Rating: T

Where else can I find this story? All five parts are on the first page of Part 5 of the original Young Justice Anon Meme on LiveJournal.

Hero

Masks, Part V

Chapter 11: Lois Lane and Other Troublemakers

Since Clark left his car in Kansas when he came with M'gann after Conner, they have to take public transit to Clark's office. Clark stops Conner at the last second. "Maybe you should put on a jacket and sunglasses, or something. You don't want people to recognize you on the bus.

"Right," Conner says, and then he just turns his shirt inside out.

"You think that's enough of a disguise?"

"Should be. It's what I wear to school half the time."

"But, you're not covering your face."

"I'll let you in on a secret, totally off the record…"

Clark leans in, conspiratorially. "What is it?"

"No one looks at my face. No one, outside the Justice League really knows what my face looks like. They just see me, super strong, invulnerable, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, and this big red S on my chest, and they think they know what I look like, but they don't. I bet you no one really knows what Superman looks like. I bet you if he took off that ridiculous blue suit and red cape, and put on a pair of grey sweats, no one would cast a second glance at him."

"You think Superman's costume is ridiculous?" Clark asks, looking slightly scandalized.

Conner just waves his hand down his body. "Do I look like the kind of guy who's into brightly colored spandex?"

Clark pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "No. I guess not."

Perry White is waiting for Clark when they get in to the newsroom and pounces on Clark the minute he steps through the door.

"Kent!" the man lets out with a thunderous yell, "Where the hell have you been?"

Clark starts to stutter out an answer, but apparently, Mr. White isn't interested, because he cuts him off. "You've got to get your ass down to Gotham—Lane's got a lead—

"A lead?" Clark asks.

"Something fishy's going on with Wayne. Lane's got a lead, but you've got the in. I've already had the travel agency book you on the first train to Gotham, so get you arse down to Central Station."

"But Perry, I've got… well… Superboy," Clark points at him, helplessly.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that—that's why I got him a ticket too—but that one's coming out of your paycheck."

"I… I can pay for it," Conner offers, but Clark shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it," he says, already walking back to the elevators. "It's not like I need the money. But if you're going to be on the train with me, I'm going to have to buy you a real shirt at the station. Can't have you wearing your shirt inside out the whole day."

"That's ok," Conner says again, "I have money."

"No, seriously, my treat. It'll be a souvenir from this crazy trip."

There's only one shop that sells shirts in the whole train station; a gift shop. Almost every single shirt in the damn place has the Superman logo on it. Some have the word Metropolis on them too. A couple even have Superman on them. Finally, Conner resorts to his X-ray vision and finds a purple shirt that says "My friend went to Metropolis and all I got was this lame shirt."

"Bingo!" he says, and grabs the shirt, handing it to Clark.

"You sure this is the one you want?" Clark asks skeptically.

"It's the lamest thing ever, it's hilarious. Besides, I can give it to W—Kid Flash for his souvenir collection, and it'll never see the light of day again after that."

So Clark shrugs and forks over the money to the cashier. Then they go to the platform and wait for the train to come. Conner doesn't change until they're onboard. He goes to the bathroom to change, but keeps a watch on Clark through his x-ray vision.

The train ride to Gotham is long, although Clark assures him it's faster than flying—you don't need to go to the airport or stand in line or have a passport with you. But it's long, and it's boring, and Conner didn't sleep a wink, so without meaning to, he eventually drifts off to sleep, head resting against Clark's shoulder.

They're staying at the Gotham Holiday Inn, which isn't the nicest Holiday Inn in the world, but it's the closest hotel to the hospital where Bruce Wayne is staying, which gives it all the points it could possibly need. Ms. Lane meets them in the lobby—apparently she's already checked them in. She pushes a pair of key cards into Clark's hands, and then steers the two of them into the elevator up to her room.

"I already ordered room service," she tells them, as she pushes them in. Indeed, there's a cart in the middle of the room with three rather uninspired-looking chicken Caesar salads. One of them doesn't even have any dressing on it—and Ms. Lane hands it to Clark. She shoves one of the other salads into Conner's hands, and then hands him a hundred dollar bill.

