Author's Note: I know I didn't mention this before, but I can't seriously entertain the idea of Jesse Eisenberg as Lex Luthor. I mean come on. It's ridiculous. Anyway, I looked online for other like-minded individuals, and read one YouTube comment that said Billy Zane would be a good choice. I had totally not even considered that guy. Never crossed my mind. And if you don't know who that is, it's the millionaire arrogant douchbag from Titanic who gives Rose Dawson the heart-shaped blue diamond. And I look up some videos of him and I thought, "Holy crap. This guy is perfect." Anyway, I've decided that he's the version of Lex I'm writing, okay?
And again, I recommend adding this story to your Alerts List, because I do update during the week and not just on Sundays.
His Return
The eleventh floor window was open. Batman slipped inside quietly, his cape hardly making a sound. But these days, that didn't mean he couldn't be heard. His very breath made noise, the blinking of his eyes, the forming of a fist.
He scanned the living room and adjoining kitchen, looking for signs of life, like dirty dishes in the sink. Empty take-out containers on the counter. Garbage that needed throwing out. Mail on the coffee table. But there was nothing. The place was immaculate.
There were packed cardboard boxes at the edges of the room, stacked around the furniture. The resident of this apartment had moved in recently, as early as one or two months ago.
Batman's eyes went to the front door. It, too, was locked, but that's not what caught his eye. It was that the security chain and deadbolt were both on. And if Batman's suspicions were correct, it wasn't for security reasons at all. But for privacy. As if the current resident did not want people to enter the apartment in his absence, even if someone had a key. Eleventh floor apartment. Front door chained and deadbolted. Empty apartment. Seemed like a magic act. Unless of course, the magician could fly.
Batman proceeded further inside.
He swept through the bathroom. Collected hair samples from a brush, strands with roots attached. Noticed soot at the edge of the sink, like it hadn't been cleaned away properly. Batman frowned, perplexed. Then collected that too. He'd have to do tests on these later. Compare it to samples from the Museum.
The smaller bedroom, which was used as a home office, a place of expected chaos, was neat. A press ID card, wallet and keys were left on the table. Balled up pieces of paper were responsibly tossed in the trash receptacle. Scribbled notes were neatly filed away under a folder entitled Notes. Printed article drafts were organized in a rack.
Batman pulled out a sheaf of these papers. Each one was dated and arranged chronologically. The latest date was from eight days ago. He put the papers back after a quick look.
He started going through the drawers. Found bills that were due in a day or two. Not for lack of money, or responsibility—based on a file of bank statements—but simply because he was gone. Batman found nothing of significant interest.
Until he came to drawer that was locked. A few moments with a lock-picking set and it was open. Batman looked down at the otherworldly, shiny white object. It looked like an egg.
Dr. Victor Hammond was a slight man with glasses, pasty white skin and a balding head. He peered through a microscope, observing the effects of green meteorite on a slide of unique blood cells. This sample had been suffering only five minutes of amplified exposure, and the cells were becoming atrophied, sickly. Some had eventually ruptured. The blood sample had been collected from the Metropolis Museum of Natural History by investigators. Subsequently it had been snuck out of the police department's evidence room. It belonged to Superman.
Dr. Hammond looked up at the business man standing in his lab. He was tall, imposing and wearing a charcoal gray Armani suit. His healthy tan and trim waist showed a man who frequently engaged in athletic activity. His dark green eyes were piercing, revealing a haughty intelligence.
"Well?" The businessman asked with disturbing eagerness.
"That makes seventy-one percent of all the blood samples collected at the museum. All the human blood samples have been verified against the FBI DNA database. When the samples of known Intergang affiliates were tested, they did not react to the meteorite's gamma radiation. At least, not in any way that we can detect."
The businessman smiled. He put out his right hand. On his middle finger he was wearing a hand-crafted gold ring with a bright, glowing green gem. Black market Liaoning meteorite. "I think I did the right thing hiring you, Doctor."
Dr. Hammond reluctantly shook his hand. He was afraid of what might happen to him if he didn't. It wasn't like Hammond went looking to work for Luthor. His employer, S.T.A.R. Labs, had been paid off to fire him from his post as Assistant Director. And when they did, Luthor swooped in and picked up him. Hammond tried to pull his hand away, but Luthor didn't let him. "Mr. Luthor, I don't recommend wearing the—"
"Let me know when you learn more about the Kryptonian's blood."
"Sir, I—"
"Any man that kills the only other remaining members of his own race can't be trusted."
"Mr. Luthor."
"Yes?"
"Please let go of my hand."
Mr. Luthor let it go.
