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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:48:07 GMT -5
Duty Bound # 1 Written by Batkid Cover by Joey Jarin Edited by Jay McIntyre
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:49:28 GMT -5
Duty Bound February-March, 1944, Metropolis
Clark stared at the paper in his hand, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow, then closed the front door almost mechanically. He read the contents over again, his lips moving silently, before setting the paper on the table. He couldn’t say that he’d been expecting it, but it certainly was no real shock. It was more… coming to terms with it that was the problem. He grabbed the phone, his fingers brushing the letter as he did. “Hey, Lois? It’s uh… it’s me. Say, are you doing anything? No? Uh, can you meet me in… oh, fifteen minutes at our favorite coffee shop? Yeah… okay, bye.” He hung up the phone, then ran his hand over his face. It was going to be a long day.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:50:37 GMT -5
Jay frowned at the letter in his hand, mixed emotions coursing through him.
I’ve been drafted…
Of course, he couldn’t go—his job was being the Flash, defending Keystone City. True, he wanted to serve his country—but he could better do it on American soil. He frowned again and headed for the phone. It was time to see just how good a lawyer he really had.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:52:12 GMT -5
Bruce Wayne glanced up from his newspaper at Alfred. “Yes?” He sipped his iced tea and stood up, ready to go to the office. Stopping, he looked closely at the butler. Something was wrong. He peered more closely. Something was very wrong.
“Sir,” Alfred began. “A black limousine has just pulled in the drive.”
Who…? He almost groaned, remembering Louise—a young woman bent on winning the multi-billionaire’s heart—not to mention his vast fortune.
“Show her in,” he said grudgingly, glancing at the wall clock. He straightened his collar absently.
Alfred nodded and went to the door. He returned, a strained look on his face, as he showed in the guest. Bruce managed to maintain a mask of geniality.
“Ah, General!” He greeted the man. He was surprised—he only saw the general maybe twice a year—a visit was rare. “What can I do for you?” He glanced again at the clock. “I’m afraid I only have a moment before I have to go to the office,” he said apologetically.
“A moment is all that I need, Bruce,” the four-star general replied.
Bruce raised an eyebrow, wondering what the heck his friend expected from him. Lucius was going to be waiting for him.
“And what is it you need?”
“Well, Bruce,” he said, stopping to chug the drink Alfred handed him. He handed Bruce a paper. “I wanted to tell you the news myself—you’ve been drafted.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:55:20 GMT -5
Superman crossed his muscular arms, staring across the table at the rest of the J.L.A. They had assembled to discuss the draft that had affected many of them. Some of them had not been drafted—like Wonder Woman—but were there anyway. Although the majority of them didn’t know the others’ identities, there was still a good chance that some of them, at least, had been drafted.
Wonder Woman brushed her hair back from her face and straightened her star-spangled skirt.
“We women are more than capable of handling things here,” she spoke up.
Batman, who hadn’t spoken all during the impromptu meeting, did so now.
“What about Robin and the rest of the kids? I won’t have Robin out on the streets without backup.”
Batgirl turned to Batman, blue eyes glinting. “He won’t be.” Superman wondered why Batgirl was in a J.L.A. meeting—then shrugged. Why shouldn’t she be? This affected everyone, after all.
Before Batman could reply, Superman said, “Like Diana pointed out—we won’t be leaving America undefended. There’s no real issue there—the real question is, do we want to do it?” That was a no-brainer. There was silence. “It’s not as if we have much choice,” Jay said quietly. “We—at least some of us—have been drafted. We have to go. There’s no choice.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:58:36 GMT -5
Bruce glanced at Dick—the boy’s inquisitive questions had been non-stop ever since they’d gotten back from the J.L.A. meeting.
“Gosh, Bruce!” He exclaimed for what Bruce was sure was the hundredth time. “Are you going?”
Bruce didn’t answer—he didn’t know how to. Of course, every logical course steered him to staying safely in Gotham. He laughed harshly. Was Gotham safe? Pearl Harbor had been thought to be, and now look at it—bombed just a few short months ago. Hawaii. The Philippines. Guam, Wake, Midway… Shouldn’t he go help and defend others from the same fate? But—following that logic, he should stay in case of emergency.
