Solitude
September 16, 1941
In spite of its name, there were smaller towns in America than Smallville, Kansas. Yet, Bruce Wayne felt that it was entirely fitting as he drove through the compact center, out into the farmlands that sprawled for miles. This was a far cry from the towers and alleyways of Gotham. A man could get lost in all this open space. This was a place of close community and long memories. It also happened to be the hometown of maybe the most powerful man alive.
When Clark asked him for a helping hand, Bruce considered taking the plane, but he settled on driving, even though it took him around two days. Alfred and Dick could manage back in Gotham. He had given the boy instructions to remain out of trouble, to wait for Bruce's return till he went out on patrol, instructions he was certain Dick would ignore. That was part of his role though. To have trust in Dick's abilities. In his sense.
As Bruce turned down the long driveway to the Kent farm, a flash of blue cut through the sky. Superman beating him to his destination in spite of a considerable head start. Bruce smiled. He wondered if Clark had tracked him over the drive, to time a simultaneous arrival. He waved to Clark, who stood on the porch of his childhood home.
"Did you have a pleasant trip?" said Clark, as Bruce got out of his car.
"Nice enough. Certainly long enough. Good opportunity to clear my head."
"You stop in the town proper?"
Bruce shook his head. "At the risk of sounding egotistical, I figured it was better to avoid the risk of anyone recognizing me. Gossip travels fast, even in Kansas."
They entered the home. It was strange, to recognize that the hero, the one that blocked bullets and flew through the sky, grew up within the walls of a humble farmhouse. The scent of cooked ham reached his nose. If seeing the home was one shock, meeting Clark's mother was another. She had thick glasses and greying brunette hair. Bruce guessed that they discovered Clark slightly later in life than the average couple had children.
"Please have a seat Mr. Wayne. The food will be ready in just a moment. Jonathan wanted to be here to greet you, but one of the neighbors needed his help getting a few of his cattle back to the barn."
"I could've helped with that," said Clark.
"You know how he is."
Bruce followed her instructions. "Thank you for the hospitality Mrs. Kent. And please, it's Bruce."
There was something so welcoming, so trusting about this place that it eased any lingering concerns Bruce possessed about this whole endeavor. A year ago he never would have come here, risked his identity, his mission for someone else.
"I hear you're a work colleague of my son."
"Yes ma'am. That's one way to describe it."
Martha Kent served their food, while Clark peered out the window.
"I hope you don't mind. Clark didn't tell us your name till you agreed to come and help him out."
"Not at all."
"Pa's back," said Clark, followed by the low din of a truck's engine coming to a halt.
Jonathan Kent swung open the front door. He showed his age more than his wife, his hair stark grey. Bruce introduced himself.
Jonathan Kent joined them at the table. "You know I remember seeing the Waynes once. I was in Keystone, visiting a friend. There was some big showcase, for the auto manufacturers. Thomas Wayne was there for some reason. And his wife."
"Martha," said Bruce.
"Well ain't that funny."
Bruce had never heard about the trip to Keystone. There was a whole gulf of their lives only found in faded memories, stories from Alfred and their contemporaries, the few journals and diaries that remained. Every year they became more and more like an impression. The Kents, sensing that something was amiss, turned the conversation to other matters. Bruce played his part admirably, but he let his mind drift, back to Gotham and those headstones.
After helping them clean up, Clark led him out to the barn. Inside, under a false floor, was a rocket ship. Bruce had seen countless strange sights over his time as Batman. Clark himself was a reminder that there were things beyond human experience in this world. The rocket was an unprecedented escalation of that concept. As Clark showed him the projected images, the holograms of his other parents, the ones that spoke of things like Krypton and escape, Bruce was forced to reckon with the fact that he was truly viewing something alien. Confirmation that they were not alone in the universe.
The recording ceased, more of a sudden halt than a natural break. "There's something wrong with it. It was damaged in the crash. Pa and I have tried to tinker with it over the years. Even considered bringing in an expert, but…well, you can imagine the risk," said Clark.
This was why Bruce was here. He did a quick inspection of the craft. "Hmmm."
"Hmm?"
"I've never seen anything like this. I doubt anyone has outside of the three of you. At least on this planet."
