02. SACRIFICES

There were at least seven ways to disarm the guards flanking the twisting corridor but Bruce saw no reason to add another bloodstain to his jacket. Alfred did not approve of his 'theatrics', as the elder man put it, and would no doubt lecture him on the importance of appearance when he would see the dark stain under the collar. Until the guards gave him reason for concern, he did not need to draw the guns that slapped against his thigh with every other step. In his peripheral, said guards remained as they were, backs straight, arms tense, guns held across their Kevlar-bound chests. Sunlight that had managed to push through the heavy clouds filtered in through the skylights, glinting off the screens of their black helmets. As he passed the black-clad figures, sexless that they were in their shapeless coats, he caught glimpses of alert eyes and rigid lips. Drones were almost always heavily dosed but in the Hall of Victory, even more so, until the point they could only live and breathe their mission: protecting Father's closest confidant.

Bruce's steps were measured and clipped on the obsidian marble, so polished he could see the air filter blimp from beyond the skylights. He stopped at the tall, wooden doors at the end of the halls, nodding shortly to the Drones stationed on either side. "Cleric Bruce Wayne, summoned by the Vice-Council." He produced his identity card with practised ease.

The Drone with the broader shoulders moved forward, shouldering his gun to take the card and examine it carefully, as if searching for some defect.

Bruce waited patiently, aware of the other Drone's scrutiny, the helmeted head turned towards him without any feign of neutrality. Absently, he wondered if the level of paranoia instilled in them put severe pressure on their mental capacity and in turn, could compromise their mission.

"Alright," said the first Drone, handing back the card and immediately taking up his gun.

The other Drone looked at him a moment longer before tapping a complicated pattern on the door. There was a responding tap and the doors opened.

"Thank you." Bruce entered.

Though he hadn't stepped into its confines for nearly a decade, the office was as he remembered it: a rectangular room with the same glossy, black tiles as the hall, and black panelling. In the center was a wide glass table beside which stood a statue of a man with the literal weight of the world on his bronze shoulders. The luminous globe cast a strange, ethereal light on the guns of the Drones lining the wall. The high-backed chair behind the table was empty of its usual occupant who, instead, stood by the long, slim window on the far wall. Even as Bruce shut the door, the suited figure did not turn around.

"Mr. Wayne. It has been a long time." Even the voice was unchanged, deep and smooth with the lilt that spoke of the Old World, of before. "I trust you are well."

"Yes, thank you, sir."

The man nodded and turned. Age had touched his temples with silver and lined the corners of his mouth but otherwise, Ducard was unchanged. His eyes were the same unnerving blue as they settled on Bruce, moustache quirking as he half-smiled.

"My, how you've grown. How long has it been?" His tone was light, jovial almost, but his eyes remained cool and impassive.

"Seven years, sir."

"Yes. Yes, it has." Ducard circled him for a moment, shark-like, assessing the broad shoulders and sculpted arms under the misleading cut of the Cleric jacket. He gave a sharp nod of approval before taking his seat.

Bruce remained standing.

Ducard opened a file on his desk, leafing through the pages as he spoke. "Thank you for coming, Cleric. I know you are a busy man – and a family one, at that."

"Yes, sir – a boy and a girl. The boy's in the monastery himself, on path to becoming a Cleric."

"Good. And the girl?"

"Computer technology, Father's Intelligentsia – she is the top student in her class."

"She takes after her father, no doubt. Your friend, the Dawes girl – the mother, I take it?"

Bruce nodded tightly.

Ducard smoothed a paper in the file. "Lovely girl, I remember. How is she?"

"My spouse was arrested and incinerated for sense offense four years ago, sir."

"By yourself?"

"No, sir, by another."

At this, Ducard looked up from his papers. "How did you feel about that?"

"I'm sorry. I don't...fully understand, sir."

The other man smiled, brows raised, shrugging his shoulders slightly as if it were the simplest question in the world. "How did you feel?"

"I didn't feel anything."

"Really? And how is it that you came to miss it?"

Bruce swallowed, his collar suddenly tight. "I...I've asked myself that same question, sir. I don't know."

Ducard looked at him for a moment before closing the file. "A nearly unforgivable lapse, Cleric. With the calibre of your training, there is no excuse. I trust you will be more vigilant in the future."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He gestured for Bruce to sit. "I assume you know the role I now play in the Hall of Victory."

The synthetic leather crackled as he sat down. "Yes, sir, you are Father's voice."

