The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop (2/5)
A Justice League: TAS story
by Merlin Missy (mtgat) and Constance Eilonwy (dotsomething)
Copyright 2004
PG-13
Sunday
It was well after midnight by the time Clark arrived home. The apartment was
dark, but he knew his way around without needing the lights. There was the
phone table. There was the kitchen. Everything was exactly as it should have
been, nothing had changed.
Except Clark.
Even with the time zone difference, Ma and Pa would already be in bed. He'd
have to call tomorrow. Tomorrow was Sunday, so he'd wait until they got home
from church. That gave him a little over twelve hours to come up with a new
costume and a new identity and an explanation that wouldn't give Pa a coronary.
"Ma, remember how you said you always wanted a girl?" Maybe not.
Or figure out a way to contact the Fifth Dimension and get changed back. That'd
do in a pinch.
All things considered, it could have been worse. Mxyzptlk had an odd sense of
humor, and might just have decided to zap Flash outside the satellite without a
spacesuit, taking all of them with him. Or maybe created a black hole in the
control room. Comparatively speaking, this was just another little bump in the
road of a superhero's life.
Well, bumps. Lord, he was starting to sound like Flash.
He cast a longing look towards his bedroom; the world would surely be a better
place viewed from the other side of some sleep. Then with a sigh, he clicked on
the lamp at his desk, powered up the computer, and started researching costume
ideas. Preferably something with coverage.
It was almost morning in Paris. The sun hinted at rising through the open curtains
at Diana's window as she let herself inside. Sleep beckoned, but so did a shower,
and the only clothes she had that would fit were the ones she'd borrowed from
Superman. She had no more use for male fashions than she did for those of
females, but Man's world had a firm nudity taboo.
There was the matter of a new superhero identity. Diana never wore a disguise or
a mask, never did anything to hide her identity from the world. Although, given
the changes she'd undergone, she could see merit with not advertising her
status as the Princess of Themyscira.
A mask, perhaps. Something simple. For the rest, spandex seemed popular as a
material. She had cloth, from which most of the dresses in her closet had been
sewn. Simply buying a bolt of linen or damask was luxury enough after learning
to spin and weave. Buying actual clothes?
A smile crossed her features. She had not made all her clothing. The scarlet, the
black peasant, the midnight blue, the shoes to match each, those had been gifts
from Queen Audrey.
It was already daybreak in Kasnia. If she left now, she could chat with Audrey
over eggs and toast and coffee.
Or be turned away by her guards as a stranger. She frowned.
The mirror she'd been avoiding beckoned. Her jaw was strong, and already
touched with a hint of fine hair. She'd have to ask one of the others about
shaving. She still had Mother's clear blue eyes, her firm brow. The angles on her
face added character, she decided. Her shoulders were as broad and muscled as
Superman's.
She could still use that shower. And that nap. And possibly breakfast since it was
almost certain she wasn't going to go see Audrey this morning, or anytime soon.
First things first.
The altar was small, had only a few candles. Diana lit them, offering up morning
praises, and thanksgiving that her Amazon gifts were still her own. As she spoke
the familiar words, and those not as familiar, a stray thought wondered if Audrey
fancied dark-haired men.
Feeling self-conscious, Bruce rang the doorbell of his own mansion. It was the
only wise thing to do; Alfred didn't know who to expect, and on several occasions
his butler had proved he was handy using the stun gun on unwanted intruders.
The door was opened not by Alfred, but by Tim.
The boy held the door open just a few inches and said, eyes narrowed with
skepticism, "What's the password?"
"Zorro."
Tim opened the door, suddenly taking on the distant politeness kids did with
complete strangers who nonetheless had some sort of right to be there. He
stepped aside, opening the door wide but blocking the doorway so Bruce couldn't
come in yet.
A tall, thin figure appeared in the shadows behind the boy, then materialized into
Alfred. "Won't you come in, miss..."
"Alfred." Bruce said, a bit sharply. "As I told you on the phone, it's me."
Tim gawked, then wrinkled up his nose in disbelief.
"All right," a quiet, authoritative female voice said from within the hallway.
Barbara stepped forward, arms folded, her manner clearly telegraphing she would
tolerate no nonsense. "Tell us who you are. And how you know that password."
Bruce sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. "My name is Bruce
Wayne. I'm Batman. The Justice League had some trouble with Mr. Mxyzptlk
and this ... " he waved a hand over his newly curved body, "is the result." He'd
changed into the civvies he kept on the Watchtower for emergency use: jeans and
a black t-shirt, both of which hung loosely on his slender but wiry form.
"Perhaps you had better come in," Alfred opened the door wider, stepping aside.
Once Bruce was in, he shut the door with a solid-sounding thud. Wayne manor
was built the old-fashioned way, with thick doors and walls, well-fitted to each
other. Bruce had a moment of panic and he considered bolting.
"Can you prove any of that?" Barbara demanded, as they all stood around in the
grand entry hall.
"I'll tell you things," he said, "things only Bruce Wayne would know."
"Things you could have found out by spying on all of us. Or using drugs on him."
All three of them turned as Dick Grayson appeared in an open doorway. It had
been some time since he'd been home, and Bruce was struck by how much taller
he looked — his face seemed to elongate with each visit. It always struck him
anew, so that each of Dick's visits home was like that first one, after he'd stopped
being Robin.
Alfred coughed into the tense silence. "I took the liberty of calling Master
Richard. Given the uncertainty of the situation, it seemed wise. A precaution."
"I understand," said Bruce. "And Dick has a point. So I'll tell you something that
couldn't be learned by spying. And you know drugs or torture wouldn't work on
me."
Dick's arms hung at his sides and despite the fact that he leaned casually against
the doorframe, he was telegraphing tensed muscles ready to move. "Fine. Give it
your best shot," he said coldly.
A tiny smile appeared on Bruce's face. "When you don't like what Alfred cooks,
it's best to use the brass urn, not the Ming vase."
There was a long pause. Barbara and Tim looked puzzled. "Is that some kind of
code?" Tim muttered to Barbara.
But Dick seemed to have forgotten to stay in battle-ready mode. He took a step
into the room, then stopped. "Bruce!"
"My word," said Alfred. "Sir, is it really you?"
"I'm afraid so, Alfred."
"Wait." Barbara waved a hand in the air. "You're sure it's him now all of a
sudden?"
"Yes." Dick nodded.
"But — "
"It's him. Her. Whatever. I'll explain later," Dick said, looking a shade pale.
Tim seemed to be losing an inner battle. He clamped his mouth closed tightly, but
it didn't prevent the snorting laughs from escaping.
"I don't think that this is at all funny," Bruce said, in a voice that could freeze
chicken soup.
Tim gave up the struggle. He doubled over, practically howling with laughter.
