Norman Osborne pushed the brown paper envelope across to J Jonah Jameson. "With the grateful thanks of the Daily Bugle's Parent Company." He kicked back in his swing chair, as the reporter pulled the packet to himself, and pushed a untidy file back.
"Just act surprised." Osborne added. "When George Taylor calls you to confirm your appointment as City Editor at the Bugle." Norman looked out across the Chicago city scape, dominated as it was by the Wayne Towers building - the competition. From the more modest Central United States Offices of Luthor Corp, the young executive continued. "With work like this Jameson you'll soon be gunning for Taylor's job."
Jameson tucked the envelope containing his bonus into his pocket. Osborne tapped the file he had received. "According to legal there's nothing here we can publish yet, but it's all useful for, err, in house reference on the competition."
"Whatever you say." Jameson growled he couldn't help feel he was being bought. At least I get to go back to the Big Apple, he sniffed, thinking he'd had enough of the Windy City.
If that meant selling his dossier on the Waynes, so be it.
"Maybe we can have lunch in New York." Osborne stated. "We could call it an interview."
"Sure thing." Jameson replied in a dead pan voice.
He stood, ready to take his leave. There was something off about Osborne, what was the scuttlebutt from within the Bugle's parent company - Luthor Corp? Jameson reflected on the chatter, thinking about Osborne's nickname among middle management. He smiled but at the same time suddenly felt cold. Perhaps he should have been looking closer to home.
Still that was where he was going, following his heart, and there was always another time.
"I'm heading out East tonight." Osborne added. He smiled, proud of himself. Jameson's reporters instinct told him something important but as yet unspoken was going on here.
"If you hear anything way out – like the other night, the Wayne robbery" he tapped the file again, to emphasize his point, "I mean, anything well, 'Arthur C Clarke's Mysterious World' strange – I'd like to hear about it."
"Seriously?" Jameson picked up his coat, draped it over his arm.
"Yeah." Osborne chuckled. "Indulge me Jonah, I can't get enough of that kind of thing."
The truck's cabin was warm and dry. James Logan drove. The radio played happy music, the heater was turned up high. Air whistled through the partially open side window as the smoke from uncle Jimmy's cigar was pulled outside; inside the dashboard lights painted coloured reflections on the glass. Kent watched the stars, and the sparse oncoming traffic, it was in the middle of the night. His uncle by choice had become a truck driver, and James' hair and whiskers needed no encouragement to become character specific, growing wild overnight as the eighteen wheeler rumbled along the interstate. The painted side logos of the big rig read Murdoch Pharmaceuticals. The trailer was packed with over the counter medicines, delivery was for up state New York.
Back in Chicago Thomas Wayne had seen that an agency driver called James Logan had been assigned the job of taking this truck to the New York depo.
"You'll be Logan's son." Wayne had told him. "Just along for the ride.
He tried out his new name for size. "Logan, Kent Logan."
"Don't wear it out." James growled over the sound of Soul Asylum's Runaway Train.
The tune was oddly apt for them, riding on their own run away road train headed for a secret rendezvous outside of New York.
"Westchester." Logan had told him their ultimate destination.
Kent looked at his documents; paperwork to back up their identities. Alfred had seen to this; obtaining a package that included birth certificates, school records for him, and a driving license and passports for them both.
"I've even got me a savings account." Logan had laughed at that. Thomas Wayne had seen fit to ensure they had enough liquid funds. All part of his thank you.
Kent looked out into the black of night, he thought of Bruce, and tried to imagine how the world would look for him, for even in low light Kent Logan could see far and beyond human norms.
Time past, the radio began to play "I will always love you" by Whitney Houston, but Logan's meaty finger stabbed the next pre-set before she had a chance to sing.
The oldies station seemed to improve Logan's mood, and later he even began tapping the steering wheel along to an old Bowie track, the Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud. Outside the dawn broke, and their twelve hour road time trek came close to it's journey's end. Yonkers Westchester County New York.
The depot was a grey collection of warehouse buildings, framed by the grey morning, differentiated only by number. Logan reversed the rig to the appropriate loading bay, and killed the engine.
Kent thought of Bruce. He remembered that other loading bay, and warehousing, how the stray bullet had struck the oil drum. The spurt of bright green liquid. He remembered how it had smelled, acrid and corrosive, how the stench had hurt his nose – and how odd this had felt.
