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mithenTitle: Match of the Year
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Tim Drake, Steph Brown, Cass Cain, Jean-Paul Valley
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 4700
Summary: "Black and blue. Fight night! The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world. God versus Man. Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus bat of Gotham!"
As all art is said to aspire to the condition of music, all wrestling aspires to the condition of brotherly love. --Thomas Hackett, “Slaphappy”
“Batman!” Superman’s voice seemed to carry to every corner of the arena. “I think you know we’re not done.”
Batman kept his back to Superman, standing on the other side of the ring. “Don’t make me beat you again,” he said.
“You’re not going to beat me again,” Superman said. “Because the next time we meet, I want it to be…” He paused, and Clark could hear the energy in the audience pick up, anticipatory. “...in a steel cage.” A roar of approval. “No more outside interference, no more Kryptonite. Just you and I, man to man, facing each other down.”
Batman didn’t turn, stayed silent.
“Or are you afraid to face me without help?” Superman jibed.
The Dark Knight turned at that, crossing the ring with a few strides to slap Superman across the face. The arena went silent with shock, and Superman went very still, staring at Batman, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m not afraid of you or of anybody,” Batman said. “And I welcome the chance to meet you in a steel cage, Superman. I’ll show you the steel that’s in my soul, and no one will doubt my will again.”
“I’ve never doubted your will,” said Superman, his voice unnervingly calm. “Or your pride.” He reached out and grabbed Batman’s chin, too quickly for Batman to avoid it. “But don’t doubt mine, either,” he said, then pushed Batman away from him, sending him staggering across the ring.
The camera cut to end the show with the two of them still staring each other down.
“Hold on, I’ll find one of their videos,” Steph said, tapping at her phone. Cassandra Cain leaned over her shoulder to point, and Steph said, “I know, I know, this one, not that one.”
“One of whose videos?” Clark asked, dropping into the chair next to Bruce’s at the coffeeshop table.
“Oh, Bruce was asking us about any young wrestlers we might know that would be good to keep an eye on in the future,” said Tim. “He already knows all the kids in Sora, and then Steph remembered these two backyard wrestler kids.”
“Backyard wrestling?” Clark couldn’t keep his nose from wrinkling a bit. “I don’t think we should be encouraging that.”
“I know, I know,” said Steph. “Unregulated stupid kids falling off things and thinking it makes them cool. But these two are unusual. They’ve basically got a whole little promotion of their own going. One of their parents paid for a decent ring, they even charge admission to the neighborhood kids. Entirely self-taught, and Clark--they’re naturals. Look.”
She held up the phone and Bruce and Clark leaned in to get a better look at the video.
On the screen were two kids--they couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and maybe younger--dressed in crude, clearly hand-made bright costumes. The younger-looking one was a sullen-eyed boy with dark hair that fell across his eyes, who stood in the center of the ring glaring.
The subject of his glare was a girl with red hair, cut short, a pair of goggles on top of her head. She grinned and removed the goggles, tossing them into the crowd of kids--not a small crowd, either, Clark noticed. Then she went to the ropes and waved out at them. “I’m sorry, but I’ll need those back later,” she said. “They’re not cheap!”
Everyone laughed. And as they laughed, the dark-haired boy launched himself at her back. She spun to counter him--and Clark felt his eyebrows go up. Steph was right, they were naturals. They knew how to move, how to involve the crowd, how to tell a story. The boy finally emerged victorious to the mingled cheers and boos of the crowd, and the girl got to her feet to address them all once more.
“Remember the names! Carrie Kelly and Damian al-Ghul! And buy our t-shirts!” she added, waving toward a stand set up on the lawn.
“Al-Ghul?” Bruce was frowning as the video ended. “That’s an...interesting name. I worked with a promoter named al-Ghul in Asia. I wonder if he’s taken that name as an homage or if…” He shook his head.
“Either way,” Clark said, “I agree these two kids are impressive, but we can’t go recruiting children. Anyway, they’re likely to lose interest as they get older.”
“Not these two,” said Cassandra. “I can tell. The way they hold themselves. They’re wrestlers. They need guidance.”
“Hm,” said Bruce. “Well.” He looked at Cassandra, who looked back at him without smiling, her black hair falling into her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Good,” said Cassandra.
“Lexie!” Billionaire Brucie’s nasal voice cut into Lex Luthor’s discussion of this week’s match. He ambled down the ring with a mic in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. “Oh Lexie, let’s have a chat.” He started to get into the ring and realized with comedic suddenness that he couldn’t easily get into the ring with both hands occupied; after a moment he handed the whiskey glass to Luthor, who stood, looking annoyed, as Brucie clambered into the ring, then brushed off his bespoke suit. “Thanks so much,” he said, taking the whiskey glass back.
