1999.
Gotham City.
The second great darkness came into America in the late Nineties, on the wings of an old enemy of the Bat-Man: the Demon's Head, the Time Abyss. Of course he had other names. Perhaps it was that his true name was lost to time. Certainly it was said he was seven hundred years old. But more probably it was that the great Ra's al Ghul had long ago forgotten his own history. He claimed that he stood with Alexander, rode with the great Khan, loaded trade ships with plague rats, and burned London to the ground. But all that was a sad memory now. In its place languished a man who had managed to survive long past his term, cheating a natural death with the otherworldly Lazarus Pits, more driven than ever to bring balance to a corpulent world. He unleashed a form of Ebola Zaire upon modernity as he found it, and when that gateway had been opened he sat back and revelled in his atrocity.
Oh there were those who stopped it. The Bat-Man, his old adversary, and certain of his heroic cortege, but the damage was done. Ra's watched from his hermitage in the desert. The Bat-Man stopped the disease, though only after Gotham's elite tore themselves apart. And then of course came consequentialism: after plague and earthquake came the governments of Man proclaiming Gotham City no longer worth their trouble. When that happened only the valiant, the venal, and the insane remained in the place called No Man's Land. His greatest legacy. And the Batman's greatest challenge in his long years. He forbade his other friends from assisting in the matter. As ever. He had even instructed the icon, the Man of Steel, to stay away. Gotham, the Batman had so arbitrarily decided, would have to find its own way.
It was a lesson the Man of Steel retained, and filed away in that great alien brain, as if for some future use.
But the fire rose. The disease did not end in Gotham's mire, in the burning towers of Babylon. It spread, as anything does.
Magnificent things, viruses. Ancient and terrible. Survivors in ways humans can only dream. Not even sentient, but behold their millennia of control over this planet. The Zaire variant called Gulf-A which Ra's unleashed was horrific beyond it's normal cousin: hemorrhage begins forty-eight hours after symptoms show. The resulting physiological response desiccates muscles, pulling the bones and distorting the body while it bleeds out. There was no stopping it. Until certain of the Batman's fraternity found a cure in some ancient place.
Luthor, sitting in his quonset hut in the middle of the No Man's Land, reading this report which had come to him from a source who knew a source. He and Ra's knew each other after all, albeit from a different world when Luthor was young and the Demon was more stable. Luthor had come into Gotham under different circumstances. In the throes of No Man's Land, the city cut off from the rest of the world for one year, it's people reduced to tribalism, barbarism—provincialism, a dark and disappointing ideology that, Luthor supposed, was about to have it's day—they embraced their darker natures. Of course Luthor knew those too.
The quonset hut was in the middle of Grant Park, a north-south rectangle abutting Gotham's downtown. He had, if he leaned back in his chair and looked out, a decent view of the decrepit Solomon Wayne courthouse. It was a wreck in its day and the earthquake had almost improved it to Luthor's liking. A sick joke of a tableau, and sadly reflective of this city's priorities. A few blocks north of it, LexCorp sponsored construction of a fabulous new criminal justice building. Room for all. Justice for all. With his name above the door naturally. So they would never forget.
He breathed. Stood and grabbed his jacket and threw it on in a single sweet motion. Plucked the Lucky Strike from the grooves of the ashtray and regarded it. To one side, the door opened and in came Mercy.
"Field hospital confirmed."
"Alright," he said. "Let's have it." Started walking: out of the quonset and as he did the Team Luthor security guards pricked up. In a moment they were out among the Camp, walking toward the MASH sector.
She scrolled through her palm pilot as they went. The best money could buy. In those days.
"Leonard Stevenson, LexCorp janitor. We flew him in a month ago, part of the phase one clean-up team."
"Continue."
She looked back at the palm pilot.
"At some point in the first month, on personal time, Stevenson was jumped. Physically assaulted, robbed, and left in the middle of Grand Avenue. One of the local costumes brought him in—"
"Out of curiosity," Luthor said and flicked the dead cigarette away. "Which costume?"
