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Batman ran across the roof of the saloon, his bespoke boots silent in the dull moonlight. The stranger from Metropolis that he was following had ridden into Gotham three days earlier and instantly attracted Bruce’s attention. It wasn’t often that they had visitors from across the bay and it was even rarer for them to arrive and instantly start asking questions about the Gotham Bat.
Bruce soon learned that the stranger was a reporter from the Metropolis newspaper The Daily Planet by the name of Clark Kent. During his short time in Metropolis, Kent had questioned the saloon owner, blacksmith, undertaker, several citizens, and even Sheriff Gordon for information on the Bat and Bruce didn’t appreciate someone from Metropolis digging into his business.
If the rumors were to be believed—and they often were—Metropolis had its own caped vigilante to worry about. Bruce had heard competing stories about the so-called “Superman” that ranged from the believable to the fantastical. People couldn’t fly and they couldn’t outrun trains, but the traveling merchant who passed through Gotham last week was convinced that the Superman could do both.
“Saw it with my own two eyes,” the merchant said.
Bruce heard the story but didn’t believe it. He remembered it though and filed it away in his mind next to the rumors of a Superman who could bend steel and withstand bullets.
Bruce perched on the edge of the saloon roof and looked down. Kent stood on the ground below him, half-hidden in the moonlit shadows and he appeared to be waiting for someone. Had he found someone who was willing to speak about the Bat?
It was nearly a year since Bruce had first transformed himself into the Batman and began stalking the Gotham nights. Despite the best efforts of Sheriff Gordon, Gotham was a lawless town where dishonest men had all of the power and ruined the lives of ordinary citizens in the blink of an eye. The law could only go so far and when it reached its limits, that’s where Batman operated.
Most of Gotham thought he was a myth. The few Gothamites that could testify to his existence knew better than to speak of him in polite company. Instead, outlaws and lags whispered about the Bat in the backrooms of sketchy bordellos while the rest of Gotham believed he didn’t exist.
If someone had agreed to speak to Kent, that could cause a problem. Batman and Sheriff Gordon had a mutually beneficial arrangement where the Bat turned in evidence and criminals to the Sheriff and in return, Gordon officially denied his existence. An expose in a newspaper as respected as the Daily Planet would put Batman in the spotlight. It wouldn’t be long until the story made its way back to Gotham and Gordon would be pressured to pursue the Bat.
Gordon needed deniable plausibility. An article in the Daily Planet would threaten that.
The silence of the night was broken by the approach of several horses. Four, if Bruce’s ears didn’t deceive him. The riders hitched the reins to the posts outside the closed saloon and Bruce listened carefully as they made their way around to the back of the building. Their boots were audible as they kicked up bits of dirt with every step and Bruce thought that there were three coming to meet Clark Kent, leaving one to remain with the horses.
Soon, they were in sight and approaching Kent. Bruce recognized them as Harvey Dent and two of his more senior men and suddenly, Bruce had a bad feeling about this. Kent was investigating the Bat—of this he was certain—but Dent didn’t trade in rumors and myths. Kent was about to enter a conversation that he wouldn’t exit alive.
Bruce pulled out his rope grapple and had it firmly secured to the building so he could rappel down to the ground level, but he was too late. Four gunshots rang out, loud and clear, before any words were spoken as Dent’s men shot Kent at point-blank range. Although it was dark, there was enough moonlight for Bruce to recognize that the trajectory of their guns meant that Kent now had four bullets in his chest.
Batman’s boots landed on the head of one of Dent’s men before Kent’s limp body had finished hitting the ground. He kicked the still-smoking gun out of the hands of the other man and stared down Dent.
Bruce knew how he looked. He’d purposely crafted a costume that not only hid his identity but played on many of the superstitious fears held by the people of Gotham. Only his mouth and eyes were uncovered, his cape hid his form, and the bat ears added not only height but gave him a presence that didn’t appear entirely human. Some people thought he was a demon, others recognized him as a bat, but all of them feared him.
Dent was made of sterner stuff though and Batman didn’t expect his theatrics to work on someone who had once read law. But Dent knew better than to hang around a murder scene, especially when his two men had been successfully disarmed and he was faced with an angry Bat.
