeps locked up inside still.”
Clark grimaced to hide a sudden stab of guilt as he remembered that Bruce had asked him over to his house--more than once, even. But something had always come up, or Clark had been too busy, or...something. It wasn’t like he was worried to meet Bruce’s father! Bruce clearly loved him so much, and he had to be a good person, to take in and raise a foster-kid so well. He was probably just a regular guy, just like Clark’s own Pa. Probably living in the same clean-but-shabby apartment he’d raised Bruce in--Bruce could afford to buy him a nice place now, but fathers always refused to let their sons help out too much. Clark smiled as he imagined it: the broken-down couch Bruce had practiced wrestling moves on, the old television that still didn’t work well, the peeling wallpaper. Just like the Kents.
“Anyway,” Dick was saying, and Clark shook himself out of his reverie, “I’m glad you’re here for him. He seems to be taking this Jason stuff really personally.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Clark said, trying to sound certain of it.
Dick put a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes. “I’m just...really glad you’re here for him.”
Clark swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “I always will be,” he said.
“I know.”
Clark let himself back into the hotel room. Bruce was lying on the bed, but his eyes were open, looking up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” Clark said. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” said Bruce. “Thank you. For tonight.”
“Anytime,” said Clark, taking off his shirt and sliding into bed. Bruce didn’t roll away from him, but he seemed distant, abstracted. “I’m here for you,” Clark said, kissing his shoulder.
“I know,” whispered Bruce.
But his breathing never shifted into the deeper breaths of sleep, and he was still staring up at the ceiling when Clark finally fell into uneasy dreams filled with blood and explosions.
Relationship: Clark/Bruce
Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Joker, Lex Luthor, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: Bloody violence.
Rating: R for violence
Word Count 4300
Summary: Jason reaches a breaking point in the DCW and has a fateful match with the Joker.
As the two men came to know one another. . . . their plays became increasingly intricate, jockeying between sadism and surrender. --Shaun Assael
“After the chokeslam, I’m going to use the Kryptonite on you, but this time--”
“--Kryptonite?”
Bruce scowled at Clark’s smile. “Yes, Kryptonite. You’re the Kryptonian, from the planet Krypton, and the green powder is from asteroids made up from the chunks of your long-dead planet. Thus, ergo, Q.E.D., Kryptonite.”
“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
Bruce rolled his eyes--Of course I have--and continued: “This time I’d like you to sink to your knees as though it’s sapped all the strength out of you, maybe have your face go blank.”
“So you’re saying you want me on my knees in front of you?”
Bruce glanced around the gym full of wrestlers: Joker was jogging on the treadmill, Diana was lifting weights (an impressive amount of them), Jean Paul was doing chin-ups and Jason was taking a break with a jug of water and his laptop. “It’s a rather nice image, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice. “I was thinking that once I had you there, helpless and kneeling before me, I might just lean down slowly, grab you by the hair and--”
“--knee me in the chin, knocking me into the turnbuckle?” Clark said more loudly.
Bruce blinked and realized Jason was coming toward them, laptop in hand. “Right,” he said, recovering quickly, “and then you could counter with--”
“It’s over, isn’t it?” Jason was oblivious to any undertones of their conversation as he stood there with his computer in hand, his expression caught between furious and forlorn. “It’s finally over. I’m almost relieved.”
“What do you mean?” Clark asked.
“I was looking at the promotional materials for the upcoming pay-per-view,” Jason said, his voice flat. “And it’s--well. Look.” He held the laptop up so they could see the web page.
Bruce looked at it for a moment. “Ah,” he said softly.
“What am I missing?” said Clark.
“I’m not on the card,” Jason said. “I was supposed to be against Joker at the next one, and they’re putting him up against Killer Croc insead. They’re starting a new angle for him, one without me in it. And look at the lineup for the show after the pay-per-view. Bruce and I were supposed to be in a tag team match together. That’s off the card too.” He hoisted the laptop, looking at the screen with a bitter twist to his mouth. “The bastard hasn’t even bothered to tell me yet.”