"Go buy yourself some clothes that aren't an embarrassment. Or some magazines. Whatever kids these days are into," she tells him.

"I'm supposed to be looking after Clark," he tells her, bewildered.

"Yes. But I need to talk to him about super secret reporter things. Freedom of the press, and all that."

Conner just sort of looks at her. "I'm not leaving Clark alone in a crazy town like Gotham."

"Don't you understand, kid? This is about the first amendment! About freedom and democracy! About me getting the Pulitzer! If you don't leave, then the terrorists win."

Conner laughs, "I can stand outside the door, if you would like."

Ms. Lane does not look amused. "I know you have super hearing kid."

"What's this about Lois?" Clark asks.

"I'm not sure. But I'm sure it's big. Really big. Front page big for sure. Maybe Pulitzer big. And it's my story. I wouldn't bring you in, except apparently you have a bigger in with Bruce than I do right now."

"And why can't Superboy stay?" Clark asks.

"Because he's Justice League," Ms. Lane answers.

"And?"

"You're not going to leave?" she asks.

"Fraid not," Conner tells her.

"What can I say to get you to leave?" she asks.

"Nothing, I'm afraid."

"What if I show you my tits, will that do?"

"WHAT?" Clark asks. Conner can just picture him, jumping a foot into the air.

"Oh come off it Smallville. The kid's legal, and it's not like I've never shown my breasts off to get a story. Better than Mardi Gras beads, anyway."

"Sorry Ms. Lane, I'm sure you've got perfectly attractive breasts, but I'm sort of already taken."

"See, I knew I shouldn't have signed your book. Then I'd have ammo."

Conner smiles. "Besides, I have x-ray vision."

Clark's face goes even redder. Ms. Lane just smiles. "You're cute kid. You should give lessons to Superman."

"Lois!" Clark cries out desperately.

"What? I wouldn't mind it if Superman used his x-ray vision, you know, once in a while. Seriously, there's no justice in the world when a boyscout wins the super power lottery. All those delicious powers, and all he does with them is save the world."

"You can't be serious!"

"Sure I am. I know you don't have the imagination for it, Smallville, and I don't think Superman has the imagination for it either, which is a shame, but Superboy knows what I'm talking about."

"Yeah I do!" Conner answers, suppressing a laugh. Ms. Lane puts her hand up, and Conner high-fives her. "I'm still not leaving, though," he says.

Ms. Lane's shoulders sag. "OK kid, but then you have to promise to stay out of this—like a super-hero equivalent of things being off the record. I don't publish that you love chocolate cake, and you don't get in the way of my story, ok?"

"As long as no one gets hurt," Conner says.

"That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"Pretty much."

"You drive a much harder bargain than Superman. Please don't give him lessons about this."

"No worries about that Ms. Lane," he answers, "I don't think I'll be in the same room with him long enough to give him any kind of lesson."

"That's too bad, because he really could use some lessons in being a cad and having fun."

"So…" Clark interrupts, "Story. You said it was big."

"Oh, right," Ms. Lane's face is suddenly serious. "Something is going on with Bruce."

"You mean, something is going on like the Joker almost killed him and now he's recovering?" Clark asks flatly, but Conner is beginning to feel something very bad in his stomach.

"No. I mean, when I came down here, the hospital was on total lockdown. I bribed one of the orderlies. It wasn't just the GCPD, but the Justice League. And not just one of the kids—no offense Superboy—but the heavy hitters. Black Canary, Martian Manhunter and Superman."

"And this is how you convinced Perry to give us an all-expenses paid vacation to Gotham?" Clark asks.

"Clark, you know the only thing I have to do to get Perry to sign off on a trip is to tell him I have a hunch—as long as it doesn't look like I'm just trying to get a vacation. And boy do I have a hunch."

"I don't know Lois," Clark says. He pushes his glasses up. "I think you're making mountains out of molehills. I mean, look, I published a story about Luthor and the Justice League assigned me Superboy, and they have Kid Flash, Artemis, Miss Martian, and Aqualad looking after my parents. Given that the Joker, a notoriously dangerous psychotic attacked Bruce, I don't think it's that weird that the League would appoint a security detail to Bruce and make sure Joker didn't come back to finish the job."

