Alain O'Connor, Governor for the Republic of Maroni, was having the most wonderful dream of his entire life. The Revolutionary Party was storming the palace-
(All right, so his current sleeping quarters consisted of merely the O'Connor home, a modest two-bedroom thatched bungalow set up on wooden stilts to protect against both the occasional coastal flooding to this riverine estuary island and poisonous snakes crawling from out of the surrounding South American jungle. Nevertheless, it was his damn dream, and if Alain wanted to imagine living in an actual palace, he bloody well would!)
Now, back to when the Revolutionary Party broke into the throne room where King O'Connor was waiting for them in sorrowful majesty to turn over the reins of power. It was all done in a properly civilized fashion, the former king accepting his fate with dignity and going into a peaceful exile at a very appealing estate in County Wicklow having lots of horses and Irish tenants, every one of these respectfully doing what they were told by Squire O'Connor. Paid for, of course, by a sumptuous pension which would cover nicely all of the O'Connor family's expenses for the rest of their lives, including Maeve's weekly shopping trips at Dior in Paris.
Rolling over in his bed, Alain let out a burbling snore and had a wide grin appear upon his unshaven face despite still remaining deep in slumber. The pair of intruders standing at the foot of Governor O'Connor's bed glanced at each other, though Xander in his current doggy shape had to look a bit higher at Catwoman. She then shrugged and moved silently towards the head of the bed. Once there at the side of the mattress, Selina carefully reached out and gave a firm poke with the blunt edge of one gloved fingernail to the tip of the Governor's nose.
Alain found his dream had just turned rather interesting. Blearily squinting upwards in the moonlight at the definitely feminine stranger in her clinging black cat costume hovering over him in the middle of the night, Alain next eyed the large German shepherd sitting at the foot of the bed and gazing quite intelligently in turn at the man still convinced he was imagining all this. Yawning, a barely-awake Governor informed these unexpected visitors, "If the lady's here for the dogcatcher position, take it up with the Revolutionary Party. They're in charge now. I just abdicated from my own fookin' job, so good luck to you two. I'm going back to sleep. Shut the door after yourself when you leave, will you?"
Xander and Selina watched in mutual astonishment while the head of state for one of the most unusual nations in the world relaxed in his bed, closed his eyes, and promptly returned to blissful slumber. Maybe next in his dream, Alain's best Irish thoroughbred would win this year's Grand National…
For most of their early existence, French Guiana and Suriname (also known as Dutch Guiana) agreed by treaty to use the Maroni River as their east/west borders respectively separating the barely inhabited jungle region between these two countries from inland to where the accepted watercourse emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, the different surveyors for the French and the Dutch empires who'd colonized these territories made the same error regarding a fair-sized island at the point where the Maroni River met the sea. Each survey team thought that yet-unnamed island in the middle of the river belonged to the other colonial power and marked it as such upon their maps. Since nobody in authority on either side ever got together to compare these maps in sufficient detail to spot this trifling error, they both accepted the mistake and never bothered to visit someone else's property, much less inform the few aboriginal villagers living on the island about who their new overlords were at present.
Things went like that for the next century or so, until one of South America's many adventurers stumbled across the island in 1858 while on the run after a less-than-stellar attempt at carrying out a failed coup d'état elsewhere in the continent. Realizing this godforsaken spot was the perfect place to lie low for a while until the fuss died down and the reward on his head was finally forgotten, Kearney O'Connor used every bit of his Irish charm to be accepted at the main village on this island, even going as far as taking an eager native woman as a bedwarmer from among the intermixed Indians/fugitive blacks. When a month had peacefully gone by without any other stranger passing through, Kearney questioned his new friends about their peculiar isolation. Learning how none of the local bureaucrats ever showed the slightest interest in coming here, a bored Irishman became intrigued enough to investigate this minor mystery.
After some discreet checking was done by him at the archives in both Guiana countries' capitols which soon disclosed the cartographic facts of the matter, Kearney then came up with a grand scheme having the delightful promise of putting some lovely lucre into his pockets. Once again using all his powers of persuasion, Kearney eventually convinced the rest of the island's villagers to play their own parts in a collective joke upon the outside world.
