A/N: Hello all! Thank you for the reviews! They are really helpful! One thing I can say regarding language, in particular between Perry and Lois, is that in the realm of conversation in the workplace is that were Lois and Perry weren't by Jimmy, Richard, or Clark the tone would be more professional, more respectful of boundaries. However, Lois Lane is the ballsy ace reporter who brings in the big stories that elevated the DP at the peak of the biggest story of the planet (Superman) and is possibly the daughter Perry wished he had. I will do what I can to tone down the cursing between them.
Honestly, I could be happier with this chapter. I'd say this is before a Justice League but right around the time that Superman would be familiar with the superheroes around him. So review away! Any suggestions you give would be highly welcomed.
I OWN NOTHING!
Hell and the English Butler
One of many things that irked Clark about being Superman (besides the tights that hide nothing, the severe cramp on his social life, the whole competing with himself for a woman's affections, etc.) was that he could never present himself as someone who could have a definitive opinion about anything. Sure, the papers touted him as a symbol for truth, justice, and all that (they wanted to use 'American way' but he had Lois point out that as he saved any and everybody that jingoism wouldn't do). And he did his part by volunteering his time and image to aid organizations, scientific research groups, and their like. However, when people normally asked him questions it was mostly about the disaster he was clearing or just for the sake of a decent sound bite to inspire the masses. But no one asked Superman what he thought of the constant state of warfare that has transpired since the end of the Cold War, or what he thought of the rise in racial conflicts due to the restructuring of nation-states, or what he thought the heightened influx of technological advances in the past decade would do to increase the disparity between the rich and poor. If he didn't know any better he'd think that the world saw him as one big jock; no wonder Lex Luthor constantly belittled his intelligence. Hell, even Lois Lane glossed over some of the heavier questions and not only is she the love of his life but a damn good reporter. It was highly annoying.
Then again, Clark Kent had the education. Superman was just some alien savior.
Clark Kent was the salutatorian in high school, Clark Kent graduated in the top five percent in an Ivy League school with a double major in history and journalism. Clark Kent, were he not afraid of too much exposure, could attempt to answer any hard question thrown his way. Superman couldn't have all that because, quite simply, he wasn't supposed to have been on this planet for very long. In hindsight, maybe that was a good thing. If your purpose in life was to fly around saving the world surely you'd have very little time to ponder life's more important questions. Still, as Clark Kent found himself not saving the world, but lounging around an immense pool with headphones on listening to phonetic tapes brought to him by a pushy English manservant, he couldn't help but think about things that he normally didn't have the time to think about. Like the nature of Hell and how much he hated to be underestimated.
Clark was raised in America's heartland. He had two loving parents who did things the way they have always been done, with only a few modern touches. On the weekdays they woke up early, tended to the animals and the fields, fixed what needed to be fixed, and ate large warm meals. On Sundays, however, they had slept in. They would eat a smaller breakfast, usually just pancakes with bacon and juice. Clark and his dad would get into the suits Martha had lovingly laid out for them. She would dress in a simple dress with a pretty hat. They would forgo their most recent truck in favor of the old truck they found Clark in and drive it through town and to the Methodist church. There, the good trio would listen to the teachings of their pastor with a careful ear and when they bowed their heads they thanked God for the miracle of each other and the goodness of the land that provided them comfort.
As Clark grew up his views on the Sunday ritual changed, as they did for every person. Between three and ten he was bored and naively disillusioned. He was in a cumbersome suit, the sun was just too bright and wonderful to be stuck inside, and the pastor droned on. With the first blush of puberty, he started paying more attention to the sermons and started to question things. He'd read the Bible at warp speed and would stop the pastor after church to ask questions about how he interpreted the passages. He was seduced by the power behind the pastor and how the lessons in the Bible applied to everyday life. By the time he was fifteen and graduated from Sunday school many thought he'd become a pastor himself. When his father died while he was still in high school the church showed their support through casseroles and prayer. But that moment was the start of Clark's true disillusionment. How could God be all seeing and all knowing and let such a good man like Jonathan Kent die? Nothing he read made anything feel better and his mother's sobs reinforced that feeling. He still went to church with his mother, but instead of feeling intrigued by the work of faith he felt bitter and even annoyed. For a moment ego took over and he went ahead and declared God dead.