Afterwards in the car Logan had smelled blood; Kents nose bleed. James had given him a borrowed handkerchief, provided by Alfred. Logan had returned this bloodied cloth saying to Pennyworth. "Should prove interesting to Doctor Wayne."
It had, another recollection that made Kent frown as they left the warmth of truck cab. Logan's 'job' finished, they left the rig with little more than the clothes they wore. A hire car was waiting for them outside the office, and in short time they were on the road once more.
Their destination, route committed to memory, was a county estate owned by a man who went by the name of Charles Xavier.
Clearing Yonkers early enough to beat the morning traffic, their route took them away from the urban sprawl of New York. The rural roads were less busy still. Kent was reminded of home, the farm, it seemed a lifetime ago, so many lessons learned, so many hardships, so much lost. As he remembered Jonathan Kent, his Pa, Kent Logan learned another lesson. Always thoroughly inspect everything and everyone with every sense at your disposal. In this case the hire car.
The explosive device was concealed close to the gas tank, hermetically sealed so no scent might escape, cleverly enough to be overlooked, even by a casual inspection by a child with x-ray like vision. Camouflaged as part of the fuel pump the part had been swapped out before James and Kent Logan had picked up the car. Kent saw the flash as the detonator exploded, he was already moving as the main charge exploded, but his body wasn't as fast as his senses. The secondary explosion was enough to tear up the rear of the car, turning torn metal into shrapnel, while igniting the fuel tank sending an explosive wave or burning gasoline roaring through what remained of the automobile. It punched Kent out of his seat, burning he fell through the air before slamming like a wrecking ball into the roadside. Dizzy Kent staggered to his feet. His ears were ringing, no he corrected himself it was another sound, one he remembered from long ago, or it seemed to him, the sound of helicopters. Kent sprang from the undergrowth, from the sparse trees that lined the road side to the almost unrecognisable remains of the car. He saw Logan, cast out to one side, and he wasn't in any better shape. By rights he shouldn't be alive, his legs were mostly gone, his arms so much burned meat, his body stripped of flesh to the ribs, that poked through the charcoal black burned flesh.
Kent knelt by his side, nearly naked himself, his clothes burned from him in the blast.
"Go." Logan gasped.
Kent saw his lungs and heart had already returned themselves to something that was just barely alive, his incredible biology was rebuilding him as lay on the road.
"Now!" Logan whispered between his teeth from a lipless mouth.
"I can carry you." Kent replied.
It was then he heard the missile, and Kent realised the laser targeting had him tagged.
"Run." Logan begged, convulsing.
Kent saw the black helicopters closing, the missile was fractions of a second away, he hesitated for a fraction more, realising he had no choice, Kent ran, but the missile followed. He ran faster than he had ever done before, but it still closed.
Stupid, he thought, to himself, as he kicked vertical in a massive leap, the missile sped beneath him slamming into the roadside as the highway curved away to the right. Kent descended, determined to return to Logan, but his plan was dashed as the two black helicopters launched a salvo of missiles in his direction, each targeting him.
Kent formed a plan on the fly, and putting his training to use he ran, leading the attack aircraft away from Logan. "Heal uncle Jimmy," He whispered a prayer of sorts. "Heal." As he sped away seeking the cover. Thinking I'll lose them in the trees.
The two black helo's duly followed.
Kent ran on, he was so intent on the armed threat following him, that he shut out other noises.
He was oblivious to the third civilian chopper that landed on the road, just clear of the blast site.
Kent ran on. Missiles exploding behind him.
Logan trained him well, with his speed and his smarts, he lost his pursuers. Locating a hollow in the earth, hiding there, dug in deep, the ground masking his heat signature, the boy waited until the near silent thrub of their stealth rotors vanished. It took a long time.
Hours later Kent returned to observe the location where the car bomb had detonated. He chose to keep his distance, relying on his exceptional vision, but from his concealed location, concealed by the undergrowth, he saw nothing.
No blasted burned out car, no debris, and no sign of James Logan either, even the pavement had been cleaned. Kent dare not reveal himself, as he was sure someone would be watching.
Still he looked for a sign, something scratched in the dirt, on the trunk of tree, carved with a bone claw, a pointer, but there was nothing to be found. In the dark of that night, Kent Logan realised he was alone.