In the days that followed, Clark felt more and more comfortable with his decision to eavesdrop on the conversation he'd heard in Wayne Tower. Without giving away that the plot to overthrow him had been heard, Bruce managed to meet with the board members who hadn't been in that room that day. Subtly, he convinced them to remain on his side, and to be open to taking chances on the ventures Bruce decided to pursue. When the motion was raised to vote Bruce out of his spot on the board, it was overwhelmingly snuffed out. George quit soon after, too embarrassed by his failed venture to continue on with the company. Word had spread quickly about what he'd tried to do and pressure mounted from the rest of the board for George to hand in his resignation.
It made Clark glad to know he'd done something important for Bruce. It didn't erase all the guilt, but it did make it easier to bear. After all, George had lost his job in the process. But, Clark reasoned, that was George's own fault, not his. He hadn't been the one to whisper in George's ear about trying to push Bruce out of his own company.
About a month after the incident, Clark was getting himself ready for bed after another long night of patrolling Gotham in the guise of Nightwing. He'd already showered and changed into a pair of boxers and an old T-shirt and was just tidying up a few things he'd left out in his rush to hit the streets that night, when suddenly, the globe he'd had all his life - and which he'd been careful to always keep hidden and safe during his turbulent, homeless years - began to glow. At first, the light was dim - hardly even noticeable, unless one looked directly at the globe. But the illumination steadily began to grow ever more intense and bright.
Clark stopped what he was doing as soon as he noticed the light.
"What the heck?" he whispered to himself as he padded over to the bookshelf, where the globe had sat collecting dust. He picked it up and peered at it closely. "You've never done this before," he said to the globe.
He brought it over to his bed and sat down, cross-legged on the comforter, to continue to study the light coming from it. After a moment, the light became almost blinding in his nearly dark room. A second later, the image of a man appeared, floating in mid air. The image was extraordinarily life-like, but translucent.
Hologram, his mind said with wonder.
"I am Jor-El," the man said, in a clear, deep, somehow affectionate voice. "And you are Kal-El, my son."
"Son?" Clark asked aloud, though of course the hologram couldn't hear or respond to him.
The man - Jor-El - continued. "The object you hold has been attuned to you. That you now hear these words is proof that you survived the journey in space and have reached your full maturity. Now it is time for you to learn our heritage. To that end, I will appear to you five times. Watch for the light, listen, and learn."
It sounded like an ending to Clark, and his heart silently begged the image of his biological father not to go just yet. But, as chance had it, Jor-El was not finished speaking. He continued on, and Clark saw a woman, Lara, with Jor-El. His father didn't even need to say the words - as soon as Clark saw her, he knew her to be his mother.
Jor-El spoke about how short their time was, before some kind of impending disaster. But what that disaster was, he did not yet reveal it, leaving Clark more curious than ever. Whatever it was, Clark could feel the sense of urgency as his birth parents moved about the room, checking flashing monitors, holding on to things as the entire image began to violently shake. He heard the fear in Jor-El's voice as he spoke about trying to find a suitable place.
Suitable? For what? For me? For all of them? What happened? What happened to them? If he's talking about sending me to Earth, his mind shot out in rapid thoughts, for it was now clear that wherever Jor-El and Lara were in the hologram, it was definitely not Earth, then why didn't they come with me? Or did they? Did they...not survive the trip? No, it can't be. Mom and Dad always said that they found me alone, in a tiny capsule in Shuster's Field.
Then, suddenly, he saw himself, laying nestled in the capsule his parents had always described to him. It became painfully clear that Jor-El and Lara were preparing to send him off, alone, into space. Their sense of despair and heartbreak was palpable. And something else too. Hope, Clark thought. Hope that they might save their infant from some terrible fate.
Too soon, the message was over. The image of his parents faded into nothingness. The light in the globe snapped off, as though the power suddenly died. Clark was left alone in the near-dark, more questions than ever flooding his mind. A sense of loneliness and grief flooded him. His heart ached for the family he'd been denied knowing, and somehow, he missed them terribly.
When he laid down to sleep, he found himself constantly thinking back to the strangers in the message, who looked like him, but who he had never truly known. And he wished, in vain, that he could have had just one clear, true memory of them.
