Chapter Text
Gotham was never dull.
If a passerby were to say this, each individual around them would unceremoniously nod. They'd say, ‘How could it be dull, when it was one of the most crime-ridden dumps around?’ before checking their purses to assure they had not jinxed themselves. Everyone knew that life in the city didn’t come from the ordinary people, but rather from the bustling black market trade and hordes of criminals hidden under its cloak.
It was these villains that made the city so un-dull; Interesting, however, would not be the words a common folk would use to name it either. No, with its evil hiding behind each wall and shrouding the city in fear and darkness, the gloom was an eternal blanket smothering the city. The word an average civilian would call it ‘miserable.’
Batman found the city interesting.
He was perched upon the top of an ordinary building, eyes sweeping over Gotham. Each crook and cranny hosted a thing to protect, a person to protect. It was these people, like ants in a terrarium below him, that attracted him to Gotham.
On nights like this, where the calm was almost eerie, he found himself staring at them all the more. Each one was slightly different; he had a game, if you could call it that, where he’d see what he could pick up about the people nearby. Almost like Sherlock Holmes.
There was the lady, on Murphy, with a handbag imported from Russia. Her heels demanded attention with each click, as bodyguards flanked her on each side. A diplomat, Bruce guessed. Presumably here for the event he was hosting the next week, of which he was less than excited for.
In the alley behind he spotted a scruffy boy, laughing and chatting happily as he exited his apartment, a few friends following suit. He was holding onto his friend, staring at them as he giggled, stumbling along as they trodden down the path.
They passed elderly couple, one holding the arm of the other as they climbed up the steps into their rustic home. They beamed at each other, their eyes crinkling at the sides, enamoured. They made Bruce feel an odd, piercing stab in his chest. He glanced away as quickly as he looked.
It’s then that a bumbling man caught his eye. His tie hung limply around his neck, hands holding his head as he stumbled along the street. His glasses lay askew, his curly hair sticking out irregularly as he fanned his flushed face. He appeared drunk.
But the man paused before each sway. His stumbles were too far and few between—it was as if the man had never actually been drunk in his life. His eyes were alert, suspiciously snapping this way and that, and focusing on alleys and rooftops far too much, before ducking down to stare at his feet every few seconds.
He was looking for the Batman, that much was clear.
Batman jumped closer, peering down at the fraud as he entered one of the many bars scattered across the city. It was a sloppy trap, which made it all the more tempting to follow. Who knows what the man could do? Hurt someone there? Disturb the delicate peace that had, for once, descended upon the city? He picked himself up and snaked himself into an alleyway, observing the bar as he waited for the man’s reemergence.
The inside of the bar was lively, to say the least. It took a second for the Bat's eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness beaming out the window, and bright indeed it was. Bulbs hung from the ceiling, sprouting off like a spider's web, dangling so low they tapped against the top of the ‘drunkard's’ dark, curled hair. A mural splayed out across the wall, its colours highlighting the same sore thumb of the man sitting at the bar. His feet tapped against the ground frantically, fingers inching towards something poking out of his pocket. He kept forgetting to be drunk, act faltering every minute Bruce watched, sitting too straight or pausing before breaking into dizzy hiccups.
The sound of chatter and the buzz of alcohol-induced joy echoed out through the slightly open door. The bartender paused in the middle of filling a glass, letting it bubble over as she eyed the newcomer.
The “drunk” man, who’d clearly noticed her skepticism, was playing up his intoxication by leaning over the bar and rolling his tongue as he talked to her. From the reading of his lips, Bruce inferred that he was likely requesting a drink or two. His fakeness backfired as the bartender shook her head. Batman had already memorised at least half a dozen bars, their rules and their warehouse structure, and from this he concluded that the server likely thought the man had already drunk too much. It was awfully nice of her to think of her customers' health, but rather unfortunate for the faker, who promptly slid off the seat and out the door of the waterhole, most likely having decided to continue his hunt for the Bat.
As he exited, the Batman took his chance, grabbing him from behind and dragging him down the nearest alleyway.
Bruce spun the man around, pinning him against the darkened bricks with a sharp thud. The wall splintered under the force, but Batman didn’t think it came from his own strength. Rather, from the man he now held against it.
