Justice League: Reign
Chapter 2 – Powerless
I'm trapped, but my wrists and ankles aren't bound. It would be pointless; I could rip them free with a flick. No, I'm trapped by those emerald eyes, by that eerily cheery look. He's terrifying, because I know he's right. He's right, because he's echoing what I told him. I have to change, and even when you want it, change is terrifying. That's it. That's why. Lex Luthor is terrifying because he is my change incarnate.
Lex looks away to mix a couple black and white chemicals. He drops powdered green stone into the mixture as it heats up above a gray flame, and pushes his shaggy bangs back so he can see properly. A few seconds later, and he's looking at me again, smiling, holding a syringe up like its Excalibur, God's gift to humanity.
"I—I don't know if this is a good idea. What if something goes wrong?" My voice is caught between a boy's tenor and a man's baritone. It sounds as unnatural as I feel.
Lex's smile fades, and he simply asks, "What matters more to you: your humanity or your life?"
Everything I believe now clashes with everything I was then. I know better, but he, Clark, doesn't—I didn't. So I feel myself nod Lex on, and for the first time I realize green is not the only color I should see, this is not the present, and I am not in control. I just can't figure out why, because panic wipes my mind blank. I forget my own name, as Lex curls his lips into a wry smile.
I struggle to scream, "Stop," at my younger self, but my lips instead purse and say, "Do it."
The pain suddenly hits. Aching, weakness, as the serum's radiation washes over me. Then the needle enters me, and I feel as if I'm on fire. Lights flicker on as gray rays from above color me darker. I grip the arms of the chair, denting them, before discovering I can't break them entirely as the room spins around me.
Black and white spots dot my vision, and suddenly I'm in a corn field. I rise up. For a second I think I can fly again, but I can't feel the wind. Only the hot leather seat beneath me presses against my skin. I see a rundown green truck in the distance, and I follow it without a choice in the matter.
The driver—a well-built man with glasses—looks panicked as he rockets down the road. It doesn't take long to figure out why. A shadow looms in the distance. Smaller shadows fall like rain underneath it. The Great Shadow looks slow, but I realize that's just an illusion of its size. It's nearly overtaken the truck.
A small green-roofed house is in the distance. The Great Shadow will reach it soon, and for the first time I feel fear sink into my gut. This is familiar. Why is this familiar?
The man reaches the house just as a smaller shadow crashes through the roof of his truck. He dives out the door, narrowly escaping, but despite his immediate peril he sprints forward. A crack sounds like a gun, as a portion of the roof caves in beneath a smaller shadow. The man screams, but I can't hear anything.
We enter the house. The man yells out at a name. I know it, but can't hear it. He looks to the kitchen. She is there, waiting patiently…a mindless drone. Another crack echoes, but the man's instincts kick in again. He dodges a smaller shadow and stamps on it, smashing it. Lime green blood oozes out beneath his boot.
The man walks over to the gray-haired woman, on whose face rests a smaller shadow. It's a star. I see it now. The Great Shadow is in fact a Great Star, and my mind goes blank with fear again.
The man traps the woman in his embrace, even as she tries to attack him. She struggles, but he's stronger. He drags her to the ground, and sobs into her shoulder. Another star falls through the ceiling, and he is forced to abandon the woman to escape its control. Yet again, he manages to slay a star. But the woman? She, too, is dead, and he knows it. I know it.
Information floods my brain. By this point, we already knew it was pointless to try to remove the stars. The old men in the ivory towers, they told us it was hopeless. They told us they'd tried. Those lost couldn't be saved. Removing a star merely meant removing the one thing keeping the victims alive.
The man silently cries as he walks down to the basement. The woman follows just behind, and I remain at her back, trapped in a chair with no restraints. No more stars fall from the sky. The monster is gone, scared away by God-knows-what.
When I reach the man, he is holding a shotgun. I try to speak again, to say his name, to say her name, but I can't. I'm not in control.
The man raises the gun, and although I can't hear him, I know what he says. He tells the woman he loves her. He tells her how thankful he is to have been raised by her. He tells her dad is waiting.
Finally, one word breaks through the spell: "Mom."
Bang. Green blood mixes with red, and I remember. I am the man, holding his mother's corpse. I am trapped in a leather seat, half of what God intended. I am crippled, lost, and weak, but I swear I am not beaten.
The image fades in my blue tears as they fall into the blood, and the scene changes again. I am still in the chair, and yet I am standing. I know this is real, but it's a memory, and yet it's new; it's fake.
