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Clark could definitely say, of all the things he’d encountered during his tenure as both a reporter and a superhero, that he’d never seen a red carpet walkway inside a building, let alone the 100th story of a massive skyscraper. But leave it to LuthorCorp and their gobs of excess money and time to devise a way.

Dozens of the nation’s philanthropists, businessmen and political pundits, specifically the ones with the biggest checkbooks, milled on the carpet flanked by their publicists and agents. The reporters, the demographic to which Clark belonged, stayed behind the velvet ropes and on the sleek black tile floor of the ballroom, shouting questions and waving their hands for interviews.

The 100th floor of the LuthorCorp building had been decked out in muted earth tones and elegant table cloths for the 11th annual Clean Energy Renewal benefit gala. Clark knew from recent research that LuthorCorp Plaza ran on clean energy, and that the building’s one-sided glass windows also functioned as solar panels, so at least the event wasn’t a total sham, like some of Luthor’s other business ventures. The panes only converted about half the sunlight they absorbed, but partial panels on over 150 building floors across two towers added up to more than enough energy to power the Plaza and adjacent buildings on the block (all of which were also owned by LuthorCorp, according to tax assessor's documentation). 

That’s one good thing Luthor did , Clark thought. He realized the irony of both Luthor and himself getting their power from the sun--Luthor probably got the idea from him.

None of the attendees seemed to mind all that much that LuthorCorp was currently under investigation for war profiteering, unethical experimentation and domestic terrorism charges, or that Lex Luthor himself was absent from the event he was funding from a jail cell on Stryker’s Island. They were just happy to be photographed at a charity auction, getting good PR and rubbing elbows with some of the biggest names in their respective tax brackets.

Lois and Jimmy stood next to Clark on the sidelines, all three proudly wearing their press badges identifying them as journalists with the Daily Planet, a news organization that pulled a certain amount of weight, not just in Metropolis, but all over the country, ever since they’d broken the story on Luthor’ s extensive war crime rap sheet. Their presence in the LuthorCorp building was both scandalous, and necessary; who better to be the watchdogs of the event than them? Everyone would be on their best behavior now. The paper that imploded LuthorCorp (and got all the exclusive interviews with Superman) was on the scene, sniffing out their next potential exposé. Anyone could be a target.

But if they were supposed to be the watchdogs, then Clark wasn’t feeling very menacing. They were more like the toy poodles in a rich lady’s purse than a bloodhound sniffing out the scent of truth and good faith reporting. It was a puff piece, essentially. Something that got them into the door of LuthorCorp and maybe raised some eyebrows locally--the Daily Planet waltzes into the company they just exposed for fraudulency. 

But leave it to Lois Lane to find an angle in even the most basic assignment.

Anyone could be a target, but Lois had her sights set on the most upstanding and unassuming attendee of them all; Bruce Wayne. Any argument that Bruce Wayne wasn’t suspect to anything only made her double down; “ Exactly . If he’s so squeaky clean, then what’s he doing running around with Lex Luthor?”

“He’s not running around with him. He’s attending a charity gala. There’s a difference.”

They had argued about it, briefly, in the breakroom a week or so before the assignment. Lois had been obsessively researching Bruce Wayne leading up to the gala, leaving a lot of the other grunt work of the assignment to Jimmy and Clark. 

Lois had already warned him not to try anything stupid. They were deep in enemy territory, walking into the lion’s den. “No one suspects Clark Kent of being Superman,” Clark said, tapping the frames of his glasses smartly with his index finger. “Not even Lex Luthor.” 

“Charming affectation you’ve developed talking about yourself in the third person,” Lois retorted, stirring her black coffee with a wooden stirrer. “No heroics and no snooping around.”

Clark held up his hands in surrender, “Fine. No funny business. Scout’s honor.”

Steve Lombard walked into the break room then, and they’d both had to shut up promptly while he rattled on about the Meteors win-loss streak and the debt he was wracking up from his ill-fated sports betting.

“Isn’t it unethical for a journalist to bet on the team he reports on?” Clark asked. Lois snorted into her coffee.

“Ask the Associated Press,” Steve slurped his coffee, and got a milk stain on his furry mustache.

Clark would be lying if he said that Lois’s interest in Bruce Wayne was a completely random occurrence; Gotham City had been a place of constantly developing stories and news headlines, to the point where here lately, the Planet felt more like a Gotham-based newspaper than it was Metropolis.

Gotham City, after years of floundering around in the deep end, finally had its own metahuman protector, but unlike many of the other heroes around the globe, his identity was completely shrouded in mystery. 

It wasn’t Guy Gardner’s braggadocious proclamations of greatness on daytime television, or even Superman’s congenial interviews in the paper. There was no personality, no defining characteristics, no alter ego put on for the cameras. There was only the flourish of a black cape, and the dark purple blooms of bruises on the faces of would-be criminals left as a calling card.

Batman was a complete mystery. The only pictures that existed of him were blurry, snapped quickly on cell phones that were held by shaky hands, in disbelief of what they were seeing. He dressed only in black. He operated only at night, in dark shadowy alleys in Gotham’s most crime-ridden streets. No one was even sure what his powers were; could he fly like a bat? Use echolocation? Bite people and give them rabies? Sleep upside down? It was anyone’s guess.

A light started to appear in the thick smog that coated Gotham in its characteristic layer of grime; they were calling in the bat signal.

At first, Batman just stopped petty crimes; left thieves strung up by their ankles, gift-wrapped for Gotham PD, or parked stolen cars outside the homes of their owners, with the keys in the mailbox, things like that. Just enough to establish his presence in the city and be gone by sunrise. But recently, a new development had piqued the interest of the Planet and the rest of the tri-state area; and that development was Cosmo Krank.

Lois stumbled upon a headline buried deep in the Business and Finance section of the Gotham Gazette; “Wayne Enterprises quietly bankrupts Krank Co.” Krank Co. had a brief stint in the public eye for manufacturing incredibly futuristic and amazing toys for Gotham’s youth; Not too long after they emerged on the scene, several of the toys exploded, nearly killing the children to whom they belonged, and Krank Co. became another disgraced corporation at the receiving end of public outrage.

Krank Co.’s CEO, Cosmo Krank, was an erratic inventor who fit every stereotype of the “mad scientist,” down to the kooky hairdo and funky glasses. Krank made several appearances on television where he tried to demonstrate the safety of his toys, all of which he designed and patented himself, and his demeanor could only be described as bizarre. After months of lobbying to revoke Krank’s business license and bring him up on criminal endangerment charges, Wayne Enterprises succeeded in closing Krank Co.’s doors permanently, and Cosmo Krank went from bizarre to unstable. He dawned a pair of welding goggles, a purple coat, and proclaimed himself the Toy Maker. He made Gotham his screwed up dollhouse; planting bombs that looked like teddy bears, toy soldiers that shot real bullets. He was wreaking havoc on the city.

The only person there equipped to rise to the occasion was Batman. 

There was no denying that Gotham City appeared to be on the cusp of something revolutionary; a miasma of crime, corruption, and pollution, but at the center of it all, a caped crusader who stopped at nothing to protect his city from threats big and small. 

All anyone could talk about was Batman. And of course, if you were talking about Batman, you were talking about Gotham, and if you were talking about Gotham, you were talking about the Waynes.

Clark could remember knowing about Bruce Wayne and his family tragedy, in some way or another, his entire life. The billionaire boy who was orphaned after his parents were gunned down in an alley, he the only survivor. The Waynes made the news, even in Smallville. He remembered his parents shaking their heads at the TV and clucking their tongues, “Such a shame. This world is so full of violence. No one is protected from it, even the rich and powerful.”

As a young boy Clark remembered thinking, If he had powers like mine, he could have saved them . 

Now, Bruce Wayne was pretty much regarded as an eccentric recluse, who rarely left the manor, but spent his ample wealth in mostly charitable and philanthropic ventures.

Which is why Lois wasn’t the only one waiting for Bruce Wayne’s arrival. But she wanted to talk about the nitty-gritty. She wanted to talk about the Toy Maker.

“There he is!” she exclaimed. Her identification was quickly followed by an onslaught of camera shutters and a temporarily blinding flash of light. A figure was standing by the elevator, concealed by the bright flashes. A murmur rippled throughout the massive ballroom, and Clark caught snatches of every hushed conversation.

“I was starting to think he was dead…”

“Wow! He’s even better looking in real life than in the pictures!”

“I can’t believe he’d even show his face here.”

 “...after the Toy Maker tried to kill him.”

“I thought he’d be taller.”

“Gee, Bruce Wayne,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses. He looked…bad. He was wearing sunglasses, but it didn’t conceal the lankness of his frame, or the hollowness in his cheeks. He was dressed very sharply, in a black and white tux and a long, sweeping overcoat that terminated at his ankles. He was presented like a Thom Browne model, but he looked like a junkie.

Jimmy started snapping pictures. Bruce Wayne hardly left Wayne Manor, so when he did, even his presence was considered newsworthy in some capacity. Everyone began shouting at him, waving their pens around, “Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne, I’m with Metropolis Now--”

“Hi, Dana Brooks, Metropolis Star---”

Bruce was unperturbed. He walked down the carpet at an ambling pace, not bothering to look or turn his head towards the many shouted requests at interviews. He was drawing closer to them. Jimmy adjusted his shutter and zoom, to capture the perfect image of his subject in motion. 

