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davidmann95 · 7 years

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You did your top ten Superman Artists before, who are your top ten Superman Writers? (I know you've already given your number one, but I'd still like to see your thoughts on the other 9)

Honorable mentions up front: There are the great creators who worked on him in the Silver and Bronze ages such as Leo Dorfman, Edmond Hamilton, Cary Bates (who would be VERY close to the top in a ranking of the best Luthor writers), and of course Jack Kirby. Mark Millar’s work with the character is consistently among the best of his career, and his nebulously upcoming miniseries has every chance of shooting him into the top ten. Max Landis’s American Alien is easily the best Superman story of the last few years, but given his atrocious previous shot at the character in Adventures of Superman and his frequently inconsistent quality across the board, I’m not certain yet that wasn’t a lightning-in-a-bottle moment. Making better showings in Adventures were Joe Keatinge and Matt Kindt, who blew me away with their respective pieces and I think could make real impacts if properly utilized. And while his work with the character was fundamentally compromised and cut short, Chris Roberson’s vision of him was one that tremendously appealed. Finally, while he’s never ‘officially’ worked on the character, Samuel Hawkins’ all but unknown Tales of Smallville for the site Superman Thru The Ages are absolute top-tier, all-time-great stories.

10. Greg Pak

What an utter goddamn shame; Pak was by all rights destined to be The Definitive 2010s Superman Writer, and DC shit all over him until he finally gave up and vanished back to Marvel. But in between the endless crossover nonsense and making him and poor Aaron Kuder put up with the New 52 suit, his Clark had a visceral sense of humanity and physicality that made him feel true and lived-in in a way few if any other writers have matched over the years, driven by a sense of righteous anger and pained compassion. If, god willing, he ever gets the subsequent shot he deserves (preferably with Kuder) and isn’t constantly compromised and undermined, expect to see him ultimately wind up significantly higher.

9. Joe Casey

Maybe the most frustratingly underrated guy in my top ten. In spite of a few gestures in a more radical direction - he explicitly wrote Superman as a pacifist, which obviously didn’t take - he didn’t particularly reinvent the wheel during his time with the character, especially given it was only for about his last year that he actually got to work solo rather than as a quarter of a complete unit. But that last year’s adventures are some of Superman’s best, with a vivid quirkiness and grand scope grounded in a particularly humble and introspective take on big blue that deserves its due as a cult classic run with the character.

8. Alan Moore

While I hold dearly to my contrarian take of For The Man Who Has Everything being significantly overrated, Moore’s other Superman comics more than make up for it, with both Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow? and Jungle Line scratching down to the bloody raw floorboards of his mind and demonstrating his vulnerability in a way that remains unmatched. He is to date the one and only truly great writer of Dark, Grim Superman Comics.

7. Otto Binder

Binder contributed more to the raw depth of Superman’s world in terms of mythology than anyone other than Siegel himself, ranging from Brainiac and Bizarro to Supergirl and Kandor and the Legion of Superheroes, with stories such as The Old Man Of Metropolis! and The Return Of Superman’s Lost Parents! proving he could also hang in there with the best of them in delivering the emotional gut-punches that Superman’s best tales so often rely upon.

6. Jerry Siegel

I don’t think any reasonable person could seriously contest that Siegel belongs on any list such as this by default. But his position on it comes down not just to creating the dang guy, but the caliber of his material, particularly in his 1960s return where his stories ranged from mournful (Superman’s Return To Krypton!) to blackly comic and gleefully celebratory (Superman’s Day Of Doom!) to relentlessly heartbreaking (The Death Of Superman!) - just as he provided the rolicking adventure and bombast that birthed Superman alongside Joe Shuster, he and the contemporaries that walked in his footsteps found the wistful, melancholy heart that still defines his creation to this day.

5. Garth Ennis

He’s only written him the twice (thrice counting All-Star Section Eight, though he doesn’t pull focus in there in the same way, and it goes in a…different direction), but twice is enough for a lifetime in this case. The one superhero Ennis seems to hold sincere affection for as opposed to liking well enough at the absolute best, his Superman is whip-smart, ethical, self-aware, entirely understanding of how the world really works and the limits of what he can accomplish in it even as he grieves his inability to do more, and in Ennis’s own words “constantly let down by humanity, and never giving up on them”.

4. Mark Waid

The ne plus ultra of Superman fans, that he’s never secured a long-term tenure with his hero surely frustrates him even more than the legion of fans who’ve waited in vain for decades for him to get his deserved shot. What he *has* gotten to do has shown it would be more than worth the wait: while his vision with Alex Ross of an elder Superman in Kingdom Come weighed down by regret and lost in a strange new era resonated with a generation, his take is clearest in the criminally disregarded Birthright, whose alienated and passionate version of a young Clark Kent represented a scale of potential in his early days that has yet to be truly captured.

3. Kurt Busiek

Another underrated writer, Busiek’s time on Superman proper - while never getting to reach its proper culmination as he left to work on Trinity - is easily the best run that main title has ever had, with a warm, clever, classic Superman up against wild new threats that tested both his abilities and his ethics; in other words, the platonic example of Good Superman Comics. What pushes him into this kind of rarified air though is Secret Identity, with the most purely down-to-Earth, vulnerable, and thoughtful ‘Superman’ of all at its heart letting readers attach themselves to the fantasy he represents more acutely than maybe any other story.

2. Elliot S! Maggin

The first Superman writer to not only recognize that he was working with a modern legend but consistently and overtly write his stories with that in mind, it was under his pen that Superman gained a sort of self-awareness, questioning his methods and mindset as he tangled with some of his most astonishing threats. As Siegel provided Superman with his muscle and heart, Maggin was the first to actively map the contours of his mind and place in a larger universe, with a portrait of a truly alien intellect anchored by the most human of concerns and an unshakable ethical base that still resonates, bolstered by an equally well thought-out Luthor and a firehose spray of heady ideas - especially in his essential novels Last Son Of Krypton and Miracle Monday - that set a standard that has rarely if ever been recaptured.

