Empire of Stars
Tobi is a good boy
I do not own D.C. Comics or the Wonder Woman film
TWO
Diana was familiar with the photograph, staring in the eyes of her former comrades and lover. The letters and journals she was less familiar with, the pages yellowing and soft under her fingertips.
The journal was leather bound, and rather battered, scuffed by the mark of a bullet. She opened the first page, curious and sat down to read.
Journal of Clark Kent, July 1918.
It was before dawn when the telegraph arrived.
The messenger boy stood, breath streaming upwards in white puffs of steam on my doorstep. His bright red hair poked out from underneath a tight leather cap. He was thin, a red jacket wrapped tightly around him. Even in the summer, Metropolis nights could get rather cold. The street lights dimly glowed, the electricity humming as they began to power up for the eventual morning rush.
"Clark Kent?" His voice squeaked at the sight of me.
I was used to such reactions about my appearance, from my dark skin to my broad shoulders hardened by farm work. Comments about my appearance, mostly based on a presumption about my skin colour, had followed me from Smallville to Metropolis, though in Metropolis these comments were well hidden.
The boy stared, not at me, but at the naked expanse of my chest. "Clark Kent?"
I nodded, wrapping my dressing gown around me tightly. "Sorry, sorry," I bumbled. It would look decidedly odd if I did not appear to look cold, or like I had been awoken from sleep. So, there I stood, on my doorstep, pretending to be disgruntled and cold, staring at the messenger boy. He held a thick sheaf of paper in his hand.
I bent downwards to reach for it, and quicker, quicker than even I could react, he twisted out of my reach.
"It's two dollars," he grinned at me.
"Two dollars?!" I asked.
The boy nodded, still grinning widely, as if the whole thing was a joke. I sighed heavily, and eventually found two dollars that I could give him. The notes were crumpled and smelt of smoke. He handed me the paper with a slight bow.
'CLARK KENT. ASAP DAILY PLANET. PW.' PW, of course, was Perry White, my editor.
Why would he send me a telegraph? In the middle of the night?
Perry White was notorious for his cheap ways, trying to save a penny here and everywhere. He would have never spent the cash on a telegraph unless it was extremely urgent.
I took a moment, thinking about the War abroad, how I assigned to cover the home effort instead of the front lines. It was good work, but not the work I wanted. I did want to be out there, in Europe, but it was too dangerous. The chance that I could be discovered, my powers-it could make the situation worse. My mother thanked the Lord every day that I had not been sent to the front, or to any part of the war, and that I was safe, in Metropolis.
"Thanks, kid," but the messenger boy was already gone, the electricity crackling in between the poles. I could almost swear that my front porch had been scorched by it, but it must have been my imagination.
I rushed to get dressed and managed to catch the first tram towards the Daily Planet offices, which was empty apart from the very disgruntled tram stewardess who looked at me which such disdain I thought I might explode. In my hurry, I had sat at the front of the trolley, rather than the back where I should, as a colored man, sit. The trolley was empty apart from me and the stewardess, so I stayed put. I pulled the collar of my coat upwards and was glad that my stop was not far.
The office was unusually eerie and quiet, devoid of the usual typists and colleagues. I made my way through the desks towards Perry's office, where the yellow electric light glowed from.
The door opened before I could reach it, Perry having thrust it open, a cigar already hanging from his lips. He ushered me in without a word.
On the desk was a sliver of whisky in a glass, glinting in the light.
"There's word," Perry took a deep breath, "from the British."
I nodded but said nothing.
"They say the end is near, that the Germans will sign the armistice. Mr. Wayne sent this-" Perry thrust a letter into my hands.
The paper was thick and heavy, embossed with the Wayne family crest. It was nothing like the cheap paper that I used to write home. I pushed my glasses upwards and read. Although my eyesight is technically perfect, it did not stop the words shifting or changing against my will.
'Perry, I have heard from I have heard from the British that they believe the Germans will sign the armistice. I should like a reporter here to conduct the usual interviews and the like of the behalf of the Daily Planet. You have recommended Mr. Kent before, and I believe he is the correct man for the job. I have arranged with the consulate for his papers, etc, etc. Mr. Olsen, I believe, is your photographer, who has been documenting the war, will be meeting Mr. Kent in London when he arrives.'
I looked up from the letter to see Perry, cigar in hand, a kind of mean grin on his face, "You leave first thing, kid."
All I could say was "Yes, sir."