“I’m gonna try and get around to the other side, maybe get a better angle that way.” Jimmy said to Clark. He ducked into the crowd and disappeared.

Clark looked at Lois, and could tell she was trying to devise a way to get Bruce Wayne’s attention. It didn’t look as if he was going to give any journalist his time of day. And, Clark thought it was puzzling that he was wearing his sunglasses indoors. Maybe it was a wealth thing, some kind of symbol of affluence. What did he know?

“I have to get this interview now,” Lois said. “There’s no way I’ll be able to pull him aside once he’s in there talking to all his billionaire buddies over canapés.”

Clark watched Bruce’s slow progression across the carpet and came up with a last minute hail mary. Super-ventriloquism was not one of his preferred powers--it scared people and invaded their sense of autonomy, and who wouldn’t feel a little violated hearing someone else's voice in their head? Clark didn’t like making anyone uncomfortable if he could help it, but Lois was desperate. And it would be good to at least have a brief quote for the article.

He passed his hand over his mouth, in a gesture that he hoped looked like he was muffling a slight cough. Bruce Wayne, look to your left.

Bruce didn’t seem shocked or frightened, but his head did swivel, rather abruptly, to his left. Clark had already assumed his normal, hunching stance. Bruce locked eyes with Lois, and she seized her opportunity.

“Mr. Wayne. Lois Lane, with the Daily Planet,” Lois said, extending her arm. Bruce came over and shook her hand. “Do you have time for a few quick questions?”

Bruce inclined his head, but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut right to the chase; What is being done in Gotham about the Toy Maker?”

Bruce, unlike most people who were interviewed by Lois (including Clark) kept his cool. He didn’t seem visibly startled or irritated by the question, and answered in a quiet rasp, “An investigation is being headed by Commissioner Gordon of Gotham PD. I have every faith that it’s being dealt with.”

“Yet, amidst all the chaos in your city, you decided to come to a gala thrown by notorious criminal Lex Luthor.”

“I don’t really keep up with the news,” Bruce deflected, smoothly. “I am, however, interested in converting a majority of Wayne Enterprises' energy expenditures to renewable sources.”

“On the topic of Wayne Enterprises; many are saying that because your company bankrupted Krank Co., that you are directly responsible for Cosmo Krank’s acts of terrorism.”

Bruce stared at her steadily, but she only saw her own stern reflection looking back at her in the black frames of his sunglasses. “Was there a question that I missed buried somewhere in that statement?”

Clark felt his pulse jump a little; Wow , he thought, this guy really means business .

Lois, though, took it in stride. “Are you?”

“Cosmo Krank was manufacturing dangerous, untested and unapproved toys and putting them directly into the hands of Gotham’s children. If I’m the evil stepparent for taking them away, then so be it.”

Lois scribbled furiously on her notepad. Clark flicked his eyes down and saw she took the entire sentence, word for word. He had to admit, it did make for an excellent pull quote.

“And apparently, Gotham now has a caped crusader of its own. What do you think ‘The Batman’ will do about this threat to your city?”

“Well, if he’s half as competent as your Superman, he’ll stop it,” Bruce finished tersely, with no smile to cut the bitterness of his retort. “Is that all, Ms. Lane?”

Lois tapped her notepad with the end of her pen sharply a few times in rapid succession. “Yes, that’s all. Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s eyes slid easily over Clark, barely registering that he was there at all. If not for his considerable height, it’s possible he would have passed over him entirely. “P--pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne,” Clark stuttered. 

Bruce’s eyes flicked up and down quickly. He nodded brusquely, “Excuse me.”

He turned away and vanished into the crowd milling around on the ballroom floor.

Lois swatted Clark with the back of her hand. Clark rubbed his stomach, “Hey, what gives?”

“What the hell was that?” Lois asked, “What’s with the supplication act?”

“What act?” Clark asked defensively. “He’s a powerful man in Gotham, and he has a good reputation. We could have an ally in him, if we play our cards right.”

“Who, you and the Justice Gang ?” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Actually, yes. And that’s not our name. It’s still in development.” Lois rolled her eyes so hard, she saw stars. 

“Don’t forget that he’s here by invitation of LuthorCorp. He’s colluding with your enemy.” 

“Bruce isn’t an investor. He’s richer than Luthor, he stands nothing to gain. And besides, the Waynes are philanthropists. Wayne Enterprises provided cots for the displaced Metropolitans after that Ocean Maw overflowed the West River, remember? Maybe he’s here for the right reasons.”

“No philanthropist is a multi-billionaire,” Lois said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You get rich, and then you’re a philanthropist. And anyone that rich has a couple skeletons in their closet.

Jimmy approached them, camera in hand. Lois, whatever else she might have had to say about Clark and his Justice Gang, held her tongue. “Did you talk to Bruce Wayne?” he asked her.

“Briefly. Not a real chatty guy.”

Jimmy snapped a couple more pictures of Bruce as he shook hands with some of the other suits at the gala. This was indeed a prime photo opportunity. These photos, along with Lois’s interview, what few words it consisted of, would no doubt make the front page. Clark could see the headline already: “Gotham’s Golden Boy Visits the City of Tomorrow.” 

“What I want to know is--” Lois said, cutting her eyes to Clark, “-why he is at a benefit gala for LuthorCorp.”

“Well, the proceeds are going towards research into alternative methods of renewable energy on citywide scales, and Gotham still runs mostly on fossil fuels--” Jimmy began, but Lois stopped him cold.

“Not what’s on paper. Why is he actually here? Why not send a proxy or a board member like he usually does? Bruce Wayne doesn’t leave Wayne Manor unless something big happens. Lex Luthor just got arrested. I’d say him showing up here is pretty big.”

“You think Wayne Enterprises and LuthorCorp are in cahoots?” Clark asked, disbelieving. They stood for completely opposite things; Bruce Wayne was an orphan who dedicated his family’s funds to philanthropic enterprises and entrepreneurial tech ventures. Lex Luthor was an entitled, conceited, money and power-hungry monster, and he’d never even bothered to hide that fact from the public. He was just so rich that no one could do anything about his blatant animosity.

“There’s no scoop here, Lois. He’s just a billionaire rubbing elbows with another billionaire,” Jimmy said.

“I’m not so sure. Between the two of them, that’s a pretty big table. Makes me wonder what deals might be happening underneath it.,” Lois said. She turned to Clark. “If Bruce Wayne has nothing to gain, then why is he here?”

…

The keynote speech was delivered by a balding man in his late 40s named Geoffery Higgins, a representative of LuthorCorp’s board of directors. He had stepped in to fill the hole left empty by Luthor’s sudden departure. The official story was that the board elected him as interim CEO, but no one at the Planet was convinced, including Clark. 

He knew from preliminary research that Higgins was a high-level corporate advisor for many years at various companies before he landed at LuthorCorp. He was also a Cornell graduate and lifetime member of UNICEF. He was the perfect face for the new LuthorCorp. And that made his appointment very suspect. 

Higgins wore a dark blue suit and had a little pin that looked like planet Earth on his lapel. He was confident with the topic, and spoke with the security of mind that only either immense education or immense ego could provide. Clark jotted these observations down in the margins of his notes, and listened to Higgins’s speech intently, especially to the brief portion devoted to fielding audience questions:

“We expect Metropolis to be running on 40% clean energy within the next five years. LuthorCorp has already converted a large portion of its power consumption to solar and wind energy, and will be working tirelessly to ensure other Metropolis corporations do the same.”

“By hostile takeover or bribery?” Lois muttered under her breath.

“How are you planning to incorporate other businesses, or even other cities into your Clean Energy plan?” a reporter from an online publication asked. 

“Well, it’s always been the goal of LuthorCorp’s Clean Energy Renewal to expand the project beyond the limits of Metropolis. It starts with a rooftop garden and eventually, you have entire cities running on clean energy. Our next partner, we hope, is Gotham City, just across the bay. If Gotham City’s elite start their own clean energy campaign, we think that it will encourage the city officials to follow suit. Thank you for your question. Next, please?”

A few more people stepped up to the mic to ask about overhead, projected rollout time and practical, cost-efficient solutions for Metropolitans. 

Lois rolled her eyes throughout the entire thing, “Are none of these people concerned that LuthorCorp of all people are funding this? It’s like the last three months never even happened.”

Although he shared Lois’s reservations, he tried to remain optimistic. “Let’s just hear what he has to say. We’ll reveal the inconsistencies later.”

Lois nodded solemnly. 

After the speech concluded, the benefactors and consortiums continued to hobnob, while the journalists and PR reps took advantage of the open bar. Lois ordered whiskey rocks, and Clark had a Coke, neat.
Jimmy had disappeared sometime during the speech to get more photographic coverage. Clark would spot him, occasionally, by the flash of his camera across the ballroom.

“So, their plan is to target ‘Gotham’s elite?’ They’re not even trying to hide that they’re marketing towards the one percent.” 

“Am I the only one here concerned with the actual assignment?” Clark mumbled. Lois ignored him

“Gotham’s elite is their next target, and Bruce Wayne just happens to make this his first public outing in months. I’m telling you, there’s something more to this.”

Clark actively fought to suppress an exasperated sigh. He admired Lois’s tenacity, and her adherence to ethical practices of journalism, but sometimes her tenacity bordered on obsession. It could grow tiresome, especially if he didn’t share her passion on the subject. But Clark knew that Lois had this uncanny ability to recognize corruption and wrongdoing. She was her own kind of metahuman in that way. And so he had to resign himself to at the very least hearing her out, if not agreeing completely.