Clark looked disappointed, though he tried to hide it. "I'm sorry I brought you all the way out here for nothing."
"I didn't say I couldn't do it. Only that it'll take some doing." He glanced around the barn.
"Do you have more tools? I did bring some from the cave, in the trunk of my car, in an extra compartment."
Clark blurred away, reappearing with all of Bruce's instruments and a whole plethora of ones from the farm.
Bruce grinned. "I make no promises."
By the time Clark went to bed late in the night, he could hear Bruce tinkering and muttering to himself in the barn. When he awoke in the morning the man was still at it. Clark decided to give the man space to work and joined his parents out front. Ma sat on the porch, knitting, while his dad worked on the truck. Clark offered to help, but Pa waved him away.
"I need the practice Clark."
"Let him have his moment," said Ma, winking at Clark.
He got them caught up on his life. Ma took special interest in any mention of Lois.
"So you two are finally done acting like nervous kids?"
"It wasn't like that Ma. She wasn't ready before."
"Heh. I know that one son," said Pa, half his body under the truck. "Heard it enough from your mother, back in high school."
"Oh please Jonathan. That was when I was dating Daniel Greene."
"But see who she married."
Ma shook her head. "I think you can claim the victory in that competition by this point. Anyway, Lois. Do you think she's serious now?"
There had been a few dates. To the park, the movies, where they had watched that new Orson Welles film, Citizen Kane. Lois brought him to a few jazz clubs in New Troy where they drank and danced, with Clark pretending to be unsure, till he eased into new confidence and enjoyed the night. There had been a kiss or two and a wistful stare from her apartment doors, but that was the extent of it. The nerves that danced in his stomach when he thought of her for too long hadn't ceased, though that was too embarrassing to tell his mom.
"I think it's going well," said Clark.
"I'm happy to hear it. There just hasn't been anyone since, well, since Lana."
Even with the years, there was a wince in his heart at her name.
"What about that Wonder Woman? I saw the two of you in that newspaper photo."
Clark had to laugh at that one. "Her?"
"Take it easy on your old mother. I just thought to ask. For so long we thought there wasn't anyone else like you. It must be a relief to know we were wrong."
"Something like that." Clark would be lying to say the JSA and the others hadn't alleviated some of his worries. But, none of them, even Diana, were really like him. They all came from this planet in one way or another. They could all well and truly call Earth their one and only home.
There was a whooshing noise from the barn, followed by a pop of blue light. Clark was there within a second. Bruce stood by the rocket, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes ringed with tired lines, but there was a satisfied, if weary expression on his face. He merely pointed at the rocket.
"I think this is for you." A panel, crystalline in its construction extended from the rocket. "I'll leave you to it."
Once Bruce had left, Clark approached the panel. He hesitated, his hand just over it. So many years of anticipation hung over this moment, the weight of so many unanswered questions. For a second, Clark wondered if they were better left unknown. That his time on Earth was enough. No. He had to know, if only to fill that missing piece.
He touched the crystal.
The ghost lights of Jor-El and Lara appeared, telling the story as he had heard it every time before. The difference being that this time there was no abrupt end.
"...we sent you from your home planet, Krypton. It was once a bastion of progress, blessed with the bounty of science, philosophy and art. But, we allowed ourselves to stagnate, to regress, to live in fear of the universe. That fear made us blind to the doom that faced us. The doom that claimed Krypton," said his birth father.
"There was no escape for us. But you, our son, you deserved a full life, a life where you could love and be loved. So, we searched the cosmos for a planet that could house you," said his mother.
"As the end drew near, our search uncovered Earth. Primitive by our standards, but inhabited by a species that resembled us in appearance. And most importantly, nurtured by a yellow star, whose light could grant you abilities that would make you powerful. Power that could ensure your safety," said Jor-El.
"We only had time to finish a rocket for you. Know that we would have joined you if we could. No mother wishes to say a final goodbye to her child," said Lara.
Clark could see tears on their cheeks. In the background, beyond the projection something flickered, the entire projection moving with it. Jor-El drew Lara in his arms.
"We sent you out with our hopes and dreams. The last child of Krypton, the last breath of our dying world. This rocket contains as much of our people's memories, our civilization as it could. Don't repeat our mistakes. Live greater than us. Give the people of Earth something to strive for."
