Heroes of the Squared Circle 48: Wrestling a Broomstick
Title: Wrestling a Broomstick
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Lex Luthor, Tim Drake, Superboy, Joker, Arnold Wesker
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3800
Summary: The tournament to determine the future belt-holder of the DCW begins--and Dick Grayson isn't in it! The crowd is restless...
Kota Ibushi had a match with a blow-up doll. Ibushi--and this is where I credit him with being an unbelievable wrestler--he structured it in the sense of this five-star masterpiece, an epic battle. It’s about twenty-five minutes long--he went twenty-five minutes with a doll. Think about that. By himself. By the end of the match you forget it’s a doll. It’s the old standard, you know, “So and so could wrestle a broomstick.” --Sami Zayn
Lex Luthor stood in the middle of the ring, resplendent in a dazzling white suit, purple shirt, and poison-green tie. The spotlights turned him incandescent as he took the mic away from a sweating, nervous Clark Kent and addressed the audience:
“As you know, last week witnessed a shocking turn of events here at the DCW. The man who we thought had been the Dark Knight, the current belt-holder, was revealed to be the vigilante known as Azrael, posing as the champion!”
He waited for a moment for the boos to die down.
“Azrael has, of course, been stripped of the championship, and the belt has been vacated. The whereabouts of the real Dark Knight remain unknown, and we here at the DCW can only hope that he’ll return to us safe and sound someday.” Lex cast pious eyes upward in entreaty, and Clark had to resist the urge to roll his own, imagining Bruce’s disdainful snort in reaction backstage. “But right now that means that the DCW has no champion,” Luthor went on.
The crowd murmured in anticipation.
“So I am here to announce to you that for the next month, we will be holding a tournament, and the winner will be the new DCW champion!” He gestured with a flourish at the Jumbotron screen, and a graphic of a blank tournament bracket appeared on it. “And the competitors, chosen from our finest wrestlers, are…” He paused and beamed toothily at the crowd, taking a moment to let the suspense build.
And in that moment, a chant began: low at first but quickly gaining in momentum.
“Grayson. Grayson. Grayson! Grayson!”
From his vantage point as the hapless interviewer, Clark saw Luthor frown for a second before he started to list names, speaking over the chants. The names appeared on the screen to fill in the brackets: Killer Croc, Two-Face, Captain Marvel, El Dragón, the Metropolis Kid. With each name, a smattering of cheers or boos would ripple around the arena--but the “Grayson” chants continued to build, until Luthor was pretty much shouting names over it: “Copperhead! Arnold Wesker! And--”
He cut off, rolling his eyes with annoyance, as the Joker’s music hit and the Clown Prince of Wrestling strutted down to the ring in a purple lamé tuxedo.
“Lexy, Lexy, Sexy Lexy!” crooned Napier, leaning in far too close. “You’ve listed seven people, and I’m certain the last name on the list is moi’s, correct?”
“Well now.” Luthor assembled a look that was nine parts bravado and one part nervous as he backed away from the Joker. The crowd was still chanting for “Grayson!” and he used that to pretend he couldn’t hear the Joker, cupping his hand to his ear and miming exaggerated chagrin as he got out of the ring and headed up the ramp, followed closely by Joker and a still-flustered Clark Kent protesting that “The interview isn’t over, sir!”
At the top of the ramp, Joker seized Luthor’s arm: “No, Lex, I really, really would like to hear that last name!”
Luthor wrenched away and hurried backstage, the camera crew following after in the inexplicable way professional wrestling camera crews will. The crowd jeered and chanted as the Jumbotron showed a hassled Luthor making his way through the backstage corridors, brushing past staff as he was pursued by an insistent Joker. Finally, he turned to face Napier like a fox brought to bay by a particularly persistent hound: “OK, Joker, the eighth person is...is…” He looked around wildly, clearly unwilling to cave and name Napier, and his eye fell on the lighting crew, hunched over the equipment. “You!” he yelled.
Tim Drake looked up, startled. “Yes, sir?”
“You, skinny kid. You want to wrestle, right?”
“Um, of course I do,” Tim said as Napier danced with frustration at the edge of the camera. Clark could hear ripples of distant laughter from the arena at the tableau laid out before them on the screen: the harried Luthor, the wide-eyed Drake, the exasperated Napier.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Drake,” stammered Tim. “Tim Drake.”
“Congratulations,” Luthor said, lunging forward to shake his hand. “You’re the eighth member of the tournament!”
Tim blinked at him, more horrified than thrilled. “What?”
“Yeah, yeah. Can’t you hear the audience calling for you?” Luthor threw an arm out. “They’re yelling Drake! Drake! Drake!”
Tim grimaced. “I think that’s Dick! Dick! Dick!, sir.” Which was true, but Clark noticed that a ragged cheer had gone up at Luthor’s words: apparently fans of Sora, the little independent promotion Tim had been wrestling in.
