August 1994

The limousine was waiting for him at National Airport, a stretched, black Rolls Royce. This was the end of the journey, a quest, that had begun four years ago; the day after he earned his bachelor of law from Princeton. Alfred had been immensely disappointed, as was everyone else in his life. Bruce had pursued a law degree, much to the disappointment of his late father's associates, who had encouraged him to go for an M.B.A. Alfred understood that, but not Bruce's decision to stop with a bachelor's degree, and then travel to Japan. Only one person in the world understood: Clark Kent.

Alfred stepped out of the back door of the limo, holding it for Bruce.

"Master Wayne," he said formally. "Good to have you back in the land of the living."

Bruce nodded. "Alfred." He stepped up into the limousine. One word conversations. Those were all that he had with Alfred the last year before he finished school. Then, he told Alfred his plans, precipitating a blow-out of epic proportions. Alfred had thrown everything from his father's legacy to what his mother would have wanted for him. Clark, however, understood. He had advised Bruce to follow his heart.

Bruce chuckled at the memory. Follow your heart, Bruce thought. It was not his heart that Bruce was following, not exactly. Clark was always so optimistic, so encouraging and thoughtful. He reminded Bruce of a Disney character; Hercules crossed with the prince from Sleeping Beauty. But somehow, it worked. Clark always knew what to say, and on the rare occasion that he did not, Clark would then just let you know he was there for you, come what may.

The door closed, and then the opposite door opened, Alfred climbing in, closing it behind him. The old butler looked genuinely happy to see him, a warm smile upon his now craggy face. If Bruce was not mistaken, and he never was, Alfred's eyes were misted over. Alfred reached across and squeezed Bruce's upper arm.

"It's good to have you back, Master Wayne."

"It's good to see you again, Alfred," Bruce replied. "It will never be good to be back, though."

Alfred frowned. "Your words are truer than you know." He sighed, then continued. "Gotham's police department has become even more corrupt and ineffectual than it had been when you left, something I had not thought possible."

"The slow decline? Or is there an outside force at work?"

"Both," Alfred replied. "The slow decline, coupled with some new blood in the MPD across the bay; Commissioner Corrigan has been a force for progress in the Metropolis Police Department, and a new, Special Crimes Unit; S.C.U., has been assembled. Clean castoffs from Gotham have gone to Metropolis seeking redemption and a chance at a clean start, including one Detective Maggie Sawyer, who has been placed in charge of the new S.C.U. A new ADA, Mayson Drake, has been a rising star."

The new unit got Bruce's attention. "What exactly is the Special Crimes Unit?"

"A new unit assembled to deal with a rash of violent, high-tech crimes, committed by a group of armored assailants. Their suits are amazingly advanced, enabling them to fly, resist small arms weapons, and they have impressive artillery built into them, much like that Ironman character from the comics."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "And let me guess; the riff-raff is leaving Metropolis to take advantage of less competition and an ineffectual police force."

"Exactly," Alfred replied. "Also, there seems to be an influx of drugs and weapons, making our city even more desperate."

"Perhaps it's time I gave back to my city," Bruce declared.

That same day in Metropolis ...

Clark Kent got off of the Greyhound bus, carrying naught but a duffle. Looking around at the gleaming city of concrete, steel, and glass, he knew he was not in Kansas. Of course, he had not been in Kansas for a long time. After graduating from Washburn University with a degree in journalism in 1988, Clark had met with the melancholy Bruce Wayne one last time before the two of them embarked on their separate personal journeys. Bruce was going to Japan to seek enlightenment. Clark, on the other hand, was looking to see the real world, the one you could not see from the screen of a television.

While Bruce learned the way of the Samurai, Clark joined the Peace Corps for a year, after which, he found himself drawn to war-torn lands, where he could use his unique powers to help the poor and disadvantaged without fear of losing his life. He sent quite a few stories off to an editor whom he admired; Perry White of the Daily Planet. Perry had spoken at Washburn during Clark's time there, and had greatly inspired him. Now, he hoped that those stories he sent had been planted seeds, seeds that would begin to grow upon Clark's arrival at the Planet. He had sent his resume, and had attached more recent stories, and Perry had agreed to interview him. Clark kept his fingers crossed as he made his way to the Planet building.

Clark found the Planet easily enough, though he found the hustle and bustle of the city to be amusing; these people were all in a hurry to do what amounted to busy-work. The Planet, on the other hand, represented something that mattered: truth. The building loomed high overhead, with the paper's signature "Planet" atop the roof. It was a magnificent sight, and Clark wondered why he had not visited the gleaming city sooner, just to see this building.