She looked at the palm pilot. "We matched security's description of her to your research back home. We think it was the Huntress. Code name—"
"I know who she is," he said. And lit another.
Mercy nodded and looked away. They kept on. After a moment, Luthor said, "Which gang?"
"Uh, LoBoys. Bottom of the barrel. Drug dealers in leadership, most of the rank and file are scared kids looking for food. They were big names early in the No Man's Land but Dent broke them in half."
"How fitting," he said. "Given our Mister Stevenson's wounds, I'm to assume one of their weapons made contact?"
Mercy hesitated but it was a brief flash. "Yes," she said. "It was a sharpened toothbrush. Once he was in the hospital, they found Ebola."
He made a face. "You say it so matter of factly."
She said, "Secondary infection."
"Secondary infection," Luthor said. "I was under the impression the Bat had found a cure. I suppose I'm not surprised. Basic infrastructure has been gone here for some time, it's no wonder medieval disease finds its way back too."
"Looks that way."
Luthor breathed. "These people." Then he turned and kept walking. "Find the gang and kill them. Make an example. Put our friend from Santa Prisca on it, or leak the names to Dent, have him finish the job."
"Already on it, Lex." Her one privilege. Calling him that.
He said, "No one assaults my employees."
Above them, so far up that he avoided Luthor's low-level scanners, Superman floated, and watched. And felt nothing. Not the cool air, early December chill that would soak into a normal human and eventually bring on the elements of hypothermia. No. Even this far up, he felt—
Nothing.
He breathed and felt it light him up. Felt every inch of him, the atoms in his lungs, light up. The gas exchange in alveoli, the dilation of blood vessels. The strong thumping of his heart. He looked down. This city was so different from his. There was life but not nearly as much as—
As home. As Metropolis, which hummed with the electric verve of four million souls, or even Smallville, which pumped along with two thousand.
Gotham, he thought, and took a breath. Not his city.
His friend's city.
His.
Friend.
He focused, and saw him. The famous Batman, involved in something in Robinson Park with the infamous plant woman, Dr Isley.
Father.
I no longer wish to have these feelings.
But I do. Don't I.
He had been speaking to his father for some time. Not Jonathan Kent, his adoptive father, who had lived and died in Kansas. But Jor-El, his biological father. Who had died before Clark was even of age, really. When he was a baby.
A child in a rocket. Escaping a doomed world.
He looked down at Gotham again.
A doomed world.
See anything familiar.
I see an old man's sick joke, Father.
He lowered himself. Allowed the radio static of these people and their lives to flood into his mind. He relaxed and fine tuned it. A small boy, slouching, grimy, defeated, sitting on a bench in the Camp Lex main area, sharing an Em-Ar-Ee with his pet Airedale. He made a note to visit the boy later. He felt a familiar heartbeat nearby and thought perhaps it belonged to one of Bruce's boys. Dick or Tim. On their way through the area. He squinted, overacting, at the field hospital below. There was, in one of the rooms, a conglomeration of people. He noticed Luthor among them. He had figured out long ago how to pick Lex out in a crowd.
He forced a smile but it came on as a grimace, a sad and laborious affair that he dropped after a trying moment.
Father.
Why do I feel so distant from them. After all these years. Shouldn't—
Shouldn't it be easier by now?
The field hospital lay before him. A series of quonsets in a sprawling complex. It all seemed so arbitrary. Perfunctory. All those modifiers Lois so enjoyed in her work and which he as Clark Kent tried his best to avoid. Sensational language, he learned from the best, only muddled matters.
He thought of all this, and tried to think of nothing at all, as he strode through the halls.
After a moment he arrived at the room in question.
The media throng noticed him slowly—they were so tuned in on the closed door, swarming about each other for a view inside. Superman focused and saw Luthor there, at Stevenson's bedside. One of the television people,
Woodburn, the thin one in a grey sweater, saw Superman first and stuck his microphone out. The cameraman followed on a delay. Superman noticed a hastily-made badge on his flannel, Kenny, and thought of a childhood friend turned enemy.
"Superman!" Woodburn yelled. "Are you here to visit the famous Mister Stevenson, the LexCorp janitor who fell victim to the No Man's Land in its most primal form?"