The projection shook again, this time violently.
"We love you Kal-El." Something he had heard at the start, something Clark hadn't understood till now.
Something had changed in Clark when he returned from the barn. The Kents could tell, as could Bruce. When he clasped him by the hand and thanked him for his help, Bruce understood, even without explanation.
September 18, 1941
Kal-El landed on the icy path, the snow curling around him in sheets. It hadn't taken him long to settle on a location, only a short flight around the planet. His fingers were curled around the crystal, the one that vibrated and told him what he had to do, a wordless instruction. Here, alone at the top of the world, Kal-El planted the crystal in the ground. Blue light ran its length and it grew projections that split into the ground. The process repeated, a fractal array expanding outwards.
When at last, days later the crystals reached a point of equilibrium, there stood a structure that dwarfed anything around for miles. Krypton was gone. Kal-El was alone. But, here he could preserve all that remained, honor their sacrifice, their loss. A place of respite, of peace.
A Fortress of Solitude.
September 24, 1941
"You sure about this Jay?" said Joan.
"Having doubts?"
"Not really."
"Say the word and I'll cancel it."
"Honey, if I was going to doubt you, it would've been far earlier than this. I just wanted to make sure this is what you wanted."
"I'm sure."
The crowd was larger than Jay Garrick expected. They were gathered by Midwestern University, one of the better spots for such a group to assemble. Funny, he'd walked these steps as a student, a staff member and now the Flash. With a peck on the cheek from Joan, Jay strode onto the platform, welcomed by the mayor.
He took a moment to take them all in. Elliot was near the first row, giving him a thumbs up. Further back, Jay spied Alan, a slim smile on him. He hadn't told everyone what he planned. He figured Batman and a few others wouldn't love it. But, it was his life. Jay took the microphone.
"I've got to give a mighty big thanks all you wonderful folks for indulging me today. I've lived in Keystone my whole life and it means the world to me that I have your trust."
He glanced at Joan, who nodded.
"I wanted to extend that trust back to you. Now, I'm sure that for some of you this will be old news. I've never worn a mask and I don't plan to start."
He took a deep breath. Sink or swim.
"My name is Jay Garrick, and I'm the fastest man alive."
October 2, 1941
Diana wasn't sure what drew her into the auditorium. Maybe it was the joy that bounded off the faces of everyone inside. Or the music that swept through the open doors. Tonight held some meaning at Holliday University, the specifics of which eluded Diana. Celebration she could understand. She thought of the festivals held back home, the bonfires and dances, where they would sway to the rising flames and tell tales that traced back to the first campfire.
There was also the thrill of being here entirely on her own, tinged with a trace of guilt. She had avoided Steve since the fight with Priscilla Rich, having made sure he would recover. She didn't know why he uttered those words about the Amazons, but the damage was done, a wedge driven between them. The Americans didn't need to know where she was at all times. Diana was beholden to her mission, not their whims.
Any diplomat needed to know the cultures they interacted with, or so Diana justified her entrance into the epicenter of the celebration. Young men and women danced and chatted inside, the doorways and windows adorned with decorations of gold and silver fabrics that blew with the evening breeze. On the stage, a band of all women dressed in white and red. A banner reading the "Holliday Girls," hung over them. The lead singer was a young woman with round and rosy cheeks and a voice like honey. It swept through the throngs of students and seemed to wrap around Diana. Before long, she was caught up in the party, dancing with strangers and throwing her head back with laughter. She wound her way to the front, to better bask in their performance. Men came up to dance with her, who Diana entertained for a time, before circling back to the other women, who swayed and stepped in groups of their own. When she closed her eyes, under the spell of the music, she was back on the island, touched by the warmth of the bonfire.
Later in the night, as the other dancers' brows glistened with sweat and young couples and friends split off away from the auditorium, Diana let herself drift away. She permitted herself one last look at that singer, whose eyes she met from across the hall. The woman gave her a friendly wave as she crooned through their final song. It had been wonderful, but Diana was here for more than pleasure.