1. Grant Morrison

Whether with a spitfire 20-something charging through the streets of Metropolis in a t-shirt and jeans, an unstoppable champion uniting with his counterparts from throughout the multiverse to rescue the very concept of story, or a relaxed god-man floating through his bittersweet last days among us, Morrison reaches deeper than anyone else into the vague, intangible essence of what Superman is to us - the goodest of guys, the one you can rely on, the one who’ll never fall and never stop believing in you - and grabs hard. With seemingly his every talent and every thematic preoccupation throughout his incredible career tailor-made to suit telling Superman stories, whether in his crushingly foredoomed attempts at redefining him for a new generation in Action Comics or All-Star with its mythic self-image and subtle character work, the very fact of Grant Morrison Doing Something With Superman constitutes an event unto itself. He fits the fundamentals together in the framework of his own unique cosmic approach and love for the material, with a model for Superman that while more flexible than any other always maintains his compassion and cleverness and unyielding spirit, and as it happens, that’s the tack that’s worked the best across all these 79 years and counting.

#Superman #Greg Pak #Joe Casey #Alan Moore #Otto Binder #Jerry Siegel #Garth Ennis #Mark Waid #Kurt Busiek #Elliot S! Maggin #Grant Morrison #Opinion

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jewishclarkkent · 7 years

Text

Bruce/Clark; PG-13; grief and loss

Summary: Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.

Note: This fic references Bruce’s canonical death in Final Crisis and relies heavily on the Superman: New Krypton storyline. To those unfamiliar, here is a brief synopsis of the events and timeline relevant for the purpose of this fic: Clark liberates the bottled city of Kandor from Brainiac, freeing thousands of Kryptonians, including his aunt and uncle, to live on earth; Jonathan Kent dies from a heart attack while Clark is off-world dealing with Brainiac; shortly after that, Bruce seemingly dies after being hit by Darkseid’s omega beams; humans and Kryptonians don’t get along, Clark’s uncle gets assassinated, and Clark’s aunt eventually relocates their people to another planet to serve as New Krypton.

Thank you to @superhero-justice and @superbatfleck for cleaning this up for me. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Constructive criticism welcome.

Reporters rush in and out of the Daily Planet offices in pursuit of the latest scoop, shoes squeaking and clicking on the floor. Others are hunched over their computers, racing to meet the print deadline, each keystroke as loud as a bullet. One floor down, the refrigerator in the break room emits a low hum. Ten blocks away, a car alarm is blaring on the street and a dog starts barking. There are other indistinct sounds he can’t isolate, nor can he manage to block them out. He hears all of it, and he hears none of it.

He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder, swivelling his chair to find Jimmy leaning against his cubicle. Judging by the worried expression contorting his face, he must’ve been trying to gain Clark’s attention for some time. Clark watches his mouth move, the thunderous tick tick tick of his wristwatch making it impossible to concentrate on the individual sounds that make up the words. Bruce had not been wrong to insist lip-reading would be a useful skill to pick up.

“—ark? You okay, buddy?”

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafts into the room from the shop across the street, so overpowering that Clark can taste it in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says in a rush, fighting the urge to gag. He reaches under his glasses to rub at his aching eyes, squinting against the too-bright fluorescent lighting and the glare from his computer screen. It takes a full five seconds to realize what a colossal mistake like that could cost him, and he lets the frames slide back onto his nose, hoping the slip-up went unnoticed.

Stupid, the voice in his head berates. It sounds remarkably like Bruce. Stupid and reckless.

Jimmy frowns and bites his lip. “You’ve been staring at that article for, like, forty minutes.”

Clark turns back to glance at his computer. He’d been searching the Gotham Gazette archive when he stumbled upon an article about the charitable work of the Wayne Foundation. A picture of Bruce accompanies the headline, looking handsome and respectable in a tailored suit. It was taken at a recent fundraiser, where he had given a speech about building a brighter future for Gotham, about believing in the city and its people. The small, private smile on his face is what makes the photo remarkable—not the patented smirk Bruce Wayne would wear in public, but a warm, genuine twitch of his lips. Cassandra had been in attendance that evening, and Bruce kept his focus on her as he spoke, his smile that of a proud father.

Clark’s heart lurches at the memory. Will details like that eventually begin to fade? Given time, will he forget the rhythm of Bruce’s heartbeat, like an old song whose tune can be recognized but never recalled? Will he forget the sound of his voice? Not the low growl of the Bat or the charming lilt of his public persona, but the deep, rich cadence that belonged to Bruce, with its notes of grief and sorrow. Batman and Bruce Wayne each leave behind a legacy, but they were a mask and a performance. The man underneath was known to so few, and the realization he’s the one who doesn’t get to live on leaves Clark hollow.

As far as the public is concerned, both Bruce Wayne and Batman are alive and well. It required impeccable planning and execution, of course, but that was Bruce down to his core: always ten steps ahead of everyone else, always a contingency plan for even the most inconceivable scenario. His own death was hardly that, of course, but Clark never imagined it would go completely unacknowledged.

“I just…. have a lot on my mind,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from breaking.

I lost my dad and best friend within weeks of each other, is what he doesn’t get to say, what he aches to cry out. They’re dead. The words crawl up his throat like bile, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue as he bites his lip to trap them, nothing but a thought for him to choke on.

“You know, Chief’s in a good mood today,” says Jimmy, gesturing toward Perry’s office with his thumb. Clark tries and fails to hide a flinch as Perry’s assistant begins stapling stacks of documents. “I bet he’d let you take off early, if you ask.”

There is truth to that. Despite his gruff exterior, Perry is a kind man; he has been taking it easy on Clark since his return from bereavement leave, assigning fluff pieces that required little time and effort. Just as Superman was powerless where it mattered most, Clark Kent could offer nothing of substance.

“No,” Clark says, even as a splitting headache assaults his temples and his X-ray vision flickers on and off. He hadn’t lost control over his senses like this since his abilities first started developing. The buzzing in his ears gets worse and he barely resists the instinct to cover them. Maybe, he thinks, his eardrums will finally give out and rupture. “I need the distraction.”

“Well, all right, if you say so,” Jimmy concedes, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “If there’s anything you need, pal… just say the word.”

Though he means the gesture to be genuine, the smile that stretches Clark’s mouth is strained, pulling on muscles he thought had atrophied over the last few weeks. “Thanks, Jimmy,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

After Jimmy disappears down the hall, Clark turns towards Lois’ empty cubicle with a sigh, craving the comfort of her company. Her investigation in Washington pertains specifically to New Krypton, and he’s beyond grateful for the work she’s putting in.

He pulls out his phone, intending to return Diana’s message from a couple days ago. Scrolling through his recent calls, he tenses when he reaches Pa’s number. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to delete it, and he stares at it for a long time.

He doesn’t make a single call.

