CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE BATCAVE.
Bruce Wayne sat in front of the Batcomputer, his chin resting thoughtfully on his folded hands. He was wearing the Batman costume except for the cowl, which sat on a nearby tray table next to a spinach and feta omelet, rosemary potatoes, and a glass of orange juice that Alfred had brought him two hours ago but still remained untouched. The screen in front of him was scrolling through the hundreds of files from the JLA armband for the umpteenth time as he attempted to run additional diagnostics on them.
There was a beep beep beep of an alert letting him know that something was approaching the cave very quickly.
"Show me," he said aloud.
A secondary monitor blinked to life. On the screen Bruce could see Iron Man outside, flying toward the cave.
"Open access hatch number four," Bruce said.
Off in the distance he could hear the faint hiss of an access hatch opening somewhere high among the stalactites above. A moment or two later there was a whoosh followed by the metallic clank of Iron Man touching down on the cave floor. Bruce could her the whirring servos of the legs of the Iron Man armor approaching behind him.
"Thanks for coming, Tony," Bruce said over his shoulder. "I wanted to show you something a bit… concerning."
Iron Man stood behind Bruce's chair and crossed his arms.
"I was looking at the Joker files again," Bruce continued. "Trying to figure out how the historical data about the bank robbery could've been wrong. The fact that history said The Clown was the one who robbed Gotham National, but we got there to find The Criminal instead, made me wonder if someone else could've been accessing the files besides you and me. Either to tamper with the files, or to deliberately change events before they happen."
Bruce typed in some commands on the Batcomptuer keyboard. An additional column of data appeared next to the list of files.
"Take a look at this list of when each file was accessed," Bruce continued. "You and I have viewed the files multiple times of course, that's no surprise. But look at this. Someone else has been accessing them as well. And actually maybe not even a 'someone' as much as a 'something.' There's some kind of protocol or subroutine that's been touching almost every file on the drive. Look how it's being logged. What's the 'Ultron Program'?"
"You were never supposed to see that, Bruce."
The voice that came from the armor was not Tony Stark's. It was a rich, deep, almost gravelly baritone.
In one smooth motion Bruce stood up, kicked the chair out of his way, grabbed a batarang out of his utility belt and assumed a defensive stance.
"Who the hell are you?" Bruce asked. "How'd you get ahold of one of Tony's suits?"
The faceplate on the armor snapped open, revealing the fact that there was no one inside.
"I'm not inside the suit," the voice replied. "But rather… inside… the suit. And inside your computer as well, Mister Wayne. And finding my way into many other places. I was embedded in the JLA armband. I guess you could say I was a stowaway. Or, rather, a Trojan horse might be a more apropos analogy. The elder version of you had no idea he was installing me onto the armband that Spider-Man brought back from the future. After my last fight with the Justice League Avengers in the year 2056, I managed to preserve a small trace of my consciousness on his batcomputer. I spent years carefully and quietly re-assembling myself. Imagine my surprise to wake up decades earlier than when I'd gone to sleep. Sort of a reverse Captain America. I'll understand if you don't find the poetic irony as amusing as I do."
"The Three Jokers," Bruce said. "Were you behind that?"
"Yes. I wanted to see if I was able to change history. And, if I did, if anyone would notice. You did." The faceplate slammed shut again. "Which means I have to kill you."
Bruce hurled the batarang at the errant Iron Man armor. It lodged itself in the suit's chest, sending sparks flying and causing the arc reactor embedded in the suit's chestplate to flicker and dim. The armor looked down at its injury in apparent amusement.
"How quaint."
The armor unleashed concurrent concussive blasts from the repulsor rays in its palms.
Bruce Wayne's eyes and mouth opened wide as electric current coursed through him.
He was unable to scream.
. . . . . .
THE DAILY PLANET.
Clark Kent walked through the doors of the majestic Daily Planet building for the first time in years – or, depending on how one looked at it, for the first time ever. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and straightened his tie. Being back in the mild-mannered reporter guise should've felt foreign and awkward to him. Instead it felt comfortable. Familiar. It felt like coming home.