But, he reasoned, he did have some new knowledge. His parents had loved him. They'd had a reason for sending him off on his own, though he still wondered why they hadn't come to Earth with him. He was not an Earthling. He wasn't some science experiment that the Kents had found crash-landed in a field one night. He'd heard the globe whisper the word Krypton in his mind as the map face on the globe had changed from that of Earth to some other-worldly place.
Krypton.
He turned the word over and over in his mind.
Krypton.
That was where he was from.
He was an alien.
Suddenly, he felt very alone in the world.
"Who am I? Where do I fit in?" he asked the darkness.
***
More time passed, the months and seasons blending into each other in one long blur. Clark finished his degree early, just as he'd intended. As promised, Vicki Vale helped him secure an internship with the Gotham Gazette, and then - by extension - a job offer. There were no available positions open for reporters within the city, but they did give him a job as an overseas reporter. Clark didn't mind. He was free to see the world, covering events in countries all over the globe. Of course, he could - and had! - tour the world whenever he wanted, but the job gave him a legitimate excuse to be in various countries. And, he had to admit, it was nice to be seen walking around in broad daylight, rather than hiding in the shadows of night in fear that someone would see him and question why he was there.
The only drawback to traveling for his job was that he had to fly on airplanes. He had no fear of them, but they were extremely inefficient, in Clark's eyes. Flying under his own power was faster, more comfortable, and a lot more fun. But it was only a minor inconvenience, in the grand scheme of things. He woke up every day thankful for his job. He'd done it. He was a real reporter, just like he'd once dreamed of becoming.
And yet, something was missing.
He was lonely.
Profoundly lonely.
Everywhere he went, he saw happy couples walking hand in hand, embracing, kissing, laughing together. Everywhere he went, he saw families. And it drove home the fact that he had no one. He wasn't even human, he knew, thanks to the messages Jor-El had left for him in the globe. He was the last surviving Kryptonian, sent off to Earth in a tiny capsule in order to escape the planet's demise. What, exactly, had caused the planet's death, he still didn't know, but he'd seen his birth world torn apart in a violent explosion seconds after his ship had cleared the atmosphere.
His heart ached for someone to share his life with. A woman he could share himself with - all of himself, super abilities included.
How likely he was to find such a woman, however, felt more than daunting. Whoever it was would have to be a rare woman indeed, to be able to accept the fact that he wasn't even truly human, despite the fact that he looked exactly like one. And, really, if he were to be honest with himself, what woman would really be okay with that?
Still, he couldn't just give up all hope of ever finding someone to love. He kept the embers of hope alive in his heart while he focused on his work.
He still visited Gotham as much as he could. When he wasn't actively covering a story, he would fly back to the city under the cover of darkness. Then he would join forces with Bruce, and Batman and Nightwing would do their part to make Gotham a little safer by putting criminals behind bars. Clark reveled in those nights, when he got to take a "hands on" approach to bettering the world. It was a stark contrast to what he could do as a reporter.
That wasn't to say that he disliked his "civilian" work - as he sometimes called it in his own head. He loved being a reporter. Nothing felt quite as good as exposing a story for all the world to see. But traveling the world soon lost its novelty. After a couple of years of moving from place to place, never having one steady address to call home, he began to grow restless. He was reminded constantly of the upheaval in his life after his parents had died - of bouncing around to friends' homes before being shuttled off to the halfway house, and of his life on the streets and in homeless shelters after he'd fled from Grandma Tildy's.
He wanted to go home.
But where that home was, he wasn't sure.
He knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life living at Wayne Manor. He and Bruce got along just fine; Clark considered the billionaire to be one of his closest friends. But he was a grown man now, and needed to get out on his own if he ever returned back to America permanently. But did he want to stay in Gotham? Clark wasn't sure about that. He loved the city and loved protecting it as Nightwing. But he felt like perhaps there was more out there. Like his true home was still out there, as of yet undiscovered.
Then there was the work itself. Clark liked it well enough, but it wasn't exactly what he'd always dreamed about. He was a reporter all right, and that made him proud. But he was simply reporting on events that were happening. He wasn't doing any real investigating, because he was constantly on the move. He had no time to dig into the meat of things and uncover how deep a story might go. That was left up to others. He was merely a vessel through which the world heard about overseas events.
