Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-11 16:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, door: dc comics, superman |
Who: Batman and Superman
What: Discussing things.
Where: Gotham.
When: Recently, when all things happen.
Warnings/Rating: None.
This was his Gotham, and yet it was not.
Bruce found the combination of familiarity and unfamiliarity troubling, though it had less to do with any real attachment to that which had been his home than it did the repercussions of said unfamiliar aspects. Gotham was a nightmare compared to other cities, but Batman’s presence had made improvements, and despite his eventual fall from grace Harvey Dent had brought hope to the once broken city on the cusp of destruction. Crime still ran rampant and corruption threatened the efforts of good citizens, but conditions had been getting better. Batman had sacrificed his reputation to ensure that Gotham would rise and, in some distant future, progress to the point where it could function without a masked vigilante to save it from itself. Here, however, that goal seemed unreachable.
In the Gotham he remembered, Batman operated alone. Lucius provided him with his wide array of high-tech gadgetry and suit-related necessities, while Alfred played a supportive role, but beyond those two he had few allies. Gordon was a rare sort, a police officer dedicated to justice rather than selling his loyalty for the right price, but even as Commissioner he could not fix the entire Gotham Police Department overnight. Batman had no partners, no Oracle speaking into his ear, and there was certainly no one else like him in Gotham or the immediate vicinity. In this world, it seemed that was not the case. Bruce possessed secondhand knowledge from some unknown source, perhaps the boy called Luke, but regardless of his suspicion, he knew it to be true. Soon there would be others, beyond the young Selina Kyle and Damian, a child who was apparently not only his son but his ‘sidekick’ as well; the former Robins, Damian’s mother, Ra’s Al Ghul, and a wide variety of villains whose numbers concerned him above all else. If they were all to appear, perhaps Batman alone would not be enough. Arkham could only hold them for so long, and this Arkham City, which was new to him, was not something he approved of. He would need to investigate the facility and the man who ran it further. A way in would be ideal, but he had no intention of becoming trapped inside.
At the present moment, Batman was in the Narrows. His night was early yet, and he was attempting to map out his territory to ensure that he still had a comprehensive understanding of the layout and landmarks in between. Alfred was not here, not was Lucius or Gordon, and he believed Catwoman and Damian were also absent. Beyond that, he was not certain. To those who knew a different him, the suit he wore now was a sight to behold; the undersuit was waterproof light armor, temperature regulated, and the over-armor did well against bullets and knives unless his attacker specifically aimed for his weak points. He wore custom-made forearm gauntlets and kevlar gloves, in addition to his trademark impact resistant (and graphite composite) cowl; he could turn his head quite well, though his suit may have appeared bulkier than some versions. His cape hung heavy over his shoulders and down as he crouched, scanning the area below as he listened to the feed of police radio and emergency services that came through the pointed ears of his cowl.
It seemed many villains were still absent. Batman was not optimistic enough to see this as a reprieve, yet it would be foolish not to take advantage of it; he should do what he could before his more challenging opponents made their entrance.
“Batman.” Superman had many good qualities. Stealth was not one of them. Even in the bleak Gotham night, the red and blue suit hanging in the air several yards above Batman’s head was like a beacon, highlighting an Olympiad’s form that the badly-fitted cheap suits Clark Kent used to wear to the office had been so good at hiding. Though the Kryptonian fabric shed water far better than a duck’s feathers, the red cape that hung over his Atlas shoulders was thin and without weight, only emphasizing Superman’s utter lack of vulnerability to the elements. Add in the blue tights, the boots, the chiseled features and the dark hair, and the picture was complete. He was a touch too perfect to be human judging from the outfit alone.
Clark had never met Batman personally. As far as he knew, he’d just finished his second week at The Daily Planet, and even though Luthor was probably going to beat the charges for trying to destroy Metropolis in his mad quest for power, things hadn’t been going all that badly. Now he was stuck in the mind of a shallow Vegas bartender the majority of the time, and even here, things were disconcertingly different. Everyone knew everything there was to know about him, for one. It dashed his hopes of being Clark Kent ever again, and it made him sad and angry at the same time. He was hoping Batman--his name was Bruce, Clark knew (somehow)--felt the same.
