World's Finest

December 3, 1939

It was a peculiar sensation every time Clark returned to Smallville. In Metropolis, there were so many different sights and sounds competing for his attention that the trouble became not what he could sense, but what he needed to sense. Out here, on the plains, it was different. He could hear everything. See everything. The entire town and the better part of the brought him home as much as the actual act of returning. The whine of the horses as they were brought in to the stables, the low rumble of a tractor on a distant farm, its owner wrapping up work. The wind weaving through the wheat and corn.

"You gonna stand out there all evening?" said Pa.

"Just enjoying the atmosphere."

"Take your time. But help your mother set the table when you get a chance."

"Yes, sir."

Clark helped finish up the preparations for dinner with his Ma. He made an effort to visit them at least once a month, let them know how life in the big city was treating him. He knew they listened closely to radio reports of Superman and he spied more than once newspaper clipping with Clark Kent as the author.

"You help out the Crawfords?" said Pa.

"I did. Got their tractor out of the ditch," said Clark.

"And.." said Pa.

"And the Marshall's bull. And I helped with Mr. Jezowski's barn."

"I don't know why you even need to ask Jon. You know he'll get it done," said Ma.

"Just holding him accountable, Martha. Wouldn't want Mr. City Slicker to forget how to work on a farm," said Pa, with a wink to Clark.

For the families that lived closest to the Kents, Clark's abilities were something of an open secret. It was hard to hide the boy who ran faster than the wind, the one that could find any lost animal or child within minutes, the one that leaped over many a grain silo.

There was no other choice, especially not during the earlier years of the 30's. The Depression claimed nearly a quarter of the town, with the banks repossessing farms. Clark still recalled old neighbors as they loaded up all the worldly possessions they had left, the shreds of their dignity and leaving town for whatever prospects remained. Many of those farms lay abandoned still, relics to the collapse.

Then the Dustbowl hit, as the soil was kicked up into massive dust clouds that roamed across the state. Smallville did better than many parts of Kansas, but Clark remembered hunkering down in their home, watching as the leviathans of dirt swallowed Smallville. These hardships were part of why Clark didn't leave home for so long. He couldn't bear the thought of abandoning his parents or his neighbors in what was their darkest hour. Being here now, sitting at this table taking to his parents, with a similar ritual unfolding all throughout Smallville was a triumph. They had survived the bottom. Whether or not they would ever reach the peak mattered little compared to the fact that they walked onward.

Their conversation meandered through the usual topics. Life in Smallville. How Clark's time in Metropolis was going. Work at the Daily Planet. Ma was particularly interested in more information on Lois Lane, a subject that made his cheeks flush. At last they arrived at Superman.

"You've been tussling with more of these costumed folks as of late. What was the name of that last one? We heard it on the radio Martha. It was… the Bullet-somethings…"

"Bulleteers dear," said Ma. "The names they give these people," she said shaking her head.

"Ah that's the one. And the lady with the bull whip and the claws. And the fella with those giant pies."

"The Blonde Tigress and the Prankster," said Clark.

"They keep you busy don't they?"

"They put on a spectacle that's for sure," said Ma.

"Honestly they're only a small part of what I've been up to as Superman. Most of the people I help are in more mundane accidents. Car crashes. Factory accidents. Cats up trees.

The only one that's given me any real trouble is Luthor."

"Figures that that snake only got worse in Metropolis," said Pa. "His father wasn't much better. Least not at the end. I know you've heard this…"

Clark had, but he knew better than to interrupt.

"..when Lionel Luthor rolled into town, we thought it was a boon. Had all them boys working on his lab out by the Watford Creek. His wife was real kind too."

"Lovely woman," said Ma. "His daughter was pleasant as well, even after the rest of it turned."

"I didn't know Luthor had a sister," said Clark.

"Lena was her name. I can't speak on what she's up to these days. Or if she's still with us. Always was a sickly girl," said Ma.

"I'd blame Lionel's turn on when his wife died, but as I recall he got nasty even before then. He let loose on Owen Mosley back in 11'. Never heard anything else nice about him past that till he up and croaked."