She felt a touch of shame as she undid the handle on the door to the history department. Her efforts to come during the day had been frustrated by an indignant faculty, who were unmoved by her appeals. Diana hoped that her mother would understand the need for subtlety in this regard. Though given the subject matter, perhaps Hippolyta would be upset that Diana pursued it at all.
Her prize was in the display hall, an urn from the distant past, stolen away from Greece by a group of American archeologists and brought here to Gateway City. Diana's research told her that it held more than the artwork that coated the exterior. It depicted a group of women sailing in a boat. The other side was worn down by the elements, the only discernible feature an outstretched hand, fingers pointing. She envisioned it being plucked from a dusty ruin, pulled from the dumping grounds of history. Diana imagined what the scholars here wrote on this subject, if it retained any attention. Or was it just another prize to be shown off?
Diana whirled her lasso, removing her mundane visage and replacing it with the form of Wonder Woman. She pulled the tiara off her head, turning its edge to the glass, which she cut in a wide circle. She caught the plate of glass before it clattered to the floor. She wound the lasso around its width and began her prayer. There was a trace of the divine here, the core of a truth. To Athena. To Artemis. To Hera and Hecate.
When Diana opened her eyes, she was in the sky. Waves broke gently on the shore below. It took her a moment, but she recognized the scene. It was the same as when she was cast back in time by the villain in Metropolis. Hippolyta and her fellow sisters presided over the exile of another clan.
"Why though?"
Diana tugged along at the thread, pulled deeper into the vision. She saw a woman with golden locks on the cliffs of Themyscira watching the sea, a spyglass pressed to her eye. Foreign ships on the water, past the boundary where the isle blended into the mist. She was now beside these vessels, heard the shanties their crew sung as they sailed. Those songs turning to cries of terror as women marked with blood crawled over their decks. Scores of sailors butchered. Those same ships turned to distant shores, where plunder and ruin reigned. Entire villages put to the sword. Young girls and infants taken. A cove, hidden from the rest where they offered their sacrifices.
The thread tore at Diana's hands. Still, she continued along it. Their savagery uncovered, a sister Amazon slain. The island tainted by the lie. Hippolyta and the others falling on the marauders. A battle that soaked the shores of Themyscira with a crimson tide. Back to the exile. A vow to return, spat with hate.
"What caused this bloodshed?"
The thread was no longer solid. It had too much slack. Diana floated through a murky void. She felt an enormous presence, like water parting in the wake of a shark. The stench of death.
"You won't like what you seek little one," said a voice that carried with it the cry of every carrion bird in its throat.
Something crunched under Diana's foot. Below her the shards of a skull. Everywhere piles of them, too many to count. They lay in heaps that rose higher till she recognized the arrangement for what it was. A throne.
The man, no, the god, that sat atop the mass of death wore a horned helm from which two ruby bright eyes stared from. His shoulders were draped a cloak sewn from the wings of vultures, his chest painted with blood. Scavengers stood along the back of the throne, while boars and wolves savaged one another by his feet, sating the pile with their deaths. Diana met his stare and heard the trumpets blare on a thousand charges, the echo of every death rattle on the battlefield.
"Child of Hippolyta, little Amazon, why have you sought me?" said Ares. The skulls beneath Diana's feet trembled with each syllable.
"So this is your doing? The schism of my people." Diana tried to ignore the sensation of blood coating her skin, slick and heavy.
Ares leaned forwards, sending heaps of bones rolling down the hill. Vultures took flight from the disturbance. The wolves noticed her presence, as they began to pace around her.
"How does it feel to be face to face with the great enemy? That which your people despise above all?"
Diana held his gaze, even as scenes of carnage flit through her mind.
"You would do well to question your sisters. What drove them to my altar?"
"They abandoned our vow."
"They made the first cut."
Diana felt his presence expand around her. It was immense. The wolves growled.
"Ask your question child."
"What became of these exiles? What did you make them."
'Nothing more than they made themselves. They saw a world denied them, a world beyond their grasp. And so they raged. And in that rage they found me. Who was I to deny such enthusiastic disciples?
The world took its toll. A war has casualties. But with suffering came refinement. Focus. They became a killing edge, forged over the centuries."
"To what end?" Diana's head throbbed.
The bones rose around her ankles. Movement was beyond her. Ares stood up from his throne.