***

They always believe they can outrun him, Clark notes with exasperation, wondering if Flash often encounters the same issue. He wraps a metal pole around the three robbers he captured before turning to deal with the two who’d taken off by foot. As they run, the robbers turn to shoot at him, the bullets ricocheting off of Clark’s chest. Really, will they ever learn?

Busy as they are emptying their ammo on Clark’s chest, they don’t notice the dark figure that descends from above. Clark hardly needs the assist, but he stops and watches as the first robber is knocked down with a swift kick to his back. Wide-eyed, the second robber turns his attention to the figure, aiming the gun in his direction. Batman avoids it with ease, performing a flip right over the robber, kicking his legs as soon as he lands behind him. There’s fluidity to the way he moves, like poetry in motion. If Clark didn’t know better, he’d swear the man was flying.

The man aims his gun at Batman’s head a second time, but his reflexes are no match to the vigilante’s. Batman grabs his arm and twists, the sound of bone breaking almost as loud as the man’s scream. The gun scatters out of his grip, sliding on the ground until it lands at Clark’s feet.

“Was that really necessary?” Clark says, folding his arms over his chest. He steps on the barrel of the gun, assuring it cannot be fired but still admissible as evidence.

Batman makes quick work of tying up the two robbers, police sirens wailing in the distance. “It’s a clean break,” he responds. Clark’s X-Ray vision confirms as much. “We need to talk.”

They land on a secluded, dark rooftop of a skyscraper, city lights twinkling below them. A quick scan confirms there are no cameras that could compromise them and no aircrafts with a vantage point to capture the exchange.

Back turned to Clark, Batman observes Metropolis from the landing. He’s as still and silent as a statue, cape billowing in the wind.

You wanted to talk, so talk, Clark wants to snap, but bites his tongue. He knows better than to press the issue, but even after all these years, he’s irked at the way Batman monopolizes his time with so little regard. Instead, he puts his hands on his hips, tapping his foot as he waits.

Finally, Batman turns his head to address him. “We’ve got a situation.”

“If this is about New Krypton,” Clark begins, heart hammering in his ribcage, “I’m handling the situation.”

“I’m sorry about Zor-El,” says Batman, the modulator masking any emotion in his voice. He turns fully until they’re facing one another. “I understand your aunt seeks retribution for the attack that took his life.”

Clark clenches his fists. “As I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “I’m dealing with it.”

“Given how personal this situation is for you,” continues Batman, “some in the League are concerned about where your loyalties may lie. If you bothered turning up for a meeting, perhaps you could put those fears to rest.”

Clark feels a muscle in his jaw jump, heat rushing to the surface of his skin. “And what do you think, World’s Greatest Detective?”

“Given your aunt’s actions up to this point, I’m concerned about escalating conflict between Earth and New Krypton,” Batman says. “You, of course, will be caught in the crossfire. Your loyalty to the people of Earth, however, has never been in question. I only worry about the psychological effect having to make that kind of decision would have on you.”

The sentiment would mean more, Clark thinks, if he weren't staring at the impassive white lenses of a mask.

“I also think,” continues Batman, reaching for his cowl, “it’s a necessary discussion we will table for a later time. I’m here on a personal matter, not League business.”

Clark’s heartbeat speeds up and pulsates in his ears, chest growing tight as he holds his breath. Of course, he knows exactly who he’s been talking to, who inherited the mantle. The distinct way he moves alone would have given it away. Still, in that split second before the mask is removed, there’s the possibility of seeing his friend again.

A familiar pair of blue eyes meet his gaze, framed by a shock of black hair. The similarity is remarkable.

“Dick,” says Clark, trying to hide his disappointment. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Tim.” Dick takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He thinks Bruce is alive.”

A chill goes down Clark’s spine, body going rigid. “What?”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. There are heavy bags under his eyes. “He… doesn’t believe Bruce is really gone. He’s insisting we have to find him.”

Furrowing his brow, Clark opens and closes his mouth before settling on a response. “But… I don’t understand. He knows what happened. You both saw the body, read the report—”

“I’m aware,” Dick cuts in, an edge of impatience creeping into his tone. After a moment, he relaxes his jaw. “I’m worried about him. I think… maybe he’s reaching his limit. He’s lost so much this year alone and now that Bruce is gone… I’m scared of what it might do to him.”

Tim lost a father for the second time, Clark realizes with an aching heart. That on top of the other tragedies that have mired his life.

“Maybe I don’t have any business asking this of you,” Dick continues, “But I don’t know what else to do. He won’t listen to anything Alfred and I have to say on the matter. He refuses to let go. I was hoping that… maybe you could talk to him.”

“Dick,” Clark starts as gently as he can. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for your family. You know that. But if Tim won’t listen to you, what makes you think he’ll want to hear anything I have to say?”

“You were there,” is the curt explanation Dick provides. “You found his body. You… you were there.” Guilt flickers across his face. “Besides, I’m not exactly his favourite person these days. I took away the one thing he had left that meant something to him.” He’s trying so desperately to fill the void Bruce left in everyone’s life, to keep his family from crumbling under the grief.

Clark thinks of the ten-year-old who’s lost a father he’d hardly gotten to know, hiding his grief behind a Robin costume. “How is Damian?”

“Angry,” Dick says with a sigh, his eyes glazed over and far away. “Lost. Confused. Impulsive.”

Throughout the years, Clark had seen that same expression on Bruce’s face whenever he thought of Jason, all that he couldn’t do for him. Clark imagines Dick is thinking much the same.

“He’s a good kid,” says Clark. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.” He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Tim will come around, too. He loved being Robin, but he loves you more.”

“Please,” Dick says, bowing his head. For a moment, he looks exactly like the little kid Clark first met fifteen years ago. “He’s my brother, and I can’t help him. I don’t know what else to do.”

“All right,” Clark agrees. “I can’t promise it’ll accomplish much, but I’ll talk to him.”

Dick abandons his military stance, rounding his back as some of the tension leaves his body. “Thank you.”

They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the traffic below them, the blinding glow of headlights giving Clark a headache.

“I was thinking,” Clark starts, “About the day you came to see me at the Planet, after Bruce fired you.”

Dick snorts, lips quirking at the memory. “Not his finest moment.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Clark smiles. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone like that. We didn’t speak for three weeks.”

A flash of surprise crosses Dick’s face. “He never told me that.”

“Of course he didn’t. He knew I was right.” Bruce never liked hearing truths he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. “You were cultivating an identity of your own, building an independent life, and he feared there might not be any room in it for him. He was terrified of losing you, so he pushed you away.”