Barbara was more restrained, only letting the occasional spurt of giggles out. She
walked around Bruce, eyeing him up and down. Then she stopped and her
eyebrows went up. "Huh. Guess you have a different perspective on things now."
"How did you say this happened?" Dick asked. If he felt like laughing, he
gave little sign, although his expression was a bit too preternaturally solemn.
"Mr. Mxyzptlk. It's Flash's fault. I suppose."
"Mister Mix-ill-pit-lick?" Tim tried to sound it out.
"Mix-yezz-spit-lick," Bruce corrected him automatically.
"Mixel-zsplitick...?"
"Give it up, kid," Dick said.
"Sir, there must be something to be done. Surely ... "
"The League is working on it, Alfred. In the meantime, I have a favor to ask all of
you."
Tim stopped laughing, and Barbara looked at Bruce in surprise. "You? Ask for a
favor?"
"In my current condition, my fighting skills are off. I've got ... " Bruce started to
gesture towards his chest, but stopped and waved more vaguely instead. "My
weight is distributed differently now. I'll have to be retrained to fight like this."
"Sure, Bruce. No problem." Dick nodded his support, but remained staunchly in
the doorway, almost as if afraid to come closer.
"I presume you will wish to cancel your lunch date with Ms. Lane," Alfred said
calmly; now that he had absorbed the shock, he coped by carrying on as usual.
"Uh-huh." Bruce covered his face with his now female hand for a moment. "I
still have to go to Metropolis tomorrow. I'll be back in the evening." He paused.
"I'll need a few things, Alfred."
"Indeed, sir." The butler held the phone receiver, looking extremely awkward as
Bruce had never seen him look. "I shall see to it."
"Alfred, allow me?" Barbara went over to Bruce and whispered in her ear. After
a moment of sheer embarrassment, Bruce whispered something back. Barbara
nodded. "I can cover you. So to speak," she smirked. "I have two words for you
that will make everything a heckuva lot easier."
"What?" Tim asked, curious.
"Sports. Bra."
The suit was ... passable. Clark had gone with simple dark blue and grey tones,
purchased from the few fabric stores in town that opened early on Sundays. It fit
his form more or less, and had a cape. Clark felt naked without the cape. He was
considering a cowl, but the thought of an eyemask had a certain appeal, especially
to keep from blocking his ears. For now, he had a half-mask covering his eyes
and tied in the back like a bandanna.
No family symbol on the chest. No sense drawing too much attention.
The worst part, and the part he had to keep in mind, was that this suit wasn't semi-
invulnerable like the normal one. If he got hit by a laser blast, or even a knife, the
fabric wouldn't hold. Of course, the other members of the League dealt with that
every day, so maybe it wouldn't be as big an issue as he feared.
He needed to go to the Fortress and check on the animals. He needed to activate
the Superman robot and set it for regular patrols. He needed to flesh out his cover
story more than what Bruce had whipped up last night. He needed ...
ring
To answer the phone. "Hello?" Oh damn! He almost slammed it down
again. He had to remember to let the machine get the calls for a while.
"Um, I'm trying to reach Clark?" Kara. Thank God.
"Hi, Kara."
There was a small gasp. "I got a call from Batgirl. I thought maybe she was
playing a joke."
"I wish."
"She wasn't clear on what happened."
"Mr. Mxyzptlk paid us a visit."
"Oh." She paused. "Do you need anything? I can be there in a few minutes. I
could bring some clothes."
Clark smiled. "Thanks, but I've already picked some things up. Have you told
Ma and Pa?"
"I called you first thing."
"Okay, let me tell them. Are they there?"
"Hold on. I'll get them. Clark, are you gonna be okay?"
"I think so. We've got three months until Mxy comes back. I just need to find
reasons for Clark Kent not to be around for that long." Maybe he could break his
leg in Singapore.
"You'll let me know if there's anything I can do, right?"
"I will."
"Son?" Pa's voice clicked on from the other line. "Is everything all right?"
Clark bit his lip. "Everything's all right, Pa. I've just gone through a few
changes."
This was going to suck.
Wally checked his reflection out in the mirror, and kept telling himself not to get
either creeped out or turned on. He filled out his "Coed Naked Surfing" t-shirt in
all new ways, but the jeans didn't fit at all right so he'd resorted to the one pair of
sweats in his closet.
Note to self: laundry.
If he was gonna infiltrate Intergang, he was going to need a lot more work to get
pretty. He'd neglected to get his hair cut for a while — busy with the League,
busy with his job — so the bright red hair framed his face a little better than it
otherwise might have. But, and this was a big ol' smelly but, Wally could be just
impartial enough to judge the girl in the mirror by his own dating standards, and
the fact was, she was kind of ... plain. Her face was long, and yeah, a little horsey.
If he was still a he, and she was another she, Wally wouldn't have given her more
than a polite glance.
He thought through that last part again.
Ow. Stupid pronouns.
So. Hair. Maybe curlers, or a curling iron. He didn't want to go all out for a
perm, because no. He'd need some makeup, too.
Wally pushed his cheeks in and up, making the girl in the mirror go through
various facial contortions. Make that a lot of makeup. And someone who could
possibly tell him how to apply it. And also? Underwear. While he did appreciate
the girl-in-boxers look, he didn't want to be that girl.
He thought for a sec about posing in the mirror with the boxers, just to see how he
looked, when something else struck him. He pulled up his left sweatpant leg and
gulped. The rest of the League insisted that he dress the part. So to speak. That
meant pantyhose or stockings, and neither would go well with the small forest of
fine red hair on his legs.
At least he didn't have to worry about his actual clothes. Bats, not even cracking
a smirk, had taken Wally's new measurements quickly, and had told him to be
expecting a package sometime today. Wally was not not not going to ask her
where the package was coming from, because he was sure the conversation, if it
ever did take place, would end up giving him mental images that would haunt him
for the rest of his life.
He needed a purse, and shoes, and a bra, and an alias. The apartment in
Metropolis would be arranged; Batwoman, or whoever she was now, was not even
one bit less of a control freak than the old Batman.
It was time to go shopping.
Barbara, Tim, and Dick had been banished to the mansion's upstairs domain. Not
even Alfred was permitted down to the batcave. Bruce said she wanted a workout
before heading for Metropolis.
Alone. I'll let you know when I need you.
Dick commented on it bitterly after Bruce vanished into the depths beneath the
house
"He — she — literally shows up on the doorstep begging for our help, then
ditches us. Typical."
Alfred pretended not to hear; he long ago seemed to have perfected selective
deafness. "There are fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and a pitcher of cold
milk in the kitchen, Master Richard. If I might suggest..."
"Yeah, yeah." Dick sighed. "Cookies and milk. It'll fix anything." There was no
bitterness in his voice that time. He had never mocked, and never would mock,
any kind gesture of Alfred's. On the other hand, cookies and milk seemed so far
beside the point they might as well have been in another state. Alfred was being
transparently tactful.