The Daily Planet stood on the corner of Fifth and Concord, ten stories of brick and mortar, and with still opening windows framed in brass. The Daily Planet. It was Metropolis' oldest newspaper, a piece of history, and the old building served as a reminder. Unlike the glass and steel skyscrapers around it, the old Planet building had personality, character, and heart. Inside, Perry White was waiting to interview him, and if he was lucky, Clark might even get to meet the Pulitzer winning Lois Lane.

"Hey there, you lost?"

Clark turned around, then looked down, spying a young, red headed boy, who looked to be about sixteen, though his Daily Planet badge told Clark that the boy must be at least eighteen. The boy smiled up at him, no taller than five-seven, and looking like he stepped out of a 1940's novel. he wore tan wool pants, a dark green wool waistcoat, a white cotton shirt, and a red bowtie. the chain of a pocket watch hung between his waistcoat's left pocket and middle button. On his head was a green woolen flat cap. Around the boy's neck was a camera, marking him as a photographer. His high tenor voice made him seem even younger.

"Not at all," Clark replied, his own, lower voice a stark contrast they younger man's. "This is my destination; just pausing to admire the building."

"Cool," the boy replied. "I'm Jimmy Olsen; I'm a photographer here at the Planet. You got an appointment, or are you just checking the place out?"

"Clark Kent." Clark shook his hand. "I have an interview with Mister White in …" Clark looked at his watch. "Oh, about ten minutes."

"Come on, C.K. I'm on my way up; I'll take you there."


In Perry White's office ...

"Impressive work, Kent," Perry said as he looked over Clark's attached stories. "Hard hitting stuff, and from right in the trenches too. I like that."

Perry White was a graying, middle aged man of about six feet in height. He had a slight slouch to him, and wore a look that seemed a cross between serious interest and a perpetual scowl. Perry's office was adorned with so much Elvis memorabilia that Clark thought it an Elvis shrine. Clearly, the man was a fan.

"Thank you, Sir," Clark replied respectfully.

"I could use a man like you, Kent. Most of these kids come out of college and think that piece of paper guarantees them some kind of living." Perry waved his hand in disgust, making a 'pfew' sound. "Take that Olsen kid; started yesterday—thinks he's some kind of ace reporter because he worked on his school newspaper."

"Well, in fairness, even I didn't do that," Clark replied.

"No, Sir," Perry said, a smile cracking his craggy face. "All state quarterback; you threw a near hundred yard pass down field—made the news! You had ten guys trying to drag you down—ten! And still, you made that pass. Not many pros can do that, let alone high school kids. Pass was perfect, too. What made you choose journalism? You could have gone pro right out of high school if you wanted."

"Football is just a game," Clark explained. "I want to make a real difference in the world. There's so much that a reporter can accomplish that nobody else can. Our democracy depends upon the press keeping it honest. I mean, think about what Bob Woodward accomplished! That's not something I could ever do as a football player."

Perry stood smiling like the cat that got the canary. "Now that's what I wanted to hear." He then sat at his desk, and buzzed the intercom. "Lane, get in here."

The door opened a moment later, and a flustered woman blew into the room. Clark's eyes widened as he looked at her. Her large, almond shaped brown eyes caught his, and it was as if they had an instant connection. She was five-six, almost a full foot shorter than him. She had a high, narrow waist and her wine colored, skirted business suit showed her long, shapely legs. But it was her eyes that he kept coming back to. The intelligence he saw in those eyes, in just that moment … then she spoke.

"Perry, you know I have a thousand things on my plate, and … who's the hayseed?"

He laughed in spite of himself at her comment, and her high, soprano voice, though it bordered on shrill, just made her as cute as a button in his opinion. Clark extended his hand.

"Clark Kent."

She smiled, one of those wide, toothy grins. He thought he would melt. "Charmed," she replied, shaking his hand.

"Glad you two broke the ice," Perry declared. "Now Lane, Kent is our newest reporter. I want you to take him with you; let him shadow you. Show him the ropes."

Lois' mouth opened wide, and her hands went to her hips. "Perry, I don't have time to show this hayseed around! It'll be like Jimmy …" she looked over at Clark, smiling slightly. "… only better looking—a lot better looking."

"Kent's a rookie, but he's no greenhorn," Perry countered. "He's the one who's been sending me those stories from Yugoslavia. The man's a natural."

Lois stood and pouted for a few moments. "Well, if I don't have a choice …"

"You don't," Perry confirmed.

