The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop (3/5)
A Justice League: TAS story
by Merlin Missy (mtgat) and Constance Eilonwy (dotsomething)
Copyright 2004
PG-13
Tuesday
"Again."
Dick attacked; Bruce — Tim wasn't sure he could get used to calling her Brynne
— dodged easily, and kicked. Dick back-flipped out of reach, then moved in
again. He threw a punch which missed by a foot. Bruce grabbed his extended
arm and flipped him over onto the mat.
Dick rolled swiftly to his feet and attacked again. Bruce blocked each of his
punches and kicks.
At the edge of the Batcave's workout area, Barbara and Tim watched. Like the
two sparring, they also wore ordinary workout clothes. There'd be time enough
later for uniforms. Tim acted as he might at a sports event, seeming to enjoy the
contest without thought for anything else.
But Barbara, after the sixth or seventh round, had grown quiet. The wisecracks
she'd kept making earlier in the training session had long since faded.
Dick threw an easy punch, one of the first he'd ever been taught. Bruce caught his
fist in her palm. "Stop it."
"What?" Dick protested.
"Don't hold back. They won't."
"I'm not!" Dick jerked his fist from Bruce's grasp and stepped away to the side of
the mat. He swiped the sweat from his forehead. The front of his gray t-shirt was
lightly stained with sweat. Bruce, on the other hand, looked cool and unruffled.
"Yes you are. I'm not going to relearn to fight like this," Bruce gestured down at
her new body, "unless I'm forced to. You're going easy on me."
"I'm not holding back!" Dick's voice rose. For a moment, it was like he was
twelve years old again.
Barbara stepped between them, then turned to look Dick in the eyes. "Yes, you
are," she said quietly.
"Oh? And how would you know?"
"Because you're doing to him ... to her ... the same thing you used to do to me."
No one said anything for a few beats. Tim began to look uncomfortable; sporting
events rarely involved emotional confrontation.
When still no one else spoke, Barbara put her hand against Dick's chest and
shoved him back. "Step aside, wonder boy."
She and Bruce faced off. Then Barbara leapt with a martial arts cry. Her attack
was swift and looked like it intended to hurt. Bruce dodged, barely. Barbara went
after Bruce relentlessly, throwing a series of kicks and hits. Her last kick
contacted. Using her advantage, Barbara grabbed Bruce's arm and flipped her
over onto the mat.
Dick's jaw dropped. "You just beat him? I mean her? You just ... "
Barbara flapped her hand at him dismissively. "She's not at full form right now.
That's the only reason I could."
Moving forward, Dick reached out a hand to help Bruce to her feet, but she
slapped his hand aside, then arched her back, using her hands to propel herself to
her feet.
She attacked him without warning. Dick was taken completely by surprise and, in
order to defend himself, had to act on instinct. His kick caught Bruce in the
stomach, throwing her yards backwards. She landed at the edge of the mat.
Getting unsteadily to her feet, one arm holding her bruised side, Bruce looked at
Dick's shocked face, and gave him a tiny, fierce grin. "Exactly."
They kept sparring, but after fifteen minutes Bruce had to insist that Barbara and
Barbara alone do the sparring for now.
"Sure, of course, no problem," Dick said. "I understand."
Bruce wasn't sure what to say to him. So he said nothing, and watched Dick try to
hide the fact that he felt embarrassed, apologetic, and at the same time, hurt.
What could he say to him. You haven't let me down? Except he had, and
they both knew it. Don't worry, it just takes time to adjust? They didn't
have time.
Bruce remembered when she'd first joined them on the streets: raw, uncontrolled
talent. There were slow nights out on patrol back when, to Batgirl, Robin was still
just Robin, and vice versa. Bruce wasn't one for nostalgia, but as the memory of
those days surfaced, they brought a sharp sense of loss.
Warm spring night, one rooftop, two bored teenagers, one wary adult eyeing the
city, convinced the quiet was only a harbinger. It was only the second, perhaps
the third time, that they'd unintentionally met Batgirl in the night, allowed her to
patrol with them. Batgirl and Robin — full of frustrated energy from their
expectation of kicking criminals in the teeth and not getting to — starting horsing
around, laughing and making too much noise. Batman had decided to use the
interlude as an opportunity, had sharply ordered them into an ordered sparring
session.
He'd pretended not to pay too much attention, but he'd watched her, wanting to
test her, to examine her fighting ability.
A wasted effort. Their sparring, while entertaining to watch, was just play; they
matched each other well, anticipated each other's moves. But Robin was a
stronger, better fighter and hadn't pushed her. He'd pulled his punches. Batman
finally had to step in and spar with her himself in order to get any clear idea of
what she had. He'd already noticed Robin keeping an eye out for Batgirl in
combat, not even aware he was doing it, always an assist, not a carry. He tended
to stop blows she was oblivious to before they landed. He wasn't doing Batgirl
any favors. She wouldn't learn unless she did it on her own.
Talking to Dick about it had been out of the question. The few times he'd tried to
ask Robin about the new girl, he'd gotten a decidedly biased and uncritical
evaluation, followed by a hasty retreat into reluctant single syllables.
There were some things even Batman was powerless to control.
The truth was that part of why he'd finally let her into the Batcave after Dick left
was because he knew without his training, she'd ultimately get herself killed.
Over time she'd proved herself. But even before that, he'd trained her harshly and
rigorously.
Back in those early days, when Batgirl sparred with Robin, it always ended in
laughter and excess energy. When Batgirl sparred with Batman, she limped
afterwards. She tried to hide it, of course, but they could see.
