Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic steelknights 8/9

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Lois slid the last sheet of her text into the fax and hit the transmit button.
"Alright. I'm ready to go home."

Clark let out a laugh, pausing to indulge in a stretch. "I want to say, 'Oh, come on,
it wasn't that bad!'"

Lois rolled her eyes, smiling reluctantly as she came over by the low table and
closed her lap top. "I told you I had a bad feeling about this place," she muttered,
gathering up her notes from the table. Then, "Hey! Do you know what I did last night?"

"What?"

"Just on a hunch I went fishing on some local Internet sites here, and checked out
our man in black. Some people think of him as some kind of Superman for Gotham."

Clark made a big decision in a hurry: play dumb. "Huh? Oh. Um . . . no, I didn't
know that. What did you find?" He pretended to bury himself in the story on his lap
top.

"This guy's a psycho. That's what a lot of the media think, anyway. He's called
Batman, and he's more than a little controversial. Might be worth coming back here for
a feature . . ." She trailed off, then added in a heavy voice, "No, on second thought, you
can have that story."

I've already got it, thank you, but I have no plans to write it . . .

"Well, it seems like the local media has already covered that subject," Clark said
dismissively.

"So what should we do for our last night in Gotham?" she asked, mocking sarcasm
in her voice. She plopped down on the couch.

Clark's head came up at that. "Tonight? Um . . ."

"You've been saying 'Ummm' a lot lately, you know."

He let out a breath and ducked his head, smiling. "Maybe I've been here too long,
too." He paused, and Lois smiled as it seemed like he was clamping down on another
'umm'. "Actually, I've got a follow-up planned tonight."

"Really?" She frowned. Then, "Can I tag along?"

"Oh, I don't think so." Clark stopped, startled, realizing he'd spoken the words
out loud. "I mean, no, I kind of thought I should take this one alone," he explained
quickly. "It's our eccentric billionaire--remember?"

Lois made a face. "What a choice. How'd that go the other day, anyway? You
never mentioned it."

Clark looked up from his lap top again, hesitating. How was he going to refuse
Lois without piquing her legendary curiosity? He had to, because he couldn't count on
the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight keeping to the beaten path of an interview.
Chances were they'd eventually veer off into hot topics. All he could do was play to her
distaste of the filthy rich. "Well . . .he's okay, but it's like this guy doesn't need company.
One more person there and he'd probably get sidetracked more than he already does
with just one reporter."

As it turned, Lois accepted that explanation, and Clark was able to go on alone.
Actually, the presence of Lois Lane would keep them firmly on topic, but that's not
necessarily what Clark wanted. Yes, the interview was top priority, and they'd get that
out of the way first. But that was just it--he wanted to talk to this guy some more. The
same words had been going through his head for a couple of days, now: I never thought someone else would be doing it! He saw this as a chance to pick his mind more, to
satisfy his curiosity. They were wildly different, and yet they had some basic things in
common.

He'd gotten directions to Wayne Manor, about ten miles outside of the Gotham
city limits on the northeast side. It was seven-thirty and the sun was low in the sky but
still there, making the pale green May leaves shimmer in the light. The road was
winding and lightly wooded, with virtually no traffic. Of the three cars he did see on the
road, though, none of them cost less than seventy-five thousand dollars.

Definitely the rich area of Gotham, Clark thought as he passed a stone wall
covered with years of ivy growth. If it weren't for his experience as a reporter, he'd feel
more than a little intimidated by the place. As it was, he was jaded by the hundreds of
millions residing along Gotham's prestigious Woodworth Drive. He'd talked to the rich
before, and he was on a take-it-or-leave-it basis with them. But there was something
decidedly different hooked up at 1750 Woodworth Drive.

He pulled off the main road and his vision caught the electronic eye right before
the car's front bumper did. The black wrought iron gates split open for the Bonneville,
and Clark drove between two statues of rearing horses, then three pairs of massive elm
trees that seemed to dwarf the sky itself. The brick drive widened into an impressively
large turn-around, and he pulled the car off to the side and parked.