"Your people are my foe. But, you stir my heart with your resolve. The gods are distant. The world relishes in untold bloodshed and I sup at it from afar. Yet, there are those who have remained. Those who would use this moment of chaos to enact their plans."
"Who?" She was nearly swallowed.
"The exile is not alone. The dealer of lies walks beside her. Till we meet again, little Amazon."
Diana was consumed by the pile.
Bedsheets. Bedsheets and the smell of lavender, the dim sound of voices. Diana opened her eyes. The woman sitting next to her leaned so far back in her chair it nearly fell.
"Whoa, careful," said the woman.
Diana sat up. She was back in her other clothes. The woman was the singer from the previous night.
"Where am I?"
"My dorm room. I took you here after I found you in the history department."
"I heard that Professor Moulton has a stash of booze he keeps locked in his office. Lacey, the girl on the piano, dared me to sneak in and steal it. I was on my way there when I found you floating in the air, with that golden lasso in your hand. You were saying something but I couldn't understand it. You looked pale. I tried to talk to you. You wouldn't respond. I wanted to go away, but I thought that if I was in that spot, whacky as it is, I would want someone to save me and I knew you were Wonder Woman cause I listen to all the news on you and when I touched you the lasso fell and you were out like a light."
Diana sat silent. The young woman seemed surprised at her outpour. It was then that Diana noticed the golden coils that were touching her rescuer's ankle.
"That is the lasso of truth."
"What?"
"Anyone who touches it has to tell the truth."
The woman slid it closer to Diana with her foot. "Here take it back. Not really a lasso kinda gal."
They were in a college dorm. Diana noticed some newspaper clippings with her picture on them, pinned on a board by the desk.
"I saw you last night," said the woman. "At the party."
"Your singing was wonderful."
"Gee thanks. Here I am getting compliments from Wonder Woman."
"Diana of Themyscira."
"A pleasure. Etta Candy, of the Holliday Girls."
Whatever reticence Etta possessed, it fell away after their introductions. Her host got up enthusiastically.
"You're like a real life princess right?"
"In a way, I am. My mother is the queen."
"What were you doing in the history department? Fighting crime? Was there a supervillain here? Tracking down clues?"
"Something of that sort. Searching for answers."
"Did you find them?"
Diana frowned. "In a manner. They only lead to more questions."
Etta was poised to continue when there was a knock at the door and a muffled voice. "Etta! You're going to be late. Again."
"Ah, that's Mindy."
"A friend?"
Etta nodded. "I'm assuming you want the," she mouthed "Wonder Woman" "stuff to be kept secret right?"
"Etta is there someone with you? Oh my goodness, it isn't Jason again is it?" through the door.
Diana nodded.
Etta opened the door. A gaggle of girls, many of them the same group that was on stage last night poured in. "Who's this?" said the one that must be Mindy.
"This is my friend Diana. She's in town."
The other girls eyed her with some suspicion, Diana gave an uncertain smile, having slid the lasso out of sight, below the bed.
"Diana who?"
Etta glanced at her. "Diana...Prince."
Diana started to object, but Etta continued. "My good friend Diana Prince. You're gonna love her."
October 11, 1941
Sandman braced his shoulder against the door frame. Ebon black rain spilled down the stairwell, so dark it could be mistaken for tar. The man they sought would be inside, at the end of a hunt that crossed half of Manhattan.
"What are we waiting for?" said Sandy. The boy was a few steps down, his sleep gun cradled eagerly in both hands.
Sandman leaned closer. He saw a slick of red in the black water.
"Wait here."
"You're kidding…"
"I need you to make sure he doesn't slip past me."
Sandy sighed, his shoulders slumped, but he listened. There were growing pains in their partnership. Sandman knew it was only a matter of continued work. The boy was eager, too eager to join the action. He wondered how Batman managed it. He would have to ask him sometime.
It was easy to follow the current of black water. Black rain to be specific. The byproduct of a criminal known as the Cloud. He would cloak his robberies in a downpour of the stuff, so dense that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Unless, of course, you had his equipment. The rain machine was on this upper floor, sputtering and broken, only a trickle seeping from the roof.
Sandman found the last door already kicked in. He leaned around it, his sleep gun ready to fire.