So, while he was happy to be working in his chosen career, he wasn't completely happy. But the experience he was garnering was invaluable, he knew. Even his puff pieces were better than nothing at all, or so he hoped. Because, he vowed to himself, one day - soon, with any luck - he would leave the Gazette and become the kind of reporter he truly desired to be.
***
"So, how's the job going?" Bruce asked as he and Clark sat on a rooftop overlooking the field where the Gotham Goliaths played baseball, though the field was cold and dark at that hour of the night.
It was nearly two in the morning, and freezing out. White snowflakes danced in the air, and Clark could smell the storm brewing even worse. By morning, there would be at least a couple of inches of snow on the ground.
"It's good," Clark said in a non-committal tone.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, giving him a side glance.
"Nothing," Clark replied, brushing it off.
"Yeah, right. You know you can tell me."
Clark hesitated. "I'm grateful to Vicki for helping me get the job, really. And I love that I'm doing what I set out to do. I am a reporter. But...it's been a few years now. And I'm still not doing exactly what I'd hoped to. I'm still being bounced around from country to country. I'm still not investigating, not the way I want to. And, no matter how many times I try to get reassigned back to Gotham - or anywhere permanent - I get told that there's nothing for me. I guess...I guess I'm a bit frustrated, that's all. I mean, it's 1993 now. Well, for the last two hours, at any rate. I thought I'd be...doing more important work as a reporter by now. Uncovering corrupt politicians. Breaking up crime circuits. That kind of stuff. Not reporting on brush fires caused by heatwaves."
"Do you want me to say something to Vicki?" Bruce offered.
"I've already spoken to her, but there's not a lot she can do. Thanks anyway. I need to figure this out on my own, even if it means leaving the Gazette at some point." Clark sighed. "In any case, there's not much to be done about it now. I'm off for the week and I intend to enjoy myself."
Bruce grunted his consent. "Fine by me."
"It's quiet tonight," Clark observed after a few minutes. "Surprisingly so. I figured there'd be people out, celebrating New Year's Eve. Either everyone is still indoors partying, or they fell asleep right after midnight," he joked.
"Let's hope it stays that way," Bruce agreed.
After a few minutes, Clark sighed, his breath misting white in the frigid air. "I miss it here, sometimes. I have the world at my fingertips but..." He sighed again.
"There's no place like home, huh?"
"It's strange," Clark answered, evading the statement. "When I first found myself here, in Gotham, I figured I'd stay for a week or two, or maybe just the summer, get my bearings, and move on again. I wasn't sure where I'd go, but I was convinced I wasn't going to stay here. Now...this city is a part of me. And maybe one day, I might have to move on, maybe work for another paper, if things don't change at the Gazette. But Gotham runs in my blood now. All of this," he said, gesturing vaguely to his costume, "is a part of me."
Bruce simply nodded.
"How's the new insulation Alfred added to your suit?" Clark asked a little while later.
As usual, Bruce sat exposed to the elements, without the benefit of a cloak, coat, or even a blanket to stave off the cold. He showed no outward signs of distress from the freezing temperatures, but Clark was worried about him nonetheless.
"Much better than what we've used in the past," Bruce replied, his eyes never leaving their sweeping vigil over the city. "The new micro-heaters we've been working on are better than I'd hoped."
Clark nodded. "Good to hear."
"It's still so strange to me that you don't need them in the Nightwing suit," Bruce admitted a minute later.
Clark chuckled lightly. "Jealous?"
"You wish."
Another hour passed, with Clark periodically scanning the city with his enhanced hearing, but all was quiet. They were both getting a bit stiff and cramped from being still for so long when they decided to call it a night. Surely if nothing had happened by now, it was bound to be quiet for the rest of the night. They stood and stretched.
"Nice to have a quiet night for a change," Clark said, rolling his neck from side to side, popping the muscles there.
"Mmm," Bruce muttered. "Surprising though."
"Maybe the criminal element got too drunk to knock over more than their living room lamp," Clark joked.
But the joke died as soon as it left his lips. His super hearing kicked in and his head cocked to one side, toward the sound he was picking up, independent of a conscious thought to do so.
"What?" Bruce asked, his voice immediately going to the hard, flat tone of Batman.