To put it politely, the place was a mansion. It was listed on the Gotham historical
register as a point of interest, being slightly older than Gotham itself. Ivy and virginia
creeper were roaring up the brick and stonework, not quite hiding the Colonial style.
Two smaller wings had been added, Clark guessed about one hundred years ago, and
whoever had done it had had the taste and foresight to blend it in to the style of the
original structure. The place had aged gracefully, a solid touch from the mid-1700s
displaying its weathered history into the late 1900s with stubborn pride.

So this is where Batman lives.

Clark checked that thought. The moment he started seeing the dark freelancer
every time he thought of Bruce Wayne, they'd both be in trouble. Keeping his own
secret was second nature. He hoped this one would slip into the same mental controls
he'd set for his.

He was coming up on what he presumed was the main entry when the double
doors split. Bruce Wayne came out onto the modest, three-step landing. "Why don't
you leave the keys in the car?" he called with a shrug. "I'll have Alfred drive it around
to the garage; it's supposed to rain tonight." Even casually dressed and with his hands in
his pockets, he still looked like the influential billionaire who might own this mansion.

"Alright, sure." Clark backtracked and opened the car door, replacing the keys in
the ignition. Then he closed the car door and backed up several paces, looking up at the
three stories. "This is really a beautiful place," he said. "How long has it been in the
family?"

"About . . . four or five generations. There was disputed ownership at first."

Through the double doors and into Wayne Manor, the foyer was equally
impressive. The staircase dominated, reaching back to the far wall and splitting, one
length ending at the second story and the other winding around to the third story. Dark
woodwork and a formal, antique touch was everywhere.

An older man in perfect black tails was approaching from one of the doors leading
off from the foyer. He seemed to combine the image of a grandfather and the air of a
prince as he stopped and gave a short bow. "Good evening, Master Kent. I'm Alfred."
The craggy, gentle British voice was accompanied by an equally gentle smile.

Taken aback by the honorific, Clark looked at Bruce, then back at Alfred. He
managed to pull out a nod and a hesitant "Uh . . .'evening, Alfred," that didn't match up
to the butler's greeting, but the man didn't seem to mind.

Bruce was looking at Alfred with a faintly amused air. "Buckingham habits die
hard, hmm?" From the look the two traded, it seemed to be a long-standing inside joke.
"Could you bring in the Bonneville, please, Alfred? And the Jag? Thanks." Alfred
turned to go, and Clark mouthed to himself, Buckingham?

Bruce led him through into an elegant sitting room with a generous fireplace.
Clark's eye was caught by a small collection of framed photographs on a side table. One
was of a woman with her arms wrapped around the smiling face of a boy not more than
ten. Another was of the same woman and boy, with a dark-haired man.

"My parents," said a voice behind Clark. "The one in the silver frame was taken
. . . about two weeks before--"

Clark turned, seeing Bruce looking more thoughtful than sad. "I'm sorry," was all
he could manage, though it didn't feel adequate. He couldn't help but think of his own
parents, and what it would feel like to lose them. A tightness clamped together in his
chest, and it took a deep breath to ease it.

Bruce broke the awkward moment, nodding towards a couple of chairs by the
fireplace. "We've got an interview."

Clark forced himself to focus on the interview, hoping reporter's instincts would
take over, pushing his mind off of the morbid past history. He let the digital recorder
run more for a backup for his memory than a primary source, and kept a notebook open
to record notes on non-verbal aspects of it. Bruce seemed aware of the relative
shortness of time, and his answers were thorough but tight. Alfred appeared and
disappeared soundlessly on two occasions, never needing to ask, almost telepathically
aware of any needs. He afforded Clark the very same respect and attention he gave his
employer.

It was closing in on nine when Clark paged back to the start of the pad and double
checked the list of questions and issues he wanted to bring up. "Alright, as far as I can
tell, we've hit everything," he said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his
nose. "At least of the official end, that is," he added.

Bruce seemed to pull back at that. "You want that other topic, don't you?" he
said doubtfully.

Clark smiled enigmatically. "Well, odds are we'll never find enough of us to start
an underground newsletter, but yeah, I'm still curious," he said with an air of studied
nonchalance. He set the notebook aside and sat back, crossing his arms.

"You're curious . . ."

"Hey, I can't explain anything I do without getting into xenobiology, and that's
something I don't know too well."

"You really don't know?"