Heck, even some celebrities hadn’t gotten out of it, according to the news.
He sighed. He’d talked to Clark privately and found out that he had been drafted, as well. From him, he had learned that the Flash and Green Lantern had, too. Probably, there were even more of his comrades going. Talking with Clark, he’d learned that he and Supergirl had had a bit of a disagreement—apparently, Kara had volunteered as a nurse. She was to leave in a few days for North Africa. Bruce hadn’t known what to say—had comforted his friend in his usual gruff manner, all the while grateful that Dick and Barbara were spared the choice. Jim had no intention of letting Barbara go overseas, and there was no way Bruce was letting Dick go to war.
The thought struck him that he might never see Jay, Hal or so many others again.
His mind snapped back to the present and Dick’s ramblings.
“…and I think you could pay your way out, but you wouldn’t, would you? Not with Superman going over. Gosh! I mean, you could find him, and the Flash, and…”
Bruce wondered. What were the chances that he’d be able to find at least some of his buddies? Hypothetically speaking, of course.
That night, Bruce nursed a cup of coffee. He hadn’t bothered to get a decaf even though he was going to bed—he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, anyway.
“Master Bruce.”
“Yes, Alfred?”
When the butler didn’t respond, Bruce turned to look at him. Bruce looked surprised, then his expression gentled.
“Thanks, old pal,” he said. He smiled at the suitcase Alfred had brought as the old butler walked away.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 17:59:23 GMT -5
Alfred looked old—grey, worn down. Bruce had not, since he was in his teens, actually thought of the butler as old. But that was how he seemed now.
“I’ll be alright, old pal,” Bruce said, clasping his friend on the shoulder. It was all the display of emotion he allowed himself to give, though the old man’s expression and sad eyes tore at his heart.
“I know that—of course you will, sir,” he snapped, a bit of the old Alfred coming back. “Just remember—you aren’t Superman, or- or Batman.” His eyes glinted. “Take care of yourself.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:01:06 GMT -5
June 6, 1944—Normandy Alan Scott peered through the glass. He couldn’t see a thing—there were too many clouds. He frowned, cautiously lowering the plane. Still unable to see, he circled over the area again, then heard a crack. He twisted as far as he could to the right and determined that his right wing had been clipped by gunfire. Unable to see where he was going, he struggled to control the plane as it got lower… and lower… and lower… There was a horrible sound as he crashed—indescribable, really—and he slowly looked around, wedged into a tight area. His left arm was pinned to his side, and he immediately worked on freeing himself—if anyone had seen that they would come to investigate. There was a gaping hole in the roof from where he’d smashed a tree, and he struggled to reach it. As he slowly stood, his left arm was freed and he pushed his way through the hole, jumped onto the ground and looked around. He didn’t like what he saw. “Um… hallo…” He threw his arms over his head. The soldiers he faced began shouting, waving their guns. Alan wished he had paid more attention in high school—he caught only bits and pieces of their conversation. “ Ich bin Alan…” He stopped—this was getting him nowhere. Besides, if they thought he spoke German fluently, then they might expect him to answer questions—questions he wouldn’t be able to understand. He cautiously lowered one hand, keeping his eyes on one soldier’s face the entire time. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he smiled uncertainly. “Take me to your leader.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:04:03 GMT -5
As he trudged with the rest of his group on the beach, Bruce couldn’t get over the noise and destruction. He’d just finished a traumatic swim to shore after the Air Force had botched its job, only to find himself in the middle of a heated war zone.
It was beyond belief. He’d only been on land for fifteen minutes and he’d already seen two buddies step on a land mine, and another shot.
He headed for that one, wiggling over on his elbows. After the harrowing ten minutes it took him to cross the twenty feet, he rolled the young soldier over. The man’s eyes were wide open, though Bruce couldn’t feel a pulse. He grabbed his knife and pressed it lightly to he man’s back. He pressed slightly harder, trying to see if the man was alive.
He wasn’t.
Bruce bit his lip in frustration, but kept moving. A lazy man was a dead man, here. The higher-ups had said that this would be fairly easy—heck, it was even called ‘Easy Red’. Ha! Some name for this torture. The Air Force had messed up, and so here he was now, being shot at and watching his buddies die around him—and he was helpless to do a darn thing about it.