Another half-smile. "Indeed I am. And that is why I've called you here today, Mr. Wayne. Father has extended Libria's hand in friendship towards Krypton. As you know, relations between humans and the Kryptonians have always been strained, especially during the Third World War. But, in light of Libria's recent advancements in the eradication of contraband materials and progress in the infiltration of the Underground, Father has decided to propose another alliance."

Bruce nodded, mentally sifting through lessons on the planet. Relatively peaceful with little war. Dependant on the energy of its sun Rao. Technologically advanced than Earth. Little is known about the people due to limited contact. First Libria-Krypton alliance proposed at the launch of the Prozium Project.

As if reading his thoughts, Ducard continued smoothly, "Thirty years to the day of the last proposal, and we have received a semblance of acceptance."

"Are there conditions?"

"Something like that. You see, Mr. Wayne, Father offered the Kryptonian Science Council – elected leaders of the planetary government – the opportunity to send one of their own to test the waters, so to speak, before deciding to ally themselves with us. This effectively puts Libria in a position of great scrutiny so Father asked me to assign this mission to the most capable person." Ducard looked him straight in the eyes.

Bruce blinked. "But sir, surely someone better versed in interplanetary relations –."

"Mr. Wayne, under my tutelage, you were a most prodigal student and are now the top Gramatton Cleric in all of Libria."

"You were a very effective teacher, Vice-Council."

"Perhaps. But it is your resolve and dedication that earned you your position. I know you, Mr. Wayne, better than you think. You are able, on some level, to sense how an offender thinks, to...put yourself in their position. I cannot think of anyone else to illustrate the finest Libria has to offer."

"Very well, sir."

"I am sure you will not disappoint, Cleric." Ducard opened another file, this one thick with documents. "The Kryptonian agent will be reporting to his or her supervisors on your work as a Cleric as well as your role as a citizen of Libria. In order for a completely immersive experience, they will be housing with you. All expenses of their stay will be covered by the Palace of Justice."

"My guest room is currently occupied by my personal servant."

Ducard waved a hand. "If you are in need of additional furniture, forward an order to the Hall of Finance."

"Yes, sir."

"The agent will be arriving sometime tonight. You will be notified. Please make the necessary arrangements, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce rose to his feet. "Yes, sir." He turned to leave.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You would've made your father very proud."

"Thank you, sir."

Ducard nodded abstractly, motioning at the Drones who moved forward to open the doors. Bruce walked into sunlit hall, leaving the shadows and the man within them behind.

A quick squeeze to his shoulder and Jor-El sat down beside him. Kal smiled, willing his nerves to calm as the weight of the Council's collective gaze fell upon him. Some of the eyes were soft, with pity or understanding he wasn't sure, while others were sharp and calculating, as if they could dissect his mind right there and then.

"I hope you understand the seriousness of this mission, Kal-El," said a woman with hawkish eyes. "Your grandfather too was an enthusiast of human culture but he was cautious. I hope you will follow his example."

He inclined his head. "Of course."

"Are you certain you can cope with the isolation?" Jor-El's serene smile had been replaced by a slight frown.

"I'm not a child, Father," said Kal, a little impatiently, "And I will have contact with you when I report, won't I?"

"Contact will be very limited," said a man with red hair that looked like an oliphent's(1) mane around his bearded face. "Weekly at the most and almost always for reporting purposes. I'm afraid you will not be able to speak with your family unless it's an emergency."

Kal nodded slowly. "I thank you for your concern but I will not be completely isolated. My human partner? Won't he or she have a family?"

"Yes," said Jor-El, skimming through some holo files, "A boy and a girl, and a servant as well."

"A slave?" asked a pale-haired woman.

"Slavery was abolished many years ago in the region of Libria," supplied Kal, earning him a thoughtful look. "I'm assuming this servant's housing is provided along with payment in exchange for service."

"So you are well-versed in human culture, boy?" asked the red-haired man, regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

"Kal has always spent a lot time in Archives," said Jor-El. "He learned English through holos and is also able to read and write it quite well."

Kal tried not to gape at his father – was that pride in the other man's voice? When had shutting yourself away with dusty tomes and fuzzy digitals become admirable in the House of El? He schooled his expression into something more attentive than shocked when he realized the pale-haired woman was speaking.

