Big bad newbie!
dissemble, dissembled, dissembling, dissembles: to disguise or conceal behind a false appearance; to make false show of, feign; to disguise or conceal one’s true nature, motives or feelings behind a false appearance. (dictionary.com)
X
The air is colder here, I think, though I may just be imaging the temperature difference on account of my new surroundings. The warm, bright cheer of Metropolis has been replaced by the bleak, somber city of Gotham, which brings a sort of gloom to everything (even my thoughts). I can see why it attracts the sort of crooks that seem to flock here, and why the place’s defender is such a dark character (living in such a place would make anyone crazy or depressed).
I touch down at the top of a skyscraper-Wayne Tower, the centre of the city-and wait. I have a hunch that it won’t take long for the man I’m waiting for to show up.
As I look down at the city, illuminated by the artificial light that naturally comes with night in such a bustling city, I wonder why anyone would love this place, as harsh and desolate as it is. Metropolis is naturally charming, gleaming, clean-everything Gotham isn’t. My cape is blown away from my body by a sudden gust of wind, and I involuntarily shiver in the cold it brings with it (even the normally invulnerable cannot avoid something like weather). Yes, it does seem colder here, no matter what the weathermen say-they’re wrong a lot anyway, it doesn’t matter that Gotham and Metropolis are only an hour’s drive away. I hope that the person I wish to meet will make an appearance soon (I want to go home).
It’s as if the other can hear my thoughts (wouldn’t put it past him), landing a second after that just behind me, on the actual spire of the tower. I don’t turn immediately to look at the other man, instead thinking carefully about what I’m going to say to him before I acknowledge his presence. He has other plans.
“What are you doing here?” he asks (demands). I almost shiver at his voice, rough and deep. It’s almost like a growl (like an animal-how fitting).
“I wanted to meet you,” I answer, and turn around to face him. He’s crouched on the tip of the spire (he’s obviously good at keeping his balance or he wouldn’t have tried such a dangerous stunt), his black cape fluttering slightly in the wind. His mask covers the top half of his face (I have half a mind to use my x-ray vision to see who he really is, but decide that would make a bad first impression) and I am slightly unnerved by the white eye-shaped parts of the mask that stare unblinkingly, motionlessly at me (I assume-it’s impossible to tell what he’s looking at). His face is blank.
“Why?” demands the man in black. His voice is demanding, not a hint of curiosity in it, only hostility (I hope he doesn’t want a fight-that isn’t what I came for at all). “Metropolis is your turf, Superman.”
I laugh and fold my arms over my chest, covering up the red “S” symbol. “My turf? Is that what this is about-being in your space?” I realize that he isn’t going to respond until he gets an answer to his original question: why am I here? (Apparently he doesn’t believe that I truly just wanted to meet him.) “Honestly, Batman, I just wanted to meet you! I was hoping we could work together. We are the only superheroes on the East Coast right now, and I thought that maybe, well... we could... help each other out... or not.” I trail off as his expression changes from emotionless to a menacing grimace.
“Not,” growls the man in obvious distaste. (Very protective of his “turf.” I’ll have to remember that.) Suddenly, a light appears in the sky, reflected on one of the clouds hovering over Gotham City. Superman smiles: it’s the symbol of a bat. The black-clad man stands and turns, just barely staying on the point of the needle protruding from Wayne Tower (very, very good at keeping his balance). Taking out a grappling hook, he shoots it and gives it a tug to make sure it’s securely attached to the building on the other side of the street (wouldn’t want to take a nasty fall, of course).
Batman hesitates before jumping, and says, “Go back to Metropolis-this is my city. You aren’t welcome here.” And then he leaps from the tower, disappearing into the night. I could use my super-vision to find him, but I find that I don’t want to ruin the mystery.
(That went well.)
X
It turns out Gordon called me for something simple, just information on a weapons smuggling operation one of the Gotham crime families is running. (Though I’m grateful for the rescue from that awkward encounter with the alien.) I take down the hired muscle quickly, tie them up and call Gordon, leaving them for the police to find. I don’t like to remain at the scene until the police arrive-too many people seeing me in my costume still makes me skittish.
I go back to the Cave earlier than I usually would, since it’s a slow night. As I climb out of the tumbler, I hear my butler (father, best friend, confidante) Alfred greet me. I answer him with a grunt and head straight for the computer.
“Will you be wanting dinner, sir, or should I go back to the apartment for now?” asks Alfred. I groan and slump down in the chair in front of the Cave’s supercomputer, my visions of going right up to bed for a nice, relaxing sleep after finishing up the night’s duties as Batman destroyed as I remember that there is no bed to go to upstairs.
“Are you alright, Master Bruce?” I shrug off Alfred’s concern.
“I’ll be fine,” I answer, and I open my mouth to tell him to go back to the apartment we’re staying in while we rebuild the Manor when I change my mind. “Would you mind staying here for a while?” When he doesn’t say anything, I quickly add, “I won’t be long.”
He smiles at me and sits down in an extra chair I hadn’t noticed before. “Very good, sir.” Sensing that I just didn’t want to be alone, he strikes up a conversation while I run a search on Superman. “How was the patrol tonight? I didn’t hear of anything big.”
“Took out a few goons from what’s left of the Falcone family,” I tell him. “Well, what’s left of it. They’ve started falling apart after we put Carmine away.”
Alfred nods, remembering. “That’s so, sir. But that wouldn’t have you in such a mood. Did something else happen?” I let a small grin slip through to the surface. (Are you really as perceptive as you seem or am I just too predictable?)
“That alien came here,” I grind out. “He said he wanted to ‘meet me,’ though I doubt that’s all he was doing here.”
“Why?” asks Alfred.
“I don’t know why he really came-” Something rare happens: Alfred cuts me off.
“I meant how do you know he didn’t just come here to meet the Batman?” he asks me. I fall silent. I’ve never really spoken to Alfred about Superman. I’ve never really spoken to him about Superman-he wouldn’t understand why I dislike and distrust the man.
“I don’t trust him,” I say quietly.
“Why not, sir? What has he ever done to make you dislike him? Other than save the world, of course,” Alfred says only half-sarcastically.
“He’s... why is he a hero, Alfred? What does he owe the world? He has no obligations to us humans! He has nothing in common with us other than this world and it isn’t even his,” I say angrily, turning away from the computer. “What’s to stop him from deciding that he doesn’t want to protect us anymore and just taking over?”
“I see,” says the older man quietly, and my stomach plummets as I hear disappointment in his voice. I wonder what it is I’ve done to upset him. “You’re saying you don’t trust Superman because he isn’t human, is that it? Because he’s... different, Master Bruce?” (Ah, there it is. He thinks I’m prejudice.)
“No,” I answer flatly. “Just listen. What if he was to decide that humans couldn't take care of this planet ourselves--what's to stop him from taking over? Me? The government? There's no one that could match his power. And that scares me, Alfred.” He looks surprised by that admission. Truth be told, I’m rather rattled by it myself-I’d planned never to say anything to anyone about it.
“Perhaps,” he starts, then clears his throat and begins again. “Perhaps you will simply have to trust Superman. Or at least give him a chance to prove himself to you instead of running him out of town.”
I give him a half-smile and turn back to the computer, where the search for files on Superman has ended. I shut down the computer without looking at any of them.
“Perhaps you’re right, Alfred,” I answer him. “Maybe I should give him a chance.” (Let’s hope he doesn’t waste it.)