He continued on his elbows. He wondered where in that mess Clark was, and hoped he wasn’t one of the bloodied corpses lying—
Stop that! He’s Superman, after all, Bruce told himself. You're the one you have to worry about. Just concentrate on getting out.
Inches away a bullet slammed into the ground, spraying sand up into the soldier’s eyes. He tried to wipe it out, but only succeeded in smearing more blood and silt on his face. Pushing on, he glanced behind him, and saw three other men, all scared but determined to live. Clark wasn’t among them.
Several yards ahead, he could make out a group of men struggling to make it across the beach.
“C’mon, over there!” One of the men behind him shouted. He stood up and started at a dead run toward the other group. He didn’t see the land mine his right foot bumped. None of them did. But all of those around him saw the explosion, and the corpses hurled away from the blast. Bruce had thrown his arms over his head during the blast, and he now slowly lowered them. His head pounded as he got up to his knees. Slowly he stumbled to his feet, dazed, until he tripped.
On a body.
Bruce’s stomach heaved, and he leaned over and retched. This was nuts. This whole thing had to be a nightmare. Stuff like this just didn’t happen.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:06:38 GMT -5
This is a nightmare. It’s got to be.
Clark clasped his hands over his ears. Never in his life had he wished more that he didn’t have superhearing. He could hear screams and blasts from miles away, all crashing over each other, overwhelming him. He thought his head would burst.
Smack!
“Kent!” Someone yelled in his face. “Move!”
The person didn’t wait to see if Kent moved or not. He was dashing away as Clark slowly unwrapped his arms from around his head. He’d heard screams before. And he’d heard explosions. But nothing he’d heard could ever compare to this. This…hurt.
He kept on moving, and wondered where Bruce was. He hadn’t seen him since they were on the ship together.
Struggling to move, he dashed across the beach, following whoever that was ahead of him. Finally, they made it to some kind of bush, and ducked behind it.
Clark gasped for breath as he peered around the bush. He didn’t see anyone else, but that was no surprise—there was so much dirt and smoke out there it was hard to see anything.
He turned to the guy he’d followed and nodded. Together, they dashed out. He could now hear orders from someone way ahead—they were to dash up the hill.
That was suicide. Up the hill was precisely where all the gunfire was coming from.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:07:52 GMT -5
Bruce headed up the hill. Those around him in any condition to follow went along, dragging or carrying wounded buddies with them. He himself had an unconscious soldier on his shoulders, and he hoped the guy woke up soon. No—he wouldn’t wish anyone to wake up to this.
As he went up the hill, the group he was with slowly gained more members. They spread out from each other—‘if you get hit don’t take a buddy with you’. They’d all had that drilled into them. Bruce mentally repeated this to himself over and over as he trudged up the hill, eyes flicking over his surroundings as he looked for danger. Was that a land mine? Who had just ducked behind that tree? One of the men in his group raised his M1-Carbine, ready to squeeze off a few shots when the guy stepped out. Bruce relaxed a tiny bit. It was only a paratrooper.
Minutes later, they met with more American soldiers. There were only three in the group, but Bruce bit back a joyful shout when he saw Clark. At least one thing was okay today.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:09:25 GMT -5
Clark grinned when he saw Bruce.
“Wayne!” He called softly, careful to avoid alerting enemy troops to their location. “You alright?”
Bruce nodded, and Clark felt himself relax. It was so early—they’d only been ashore for a short time—but the fatigue was clear on everyone’s faces. He knew he looked better than most of them, but didn’t worry about anyone noticing he wasn’t tired. The others were so injured and shell-shocked it wasn’t a real threat.
He glanced at Bruce. “You want a break? I can carry him for awhile if you want.”
Bruce shook his head and Clark turned his attention to fine-tuning his super-hearing. He looked around for an officer, but none seemed to be there. Check that. The guy on the blond guy’s shoulders was their officer.
Hearing German voices to the right, he stepped away from the group for a split second, long enough to use his X-ray vision to confirm it. There was a German pillbox fifty feet to their right. He suggested they go that direction, and the others, having no good reason not to—one way was as good as the other, they figured—agreed.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:10:53 GMT -5
“Kent!”
Bruce looked around for his buddy. They were nearing the German pillbox.