"You can come in," spoke a voice, low and mean.
Sandman entered. The Cloud was on the ground, a gunshot wound to his leg, bound with a hasty bandage. He was knocked out. Lurking by the open window, a gun readily seen at hand, was the vigilante known as the Crimson Avenger. He wore a red cloak and matching fedora, with a domino mask over his weathered face.
"If I wanted to stop you, you'd be stopped, so quit your skulking," said the man.
"You shot him."
"He made things difficult. I could have put the bullet somewhere less forgiving."
Sandman holstered his weapon, though he palmed a gas capsule in case things took a turn.
"Your methods are the reason we never reached out to you," said Sandman.
Crimson Avenger put away his gun in kind. "Woulda been a waste of time anyway."
Sandman had come across Crimson Avenger's handiwork before. Each time the man was long gone. He was an outlier in their community. Sandman had noted his activities in line with his description that predated even Superman, with sporadic appearances dating back as far as the 1920s. Seeing the man up close, Sandman could detect his age to be in his late 40s to 50s.
"This isn't like you, lingering at the scene ."
Crimson Avenger picked up and dumped out a bag of stolen goods. Earrings, necklaces, rings and the like. "His loot."
"Tracks with past robberies."
"Except this time he has a client. One you're familiar with."
Sandman got closer.
"The Yellow Claw," said Crimson Avenger.
"Why steal this?"
Crimson Avenger held up a ring. "Special exhibit. All exhumed from a tomb in Egypt. All happens to have trace amounts of something special. You remember what was taken during the attack on the World's Fair back in 39'? The real theft."
Sandman put aside the question of how he knew about that. "Precious artifacts. All made of a rare metal."
"Correction. The rare metal."
"What does Yellow Claw want with it?"
"That's the question. All I know is that he's been trying to find any scrap of it. The Cloud was going to deliver it."
Sandman had a bad feeling.
"Where and when?"
Down below, on the street, he could hear trucks pulling up, the distant shouts of men. Crimson Avenger peeked out the window.
"You and your team need to wake up and realize the war is already here. The sooner you do that, the sooner we can end this creep."
Sandman got out his sleep gun. "Wounding shots only or I'll bring you down too."
"Your funeral."
Looks like Sandy was getting his action after all.
October 30, 1941
Kent woke up with the helm in his hands again, ready to place it on his head. As he had the past four nights. Since the vow.
He returned it to its resting place, inside the innermost chamber of the Tower of Fate, behind the most powerful magics it could conjure, known only to him. It seemed to scowl at him as he left it and returned to bed.
The decision was not made lightly. Kent did not intend to shirk his duties as the defender of Order. He would not, however, allow Nabu to take his mind. The ultimatum cut both ways. His colleagues gave him distrusting looks, he blacked out more frequently, he was passenger too often. Kent could not bear it any more. The Helm of Nabu was power beyond power, the pinnacle of the mystic arts. Without it, Kent went from the preeminent mage to a mere practitioner. If that was the price of freedom, so be it. He would hone his craft, as he had in the desert. He would be more than the helmet.
Whatever doubts plagued his mind eased as he wrapped his arms around Inza in their bed, as he felt her breath on his chest. Without her why persist? This was what Nabu threatened. This was what Fate could not undo.
October 31, 1941
An executive who let his mistress slip below the surface of her bathtub, dazed by pills, was found drowned in his car. An arsonist that only lit fires in the poor neighborhoods, where the fire department was slow to respond and the police disinclined to act, had his head lit like a candle. A thief who stole the savings of the old and infirm withered into nothing, his brain addled beyond remembrance. The guilty, the sinful, the dregs of the City of Angels met an angel of their own and they were made to suffer.
Jill Corrigan watched with grim acceptance as her other half raged, its crusade unceasing in its brutality. More than the horror of the punishments, Jill felt the rising disgust at herself that she questioned the judgements with increasing infrequency. Numbness overtook resistance. The monotony of her old life frayed at the edges, as the Spectre took over more of her time. For every act of humanity, of longing, that Jill partook, the angel writhed and raged. She could feel their fury blistering in her veins.
All Jill could do was pray. Not for salvation. She no longer deserved that. Jill prayed only for release.
