9.37 PM Gotham, Wayne Manor
Bruce adjusted his tie and checked his reflection in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time that evening. He had been planning this party for a much later period but circumstances beyond his control had forced him to move up his timetable. The newspapers had begun speculating about Bruce Wayne's social life(or lack thereof). Gotham's tabloids were always obsessed with him, but when 'legitimate' newspapers like the Gotham Tribune began looking into his personal life, well, frankly it gave Bruce reason for concern. No one would suspect a billionaire playboy philanthropist of being a vigilante by night. Especially if he was a fop. He had a reputation as a hedonistic airhead among many Gothamites, but not all of them.
You see, there was a subtle difference in how Gotham perceived Bruce Wayne.

Among the 'common' people Bruce was known for his lavish lifestyle;his love for gorgeous women, fast cars and good liquor was average Gothamite assumed Bruce inherited his companies and enormous fortune, and they were right. But the average Gothamite didn't know the patience, skill and smarts required to manage such a massive responsibility, and not only keep it afloat, but keep the ventures successful and build even more on that inherited wealth. They just assumed he paid people to do that work for him.

But most of the wealthier families-by virtue of their children having attended the same schools he did,and their interactions with Bruce himself- knew he was quite intelligent,or at least, not as brainless as most people thought he was. They also knew that he had been quite the star athlete in his teens,and he could have had a professional career had he wanted it. So they knew he was no slouch physically or mentally, but they certainly didn't think he had been doing complex detective work or dodging bullets every night for nearly 5 years.

He feared the newspapers might brand him a recluse. A reclusive billionaire? Fine, there were lots of them. A reclusive billionaire with a tragic past, living in a city inhabited by a vigilante? That draws the wrong kind of attention. It was a very long shot that someone would connect the dots, but you could never be too careful. At least as a fop he could control what people,especially the media,said about him. All this talk about him staying out of the public eye and missing parties he usually attended was making him antsy.

And when he got antsy he often struck back. Hard.

Tonight he was going all out. He had sent Alfred to buy as much alcohol and food as he could bring back with him. "Plans for tonight, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked with a straight face but a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Bruce's response was something between a grunt and a "Yes", and then he sat down to call.. everyone. He called his old 'friends'-acquaintances that he knew because they attended the same institutions, Bruce didn't really have any friends- from prep school, high school,even college, where he tended to avoid social contact of any kind. He called up his old 'girlfriends'-women he occasionally had flings with for the sake of appearances-he even called up some of his business associates that were in town, including the one from Metropolis, Luthor.
He had his suspicions about the man. Bruce had made it his business to study people, it was important in his line of work, as a businessman and crime fighter. And Lex Luthor made his skin crawl. Bruce always trusted his instincts because they were well honed, not to mention firmly rooted in logic and reason. If he couldn't go out on patrol tonight, he would still keep his mind sharp by watching Luthor closely. Perhaps he could get a better feel of the man by studying him in a relaxed social setting.

As he put the phone down, Bruce looked up at the large oil painting on the wall above the mantel. He had his fathers handsome, swarthy features. A chiseled jawline,tall solid build, jet black hair. But he had his mothers steel blue eyes. He looked at the boy in the middle of the painting. He looked happy. Content. Like any other 8 year old. It had been nearly twenty years since that tragic event in the alley,the night when he became someone.. no,something else. Each night in his dreams he saw them die before his eyes, each day he woke the pain,the feeling of helplessness, felt just as fresh.

He often wondered if it would ever go away.

And so each day he would train fanatically. So he could run faster,jump higher,hit harder. Be better today than he was yesterday and better tomorrow than he was today. So that he would never again feel so helpless against the cruel world that took his family from him. Never. Again. That's what they didn't understand. That's what the Batman was.

He wondered if that would ever go away.

Then he heard a noise at the door, and he rushed downstairs to open it. Alfred had returned with the things, and though he insisted that he didn't need any help, Bruce helped him carry the food and drinks from the car anyway. "This is ridiculous Master Bruce. I am perfectly capable of doing this myself. If Master Thomas was here..." he mumbled. His voice trailed off as Bruce carried the boxes through the hallway into the kitchen.

He paused in the hall on his way back, looking up at the painting. What would his father think of him now,of this life that he chose? And his mother? Would they be proud? Horrified?

And would it ever go away?

9.37 PM, Smallville, 8 miles from Kent Farm
His fingers traced the ears of wheat as he walked slowly through the field. All around him were golden bushels of the crop,swaying gently in the breeze. If he focused, he could hear the sound of his parents heartbeats several miles away.
There was much less noise here than in Metropolis.
He thought he had been prepared for it, but life in the big city had been harder than Clark had expected. He was overwhelmed at first. The strong smells, the loud noises, all intensified by his already inhuman senses.
The bright lights, the tall buildings, the people who seemed to be in a great hurry to go nowhere. It had all been very confusing.
But his parents didn't raise him to run away from a challenge.