Clark shrugged. "For all I know, I'm not even sure I know the limits of my
abilities. I mean, I think I know all the categories, but I don't know if I've hit the ceiling
on them." He paused, and added thoughtfully, " . . .except maybe flying speed. I think
I've hit light speed, or something close to it."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he hadn't said them.
Bruce was staring at him in undisguised, classic shock. "Light?"

"Geez, I'm sorry I shouldn't have said that . . ." Clark let out a frustrated sigh,
rubbing his face. "Okay, the truth is I use wires and a harness."

"Bullshit."

Clark looked up with a reluctant grin. "I can always try, hey." He thought for a
moment, his smile fading. "You know, actually, about the most useful ability is my
hearing. Which, I might add, is no more acute than that of a bat's."

"That I don't buy. Bats hear a higher frequency, not a lower decibel. Someone
with good hearing can hear as low as five decibels. You can probably amplify the low
decibel range even in the presence of high background noise."

"Well . . . yeah." He paused. "Did you know you've got a heart murmur?"

"What?"

Clark gestured vaguely. "Your heart. The murmur's barely there--you probably
don't need to worry about it."

"Are you saying you can hear my heartbeat?"

Clark nodded, a little uneasy, wondering if he'd gone over the edge again by
saying that. But Bruce had gone thoughtful, staring into the fire. "I guess it did run in
my family. My father had one. It's part of the reason he became a doctor."

That's not the subject I wanted, Clark thought. He searched his memory for
something else . . . and found it.

"Hey. Kryptonite."

Bruce's head pulled around. "Got it."

"I haven't yet figured out what I want with it, but I do know one thing. I don't
want to stick it on you."

Bruce frowned, turning around back to Clark. "Why not?"

"I mean, it's not that I don't trust you," Clark explained quickly. "It's just that if
someone wants to come hunting for it, there'll be trouble. There are five or six shards of
it, all told, and no one has a clue as to where the others are right now--not even me. And
I obviously haven't the desire or ability to hunt them down. But this particular shard
has a track record. If people follow it, they'll be lead back to Batman, and then it's your
head on the chopping block. I've got to figure out what to do with it before the hunt
starts."

Bruce was staring at him, or rather, through him. Something was going on behind
his eyes, and Clark waited, hoping it had to do with a possible plan.

Bruce turned and looked into the fire. "If I had the Wing up . . ." He paused, then
took a breath as if he were going to add more. Finally he looked back to Clark with
narrowed eyes. "What kind of temperature can that element take and remain stable?"

Clark frowned. "Wow. I don't know. What did you have in mind?"

Bruce was shaking his head. "No, then again, maybe we shouldn't mess around
with it if we don't know the possibilities. And anyway, I'm not up to it right now with
regard to the equipment. No, that'd take too much rigging."

"What was it?"

"I've got something I could modify into a kind of high altitude, guided rocket,
more or less. But the minute radar scanned it, heaven only knows what would break
loose." He snorted bitterly. "World War Three."

"What, launch it into low Earth orbit?" Clark let out a short laugh. He knew very
well that he himself was capable of it. In fact, he had some very adventurous ideas as to
how far a small object could go if he really put his effort into it. In a day or two, it could
possibly leave the solar system. But it would take state-of-the-art, world-caliber
launchers and guidance systems for a human to do the same.

"No, high orbit. Or hopefully get it out of Earth's gravity entirely." Bruce
shrugged, staring into the fire again.

Clark started. "Wait a minute, are you serious?"

Bruce looked back at him. "What do you mean, am I serious?"

"Are you serious that you can do that?"

He shook his head. "No. We'd have to get clearance from every single radar
capable country in the world, so no one shoots it down. And anyway, the Wing isn't
flight-capable right now. On top of that, I wouldn't want to mess with an unknown
element."

Clark's face was frozen in faint amusement, eyes unblinking. "I don't know
whether you're playing me straight or not."

Bruce leaned forward with an air of impatience, resting his elbows on his knees.
" If we could get permission, and if the Wing was flight-capable right now, and if we
understood the molecular structure, then yes, we could do it. I can't make it any more
plain than that. And yes, I am serious."

Clark sat back, the same look still on his face. "I gotta see this."

"There's nothing to see."

"No--I mean this cave."