”Don’t argue with me,” snapped Luthor. “Now get yourself a ring gear, and a better name--try to aim for something a little more aggressive than ‘Drake.’ Isn’t that a duck? Or a reggae singer or something?”
“It’s a drag--okay, sir, yes,” said Tim.
“You wrestle next week.” He eyed Tim critically. “You might want to work out a little, too,” he said before striding off.
“You,” said Napier, closing in on Tim, dropping his voice to the menacing whisper that made children cry in their sleep. “”You’ve kept me from being in the tournament.” Tim swallowed hard, unnerved, and tried to sidle away from him, but Napier grabbed his arm. “I’ll remember your name, Deke.”
“Hey!” Tim yelled after him, his fear overcome for a moment by pride. “It’s Drake!”
“It was a great promo, Tim,” said Bruce, stripping off his shirt and dropping it in the corner of the practice ring of the DCW gym. He beckoned to Clark with an ironic smile and Clark climbed into the ring to join him. Selina and Barbara were running through their next match in the other ring while Ivy yelled advice at them; elsewhere in the gym people were working out or watching old matches on the monitors.
“Did you hear how they were chanting for Dick, though?” Tim’s eyes were starry. “And he hasn’t even debuted as the Dark Knight yet! They’re gonna go crazy next week. I just hope Luthor heard them.”
“I could hardly avoid it,” drawled a dry voice. Luthor ambled into the gym, casting as always a proprietary, pleased glance around it first. “I should think you’d be more excited about your first match.”
“Dick’s more important than I am,” Tim said with a fervor that made Luthor chuckle condescendingly.
“We’ll see if they can keep their enthusiasm when he officially debuts as the Dark Knight,” Luthor said. “They think it’s a great idea now, but we’ll see how it is in practice, having a cruiserweight as the Dark Knight.”
“Weight doesn’t matter,” Tim shot back. “What matters is charisma and skill, and you know it. That’s why Dick is the best choice for the DCW champion.”
Luthor sighed, loud and exasperated--but to Clark’s surprise, he continued to argue with Tim. “It’s not believable. The audience will never buy that someone so small can hold his own in the ring against a huge guy like Killer Croc or Bane. It’ll make a joke of the belt.” Tim opened his mouth again, but Luthor cut him off with a shushing gesture. “This discussion is over,” he said, and turned away as if Tim had ceased to exist. “About time you showed up to shake off some of that ring rust,” he said to Bruce just as if he weren’t the person who had told him not to come back before he was ready.
Bruce shrugged and gestured to Clark without answering Lex. “I’m sure Luthor wants to see if I’m up to speed yet, so let’s show the man, shall we?”
“Ding ding ding!” yelled Ivy, looking over at them, and there was a smattering of applause as Clark moved forward and Bruce sidled to the left, avoiding him. They circled in the ring as if wary of each other, both reaching forward as if trying to grapple the other, their hands colliding and pushing at each other. The wariness was only partially faked--Bruce had a practice ring as good as this one in the basement of Wayne Manor (Clark wasn’t sure why he had been surprised to find that out, because of course he did), and they’d gone a few rounds recently. But doing it here in public, in front of everyone--Clark felt a sudden irrational fear that he was going to damage Bruce’s neck again, and had to grit his teeth to move past the initial circling. Only the flash of irritation in Bruce’s eyes--I know you’re stalling, now quit it--pushed him past his reluctance.
A quick feint to the right and a dash to the left, and he grabbed Bruce in an armlock. Bruce yelled in pain and all activity in the gym stopped for a moment as everyone looked at them: Thanks a lot, Bruce, Clark thought as Bruce looked up at him and winked before rolling into a somersault, countering the armlock and throwing Clark on his back. As Clark jumped to his feet, Bruce threw himself against the ropes and Clark came up right into a dropkick that slammed him back down again.
It seemed more work than usual--neither of them had wrestled in front of an audience for too long, and that sense of telepathy between them wasn’t as free and open as usual. But it was still there, a riverbed choked with leaves that a wash of water would clear once more; the rock and stone of it was part of who they were now.
As Clark climbed slowly to his feet, shaking his head like he was dazed, Bruce tapped his shoulder three times. It could have looked like he was just sore, but he met Clark’s eyes briefly while doing it. Following his lead, Clark threw himself at Bruce, and when Bruce dodged he ricocheted off the ropes beyond him, throwing a vicious-looking shoulder tackle that left Bruce sprawled on the mat. Bruce leapt to his feet just in time to intercept another shoulder tackle, and then another. The third time he didn’t get up, and Clark put his foot on his neck, gloating.
Bruce glared up at him, and for a moment they just stood there, a portrait of cruelty and courage.
“Not bad,” said Luthor, and Clark broke the pose as Bruce sat up. “That dropkick was a beat slow, though.”
Bruce nodded. “It was.”
“You think you’ll be ready to enter an angle by the time the tournament is over?”
