DCU: Untitled Identity Porn
1. The Pebble
Ultimately, the whole thing had started out as coincidence; pure and simple. He’d been in just the right place at just the right time, had caught sight of just the right two moments; one standing not three feet away from him, another writ large and beamed straight in from the past. Later, he’d been forced to admit that — if it hadn’t been for that exact moment — he might never have worked it out, might never have put in place his plan for the confirmation of his hypothesis, might never have subsequently abandoned that plan and picked up something vastly different and infinitely more terrifying. Might never have been… where he was. Events rippled; he knew that, maybe better than most people. And the event where it had all started had been a press conference.
Sometimes, he allowed himself the luxury of thinking that it would always have started with a press conference — if not this particular one, then certainly another — because such events were one of the few places their lives intersected; the reporter and the billionaire. It might have been romantic, if it hadn’t been business. Business was always ruthless.
Not that he was allowed the luxury of acting the part. He certainly had a part to act, but any and all ruthlessness had been pared painstakingly away. Because he was Bruce Wayne and he was — not to put too fine a point on it — and idiot. Not that anyone usually dared to say as much, of course — at least not to his face, at least not in a way he was allowed to understand — but everyone knew. Because he wanted them to.
There were downsides, of course, and one of them was currently draped convivially across his shoulders, whispering promises and sweet nothings into his ear. Which wasn’t exactly new, but Lex Luthor was not his usual company. Truth be told, he’d rather Luthor never be considered ‘usual company’ but the man unfortunately had resources that Bruce unfortunately desired. The promise — and from Luthor it was more of a threat, really — of access to potential alien technology was too tempting not to grab at, though Luthor was no fool and had thus far been playing his cards close to his chest. Assuming he had any. Bruce had long-since decided it was a gamble he was willing to bet on; the man was clearly a lunatic and it was always galling that few other people seemed to notice. The thought of hyper-advanced extraterrestrial artefacts falling into those hands was… not a comfortable thought.
Six months ago, a large, unknown crystalline land-mass had appeared right off the coat of Metropolis. Bruce was absolutely adamant that there would be no more.
Right now, however, he was once more practising the fine art of Mingling While Stupid. The ‘press conference’ was really more of a lunch; the chance to invite the sorts of people who required inviting to drink champagne and drop canapés on the expensive carpets of Wayne Tower. In ten minutes, he and Luthor would take to the stage and announce a new joint venture between the two companies — one old, one new — and Bruce’s skin crawled with the thought. Still, it was better than the alternative.
And then, quite unexpectedly, two things happened near-simultaneously that made the whole gruelling ordeal worthwhile. The first was that the giant screen which loomed importantly over the function room switched from muted talking heads and scrolling NASDAQ figures to shaky, camera phone video of Superman pulling people out of a derailed train in Japan. An odd, choked sound came from Luthor, whose eyes seemed to be attached to the larger-than-larger-than-life blue and red figure on the screen as if by invisible fishhooks. Like anyone who’d had the misfortune of spending more than five minutes in the man’s presence, Bruce knew of Luthor’s weird, vindictive obsession with the alien hero. It had, quite frankly, been one of the key elements that had confirmed to him that the man was not to be trusted. Bruce had seen that kind of obsessive fixation before, though never in this opulent life. Business was ruthless, but this was something… else.
He’d been counting the seconds down in his head until the inevitable explosion of vitriol when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Wayne?” and he’d already half-turned when the speaker had saved him the trouble. “Clark Kent. Daily Planet. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”
And Bruce’s first thought was, There is no way in hell someone that gormless is a reporter…
His first impression was that the man was big — both tall and broad-shouldered — though slouched over with the kind of permanently apologetic expression that the very large occasionally developed after many years of interacting with a world that was too small and too fragile for them. An ill-fitting pale blue suit obscured most of the rest — too short in the cuff, lopsided four-in-hand knot in the tie — with the final touches provided by a bad haircut and the kind of thick-rimmed glasses Bruce wasn’t entirely convinced had even been sold since circa 1970. The whole effect might have worked — probably did, in fact, at least on most people — were it not for the fact that Bruce was well-practiced at spotting a costume when he saw one, and this was definitely a costume. It was something about the eyes, he decided; the grin might have been naive but the eyes blazed. The glasses cut the effect a little, though not entirely and Bruce couldn’t be completely sure from this distance but the way the light refracted through the lenses indicated that they weren’t actually ground.
And he thought, What kind of man wears glasses he doesn’t need?
He stuck out his hand, “Of course! Of course! I’ve always got time for my own employees after all, Mister… what was it again?”
“Kent.”
“Kent. Right, right.” A large, too-warm hand engulfed his and Bruce wasn’t at all surprised to find himself being out-limped.
Luthor’s attention chose that moment to make a brief return visit to the Really Real World. “The Daily Planet?” He used the sort of voice most people reserved for phrases like The sewer?, though it was gone in a flash and the next words were convivial in their cold loathing. “I do hope you’re not attempting to wheedle some kind of — what do you people call it? — ‘scoop’”— he made air-quotes, brutal practice alone allowed Bruce to resist rolling his eyes —“before the official press conference?”
Those oddly luminous eyes blinked, once, and for a moment Bruce could have sworn he saw Kent give Luthor the same kind of look the latter had just been focusing on the giant TV screen. It was gone quickly — if it had existed at all — schooled back into good-natured naivety.