Several weeks later, the local governor-generals of Suriname and French Guiana plus the foreign offices of the colonial powers for those countries received a formal diplomatic announcement declaring the creation of the independent Republic of Maroni, its chosen leader Governor Kearney Patrick Seamus O'Connor, and also the rest of the names of this new country's citizens. All one hundred and fifty-two of them, including the newest babe suckling at her mother's breast. Mercifully, it'd been decided by a guffawing Governor O'Connor not to set down on the announcement the additional cognomens of every goat, pig, and chicken in the republic, since that might've been going a little too far.
Still, it wasn't any help to the soaring blood pressures of various civil servants around the globe to learn that multiple copies of the announcement (along with reproductions of the maps indicating how a certain island was wrongfully granted to another country) had been sent as well to a good many European and American (North and South) newspapers. Most of which then gleefully proceeded to print the madcap story for the entertainment of their amused readers.
It was actually contemplated without consulting among themselves by various members of staff at the Quai d'Orsay and the Hague that the quickest way to settle the whole mess was to send a few companies of soldiers to this idiotic republic, burn to ashes every village found there, scatter the natives into the jungle, and hang a so-called governor from the nearest palm tree. Except what if the other government took serious offense at this? Major conflicts between nation-states had started over lesser incidents, especially since either side had an equally good claim to that pestiferous island on the Maroni River. No, better to deal with such an outlandish situation by some other and much more civilized means. That is, buy someone off.
Which was exactly what Kearney was waiting for. As he'd explained to the skeptical villagers, while there was the distinct possibility of an irritated visit by someone's troops ordered to slaughter anyone they caught, far likelier was for a Guiana bureaucrat (French or Dutch, either would do) to drop in discreetly carrying a jingling purse and a bill of sale for the entire island with the bottom line for a signature left invitingly blank. With any luck, Kearney could get both sides in a bidding war and jack up the purchase price to the very skies themselves.
Knowing they'd find it quite easy to leave unharmed in a hurry for parts elsewhere should that big talker prove to be wrong, the island's villagers agreed to share both the risks and any potential rewards with Kearney. Who, if the worse came to worse, would be given a firm knock on the head with a handy club, tied up, and left as a goodbye present for any invaders out for fire and blood. Being warned about that right then and there just made Kearney amiably shrug. He'd gambled his life before over riskier bets, so what was one more?
Events then went somewhat out of control for everybody, though. A hasty review of their current borders caused Suriname and French Guiana to find another problem regarding the Maroni River, in that no one was exactly sure as to which tributary stream was the main headwaters for the Maroni. This could result in either country possibly forced to turn over some good-sized areas of land formerly held by them to the other, leading to bad feelings between the colonies and even carrying over to the original European powers. Sensibly deciding to put the problem to arbitration, Paris and Amsterdam chose Russia's Emperor Alexander II to be a neutral third party. As a very minor issue, the existence of that absurd, miniscule republic and whom had a better claim to this river island was also added to the border dispute presented to the Tsar.
Perhaps due to Alexander II being very busy with other things around then, such as freeing the Russian serfs, the whole affair was settled remarkably fast for a diplomatic issue which could've dragged on for years or even decades. In a matter of months, the Tsar pronounced his judgment about the Maroni headwaters…and also confirmed that the Republic of Maroni was in fact a free and independent country.
Nobody ever figured out just why Alexander made the latter decision. He never spoke publicly about it before his assassination in 1881, and it wasn't considered wise to ask him in private prior to that unfortunate event. The best guess by anyone supposed that His Majesty was either trying to score a political point against France and/or the Netherlands in the European game of thrones, or he'd been in a rather mischievous mood at the time and saw the opportunity for a bit of fun.
In any case, all parties in the dispute were forced to accept the Emperor's decision in their own ways. The four governments on separate continents sullenly went back to business as usual, with the closest countries to the Republic of Maroni doing their best to ignore their newest neighbor. Though, at Paramaribo and Cayenne, the authorities there weren't shy about nastily hoping for an imminent Caribbean hurricane powerful enough to wipe that damned island completely off the map.