“You’re probably right,” Clark said. “But I don’t think Bruce Wayne is a villain. It’s a Clean Energy Renewal gala. You know just as well as I do that Wayne Enterprises devotes massive teams to conservation and alternative energy research. Can’t he just be here to improve the air quality in Gotham?”

“Not while their aerospace program builds luxury jets and spacecraft that burn millions of gallons of jet fuel every year.”

Sometimes, he hated when she was right. He polished off his Coke and ordered another.

“Where is he, anyway? I didn’t see him the entire speech,” Lois said, half turning to look over her shoulder for Wayne. Clark turned and slowly swept the room, using telescopic vision to scan each face in the crowd. Bruce Wayne was nowhere to be found. 

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom,” Clark said. Lois looked at him expectantly. “Come on, we’re not that desperate, are we?” 

She sighed, “No, you’re right. Peeping Tom is a step too far, even for me.”

They both chuckled and sipped their drinks. “Actually, speaking of, I think the Cokes are starting to hit me. I’ll be right back.” 

Clark got up and scanned briefly for the bathroom. He found it not with superpowers, but by the line snaking out of the women’s room. He fumbled his way through the crowd, “Oh, excuse me, pardon me, I’m sorry.”

As he drew closer to the restrooms and away from the din of conversations, tinkling ice and shuffling feet, he heard something out of the ordinary. Someone was talking, low, under their breath; “Alfred, I’ve scanned the floor. No one here worth checking out. What do the building schematics show?”

A tinny voice, that sounded like it came from a small radio, responded in a British accent; “You’re in the middle of the building. Schematics show Luthor mainly conducted business on the top floors. See if you can find a way to access the elevators. I’ll try and hack them remotely.”

Scanned? Hack? What the heck was going on?

Clark turned towards the source of the noise. He peered through a wall draped in a giant tapestry that advertised the “11th Annual Clean Energy Renewal Gala,” and a giant embroidered picture of the planet as the nucleus to a green atom. Behind the wall was an industrial kitchen, which was deserted. 

Clark felt his eyebrows raise above the frames of his glasses. His mouth fell open.

Bruce Wayne was looking at a tiny holographic render of the LuthorCorp building being projected from a small wristwatch (a Rolex, Clark read in tiny print on the watch face. He spared no expense). The hologram keyed into a room in the upper floors of the LuthorCorp building’s west tower. 

“Here,” the British voice, Alfred, said, “This is where they keep the computer mainframes. If you can gain access to that room, I bet I can track his revenue streams from anywhere.”

“Remotely? Is that secure?”

“Who said anything about remotely? I’ll talk you through it.”

Clark watched as the hologram centered back on Bruce’s location, and showed a map of maintenance access hallways from the kitchen that lead to a service elevator. Bruce minimized the map, and began making his way further into the LuthorCorp building. 

Clark looked around quickly, to make sure no one saw him slip, unnoticed, into the kitchen after Bruce. But of course, the genius part of an unassuming alter ego is that no one noticed you were missing; they barely even noticed you were there at all.

…

Superman hovered outside the LuthorCorp west tower. 

He was easily able to track Bruce as he moved through the maintenance tunnels, and eventually found a convenient way to exit through an upper floor that was being remodeled. He left his suit and sweater vest folded nicely on a piece of scaffolding, and took flight into the mid-evening Metropolis sky.

He bored deeper into the steel and glass edifice of the tower, and scanned the upper floors for life forms. Since Luthor was carted off to jail, there was little need for activity on the upper floors. At first he didn’t find anything other than bugs, spiders feasting on the insects unfortunate enough to get caught in their webs.

But then, in a room buried in the middle of one of the upper floors, he saw it; the infrared outline of a person, hunched over a computer terminal, typing furiously.

Gotcha .

He carved a hole in the window using his laser vision fashioning a makeshift entrance. No use pretending like he really cared about property damages to LuthorCorp’s building. A couple thousand dollars to replace a window would be like a drop in the bucket for them. He did feel a little guilty about destroying the solar panel, though, now that he knew it was a sustainable window pane. 

He entered and paused outside the door Bruce Wayne was right behind. He spied for a moment, trying to get a read on the situation before he burst in.

“Another firewall,” Bruce said.

“Damn!” the little voice in his ear exclaimed.

“I told you. This isn’t your average security system.”

So he was really trying to break in. Breaking News: Lois Lane was right again. Clark shook his head thinking about the expression of self-satisfaction she was going to have when he told her about this. But, you never knew, maybe there was a perfectly good reason that he was up here, sneaking around through maintenance tunnels and breaking through firewalls. He was inclined, given his history with Luthor, to give Wayne the benefit of the doubt.

He gathered his thoughts and then, he burst through the door.

“Hi, there.”

Bruce wheeled around, startled. Up close, he looked even worse; he’d removed his sunglasses, and Clark now saw why he was wearing them indoors. He had a shiner on his left eye, a swollen gree-purple blotch blooming in his pre-orbital hollow, the skin still broken. His hair wasn’t held back with gel, but with grease from days without bathing.

But despite his haggard appearance, he was nimble. Without skipping a beat, Bruce launched a black cable from his wrist. It flew forward and wrapped around Clark several times before cinching tightly and constricting his arms to his sides. On either two ends of the cable were black iron bats. They clanged together as the cable wrapped around his chest. 

Oh, man , Clark thought, he’s the Batman .

Easily, Superman flexed his arms and the cable snapped like a rubber band. Although he couldn’t be sure, it looked like Bruce paled a little. But his skin was so gaunt, it was hard to tell.

“Breaking and entering is illegal, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The tinny voice sounded in Bruce’s earpiece, “Bruce, what the hell’s going on? Who’s there?”

“Superman,” Bruce said, coolly, answering the voice’s question in an unassuming, nonchalant manner so as not to give the voice away. Superman heard him, though, clear as day. 

“Bruce Wayne. Or, Batman, if you prefer. And the little man in your ear is Alfred?”

Bruce’s frown deepened. He reached up with forefinger and thumb and plucked the earwig out of his ear. “Bruce? Bruce! What the hell--” it switched sharply off as Bruce pocketed it.

Clark crossed his arms across his chest, and tried his best not to be smug. Batman, the so-called “world’s greatest detective” was no match for good old fashioned investigative journalism. Well, that and super-hearing. And x-ray vision. And flight and--you know what, it didn’t matter. He’d discovered The Batman’s identity.

“So, do you break into secure, private areas often?”

Bruce stayed silent, his jaw clenched tightly. The muscles in his neck bulged and Clark could see, beneath the pressed white collar of his shirt, a nasty, multi-colored bruise on his throat. Like he’d been in a bad fight. “How is this going to go?” Bruce hissed.

“I just want to know what you want with Lex Luthor. And if you’re up to no good, you might as well just tell me,” Superman said, diplomatically. “Because I’ll find out one way or another.”

But Clark knew that Batman, like Bruce Wayne, was generally a force for good. He fought organized crime, drug kingpins, and did it all without killing. And when the Gotham Police refused to address issues of festering violence in the city (or in some cases, contributed to it) Batman put a definite stop to it, with or without their permission. He struck fear in the hearts of would-be criminals, because he had a reputation. A reputation for violent retribution that made people think twice about crossing to the errant side of the law. Whatever he was here to do, it wasn’t anything that would harm anyone. Ethically questionable, maybe. But harmful, almost certainly not. 

Now that he put a little thought into it, Clark wondered how no one had deduced Batman’s identity before now; the reclusive billionaire’s son, who had infinite money, resources, a genius tech mind, and a love for his city that had been proven time and time over made for the perfect suspect. Lois had an inkling that something wasn’t quite right with him, she had only misidentified the source. It made Clark wonder how long until someone connected the dots for him.

“It’s about the Toy Maker,” Bruce said. “I believe LuthorCorp was shadow-funding Krank Co. …and I also think Luthor was the one preventing me from bankrupting them for so long.”

Clark knew from working at the Daily Planet that there had been a long, drawn out corporate battle between Wayne Enterprises and Krank Co., but the particulars were lost on him. He wasn’t on the business or finance beats, which is where stories on Bruce Waye most commonly appeared.

“I tried for months to buy out Krank Co. and dissolve the assets, but no matter how much I offered or lobbied to have Gotham revoke their business license, I always got caught up in red tape. I didn’t understand why. All the records on Krank Co. were sealed, assets were privately held, and FOIA requests did nothing. But things became suspiciously easy after you ran Luthor out of town. A week after Luthor went to prison, I bankrupted Krank Co.”

“I don’t understand why you suspect Luthor was involved,” not that Clark didn’t believe it. It seemed more than plausible. But just because he didn’t like Luthor, didn’t mean he could just accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit. “What would he and Cosmo Krank have in common?”

“An enemy,” Bruce said, plainly. Clark was struck by the frankness of the statement. 

“You?”

“And you,” Bruce said. “I know that Luthor was funding Krank Co. I just need to be able to prove it. And if I follow the money, maybe that will tell me what both of them were up to.”

In a way, Lois had been right, Clark supposed. Just not about Bruce Wayne. There was a big table that stretched across Delaware Bay, from Metropolis to Gotham, only the deals weren’t being done by Bruce Wayne, but by Cosmo Krank and Lex Luthor. Something was going on, but what? And more importantly, why ? 