“G-gosh, Mr. Luthor, I’d never—”
And Bruce found himself saying, “Lex, Lex; be kind. Let the man ask his questions.”
“You’re too trusting, Brucie. These paparazzi are sharks; give them and inch and you know what they’ll take.”
Something in Bruce took exception to hearing anyone from one of the last newspapers in the country still doing actual investigative reporting being referred to as ‘paparazzi’. He’d had to fight hard for that, and the battle hadn’t exactly been helped by the fact that the most taxing thing Brucie Wayne was supposed to be interested in reading was his golf scorecard. So he said, “Now Lex, you know the Planet would never give its own owner bad press.” He could all-but feel Kent bristling at the words. Good; Bruce Wayne could survive an assault from a slighted reporter. He doubted it was a luxury Luthor could afford.
An overly-dramatic sigh. “Ah, Brucie Brucie Brucie… all right, but it’s your stock price, my boy.” His attention had already wandered; back to the news cast that had rolled over into the usual potted feature that was invariably pulled out whenever Superman decided to show up. Superman was good for ratings. A brief pat on his shoulder and, thankfully, Luthor’s physical form wandered off with his attention.
Kent’s too-sharp eyes followed until Brice’s voice bought him back. “So, Mr. Bent, these questions of yours?”
The gaze was on him, now. “Wayne Enterprises is one of America’s oldest and most successful companies, and you’ve made great inroads into foreign markets without relinquishing any domestic control; that’s very unusual these days.”
He shouldn’t know what to say to that, Bruce realised, so he didn’t; simply raised an eyebrow, the mask of boredom-covering-bafflement.
Kent didn’t seem to mind. “And more than that, your company is almost infamous in the business world for its exemplary standard of ethics.”
Ah. This question he had a slightly daft smile for, though he could already see what Kent was getting to. “My father was a great believer in the strong needing to protect the weak — to shelter and guide — rather than exploit.” Bored; recite it from rote. Never mind what you actually feel. “I see no reason to break with that tradition.”
“Indeed.” Glossy blue-black hair ducked briefly and notes appeared in a neat, angular hand across the reporter’s notebook. “In that case, Mr. Wayne, I wonder what you think your father would think of you associating the family company’s name with someone like Lex Luthor; a known felon—”
“Now see here, Lex was acquitted of all charges—”
But Kent wasn’t letting go. “Several times, in fact.” Bruce hid his smirk in an outraged scowl. “All right, Mr. Wayne, an acquitted felon with a history in dealing in highly dangerous black-market weaponry developed from what is highly likely to be alien technology.”
“Are you suggesting I should ignore a business opportunity — a scientific opportunity — because of some moral objection to scavenging space junk? With all due respect, if your so-called ‘aliens’ were so attached to their technology, why are they littering our planet with it?”
That earned him an oddly indecipherable look which Bruce promptly filed away for later thought. “I’m not suggesting anything,” Kent replied mildly, “merely wondering why one company that prides itself on its ethical dealings would choose to go into partnership with another with the chequered past of LexCorp.”
It occurred to Bruce to wonder, right then, what Kent thought he knew about LexCorp that no-one else did. Luthor might have been a scheming maniac, but unfortunately he had good PR; the man may as well have been coated in Teflon for all that stuck to him. As far as Bruce could tell — and he had researched it, extensively — LexCorp was into the kind of R&D that could most certainly be seen as shady, but was hardly illegal.
Bruce decided to fall back onto the tried-and-true eyebrow-raise. Because Kent was right, of course, and Bruce knew it and, similarly, knew why despite all that the partnership with LexCorp was worth it. But, of course, he wasn’t supposed to know things like that; he was supposed to be dazzled by Luthor’s shiny promises of patents (read: money) delivered on silver platters thanks to careless aliens and their space junk. Bruce couldn’t buy it, really; if it were that easy, someone would have done it years ago. Brucie could, because he wasn’t supposed to know any better. Neither of them could take the risk.
When he spoke, his voice was ice. “‘Chequered past’, Mr. Kenneth? I wonder, do you actually have some kind of point or did you just come to waylay me with baseless libel?” He made sure to let his eyes wander — conversation’s over — and of course they wandered to the giant TV screen. Superman was still providing filler, currently caught after an earthquake in Tokyo by a group of sailor-suited schoolgirls armed with camera phones; a force, it seemed, not even Superman could reckon with and an image the Western media had been playing almost non-stop for the last three months. Bruce had seen it before, and had never thought to pay much mind to it, other than a kind of abstract professional gratitude that it was not the kind of situation Batman was ever likely to require extraction from. So TV-Superman struggled with politeness and there was the moment in the clip he made an oddly human gesture of frustrated apology; one hand running through the back of his hair, another held out in front placatingly.
And then, out of the corner of his eye — the corner he was actually looking out of — Bruce saw Clark Kent, reporter for the Metropolis Daily Planet, make exactly the same gesture.
“Uh, g-gosh, Mr. Wayne. So sorry for troubling you. Thank you for your time.”
But Bruce wasn’t really listening; didn’t dare listen, didn’t dare react as Kent shuffled off to get lost into the crowd, didn’t dare release his grip on his heartbeat.
It wasn’t until he was certain that the other man was gone that he allowed himself to react. And it was to simply think;
No way…