As for Kearney O'Connor…he was shocked speechless to find himself for real the head of an actual nation. This included an island's citizenry not very happy at the moment towards their dumbfounded leader who'd failed to acquire for them any riches at all through his unsuccessful scheme. There was also a young woman passing on the news to this Irish adventurer she was now pregnant and what was he planning to do about it?
For an exiled heir of Eire, the answer was to go off on his own with a bottle of cheap brandy, imbibe every drop of it into a state of thorough unconsciousness, and then in spite of waking up the next morning with a stupendous hangover still have a very good laugh at himself nonetheless over such a nonsensical outcome.
"Catwoman, a talking dog, and an Irishman's great-great-grandson are having a drink together…" thoughtfully trailed off Alain O'Connor. "A good opening, that, but I need to think about the joke's punchline."
Winking at Selina seated at the opposite side of the thatched house's kitchen table, Alain next easily knocked back two fingers of Mount Gay Extra Old from his filled glass. Putting the empty glass back down with a thump onto the table, Alain showed his taught manners by stifling a belch. He glanced at where Xander the German shepherd was finishing lapping up his own alcoholic refreshments from the wooden bowl placed onto the bungalow's floor planks. "You want another, sonny?"
Licking at the tip of his nose for the last drop of fine booze dangling from there, Xander shook his shaggy head. "Thanks, I'm good. Getting back to business, have you made up your mind yet?"
Scratching at his deeply-tanned bare stomach, Alain seemed completely unfazed by sitting nearly nude save for his sleeping shorts in between a very beautiful woman in a black cat-themed mask elegantly sipping at her Barbados rum and a furry German shepherd beginning to pant from the jungle humidity even so late at night.
"You've been a lot politer about wanting to be citizens of our fair country than some others who've dropped by recently. All without making an appointment first, as the fine lady here might've told you."
At these last words, Alain's formerly amused expression turned stolid as a rock, along with an equally unreadable glance sent into Xander's direction.
"Yeah," nodded the dog. He took a moment to remember Selina's briefing about the postwar incident just after Japan's capitulation which made the Republic of Marino a minor legend among the criminal underworld. Giving into his curiosity at speaking with somebody who must've been an actual participant of that affray, Xander asked, "What exactly happened to those ex-SS bastards on the run after the war in their U-boat? You know, the ones who tried to take over here, back in early '46?"
Pouring himself another robust measure from the bottle set in the center of the tabletop, Alain nonchalantly shrugged. "Oh, for various reasons, they didn't care to stay any further after meself and a couple friends forcefully expressed our displeasure about our unwelcome guests' behavior. When their submarine somehow blew up while they were leaving in such a big hurry, what few survivors there were promptly surrendered to a Suriname patrol boat attracted by all the commotion. We never bothered our heads over them after that, boyo."
Xander took in stride that slightly derisive final sentence. It helped that the older man's right arm which just lifted a glass to whiskered lips had a distinctive tattoo upon the outside of this upper thick bicep composed of a perching eagle on a globe-and-anchor design over a diamond symbol with a number '1' inside this, and a scroll below having three geographical names:
Guadalcanal
New Britain
Peleliu
The finishing touch was the large, starburst-shaped scar covering most of Alain's lower chest and the brown skin there streaked with white lines of upraised flesh. These had faded a bit over time, but Xander could recognize without any trouble a healed shrapnel wound from an exploding mortar shell.
*Sheesh,* Xander mentally noted. *I'm surprised any of those asshole Nazis lived to tell the tale, what with a First Marine veteran and some more Maroni guys with just as serious combat time dealing with them all. This place really does breed 'em tough here. Well, Selina, you're up. Hope it works better than our first try.*
As if she'd sensed his thoughts, the woman in the bungalow kitchen put down her own mostly-full glass on the table. Her right hand then slipped into a pocket of the costume black as midnight and came out from there with her fingers clenched around a hard object about four inches long which was carefully deposited by Selina's glass without a word spoken by this cat burglar.