The other two followed Dick towards the kitchen, which was so cavernous it had
the same hollow, endless feel as the cave, only on a smaller scale, while Alfred
also vanished, off to do Alfred things. Dick walked so quickly Barbara worked to
keep up with him, and Tim actually had to jog in their wake. It seemed to take
forever to get there.
"He is now a she, Dick. Give him a little time." Barbara perched on one of the
stools at the kitchen island and reached for a cookie while Tim got out the milk
and three glasses. "Now, tell." Barbara abruptly pulled on Dick's arm, forcing
him to turn and look at her.
"Huh?"
"The brass urn and the Ming vase. Was this some Batman and Robin adventure
you boys decided to keep to yourselves?"
"Oh, that. No." He looked down at his feet as if embarrassed.
"Hey, I want to hear this." Tim said, his mouth full of cookie.
"Great," Dick muttered. "Okay, here's the thrilling story. It happened about six
months after I first started being Robin." He glanced at Barbara and Tim; they
watched him expectantly.
"It wouldn't have been a problem except the Joker went on a particularly vicious
rampage and we were so busy we stopped eating in the dining room for a few
months."
"Is this a Joker story? Cool!" Tim licked off his milk mustache, leaning forward.
"No, it's not a Joker story. I didn't like Alfred's peas and onions."
"Peas and onions?" Barbara had that look on her face, the one she used when she
was getting ready to say something wise-ass.
Dick swallowed, and continued. "Yeah, I really hated peas, and those little pearl
onions, yuck." He shuddered. "But I didn't want to hurt Alfred's feelings. I mean,
it was Alfred. So at some point during the meal I'd get up and slide my
peas into the Ming vase Bruce had in the dining room. Leaving just a few peas on
my plate to make it look convincing."
"The big-time con artist," Barbara said, amused.
"Big-time. This went on for a while and it was no problem, as I said, at first. I
would sneak down at night and empty the peas out of the Ming vase into the
trash."
"Hang on, didn't Bruce see you putting the peas in the vase?"
"Yeah. But I thought I was being sneaky, and I didn't know he knew. After a
month or so, I forgot to clean them out, when we got real busy with the Joker."
He stared down into his glass of milk. "It was summer."
"Oh dear," said Barbara.
"And we were so busy, there were no quiet family meals, dinner was sandwiches
Alfred left for us down in the cave each night. Then we caught the Joker —
you've heard the story I'm sure — and to celebrate, we decided to have a regular
family dinner. Alfred went all out: steak, mashed potatoes, gravy ...
"Bruce and I noticed the smell right away but neither one of us said anything. I
think Bruce was trying to spare my feelings, actually. Not make me feel worse
about it. And I was kidding myself maybe he didn't notice the smell. Alfred came
in with the first course, set down the plates, sniffed, and said 'My word, what is
that awful odor?'"
Dick mimicked Alfred's genteel British tone perfectly. "He started looking all
over the room, apologizing to 'Master Bruce' that he had obviously been remiss in
his house keeping duties, or perhaps a squirrel had gotten into the walls and died.
Meanwhile, I was hoping seventeen ninjas might jump through the dining room
windows right at that moment, or that the earth would open up and swallow me.
Finally Alfred's nose led him to the Ming vase. He looked inside and found the
mess I'd left. 'Sir,' he said — and he sounded unusually upset, for Alfred —
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking this down to your cave to analyze? I've never
seen anything like it. It could be toxic.' Bruce glanced at me, but all he said was
not to worry, it probably wasn't. So Alfred picked up the vase. 'I'd better go have
this cleaned out.'"
"Wait a second." Barbara's eyes brightened with realization. "There is no Ming
vase in the dining room."
"Not anymore, there isn't," Dick said in a strangled voice.
"Whoa," said Tim. "What happened?"
"I was feeling really guilty, and now Alfred was blaming himself for being a bad
housekeeper, so I jumped up out of my chair and ran over to help. Alfred said,
'No matter, Master Richard'" — Barbara snickered at that — "'I am quite capable.'
I insisted on helping, though, and grabbed for the vase. Maybe I didn't know my
own strength, but I tugged too hard, his hand slipped ... and the ... vase ... crashed
to the floor. Shattered into lots of little pieces."
He glanced over at his mentor again, who was now doing push-ups.
"There was a terrible silence. I felt my face turning hot, and I was really scared to
turn around and look at Bruce, but I did. I thought for sure that was it, it was
back to the orphanage. So I turned — and he was eating as if nothing at all had
happened. Alfred knelt down and picked up one of the little pieces.
"'Ming Dynasty, Fourteenth Century, correct, Master Bruce?'
"Bruce just nodded and chewed.
"'Very like the one that you broke when you were Master Richard's age, isn't that
right sir?'
"'I think you're right Alfred,' Bruce said, in that voice he uses — you know the one
— when he's trying to convince everyone he's just your average, mild-mannered
businessman. 'You mean the one we replaced with a plaster copy?' And then he
glanced at me, and winked.
"'Indeed,' said Alfred. 'Master Richard, if I may be so bold as to offer you some
advice: if you don't care for a particular food, please just mention it to me and I
will endeavor to find something more pleasing to your palate.'"
"Did he really say it like that?" Tim chortled. "Priceless. Alfred is the best."
"What happened then?" Barbara said.
"Alfred cleaned up the mess. When he left the room, Bruce beckoned me over,
and I obeyed, dragging my toes on the carpet, still thinking I was in the biggest
trouble of my life and wishing for those seventeen ninjas again. But he just
leaned over and whispered, 'Also? If you need to get rid of something you don't
like, use the brass urn next time. It's got a lid.'"
J'onn spent his first watch in a state between slumber and meditation. The alerts
were set at a high enough volume to waken him should his attention be needed.
In the meantime, repose.
He stretched slowly, with his mind out into the stars, with his body out to touch
either side of the Watchtower. He placed his shields against the raucous chatter
from the Earth below him, listened instead to the silences beyond. For truly, out
into the galaxy proper, there were layers of silence: the silence of minds long
stilled on his own world, the silence of minds too primitive to reach out bubbling
in the oceans below Europa's ice, the silent static out past his already too-thin
abilities to hear. He stretched his mind into the void.
Breath was like its own presence. He spent several minutes simply listening to the
sound of his own exhalations.
The change shivered through him here. Subtle changes in his physiology,
unnoticeable to any of those on this world, distracted him from pure thought.
Stray hormones moved through different pathways. He watched them flow
through his own body, altering him further in thousands of microscopic ways.