“My business is done here,” Dent said as he slowly backed away from Batman.
The still-standing Dent man helped the other to his feet and they backed away from Batman as well, albeit a lot faster than their leader had. On another night, Batman would have pursued them, but he was aware they had a fourth still-armed man at the front of the saloon and he had a dead reporter behind him to take care of. There would be another night to catch Dent and his gang because there was always another night in Gotham.
Bruce waited until he heard Dent and his men mount their horses and ride away before he turned to look at the body of Kent. Ever since his own parents had been gunned down by an outlaw named Joe Chill 15 years earlier, Bruce had abhorred guns and the violence they caused. No matter how many guns he confiscated and bullet-ridden bodies he saw, it never got any easier. He picked up the two discarded guns that had been left behind, pocketed them in his cape, and then turned around.
Kent wasn’t there.
Bruce crouched down and stared at the ground. It was disturbed and despite the shadows, he was able to see two things. Firstly, the ground had been disturbed, as if someone had fallen and lain in the dirt. Secondly—and most perplexingly—there wasn’t a drop of blood.
There were footprints though. Bruce quickly stood and followed them as they led him past the saloon and the hardware store and into the stables attached to the blacksmithy. Inside, feeding a chestnut stallion, he found a still-standing and perfectly healthy-looking reporter from Metropolis.
“Clark Kent,” Bruce growled.
Kent startled and dropped some hay but there was something about how he moved that didn’t ring true to Bruce. It was a little too quick and a little too exaggerated for Bruce’s liking.
When Bruce wasn’t dressed as the Bat he played the part of a rich and unassuming landowner. The Wayne family had helped to build the town of Gotham from the swamp up and pretending to be a coddled and weak man of means was the cover that Bruce hid behind. Nobody would suspect Bruce Wayne of being Batman. Nobody thought he was capable of anything other than spending his money on whiskey and women.
Bruce had honed this act to perfection. During the day Bruce Wayne would make Sheriff Gordon roll his eyes and reach for his hip flask. At night, Batman would work with Gordon as a respected equal. Not even the good Sheriff knew they were the same man.
Bruce was used to acting so he knew an act when he saw one and he was certain that Clark Kent’s surprise was just as feigned as Bruce Wayne’s daytime ignorance was. But why would Kent pretend to be startled by Batman when he wasn’t? And how had Kent even known he was there?
Kent turned to look at him. Behind his glasses his eyes widened in surprise and Bruce thought that was fake as well. “Are you— You’re real? The Gotham Bat?”
“What happened with Dent?”
“Oh, was that who that was?” Kent asked. “That was a tough situation. I’m glad you were there otherwise they would have shot me.”
“They did shoot you.”
Clark shook his head. “They tried. I guess they missed.”
Bruce moved further into the gaslit stables until he was only a couple of feet away from Kent. He’d kept his distance from Kent ever since the man had come to Metropolis so this was his first opportunity to see him up close. From a distance, it was hard to look past the glasses, ill-fitting clothes, and slightly too-large cowboy hat. Up close though, the first thing that struck Bruce was how large the man was and how much he tried to hide his size.
The second thing that Bruce noticed was how unnaturally blue his eyes were.
“Dent’s men are the best shooters in Gotham. They had you at point-blank range.”
“Must have been an off night.”
“They didn’t miss,” Bruce said. “I saw them shoot you.”
Bruce stepped even closer. He looked at Kent’s awkward and uneasy smile and knew the man was hiding something. His eyes traveled down Kent’s face, past his yellow kerchief, his reddish-brown jacket, and onto his blue waistcoat and shirt. There, in the material that covered the center of Kent’s chest, were four ragged holes that could only have been made by bullets.
He reached out and poked four of the gloved fingers on his right hand through the bullet holes until they reached Kent’s skin. Bruce tugged at the material but Kent didn’t move. Kent’s face was impressively blank as he looked down at where Bruce had a hold of his clothes.
“They didn’t miss,” Bruce repeated.
Kent didn’t say a word.
A slow realization spread across Bruce’s mind. “You’re the Metropolis Superman.”
“He’s a myth,” Clark said quietly.