“For all his brilliance, he was a goddamn idiot sometimes.”

The laugh that rolls off of Clark catches him by surprise, the sound of it foreign to his own ears. For the first time in their conversation, Dick sounds like himself, rather than an imitation of his father.

It had been so important to Dick to carve a path for himself, to create an identity that was his alone. When he had taken up the mantle of Nightwing, inspired by the Kryptonian myth Clark shared with him, Clark’s chest swelled with pride. Now, the same age Bruce had been when he first donned the cowl, Dick is giving all of that up, relinquishing the life he’s built to preserve a legacy. It’s not the kind of sacrifice someone so young should feel compelled to make.

“Dick,” Clark tries, biting his lip. The pressure in his chest intensifies, grief squeezing his heart. “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways to honour him.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Dick steels his jaw. “You’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear,” he says, “And I’ve done the same.”

Clark bows his head, shame flushing his cheeks. The first time he had seen him as Batman, Clark lost it. The words he hurled at Dick were cruel and fuelled by anger, accusing him of parading around in Bruce’s skin. Rao, he had nearly lost control of his heat vision, ready to strip Dick of the costume by any means.

When he finds his voice again, his mouth tastes like cotton. “It’s not what he would’ve wanted.”

That much, Clark knows unequivocally.

Dick puts on the cowl, turning away and walking towards the edge of the roof. “It’s what Gotham needs.”

“What about what you need?”

Dick turns his head. “Don’t worry about me, Superman,” is his curt reply before firing his grapple gun. “I’m Batman.”

***

It takes two tries to enter the right security code into the hidden panel, his shaking hands causing him to hit the wrong buttons. Another attempt would have triggered extensive and unpleasant safety measures. Once the fingerprint and retinal scans confirm his identity, the gate swings open with a small creak.

Clark stands frozen in front of the picturesque property, inspecting its perfectly manicured lawns and impressive architecture. The grounds of the Manor are completely unchanged from the last time he’d visited; nothing to reflect the devastating loss it sustained, the absence of its very soul. It seems impossible, when Clark feels it with every beat of his own heart, every breath drawn from his lungs.

Leaves crunch under his boots as he begins walking, his legs feeling heavier with every step. The lone figure sitting in front of the unmarked grave doesn’t react to his arrival. Tim has his arms wrapped around his legs, knees drawn to his chest with his chin resting on top of them. The thin t-shirt he’s wearing hangs loosely on his wiry frame, offering little protection from the cold October breeze. His hair is a little longer, falling messily across his forehead.

Clark settles next to him in silence. He’d done the same for Bruce, a few times, as he knelt by his parents’ graves, and later Jason’s, placing fresh flowers on the polished stones. Clark had kept a hand on his shoulder and said nothing as Bruce wept. The only comfort he could offer was his presence; all he could do was bear witness to his friend’s pain, so Bruce wouldn’t have to confront it alone.

He hasn’t been able to offer the same to Bruce’s family, these past few weeks.

“Wondered if you were going to come by,” Tim says after a time, voice rough with disuse. How long has he been sitting here, cold and immobilized with grief?

The words aren’t accusatory, but guilt still slices Clark like a shard of kryptonite. He shrugs out of his jacket, wrapping it around Tim’s shoulders. Tim doesn’t slide his arms through the sleeves, but doesn’t take it off, allowing it to engulf his smaller frame.

“Sometimes,” Clark starts, throat going dry as he pushes the words out, “most times, even—” he pauses to wet his lips, staring at his shaking hands. He can feel Tim’s eyes on him as he struggles to speak. “It was so easy to think of him as invincible.”

Bruce may have been one of few non-powered individuals on a team of metahumans, but there never seemed to be anything he couldn’t do. So much strength, brilliance, and competence that defied all odds. Despite the fractured bones he’d scanned countless times, the contusions and scars carefully hidden by armour, part of Clark believed the Bat would outlive them all. For fifteen years, night after night, Bruce survived the streets of Gotham. Until he didn’t.

“He’s out there, Clark,” says Tim. “He’s alive.”

Nothing could have prepared Clark for how excruciatingly painful those words were. He squeezes his eyes shut, a violent lurch unfolding in his chest. Is this how Dick felt, listening to his brother insist Bruce is alive while grappling with his own grief?

“Tim,” he starts, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I know you want that to be true. I know you miss him. We all do, but—”

“Don’t give me that crap!” Tim snaps, startling Clark into opening his eyes. “I know how it sounds. This isn’t denial, this isn’t grief. Why won’t any of you listen? He’s alive.” He takes a deep breath to regain composure, nostrils flaring. Gradually, he schools his features into calm apathy that betrays nothing.

It reminds Clark so much of Bruce that he has to look away. Outbursts were a rare thing to witness; anger always crackled underneath the surface, but it was always so carefully-controlled, channelled to where it could be used as an advantage.

I don’t want him to end up like me, Bruce had confessed to Clark only months ago, as Tim grieved his family, forever branded with the loss. On that dark Gotham rooftop, for the very first time, Clark heard fear in his friend’s voice. I can see too much of myself in him.

“I carried his body in my arms.” Even now, Clark bares its weight; like Atlas, eternally condemned to hold up the sky. “You saw it, too. You heard Dr. Mid-Nite’s analysis. It’s Bruce.”

“You were dead once, too,” says Tim, digging his fingers into the dirt. “It’s practically part of the job description.”

“You know that’s different.” Clark bows his head in shame, staring at his hands. Bruce was only human. Yet, even with all his abilities, Clark had been completely powerless to save him. Just as he’d been too late to save his father. What use were they if he could do nothing to save those he loved?

“Is it?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I can’t hear his heartbeat,” Clark finally says. “If he were—I’d be able to…” he pauses to wet his lips. “I thought that maybe, maybe it was just out of my reach. But I… I looked everywhere. Even went back to Apokolips. I can’t… I couldn’t hear it anywhere, Tim. It’s gone.”

Tim whimpers. When Clark turns to look at him, he has a hand over his eyes. Clark is suddenly reminded of just how painfully young he is. Too young to have lost so much, to shoulder so much of the world.

He reaches to place a comforting hand on Tim’s shoulder, only to have it knocked away. “There’s an explanation for it. There has to be. We don’t know much about the Omega sanction,” Tim lifts his chin, the knot of muscle at the side of his jaw pulsating.

Clark hangs his head. “I told myself that, too,” he admits. He had used every piece of technology at his disposal to assess different possibilities. Had made Hal replay the scene of Bruce’s death with his ring over and over again, a dozen times, until Hal placed a gentle hand on his back and said, Enough.

