Heroes of the Squared Circle: Rematch (71/74)
Title: Rematch
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Metallo, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Steph Brown
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3900
Summary: The current champion gets injured in the middle of Superman and Batman's feud. As their rematch looms, who will be the top contender for the newly-vacated title?
For wrestling fans, unreality is our passion but reality is our drug. --David Shoemaker
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you in here today.”
The audience off-screen booed as the camera pulled out from a pair of well-manicured hands to reveal Lex Luthor speaking to the Dark Knight, looming incongruously in Luthor’s well-apportioned office.
“Not really,” grated the Dark Knight. “I assume you’re here to suggest an alliance, now that I find myself at odds with Superman.”
Luthor arched an eyebrow. “The thought had occurred to me,” he said. “We appear to have goals in common. Enemies in common.”
Batman moved so fast the camera didn’t even catch it; in an instant he had Luthor by his lapels and up against the wall of his office. “Do not ever presume that just because Superman and I don’t get along, you and I have anything in common.”
Luthor looked at him without blinking until Batman released him. He brushed off his suit carefully, as if the Dark Knight’s gloves might have left smudges there. “I’m merely suggesting that we could help each other. I can’t fire either of you outright--I’d never hear the end of it.” His green eyes gleamed ironically; those who knew him well could see his wry humor at stating the truth within kayfabe. “But I believe I can count on you to make his life hell. In return--I believe you no longer have that chunk of Kryptonite, am I right?”
Batman’s hunched shoulders were answer enough.
“You can’t beat him without it, you know.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“Oh come now,” said Luthor. When Batman didn’t respond, he shrugged. “Well, my colleague Metallo runs on Kryptonite. If you promise to beat Superman until he quits, I’ll book Metallo against Kal-El every match until then, until he’s so weak he won’t be able to stand against you.”
“If you’ve got Kryptonite, just send your minion to beat him, then,” growled the Dark Knight. “If you’ve got him, you don’t need me.”
“How wrong you are, my friend,” Luthor grinned, ignoring how Batman’s hands clenched at the familiarity. “I need Superman not to simply be defeated, but to give up/ Metallo can only break his body, but you--oh, you can break his spirit.”
Batman stared at Luthor for a long moment. “Superman hasn’t agreed to a rematch,” was all he said eventually.
Luthor smiled. “You know he will. And then you’ll make him regret ever working here.”
There was a long, tense silence, in which the audience made clear how they felt about this possible alliance. Then Batman pointed at Luthor and said “No deal,” and the boos collapsed into sighs of relief. “I’m not your lackey, and I don’t do your bidding,” Batman snarled. “My reasons for wanting to defeat Superman are my own. They are not yours. Have you got that?”
He turned and strode out of Luthor’s office without waiting for an answer, leaving the camera to zoom slowly in on Luthor’s face, torn between anger and resolve.
“Oh, I’ve got that, alright,” muttered Luthor.
“I still think I could be a heel,” Bruce said, watching the monitor as Azrael, still-reigning heavyweight champion, came to the ring to fight the Joker. In the corner a variety of Bruce’s quasi-students--Barbara, Tim, Kon, Steph, and Harper--were goofing off, shooting some kind of video on their phones.
Clark sighed in affectionate exasperation. “Why are you so hell-bent on being a heel?” he asked. “I mean, everyone always goes on and on about how heels have more freedom, more ability to have fun and such, but I don’t buy it. You--’you’ in general, but you in particular--can make anything interesting, you can make a story from anything. Think of it as a fresh new challenge for you, being the world’s first interesting babyface.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” The words were annoyed, but Bruce’s voice was gentle. “The best babyfaces, the rare ones who spend pretty much their whole careers on the side of good, they’re defined by their opponents. And the darker and more evil the enemy, the brighter the face can shine. You keep thinking of us as two solo acts who happen to have been thrown together, but we’re not. We’re a unit--one that comes together and apart, sure, but we’re defined by each other. Light and dark. Justice and vengeance. Heart and mind. Superman’s brightness defines Batman’s shadows; Batman’s scowl is a mirror image of Superman’s smile. At first by accident, but then on purpose, we’ve built our lives around each other. As long as we both shall live.”
Clark stared at him for a long moment. The background chatter of the younger wrestlers was a strange counterpoint to the passionate intensity of Bruce’s voice. “Okay,” Clark finally said. “But Batman doesn’t have to be evil for that, Bruce. The night isn’t more evil than the day. Shadows aren’t more evil than light. They’re just different.” He looked away from Bruce, blinking. “Besides,” he said in a small voice, “I hate hearing people boo you.”
“Oh God, Clark,” said Bruce, and leaned forward to kiss the side of his head as if he didn’t care who saw. “You’re unbelievable. But...you’re also not exactly wrong, I suppose.”