“Name. Affiliation.”
The raspy voice echoed in the silent city, the only noise now drifting out from inside the bar. The earlier bubbly pace, hoots and hollers now waved across and out the establishment and livened up the street with its cheeriness, bar the shadowy alley.
Batman's eyes returned to the other man. The further he closed the gap between them, the more he noticed about the "drunk" fraud. For one, he was muscular; Far more than the average civilian. His clothes were practically jumping off him with how tight they fit, ripping at the threads each time he moved. Parts of the shirt had stitches and patching jobs done to it, and still the threads were withered along their lengths. Yet the man didn’t fight his grip, still pretending to be intoxicated. It’s now glaringly obvious the man was trained, and trained well.
In the body, of course. His acting skills were abominable, bordering on an embarrassment. He was like a child copying an actor on the television, wonky and unnatural. Bruce found no reasonable explanation for his incompetent act other than the assumption that he had never been drunk. He found that commitment admirable.
For a man so physically fit, the guy was meek. He shrank in on himself, his breath hitching under the bat’s gaze, before he gathered the strength to stammer out a response. His eyes shone with a hint of…awe?
“Cl…Clark Kent, sir. Daily Planet. I..its a big honour to meet you– I uh…I was looking for you, actually–”
“Yes, you made that painfully obvious. Now cut the act.”
The man—Clark—straightened up, eyes still wide as his hands gripped onto one of the bricks’ broken edges. His mouth hung open, however another tug of his collar shut it as fast as he’d opened it, leaving Clark to glance around nervously.
“How…uh, how did you know?” He said, with a sheepish grin across his face. One Batman didn’t appreciate.
“What business do you have here? You're a Metropolis reporter.”
“I..uh…wanted an interview. With you.” Clark blurted.
Batman sighed, releasing the reporter and turning to continue his patrol. He didn’t entertain reporters or their nagging. It was clear that, although the man was built for something, it wasn’t to hurt the citizens. Perhaps he was there to kill Bruce with annoying, persistent questions, based on the hand that was suddenly latched around his arm in a steel-hold. The grip was not unfriendly, so to speak, but the overwhelming strength from it had the Batman tensing up with adrenaline.
“It’ll just be a minute of your time, I…I swear!” The reporter pleaded, tugging him slightly.
His steps paused just before the light of the moon hit his feet. Batman let out a hiss through his teeth, making a painfully slow turn around to stare down the journalist. Bruce didn’t appreciate the man's pushiness, especially in the middle of his patrol.
“I don’t do interviews. ”
The shadow of Batman leered over Clark, staring down at him as he yanked his arm away from the reporter. His wrist now boasted a stinging pain that was sure to become a nasty red mark later. Bruce scowled.
“Do your diligence as a Metropolis citizen, and get out of my city.”
With that, he turned on his heel and jumped to the buildings across from them. Somewhere in that interaction, the streets had grown silent again, the door having shut sometime during their fight.
The Bat situated himself back up to his usual command post, watching as Clark exited the bar, now with a genuine slump in his step as he fixed his collar. Bruce almost felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly overshadowed by annoyance from the fact that his attention had been diverted for so long, by a mere inconvenience.
With a quick glance away, he grappled onto the nearest building, determined not to let the interaction damage his patrol anymore than it already had.
It’s when he sees the sun slowly lifting up the horizon that he taps the earpiece.
“Alfred. Get me all the information on ‘Clark Kent’ that we have in the system.”
—
Clark was a rather ordinary man. Grew up in the rural town of Smallville, works exclusively as a reporter, and was open on social media about the quiet life he lived. A Daily Planet worker for as long as the records showed, with no significance to major events.
Except he was enamoured with Superman.
The reporter had a fixation of the hero of his town. From the big fights raging across the city to the simplest acts the man in blue did, Clark Kent had reported on it all. He scored interview after interview, and Superman always seemed to answer each question perfectly. Every question perfectly. The questions were surface level, and almost served as a platform to elevate the mystique of the Kryptonian.
