Episode 4: Slaughterhouse

Bruce and Clark their newest enemy, and their old foes. The IRS situation develops to a climax.

            Bruce leaned over the pictures he had taken of the metropolis butcher murder scenes. He hadn’t had a meeting all morning other than a virtual one with R&D at 10:00, allowing him plenty of time to study his findings and come up with a killer. Unfortunately, all that time had done him no good. The killer was hideously meticulous. Not a trace of DNA was left anywhere, even on the victims themselves. Their teeth had been removed, they’re blood corrupted beyond belief by the insane amount of painkillers they overdosed on, and all their hair had been removed, even eyelashes. Bruce even tried to collect samples he couldn’t identify in the field, but after this level of exposure the victim’s eyes had dried out. Horrifically, their genitalia had been removed as well.

            The same story applied to the other two victims. While the deep tissue scanner was able to find enough unique characteristics to identify the victims eventually, it didn’t bode well that the killer seemed to be this skilled. It could take as many as ten more victims before Bruce finally found a mistake, and that many lives was something he couldn’t afford to spend. He checked the time and saw that Clark should be there at any moment. He always felt awkward right before Clark walked in. He didn’t know what to do. He set up the placemats and the chess set, should he be sitting down now? No then he would seem impatient. He should be busy then? No because then it would seem as though he doesn’t care. His only choice he could find then was to be busy, but be busy with something that pertained to Clark. It made sense in his head. Kind of.

            It was for this reason that when the alarm buzzed alive and Clark Kent strode through the office doors Bruce elected not to put away the murder files and stayed studying them. Clark Kent came in, happy to see Bruce, but with a sour look on his face. Bruce greeted him as politely, yet “not too pushy” as he could.

“Hey.”

“Hey, your receptionist is rude.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry about her but that’s actually why I like her. You wouldn’t believe how many annoying jour-“

            He caught himself mid-sentence and decided that finishing it the way he intended was a bad idea. He had to fix it now though.

“-Jurrrristiction jumping cops we have banging on our door. What did she say to you?”

“Oh nothing mean, but her tone was awful sour. She just doesn’t seem to like me.

“She’s gonna have to learn, you’re on the schedule now. I got you a badge too, don’t let me forget to give it to you.”

“Sweet!”

            Clark set the bag down and started drawing sandwiches and chips from it. He idly took a glance at what Bruce was doing and immediately his heart rate leapt to the ceiling. He gagged and turned away quickly.

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Yeah it’s bad. I ragged on the MPD for not IDing these people but it ended up being harder than I thought.”

“Now I know why they wrapped the heads in bandages.”

“They didn’t, the killer did. It’s so bizarre. Why would he do that? I also wonder why he took all his victims to Metropolis. They came from all over. One from Arkansas, one from New Jersey, and one from a ways outside Gotham.”

“Yeah that’s…that’s a doozy.”

“I can’t figure out an angle yet. Obviously he’s offended at these peoples imperfections but I can’t tell how. They could be physical imperfections, these people all have birthmarks or surgical changes. Then again, they haven’t exactly led a flawless life before this, so it could be their lifestyles. Could even be their race at this point.”

“Yeah you know, you can never tell.”

“They have been happening once a week on a Tuesday, and we’re coming up on that soon. I want to catch him before then but I’m just not sure I can get enough intel with just these three bodies.”

“Bruce, can you please not look at these right now?”

            He turned and glanced at his friend with confusion and anger, but couldn’t sustain those feelings when he saw the torment Clark was going through. He was really that squeamish? He was a Justice Leaguer.

            He picked up the photos and placed them back into his unmarked manila folder. He slid the folder to the far end of the table and sat down at his place. He opened the sandwich wrapper and beheld the French dip. He took his first bite and instantly rolled his eyes. What could Ahmet be doing with this to make it so good? It wasn’t just the ingredients, it was something else. He should go to Metropolis and get this fresh.

            Clark couldn’t even begin to think about food. He had been around cadavers before of course, but he had grown used to a sort of consistency with corpses. One bullet to the head and a spray of gore was all he had to put up with. Sometimes debris would crush someone, and those were bad, but never unbearable. This was something else though. This wasn’t a killing, this was a demented act of artistry. Some monster took pleasure in the destruction and torture of another living thing, and it was visible in their work. It was that he couldn’t stand. That sadistic hedonism is what really turned his stomach. How could Bruce manage it? Half his villains did horrible things of this ilk. No wonder he needs these lunches so bad.