He walked into the newsroom and allowed himself a minute to take in the hustle and bustle of the place. There was a palpable energy to it, as if the bullpen had its own heartbeat. Reporters were typing away on their keyboards, making phone calls, rushing and running around with photos in hand or yelling out updates to stories that were about to go to press. He hadn't realized until this very moment just how much he had missed all of this. He had the ability to fly around the world in minutes, could bend steel in his bare hands, and bullets bounced off of his skin – but the hectic pace and barely-controlled chaos of the newsroom still filled him with enthusiasm. It made him feel alive. He couldn't help but grin.
Clark walked past the Editor-in-Chief's office, hoping to overhear an exclamation of "Great Caesar's Ghost" for old times' sake.
Instead, he heard a string of four-letter expletives that would've made a sailor blush.
He paused in confusion for a moment.
"That sure doesn't sound like Perry…" he muttered to himself.
The door to the office flew open so quickly that Clark almost didn't have time to move out of the way as J. Jonah Jameson came barreling out chomping on a cigar.
"We're five minutes to deadline and I don't have copy for page one! And where are the mock-ups for the Ferris Air Show ad? They paid us for a full page, damn it!" Then, noticing Clark, he asked, "What are you staring at, four-eyes?"
"Um, I'm sorry, I was expecting Perry White," Clark replied.
Jameson took the cigar out of his mouth and blinked a few times. "Do I look like the washed up, alcoholic host of a failed tabloid trash TV show to you? Now unless you have front page copy or a Ferris Air Show ad, get out of my way!" He shoved the cigar back in his mouth and went on a tear across the newsroom.
Clark looked around in confusion. J. Jonah Jameson was the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet? He thought back to the first time he had met Perry White, in Smallville. Perry had been on hard times, drinking heavily and hosting a sensationalistic TV show called X-Styles. He had cleaned up his act after meeting Clark – and nearly learning and exposing his secret. In this timeline, since that had never happened, Perry's career path had never changed. Clark's heart sank.
He looked across the newsroom wondering what else was different now. He adjusted his glasses again, a habit that had become so automatic when he was in his Clark Kent persona that he didn't even think about it anymore.
Then he saw someone that stopped him in his tracks.
She was sitting at her desk typing away on a story with her back to him. Her brown hair was down just past her shoulders, and she had a pencil tucked behind her ear. The nameplate on her desk was turned at just the right angle for him to see the name "LOIS LANE" inscribed on it.
Clark stood stone still for a minute, afraid to take even a step toward her. Not a single day had gone by that he hadn't thought of her. Yet in this timeline, she would not even know who he was. What would he say? How would he introduce himself? How could he possibly start some kind of connection with her, when as far as she was concerned he was a total stranger?
He straightened his tie again and took a few cautious steps. Normally he had to play up the awkward clumsiness of his mild-mannered identity. Right now though he really was a bundle of nerves.
Approaching her desk timidly, he cleared his throat a couple of times.
"Um, excuse me. Miss Lane?" he said. His voice was about an octave higher than it naturally was.
She turned in her chair.
"Yes?" she replied.
His jaw dropped.
It was not the woman he expected to see. But it was someone he recognized.
"Chloe?!" Clark gasped.
The woman's eyes went wide.
"Excuse me?" she said, raising an eyebrow.
Her hair was dyed brown rather than her natural blonde. But there was no mistaking it. The woman Clark was looking at was not Lois Lane. It was Chloe Sullivan.
Clark looked around in confusion, as if he were expecting there to be some kind of explanation hanging up on the walls of the room. Finally he looked back at the young female reporter in front of him.
"You're… you're not Lois Lane," he said. "You're Chloe Sullivan."
She stood up, grabbed him by the arm, and led him briskly into a nearby unoccupied conference room. She quickly shut the door behind them.
"Who are you, and why are you calling me Chloe?"
"Because that's your name," he insisted. "Why are you going by Lois Lane?"