College and its eccentricities didn't help him lose his nascent atheism, but it was traveling the world and later becoming Superman that made him reconsider his views on faith and humanity. As Superman he was not only a savior but a witness to all forms of human suffering. He was there when people lost their homes in the disasters he attempted to control. He was there for the widows and orphans new to their station in life due to him not being able to be everywhere. He heard the cries of the hungry, the sick, the bitter, and the despairing that he could do very little for beyond donate to a local relief charity. He could see the faces of all the people that died because he just couldn't get there in time and everyday the burden of those who died in the earthquake instead of Lois all those years ago made him ill. Though many would see it as an ego issue, he started to think that maybe whatever force was out there in the universe had the same problems he had. In spite of everything he did, in spite of every sacrifice he made, he couldn't save everybody from their circumstances. From the time he saved a reporter from a helicopter to when he left to find out about his people Clark Kent became an avid agnostic and thanked God for being able to do whatever he could.
Still, years of homeland church training still colored his thoughts when it came to things such as goodness and evil. Granted, he knew that even the best people had darkness in them; he sure as hell did. Moreover, he knew that as the world was gray he could not single out anyone to spend their end in Paradise and he found that it was often those who concerned themselves over that instead of helping their fellow man in the here and now were the ones who messed up and committed horrible acts. Still, he certainly believed that there should be a special for Lex Luthor and those who did not mind killing millions of people for their selfish needs. Whether or not it was the hell with the pitchforks and fire was the question. In his early atheist days he came up with the theory that there was no hell and hell was just made up because there just HAD to be a place for the people who wronged others. As he became more aware of the global condition he nearly gave into that idea. There were places filled with so much despair that surely there couldn't be anything worse. When Zod and his associates were defeated and sent back to the prison they came from a part of Clark wondered if that place was akin to the hell he was taught to fear. Certainly it fit the profile; years of torment and no freedom for redemption. It was only after he flew to Gotham seeking the help of an associate that he began to reconsider his old theory. Maybe there was a hell and it was of his own making. Overall, hell was having a son not know him as his father and a woman not attracted to the whole of him. Currently, hell was Wayne Manor and the devil was a pushy butler named Alfred.
When Clark got the assignment he knew that this was a very good (and work-funded) opportunity to start on redefining his persona. Lois offered to help, but frankly it would be like asking his mother and her disparaging words still vibrated through his head. It was quite insulting to hear her doubt him like that and to voice those doubts so stringently to his boss...all she needed to do was rubber band him like a bull; it'd hurt less. Still, he knew that he needed to do something and he needed to do more than find another tailor. He allowed himself two days of indecision until he thought of who he knew that was ridiculously rich through no real effort of his own and therefore could help him. It was then that he saw an old article about Bruce Wayne shaking up Wayne Enterprises. He knew Bruce Wayne in both personas, though in all honesty he knew him better as the Dark Knight and rarely talked to him out of his cowl. Still, Bruce Wayne oozed idle rich and was about the same age as he was so any pointers he got would be current. Plus, frankly it didn't seem like the man did very much during the day. Indeed, when Superman sped to Gotham after making up his mind to go there he found Bruce wearing just a bathrobe in his immense backyard with his butler Alfred playing checkers with a decanter of scotch. "There is a front door," the billionaire smirked as Superman changed to Clark Kent behind him.
"Yes, well, how often is Superman supposed to visit Wayne Manor?" Clark shrugged. "And you know I have no car."
Bruce tilted his head and kicked out a chair. "Touché," he sighed as Alfred won the game. "What do you want?"he asked as they set reset the board.
"Oh, I can't visit and see how my friend is doing?"
"Is this about that millionaires retreat thing?"