Ms. Lane smiles like a cat looking at a canary, and suddenly, Conner feels a headache coming on. "Except," she says, "for the fact that they didn't do it at first. At first, it was just the GCPD. If they were really worried about Joker, they would have assigned him a special guard immediately after the incident.

"And there's more. It doesn't make sense that they'd have Superman, Black Canary and Martian Manhunter if they were worried about the Joker. Superman and Black Canary make sense—but the Joker's mind is too cracked for Martian Manhunter. The last telepath to try to look at Joker's brain is still drooling on herself. And why Superman and Black Canary? I just don't buy it."

"Martian Manhunter has a lot of abilities other than telepathy. He can make objects levitate and he can phase through matter."

"Yeah, but, here's my big thing: where is Batman in all of this?"

"Didn't Superman say he was busy with some League things?"

"Yeah," Ms. Lane answer, "Batman is going to stay away from Gotham while Joker is on the loose? If you believe that, I've got a bridge to sell you."

"Maybe he's working on bringing Joker in?" Clark asks.

"Perfect theory, except there's no evidence to sustain it. My contacts in the GCPD say Batman hasn't stopped by Gordon's office in days, and the Batsignal hasn't been answered since Joker broke out of Arkham. So, something's rotten in Gotham.

"And that's just the Justice League aspect."

"What do you mean?"

"So, according to some other people I bribed, Bruce Wayne was brain dead. And then he wasn't. I have the EEG printouts to prove it."

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm not sure for certain, but this is my theory: when the reports started coming out that Bruce was dead, it was because he crashed several times during the night. Finally, they had to put a pacemaker in and keep him in artificial respiration. But he was brain dead. The Justice League did something to save him. If I had to guess, I'd say it was Martian Manhunter—he showed up a while after Superman and Black Canary did. But it could be Kryptonian technology, or something."

"But what's the story?"

"And that's the question," Ms. Lane says.

Conner is very, very quiet. Lois Lane is inches away from finding out that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and he doesn't know if she's the kind of person who would print a story like that.

It's a serious problem: Conner can't leave Clark, and yet, he knows he needs to keep an eye on Ms. Lane. Worse, Clark is tapping at his computer like a maniac and there's nothing on TV which means that there's nothing Conner can do but worry about whatever Ms. Lane is getting up to.

And he's hungry. It just keeps getting worse and worse.

"Hey, Clark?" he says.

"Yeah?" Clark asks without lifting his eyes from the computer screen.

"You wanna grab dinner soon?"

"Hmm?"

"Dinner. Soon?"

Clark looks up, looking puzzled. "Isn't it a bit early for dinner?" he asks.

"It's almost eight," Conner answers.

Clark looks down at his screen, and pushes up his glasses. "Oh. So, it is."

Conner's stomach rumbles.

"You're hungry?" Clark asks, surprised.

"Well, yeah. It's been eight hours since lunch and, well, the salad wasn't the most substantial thing in the world. How are you not hungry?"

"Oh. Well… you know… I… I'd lose my head if it wasn't stuck on my shoulders. When I get really into a story, sometimes I forget to eat."

"Oh."

"But you're right. It's been a long time since lunch. Why don't you go ahead and order up some room service?"

"I was thinking… we could see if Ms. Lane has had dinner yet, and then we could all three of us go out?" At least that way, he can keep an eye on Ms. Lane, and with any luck, finagle it into a date, even without M'gann.

"Superboy, you're a genius," Clark says, throwing his cell at Conner. "She's 2 on speed dial."

"Hello," Ms. Lane answers.

"Hi, Ms. Lane? It's Superboy."

"Hey kid. What's up?"

"Clark and I were thinking of going out to dinner. We wanted to know if you wanted to join us."

"Nah. I already ate," Ms. Lane answers.

"Figures. I guess we'll just order room service then." He picks up the menu and flips through it. "No way Clark's gonna go for a salad again. Hey, Ms. Lane, do you know if the burgers here are any good?"

"You play dirty, kid. Alright. I'll go out for dinner."

"Cool. We'll see you in the lobby in ten minutes?"

"Sure."

Conner hangs up with a smile on his face. Then he takes out his League communicator and calls Robin.