            The meal was quiet but mercifully brief. They played chess as they ate. Slower than usual, not ending the first game before ending their meals. Bruce leaned back and took a deep sigh. A sigh of leisure and fulfillment. The kind of sigh one would heave after a Thanksgiving meal. A sigh of someone without a problem to their name.

“That’s so good. Thank you so much for getting it.”

“You liked it?” Clark said beaming with joy at Bruce sharing something positive.

“I loved it. What does he do to make them so good?”

“I have no idea. Cherish it while you can though. He’ll be gone next month.”

“…What?”

“Yeah there’s a sign in the door. He can’t afford his lease so this is his last month. Really sucks, Ahmet’s a great guy. I’d hate to see his dream die.”

“…I see.”

            The two continued playing, again quietly. Bruce was never bothered by the silence but he sensed that Clark was. He hated constantly having to come up with something to say. That hatred fueled his decisions, and he thought he’d let Clark come up with something to say first. But eventually, the discomfort got to him and he broke.

“I didn’t know you were uncomfortable with the bodies. I just wanted to be doing something when you came in.”

“It’s ok. I asked for your help.”

“What’s your deal? I thought you were around bodies all the time?”

“Actually, no. Almost never. Most of what I do is saving people from car crashes or disarming weapons. When I show up I make sure there aren’t any bodies. When something big shows up I’m too distracted handling that to notice the deaths.”

“Ah.”

“And I think all things considered I’m not so bad near them, its just those. Those ones are particularly gruesome.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Checkmate, speaking of.”

            Clark shook himself awake and observed his loss. He was so thrown for a loop by his king’s demise his mind had to re-watch the last few moves before his defeat like the sitcom rerun of his life. He couldn’t tell where the mistake he made was, but he couldn’t remember much of the game so who’s to say there wasn’t one. He let out a little chuckle and asked if they could play again, and if they could switch colors for once. Bruce obliged, rotated the board and play began.

“What bothers you so much about them?” Bruce asked.

            Clark shuttered. He didn’t really want to get into it. Just speaking about such horror felt like lending power to it. He tried to be gentle with his wording.

“Well…I feel like most of the time there’s a kind of…dignity? Like a gunshot wound is just bang, dead. Their head is a mess, but the rest of them is ok. Someone crushed by debris is worse, but again it seems gentle. Like they were crushed and then done. With these bodies I can see the suffering they went through. They’re ugly, torn apart, strung up and called names. It’s horrible.”

“I get that. What hurts worse, seeing it, or knowing it?”

“Knowing it. 100%. I can’t understand how someone could be so broken as to enjoy doing that to another person.”

“You come from the farthest planet we’ve ever documented and you’re the most human of all of us.”

“I don’t even like punching bad guys if I can help it. I turn them in clean, most of my guys give up. Then I see you beat up some crook for intel and my stomach turns.”

“That’s not the same though.”

“No it’s not, I’m just trying to contextualize.”

            Clark moved a knight up and left, in position to take a king. Not in the next move, but in the next next move. He stared expectantly as he waited to see if Bruce would catch it.

“It’s normal to be creeped out by something like that. I’d be more worried if you weren’t” his friend began. His tone softened, leaning Clark in harder. “And I will add, it never leaves you. I was put off by the sight of these too. There’s a scientist named Victor Fries I used to know. He turned to crime after an accident at his facility, and he would use an ice gun to freeze people in place. I’d arrive on the scene and only find what’s left most of the time. I had seen viscera, and I had even seen viscera like this. But it got to me much worse because of their faces. They were completely frozen, expressions and all. The terror on their face as they realized they were about to die was present even in their death. The animal desperation was still there even in their lifeless frozen eyes. I would occasionally see a victim who wasn’t afraid, they had accepted their death. Somehow that was worse. The resignation never brought them any peace, only despair. I had to leave mid investigation it was so horrid once.”

“What did you do?”

“Two things. Number one, I found a routine. Find a blood sample, send it to Alfred, pick a new body. Once they were all identified, measure the ice, study the trajectory, etcetera. A system of decisions to make and a repeatable routine helped me a lot.”