I look down at my parents' graves, and begin to tear through the reburied ground with a knife. It doesn't take long. I stand up, and I pray, and I cry, but I am not beaten. A ragged dirt shield of my creation stares back at me, its message clear. The 'S' means only one thing.
Hope.
…
Clark awoke into a world of color, his face wet. He wiped his eyes, and felt a pounding ache in his left arm. The wound, he realized, should have hurt more. Freshly wrapped bandages didn't kick-start the healing process in such a timely manner.
As if sent to answer his question, an all too recognizable voice said, "They used this crazy machine to open up your arm and fix it all up. Then, they dosed you up on some pain meds and a super healing steroid or something, and left you to sleep. Said it'll all be healed in a few weeks if you don't strain it."
Clark looked over at his longtime friend and confidant, Jimmy Olsen, who was sitting on a lawn chair at the edge of the small, dimly lit room.
"Billionaires, amirite?" Jimmy remarked, smirking.
Forcing himself up, much to Jimmy's dismay, Clark looked around the room. While it had spots of color, it was rather plain like a barrack.
"We're just outside the grounds," Jimmy explained, reluctantly motioning Clark through the door. "Listen, Clark, you've only been out a few hours. You should probably keep resting."
But Clark wouldn't have it, and he passed Jimmy by, exiting through the doorway. Jimmy quickly followed just behind.
The two were met by a long hallway. Clark looked both ways, each side ended by a door that led to stairway. The one on the left glinted with light, and looked to open up outside. The one on the right was impossible to see out of; Clark figured it led down below. So, he turned left.
"Uh, Clark, I think we should go this way. Wayne'll want to see you, and he's not the type of guy I'd keep waiting," Jimmy pointed back but followed Clark nonetheless.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy, but I…I need a breath of fresh air," Clark half-lied. He also wasn't intent on throwing himself back into the world of the rebellion just yet.
The sunlight bit into Clark's eyes as he exited the stairwell. The door, lying horizontally on the ground, looked like a bomb shelter, and upon looking around, Clark realized they were in the middle of the woods a couple miles outside of Gotham City, which gleamed in the distance. He turned back, and saw what remained of a once-great mansion: ash.
"If you didn't believe he was Bruce Wayne already…" Jimmy muttered, looking at the black-sodden ground.
Clark stepped forward, and—
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
Jimmy yelped as he and Clark swiveled around to discover Bruce Wayne standing just outside the bomb shelter, looking grimly past them at the grounds. His dark blue eyes moved to meet Clark's gaze.
"It doesn't matter if you're made of brick or bone, everything ends the same way—as dirt in the ground, insignificant," Bruce said.
Clark cocked an eyebrow. "And you're leading a rebellion?"
Bruce looked back at the city. "The beginning and the end don't matter. It's what happens between the two that counts." He glanced snidely back at Clark. "Is that better?"
The bespectacled man shrugged. "I think it's a little more honest."
Bruce gave Clark one last dismissive look, then reentered the tunnel, saying, "If you're interested in publishing your article, then follow me."
Clark exchanged a brief excited glance with Jimmy, and then hurried after the dark-clothed man.
"I want to start by asking you the obvious question: how are you still alive?" Clark wondered.
"This isn't an interview, Kent," Bruce retorted, leading the two through the doorway at the end of the hall.
Clark slouched slightly, disappointed, but his expression quickly changed when he made his way down the first flight of stairs and saw what awaited them down below. Bruce had outfitted an entire cave with computer monitors and different stations, including one which Clark noticed looked like an infirmary. Different vehicles were parked in a garage that led to a sealed exit, and a single trophy case stood at the edge of the cave to the right of a locker area.
"That was my reaction," Jimmy mused, glancing at Clark, who stared open-mouthed at the impressive set up.
After Bruce motioned them further downward, they walked the rest of the way without speaking, leaving the two to look at everything they could. Even to Jimmy, who had already seen the cave, it was still awe-inspiring.
At the bottom of the steps, the trio were met a tall, dark-haired young man, who was holding a digital tablet in his hand. He was as handsome—if not moreso—than Bruce, and he looked as if he could be his cousin. However, while the onetime billionaire always sported a scowl, the new arrival's smile couldn't have been brighter.
"Kent, this is my lieutenant, Dick Grayson," Bruce explained, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Pleasure to meet you," Dick said, extending his hand.