“He wouldn’t have given up on us,” Tim says, voice breaking. “Any of us. You all may have given up on him, but I won’t. I can’t. Bruce needs me.”

“There’s a difference between giving up and letting go, Tim.” Even as he says them, the words feel out of place on his tongue. The truth of the matter is, Clark has no idea how to let go.

“Not in this case,” Tim says. “I owe him too much.”

Something heavy settles in Clark’s stomach at that. “That’s not… he would never want you to think that,” he urges, furrowing his brow. “After Jason…” Clark tries, unable to complete the thought. “You were the one that saved him, Tim. Bruce thought of you as a son long before he signed the dotted line that made it official.”

Tim says nothing to that. “Did you ever tell him?” he asks instead, staring ahead at the unmarked grave. Clark’s expression must reflect his confusion, because Tim elaborates before he can ask. “How you feel about him.”

Loving Bruce had come as naturally as breathing, the feeling festering in his chest for years before he recognized it. Tim’s use of the present tense is accurate, too. Nothing, not even something as finite as death, holds the ability to eradicate all that he feels for Bruce.

He was fairly certain Bruce felt the same about him. Though they never spoke of it, the tension between them had always been too thick, the air too charged, for it not to be the case. The truth was, Bruce not reciprocating his feelings was not the worst case scenario. Clark knew exactly what would come to pass if he confessed his feelings, and it’s what he dreaded most. Bruce would admit to sharing those feelings, but refuse to allow himself to act on them. Because the mission came first. Because there was no room for something so frivolous and self-indulgent in their lives. Because it was too dangerous. Because of a million reasons Clark couldn’t bear to hear Bruce list.

“I didn’t think he’d wanna hear it,” is what he settles on saying, his voice so small he hardly recognizes it. He’ll never get the chance to now.

“I’m going to find him,” says Tim, hugging his knees closer to his chest and curling into them. Tears streak down his cheeks, but his voice is determined. “Whatever it takes, I’m gonna find him.”

Clark shuts his eyes, a tremor passing through his body. “There’s something you should know,” he starts. Speaking the words feels like swallowing stones. “I’m going away for a bit. Maybe… maybe more than a bit. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Tim nods. “New Krypton,” he concludes. Always the detective. “Your family needs you. And mine needs me.” He gets up and dusts the dirt off his clothes before beginning the walk back to the Mansion.

“Tim,” Clark calls after him. Tim stops but keeps his back turned. “You’re family to me, too. All of you.”

Tim’s entire body droops, as if finally collapsing from the weight chained to it. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think he would’ve wanted to hear it.”

The words hit like a jolt of electricity, crackling down Clark’s spine as he watches Tim walk away. He sits in silence for a long time, pulling at the wet blades of grass beneath his hands, the gravity of his failure slamming square into his chest.

Even when he finds the strength to stand, his legs are wobbly, making for a painful trek back to the Mansion. He stands at the front door for ten minutes, staring at the expanse of wood before gathering the courage to ring the doorbell.

When Alfred opens the door, Clark’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him. “Master Clark,” he greets, tone polite. His attire is immaculate as ever, suit crisp and freshly-pressed. It’s his haggard face, however, that belies the change in him, as if he’d aged years in the span of weeks. There are dark circles rimming his eyes, deep lines etched on his skin like battle scars. My son has died, he said when Clark and Diana had come to deliver the news, holding Bruce’s ruined uniform like an offering.

“Alfred,” Clark says, his own voice strained. He takes a step forward into the house, only making it through the threshold before he collapses onto his knees. Alfred catches him, his arms infinitely strong, accustomed to handling more weight than he should be able to carry. They don’t waver even when Clark’s entire body convulses with the force of his sobs.

“I’m sorry.” Clark presses the words into Alfred’s jacket, barely more than a whisper. Sorry for not having been around in the last few weeks, leaving Alfred to pick up the pieces of grieving children. Sorry for not being there to save Bruce in time. Sorry for having all these abilities, yet being so powerless, so utterly useless when it mattered most. “I’m so sorry.”

Alfred’s arms tighten around his shaking back, voice wet when he speaks. “It’s all right, son. It’s all right.”

#superbat #bruceclark #fic #my fic #otp: because of you i know a man can be anything he wants to be #otp: we'll never give up on each other #otp: make me believe #superbatfam

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airoasis · 5 years

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Thoughts on humanity, fame and love | Shah Rukh Khan

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/thoughts-on-humanity-fame-and-love-shah-rukh-khan-2/

