Episode 2: A River in Egypt

Bruce and Clark have their central confrontation, and Bruce details some information about his spending.

“That should do it folks. Thank you so much for coming in, another great meeting!” Bruce exclaimed, practically willing his employees out the door.

“Uh, wait!” Timothy bellowed, struggling to be heard over the sound of packing bags. “We haven’t addressed accounting!”

“What, Timothy?” Bruce grunted. “We discussed accounting yesterday, what could be going on?”

“The audit? Those IRS Agents came back today. I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Did they talk to Lucious?”

“They said they did but they seemed…dissatisfied?”

“Dissatisfied? How? Lucious knows everything, what did they say?”

            Timothy wasn’t sure what to answer. He stuttered, firing glances at other people in hopes they would save him. The stare of Bruce Wayne was unaccountably destructive and Timothy couldn’t wait to escape it. Thankfully, neither could Bruce.

“Lucious will take care of it, I promise. I’ll talk to him, see what happened. If the IRS guys bother you again today tell them to come straight up here and see me.”

“Are you sure Mr. Wayne? That seems…”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

            Positively at wits end, Bruce could take this charade no longer. He pushed his employees and shareholders out the door as quickly as possible, fighting so desperately to have his hour of peace. He had no idea why it was so bad lately. He was behaving like an addict. What about this hour of silence was so necessary he shook and swore so hard to get it? He needed to meditate and take serious time to readjust himself, but he couldn’t do that with more and more nonsense piling up at the door.

            So many things demanded his attention he couldn’t fit them all on a CVS receipt if he wrote it in 0.5 font. The Open Bionics merger, the antitrust lawsuit, the “Cleaning up Corporate Act” the security tightening in Arkham, the UN on his back for lowering the Justice League budget, and now to put icing on the cake, these IRS minions demanding an explanation for something that was thoroughly explained two years ago. He hated every second of it. When did it all have to become so damn complicated? He used to be able to swoop in, save the day, and grapple out. That’s all it was, that’s all it needed to be, and that’s how he wanted it. Even here, all he had to do was come in, do a few interviews, fire and ruin a few corrupt shareholders and executives, and give everyone a bonus, and they were all happy.

            How he yearned for those simpler days. He wanted to do nothing more than take his rage out on a blatantly embezzling CFO right now. If only he had left any.

            The door finally closed and sealed, with the little red light turning green on the intercom box, indicating the room had been soundproofed. He let out a much needed exclamation. A harsh, guttural middle ground between a scream and a grunt, filling the window covered room like a cloud of smoke filling a bank vault. He nearly tore the tie straight off his neck, and did indeed tear a few buttons off his plain white undershirt, the same one from yesterday. He couldn’t be begged to care right now, he needed to breathe. He stormed off towards his office, making a b-line for his desk. The water bottle he bought stood as attractive to him as an oasis to a desert straggler. It was a massive one-point five liter bottle, but that didn’t stop him from drinking the entire thing in one breathe. He swallowed so fast it created a vortex in the container. It completely overwhelmed his system and caused chest pain posthaste, but he didn’t care. He was burning up with anxiety, anger and exhaustion. He carelessly dropped the bottle to the floor and walked straight out the double doors to his balcony. The air vacuumed into the office and blew a manila folder onto the floor. The gasp of life that fresh air provides was positively intoxicating and he demanded more. He threw himself to the edge of the balcony and leaned over it as far as he could without falling.

            The overcast glow of Founders Island morosely chugged beneath him. The beep of construction was muffled, but still present even at this altitude. A random assortment of lights were on in the city skyscrapers bellow. Some keeping the lights off, as it’s only 12:13pm, and others turning their fluorescents on to compensate for the coming thunderstorm. He wanted nothing more than to jump. To feel that invigorating rush of air as he plummeted through the sky was exactly what he needed. To feel it brushing through his hair, to feel it cooling his flaming face…nothing could fix his sour mood better. But alas, with no cape and no grapnel, there was no hope of an evening leap. He looked up at the sky and saw the pitch black clouds rolling in towards the building.

“Oh well.” He thought. “Maybe the rain can cool me off.” He always liked the rain, ever since he was a tiny child. He felt safe when it was raining. Nothing did anything when it rained. No birds sang, no bugs flew. Even people tried to stay inside as much as possible. If he was out in the rain, it meant he could be totally alone. Something he needed more and more these days.