“Why exactly are you here interrupting me, Bruce?” Luthor snapped.
Brucie batted his eyelashes at Lex over the rim of his glass, taking a sip. “I do hate to interrupt your excruciatingly important recap of previous events,” Brucie said, and Clark saw Lex’s eyes snap legit annoyance for a second. “But I knew this was the only way to get you to listen to a little...proposition I had for you.”
Luthor rolled his eyes and made an impatient gesture with his hand: go on.
“It seems to me that you’ve got a wealth of smaller, talented folks and a dearth of ways to use them,” Bruce said. “Folks like Blue Beetle, Metamorpho, Creeper, Trickster, Parasite, Red Robin--” He had stopped for applause with each name, but had to stop for notably longer with Tim Drake’s. “Kyle Rayner, Scarecrow, Shining Knight--so much talent that deserves more recognition. And as it so happens, I’m here to suggest a means to that end! I’m here to propose the Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Tournament--” He waved the hand with the whiskey glass as if pointing at an invisible marquee, “--to showcase your cruiserweight wrestlers.”
The crowd was torn. On the one hand, they hated “Billionaire Bruce Wayne” and what they believed to be his pretense of being the real orphaned billionaire. On the other hand…
The cheers quickly drowned out the boos as the audience decided it loved the idea of a cruiserweight tournament too much to hate it, even if it did come from Billionaire Brucie.
Bruce flicked a quick eyebrow upward at Lex, and Clark remembered how Lex had so often argued people were here to see the big heavy hitters, not smaller guys. The he opened his arms invitingly to Lex: Shall we?
“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie,” sighed Luthor. “As the heir to the Wayne fortune--” He weighted the words with irony, making clear he didn’t believe it for a second, “I’m shocked that you don’t understand how a business works. The DCW is a publicly traded company, which means I cannot simply make unilateral decisions--in fact, aren’t you a shareholder?”
“I am?” Bruce’s face was a caricature of surprise. “I guess I have so many stocks in so many places; I had totally forgotten. How interesting!”
“Well, don’t bother to look it up, you don’t own enough to make decisions,” Luthor said. “It’s all very technical, but believe me that I have to keep in mind the bigger picture, which you seem unable to see.”
“My goodness,” murmured Brucie, “Could it be that the DCW isn’t as financially stable as it seems?”
For just a second, there was a flash of something in Luthor’s eyes: worry, or anger, or both. He opened his mouth, but then Metamorpho’s music hit and the Element Man strode down the ramp to yell at Bruce Wayne and make clear that he didn’t want to be in any stupid patronizing cruiserweight division, he wanted a shot at the intercontinental title, buddy!
“Actually,” said Rex Mason backstage later, wiping off his white facepaint, “A cruiserweight tournament sounds like a pretty cool idea. Not that I’m really complaining about getting a shot at the IC title, either. Keeps me in the public eye, even if I’m going to lose.”
“It would be a pretty nice idea, wouldn’t it?” said Clark.
“Well, too bad you’re not running the company, Clark,” said Rex, slapping him on the back.
Clark grinned and went looking for Bruce, who was holding a flier for the next pay-per-view in his hands, staring down at it. Hal Jordan was standing over him, talking loudly, but Bruce wasn’t looking at him.
“A thirty-minute cage match,” Hal said, throwing his hands in the air. “They’re putting the heavyweight title match on after a thirty-minute cage match between Superman and Batman. I can’t believe it. This is bullshit.”
“I know,” Bruce said. He crumpled up the flier--emblazoned with Green Lantern and Metallo’s faces--and lobbed it into the trash. “We should be the main event. It’s the hottest feud of the year, it’s the best storyline of the year--and Lex isn’t giving it main event billing, is he blind?”
Hal transferred his incredulous stare from Bruce to Clark, who shrugged: He isn’t wrong. “My point is,” said Hal, “That you guys shouldn’t be getting thirty minutes and you shouldn’t be getting a cage match! The crowd’s going to be totally blown up when you guys are done, the title match is going to be an afterthought. It’s clear favoritism.”
”Favoritism?” Bruce jumped to his feet. “Favoritism? Lex has done nothing but try to bury us and everyone we associate with for years now, and he finally realizes we need some real time and the right setting to finish up this chapter of our story--that’s not favoritism, that’s doing the bare minimum to promote this story!” He stomped over to the trash and pulled the crumpled flier out, unfolded it and waved it in Hal’s face: “And look at this! Look at us, way in the back. The most anticipated match of the year, and he shoves us in the background. It’s bad for everyone.”