Batman was very much human, despite rumors that said otherwise, as were the adversaries he’d faced up until his current point in time. No matter how outlandish his exploit might seem or how creative the criminals of Gotham became, there was an underlying mortality that fit into his rational view of the world. The man suspended in mid-air before him existed outside this purview. While Batman appeared slow to react, it was a farce; had he recognized a viable threat then his course of action would have been very different. As it was, the red and blue suit rang a vaguely familiar bell much in the same manner of Catwoman and the boy called Damian. Secondhand knowledge was useful, but far less trustworthy since he had none of his own experience from which to build upon. Just as Clark had never met him personally, neither had Batman met him. His world did not include flying aliens clad in impractical clothing who needed none of his technology to eradicate crime, and he suspected this was only a taste of things yet to come. He realized this man knew his true identity, if he possessed the same far-reaching information he did, but there was little he could do about it. With a world where he was a widely known comic book hero just beyond a door, it was only a matter of time before the knowledge spread.
“Superman.” His voice was low, gravelly, and entirely unrecognizable. Batman shifted his weight onto his right side and rested an arm on his knee as he looked up at the Kryptonian. “How is Metropolis?” The name came to him suddenly, yet it sounded right.
Superman hadn’t been in the suit long enough to be anywhere near as comfortable in it as Batman was in his. As he lowered a few yards in height to a conversational level, Clark stared at the suit, which his vision revealed to be so many high-tech layers of perfected body armor that Clark wouldn’t have been surprised if the man could launch a full scale war without so much as a scratch. The cowl, with its sharp animal ears, coupled with the intense glare of the man he could see behind it if he looked with the right vision, made Clark uneasy. He supposed that was the point. He knew that at some point he was friends with this man, but he couldn’t imagine this man ever smiling. How do you get friendly with someone like that?
“...Cool. For this time of year,” Clark answered, automatically. He’d been brought up to discuss the weather when people inquired about locations. He coughed awkwardly, rolled his eyes up at the sky, and tried to act natural as the red cloak shifted about him in the empty air. “Not that I’ve... had a chance to be there long.” He waited to see if Batman would offer any kind of help for this conversation.
Batman appeared unconcerned by the manner in which he was being regarded, but then again, it was difficult to discern what he might truly be thinking behind the cowl. As Clark suspected, the effect of the suit was deliberate; he intended it to inspire fear and unease in those who looked upon him, enemy or not. He was not meant to be a shining knight or a golden hero. Batman had no friends. Allies, perhaps, but even as Bruce Wayne those he knew could best be described as acquaintances. It was strange to think that this Superman might someday be an exception.
Once again, his expression remained unreadable, but it was clear he hadn’t been inquiring after the weather. That was the least of their concerned. “Yes,” he said. “Our time is limited.” Batman assumed Superman had already come to the same conclusion he had. Perhaps things were different in Metropolis as well, as they were in Gotham. Superman himself might be changed from what others within his world remembered him as. “Have you encountered other difficulties?” He had no concrete reason to trust this man, yet if his knowledge was correct he already knew a great deal that could be used against him.
Clark was surprised that beneath the mask the man’s face didn’t change. In his experience, men that wore masks were always more expressive than when they didn’t wear one, as if the security made their inner thoughts more obvious. Not so with this man. He let the vision fade to that of a normal human and wondered how anyone could be so controlled. “Yes. I can’t go home. That secret identity isn’t much secret anymore. My name is practically synonymous with bad secret identities in Stella’s world.” Clark tried to figure out what one or two of the devices in Batman’s suit were for, without success. He could see satellite and radio communication coming off a few of them. “Eventually they will figure out I can only be here for a day at a time unless she starts getting especially cooperative, but she has her own problems.” Clark had no idea what kind of person Batman was on the other side of the door, and he was admittedly curious.