The warm illumination cast by the kerosene lamp dangling above the table from a hook-and-chain attached to one of the roof beams made the flawless rubies set in a gold reliquary cross appear as if they were glowing as red as solid blood in the light. Despite its ancient design due to being created centuries before by a master jeweler perhaps in Cartagena at a time when the Dons sailed the disputed Caribbean and there was no peace beyond the Line, the cross still looked to be in perfect shape after its necessary cleaning caused by spending several hundred years inside a sunken treasure ship.
Alain spent several equally silent moments appreciating the pure beauty of this religious symbol. Soon enough, though, he mused out loud, "So, you really did find the Nuestra Señora de Atocha. Is that all you salvaged from the ship?"
Selina shook her head. "There's some more treasure safely tucked away on our boat. It took us only a couple hours of diving at the site to collect them, in between making sure nobody was around to watch. Then, we came here to make a simple proposition to you."
"Oh?" was Alain's response, accompanied by his best poker face.
This time, Selina nodded. "In return for full citizenship for us both, everything else recovered now on from the Atocha gets split three ways. One-third to Xander and I, one-third to the United States for tax purposes…and one-third to the Republic of Maroni."
Absolute quiet then ensured in the bungalow kitchen, save for the soft sputtering from the kerosene lamp above. The two visitors to this thatched hut observed in shared silence how a conflicted man responsible for the safety and care of nearly a thousand people was thinking over such an astonishing offer. Alain was clearly tempted to just accept …and yet there were quite a few difficulties in doing that.
Ever since Kearney himself, the subsequent first son of the O'Connors had been in charge of administering the whole damned government of an island republic, what there was of it. Indeed, this usually came down to the Governor and whomever this man could grab, threaten, or beg for help over dealing with the bloody job while knowing everyone else was snickering over him getting stuck with an entire country's problems. That was the main reason why no one else ever wanted this same position, what with all its potential merciless jeering for failure.
Among these problems was the biggest one of them all: the absolute poverty for the Republic of Maroni which had continued ever since coming into existence a century ago without any sort of mineral riches, economic exports, or tourist attractions. Nobody living there was in danger of starving, not with lots of fish available from the river and the Atlantic, plus the abundant food for all produced by village farms. It was just as easy to forage in the tropical jungle for fruits and other provisions. That said, the Maronis barely scraped by when they needed supplies and services from the outside world. With virtually no assets of any kind save for their peoples' strong backs, it was normal for the Republic's young men to leave for a few years to other countries and work hard at jobs there while mailing home remittances to support the island's families.
Over the years, some slightly more successful schemes by Kearney's descendents provided a bare minimum of revenue to allow for basic medical care, schooling, and other necessities. The few scholarships abroad for higher education awarded to the smartest children were funded by the island's limited editions of postage stamps never used by the Republic but rather sold to stamp collectors specializing in this type of compilation. One such scholarship had benefited the latest Governor, who managed a year at Dublin's Trinity College in addition to acquiring an Irish bride before returning with her to the Republic of Maroni to then enlist in the United States Marine Corps after the Pearl Harbor attack.
Almost two decades later, 'Spanish Al' (as he'd been promptly nicknamed by his fellow gyrenes noticing that man's dark skin and hearing their new comrade in arms was from exotic South America) spent most of his time as the Republic's Governor worrying about what things cost. Everything was getting more and more expensive these days, putting the government's account books deeper into the red and driving him further into distraction. When Maeve had stayed overnight at the island's clinic to look after a first-time mother's pregnancy and the twins were hopefully not getting in too much trouble their first year away at Clongowes, Alain went to sleep alone in the couple's bed at their home to then have a very happy dream about being exiled into wealthy comfort with his beloved family.
Soon after, he'd been awoken by two…people…and learned from them an utterly fantastical story. Which, by the by, involved wishes, dimensional travel, magic, costumed characters of all kinds, a man changed into a canine and back again, witches, a treasure ship having riches surpassing anyone's expectations, and to top it all, a formal request for double citizenship from a talking dog and his beautiful female companion.