“Jason, you don’t--”
“--But I do know, Bruce.” Jason snapped the laptop shut, glaring at him. “Face it, I’m just not getting enough pop to be paired up with the great Dark Knight. I’m the Sucky Second Robin, that’s what they call me in the forums.” He tossed the laptop onto a chair, not gently; it bounced off with a loud clatter. “And don’t give me any more of that bull about paying my dues and sucking it up!” His voice was rising; Bruce grimaced but he kept going: “You know, I had a good thing going with the MMA, I didn’t have to get into pro wrestling. There’s a bigger world than your DCW playground, Bruce, and I’m beginning to think I was stupid to limit myself to your nice tidy little kayfabe universe!”
“Todd.” Jack Napier appeared behind Jason before Bruce could respond. “You’re kidding. Luthor’s going to let you go? But--we’re a team, you and me! We work so well together!”
“I guess that doesn’t matter,” muttered Jason.
Napier frowned and threw an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry to hear that, Todd. I truly am. We’ve had a good run, you and me.” He shot a sly look at Jason, his serious frown tilting upward into a grin once more. “But hey, if you’re going to go out, shouldn’t you do it with a bang?”
Jason’s sullen look brightened. “What have you got in mind?”
“Oh, there are so many possibilities!” warbled Napier, launching into full-on Joker Mode once more. “We’ve got this cage match coming up, right? Last thing you’re on the card for. You’re booked to lose, and I think we can come up with some creative ways to make that happen, don’t you?”
“Jason,” said Bruce. “Just--don’t burn your bridges, okay? It’s possible that--”
“Forget it, Bruce,” said Jason. He was still smiling, but there was stone underneath it. “I’ve had enough of playing the game by your rules. It’s time I do something that I’ll at least be remembered for.”
He walked off with the Joker’s arm still slung around his shoulders.
Joker was facing down Luthor in the ring: “A little proposition,” he had called it. “Considering the DCW is working so hard to get everyone using social media these days, I think we should hop on the bandwagon--” Joker leaped into the air; Lex Luthor stepped backwards, clearly unnerved but schooling his face to not look startled, “--and start giving the DCW Universe more say in how the matches go! Don’t you agree, Lex?”
“Yes, of course,” Luthor said carefully. “I’m a firm believer in increasing fan involvement.”
“So I say let’s do a poll of the DCW Universe! We’ll give them some choices in how my cage match will go against the Boy Blunder. It’ll be fun!”
The audience cheered as Luthor considered, then nodded. “Okay, Joker. We’ll do it your way.”
Two hours later, Joker was standing on one side of the ring, Robin on the other, and Luthor in the middle announced the results: “The DCW Universe had three choices. Once, Robin and the Dark Knight against the Joker. Two, Robin against the Joker, one on one. Three, Robin against the Joker--and Mr. Crowbar.” He gestured to the Jumbotron. “And the results are…”
The numbers spun up onto the screen and Luthor read them off.
“Five percent wanted to see the Dynamic Duo together against the Joker. Fifteen percent wanted the Joker and Robin to go mano-a-mano. And a whopping eighty percent chose Joker and his ‘tag team partner’ Mr. Crowbar against Robin alone.”
The Joker burst into whoops of maniacal laughter as Robin gesticulated wildly. “That’s not fair!” Robin yelled as the crowd cheered. “But I’ll take you anyway, Joker! No matter what!” His voice was a blend of panic, disbelief, and resolve--just as if this wasn’t exactly the result he had counted on. “As if they’ll pass up the chance to let Joker wale on me with a crowbar while I’m trapped in a cage,” he had said with a kind of bitter satisfaction. “They’re totally predictable. The only question is whether it’ll be a hundred percent or not.”
“Well, it...wasn’t a hundred percent?” said Clark, looking hopefully at Bruce backstage.