“So is the Gotham Bat, but here I am,” Bruce said. “Word of warning, Kent. If someone digs razor-sharp claws into a human’s skin like I’m currently doing to you, it hurts.”
Bruce had added the claws to his gloves six months ago to help with scaling buildings—he hadn’t expected that they would also help him find a Superman.
Kent sighed. He gently placed a hand around Bruce’s right wrist and pulled at his arm. Bruce didn’t want to let go of Kent’s shirt but he found that he had no choice. There was so much power in that grip and although Kent was moving slowly and gently, Bruce had a feeling that his choice was to either allow Kent to remove his hand or to have his wrist crushed.
“What happened to the bullets?” Bruce asked.
Kent let go of Bruce’s wrist and tugged at his own shirt until the hem came out of his pants. Four flattened bullets fell to the floor. Bruce quickly picked them up, eager to get his hands on them before the Superman decided to keep them for himself. He’d never seen bullets that looked like these before.
Bruce studied the four flat disks he held in his hand. “They look like they were shot directly into iron.”
“No iron. Just me.”
Bruce had faced the worst that Gotham had to offer in his year as the Batman. He’d fought a homicidal clown, a fear-inducing scarecrow, and a crocodile man who had crawled out of the very filth that Gotham was built on. But he realized in that moment that nobody was more frightening, powerful, or dangerous than the Superman could be.
How could you defeat a man when even bullets bounced off him?
He pocketed the bullets and forced himself to look Kent in the eyes again. “What do you want? Why are you in Gotham?”
“I came to see if you existed.”
“To write an article about me,” Bruce stated.
“No. I heard rumors about you. Some sailors told a tale of a creature that stalks the Gotham nights and protects the innocent. I wondered if—,” Kent paused and took a deep breath, “I wondered if you were like me. But you’re not. You’re human.”
Bruce turned Kent’s choice of words over in his head. “And you’re not human,” Bruce deduced.
Kent quickly glanced around the stables before focusing on the far wall. He narrowed his eyes at something Bruce couldn’t see. “This isn’t a safe place to talk,” Kent said. “I can’t answer your questions here and I don’t think you want to be found here, either.”
No, Batman did not want to be found skulking around the stables. “Then where?”
“You must have somewhere private.”
Bruce did have somewhere private, but he didn’t want to take the Superman to the caves underneath the Manor. That was too close to home and too risky. If the Superman truly did write for the Daily Planet as Clark Kent—and Bruce wasn’t sure if that was a true cover story or not—then it was likely he knew who Bruce Wayne was. He couldn’t let the Superman have that power over him.
He did have another place though. It was isolated so taking the Superman there was still a risk, but it couldn’t be easily linked to Bruce Wayne.
Bruce turned sharply on his heels and walked out of the stables through the same back entrance that he’d entered only moments before. He glanced back once to check Kent was following and led him away from the blacksmith’s and towards the bordello on the edge of town.
“There,” Bruce said, gesturing to the low mountains that surrounded Gotham on the north and west. “On the third peak there’s a cave just—”
“I see it,” Kent said.
Bruce blinked and narrowed his eyes. Even in daylight, the cave would have been impossible to see from this distance—could the Superman truly see that far in the dark?
“My horse is tied in the woods a short distance from here. Get your horse and we can ride together.”
“Oh, that was my horse I was feeding in the stable. If I go back for him at this time of night there will be questions. I’d rather leave him there for now.”
Bruce sighed. “I’m not sharing my horse with you.”
“I’m not asking you to. Let’s go.”
It was a short walk from the bordello to the edge of the woods. Although the woods only covered a relatively small area, they were dense and in the dark, it was virtually impossible to find your path. Bruce had mapped out these woods years ago, however, and he knew his way through the trees as surely as any rancher knew his way around his fields.
The Superman followed him without any sound and that was equal parts welcomed and unnerving. Welcomed, because Bruce didn’t want to speak to him. But it was unnerving because a man the size of Kent shouldn’t have been able to walk through an unknown forest as silently as Kent did. Bruce knew these woods and even he occasionally brushed past a branch or stepped on a twig. Kent though, was silent.
After ten minutes of walking the trees thinned a little and opened up into a small clearing. It was here that Bruce had left his horse and he gave the stallion a firm but warm pat on its flank as he untied it.