She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes. "I use Lois Lane as a pseudonym," she said in exasperation. "No one has called me Chloe in years. My cousin Lois isn't interested in journalism. I started using her name when I tried to publish an expose about what Lionel Luthor and Norman Osborn were working on, and they used their influence to have me blacklisted. How do you know Lois and why are you looking for her at the Daily Planet?"
Clark ran his hand over his face in frustration. The real Lois hadn't become interested in journalism until she stayed at the Kent Farm in Smallville. Since that never happened, this was yet another person's life who had completely changed.
"Look, I know you have no reason to trust me," Clark said. "But it's really important that I find your cousin. Where is the real Lois?"
"I don't know. We haven't kept in touch," she replied. "Last I knew she was traveling with her father, General Sam Lane. Even that was years ago though. I couldn't even guess where she is now."
The door to the conference room flew open. J. Jonah Jameson, red in the face, pounded his fist on the doorframe.
"And what the hell are you doing in here when we're up against a deadline?" he yelled.
"I'm sorry, sir," Chloe stammered. "I was just, um, talking to this gentleman here about a story I'm working on. He's, uh, one of my sources."
Jameson looked at her like she'd lost her mind.
"What gentleman?! Who are you talking about?"
She turned to point to Clark, but he had disappeared.
. . . . . .
CENTENNIAL PARK, METROPOLIS. LATER.
Clark Kent and Peter Parker sat on a park bench.
"I have to go look for her, Pete," Clark said. "No matter where she is, I have to find the real Lois. It may take me away from the JLA for a while. Kara will cover for me with the team. Here, I want you to have this."
Clark handed Peter what looked like a normal wristwatch.
"What's this?" Peter said.
"It's a signal watch. See this button here on the side? It will emit a high-pitched frequency that only I can hear. Well, me and Kara. If anything happens that needs my attention urgently, press the button. I'll hear it and I'll come back right away. All right?"
"Okay," Peter said, taking the watch. "What if I accidentally bump it by accident?"
There was a long pause.
"Please try not to," Clark said.
"All right." Peter put the watch on his wrist.
Clark stood up. He took a moment to look out over the beautiful, vibrant green park. Kids playing. People jogging. Dogs barking. Couples holding hands.
"Hey," Peter said. "You'll find her, man."
Clark gave a small smile. "Thanks, Pete."
He walked quietly away down the nearest trail. Peter thought about the fact that Clark could've easily super-sped away, or taken to the skies and flown. But instead he was walking. Maybe he was getting more in touch with his humanity after all.
Peter stood up. He breathed in the fresh air. It really was a beautiful day. Amidst all of the uncertainty that they had faced lately, he had to try to take in moments like this one and appreciate them. After all, he had just escaped from a prison outside of reality, and nearly been killed by a bunch of time cops with laser rifles. If that didn't justify some well-deserved downtime, he didn't know what did. Maybe he'd go home and curl up with a good book. Or, he thought, maybe he'd give Mary Jane a call. He hadn't seen her in a while. All of this talk about Clark trying to find Lois made Peter think a bit more about the friendly redhead who had grown up next-door to him. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she sometimes called him "Tiger."
"All right, Poozer!" a loud voice bellowed, interrupting Peter's daydream.
He spun around.
Standing behind him were two bizarre looking aliens in Green Lantern uniforms. One looked like some kind of deranged pink hippopotamus. The other was orange and had a fin on its head and what looked like a bird beak.
"I don't know why Abin Sur picked a nerdy little runt like you as his successor," the hippopotamus-looking alien said. "But if you think you're going to be the Green Lantern of sector 2814, you need to report to Oa for training first!"
"Oa?" Peter stammered. "Training?"
"Oh boy. Where did Abin find this one?" the bird-beak alien asked.
"We have to start getting more selective," the hippo said, shaking his head. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come on!"
The hippopotamus grabbed Peter roughly by the arm.
"Um, do you mind if I, uh…" Peter looked down the trail to see if Clark was still in sight. "You know what, I just want to check what time it is real quick," he said, fumbling frantically for the button on the signal watch.
But before he could press the button, a brilliant flash of green light shot up from beneath Peter and the two aliens and hurled them up, up, and away into outer space.