"Trouble," Clark said, only half paying attention to Bruce as he tried to pinpoint what, exactly, he was hearing. "The museum. I heard a security guard call for help, then...nothing."
"Then let's go," Bruce said.
"I'll meet you there," Clark said, frowning. "I didn't like the sound of that call. I'm worried about that guard."
"Meet you there," Bruce agreed. "Be careful."
"You too," Clark replied over his shoulder as he started to lift off from the ground..
Of course, the warning to Clark was merely a formality. Clark was invulnerable. But it was a nice gesture nonetheless, and Clark appreciated that the billionaire cared about his well-being. It was nice to have someone - anyone - care about him.
Clark made a beeline for the museum. It wasn't far - just ten blocks north of where he and Bruce had been keeping their vigil over the city. He crossed the distance in seconds and landed lightly in the courtyard before the building. He stretched out his senses to the immediate area, but found nothing. The cry for help had not come from outside. Clark mounted the steps and found the front door lock had been broken. Gently, quietly, he pulled the heavy door open just enough to slip inside.
The lobby was deathly silent and dark, the only light that which filtered in through the large windows from the surrounding street lights. Clark cautiously stepped forward, his eyes sweeping the place. In the center of the room, a large cherry colored wooden information commanded the space, the wall behind it lined with the nearly identical admission desk. Clark went to the information desk first, feeling as though there should be at least one night guard on duty to oversee things in the lobby.
He found the guard behind the information desk, laying on the cold marble floor.
Clark knelt down by the unmoving body. He pressed his fingers to the man's neck, searching for a pulse, all the while training his hearing on the body, hoping - in vain - to find any sign of life. He spent precious minutes trying to will some life into the man. Borges, the man's name badge proclaimed. S. Borges.
"He's dead," Clark told Bruce, barely even glancing at the shadows where he knew the man was standing. "I was too late."
Bruce stepped forward, into the weak light. "He was gone as soon as you heard the cry for help, in all likelihood."
"Looks like he was strangled," Clark said, pointing to the red line running around the man's thin neck. "From the way the marks look, it might have been a length of chain."
"I think you may be right about that."
"I'm sorry," Clark whispered to the dead man, gently closing the man's eyelids. The open eyes, bulging from the guard's final struggle, unnerved Clark. He stood. "Okay, where are you?" he quietly asked, as if the murderers were right there. He stretched out his senses, listening to the empty museum. "Got you," he said after a moment, a grim smile ghosting over his lips.
"Where?"
"The gems and meteorites wing."
"Then let's go crash the party," Bruce said, no trace of humor in his voice.
Bruce led the way through the darkness while Clark followed behind, his super hearing on alert for danger, his eyes x-raying everything, wary of traps or ambushes. But nothing stood in their way. Swiftly, they raced through the museum, silent as shadows, passing fossilized dinosaur bones, skeletal remains of early humans, and primitive tools as they went. Clark was barely aware of the things they were running past, so focused he was on his ultimate destination.
They stopped outside the gem and meteorite wing, sticking to the shadows of the hallway. Clark stood to the left of the door, Bruce to the right. Clark x-rayed through the closed door.
How many? Bruce mouthed.
Clark held up one hand, all five fingers outstretched.
Bruce nodded. Easy, he wordlessly responded.
Clark nodded stiffly, just once. He gave the other man a thumbs up, indicating that he was ready. Bruce shot one back, then, together, they approached the door. Bruce placed a small electronic square on the keypad that locked the room. In seconds, the device flashed the code on screen - 231973. Bruce punched the numbers in and the lock ever so softly clicked as it opened. He pulled the door open a crack. Clark slipped inside first.
Five masked men, dressed head to toe in black, were loading sacks with gems. Most of the display cases had been smashed open. Glass littered the floor. The alarm had clearly been cut - how that had been accomplished Clark neither knew nor cared about at the moment. He was only concerned with the thieves. Lights from the broken cases gave the room just enough illumination to let him see that all of the burglars had their backs to him as they worked.
"If you wanted to see the exhibit, you should have waited until the morning," Clark said, causing them all to whip around to face him.
"Much better this way," one of them said, pulling a switchblade out as he squared off against Clark. "Just you tonight, Nightbird? No little Bat to keep you safe?"