"What's up?" Robin asks. He sounds very tired.

"Not much. How are things on your end?"

"Been better."

"I know."

"The euphoria of not being dead has worn off. He's freaking out about how he can't even wiggle his toes; it's being a real drag on Miss M."

"Oh god."

"Yeah. Pretty much. You think you can swing by tomorrow? I think M'gann really needs you."

"Of course. I'll do my best. What about my mission though?"

"Oh. We can switch it off. I'll cover Clark for you."

"Send me the info, ok? I've got some things I've got to discuss with Batman. But, right now, it's late and I'm hungry. The three of us are going out to dinner. This is your town, any restaurant suggestions?"

"Is this part of that project you asked M'gann to help with?" Robin asks.

"It could be."

"Ah. In that case, I know just the place. I'm hacking reservations for you guys right now, and I'm going to text you the address."

"And it's not too expensive?"

"Nothing the Daily Planet travel reimbursement budget won't cover."

"Thanks Rob."

"No problem."

He hangs up and looks at Clark, who's already up and dressed and putting his laptop in the room's safe.

"So, I just got Robin to give us a dinner recommendation. And he's working on reservations."

"Cool."

Conner's already dressed, so he just gets up, and soon, they're in the lobby, waiting for Ms. Lane.

Robin's recommendation turns out to be more than solid. It's a nice little French bistro with a jazz theme going on, called Eclaire de Lune. It's cool without being swanky, although in his ridiculous purple Metropolis souvenir t-shirt he does feel a little underdressed. The waiter takes them to their table right away—Conner wonders if Robin stole someone else's reservation, but he doesn't dwell too long on the matter. Even though she's already eaten, Ms. Lane is tempted into ordering a French onion soup. Clark tries to go for a croque madame, but Ms. Lane glares at him, so he has to settle for a croque monsieur, and Ms. Lane forces him to switch the fries out for a side salad, which adds two dollars to the price of the meal. Conner goes for the classic: steak frites, saignant.

"Nice accent," Ms. Lane says. "You speak French?"

"Ouais," he answers.

"Where's you learn?" she asks him.

"Same place I learned English… and Chinese and Korean and Spanish and Arabic, and Ancient Sanskrit."

"How many languages do you speak?"

"At last count? At least twelve, I mean, if you don't count dialects."

"Dialects?"

"Of course Ms. Lane," he answers in BBC English—"Humans have very many different dialects—it's a bit more prominent in the variations between Hexagon French and Quebequois French than it is in American and English, but there are nuances."

"You are shitting me," Ms. Lane tells him. "You're just putting on a fake British accent you picked up watching Inspector Spacetime."

So Conner says something completely unintelligible in a thick Cockney, with some rhyming slang thrown in.

Ms. Lane blinks. "Oh-kay then. So tell me this, how in the world is it that you don't actually know how many languages you know?"

"Is this an interview?" he asks.

"Is this still off the record?"

"Naturally."

"Then no. It's just me being nosy. This is why I got into reporting. It's the only place where not knowing how to mind your own business gets you prizes. Well, I guess daytime TV too, but that's trashy."

"Well, Ms. Lane, what's your father's name?"

"Sam, what of it?"

"Before I asked you, you weren't thinking of his name. It's not something you consciously know you know at every minute of the day, but when you need to know, you remember it, right? And there's plenty of things like that—I'd imagine your birthday—

"Nope. I have no idea when my birthday is, and neither does anybody else outside of the US Government and the Daily Planet HR office."

Conner and Clark both laugh. "Yeah, ok. But still, it's like your dad's name. There's a bunch of stuff I know, but unless I actively think about it, I don't know that I know it. Whenever I remember something that I don't know I know, Kid Flash calls it a Wikipedia moment."

"Really?" Clark asks. "So, if I were to ask you the population of, say, North Rhelasia?"

"The population of North Rhelasia in 2009 was estimated to be 24,051,218," Conner says automatically.

"So that was what was going on with the fruit of the poisonous tree," Ms. Lane says.

Conner nods.

"What do you know about Saint Augustine?"

"Augustine of Hippo was a theologian."

"That's it?"