Bruce nodded again, and Luthor rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “An angle with Kent makes sense. You two work well together, so less chance of re-injuring yourself. And since Kent refuses to play a heel any longer--” An annoyed glare at Clark. “--We can use that angle to turn the Kryptonian face. If you still want,” he said to Clark.
“I won’t play the Kryptonian as heel again,” said Clark, crossing his arms.
Luthor shrugged. “Work out the details and run them by me, then. I’ll be damned if I let my bookers waste time on a storyline like that.”
“You realize he’s basically just given us free rein to book your face turn however we want,” Bruce said in a low voice as Luthor strolled over to watch Selina and Barbara practice.
“But god forbid he not sound like a jerk while doing it,” Clark murmured back.
“The following contest is for one fall, and the winner will advance in the tournament for the DCW title! In this corner, we have...Arnold Wesker!”
“No, no, no,” said Wesker, stepping forward. “I don’t wrestle. I’m just a manager for Mr. Scarface.” He held up the puppet dressed like a gangster, and “Mr. Scarface’s” mouth moved as a brusque, angry voice boomed out:
“Dummy’s right! I’m the rassler here! You call my name, babe!”
The ring announcer looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “In this corner, weighing in at...I’m guessing, ten or fifteen pounds? Scarface!”
Scarface raised his arms and preened for the audience’s boos.
“And his opponent, weighing in at a hundred and seventy pounds, from Gotham City…” She paused, nonplussed again, and turned to the figure cloaked in black. “What was your name again, son?”
Tim Drake straightened to address the crowd. “I’m here because there’s a new Dark Knight, and he needs a friend. So you can call me…” He threw off his robe to reveal his red ring gear. “Red Robin!”
Despite the dramatic reveal, the crowd’s applause was polite and perfunctory as the slender unknown stepped forward and had his first match.
With a puppet.
The crowd started to laugh as Red Robin grabbed Scarface away from Wesker and threw him to the mat. He pinned him quickly, but at the two-count Tim hurled himself backwards and away as if the puppet had broken the pin and tossed him off. The illusion was utterly convincing, and the audience gasped in surprise.
Tim hung on the ropes for a second, mouth agape as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and from the apron Wesker called out shrilly in support of Mr. Scarface. Red Robin threw himself forward as if to pin Scarface again--and with a quick handspring Tim made it look as if the puppet had reversed the attack and tossed him to the other side of the ring. A ripple of appreciative applause went around the arena, but Red Robin had no time to acknowledge it as he began to approach his opponent again--this time carefully, warily. But his caution was in vain, because this time when he closed on Scarface the puppet managed to get his arms around Red Robin’s neck, and Tim sold the chokehold for all it was worth, struggling wildly with his arms flailing. He reached desperately for the ropes, miming Scarface pulling him back away from them once, twice, three times--until his groping hand managed to grab a rope and Scarface was “forced” to release the hold, his blank staring grin oddly malign as he fell to the mat.
Around the ring they went again, with Red Robin seemingly fighting a heroic losing battle against the increasingly creepy puppet as Tim went through the motions of combat. The crowd--almost against their will--started to accept the illusion, cheering for Red Robin when it looked like he might defeat Scarface. By the close of the match--a series of Canadian destroyer flips in which Scarface seemed to be tossing a helpless Red Robin around the ring--the crowd was laughing and screaming in equal measure, booing Wesker and exhorting Red Robin to not give up. The young hero looked exhausted as he lay under the cruel pin of the demonic puppet, sweat pouring off his face and his sides heaving. Clark knew that weariness was entirely unfeigned--usually in a match you could count on your “opponent” to help out, but here, Tim was doing all the work.
The referee counted: “One! Two! Th--” and at the last second Red Robin managed to get one shoulder up and break the pin.
The crowd stood up to cheer, completely lost in the illusion.
And a skinny figure in purple suddenly slithered out from under the ring and loomed over Red Robin.
The audience shrieked as the Joker put a white shoe on Red Robin’s chest and shoved him to the mat, leaning down to pick up Scarface. “I don’t think so,” he cackled into the puppet’s face. “I want the satisfaction of beating this upstart myself.”
With a sharp motion, he ripped Scarface’s head from his shoulders.
Clark heard high-pitched screams from a scattering of children who had come, at some level, to believe that Scarface was sentient, and grimaced in sympathy for the scores of parents having to deal with nightmares of the Joker hiding under children’s beds tonight.
Joker tossed the broken bits of Scarface at a gibbering Wesker, then turned his attention to Red Robin. “You,” he said, grinding his foot into Robin’s chest. “You took my spot. So now I think I’ll make you nothing more than a greasy spot on the mat. That seems only fair and right, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?” He pressed down harder and Tim choked and gasped, scrabbling at the mat. There was a horrible, tense moment, a long silence broken only by the low rolling horror of the crowd.
When the Dark Knight’s music finally hit, Clark felt relief wash through him. And he had known it was going to happen! He heard himself chuckle weakly and felt Bruce’s hand clap his shoulder, neither of them looking away from the monitor showing Dick Grayson as the Dark Knight descend the ramp at last to face down the Joker.