"How…"
"How do you think your editor-in-chief got that tip? I'm busting my ass here but some things in Gotham still can't be trusted. If I took my suspicions of this little event to the Gotham Gazette who knows how fast this Sergei guy would have been alerted. We don't have reporters like Lois Lane and Clark Kent here; we have snitches. So all I had to do was drop a phone and you were tapped. I got my invite months ago."
"Well why aren't you going?"
Bruce gave Clark his most withering look and poured himself a scotch. He offered a glass to Clark, who took it gladly. "There are several gangs that have started to mobilize," he sighed. "Unlike you I cannot be in two places at once, I need to be here. You, last I checked, can crack the sound barrier. Surely you can juggle this and your extra-curricula."
"Great, in by default,"
"If it's Lex Luthor…"
Clark held his hand up and took a contemplative sip of his scotch. While he'd need an oil tanker of this to even feel buzzed it certainly was a good scotch. Plus, as alien as he was the idea of Lex Luthor was enough to make him take a drink, duty to the world or no. "I know, I know," he said. "So I'm going to pose as some millionaire-type and get in good with this Sergei Alexander…"
The billionaire gave the reporter a considering look. "Really?" he said. "I'd thought it'd be Lois."
"Don't get me started on that,"
He relayed Lois piercing pessimism over his ability to pull off the story and her degrading attempts to help him. He also, in a babbling fit well-suited to Clark Kent, told him of his state of transition and how he wanted to reshape his base personality to something more honest. Bruce, for his part, kept his face well-schooled until the end when he let out a small chuckle. Even Alfred gave the Man of Steel a pitying look. "So you flew here to escape her and get help doing…what?"
"I need to become like you,"
"Batman,"
"No, Bruce Wayne; a ridiculously wealthy man of the world,"
Bruce let out a short laugh and looked the reporter over before laughing a little louder. "And I'm supposed to do this in two weeks?"
"You certainly aren't doing anything," Clark shrugged.
"Believe it or not, Clark, I have stuff to do in the daytime too."
"It's Wednesday and you're drinking scotch in a bathrobe,"
Bruce shrugged and played with his expensive glass. "Because Monday and yesterday I was out all day with Lucius Fox discussing ways to clean up Wayne Enterprises. Needless to say that there are still so many areas of my family business that disgust me and those were twelve hour meetings placed on top of my nighttime activities," he said. "And this afternoon I am meeting with a group of Dutch bankers who I'm trying to get involved with a charity I am spearheading that will hand out more AIDS vaccines in third world countries than is being done by government-funded INGOs. The head guy at the bank likes to play checkers of all things and I haven't played that in two decades so Alfred is trying to teach me."
"And doing an abysmal job, Master Wayne," Alfred piped up.
"And the rest of this week involves socializing with some of the rich people around Gotham," Bruce continued. "You have no idea how exhausting that is. And that doesn't including how tired I am going to be from staking out gang activity until at least four every morning."
Clark heaved a sigh. "Shame I don't know more idle rich men who aren't trying to save their city," he drawled.
"Sorry I try to make a difference, I'll do better next time,"
"What can you do? Though I guess I need to start shopping…"
Bruce considered his, for want of a better adjective, friend as the Man of Steel sulked in his Louis XIV-styled patio furniture. Then he looked at Alfred, who shrugged back. Even though Clark was allowing himself a moment to pout he could see the wheels turning in Bruce's head. "Look," he said, "I want this Sergei guy found out as much as you do. Alfred can help."
Clark blinked and Alfred frowned slightly. "No, that's alright…"
"Alfred raised me to be who I am today," Bruce smiled. "If it weren't for him telling me how much I needed a social life I wouldn't be the lazy rich guy you think I am. Besides, I am only one other person in a very large house and I am certain we can entertain a guest for a week and a half. It could be beneficial to the both of you."
Clark considered Alfred, who seemed slightly amused at the idea. "Alright,"
"Certainly, Master Wayne," Alfred bowed.
"Excellent," Bruce grinned. He stood up, causing Clark and Alfred to stand as well. "Now, I'm going to get ready to meet these bankers. Alfred can show you around."
