"Metropolis's police commissioner was called before the U.S. Senate committee overseeing the hearings into Superman's battle with General Zod."
Clark stopped smoothing out his suit. He looked away from the full-length mirror on the door to the small TV on the bureau of the bedroom. The images switched back and forth between the thin form of Senator Finch and the beefy, bearded figure of Commissioner David Corporon in his dark blue dress uniform.
"Commissioner Corporon," Finch began. "Was Superman ever questioned following the Battle of Metropolis?"
"No, ma'am."
"Why was that?"
"Superman was working with the U.S. military at the time to stop the Kryptonian renegades. Many witnesses we spoke to said he saved several civilians during the course of the fight."
"Yet more than five thousand people died in Metropolis that day, including members of your own department."
Clark swallowed, images of the battle flashing through his head. His mind's eye conjured pictures of the Memorial, so many names etched in the wall.
Was there more I could have done?
"A lot more would have died if he hadn't have stopped Zod. The whole world could have been destroyed."
Hands folded, Finch leaned closer to her microphone. "But if any of your officers are involved in a shooting, even if you know from the start that it was justified, you still conduct an investigation, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," Corporon replied.
"Yet that did not happen with Superman, correct."
Corporon grimaced. "No, ma'am, but he is not a member of the Metropolis Police Department."
"I think that's a good reason why he should be questioned." Finch's voice went up an octave. "We can't have people cause so much destruction and loss of life and not be able to answer for it."
"With all due respect, ma'am, we have no idea where Superman lives. We can't just knock on his door and ask him to come down to the station like normal person of interest."
A few soft chuckles came from the audience.
Finch's eyes narrowed. "But you could have gotten on TV or the radio or online and asked him to come to Metropolis police headquarters to explain himself. But you didn't do that, did you?"
Corporon frowned. "No, ma'am."
A sharp breath shot out Finch's nostrils. "Then I'll do it."
Clark stiffened as the senator aimed her gaze at the camera. It felt as though the woman stared right at him. "Superman, I want . . . no. I demand," Finch stabbed her finger on her desk twice to emphasize the words, "that you appear before this committee and explain your actions during the Battle of Metropolis."
Clark's eyes remained locked on the television. He ignored the words of the reporter off-screen as more images rolled from today's hearing. All he could think of was Senator Finch's demand.
He felt he'd explained himself in the interview Lois did with him shortly after the battle. Judging by polls and social media posts, the majority of people in Metropolis, and around the world, backed him.
But would that support continue the longer Finch's hearing went on? Most of the witnesses she'd brought before the committee cast him in a bad light, and those who did feel his actions against Zod justified had been grilled without mercy.
Lois's warning rang in his head, about how the senators wanted him at the hearings to make him look bad. But they were already doing that without him there. And shouldn't he have the opportunity to present his side of the story to them?
Clark exhaled, turned off the TV, and looked himself over in the mirror. He'd think on this problem later. Right now, he had to earn a living.
XXXXX
Bruce Wayne stood stiffly in the middle of his bedroom, watching CNN's coverage the Superman hearings. A stocky, balding man with glasses appeared on the screen.
"Yes, Superman has taken it upon himself to become the protector of humanity. But how many humans who felt they were champions for their people eventually turned on them? Lenin, Mao, Fidel Castro. Perhaps one day Superman might turn on us, subjugate us, in his eyes, for our own good."
"Superman has helped many people," one of the senators spoke up. "What would make him change like that?"
"Some traumatic experience," Hugo Strange responded in a low tone that reeked of superiority. "I have seen this before with Harvey Dent, the former district attorney of Gotham City. He was devoted to the pursuit of justice and put many criminals behind bars. Yet when his face was scarred by acid, the mental anguish he experienced turned him into the criminal dubbed Two-Face by the press."
Bruce's jaw stiffened. He'd never liked Strange. The man came off as aloof and acted like that no one on the planet could match his intellect. This time, he begrudgingly had to admit the psychiatrist had a point. Harvey Dent had been a good friend of his, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. Other than Jim Gordon, he couldn't think of anyone else in Gotham more dedicated to justice than Dent.
Yet look what he became.
He shut off the TV, straightened his jacket, and headed to the garage. Soon he'd have the chance to break into Luthor's mainframe. Hopefully, he found something that might give the world a chance should Superman turn into a god-like version of Two-Face.
XXXXX
Clark groaned as another fancily-dressed couple emerged from their limo. Cameras flashed around him and reporters shouted questions as shipping mogul Tyson Barker and his wife strode down a red carpet into Luthor's home.