Dick had accused him of being too hard on her. Of being brutal.
"I'm keeping her alive."
"She could barely walk. Didn't you see her wincing?"
"It's necessary."
"Can't you go a little easier on her?"
"If I go easy on her, she'll die. Do you think Two-Face or the Joker will
pull their punches?"
There had been no answer to that. Stormy-faced, Dick had stalked out of the
Batcave and back to his dorm.
It was the same speech he'd given Dick when he was ten, and their training
sessions left the boy limping and sore for days. Alfred hadn't approved, but then,
Alfred hadn't approved of a child joining him in the crusade in the first place, and
knowing that the child would have done it no matter what he was told had not
made Alfred any happier.
Nor Bruce. But Bruce wasn't in this for the happiness.
He'd never shared the nightmares he often had about each of them. He didn't
dream the same one every night, but some repeated too often. There was one in
particular about Barbara. It started soon after they began the rooftop training
sessions and it helped to remind him not to go easy on her just because she was a
pretty girl or because his sidekick didn't like it when she limped. That dream
always ended with the sound of a shot, and the Joker in a Hawaiian shirt holding a
camera, laughing.
J'onn preferred the silence.
Back home — and there was a thought pattern into which he dared not spiral just
now — everyone respected one another's basic right to mental privacy. Martian
children learned to shield their thoughts before they learned to walk. Proper
telepathic communication meant only reading the thoughts desired, not the million
pieces of personal minutiae that made up a mind's waking hours. One did not dig,
one did not press, one did not force communication. To do so was invasive, even
violating, and those few Martians who engaged in that behavior were considered
aberrants.
J'onn never meant to pry, not truly. But humans, and Kryptonians, made it so
very easy to overhear their thoughts. Like infants, they projected every mental
wandering, every emotion whether noble or base, everything, and had he not
learned to raise his own shields in defense, he would surely have gone mad years
ago.
On Mars, he had basked in the massive and quiet presence of his people all
around, of the calm tendril that was My'ria'h's presence in the back of his own
mind, of the dancing threads that were his children. On Earth, he was buffeted by
sight and sound, and while he had encountered a handful of telepaths among her
people, their gifts were little better than those of young ones just learning to
properly project. On the Watchtower ...
Inside their minds, his friends were a microcosm of the planet below.
The Flash was loud, and brash, and shy, and more, alternating memories of
televison programs with imaginings of Diana and Hawkgirl, and with interesting
and incorrect notions of whatever problem was at hand, and also with ruminations
of what he would have for lunch. And he was only "The Flash" in his mind when
he pictured his name in the newspaper.
Superman thought in terms of headlines as well, wondering how to describe his
latest wondrous deed without sounding as though he was the one performing it.
He was always "Clark" when he thought of himself in the third person. During
the brief time J'onn had known the Justice Lord Superman, that had not been the
case, and J'onn had made a note to watch his own friend for any kind of tendency
to change who he believed himself to be.
Batman was Batman, always and forever. His emotions were hidden, his thoughts
tightly ordered. Nearly Martian, J'onn sensed. Batman was comfortable for J'onn
to be near for long periods of time, almost as much so as Hawkgirl, who was a
welcome and cool quiet behind her own natural shields. Lantern was less ordered
than Batman in his mind, still prey to the stray thoughts that characterized his
species, but he spent more time than the rest attempting to rein in those
wanderings, for his own sake as much as J'onn's. Diana's thoughts were bright
and sharp, but always with the backdrop of some melody or another playing just
beneath the surface, coloring the rest of her mind with music.
It was this music that he noted now, humming quietly to himself a tune he did not
know, and before the Javelin sent its greeting, he knew who was aboard. His
silence was gone, but he would gladly replace it with song.
"Javelin to Watchtower."
"Good evening, Javelin. The Landing Bay is ready."
"Thanks, J'onn." Diana brought the ship in smoothly. J'onn listened for a
lightsome moment to the melody of Diana's thoughts, not wishing to pry deeper
into the mind.
There was a discordant note, and another, and what was mentally a scream. He
dematerialized straight away and hastened to the Landing Bay, where he found
Diana half-slumped in the pilot's seat of the Javelin, barely conscious.
"Your metabolism has increased dramatically." J'onn watched the monitor, his
brow furrowed in concern.
Diana wriggled on the biobed, trying to get a look at the readout over her head.
She knew what the various levels were supposed to look like, and she knew these
were wrong. At least she was feeling better. "Is it from the change?"
"Most likely. At these levels, your daily caloric intake should be near that of the
Flash. And that's not taking into account the damage being done on your organs
by this kind of stress."
Diana sat up. "I'll be fine. It's just temporary." She stood. She fell. J'onn
helped her back onto the bed.
"You are not well. You are pushing yourself to maintain your normal activity
levels, and your current body cannot withstand it."
"But that's ridiculous! I feel just as strong as ever. Except for the falling down,"
she added.
"Nevertheless, you need to rest."
"I need to continue doing what I do. We fight crime, and help people, and
guard the planet, and I can't do any of that from a bed."
"Nor can you do any of it if you're dead."
She closed her eyes. "Why isn't my new body working? No one else
seems to have this problem."
"Perhaps it has to do with your Amazon heritage. Your abilities, and those of all
the Amazons, were granted by your deities, yes?" She nodded. "But the only
ones to receive these gifts were women. Perhaps part of the reason why is that
those abilities as they were designed are incompatible with a male physiology."