Bruce's eyes narrowed. It was far too easy for this unassuming man to hunt down one of the top superheroes of this generation and make him give a statement. That, or Superman was running out on the street offering his word up to anyone who’d take it.
But there weren't many others. Nearly all Superman interviews were held by Clark or his co-worker, Lois Lane. His name was unavoidable if one wanted to read an article, so much so that other reporters had commented on the fact that he seemed to have a secret way to coerce the boyscout into answering for him. A lot of other reporters.
Batman stretched back in his chair. His finger obsessively tapped against the keys as his brain kicked into overdrive, heart thumping in his ears as it always did when he got on a case. Perhaps Clark liked heroes, full stop? Why else would he deviate from his tradition of only Superman? Why did he come looking for the Bat?
The mouse tapped the search bar at the top.
Clark Kent superheroes.
All results came up Superman.
Exclusion: Superman.
A blank page greeted Batman.
“Funny,” Bruce scoffed, removing the text from the box and leaning forward.
“What is, Master Wayne?”
The voice jolted Bruce out of his staring. He swivelled in his chair to face Alfred, who held a simple glass of water in hand. Bruce switched to the footage from earlier.
“Clark Kent. Tried to interview me.”
“And this is unusual behaviour to you?”
The bat scowled. “He only interviews Superman.”
The water was nudged towards him, and Bruce begrudgingly took a sip. The coolness down his throat did little to relax him.
“Perhaps he is attempting to broaden his reach, sir.”
“I doubt it,” Batman snapped back. His open hand’s finger tapped against the table—once, twice, before settling. “Someone’s become suspicious.”
“Suspicious?”
The bat flicked back to the endless Superman articles. “HE only interviews Superman. He can get him answering questions whenever he pleases. There is obviously something amiss. Someone—a colleague or friend—noticed this pattern. He must be trying to remove the suspicion, which leads him to me. To any other superhero who will let him interview them. He seemed to look up to me, which would give him reason to have sought me out.”
With a tilt to the head, Batman scribbled down three notes before presenting them to Alfred. The butler skimmed over them. Another sip of water, and the glass was empty.
“You have created theories?”
Bruce nodded, turning back to face the screen in full. “Go through them with me.”
Alfred cleared his throat before speaking. “‘One. Superman is a relative or friend of Clark Kent.”
“Similar hair colour, similar build. However, the database has only one recorded Kryptonian, so it is unlikely to be a relative. The interviews are framed too professionally to be friendly chats, yet too often to not be people of close proximity, relationship-wise. Put it as least likely.” Bruce made a gesture towards the list, prompting the butler to add a scribble to the first note.
“‘Two. Superman and Clark Kent are in a relationship.’” Alfred raised an eyebrow.
“A relationship allows them to be in close proximity. It explains why he can easily gain an interview. Clark could be using this to gain a political advantage in his reports.”
“Does he seem like the type to do that?”
Bruce recalled his stammering. His shrinking. His admiration-filled look, which was starting to annoy Bruce the more he thought about it.
“No. But it could still be possible. Second likely.”
Alfred sighed. “You should get some rest, Mr Wayne–”
“Keep going, Alfred.”
With a begrudging look, he continued to the final item. “Three. Superman…is Clark Kent?”
Batman, once again, drummed his fingers against the table. “As stated before, similar build and hair colour. Interviewing yourself would be easy. And make it seem as though you couldn’t be the same person. It would explain the strength, why he couldn’t pretend to be drunk. It’s the perfect alibi.”
“Is your investigation into him done then, sir?”
“No.” Bruce snatched back the pad, writing more notes furiously, then dropping it and pulling up several different tabs and articles on the computer. “I must confirm it. There are three possibilities for a reason.”
“Mr Wayne, about sleeping—”
“I have work to do.”
“Mr Wayne—”
“Alfred.”
Alfred paused, before sighing. It’s times like these that made him think of Bruce as less like a bat than a stubborn bull. “Please, try to get some rest tonight. Any at all.”
The reply was a crackling of keys, furiously typing.
He heard the steps of Alfred fading from his ears before he saw the door shut, leaving him alone in the damp underground area.
Just him, and the picture of Clark piling up on his laptop screen.