That was the hardest question to answer, journalistically. The rest of the 5 W’s were relatively easy; Who? Lex Luthor and Cosmo Krank. What? A shady business deal. When? In the last four or five months. Where? Gotham and Metropolis. But why? That’s what Bruce was trying to get to the bottom of. 

“So, back to my original question; how is this going to go?”

On the one hand, he was breaking and entering. This had to constitute corporate espionage to the highest prosecutable degree. A business associate and sometimes rival of LuthorCorp breaking into his high security mainframe to track his expenditures violated more laws than Clark even knew existed. 

But on the other, Batman was a hero. The Caped Crusader of Gotham who had protected thousands of innocents and exposed rampant corruption. And Gotham was a place of deep-seated corruption. And weren’t Bruce Wayne and Batman, now, one in the same?

“I think I have a way I can help you.”

“I work alone,” he said, rather sharply. “I don’t need your help. The best thing you can do to help me is leave, and pretend you never saw me.”

“I’m not going to leave you. But I’m not going to tell anyone your secret either,” Clark said. “You need to go back downstairs to the gala. People are going to start to wonder what happened to the elusive Bruce Wayne the longer you stay up here. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll handle it from here. We’re in a position to help one another out.”

Suddenly, a look of extreme focus crossed his face. Bruce was blinking furiously, eyebrows knit together.

“Mr. Wayne? Are you alright? Do you have something in your eye?”

“The reporter…” he said quietly. If Clark didn’t have super-hearing he might not have heard it at all, it was so hushed. But he did hear it, clear as day. “The reporter with the glasses. That’s you. Clark Kent.”

Clark focused on Bruce’s dark, sleep-deprived eyes and saw a small, yellow ringlet around his iris. It dilated and retracted with his eye movements, and in a tiny refraction Clark saw text and coordinates displayed directly into Bruce’s eye. 

He was able to read what the mirrored image said:

ꓘЯA⅃Ɔ ˎTИƎꓘ

Ɉǝnɒlᑫ γliɒꓷ ǝʜT ˎɿǝɈɿoqǝЯ ɈnǝmnϱiƨƨA lɒɿǝnǝӘ :noiɈɒqυɔɔO

ИWOꓘИU ATAꓷ ЯƎHTO

“A high-tech contact lens,” he observed. It must have kept his facial scan from their earlier interaction and matched it based on Superman’s facial profile. 

I’ve got to tell Mr. Terrific about this later! He thought, excitedly. But then he remembered that he had no more ace to play, and quickly sobered. How had it been able to decode the facial scramble emitted from his Hypnoglasses? It was supposed to be impervious to any facial recognition technology. Another thing to ask Mr. Terrific about later.

Almost as quickly as he had deduced Batman’s identity, his had been deduced as well; and all without super-hearing, x-ray vision or the power flight. Just good old fashioned super-intellect. And state-of-the-art technology. And a billionaire bankroll and--you know what, it didn’t matter. He’d discovered Superman’s identity.

“Well, now we’re in even more of a position to help one another out,” Clark said.

Bruce was silent, regarding him carefully. The playing field was level now, which could either put Clark at a disadvantage, or give him a leg up. Luckily for him, he tended to wax optimistic.

“I know your secret, and now, you know mine. I guess the only option we have left is to trust each other.”

“I work alone,” he repeated firmly.

“Okay, fine. You work alone. But maybe you have friends sometimes. Like me. And Alfred.”

“I don’t have friends, either.” 

What a party pooper! Clark thought. Who doesn’t want a friend?

“Okay, then. What about…allies?” he offered. “After all, this is my city. I want to protect Metropolis, the same way you want to protect Gotham. Even off duty. We’re our cities’ protectors, and sometimes, we protect each other’s cities. We can do a lot of good together, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce.”

“What?”

“Call me Bruce.”

Clark beamed, unable to contain the huge smile that broke out across his face. “So, allies?”

Clark saw the briefest flicker of a smile cross his face. It looked more like a twitch or a muscle spasm, but he knew; it was a smile. Bruce blinked a few more times in rapid succession. Then he nodded.

“Why don’t you tell me everything you have on Lex Luthor, and what you’re looking for,” Clark said, “And in the future, refrain from breaking and entering.”

Chapter Text

August 22nd

I didn’t sleep today. It’s happening more and more. The line between myself and this persona I’ve taken is becoming thinner. I don’t know where he stops and where I begin. But it doesn’t matter. It just tells me that my will to see justice carried out is becoming stronger. How long until we bleed into one, and Bruce Wayne ceases to exist?

I’ve been in the darkness so long, it’s becoming harder to see the light. But it’s still there, faint glimmers of hope that haven’t yet been snuffed out. I have to protect them. I have to cloak myself in the darkness, so that they can remain light. If it is all I do, I have to keep that hope burning. Not for myself, but for them. The innocents that the blackness of this world hasn’t marked with ashen fingers.

It looks like more rain tonight. I hope it will be enough to keep me awake. But I never sleep anymore. 

…

On the drive back from Metropolis, Bruce Wayne had plenty to think about. 

He valeted his car at LuthorCorp, which made leaving a longer ordeal than he would have wanted. As he stood on the sidewalk waiting for his car, he heard the hushed whispers that had followed him everywhere since he was eight years old. He looked down at his feet, and ignored them. They didn’t bother him anymore. 

Now he had a duty that was more important than his public image, or his company’s reputation. His life had a purpose, other than being the pitied billionaire orphan. 

When the young valet pulled his 1968 Stingray up to the curb, he tipped him 100 dollars, got in, and drove away, leaving all the angst under the veranda at LuthorCorp. 

He thought about the barrel-chested, noble Superman standing before him in that room, and tried to reconcile that it was the same, mild-mannered reporter from the gala, who stumbled over his words and was perpetually pushing his glasses up his nose. 

But that voice was unmistakable. The voice in his head, while he was walking down the red carpet, was Superman’s voice. It was a strange sensation, to hear something other than one’s own voice in their head, but he couldn’t resist the urge to obey it. He’d turned left, and come face to face with Clark Kent. But Kent looked emaciated, tall and lanky, thin-haired and timid. The man he’d come face to face with in that mainframe room was anything but. 

Yet he knew, somehow, they were one in the same. If Kent hadn’t spoken to him downstairs, he never would have been able to piece it together. 

Bruce didn’t have powers, he wasn’t a metahuman (although every news outlet seemed to think that he was, and he wasn’t in any rush to correct them), but even without the power being a metahuman could afford him, he still found it hard to fathom how could a single person be so powerful. X-ray vision, super-hearing and strength, the ability to imprint one’s voice directly into the subconscious, flight, perhaps even some advanced form of hypnotism or latent telepathy? 

He knew about Superman. There wasn’t a person on planet earth that didn’t know about Superman. He was the global symbol for good, and doing good. He saved kittens from trees and took as much responsibility and pride in that action as he did stopping the hostile invasion of bordering countries, like Boravia and Jarhanpur.

Bruce felt fairly confident that Superman was indeed what he said he was--an ally. But Bruce didn’t want allies. The darkness beckoned him, every night, to exact justice on those who meant harm to the innocent. Would Superman be interested in that crusade? Would he even understand? Bruce thought not.

When he emerged from the Metropolis Express Tunnel, night had fallen in Gotham. He drove through the claustrophobic cityscape; industrial age skyscrapers looming over dark alleys and decrepit subway stations. Sewer drains cloaked each alley in steam; white, putrid vapor that mixed with the muddy water gathered at the bottoms of buildings. Bridges rattled at each passing car, each screeching train, old metal bolts groaning in sorrow. And by each, a dark shadow was cast, a veil of darkness drawn over the eyes of the innocent. And his, a dark hand that reached out and pulled the veil back, and wrested the evil from the other side. 

Vengeance come to call.

Clouds of smog were huddled low around Wayne Tower. Only the faintest outline of the halogen-lit logo could be seen through the thick blanket, a smudge of white iridescent light. The offices were closed for the night. 

It always seemed like it was night here. 

Bruce pulled his Stingray into a tunnel that sloped downward, into the annals of Wayne Tower. Water dripped from the ceiling onto the windshield as he sped through the black, glistening tunnel that led hundreds of feet underground.

When he screeched into the garage, Alfred was already standing there, hands folded behind his back, by the elevator.

Bruce had been ignoring his repeated calls since he switched his earpiece off. 

“Master Wayne, I’ve been calling you for hours,” Alfred said, as soon as Bruce emerged from the car. He shut the door and it echoed throughout the cavernous underground garage.

“I needed time to think,” Bruce said. He brushed past Alfred and into the elevator. Alfred followed him in and shut the cage, using the ancient lever system to lower them into the Batcave. Bruce thought the name was slightly ridiculous, but Alfred insisted on it; “If you’re going to do ridiculous things, you should expect ridiculous results.”

The antique service elevator shuddered as it lowered them into the subterranean train station Bruce had repurposed into his new home. The Batman’s home. 

Wayne Terminus was closed long before Bruce had been old enough to remember it in operation. A private train station for the Wayne family that took them from the Manor to the Tower, and gave them unbridled access to Gotham’s sewers and public works systems. The Terminus was shut down because of a rampant bat infestation. Bruce’s mother thought it would be inhumane to kill the bats, so they just let them have it.

When he was 18, and officially elected CEO of Wayne Enterprises, the title having been passed down from interim CEO Lucius Fox, Bruce found the Terminus on a tour of Wayne Tower. 