"Then what am I going to do? I cannot become female again until Mxyzptlk
returns. I cannot return to Themyscira, especially in this form." She extended her
arms. "I still have my strength, and my flight, and you're telling me if I use either,
I'm going to die."
"I fear you could, yes."
She fell back against the pillow. "Then what am I going to do for the next three
months?"
"You could try living as a normal human. Create a secret identity, become
someone new."
She tried picturing it: making a real start at a new life. She could stop being a
superhero, start being ... someone. Cut her hair, grow her beard, find whatever job
she could without a background, or with a false one created by Batman. Maybe
even take a clue from him, play the part of the handsome stranger, show up at
certain parties when certain members of royalty would be in attendance. Act like
an idiot.
"Or?"
Wednesday
"I'll be staying on the Watchtower for the next several weeks." Diana's voice
came through the static; the satellite was heading over the horizon, about to lose
line-of-sight communications. "J'onn will return to Earth in a few hours."
"Understood," Clark said. There were acknowledgments and updates over the
comm from the rest of the team, save Flash. He tried not to worry as he sent his
own status report.
He didn't have time to worry. He'd just tracked Volcana and Livewire to an
abandoned warehouse. Well, not exactly abandoned. More like a currently
unused warehouse. Mostly unused, anyway. Okay, Bruce would just have to deal
with the incidental damage that was about to occur to one of his Metropolis
holdings. That's why he was insured, right?
Clark considered his options. He could burst into the warehouse via the roof,
raining shrapnel, and take the duo by surprise. He could come in through the front
door and start pummeling. He could zap the padlock on the back door and sneak
in, possibly catching them both without a fight. He could call the police.
He scanned the warehouse with x-ray vision, noted where the two women were in
relation to where his potential entrances were. The guards were incapacitated but
alive, stowed in the back. That encouraged the back entrance idea — he could
rescue the guards first, then take out the criminals.
"Hey pretty pretty," said the voice directly behind him. Clark spun around,
wondering how someone had managed to sneak up on him. Super hearing: not
check.
There was a gun in his face. The thug holding it had "henchman" written all over
him.
"Look, honey, you don't wanna get hurt. I don't wanna hurt you. So back up nice
and slow, and I won't have to mess up your manicure."
Clark sighed.
He aimed the punch carefully, so as not to cause irreparable harm. He wondered
if he would encounter any more hired help while he did a quick tie-up job on his
would-be assailant.
Back door it was.
The padlock was everything he expected it to be, slagging nicely to the ground
under his heat vision. He let himself inside and quickly located the bound guards
in a storage room. He put a finger to his lips and then snapped their restraints.
"Thanks," whispered the first one as he shooed them out the door. Clark debated
pointing out that his eyes were on his head, but there really wasn't time.
He x-rayed the main holding area of the warehouse. Livewire was examining
electronics parts, while Volcana sorted what could possibly be containers of dry
chemicals. Wayne Tech had a small specialty chemicals manufacturing facility
nearby, so it wasn't out of the question.
A break-and-enter job, then. Good. He wasn't up to dealing with a complex
criminal plot tonight. It was already past one a.m. and he had to be at work in the
morning.
He knocked a hole in the wall. He was rewarded with their full attention. "Can't
leave you two alone for a minute," he chided.
Livewire glanced up and down his new outfit. "Who do you think you are,
bitch?"
Drat. Name.
"You can call me whatever you want," he began.
"How about 'Toast?'" Volcana blasted fire at him, and he ducked, barely in time
to save the outfit. He responded with a blast of super-breath, taking her down and
knocking the wind out of her.
Then he ducked again, because he knew Livewire and knew the bolt would be
coming. "Almost gotcha!"
"Almost," he admitted, and flew through the warehouse, letting her aim and miss
him.
"Hold still!"
"All right." He stopped dead in front of her. She grinned and got a charge ready.
The catwalk, whose supports she had just blasted away while trying to hit Clark,
fell on her.
Volcana was back up, ready to dance. Clark scanned the warehouse quickly,
thinking what he really needed was to find a way to fill the warehouse with water,
fast. Which would probably react very badly with the electronics and the
chemicals, so scratch that.
He dodged Volcana's heat blasts, then spied what he wanted. He grabbed a
chemical drum and flew above her, cracking the drum as he did. White powder
rained down on her.
Volcana coughed and sputtered, tried hitting the stuff with a heat blast. "What is
this stuff?" Clark pulled back and away, as Volcana was enveloped with the gas.
Her flames flickered, and she fell to her knees.
"Sodium bicarbonate. Covers fires, decomposes into carbon dioxide at high
temps. Nighty-night."
"Funny," said Livewire, kicking the last of the catwalk off herself. "But there
ain't nothin' here to take me out, baby." She hit him full-on in the chest with an
electric blast, and he fell. Livewire approached him, getting yet another handful
of energy ready. "Looks like we don't need to call you anything at all, toots.
Except maybe an ambulance." She powered up the blast. "Make that a hearse."
wham
Livewire crashed into the wall, discharging directly into Hawkman's mace.
It slices, it dices ...
Livewire slumped to the ground, unconscious. Clark stood up. "I didn't need the
help, but thanks."
"I was in the neighborhood."
I'll bet. "Flying going better?"
"A little bit, yes," he admitted, binding Livewire in some conductive wire. Clark
sent out a quick call to the Metropolis P.D., then tied up Volcana. Neither villain
looked to be causing trouble any time soon.