He had stuck on and chased his dream of being a reporter. College had been a breeze, his eidetic memory and speed reading had ensured that. Some may have seen it as cheating, but he simply saw it as using whatever advantages he had. There was no need to hold back just for the sake of it. There was no need to make things harder than they already were. Getting out into the workforce had been much harder. Nothing his abilities could do for him there. Despite the fact that he had good grades, he found it difficult to secure employment. It was very competitive out there, and seemingly everyone wanted employees with prior experience. He smiled as he remembered how complex things had seemed then.

Eventually he got a job at the Daily Planet. He got lucky. An old friend of his from college, Jimmy, was working as a photographer for the Daily Planet with the up-and-coming reporter Lois Lane(even then she already had a reputation)when they met Clark working at a nearby nightclub as a bouncer. Lois had too much to drink, and when a rather shady looking character approached her,she dismissed him in typical Lois fashion with insults that cut like a knife. Jimmy, ever the good friend, intervened on her behalf. The shady character(and his equally shady but no less menacing friends)were about to lay into Jimmy for his troubles.

Clark, who heard and saw the whole thing through the walls from his position outside, walked into the room and effortlessly pummeled the gang of 8. He laughed to himself as he recalled the expression of sheer terror on the 3rd mans face when he smashed a heavy bar stool that shattered on contact and Clark stared back at the man unperturbed. Yes, he had definitely gotten lucky. The bar was mostly abandoned and the only witnesses were the unfortunate victims of the beat down and the very inebriated pair of Lois and Jimmy. Thus whenever they got to this part of the story, Clark would always claim they were very drunk and must have been imagining things. That was his first taste of heroism. It seemed like so long ago when he thought of it now. Had it only been five years?

His smile slowly faded as he remembered the events of tonight. There had been a fire at an orphanage. The fire chief later said it was an electrical fault, that the main switch somehow sparked and caught fire.

Clark heard the screams of pain from his desk at the office.

He had gotten up slowly and mumbled an excuse before Lois could ask him where he was going. As he raced up the stairs 10 at a time, he could hear Lois's voice 3 floors down saying "Somethings off with that Smallville. He's always going off somewhere like that." He put it out of his mind, he'd deal with that later. He got to the roof and all but ripped the door clean off the hinges in his haste. He tore off his clothes and stuffed them in the vent, then flew off as fast as he dared without breaking the sound barrier,he didn't want to leave shattered windows in his wake. When he landed at the orphanage he was relieved that there were some firefighters at the scene already evacuating the children from the building. He flew over to one swinging a large sledge hammer against the wall, trying to create a point of entry because the doors and windows were barred by smouldering beams. With a shared look of understanding, the man stepped back as Clark swung his fist and punched a massive hole right through the concrete.

Immediately he could smell the sickening stench of burning flesh and hair. What worried him most was the silence. There were no screams of agony or terror.

He quickly demolished the rest of the wall, then he drew in a deep breath, flew into the center of the room and blew out hard. The flames danced violently then died out, and the toxic smoke was driven out in a powerful gust of wind.

He detected a heartbeat, very faint,but it was there.

Rushing over in that direction he almost collapsed at the sight. Behind him the team of firefighters had a similar reaction. An entire room had been razed down by the flames, and it looked like none of the children had made it out alive. Judging by the size of the charred corpses strewn on the floor, these were just toddlers. He swallowed hard, floating slowly over the bodies, closing in on the weak pulse.
He found it, or rather her. A little girl, no older than 6,curled up in a corner.

She was badly burnt,what remained of her hair and skin hung about her in messy clumps. She was bleeding from a large gash on her leg. In her hands was a blackened stump vaguely shaped like a teddy bear. When he turned her over, there was a collective gasp from the firefighters. A thin metal pole from a bed frame was lodged in her chest. Using his X-Ray vision Clark saw that her left lung had been punctured and was collapsing. Between that and her other injuries he knew there was no way she would survive.
So he held her gently against his chest, listening to the sounds of her ragged breathing, the rattle of blood in her tiny lungs,her crying that was too low to be picked up by any ears in the room but his own. He seemed to hold her that way for a long time, unconsciously rocking back and forth as he tried in vain to soothe her immense pain. At last, as he felt her pulse start to slow and the life leaving her body, she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Thank you Superman", and with her tiny hands she reached up to caress the big red S on his chest. Then her hands fell limp at her sides, and the blackened teddy bear landed noiselessly beside them.

That did it for everyone. They all had tears in their eyes. Some were openly weeping, so tragic was the scene they had just witnessed. Superman looked dazed, he felt like he had been hit by a freight train. He could feel the wetness forming in his eyes, so he quickly handed the child over to a paramedic who had come rushing in, and with a final nod of acknowledgement to the assembled firefighters, he took to the skies.

He flew for a long time.

Not particularly fast, just coasting along with no real destination in mind. It wasn't until he saw the familiar red house and barn that he realized he had come back home. He hovered in the air for a while, wondering if he should go inside and tell Ma and Pa about it. After some deliberation he decided against it. He didn't want to wake them, and he didn't want to burden them with his problems.

So he walked around in the fields around his childhood home,tears streaming freely down his face, and thought about the good old days when it all seemed so easy.