DCU: Untitled Identity Porn
4. Spiderweb
Five years in space and he’d never felt as alien as he did right now. It had nothing to do with being human — or not, as it were — and everything to do with being average. The whole idea was completely ludicrous and yet Clark couldn’t shake it, couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that he wasn’t the only person in the room who’d tied his own shoelaces while getting ready that evening.
White tie, Clark had discovered, really did mean ‘white tie’. Hiring the outfit had cost him a good month’s salary, and he wasn’t entirely convinced he would be able to get the Planet to cover it. He still felt about as comfortable as the proverbial long-tailed cat, however, because even though — theoretically at least — he was dressed the part, he certainly didn’t feel it. For one thing, he just couldn’t figure out who to be and that was making him nervous. Being Clark had instantly made him stand out as someone who was Not One Of Us and had earned him a range of looks from pitying to disgusted. The whole thing was just so… so rude that, in a perhaps ill-advised show of defiance he’d spent about fifteen minutes being Kal. That hadn’t worked either; he’d still drawn stares, albeit of a different kind, and had eventually given up after the sixth invitation to dance. The crowd of glitterati had dispersed quickly after that and, growing frustrated, Clark had pulled out his notebook and set to work.
He still wasn’t sure why he was here, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to write about it come tomorrow.
For his part, Bruce Wayne was everywhere Clark wasn’t; shaking hands and smiling and making gracious (and occasionally ribald, and slightly drunk) speeches. Clark had made several attempts to corner the young scion but the man was maddening elusive and Clark had eventually given up. If Wayne wanted to speak to him, well, he would. And if not…
… If not, what the hell was Clark doing here?
An hour passed, and then another. Clark interviewed anyone he could pin down and made sure to smile and not ask anything particularly difficult — think fluff, not scandal, not exposé — and spent time chatting with some of the other reporters, though they eyed him warily; this wasn’t his territory and they weren’t going to let him forget it in a hurry. He wondered idly just how long these sorts of events lasted.
And then, halfway through a content-free chat with eminent Gotham banker Eli Quick, he got the Call.
“Kent! Clark Kent well I’ll be damned! It feels like forever!”
And that was the thing, because Clark would have sworn Wayne had been halfway across the room. Except suddenly he was here, arm around Clark’s shoulders and a champagne flute in hand and greeting him like a long-lost brother.
“Eli, Eli you know I hate to steal your little interview but I haven’t seen Clark here in ages and we absolutely must catch up.”
Quick looked at him and Clark wasn’t sure what to say. So he just grinned and tried to nod even though the lie grated in the back of his throat. He knew he didn’t have to turn when Wayne pulled at him, didn’t have to play this game — whatever it was — didn’t have to follow when Wayne’s arm finally dropped from around his shoulder and the man gestured with a sly smile through a set of huge, ornate French doors to a darkened garden beyond.
He didn’t have to, but he did. Because that was why he was here, wasn’t it?
He said, “All right, Mister Wayne, if you don’t mind I think—” and got no further. Because he’d turned when he’d heard the doors click behind him, only to find someone had stolen Bruce Wayne. They’d taken one of the most famous faces in the world and replaced him with something… dark. Something dark and ancient that pierced him with eyes like a winter sky and for a moment Clark saw—
“What do you have on Luthor?”
There was nothing light in that voice, either — deep and dark as an abyss — and Clark felt like a rabbit between headlights.
They’re wrong, he thought, and there was a touch of hysteria there. They mutter and make jokes that no-one could be that stupid but oh, oh they don’t know the half of it, do they?
But Clark was beginning to suspect he did. Because suddenly Wayne was exactly the sort of man who would pretend to be a vapid playboy because it suited him. And a man who would do that was dangerous indeed, but dangerous to whom Clark wasn’t at all sure.
He opened his mouth, shut it again, pushed his glasses up his nose, swallowed nervously and finally said, “What are you talking about?”
Wayne simply cocked an eyebrow; the gesture as maddening as it was arrogant. “Don’t waste my time, Kent. You wouldn’t have accosted me at my own press conference with half-spoken accusations if you didn’t think you had something. I want to know what it is.”
He found himself meeting sharp, wolfish eyes squarely, if warily. Because Wayne could hurt him, he knew. Maybe not physically, but certainly professionally, and with allies like Luthor… “You’re Luthor’s business partner,” he pointed out. “Why should I trust you?”
And, surprisingly, that earned him a small smile. “Touché.” Wayne paused for a moment, thoughtful, and finally said, “Because you have to.”
Clark didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “That’s hardly reassuring.”
“The truth rarely is.” Wayne was glib, and his grin was sharp and predatory but… it wasn’t cruel, Clark thought. “You know as well as I do that I could destroy you professionally. A few words and no-one this side of the Atlantic would employ you ever again.”
“You brought me out here to threaten me?”
“Hardly. If I’d wanted you gone you would be gone, Mr. Kent. But that would be a little counter-productive, I think. I’ve read your work; it’s very good.”
“Uh, thank you.”
Wayne’s smile softened a little at the nervously automatic response. “And there’s so little work for an investigative journalist nowadays, don’t you think?”
A shrug. “The broadsheets don’t have the influence they used to.”
“Ah, a nicely diplomatic answer.” He tapped his champagne glass against his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “I meant what I told you before, Mr. Kent; my parents left me with wealth and power. It would be… disrespectful to their memory to use it unwisely.”