"We should probably go before the police arrive. Fewer questions." Hawkman
nodded. Clark retrieved the henchman he tied up earlier, and did a quick scan of
the area. He didn't see anyone else, save the freed guards who were waiting
outside. He dropped the henchman beside Volcana.
"Come on." The guards waved their thanks, as the first police cars pulled up.
They were well out of sight of the warehouse. Clark asked, "Want to touch down
for a minute?"
"Yeah. Thanks." They landed atop a building several blocks from Clark's
apartment. As soon as they were down, Hawkman began rubbing at his wings,
frowning.
"Need help?"
"No."
Clark folded his arms. He was good at patient, but it was late. "Why are you in
Metropolis at this time of night?"
A shrug. "I was bored. Heard you over the comm, thought you might want some
backup."
"For those two?"
"Bored. I did mention. And I couldn't sleep. Figured a fight would do me good."
"And?" He'd always liked Hawkgirl, even the times he'd harbored thoughts of
shaking her until her brain started working. On a daily basis, he dealt with super-
intelligent villains, crafty captains of industry, shrewd politicians, and fellow
heroes gifted with astounding powers of perception and cognition. Sometimes it
was nice to spend time around a person who thought subtlety meant saying "Look
over there!" before clubbing a bad guy over the head. Usually a bad guy.
"How do you deal with them?"
"Hm?"
"Humans. How do they not drive you insane?"
He covered his smile with a cough. He'd had a feeling. "You get used to them."
"But they're so ... aggravating! And self-righteous! And they blow things
completely out of proportion."
"And they're adorable."
"Yes. No! What?" Hawkman glared at him.
"Sorry." Here goes another unspoken rule right out the window. "I'm the
last of my kind. By definition, all my relationships are interspecies."
"Does it get easier?"
"No," Clark said, and Hawkman closed his eyes. "But it's worth it."
He opened his eyes again. "Even when the particular human in question is being
unreasonable?"
Clark thought before replying. "'Unreasonable' is a matter of opinion," he said,
finally. "You've been on Earth a while."
"Five years."
"I was raised here. I know what the species is like. They're amazingly adaptable.
You can drop one anywhere, and he or she will figure out a way to survive, even
thrive. But there are some things they consider too much of a change. They can't
handle it."
"Humans change genders. I've seen it." He probably had. Hawkgirl's bar-
hopping habits were the stuff of legend.
"Rarely. And it's usually a long process, in which they're given plenty of time to
change their minds. What happened to us happened all at once. There's going to
be an adjustment period."
"I've adjusted. You've adjusted. Even Batman's adjusted." That's open for
debate.
"Batman didn't change over only to discover his girlfriend changed, too." He was
rewarded with a reluctant not-quite smile.
"Does Batman have a girlfriend?"
"New one every week." Lois wasn't subtle either, at least not when she made a
point of getting a preview for the society section of the Planet each
weekend. And speaking of Lois. "I need to get home. I've got to be at
work in the morning. You're welcome to ... "
"I'm headed home too."
"Good night." Clark waited until he was gone to take off towards his own
apartment. It was a long flight to Midway City from Metropolis, especially when
Hawkman's wings weren't up to snuff, but Detroit was much closer. Clark wasn't
worried much.
She told herself she was just tired. Yes. And her wings were sore, and not quite
up to speed, and anyway, it wasn't like John's place was far out of her way.
She lighted on the roof. There was a lock on the door up here, but the fire escape
was accessible with a soft jump, and then she could make certain the street was
clear of passers-by before making her way to the front door of the apartment
building. Considering the hour, she didn't expect to meet anyone, and she was
not disappointed.
She didn't knock. A good sign: the spare key was where he always left it. Or
was it where she always left it? No, always he, in her thoughts and
her dreams, no matter what else might seem to be, and now that she knew this in
her soul, the concept was really quite simple.
Now came the hard part. Did she turn on a light and wake him up? Did she nap
on the couch for a few hours until he noticed her in the morning? Or did she slip
into his room in silence, slide into bed next to him, kiss him awake?
Silence. The apartment was dark and silent. No comforting snores from the other
room, which meant John was either in there awake, or ...
His bed was made, tight corners without a wrinkle in the top blanket. No alerts
had come over the comm since Diana's announcement, and nothing for hours
before that. John was simply not home. At three a.m..
She was too tired to fly anymore tonight, but she couldn't imagine crawling into
his bed without him, and the couch would be almost impossible with her wings.
She found the extra blankets in his closet, made a soft space on the floor in his
room. The blankets smelled of John's laundry soap, and the room was redolent
with his aftershave and his deodorant and his tangy, musky, human scent
that often overrode all the rest of her senses when she was near him. Enwrapped
within these, she slept.
The day dawned too cloudy for the sun to poke through. John wrapped his hands
around his fifth cup of coffee, and wished for summer. Which was a laugh, since
as soon as it got hot, he'd be praying for snow and he knew it. Just now, though,
it might be nice to have some sunlight to warm him up after a long night's vigil.
The kid should have been home hours ago. Any respectable person would just
now be getting out of bed to start the day.
But Flash wasn't playing respectable.
The limo pulled up outside the building about fifteen minutes after what passed
for sunrise. A redhead staggered out of the back, waved a bit drunkenly to her
unseen companions, and made her way to the door. She made a show of pulling
her keys from her tiny black purse. The limo drove off after she'd let herself
inside.