“I never showed you this place because I didn’t want you playing down here. It was too dangerous, infested with wild animals,” Alfred said, as they stood side by side in the same rickety elevator over a decade ago, Bruce in a brand-new suit that was perfectly tailored, but somehow still felt ill-fitting. “But now you’re old enough to decide what you want to do with it.”

He exited the elevator, and opened the breaker box, flipping on every switch. There was a delayed moment where Bruce thought the lights weren’t going to come on at all.

But then, he could hear the hum of the generators, and a sudden surge of fluorescent light lit up the rusty, mildewy cavern of Wayne Terminus. A giant flock of bats, slumbering peacefully from the ceiling, were roused by the light. They screeched and took flight, black wings beating against the stale air, twinged with the scent of hard water. It was perpetually damp, water dripping from stalactites that poked through the metal struts bracketing the ceiling.

“Welcome to Wayne Terminal,” Alfred said.

In recent years, he’d transformed it into his base of operations. It was his retreat, his laboratory, his garage. He’d built the first prototype of his Batsuit here, tinkering with the bulletproof Kevlar and ultra-flexible rubber compound that made his suit and helmet. He modified the engine to the Batmobile, using the decommissioned railroad tracks as a makeshift test track. 

He was never alone here; the squeaking and fluttering of the bats reminded him of his duty to the city, and to his vengeance. He had a lifelong fear of bats, and yet despite this, they were the only company he kept in his long days spent toiling away under the Tower, crafting his justice. Most people thought of bats as vermin, but living with them had taught Bruce a valuable lesson; fear was only as powerful as you allowed it to be. 

The elevator shuddered to a halt at the bottom of the shaft, and Bruce exited with a flourish of his black overcoat. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened out there?” Alfred said, following him out.

Bruce removed his contact and placed it on the bionic reader. In a matter of seconds it had analyzed and organized all of the data from the day’s outing, including facial scans, video recordings and individual profiles on each person he encountered, compiling all data that was instantly accessible from somewhere via public record, such as name, occupation, marital status and criminal records. 

Bruce typed a name into the codeword search bar; Clark Kent. 

It pulled up the brief profile it had compiled on him. An image appeared on the lefthand side of the screen of a man in his mid-30s with curly black hair and glasses, as well as a small bio and the footage of their initial encounter. The bio was relatively short, but it usually was for ordinary citizens; General Assignment Reporter at the Daily Planet, address 344 Clinton Street, Apartment 3D, and there were some partial article stubs from stories he’d written for the Planet. 

Bruce hit play on the short video attached to his facial profile,  “P--pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wayne.”

The stuttering oaf in the video was the same man that appeared in the picture; a slightly rumpled, but kind looking man, not the statuesque, handsome superhero that was Superman. And the voice he heard in the video did not match the one he heard in his head, or the one he heard upstairs.

He took the waveform from this video and dragged it into a separate tab. Then, he searched “Superman.”

Alfred stood over his shoulder and watched him work.

Superman’s profile was much longer than Clark Kent’s; AKA Kal-El or the Last Son of Krypton, an alien from a destroyed planet, protector of Metropolis, powers include flight, super-strength, super-speed, x-ray vision, heat vision and apparent invulnerability, enemies include Metallo, The Hammer of Boravia, and Lex Luthor.

The video of his interaction with Superman was much longer, and based on the footage, there was no denying that this was the voice he heard in his head. But he also looked subtly different as Superman than he did when he was Clark Kent; they had the same hair and eye color, but Superman’s jaw was more chiseled, his nose was broader, his chin was stronger, and he looked about five years younger than Kent. The differences were slight, but they were differences.  Bruce turned to Alfred. 

“Do these look like the same person?” he asked.

Alfred squinted and withdrew a pair of readers from the breastpocket of his waistcoat. “Brothers, perhaps, sir,” he said looking between Clark and Superman, “but not the same man.”

“Well, they are.”

Bruce took a snippet from the waveform audio where Superman called him “Mr. Wayne,” and dragged it to the adjacent tab. It would help the comparative analysis if he had an audio sample of the same spoken word or phrase.

What shocked Bruce was that he looked different even on a video recording. Of course, it was possible that given his multitude of strange and otherworldly alien powers, that Superman was capable of hypnosis or telekinetic cloaking on a mass scale, but that couldn’t fool a video recording. That power only worked in the human mind. But even in the footage, Clark and Superman could hardly be mistaken for the same person.

He merged the audios, attempting to match vocal fluctuations and cadences to get a positive ID; so far all he had to prove that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person was conjecture based on the disembodied voice in his head. 

Not that he had any interest in exposing Superman’s identity, he was just mystified as to what made the obfuscation of his identity so advanced so as even to fool video and audio surveillance tech by Bruce’s own design.

When the audios were done comparing, it gave him a percentage likelihood of a match; 68% vocal congruity. 

“What exactly are you looking for, sir?”

Bruce shook his head, “I don’t know. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these two men are the same person--” Bruce referred to the side-by-side images of Clark Kent and Superman, “but I have no way of proving it. They don’t even look the same physically. How does he do it?”

“Maybe it’s the glasses,” Alfred said, half-joking. Bruce considered it momentarily.

“Hmm.”

“So, the Batman met Superman,” Alfred said.

“It appears so.”

“Funny, I never would have taken him for the clever type. But he figured it out all on his own, did he?” 

Bruce nodded. 

“Clever lad,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “Alright, let’s have it then.” 

Bruce looked at him expressionlessly, the dark circles under his eyes bulging. Alfred urged him to hit play. He did.

Silently, Alfred stood with his hands behind his back, watching the entire interaction play out from Bruce’s perspective. He smiled paternally listening to them interact, particularly when Superman offered to be his friend. He could tell that Alfred was taken by his metahuman-next-door persona. Bruce wasn’t so easily swayed.

“Well, this is wonderful!” Alfred said, “An ally for your heroic endeavors could be exactly the thing you need. It might help alleviate some of the pressure you’re under.”

Bruce shook his head. 

“What, you don’t trust him?”

That was a loaded question. Part of what Clark said was true; it was now up to them to keep one another’s secret. Bruce had no intention of betraying him, nor did he believe that Clark would betray him in turn. It wasn’t anything wrong with Clark per se, but rather with Superman. His name evoked a certain image; an open hand held aloft to stop fear in its tracks, a billowing red cloak stark against the day-blue sky, the broad chest of hope and peace among men. 

But just from the brief six months he’d donned his own cloak and began his solitary vigilantism, Bruce knew Superman’s image to be a false one, viewed through rose-colored glasses. There was no honor. No kissing babies and rescuing kittens from trees. And there was certainly no thanks. But Bruce didn’t want any of those things. That’s not why you wore a costume and leapt around from building to building; you did it so that peace, no matter how distant, could still seem a possibility. Bruce knew Superman did that, too, but there was something about his naivete that repelled him; Superman seemed to genuinely think there was good in everyone. And that just wasn’t true.

He didn’t like Superman’s image and he didn’t like the idea of working with a Boy Scout. He knew he wouldn’t get his hands dirty, if the time came. He’d just sit around tying knots and pinning merit badges to his sash.

“No. I just don’t need him.”

“Everyone needs someone, Bruce. Even you. And Lord knows this latest endeavor far supersedes my area of expertise. Perhaps if you’d taken up perfecting your pâté…”

He knew Alfred was kidding, but he’d recently lost all appetite for jokes, not that he’d ever had much of one to begin with. Alfred softened.

“You can’t always assume the worst in people,” Alfred said. “Besides, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were charmed by him.”

“I wasn’t charmed, I was caught ,” Bruce snapped. “I can’t allow slip-ups like that to happen. Assuming he was someone bad, and not someone good, you could be dead right now. Assuming the worst means you never get hurt.”

“And it also means you can never be happy.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore.”  

A sadness flickered across Alfred’s face that was so profound, it temporarily broke his cocoon of melancholic brooding and brought him back to earth; standing in a dank, subterranean train station, bats chirping overhead, in front of the closest thing Bruce had to a father, telling him happiness was a nonissue. Bruce had been robbed of his happiness long ago, but there was no reason Alfred couldn’t have his. That’s what he was fighting for.

Bruce came over and placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. He was taller than him. When had that happened?

“What matters to me now is that I keep you safe.”

“And what about me?” Alfred said in a near-whisper. “How am I supposed to keep you safe?”

“You did your part, Alfred. More than anyone else would have done for me. Now it’s time to return the favor.”

Alfred shook his head.

“Promise me that you’ll give this super-fellow a real chance,” Alfred said. “If I can’t protect you, then maybe he can.”

Bruce didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t need protection, didn’t want it. This was his cross to bear, no one else’s. And if he died, then so be it. He’d bear that cross on his headstone in the Wayne Family Cemetery, next to Martha and Thomas who had died protecting their son. And then someone else would take his place. He believed that. He had to.

Bruce nodded.

Alfred reached up and grabbed his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. He held his eyes for a long time, noticing also the wrinkles that had appeared there, the grey hairs at the temples. Alfred had always seemed old to Bruce, grandfatherly in a way, especially when he was younger. But now he seemed grey as well, aged by the last years much more rapidly than all those that had come before. He knew it was partially his doing. 

But there was nothing that could stop it now, that train had left the station, so to speak.

Bruce turned and descended further into the Batcave. Alfred called after him, “You’re not going out there tonight? You’ve been up all day.”