“Kent!” He whispered again, more sharply this time.
Clark came up behind him, his displeasure written all over his face. He knew what was coming next. “Here, Wayne.”
As he was easily the biggest guy in their platoon, he’d been assigned the unpleasant job of flamethrower. Adjusting the massive piece of equipment on his back, he made a quick dash to the pillbox.
FWOOSH!
Bruce and the others only had to wait a few seconds before they heard muffled screams and yells. The flushed-out Germans poured out, some with hands thrown up, some with fingers laced behind their heads. Most were groaning in pain as they patted out flames.
The Germans were quickly disarmed and three Americans guarded them. They left while the rest of the group went on.
Bruce clapped Clark on the arm as he passed him. He hated the tortured expression Clark got when ordered to use the flamethrower, or when he had to use his M1 Carbine on a German. He hated that Clark, who as Superman refused to kill, had been forced into this.
And he knew that as much as he hated it, Clark hated it more.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:12:46 GMT -5
Clark swallowed, feeling the all-too-familiar sickening feeling he felt so often now. Yes, the Germans were in the wrong. But that did not make things any easier.
He frowned. America should have entered this stupid war so much sooner, as soon as they’d heard about Hitler and Mussolini. Someone should have done something. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t be here now, maybe the war would have been over by this time.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. That was nonsense. He’d just do his duty, then get out. Several of his buddies were confident that this would be a quick war— “get in and get out,” Janson had said confidently when they’d first met. He’d been cocky in front of the mild-mannered Clark.
Clark grunted as he shifted the heavy flamethrower, which he estimated it weighed about eighty to ninety pounds, not counting his other equipment. He had a feeling that this was not going to be a quick war.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:13:44 GMT -5
Alan Scott looked around, wondering how he was going to get out of this situation. He only saw one other prisoner, an American also. The two didn’t speak, only watched the Germans shout orders and run to positions. Three times they saw one throw a grenade—twice they heard screams as the grenades hit their targets.
He felt helpless, looking around. If he even tried to budge now, he knew he would be shot.
“Shoot,” he muttered, then frowned at his choice of words.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:14:14 GMT -5
Once the wire was cut, it took the nineteen men in the group only a moment to slide through the holes, pushing unconscious buddies through. Clark’s flamethrower emptied at the third pillbox they reached, and he gladly threw the hated object aside. He automatically fell into a position of command—he’d suggest a way and they’d follow, at least—as there was no one else to lead. They took out a concrete shelter, and ended up with two more wounded men to carry. Clark wanted to stop and see what he could do for the men, but he remembered—a still man was a dead man. The group kept moving, and as they went on, they slowly realized that they were—winning?
Long after that botched landing, they were almost done.
With this battle, at least.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:15:58 GMT -5
Despite himself, Bruce felt the contagious hope and thrill when the call went out.
“Mail!”
He stepped forward, eagerly accepted his letters, then retreated to a semi-quiet area of the room to read them. Wincing, he thought of all the men who weren’t there to receive their letters. He and Clark had estimated that a thousand men had died at Omaha Beach, though they had no way to know for sure. He wasn’t sure that he even wanted to know.
Sitting down, he skimmed the return addresses on them—they had been forwarded so many times that it was difficult to read the original return address. There were three letters, one from Jim and Barbara, one from Alfred, and one from Dick, the address spelled out hastily. He opened the one from Alfred first, smiling at the butler’s dutiful recordings of the Manor going-ons.
He opened the one from Dick next. It was postmarked later, sent only days after Alfred’s. He estimated it had taken a month to reach him.
Reading over the hasty letter, his heart skipped a beat.
Two. Three.
Standing up, he headed for the door. He was intercepted by Private Johnson, who looked discouraged.
“My girlfriend says she’s tired of waiting for me,” he said dully. “I don’t get it—I’m over here, fighting to save lives, and she doesn’t even care? She’s impatient with me?”
He seemed to notice Bruce’s expression finally. “Yours, too?” He asked.
He didn’t get an answer. Bruce was running towards the commander’s tent.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:17:01 GMT -5
Clark listened to the mumblings around him as he folded his letter, his one precious letter. Hearing two men complaining of impatient girlfriends, he breathed a sigh of relief. Lois hadn’t ended their relationship.