Clark watched the billionaire walk away and then turned to the English butler, who was critiquing him with his rheumy eyes. After ten minutes Clark cleared his throat and the manservant snapped out of his visual survey. "I do suggest we go shopping now, Master Kent, before the roadways get crowded," he said.
"You can call me Clark, Alfred,"
"Or I can call you Master Kent, Master Kent. A man in your station should not expect familiarity from a servant he just met,"
"Just met? But…"
"Come, Master Kent,"
And so, Clark Kent, started his stay in hell. That day Alfred walked him to the immense car garage wherein he spoke of the virtues of European vintage cars and had Clark drive Bruce's two million-dollar custom Aston Martin around to get the feel of the sumptuous car as they zipped through the city to Bruce's tailor. There, Clark was poked, prodded, talked over, and inspected like a piece of Kobe beef. Clark had nightmares over that happening to him upon exposure as an alien, but somehow having a sixty year old man lovingly measure his inseam while another older gentleman asked if he wore boxers or briefs felt worse than the thought of kryptonite-scalpels and vivisections. When they got out of there, after nine hours and a ridiculous amount of Bruce's money, they had ten suits and twenty ties of various colors, cuts, and fabrics ready to be shipped to Clark's new apartment in Metropolis and a nice ready-made suit of a rich gray color that Clark was to wear as the tailor insisted on burning the old one. Thankfully, Alfred had thought to bring a suitcase for his other Suit and so far the world wasn't in severe danger.
That took up all the first day but Alfred, to Clark's growing horror, was as nocturnal as his employer and just as dedicated to a task. Clark didn't go to bed until four in the morning that first day and until three the rest of them as Alfred had him read volumes of books about such things as golf, wine selection, water polo, chess, cocktail origins, and etiquette books. The older man then woke him up at five every morning and had him run drills changing from Clark to Superman in his two thousand dollar off-the-rack suit with the Suit in a separate briefcase and without destroying a button or popping a seam. He then had to endure personal questions about his grooming habits and their differences between his and that of a normal man's. He had to show Alfred how he shaved himself with his X-ray vision and mirrors and told him that his mother usually cut his hair with kryptonite-laced scissors every two months which he had to fly to Smallville to get. He then had to endure a lesson in aftershave and simulated fine-shaving and had to wear a lead bib as the manservant brought in an expert stylist to "get rid of…that", resulting in shorter hair with more product than he had ever had to use in his life. He then had to run drills changing from Clark to Superman with transitioning the new hair style. He was starting to get sick of the drills as they involved a high-pitched whistle and a look of annoyance if so much as a button became skewed.
He thought that'd be the worst of it, but no; it got worse. Alfred seemed to enjoy having someone to torture during the day and he took Clark around like a trainable show dog to the tearooms and country clubs of Gotham and even Metropolis as "Mr. Kirby, a wealthy farmer from Canada". Upon realizing his true reading speed Alfred had him read at least ten more books a day and tested him of what he learned therein. Under the bemused eye of Bruce (when he was there) Alfred scolded the Man of Steel's countrified dining etiquette and devised a system of mild shocks that annoyed more than hurt if Clark so much as reached for the wrong spoon. Then he had Clark's body heat tested using the supercomputer in the Bat-cave so that he may understand how scents could cling to him and devised a cologne laced with a touch of kryptonite to make him slightly vulnerable and smell great in spite of his body's tendency to expel foreign odors. He then had Clark fly him around the world and made him spend hours at a time in some of the wealthiest places around the world "to justify the lies" and bribe people to say he'd frequented some places before. He was then taken shopping around the ritziest clothing stores in London and France for outfits that could feed twenty families in South-East Asia and just when Clark thought he was done he had to fly Alfred back to Gotham wherein he bought more outfits and shoes so that he could have a "suitable blend of European and American flavors". He then had Clark do drills of switching out of his casual "Mr. Kirby" clothes and Superman. By the end of the second week the difference between his old transition and the new one was a fraction of a second and without a button out of place. He felt ready.