"Unfortunately, that mean streak made its way to his son. Though he does a better job hiding it," said Clark. "Half the problems I've found in Metropolis, I can trace back to Luthor. Not in any way that would hold up in a court."

"Keep at it, Clark. You're no quitter," said Pa.

"Besides, we hear you've been helping all over the place," said Ma. "Those fires out in Oregon woulda been worse if you hadn't flown in."

"That earthquake down in Chile. The flooding in Louisiana and Mississippi," said Pa.

"I may be American, but I figure Superman should help wherever he can," said Clark.

"That's our boy," said Pa.

Ma began to clean up their plates. Clark got up to help her. He noted a shared look between the two that motioned at some unspoken worry. It reminded him of all the times in his childhood a new ability made its first appearance.

"Clark," said Ma, tentatively, "What are your thoughts on the war?"

Pa looked solemn.

"It's awful. A waste of life, like all wars. Why?"

"Well son, we were worried that you might try and get involved in it," said Pa.

That gave Clark pause. This was a subject that had been rolling around in his mind for quite some time at this point, the kind of thorny issue that kept him awake at night. On the nights where he permitted himself sleep.

"I haven't decided," said Clark.

"So you have given it some thought," said Ma.

"There's no easy answer. The Nazis are evil, that's for sure. Their allies are oppressing people as well. But, I don't know if it's my place to enforce my will on everyone else. To take away their choices. If I could just fly into Berlin, punch Hitler and win the war, I might, but I know it's not that simple."

"It never is," said Pa.

"Clark, we're not trying to sway you one way or another. We know you'll do what you think is right. But, a mother never wants to see her son go to war. Even if it's to end one," said Ma.

"Well, anyway enough of that for now," said Pa. "Let's enjoy the visit. Leave the world alone for a while."

They sat in silence for a while after that, save for the clinking of the dishes as they washed them. Eventually, they ended up back on the porch, Pa with a bottle of beer in his hand, Ma with her novel, as they enjoyed the night air. It was one of those perfect nights, the kind that you wished could be captured in crystalline perfection, preserved for all time.

December 6, 1939

It wasn't the first time Bruce had been to Metropolis, but truth be told, he found the city nauseating in a way that tested his will to travel there. It was so much brighter than Gotham at night that it may as well have been day. The buildings were further apart, enough so that he had to be especially careful with his grappling hooks. It made him feel out of place in a profoundly uncomfortable fashion. He wasn't here for pleasure.

There was a killer, one that had slunk away from Gotham when the pressure grew too much, to seek greener pastures in Metropolis. Basil Karlo. An actor. One who's star faded in recent years, a slow fall from the heights of his work in the movie "The Terror." Rather than settling for the more traditional ending of obscurity and hard drinking, Karlo had picked up a knife and become a murderer. Of his former cast mates in particular. Claudette Hopkins and Milton Huff had been killed in Gotham. His attempt on Arthur Wallace was interrupted.

This was why Batman was perched on a narrow ledge, too smooth for his taste, that overlooked the glitzy hotel where Norma Cooper was residing. She was currently entertaining a handful of guests in her suite. He had been in Metropolis for three days, the net growing tighter around Karlo with every passing hour. He knew the man would only end up here.

A few hours on, when the drinks had been drunk and the lights were out, Batman noticed a short flash of light through the window. A door being opened and shut in quick succession. His cue. He had preemptively jimmied the window open, in anticipation of this moment.

The door to the bedroom was ajar. Batman entered quickly, his suspicions credible. Hunched over the bed was Karlo, draped in a dark purple suit, with a wide brimmed hat cloaking his face in shadows. He held a knife to the throat of Norma's sleeping body.

A batarang struck Karlo's wrist, followed up by a lunging strike from Batman. They bashed into the wall beside her bed, the impact toppling a lamp. Norma confirmed her awakening with a scream.

"Get out of here," said Batman, amidst the scuffle.

Karlo wasn't a skilled fighter, but he was difficult to get a grip on. It was like wrestling with a mudpit. The man resisted all attempts to pin him. Batman found himself on the defensive, as the knife waved through the air in a frantic fashion.