            His isolation was suddenly shattered by the ringing of his cell phone. Not the Justice League one, but it struck his ears just as crude. He swore at it as he struggled to retrieve the harsh rectangle from his sweaty pocket. The ID read simply “Marg” and he immediately knew he had to answer it. Margaret knew how badly he needed these lunch breaks, so for her to call it must be important.

“What?!” He barked into the receiver.

“He’s here again.” She replied, just as exasperated as him.

“Who?!”

“Clark Kent, the Daily Planet reporter?” She annunciated as if Bruce didn’t know who he was.

“What?! Why?!”

“He insists he has an appointment with you. He won’t leave until he talks to you.”

“Call security!” Bruce bellowed, fed up, and confused as to why she didn’t already try that.

“Well, I did sir. He…he seemed to…know our security guards.”

“Oh for god’s sake!” He roared, hanging up the phone and making straight for the door.

            Out in the lobby, Clark Kent sat on the plush sofas outside the top floor conference room. He smiled so wide he almost hurt himself. He was talking to James and Benett, Bruce Wayne’s personal security guards. Clark met them a year ago and they became fast friends.

“It’s so good to see you guys, its been so long!” Clark said, beaming with that radiant smile he had become so known for.

“I know! Too long!” James declared.

“How’s you mom, by the way?” Benett asked, genuine concern filling his tone.

“She’s really good. The meds helped a lot and she’s pulling through. Thanks for asking.”

“We were worried man, pneumonia’s no joke, especially at her age.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Sandwiches. Figured I should bring Bruce some lunch if I was interviewing at such an inconvenient time.”

“Aw, that was nice of you.”

            James couldn’t continue, because after the last word of his sentence the conference room door whipped open and Bruce Wayne’s head emerged from it. The whole office went silent as the three employees braced for the scolding that was to come. Bruce Wayne didn’t give it to them however, because his ire was reserved for one today and his name was Clark Kent.

            Bruce reached his arm into the lobby and grabbed Clark by the tie. The crimson and gold necktie that Clark broke out for special occasions. He made sure to grab both the upper and lower strand before pulling Clark hard enough to completely dethrone him and hurl him into the conference room. Clark hurriedly stammered out conclusions to his two friends and Margaret as he was being flung, always concerned about cordiality. Bruce said nothing, allowing the tension to build as the three of them pondered whether or not they’d keep their jobs.

            Somehow, Clark managed to grab the sandwiches before being launched, and miraculously still he kept them from being ruined. A passerby would not have noticed but in reality Clark Kent was using his super speed to make sure he grabbed the sandwiches on his way out and making tiny corrections to them mid flight that allowed the meat, cheese and everything else therein to remain un-jostled. That kind of casual super power usage was something Clark Kent had no problem with, and it annoyed the hell out of Bruce Wayne.

            Clark kept his friends annoyances in mind as he adjusted his tie and stood still in the conference room. He knew Bruce would be mad just like yesterday, and he needed to make sure he remained polite and nice the entire time. It would be a challenge, but if he did it yesterday, he could do it today.

“God, I hate when it rains.” He muttered, preparing for the thunderstorm churning on the horizon.

            Bruce took his time getting back to Clark. Not intentionally, but the soundproofed door had a stopper, and needed to be shut slowly in order to seal. He didn’t think the two of them were going to discuss anything Justice League related, but just in case he had to shut the door. Once it was done, he cut loose.

 “What are you doing here?!” Bruce shouted, more accusing than asking. After a deep breath, Clark responded.

“I’m here to have lunch. Like I promised. Yesterday.”

“I told you no!”

“Did you? I never heard the word ‘no.’ And I have super hearing.”

            Bruce fumed so hard steam nearly billowed from his ears. He thought hard about his response, trying to not let his rage make him say something he didn’t mean.

“Correct, I never got to say no, because you never gave me a chance. You were out the door and in the lobby faster than I could blink.”

“You’re right, I didn’t ever give you a chance.”