“Wow,” said Clark, “Bruce Wayne is admitting I’m right. Call the dirt sheets, we’ve got a story.”
“I didn’t say you were right, I said you weren’t exactly wrong,” Bruce said. “Besides--”
What he was going to say was abruptly lost in a chorus of inhaled breaths and muttered curses from nearly everyone in the common room. On the screen, Azrael was limping across the ring, clearly testing out putting weight on one leg, which was just as clearly failing to support him.
“He just...slipped,” said Harper, looking shocked. “It wasn’t even a botch.”
Joker swung around to gesticulate mockingly at the audience, drawing the camera and the crowd’s eyes as the referee unobtrusively checked with Jean-Paul. Clark ignored Napier’s distraction, keeping his eyes on the ref and Jean-Paul as they hurriedly conferred. Then the ref looked to the back and crossed his arms briefly over his head: the signal for a real injury.
Everyone in the common room groaned as Azrael lurched to his feet and hobbled across the ring to where the Joker was taunting a small crying child in the front row. He grabbed Joker and rolled him into a quick pin, and the ref counted Joker out. Joker came to his feet incandescent with rage, aiming several carefully-placed kicks at Azrael’s upper body and shoulders, and left him lying in the ring.
Azrael’s mask covered his whole face, but Clark could see the pain in the lines of his body as the trainers rushed up and helped him out of the ring and to the back.
“They should have called an audible and put the title on me,” Jack Napier announced angrily, waving his arms at the assembled disheartened wrestlers. “It would have been better than vacating it yet again due to injury.”
“Shut up, Joker,” groaned John Stewart. “Jean-Paul’s been a good champ this time around and it would suck to have him lose the title like that.”
“Oh, like this is better,” snarled Napier. “Vacating a title is the worst.”
“I’m sure you’re not just saying that because you’d be holding it now,” said Stewart.
“Of course not!” said Napier, and seemed at that moment to believe it entirely.
“It’s an opportunity,” said John Corbin, his eyes gleaming beneath his crew cut.
Everyone stared at him. Even the wrestlers who had been thinking it would never be so crass as to say it out loud.
“It’s a shame,” said Bruce, and Clark could tell he meant it.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Dick Grayson just a few days later, echoing his mentor without knowing it as he did chin-ups in Wayne Manor’s basement gym. “Jean-Paul and I have never gotten along, but I wouldn’t wish an ACL injury on anyone.”
Tim Drake looked over from his handstand on the turnbuckle. “Luthor’s got to have a tournament and put the strap on Clark now, right? Well, come on,” he said as everyone looked at him. “Clark is the promotion’s top babyface, and is going to be for the foreseeable future. He’s involved in the year’s most blistering feud with the ominous Dark Knight.” Bruce made a rude noise without looking up from his phone. “Everyone but the most curmudgeonly smarks love him. He’s a totally reliable workhorse. Yet he’s never been heavyweight champion. He’s way, way, way overdue.”
“Clark Kent suffers for our sins,” Dick intoned. “Luthor knows how much we all love him, so he punishes Clark to get at his annoying flock of bats.”
Steph threw her arms around Clark. “Well, we do love him.”
“I’d rather have that than the heavyweight belt,” Clark said, and everyone went Awwww with varying degrees of sincerity and sarcasm. “Anyway,” he said, trying to shift the subject away, “I watched that cage match with Mallah, Dick--great stuff, definite Match of the Year candidate.”
“We were pleased with it,” Dick said, beaming. “So was Lord.”
“I’m not going to be able to lure you back from the Titans even if everything comes together like I hope, am I?” said Bruce.
Dick bit his lip, but met Bruce’s gaze squarely. “I don’t think so, Bruce. Not for the time being, at least. I’m happy there, and I think I’m building something that will last. It means a lot to me.”
Bruce nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad for you. And proud of you.” His smile shifted into something closer to a smirk. “And I guess Clark and I will just have to put on a match that rivals yours for Match of the Year.”
“I haven’t even demanded a rematch yet,” Clark pointed out.
“Oh, but you will,” said Bruce.
“Of course I will,” grinned Clark. “As if I’m going to let you get away with your shameful behavior.”
“Will you face me again, Dark Knight?” Superman gazed at the shadowy figure on the ramp with determination. “See if you can beat me on a level playing field. Trust me, I will not make the mistake of bringing a weapon for you to use against me this time.”
“I didn’t need it last time,” said the Dark Knight, ignoring Superman’s incredulous laugh, “and I won’t need it this time, either.”
Superman stared at him for a long time, and the angry lines of his face softened into something close to sorrow. “Isn’t there another way? It seems such a waste, somehow. Do we have to do this, my old friend?”
“Yes,” said Batman, though his hands clenched in his cape as if to keep them from trembling. “Yes, we have to do this.”