Bruce gave him an opaque look and went back to putting on his cowl in preparation for their match.
“--And you’ll do a run-in at the end, pick up my broken body and hold me, gazing at the sky in anguish,” Jason said. “Come on, Bruce,” he said when Bruce grimaced. “You know it’s necessary for closure. At least pretend you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Bruce took a careful breath as though Jason had punched him in the stomach. “I will miss you if you go, Jason. Luthor might not be planning on cutting you. You can lose tonight and still come back from your defeat. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
“It’s a good story, Bruce,” said Jason, shaking his head. He spread his hands and recited: “The kid stood alone against impossible odds, against an implacable foe. You know Luthor’s going to can me soon. I just want--I just want to finish up in a way that’ll be remembered. This way I’ll have an excuse all ready--they can kayfabe put me in a coma or even kill me. I won’t just suddenly vanish. There’ll be some kind of closure.” His mouth twitched. “Help me out, here.”
After a moment, Bruce nodded.
Robin stood in the middle of the ring, facing off against Joker, the steel cage trapping him inside. For all of his fighter’s muscular frame, he still looked small compared to the gangling height of the clown.
“Mr. Crowbar asked me to remove his eyes, little boy,” said Joker, tapping his hand with the weapon, “Because he didn’t want to see what was about to happen to you. I just want you to know that I’m not responsible for this!” He wheeled around, his hands encompassing all of the arena. “They’re the ones who demanded I bring Mr. Crowbar! They’re the ones who hate you, boy.”
Clark saw Bruce flinch at the rumble of approval from the crowd. He was in his cape and cowl, preparing for his run-in at the end of the match, standing backstage and waiting for his cue. Clark was still in his ridiculous Kryptonian suit from their earlier match; after a moment he decided that a brotherly gesture wouldn’t be interpreted wrongly and clasped Bruce on the shoulder. It was tense as iron, and Bruce didn’t turn to look at him.
The bell rang and the match started.
At first it was a fairly even match. Robin got a decent offense in, pulling off his best moves, a sort of “greatest hits” match. But then Joker got in a good hit with the crowbar, and the tide began to turn. Robin punched him and he just laughed. Clark could hear the announcers babbling excitedly--“impossible odds” and “plucky lad”--just the kind of phrases Jason had been hoping for. Everything was going just as Jason wanted.
And then Clark heard Bruce take a sharp breath, staring at the monitor. “Jason, no,” he whispered, harsh and pained.
Clark looked up just in time to catch the glint of a tiny bit of razor blade in Jason’s hand as he sliced into his own forehead, the trickle of crimson blooming into a steady stream.
“Oh man,” he heard Batson groan from the common room. “Right on camera! It’s gonna be hell to edit that out.”
It was a clumsy job, done in haste, and the cascade of blood running down Jason’s face soon became a torrent, masking Jason’s features and splattering onto the mat. Jason stumbled, blinded by the blood in his eyes, and Clark could tell that despite his maniacal laughter the Joker was having to take extra pains to make sure Jason didn’t accidentally walk right into a crowbar blow.
And despite it all, he was pulling off the match of his career with the Joker. He sold his fear and desperation with every movement, jerking at every impact of the crowbar. His flurries of offense grew fewer, fainter.
He’s finally learned how to sell a beating, Clark realized dimly.
“God,” said Bruce. His voice was thick and he couldn’t seem to look away from the monitor. “No.”
Clark could see camera crews scrambling around the edge of the ring, looking for an angle that would obscure some of the blood, but it was no use. Blood pooled and puddled on the mat, streaked Joker’s face. Jason’s hair was sopping with it. His knees gave out and he sagged to the mat, unable to stand any longer, one red-splashed hand reaching up futilely as if to stop the inevitable blow.