Gone were the spikes and armor of Azrael’s tenure, but the costume wasn’t quite the same as when Bruce had worn it, either: midnight blue instead of black, silky instead of matte, it flattered his leaner, less bulky physique and made him look fluid and graceful.
He didn’t waste time with words, throwing himself into the ring in the defense of Red Robin as if the joyous shrieks of the crowd were fuel for a fire within. Red Robin rolled out of the way as the two careened around the ring, punching and kicking in a frenzy as Joker’s laugh rang out over the crowd, spurring them to new heights. They even ignored Lex Luthor’s music when it started, and eventually had to be pulled apart by six referees as Luthor made his way down the ramp.
“Joker,” Luthor said, nodding to the man being restrained by three people. “And...you’re supposed to be the Dark Knight now?” he said, looking Dick Grayson over. “I guess they’ve had to lower their standards after the last two washed out.”
A growling mutter of anger rumpled the crowd, and a scattered chant of “Grayson! Grayson!” started. Luthor flung one hand up in exasperation: “Oh, shut up,” he snarled at them.
The chants grew like raindrops coming together on a window pane, gaining momentum, flowing down to the ring like pure energy.
Luthor looked from the groaning Red Robin to the sobbing Wesker cradling the broken puppet. “Well, we’ve got two competitors in no shape to advance. Red Robin needs to go to the hospital and Scarface--” He grimaced, “I dunno, do we have a wood shop or something?” He dismissed them both with a wave and turned to Joker and the Dark Knight. “You two seem to have unfinished business!” he barked. “Well, you can finish it in two weeks--when you can have it out to see which of you get to advance in the tournament for the DCW championship!”
The boos transmuted magically to cheers, and Luthor waited just long enough to let their crest break over them like a wave.
“You!” he pointed at Joker, and the cheers were abruptly boos again, raining down on the clown. “I expect to see you knock some sense into this pretender.” The pointing finger switched to the Dark Knight, and the crowd lit up once more.
I can keep this up all night, Luthor’s small smile said. I can play you all like a harp. But he stopped there--with a gesture, his music started back up, and he strutted out of the ring and up the ramp. The Dark Knight went to check on Red Robin and help him slowly limp up the ramp--they turned at the top and waved at the crowd together, Dick’s arm around Tim’s shoulder, and the crowd reverberated love back to them.
Arnold Wesker was still begging for a stretcher for Scarface as they cut to commercial.
“Tim!” Conner’s hug lifted Tim Drake up off the floor in its enthusiasm. “What a match, buddy. I’m just sorry you’re out of the tournament.”
“Eh.” Tim shrugged. “It’s not often you get to debut in a championship tournament, you know? And it’s not like I would have gone very far. No one knows me.”
“That’s going to change,” Conner said.
“Has Luthor told you yet who’s going over in the match between you and Two-Face next week?”
“Nah, but come on.” Conner shrugged. “You’ve heard the heat he gets when he shows up. I just want to have a good match against him. I haven’t come into my own yet, but that’s gonna change soon, right, ‘Dad’?” he said with a broad wink at Clark.
Clark laughed. “I hope so.” It was his secret dream to have an actual face faction--they were rare, most factions were of heels, with faces more likely to be loners. But he thought he could do it.
“You know,” said Conner, “I’ve been thinking. You know how we haven’t decided who my other clone-parent is? Well, remember how Jean Paul accidentally called Luthor his father and Luthor said he didn’t have any sons?” Clark nodded, puzzled. “Well, that was kind of a tense moment so it didn’t seem right to mention it then, but it got me thinking…”
Once he was done explaining his idea, Clark laughed for quite a while. “Okay,” he said, wiping his eyes, “You’ve sold me. Now if you can convince Luthor to go through with it, you’ve got yourself an angle.”
“Hot dog!” yelled “edgy, lone wolf” Conner, and pumped his fist in the air before running off.
“I don’t think I like it,” Bruce said, appearing at his shoulder.
“Well, it’s ludicrous, of course, but he’s goofy enough I think the audience might go for it.”
“No,” said Bruce. “I don’t think the idea of sharing you with Lex Luthor.”
His glower was almost comically overdone, and Clark snorted. “It’s just a storyline.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Bruce. “I want your most important storylines to always be with me.” He still wasn’t smiling, but then he shrugged, and his expression turned a bit sheepish under the glower. “I want us to be the most important people in each others’ lives, in the ring and out.”
Clark smiled and gave him a slow-motion punch in the mouth, lingering just long enough to feel Bruce’s lips start to curve upward against his knuckles.
“As if it could be any other way,” Clark said.
AN: Tim’s match with Scarface is inspired by this match between Kota Ibushi and Yoshihiko (the blow up doll). I’ve cued the video up to the sequence of Canadian Destroyer flips, but I recommend watching the whole match, it’s amazing.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Lex Luthor, Tim Drake, Superboy, Joker, Arnold Wesker
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion ( click for notes and all chapters).