He turned and left, and Superman watched him go.
The locker room and the dirt sheets all agreed that Superman was the best possible choice for a new champion. People started telling him on Twitter how much they were looking forward to seeing him with the championship. Clark bit his lip and kept his thoughts to himself. And Lex made no announcement on the topic even as the DCW led into its next big pay-per-view, with its rematch between Superman and Batman.
The Dark Knight stood alone in the ring, mic in hand, caught in a harsh pool of light that turned everything outside of it to shadow. He raised the mic slowly, and the sound of his inhalation carried through the hushed arena before he started to speak.
“People have asked me,” he said, “Why I feel like I must fight Superman. Why am I turning on my former friend like this?” He shook his head. “They’ve got it all wrong. I’m not turning on him at all.” He raised his voice. “Superman. Is nothing. But a tool,” he said, enunciating with laser-sharp precision.
The crowd muttered, but subsided as he began to speak again.
“Superman is a tool in the same way this cape and this cowl is a tool,” he said, lifting his black cape in one hand, spreading it wide. Superman is a means by which we can believe the world makes sense. Superman is a symbol of righteousness. Of justice. Of fairness. Fairness from outside of us,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “But I learned, long ago, that the world doesn’t make sense. The world is a place of chaos and pain!” His voice sharpened, then dropped back to a murmur as Bruce wrapped the cape around himself once more. “The world only makes sense if you force it to.”
The audience was nearly silent. Somewhere in the arena a baby cried, and in the back Clark smiled slightly to himself at how incongruously fitting that small wail in the dark seemed.
He lifted his head as if challenging everyone in the audience. “This mask I wear is how I make sense of the world. How I force my will upon it. This is my story, and I will tell it alone. I do not serve Luthor and the Injustice League. I am not beholden to Superman and the Justice League. And if defeating Superman is necessary, then I will do it. Not because I hate him. But a world with Superman at the center makes no sense, it violates everything we know about the pain at the heart of the world. A world with Luthor at the center is an apple filled with maggots, too corrupt to continue.” Batman thumped his chest once, like a punctuation mark. “I alone am the one who makes sense of the world. I am the one who forces order onto chaos, denying neither.” He pointed at the audience. “I am the hero you deserve--no.” He broke off and smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. “I’m not your hero. I am your lone guardian. Your watchful protector. Your Dark Knight.”
He bowed his head, and in the back Tim Drake snorted. “Hold on,” he said, “Let me text Dick and Jason and let them know Batman is a lone wolf who needs no one.”
“Don’t we have a group chat for that?” Steph said. “Alfred and Harper and Babs and Helena and Luke are all in it too.”
“But it still works,” Clark said, watching as Batman made his way out of the ring. “It doesn’t make any sense, but it still works. Isn’t that amazing?”
Tim knocked the side of Clark’s head with an elbow. “What a fanboy you are.”
“He’s a mark for Batman,” said Steph. She glanced at the screen, at the hushed crowd watching as the Dark Knight passed by.
“But,” she added, “you gotta admit he has a point.”
That promo was the last in the lead-up to the rematch which kicked off the next pay-per-view. The match was solid and involving, although Clark privately felt perhaps he hadn’t put in his best work: his hurricanrana hadn’t had as much snap as he’d liked, and one time he had oversold one of Bruce’s kicks and almost made it look ridiculous. But no one was talking about the match itself, because they were only talking about the finish.
The two wrestlers had been giving and taking equal offense for almost the entire match, and there had been some near-falls that made the audience gasp. After Superman pinned Batman for the second time, and Batman kicked out at two and a half, no one could tell what was going to happen.
And that’s when Metallo came strolling down to the ring, Kryptonite glowing balefully on his chest.
Superman gasped and turned pale, staggering away from him, ignoring the Dark Knight entirely. For his part, Batman grabbed the top rope to glare at Metallo. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed. “I can beat him! Get out of here and let me beat him myself, damn it!”
Metallo crossed his arms so the green light of the stone played across his face and smiled up at him, unmoving.
Batman cursed at him, and Clark imagined the time-delay censors in the back wincing and mashing buttons. But there was no time to enjoy the image, because he had to hurry for the finish: throwing himself forward, he came at Batman’s back with his arms flailing, staggering as if in a panic of pain and assuming he had been betrayed again.
The Dark Knight whirled and struck at him without thinking, and Superman went down in a heap, as if even that glancing blow had been enough to undo him in his weakened state.
Clark lay on the mat, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. He knew that above him the Dark Knight would be hesitating, looking from his fallen foe to Metallo on the outside. He heard Batman sigh and murmur “Okay, then”--too low for the audience to hear, the kind of thing Bruce was always careful to do to stay in character.