Joker stood above him, crowbar lifted. He paused. Looked out of the cage at the audience, his mouth twisted with bitter laughter. “What do you say?” he called, and his voice was a white-hot stiletto. “Do I pin him and end the match, or do I keep going?” He grinned. “All those in favor of a beaten bird, say ‘Aye!”
And the crowd roared, a deep low sound of hungry approval. Clark felt Bruce flinch as if it were a blow to the chest.
“Those who wish me to spare the poor dear boy,” fluted the Joker, “Raise your voices!”
The response was pitched higher, lighter: younger voices, on the whole. And so much weaker.
“Let me just clarify,” said the Joker. “You want me to keep hitting this Robin with a crowbar even though he’s broken and bleeding at my feet?” He shook his head at the rafter-rattling approval. “Oh,” he said softly. “You are funny.”
And then he raised the crowbar once more.
As it came down, Clark heard a young voice in the audience cry out “No!” as if his heart was breaking, but the arc of the crowbar slowed not a bit.
The last five minutes were a blur to Clark, a bloody smudge of memory. He remembered hearing the announcers gleefully announcing that “#DeadRobin is trending on Twitter worldwide!” He remembered spotting Luthor’s face in the crowd milling backstage, pale and set with fury. He remembered the feel of Bruce’s shoulder under his hand and the sound of Bruce’s breaths.
And then it was over, and the Joker was clasping his bloody hands over his head in victory. Harley was unlocking the cage door, and he was climbing out.
“Wayne! Wayne! You’re on! Get the hell out there!”
Bruce flinched at the sound of Hal Jordan’s voice, tearing his eyes from the monitor. He broke into a run and headed out into the arena. Clark watched him go, then switched his attention to the monitor to see the Dark Knight appear at the top of the ramp.
The crowd had gone quiet as the Joker slipped away through them and disappeared rather than face the Dark Knight. The cowled figure paused at the top of the ramp, staring at the huddled form in the blood-soaked ring. “Jason,” he rasped, and the crowd murmured--it was always “Robin” in public.
As the Dark Knight ran down the ramp, there was a cackle of Joker laughter from the loudspeakers, and the pyrotechnics in the four turnbuckles went off with a thundercrack, turning the corners of the ring into pillars of scarlet flame for a moment.
Bruce had known about the fireworks, but he staggered backwards at the crackle of sound as if he had utterly forgotten about them, throwing his hands up in front of his face. As the flames died down he threw open the cage door and knelt at Robin’s side, covering his face for a moment. His shoulders shook. Leaning down, he gathered Jason’s broken form into his arms.
And then he raised his head and looked out at the crowd, and Clark drew in a sharp, helpless breath at the expression in his eyes.
Slowly, he stood and he carried Jason out of the arena, ignoring the jeers and cheers of the crowd that rained around them. He didn’t falter, he didn’t look to either side.
And then they disappeared around the corner. The match was over--and it was a match that would appear on “greatest hits” compilations forevermore, but no one backstage was thinking about that at the moment.
“What the hell were you thinking, Todd!” Luthor was pale with fury, his green eyes blazing. “Blading like that--you think I want sports commissioners breathing down my neck again like they did when my father was in charge of this promotion? Do you?”
“It’s not illegal,” said Jason, scrubbing his face with a towel that came away crimson. “And did you hear that crowd pop?”
“People start thinking I encourage my workers to deliberately mutilate themselves, and this whole business will become illegal. You want all your friends to lose their jobs? Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay for this one, Todd.”
“Oh come off it,” snarled Jason. “You’re canning me anyway. You think I’m blind? You think I can’t see I’m not on the card after tonight? How were you going to break it to me, huh--by an email?”
All of the rage in Luthor’s face shifted to ice-cold impassivity. “Maybe I was just going to send you back down to a developmental promotion, Todd. Maybe I just thought you needed more time to figure out your style, find an approach that was your own.” He stalked up until he was right in Jason’s face. “But you’ll never know, because now I am going to fire you. Pack up your things and get the hell out.”