"Nightwing," Clark automatically corrected. "And believe me, I'm more than a match for the five of you."
Switchblade snickered. "Boys, let's teach Nightbaby that it's not nice to show up to a party uninvited."
"With pleasure," sneered the man to Switchblade's right. He picked up a crowbar that had been laying on the floor by his feet.
"Absolutely," agreed the one to Switchblade's left. He smacked a Billy club into the palm of his hand, over and over again. Clark could tell from the sound it made that it was made of a solid, heavy wood.
"You don't want to do that," came the low, threatening tone of Batman as Bruce stepped out of the shadows and made his presence known. "He's right, you know. He could flatten you all in a heartbeat, if he wanted to."
"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," Clark said.
"Kill them," commanded one of the two men who were still loading jewels into the sacks.
The attack began all at once. Switchblade and Billy Club went for Clark. Crowbar and the fourth man - Steel Chain, as Clark dubbed him in his mind, noting that he was likely the one who'd killed the guard in the lobby - went for Bruce. Clark easily disarmed Billy Club, but not before he took a hard blow to his lower back, as the man slipped around while Clark was occupied with Switchblade. Clark spun on his heel and grabbed the club while the thief looked in on in surprise that the blow hadn't crippled - or even appeared to injure - Clark. His grip was loose on the club in his shock and Clark easily snatched it from its wielder. He used the club to block an attempt to have his face torn open by Switchblade. Switchblade's wrist hit the solid length of wood, hard. Clark heard a snap as a bone must have broken. The blade fell from nerveless fingers while Switchblade stood stock still, clutching his wrist, his mouth open in a noiseless O of pain.
Clark took advantage of the man's pain. With a booted foot, he stomped on the knife, breaking the metal blade from the handle. He kicked it to one side, safely out of the thief's reach. Billy Club lunged in a desperate attempt to take his weapon back. Clark caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and deftly blocked the man's attempt. He grabbed Billy Club by the front of his shirt and easily - though gently - tossed him to the floor, just a couple of feet away. The man hit the marble floor with a grunt and Clark looked around for something to tie the criminal up with.
By then, Bruce had subdued Steel Chain. The man was laying on the floor, out cold, while the length of chain he'd been using as a weapon lay nearby. Clark scooped up the chain and wrapped it around Billy Club and Switchblade before either one could come around and make a run for it. He stuck the knife handle between two links to serve as a makeshift lock, just to give himself enough time to take out the thief still loading the jewels into sacks.
"Enough!" Clark commanded. "You've lost. Come quietly. It'll be easier on all of us."
"And if I refuse?"
"You want the same as your friends just got?" Clark asked. As he spoke, he heard Bruce throw a punch that knocked the wind out of Crowbar.
"I'll take my chances," the leader said, pulling a gun from his jacket pocket.
Clark bit back a laugh. He'd been shot at plenty of times before, and the bullets never did any harm to him. They skipped harmlessly off his body, the same as drops of rain. Although, he had to admit, Bruce was not so lucky as to be invulnerable. Clark had to stay on alert, lest his friend be wounded or killed.
"Back up, Nightwuss," the gunman commanded. "Or I'll turn you into Swiss cheese."
"Put the gun down," Clark instructed, his voice hard and unyielding.
The man fired, but too quickly. His aim was off and the bullet struck one of the still intact display cases lining the walls of the room. The glass shattered, exposing the priceless gems within, including a strange green stone that appeared to glow with some inner light, rather than just the lights in the case. As soon as the glass was broken, Clark began to feel oddly.
A wave of nausea washed over him. Weakness suffused his body as his strength bled out through some invisible wound. His muscles went to water and his felt himself falling to the floor. His head pounded, as if his very brain was going to rupture in his skull. Pain lanced every atom of his body. He felt consciousness slipping away.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew everything was happening fast, but in his sickened state, every moment seemed to play out in slow motion. Every second felt like an eternity.
A moment later, as his knees fully gave out, the leader managed to squeeze off another shot. Clark felt the projectile tear through flesh and muscle in a searing line of fire. He crashed to the floor, in agony so great he had no words for it, and passed out.
"Nightwing!" Bruce cried, but received no response. "Nightwing!"
To Be Continued....