Then Clark felt Bruce’s body against his, pinning him almost gently, cradling his head as the ref counted. The bell rang, and for a moment Batman stayed there above him, and Clark knew he was glaring at Metallo--as if, instead of defeating Superman, he were shielding him with his body. They waited there together as Metallo strutted away from the ring, and only once he was at the top of the ramp did Batman stand up.
Clark dragged himself to his hands and knees, retching for the cameras, shaking his head in disbelief. The crowd was booing, and when their boos sharpened into jeers Clark knew Luthor had joined Corbin on the ramp with a mic.
“Congratulations, Batman,” said Luthor. “On your hard-fought victory.”
“Go to hell, Luthor!” Batman yelled, and Clark could hear Bruce’s glee under the Dark Knight’s rasp.
“But I’m not here to dwell on this,” said Luthor. “I’m here to address the fact that the heavyweight title has been vacated.”
Clark felt his heartbeat pick up; Luthor had said nothing about his plans for the most prestigious title in the promotion.
“We have so many worthy wrestlers in the DCW. How to decide who will hold that title? It’s such a conundrum.” Luthor’s smirk faltered at the moment Clark realized that a scattered “Superman” chant was beginning. “Now,” he went on, raising his voice, “how many people here want to see a tournament to decide who is the champion of this company?” The crowd burst into applause, but the “Superman” chants were not derailed; if anything they grew stronger.
Luthor’s smile was quickly becoming a rictus grin. “Who here wants to see the greatest fighters we have duke it out to prove who’s the top?”
The crowd approved of this idea--but it approved of Superman more.
“Well!” Luthor crowed. “You will indeed see the greatest fighters in the DCW battling for its highest honor. Because next month, the two-time champion, Hal Jordan, will be taking on--” He grabbed John Corbin’s hand and raised it, ”Metallo, for the heavyweight championship!”
There was a breathless beat of silence. And then the arena erupted in boos.
Clark staggered to his feet, feeling like someone had punched him in the gut. He hadn’t really expected to win, but to be denied even the symbolic chance--it felt bad, like a door being slammed in his face. All the worse for finding out in public, in the ring like this. For a moment he struggled to hide it, and then he took a breath and gathered up all that anger and disappointment and let it pour out of him, let it lift his chin to glare at Lex, even as he swayed on his feet.
Batman was on the bottom rope, leaning out of the ring, glaring at Luthor. He jabbed a finger at ring. “You just had your championship match between the two greatest fighters in the DCW, Lex!” he yelled, and it was Bruce’s voice, raw with anger and pain.
“Oh please,” Luthor sneered, unfazed at having to improvise. He pointed at Superman. “You just lost like a chump. And you,” he went on, pointing at Batman, “couldn’t win without outside help! The way I see it, neither of you belongs at the top of the card--my card.”
He leaned back and smirked, then turned to Corbin. “This is where I drop the mic, right?”
“Sure thing, boss,” said Corbin.
Luthor held out his hand with the mic, paused dramatically, and let it drop to the ramp with a loud thump.
“No, Bruce.”
Bruce grinned up at Clark from the hotel bed. “Come on. It would be fun.”
“A promo where you’re chained up and I interrogate you? I don’t think I could do that without laughing.” Clark shook his head at Bruce’s imploring look. “And no, it wouldn’t make it more acceptable if we revealed later it was all a dream sequence. You know perfectly well wrestling doesn’t work that way, Bruce. The audience doesn’t get to see wrestlers’ dreams.”
“But oh, if they could see mine,” Bruce said, smiling as if he had some wonderful secret, his eyes far away.
“Are all your dreams so kinky, Bruce? Share.”
“I’ll tell you my most precious, intimate dream, Clark, the most cherished vision in my heart.” Bruce paused, and Clark raised his eyebrows at him and waited. “You with that heavyweight championship belt around your waist.”
Clark looked down and swallowed hard. “You dope,” he said. “Lex has decided I’m not championship material and that’s that.”
Luthor had politely explained to the locker room that he believed Superman’s popularity would be “squandered” in a title run. “Clark, I’d hate to derail this red-hot feud you’ve got going with Bruce right now,” he had said. “And you’re so over, you really don’t need this belt.”
“But he deserves it,” muttered a voice in the back, and Clark had seen Luthor’s bright eyes take note of it. Steph Brown wouldn’t be getting a shot at the women’s title anytime soon either, he suspected.
He pulled his thoughts back to their hotel room. “It’s just not happening,” he said to Bruce, trying not to sound discouraged.
“Oh, it’s happening,” said Bruce. “I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen. You’ll see. It will all make sense. I’ll make it make sense.”
Then he reached out and tugged at Clark’s hand, pulling him toward the bed.
“But in the meantime,” he said, “let me tell you more about this promo.”
“The one with you helplessly chained up at my mercy and me being all masterful and intimidating?”
“That’s the one,” Bruce said with satisfaction.