It was like someone suddenly rolled back the clock a few days, then; the crab
skittering back into its shell. Bruce started and turned away, pulling a leg up and resting
an arm on his knee. After a moment he shrugged, not saying anything.

"You're shying out on me. I should tell you about some of the poor souls I've
seen. That'd kick back some of the ice you showed me the other day."

"What ice?" Bruce muttered, but Clark caught him suppressing a reluctant smile.

"When I asked you about going after killers. Gosh, I guess bats don't exactly
have the memories of elephants, do they?" Clark said, with teasing skepticism.

Bruce relaxed into the smile. "Nice try."

"I had one little creep in orange and light blue, parodying me. Paunchy, balding,
middle-aged. He called himself 'Regular Man' and had an 'R' on his chest. You'd split
your gut if I told you the trouble he caused." Clark sat back with a proud, satisfied grin,
arms crossed, watching the other man start laughing. "That's just one of them.
Someone else came up with red kryptonite. I suppose this wasn't a laughable situation,
but it was still a parody of sorts. It took away all my will to try to make a difference, to
improve things. I've had people slam me for wearing a red cape and something that
could be considered tights. Then there's the print end of things . . ." He let it slide,
seeing he'd clearly pulled Bruce into submission. "See what I mean? There's more
where that came from. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who's serious about
freelance civic protection."

Bruce let his leg fall lazily off the chair, a hand still on his stomach. "My God,
that's the best laugh . . ." He paused a moment, almost sobering up. "Regular Man," he
repeated to himself, and it pulled out another laugh.

"True story," Clark said, again almost prideful.

"What happened to him?"

"He was arraigned on charges of disturbing the peace and sentenced to a
thousand hours of community service." Clark paused. "You don't get that here in
Gotham, do you?"

"What, specifically?"

"Pretenders. Either of you or just of the idea that one person can make a
difference."

The question sobered him. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not a bit. There's
the media editorials, but no one actually trying anything. They'd get eaten alive . . . torn
to bits." He'd gone thoughtful, which Clark was realizing passed for sad for him.

"Just out of curiosity, if I can ask, how many people know who the man behind
the mask is?"

He got a confused blink at first. Then, "Oh. Who knows. There's . . . three or
four, depending on what you call a mind. There's a photo-journalist who found out . . .
Catwoman knows. Chase, Chase Meridian. We're . . . seeing each other. And Edward
Nygma once knew, but I don't think he knows his own name anymore." His tone of
voice indicated that was the end of the list, but then he put a hand to his forehead, as if
to check for his mind. "Alfred. He knew from the very beginning."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Partner in crime?"

Bruce smiled briefly. "More like the only family I have. He's been a . . . sort of a
surrogate father to me."

Clark's gaze lowered awkwardly. Once more he found himself thinking of his own
parents, and the same ache started in his chest. He couldn't begin to guess what it was
like for young Bruce Wayne to see his parents shot down in front of him. But he had the
beginnings of an idea of what he would go through to see it done to his own parents. And
just a beginning was nearly more than he could hold in check.

Again it was Bruce who pulled the mood back. "Alfred does help out quite a bit,
though." He paused. "I doubt I could haul this by myself, but he makes sure I take a
daily dose of grief. He beats anything the press can dish out." He finished with a wry
smile, shifting and straightening in the chair.

"So, when are you going to answer my question? Or are you going to restore my
faith in Regular Man?"

The mere mention of the name brought out another snort of laughter. Clark held
his ground, with a serene, challenging look in his eye.

"Believe in what you want," came the amused but stubborn response. "Show and
tell wasn't on the agenda tonight."

"Wasn't," Clark repeated, pouncing on the word. "Past tense. 'Wasn't.' Does that
mean it is now? Hmm?"

Bruce gave him a steady glare, not without humor. "There's no place in here for
my opinion or answer, is there?"

"Nope."