“Crime won’t sleep just because I didn’t,” Bruce said gruffly over his shoulder. 

Alfred paused on the shallow steps leading down to the defunct train platform.

He kept the suit in one of the old train cars, refashioned into a workshop/dressing room. All of his gear was kept locked securely inside. Bruce put his hand on the doorknob of the car. 

“Go back to the Manor,” he instructed, “make sure to tell the board I’ll be late for our ten a.m. tomorrow.”

Bruce didn’t turn around to watch him go. He hauled open the door to the train car and stepped inside.

“As you wish, sir,” Alfred said meekly. 

But only the bats heard him.

Chapter Text

Mr. Terrific was sitting at the kitchen island in the Hall of Justice, running a daily diagnostic check on the Hall’s security and comms systems for the morning, when his T-Mask intercepted a call. His earpiece notified him of its sender; SUPERMAN AKA WALTER KRONKITE.

The T-Spheres chirped in unison, their electronic beeps echoing all across the building as they went about their daily tasks. It was a universal call to action for members of the Hall, since Maxwell Lord usually sent his correspondence through Mr. Terrific, the de facto leader of the Justice Gang. 

The leader of the Justice Gang by self-appointment only, Guy Gardner, was lounging on the loveseat in the adjoining breakfast nook, eating dry cereal out of the box with a green, cosmically generated spoon and watching TV. He sat up a little straighter.

“What is it?” Guy asked, “More bad guys whose asses I get to kick in front of an adoring public?”

“It’s Superman,” Mr. Terrific responded dryly. The T-Sphere that was displaying the Hall of Justice’s analytics quickly divided into a split-screen layout, where Clark’s audio message waveform was displayed for him on the right. It was a short message, approximately 35 seconds in length.

“Oh,” he said, annoyed. Guy supposed he should be grateful to Superman; after what happened in Boravia, Guy had become a household name. It came with a lot of good PR, protecting the citizens of Jarhanpur, but something about Clark’s boy scout routine just perpetually got under his skin. 

Plus, not everything about Boravia had worked out in their favor. It put metahumans under the direct scrutiny of the Pentagon, and Guy didn’t like being micromanaged. He was chosen by Green Lantern Corp, dammit , an intergalactic federation dedicated to protecting the entire galaxy. What did he need the Secretary of Defense's permission for?

He slumped back onto the couch and resumed channel surfing. He landed on a channel that had videos of dogs doing funny tricks, with fart sound effects overlaid in the audio. He sniggered obnoxiously as a bullmastiff tried to catch a beach ball in its mouth and flatulated loudly.

Hawkgirl, who was sitting across from him, rolled her eyes and continued reading the morning's edition of the Daily Planet, “Ew.” 

A quick retinal scan of the headline revealed the rest of the paper’s contents in a small readout on the T-Sphere; LuthorCorp held its 11th Annual Clean Energy Renewal Gala. Bruce Wayne addresses accusations that he antagonized the Toy Maker. The Metropolis Meteors won the game last night, in the ninth inning, 7-6. A delegate from Jarhanpur was sent to the United Nations to ask for asylum for displaced citizens. LuthorCorp stock was plummeting.

Mr. Terrific returned his attention to his monitor. He pressed play. The sound of Superman’s voice played directly in his ear:

“Hey, buddy. It’s Clark. I have something for you to look into, when you get the time, but don’t get the rest of the team involved yet, especially not Guy--” as if he was going to willingly share any sensitive information with Guy-- “It has to do with Toy Maker, that nutjob in Gotham City. I know it’s a big ask, but I need you to see if there’s any way you can track LuthorCorp’s spending in the last five months, specifically to and from Krank Co. Toys in Gotham. Krank Co. is under criminal investigation, so their expenditure records should be public but the catch is--I think the payments were encrypted. I have no idea where to start looking and I could really use your help. 

“Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. I hope it’s not too soon, but I think we may have found another member for the Justice Gang. Let me know if you can get a hold of that paper trail. Talk to you soon, buddy.”

The audio message ended.

What was Clark doing snooping around in financial records and brushing up on his corporate disclosure laws? That job at the paper was sending him straight into conspiracy theorist territory. This is why alter egos were pointless, especially for the pure of heart like Clark; if you were going to tell everyone who you are five minutes after meeting them anyways, then what’s the use?

“What did alien boy want? Recruiting you to join his secret harem?” Guy tossed another spoonful of off-brand cinnamon cereal into his mouth.

A basset hound tumbled down a flight of stairs, tripping over its own ears and farting on each step of the way down. Guy guffawed. Mr. Terrific ignored both.

Terrific commanded the T-Sphere to bring up the article headline he’d gleaned from the cursory scan of the morning edition of the Daily Planet. He read the article in full:

Bruce Wayne addresses accusations that he antagonized the Toy Maker 

Staff Writer Lois Lane

In a rare public appearance at the 11th Annual Clean Energy Renewal Benefit Gala,

Bruce Wayne responded to allegations that he influenced Gotham’s “Toy Maker” to

commit violence. 

Cosmo Krank, known by his supervillain alias Toy Maker, rose to prominence as a toy

manufacturer whose toys injured 7 Gotham children in freak accidents. All of the children

were severely injured, but there were no fatalities.

“Cosmo Krank was manufacturing dangerous, untested and unapproved toys and

putting them directly into the hands of Gotham’s children,” Wayne said. “If I’m the evil

stepparent for taking them away, then so be it.”

Wayne is a multi-billionaire and owner of Wayne Enterprises, a multinational

conglomerate that’s been in the Wayne family for generations. Wayne Enterprises

spearheaded an internal investigation into Krank Co. Toys, led by the Federal Trade

Commission and the FBI.

Krank Co. Toys was found liable for the manufacture of deadly toys and charged with

child endangerment and corporate negligence at the state level. 

Amidst legal battles, Wayne Enterprises filed Chapter 7 involuntary bankruptcy charges

against Krank Co., which abruptly shut its doors. Before an official sentence could be

reached in his personal trial, Cosmo Krank absconded from court supervision and

rebranded himself as a super villain in Gotham.

This led many to directly accuse Wayne Enterprises, and by extension, Wayne himself,

of creating the Cosmo Krank’s violent and erratic alter ego.

“Bruce Wayne stuck his nose where it wasn’t wanted, and now we’ve got a maniac

planting bombs in toy stores!” one distressed Gothamite posted in a comment thread on

the Daily Planet’s original story about the Toy Maker .

The Toy Maker has since come to blows with Gotham’s metahuman protector, the

Batman.

Wayne expressed hope that Batman would handle the threat to his city, comparing him

to Metropolis’s beloved Superman.

“If he’s half as competent as your Superman, he’ll stop [Krank],” Wayne said.

The Clean Energy Renewal Gala is an annual benefit gala hosted by LuthorCorp with 

the goal of converting at least 2% of Metropolis’s consumption to renewable sources.

The gala’s keynote speaker was Geoffery Higgins, who was elected interim CEO of

LuthorCorp in April. Higgins is stepping in for Lex Luthor, the corporation’s owner and

namesake, who was arrested in April on several high-level criminal charges.

Of course, he’d heard about both Batman and the Toy Maker, and been keeping tabs on the both of them at arm’s length. So far, the Toy Maker had proved to be nothing but a volatile nuisance. His motivations were so transparent and predictable that there was little need for intervention on behalf of the Justice Gang. And besides, the problem was being dealt with by Batman.

That topic proved to be a little more interesting to Mr. Terrific, at least more so than the super villain of the month. The mysterious nocturnal vigilante that moved in the shadows and fought crime with an iron fist had certainly piqued his interest. There had been brief talk between he and Maxwell Lord about sending a T-Sphere to Gotham to try and surveil Batman and gather data for potential recruitment, but Mr. Terrific vetoed it. There was a reason he worked alone, and it wasn’t their place to try and change that. Batman was clearly capable of dealing with Gotham, and they could handle Metropolis for the time being.

Besides, the Hall of Justice felt fuller than ever, now that their newest roommate was an infant. And this time, an actual one, rather than a fully-grown manchild burping and watching television.

Mr. Terrific was puzzled over why Clark would want him to look so deeply into a connection that barely went deeper than the surface level. LuthorCorp and Krank Co. were corporations in completely different leagues and completely different business markets.

What he was sure of, though, is that Clark wouldn’t have asked him to do it unless it was important, unless he believed it was the right thing to do. He propped his chin up on his folded hands, thinking about how to approach the task Clark presented him.

Metamorpho came down with baby Joey in his arms, “Hey, guys, everything alright? I heard the T-Cells.”

“T- Spheres ,” Mr. Terrific said. Apparently it wasn’t common knowledge that T cells were white blood cells that target infections in the human immune system.

“Terrific’s very sensitive about his spheres ,” Guy said, crunching loudly. The front of his costume was dusted with a layer of cinnamon sugar. Why was he even suited up so early? Chances were he never took the thing off, just slept in it in case they had to jump out of bed to get in front of a camera in the middle of the night. Mr. Terrific suppressed a smile thinking about him brushing his bangs straighter in the mirror with a fine-tooth comb.

“Everything’s fine,” Hawkgirl said, offhandedly. She flipped to the next page in the paper.

Metamorpho seemed sighed in relief, “Oh, good, because I haven’t had the chance to feed Joey yet.”