This is so boring. He could be home or in the Planet's offices working on his Batman story. That was far more interesting and important than covering a bunch of millionaires dropping large checks for a library.
Not that he didn't think libraries were important. His parents had emphasized the importance of education, of always expanding your knowledge.
Still, galas for libraries would not lead to bigger and better assignments. His Batman story would.
Even better, it might get the Gotham authorities to take action against him.
Excited voices rose among the members of the press corps around him. Cameras swung toward a black Rolls Royce pulling up the drive. Out stepped a tall man with black hair. Clark's brow furrowed. He recognized him from the photo Detective Rodriguez showed him the other day.
"Mister Wayne! Mister Wayne!" several reporters called out.
Bruce Wayne nodded and waved to the press, entering the house without uttering a word.
Clark grinned, thinking of Rodriguez's theory that Gotham City's richest man could be funding Batman's activities.
Maybe this gala won't be boring after all.
XXXXX
After the parade of the region's rich and famous, Clark and the other reporters made their way to the large reception hall. Men in tuxedos and women in evening dresses mingled, talked, and laughed. Waiters and waitresses weaved through the crowd with trays of food and drink. Clark helped himself to some delicious shrimp skewers and champagne. He regretted trying the goose pâté. The stuff tasted like feet. What he wouldn't give for a place to spit it out.
After forcing himself to swallow the disgusting appetizer, he scanned the room for Bruce Wayne. He spotted the billionaire chatting with Ron Pastore, the owner of Pastore's supermarket chain. Clark maneuvered through the crowd, getting closer to the pair.
He'd just excused himself around raven-haired woman in a red gown when Wayne shook Pastore's hand and turned away.
"Mister Wayne."
"Yes?" He looked up at Clark, who studied Wayne's face. The man didn't smile. Actually, he had the aura of a man who rarely smiled. Combined with those dark eyes, he appeared to be in a state of perpetual brooding.
"Clark Kent, Daily Planet." He stuck out his hand.
"Nice to meet you." Wayne gave him a firm, but brief, handshake.
"I was wondering if I could get a couple of comments from you on the gala?"
"Sure." Wayne shrugged.
Clark pulled out his tape recorder. "So what's your reason for wanting to donate to the Metropolis Library?"
"Because even in the Internet age, libraries are vital. Reading books helps expand one's knowledge, plus it's enjoyable. My father had a large library, and when I was a kid, there were times I'd spend hours in there, reading history, philosophy, even a first edition copy of Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth."
"Could it be a futile gesture, since many surveys show a decrease in the number of Americans who read books?"
"That's another thing libraries can do," Wayne replied. "Promote programs that encourage reading, especially among children. If you stop reading, you stop learning, and when you're ignorant, it's easier for others to take advantage of you."
Clark nodded. Now that I put him at ease . . . "Being one of Gotham City's most prominent citizens, I was wondering what your thoughts are on the recent violent actions of the Batman."
Wayne tensed. An intensity burned in his eyes. He drew a slow breath. "That's a rather out of place question, isn't it?"
"Not really. You live in Gotham. Surely you have an opinion on a man operating above the law, trampling on civil liberties, crippling people. After his branding attacks earlier this week, I imagine many people in Gotham are living in fear."
A wry grin crossed Wayne's face. "The Daily Planet criticizing those who are above the law is a little . . . hypocritical, wouldn't you say? Considering every time your hero saves a cat out of a tree your paper writes a puff peace editorial about an alien who came this close to burning down your whole city."
"A lot of people don't see it that way, Mister Wayne." Clark hoped that was still true.
"Maybe it's the Gotham City in me. We have a bad history of freaks dressing up like clowns."
Clark said nothing, just stared at Wayne. He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed to be spoiling for a verbal fight. Judging by his granite expression and narrow eyes, Wayne might even be trying to intimidate him.
Good luck with that. Now was the time to hit him with questions about actively supporting Batman. He didn't think Wayne would actually admit to it, but Clark could observe the man's body language, see if he might be lying.
"Bruce. So glad you could make it."
Both men turned to see a smiling Lex Luthor walk up to them.
"Lex," Wayne muttered, shaking Luthor's hand.
"Getting acquainted with the members of the Metropolis press, I see." Luthor eyed Clark's press pass. "Mr. Kent, a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise, Mister Luthor."
The two shook hands. Luthor gave a faux wince. "Quite the grip you have. You must hit the gym a lot." He looked over his shoulder at Wayne. "You better not pick a fight with him."