"That's it. It's pretty weird. My knowledge tends to get better with more modern developments and scientific concepts, though there are some pretty significant gaps."

"Like what?"

"I didn't know about Lex Luthor or Kryptonite. I did know, vaguely about you, Ms. Lane, and Clark, and Jimmy and Mr. White. Friends of Superman."

"So, I'm correct in assuming that you were… shall we say… programmed?"

Conner shrugs. "I guess it's as good a word as any."

"And you don't know the full extent of what the people who programmed you put in your head."

"Erm… no. Not really."

"That must be scary," Ms. Lane says.

"Scary? No. Why would it be scary?"

Ms. Lane doesn't answer.

"It's, more… frustrating. I was telling Clark, how, sometime I'll be watching TV and then one of my teammates will walk in and not understand what I'm watching, and that's how I realize I'm not watching something in English.

"Actually, for a while, it was just really annoying. Robin and Kid Flash, they like to pull pranks—especially Robin, but when they're together it's the worst. Anyway, for a while, Robin and Kid Flash, after they found out about the Wikipedia powers, they would just ask me about the most ridiculously obscure topics, and it's not like I can stop once I start. They had me recite the plot of Castle of Otranto for them, and then they had me talk about the author, and then… well, you know how you can waste hours on Wikipedia, just by clicking one link after another? They wasted an entire afternoon that way."

"You know Conner, I really shouldn't be telling you this, because I want you to tell me everything ever, because that's just who I am, but you maybe shouldn't be telling people that when they ask you about obscure topics you can't help yourself but give a little summary about the topic—I can see supervillains using it against you."

Conner buries his face in his hands. "That's the lamest Achilles heel ever, isn't it?"

"Nah," Ms. Lane says, "The Achilles heel is the lamest Achilles heel ever."

"Besides," Clark butts in, "an Achilles heel doesn't double as a superpower."

Dinner is going swimmingly—Clark and Ms. Lane are laughing—both have had a little too much to drink. The food is exquisite, the music lovely. Best of all, Ms. Lane seems thoroughly distracted from Batman.

Eventually she relents and lets Clark order dessert. True to form, Clark orders a tarte tatin a la mode. Ms. Lane picks a crème brulee, and for himself, Conner just orders a hot chocolate. Right after ordering dessert, Ms. Lane excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

"Hey, Clark?" Conner asks.

"Yeah buddy?"

"What's wine taste like?"

"You can have a sip of mine, if you promise not to tell Batman or Lois."

"Deal."

Conner grabs Clark's wineglass and brings it to his lips. The wine smells strange, fruity as expected, with something more. He takes a drink and grimaces.

Clark laughs. "Yeah. Alcohol is definitely an acquired taste."

"No… it tastes nice. I like the taste… it's just… it kinda burns on the way down, doesn't it?"

For a second, Conner thinks Clark is looking at him like he's grown a second head, but then the looks passes and Conner finds himself wondering if he just imagined it.

"Yes, Superboy, I suppose it does."

Conner hears Ms. Lane walking back and hurriedly hands the glass back to Clark, but she's stopped by their waitress.

"I just wanted to let you know," the waitress says, "that you have a lovely son."

Conner tenses his hand into a fist as Ms. Lane laughs nervously. "Oh… he's not my son."

"Oh, sorry. Well then, how lovely to see how well you get along with your boyfriend's son."

"Clark?" Ms. Lane laughs. "No, he's not related to him either."

"Really?" the waitress asks. "I could have sworn the boy was his spitting image. I need to start remembering to wear my glasses."

"Or contacts," Ms. Lane suggests, before scurrying back to the table.

"Waitress must be new," Ms. Lane says, once she's sitting down.

"Would explain why the service's been so lousy," Clark says as he pushes back his glasses.

Conner's about to say something funny when suddenly he sees a flash of purple out of the corner of his eye and his heart skips a beat.

Then he sneezes—or pretends to—and spills red wine all over Clark and Ms. Lane. "Oh jeez guys, I'm so sorry," he says as he gets up and starts to wipe at them with their napkins."

"No, it's Ok Superboy—I'll just go clean up in the bathroom."

He follows them both to the bathrooms, and once they're inside, he uses his heat vision to melt the door handles.