He brought Joey to his high chair at the kitchen island and set him down. Joey cooed at one of the spheres hovering around Mr. Terrific, pawing at it with a small, green hand. Mr. Terrific narrowed his eyes at the infant, and the sphere silently moved out of the baby’s grasp. 

“Joey! What did I tell you? Mr. Terrific’s spheres are not toys.”

Joey whined and lunged for another one.

In the corner of the kitchen, Joey’s nanny bot whirred to life. It came over quickly on its central wheel, and inclined its metallic face towards Joey, eyes sparkling a phosphorescent blue. “Now, now,” it admonished, in a programmed female voice, scientifically engineered to be nurturing to small children, “your daddy told you to behave. Be a good boy, now.”

Joey’s black eyes were wide with curiosity, reflecting the faint blue light emitted from the nanny bot’s servos, which were powered by osmotic energy. The constant flow of water throughout the bot powered its mechanics on a renewable source, and it had the added benefit of a soothing ambient rushing-water sound.

Shortly after Metamorpho and Joey moved into the Hall, Terrific programmed the advanced nanny robot to assist with Joey’s care and development in the event that his father and the group were absent from the home, fighting crime, foiling dastardly plans, et. al. 

It was important for infants to begin critical thinking as early as possible, and Mr. Terrific feared that months trapped in a cell in Lex Luthor’s pocket universe may have permanently arrested Joey’s development; the nanny bot was designed to help reverse this damage, and assist Metamorpho with his parenting responsibilities.

It could change diapers, cook and serve meals, and play lullaby songs in addition to creating play experiences to hone fine motor skills and encourage critical thinking. In truth, it was probably the superior parental figure in every way but one; genuine love and care for its charge. But that was supplied, in surplus, by Metamorpho.

“Thanks, Carol,” Metamorpho said to the robot. He had taken it upon himself to name it. Mr. Terrific knew that the naming of inanimate or inorganic beings such as household objects, cars, or robots was a way of establishing connection and affection, despite the object not having the ability or desire to do anything other than fulfill its programmed function. The nanny bot’s AI was nurturing, but not affectionate. It responded to the name Metamorpho gave it, but only as it recognized the name as an extension of its function, not as a term of endearment. In fact, the bot wasn’t even a female, it just had a female presenting voice.

Mr. Terrific found the binaries of human behavior and categorization tiring; everything was so much simpler in code. 

“What would you like Joey’s breakfast to be this morning?” the nanny bot asked, “We have a banana-gourd puree or oatmeal.”

“Don’t worry about it, Carol, I can feed him this morning,” Metamorpho said.

“Of course. I will assume my regular duties until I am needed.”

The nanny wheeled around and went into the breakfast nook, using its detachable vacuum arm to begin cleaning up the area around Guy’s feet where he’d made a mess of crumbs and processed sugar. 

“Hey, buzz off! I’m trying to watch TV.”

“That stuff will rot your brain, young man. How about an arithmetic game instead?” the bot used a retractable pincer arm to reach across the room and manually switch the television off. 

“Hey, what the h--” but he was interrupted as the nanny bot placed the vacuum directly onto Guy’s chest and started sucking the crumbs from the front of his suit. He jumped up, furious, and waved his arms wildly trying to shoo the bot away. Baby Joey squealed with laughter, slapping his little hands together as Metamorpho tried to feed him blueberries.

Hawkgirl laughed, too, “This is like the most messed up sitcom of all time.”

Now Terrific wasn’t able to keep a small smile from tugging at the corners of his lips. As much as Gardner’s showboatsmanship and constant immaturity was annoying, it could be equally amusing. Watching him jump around and flush the same color red as his strawberry blonde bowl cut was one of those times.

Terrific deactivated his spheres and sent them to his private lab, a concourse in one of the larger warehouses on the property, a building separate from the Hall, where he could conduct his work in private. They zoomed out of the kitchen, and Joey watched them go, screaming with glee as they zipped around the room.

Mr. Terrific left his stool on the kitchen island and followed them out, as the nanny bot danced around Guy’s feet trying to vacuum up after him. Building an advanced childcare robot was one thing, just a simple matter of programming an AI aimed at developing mental acuity and assisting in parental duties. 

But how to go about Clark’s impossible task was another matter entirely. As much as he was entertained by the typical morning’s antics in The Hall of Justice, he had real work to start doing. 

After the spheres departed, Terrific heard Joey start to whine, a familiar cadence that indicated he was gearing up to a much bigger meltdown that little could stop. “Joey, come on, eat your breakfast.”

He slammed his fists on the plastic tray table of his high chair, crying.

With barely a thought, a sphere split from the group surging forwards and flew back into the kitchen. Silently it floated in behind Metamorpho, hovering around his head in silent circles. The crying stopped.

Terrific briefly activated the camera feed and saw Joey reach out and clutch the sphere in both of his stubby arms. He rubbed it against his cheek affectionately and cooed. “Okay, you can keep it, but don’t tell Mr. Terrific,” Metamorpho said. “Now eat your berries.”

Joey obeyed. Normally, Terrific found no utility in the common aphorisms of the English language (just because something was broke, didn’t mean it couldn’t be fixed. It could be improved, upgraded, made better . And “a case of the Mondays?” What was that, a venereal disease?), but now more than ever, he understood the meaning of “it takes a village.”

Satisfied that a tantrum had been avoided, he cut the camera feed.

All the while, the question about Superman was swirling in his head, What is he up to?

…

The same question echoed in Guy’s head as he watched Mr. Terrific slip, unnoticed, out of the kitchen, just as he was finally able to get that damned robot to start doing the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. 

The robot and the green baby had been nothing but a pain in his neck since they got here. He never would have let Metamorpho on the team if he knew a sniveling, crying baby was a part of the package deal. The little monster was shoving blueberries down its throat and cuddling with one of Terrific’s T-Spheres. 

“He’s gonna kill you when he finds out,” Guy said, pointing an accusatory finger at Metamorpho. 

“No, he won’t,” he said, speaking to Joey in a baby voice, “Will he, Joey?”

“Studies show that speaking to infants in a placating tone demeans their intelligence and arrests verbal development,” Carol said as she washed a dirty pan.

“Ugh,” Guy groaned. “Where’s the action around here? It’s like an episode of Full House . The Green Lantern Corps didn’t give me this ring so I could change dirty diapers with it.”

“They also probably didn’t give it to you to eat Cinnamon Sugar Smack-os, either,” Hawkgirl said. He couldn’t think of a comeback fast enough, so he just glared at her instead.

Truth be told, things were starting to get a little bit boring without Lex Luthor around. As bad of a guy as he was, he sure knew how to engineer chaos that kept the Gang busy. 

Since they’d put Luthor away, all Guy had done was make sporadic court appearances as an expert on metahumans in trials that had popped up here and there around Metropolis, despite the fact that he wasn’t a metahuman himself. They were mostly cases of property damage and other civil litigation. For some reason he had imagined the courtroom environment to be much more dynamic, like the shows he watched on daytime television. On Judge Justice, the bailiff was constantly having to escort people out, the defendant got in fistfights with the plaintiff, people pointed fingers and shouted obscenities that had to be bleeped out in long strings of monotone beeps and once someone jumped over the bench and tackled the judge.

But in real court, it was just a bunch of people in suits asking boring questions about Superman. He didn’t feel his talents were truly appreciated in the Metropolis Municipal Court System. 

They fought a monster of the week every now and then, sure, but Guy wanted real action. Which is why if Superman was onto something, he wanted to know about it. 

He still wasn’t convinced that “Clark Kent’s” motives were entirely pure, after he and the rest of the world became acquainted with Kal-El’s parents, and the goal they had in mind for their only son. Sure, if he really thought about it, Superman had displayed nothing but good intentions, good will and peace among men, but Guy didn’t really think about much. He preferred taking action. Plus, it wouldn’t be a “friendly rivalry” without the rivalry part, now would it?

He especially wanted to know what about it was so intriguing to Mr. Terrific. He wasn’t going to let Brainiac and Golden Boy team up behind his back. Oh, no, not on his watch. 

And he didn’t want to spend another second in the kitchen with that burping baby.

“Fine,” Guy said, “If you lame-os want to sit around and play house all day, I don’t care. But I’m going to get to work saving the world.”

“Saving the world from what, a peaceful morning?” Hawkgirl smarted-off.

Guy wheeled around to face her, “Mr. Terrific just got a random call from Superman and mysteriously disappeared. You don’t find that a little suspicious?”

“The only thing I find suspicious is your obsession with Superman,” she arched an eyebrow at him mischievously over the top of her newspaper.

“Ha!” he barked out a laugh. “As if I would ever stoop that low.”

But now that she said it, it gave him an idea… he would never stoop as low as having a crush on Clark Kent, but that reporter chick wasn’t bad looking, and she seemed to really like him for whatever reason. And Mr. Terrific sure rushed to save him when he was trapped in that pocket universe, ever the damsel in distress…

“I’m going to figure out what’s going on. If you want to get some real work done around here, feel free to join me,” he said, addressing everyone in the kitchen. Then he turned heel and sauntered away, down the hall where Mr. Terrific disappeared. 

“Why do you have such a hard-on for Superman?” Hawkgirl called after him, leaning over her chair to shout. “Have you ever stopped to consider what that says about you ?”

Guy gestured to the side with his arm, and a green hand holding up a middle finger popped out of her banana nut muffin. She threw her head back and laughed. It sounded like the screeching cry of a bird dive-bombing an innocent tourist to steal their nachos. It echoed down the hall after him as he stomped away, towards Mr. Terrific’s workshop.