Naturally Alain took the first available opportunity to pour himself a good, stiff drink after hearing that. Being a proper host, the Governor also set out two libations of equal strength for his newfound visitors, though it was a definite first ever for him to put one of these into a wooden bowl for a thirsty pet to lap up with their tongue.
Thankfully appreciating them giving him a chance to mull it over, Alain couldn't make up his mind yet. It was true in the past the Republic of Maroni had granted asylum and/or residency for various reasons to applicants seeking a safe haven. It had to be admitted, though, nobody like his unbelievable guests tonight had ever come along for previous Governors. However, this current attempt seemed a little too much like an actual bribe for Alain's comfort. God knows, his birthplace could always use more money, but not if the price was too dear.
The one thing all Alain's da and grandda had vehemently impressed on him when they'd been alive was to never put either their family (which by now included via blood or marriage almost everyone on the island) or their home at risk if it could possibly be helped. Outsiders who came by with offers which sounded far too good to be true were to be regarded with vast suspicion, since they'd hardly be making these without wanting much more something in return which might cost the O'Connors and their kin something precious: their honor.
It was one thing to work honestly to earn what they needed or even come up with a slightly nefarious plan or two for lining the government's pockets which really didn't hurt anybody. After all, who could've possibly steered clear of the chance to acquire some additional income from moneyed idiots which wouldn't think twice of overpaying for scraps of colorful paper? Still, the island's Governors had always stayed trustworthy and respectable in their dealings with both private individuals and other countries despite the occasional temptation.
Over the years, as Alain was cautioned by older O'Connors, there'd been several proposed shenanigans by outside interests for using the Republic of Maroni's prerogatives as an independent nation. These included but weren't limited to issuing letters of marque, setting up a gambling casino on the island, smuggling alcohol into the U.S. via Republic-flagged ships during Prohibition, and hawking to any potential Merchant of Death an international arms end-user certificate.
The terse response then by every Governor well aware the game wasn't worth the candle to such mischief, however profitable, was the same: "Not bloody likely. Sod off."
And now, it was Alain's turn.
From where he was sitting on his haunches, Xander quietly sympathized with the man he was watching, whose inner struggle over accepting the money his country clearly lacked and the wariness that this act might have serious unintended consequences was more than evident to a dimensional immigrant. From his own decades-long experience of being a leader of a worldwide organization dedicated to protecting humanity, Xander knew exactly the kind of pressure he'd just put Alain O'Connor through. Regardless, this talking dog needed something, too.
Even though Selina had done her best earlier in setting up a fake identity for Xander in his human form that'd allowed him to surreptitiously travel outside America for now, it wasn't enough for either of them. If all went fine concerning a certain treasure ship, both he and that very sexy lady would in due time be known everywhere for discovering and salvaging the Nuestra Señora de Atocha. The instant publicity from all forms of popular media would then result in the newly-wealthy pair undergoing painstaking scrutiny not just from the press but also from numerous government agencies who'd be identically curious about this man and woman that good fortune had so abundantly blessed.
It wouldn't take long for Selina to be identified as a person of interest by diverse police forces around the globe concerning numerous expensive burglaries which had been committed in their jurisdictions. While no actual arrest warrants were out for her anywhere at present, this was surely subject to change if someone got greedy for whatever rewards could be realized by these same warrants then issued for her detainment into local custody. Of course, those law enforcement organizations could be held off at arm's length by two things. Such as, the immense fortune earned by Selina as her share of the Atocha would definitely guarantee this woman the very best legal protection in the form of the finest international lawyers affordable, along with the minor fact that the Republic of Maroni had no extradition treaties with any other country on earth.
(Alain's succinct dismissal when asked about this summed it up nicely: "Costs too bloody much. It's not like anyone needs even more bum fodder, besides.")