There were far less prominent differences between male and female Martians than
for the humans and humanoid aliens he knew. Shape shifting meant one could
hold any form at all, even changing at will from the childbearing to the
childsiring, and to any multitude of other forms. Back when he had known joy,
long before the Imperium, he had spent interludes with My'ria'h that would baffle
and confound his new friends. He would have no suitable explanation for those
forever trapped in a single form, for those who somehow convinced themselves
that pleasure and love could be separate entities, who had never joined mind to
mind and spirit to spirit as their bodies flowed into each other like the seas. Their
languages had no words for what he had taken for granted.
His breathing grew shallow.
Sometimes he paused like this, paused his breath, his pulse, became a perfect
statue, considered holding both forever. Sometimes the loneliness threatened to
consume him.
The Flash had been correct in his, no, her otherwise nonsensical musings.
J'onn was alone, more so even than Superman who had grown from childhood on
this world. Now he was a female Martian, a bitter joke for that he was still the
last Martian, and neither as childsiring nor childbearing could he change that fact.
beep
He had sired his children, had lost them too. They had grown from My'ria'h's
body and gained life and now they were dust on a dead world and nothing he did
could bring them back.
beep
His breath held and held.
BEEP
J'onn exhaled, inhaled deeply, allowed the station to return around him. The
monitor beeped at him, and belatedly, he pressed the button. Earthquake.
Argentina.
And this was why he never stopped his heart entirely. There were other children,
on the spinning world below him, and someone needed to watch over them. He
could be stepfather to a new world if need be. Or stepmother, as the case was.
J'onn's voice came over the link: "There's an earthquake at the Argentine -
Chilean border. I'm going to ... "
"I've got it," John cut in.
"Are you sure?" He couldn't identify the third voice over the comm, thought it
might be Superman.
"Yeah. I'll call if I need help." He cut the link, ringed up his new uniform,
complete with mask. He couldn't help feeling the mask was silly, but there was
no need to point out any more casual similarities between John Stewart and ...
whoever he was going to try being. Maybe Joan, or Jennifer.
Earthquake. Right.
The trip to Argentina took only a few minutes, a time he spent mercifully thought-
free. The 'quake was milder than he'd expected, the epicenter away from any
major cities. He helped out as best he could in the nearby towns, helping shore up
homes, bridges, roads. He stopped a mudslide before it engulfed a family in their
car. They smiled and waved and thanked him, and he smiled and waved back, not
giving a name.
Completely routine.
So routine, in fact, that his mind kept trying to focus on his current situation, and
that was bad. He flew from town to town, checking on structural damage, tried
burying thoughts of the damage his own structure had undergone.
"GL, how's it going?" There was no way that was anyone but Flash.
John touched the link. "Finishing up here."
"Need any help?"
"No. Shouldn't you be working on that project you've got?"
"Probably, but it's like school, you know?"
"Did you even graduate?"
"I'm not answering that. Hey, if you're almost done there, wanna catch some
lunch?"
"No, I've got some things to do. Back home." John didn't want to deal with
Flash, with the new Flash. It wasn't that he couldn't deal with women on
the team, it was that the women had been, and would again be, men.
"Right. Talk to you later, if I'm not undercover. Or if you're not." Flash's voice
dripped with insinuation.
"I didn't mean ..." But the line was already closed, and he didn't want to open it
just to argue with Flash, although the notion had an appeal. There was something
very natural about yelling at Flash, something that put the world into perspective.
He'd seen the same effect on Batman. Lecture Flash on whatever knuckle-headed
thing he'd done this time, feel better about the universe in general. It was a kind
of Zen.
John could use some instant Zen.
He went back to helping clean.
Starting over sucked. Shayera had some other words for it as well, but she'd been
making an effort to stop swearing so much because it seemed to bother John.
She had the theory, she had the practice. Find a not-entirely-high place, jump off,
extend wings, stretch to catch rising air currents, readjust as needed to maintain
and/or change altitude. She'd been doing it so long, she no longer had to think
about it, could even take off straight up from the ground if the wind was right.
Ready.
Jump.
Stretch.
Wobble wildly.
Fall.
Scrape elbows again.
Swear a lot, despite intentions to the contrary.
Repeat.
To be fair, she was getting better. She could stay gliding for several seconds at a
time, if she concentrated. There was no chance of going for the mace, though,
because as soon as her mind drifted even a micron, the delicate interplay of
updraft and downdraft on her wings turned into a very rapid demonstration of the
law of gravity.
Falling hurt. Getting hurt made her angry. Getting angry distracted her from
flying and made her fall.
Having arguments in her head with John? Not helpful. Over time, she'd learned
to open up to the others, to talk to them without being on her guard all the time,
but John was the only one she could let past her barriers, could actually trust.
With almost anything.
Now John was freaking out, far worse than Diana, which was unexpected.
Shayera would have been more than happy to listen, but John didn't want her
around, seemed almost afraid of her. The only explanation she could think of was
that John was frightened she might ... press her affections on him. He didn't trust
her, and that hurt worse than the skinned elbows and the broken bones she was
going to get if she fretted much more while trying to fly.
She launched herself once more into a promising updraft.
If John didn't trust her, maybe she shouldn't be trusting John when things were
back to normal. If they couldn't trust each other, then what was the point of being
together? That led her down even harder paths to think about, because
maybe trusting her wasn't the smartest thing for John, and maybe she
should just tell him already, tell him everything, including the part where being
with him was wonderful and amazing and breathtaking and also temporary.
Oh yes, telling him she'd been lying to him for years was certain to gain
his trust.
She glided, up up up and over the treetops, trying to clear her mind.
She tried not to think when she was around him, tried not to remember her
mission or her lover back home. It was so much easier to let herself fall, to block
out everything but the taste of his mouth, the strength in his hands when he
touched her. Sometimes she felt like she was holding her breath, knowing as soon
as she exhaled that she'd blow this fragile dream away. So she kept holding on,
holding him, and against her own common sense, she enjoyed the
delicious dizziness and prayed to no one in particular that it would not end soon.
She lost the current, banked too hard left to compensate, flailed, hit the ground,
and skidded to a stop. Pain shot up her left side, and the one good thing about it
was that the pain pushed other thoughts out of her head, if only briefly.
Time to try again.
Monday
Clark arrived early to work Monday, found himself automatically heading for his
desk, veered towards Perry's office instead. The nice thing about his cover story:
he could stay put and make sure things were going smoothly. The down side: he
had to remember to pretend that he was meeting everyone for the first time again.
He brushed at his hair with his hand and took off his coat before approaching
Perry's door. Since he'd kept his own short cut, there was only so much he'd
been able to do with it that morning. He'd had a little more luck with the clothes,
but not a lot. He'd picked up a few blouses and slacks that resembled what he'd
seen Lois wear to work, but there were only so many that looked right and were
designed with a six-foot-tall, decently muscled woman in mind. Never mind the
shoes; they were comfortable and they fit.