            Bruce was silent. He was taken aback by the matter of fact admission of something so appallingly inconsiderate.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Clark said, still smiling like before. “I knew if I gave you a chance to decline, you would. You would always say no, whether you wanted to or not. You’d say you’re too busy or I’M too busy, or it’s too suspicious or something, and I didn’t want to hear any of that.”

“Clark, if I say no to something, it’s because I don’t want to do it!”

“Well, we both know that’s a lie.”

“No it’s not!” Bruce shouted, much louder than he intended. “I’m not an idiot! I’m not a pariah, and I don’t need you to save me! Just because I don’t stop for a picture every time I help an old woman cross the street doesn’t mean I’m fundamentally broken, and just because we work together doesn’t mean we have to be friends! I don’t need you, and I don’t need this!”

            Silence took over the room. Bruce finally said something strong enough to break Superman’s invincible smile. The man of steel’s face turned pale and his eyes hit the floor. He tried his absolute hardest not to take it personally, but damn if it wasn’t difficult. It hurt so much. How could Bruce really feel this way? How could he be satisfied with the way things were? He looked so miserable. As much as it hurt, Clark knew he had to concede. If Bruce really didn’t like it, than he was doing more harm than good, and it was time to walk away.

“Ok Bruce, you win.” He muttered, defeated. “If you really won’t have me, then I won’t force you. I have to stay today so the cover story works, and I’m going to come back again tomorrow. I think it’s important to always give people three chances. But if on the third day you still don’t want me, I’ll leave and I won’t come back.”

            Bruce didn’t really know what to say. He did feel bad. He didn’t say anything he didn’t mean, but it came out too harsh. Clark needed to learn restraint, but he didn’t need to be berated like that. He had to somehow stand his ground and apologize at the same time.

“Ok…I’ll…I’ll let you know then.”

            The two men stood, again in silence. Both in disbelief, both defeated. The thunderstorm drew closer, and the occasional rumble made the only noise in the room.

“Do you…want to set up the chess set?”

“No we can just eat.” Clark said, marching away with the plastic bag from Ahmet’s Deli.

            He took out the Sun Chips and Cuban sandwich and dropped them at Bruce’s spot. He didn’t unwarp the sandwich this time and he didn’t lay them with the same care either. He sat in the same spot as last time and ripped open his own sandwich. He started eating right away which Bruce took as an upsetting and slightly manipulative move. Clark usually waited for everyone to be seated before he started eating. Was he really that petty? Or just that upset?

            Bruce walked slowly over to his spot and measured Superman carefully. He never was great at reading people’s emotions. The only one he understood was fear, and only because he studied it so much. Clark can’t really be that upset about this, can he? It’s just lunch. He looked over his place and noticed the same selection as last time. He looked over and noticed that Superman too had the same sandwich as yesterday. He couldn’t come up with anything meaningful to say out of any of that.

“No drink this time?” He asked. He tried to just ask, but he felt it came out snooty.

“No.” Clark said matter-of-factly. The lack of an explanation only bothered Bruce more. Why not? He studied Clark harder to find a possible stain, or other evidence of dropping them. He couldn’t find one.

            Bruce sat down slowly and unwrapped his lunch. He looked up at Superman for a minute before begrudgingly taking a few bites. Bruce never liked ham, but he recognized quality when he tasted it and he knew the sandwich would be delicious to anyone who likes that kind of thing. He tried his best to eat it anyway, wanting to not appear rude, and to have an excuse not to speak.

            The two men finished their lunches alarmingly quickly, and had another forty-five minutes to sit and wait. Bruce had no idea what to say. Clark knew what to say but didn’t say any of it, thinking he would just be an annoyance. Bruce pulled out his phone, trying to find some way to distract himself. Clark never liked smart phones, they gave him a headache. He only ever looked at them when there was something urgent, which in his line of work was becoming increasingly frequent.

            They sat in total silence for five minutes. Three hundred seconds stretched out into agonizing infinity, consisting of Bruce pretending to email people, glancing up to see if Clark was doing something, and repeating. He was shocked Clark didn’t just leave. Sure it would blow the cover story apart but since when did he care? Thinking of the cover story was the only thing Bruce could do to find something to say.

“Do you want…to interview me?”

            Clark let gravity drop his head so that it was facing Bruce.

“You know for the…cover story.”