            Bruce moved his next piece. He didn’t notice his open vulnerability. Clark moved the knight into place, but forgot in the heat of the moment to say “check.” He instead said “and the second?”

“I made a promise. If freaks like this is what I do my best to fight, then I will never become one. When I find Fries, I’m not going to tear him limb from limb. No matter how much I want to, no matter how much it may feel deserved. No matter how much retribution his victims may or may not have wanted. I couldn’t ever let myself become that monster. I’d fight like hell, until Fries was subdued, and then I’d end it with a swift and decisive knock out. I’d never allow myself to take the vengeful pleasure in destroying someone else. So I wouldn’t be like them. Being in control of that helped sometimes.”

            Clark moved the knight forward and took Bruce’s king. He thought about what Bruce said and internalized it quickly. He never knew Bruce felt anything like that before. That kind of vulnerability and terror. He had never shown it. A kind of peace settled into his heart. Not completely, compassion for those poor souls would never leave him. But knowing someone else felt what he was feeling made it easier to bear. He had one last question he needed answering.

“Did you ever stop thinking about it?”

“Someday. Someday you wake up, get dressed, brush your teeth, go to work. You do all your daily things and in the middle of your lunch break you catch yourself and realize you hadn’t thought about it all day. That’s when you know you’re healing. Just make sure you keep talking about it. If you keep your feelings bottled up they never have a chance to escape, and you’ll never heal. But if you let it process, then one day you’ll lay down in bed and sleep soundly, nightmare free.”

            Clark heaved a satisfied sigh. He didn’t think he was traumatized by any stretch. But talking to Bruce about all of this made it so much easier. It widened his respect for his friend too. Of all people he knew he considered Bruce Wayne to be the king of bottling up emotions. To watch Batman work gave the impression that the only way he got by was through rage and a refusal to process any hard feelings. He underestimated how much was going on under the hood, and he felt a need to say something.

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to catch him Clark. I promise.”

“I know you will.”

“Should we play again?”

“Sure.”

            The two titans played another game, and then another after that. They played with full concentration, both men able to finally release the pressure. They joked and strategized, fully comfortable in their own skin and in this building. Bruce won the first game, and Clark the second, keeping the score at a tie. Bruce asked if they wanted to play a third time.

“Yeah sure, but we have to find another game.”

“I was going to ask, what else are you in to?”

“I play a mean game of Monopoly.”

“Challenging a billionaire to Monopoly? That’s a bad idea.”

“Oh you are so on.”

“Bring it, golden boy.”

“I’ll bring the board, the pieces, and the salt and pepper for the defeat you’re about to be served.”

“Oh I see how it is.” The two laughed as they reset the board. Bruce continued.

“Seriously though. Monopoly takes eons to finish a game. We’ll have to leave it set up for several days, unless you’re staying for longer than the usual one hour.”

“Yeah that’s true. Maybe we’ll start with Uno or something.”

“Yeah. Or something.”

            They were going to continue discussing possible board games, but suddenly Clark snapped his head up and stared fixedly at the doors to the lobby. He stared for only a second, then stood and took an aggressive stance.

“What?” Bruce asked, sensing the danger.

“Margaret’s shouting with someone. They’re not taking no for an answer, they’re coming in.”

            Bruce stood and positioned himself behind one of the rolling chairs on the other side of the table from Clark. If the intruders had guns his position here would allow him to throw a chair, and would keep any one hostile from targeting both him and Clark at the same time. His heart raced as he tried to understand what this was. Had someone leaked his identity? Was Penguin after him? Joker? Or was it Clark? Was some goon from Luthor’s office here to take down mild-mannered Clark Kent? He prepared for the worst as he heard the lock undo, and the door swung open.

            Two men strode through the doors. They were each wearing a well-fitted suit, one brown and the other black. They carried a pistol each but they kept it concealed. Bruce’s experience discovered their firearms instantly, including what side of their body it was on and a solid estimation as to what model it was. Clark deduced all of that with his x-ray vision.

“Thought you could duck us forever, pretty boy?” One of them barked. Both of their attentions lie firmly on Bruce.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Clark demanded. Bruce didn’t say anything. He stared past the two men and noticed the state of his lobby. The contents of Margaret’s desk were sprayed about the floor, her chair overturned. Margaret herself lie on the floor, nursing her face. Bruce couldn’t see from this angle, but it looked as though she had been slapped. The intruders overpowered her to disable the lock on his door.