John stood up from the crouch he'd taken across the street among some
convenient shrubbery, and slouched over to the building. He had to admit, if he'd
been spotted in his normal body, keeping a stakeout like this, the police would
have gotten a call. The woman he appeared to be got barely a glance. This
neighborhood was home to an adequate population of kept girlfriends for wealthy
and powerful men; at best John would be taken for someone's girl coming home
in her lover's clothes, and at worst, as someone's girl's cleaning woman headed to
work. Either illusion would do.
The apartment's main door was locked, but there was a buzzer.
bzzt
A few seconds of silence, then static and: "Hello?"
"It's," Oh damn ... "It's Jane. Can I come up?"
"Jane who?" The voice was tired.
"Jane ... Green. Your best friend."
"Green?" She sounded even more confused. "Oh, hey! Come on up!" The door
buzzed, and John let himself inside quickly.
Idiot.
It was a second floor apartment. Flash had the door open as he got to the top of
the stairs. "Hi, Jane. Didn't recognize you on the box."
"I figured."
Flash shut the door behind him, and double-locked it. "What's up?"
"You haven't checked in for a few days. Batman wanted me to touch base with
you and see if you needed help." He pointedly ignored her dress. It was blue,
strapless, and didn't leave much to his imagination. He found himself more than
a little relieved that Flash also reeked of Bar Smell: cigarettes, liquor, and sweat.
"So that's how you got the address." Flash went to the kitchenette and
started making coffee. "Some?"
"No, thanks. I've been drinking the stuff all night. And speaking of, where've
you been? I've been casing your place since midnight. I was starting to think
you'd gotten yourself kidnapped or something."
"Late party. Smitty's taking a liking to me, kept wanting to dance." She opened
the 'fridge. "You hungry? I'm gonna have some breakfast." She put a skillet on
the stove and lit the burner.
John's stomach told him all he needed to know. "Um, sure. Thanks. Who's
Smitty?"
"One of Roberts's goons. Nice guy, lousy dancer. Great taste in music, though,
and he bought me drinks all night."
"So you're drunk."
"Not even a little, mon ami, sad to say." Bacon sizzled in the skillet. Flash
started cracking eggs into a bowl. John stopped counting after a dozen.
"Nice to hear you're having fun." He took a look around the apartment. It wasn't
classy, but it was as big as John's place, and in this part of Metropolis, that meant
bucks. The furniture looked like it was rented with the apartment, and he guessed
it was mostly unused. He sat down in the chair nearest the kitchen. "How are you
affording this place?"
"Batman said it would be covered. Don't ask me how. Toast?"
"No thanks. You want any help with that?"
"You'd be in my way." Flash stirred the cooking eggs and buttered her stack of
toast and set the table, all at a blur, humming to herself. John rolled his eyes.
"Food's ready."
He knew from experience to stay out of Flash's way during the first few minutes
of any meal. This was no exception. A great yellow pile of eggs vanished from
her plate as John picked at his carefully; Flash wasn't always concerned about
eggshells. The bacon was good, though. Crispy. He reached for more, then saw
the look on Flash's new face.
"What?"
"I realize I'm saying this after having just eaten most of the package, but are you
sure you want more of that?"
"Yes." He took another three slices, and after a moment's thought, a few
spoonfuls of eggs. They hadn't been that bad. "Why?"
"Well, I've got this whole metabolism thing, but you're a normal human. In
general. Gotta watch your weight."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Dude, we run around in lycra. Okay, I do. I don't know what your
uniform is made of. Shows everything."
"You trying to tell me something, kid?"
"We're girls. We're supposed to be on diets, like, all the time. And drink
diet sodas."
"You're not trying to diet?"
"If I don't get at least five thousand calories a day, I get lightheaded, but that's
me. You're not me."
"Great. I've been a woman for less than four days and my best friend is already
telling me I'm fat."
"You're not. You're not!" she repeated as John glared. "You look fine! I mean,
you're totally hot! I mean, wait, I didn't mean that you're like, hot hot."
John continued glaring. "I mean, not so much in the 'I'd jump you right now if I
was still a guy' kind of hot, but in the 'You're pretty and I'm sure lots of guys
would dig you' kind of hot. 'Cause you're not really my type but it's been a long
time since I've been on a date so maybe I need to rethink my type, so you know,
you could be my type, only you're not 'cause you're you, not that there's
anything wrong with you." Flash finally realized that her mouth was going and
nothing of value was coming out. "Can we go back to the part where we were
having breakfast and I wasn't a complete idiot?"
"We'd have to go awfully far back to get to the point where you weren't an idiot."
"I said 'complete idiot.'"
"Right." There was juice. It was good juice. John drank the juice.
"Sorry?" That was the other half of Flash zen: it was easy to get mad at him, but
hard to stay that way.
"How's it been?"
"Huh?"
"You're working undercover. How's it been? Partying all the time? Or have you
actually done anything useful?"
"Well, I think I'm in. I've been invited over to Roberts's mansion tonight for a
little soiree. Officially, I'm going as Smitty's date, but I think I can drop him once
I get inside. Check out what I can."
"Good. You'll call if you need backup, right?"
"Have no fears on that one." A few expressions crossed Flash's features. John
was pretty good at reading women's faces.
"Are you okay, man?"
"Yeah. It's just ... weird. You know?"
"I know."
"I've had to stop myself from decking guys. Their hands want to be everywhere.
No way I'm letting Smitty kiss me, though. Way too bizarre." She shuddered, but
he wondered if it wasn't a bit affected. "Hey, got a question for you. How's your
wiring?"
"What wiring?"
"You know. You're hardwired to like girls. Me, too," she added quickly. "But
are we wired the same now? I mean, dude," she lowered her voice, "are we
lesbians?"