Yet.
He couldn’t help wondering… what if the war should go on for awhile? Would Lois wait? Would it be fair of him to expect her to?
He shook his head. Those weren’t questions he had to worry about now—or ever, if he was lucky.
Kneeling by his pack, he pulled out a ration. He headed for the nearest empty bunk and sat down, standing when he heard something crackle beneath him. He glanced down and saw the letters, two opened, half covered by the blanket. Tossing them to the side, he knelt down to grab one that had fallen to the floor. His eye caught the return address.
Gotham City.
He glanced at the letter beside him. It, too, was from Gotham. Figuring that the letters must be Bruce’s, he started to put them in a pile on the pillow. That was when he noticed something a little strange.
Only two of the envelopes had letters in them. The other, the one from—he checked—Dick Grayson, was empty. Thinking that Bruce might be, even then, watching him snoop through his mail, Clark glanced around.
No Bruce.
“Hey, Johnson! Have you seen Wayne?” He called to the despondent soldier.
“He headed that way,” Johnson said, gesturing out the door. “I think he lost his girlfriend.”
Clark paused. Was that all?
“What makes you think that?”
Johnson shrugged. “He was holding a letter in his hand and looked real upset.”
Clark nodded and headed out the door, hoping nothing was wrong back in Gotham. Using his super hearing, he listened.
To the whole camp.
Since before he’d left, he had not used his superpowers, or at the very least had tried to tune them down. But not even Bruce could complain about using superhearing.
He listened all over camp. Heard the dishes rattle as they were washed. Heard the quiet conversations of scared soldiers far away from home. Heard three men complaining about the weather.
Heard Bruce mention a coma.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:18:31 GMT -5
“Let me get this straight,” the commander said skeptically. “Your ward says that your butler fell down the pantry steps and is in a coma at Gotham Community Hospital, and you want to go visit him?”
Bruce grit his teeth. “Yes, sir.”
The commander, Barnes, an educated, well-built man in his late thirties, leaned back in his seat. Whenever possible, he liked to send a tired soldier home to attend the funeral of a beloved family member, or visit his newborn child. But all men have their limits, and obliging spoiled millionaire playboys did not sound good to Barnes.
“You want me to let you go to visit your hired help?” Surely, even Wayne could have come up with a better excuse than that.
“Sir,” Wayne said tightly. “I don’t think you grasp the meaning of the situation, no disrespect intended. Alfred has been as a father to me ever since my parents were shot in front of me when I was eight. He, and my ward, Dick, whom I have left in his care, are the only family I have left.” He stopped as someone came up to the tent.
“Excuse me a moment,” Barnes said. “Come in,” he called.
Clark stepped in, looking slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, sir. I was looking for Wayne.” He turned to Bruce. “You all right, Wayne? Johnson said you were upset—told me he thought your girlfriend had dumped you, or something like that.”
Bruce’s breath caught. He knew Clark meant the comment lightly, and even now didn’t realize his mistake.
The commander raised an eyebrow, looking interested. “Is that so?”
Bruce let the breath out, saying in a rush, “No, sir, you don’t understand—!”
“No, Wayne.” Barnes cut him off. “I don’t think you understand. We’re in the middle of a war. I don’t have time to listen to your lame excuses so that you can go back to America to chase your girlfriend.”
“But—“
“Get out.”
“Sir, you—“ Clark tried, realizing his mistake.
“Out!”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:19:51 GMT -5
Outside the commander’s tent, Clark turned to Bruce.
“Bruce, listen. I—“
“Leave me alone.” Bruce turned away form him and headed towards his tent.
“Bruce! I’m sorry! I—“ Clark stopped. The other man wasn’t listening. Clark wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong—why Bruce had gone the commander in the first place—but he knew that with his light comment, he’d made a mess of things.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:21:02 GMT -5
Bruce stalked on, ignoring his old friend. He had bigger things to worry about than Clark’s hurt feelings—especially when it had been Clark who had started everything!
He kicked at a rock. Now what?
If he knew that Jay was close, he could ask him to run him to Gotham—ruining both of their army careers and blowing Jay’s cover, of course. But maybe… maybe Jay could be there and back before anyone knew it. It would also let one more person know his secret identity—it was bad enough that Diana and Clark knew!
