[Outside Westminster Abbey]

Eight-year-old Jane was happy. She was spending a day in the city.

"Mummy, can I have some ice cream?"

"After lunch, Janie," her mother replied. After lunch.

A motor boat stopped on the Thames. You could see Westminster Abbey from here.

[Committee room 'A', Parliament, London]

Alfred had been sitting here since 9AM, before the Parliamentary Board of Inquiry into the chain of events leading to the so-called Bloody Sunday massacre. The Minister of Defense and several MPs grilled him over and over again.

"Did you – or did you not – give the order to fire, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"You were one of the ranking officers responsible for the Londonderry company. Surely any order for offensive action would have to come from ONE of you?"

"Did you act because you were ORDERED to provoke the protesters into confrontation?!"

Alfred grew weary of these grand-standing politicians. "Once again, my orders were – specifically – not to engage in confrontation unless attacked." How many times do I have to say that?

Mr. Entwistle picked up a document. "But it states in this memorandum to MI5, clearly, that you and you alone, Captain, recommended that lethal force can and should be used to counter the growing radicalism of the republican movement. You wanted to send them a message, didn't you?"

Alfred stood up. "No." He pounded the table. "No!! I did everything ... everything possible not to resort to an aggressive response. I can't explain why these documents suggest that I encouraged the violence. I did not! I served in Her Majesty's army with pride and distinction. If you cannot believe the facts, all that I can offer is my word. I did not give the order to fire. I have lived with the shame of that awful Sunday for 30 years. That day should never have occurred! If there was a plot to instigate violence there, it was not my doing ..."

"And all we have is your word?!" Mr. Entwistle scoffed.

"His word is good enough for me," one voice stated. The committee members turned around. Prince Philip, in his full uniform as colonel-in-chief of Alfred's old regiment, took a seat beside Alfred.

"P-Prince Philip, Y-Your Highness??" the Minister of Defense inquired. "If I had known you would be here, I would have made special arrangements ..."

"I'm here as Alfred's friend. You want a character witness ... well, here I am."

An aide whispered something in the prince's ear. "Excellent. Scotland Yard has just begun an investigation. It appears there has been some file- tampering at the Ministry of Defense. Some files pertaining to this very investigation. You're blaming a man ... one man ... for a conflict that was born over 300 years ago. For political gain, expedience or whatever you wish to call it. I suggest that you suspend this inquiry until such time as you have the facts before you. All the facts. Proceed with this character assassination at your peril."

The minister's secretary mumbled something in his ear. "Well, I guess we're in a bit of pickle, aren't we? The Prime Minister agrees with your assessment, Your Highness. Alfred Pennyworth, you may go – with our apologies." The committee members rushed out of the room. To escape the prince's glare. And to avoid the political shrapnel that would undoubtedly spray over all of them once the Prime Minster learns more about this fiasco.

Mr. Entwistle extended a hand. "Sorry about all this. A misunderstanding, you see?" He was afraid that Alfred's boss, a certain Mr. Bruce Wayne, would crucify him in court (or worse, in the press). My prime ministerial dreams are fading quickly.

Alfred stood before him. "I know a rat when I smell one. What was your career before public office, hmm? Section chief at MI5, wasn't it. The order to fire that day in Londonderry certainly came from someone higher than those on the front. I wonder ..."

Mr. Entwistle quickly gathered his things and left the committee room.

"Your Highness, I'm sorry you had to be dragged into this."

"Nonsense. The colonel-in-chief is supposed to stand up for his men, right?" Prince Philip slapped Alfred on the shoulder. An entourage of aides and security personnel escorted the prince out of Parliament.

Alfred shook his head. The media circus. The slanders. The lies. "... with our apologies." What a load of crap! Master Bruce will surely want to eviscerate the London tabloids. But he won't. Not after I have a few words with him. It's better to let the matter rest. Scotland Yard will find the guilty parties responsible for the file-tampering. There will be some degree of justice. There's no need to re-ignite old hatreds.

Alfred glanced down the block. A girl and her mother were strolling past Westminster Abbey. Mr. Entwistle had clicked on his door opener. The BMW was his latest purchase. A statement of his prestige. And power. Power attracted attention. How else could he manage to support the wife ... and his mistress. A former pin-up girl, no less. This mess will blow over, Mr. Entwistle confidently believed. He started the ignition.

The BMW ... and Mr. Entwistle's political ambitions ... exploded in a searing pyre of flame and smoke. Alfred dived behind a garbage bin. Metal scraps sprayed across the street. A rain of glass showered the sidewalk. Car alarms shrieked along the street.