Norma heeded his command and ran for the door. Karlo slipped free of Batman, his commitment to the hunt unwavering. Batman threw out a cable, to hook his legs. It wrapped around an ankle, but with a quick twist, Karlo's leg slid out of the binding.

Karlo caught up with Norma at the door, his hand clasping her neck from behind, the knife raised. Batman slammed into both of them, not a graceful maneuver, but a necessary one. The three of them tumbled out of the hotel room and into the hallway. He grappled with Karlo on the ground, as Norma cried for help. In the well-lit halls, Batman noticed that Karlo's face was off. It had a slippery, melting aspect to it, his nose appearing to collapse and reform over and over, his brow drooping over crazed eyes.

Other guests peeked out of their rooms, expecting to see a domestic spat or drunken brawling. Many retreated back into their suites upon recognition of the reality of the fight, while others fled down the hall. A few good Samaritans aided Norma's flight from them.

Karlo got out from under Batman, joining the throng of people fleeing. He could tell that enough of the guests were confused about who the aggressor was that Karlo could take advantage of the confusion. All that was left to do was to follow him.

The chase emptied into the lobby, where the flood of people inspired a full blown panic. Batman burst out of the stairwell to the second floor spacious area, adorned with glittering light fixtures and elegant columns. There was an absurdity to the refined manner of the hotel and the madness that seized its inhabitants. He spied Norma on the ground floor of it, in the midst of the crowd, near the doors.

A flicker of purple across the room gave away Karlo as Batman noticed the pistol in his hands. He sprinted towards him, batarang at the ready.

"Not as personal, but what's a man to do," Karl muttered.

The batarang threw off Karlo's aim, as a pane of glass exploded below. If anyone in the lobby wasn't already hiding or fleeing, they were now.

A disturbing spectacle unfolded before Batman. The batarang, which had wedged in his forearm drew no blood. It slid down the arm, clattering on the floor below. Karlo's body appeared to wrap in on itself, the colors turning an understated brown, before they materialized once again in a familiar grey and black pattern. The ears of the cowl weren't quite right and the cape stuck to his body, but Karlo was now a funhouse mirror version of Batman.

His doppelganger turned the gun on Batman, forcing him to take cover behind one of the columns. The crowd below now cried in fear of the false Batman. Bruce palmed a smoke pellet. He rolled it around the column. It popped into an inky cloud. Karlo was undaunted, perforating the haze with a few more shots.

Batman surged out of the smoke, his fist rocketing into Karlo's nose. He ignored the fact that he was essentially punching himself. The gun flew off the ledge, landing somewhere below. Batman laid on the pressure, granting Karlo no relief from his attacks. The man could not get in his own strikes, but he was a hardy opponent, taking the hits with aplomb.

Karlo ended up leaned over the railing above the lobby, his Batman form looser by the second, like wax dribbling off a spent candle. Batman pressed on to finish up. His foe threw his weight backwards, falling to the lobby below. He struck the ground without much impact, like a glob of paint. Before Batman could follow him down, Karlo had melded into the crowd.

Batman was taking his first step out the lobby doors, when a gust of wind forced him back into the hotel. A firm hand was on his shoulder before he could react. A wall of red, blue and yellow blocked his path.

"Hold a moment. You've got some explaining to do," said Superman.

"We don't have time for this. He's going to get away," said Batman. He didn't make a real attempt at breaking free of Superman's grip. Even such a light suggestion of strength made it clear he could not.

"Who?"

"Basil Karlo. The killer I'm here for," said Batman. "He's after a woman in that crowd. Norma May, the actress." He gave a brief description of her.

"Wait here, I'll make sure she's safe."

In the blink of an eye, Superman was gone. There was no point in sticking around. Karlo was gone. If he could change his appearance that easily, then tracking him down would be even more difficult. Batman left the lobby, returning to the skyline to regroup.

Superman caught up with Batman two blocks from the hotel. He had found Norma and flown her to a police station, where they assured him she would be protected. Then Clark made sure that the people in the crowd were safe, before surveying the hotel a couple more times to confirm it was clear of this Karlo fellow.