Clark realised he was worrying his bottom lip slightly and forced himself to stop, to say instead, “Then why work with Luthor? Surely you don’t believe he’s really interested in digging up alien rocks in order to… to find new sources of clean energy or cures for diseases?” Because Clark could believe Brucie could buy it, but not the man standing with him in the gloom of the garden, back-lit by the glow and the chatter of the ballroom. The Bruce Wayne who was not Bruce Wayne at all, but rather something else; something dark and broken and cunning.
Wayne waved a hand dismissively. “Of course not. Luthor is looking for a way to kill Superman; all other considerations are secondary.”
“Then why back him?” Which hadn’t been what Clark had wanted to ask at all.
“Because if Wayne Enterprises didn’t, someone else would.” Wayne took a sip of champagne then, eyes focused not on Clark but somewhere far out in the gardens, beyond the darkness. “Luthor’s project might turn out to be a multimillion dollar white elephant, certainly, but if it doesn’t; if the man really does manage to unearth his precious artefacts, then it’s hardly refutable that any technology emerging from them could easily be… earth shattering.”
“And you want to be there to… control it? Why?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone else with that kind of power, of course.” Wayne said it as if it were not only obvious but also quite acceptable, and Clark wasn’t sure if that bothered him or not. He still wasn’t sure if Wayne bothered him or not. The man seemed to be being awfully honest all of a sudden, and it occurred to him that Bruce Wayne was not one who commonly opened up to unknown reporters. Clark wouldn’t be in said profession if a big part of him suddenly wasn’t wondering why. Was Wayne really arrogant enough to think Clark couldn’t be a threat? It was true the man could crush his reputation with hardly a word but that wouldn’t change the fact that Clark still had a story — or pieces of one, at any rate — and someone, somewhere, was always going to listen.
And it was about then that the voice in the back of his mind said; Maybe he’s being honest because he wants you to trust him…
Clark said, “So, what? You wait to see if Luthor’s project turns anything up, and if it does you… you what?”
“Business is very ruthless, Mr. Kent. My company is very large and Luthor’s, for what it’s worth, is not. The man might be a genius but he’s also a fool; far too easily blind-sided by his obsessions. With Superman.”
“You mentioned before,” Clark began slowly, “that Luthor is looking for a way to kill him?”
Wayne nodded. “And no, I don’t know what it is; it’s the one thing he’s maddening closed-mouthed about.” He looked, oddly, honestly annoyed about it, and Clark wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
He said, “You sound like you want to know.”
A genteel shrug. “Of course.” Wayne made it sound like the most self-evident thing in the world. “Luthor is a maniac but he occasionally has a point. Superman may be mostly interested in rescuing kittens from trees now, but the line between guiding people to good and enforcing it is very thin. As it stands, if Superman decided humanity was no longer worth saving, who could stop him?”
It was the brutally clinical tone of voice, Clark thought, that left him feeling cold inside. Luthor hated Superman and that was… easy somehow, easier to dismiss the man’s ranting as madness. Wayne’s emotionless, tactical analysis hurt. Because he was right, as much as Clark was loath to admit it. If something did happen, if for some reason he—
No-one could stop him.
“Do you really think he would?” He tried to keep the shamed misery out of his voice but from Wayne’s calculating look realised he’d failed.
Eventually, the sharp gaze softened somewhat. “I don’t think it matters what I think,” he said slowly. “It’s the principle of the thing; the simple fact is that there is currently no power on this Earth that could stop Superman — or someone like him — in the event he went… rogue.”
Clark worried his lip again, pushed thick glasses back up his nose. “What would you do?” he asked. “If Luthor did manage to find such a weapon?”
“He won’t.” The young industrialist’s voice was sharp and bleak. “The Earth needs a contingency plan, not maniacs with super-weapons.”
Clark wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he didn’t; mind ticking over instead across the conversation. He realised suddenly that he wanted to believe Wayne; wanted to believe in Wayne, believe that he could be some kind of… some kind of ally; something it seemed he had far too few of. Because Wayne was cold but he didn’t seem cruel — was calculating but oddly compassionate — and suddenly Clark could see it, spread out in front of him like a spider-web, glistening barely-seen in the twilight. Wayne had left and then he’d returned and suddenly the Wayne Foundation was holding charity balls every second week. And everyone sneered and whispered that it was because the host was a drunkard and a philanderer but none of that changed the fact that they still showed up, and every ticket was another vaccination or prosthetic limb or new computer.
Wayne Enterprises was into almost everything; a true multinational mega-corp. Everything… except for arms manufacture. It certainly had been — and it still produced a rather odd assortment of military hardware — but then, again, its scion had returned and suddenly all funding had been routed elsewhere. And all Clark could think of was the image of a nine year old boy watching worn cobblestones wash red with his parents’ blood.
He said, “All right.”
Wayne rose one sleek black eyebrow at him quizzically over the top of the champagne glass, and suddenly Clark realised he was blushing.
“I, er, Luthor was, I mean—”
Wayne rose a had elegantly. “Not here,” he said. “Go back to Metropolis, Kent, and get your information. I’ll be there on business next week; we can find an appropriately run-down restaurant and exchange information like real conspirators. It will be fun.” Clark wasn’t sure if Wayne’s smile heralded ‘fun’, exactly; at least not the kind Clark was used to.
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly oddly dry. “Isn’t that… a bit dangerous?”
“If you mean Luthor, he will be out of the country by Wednesday. Flying to Chad, I believe.”
“All right,” Clark said, “I’ll see you after Wednesday… I guess.”
Bruce’s smile was predatory. “Mr. Kent, it’s a date.”