And he turned on his heel and walked away.
All the other wrestlers were avoiding eye contact with Jason, giving him a wide berth as they picked up the gear, as if his ill-fortune might somehow rub off on them. Only Joker gave him a furtive thumbs-up as he slipped out the door, leaving Clark and Bruce alone with the former Robin.
“Well,” said Jason, his voice cracking with the attempt to sound cheerful. “I guess I put on a hell of a final match. No one will be forgetting that anytime soon.” He looked at Bruce, who was standing immobile next to Clark, his cowl pulled down and his gaze distant, and his own hard stare softened. “I’m sorry, Bruce,” he said, putting a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know you hated it, but I thought it was a good story.”
“It was a good story. It was a great match.” Bruce’s voice was abstracted, unmoored. “But the crowd cheered for the Joker. Robin was unarmed, he was helpless. And they called for Joker to kill him. Just a boy, all alone against a killer.”
“Hey,” Jason frowned, concerned; he shook Bruce’s shoulder slightly. “I’m not a boy, you know. And Joker’s not a killer. The audience knows that. They didn’t really want me to die. They know it’s all fake anyway.”
Bruce recoiled from Jason, knocking his hand aside. “How could they cheer for that? What’s wrong with them?”
His voice was angry; it didn’t seem to be directed at Jason, but Jason’s temper flared in response. “Well, maybe they thought it was a good match! That ever cross your mind, Bruce?”
“That wasn’t what they were--”
“God damnit, Bruce, give me a little credit!” Jason shook his head angrily, and drops of blood spattered Bruce’s face. “I’ve had it with this business anyway, man. I was never cut out for it. You’re welcome to it.” He turned and held out his hand to Clark. “Thanks for all the help, man.” He clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “No hard feelings.”
It was caught somewhere between a statement and a question, but Bruce didn’t say anything in response. He reached up and clasped Jason’s hand for a second, silently. Clark could see his throat working.
Jason sighed. “Thanks for everything,” he murmured, and then was gone.
“Bruce?” Bruce hadn’t moved to wipe Jason’s blood off his face; he seemed to be thinking of something else. “You should probably take a shower, you’re a mess.”
Bruce nodded slowly. But soon, standing under the heavy spray of water and letting it rinse the last remnants of the Kryptonian’s paint from his face, Clark realized that Bruce had never joined him.
“Bruce?” No answer; throwing on a towel he hurried out into the locker room, hair still dripping.
Bruce was gone.
Clark glared at his phone as if willing Bruce to answer his texts and calls. Nothing. Clark had checked the local gyms, thinking maybe he’d be working out--sometimes he worked out until he could barely walk, until he was too exhausted to talk--but there was nothing. Should he call the police? And say what, “My friend is late coming back to his hotel room?” They’d laugh. Should he text Dick? But he didn’t want to worry him.
Clark Kent paced his hotel room and fretted.
His phone buzzed and he pounced on it, but the text was from a number he didn’t recognize. About your friend…
Attached was a fuzzy picture of a bar with a crowd outside it. You might want to be here for him, the next message read, followed by an address.
Clark hit the hallway at a run.
“Clark!”
Clark turned to see Dick hurrying toward the same street corner he was, phone out.
“You got the same text?” Dick asked as he drew close.
Clark nodded. “Do you know who it was?”
“No idea.” Dick looked at the bar that matched the one in the photo. “You think Bruce is inside?”
Their phones buzzed simultaneously: Another picture of a bar with a crowd out front, and an address further down the street. Where r u guys
Clark and Dick looked at each other, then broke into a run together.
“Rip his head off, the bastard!”
“Get him, Joe! Break his knees!”
“Re-arrange his face!”
Clark and Dick muscled through the seething crowd to find Bruce facing off against a hulking bald man--presumably “Joe”--surrounded by furious bar patrons. Based on the four groaning, limp bodies on the ground behind Joe, the crowd had some reason to be seeking vengeance.