“Nice horse,” Kent said. “What’s his name?”
“Gray Ghost.”
“Gray— That’s a black horse.”
Bruce glared at him. Usually, glaring at people while he was wearing his Batman mask had the effect of making people reassess their life choices but annoyingly, the Superman seemed unfazed. “He’s fast,” Bruce said as he quickly mounted the horse, “and I’m not going to wait for you.”
“You won’t need to. I can keep up.”
“We’ll see.”
Bruce had intended to keep Gray Ghost at a gentle trot so that Kent could follow on foot. But the Superman was slowly beginning to irritate him so as soon as Gray Ghost broke free of the dense woods and had more room to move, Bruce gave the command and the horse broke into a gallop.
Gray Ghost had been galloping at full speed for at least five minutes before Bruce turned his head to see how far behind Kent had fallen. He didn’t expect to see Kent at all as no man could keep up with Gray Ghost when he was at full speed.
But Kent was right behind him. Somehow, Kent was running and keeping pace with the fastest horse Bruce had ever seen. Kent didn’t even look out of breath.
Not for the first time that night, Bruce thought that the Superman was beyond description.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the base of the mountain. Bruce took his time tying Gray Ghost to a nearby tree and purposely didn’t look at Kent. He needed to get his thoughts together first. Bruce was torn between feelings of fear and a desire for knowledge. Part of him was frightened to learn the full extent of what the Superman could do—another part of him needed to know everything.
In the end, it was Kent who spoke first. “How do you get up there?”
“There’s a path up the mountain,” Bruce explained, pointing to a half-hidden trail, “but it’s difficult to navigate and you need to vertically climb the last thirty feet. I use my grapple.”
Bruce detached the grapple from his belt. It was a simple enough thing—just a rope with a hook on the end—but Bruce had spent hours refining the design so that the hook could be easily secured onto any surface from any angle. A different flick of the wrist would see the hook detach just as easily.
Bruce threw the grapple and it smoothly latched onto a ledge twenty feet up. He looked at Kent one more time before quickly climbing the rope and reaching the ledge. As soon as Bruce was secure on the ledge, he disengaged the grapple and pulled up the rope, leaving Kent with no way to follow him.
“The path is over there,” Bruce shouted down.
Kent smiled, waved, and then slowly lifted into the air.
Bruce thought that it was very lucky that his sense of balance was as solid as it was otherwise the sight of a man flying through the air would have caused him to fall off the mountain. Kent moved through the air as easily as a fish moved through the water and it seemed to cause him no strain at all—he didn’t even need to move his limbs.
It was awe-inspiring. It was terrifying.
Bruce idly wondered if everything that had happened that night was a result of his mind playing tricks on him. Had he slipped when he descended from the roof of the saloon and instead of attacking Dent’s men, had he landed on his head and this was all the result of a concussion? Had he drank himself into a stupor that afternoon and this was one of his whiskey-fuelled dreams?
Both of those options seemed more likely than meeting a man who could withstand bullets, outrun a horse, and fly through the air.
Kent reached the height of the ledge and hung in the air with a casual grace that took Bruce’s breath away. “This is easier than the path,” Kent said. “I can carry you up to the cave if you—”
“No,” Bruce said quickly. “I can make my own way.”
It took five more swings of the grapple for Bruce to reach the cave entrance at the top of the mountain. Every time he reached a new ledge and repositioned his grapple Kent was there, floating in the air like it was the most natural and easiest thing in the world.
And maybe it was for him. Bruce watched him move a few times and had the distinct impression that by the halfway point, Kent was starting to show off a little. At the bottom of the mountain, Kent had simply risen without really moving. As they got nearer the top, Kent started to roll, dive, and sweep through the air at speeds and angles that made Bruce feel dizzy.
The cave was guarded by a simple metal gate. When Bruce had first discovered the cave, it was more easily accessible than it was now. He’d been able to load up a cart and bring equipment up the mountain without any issues or danger. After he established his base, he destroyed parts of the path, made other parts impassable, and ensured that everybody would struggle ever to reach the cave again. Without his grapple, even Bruce would struggle to complete the vertical climb needed to reach the cave.