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Metallo, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Steph Brown
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 3900
Summary: The current champion gets injured in the middle of Superman and Batman's feud. As their rematch looms, who will be the top contender for the newly-vacated title?
For wrestling fans, unreality is our passion but reality is our drug. --David Shoemaker
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you in here today.”
The audience off-screen booed as the camera pulled out from a pair of well-manicured hands to reveal Lex Luthor speaking to the Dark Knight, looming incongruously in Luthor’s well-apportioned office.
“Not really,” grated the Dark Knight. “I assume you’re here to suggest an alliance, now that I find myself at odds with Superman.”
Luthor arched an eyebrow. “The thought had occurred to me,” he said. “We appear to have goals in common. Enemies in common.”
Batman moved so fast the camera didn’t even catch it; in an instant he had Luthor by his lapels and up against the wall of his office. “Do not ever presume that just because Superman and I don’t get along, you and I have anything in common.”
Luthor looked at him without blinking until Batman released him. He brushed off his suit carefully, as if the Dark Knight’s gloves might have left smudges there. “I’m merely suggesting that we could help each other. I can’t fire either of you outright--I’d never hear the end of it.” His green eyes gleamed ironically; those who knew him well could see his wry humor at stating the truth within kayfabe. “But I believe I can count on you to make his life hell. In return--I believe you no longer have that chunk of Kryptonite, am I right?”
Batman’s hunched shoulders were answer enough.
“You can’t beat him without it, you know.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“Oh come now,” said Luthor. When Batman didn’t respond, he shrugged. “Well, my colleague Metallo runs on Kryptonite. If you promise to beat Superman until he quits, I’ll book Metallo against Kal-El every match until then, until he’s so weak he won’t be able to stand against you.”
“If you’ve got Kryptonite, just send your minion to beat him, then,” growled the Dark Knight. “If you’ve got him, you don’t need me.”
“How wrong you are, my friend,” Luthor grinned, ignoring how Batman’s hands clenched at the familiarity. “I need Superman not to simply be defeated, but to give up/ Metallo can only break his body, but you--oh, you can break his spirit.”
Batman stared at Luthor for a long moment. “Superman hasn’t agreed to a rematch,” was all he said eventually.
Luthor smiled. “You know he will. And then you’ll make him regret ever working here.”
There was a long, tense silence, in which the audience made clear how they felt about this possible alliance. Then Batman pointed at Luthor and said “No deal,” and the boos collapsed into sighs of relief. “I’m not your lackey, and I don’t do your bidding,” Batman snarled. “My reasons for wanting to defeat Superman are my own. They are not yours. Have you got that?”
He turned and strode out of Luthor’s office without waiting for an answer, leaving the camera to zoom slowly in on Luthor’s face, torn between anger and resolve.
“Oh, I’ve got that, alright,” muttered Luthor.
“I still think I could be a heel,” Bruce said, watching the monitor as Azrael, still-reigning heavyweight champion, came to the ring to fight the Joker. In the corner a variety of Bruce’s quasi-students--Barbara, Tim, Kon, Steph, and Harper--were goofing off, shooting some kind of video on their phones.
Clark sighed in affectionate exasperation. “Why are you so hell-bent on being a heel?” he asked. “I mean, everyone always goes on and on about how heels have more freedom, more ability to have fun and such, but I don’t buy it. You--’you’ in general, but you in particular--can make anything interesting, you can make a story from anything. Think of it as a fresh new challenge for you, being the world’s first interesting babyface.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” The words were annoyed, but Bruce’s voice was gentle. “The best babyfaces, the rare ones who spend pretty much their whole careers on the side of good, they’re defined by their opponents. And the darker and more evil the enemy, the brighter the face can shine. You keep thinking of us as two solo acts who happen to have been thrown together, but we’re not. We’re a unit--one that comes together and apart, sure, but we’re defined by each other. Light and dark. Justice and vengeance. Heart and mind. Superman’s brightness defines Batman’s shadows; Batman’s scowl is a mirror image of Superman’s smile. At first by accident, but then on purpose, we’ve built our lives around each other. As long as we both shall live.”
Clark stared at him for a long moment. The background chatter of the younger wrestlers was a strange counterpoint to the passionate intensity of Bruce’s voice. “Okay,” Clark finally said. “But Batman doesn’t have to be evil for that, Bruce. The night isn’t more evil than the day. Shadows aren’t more evil than light. They’re just different.” He looked away from Bruce, blinking. “Besides,” he said in a small voice, “I hate hearing people boo you.”
“Oh God, Clark,” said Bruce, and leaned forward to kiss the side of his head as if he didn’t care who saw. “You’re unbelievable. But...you’re also not exactly wrong, I suppose.”
“Wow,” said Clark, “Bruce Wayne is admitting I’m right. Call the dirt sheets, we’ve got a story.”