Clark held his challenge for a moment more, then broke. "Look," he said, leaning
forward, going serious. "Let's get one thing straight, here. There's a deeper issue I
wanted to talk to you about." He paused a moment, ordering his thoughts. This might
be his last chance to voice the reservations he had, as it seemed like the other man still
had self-doubts. "Like I said the other day, I've seen a few fakes, a few wanna-be types.
The ones that try jumping off of tall buildings are obviously a big problem, but I'm
talking about the innocent but embarrassing emulators you see from time to time. It's
quite clear to me that this is not what you are. Maybe I'm reading you wrong, but I get
the impression that with my appearance here, you've gone from confident and focused
to embarrassed and caught red-handed. Your methods are different, your motives,
everything, but I can look at you as an equal. Yes, I saved your life, but you saved Lois'
life and you saved mine, along with countless thousands of other lives over the years. I
understand what that means. I hope you still do."

The words were delivered without any force or strong emotion; they needed
none. Anyone else would have thought Bruce Wayne stopped listening halfway through.
He had turned away toward the fire and was absently adjusting his watchband. But
Clark recognized the almost blank, serious look on his face.

A full minute went by before he got a verbal response. "You know, that was one
of the hardest things I've ever done. Mentally," he added, his voice gone distant. "Get
you out of that building."

"Well, as you can see, it worked," Clark said, with gentle, resigned humor. Then
he just waited. Somehow he got the sense that all the issues and opinions were in their
proper perspectives now in the other man's mind. In a strange sort of way, Clark found
he no longer cared what way it was decided. No, not that--he did care, for he was
honestly curious, but that issue was now dwarfed by the one of self-respect. He
reluctantly admitted that his presence had upset a previously unyielding, unquestioned
balance in Bruce Wayne's mind. He hoped that what he'd just said had gone some way
to restoring the balance.

"Unlock. Security disable."

Clark came out of his thoughtful reverie and nearly missed Bruce low-voicing a
command to the watch on his wrist. Obviously, not just a watch, he thought to himself.
Then the impact of the words hit and he glanced around, half-expecting the fireplace to
start a grinding revolution into a secret passageway, James Bond style. But there was
nothing.

Bruce rose from the chair and walked right past Clark as though he wasn't there.
Clark turned to see, fearing the move masked an angry reaction. Bruce was going back
out into the large foyer. "You're not scared of the dark, are you?" he tossed over his
shoulder.

"Uh, no," Clark answered hurriedly, getting to his feet. Alright, yes, self-respect
was important, but he couldn't help his curiosity taking a big jump. All of the stories
he'd read about in the library, everything he'd seen--he was apparently being invited to
take a look at the nerve center.

He caught up with Bruce just as he got to one of the doors leading from the foyer.
Something subtle about the sound of the ordinary looking lock assembly made Clark
think it only looked ordinary. The door was opened onto a short, wide hallway. At the
end was a floor to ceiling shelf that held a modest sized collection of antique silverware.
Bruce reached a hand along the side of the shelf and slid a small flush panel down. There
was a small, touch sensitive keyboard there, and he rapidly touched a series of keys that
Clark, out of politeness, made no effort to follow. The panel flicked back into place,
virtually disappearing.

Okay, it was a shelf, not the fireplace, Clark though as the shelf turned smoothly
and silently on its center axis, revealing a dark abyss beyond. He resisted the urge to
scan. Bruce hadn't made any effort to explain anything, and Clark held his tongue as
they began to spiral down around a staircase.

It began with an unfinished basement look, became brick wall, then finally rough
hewn into solid rock. Small, motion-detecting lights on the steps flicked on around every
half turn, just enough to see by. The clearance was barely wide enough for one person to
pass. The air grew more chill, and began to smell of cold stone, heavy and metallic.
They went down about the equivalent of three conservative stories. At the bottom, they
started into a slightly more spacious tunnel, lit in the same manner. It sloped down at a
steady angle, with an occasional step down. There were gentle curves, just enough that
one couldn't see more than fifteen meters ahead at a time. After what Clark estimated
to be a one hundred and fifty meter tunnel, it ended. As Bruce stepped out into the
space ahead, he called out, "Passive. On-line."

A low, penetrating thud of electronic current echoed, and sparse lights started to
flicker on. Clark's jaw dropped as he caught an impression of the scope of space he was
entering. The massive size of the cavern was enough to make him feel like an ant. The
highest point of the ceiling was easily three hundred feet overhead, and at least five
threateningly large stalactites dipped down. He could just barely make out streaks of
granite, quartz, and other minerals, making for a quilt of subdued colors through the
rock. Some of the light was reflected by the quartz, throwing delicate reflections over
the cavern.