Then he calls it in: "This is Superboy in Gotham, requesting backup. The Joker just walked in to Éclair de Lune, where I'm having dinner with Clark Kent and Lois Lane."

Clark and Ms. Lane are locked in the bathrooms, which means they should be safe. Unless Joker has a bomb. Conner tries not to think about that—it's a bridge he'll cross if and when he gets to it. He takes the ridiculous purple Metropolis t-shirt off; his Superboy shirt is right underneath.

When he gets back into the main dining room, Joker is seated at a table in the middle of the room. Harley Quinn is standing at the entrance with a machine gun, which explains why no one has left. Terror is written on all the diner's faces.

"Hi Supey," the Joker says with an evil glint in his eyes. "Won't you join me for dinner?"

Conner sends Joker his most menacing death glare, but the Clown Prince of Crime is unphased.

"Come on kiddo. Join ol' Uncle Joker," he says with a big smile on his face. "Or, if you prefer, I can just detonate the Joker Venom bomb I'm wearing. It's about twenty thousand doses. Probably won't kill you. Definitely won't kill me. But, you know, can't really vouch for the sad sacks."

Conner looks him over once with x-ray vision. He's wearing something that looks like it could probably be a Joker Venom bomb.

He also has a little lead box on him. Doubtless there's kryptonite. Doubtless a gift from Luthor.

If Conner doesn't sit with Joker, he'll detonate the bomb, and without the antidote, he won't be able to save more than one of the guests. Won't be able to save both Clark and Ms. Lane. Which would put a big dent in his plans to fix them up together.

But, if Conner does do as Joker wants, the bastard will pull out his kryptonite, and then all bets are off.

So Conner goes with Option C—None of the above.

He runs to Joker at the speed of sound, grabs the madman's hands in his, and then squeezes hard enough to crush every last bone in the fucker's hands. Conner pulls his arms out of their sockets, just for good measure. He drops Joker just in time to catch the storm of fire coming from Harley's machine gun. He speeds up to her, grabs the gun out of her hands, and then bends it over her wrists as an impromptu set of handcuffs.

"Be quiet and don't do anything, or I'll do to you what I did to him," he tells her.

Her face contorts with hatred and she sticks her tongue out. It's an odd look. He just sort of pushes her back unceremoniously and returns to Joker. Having a bomb of Joker Venom strapped on to the Joker is too dangerous, so he rips the Joker's jacket off, and then cuts the bomb vest off the clown. Joker doesn't so much as hiss out once in pain, and his hateful gaze is infuriatingly amused, more than anything else.

Conner takes the lead box out of Joker's pant pocket and puts it away for safe keeping.

Finally, Joker chuckles.

"You're ruthless kid, I like that. You've got stones. Unlike Mommy Supes."

Conner crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

"Clever. Superman has no testicles, ergo he's my mother. Now I know why you have to use poison gas to get people to laugh at your jokes."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. No sense of humor. No finesse for fine jokes. The reason Supes is your mommy, is on account of how no bothered to ask for his permission."

It takes Conner a second to process what Joker's saying… the analogy makes him sick to his stomach—he'd never considered the idea before, and for a second he wonders if that's why Superman hates him. If it could be that his existence makes Superman feel violated.

Then he remembers he's talking to the fucking Joker.

"Eunoch jokes are juvenile. Rape jokes are just tacky."

"Sheesh. Everyone's a critic."

"Probably just 'cuz you suck. Now it's time for you to go to Arkham." He picks Joker up, taking care to hurt him as much as possible. "I can't believe I bothered to call this in."

"So when's Bats getting here?" Joker asks.

The damn clown's obsessed with Batman. He just wants his attention. Conner knows all about wanting attention.

"He's not. He has bigger fish to fry than a sad little man who can't even get a job as a birthday clown."