Batman understood the importance of secret identities all too well, and he was also aware of the perils that came with said identity becoming common knowledge. He had not experienced it to the degree that Clark had, but it was only a matter of time, and he was still in the process of creating various contingency plans for this inevitability. “You must return at some point. The discovery of our true identities is always a possibility, a realistic risk we accept and prepare for.” There was no clear question in his tone, but it was clear that he was expecting Superman to have some sort of plan aside from staying away from Metropolis. He noted the use of the name Stella and tucked it away, to categorize properly at a later time, but he had no intention of offering up Luke’s name in exchange. He and the boy disagreed on a great deal, and he was in dire need of help, but Batman would never reveal his name without the boy’s consent, which he did not have. “None of our secrets are safe in their world,” he said. “It makes matters difficult, but not impossible. The boy... has his own struggles as well. We have yet to reach an agreement in terms of cooperation.” Because Batman could be accommodating, of course.
“Yes, but...” So far, everyone from Batman to Lois had expected Clark to have some kind of mighty plan for dealing with this. Even Catwoman seemed to expect a reaction from him that she didn’t get, and the whole thing made Clark feel like a future or parallel self had set the bar impossibly high, and there wasn’t a way for him to reach it. He’d only been wearing the suit a couple weeks, and despite what he wanted the world to think, he didn’t have all the answers. It was obvious from the look on his young face that Clark didn’t have a plan at all. He was making it up as he went along. You could do that when you were invulnerable. “But I didn’t think it would be so soon. Nobody I know seems to be here and everyone has their own... version of me.”
That caught his attention in a way that nothing Superman said up until this point had. Batman unfurled from his crouch and stood, moving effortlessly despite the weight and probable discomfort of the suit. “So soon,” he repeated. “How long has it been for you?” He was interested now. Batman was in the midst of his own difficulties when it came to these apparent other versions of himself, considering that one of them had a son, whose mother was the daughter of a very dangerous man, and Damian seemed determined to appoint himself as his partner despite the fact that he worked alone. He was also not the Batman who knew Superman, as he had never met him before this encounter. Perhaps this Superman was not properly acquainted either. He did look young. “I believe there are multiple versions beyond the door, in their world, but only one version of us can exist here.”
Superman looked a little less super and a little more awkward boyscout. “Well, I mean, not counting Las Vegas... I got to Metropolis and then there was that mess with Luthor before I really had a chance to do anything. I mean, I just got the job...” He trailed off again. The brilliant blue eyes focused on Batman once again, perhaps watching his face and not the anonymous cowl. “I’ve only been in Metropolis a couple weeks. I agree that there’s only one of me. It’s not possible for me to do everything I can think of me doing... of another me doing. Gosh, this is confusing.” Superman scratched the back of his head. Gosh.
Batman had never heard of Metropolis or Superman before this business with the doors and living within the mind of a boy, and there was so much new information to keep track of that he listened to the other man’s slightly disjointed explanation without expending concise effort to decipher the sequence of events he was referring to. For some reason he thought the job was at some sort of newspaper, and there was some chord of recognition at the name Luthor, but neither were within the scope of his actual, tangible experience. Which, it seemed, was far more limited than he’d previously believed. “You may be an early version of yourself,” he said, with the same tone and volume he’d used for their entire conversation. Batman was intentionally very difficult to read. “I believe I am as well. Alternate versions of ourselves have worked together, yet you and I as we are now have not.” He made no mention of whatever friendship might or might not have existed. “It is... confusing,” he agreed, silently amused by Superman’s use of gosh. “Are there any specific problems currently existing in Metropolis that you feel incapable of or unprepared to deal with?” Batman never directly offered help, not did he ask for it, not even in a roundabout way, but he knew who and what might come to Gotham and one man wouldn’t be enough. Despite Superman’s non-human nature, even he could only do so much.
Clark wanted to believe in the good in everyone. That’s why even so small of a question was enough to encourage him to spill his problems onto someone that his intuition told him was to be devoutly trusted. “Yes. Her name is Lois.” With his ears, Clark could hear if there was anyone within listening distance, and he needed to talk to someone that wasn’t his mother about this. “I’m not an early version of myself. I am myself. That’s what I need to tell her. I’m not a version. I’m... I’m me. And I’m not just around the corner to being... whatever she wants me to be. Whoever that is.” Clark dropped a few inches, rose again, and then floated a little closer.