…

In his workshop, Mr. Terrific called several T-Spheres to form a monitor matrix in front of him, and they began automatically analyzing and accessing data from Krank Co. 's recently publicized business expense reports and tax records. The T-Spheres were also able to access data not available to the public, such as Luthor’s revenue stream (it was easy to hack into LuthorCorp’s sealed court documents regarding Lex Luthor’s criminal investigation) and his business expenditures, but what Clark didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

The spheres analyzed and categorized data based on Mr. Terrific’s matrices and search parameters in seconds. It was hard to know exactly what to look for, based on the vagueness of Clark’s instructions, so he just tracked every single payment, order form, correspondence letter, email, and travel expense record that had ever been shared between Krank Co. and LuthorCorp. It was a ridiculously large net to cast, but only after he’d collected every single scrap of available information would he be able to start assembling a puzzle. No piece could be missing. 

It was surprisingly easy to decrypt the encoded money transfers from LuthorCorp to Krank Co. He first analyzed for patterns in the manuscripts, names that could be interpreted as anonymous donors or code names. Typically these manifested in the form of pop culture references or cheeky nicknames buried in lines of code, oftentimes in the middle of a sequence or split up among several concurrent ones. It wasn’t always obvious, but if you spent enough time in a computer matrix, it became easy to analyze patterns. 

After a few minutes of tweaking searches and adding keywords, he found the code name that both companies used to transfer money or encrypted letters back and forth to each other; Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. One of these four words was used, in some form, whether anagrammatically or written in binary code, to delineate top secret correspondence. Terrific created a separate search and analyzation matrix that scanned for these four words, and categorized all of this data into a separate multi-terabyte folder. 

Millions upon millions of dollars in figures displayed on the screen. Terrific felt his eyes begin to twitch from how fast the figures were adding up, and how quickly he had to read them before they were already long gone, replaced by another account number, another figure, another wire transfer that was upwards of seven figures. 

It looked as if Clark had been onto something after all. There was no reason-- at least none that Mr. Terrific could surmise--that these two companies would have so much shared money and records between them, other than something illegal. And if not illegal, then at the very least, incredibly suspect. A toy company and a weapons and tech manufacturer would only overlap so far as LuthorCorp manufacturing a microchip for a toy robot. But billions of dollars worth of encoded wire transfers? Something was up, and obviously it was sensitive enough information that they wanted it hidden.

Terrific switched over to the secondary file that contained the decrypted correspondence; letters, phone call transcripts and audio recordings, more wire transfers. Essentially a paper trail so incriminating it led from Gotham all the way into a maximum security holding cell at Stryker’s Island. He opened a few of the letters sent between the legal teams at either company. 

There were few things in life that really shocked Terrific anymore. His control over his emotional regulation and mental state had been described by some as superhuman (or more typically, in human), but the truth was it was simply a matter of discipline and mastery over one’s latent mental functions. It allowed for supreme control and self-awareness, which meant he could keep his cool even in dire and uncertain circumstances.

Yet despite this mastery, Mr. Terrific felt a slight flicker of shock at what he was piecing together based on this information. He was reading so fast, he could feel his iris start to atrophy. Dozens of letters, all on the same subject, and the pay stubs to back it up.

“My God,” he muttered to himself.

“It’s actually pronounced Guy.”

Mr. Terrific turned around quickly, and saw Guy swaggering through the concourse like he owned it. Terrific cursed himself; he’d been so immersed in what was happening that he’d forgotten to leave a sphere behind as surveillance. He didn’t think Guy would be interested in a gopher mission for Superman.

Of course, he should have known Guy would be interested in anything where he wasn’t the center of attention.

The monitor didn’t display anything that Guy would be able to make sense of, so he left it up. It was just numbers and letters, all encrypted to the outside eye. Only Terrific could read the information that was displayed. And he knew closing it down would make Guy ten times as curious.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

“Sorry, hope you don’t mind. The kitchen was getting a little crowded.”

Mr. Terrific blinked at him. “What do you want?”

Guy walked over to an empty chair at an adjacent desk and dropped into it, propping his feet up on the table. “Oh, nothing. Don’t mind me, just looking for a little peace and quiet. Please, continue.”

Guy generated a small tennis ball with his ring and threw it against the wall. It bounced back soundlessly and he caught it. He lobbed it back and forth a few times before Mr. Terrific spoke, mildly annoyed. “Get out.”

Guy looked at him with an expression of fake innocence, “What? Is it so wrong to want to hang out with my friend in his cool, kind of creepy tech warehouse?”

“We’re not friends,” Mr. Terrific said flatly. 

“Ugh,” Guy grabbed his chest, “You wound me.”

“Guy. Leave.”

He stood up and started walking over to Mr. Terrific, tossing the ball back and forth in his hands, “Look, I just want to know what the big secret is. Superman calls you, you run away and now you’re getting defensive. I just hate to feel like I’m not included, you know?”

That’s the first true thing he’s said all day , Mr. Terrific thought.

Suddenly Guy tossed the ball at Terrific without warning.

He caught it without even looking down. In a split second, it went from a solid, heavy weight in his hand to wisps of molecular energy that ran down between his fingers like sand grains.

“You know what I think?” Guy asked, cockily putting his elbow up to brace against the wall right next to where Mr. Terrific stood. 

“You don’t,” Mr. Terrific said. Guy ignored him.

“I think you like him.”

Terrific barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. Typical . Jealousy was not always a sign of juvenility, but juvenility almost always begot jealousy. And Guy wondered why the nanny bot tried to parent him just as equally as it tried to parent Joey; it was trained to recognize juvenile or underdeveloped behaviors based on age and attempt to correct them. 

A T-Sphere hovered behind Guy, and Terrific ordered it to do a brief body scan; elevated heart rate, body temperature, perspiration and dilated pupils. If anyone was in love with Superman, it was him.

“And like, it’s fine . I won’t judge you, man. Love is love,” he said, hurriedly. “I guess he’s not bad looking, but there are definitely better options when it comes to bachelors in the Hall.”

Terrific had never interacted with the Green Lantern Corps directly, but he seriously had to doubt their vetting process if this is who they chose as Earth’s protector. 

“If you’re that starved for attention, Guy, I’ll sign you up for a couple dating sites. Now get out of here.”

Guy flustered. He moved from his relaxed, douchey stance against the wall and pointed a defensive finger at Terrific. “I don’t need a dating site! I’m the Green Lantern. People throw themselves at my feet!”
Guy’s biometric readout automatically updated in Terrific’s mask; his heart rate had jumped up significantly. It could be a response to anger, or perhaps something else. Terrific looked at him a bit closer. His cheeks were flushed, and he was exuding an increased oxytocin output. Terrific furrowed his brow. It was almost as if…

“Whatever,” Guy said dismissively, with a wave of his hand, “Forget I even said anything. If you and Superman want to have your little secret meetings and braid each other’s hair, far be it from me to stop you. But don’t let your interoffice relationship interfere with the important work.”

Guy turned and left. For the second time that day. Mr. Terrific was puzzled. It was not something he was accustomed to feeling. Annoyed, irritated, inconvenienced; these were what he was inclined to feel, on any given day. But living with a bunch of big personalities and quasi-superheros was bound to throw him for a curveball every now and then. Even so, rooming with the man whose body was made of copper, magnesium and tree bark was less weird than Guy Gardner’s behavior today.

But he’d have to compartmentalize for the time being.

He estimated it was probably another minute and fifteen seconds before Metropolis was under attack.

…

Guy walked out of Terrific’s workshop not exactly sure why his heart was beating so fast. He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs quickly, swiping them down his legs once he was outside, out of Mr. Terrific’s sight. Those creepy T-Spheres always hovering behind him, recording everything. How could a man even get his thoughts straight with those things hanging around all the time?

He must have been sweating because it was so damn hot in that workshop, and now he was walking up the hill back to the Hall and it was hot out here because it was the middle of summer and Superman, that idiot, probably burned a hole in the ozone later with his laser eyes because he thought it would help the plants get more sun or something because somehow that moron thought the sun gave him his powers but it actually gave normal people sunburns especially on their scalp if they had light, perfect colored strawberry blonde hair and Jesus, he smelled so bad but it was so hard to dry clean his costume and it always seemed like when he took it off that’s when something important happened and he couldn’t suit up right away and anyways why was Terrific always sneaking off to help Superman what made him so great compared to him, because he and Terrific didn’t even have powers and the Green Lantern Corps picked Guy out of a universe of people to protect earth, they weren’t even metahumans, and they still put their lives on the line and saved people with their superior intellects and good looks and so what made Mr. Terrific so obsessed with Superman when Green Lantern was literally way cooler and had way more in common with him?

He paused, breathless and dizzy at the top of the hill, his thoughts whirling a mile a minute. He turned back and gazed at the workshop for a long while, waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t sure what. 

Just as he was about to turn back and reenter the Hall, Terrific emerged from his workshop. He shrugged on his leather jacket, already wearing his T-Pack, the jetpack exoskeleton that allowed him to fly.

Not a second sooner did a klaxon alarm start blaring through the open air. The sound went rolling down the gentle grass slope of the hill, ruffling the blades of grass and echoing off the sheet metal of Terrific’s workshop. 

Guy grinned. Finally some action. And that’s why he never took his suit off.