John looked at her for a long moment. "You may have been drinking all night,
but I am far too sober to consider having this conversation right now."
"Come on! Who else can we talk to about this? Superman and J'onn aren't even
human, and god only knows what the hell is up with Bats on a normal day.
I'm not asking Hawkgirl or Diana."
"Let's not discuss Hawkgirl or Diana." To be fair, Flash could discuss Diana all
she wanted, as far as John cared. He wasn't sleeping with Diana.
"I know what you mean. They're guys now, and they're good-looking guys."
"Flash."
Flash pressed on, "I can see how girls would think they were all that, and a bag of
chips too. But we're girls now, so are we supposed to think they're hot?"
"Flash."
"Only we're guys, and they're guys, so thinking they're hot might mean we're
gay, only we're not, at least I'm not and I'm pretty sure you're not either. But we
know they're actually girls, but we're girls right now, so if we think they're hot
does that make us lesbians, or are we just really screwed up straight guys?"
The earnest look on her face stilled the insults coming to mind, and instead John
sighed. "How long have you been thinking about this?"
"Days. You try not thinking about it when Leisure Suit Larry is asking you
to come see his etchings, and you're trying to play hard to get but not too
hard to get."
"Your guy's name is Smitty?"
"Yeah."
"If he was a woman, what would he be like?"
"Complete bitch."
"Would you date her?"
"If she was pretty." John glowered again. "Okay, probably not. At least, not for
very long."
"But if you had to date her for a mission, you would." She nodded. "Even if you
thought she was ugly?"
"If I had to, I guess."
"Then it doesn't matter. Focus on the job. You're there to find out as much info
as you can on Intergang, so we can take them down hard and fast. Go as far as
you need to, but only as far as you would if it was the other way around. And if
you get in too deep, give me a shout."
"You'd chaperone my date?"
"No, but I'd beat someone up for you if you needed me to."
"That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
As John was about to leave Flash's place, Diana sent a message over the comm:
"Someone has just hijacked a tanker full of nuclear waste on its way to permanent
underground storage in Nevada."
"You're sure?" said Superman over the line.
"I can be there ... " Flash started, but John put up his hand.
"I'll take it. Give me a location." To Flash he added, "Get some sleep. You've
got a party tonight, remember? Besides, you need a shower." Flash stuck out her
tongue, but didn't object. She was drinking the last of the coffee as John left.
He walked a few blocks from the apartment before ducking into an alley and
ringing up a uniform; no use risking Flash's alias.
It only took him a few minutes to get to the last seen site of the tanker, and a few
minutes more to locate its present position. The hijacker didn't stand a chance.
As the man hung there in ring-generated pincers, John found out he was just a guy
who'd stopped taking his meds and who consequently believed the government
was using the tanker to ship secret evidence of alien landings to Area 51.
On his way back home, he helped a couple trapped in their car after a crash, and
scooped a kid out of the way of a bus. It was almost noon by the time he finally
got to his apartment, by which point he was too tired to do anything but fall into
bed.
Two hours later, a horn blared outside his window and woke him. He finally
noticed the blankets on the floor on the far side of his bed. They'd been refolded,
but not neatly. He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, found a coffee mug washed
and draining in the rack by the sink.
Only two people knew where he kept the spare key. He'd had breakfast with one
of them this morning.
He went back to his bed to get some more sleep, but it didn't come for hours.
With J'onn gone, the Watchtower echoed eerily. By no means was this Diana's
first solo watch. She was familiar with every beep and click that meant operations
were running smoothly. They made a pleasant background noise, not so much a
heartbeat as the tinkle of a running steam and the twitter of small birds.
It amazed her that such a sterile creation of Man's world could remind her so
strongly of home.
She knew Themyscira's location, but had never seen it as the satellite orbited.
She looked, often, wondering what Mother was doing, if she was looking up at
that time to see the false star drift by.
Mother would never understand this.
The face she could see reflected back in the window, it would repulse her mother,
would be banned from the island as certainly as Diana herself was. These hands,
these shoulders, this entire body, all were anathema to other Amazons. Was she
even an Amazon now? Did she dare call the rest sisters, when they would gladly
strike her down before she drew breath?
She closed her eyes, shut away the Earth and the reflection that wasn't hers.
Duty at the Watchtower always lead to feelings of isolation; this was nothing new,
except in the fashion that everything was new, and different, and wrong. Her
arms reached out grotesquely far, her hips were obscenely narrow, and parts of her
moved! Without her even trying! Despite her carefully-constructed reputation,
Diana had not been an innocent maiden, even before her first foray into Man's
world. After her arrival, she read voraciously, and she watched films and
television, and she knew what made men what they were, and she found it
amusing and sad that men (and women!) tried to define women by what they did
not possess. As if a woman was merely a defective man, missing this maddening
and incomprehensible appendage, and not a complex form of her own, with her
own wonderful parts that men in their ignorance did not mourn the absence of.
She rested her head against the plexiglass. She'd performed a Web search on the
new words she needed now, and had come up with results that were confusing and
a little disturbing, not unlike the rest of this world. She had so many questions!
Despite the fact that she was currently on good terms with Hawkgirl — not always
a given — the other woman had her own problems, and Diana couldn't imagine
discussing these things with one of the men, and that left her no one at all to ask.
No one to talk to.
No one at all here, save a misplaced princess in the Tower who dared not come
out to play.