"I didn't see this killer of yours," said Superman. He floated alongside Batman, who had been poised to throw another grappling line.

"Maybe you didn't look hard enough," said Batman. The man sounded more annoyed than anything.

"Someone shouted that you had a gun. That and the gunshots are what brought me here," said Superman.

"I don't use firearms."

"Then tell me what happened."

Batman stayed quiet, his cloak covering his arms.

"This is my city. I'm sure you wouldn't be thrilled if I barged into Gotham and caused a mess," said Superman.

"There's a man named Basil Karlo. He was an actor. He's become a killer. I chased him here from Gotham."

"He was after Norma May."

"Yes. She was in a movie with him. Karlo's going after the old cast."

"Will he make another attempt on her?"

"Perhaps. Though it won't be easy. He may flee… Unless."

"Unless what?"

"Keep a watch over Norma. I have a lead I need to follow up with."

Batman prepped his grappling hook again, stepping up to the ledge. Superman moved to block him.

"Now wait a moment. I want us to be on the same page here."

"I'll contact you if I need help. You'd only slow me down."

The nerve of this guy. He hadn't been the most personable at their encounter at the World's Fair, but Clark realized that was only because they hadn't interacted much at all.

"Me slow you down? And what makes you think I'm letting you leave?"

"There's a fire in Park Ridge that needs your attention."

As soon as Batman said the words, the sirens and smell of smoke hit Superman. He clenched his jaw in annoyance.

"This isn't over," he said.

"Till next time," said Batman.

Superman used a burst of his x-ray vision to get a look beneath the mask. Lead plates in the cowl. How paranoid was this guy?

Batman sailed off the rooftop, swinging off into the night, as Superman sighed deeply, setting off to stop the fire.

December 8, 1939

It troubled Clark that he was unable to locate either the killer or Batman in the days since the incident at the hotel. There had been one sighting of the latter, but no tangible leads emerged. It fell upon Clark to figure out how to proceed.

Norma May remained safe under the care of the police, with Superman checking in periodically. The possibility that the killer could alter his appearance was concerning, but they screened guests carefully. Even with such abilities, it would be most difficult for Karlo to get in and out of the station undetected.

Clark switched his focus to tracking down Karlo. It was easy to find the lurid details of his crimes in Gotham, though the papers hadn't identified him as the man behind it yet. It took more digging to get an accurate accounting of the cast of "The Terror," the film that appeared to be at the crux of the murder spree. Claudette Hopkins and Milton Huff were dead. Arthur Wallace had survived, apparently leaving Gotham after the attempt. Norma was the only one that lived in Metropolis.

Would Karlo stay and try again? Or seek out the others, the ones that lived in more distant states? Carver Colman and Scott Graham were in California. Theresa Branch lived in Chicago now. Wait. Clark circled back to Graham and Branch, recalling a piece in the Daily Planet a week ago. There was a party being held on a boat on Hob's Bay. One that was being advertised as being a gathering of a number of socialites, industrialists and actors.

"You want to cover what, Kent?" asked Perry White, incredulous.

"The December Holiday Party on Hob's Bay."

"Who names these things?" More importantly, why do you want this assignment? This is Cat Grant's area."

"The truth is chief..."

"Don't call me that," said Perry, stubbing out his cigar.

"Sorry, uh, the truth is Mr. White, that I found a connection between a few of the people attending that party and the shooting at the hotel the other night."

"Is that so? There's something solid here. Not just another one of your hunches?"

"Solid as can be sir."

"You want to go under the guise of covering it for the social column to gain access to these people."

"That's the idea Mr White."

"Cat won't be thrilled, but I'll leave repairing that bridge up to you. Bring me something good Kent."

December 9, 1939

"Is that Bruce Wayne? In the flesh?"

"Guilty as charged," said Bruce.

"I didn't know you were coming," said Robert Queen. "If I had known you were, I would have made Moira come. She found you delightful at our last get-together."