A shredded teddy bear arched through the air, landing mere feet from the former British officer. Alfred heard the sirens. And the screams.

"Janie! Janie!! Oh my God! My baby! Noooo!!!"

Alfred ran to the mother. "I'll call an ambulance!"

The mother darted a hateful glance towards him. "You!! The British officer. It was you and your kind that started all this! You and your bloody guns!" She held her dead daughter in her arms.

"You're no better than the IRA. Butchers, all of you!!"

Alfred slowly backed away. Soon, paramedics and police officers surrounded the area. They tried to resurrect the girl. It was no use.

Alfred ran. Past the Parliament. Past Buckingham Palace. He stopped at an aging statue of Lord Wellington. A hero of the Empire. He slumped on the pavement ... and set loose thirty years of guilt in a stream of tears.

On the Thames, Sean started his motor boat. The Brotherhood of the Lyre had made their statement. And the radical republican movement had erased another detested pro-unionist enemy. He laughed. Fare thee well, Mr. Entwistle. And burn in Hell, you English bastard.

[Smallville hospital]

Jonathan and Martha Kent were glued to the waiting lounge television.

"... we have good news to report ... Lex Luthor has survived a harrowing ordeal, narrowly escaping death at the hands of his captor, a reputed Chechen mercenary known only as 'Alexei' ... British snipers shot him dead before he could harm the sole heir to the Luthor empire ..."

"... BBC reports that an IRA splinter group, the Brotherhood of the Lyre, has claimed responsibility for the assassination of right-wing MP and leadership hopeful Miles Entwistle ... in a related story, Alfred Pennyworth, former soldier and long-time butler to Bruce Wayne, has been exonerated ... Prince Philip himself intervened in support of his friend ..."

"It's good to hear that Alfred pulled through," Martha remarked, "the London tabloids were merciless!"

"And Lex survived yet another brush with death," Jonathan grumbled – not too enthusiastically.

"Lex seems to attract cut-throat assassins like a moth to a flame," Chloe declared.

"Yeah, well, one day he's gonna get burned," Pete retorted.

Down the hall, Clark sat with Lois. She had recovered.

"Did the doctors come up with a diagnosis?" Clark asked.

"They say it was a severe reaction ... to flaxseed. Flaxseed, can you believe it?!" Lois wondered.

I've been to the country before ... and I've never had a reaction like this! It has to be that meteor.

It must be.

She was always willing to accept things at face value. And people.

Not anymore.

Lois had read about the unusual effects of the meteor over the past 15 years. This town ... its people ... there's something odd going on here.

And Clark. How did he manage to get me to the emergency ward? His farm is several miles away. Maybe he got a ride.

Maybe.

I don't like maybe. Either I have a strange reaction to flaxseed, or this meteor could be the biggest mystery this side of Metropolis. I need to know.

"So what are your plans now?" Clark asked.

"Huh?! Well, I go back to Metropolis tomorrow. My mom will be here tonight. Back to school ..."

"And then ...?" Clark hoped she would eventually go to Metropolis U., where their paths may yet cross again.

"I might stick with the creative writing program. We'll see." She smiled and held Clark's hand. "Thanks. Thanks for being there."

Chloe glanced through the wardroom window. Clark Kent and Lois Lane – holding hands. And the way Clark was looking at her.

Through all the years I've known Clark, he has never looked at me like that. Not once. Such complete and unconditional devotion. And understanding.

Do I understand Clark Kent? I mean, really, do I? Lois Lane has known Clark for only a few days, but she's already unravelled what makes Clark tick.

"Take care, Lois, sleep tight," Clark said.

Then he gave the young Metropolis writer a gentle kiss on the forehead. Such tenderness.

Chloe backed away from the door. She wondered if she could EVER approach that level of affection with Clark. What does Lois know that I don't?

"Hi, Chloe. What's the latest news?"

"In a nutshell, Lex is alive and well, his kidnapper – now dead – was some Chechen radical. Alfred, with the support from Prince Philip, cleared his name ... and some renegade IRA group just blew up an MP ..."

"Well, thanks for the update, Ms. Sullivan." Clark glanced at Lois again.

"You – like her, don't you?" Chloe asked, fearing his answer.

"Yeah," Clark replied, "she's a friend."

"Like me?"

Clark paused. "Yeah, like you."

Clark returned to the waiting lounge. And Chloe shuddered.

"Like you." I'm glad he thinks of me as a trusted friend. But the way he said it.