Thoughts on humanity, fame and love | Shah Rukh Khan

Namaskar. I am a movie megastar, i am 51 years of age, and i do not use Botox as yet. (Laughter) So i’m clean, but I do behave like you saw like a 21-12 months-old in my movies. Yeah, I do that. I sell goals, and i peddle like to millions of people again residence in India who assume that i’m the first-class lover on the planet. (Laughter) when you do not tell anybody, i will let you know i’m no longer, however I under no circumstances let that assumption go away. (Laughter) I’ve also been made to realize there are plenty of you right here who haven’t noticeable my work, and that i suppose really sad for you. (Laughter) (Applause) that doesn’t do away with from the truth that i’m fully self-obsessed, as a movie big name should be.(Laughter) that is when my pals, Chris and Juliet known as me here to communicate about the future "you." Naturally, it follows i’ll converse about the reward me. (Laughter) seeing that I real feel that humanity is rather a lot like me. (Laughter) it’s. It is. It is an aging film superstar, grappling with the entire newness round itself, wondering whether or not it obtained it right in the first position, and nonetheless trying to find a strategy to hold on shining regardless. I was born in a refugee colony within the capital metropolis of India, New Delhi. And my father was a freedom fighter. My mom was, well, only a fighter like mothers are. And very similar to the normal homo sapiens, we struggled to outlive. Once I was in my early 20s, I misplaced each my mum and dad, which I have to admit seems a bit careless of me now, but — (Laughter) I do recall the night my father died, and i do not forget the motive force of a neighbor who used to be driving us to the sanatorium.He mumbled some thing about "dead folks don’t tip so good" and walked away into the darkish. And i used to be simplest 14 then, and i put my father’s lifeless physique within the back seat of the auto, and my mom apart from me, I began riding back from the health facility to the residence. And within the center of her quiet crying, my mother checked out me and he or she mentioned, "Son, when did you learn to force?" and that i idea about it and realized, and i said to my mother, "just now, mom." (Laughter) So from that night time onwards, much corresponding to humanity in its early life, I realized the crude instruments of survival.And the framework of lifestyles was once very, very simple then, to be sincere. , you simply ate what you bought and did something you have been advised to do. I thought celiac was a vegetable, and vegan, of path, used to be Mr. Spock’s lost comrade in "big name Trek." (Laughter) You married the first woman that you just dated, and also you had been a techie if you happen to might repair the carburetor for your auto. I rather concept that homosexual used to be a cosmopolitan English phrase for joyful. And Lesbian, of direction, was the capital of Portugal, as you all understand.(Laughter) where used to be I? We relied on methods created by means of the toil and sacrifice of generations earlier than to look after us, and we felt that governments certainly labored for our betterment. Science used to be easy and logical, Apple was still then just a fruit owned by way of Eve first and then Newton, now not by way of Steve Jobs, unless then. And "Eureka!" used to be what you screamed when you desired to run naked on the streets. You went anyplace existence took you for work, and persons have been customarily welcoming of you. Migration was once a time period then still reserved for Siberian cranes, no longer human beings. Most importantly, you were who you were and you said what you idea.Then in my late 20s, I shifted to the sprawling metropolis of Mumbai, and my framework, like the newly industrialized aspirational humanity, started to alter. Within the city rush for a new, more embellished survival, matters started to look a bit of exclusive. I met humans who had descended from all over the sector, faces, races, genders, cash-lenders. Definitions became more and more fluid. Work started to outline you at that time in an overwhelmingly equalizing manner, and the entire programs started to believe less risk-free to me, practically too thick to maintain on to the variety of mankind and the human ought to progress and develop.Suggestions were flowing with more freedom and speed. And that i experienced the miracle of human innovation and cooperation, and my own creativity, when supported by way of the resourcefulness of this collective endeavor, catapulted me into superstardom. I started to suppose that I had arrived, and almost always, by the point I was once forty, I was once fairly, relatively flying. I used to be all over the location. You realize? I’d carried out 50 movies by using then and 200 songs, and i’d been knighted by means of the Malaysians.I had been given the absolute best civil honor through the French government, the title of which for the life of me I cannot pronounce even until now. (Laughter) i’m sorry, France, and thanks, France, for doing that. However a lot greater than that, I acquired to meet Angelina Jolie — (Laughter) for 2 and a 1/2 seconds. (Laughter) and i am definite she also remembers that stumble upon somewhere.Good enough, probably no longer. And that i sat next to Hannah Montana on a round dinner table along with her back toward me most of the time. Like I stated, I was once flying, from Miley to Jolie, and humanity was once hovering with me. We were both normally flying off the control, definitely. And then you definately all understand what happened. The web happened. I used to be in my late 40s, and that i began tweeting like a canary in a birdcage and assuming that, you realize, persons who peered into my world would admire it for the miracle I believed it to be. But something else awaited me and humanity. You realize, we had expected a variety of recommendations and goals with the improved connectivity of the sector. We had no longer bargained for the village-like enclosure of notion, of judgment, of definition that flowed from the same position that freedom and revolution was taking position in.The whole lot I stated took a new that means. Everything I did — excellent, bad, unpleasant — was once there for the arena to remark upon and judge. If truth be told, the whole lot I didn’t say or do also met with the same destiny. 4 years ago, my lovely spouse Gauri and me decided to have a 3rd baby. It used to be claimed on the net that he was the love baby of our first youngster who was 15 years old.It sounds as if, he had sown his wild oats with a girl at the same time using her auto in Romania. And yeah, there was once a false video to go with it. And we had been so disturbed as a household. My son, who is nineteen now, even now when you say "hello" to him, he simply turns round and says, "but bro, I failed to actually have a European driving license." (Laughter) Yeah. In this new world, slowly, reality became digital and digital became real, and i began to consider that I would now not be who I wanted to be or say what I virtually suggestion, and humanity at the moment wholly recognized with me.I feel both of us were going by means of our midlife situation, and humanity, like me, was once fitting an overexposed prima donna. I began to promote the whole thing, from hair oil to diesel turbines. Humanity was buying everything from crude oil to nuclear reactors. , I even tried to get right into a skintight superhero suit to reinvent myself. I have to admit I failed miserably. And simply an aside I need to say on behalf of the entire Batmen, Spider-men and Supermen of the world, you have got to commend them, on the grounds that it quite hurts within the crotch, that superhero suit. (Laughter) Yeah, i am being honest. I need to let you know this right here. Rather. And by chance, I happened to even invent a new dance kind which I did not fully grasp, and it became a rage. So if it’s all right, and you might have seen a bit of of me, so i am relatively shameless, i’ll show you.It was referred to as the Lungi dance. So if it’s all proper, i’m going to simply exhibit you. I am proficient in any other case. (Cheers) So it went anything like this. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi dance. Lungi. That is it. It became a rage. (Cheers) It relatively did. Such as you detect, nobody could make any sense of what used to be going down besides me, and that i failed to provide a damn, fairly, in view that the whole world, and entire humanity, appeared as harassed and lost as I used to be. I didn’t quit then. I even tried to reconstruct my identification on the social media like everybody else does. I idea if I placed on philosophical tweets available in the market individuals will think i’m with it, but one of the responses I acquired from those tweets had been extremely complicated acronyms which I didn’t have an understanding of.You realize? ROFL, LOL. "Adidas," a person wrote again to one among my more inspiration-frightening tweets and i was wondering why would you name a sneaker, I imply, why would you write again the identify of a sneaker to me? And that i asked my 16-12 months-historic daughter, and she or he enlightened me. "Adidas" now way "All day I dream about sex." (Laughter) particularly. I didn’t be aware of if you know that.So I wrote back, "WTF" in bold to Mr. Adidas, thanking secretly that some acronyms and matters is not going to change at all. WTF. But here we’re. I’m 51 years old, like I instructed you, and intellect-numbing acronyms however, I just need to inform you if there has been a momentous time for humanity to exist, it is now, seeing that the reward you is brave. The present you is hopeful. The present you is innovative and imaginative, and of direction, the present you is annoyingly indefinable.And on this spell-binding, imperfect moment of existence, feeling just a little courageous simply earlier than I came right here, I made up our minds to take a excellent, hard look at my face. And i spotted that i’m commencing to look increasingly just like the wax statue of me at Madame Tussaud’s. (Laughter) Yeah, and in that moment of attention, I asked probably the most central and pertinent query to humanity and me: Do I have to fix my face? Rather. I am an actor, like I instructed you, a state-of-the-art expression of human creativity. The land I come from is the source of inexplicable but very simple spirituality. In its massive generosity, India determined by some means that I, the Muslim son of a broke freedom fighter who unintentionally ventured into the industry of promoting desires, must grow to be its king of romance, the "Badhshah of Bollywood," the finest lover the nation has ever seen … With this face. Yeah. (Laughter) Which has alternately been described as unpleasant, unconventional, and strangely, now not chocolatey enough. (Laughter) The folks of this old land embraced me in their limitless love, and i have learned from these folks that neither power nor poverty can make your existence more magical or less tortuous.I’ve discovered from the persons of my nation that the dignity of a existence, a individual, a culture, a faith, a nation definitely resides in its capability for grace and compassion. I’ve discovered that whatever moves you, anything urges you to create, to build, anything maintains you from failing, anything helps you live on, is probably the oldest and the easiest emotion identified to mankind, and that’s love. A mystic poet from my land famously wrote, (Recites poem in Hindi) (Poem ends) Which loosely interprets into that something — yeah, if you know Hindi, please clap, yeah.(Applause) it is very complex to bear in mind. Which loosely translates into simply announcing that the entire books of expertise that you just might learn and then go forward and impart your capabilities through innovation, through creativity, by way of technology, but mankind will under no circumstances be the wiser about its future unless it’s coupled with a way of affection and compassion for his or her fellow beings. The two and a half alphabets which type the word "," this means that "love," in case you are capable to realize that and observe it, that itself is enough to enlighten mankind. So I real suppose the future "you" has to be a you that loves. In any other case it will stop to flourish. It’ll perish in its own self-absorption. So you may also use your vigour to build walls and preserve persons outside, or you can also use it to interrupt boundaries and welcome them in.You may also use your faith to make folks afraid and terrify them into submission, or you should use it to present braveness to folks in order that they upward thrust to the finest heights of enlightenment. You can use your energy to build nuclear bombs and unfold the darkness of destruction, or you should use it to unfold the joy of sunshine to thousands. You can also filthy up the oceans callously and scale down all of the forests. That you may break the ecology, or flip to them with love and regenerate existence from the waters and timber. You may also land on Mars and construct armed citadels, or you can also look for life-types and species to learn from and appreciate. And you should use all the moneys we all have earned to wage futile wars and provides guns in the fingers of little youngsters to kill each different with, or you should utilize it to make more food to fill their stomachs with.My country has taught me the ability for a person to love is akin to godliness. It shines forth in an international which civilization, I consider, already has tampered too much with. Within the last few days, the talks right here, the exotic persons coming and displaying their talent, speakme about man or woman achievements, the innovation, the technological know-how, the sciences, the expertise we are gaining with the aid of being here within the presence of TED Talks and all of you might be explanations enough for us to rejoice the long run "us." but within that social gathering the search to domesticate our potential for love and compassion has to say itself, has to say itself, simply as equally. So I feel the long run "you" is an unlimited you. It can be known as a chakra in India, like a circle. It ends where it begins from to complete itself. A you that perceives time and house differently knows both your unattainable and extremely good importance and your whole unimportance in the better context of the universe. A you that returns again to the usual innocence of humanity, which loves from the purity of heart, which sees from the eyes of reality, which goals from the readability of an untampered mind.The future "you" needs to be like an aging film famous person who has been made to think that there is a possibility of an international which is entirely, utterly, self-obsessively in love with itself. A global — particularly, it needs to be a you to create a world which is its own pleasant lover. That I suppose, women and gentlemen, must be the long run "you." thank you very a lot. Shukriya. (Applause) thanks. (Applause) thanks. (Applause) .