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3800
Summary: The tournament to determine the future belt-holder of the DCW begins--and Dick Grayson isn't in it! The crowd is restless...
Kota Ibushi had a match with a blow-up doll. Ibushi--and this is where I credit him with being an unbelievable wrestler--he structured it in the sense of this five-star masterpiece, an epic battle. It’s about twenty-five minutes long--he went twenty-five minutes with a doll. Think about that. By himself. By the end of the match you forget it’s a doll. It’s the old standard, you know, “So and so could wrestle a broomstick.” --Sami Zayn
Lex Luthor stood in the middle of the ring, resplendent in a dazzling white suit, purple shirt, and poison-green tie. The spotlights turned him incandescent as he took the mic away from a sweating, nervous Clark Kent and addressed the audience:
“As you know, last week witnessed a shocking turn of events here at the DCW. The man who we thought had been the Dark Knight, the current belt-holder, was revealed to be the vigilante known as Azrael, posing as the champion!”
He waited for a moment for the boos to die down.
“Azrael has, of course, been stripped of the championship, and the belt has been vacated. The whereabouts of the real Dark Knight remain unknown, and we here at the DCW can only hope that he’ll return to us safe and sound someday.” Lex cast pious eyes upward in entreaty, and Clark had to resist the urge to roll his own, imagining Bruce’s disdainful snort in reaction backstage. “But right now that means that the DCW has no champion,” Luthor went on.
The crowd murmured in anticipation.
“So I am here to announce to you that for the next month, we will be holding a tournament, and the winner will be the new DCW champion!” He gestured with a flourish at the Jumbotron screen, and a graphic of a blank tournament bracket appeared on it. “And the competitors, chosen from our finest wrestlers, are…” He paused and beamed toothily at the crowd, taking a moment to let the suspense build.
And in that moment, a chant began: low at first but quickly gaining in momentum.
“Grayson. Grayson. Grayson! Grayson!”
From his vantage point as the hapless interviewer, Clark saw Luthor frown for a second before he started to list names, speaking over the chants. The names appeared on the screen to fill in the brackets: Killer Croc, Two-Face, Captain Marvel, El Dragón, the Metropolis Kid. With each name, a smattering of cheers or boos would ripple around the arena--but the “Grayson” chants continued to build, until Luthor was pretty much shouting names over it: “Copperhead! Arnold Wesker! And--”
He cut off, rolling his eyes with annoyance, as the Joker’s music hit and the Clown Prince of Wrestling strutted down to the ring in a purple lamé tuxedo.
“Lexy, Lexy, Sexy Lexy!” crooned Napier, leaning in far too close. “You’ve listed seven people, and I’m certain the last name on the list is moi’s, correct?”
“Well now.” Luthor assembled a look that was nine parts bravado and one part nervous as he backed away from the Joker. The crowd was still chanting for “Grayson!” and he used that to pretend he couldn’t hear the Joker, cupping his hand to his ear and miming exaggerated chagrin as he got out of the ring and headed up the ramp, followed closely by Joker and a still-flustered Clark Kent protesting that “The interview isn’t over, sir!”
At the top of the ramp, Joker seized Luthor’s arm: “No, Lex, I really, really would like to hear that last name!”
Luthor wrenched away and hurried backstage, the camera crew following after in the inexplicable way professional wrestling camera crews will. The crowd jeered and chanted as the Jumbotron showed a hassled Luthor making his way through the backstage corridors, brushing past staff as he was pursued by an insistent Joker. Finally, he turned to face Napier like a fox brought to bay by a particularly persistent hound: “OK, Joker, the eighth person is...is…” He looked around wildly, clearly unwilling to cave and name Napier, and his eye fell on the lighting crew, hunched over the equipment. “You!” he yelled.
Tim Drake looked up, startled. “Yes, sir?”
“You, skinny kid. You want to wrestle, right?”
“Um, of course I do,” Tim said as Napier danced with frustration at the edge of the camera. Clark could hear ripples of distant laughter from the arena at the tableau laid out before them on the screen: the harried Luthor, the wide-eyed Drake, the exasperated Napier.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Drake,” stammered Tim. “Tim Drake.”
“Congratulations,” Luthor said, lunging forward to shake his hand. “You’re the eighth member of the tournament!”
Tim blinked at him, more horrified than thrilled. “What?”
“Yeah, yeah. Can’t you hear the audience calling for you?” Luthor threw an arm out. “They’re yelling Drake! Drake! Drake!”
Tim grimaced. “I think that’s Dick! Dick! Dick!, sir.” Which was true, but Clark noticed that a ragged cheer had gone up at Luthor’s words: apparently fans of Sora, the little independent promotion Tim had been wrestling in.