He smiled, a cocksure and entirely manufactured thing, but it seemed to make them feel better.
"Well," he said and his voice came smooth and easy and calming. "I just wanted to pass along my good wishes. Excuse me."
The throng kept saying his name, barking it out, tripping over themselves. He patted Woodburn on the shoulder and pushed past Cutler and Ellis, Killian and his Ledger staff, Paul Gustavson there with his tape recorder in Superman's face. He pushed past them, then pushed the door open with his other hand, sliding into the room.
Well, he thought, try gloom. A darkened, sterile affair. Private for this Stevenson, probably a normal person in real life and now through no fault of his own, reduced to Lex Luthor's media darling. Another human casualty in his absurd media manipulation, this time to end the No Man's Land. In another universe, perhaps, Superman might have believed Luthor. Or given him the benefit of the doubt.
But in this one? Well. He didn't have to give Luthor anything. He knew him. Perhaps that was the problem…
He shut the door and waited.
Luthor was standing at Stevenson's side.
"Lex."
Luthor turned. A stone expression, belying nothing.
"You."
Superman chuckled, half scoffing. Incredible. Just incredible. "It's good to see you," he said.
Luthor turned away. He didn't have anything to say.
Superman beheld Stevenson A thin man, sunken into the hospital bed there, covered in thin sheets and the blithe trappings of this hospital. Frailty and death and nothing anyone in the room particularly cared for. But that was life, then, wasn't it. And he was Superman.
Father.
I wish—
I wish I could be what they needed.
He was at Luthor's side.
A moment passed, but it felt longer. Time untold. A million years passed between them here in the antiseptic gloom. Watching this sick old man try to breath, his gnarled hands curled upon themselves on top of a fetid blanket, his chest heaving with each breath.
What to say, he thought. What not to say.
Luthor said, "They took him off the ventilator. Palliative sedation right now, I suppose, is the word you'd use."
"Why him?"
Luthor looked at him. Back at Stevenson.
"He's a good example," Luthor said.
"He's an old man, Lex."
"He's a dedicated employee."
"How many dedicated employees did you bring here," Superman asked. "How many believed in you. Or do they just want hazard pay."
Luthor looked at him. "Such a cynical man."
"I'm afraid," he said. "When it comes to you, I'm not much good for anything else."
"What are you good for? Cats in trees? Some corrupt alderman?"
"Enough."
"No," Luthor said. "I'd like to know—"
"No," Superman said. "Why him?"
"He volunteered," Luthor said. "A risk associated with putting on that uniform. Surely the leader of the Justice League of America wouldn't begrudge me the symbolism of a uniform. Or costume, as you like it."
"He believes in you so much," Superman said. He was looking at Luthor squarely now, his arms crossed over his chest. "Am I right?"
"Yes," Luthor said. "He does. I wouldn't expect you to remember, this was before your time. He's been with us since the beginning. Since we were in the broom closet on the top floor of the Planet building. And do you know what he said, Superman, when I told the Board and the classified staff that I was coming down here to help this city? He said, Mister Luthor I want in on the ground floor."
Superman waited. Eventually he shook his head. "You brought him to his death."
"You're so sure?"
"I can see inside him," Superman said. "You know what's wrong, too."
"They call it the Clench," Luthor said. "I was given to understand the strain of Ebola unleashed on this town two years ago had been eradicated. Oh if only someone had warned the government and the Justice League about the cascading dangers of disease and natural disasters."
"Enough," Superman said.
Superman looked away. Stevenson stirred there in the bed, but did not wake.
Father.
He looks so old and so tired.
Superman focused. The man's brain was firing perfectly, active, but resting. The rest of him was on fire.
He looked closer.
And saw.
And saw—
It. Them.
Swirling, twisting filaments and protein cases. His organs in freewill. Dying. Dying.
He frowned. And looked away.
Father.
No.
Pa.
Oh Pa, help me.
He's going to die. This poor man. Lex has made this poor man an example and for what. To die choking on his own blood. He's asleep now, the end stages of life, on more painkillers than anyone should have to be but oh god—
Pa.
