Chapter 3 - Green Gold
SUPERMAN TO ASSIST GOTHAM CITY PD IN CAPTURE OF GOTHAM'S MOST WANTED?
Lois Lane
Senior Reporter
Daily Planet
FUCK BATMAN. SUPERMAN RULES.
That is the aggressive assertion on a local man's T-shirt as he stands at the front steps of Metropolis Police Department HQ. He's not the only one.
Commissioner Jim Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department, a tired-looking man of apparent good conscience and intent, gestures for calm. But the questions begin shooting out of the crowd. Actually, it's just one question. And it's not for the commissioner. In fact, it's for the man standing next to him, his black hair and red cape flowing in the light breeze as he hovers weightless a few feet off the ground. Everyone wants to hear the Kryptonian's answer to the question of the century: Will Superman capture Batman?
Max had never seen so much security in his life.
After the guards out front frisked him from head to toe, searching for weapons of any kind, they pulled a pistol, ammo, a knife and a cell-phone. They checked his wallet and saw two dollar bills, some gray lint and an exclusive invitation card, made of black and gold emboss. There was nothing written on it. Just a symbol of a shield. The only thing missing was a cavity search. Max smiled anxiously as they tossed his effects into a bin after disassembling it. They kept the invitation. They slammed him up against the wall and said, "You a cop?"
Max's eyes widened. "Hell, no!" His voice cracked. He was only eighteen, how could they mistake him for a cop?
They let him go, and Max thought he would collapse from relief. He wiped his fuzzy upper lip and looked at his gun. Then his heart sank a little bit—the pistol was the only piece he owned. Paid for it with his own money and everything. "I need my gun back."
"Another word and you'll get the back of my fist. Get in or get lost."
Max sulked as he and went in, decided not to push his luck. He had, after all, not been invited. He'd just stolen the card out of a guy's stuff at the hotel where he worked as a skycap and as a low level spy for Intergang.
Max's jaw dropped a little at what he saw. There, sitting in the middle of the large carpeted hall, surrounded by huge guys with automatic rifles, was the thing everyone was calling green gold. It was a big-ass rock, like a boulder. It glowed dangerously, and Max felt more inclined to keep away from the menacing glow than he did those dudes with guns. Something about the green gold—it gave him a bad feeling.
But he could already see people wearing it with their power suits and sleek emerald dresses—gems in rings, in brass knuckles, necklaces, earrings, studs, even in their teeth instead of diamonds. Everyone was showing off their newfound resistance to Superman. It was a symbol of power and/or absolute badassery.
Here was the thing—nobody had any idea about its real value until Superman came into the picture. Even without Superman around, something this rare, something from friggin' outer space, was worth millions to the private collector. But after the fellas from Intergang that carried out the heist in the first place talked about how Superman couldn't even fight back, started bleeding when he was shot, well, no one believed them. It just sounded like a load of bullshit, Superman bleeding. Get outta here. The guy was bulletproof and here were four fools all telling the same story. Eventually, the news got out. The damn media showed surveillance videos that just proved what those dudes were talking about.
That was when the mad rush began. People buying chunks of the meteorite, throwing cash, girls, guns, drugs, whatever the price. The huge chunk once thought to be worth millions, was now estimated by news panel guests and the FBI to be in the billions.
As for Max, if he was lucky he'd be able to buy a fraction of an ounce of meteorite dust. He just came to see the rock for himself, up close. But now he was chickenshit. The thing freaked him out. Something like that wasn't harmless. It couldn't be. Fucking glowing, radioactive looking outer space boulder. He wouldn't go within twenty feet of that, he knew now, he'd keep his distance. Stay along the edges of this hall the whole night. He might have been broke, but even if he had the money, he wasn't going to buy any of it. If it could bring Superman to his knees, what the hell could it do to him?
"Ladies and gentleman, please take your seats." A thin man with an angular face said on the microphone. He waited while the murmuring guests quieted down. "Ladies and gentleman, bidding tonight starts at ten grand for the first ounce." The auctioneer gently tapped a hammer and people began holding up paddles.
"Okay, here we go, ten for the lovely lady in black here, eleven for the man over there, twelve for the lady with paddle number thirteen. And thirteen it is for the gentleman, can I hear a fourteen from miss thirteen? And yes, fourteen it is to her, thank you, miss, do I hear fifteen? Yes sir, fifteen to the gentleman, do I hear sixteen, Miss Thirteen? And yes I do, sir? Do you dare seventeen? And yes—Oh it's eighteen to the miss. Sir, do I hear eighteen-five, sir? Yes, here we go. Nineteen from the woman in black. Nineteen-five from the gentleman. The auctioneer paused and looked at the woman. She stroked her shoulder like she was petting a cat and the auctioneer shrugged a pointy shoulder and asked with an amused smile, "Twenty from the lady in black?"
Max moved around the hall to get a better look at her face. She glanced at the man bidding against her. She lowered her gaze bashfully. Then smiled. "Too rich for my blood."
The man's jaw dropped. He glared at the woman, then the auctioneer, cursed under his breath. The auctioneer kept a straight face, but Max was sure he saw him smile a little. "Sir, if you'll please step to the room over there, you'll receive your portion of tonight's jewel."