”Don’t argue with me,” snapped Luthor. “Now get yourself a ring gear, and a better name--try to aim for something a little more aggressive than ‘Drake.’ Isn’t that a duck? Or a reggae singer or something?”
“It’s a drag--okay, sir, yes,” said Tim.
“You wrestle next week.” He eyed Tim critically. “You might want to work out a little, too,” he said before striding off.
“You,” said Napier, closing in on Tim, dropping his voice to the menacing whisper that made children cry in their sleep. “”You’ve kept me from being in the tournament.” Tim swallowed hard, unnerved, and tried to sidle away from him, but Napier grabbed his arm. “I’ll remember your name, Deke.”
“Hey!” Tim yelled after him, his fear overcome for a moment by pride. “It’s Drake!”
“It was a great promo, Tim,” said Bruce, stripping off his shirt and dropping it in the corner of the practice ring of the DCW gym. He beckoned to Clark with an ironic smile and Clark climbed into the ring to join him. Selina and Barbara were running through their next match in the other ring while Ivy yelled advice at them; elsewhere in the gym people were working out or watching old matches on the monitors.
“Did you hear how they were chanting for Dick, though?” Tim’s eyes were starry. “And he hasn’t even debuted as the Dark Knight yet! They’re gonna go crazy next week. I just hope Luthor heard them.”
“I could hardly avoid it,” drawled a dry voice. Luthor ambled into the gym, casting as always a proprietary, pleased glance around it first. “I should think you’d be more excited about your first match.”
“Dick’s more important than I am,” Tim said with a fervor that made Luthor chuckle condescendingly.
“We’ll see if they can keep their enthusiasm when he officially debuts as the Dark Knight,” Luthor said. “They think it’s a great idea now, but we’ll see how it is in practice, having a cruiserweight as the Dark Knight.”
“Weight doesn’t matter,” Tim shot back. “What matters is charisma and skill, and you know it. That’s why Dick is the best choice for the DCW champion.”
Luthor sighed, loud and exasperated--but to Clark’s surprise, he continued to argue with Tim. “It’s not believable. The audience will never buy that someone so small can hold his own in the ring against a huge guy like Killer Croc or Bane. It’ll make a joke of the belt.” Tim opened his mouth again, but Luthor cut him off with a shushing gesture. “This discussion is over,” he said, and turned away as if Tim had ceased to exist. “About time you showed up to shake off some of that ring rust,” he said to Bruce just as if he weren’t the person who had told him not to come back before he was ready.
Bruce shrugged and gestured to Clark without answering Lex. “I’m sure Luthor wants to see if I’m up to speed yet, so let’s show the man, shall we?”
“Ding ding ding!” yelled Ivy, looking over at them, and there was a smattering of applause as Clark moved forward and Bruce sidled to the left, avoiding him. They circled in the ring as if wary of each other, both reaching forward as if trying to grapple the other, their hands colliding and pushing at each other. The wariness was only partially faked--Bruce had a practice ring as good as this one in the basement of Wayne Manor (Clark wasn’t sure why he had been surprised to find that out, because of course he did), and they’d gone a few rounds recently. But doing it here in public, in front of everyone--Clark felt a sudden irrational fear that he was going to damage Bruce’s neck again, and had to grit his teeth to move past the initial circling. Only the flash of irritation in Bruce’s eyes--I know you’re stalling, now quit it--pushed him past his reluctance.
A quick feint to the right and a dash to the left, and he grabbed Bruce in an armlock. Bruce yelled in pain and all activity in the gym stopped for a moment as everyone looked at them: Thanks a lot, Bruce, Clark thought as Bruce looked up at him and winked before rolling into a somersault, countering the armlock and throwing Clark on his back. As Clark jumped to his feet, Bruce threw himself against the ropes and Clark came up right into a dropkick that slammed him back down again.
It seemed more work than usual--neither of them had wrestled in front of an audience for too long, and that sense of telepathy between them wasn’t as free and open as usual. But it was still there, a riverbed choked with leaves that a wash of water would clear once more; the rock and stone of it was part of who they were now.
As Clark climbed slowly to his feet, shaking his head like he was dazed, Bruce tapped his shoulder three times. It could have looked like he was just sore, but he met Clark’s eyes briefly while doing it. Following his lead, Clark threw himself at Bruce, and when Bruce dodged he ricocheted off the ropes beyond him, throwing a vicious-looking shoulder tackle that left Bruce sprawled on the mat. Bruce leapt to his feet just in time to intercept another shoulder tackle, and then another. The third time he didn’t get up, and Clark put his foot on his neck, gloating.
Bruce glared up at him, and for a moment they just stood there, a portrait of cruelty and courage.
“Not bad,” said Luthor, and Clark broke the pose as Bruce sat up. “That dropkick was a beat slow, though.”
Bruce nodded. “It was.”
“You think you’ll be ready to enter an angle by the time the tournament is over?”