Clark shook it, and was unsurprised to discover the young man had a firm grip. "Pleasure's all mine," he said, smiling back.
"Bruce is the type of guy that prefers being water boarded to everyday human interaction, so I'll be happy to take over the tour from here," Dick joked, motioning away.
Wayne's scowl deepened, but he waved the others off. Clark and Jimmy happily followed Dick, despite their desire to learn a little more about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. As it turned out, Dick had, at least, some answers, but first came introductions.
"The two kids sparring over there are Duke and Harper. Think of them as our interns," Dick explained, pointing over at a fit black teen in a red tank and a white girl who seemed to treat punk rock like a religion.
"The lovely ladies overseeing their training are Cassandra and Stephanie. I'd avoid serious conversations with Cass; she talks even less than Bruce," Dick continued, as two girls in their late teens waved back at them.
Clark recognized them as two of the kids who had helped save his life. The perky blonde, Stephanie, was the one who'd patched up his arm. Cass, a petite Asian girl, had helped Bruce toss him onto the Queen's Gambit.
Speaking of, the speedboat was parked in a dock beside the garage. Sitting casually atop an enormous vehicle shrouded underneath black cloth was the last of Clark's saviors, a boy with hair brighter red than Jimmy's, who couldn't have been much younger than Dick. Lighting a cigarette, the boy looked up and smirked.
"And that's…" Dick began, frowning, but the young man was already approaching them, extending his hand in greeting.
"I'm Jason," the young man said, shaking Clark's hand.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Jason—" Dick growled, ripping the cigarette from his mouth.
"—don't smoke?" Jason finished. "Give me a break."
"If Bruce caught you…"
"You ever think maybe I do this to get a rise out of the old man? Christ, it's not like I'm stupid. It just gets fucking boring around here," Jason grumbled. The two were nearly touching noses at this point.
"Stop acting like a child!"
"Stop being such a little suck up!"
"You're 21, not thirteen—"
"Yeah, and what's age matter in all this bullshit?!" Jason backed up, and motioned to the sparring teens. Dick's face fell, so he continued, recognizing he was winning the argument, "How old were you when he brought you in, again? Fourteen?" Jason looked at Clark and Jimmy. "Me, I was thirteen. Thirteen fucking years old," he turned back to Dick, "and you're talking about children? What the hell are 'children?' I think the word you're looking for is soldier."
With that, Jason stomped off, back up the stairs.
Dick sighed and looked at the reporter duo, "I'm sorry about that. Jason's…he gets restless. Bruce hasn't let him out in days."
'Let him out? Like a dog?' Clark thought, frowning.
"Anyway, there's another person you'll want to meet, but first, I might as well answer any questions you have," Dick said.
"What the hell is going on?" Jimmy blurted.
Dick smirked, paused for a moment to think, and then said, "You ever followed Bruce's story?"
Clark shook his head. He knew the billionaire was an orphan, and had gone missing after one of Starro's burning tentacles crushed his mansion and set it on fire, but that was all. Jimmy, on the other hand, seemed to be an expert.
"Orphaned at the age of eight, he is—or was, before Luthor bought it—the heir to Wayne Enterprises. After his sixteenth birthday, Bruce travelled overseas and disappeared for twelve years. For a long time, people assumed he was dead," Jimmy excitedly said, before adding with a blush, "My parents, er, knew his parents really well. Trust fund buddies, or something like that."
Dick offered a smile that seemed to ease Jimmy's embarrassment, and said, "Bruce suddenly appeared again on his twenty-eighth birthday. He came back a bumbling drunken playboy, and died just that. But that's where the story rings false," Dick began, passing the med bay, "Bruce had spent the previous twelve years training and studying all across the world, learning the sort of things that might tip off others to your intention to fight crime."
"He was a vigilante?" Clark realized.
"That's awesome!" Jimmy exclaimed.
"He tried to be," Dick admitted, pointing back at what Clark could now tell was an armored costume in the trophy case. "But Gotham didn't need him anymore. Luthor had already cleaned up most of the city, and quickly bought out his company. When Starro arrived about a year later, Bruce used his resources to fight it, but to no avail. He gave up his crusade…until he caught wind of Luthor's schemes."
"Gotham City is touted as the only crime-free city on the planet, but that's a lie. The city's just got a new brand of criminal. LexGuard troops rape and rob, Luthor's appointed officials brutalize the poor, and the outright homeless are offed. Tensions are running high like never before. All it'll take to rip up the foundation of corruption is one well written slam piece, a few choice pictures, and a video."