A friend. Like Pete. Like Bruce Wayne. Like Lex. No, I don't even have the kind of connection Clark has forged with the "billionnaires' club": Lex and Bruce. As if their destinies are – in some way – tied to one another.

Pete will always be Clark's best friend. Nothing will change that fact.

Where does that leave me?

Where I am right now ...

Alone.

Chloe put on a brave face as she returned to the waiting lounge. You can count on me, Clark. I'll always be a friend.

I'm afraid that "a friend" is all that I'll ever be.

She remembered the tender kiss on Lois' forehead. Get well, Lois Lane. And I'd prefer that you don't fall for Clark Kent.

That's my job.

EPILOGUE

[Wayne Manor, Gotham City]

Bruce Wayne read the Daily Planet. 'EXCLUSIVE: LEX LUTHOR SPEAKS UP ABOUT CHECHEN WAR. DEMANDS MORATORIUM ON EAST BLOC LUTHOR ARMS SALES. LUTHOR SR. NOT AMUSED'

Hmm, a Luthor civil war.

Alfred walked into the study.

"Alfred, I'm sorry. I know you wanted me to stay out of all this. And just like you said, you were able to handle the whole affair on your own. I just couldn't stand by and let Lionel Luthor and those other muckrackers tarnish your good name."

Alfred clasped Bruce's hand. "I didn't want you dragged into this mess. As long as you have faith, things generally turn out for the best. And if you – EVER – disobey another instruction of mine, Master Bruce, I'll send you to bed without your supper!"

Bruce laughed. "Yes, sir."

The phone rang. Bruce picked it up. "Hello? Lex, how are you? That's good to hear. You want to speak about the Chechen crisis? A news conference at the steps of the UN, eh? I have some friends in the State Department ... I could check for you? Not a problem, not a problem. Alfred's fine. Yeah, thanks for reining in your dad's UK tabloids. Okay, see you in New York"

He hung up the phone. "Lex wants to call for a moratorium on Luthor arms sales to the East Bloc. He says he's determined to push it through, against his father's wishes."

"The son betrays the father," Alfred quipped, "not unexpected in the Luthor household."

"And Alfred?" Bruce continued, "Lex sends his regards." He left for his afternoon meeting at Wayne Corp.

He can keep his regards, Alfred mumbled to himself, I've had my fill of lies and deception. A copy of Lionel Luthor's Brit tabloid, the Gasp! sat on the study table. Bruce monitored everything printed about the inquiry – undoubtedly in preparation for possible legal action. Dated a week after the inquiry cleared his name. 'CHARLES AND CAMILLA: TO WED IN VEGAS?!?' No mention of my exoneration.

Alfred tossed the tabloid in the trash. Lionel Luthor. One day, you shall have your just desserts. If Lex is indeed planning a palace coup, I wish him the best of luck.

Well, maybe not the 'best' of luck.

THE END ... for now.

***

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I will likely continue with another "Bruce fic" later, since these are definitely the most fun. I doubt that I'll have Bruce suit up as 'Batman' anytime soon, though (sorry!).

For now, I have another idea brewing ...

CONCEPT:

'Crossover'

Uh-oh, did you say 'crossover'? For fans of Smallville and/or X-Files, this story is for you. It would take place before the X-Files season finale. Mulder's still in prison. Scully is still teaching at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Agents John Doggett and Monica Reyes are sent to Smallville, Kansas. A series of inexplicable events in this town have attracted official (and not-so-official) attention. Clark's secret is in danger of being exposed ... now more than ever.

TEASER:

Agent Doggett walked through the rows of ploughed dirt.

"You mind telling me why we're in the middle of Kansas?"

Agent Reyes grinned. "We're here to find Dorothy and Toto. They've been reported missing for decades!"

Doggett groaned. "Very funny, Monica. What's so special about Smallville?"

"A meteor landed here about two decades ago. Since then, many strange and inexplicable events have occurred in this town and surrounding areas."

"I hope we're not hunting for Martians," Doggett stated, "That would be Fox Mulder's area of expertise."

They arrived at the Kent farmhouse.

Jonathan Kent opened the door. "Hi, can I help you with something."

Doggett flashed his badge. "I'm Agent Doggett. This is my partner, Agent Reyes."

"FBI, hmm? If this has something to do with Lex Luthor, you'll find him about five miles from here ..."

"Actually," Reyes interjected, "we're here to speak with your son. Clark Kent. Might we have a word with him?"

No, Jonathan feared, they know. They must know. And now they want my son.

***