"Looks like you're doing alright without her," said Bruce, noting the woman he had by his side. Robert feigned indignation, while she simply gave Bruce an impassive look.

"Oh come on Bruce. Merely making conversation. Have you met Dolores Winters? She's an actress."

"Haven't had the pleasure."

Dolores greeted him with that same lack of interest. The whole party appeared to bore her. Bruce wondered why she tolerated Robert. The man was a braggart, prone to bouts of machismo. It was a test of patience to be in his company.

"Besides, if I'm being honest, I doubt I could get Moira away from the little one," said Robert.

"Congratulations. I didn't know you had a…"

"A boy. Oliver. She's crazy about him."

He would never escape at this rate. Bruce made a show of being distracted by the passing of several women. An easy exit. Something Robert would buy.

"I'll have to hear more about him, but I need to circulate. You know how it is," said Bruce with a conspiratorial look.

"Say no more chap, say no more."

He pretended to follow the women, then passed into the crowd, moving with the subtle rhythm of the ship. It was a large vessel, but it was packed with people. A mix of artists, performers, the rich and their servants. They were drinking like it was going to get banned again. The lower decks held poker and roulette. It was fortunate that so many of those in attendance were rich, because many of them would be leaving it considerably lighter in cash. Queen wasn't the only familiar face. Glen Glenmorgan, Metropolis royalty, was present, with his three equally aloof children. Other than Lex Luthor, he was the most powerful man in the city. Roman Sionis of Gotham cackled with his sycophants. Priscilla Rich, a debutante from D.C., held a crowd of men at her command. Luthor had declined to attend, no doubt to spite the others.

Bruce ignored the gaggle of the rich and self-involved to focus on Scott Graham and Theresa Branch. It was their presence that made him attend. If Karlo were going after anyone in Metropolis, it would be these two.

The party goers drifted around at least as much as the boat they were on. Bruce followed the two in a lazy, circular fashion, careful to keep their whereabouts known. He casually deflected conversational attempts by the other attendees, playing at being a little tipsy and melancholic. The kind of indulgent ennui that characterized a certain branch of the rich and famous.

It was in these observations that he came to notice Branch and Graham were being watched by someone else, only not who he had expected. Sticking out from the crowd like a zebra at a derby was the bulky frame and boxy spectacles of Clark Kent. The reporter he met at the fair. Kent made the rounds through the socialites on board, no doubt getting his snippets of gossip for the Daily Planet. But, his attention always returned to the two actors. Why?

That question would have to wait. The pair of actors split from the party, slinking off into the side halls of the boat, where some of the guests would stay for the night, while the others departed. Bruce followed, cautious to remain out of sight.

Graham led Branch to one of the rooms. A private conversation? A romantic rendezvous? Bruce leaned by the door, listening in.

"What was so urgent Scott?" said Branch.

"You know why I'm doing this. One of us was a coincidence. But two? Plus that attempt on Norma. He's coming for us."

"Who?"

"Basil. You told me you got those letters from him, same as the rest of us."

"Writing an angry letter is one thing. Murder is a big leap."

"Clearly he's made it."

"Even if you're right, what do you propose we do about it?"

Bruce's eavesdropping was interrupted by the sound of footsteps along the corridor. He made some distance from the doorway, doing his best to look pleasantly drunk and lost.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Hmm, yes?"

"Are you alright?" said Clark Kent, adjusting his glasses, his notebook folded under his arm.

"Oh, I'm okay. Merely at the end of a few wrong turns."

"Appears we're in the same… boat. Uh. I mean predicament."

A bloodcurdling scream cut through their conversation, from the room Bruce had been propped against. Without delay, Kent ran to the door, Bruce following closely behind.

"Is everyone alright?" asked Kent.

Sounds of muffled struggle crept from the room. The two men shared a morbid look, before Kent shouldered the door open.

Scott Graham was on the ground, a knife being pressed towards his chest by a figure that was no longer quite Theresa Branch. Strands of putty flaked off of her form, like ribbons in the wind. Graham was pleading with her for mercy, not quite understanding the situation.