Clark nodded knowingly. "Our article."
"That brings us to the last introduction…" Dick led them toward the enormous computer console at the back of the cave.
On their way there, Clark noticed Winn sitting on a stool beside a shrouded figure in a larger chair. The young techie said something, and a youthful voice boomed with laughter. Winn joined in, and upon catching his breath, noticed Clark and Jimmy.
"Hey, guys, you've gotta meet Tim—" Winn began.
Dick finished, "He's our resident geek."
The chair swiveled around, revealing a thin boy in his late teens. Most of Tim's appearance matched Bruce and Dick's—did the gruff ex-billionaire look for that in boys, Clark wondered—and the trio could have been a videogame's options for small, medium and large builds of the same character. Tim, however, had one notable difference. He had a long scar under his left eye.
"Nice to meet you," Jimmy said, shaking his hand.
"Likewise," Tim replied, now moving onto Clark.
"Guys, you're not gonna believe our luck…" Winn was practically seething with excitement. "Tim is Redbird."
Both men resisted the urge to scream, "What?" Instead, Clark optioned for, "Can you publish our article?"
"You have no qualms, then?" came Bruce's voice, just behind them.
"Jesus Christ, man, you have to stop doing that!" Jimmy stammered, after recoiling in shock.
Bruce looked at Clark. The reporter frowned, picking up on something that the others weren't.
"You're fine with us only publishing it in Gotham?" Bruce clarified.
Rage bubbled up inside Clark, and he stopped himself from screaming. He looked back at Winn, who appeared as surprised as he was. In fact, the techie quickly turned to his new friend with a look of betrayal.
"What's he talking about?" Winn pushed.
Tim's face glowed with embarrassment. He glanced away, and scratched the end of his nose.
"I…I lied to you guys. I can't publish the article nationwide. It would take too long, and Luthor would find us," Tim ashamedly explained. He looked up, only to meet Bruce's disappointed gaze.
"You lied to them?" he growled.
Anger replaced embarrassment, and Tim said, "Who do you think taught me to do whatever was necessary to get the job done?"
Bruce scowled, and looked away. Clark massaged his temples and glanced between his friends. Tim struggled to find the right words to apologize with. Dick merely looked out of place.
"You have to publish it anyway," Bruce demanded. "Imagine the good you'll do for Gotham."
Clark looked up into Bruce's eyes, matching his ferocity, "'Have to?' We don't have to do anything. It's our article. No, you want to talk about necessities, someone, somewhere is going to have to put their life on the line to stop Luthor, and right now you're willing to risk ten years of work to save your own hide."
"It's not a matter of self-preservation. Gotham is my priority. If we lose our resources, if we are forced to run, if we die, then there is no guarantee Gotham will be saved!" Bruce growled.
"So you're not a coward; you're selfish!" Clark shouted. By now, all eyes in the cave were on the two of them.
"Step off your soapbox! If you had the chance to save your little hometown, you'd drop everything to do it," Bruce spat. Clark froze for a second. "Yes, I know everything about you, Clark. I know who you lost, I know what you lost, and I know the secrets you won't even tell them!" Bruce roared, pointing toward Jimmy and Winn.
"Be the selfless man you pretend to be. Take a risk. Win an enormous victory for the rebellion, and set. Gotham. Free," Bruce finished.
Clark stepped back, gazing at the ground. He couldn't help it; he saw his parent's grave. The 'S.' He remembered the promise he made them.
'I won't give up, no matter the odds. I will not take a life, but I will do everything else in my power to make a difference. I won't be selfish…not anymore.'
Clark looked up at Jimmy. "Give him the flashdrive."
The ginger stammered, "B-but—"
"Jimmy," Clark pushed.
Bruce's expression softened, and his eyes glimmered ever slightly as Jimmy opened up the back of his camera and removed a flashdrive from it. The red-haired young man reluctantly handed it to Tim, who seemed just as doubtful in taking it.
"Once I publish this article, Lex's digital enforcement division will eliminate every trace of it in just under two hours. From then on, any time it's published, they'll immediately identify its digital signature and wipe it out like a virus. You'll never be able to publish it anywhere else again," Tim warned.
"We know," Clark sighed and said, "Do it."
Minutes later, at 6:42 am, the deed was done. Now, they just had to wait.
So, Clark returned to his room, alone, sat down in bed, and did all he could: he hoped for the best.
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