Bruce’s face--still streaked with Jason’s blood--was calm and still as Joe lunged at him. He stepped out of the way, then tossed his opponent face-first into a brick wall. Joe collapsed without a sound.
“Who else wants to prove they can beat a fake athlete?” Bruce’s voice was utterly dispassionate.
The crowd growled angrily and it looked like they were about to abandon the one-on-one format and just pile onto their nemesis when Clark and Dick shoved aside the last people in their way and joined Bruce, shoulder to shoulder.
“Come on then,” Dick yelled, beckoning at the angry mob. “What are you waiting for?”
Clark put on his most dangerous Kryptonian sneer and made deliberate eye contact with the men who looked like the ringleaders, one by one. Suddenly there was a lot of foot-shuffling and looking down at the pavement, and the crowd suddenly trickled away into the night.
“I didn’t need your help,” said Bruce. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like he was speaking from a very great distance--a terrifying height, or perhaps a terrible depth.
“I know, Bruce,” said Dick. “You don’t need anyone’s help.”
“That’s the storyline,” Bruce agreed remotely. There was no alcohol on his breath, but he had started to tremble as the adrenaline rush faded.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel,” Clark said.
Bruce looked at him as if at a stranger. “They were cheering for the bad guy to win,” he said. “They were cheering for chaos and suffering. I don’t understand.”
“Shh,” said Dick. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got you.”
He and Clark slung an arm around the shaking Bruce and led him back to the hotel.
“You know how he is,” Dick said, shrugging. He and Clark were out in the hotel corridor, speaking quietly; they had left Bruce apparently asleep in the hotel bed (Clark had checked to make sure the hotel windows were the kind that opened only the barest crack). “Even when he seems to be letting you in, it only goes so far, and then you bounce off this…shield. Like how he never invites anyone to his home.” Another shrug. “It’s just who he is.”
“It isn’t like I’ve invited any of you to meet my folks or anything,” Clark said, feeling stung.
“That’s different. It isn’t like we’re swinging through Smallville every couple of months, after all! But every time we’re in Gotham he goes and spends the day with his father--”
“You mean his ‘butler,’?” Clark said, making air-quotes, and Dick laughed.
“Yeah, the mysterious Alfred--but he never asks us. I mean, he and I are really close, but there’s a lot he keeps locked up inside still.”
Clark grimaced to hide a sudden stab of guilt as he remembered that Bruce had asked him over to his house--more than once, even. But something had always come up, or Clark had been too busy, or...something. It wasn’t like he was worried to meet Bruce’s father! Bruce clearly loved him so much, and he had to be a good person, to take in and raise a foster-kid so well. He was probably just a regular guy, just like Clark’s own Pa. Probably living in the same clean-but-shabby apartment he’d raised Bruce in--Bruce could afford to buy him a nice place now, but fathers always refused to let their sons help out too much. Clark smiled as he imagined it: the broken-down couch Bruce had practiced wrestling moves on, the old television that still didn’t work well, the peeling wallpaper. Just like the Kents.
“Anyway,” Dick was saying, and Clark shook himself out of his reverie, “I’m glad you’re here for him. He seems to be taking this Jason stuff really personally.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Clark said, trying to sound certain of it.
Dick put a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes. “I’m just...really glad you’re here for him.”
Clark swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “I always will be,” he said.
“I know.”
Clark let himself back into the hotel room. Bruce was lying on the bed, but his eyes were open, looking up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” Clark said. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” said Bruce. “Thank you. For tonight.”
“Anytime,” said Clark, taking off his shirt and sliding into bed. Bruce didn’t roll away from him, but he seemed distant, abstracted. “I’m here for you,” Clark said, kissing his shoulder.
“I know,” whispered Bruce.
But his breathing never shifted into the deeper breaths of sleep, and he was still staring up at the ceiling when Clark finally fell into uneasy dreams filled with blood and explosions.