Diana hadn't been much help, as she'd never navigated the waters of office
professional versus office casual, and spent most of her time flying around in what
amounted to a strapless bathing suit.
"Mr. White?" He tapped at the doorframe. Perry looked up from the computer
monitor. He had that furrow he always got when he tried to check his email, no
matter how many times Jimmy tried to show him.
"What? Who're you?"
"Clara MacKenzie. Hi." He stuck out his hand. Perry stared at him. "I'm here
from the Duluth Register? Temporary assignment?" Bruce ...
A light clicked on in Perry's eyes. "Right! I got the message a few minutes ago,
wasn't expecting you in yet."
"I like to be punctual."
"Yes. Well, good. You'll find things go at a fast pace here in Metropolis, so
you'll need to be on time. Which you are. Right." Perry went back to examining
his mail. As slow as syrup, he got the mouse and opened a message. "I don't
have anything worked out for you, yet. I may have you shadow Lane and Kent."
He clicked on another message, and said something rude under his breath. Super
hearing: check. "Or I would if Kent wasn't in Singapore. I swear he's spent more
time gone than here this year."
Last year, too. He'd wondered how obvious the absences were getting,
with all the time he'd been spending with the League.
"Lane should be in soon. You can talk to her then. In the meantime, you can put
your coat and purse at Kent's desk. Use it until he gets back."
Purse. Right. Have to get one of those. "Thank you, Mr. White." Perry
waved him away, checking more messages. Clark went back out, made a pretense
of looking for the right place, then sat at his own desk. Perry encouraged them to
keep the tops of their desks clear, so all Clark's personal effects were tucked
safely inside. He opened a drawer, saw the picture of Ma and Pa, smiled, and put
his briefcase away.
"Hey, wrong desk."
"J ... Hi."
"Hi. You're sitting at Mr. Kent's desk."
"Mr. White told me he was out of town for a while." He held out her hand.
"Clara MacKenzie." The name was coming easier the more he used it.
"Jimmy Olsen. Nice to meet you." Clark noticed that Jimmy held the handshake
a little longer than necessary. He debated pointing out that he was over ten years
Jimmy's senior, but Jimmy apparently came to the same conclusion. "Welcome
to the Planet."
"Thanks." As Jimmy wandered off in search of coffee, Clark flipped on the
computer. He'd checked his email before leaving home, so he used the time to
visit other news sites, see what had been brewing overnight that hadn't come over
the link. He'd have to see about pulling watch duty tonight, letting J'onn come to
Earth and show the flag.
"And you are?"
His head shot up. "Hi Lois!" He recovered, "You're Lois Lane, right?"
"Yes. Have we met?"
"No, but I've read all your work. Clara MacKenzie, Duluth Register. I'm
here for a few weeks." Or months. "The Daily Planet has always
been my dream assignment. It'll be an honor working with you." There. That
should put the perfect amount of Midwest awe into his voice, something he'd
been practicing his whole life.
"With me?"
"Mr. White says I'll be shadowing you."
"You can shadow Smallville. I'm busy."
"Mr. Kent's in Singapore." Ooops. He froze at the slip, but Lois didn't
seem to notice.
"Perry!" Lois stormed towards Perry's office. "What's Clark doing in
Singapore!"
A heated argument later, muffled through Perry's door, Lois walked calmly back
to Clark's desk. Clark wasn't fooled for a second.
"Perry says you're going to shadow me, hm?" Clark nodded. "Fine. Lesson
number one: no story is perfect. Proof this." Lois pulled a diskette from her
purse. "I was working on it this weekend. Let me know when you've finished."
Lois stalked over to her own desk, stowed her purse, and started checking
messages. Clark debated getting her some coffee, then decided he'd have to
explain why he knew how Lois took it. A quick glance over to the pot showed
that Jimmy was already working on Project Happy Lois for the morning.
Lois's phone rang. Clark tried not to listen in too closely. "Lane here. Oh, hello
Alfred. I see. Yes, I suppose we can reschedule later. Thank you." click
"Damn."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. It's just being aggressively Monday today."
"It can't be that bad."
"Smallville's off following a good lead while I'm here babysitting the new kid.
No offense. And my lunch date just cancelled because he's off to Cairo."
Date?
"Coffee, Miss Lane?"
"Thanks, Jimmy."
Clark threw out a line. "Does your boyfriend go away a lot?"
"Bruce isn't my boyfriend. Not anymore. We were just getting together for lunch
while he was in town."
"Oh." Under the desk, his hand clenched into a fist. "Well, you know men.
Always jetting off to Cairo."
"Just the ones I know." Lois sipped her coffee. "Where did you say you were
from?"
"Duluth."
"Any superheroes there?"
"Not that I've noticed."
"Maybe when you're done in Metropolis, I'll come to Duluth and shadow
you for a while."
"Hey, Duluth."
"Hm?" Clark was engrossed in the article. After he'd proofed the first one, Lois
had collected more copy editing tasks from the rest of the staff, leaving Lois
herself free to phone up contacts for a piece she was doing on foreign investments.
Currently, Clark was trying to keep his eyes from crossing as he read a stock
analysis for the evening edition's Business section.
"Since my lunch date had to cancel, want to grab some food?"
"Sure!" Clark saved the file. He put on his coat, and patted the pocket for his
wallet. Belatedly, he hoped Lois wouldn't notice that Clara had the same kind of
wallet as Clark, since he hadn't replaced it, or the contents. Luckily Batman's
sphere of influence included the procurement, on less than twenty-four hours'
notice, of fake driver's licenses. Clark wasn't asking how.
"There's this great place just around the corner," Lois said as they exited the
building. "You'll love it."
"I'm sure I will." Clark reminded himself to order something other than the Cold
Cut Special. He stepped past a small mound of dirty snow sitting against the
building, not yet melted from last week's blizzard.
"We can go over ... "
A siren blared, just as the comm in Clark's ear spat: "Hostage situation,
downtown Metropolis. Suspected Intergang link." Clark bit his tongue to keep
from answering it.
"Oh, I forgot my purse," he lied smoothly. "I'll be right back."
Lois grabbed his hand. "Later. Lesson number two: always follow the story."
Clark considered objecting, and then followed behind her. He could always duck
away when they were closer and become ... Still need a name.
"Got it," said a male voice in his ear, followed closely by a female voice saying,
"Right here."
A crowd grew around them; it wasn't hard to see where the sirens, or the crowd,
was headed. Someone was standing out on the twentieth-floor balcony of the
Endicott Building, holding someone else at gunpoint. Clark focused his vision,
but didn't recognize either man. They reached the edge of the cordoned-off area
behind the police.
"Stay here," said Lois. "I'm going to try to get a closer look."
"Wait!" But Lois, long used to assuming rules were designed to keep other
people out of her way, was already slipping under the just-applied "Police Line -
Do Not Cross" tape.