            Clark glanced at the floor. He pondered whether it was worth giving in to this desperate charade. He eventually figured he could at least give the interview to Lois if nothing else, and for that reason it was probably worth it. He sighed deeply and retrieved his iPhone four, finding the voice memo app and hitting record. The two of them shuffled around to be more comfortable and then held eye contact for a few seconds. Clark asking without words “are you sure you want to do this?” Bruce’s eyes seemed to say “yes” so Clark dove in head first, pulling no punches.

“Mr. Wayne. Wayne Enterprises has recently been audited by the IRS, and rumors are spreading about an alleged three-point-eight billion dollars having vanished into thin air. Care to comment?”

            A hilariously long pause permeated the space before Bruce slowly responded.

“…No?”

“No?” Clark asked, shattered by disbelief, but allowing his reporting skills to take this moment of weakness. “I think your shareholders at least would love to know what happened to that money, but with numbers this large I’d argue the American people have some right to know where it went.”

“…Clark…”

“What? Afraid of the truth?”

“…That’s the Batmobile…”

“…Really?”

            Superman was floored. He got so swept up in the story and in the moment he totally forgot his friend was anything other than a shareholder. He felt slightly embarrassed as he asked for clarification, but as Bruce nodded his embarrassment turned to bemusement.

“REALLY?” He demanded.

“Yes.”

“You spent three-point-eight BILLION on the Batmobile?”

“…Well the Batmobile was like half of that, the rest was other stuff.”

“Other stuff?! What other stuff costs one-point-eight B?”

“Are you…going to keep recording this?”

“No, I…” Clark hesitated. He was going to turn off the recording for politeness sake, but then he was struck with inspiration. “…You know what? Yes. I am going to keep recording this. We’ve all been dying to know how much all of this costs, and now I want to hear it. On the record. So break it down, what else cost one-point-eight billion dollars? What made the Batmobile so expensive? What does the Batman buy in a day?”

            Bruce wrestled with the thought for a while. He never liked talking money to the Justice League. He wanted them to exist without financial restrictions. The last thing he ever wanted to hear from the Justice League was “we don’t have the budget to pursue that.” He wanted all of them to focus on doing what’s right and stopping bad guys, not dollar signs. Discussing budget was just inviting that kind of talk and he wasn’t for it. On the other hand though, as founding members of the organization, they did have a right to know. It would certainly keep them away from awkward silences for a while. Furthermore, if anyone ever asked him how much something cost again he could just say “it’s in the tape” which he found particularly attractive. So in the interest of amusing Superman and in clearing the air, he broke it down.

“In truth, it’s more than three-point-eight billion. That number was all Batman equipment, paid for in secret by Wayne Enterprises. In terms of total ‘crime-related spending’ we’ve spent well over ten billion. The UN went to the biggest space and tech companies, mine, Star Labs, Lexcorp, and told us to just make whatever we’d need and they’d cover it. I tried to go budget light but there’s no such thing as a modest space station. Me and my company covered everything software, defense, security and domestic, and we still spent almost eight-billion. I don’t even want to begin to ponder what Lex and Star might’ve spent, they covered the actual construction of the station, and the reactor core. Shipping that stuff up there alone had to cost 4B.”

“I thought me and Hal carried everything up to space?” Clark asked, leaning in with disgust and amusement.

“No. More like some of it. You did great, they appreciated your help, but two guys can only do so much with a timeline that short. You two made up thirty percent of all objects carried into space for Watchtower construction.”

“So if Lex made the reactor core and the actual body of the Watchtower how can we trust he didn’t put in some kind of ‘Death Star’ adjacent weakness?”

“He didn’t make the body, just the reactor. He supplied the materials for the body, Star Labs assembled it. He has no blueprints, no code, no access to anything interior. He did make the reactor core, all that was him. But I handled security. So passwords, startup, launch, firing codes, all that he can’t get without going through me.”

“FIRING CODES?” Clark asked, thrown like a baseball from a pitchers mound. “We have nuke’s on board?”