Still, after getting Clark enough clothes to stuff three closets, Alfred worked on other things that just irked Clark and brought on his thoughts of how the world saw Superman intellectually. Alfred certainly thought he was a social idiot as he had to work on his diction, "Kirby"-posture, and eloquent gestures. It certainly felt like the man didn't want to consider the fact that just maybe Clark had some training at home and possibly took a few business etiquette seminars in college. Maybe if he allowed Superman to hold serious conversations with the press he wouldn't have been tortured for nearly two weeks and have only been clothes shopping. Still he must be getting somewhere; the first few days he barely had time to let his mind wander and now he was able to be left alone for a few hours. That was why Clark Kent was laid up by Bruce's sumptuous pool contemplating the nature of hell and listening to tapes guaranteed to dull that "heinous" mid-western accent of his. At some point Clark felt something block the sun's rays. "You certainly look idle," he heard Bruce say.
Clark looked up and squinted at the billionaire who was smirking over him. The man certainly was right about how busy he was and had only been around to smirk at him at dinner and teach him how to fence. "I damned well better," Clark sighed.
"Are your eyes…green?"
"Hunter green actually,"
"How…"
"Contact lenses," Clark sighed as he turned the recording off. "Alfred felt that my brand of glasses wouldn't do for 'Jonathan Alastair Kirby IV' but as my unblocked face would still give me away contacts would do the trick while lighter frames are made. He bought at least a hundred pairs in case I have to use my X-ray vision in them."
"So you've gone with Jonathan Kirby?"
"Yes, sounds wealthy enough, doesn't it? I called Perry and he thought that was a good idea,"
"When do you have to report to the Planet?"
"I'm meeting them for lunch on Monday before we go off,"
"We?"
Clark scowled, thinking of the tentative phone call he had with Perry. "Lois is coming along anyway," he sighed. "She's going to be playing my wife, making sure I don't mess up."
"Bet you can't wait to get this over with,"
Clark gave Bruce a withering look. "I had to read an entire book on the Russian ballet this morning so that I can be quizzed on current dancers as well as learn the history of gin," he groaned. "I am wearing a swimsuit that cost more than the last pair of shoes I bought and am wearing this special lotion laced with poison so that I can actually tan in the sunlight and bleed. And don't even get me started on the lead-based scrub I have to use to get it off. I don't have my Suit on because that'd just raise suspicions so I have a briefcase that cost more than two months rent to hide it. I have been poked, I have been prodded, I have been groped (and I really do believe your tailor is a sexual predator), and I've been insulted. I had to fly your butler around the world to eat cheese and sushi, and do you know how much he squirms over the Atlantic? And I'm listening to tapes so that I won't sound 'socially untrained'. Sergei Alexander better be the devil incarnate because this is hell, Bruce. I have placed myself in hell and the devil wants me to have a British-like accent."
Bruce snorted and handed Clark a folder. "Oh come on," he laughed as Clark gave him his most petulant look. "I've done some research of Sergei Alexander and I probably went deeper than Lois is in Metropolis. Take a break and read that."
He sighed and sped through the folder. His eyebrows rose a few times and he handed the folder back to Bruce. "Are you certain that the birth certificate is a fake?" he asked.
"There is a very wealthy Alexander family in the Balkans, but they died out forty years ago. Whoever this Sergei is he's definitely a fake,"
"At least there's that. If this isn't Luthor it's someone else just as craft…"
"Master Kirby," a British voice trilled. Clark and Bruce exchanged looks as a walkie-talkie vibrated from a pool-side table. "I made reservations at Franklin's Manor at four for high tea and a quick game of cricket with Jon Ashby and Brent Thompson, who shall be attending the function. Do come in the house and dress appropriately."
Clark groaned and Bruce laughed outright. "Man, that sucks," the billionaire smirked
"Shut it,"
There was a small cough from the walkie-talkie. "Master Wayne you've been invited as well," Alfred continued. Clark barely contained his laughter as Bruce paled. "I've laid out your cricket attire. I do suggest you have Master Kirby speed your way to the main house, sir."
Clark gave Bruce a triumphant look. "At least I'm not in hell alone," he teased.
"Yes, well, at least this hell has dainty sandwiches,"