"On the scene now," came a voice in his ear. Both ears. He turned sharply. Not
ten feet away, Bruce held her hand to her ear, inspecting the situation. Clark stole
over beside her.
"I thought you cancelled," he said quietly. He sighted Lois; fortunately, so had a
cop. She'd be escorted back out here any minute.
"I still have to sign the papers," Bruce said, looking unsurprised at his presence.
She was dressed in a simple business suit, probably posing as one of her own
assistants. "Do you know anything about the hostage situation?"
"I know Lois is trying to go up there to grab the scoop."
"Have you considered getting her a leash?"
"Wouldn't help."
Bruce made a non-committal noise which was probably as close as she would ever
get to admitting Clark was right. "Do you have a new suit?"
"Yes."
"All right, I'll cause a distraction. You change and get the hostage to safety. You
can leave the captor for me."
Clark saw a red, gold and black figure streak through the sky towards the building.
The astonished gunman let loose his hold on the hostage, who was bright enough
to duck as the red apparition punched his attacker.
Bruce said, "Or not."
Hi, Diana.
The gunman was tougher than he looked. His head whipped from the punch, but
he shook it off and launched himself at Diana. Surprised, Diana was knocked off-
balance and the pair fell off the balcony. The hostage ran to the edge to see.
Bruce's hand clamped on Clark's arm.
Diana stopped their fall a few feet from the ground. Clark tensed and then
relaxed.
"Admit it," Clark hissed under his breath. "You were worried."
"That you were about to blow your cover," Bruce replied, eyes still on the scene.
The gunman recovered first, grabbed for the nearest advantage. Which, due to
some unwritten law of the universe, was Lois. He pulled a knife from his belt and
held it to her neck.
Diana hesitated as Lois struggled despite the grip on her arms and the blade at her
neck. Given another ten seconds, Diana would probably have the guy on the
ground, but Clark had a clear line of sight to the attacker's hand, and no glasses.
The attacker yelped as the knife suddenly burned his hand. Diana took the instant
distraction, yanked Lois clear, and decked him. Hard.
It was all over, as quickly as that. Diana let go of Lois, then flew to the balcony to
retrieve the former hostage. Two medics swooped in with a blanket to cover the
shaken victim as they led him away.
Activity flurried around the scene, and there were too many bodies in between for
Clark to get a good look. Presumably, the police were thanking the new hero and
taking the bewildered abductor into custody.
Clark took the opportunity to slip through the tape line for a better look. As could
be expected, Lois had already started firing questions at Diana. Or, not exactly
firing. More like asking nicely. And smiling. And Apollo, or whatever he was
going to end up calling himself, was smiling right back.
Clark had spent a lot of time trying not to notice just how attractive his two female
coworkers were; that sort of thing would only lead to trouble, he felt certain. On
the other hand, he was now becoming aware that, just because Diana was no
longer a woman, that didn't mean Diana wasn't still attractive. "Apollo"
was simply attracting a different audience.
Bruce was beside him. "Interesting."
"Bruce?"
"Mm?"
"Truce?"
"Truce." They made their way together to where Lois and Diana were chatting.
Clark got a better look at Diana's new outfit. With a chill, he noticed it had
several similarities to Diana's Justice Lord counterpart's costume, and he wasn't
sure if the chill was from that thought, or the reminder that he himself had nearly
gone with a black and white motif.
"That was amazing!" The squeak at the end of the declaration made
Clark's head almost crank off his neck. Bruce's hand was folded at her mouth,
and her eyes were wide with awe. "The way you saved that man. That was so ...
Wow!" And she slid right between Lois and Diana. Diana glanced at Bruce
curiously, and then his eyes grew a fraction wider. Note to self, Diana knows
Bruce out of costume.
Clark grabbed the opening. "Lois, I was so worried you were going to be hurt!
Who's your new friend?"
"That's what I'd like to find out."
The crowd around them grew, and Clark noted more than a few wistful
expressions on the faces of the women he saw.
"Are you one of Superman's friends?" Lois managed to ask, momentarily pulling
Diana's attention away from Bruce and the rest of his admirers.
"We've met," Diana replied.
"And what do we call you?"
Diana smiled again. "'Apollo' will suffice. I am here to serve." Clark hoped he
was the only one who noticed as Bruce rolled her eyes. "I must go." And with
that, he flew straight up and away.
"Looks like we've got a new player on the scene," said Lois, closing her notepad.
"C'mon, Clara. Lunch will have to wait. We've got a story to file."
Diana came to rest atop a building several blocks away. Her heart was still racing,
and her breathing was too fast. The fight really hadn't been anything, shouldn't
have been anything, not for who she'd been. Who she was now, that appeared to
be a different story.
She was hungry. She'd been hungry almost constantly since the change. Her
bigger body burned more calories breathing, and she was doing far more
than just breathing. This was the fifth crime she'd stopped today. She was going
to get a reputation. But not if she couldn't control this incessant hunger and
fatigue.
Maybe she'd contact the Flash later and see how he dealt with it.
Clark nibbled at his egg salad, stomping on his impulse to wolf it down. That
would leave his hands free and his mouth unoccupied, and Lois might expect him
to contribute more to the conversation.
"Is there anyone special back home?"
"No. Not really."
"Word of advice while you're here? Stay away from the heroes."
"I'd think that would be pretty easy."
"You'd think. Here in Metropolis, or Gotham, or any other big city, it seems you
can't throw a rock without hitting a couple of them. I mean, look at what just
happened!"
"Apollo seemed nice."
Lois huffed. "Oh sure. They seem nice. All 'Here I come to save the day
for Mom, apple pie and baseball.'"
"That's bad?"
"Only if you're a bystander. I have a Master's in Journalism with a couple of
Pulitzers under my hat, a brown belt in Judo, and what happens to me? Every
other day, someone in tights has to come rescue me. I'm not complaining about
the rescuing. I'm not. But it's kind of embarrassing. You try to be all liberated
and modern, but you get invited to speak at grade schools to show little girls what
they can do with their lives, and you end up answering questions about how some
big blue hero flies around saving your bacon all the time." Lois sipped at her iced
tea.
"But that's not really his fault, is it? You lead a dangerous life, and he likes you."
Lois pulled her hair behind her ear and smiled a little as she fidgeted with a french
fry. "It seems good, doesn't it? I know I sound ungrateful."
"You don't," he said quickly.
"I do. It's just ... Once you get involved with the cape-and-cowl set, nothing's
ever quite normal again. There are days I miss normal. No life-or-death
situations all the time, no secret identities to protect, no psychotic supervillains
hellbent on killing my date. Just me, my career, and maybe a boyfriend who
wouldn't be caught dead in tights."