            Bruce cringed at the slip of his tongue. Here it comes. The big argument about the weapons of mass destruction on the Watchtower, or rather weapon. The Watchtower reactor was basically a small star living inside the building. It was energy efficient, more powerful than anything ever conceived, and most importantly clean. That thing could run itself for millions of years. It was the greatest advancement in energy science ever created. The thing with stars though, is that they’re always growing, and the Watchtower reactor was no exception. Due to it’s artificial nature, this particular star was at risk of going supernova every few months. With the right level of coolant, some trusty failsafe’s, and an exhaust port to let out excess energy, the star could be controlled perfectly well. The refuse energy was diverted if possible, and if not, blasted safely into the vacuum of space.

            It was Bruce’s idea to instead of simply blasting that heat and radiation out into space and wasting it, what if they refined and channeled into a single designated point? The energy would be enough render even the biggest things to ash. Things like Darkseid. Or Brainiac. World ending catastrophes that they cannot afford to fight on the ground. Worse yet, what if someone like Joker or Lex got their hands on a nuclear warhead? They need some kind of airborne defense system to shut it down in the sky before it ever touched the ground.

            Bruce could think of at least six other reasons why this weapon was more than important, but necessary. He knew for a fact that Clark wouldn’t see it that way though. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was going to be a massive argument that might mean ending or splitting the Justice League permanently. He was not ready to face that, and yet due to his imprecise speech he now had to.

“Not nukes. The reactor needs to let off steam every couple of months. We used to just blast the refuse energy out into space. I decided to point it down into a laser and save it in case we need it.”

“How strong of a laser?”

“…it could kill you.”

            Silence took over the room again. Clark leaned back in his chair and maintained eye contact. Bruce couldn’t tell if he was thinking, or brewing up some devastating counter-argument. Bruce started running through every combination of sentences he saw coming and tried to have a rebuttal ready for all of them. His only hope of keeping the team alive hinged on what he said next, and he had to be ready. Clark took a massive breath in and finally replied.

“Ok.”

…

“Ok?”

“Yeah.” Clark said. “I get it. Some things we can’t afford to touch the ground. We need options. It’s secure, right?”

“Absolutely. It’s locked up tighter than my own home. The amount of security measures is laughable.”

“Does Lex, or the UN have access to this?”

“No. Nobody but you, me, and Lucious Fox even know it exists. No government can be trusted with a weapon like that.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

            Bruce was almost never placed in a situation he wasn’t prepared for, and somehow Clark just kept putting him there. He really wasn’t offended by the laser? That’s so out of character for him. What’s with this guy?

            The two men talked for the remaining thirty minutes before Bruce’s next meeting. Every point that came up Bruce kept bracing for impact, and Clark was ok with all of it. He didn’t sneer at the price of Bat-equipment, he didn’t judge for the offensive power of the Batmobile, he seemed interested in what Bruce would come up with next. It’s like he genuinely trusted Bruce to handle all this with care. It was staggering. It was completely out of left field for Clark. It all added up to this incredible feeling of relief and gratitude. He had carried all this around like a fully laden yolk for years, convinced that nobody would share his “all or nothing” ideals. Convinced that of all people, the gold hearted Man of Steel would be his greatest adversary. But to his surprise in his partner he found not only a man who shared his extreme views, but a man who made him feel safe for expressing them, and added humor and follow through to every incomplete thought. When Margaret called to let him know it was time for his conference call he shuttered, never wanting this catharsis to end. Clark didn’t mean to eavesdrop but with his hearing it was impossible not to.

“Meeting’s here?” He asked.

“I…yeah.”

“I should go.”

“Clark, I…”

“Don’t. It’s ok. I know you’re busy. I’ll just go, it’s ok.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

            The question haunted Bruce again. He still had no idea how to answer that. He meant what he said. He didn’t exaggerate, he didn’t lie, he didn’t say anything needlessly cruel. He regretted it nonetheless. Every word. This whole lunch showed him just how wrong his interpretation of Clark was, and that he didn’t deserve to be yelled at like that. After enough silence Clark cut it off.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I have to drop something off, I need your help with a case. I can go right after that. I won’t come back, just like I promised. Goodbye Bruce. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Clark strode out the soundproofed doors and into the elevator. He nodded at Margaret as he left, who returned a furious scowl. As the doors slowly shut, Clark yelled out one last breath.

“Go easy on James and Benett!”

            The doors closed and Clark was gone. Leaving Bruce Wayne sitting silently in his conference room.

“I will.” He muttered. Hoping Clark heard him.