Clark Kent was the first person other than Bruce to step inside.
Bruce still wasn’t entirely sure it was a wise idea to bring the Superman here when he still didn’t know what he was capable of. As well as the tools attached to his belt, Bruce had several weapons—and even more prototypes—stashed around the cave, but if Kent could withstand bullets then what use were smoke bombs and batarangs?
But, Bruce was starting to believe that Kent wouldn’t hurt him. Kent had been looking for him—not to kill him, but because he wanted to believe that Bruce was like him. Whatever that meant. Kent could have killed him in the stables. Kent could have killed him in the woods on the way to the cave. Kent could have pulled Bruce off the mountain and let him fall to his death.
Instead, Kent had done none of those things. He’d followed Bruce with a smile on his face and never once seemed annoyed at how purposely difficult Bruce had made things. Kent had flown through the air with joy, not with menace.
Bruce didn’t like to gamble. He thought it was a fool’s game. However, Brucie Wayne was occasionally expected at the poker tables and as part of his cover, he always played to lose. Allowing Kent into his base when there was nobody else around for miles was the biggest gamble Bruce had ever taken and it was one he was playing to win.
Kent touched down on the ledge of the cave and walked inside like any other man would. Bruce watched him closely as he moved and there really was no sign that this ordinary-looking man could do anything spectacular at all.
Kent looked around the cave briefly before walking over to a wooden crate and peering inside. “What are these?”
“It’s a bola,” Bruce said, taking one out of the box. “Throw them at someone’s feet or legs and they will incapacitate them.”
“Clever. Are all of your weapons non-lethal?”
“Yes. What did you mean when you said I’m not like you because I’m human?”
Kent’s posture stiffened slightly at the abrupt change of topic and that had been Bruce’s goal. Bruce had discovered during his time as Batman that there were many ways to make someone talk. Several of them involved violence—not something he wanted to try with the Superman—but others were psychological. Keeping people off guard with a quick and unexpected change of subject often worked with those who were reluctant to talk but deep down, wanted someone to listen to them.
Kent didn’t answer immediately and Bruce gave him time to think. He watched closely as Kent walked around the cave and looked over the boxes of equipment and neatly written case files stacked on every available surface.
Eventually, Kent stopped walking and turned to face him. “I came from the stars.”
Bruce was a well-read man. He read scientific papers that theorized about the stars and what could be found in space. He’d even read Le Micromégas and been enthralled by the story of civilizations on other planets. On clear Gotham nights, Bruce often raised his eyes to the sky and thought about what could be out there. The idea of life on planets other than Earth wasn’t foreign to him, but seeing it in fiction and theory and seeing it in reality were two different things.
“You’re from Mars or Venus?”
Kent smiled sadly. “Further than that. Much further. Humans probably won’t have the technology to see far enough for another few centuries. Although, you won’t find my planet there anymore.”
“Why not?”
“It was destroyed,” Clark sighed. “The planet crumbled and no longer exists.”
“What about your people? How many of you are there?”
“It’s just me. I came to Earth as a young child and am the last of my kind.”
Bruce didn’t know what to say. He could barely comprehend the idea of alien races existing in space and yet here he was, having a pleasant conversation with someone that was not of this Earth. Bruce had so many questions to ask and none of the words to ask them.
But it was the knowledge that Kent was alone that stuck with him the most. He’d lost his family and his entire world as a child. Bruce may still have had his planet, but he was uniquely positioned to understand how Kent felt.
“I lost my parents at a young age,” said Bruce, softly, “it’s why I became Batman.”
“I’m aware of your story, Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce’s first reaction on hearing his name drop from Kent’s lips was to reach for his belt and grab the first weapon he could find. How did Kent know who he was? Had he known all along? If his identity was compromised that put his operation as Batman at risk. It put Alfred and his entire life at risk.
“How did you—”
“Your mask. I can see through things and I peaked back in the stables.” Kent paused and scratched at the back of his neck, causing his hat to slip over his head slightly and knock into his glasses. “Sorry.”
As there was no point in concealing his identity anymore Bruce took off his cowl and gloves and ran a bare hand through his hair. “How much money do you want?”