“I didn’t say you were right, I said you weren’t exactly wrong,” Bruce said. “Besides--”
What he was going to say was abruptly lost in a chorus of inhaled breaths and muttered curses from nearly everyone in the common room. On the screen, Azrael was limping across the ring, clearly testing out putting weight on one leg, which was just as clearly failing to support him.
“He just...slipped,” said Harper, looking shocked. “It wasn’t even a botch.”
Joker swung around to gesticulate mockingly at the audience, drawing the camera and the crowd’s eyes as the referee unobtrusively checked with Jean-Paul. Clark ignored Napier’s distraction, keeping his eyes on the ref and Jean-Paul as they hurriedly conferred. Then the ref looked to the back and crossed his arms briefly over his head: the signal for a real injury.
Everyone in the common room groaned as Azrael lurched to his feet and hobbled across the ring to where the Joker was taunting a small crying child in the front row. He grabbed Joker and rolled him into a quick pin, and the ref counted Joker out. Joker came to his feet incandescent with rage, aiming several carefully-placed kicks at Azrael’s upper body and shoulders, and left him lying in the ring.
Azrael’s mask covered his whole face, but Clark could see the pain in the lines of his body as the trainers rushed up and helped him out of the ring and to the back.
“They should have called an audible and put the title on me,” Jack Napier announced angrily, waving his arms at the assembled disheartened wrestlers. “It would have been better than vacating it yet again due to injury.”
“Shut up, Joker,” groaned John Stewart. “Jean-Paul’s been a good champ this time around and it would suck to have him lose the title like that.”
“Oh, like this is better,” snarled Napier. “Vacating a title is the worst.”
“I’m sure you’re not just saying that because you’d be holding it now,” said Stewart.
“Of course not!” said Napier, and seemed at that moment to believe it entirely.
“It’s an opportunity,” said John Corbin, his eyes gleaming beneath his crew cut.
Everyone stared at him. Even the wrestlers who had been thinking it would never be so crass as to say it out loud.
“It’s a shame,” said Bruce, and Clark could tell he meant it.
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” said Dick Grayson just a few days later, echoing his mentor without knowing it as he did chin-ups in Wayne Manor’s basement gym. “Jean-Paul and I have never gotten along, but I wouldn’t wish an ACL injury on anyone.”
Tim Drake looked over from his handstand on the turnbuckle. “Luthor’s got to have a tournament and put the strap on Clark now, right? Well, come on,” he said as everyone looked at him. “Clark is the promotion’s top babyface, and is going to be for the foreseeable future. He’s involved in the year’s most blistering feud with the ominous Dark Knight.” Bruce made a rude noise without looking up from his phone. “Everyone but the most curmudgeonly smarks love him. He’s a totally reliable workhorse. Yet he’s never been heavyweight champion. He’s way, way, way overdue.”
“Clark Kent suffers for our sins,” Dick intoned. “Luthor knows how much we all love him, so he punishes Clark to get at his annoying flock of bats.”
Steph threw her arms around Clark. “Well, we do love him.”
“I’d rather have that than the heavyweight belt,” Clark said, and everyone went Awwww with varying degrees of sincerity and sarcasm. “Anyway,” he said, trying to shift the subject away, “I watched that cage match with Mallah, Dick--great stuff, definite Match of the Year candidate.”
“We were pleased with it,” Dick said, beaming. “So was Lord.”
“I’m not going to be able to lure you back from the Titans even if everything comes together like I hope, am I?” said Bruce.
Dick bit his lip, but met Bruce’s gaze squarely. “I don’t think so, Bruce. Not for the time being, at least. I’m happy there, and I think I’m building something that will last. It means a lot to me.”
Bruce nodded slowly. “Then I’m glad for you. And proud of you.” His smile shifted into something closer to a smirk. “And I guess Clark and I will just have to put on a match that rivals yours for Match of the Year.”
“I haven’t even demanded a rematch yet,” Clark pointed out.
“Oh, but you will,” said Bruce.
“Of course I will,” grinned Clark. “As if I’m going to let you get away with your shameful behavior.”
“Will you face me again, Dark Knight?” Superman gazed at the shadowy figure on the ramp with determination. “See if you can beat me on a level playing field. Trust me, I will not make the mistake of bringing a weapon for you to use against me this time.”
“I didn’t need it last time,” said the Dark Knight, ignoring Superman’s incredulous laugh, “and I won’t need it this time, either.”
Superman stared at him for a long time, and the angry lines of his face softened into something close to sorrow. “Isn’t there another way? It seems such a waste, somehow. Do we have to do this, my old friend?”
“Yes,” said Batman, though his hands clenched in his cape as if to keep them from trembling. “Yes, we have to do this.”
He turned and left, and Superman watched him go.