As for Xander… His own problem was that unlike Selina, there was absolutely no recorded background for him on file, no personal history to be investigated. Which, in the view of anyone trying to find out the what, where, why, when, who, and how of Xander's life, was decidedly suspicious and make them even more determined to continue digging about somebody that apparently appeared from out of thin air a few weeks ago. Well, this was actually true, but try convincing some overzealous bureaucrat it wasn't instead a reprehensible attempt to hide his former identity for all the wrong reasons.
Xander needed an absolutely legitimate citizenship from someplace, granted by an indisputable nation which had the suitable authority to do this in the opinion of the rest of the world. Once that was done, he could get on with his life and travel anywhere, without worrying it'd all come crashing down sooner or later.
Discussing this with Selina earlier, she'd confirmed to him that there were presently some corrupt governments, mostly in the Middle East and the Balkans, which weren't too fussy about allowing various anxious applicants on the run their new legal status of a resident. All it usually took for both sides was "How much?" and "Congratulations, your check cleared. Have a nice stay. Start any trouble here, you're dead. Also, if one of those new costumed people drops in unexpectedly about something you did elsewhere, we don't want to know, understand? Did we mention the 'dead' part?"
What surprised Xander was one of these countries Selina mentioned as being the closest to their location, the northern Caribbean island of Santa Prisca. Thinking over his fan-boy memories of the DC universe, Xander identified with a shudder this fictional country as the place which would in time produce one of Batman's worse villains, the hulking murderer known as Bane. Xander didn't know yet if this would turn out to happen the same way it did in the comic books, but Selina agreed that from the stories she'd heard through the criminal world, that island and its barely-functioning government was a vicious tropical cesspit best stayed away from by both of them.
Their conversation soon turned into the pair talking about various small countries they'd previously visited in their adventurous lives. Ultimately, the discussion brought up the name of the Republic of Maroni. Xander had never heard of it before, either in the DC comics or in his previous life in another dimension, assuming this riverine island also existed there. Selina herself didn't know all that much about this odd, tiny nation. She hadn't ever visited it or met anyone who'd done so. All she'd learned was that its residents, including their Governor, were tiresomely honest and could well defend themselves from anyone who tried to take advantage of that same straightforwardness.
With no better opportunity on hand, Xander and Selina agreed to visit the Republic and its leader. Xander also asked his companion to follow his lead over how exactly to approach this O'Connor person in charge, even if it meant telling the other man everything. This made Selina raise her eyebrows at the possible revelation of Xander's secrets, but they were his own privacies and if he wanted, this man could speak about them to whoever Xander pleased.
Which was just what he'd done, right after a more firmly awoken Alain invited his newest guests to the kitchen for a proper discourse. Trusting his judgment that the Governor was in fact a really good guy, Xander laid it all out: his entire past life in another dimension where he'd been part of the New Council, choosing to wish himself into a new existence that didn't quite go at first as Xander expected, and eventually deciding to pair up with a very beautiful cat burglar. Now, they both needed new identities as Republic of Maroni citizens and could easily pay for these. So, how about it?
Xander watched Alain O'Connor trying to come to terms with this incredible proposal. Frankly, that tough-looking fella was taking it far better than virtually anybody else Xander had ever run into. Mind you, just a few months ago, the entire world had been threatened by a floating intelligent island filled with actual dinosaurs which nearly wiped out humanity before being defeated by a bunch of gaudily-costumed superheroes working together. Stuff like that made people believe anything was possible nowadays.
Regardless of this, the Governor was still of two minds over what he'd learned tonight as was well evident to a former Marine's waiting guests at the kitchen table. Yes, the money being offered would help his country a lot, but it came along with two walking trouble-magnets, one of them on four feet-
Deciding to nudge things along into some kind of resolution before he actually got heatstroke due to wearing a fur coat in the tropics, a German shepherd cleared his throat. Looking over at where the dog was steadily staring at him, Alain heard from that animal, "Listen, sir, just minutes ago, you tried to come up with a punchline for this meeting tonight. Me, Selina, and you, so why not finish the joke by having us become faithful citizens of the Republic of Maroni? We'll pledge allegiance to the flag, paws on our chests, howl the national anthem, pretend to lift a leg at the politicians running this place…oh, right, that's you-"
His lips had begun to twitch in amusement right from the start of Xander's zany suggestions, but Alain didn't burst out laughing until that point when a magical canine vowed to act similarly to how the rest of his family and neighbors treated in good humor a certain Governor to keep him from getting a big head. Continuing to roar with delighted mirth at the sight of how Xander and Selina were now both smirking in triumph towards him, Alain eventually calmed down, wiping away a happy tear.