Dr. Hammond released a sigh of relief. "I don't recommend wearing the meteorite as jewelry. We don't know its effects on humans."
Luthor gave him a patronizing pat on the shoulder. He smiled. "Dr. Hammond, you'll soon learn that the only thing that matters is its effect on Superman."
"Here you are, Master Bruce."
"Thank you, Alfred."
"It's a list of all the Chinese families who managed to procure a shard of the meteorite in the eighties when it fell. The precise date of its impact is well-documented in the local newspapers and some international ones. It began at approximately 2:21 a.m., local time, on the morning of March 12th, 1982."
Batman flipped through the pages. His suspicions were quickly confirmed. "Cancer."
"Yes, Sir. The Liaoning Meteorite appears to be carcinogenic to humans after long periods of continuous exposure."
"But not for Superman. He's much more sensitive to it."
"Yes, Master Bruce. Have you confirmed your theory as to Clark Kent being Superman?"
"Not yet."
He'd snuck home that night. He'd waited until the earth had turned its western face from the sun. Waited until the moon was a massive black orb in the earth's shadow. No one would see him, a phantom descending from the sky.
No one could know he was back. And no one could know he'd tried to run away. But he couldn't, because he couldn't fight it anymore. It was not weakness that made him flee. It was not weakness that made him seek out a sun that could kill him.
It was weakness that brought him back.
There was little he could remember with clarity. His memories were ghosts in a fog. Present, but obscured. And, with indifference, he realized his memories didn't matter. They never had. Nothing he ever did mattered. It was all in vain. Why let his memories cloud his true purpose? He wanted them gone. He craved the numbness of being mindless. He wanted to forget completely.
But under the comfortable, soothing assurance that everything in the universe was meaningless, his memories scratched at his psyche, clawing like a living man in a buried coffin, desperate for air, desperate for sustenance, to get out and be free. To live. To exist. To be.
His entire body trembled as he sat slumped in the chair. His head was between his knees, his hands clenched in his overgrown black hair. He saw a blinking red light in the corner of his eye. An answering machine. A concept he understood, but which now felt alien, out-of-body.
He reached out. Pressed Play.
You have forty-eight new messages. Message One. Tuesday, 5:45 pm. "Hey, Smallville, why didn't you show up for work? Check in with Chief. He's been giving me hell all day."
Message Two. Tuesday, 7:56 pm. "Clark, you were supposed to meet me for dinner. Figures you'd be a no-show after not calling in so many hours. Call me back."
Message Three. Tuesday, 11:35 pm. "You're beginning to freak me out."
Message Four. Wednesday, 2:11 am. "Clark, please give me a call as soon as you get this. I'll be there first thing in the morning."
Message Five. Wednesday, 7: 13 am. "Okay, I'm at your door leaving this message and I can hear it echoing on your answering machine. Damn it, Clark, where are you?"
Message Six. Wednesday, 10:33 am. "Clark, honey, it's your mom. Where are you? Lois called, she sounds worried. I know you can take care of yourself, but… please call me. Please, don't make me worry."
Message Seven. Wednesday, 1:24 pm. "Clark, please call me. Lois is at the house. She has her cell phone. We're going looking for you. Please call her cell when you get this message. I love you, honey—we love you."
Message Eight. Wednesday 7:31 pm. "Clark, your mother's a mess. I can't believe I'm saying this, but we're going to file a missing person report…"
His knee began to bounce. His hands tightened in his hair and they began to pluck out by the roots, each strand sending a bolt of agony through his skull. The more time that went by, the harder it was to resist it. The pain was excruciating. Only when he complied with his dark side, was he at peace. He surrendered in drips and drabs, just to keep the pain at bay.
He raised his head, his unshaven face set in determination. His eyes glowed red, then orange in the darkened living room. Tiny veins pulsing under the skin of his eyes like threads of super-heated steel.
Message Nine. Thursday 1:09 am. "Clark—"
He stood up, watched the small black box, eyes brightening into pools of plasma. Fire spewed out of his eyes like lava.
The plastic began to sizzle, melt, liquefying into acrid, smelly oil in seconds, dripping onto the rug with a hiss of protest. His eyes dimmed to the color of amber coals.
The vaguely familiar voices stopped. He expected silence, but it never came. A voice continued on. Now, it was the only one that mattered. Wicked whisperings settled inside his ears, swirled in his skull. Every thought of hope and desire was cut down like an unwanted weed.
But he couldn't forget. He'd made a promise. And he had to find him before he ran out of time. The vigilante obviously had no problem with killing.
Batman watched the screen as it happened.
The phone rang.
Batman picked up. "Lucius."
"Mister Wayne, the samples match. It's him."
"I know." Batman hung up.