"Then I'll do it." She turned to Clark, flashing him that big grin. "Nothing personal, Smallville."

Clark just smiled and nodded, choosing to keep his mouth shut and just watch. Lois Lane was a Pulitzer winner, and one of his heroes in the business. To be paired with her on his first day was an immense honor. It was time to learn from the very best in the business. This was turning out better than he could have imagined.

Perry looked at them, slowly boiling, until he sounded off. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Right, Chief," Lois said. "You heard the man, Smallville; let's get cracking!"

Clark pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Ma'am."

As soon as Perry's door closed behind them, she wheeled on him, pointing her finger right in his chest. Had he not stopped in time, he imagined she would have ended up with a broken digit.

"Listen, Smallville; I'm Ms. Lane—not Lois, and certainly 'Ma'am.' Jeez! I'm not even thirty! Now come on."

"Of course, Miss Lane."

Lois smiled back at him. "Much better." Then she sashayed to the elevator.

Clark rolled his eyes, and looked up, hoping she would become more personable as the day wore on, and then followed her into the elevator. She smiled again as she pushed the button to take them to the lobby. He pondered making small-talk with her, but opted to let her take the lead on conversation as well.

"Just do as I say, Smallville, and we'll get along just fine."

Clark repeated, "Of course, Miss Lane," prompting Lois to smile again. This was not at all how he had pictured her acting. It was like she was in high school. Still, there was something about her …


Lois led Clark out of the building ...

... and down the street, then suddenly stopped, an 'ah' expression on her face, which changed into a very beautiful, but very mischievous smile.

"Say, Clark, you being the newbie, it's tradition that you buy me a grande mocha latte. Go ahead and get one for yourself as well." Lois inclined her head toward the Starbucks they were standing in front of.

Clark just smiled, knowing what was about to happen. "Of course, Miss Lane."

"That's a dear," Lois said, patting his upper arm. Her eyebrows went up as she touched him. "Wow! You're like steel!"

Clark just nodded again. "Back in a jiffy, Miss Lane."

As Smallville went to get the coffee, Lois breathed a sigh of relief. Rid of him at last, she thought. Having ditched Smallville, Lois began running toward a yellow cab, shouting, "Taxi!"

The car stopped, but a sound like a jet engine sounded close overhead, and then something fired down at the taxi from above, blowing both it, and the driver, to smithereens. Lois was blown back, only to be caught in the arms of a man clad in blue spandex—a very muscular man in blue spandex. The door of the cab was flying at her, but he simply caught it with his free hand.

"Take cover, Ma'am," the stranger said, pushing her behind him. Now she could see him; he wore blue tights, with red trunks overtop, like a nineteen-forties wrestler or strongman, with red leather boots and a flowing red cape with a yellow shield on the back, what looked like a very stylized ... 'S'? ... etched into it. He was tall, an easy six-four. Her eyes instinctively went to his posterior, which displayed well formed, muscular glutes. Nice ass, she thought, as the muscle-man sprung into action. Overhead, those damned armored terrorists were flying, raining death and destruction from above. The muscle-man leapt into the air, flying, but with no mechanism, no machinery; just—flying! Instead of taking cover as the man had instructed, Lois pulled her camera out, and began taking pictures.

The muscle-man sported the same stylized 'S' on his chest as well, only in red on a yellow field, and she decided that he must be some kind of superman. The attacks from the armored men, who had come to be called the D.F.A. (Death from Above) Gang, had no effect on him, but in seconds, he had rounded them up, hurling them to the ground, and firing—lasers?—from his eyes, disabling their weapons. In short order, he had eliminated the D.F.A. Gang, something the S.C.U. had been unable to accomplish in the months since it was commissioned.

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" The superman gracefully landed in front of her, like a god descending from the sky.

"I—uh—I …" Lois was tongue tied. Finally, looking at the stylized 'S,' she blurted out, "Superman!"

Superman just nodded, as if she had just called him by his actual name. "Yes, Miss Lane?"

"You know who I am?"

"Of course, Miss Lane," he replied. "I read your work."

As he spoke, the S.C.U. arrived, Captain Sawyer amazed to find the D.F.A. Gang giftwrapped, and awaiting transport. Without their armor, they looked like mercenaries. Tough, no doubt, but no match for the superman.

"Friend or foe," Maggie said warily, her and her unit's guns trained on Superman.

"Friend," he replied. Then he furrowed his brow, and gritted his teeth. "I stopped them. I only wish I could have saved the cab driver."

"You saved everyone else," Lois blurted out. "That—that was amazing!"