Clark took a quick inhale, rushing forwards and shouldering the not-Theresa off of her victim. The surprise and his size gave him all the success he needed, freeing Graham from the pinning. What had to be Karlo staggered to the side of the room, a grimace pouring off of his face. Bruce grabbed Graham, helping him towards the door.

"Not this time," said Karlo, backing up into the bathroom. Clark looked scared, but he did not budge until Bruce got Graham outside.

"Get help, Mr. Wayne. I'll do my best to keep him here."

"I think it may be too late for that last part," said Bruce. A glance into the bathroom confirmed that Karlo was gone. "Help me over here."

Kent relented, holding Graham alongside Bruce.

"What the hell was that?" said Bruce.

"It.. it had my friend's face. It.. he killed my friend. The bastard," said Graham. The man had nasty cuts along his forearms, defensive wounds from the struggle.

"We'll get you to safety," said Clark. "That thing can't have gotten far. It's still on the boat."

"Could look like any of us," said Bruce.

They flagged down a crew member, who assisted them in bringing Graham to their first aid station. A couple sailors offered to stay and keep watch. Bruce and Clark headed back to the main deck to warn everyone else.

As they walked along the railing on the upper deck, the boat shuddered as a deep boom rolled out from below the water. Water erupted upwards, as the craft lurched to one side. Bruce stumbled, catching himself on the railing. Clark hit it at a faster velocity, the impact sending him pinwheeling off the edge with a shout.

Bruce peered over the edge for his lost companion, but the man was nowhere to be seen in the churning water. The boat was already beginning to dip into the harbor, a hole surely punched somewhere below the waterline. He could hear the panicked shouts from the main deck, where crew members did their best to herd the concerned guests to the lifeboats.

Bruce ducked into a supply closet, ditching the suit for his costume, retrieving the cowl from a hidden pocket within. Karlo was behind the explosions. He would make another pass at Graham or else try to get away in the chaos.

He prowled the decks, away from the party goers, searching for any sign of the man. At the base of the ship, in hallways already besieged by a thin layer of water, Batman heard faint cries for help. They led him to the exterior of the engine room, where someone was pounding on the door. The heat was intense even in the hallway. Another bomb must've been planted here, to keep the ship dead in the water.

Batman removed the emergency axe that was wedged into the doorway, freeing a trio of crew mates who had rushed to see what they could salvage from the engine room.

The only place left to check was on the main deck, where the evacuation was taking place. Could he find Karlo in the crowd? Or would his presence inspire more fear?

Clark made a quick pass by the shoreline on Queensland Park, depositing his suit, before returning to the unfolding disaster aboard the river boat. He pulled a couple unlucky guests that had fallen into the water for real, then switched to dealing with the issue of the descending nature of the boat.

A short survey underwater came up with a hole punched through the starboard bow. His vision detected the remnants of TNT. The killer was well prepared for this attack.

Superman eased below the ship, taking its weight on his shoulders. He willed his body upwards, just enough that it was no longer sinking. The hole was too broad to be sealed with heat vision. With a scoop of his hand, he tossed a mighty splash of water at the hole. A cone of frosty breath poured from his lips, directed through his partially opened hand. It formed a plug in the hole, one that would hold up long enough to evacuate the passengers.

Content with his solution, Superman flew up to the main deck, to assist with loading the life boats. He arrived to the crowd of people, circled up in fear around Batman who was engaged in hand to hand combat with a crew member.

Superman stayed his hand on a hunch. Batman's fist drove into the crew member's jaw, sending brown flecks flying, as the man's face rearranged itself on the fly. The crew member ducked into the crowd, vanishing. Batman looked around frantically, as the other people huddle in fear of him.

A woman sprinted out from the group, knife in hand on his flank. Superman landed between them, putting out a palm that stopped the woman. Hissing with hatred she backed into the crowd.

"Karlo I presume," said Superman.

"He could be any of them," said Batman.

Superman swiveled, scanning the crowd of people. They were gradually ebbing towards the lifeboats in spite of the conflict at the center, but many were too fearful to move. Graham was being led to the boats, but at this rate Karlo was liable to make another assault on him.