“Excuse me?”
“To keep silent about my identity. How much money?”
Clark looked offended at Bruce’s words. “Nothing! I’m not here to expose you, Bruce. Besides, you know who I am as well. If I expose you, you can just expose me.” “Wait, you’re really Clark Kent, a reporter for the Daily Planet?”
“Yes. Most of the time I’m just Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas. When I’m needed, I’m Superman from Krypton.” Clark pushed his glasses up his nose. Bruce doubted he needed them. “I didn’t choose that name, by the way. Superman, I mean. That was a colleague at the Daily Planet. I think it’s a little too grandiose.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Only a little?”
Kent laughed. Even though Bruce had seen Kent perform extraordinary feats and had heard from the man himself that he was not only Superman but a being from another planet, Bruce still found it hard to believe he wasn’t human. Kent moved like a human, he reacted like a human, and he looked like a human. Nobody in Gotham or Metropolis would ever expect that Clark Kent was anything more.
“Are you still going to write a story about Batman?” Bruce asked.
“I was never going to write a story about Batman. That was just a cover so that I could find you.”
“If you’re the last of your kind, why were you searching for me? You should have known I wasn’t the same as you.”
“I knew that you weren’t Kryptonian like me,” Kent explained, “but I thought you might be something similar.”
“I’m human. We already established this.”
Kent closed the distance between them once more. Bruce could smell the cheap whiskey Kent had consumed earlier that night. “Yes, you’re human. But you go out there and fight for Gotham. You faced three armed men tonight to try and save me. You may not be an alien like me, but you fight for what is right.”
“That’s what you were looking for?”
“Originally I was looking for people with powers like mine. There are people out there, Bruce,” Clark said. “I’ve heard stories of a man as fast as lightning, a woman that can move mountains, and a King that lives deep under the sea.”
Bruce had heard similar tales but had dismissed them as myths, just as he’d once dismissed stories of Superman. “You think they exist?”
“You exist. And yes, I think there is truth to it.”
“What happens if you find them?”
“I’ll ask them if they would be willing to help. There are things out there that are bigger than any one of us. It would be good to have friends that can help when needed.”
“You can fly and stop bullets, Superman. I find it hard to believe that you need any help.”
“Call me Clark—I’m not Superman right now.”
It felt strange to give such a normal name to someone so extraordinary but Bruce had come to realize that names held power. Every villain worth their salt in Gotham had a name they used for their crimes and it made the public fear them. It was also why Bruce had leaned into and adopted the name Batman. Bruce understood purposely turning away from that power and allowing Bruce to think of him as an ordinary civilian was a huge show of trust from Super— Clark.
“And you’re right. I can fly and stop bullets. I can do other things as well. But who’s to say I’m the only one who can do that? I want to help people, but what if someone stronger and faster than me doesn’t?”
Until today, Bruce’s world had been very small. It consisted purely of Gotham and the people within her borders. There were good people and there were bad people, but they were all notably human. Even Killer Croc was physically human, albeit with sharper teeth and thicker skin than most. Bruce had dedicated his adult years to becoming stronger, faster, and more agile than the average man, and the villains he couldn’t overpower directly, he could take down with the tools he’d devised.
If someone like Superman attacked Gotham though, what could he do? Superman had to have a weakness—everybody did—but could he discover that before Gotham and its people were destroyed?
“So that’s why I’m looking for others,” Clark continued. “Gotham is closest to Metropolis so I started with Batman.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Clark looked confused. “How have you disappointed me?”
“By being human.”
Clark glanced around the cave once more before turning back to Bruce and smiling. Bruce thought there was something not quite human about that smile because no human smile could cause him to feel so warm inside. “You’re not very good at listening to people, are you?”
“What?” Bruce said angrily.
Clark continued smiling, completely unfazed by Bruce’s obvious anger. “You haven’t disappointed me at all. I wanted to find heroes—people willing to help and protect others. And I found that in Batman. It doesn’t matter that you can’t fly or crush steel. It doesn’t matter that you’re human. You’re still everything I was looking for.”