Superman shook his head. "One death is one too many." He turned to Captain Sawyer. "Captain, they're all ready for you. Glad to be of service."

He was everything Lois could have wanted in a man; his face was handsome, with deep set, piercing blue eyes. A chiseled jaw, and a strong chin, and hair so dark that it had blue undertones, all capped off a body that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. Lois felt light headed just looking at him, and thought she might faint, but Superman gracefully swept her off of her feet.

"I'd better get you back to your desk, Miss Lane."

Lois just nodded as he gently flew her right up to the Planet's news-room, flying in through the window. Everyone just stared as Superman landed, carrying Lois to her desk, and placing her into her chair. Olsen feverishly snapped pictures.

"You look to be in good health, Miss Lane," he declared. "No broken bones, and no cuts or bruises. The city will be glad to know that the D.F.A. Gang is no longer a threat. Give them some good news, Lois."

"But where are you going?"

He just smiled. "Others need my help, Miss Lane. Farewell."

With that, he flew out the window. Lois was shaking. I've been held by a god, she thought. And I have the pictures to prove it!


Gotham City

A black gloved fist slammed into the Joker's jaw, dislocating it, and sending him spinning through the air, landing with a thud on the ground, unconscious. The Clown Prince, as the papers sometimes called him, had gone on a murderous rampage, using a gas that left people dead, their faces twisted into a demented grin, their skin bleached white, and their hair turned green. This time it was a school. Batman had stopped him, and the police were on their way. He could wrap the Joker up, leaving the Clown Prince for the Police—or he could snap his neck and end it.

Unfortunately, Batman wanted to uphold the law, and part of that meant getting criminals like the Joker arrested and tried for their crimes. Commissioner Gordon had proven to be a valuable ally, and Bruce wondered what Gotham had done to deserve such a good man. Then new D.A., Harvey Dent, was now taking it to criminals in the courtroom as well. Convictions were sticking, the police were not so corrupt as they had been a month ago, and the Batman had the underworld nervous.

Batman left the Joker bloody and bruised, hogtied and gagged for the police, and took off in his "Batmobile," as the papers were calling it, and hurried back to the "Bat Cave," as Alfred called it. The car came to rest in its berth, and the Batman got out, removing his cowl, revealing the face of Bruce Wayne.

"Ah, you're back, Master Wayne," Alfred called as Bruce strode up the stairs to his command center. "You might want to see this. I think he's a friend of yours."

Alfred handed him the paper, and Bruce read the headline: "Superman Stops D.F.A. Gang! By Lois Lane." Lane's photography was excellent, getting a nice close up of Superman. Bruce looked closely, and there was no mistake: Superman was none other than his old friend, Clark Kent.

"It seems you both have a flair for the theatrical," Alfred said with a chuckle.

Bruce nodded, but continued to look at the photos of the captured D.F.A. Gang, and he did not like what he saw.

"Those suits, Alfred; they're ours!"

"I don't follow, Master Wayne."

"Wayne Enterprises," Bruce clarified. "These were developed for the military by Wayne Enterprises, but they were turned down for being deemed too expensive. What are they doing in Metropolis?"

"I don't know, Master Wayne, but perhaps your friend could be of some assistance; look at the lower fold—Clark apparently 'remained' after 'Superman' flew Miss Lane to safety. He did a detailed analysis on the suits, though he seems to feel that the parts were 'stolen' from LexCorp."

Bruce laughed heartily. "Clark, you walking Disney character! You son-of-a-gun! You did it! You're the reporter you always wanted to be, and you found a way to use those powers of yours. I like it, but I think it's time for Bruce Wayne—and the Batman—to pay a visit to Metropolis."

"I've already secured tickets to Lex Luthor's Annual Charity Gala," Alfred informed. "Shall I prepare the Rolls?"

"Yes," Bruce said. "But I'll need a base of operations in Metropolis if this is going to work." Bruce pulled up city map, then located what he was looking for. "There. It's for sale. I want to own it by tomorrow night."

"An abandoned airfield?"

"And a hangar," Bruce noted. "It'll be perfect. Buy it through a shell company; I don't want it traced to me."

"Very well, Master Wayne. I'll make the arrangements."

As Alfred left the Bat Cave, leaving Bruce with a piping hot mug of coffee, Bruce pondered the emergence of Superman. Clark could save the world—but he was still a rookie. That much was clear from Lane's story. Bruce had an idea. Batman would test the Man of Steel. And if Clark passed, he would come through even better than before.

Bruce drank deeply of the dark liquid, and then set the mug down, smiling. "See you soon ... Clark."