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batterymonster2021 · 5 years

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Thoughts on humanity, fame and love | Shah Rukh Khan

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/thoughts-on-humanity-fame-and-love-shah-rukh-khan-2/

Thoughts on humanity, fame and love | Shah Rukh Khan

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thewhacko-blog · 6 years

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Fractured

First post on this tumblr. It took a while but I’ve finally caved and decided to make an account here. I’m a bit hesitant still considering some of the horror stories I’ve heard of this place but hey, it’s just the internet. That said, this one is for all you Teen Titans fans out there. This is based in the world of the cartoon, with a crossover with the DCAU for giggles. The rest of the story will follow shortly after. Hope y’all enjoy!

Prologue

“That's....quite a story, Terra.” Robin said, his face still a mixture of disbelief, a trace of anger, and the flash of sympathy as he looked down at the shamefaced blonde sitting in front of him, her head hung low with her long bangs covering her eyes while Beast Boy held her hand. From what Robin could tell, Beast Boy had been by her side like this for the last hour or so before Terra had come down and called them all to the living room, and he couldn't blame him. If Starfire had been in this much pain, he would have been doing exactly the same. The others looked as shocked as him, even Raven, who stood wide-eyed to his left, her hood down and her gaze fixed on the geomancer.

She'd been a traitor. Or at least, that had been the plan. After the first time they had met her, when she had left after she believed Beast Boy had told them about her lack of control over her powers, Slade had found her. He'd convinced her that he could help her, trained her in her powers and then sent her back here as a mole. Tonight was supposed to have been his coupe de grace; She was supposed to have sent the tower's security codes to him, and then his drones would have taken care of the rest. In the end, however, her conscience had won out, and she'd refused her final task. So how they were here. There was silence for a full minute before Terra spoke up again, her voice hoarse and full of regret.

“I'm so sorry...I can't believe I did this to you all. You trusted me...you haven't done anything but help me...you must hate me now.” She sniffled at the last word, looking as he she might start sobbing again any second now. Beast Boy gave her hand a firm squeeze at that, and she seemed to calm down again at that touch. Cyborg was the first to speak up.

“Terra, you're family far as I'm concerned. That's all I need to say on that.” Instantly forgiven. That was Cyborg, alright. He always did like to play big brother. Robin couldn't help but crack a bit of a smile at that. The big guy certainly did a good job in that role. Then it was Starefire's turn. She was....well, she was Starfire.