"– and you will only be able to take a few items. They're provided us a list of materials they've deemed contraband. We trust you to use your discretion. You will be provided with clothing and food. Unless there is a change of circumstance, you will take your meals with your assigned human partner and maybe, their family. You will also be housing with your partner and their family. You are to accompany your partner to all missions and social functions. Reports are to be sent only to a member of the Council as their contents are highly classified. You will be responsible for your own safety but will not use your gifts unless there is no other means of escaping danger. Remember, you are an observer and will be expected not to interfere in the dealings of humans. If you will something is amiss, state it in your report. Always speak to humans in their language – only reports should be spoken in Kryptonian. Any questions?"

Kal blinked. "I – no, I don't think so."

"Good," said Jor-El, "Then it's settled. Your ship will be leaving at sunrise so you will be arriving on Earth at night."

Everyone rose and Kal scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking his notes off his table.

The red-haired man nodded solemnly at him. "May you fare well, Kal-El, son of Jor-El."

The other council members echoed the formal wish, all except Jor-El who took his hands. "My son. May you bring honour to our house and to our people. If ever you are lost, look to the stars and know you are loved, know you are not alone. May Rao's warmth reach you in the darkest of nights and may Mithen's shadow cover you in the brightest of days. May you fare well, Kal-El, son of Krypton."

"Thank you, Father," Kal whispered.

Jor-El gave his hands a squeeze before giving him a gentle push. "Go, Kal, your cousin is no doubt waiting with bated breath. Put her energy to some good use and prepare yourself for the journey ahead."

"Yes, Father."

"At Rao's first light. Do not forget."

The man standing behind the desk was different from the man who was there a month ago but had the same bland expression and pressed shirt. His nametag, however, said Benjamin. "What can I do for you, Cleric?"

"Prosecutorial evidence for A.N.R. 136890." At the man's unchanged expression, Bruce added, "I need it."

"Of course," murmured the man, flipping through the pages of the giant log book.

"It was late this afternoon and may not have showed up on the records yet."

"I'm very sorry, Cleric. Nothing had been logged and nothing is pending under that entry."

"It was an item of evidence brought in personally by Grammaton Errol Partridge. Check again."

The officer looked at him strangely. "Sir, Cleric Partridge has not entered anything in for weeks."

A cool breeze brushed against the knuckles of his bare hands. "You're mistaken. It was a book of some kind."

"Cleric." The man turned the book so its neat, cramped text faced him. "There's nothing." His expression betrayed nothing but polite disinterest.

I was right.

Bruce peered for a moment at the page before him. "Thank you." He didn't stay to hear the man's reply, instead turning on his heel and leaving the department, pulling on his gloves as he did so.

Right on time, his phone beeped from within the depths of his pocket. He answered. "Alfred."

"Sir. The preparations you requested have been made. Should we be expecting our guest sometime tonight?"

"I'm not sure. Please be on standby for further instructions."

"Of course."

"Have the children been informed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Thank you, Alfred."

"A pleasure, Master Wayne."

Bruce hung up and then dialled another number. A mechanical voice, female but devoid of any warmth, asked him how much reinforcement he'd need. A quick glance at a window showed a sky marked with the fiery red-orange of the Librian sunset. The Nethers were like minefields at night, danger lurking at every shadow and step. He wouldn't put it past Partridge to set himself as trap on behalf of the rebels.

He asked for twice the number of Drones he would usually take.

Something scraped at his throat as he walked out of the Palace, the cool evening air on his face. He couldn't quite place it but what did he know of betrayal?

Mithen was a pale smudge in the azure that streaked the horizon. Stars danced, winking between clouds like the stones humans called diamonds. He'd tried explaining diamonds to his mother once, saying how pretty she'd look with one at each ear. She'd laughed of course. Whether it was at the thought of compressed coal being much sought after or the idea of humans willingly piercing holes in themselves for vanity's sake, Kal wasn't sure.

"Hey." Kara sidled up beside him, a steaming cup in her hands. At his raised brows, she shrugged, turning her attention to the lightening sky. "It's one human import I can tolerate."

"Tolerate," Kal muttered, smiling. "I'll miss you the most. After Krypton, of course."

She swatted him playfully. "Cheeky brat. I come before the planet, cousin, don't forget it." She took a sip of her coffee. Her smile faltered. "What do you think it'll be like, Kal?"

"The coffee? More sugar than milk, knowing you."

She rolled her eyes. "Kal. Earth, your mission."

He grinned, dodging another swat before sobering. "I'm not sure, to be honest. It's one thing to know something in theory –."

"–then to know it in practise."

"Exactly. But Kara, humans without emotions? Considering everything I've read, everything I've seen – well, it's a little hard to imagine."

"Is it?"