The locker room and the dirt sheets all agreed that Superman was the best possible choice for a new champion. People started telling him on Twitter how much they were looking forward to seeing him with the championship. Clark bit his lip and kept his thoughts to himself. And Lex made no announcement on the topic even as the DCW led into its next big pay-per-view, with its rematch between Superman and Batman.
The Dark Knight stood alone in the ring, mic in hand, caught in a harsh pool of light that turned everything outside of it to shadow. He raised the mic slowly, and the sound of his inhalation carried through the hushed arena before he started to speak.
“People have asked me,” he said, “Why I feel like I must fight Superman. Why am I turning on my former friend like this?” He shook his head. “They’ve got it all wrong. I’m not turning on him at all.” He raised his voice. “Superman. Is nothing. But a tool,” he said, enunciating with laser-sharp precision.
The crowd muttered, but subsided as he began to speak again.
“Superman is a tool in the same way this cape and this cowl is a tool,” he said, lifting his black cape in one hand, spreading it wide. Superman is a means by which we can believe the world makes sense. Superman is a symbol of righteousness. Of justice. Of fairness. Fairness from outside of us,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “But I learned, long ago, that the world doesn’t make sense. The world is a place of chaos and pain!” His voice sharpened, then dropped back to a murmur as Bruce wrapped the cape around himself once more. “The world only makes sense if you force it to.”
The audience was nearly silent. Somewhere in the arena a baby cried, and in the back Clark smiled slightly to himself at how incongruously fitting that small wail in the dark seemed.
He lifted his head as if challenging everyone in the audience. “This mask I wear is how I make sense of the world. How I force my will upon it. This is my story, and I will tell it alone. I do not serve Luthor and the Injustice League. I am not beholden to Superman and the Justice League. And if defeating Superman is necessary, then I will do it. Not because I hate him. But a world with Superman at the center makes no sense, it violates everything we know about the pain at the heart of the world. A world with Luthor at the center is an apple filled with maggots, too corrupt to continue.” Batman thumped his chest once, like a punctuation mark. “I alone am the one who makes sense of the world. I am the one who forces order onto chaos, denying neither.” He pointed at the audience. “I am the hero you deserve--no.” He broke off and smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. “I’m not your hero. I am your lone guardian. Your watchful protector. Your Dark Knight.”
He bowed his head, and in the back Tim Drake snorted. “Hold on,” he said, “Let me text Dick and Jason and let them know Batman is a lone wolf who needs no one.”
“Don’t we have a group chat for that?” Steph said. “Alfred and Harper and Babs and Helena and Luke are all in it too.”
“But it still works,” Clark said, watching as Batman made his way out of the ring. “It doesn’t make any sense, but it still works. Isn’t that amazing?”
Tim knocked the side of Clark’s head with an elbow. “What a fanboy you are.”
“He’s a mark for Batman,” said Steph. She glanced at the screen, at the hushed crowd watching as the Dark Knight passed by.
“But,” she added, “you gotta admit he has a point.”
That promo was the last in the lead-up to the rematch which kicked off the next pay-per-view. The match was solid and involving, although Clark privately felt perhaps he hadn’t put in his best work: his hurricanrana hadn’t had as much snap as he’d liked, and one time he had oversold one of Bruce’s kicks and almost made it look ridiculous. But no one was talking about the match itself, because they were only talking about the finish.
The two wrestlers had been giving and taking equal offense for almost the entire match, and there had been some near-falls that made the audience gasp. After Superman pinned Batman for the second time, and Batman kicked out at two and a half, no one could tell what was going to happen.
And that’s when Metallo came strolling down to the ring, Kryptonite glowing balefully on his chest.
Superman gasped and turned pale, staggering away from him, ignoring the Dark Knight entirely. For his part, Batman grabbed the top rope to glare at Metallo. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed. “I can beat him! Get out of here and let me beat him myself, damn it!”
Metallo crossed his arms so the green light of the stone played across his face and smiled up at him, unmoving.
Batman cursed at him, and Clark imagined the time-delay censors in the back wincing and mashing buttons. But there was no time to enjoy the image, because he had to hurry for the finish: throwing himself forward, he came at Batman’s back with his arms flailing, staggering as if in a panic of pain and assuming he had been betrayed again.
The Dark Knight whirled and struck at him without thinking, and Superman went down in a heap, as if even that glancing blow had been enough to undo him in his weakened state.
Clark lay on the mat, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. He knew that above him the Dark Knight would be hesitating, looking from his fallen foe to Metallo on the outside. He heard Batman sigh and murmur “Okay, then”--too low for the audience to hear, the kind of thing Bruce was always careful to do to stay in character.