“Oh, Friend Terra, how could I hate you!? You are the most wonderful friend I have ever had! The terrible, terrible Slade has lied to you and manipulated you! I will break him for this!” She shouted as she scooped up Terra in a fierce, almost bone-crushing hug. The first part of her declaration of forgiveness had been typical of the Tamaraian. The last part, however, was not. That part had actually frightened Robin. He could actually see that normally sweet, innocent girl doing her best to break every bone in Slade's body for something like this. Slowly, Starfire realized she might have been holding onto Terra a little too tightly, and let her go with a comforting little smile. Terra did her best to smile back, but it was still obvious that she didn't feel much better. Beast Boy was still quite. He'd no doubt already said his piece in private. That left Raven.

Truth be told, Robin had expected Raven to storm out or chew their newest member out like a drill sergeant. Instead, the ash-colored young woman set herself down beside Terra with a nod.

“You followed your conscience. You beat Slade's manipulation. That's what matters now. We can't change what happened or the choices you made before, but you choose your future. You chose us over him.” Her hand was on Terra's shoulder as she spoke, her tone surprisingly gentle compared to her usual abrasive monotone. Terra looked shocked at that. Obviously she hadn't been expecting that kind of response from Raven either. There was a long pause, and then, with a sob she threw her arms around Raven and began to cry again. Not guilt alone this time. There was relief in it too.

“I...I don't know what to say. I can't believe you're all forgiving me after this.” She finally choked out. Robin looked the geomancer in the eye as he spoke

“You're a Titan, Terra.” That struck the girl more than anything else that had been said tonight, it was clear. She looked at all of them slowly with bloodshot eyes.

“You're the best friends I've ever had.”

TTTTT

Deep bellow Jump City, secure from intrusion by those pesky little superheroes that seemed to be cropping up like weeds all over the world, Slade Wilson swore as he picked the shards of glass from his hand. He'd broken his favorite wine glass when he'd read the little girl's message, and now his hand was covered in glittering red specks. It was supposed to have gone so simply. Train her, gain her trust and loyalty, and then send her in to do the same with the Titans, then crush that vermin once and for all. But no. She'd just had to go and grow a conscience while she was with the Titans. He could still feel his blood boil as it tricked from the dozens of small gashes in his hand.

One word. It has been one word she'd sent, but it was still enough to send him into a rage.

“No.”

He swore again as he drew the largest shard from his palm, earning the attention of the men waiting at either side of the entrance to the room. Sharpes and Deych were recent hires. Professional killers that had worked in Gotham for most of their lives before relocating to Jump City after a nasty run-in with that grim town's own caped crusader. Both men were in their forties, like him, wearing black suits, balding (Sharpes retaining his rusty brown mane, while Deych's had gone prematurely gray), and carrying .45 automatics under their jackets.

“Sir? Everything alright?” Sharpes said a bit cautiously, not moving from his spot. Slade briefly thought about slapping his underling for such a stupid question, but he understood that men in that position only had so many responses to this kind of display. If their places were reversed, he imagined he would have asked the question as well.

“Yes. There is a setback in operations. But only a minor one. Plan 2 is still workable. Deych, speak with Calculator within the hour. Sharpes, all of my contacts in Gotham, Metropolis and Central City. We will require heavies.” He was done with the local muscle. Cinderblock and Plamus? They'd failed on multiple occasions, as had those HIVE children. No, it was time to bring in some real talent. Plan 2 would be more extensive, and costly than his initial operation, but the results would be well worth it. It had gravitas as well. Gravitas and a certain classical charm to it.

His domination of this city was only delayed. Things would go his way. And when they did....well, the world would never be the same again.

TTTTT

“When your checks start to actually clear, sweety. The last one you sent me bounced so high it might as well have been a satellite. You want a tip on a score? Go ask Intergang. I'm sure they could use some muscle as dumb as you.”

Calculator groaned wearily as he pressed the disconnect key, taking a long, angry drag on his cigarette before he returned his attention to his work. Livewire was always a pain in the ass to deal with, especially when the work was slow for her. Which was all the time, in the last few months. He was not what many would expect in a criminal master mind; short, dumpy, with receding brown hair and thick, gold-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a New England banker than anything else. Nobody that saw him on the streets would peg him for the man that nearly every super-criminal in the United States relied on for up to date information on scores, superhero activity and general tips and rumors.

He sighed and looked down at his array of monitors; one tuned to newsfeeds, one to a blog popular with the less than reputable super-types, and one to the Gotham City Police Department staff records. That last one was the most important at the moment, as he opened up Detective Renee Montoya's file. Squeaky clean, a list of commendations as long as his arm, a widow with a husband killed in the gangland shit Gotham seemed to stew in every second of every day. He wasn't going to find the sort of crap he'd need to get Two-Face's request done here. Thankfully, there were other sources, and if his runners were to be believed, he'd soon have some very interesting photos of Ms. Montoya and a one Ms. Kate Kane, heiress and recently discharged army-wanabe that would probably put a pause to her investigation for a good long while.

The call came a second later, and the stout little man's eyebrow went up as he saw where it originated from. Jump City, eh? He hadn't gotten too many requests from that town in a good long while, and more often than not it was from a single man in particular, or a proxy. When he saw the name, his suspicion was confirmed.

“You're through to Calculator. What can the master of all he surveys provide today, my one-eyed friend?” He asked, a sort of sarcastic cheerfulness to his voice as he stubbed out his smoke into the overflowing ashtray, then almost immediately lighting up another.

“'Fraid it ain't the big man himself, bud. He needs ya to find sum'n quick and quiet-like.” The voice was gruff, harsh and with a distinct Gotham accent, one he'd heard a few times before. So ol' Deych had gotten a new employer, eh? He'd have to make a note of that, seeing as Slade had seemed content to stick with the local boys before. If he was bringing in hired guns from out of town, it meant something had changed, maybe even dramatically so.

“That's what I do. What's this special order Mr. Wilson needs oh so badly?” Calculator asked with genuine curiosity now, his fingers flying over his keyboard to pull up Deych' record. The goombah grunted and rattled off what his boss wanted in as clipped and professional a tone has he was probably capable of. It gave the information broker pause, and a frown began to melt over his lips. It was a tall order, but he thought he remembered hearing....yes, some of the product Slade needed was in town.

“Well lucky you, Mr. Deych. You boys happen to be sitting not very far off from what you need. I'll go ahead and send you some recommendations for getting past security, too. Consider that a favor to Mr. Wilson.” And so he did, sending off the e-mail with the properly encrypted files. With that he cut off the call, leaning back in his chair and smiling around his cigarette. The Titans were going to be in for a very nasty surprise if this was going to go the way he thought it would. Oh, this was going to be a very interesting show indeed.

#teen titans #fanfiction #fanfic #dc

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