Bruce didn’t know what to say. Batman operated in the shadows and rarely heard any words of praise for what he was doing. It wasn’t something Bruce was comfortable with. The people he saved were usually too frightened at their situation and too unnerved by the appearance of the Bat to say much and Sheriff Gordon was too stoic for anything more than the occasional mumbled “thanks.”
But Superman was a hero. Bruce recalled the stories he’d dismissed as myths—stories of Superman saving runaway trains, defeating gangs of bank robbers, and rescuing miners from collapsed tunnels. What had Bruce done to earn the praise of Superman?
“What do you want from me?” Bruce asked, equally needing to hear and dreading the answer.
“First, I would like you to join with me and anybody else I can find in the future to form a league. If any foe or danger becomes too big for any one of us to handle, we will help each other.”
“I don’t want you interfering in Gotham,” Bruce said firmly. “Gotham has its own problems and doesn’t need outsiders involved.”
“I got that impression when the guy with the half-burned face told his men to shoot me for no reason. He didn’t even try and rob me.”
Bruce sighed. “You must have caught Harvey on a bad day. If it was yesterday, he probably would have let you go.”
Clark looked confused at Bruce’s explanation but didn’t push it. “I won’t interfere in Gotham unless you ask me to. I don’t expect you to interfere in Metropolis, either.”
Bruce had heard about Metropolis, although he’d never been. Steam-powered vehicles lined the streets and every corner had an electric lamp while Gotham was still lit purely by gaslight. It was a city created for the new century and neither Bruce nor Batman wanted any part of it.
“How will we stay in contact?” Bruce asked. “If the danger is immediate, telegrams will not be quick enough.”
“Call me, and I’ll hear you.”
“Even from Metropolis?”
“Even from the ends of the Earth.”
It sounded impossible but Bruce didn’t doubt Clark’s words. To have all of that power and not try to take over the world made Clark Kent one in a billion.
“How will you contact me?” Bruce asked.
Clark took something out of the pocket of his jacket and handed it to Bruce. It was a crystal and looked as clear as the purest diamond Bruce had ever seen, but the way it glistened in the dull light was like no diamond Bruce had ever seen. It was about as long as his palm but seemed to weigh nothing at all.
“What is this?”
“It’s a remnant of my home planet,” Clark explained, his expression turning somber. “I have one as well.”
Clark pulled out a second crystal that looked almost identical. He ran three fingers along the length of the crystal and it glowed, casting an ethereal blue light around the cave. A second later, the crystal in Bruce’s hand did the same.
It took all of Bruce’s honed and practiced reactions to not drop his crystal on the floor.
“If your crystal glows, it means I need you and I’ll come for you. You can use your crystal to call me too if you’re not able to speak. Just run your fingers over it and it will light up.”
Bruce looked at the alien crystal in his hand and was stunned by both its beauty and the trust being placed in him by Superman. “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”
“I know you will,” Clark said.
Clark trusted so easily and Bruce hoped that nobody would ever give him a reason to regret that. Bruce’s own life experiences and cynicism meant that he could barely trust anyone at all yet here he was, agreeing to an alliance with a man that wasn’t of this world.
But there was just something so honest about Clark. Bruce doubted that anyone could look at Clark’s bright smile and deep blue eyes and not feel instantly reassured that everything was going to be all right.
“There was a second thing I wanted to ask you.”
Bruce could feel his wary cynicism trying to force its way back into the forefront of his mind. Clark wanted something else from him and Bruce’s experience told him that the second question was always worse than the first. It was a tactic he’d seen time and time again during his daytime business deals and he’d even deployed it himself at times—lull them into a false sense of security with a request someone was likely to accept, and then follow it up with the tough one.
Clark’s first request had been for Batman to join the league he was trying to form. Bruce couldn’t imagine what the second request would be.
Bruce looked down at the still-glowing crystal in his hand and sighed. “What is it?”
“I was going to leave Gotham tomorrow morning but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Dent thinks he killed me so I probably shouldn’t be seen healthy, hearty, and leaving on horseback. I’ll fly back to Metropolis tonight and I’ll have to leave my belongings at the hotel. So,” Clark paused. Bruce took a deep breath and waited for what was next. “Can I borrow some clothes? These have bullet holes in them.”
Bruce blinked. “That’s it? That’s your second request?”