Diana had noted many differences between men and women in her time among
the others. One such difference was that men did not cry, or hid it when they did.
She wondered if being this far above the planet counted as a sufficient hiding
place.
Another late night, another story. Clark checked the story he was working on one
more time and then emailed it to the proofers. Someone on the night shift would
do a read-through, and the story would be ready for the morning edition.
He yawned. Ten p.m., and he needed to spend tonight working on the "contact
the Fifth Dimension" problem. He'd been thinking about it during every spare
minute. Mostly. Sometimes. He was trying. Honestly.
The fact was, Clark wasn't sure where to begin. The Fifth Dimension was another
dimension for a reason, and he couldn't just send an email, or fire up a
teleportation beam, to reach it. And in the meantime, he had deadlines to meet,
and a new superhero persona to use around the city.
And also ...
"Duluth, you still here?"
"Just finishing up. I thought you left already."
"I did. Had dinner with a source. Now I have to write the story." Same old Lois.
She went to her desk and clicked on her computer. "You know, Perry already
went home. You can't score points with him if he doesn't see you here working."
"I'm not trying to score points."
"Right." Lois tapped her fingers against her lips, then started typing.
Clark thought about leaving, and then with a little sigh, turned his own monitor
back on and started surfing. Maybe the Web could provide some clues on how to
reach Mxyzptlk. Just close enough to wrap my hands around his little
neck.
"Go home, Duluth."
"I've got some things to research."
"For example?"
He thought fast. "I'm trying to dig up more info on that new superhero in town."
"You mean Apollo?" Guess that name stuck after all. Lois smiled, and
for all she had complained after her rescue, he saw the wistfulness on her face.
"No," he said, a little irritated. "The new heroine."
"Oh," said Lois, and she scrutinized him for a long moment. "I think Perry said
we're calling her Ultragirl until she says otherwise."
"Might as well look her up here instead of going home to dial-up."
"That reminds me. Where are you staying?" She continued typing.
"53rd Street," he said without thinking.
"Which end?"
Clark just kept himself from telling her the truth. "Um, East End. It's a sublet."
"Mm." Lois had stopped listening, was focused on her muse's voice instead.
Clark knew the look. He clicked on a promising website, but found it to be just
another Goth site. Dead end again.
Around midnight, Lois stretched in her chair and turned off her monitor. "That's
enough for now. I'm going home. You should, too. Did you drive?"
"Subway." No recognizable car in the lot, no worrying about his license.
Lois nodded at the clock. "Too late for that tonight." Uh oh. Clark
generally didn't worry about the operating hours of the Metropolis Transit
System. He drove, or walked, or when the need arose, flew. Lois mistook the
look on his face. "Come on, I'll drive you home. You're not too far out of my
way."
"No, that's all right. Really. Nice night for a walk."
"It's past midnight, it's winter, and you live in the East End. Don't be stupid."
"It'll be okay. I swear." He didn't have a sublet in the East End to speak of, and
if Lois tried to drop him off at one, she'd have a lot of questions he couldn't
answer when the key didn't fit. He certainly didn't dare have her take him back to
his own apartment. "Actually, I'm not done with my research yet." He pretended
to go back to his computer.
"Yes you are. Come on. Your apartment can't be that bad."
"You have no idea." Drat. "Tell you what, it is getting late. I'll get
a cab. That way you don't get home even later."
"You sure?"
"Positive." Clark turned off the monitor again. "I'll walk you to your car,
though."
"This is my city, Clara. I can take care of myself. You're the one I'm worried
about."
"Oh, I can take care of myself, too. You don't have to worry." He got his coat; he
still couldn't bring himself to buy a purse, and no one had commented.
Lois rolled her eyes, but allowed Clark to accompany her to the parking lot.
Lois's car was the only one still there. Lois had her keys out, and Clark watched
her take in their surroundings as they walked. He should probably make an effort
to do that, he mused, but in his new form he could punch any wanna-be assailant
through a concrete barrier just as easily as he could before.
"Last chance, Duluth. It's no trouble. I don't like the idea of leaving you alone
here. Perry'd chew my head off if something happened to you." The worry in her
tone was genuine. Clark smiled.
"I promise, Lois, absolutely nothing's ... " There was a gun in his face. Two men
had appeared from the shadows in the parking lot, and the other had his piece
pointed at Lois. Footsteps behind him let him know they had two more friends.
No escape that way.
The problem with punching someone through a concrete barrier was that it lead to
embarrassing questions.
"Miss Lane." It was one of the men behind them. Clark turned, very slowly. He
didn't recognize the unhandsome face, but he knew the raspy voice from
somewhere. He committed the man's face, and those of his companions, to
memory in case of a police line-up later.
"Rialto," said Lois. "Didn't think you came up from the sewers until it was
warmer outside." Ah. "Roach" Rialto was one of the strong-arms employed by
Boss Roussimoff. Clark had gotten him on the phone once, but the line had gone
dead before the call was traced.
"It's an early thaw," he sneered. "Who's your poor friend?"
"No one you need to worry about." Lois took a small step in front of Clark,
despite the gun pointed right at her temple. "What brings you to my parking lot?"
She sounded a lot calmer than she should have been. Clark took the opportunity
to size up their assailants. He could take out both gunmen with one well-timed
blow. But Lois might get hurt, and either way, she'd find out.
"Mr. Roussimoff doesn't like you poking around in his business. You know that."
"What makes you think I'm — "
"You had dinner with Freddie Daye. Mr. Roussimoff wants to know what you
talked about."
"His golf game, a wedding I went to last week. Nothing much."