"So if you had a choice, you wouldn't ever have met Superman?" A sick feeling
grew in his stomach that had nothing to do with the egg salad.
"I didn't say that. I wouldn't say that. I'd be dead a lot if I didn't know
Superman, or Batman, or hell, most of the damned Justice League. But
sometimes I wonder if I would have ended up getting my life endangered in the
first place. Road not traveled. I've got a million of 'em. I can pretend they're all
lined with lilacs."
Clark finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth. Lois dabbed at her own, so as not
to smear her lipstick. Something else to pick up this evening and experiment
with.
Lois put her happy face back on for the office. "Ready?"
"Lead on."
He waited.
Bruce was very good at waiting, at lurking in the darkness until the prey showed
themselves. Half of being the Batman meant knowing where the criminals would
be before they did, and getting there first.
Metropolis General was well-lit and airy, and Bruce didn't like it. There weren't
nearly as many convenient shadows to pull up and wrap himself in as he might
otherwise utilize. He felt exposed, and wary, like a lion in short grass, praying to
its cat-spirits that the wind would not shift.
Now is not a good time to think about cats, he admonished himself.
The advantage, the greatest advantage, to his current predicament was that
she was unknown. Bruce Wayne sitting in a hospital corridor would
eventually be recognized and remarked on by someone; "Brynne" got barely a
glance. It was like being invisible in an entirely different way.
He pretended to read a magazine, while keeping an eye on the police outside the
gunman's hospital room. His name was Ryan Stevens, Bruce had found out, and
he was not yet recovered from the blow to the head Diana had given him enough
to talk.
Diana had been extraordinary, as she always was, but with her natural Amazon
abilities multiplied by her new upper-body strength, there was a good chance she
could take on Clark and win. Bruce filed that away with the rest of his private
information on how to take Clark down in case of an emergency. He'd acquired
quite a list so far.
Stevens' doctor came out of the room and spoke briefly with the police. Stevens
would be resting for the remainder of the night under guard, and could be
questioned in the morning. Bruce nodded to himself, folded his magazine, and
walked away.
Ten minutes later, he was outside Stevens' window. The regular suit didn't fit
right, but he had made do with what he had on hand and the cowl. The window's
lock was easy enough to jimmy. He let himself inside.
Stevens lay quietly in his bed, his head generously swathed in bandages. Diana
had damaged him well. His eyes opened as she touched to the floor in the
darkness.
"Who – Who's there?"
"I have some questions for you," he said in her deepest voice.
"Huh?" Stevens fumbled for the call button, but Bruce got there first and struck it
from his hands.
"Don't even think about it," he intoned. "When the police come in here, they're
going to have questions of their own."
"Get out of my room, bitch!" he growled back. He squinted in the dark. "Go
back to Gotham, Batgirl. I got nothin' for you." Then he leered. "Unless you
want to climb on. Then I got plenty for you. First ride's free, babe." He twitched
his sheets aside.
Bruce drew back in disgust. "That won't be necessary. You need to tell me who
you're working for."
"Blow me." Stevens lay back, folding his arms behind his head. If it wasn't for
the bandages, and the swelling, he would have looked comfortable.
Bruce was losing patience. He grabbed Stevens by the loose material at the neck
of his hospital gown, pulling him to a sitting position. "There are two ways we
can do this. My way, or the hard way." He drew back his fist. "Please say you
want the hard way."
"Better not, honey. You might ruin your manicure. And then I'll be able to say I
got beaten up in custody. They got problems with that here in Metropolis."
"You can be extradited."
"I never did nothing in Gotham."
"I'm sure we've got a few unsolved crimes you'd fit the bill for." Stevens
slammed both fists into Bruce's side; at the same time he bent one knee and
kicked him in the stomach.
Bruce staggered back a few paces, losing his grip on Stevens. In the normal suit,
he would have been protected by at least five layers of Kevlar; the makeshift suit
he'd pulled together for this interrogation was only cloth.
"You've got nothing on me." Stevens grinned maliciously. "And I'm not telling
you anything. Send the real Bat next time if you want to try to scare me."
Bruce's knuckles itched to finish the job Diana had started on this guy, but he
was in police custody technically, and Bruce wasn't going to give the
cretin a brutality case. Normally, Batman's presence and demeanor, coupled with
two gauntleted fists, were enough to make any two-bit crook like this one roll
over. This new woman had no street cred save what little reflected glory she got
from Barbara. Intimidation wouldn't work. This could be a problem.
Stevens started laughing as Bruce made his way back to the window, ribs already
burning. The laughter followed him out.
Andre's was dead. Not unlike the original Andre. Wally sipped his
fifteenth ginger ale and tried to look the right combination of bored and sexy. He
also tried not to keep fiddling with his bra strap. It slid down his shoulder every
couple of minutes and was bugging the hell out of him.
Bats swore her info said this was a great place to meet Roberts and his pals, but
apparently Monday night wasn't the best time to go looking for gangsters. He was
about to pull out a credit card — he'd never had an expense account before and
Bats had given him a quick but detailed lecture about not abusing it — and call it
a night.
The party rolled into the club. Four thugs with bulky coats walked in, took a long
look around the place, then stood aside as about fifteen people followed them
inside. He scanned the new crowd. There, in the middle of the press, each arm
around a girl. Roberts.
Wally slid the card back in his little black purse, and tried harder with the "sexy."
The new people filled the club with noise and presence, and suddenly the
ginger ale had that much more of a snap, and the music was a touch better, and the
neon lights looked more festive than desperate. Amazing.
Wally nibbled on the freebies at the bar: some pretzels, a nice nut mix, nothing
fancy but just a bit higher quality than had been out a few minutes ago. He tried
showing some leg.
This earned him a withering stare from the only member of the entourage to notice
him, a girl who didn't look old enough to be in here without a parent.
What? He stared back until she rolled her eyes and looked away.
An hour went by. He wasn't good at small talk, not when that meant trying to
cozy up to a guy who looked like he was mostly muscle, then pretend a vapid
interest in everything the man had to say. Despite being in the room with the
target, he wasn't any closer to getting an introduction.
The ginger ales caught up with him. Uh oh. He could run home, though
not in these shoes. He'd picked up the basics of certain functions in this body,
was awfully glad that he didn't have to figure out how to aim anything new, but
all that had been in private.
Wally sighed. This was silly. It wasn't like he'd ever hesitated about having to
pee before. He picked up his purse, went to the back with the restrooms, caught
himself before going into the wrong one, and entered No Man's Land.
There was a couch, the color of sea foam, with matching pillows. And a vase
with real if fading flowers, and a nice coral-colored lamp instead of fluorescent
lights, and potpourri. Apparently he hadn't picked up on everything about how
the other half lived just yet.