When Batman asked about ‘specific problems’, he hadn’t expected one of them to be a woman. He might have wondered why Superman was sharing this with him, of all people, had it not been for his previous revelation that he knew no one, and was surrounded by differing expectations. “Lois Lane.” Batman left no doubts when he asked a question, and this was not one. Like Selina, Damian, and most everyone else he’d encountered on this side of the door, his knowledge of Lois was secondhand, but he knew enough to realize that the chances of Superman referring to another Lois were very slim. “I have already been called a copycat and an impostor. You don’t need to convince me of who you are. Tell her what you just told me,” he said, suddenly feeling very old, “and she will either accept or refuse you. I doubt it will be the latter. This will take time, but the only choice we have is to adapt. Despite the changes I am still me, just as you are still you.” This was the most he’d said to someone who wasn’t Alfred in quite some time, as friends weren’t currently a luxury he could afford; the last person he’d known for an extended period of time had died in a warehouse explosion.
It was just like Clark to talk about his personal relationships instead of the ones he should be concerned about, things like kryptonite and mad geniuses out to murder him. From the expression on his face, he wasn’t looking forward to Lois’ choice, since Batman made it sound like ‘accept’ had the same chance as ‘refuse’ with his tone of voice, despite the sentence following. “You’re probably right.” After a short pause in which Clark stared off into the distance--perhaps watching people in Timbuktu--Clark seemed to return to the present. “I spoke briefly with Catwoman and she mentioned Robin. I assume that is who you were talking about with the people calling you an impostor. Can I help?” He was quite serious, not that he had any idea how he would be helping.
Of course he was right. Batman was prone to error, as was everyone whether they were human or alien, but in this, he did not doubt himself. The answer was clear. He didn’t envy Superman’s inevitable conversation with one Lois Lane, but then again he wasn’t in a very desirable position either, with a cat burglar and a son-slash-sidekick who both expected him to be someone he was not. For a moment he simply looked at the other man before registering Damian’s codename and nodding. “Robin. Yes.” He would have to get used to thinking of the boy as such. Personally, Batman thought it was a foolish, impractical name, and the costume was much of the same. That was only the beginning, however; the worst was the sheer irresponsibility of allowing a young boy--more than one, no less--to actively take on very dangerous criminals. Batman did not understand his alternate selves, whoever they were. “I haven’t spoken with Catwoman,” he said, and there was a hint of something like a disapproving frown in his tone though his expression barely changed. “Robin, however, finds it difficult to believe that I’m me. If I fail to convince him otherwise, he may become problematic. Should that happen, I will... let you know if I need your assistance.” For Batman, who so rarely accepted help and never asked for it, that was a large concession.
Clark only became aware that this was an actual request for his assistance after he had already nodded total agreement. He was used to the entire human race needing him for something or other, and he had a tendency to get distracted by old ladies crossing the street and cats up trees, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be there as soon as he was needed for something more serious. “Catwoman was worried too, which was weird, because she’s supposed to be the thieving who-cares kind. He’s only a kid though, right? How problematic could he be?” Clark frowned over this problem, and he started to say something else, but he interrupted his own thought midway, falling suddenly silent a syllable in. He cocked his head, listening to something no one else could hear, and then he said, in a rush of words, “Someone’s in trouble.” And he was entirely gone in a rush of cold air and a blur of movement.
Batman briefly considered the anomaly that was Catwoman’s apparent concern before setting it aside. The thief had yet to give him real reason to concern himself with her, aside from some apparent relationship she had with an alternate version of him, and he preferred to focus on the possibility of an angry, assassin-trained eighteen-year-old boy running rogue around Gotham. “Robin is no ordinary child,” he said grimly, watching as Superman fell silent in mid-speech as though listening to some invisible frequency. While he was aware of the man’s non-human attributes, it was still an interesting experience to watch him disappear so quickly he might have missed his departure had he chosen that moment to blink. He stared at the spot where Superman had previously been for a few moments before straightening his posture, shifting the weight of his armor equally as he turned towards the edge of the building. A report of a robbery in progress came through one of the police frequencies, but it was the names of the responding officers that caused the scowl to marr his cowled features. Dirty cops, of course. A few strides later and he’d disappeared off the side of the building, and the air was silent as though no one had ever been there at all.