"Is there anything that can identify him? Anything that stands out?" said Superman.

"Not that I can tell. He appears like anyone else on the surface."

"On the surface…"

Superman honed his hearing through the crowd, looking not for the presence of something, but instead its absence. A quick flash of x-ray vision confirmed it.

Heat vision lanced off into the mass of people. It hit its target, with brown, boiling globs splitting off from the body of a man in a dapper suit. Karlo cursed, snatching at a woman next to him. He pulled her against the railing, pressing his knife to her throat.

"Couldn't leave it be could you?" he said.

"Let her go. You've still got a chance.." said Superman.

"No use pretending. It's curtain call. For me. And this poor woman."

Superman could've acted, but he saw the batarang leaving Batman's hand. It flew past Karlo's head, appearing to miss, before arcing back, it's point burying itself in the man's hand. Whether or not such an act truly hurt Karlo anymore was unclear, but the surprise allowed Superman to rush him, separating him from his hostage.

Karlo hit the edge of the deck, plunging off the side. By the time Superman and Batman looked overboard, he had hit the water. All that was left of him was a murky splotch of brown and grey water where he impacted.

Batman stood on the edge of the dock, as he put his binoculars back into his belt. It was no use. Karlo was gone once again, lost to the waters of Hob's Bay.

Superman landed near him, his fingers massaging his neck as if it were sore.

"The last of the passengers are accounted for," said Superman.

"No Karlo?"

"No sign of him."

"If he survived we'll catch up with him."

"I certainly hope he survived. I don't kill."

"We have that in common," said Batman with a thin smile.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," said Superman.

"What for?"

"The rude welcome to Metropolis."

"I won't take it personally."

"Good. We did well together."

"I wouldn't get too used to it. This city is a bit much for me."

It was Superman's turn to smile.

"Still.." said Batman, "I can see the benefits to continued cooperation. When necessary."

"Agreed."

Batman detected an almost boyish optimism in Superman's affect. He admired the purity.

"Say, Batman, have you heard about the group that's being organized? The hero called Sandman was trying to find me for a while."

"I've kept tabs on it."

"Not committed though."

"I'm surprised you haven't agreed to join them," said Batman.

"I have a lot on my plate as is. I'd like to see what they can do on their own. Without my influence."

"We have something in common on that front."

Superman cocked his head, like he heard something.

"More work for me," he said, raising his arms to take flight.

"Before you go," said Batman, "there's another reason for us to remain in contact."

Superman tilted his head quizzically.

Batman palmed him a microfilm container.

"Take a look when you have a chance."

Superman nodded. He surged into the sky, off to handle the next crisis. Batman let himself fade into the Metropolis midnight.

Clark unlocked the door to his apartment. Between the river boat and various minor incidents, he hadn't had a chance to go home all night. He needed a change of clothes before he could head in to the Planet. Perry would be happy with the first hand reporting from the attack, though there was still the matter of follow-up interviews with some of the people involved.

He dropped off his grungy suit in his closet. As he changed clothes, something out of place caught his eye.

Resting on his pillow, almost politely, was a batarang.

Bruce eased his car into the front of the manor. He had considered having Alfred pick him up from the airport, but he decided the drive would be the perfect wind down from his trip.

Karlo being in the breeze wasn't ideal, but he had a feeling the man wouldn't be troubling anyone for some time. Plus, on an intelligence gathering level it had not been without its rewards.

He entered the manor, intent on collapsing in his bed for a considerable amount of time. The night's patrol might be abbreviated unless the signal went up. Bruce was mere feet away when Alfred's voice interceded.

"Master Bruce. A package has arrived."

"Thank you Alfred, but can it wait."

"I believe you may wish to see this."

Bruce went to his companion. The ribbon on the box was undone, though the lid was on.

"In the habit of opening my mail now, Alfred?"

"Until you develop the habit of actually reading it with any consistency, it falls to one of us to hold you accountable to the world at large."

Bruce took the box, sliding off the lid.

Inside sat the batarang. Engraved along the length:

Best regards, your friend from Metropolis.