He shook his head. That was nonsense. He had no clue where the speedster was at—if he’d even survived that long. And Bruce knew of only one other person who was even close to being as fast as the Flash…
No. No way would he ask Clark for help. Not after what he’d just done. But then again… what other choice did he have?
He sighed, hating the whole situation.
“Superman,” he muttered quickly and darkly under his breath. “Superman, I need you.”
He waited several moments. Almost any other time Superman would have been there before Bruce could clap his hands. But not now, not in the middle of camp.
He spotted Clark ambling toward him, looking a little concerned. There was no accusation in his face—only concern.
Bruce sighed. Clark was a good friend, and Bruce hadn’t been fair. But enough. There would be time for apologies later.
Bruce lowered his voice. “I need to get to Gotham, fast.”
Clark frowned. “What’s wrong? Dick—?”
Bruce waved his hand impatiently. “Dick’s fine, but I just received a letter from him saying that Alfred is in a coma. The letter was sent about a month ago.”
Nodding grimly, Clark asked, “Who’s taking care of Dick?”
The question surprised Bruce—he hadn’t thought of that. He relaxed. “Diana would’ve. She’s been checking on him every so often.”
Clark nodded again, then muttered, “Bruce, if I fly you back—well, I could get back in time, but—“
“I know.”
Clark snapped his fingers. “Wait here—I’ve got an idea!”
“Wha—“
Bruce stopped. His friend was already gone.
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:21:41 GMT -5
Clark stopped in the Mojave Desert, ready to rip off his shirt to reveal the ‘S’ shield, but stopped. He wasn’t wearing it! Quickly, he flew near his apartment, hoping, praying that no one would notice the airborne man. He ran in, changed into his suit, and flew off to the Themiscyran Embassy. After a few minutes, Wonder Woman appeared.
“Superman, what’s going on?” She asked quietly.
Quickly, he explained the situation.
Diana looked at him. “What do you need me to do?” She asked simply.
Clark explained his plan, and Diana agreed.
“I’ll do my best,” she smiled.
Clark grinned. “Thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve already been fifteen minutes! Seventeen by the time I get back!”
Diana smiled. “Then go!”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:22:16 GMT -5
The whole thing actually took Clark twenty-six minutes, from the time he’d started until he’d returned to Bruce. He’d decided to stop and check on Alfred, hoping to find out something to put Bruce’s mind at ease. There’d been no change in the elderly butler’s condition. After dropping his suit off back home, he flew off again. He thought of the butler.
Better than a change for the worse, he thought.
Bruce was reading Jim’s letter for the second time when Clark got back, though he wouldn’t have been able to quote a word from it.
“Well?” He demanded impatiently.
Clark smiled. “It’s all taken care of.”
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Post by arcalian on Mar 2, 2009 18:23:37 GMT -5
Bruce was surprised several days later when a soldier came up to him and told him that the commander requested his presence immediately. He headed toward the tent, wondering what the man wanted. He knocked a piece of wood that was set out. When he went in, Barnes waved for him to sit down. “I’ve received a telegram,” he began. Bruce’s heart stopped. Please don’t let it be… He prayed, hoping that his old friend was still alive. He’d never forgive himself if Alfred died while he was away. “Princess Diana of Themiscyra says you’re needed right away,” he went on, eyebrows raised at the name. “She says that—“he paused, apparently still amazed. “She says that Superman will pick up sometime in the next day or two, so be ready.” Bruce was amazed himself. Clark had had some plan! He didn’t have to force himself to look stunned. “Wow, I, uh…” “You know Princess Diana?” The commander asked, incredulous. “We, uh…” He paused. “We’ve been on a date… or two.” Barnes frowned. “How did she find out about your butler?” “Well,” Bruce said slowly. “She’s fond of my ward. Dick. And so she told me that she’d stop in to visit every now and then… and so I imagine that she found out then.” The commander nodded, impressed. “Well, get ready, then.” He paused. “I guess you’re going back to America. I’ll give you three weeks’ leave.” Bruce smiled for the first time in a long time. “Thank you, sir.” Continued...If you wish to comment on this issue, please CLICK HERE to visit the letters page.
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