“Yes?” Clark said, puzzled at Bruce’s reaction. “I’d be grateful if you could take care of my horse as well. If you want him, he’s yours. If not, can you find him a good home?”
There was a big wooden chest in the back of the cave and Bruce rummaged around in it until he found a shirt and vest that he thought would fit Clark. The man was slightly bigger than Bruce, but not drastically so. “I only have black clothes.”
Clark laughed. “I’m not surprised.”
Bruce threw the clothes at Clark who caught them easily. “I’ll look after your horse.”
Clark shrugged off his jacket and neatly placed it on the crate that contained the bolas. “Thank you. He’s a good horse and has served me well.”
“I have private stables at the Manor so he’ll be well looked after.”
Clark unbuttoned his vest and shirt, pushed them both off his shoulders, and then held them up for inspection. He looked at the bullet holes and Bruce supposed that was the appropriate place to look. However, Bruce’s eyes couldn’t move past the broad shoulders, thick chest, and perfectly smooth skin that was now on display. Clark might be an alien, but from where Bruce was currently standing—and leering slightly, if he was honest—he looked perfectly human.
Emphasis on the word perfect.
After inspecting his bullet-ridden clothes for a few seconds, Clark put on the borrowed shirt and vest. He had a sly smile on his face that momentarily puzzled Bruce, but Bruce was soon distracted by how tight his shirt was on Clark. The man could barely button it up and he didn’t even attempt to button the vest.
“Little tight, but I’m very grateful,” Clark said as he put his jacket back on. “And would it be acceptable if I dropped by the Manor sometimes?”
“Why would you do that?”
“To visit Flamebird.”
“Flamebird?”
Clark smiled. “My horse. I like that horse. He’s been a good companion.”
“That’s an interesting name for a horse.”
“There’s a story behind it. Maybe I’ll explain it to you one day.”
Clark took a few steps forward, bringing him within touching distance of Bruce. He held out his right hand and Bruce took it. Clark’s handshake was firm but not crushing and it lingered longer than Bruce was used to.
Clark smiled that sly smile once more. “I will take my leave now. Remember, if you need me, just call or use the crystal.”
“Thank you, but I hope I never need to.”
Clark laughed as he walked to the cave entrance. Bruce followed him a few steps behind but didn’t speak as he didn’t really have anything more to say. He needed to go back to the Manor, sit with Alfred, drink copious amounts of whiskey, and try to talk through everything he’d seen and heard since meeting Clark Kent that night. He was certain that Alfred would think he’d taken one too many blows to the head but he did have some evidence that he’d met a man from the stars—he had Clark’s strange crystal.
At the edge of the cave, Clark stopped and turned back to look at Bruce again. “There was something else I meant to tell you about.”
“Yes?”
“I told you I would be able to hear you if you called out to me,” Clark said. Bruce nodded confirmation. “Well, my hearing can also pick up close sounds that are inaudible to human ears.”
“That’s interesting,” Bruce replied, not quite sure why Clark was telling him this when he was about to leave.
“I can hear heartbeats,” Clark explained. “Especially ones that get a little faster when I take my shirt off.”
Bruce flushed red. He was an expert at controlling his body and his reactions but even he couldn’t regulate his heartbeat. Yet. Maybe that was something to work on.
Clark stepped off the cave ledge and hung in the air. He looked at Bruce and smiled one last time. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Bruce Wayne. I’m greatly looking forward to the next time.”
Clark doffed his hat, winked, and then was gone. Bruce tried to track Clark’s movement as he flew away but he was impossibly fast and it took only a second for him to disappear from view.
Bruce walked back into the cave, grabbed Clark’s discarded shirt and vest, and sat down heavily on one of the many crates. His entire worldview had been turned upside down and inside out by an alien in glasses.
Tomorrow, he would start researching. He would employ his network of spies and messengers to find all of the information they could about both Superman and the others Clark wanted to find. He would read every available piece of knowledge about the stars, send telegrams to every astronomer he could find, and learn everything there was to be learned.
Tomorrow.
Tonight, he was going to go back to the Manor, get drunk with Alfred, and then pass out while wondering whether Clark Kent had been flirting with him.