Governor O'Connor then declared, "Oh, why stop there, boyo? Any joke can only be further improved. All you need to do is work a little more on it. Speaking of that, I've just had a wonderful idea, one that'll really make the punchline even better."
Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, drank his fruit punch and kept listening to the crowd chatting with each other beyond the buffet table set against the far wall of the Australian Embassy's main hall. Keeping an expression of meek enjoyment on his face as if he was savoring the non-alcoholic drink he'd just swallowed, Clark continued eavesdropping upon numerous conversations of the partygoers presently celebrating the Kennedy inauguration. It was early in the evening after a very cold day outside, so the occupants of a Massachusetts Avenue building as part of Embassy Row weren't too far into their cups. That would likely change further into the night while Clark worked his way down the street among the rest of the ambassadorial headquarters for various countries lining the avenue.
Martha Kent had taught her adopted son it wasn't polite to listen secretly to people, but Clark rationalized that it was part of his job in finding and breaking news stories. Plus, nobody with super-hearing could avoid heeding all the ongoing room discussions about today's events: the chilly weather, how Robert Frost the poet recited from memory rather than read the too-bright paper he was holding, and so on. Clark already had enough material to start a good article for tomorrow's Daily Planet. A few more minutes here, and he'd go onto the next embassy and listen some more to people who should have no expectation of privacy but would carry on indiscreetly anyway.
Putting down his empty glass to join others on a handy table, Clark paused at a ripple of heads turning towards the hall foyer. Being much taller than the majority of the crowd, Clark could see quite well there someone he'd been expecting to show up and behave as usual, even if it was a bit toned down this soon after sunset.
Bruce Wayne, maintaining his normal gaze of absolute boredom borne by a man having to put up with all too many of these events, walked through the room at the side of the Australian ambassador. This diplomat appeared much more urbane than his disinterested guest, who would hopefully invest a great deal of funds throughout Australian industries after a pleasant dialogue in the envoy's office deeper in the building past the main hall. A supremely blank stare was sent around the room by Mr. Wayne accompanying the ambassador, not hesitating at all even when two sets of blue eyes met each other for no more than a split second. It was as if that billionaire fop dressed to the nines hadn't even noticed someone wearing their best suit which still probably cost less than one of Wayne's gold antique cufflinks.
Clark knew better. Bruce undoubtedly learned of him and Lois being sent by Perry to cover the inauguration no more than fifteen minutes after the Daily Planet editor-in-chief's decision shouted at them over the paper's newsroom chaos. Even if it only made sense for Bruce Wayne to attend such a historical event as the first inauguration of a Catholic President and do the typical business conferences between the nation's other movers and shakers also there, the child of two slain parents was also sending a subtle message to Kal-El, last son of Krypton. Guess what? You're here, I'm here, so just remember that in the future. Her, too.
Not breaking character either even when Bruce then abruptly moved away from the ambassador to head toward and stop in front of a drinks table to chose a glass of native champagne, Clark placidly watched the ensuing performance. The slightly curled upper lip done by Bruce after the first taste was a definite classic. Just as masterful was this playboy's prompt leer sent towards the other side of the room where another embassy guest for tonight was holding court among a dozen women gathered there in one corner.
Diana, Princess of Themyscira, was clad in an ageless white Greek chiton cut in traditional lines without sleeves and reaching down to her sandals. Even without wearing heels, Diana's hair put up and pinned into place with pair of simple wood picks made her almost as tall as Clark and easily matched Bruce's height. Regarding that latter man, Diana went on pleasantly chatting with the other females in her company, as if she'd never even noticed how he was so discourteously eyeing the superheroine known as Wonder Woman and giving off such obvious signs he'd very much like to bed her.