“We’re agent’s from the Internal Revenue Service. Mr. Wayne has some questions to answer.”

            The four men stopped and stared. Clark and Bruce shot glances at each other in bewilderment. They couldn’t believe it. In fact, they refused to believe it. Two federal agents muscled an innocent woman to the ground and broke into his office just because they couldn’t fit an appointment into Bruce’s schedule? It seemed impossible.

“Who are you really?” Bruce asked.

“Oh we’re the real thing rich boy. Wanna see the badge? Chicks dig the badge, don’t they honey?” He barked that last comment back into the waiting room at Margaret.

“What?!” Superman exclaimed. “You two are actually from the IRS?!”

“This doesn’t concern you sir. Mr. Wayne you wanna answer our questions now? Or would you be more comfortable down at the bureau?”

“You two invaded his office, harassed his employee, trashed his lobby and ruined our lunch, to ask him about taxes?!”

            Clark’s words began to echo. The last word in his sentence struck the men in suits as hard as if Superman had punched them in the stomach. The entire tower shook from it’s impact. Something was different. It was like he changed on that final word. Bruce had never heard that before.

            The two agents were floored. The rage and demand in Clark’s voice shut them up and quashed their smug appearances. The man in black summoned up what courage remained and retorted.

“Sir, you need to calm down.”

“Quiet!” The room nearly exploded. The two men reacted visibly they were so frightened. They quivered and recoiled like children being scolded by their father. “Get out! Right now! Pick up your mess in the lobby, leave this building and do not come back!”

            The two IRS agents messily stumbled into the waiting room. They turned and covered their faces, Bruce suspected because they were crying. The men obeyed like soldiers. Their limbs seemed to work against their will as they did exactly what Superman told them to do. They sorted through the mess of files and placed them back on her desk. They lifted her chair back into position and put back her various office toys, trying not to make eye contact with Margaret, or the two heroes. They clumsily pressed the call button on the elevator and stood in wretched discomfort as they waited for it to arrive. In the time of waiting, and once again waiting for the elevator doors to close, one of the agents worked up enough bravery to speak.

“We have to talk to him.”

“Make an appointment.” Clark growled, silencing them once and for all.

            Bruce walked into the lobby as soon as they were gone. He immediately began tending to Margaret.

“Are you ok? Did they strike you?”

“I’m ok. Not on purpose, they kind of clipped me when they shoved me aside.”

“I’m so sorry. You didn’t sign up for that kind of thing.”

“It’s ok Mr. Wayne. I’m sorry I didn’t stop them.”

“No it’s not your fault. How can I make you feel better? Would a bonus do it?”

“That would help.”

            They both chuckled as he helped her to her feet.

“Can you drive?” He asked. “If so why don’t you get yourself down to Gotham General. Just do a checkup for me to make sure you’re ok, I’ll cover the bill.”

“Ok. Do you need someone to cover for me?”

“No, I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll cancel my other meetings, this is a big deal.”

“Alright Mr. Wayne.”

            She waited for the elevator, and Bruce started preparing to close the conference room doors again. Once it finally arrived, she walked in and hit the button for the underground parking garage. As the doors closed, she yelled out a demand to her boss.

“Fifty-thousand!”

“ONLY fifty?!” He replied, making her laugh once again.

            Once she was gone and the doors were sealed, Bruce could finally ask the burning question to Clark.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That thing you did with your voice. I’ve never seen that side of you.”

“Oh. That was nothing.”

“What was it?”

“The voice of Superman is heard and obeyed.”

“What?”

“The voice of Superman is heard and obeyed.”

“Is that like one of your powers?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“…”

“…”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. Well you should probably go. I better call Lucious and start getting this story out before those feds do.”

“Yeah I got a thing anyway.”

“Sorry this ended so poorly, but I really enjoyed it.”

“Me too. This means a lot. Same again tomorrow?”

“I think, I’ll let you know if this IRS thing bungles it.”

“Great.”

            Clark Kent started walking toward Bruce Wayne’s office. Curiously, on the other side of the building from the waiting room.

“Not taking the elevator?” Bruce asked, with a slight smile on the corners of his mouth.

“Not this time.” Clark replied, returning with his ever-radiant smile. “Think I might need some air.”