He's gonna die.
He remembers.
When he is young and with Pa out in the fields. Whitney's dad has dairy cattle in those days and one—
Oh god one has a broken leg.
He is with Pa and Whitney, watching Whitney's dad get the gun and put the poor thing out of its misery.
Oh Pa is that what we're doing.
He breathed and looked up at the ceiling that had no answers. He turned around.
Luthor was staring right at him.
"You can save him," he said.
Superman's jaw slacked.
Then.
Then it hit him.
He shook his head.
"No."
"Yes."
Superman shook his head.
He froze there in place.
Father.
"Fix this," Luthor said. "You'll never be able to do it again. Burn the virus out of him. He's got good years ahead and who knows how many behind. Fix this and they'll love you forever."
He found himself shaking his head. Slowly. Barely.
Luthor's face, a scowl, turned into something—
Worse.
"How many," Luthor said.
"Lex—"
"Just think. How many have died because of you. How many could live because of you. If Superman really dedicated himself to helping people. What then?"
Silence. Neither of them moved. Another million years passed.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I think I do." His eyes narrowed but Superman felt their green glow upon him. He thought of Kryptonite.
"You save this one person," Luthor said. "And you'll have to save the next one. And the next. Until you eradicate this disease. And the next one. They'll never stop needing you."
Superman breathed.
Luthor started pacing.
"What in god's name is wrong with you," Superman said.
Luthor pointed at him. Accusations. "Is it because I asked. Is it because you can't stand working with Lex Luthor?"
"We've worked together before. This is not that and you know it."
"The family would thank you. Live forever supplicant to you for saving him. You'd even have my eternal thanks. For saving one of our emeritus employees."
Superman shook his head. He looked down at Stevenson. He was silent and did not move.
"Don't threaten me with family, Lex."
"Why."
"Because you think you can convince me for so low a price. I tell you this every week, and you still don't get it. I'm not here because I want to feel good about myself, or make someone else pay. Or to judge or hate or anything else you think passes for bargain basement motivation. I do what I do because it's right."
Another moment passed. Cut only by the faintest rhythm of Stevenson's breathing.
Superman thought about it. What a thing to barter on. A family's love.
"My family is dead, Lex."
"I know."
"You do, do you?"
"Yes," Luthor said. "It seems we finally have that in common."
Superman was still looking at Stevenson. Still with a look on his face Luthor did not like. Ambivalence. Bleary eyes about to shed tears at any moment. A face Luthor had not made in a good long time, borne of feelings he had killed long ago. No he didn't like it at all.
Luthor let out a deep, measured breath. Looked at the ceiling.
Superman said, "I know about the metahuman research."
Luthor asked lightly. "Are you going to shut it down?"
"Let me guess. You started with me."
"Yes."
"How long did it take for you to come to terms," Superman said. "With what you learned."
"A day after we began," Luthor said and looked away. Shifted his stance. "I didn't want to believe."
"We become so sure of ourselves don't we."
Luthor nodded.
"You only knew half at first," he said and stayed on Stevenson. "My Kryptonian name. And you only know that because you broke into the Fortress. You'll never stop needing me, Lex."
Luthor stared at him.
A million years came and went in the vast expanse of reactions.
"You tortured my high school sweetheart for information on me. Your men assaulted my parents. And you expect me to do something here and now just because you asked. Because you think I'll play this game. And you've dragged this poor innocent man into this now too."
"I think a man's life is not a game, Kent."
"That's rich," Superman said.
"A moral imperative," Luthor said. "Beyond personal vendettas."
"One of us has tried to work for the greater good over the years and the other is you. I will not play this part. I refuse to entertain it."
"So you'd let him die."
"It's too late. Even if I magically burned away every trace of the virus, what then? His organs are still failing."
"You won't even do your best."
Superman did not acknowledge him.
Luthor scowled and looked away.
"You asked if I'm going to shut it down," Superman said. "Your research. The answer is no. Because I think we both know what happens if you unleash it. Not so much for me or Lois, we can handle ourselves. But we both have powerful friends, don't we. Friends who would seize on any opening."