Then Clark felt Bruce’s body against his, pinning him almost gently, cradling his head as the ref counted. The bell rang, and for a moment Batman stayed there above him, and Clark knew he was glaring at Metallo--as if, instead of defeating Superman, he were shielding him with his body. They waited there together as Metallo strutted away from the ring, and only once he was at the top of the ramp did Batman stand up.
Clark dragged himself to his hands and knees, retching for the cameras, shaking his head in disbelief. The crowd was booing, and when their boos sharpened into jeers Clark knew Luthor had joined Corbin on the ramp with a mic.
“Congratulations, Batman,” said Luthor. “On your hard-fought victory.”
“Go to hell, Luthor!” Batman yelled, and Clark could hear Bruce’s glee under the Dark Knight’s rasp.
“But I’m not here to dwell on this,” said Luthor. “I’m here to address the fact that the heavyweight title has been vacated.”
Clark felt his heartbeat pick up; Luthor had said nothing about his plans for the most prestigious title in the promotion.
“We have so many worthy wrestlers in the DCW. How to decide who will hold that title? It’s such a conundrum.” Luthor’s smirk faltered at the moment Clark realized that a scattered “Superman” chant was beginning. “Now,” he went on, raising his voice, “how many people here want to see a tournament to decide who is the champion of this company?” The crowd burst into applause, but the “Superman” chants were not derailed; if anything they grew stronger.
Luthor’s smile was quickly becoming a rictus grin. “Who here wants to see the greatest fighters we have duke it out to prove who’s the top?”
The crowd approved of this idea--but it approved of Superman more.
“Well!” Luthor crowed. “You will indeed see the greatest fighters in the DCW battling for its highest honor. Because next month, the two-time champion, Hal Jordan, will be taking on--” He grabbed John Corbin’s hand and raised it, ”Metallo, for the heavyweight championship!”
There was a breathless beat of silence. And then the arena erupted in boos.
Clark staggered to his feet, feeling like someone had punched him in the gut. He hadn’t really expected to win, but to be denied even the symbolic chance--it felt bad, like a door being slammed in his face. All the worse for finding out in public, in the ring like this. For a moment he struggled to hide it, and then he took a breath and gathered up all that anger and disappointment and let it pour out of him, let it lift his chin to glare at Lex, even as he swayed on his feet.
Batman was on the bottom rope, leaning out of the ring, glaring at Luthor. He jabbed a finger at ring. “You just had your championship match between the two greatest fighters in the DCW, Lex!” he yelled, and it was Bruce’s voice, raw with anger and pain.
“Oh please,” Luthor sneered, unfazed at having to improvise. He pointed at Superman. “You just lost like a chump. And you,” he went on, pointing at Batman, “couldn’t win without outside help! The way I see it, neither of you belongs at the top of the card--my card.”
He leaned back and smirked, then turned to Corbin. “This is where I drop the mic, right?”
“Sure thing, boss,” said Corbin.
Luthor held out his hand with the mic, paused dramatically, and let it drop to the ramp with a loud thump.
“No, Bruce.”
Bruce grinned up at Clark from the hotel bed. “Come on. It would be fun.”
“A promo where you’re chained up and I interrogate you? I don’t think I could do that without laughing.” Clark shook his head at Bruce’s imploring look. “And no, it wouldn’t make it more acceptable if we revealed later it was all a dream sequence. You know perfectly well wrestling doesn’t work that way, Bruce. The audience doesn’t get to see wrestlers’ dreams.”
“But oh, if they could see mine,” Bruce said, smiling as if he had some wonderful secret, his eyes far away.
“Are all your dreams so kinky, Bruce? Share.”
“I’ll tell you my most precious, intimate dream, Clark, the most cherished vision in my heart.” Bruce paused, and Clark raised his eyebrows at him and waited. “You with that heavyweight championship belt around your waist.”
Clark looked down and swallowed hard. “You dope,” he said. “Lex has decided I’m not championship material and that’s that.”
Luthor had politely explained to the locker room that he believed Superman’s popularity would be “squandered” in a title run. “Clark, I’d hate to derail this red-hot feud you’ve got going with Bruce right now,” he had said. “And you’re so over, you really don’t need this belt.”
“But he deserves it,” muttered a voice in the back, and Clark had seen Luthor’s bright eyes take note of it. Steph Brown wouldn’t be getting a shot at the women’s title anytime soon either, he suspected.
He pulled his thoughts back to their hotel room. “It’s just not happening,” he said to Bruce, trying not to sound discouraged.
“Oh, it’s happening,” said Bruce. “I’ll move heaven and earth to make it happen. You’ll see. It will all make sense. I’ll make it make sense.”
Then he reached out and tugged at Clark’s hand, pulling him toward the bed.
“But in the meantime,” he said, “let me tell you more about this promo.”
“The one with you helplessly chained up at my mercy and me being all masterful and intimidating?”
“That’s the one,” Bruce said with satisfaction.