A/N: Good morning/afternoon/evening all. Another (short) chapter to tie up some loose ends. Also some intense violence just for you.
Alekile, rest assured, Deathstroke will be back, and he will be bringing hell with him. I quite like him, he is the Anti-Batman (whatever people may say about Prometheus) and truthfully I think there is no better match for Batman physically and mentally, as well as morally.
Smallville
"I'm telling you, I'm fine Martha. Stop fussing over me and let me do my job. I've been doing this work for years, I'm not about to stop now in my old age."
Martha gave Clark a look as if to say, "You see what I have to put up with here?"
"Dad, we know."
Jonathan nearly hammered his own hand. He dropped his tools, straightened up and put his hands in his pockets.
"How long?"
"A while now. It's a small town. Word gets around." Clark said.
"Doctor patient confidentiality my..."
"Jonathan!"
"All right all right.. don't pop a blood vessel." he joked.
"That is not funny."
His face turned serious. "Okay then. I guess we should talk about this inside."
Clark picked them up easily, hovering slightly above ground until they reached the front porch.
"I can still walk you know. It's not that bad." said Jonathan sarcastically.
"I'll never get used to that. I've seen you do it a thousand times, but I just don't get how you do it." Martha remarked.
"I'm not sure I know how I do it either. My theory is the force of gravity was much higher on Krypton. That plus the sun supercharging me lets me fly. It's just a theory though." He added hastily. "Anyway, were not here to talk about me."
He opened the front door, letting his parents in first before shutting it behind him.
The house was just as he remembered it.
The Kents were by no means wealthy, but they did ok. Their home was warm and cozy, filled with souvenirs Clark brought home on his travels as Superman. Colorful looking tapestries were hung on the walls and draped over some of the furniture. They were actually Indian blankets. Martha loved them, and Clark often brought some with him whenever he flew over some reservations. It was good to know not everyone feared him.
There were various beautiful carvings and small sculptures he found in the deep waters of the Pacific Ocean years ago when he was just starting out. He was rescuing a naval submarine that had run aground. He had to hightail it out of there when they fired several torpedos at him. Apparently they thought he was attacking them. As he left the gleam of something shiny caught his eye. Since then he had found many such artefacts in many parts of the ocean. Probably the relics of an ancient cruise ship that capsized many years ago. He had tried to take them to a museum, but that went about as well as expected, so everytime he found one, he brought it here.
On the walls were various framed photographs of the Kents over the years, smiling happily in all of them. Clark seemed to have several growth spurts over the years. Looking at the photos now Clark wondered if anyone in Smallville truly believed he was Jonathan and Martha's son. He didn't really look like either of them. Jonathan had black hair(salt and pepper now) and brown eyes with a round face and stocky build. Martha had brown hair and grey eyes with a stout frame. Both were short compared to Clark. Then again,almost everyone was shorter than Clark. There was also the fact that he was 'born' seemingly out of nowhere. Maybe the residents of Smallville suspected he wasn't their biological child, but decided to accept him as one of their own anyway. People here kept to themselves for the most part, and they never treated him any different. That was good enough for him.
Some of the frames contained the earliest articles Clark had written for the Daily Planet, with photos of Superman enclosed.
The three sat down at the dining table, where there was a pitcher of lemonade with ice and a cheesecake. Both men looked at Martha quizically.
"When?-" Clark began.
"Never you mind. That's my superpower." She said with a smile.
"Okay. So, what now?"
"Start at the beginning."*
Gotham
Sal Maroni sat at the head of the table. His lieutenants, or capos, sat at either side of him. His fingers drummed the edge of the table.
"...so what they're saying is, he.. ah..it seems that uh, somehow, he failed. Thats not all. They say the Bat got to him. Really screwed him up." The man cleared his throat nervously. He knew his boss hated bad news. He often killed for less. "But, our boys in the PD say he won't be moving into the Supermax until next week. That gives us time. We can go for him."
"We?" Maroni asked. It was his first word in hours. He got up to fix himself a drink.
"Yeah.. Me and the boys.."
"Tell me something Franco. This uh, this 'hitman'. He was your idea, wasn't he?"
"I.. I suppose so."
Maroni stabbed the ice furiously with the ice pick, taking up the chunks and dropping them loudly into the glass. Next he poured in some whisky. Then he leaned against the bar and took a sip.
"Oh, you 'suppose' so?"
The other men at the table fidgeted uneasily, like errant children caught in the wrong.
"Well boss, it was my idea, yes. But.."
Maroni took another sip. "But?"
"But you implemented it."
There was a pregnant silence.
Maroni chuckled. His older associates knew that was a bad sign. Salvatore Maroni had a fat mans laugh, not a chuckle. In fact a chuckle meant he was decidedly NOT amused.
"Somehow.. it seems... I suppose.." Maroni recited. Without warning he smashed the heavy tumbler against the back of Franco's head. The impact rocked his head forward. Blood trickled from his head.
"I'm sorry boss.." he moaned as he tried to cover his head.
"Oh, you're sorry? You're sorry?" He picked up the bottle of scotch and smashed it over Franco's skull. The other men flinched.
"Sorry? You know how much credibility I lost? Do you know what that means in this business?" He whipped off his belt and wrapped it around Franco's throat. He gurgled noisily.
"Do"-SMACK-"You"-SMACK-"Know"-SPLAT-"What"-SPLATCH-"That"-SPLSHCH-"Means?!" Maroni asked as he slammed the man's head into the table. Franco's face was covered with blood, as was the table top. It looked like someone steamrolled his face. Blood leaked from his nose and mouth as he struggled to speak.
Maroni throttled him violently, throwing him to the ground. He picked up the barstool and proceeded to thump him with it, with amazing strength for a man his age.
"You think I got to the top by fucking up?" WHUMP "You think I built my reputation by failing?"
WHUMP "You think sorry is enough? You think sorry will ever be enough?"
WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP The bar stool shattered against Franco's back. He was barely conscious.
"Oh no, no, no. You can't pass out yet Franco. I'm not done with you yet kid."
He stomped down hard on his testicles, grinding them into the carpet. The man yelped like a dog who had been trodden on.
"You're going to fix this kid. You hear?" He grasped his hair and pulled hard on it. "You hear me?! Or I swear on my sweet mother's grave I will feed you your tiny little balls myself."
"Yeth.. I'll fixth ith.."
Maroni stomped and kicked him a few more times to ingrain the message.
"Damn fucking right you will." he said as he slicked his hair back. He sat down and pulled out a cigar, cut off the tip and lit it with a matchstick. The other men sat rigidly in their seats, too scared to move.
"You wanna clean this shit up?" He said to no one in particular.
The men fell over themselves carrying out his command.
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A/N: *Adapted from a Netflix show that trumped Supergirl without even trying. Can't wait for season 2.
You guys might feel that I'm neglecting Diana. Trust me I'm not. I really like writing her, and I don't want her to come out forced. One should never force writing.
You might also feel I'm taking too damn long to get these guys together. Patience, grasshoppers. You can't rush perfection.
As always, read and review.