"Yes."
"I think we both know what happens then, Lex. Your research is Pandora's Box. You let it slip and who knows what could happen if someone feels threatened."
Luthor looked away.
"So here we are," Superman said. Working it out. "Stuck."
Behind him, Stevenson stirred. His eyes shot open and he lifted his arms up in a wide offertory. He breath came deep and greedy—everything going nowhere. His mouth hung open and for a moment he was sitting right up.
Then he slumped back.
His face blanched.
Superman knelt beside him. Grabbed one hand.
Luthor was on the other side.
"Oh," Stevenson said. "Oh…"
"It's alright, Leonard," Superman said. "We're here, it's okay."
Stevenson licked parched lips with saliva that wasn't there and looked at Superman. He smiled, his mouth twisting into a sad and tired thing.
Luthor did not move. He grabbed Stevenson's other hand and held it firm. He glanced between Superman and Stevenson and did not know what to do with himself.
"All my life," he said. Wheezed. "I never..."
They waited. Looked at one another.
"The two of you," Stevenson said. "My grandson just loves you…"
Superman stayed on him. Blinked away some tears. It all just ends. Or. Fades away. Or.
One day it all ends. The heat death of the universe, universal entropy, and the disbanding of atoms themselves. And human lives.
Oh Father.
Is this—
Is this what it was like. In the instant before Krypton's death. Did you—
Were you afraid.
Stevenson smiled again.
Then he shook and choked out a breath. He clutched both their hands for one long moment.
And then he was gone.
Luthor released the grip quickly and stood. Wiped his hands upon each other and went for the door. Superman called after him.
But he was gone. Superman focused and saw the press pool follow him down the hall. Luthor's walls were up again: telling Woodburn and Gustavson how peacefully Mr Stevenson went, how beloved by the community he was, and how dearly he'll be missed.
Superman stayed there by Stevenson for a long while. Waiting.
Waiting for nothing at all. Waiting for some meaning, he guessed.
Meaning. The word burned on his mind. The unknown stage of grief. We try to hard just to get to acceptance and then we think that's it. Don't we, Father. And we accept so much. We never try to achieve.
And that's—
He stood and made the bed around Stevenson. Cleaned up his face and straightened him out a bit. Behind him he heard the door open and shut in a quiet lithe way.
"Good evening, Superman."
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
"Good evening, Doctor Thompkins. I wasn't aware you were working in LexCorp field hospitals."
"Hardly," she said and he stood and shook her hand. "I owed Doctor Zahedi a favor. I talked with Leonard a few times, he was a nice man. It's a terrible shame Luthor made a spectacle of it."
Superman nodded. "He went very peacefully."
She made a face. "No he didn't."
He looked away. He felt uncharacteristic here. Out of his element. Not quite himself. Not quite—
"But it's kind of you to give him the dignity," she said. "The nurses will take it from here."
"Of course," he said. "If I may, Doctor, just one request."
"Certainly."
"I'd like you to send his obituary to Clark Kent at the Daily Planet. He'll take care of it."
She thought about it. "You have my word."
They shook again, and he was gone.
In Metropolis the long night was just beginning.
Luthor send a note of condolence and a fruit basket to Stevenson's family. Stevenson was a widow, but his daughter, son-in-law, and grandson lived in the suburbs, over the bridge in Country Club territory which the gentrified masses called Whitehorse. He sent the note and added the grandson's name to the top of a handwritten list he kept in his pocket.
Superman returned home to Lois, who asked if they could fly out West to visit her father. It was an unusual request after all their long years of estrangement. But he smiled, and said yes of course. There in the home, in the life, he had made with Lois Lane, as if her were floating under a yellow sun in its encompassing warmth, he felt empowered.
A few days later, he received the obituary in the mail and it took the combined might of Clark, Lois, and Jimmy to cajole Perry into running it front-page. It was, Clark said in no uncertain terms, worth losing his job over.
Leonard Stevenson, the evening edition read. Metropolis' Greatest Hero.
The End.