While he was occupied, a gaggle of girls from Roberts' group giggled their way
into the restroom. When he went to wash his hands, the young one who'd made
faces at him was checking her makeup in the mirror.
Note to share with all my male friends when this is done. When they go to the
bathroom in groups, some of them really are just along for company.
Wally checked his own makeup. He'd been provided with some nice cosmetics
with the clothing, but without instructions, and he'd done his best, but ...
"My makeup looks awful doesn't it?" he asked the girl, despairingly.
She glanced at him. "Trick question, right?"
"No. I'm kinda new to this. I didn't dress up much back home."
"That explains it." She walked closer, and Wally got a deep breath of too much
nice perfume. She was blonde, and just an inch shorter than he was, and hey,
wasn't it nice for once not to have Little Wally standing up to pay attention?
"You look like a tramp."
Wally bit back his automatic "Says the teenager with too much lipstick."
"Maybe you could help?" he suggested as someone flushed.
"I don't do hard-luck cases."
The other girls joined her. "Oh, don't be such a bitch, Candi," said one — he
actually heard the "i" slide into place — "she needs a little steering is all." This
one was older, by a good seven or eight years if he was any judge. He watched
her measure him up. "You gotcher makeup with you?"
Wally pulled out a compact, some eyeshadow, and a lipstick. "I have this."
The older girl tapped her ear. "I can work with that. You three go on. We'll be
out in a minute."
"Thanks!" said Wally.
"No problem. Whatcher name?" He swore she graduated from the same diction
class as Harley Quinn.
Name. Name. Crap. "Um, Molly!" Wait. Molly. Moll. And I
thought Bats had no sense of humor.
"Hiya, Molly. I'm Tessi." There's that "i" again. He wondered how long
it would be until he called himself "Molli." Tessi ran some hot water on a fresh
paper towel. "Now just you hold still. This won't hurt a bit."
The girl in the mirror was a lot prettier than the one Wally remembered seeing
earlier this evening. Tessi had teased his hair and given him a spritz from a mini-
spray can she kept in her own purse. His eyes were deep and mysterious, his
cheekbones accented.
Damn I look good.
"Y'know," said Tessi. "When I first looked at you, I knew you were special. And
you really are, arncha?"
Wally blushed. "Um, thanks."
"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "Let me introduce you around." He
squeezed back. She was taller than he usually went for, and her hair was darker,
but as the first woman in a long time who'd spent more than ten minutes in his
presence without either throwing a punch or needing to hear about his exploits to
smile at him, she was drop-dead gorgeous as far as he was concerned.
"Molly, this is Smitty. Smitty, Molly."
The guy, one of several cauliflower-eared heavies in the gang, nodded his hello,
but his eyes said they liked what Tessi had done. "I'll let you two get acquainted,"
said Tessi, and walked off.
But ...
Right. Hit on guys now. Hit on girls later. Get therapy when possible.
"Hi," said Wally shyly.
"Sit down, whydoncha?" He patted the seat beside him. Wally sat down.
"Haven't seen you here before."
"I'm new in town." He'd told Tessi the same thing, adding the line Bats had fed
him about meeting a guy who got him an apartment, but who hadn't been seen
around in weeks. Lying was easier when it was almost the truth.
"Do tell," said Smitty, and he smiled. Wally knew that smile, had in fact smiled
that same smile. That was the smile of a man who'd just met a fresh young face,
probably not so bright, in need of a firm hand. And guidance. At some point, that
smile would explain the many benefits of protein to a young woman's diet.
Wally was a nice guy. He was. And in the inevitable aftermath of smiling that
smile, and explaining those benefits, and suggesting a good way of reaping those
benefits from a specific protein source, he'd learned how to take rejection well,
and had never pushed the matter again with any particular girl. Assuming the girl
in question had not already slapped him in the smile and left, a response with
which he was also very familiar.
Wally saw that smile, and prayed Smitty was a nice guy.
Lantern had come to take a double shift aboard the Watchtower. Her thoughts
were shadowed, and J'onn did not press her further. Two alerts sounded before
she had even settled into the chair. Diana indicated he would take the first, as it
was near his present location. J'onn took his leave of his other coworker, and
piloted the Javelin to the coordinates given for the second alert.
He had not been in Jakarta prior to this occasion. He landed the Javelin outside
the city, relied on Lantern's directions to the school. Terrorists held a fifth grade
class hostage at a school in the middle of the city, demanding the release of one of
their number from prison.
People in the street pointed at him as he floated through their midst. Many had
seen him on the television, he was sure; he felt respect in some minds, fear in a
few. The other school children, those who'd been evacuated and who now
gathered in a loose ring distant from the school itself, watched him with hope and
a touch of hero worship. From inside, fright radiated. He knew several of the
children were crying, knew even the terrorists' dread.
So much fear ...
The police shouted to the terrorists, who shouted back. J'onn pulled the language
from their minds.
This would not work. Already one of the terrorists was inching towards the
trigger for the bombs they had planted.
J'onn dematerialized through the ground, floated quickly to the basement of the
school. Above him here, no, here ...
He floated up, extended a limb for each of the seven bombs and rematerialized
midway through the workings of each, pulling out the vital components of the
bombs as he rose.
The children — there were twenty-two of them, and this boy teased other
children for looking Chinese, and that one was afraid someone would find out
he'd accidentally dropped his infant brother and that was why the baby had a
broken arm, and this little girl was being touched by her grandfather who lived
with the family, and there was a single sound repeated in each head of a gunshot
and it was too much, too much, he wanted to protect them all — screamed,
shrank back from him, cowered in their chairs. The terrorists turned their
weapons on him, but he still had all his spare limbs, and now each one had a fist.
It took less than thirty seconds. Only one man had the chance to discharge his
weapon, and that into the wall. J'onn knocked him cold.
Absolutely no one threatened children in his presence. Not if they wanted to live.
As the last man fell, he turned to the class. He could see, now, the body of their
teacher on the floor in the corner. The children had been told to turn their backs
before she'd been killed; that was why there was only the sound, not the sight.
"Look at me," he told them in the language they all held common. With sniffles
and shaking, the children turned to see him. He kept their attention away from the
corner. "You are safe now. It is time to leave."
He helped them towards the door, distracted their eyes from the horror around
them, smiled at each as they filed by.
Outside, grateful parents and teachers surrounded them, as the police entered the
building to apprehend the killers. People encircled him, thanked him, and he
accepted their thanks as graciously as he could. His shields were high, and still he
was nearly overwhelmed by the emotions washing around him.
When he could free himself for a moment, he located the girl's mind from inside,
found her with her mother, told the mother as gently as he could why her father-
in-law must leave their home. The child watched him with wide eyes, and all he
could do was hope the mother listened.
Lantern called him, then, informing him of a situation developing in Australia,
and he left the children to their parents, only a slight ache lingering in his soul.
It was a good day.