Bruce nodded again, and Luthor rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “An angle with Kent makes sense. You two work well together, so less chance of re-injuring yourself. And since Kent refuses to play a heel any longer--” An annoyed glare at Clark. “--We can use that angle to turn the Kryptonian face. If you still want,” he said to Clark.
“I won’t play the Kryptonian as heel again,” said Clark, crossing his arms.
Luthor shrugged. “Work out the details and run them by me, then. I’ll be damned if I let my bookers waste time on a storyline like that.”
“You realize he’s basically just given us free rein to book your face turn however we want,” Bruce said in a low voice as Luthor strolled over to watch Selina and Barbara practice.
“But god forbid he not sound like a jerk while doing it,” Clark murmured back.
“The following contest is for one fall, and the winner will advance in the tournament for the DCW title! In this corner, we have...Arnold Wesker!”
“No, no, no,” said Wesker, stepping forward. “I don’t wrestle. I’m just a manager for Mr. Scarface.” He held up the puppet dressed like a gangster, and “Mr. Scarface’s” mouth moved as a brusque, angry voice boomed out:
“Dummy’s right! I’m the rassler here! You call my name, babe!”
The ring announcer looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “In this corner, weighing in at...I’m guessing, ten or fifteen pounds? Scarface!”
Scarface raised his arms and preened for the audience’s boos.
“And his opponent, weighing in at a hundred and seventy pounds, from Gotham City…” She paused, nonplussed again, and turned to the figure cloaked in black. “What was your name again, son?”
Tim Drake straightened to address the crowd. “I’m here because there’s a new Dark Knight, and he needs a friend. So you can call me…” He threw off his robe to reveal his red ring gear. “Red Robin!”
Despite the dramatic reveal, the crowd’s applause was polite and perfunctory as the slender unknown stepped forward and had his first match.
With a puppet.
The crowd started to laugh as Red Robin grabbed Scarface away from Wesker and threw him to the mat. He pinned him quickly, but at the two-count Tim hurled himself backwards and away as if the puppet had broken the pin and tossed him off. The illusion was utterly convincing, and the audience gasped in surprise.
Tim hung on the ropes for a second, mouth agape as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened, and from the apron Wesker called out shrilly in support of Mr. Scarface. Red Robin threw himself forward as if to pin Scarface again--and with a quick handspring Tim made it look as if the puppet had reversed the attack and tossed him to the other side of the ring. A ripple of appreciative applause went around the arena, but Red Robin had no time to acknowledge it as he began to approach his opponent again--this time carefully, warily. But his caution was in vain, because this time when he closed on Scarface the puppet managed to get his arms around Red Robin’s neck, and Tim sold the chokehold for all it was worth, struggling wildly with his arms flailing. He reached desperately for the ropes, miming Scarface pulling him back away from them once, twice, three times--until his groping hand managed to grab a rope and Scarface was “forced” to release the hold, his blank staring grin oddly malign as he fell to the mat.
Around the ring they went again, with Red Robin seemingly fighting a heroic losing battle against the increasingly creepy puppet as Tim went through the motions of combat. The crowd--almost against their will--started to accept the illusion, cheering for Red Robin when it looked like he might defeat Scarface. By the close of the match--a series of Canadian destroyer flips in which Scarface seemed to be tossing a helpless Red Robin around the ring--the crowd was laughing and screaming in equal measure, booing Wesker and exhorting Red Robin to not give up. The young hero looked exhausted as he lay under the cruel pin of the demonic puppet, sweat pouring off his face and his sides heaving. Clark knew that weariness was entirely unfeigned--usually in a match you could count on your “opponent” to help out, but here, Tim was doing all the work.
The referee counted: “One! Two! Th--” and at the last second Red Robin managed to get one shoulder up and break the pin.
The crowd stood up to cheer, completely lost in the illusion.
And a skinny figure in purple suddenly slithered out from under the ring and loomed over Red Robin.
The audience shrieked as the Joker put a white shoe on Red Robin’s chest and shoved him to the mat, leaning down to pick up Scarface. “I don’t think so,” he cackled into the puppet’s face. “I want the satisfaction of beating this upstart myself.”
With a sharp motion, he ripped Scarface’s head from his shoulders.
Clark heard high-pitched screams from a scattering of children who had come, at some level, to believe that Scarface was sentient, and grimaced in sympathy for the scores of parents having to deal with nightmares of the Joker hiding under children’s beds tonight.
Joker tossed the broken bits of Scarface at a gibbering Wesker, then turned his attention to Red Robin. “You,” he said, grinding his foot into Robin’s chest. “You took my spot. So now I think I’ll make you nothing more than a greasy spot on the mat. That seems only fair and right, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?” He pressed down harder and Tim choked and gasped, scrabbling at the mat. There was a horrible, tense moment, a long silence broken only by the low rolling horror of the crowd.
When the Dark Knight’s music finally hit, Clark felt relief wash through him. And he had known it was going to happen! He heard himself chuckle weakly and felt Bruce’s hand clap his shoulder, neither of them looking away from the monitor showing Dick Grayson as the Dark Knight descend the ramp at last to face down the Joker.