The woman smiled to herself, head down and thumbed her glossy black fingernails. "Sorry, kitten," she said. She stood up and left the rows of seats and approached the man who had just outbid her. She leaned down in her black dress, giving Max a great view for later tonight when he was alone, stretching out the weird leathery material she was wearing. This was one classy chick. Wearing tight-ass leather and she didn't look the least bit trashy. She angled her foot in a three-inch gem-encrusted stiletto and whispered in the man's ear. He looked at her, down her cleavage and she winked at him. Max watched as the woman took his arm and they began walking to where he'd collect his piece of the rock.
"I didn't catch your name, sweetheart."
It's Miss Kyle."
"Oh, excuse me."
"It's quite all right, darling." She patted his arm. Looked down and stopped. She said curiously, "Say, weren't you wearing a bracelet?"
The man looked down at his wrist and he stopped. "Yeah." He whirled around to search the ground. "I must have dropped it."
"Please, let me help you look," she said graciously and turned back around.
"Thanks, Miss Kyle."
"You're welcome, dearest. Rotten luck, isn't it? To lose another twenty-thousand on a lovely bracelet like that?"
"You're tellin' me. But there's a lot more where that came from."
"Mmm. Is that so?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "Let 'em have it. They probably need it more than I do, am I right?"
She smiled, pearly whites catching the light from the chandeliers. "Rich, generous, devilishly handsome—you don't lack for anything, do you?" She brushed the back of her hand up against his groin, just for a second, making him freeze in midstride.
When he recovered he gave a bewildered grin and said, "Maybe Superman's head on a plate."
That's when all the lights went out.
The meteorite fluoresced that sick-looking green. Green light fell off it in waves, like a water fall.
There was a loud beating cloth above, a deep whoosh. Automatic rifle muzzles began to flash like strobe lights. Max planted himself flat against the wall, behind a pillar, and stared paralyzed at a black shadow as it flew down right into the gunfire. There was a loud grunt as the shadow's boot heel connected with a guy's jaw.
Cries of pain as people were caught in the crossfire. The doors burst open and anyone that could run away, did, women hiking up dresses, pulling off their heels. The Batman cleared a room faster than a drug raid. Even if the guy was Gotham City's Most Wanted.
Max tried fighting his way out too. But someone shoved him. Max went down and got trampled like a rug. No one even tried to help him up.
By the time the stampede was over, Max was a bloody, bruised mess on the ground. The barrel of guns and weapons taken from guests was knocked over, spilling out cell phones and all kinds of junk that could be used as weapons. Max picked up a cell phone and dialed 911. He looked down at his left arm and it looked like it was shaped weird. Maybe it was broken.
Max dragged himself up and pressed into a corner under a table.
"Metropolis, 911, what is your emergency?"
"He's here," Max whispered in a pinched voice as he watched the Batman lift a man clear off the floor. It was the auctioneer.
"Who is, sir?"
"The Batman."
"Stay on the line. I'm sending police right now."
Max watched as Batman dragged the auctioneer toward a side door—a stairwell. The man started screaming bloody murder and the Batman punched him in the face twice. Boom. Boom. The man went limp.
Batman tossed the guy over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
Then he dropped a couple of canisters, about half the size of a 12 oz of beer. They both began to hiss. Max' jaw dropped open when he saw the green gold melting away from the gas, like getting eaten away, melting from the display stand. Eventually even the stand crumbled. The gas spread fast, and began to get on Max' skin. He breathed it by mistake and his throat began to burn. It was some kind of acid and his eyes began to burn. He wanted to leave, but the Batman would see him if he moved.
Max shrank even smaller, trying not to be seen, pulled his shirt collar over his mouth and nose. But it was too late. The Batman noticed the glowing cell phone, the panting, the coughing, the groaning.
Max tried to compress himself into a smaller fetal cube, but there was nowhere for him to go. The Batman reached down and snatched the phone from him. Checked the screen. Tossed it back on the floor without disconnecting the call. When Max picked up the phone and looked back up, the Batman had vanished. So had the auctioneer.
"Please, I don't know anything," the auctioneer wailed. "Please, let me go."
Batman had dragged him up to the rooftop, tied him to a pole. Thunder rolled in the distance. "Storm's coming."
The auctioneer realized where he was, restrained to a grounding pole, and a scream of horror escaped his lips. "Please! I just do as I'm told, I don't know anything. Please, I don't want to die."
"Where is the rest of the rock?"
Lightning flashed far away and thunder growled. The storm was approaching fast. Rain began to spatter the auctioneer's face, mixing with tears of desperation. "Please, let me go."
"Who did you give it to?"
"I don't know, please! I don't want to die."
Sirens whined in the distance. There wasn't much time left.
Batman's next words burst out of him with fury. "WHERE'S THE REST OF IT?!"
Batman checked the sky, but all he saw were flashes of lightning. Thunder barked and the auctioneer flinched violently. Blood leaked from his split lip. "Please, let me go. I'll tell you. Her name is Mercedes. It was sold to her at a private negotiation. Two million, pure cash."
There were only seconds left now. The cop cars stopped outside the building. The police would be up here any moment.
Batman checked the sky again, and rain drummed against his cowl. Time to get out of here.
He leapt over the side of the building as the auctioneer screamed behind him. "Let me go!"
But Batman didn't have to. He was tied to a flagpole all along.
As for the person he was waiting for, he never showed.
QUESTION OF THE CENTURY? HERE'S ONE FOR THE MILLENIUM
Vicki Vale
Senior Reporter
Gotham Gazette
Where is Superman?