Rialto nodded. The gunman guarding Clark readied his weapon. "If one more lie
comes out of your ugly little mouth, the tall broad is going to pay for it."
Lois swallowed. "What do you want?"
"Since you forgot Mr. Roussimoff's warning last time, I'm here to give you a
better reminder." The knife opened with a snick. "Think of it as a favor.
Every time you look in the mirror, you'll remember that Mr. Roussimoff was nice
enough to leave you alive, and you'll repay his generosity by keeping what's left
of your nose out of his affairs."
The fourth man, the one beside Rialto, grabbed Lois by the wrists. Or tried to.
Lois slipped between him and her gunman, and kicked the latter into him, causing
both to stumble. Clark didn't wait to see what happened. He grabbed the gun at
his temple out of the owner's grip and punched him with his other hand, lightly
enough not to cause permanent damage.
Rialto grabbed him from behind and slashed his knife across Clark's throat.
The blade broke in his hand, and he had just enough time to be confused before
Clark punched him, too. Rialto crumpled to the ground.
Lois had pulled back from her assailants, who'd recovered from their disarray and
were now approaching her from two sides. She looked back and forth between
them, and spotted Clark.
"Clara! Call the cops!" No doubt on the cellphone he didn't have.
Lois let the guy who had tried to grab her come closer — he'd pulled out a gun of
his own — and kicked out at him. The kick landed solidly at his wrist, but didn't
dislodge his weapon.
The other man aimed his own gun at her, and Clark saw him squeeze the trigger,
and then there was no time at all to do anything except speed between them and
let the bullet ricochet off his own chest and deck the man before he caught on.
The noise and motion took the other man's attention from Lois, and she grabbed
his wrist, and tossed him over her shoulder and onto the ground, where one kick
to his head sent him to dreamland with his pals.
"I told you to call the cops," Lois said, once she was sure the men weren't getting
up again.
"I don't own a cell. Sorry."
"Don't be. You did pretty well for a new kid in town." Lois smiled at Clark, then
gave him that same intent look as before. "You're hurt."
"No, I'm fine." But she was already placing her hands on Clark's coat, where the
bullet had gone.
"Clara, we need to get you to the ER." Now she was panicking, just a little,
opening Clark's coat despite his attempts to stop her without hurting her.
"Lois, it's okay. I'm all right. It didn't ... "
"That bullet hole in your blouse says you're a liar." Lois looked up at him
thoughtfully. Then she pulled out her own phone and called the police. She
didn't give her name for the tip. "Come on. Now."
"We're not going to give a statement to the police?"
"No."
Clark let her lead him into her car. Without another look to the four men on the
ground, Lois pulled out of the parking lot. Less than a block away, they passed a
police car with its light on racing towards the lot.
"I think I could use some shut-eye," he said after another block. "Maybe I could
take you up on that offer to drive me home?" He tried to sound tired and he
didn't have to act much.
"Who are you?" She kept her eyes on the street, slowed at a stop sign without
actually stopping, went on.
"Um, Clara. We met a few days ago. Did one of those guys hit you in the head?"
"No, but one of them shot you, and you're not bleeding and you're not wearing
Kevlar and you're not from Minnesota. And I think they were too
confused to notice, but I'm not. And you arrived in town the same day as two
new superheroes started making waves."
"Lois."
"I'm not going to tell anyone." She stopped at a red light, let the car idle. "If you
know Batman, you can ask him. I can keep secrets." And as far as he knew, she
did. Bruce Wayne's secret night life would be the scoop of the century, and Lois
had very quietly sat on it for years.
He watched the stoplight with her, waited a full minute until it turned green and
the car rolled forward again. "We've met."
She let out a breath. "You were laughing at me."
"When?"
"When I was bitching about the guys in tights around here. You must have
thought I was the dumbest woman alive."
"I'd never think that, Lois."
She snorted, a little. "What do I call you?"
"'Clara' is fine."
"It's not your real name. You forget to answer to it sometimes, you know. I've
been wondering why." He made a mental note to work on that. "Jesus, Clara.
Why are you here?" Clark winced internally; Ma and Pa had very firm notions
about blasphemy, and that example had imprinted strongly on him.
"You made me get in the car."
"In Metropolis, dummy."
"Oh." He thought fast. "I'm undercover. Some friends and I are trying to break
into Intergang and take them down." This was true. It seemed to be working; the
one glimpse he'd managed of Boss Roberts in the past few days had included a
new girl in his entourage who bore a close resemblance to Flash.
"You and Apollo."
"And some others, yes."
"Is he your ... " She let the question dangle. Clark wasn't sure if he was being
interviewed or queried about Diana's dating status.
"Friend," he replied steadfastly. "We're just friends." Lois gave him that look
again, as he mused privately. He did like Diana, certainly, and he wasn't stupid
enough to deny he was attracted to her, but that was where it both began and
ended. His current romantic interests were complicated enough, and the biggest
complication of all was driving him vaguely toward the East End.
"Where are we going?"
"Your apartment."
"Is now a good time to tell you I lied about the apartment?"
Lois sighed. "Fine. Then my apartment. I'm tired and I want a shower and I
want to think. You can sleep on my couch. It's already one; we have to be back
at work in a few hours anyway. I'll lend you another blouse."
He needed to go. He could fly back to his own apartment, get a nap, get new
clothes, come in to work. Face Lois all day. He really should not have been
staying in the car, allowing them to get closer to her home.
I should go, he thought, but didn't manage to say out loud.