The corner of Wayne's mouth curled just a bit. Clark did the same. It was all the reaction a lame joke like that deserved.
"So." Luthor put a hand on Clark's shoulder, steering him away from Wayne. "I imagine you want to do an in-depth interview about the gala, and all the other charitable activities Lexcorp is involved with."
"Umm . . ." Clark glanced at Wayne. He doubted the billionaire would pick up the interview where they'd left off. He'd either avoid him or say, "no comment" if he went after him a second time.
Shoulders slumped, he looked back at Lex. Perry had sent him here to cover the gala. He still needed to do his job.
Dammit.
XXXXX
Bruce spun on his heel and strode off as Lex guided Clark Kent to the other side of the room.
Looks like I owe Lex Luthor one . . . There's a revolting thought.
At least he didn't have to deal with that pain-in-the-ass reporter from the Daily Planet. Now he could start concentrating on his reason for being here, breaking into Luthor's mainframe.
He knew most of the security set-up from the mansion's blueprints, and his previous two visits. Security cameras outside, but none inside. Luthor probably felt interior cameras compromised his privacy. The sensitive areas of house required keycard access. No problem there. He could palm one off a security guard.
Luthor didn't have any guards standing watch over the gala at fixed positions. Overt security might make guests feel uncomfortable. More likely they were blended into the crowd.
It took Bruce five minutes to ID them. Three total, all in dress suits, lean, well groomed. Not the typical beefy, no-nonsense, intimidating types. They weaved through the crowd, smiling and nodding to other guests, but not talking to anyone. Their eyes constantly darted around the room, searching for potential threats. He couldn't spot the telltale bulges of a shoulder rig. They probably had their guns concealed in small inside-the-pants holsters or ankle holsters. Bruce figured there had to be a few other guards roaming the mansion. Certainly one stationed by the mainframe room.
He decided to wait a half-hour before making his move. Most of the guests were newly arrived. The guards would be on high alert. The more time that passed without incident, the more they'd relax their posture.
Bruce passed the time chatting with the other guests. He just finished talking with one of Metropolis's city councilmen when spotted a dark-haired woman gazing at a tapestry on the wall. He straightened, the breath catching in his chest.
The woman was just under six-feet tall, her red gown hugging an athletic figure. She had her hair pulled back in a bun, accentuating her smooth, narrow face. "Regal beauty" was the best way to describe her.
Bruce made his way over to her. She kept her gaze on the tapestry, which showed a golden, snake-like dragon, until he got within a few feet of her. She turned her head toward him.
"Nice dragon." Bruce nodded to it.
The woman gave a slight nod and looked back at the tapestry. "I agree. I always liked the representations from the Shanghai School of the Qing Dynasty, the way they blended new methods while still respecting the techniques of past artists."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You know your dragons."
The woman shot him a wry grin. "You'd be surprised, Mister . . ."
"Wayne. Bruce Wayne."
She swung around to face him, his gaze running over her gorgeous face. He guessed her age at late twenties, possibly early thirties. Very early thirties. But something in those dark brown eyes told a different story. They made her look older. Or experienced might be a better word.
"Diana Prince." She held out her hand.
He gave it a gentle shake, finding her grip firmer than he expected. "So what brings you here tonight?" he asked.
"To help the Metropolis Library. Isn't that why everyone else is here?" She tilted her head and gave him a half-grin, making her look more beautiful, more captivating.
"I think some of them are here so they look good in the Daily Planet social page."
"Is that why you're here?"
Bruce softly chuckled. He liked Diana's wit. "I actually do think libraries are important. So I take it you're from Metropolis?"
Diana shook her head. "No, but I am a . . . frequent visitor to this part of the world."
"What do you do?"
"I'm an antiquities dealer."
"Really? Bruce leaned back, eyes wide.
"Are you surprised a woman would be in that field?"
"No, no. It's not that. It's just that most antiquities dealers I've met, well, look like museum pieces themselves."
Diana chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Bruce spotted a waiter approaching with a tray of champagne flutes. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"The drinks here are free, Mister Wayne." Diana snatched a flute from the tray and held it up before him. "I applaud you for your efforts. I'm sure we'll talk again." She walked away from him.
"Count on it."
Diana shot him a glance over her shoulder and continued into the crowd. Bruce smiled, his gaze darting up and down her body.
This gala could be a lot more enjoyable than I imagined.
He turned away and took a deep breath. Time to start thinking with your big head, Bruce. You're here to do a job.
TO BE CONTINUED