And then he wrenched his gaze down.

It was actually pleasantly difficult to tell where the cave went from God-made to
man-made. A blending of granite and rock would merge into an arch that yawned over
an alcove here, and a rare, free standing stalagmite would mark the split of a walkway
there. A bulge in the rock supported a short staircase leading up to a bank of monitors
and radar, the latter dark at the moment. A circular walkway about twenty meters at
the diameter slid around in front of him, streaked with agate and even semi-precious
stones like garnet and amethyst. Clark had never really made a study of caves, but this
one had to rank as one of the most . . . well, incredible.

Then he began noticing the darker touches. Yawning up on the rock cliff to his far
left was a subtle play of shadow and light on the rock, picking out a shape that slowly
merged from the disorganized to the abstract, to impressionist, to . . . sinister. The
longer Clark looked at it, the more a stylized image of the night hunter emerged. Over
one alcove into the rock was the delicate but eerie image of long, slim, extended finger
bones clutching the opening, and the area between the bones was smoothed out just
barely enough to suggest membrane. He found himself moving in that direction, drawn
by the petrified wings, and passed through into a much smaller cave, no more than
thirty feet around.

The lighting was dim and eerie, and only Clark's quick perception stopped him
from recoiling in alarm. On a low ledge to his left were three of the black masks, or
hoods, really. Their sightless eyes glared at him like ancient statues of stone carved
millennia ago to guard a king's treasure. In front of him and to his right were four free-
standing vaults. Almost without thinking, Clark scanned one and found black armor.
Chest, mid-section and abdomen with concealed, semi-flexible joints to allow freedom of
movement. Backwork, even though normally concealed under a cloak, nevertheless had
a center flexible cable with construction that naturally suggested a spinal column and
vertebrae. Plates overlapped, only loosely connected but providing complete cover,
winding around to meet the front armor. A fascinating, external ball and socket theory
provided complete range through the shoulders. Upper arm and down to mid-forearm
showed a more anatomic form. The legwork was the same, suggesting musculature but
only in an abstract sense. And all was bullet-proof.

It was like someone was guiding his gaze. There was a thru-way out into the
main cave, and he found himself crossing over and up a half flight of metal and stone
stairs. There was a bank of six monitors, for electronic diagnosis, computers, and some
surveillance in a few select rooms up in the mansion. There were two maximum speed
modems, and by the cable that led from them and the sparse menu displayed on the
computer monitor, Clark suspected there was Cray networking capability. The radar
was dark just then, but from the stable black-work on the screen the range was of
Gotham and its environs.

He trailed down the stairs from the screens and found himself facing into an
abyss, dimly blue-lit. Steel struts arched up in support of a tunnel, twenty-five feet at
the highest point, providing a kind of optical illusion into the distance. It ended at a false
wall, the trigger set back from the wall about thirty meters. It curved around gently
and disappeared out of the rock into dense forest beyond.

Clark followed it backwards, then, back into the cave he was in, and found his
gaze on the circular walkway roughly in the center of the cavern. He walked slowly
closer, still feeling like he was seeing all this through someone else's eyes--

And suddenly the center of the walkway came to life. He heard the blasting hiss
of powerful hydraulics concealed far beneath somewhere, and the previously hidden
center of the circle started to rise into view. The platform came up about twenty feet
from below, then did a smooth, three-quarter rotation to come flush with the walkway.
Man-made, it nonetheless blended in with the mineral-filled cave, the inset rock work
displaying the subtle pattern of what appeared to be a mariner's compass. Or at least
what he could see of it.

Somehow the car blended in, too, though it showed not a touch of stone work. He
didn't know how he could think that, though. It looked more dark and twisted than he
remembered. The black spindlework of the body didn't cover the engine and internal
work. This seemed to invite threats, like bullets or road debris. There had to be some
additional form of protection, and as he looked closer, he saw a light blue mesh work of
unknown material directly underneath the black struts. Clark walked slowly around to
the other side of the walkway, not crossing an invisible line into the circle with the car.
Even knowing he'd been inside it wasn't enough to make him feel familiar enough to
approach it. Sitting silent and cool, it still seemed like it was moving fast.