For the first time, the smile falls off of Joker's face. "Bigger fish to fry?" The putrid sound of madness and hatred that comes out of Joker's voice can't be called a laugh. Joker stands up, his eyes alight with the cold fire of absolute blinding hatred. "Bigger fish to fry? Do you know how many people I've killed? One thousand, three hundred, fifty three—give or take a couple of dozens. Each and every single one a lovingly crafted murder for Batsy. Before your League of Super Friends came along, there was no one else, but me. Scarecrow, Ivy, Two-Face, hell, the whole of the mob—none of them mattered. As soon as I set foot out of Arkham, Batsy would drop everything. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep—it was just me. All about me. And we'd run like a couple of crazy kids painting the town red and setting the woods on fire. We'd stay up all night and watch the sun rise together.

"And you people want to take him away from me.

"I won't allow it. I won't allow you to take Batsy from me, from Gotham. I won't allow you to send other people into this town. This is our wonderland.

"And you know what? I'll kill every last man, woman, and child in this city, if that's what it takes to get Batsy to come back home. But I don't think I have to."

Joker smiles again. The madness is gone from his eyes though the cruelty remains. There's a look of chilling calculation in his eyes that makes Conner reach out to him, to grab him, to end this farce and take the monster back to Gotham.

And then Joker whistles a high note and Conner's leg—where he put the lead box—explodes in pain and his knee falls out.

"Harley!" Joker screams, "Get your pretty behind here!"

And Harley's there in an instant, next to Conner, reaching into his pocket and taking out a sizeable chunk of kryptonite—it's at least three times the size of the chunk Luthor had. Conner's leg feels like it's on fire and he's having trouble breathing.

"Put it near his heart, Harl," Joker instructs, and Harley does as she's told. Conner's starting to see black spots.

"See, Supes Jr., I got this rock out of storage when I realized there was a flying pest infestation in Gotham—and now it's going to help me with my other flying pest problem. Because, I figure, I don't have to kill the nine million people who live in GothamCity to get Batsy to come back. All I have to do, is kill you, because that big S on your chest is a big fat lie—really you're one of Batsy's strays."

Joker kneels next to him and caresses Conner's cheek with his mangled hands.

Then he kisses Harley's temple. "Harl, babe, you know what to do."

"Sure thing, Mr. J," she says with a smile, and even though her hands are still tied together with the machine gun, she takes her free hand and pinches Conner's nose. The chunk of kryptonite is a centimeter above his lips. He can't breathe. He knows he can't open his mouth, but he can't breathe. He can't breathe. And he can't really see anything anymore. And everything hurts. And he can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

Finally, he can't help it—he gasps for air.

He gasps for air and Harley moves the piece of kryptonite into his mouth. It grazes his teeth—it's an odd sensation, even more so because it doesn't hurt as much as he had thought.

With the last ounce of his strength, he breathes out—cold and hard. It's enough to freeze Harley's fingers and push her hand a foot away from him. When the kryptonite is gone, it's like magic—he can see again. He drags himself away from Harley. Feet are like miles, but he's able to scurry a yard away from the kryptonite, far enough for the pain to subside. Far enough for him to be able to get up and blow Harley to the other end of the room, and once she's there, holding the kryptonite so far away from him, he's strong enough to be able to freeze her in place against the wall.

He grabs joker by the throat.

Conner smiles. "As I was saying, I can't believe I bothered to call this in."

And then, because apparently the universe has a sense of humor, his backup arrives. Superman bursts in, ready to save the day, then stops dead in his tracks.

"I've got it all under control, you can go back to Metropolis."

"Put him down, Superboy," Superman says slowly.

"Yeah, right. Who knows what else the Clown has up his sleeve. I'm taking him to Arkham. Unless you want to fly him there for the credit," Superboy answers.

"Oh. OK. No. Um. You can take him. If you want. Erm. I'll take Harley? Good job."

Conner rolls his eyes. "You thought I was going to kill him."

"What? No…" Superman is crap at lying. "It's just… the way you're holding him… and his hands… and… he hurt—

"A lot of people. And he threatened to kill every citizen of Gotham. And a few seconds ago, Harley was trying to force-feed me kryptonite. So yeah. He totally deserves it. But that's not my job, not my place, and I know if I did it, Batman would never forgive me, so it's not worth it."

Joker blows a big wet raspberry, spreading drops of spittle all over Conner's face.

Conner squeezes harder. He smiles and pulls Joker close. "Though, if I crushed your voice box, I'm not sure Batman would mind."