"Novels, poetry, epics – all produced through pain, triumph and joy. The foundation of human history and culture is built on feeling."

Kara took a generous slurp of coffee before replying. "Maybe. But what about their history of destruction and inflicting pain on one another? Don't those vices take root in jealousy, in rage? Humans have done horrendous things to each other, Kal. Don't be so quick to overlook it."

"But –."

Kara's holopad started to beep. She downed the rest of her coffee before turning off the alarm. "Are you packed?"

"Yeah, I think so." He gestured at the small bag on his bed.

"Alright. Let's go. Your father is probably waiting for us at the launch pad right now."

"Shouldn't I eat something first?"

She gave him a look. "You can grab something at the canteen. And I'm sure your human partner will stuff you like a droth(2) when you arrive. Come on." Grabbing his bag, she left the room.

He gave the room one last look over before clapping his hands. The lights dimmed, bed, desk and holo screen fading into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, he left, determined not to look back.

Wet concrete and the sweet smell of rotting wood greeted him as he made his way through the path cut through the wreckage. The yellowed church jutted out between the jagged remnants of shops and bakeries. Bruce glanced over his shoulder; the nearest Drone was a good thirty feet away, pointing their machine gun at something in what little remained of a book shop window.

The church door was half-open, light spilling onto the faded Latin scratched into the pavement. Bruce entered, ignoring the rain of dust that fell onto his hair and shoulders as the door's hinges creaked in protest.

Moonlight streamed in through stained glass and bullet holes in the crumbling concrete. There were scorch marks where painted angels had been, chipped plaster in place of watchful saints. The floor was thick with dust except for the footprints that made their way up the aisle and towards the second-row pews where Partridge sat. His brows were furrowed, lips moving silently, a book in his hands. His head was tilted and his hands were bare, fingers running over the pages as if they could capture the words there. He didn't look up, even as Bruce's shadow fell over him, blocking out the light.

"You always knew."

Bruce did not respond, pushing his gun against the cover of the book. Yeats, he noted, and a rather thick volume of it. He also noted the tremble of Partridge's hands as he lowered the book, eyes still not meeting his.

"But I being poor have only my dreams." His breath was a single, hazy puff. "I've spread my dreams under your feet." His eyes were distant, no longer focused on the gun. "Tread softly...because you tread on my dreams." He looked up slowly. "I assume you dream, Wayne?"

"I'll do what I can to see they go easy on you."

Partridge smiled ruefully. "We both know...they never go easy."

"Then I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You don't even know the meaning. It's just a...vestigial word for a feeling you've never felt." He suddenly got to his feet, ignoring Brfuce's gun at his chest. "Have you ever felt happiness? Sorrow? Love? Bruce, tell me, have you ever felt any of those things?" He was trembling, fist clenched. "Don't you see? It's gone. Everything that makes us what we are – traded away for...for this." He gestured at the church and the headless Madonna at the altar and the dust on their shoulders.

"There's no war. No murder."

The other man's eyes were bright in the semi-darkness. "What is it you think we do?"

"No." Bruce shook his head. "No. You've been with me. You've seen how it can be – the jealousy, the rage."

"A heavy cost. I'd pay it gladly." Partridge moved forward.

"Don't."

The book of poetry in one hand, Partridge took another step.

"I'm warning you, Partridge. Errol. Please." Suddenly, there was a hand on his face, solid and so very warm, fingers tracing his lips –.

Bang.

Partridge's book hit the ground before his body, unsettling the dust. His eyes were still open, very wide and very blue. They stared blankly up at Bruce who stared back.

He raised a gloved hand to his face.

"Cleric."

He looked up. A man in a gray jacket was standing by the door. His skin was dark and free of any blemishes as he stepped into the moonlight, teeth almost too-bright when he smiled. "Nice work though a little sloppy considering your record." He walked up to the body and looked at it for a moment before extending his hand. "Brandt."

"Wayne." Bruce ignored the hand until it dropped. He looked over Brandt's shoulders at the Drones who had arrived. "Have the book confiscated and the body taken to the coroner."

As he walked away, Brandt called after him. "You've been summoned by the Vice-Council. Something about an agent's arrival."

Bruce only quickened his pace.

Glossary

(1) oliphant: A type of large Kryptonian animal domesticated and used as a beast of burden. Despite the similarity to our word "elephant," there was little resemblance to this Earth creature except that both are large. The Oliphent is not even a mammal, but a warm-blooded, egg-laying creature (like dinosaurs).
(2) droth: A type of large Kyrptonian sea-bird.