Gone were the spikes and armor of Azrael’s tenure, but the costume wasn’t quite the same as when Bruce had worn it, either: midnight blue instead of black, silky instead of matte, it flattered his leaner, less bulky physique and made him look fluid and graceful.
He didn’t waste time with words, throwing himself into the ring in the defense of Red Robin as if the joyous shrieks of the crowd were fuel for a fire within. Red Robin rolled out of the way as the two careened around the ring, punching and kicking in a frenzy as Joker’s laugh rang out over the crowd, spurring them to new heights. They even ignored Lex Luthor’s music when it started, and eventually had to be pulled apart by six referees as Luthor made his way down the ramp.
“Joker,” Luthor said, nodding to the man being restrained by three people. “And...you’re supposed to be the Dark Knight now?” he said, looking Dick Grayson over. “I guess they’ve had to lower their standards after the last two washed out.”
A growling mutter of anger rumpled the crowd, and a scattered chant of “Grayson! Grayson!” started. Luthor flung one hand up in exasperation: “Oh, shut up,” he snarled at them.
The chants grew like raindrops coming together on a window pane, gaining momentum, flowing down to the ring like pure energy.
Luthor looked from the groaning Red Robin to the sobbing Wesker cradling the broken puppet. “Well, we’ve got two competitors in no shape to advance. Red Robin needs to go to the hospital and Scarface--” He grimaced, “I dunno, do we have a wood shop or something?” He dismissed them both with a wave and turned to Joker and the Dark Knight. “You two seem to have unfinished business!” he barked. “Well, you can finish it in two weeks--when you can have it out to see which of you get to advance in the tournament for the DCW championship!”
The boos transmuted magically to cheers, and Luthor waited just long enough to let their crest break over them like a wave.
“You!” he pointed at Joker, and the cheers were abruptly boos again, raining down on the clown. “I expect to see you knock some sense into this pretender.” The pointing finger switched to the Dark Knight, and the crowd lit up once more.
I can keep this up all night, Luthor’s small smile said. I can play you all like a harp. But he stopped there--with a gesture, his music started back up, and he strutted out of the ring and up the ramp. The Dark Knight went to check on Red Robin and help him slowly limp up the ramp--they turned at the top and waved at the crowd together, Dick’s arm around Tim’s shoulder, and the crowd reverberated love back to them.
Arnold Wesker was still begging for a stretcher for Scarface as they cut to commercial.
“Tim!” Conner’s hug lifted Tim Drake up off the floor in its enthusiasm. “What a match, buddy. I’m just sorry you’re out of the tournament.”
“Eh.” Tim shrugged. “It’s not often you get to debut in a championship tournament, you know? And it’s not like I would have gone very far. No one knows me.”
“That’s going to change,” Conner said.
“Has Luthor told you yet who’s going over in the match between you and Two-Face next week?”
“Nah, but come on.” Conner shrugged. “You’ve heard the heat he gets when he shows up. I just want to have a good match against him. I haven’t come into my own yet, but that’s gonna change soon, right, ‘Dad’?” he said with a broad wink at Clark.
Clark laughed. “I hope so.” It was his secret dream to have an actual face faction--they were rare, most factions were of heels, with faces more likely to be loners. But he thought he could do it.
“You know,” said Conner, “I’ve been thinking. You know how we haven’t decided who my other clone-parent is? Well, remember how Jean Paul accidentally called Luthor his father and Luthor said he didn’t have any sons?” Clark nodded, puzzled. “Well, that was kind of a tense moment so it didn’t seem right to mention it then, but it got me thinking…”
Once he was done explaining his idea, Clark laughed for quite a while. “Okay,” he said, wiping his eyes, “You’ve sold me. Now if you can convince Luthor to go through with it, you’ve got yourself an angle.”
“Hot dog!” yelled “edgy, lone wolf” Conner, and pumped his fist in the air before running off.
“I don’t think I like it,” Bruce said, appearing at his shoulder.
“Well, it’s ludicrous, of course, but he’s goofy enough I think the audience might go for it.”
“No,” said Bruce. “I don’t think the idea of sharing you with Lex Luthor.”
His glower was almost comically overdone, and Clark snorted. “It’s just a storyline.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Bruce. “I want your most important storylines to always be with me.” He still wasn’t smiling, but then he shrugged, and his expression turned a bit sheepish under the glower. “I want us to be the most important people in each others’ lives, in the ring and out.”
Clark smiled and gave him a slow-motion punch in the mouth, lingering just long enough to feel Bruce’s lips start to curve upward against his knuckles.
“As if it could be any other way,” Clark said.
AN: Tim’s match with Scarface is inspired by this match between Kota Ibushi and Yoshihiko (the blow up doll). I’ve cued the video up to the sequence of Canadian Destroyer flips, but I recommend watching the whole match, it’s amazing.