Again, Clark knew better. He just managed to hide a grin, now that everyone was playing their part. Of course, given how nothing catastrophic requiring their other personas to appear at this exact moment seemed about to occur-
In another ripple of distracted partygoers, these men and women moved apart to reveal a pair of newcomers standing at the main hall entrance. Fascinated glances were sent by the onlookers at where the main characters of an in-depth account accompanied by appearing in full color on the covers of both Life and National Geographic published on the same month presented themselves for the edification of the room crowd.
There was plenty for everybody to see. Even in their finest clothes personally made for them by famous designers, Alexander Harris and Selina Kyle were furthermore wearing stunning examples of the treasure they'd discovered months before in a long-lost sunken Spanish galleon. Selina was draped in the most valuable emerald necklace ever found, a set of flawless, pure green precious stones worth multiple millions. As for the man, he had wrapped diagonally across his chest in a display of savage splendor an actual baldric composed of interlocked centuries-old gold coins held place in their rows with cunningly-created chain-links of the same valuable metal.
Forgetting himself, Clark strode forward. Perry White had groused for weeks over the Planet's inability to get an interview with those latest celebrities who'd captivated worldwide attention, but Mr. Harris and Miss Kyle never visited Metropolis since finding the Nuestra Señora de Atocha. If Clark's boss ever found out his best male reporter let down the paper by not instantly seizing this chance for a quick meeting to ask them a good many questions, Mr. Kent would swiftly find himself back in Smallville milking cows after being fired on the spot by an furious editor-in-chief.
It was unfortunate that Clark for once failed to use his super-senses to check at where in the opposite sides of the room other peoples' reactions were taking place.
Setting down the glass of inferior champagne so hard upon the nearest table that it slopped onto a Patek Philippe watch, Bruce Wayne disregarded that to glare in full Dark Knight-mode at that bastard who'd somehow disguised themselves as a dog to find out all of Batman's secrets and then ran off with Selina. In a rare mood to seriously kick some ass while being nothing more than his ordinary self, Bruce strode forward…
An equally scorching glare was being sent by Princess Diana at a thoroughly detested male who'd somehow stolen her invisible plane and then avoided any sort of punishment for this after filling her ears with disconcerting babble, only to then abruptly transform into a large dog and escape at a fast run. Wonder Woman spent days afterwards wondering if this was some sort of precursor to one of Circe's schemes, but nothing untoward had taken place except for this superheroine's frazzled nerves. Diana strode forward…
"Ooops," muttered Xander under his breath, his gaze flickering back and forth at those three advancing people intently converging onto where he was standing. Even in such a situation, this DC Comics fan couldn't help thinking the entire planet had to be totally experiencing a mutual kind of mental blindness every time they failed to notice how much Clark Kent and Superman looked like each other. The glasses weren't that good a disguise-
Leaning over to gleefully purr into the ear of her fellow Ambassador-At-Large for the Republic of Maroni, who'd along with Selina presented their credentials at the White House in a quick visit today and had been granted full diplomatic immunity, the vastly amused young lady retired for now as Catwoman said, "Xander, have I mentioned lately life with you isn't ever boring?"
Author's Note: This time, that lengthy chapter above truly wraps it up for our narrative. If I think up any more stuff concerning Xander's and Selina's additional exploits to share with you all, I'll put it in another, separate story. Everyone, thanks for the reviews and recommendations!
Further Note: In case you're interested, the Republic of Maroni, its mentioned history, and present-day Governor are a complete fabrication, just like other imaginary nations set in the DC universe such as Santa Prisca. However, there is a Maroni River in upper South America which drains into the Atlantic Ocean and it's indeed the border between French Guiana and Suriname. These two countries also had a border dispute regarding the river (but no riverine island with a devious Irish adventurer attached actually existed, alas) and asked the Russian Emperor to settle it, except in real life this happened later on in the 19th century and it was Alexander III, not his father, who made the decision to settle the dispute.