There was a short, suspended bridge over to another area of the cavern, and a
long, relatively narrow bulge of rock half-hid a side room, or inner cave. Right before he
entered, he backed up several steps and looked at the entry again. The blending of two
slightly different types of rock again held a subtle message.

In what appeared for all the world to be a natural occurrence, two curves formed
by the blending lines of the rock faced each other on end, at either sides of the opening,
blending down into the cave floor at his feet. A sharp, jagged blend of a dark granite was
roughly centered between the two curves at their base in the floor. And overhead, two
relatively small stalagmites shot up, one smaller than the other. It looked to be natural,
and one could be mistaken, but the entire curve of rock and floor seemed to suggest the
figure of a bat. He went through the blended rock wings and into . . .

The armory. That's what it had to be. Racking arced down from head to knee-
level, and the same spare lighting reflected quietly off of cold steel in various forms.
Some he recognized, such as small two- and three-pronged grappling hooks, several
bolas, and two of something that looked like crossbows. Several of the line triggers were
there. There was easily several thousand feet of cable in tensile strengths from five
hundred pound to several tons, all of it neatly coiled up like gleaming, black and silver
snakes. There was more there, but he couldn't quite grasp what anything else was.
Hooked up on a rack by itself was an unusual, five bladed . . . he didn't even know what
to call it. It bore a vague resemblance to a ninja throwing star, but was easily three feet
across, the blades radiating out in gentle S-curves and sharpened at the last six inches.
The center was a much worn, padded ring.

He found himself shaking his head as he left the alcove. There wasn't much in
there that could be considered a weapon, but there was the same savage directness in
every piece. They could probably all be used to great psychological effect, especially the
"crossbows". Another look had revealed them to be two-way wirepoons, but anyone
would certainly think death was staring them in the face.

He came out onto the bridge span that led to the walkway around the car. The
turntable had swung the car around so that it was headed out. If he'd had a good look at
it before he'd found himself in the driver's bucket, he probably would have balked at the
whole situation. Still, what he'd taken to be a lethal weapon had saved their lives. No
one would guess that it had been buried under the countless tons of cement and steel
from a collapsed building, the way it looked right now. It's not even nicked, Clark
thought. It was probably partly due to the shields it could produce, and the theory of
tensegrity that was evident through the strut work and supports in the frame.

"It's nicked," said a voice behind Clark. He hadn't expected it, and came as close
to a startled jump as he could get. Bruce Wayne joined him on the walkway, looking
utterly casual with his hands in his pockets. "Knocked out the split on the stabe. And
the shielding on the window sticks." He shrugged.

"Knocked out what?"

"The split. The split on the stabilizer," he answered, walking over and reaching a
hand up onto the base of the fin. "It splits when I hit over eighty, or at least it's
supposed to. And something raked pretty hard up the windshield and took out some
shielding."

"Kind of hard to believe I rode in this," Clark mused, half to himself. "That must
put me in pretty rare company, huh? How many others have ridden in the Batmobile?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce turn his back to him, arms slowly
wrapping around his middle. A brief surge of concern rose in Clark, but before he could
so much as take a step forward, Bruce turned back with a heavy stare. "It's got four
wheels and runs rubber side down. It's a car, alright? Just a car."

Puzzled but a little amused by that reaction, Clark shook his head, the look on his
face saying, run that by me again?

Hands on hips now, Bruce wandered off, a glare tracing the walkway. "No
offense, but the Gotham press putting a three-letter prefix in front of every damn thing
I own rings exceedingly tedious."

"I think I know what you mean," Clark said, understanding in his voice. "The
Metro press has a handle on all of five letters. Yeah, I know. Sorry about that."

Bruce had his glare pinned on the car. "Apology accepted." After a moment, he
added, "I'd like to see the Gotham press try to dent the debt they owe me for their
slips."

Something about that made Clark laugh; maybe it was the suggestion of the size
of the problem. Bruce glanced at him, then back to the car, and slowly his cold look slid
into a reluctant smile.

"That bad, huh?" Clark returned, reining in his laughter, a little self-conscious at
how it echoed in the cave.

"Bad enough."


(oh, and p.s.---I'm such a spaz. who else quotes their own fanfic for their own sig? and uses that sig when they post their fanfic? and uses it when they post the very bit that has that quote?)