And for the first time, Conner sees fear in Joker's eyes. He thinks he rather likes the look. He squeezes just enough harder to make Joker hoarse for a week.

"Anyway, I'm going to run him over to Arkham. He probably should see a doctor. I locked Clark in the bathroom. Can you hold down the fort until I get back?"

"Yeah, sure," Superman says, clearly disconcerted at getting assigned to be a babysitter. Conner swings Joker over his back like a sack of potatoes and runs him to Arkham. The trip there and back takes 30 seconds. When he gets back, Superman is melting Harley out—apparently someone already took the Kryptonite away from her. Superman's holding the lead box, which is closed again.

Since Superman seems to have the Harley situation under control, Conner goes to let Ms. Lane and Clark out.

"Superboy, can you help me with this?"

Conner rolls his eyes, but goes to help Superman defrost Harley. Then, when she's out of the ice, Superman awkwardly mumbles something about a job well done and being glad that Superboy is ok.

"You don't have to lie," Conner tells him. Superman frowns, but he recovers quickly, and he flies out with Harley, the lead box, and the bomb, at the speed of light.

Ms. Lane is banging against the door and screaming bloody murder, so he gets her out first. The restaurant manager begs him to be careful with the door, so he can't just rip it out—he has to cut the melted lock out with his heat vision. When he's done, Lois Lane gives him a death glare that makes the Joker seem downright humanitarian.

Then he turns his attention to the men's bathroom and opens the door. Clark is sitting on the toilet, live-blogging the event on his smart phone. He pushes his glasses up and smiles at Conner.

"Superboy Singlehandedly Subdues Joker: Ace of Knaves Arrives in Arkham," he says as he shows the screen of the thing to Superboy. "Planet just broke the story. Very impressive. Congrats."

"It was nothing," Conner says.

"Not nothing. It was damn impressive."

"Clark, watch your language or I'll tell Martha," Lois says in a tone that implies she's incredibly pissed at Clark for scooping her. She snatches the phone out of his hands. "Jeeze Clark. This is like… 300 words. You've got proper punctuation. Not a single typo. How the hell did you manage to even type this so fast on the tiny screen?"

"Swype," he answers with a shrug and grabs the phone back.

"Ugh. You know, it was bad enough when you were the fastest touch typist on staff, but this is ridiculous."

"You're just jealous."

"No. I'm not, you want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because Superboy's going to give me an exclusive interview."

"Ms. Lane, you know I can't do that."

"Oh, you can, and you will, you know why?"

"Um, because, I'm not going to?"

"Because, when you change your superhero handle, you're going to want a reliable journalist to tell the world how fantastic and talented you are."

"Why would I change my superhero name?"

"Well, first off… you're not going to be Superboy when you're fifty, right? And the other thing is… you just single handedly defeated Joker and Harley Quinn; you're clearly more than ready to step out of Superman's shadow."

"Ok, Ms. Lane, I'll give you an interview when I change it. But, until then, everything's still off the record, and the JL PR people will have to sign off on the article."

"And, are the JL PR people named Batman?" Ms. Lane asks.

Conner laughs. "Yeah. Probably. So you'll have to wait until he gets back from the mission he's on."

Ms. Lane shakes her head. "You're a nightmare, you know that kid? And you know, I haven't told you this, because it's adorable that you call me Ms. Lane, but you can call me Lois."

"If you like that I call you Ms. Lane, I'll keep calling you that."

"Oh, stop," she says and ruffles his hair. "Come on. On account of how you can't legally drink, we're going out for ice cream to celebrate. And since he scooped me again Clark is paying."

Lois puts an arm around Conner's shoulders and starts to lead him out. A few steps forward, she turns around to Clark, who hasn't budged. "Well, come on Clark, I bet you we can find a place with milkshakes." And then she puts her other arm around Clark's shoulders.

Conner smiles at the picture they must make. And at the fact that it seems like his evil plan to get Lois to notice Clark is probably working.

To be continued...

Author's Notes: I'll be honest, I have no idea why I chose to break this chapter up this way. When I originally broke the story up into chapters this one was going to be called Lois Smells a Pulitzer. I like this one better, but only marginally so.