“Well, it sucks to have to follow it, that’s for sure.”
“How’s about you try to top it?” Bruce shot back.
“Our match has almost no build, no storyline--what the hell, Bruce, we’re not magicians!”
“Sure we are,” said Bruce, and his smile at Clark was sweet and smug.
Hal threw up his hands and stormed off.
“Hal’s right that Luthor didn’t have to give us so much time and the drama of a cage,” Clark said once he was out of earshot.
“He’s conflicted, I know,” said Bruce. “He wants to make money without relying on us, but we’re the best he’s got and he knows it. He ends up hurting his promotion to try and hurt us.” He shook his head. “When our time comes, you can bet we won’t make the same mistakes.”
“You seem pretty confident that our time is coming.”
“Oh, it is,” Bruce said with relish. “There’s just a few more pieces to put in place. We’re almost there. But for now…” He nodded slowly. “We’ve got our blow-off match coming up. And then another chapter of Superman and Batman’s friendship will close.” He rolled up the crumpled paper and tapped Clark’s head with it. “Wham wham wham,” he whispered.
“Wham wham wham,” Clark whispered back. “Always.”
It was the night of their cage match. The arena was alight and abuzz with the atmosphere that only big pay-per-views had. Clark went out to help set up the ring, enjoying the ritual of it, the feel of the ropes and the boards beneath his hands. As he finished up he blinked to find Jean-Paul Valley sitting with one of the lighting technicians in front of the lighting board, his foot still in its cast propped up on a stool. “Uh… hey,” Clark said. “How’s the foot doing?”
“It’s doing well,” Jean-Paul said. “There’s some pain, but nothing I can’t bear.” He looked up at Clark and smiled, and Clark was startled at how sweet it was. It had been a long time since he had seen Jean-Paul smile, he realized. “I’m observing the lighting tonight,” he said. “I happened to give them some ideas into how to achieve some better effects, and they seemed...rather excited.”
“Excited’s not the word,” said the technician--Neal, Clark dredged the name up from his memory. “Jean-Paul’s got some amazing insight into the use of light and shadows to create effect.”
“My major was in electrical engineering,” Jean-Paul said like an explanation.
“Well, I’m sure it’s quite a letdown after being champ,” said Neal, but if you wanted to direct the lighting for a house show or two, just to try your hand…”
“Oh,” Jean-Paul said. He sounded almost stunned. “I think I’d like that.” He beamed up at Clark. “Have you and Bruce finished blocking out your match?”
“Actually…” Clark scratched the back of his head, feeling self-conscious. “We haven’t discussed it much. It’s our last match for a while,” he said to Jean-Paul’s raised eyebrows, “And, I don’t know, we want it to come from the heart. We want that...energy, you know? We know the beats we want to hit, but if you think about it too much it gets stale.”
Jean-Paul nodded slowly, approving. “You know your own hearts and your own characters. The energy will flow naturally from that.” He paused, then got carefully to his feet. “And for the record, Clark,” he said, “I told Luthor I wanted you to be the next champion. You would have been the right choice.”
He held out his hand, and Clark took it, feeling awkward.
“Thank you,” Clark said simply, and Jean-Paul nodded and sat back down, quickly losing himself in animated conversation about lighting once more.
“Black and blue,” intoned Lex as the cage slowly settled down around Superman and Batman. He threw his arms out wide. “Fight night. The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world!”
Clark met Bruce’s eyes without wavering as the cage came into place with a clang, flat and final.
“God versus man,” cackled Luthor. He was really getting into it. “Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus Bat of Gotham!”
The most miniscule flicker of annoyance went across Bruce’s face, and Clark knew exactly what he was thinking: that “Son of Krypton versus Knight of Gotham” would have worked better.
“Ring the bell!” yelled Luthor.
The crowd was molten. Screams and cries seemed to rise around the ring like greedy waves. But in the cage Clark felt calm settle over him. This was it. The last match in this feud. The end of this chapter. Make it count. Match of the Year. He looked at Bruce and knew the camera was picking up everything on his face as he felt it: the resolve, the worry, the sadness. It just meant something different on Superman’s face than on Clark’s.
Superman put his hand out for the traditional handshake. Batman stared at it, then shook his head, taking a step away and raising his hands up for the lockup. The crowd noise ebbed away as people settled in for the match.
Superman blinked hard, and the cameras caught a glitter of tears. He lowered his hand and stepped forward, and the match began.
It started slow, with a variety of lockups and testing-outs, establishing that they were equally matched. Bruce was fighting without gloves tonight, and his hands on Clark’s skin were cold at first. Batman got backed into a corner by Superman and the ref warned Superman he had to step away; the crowd waited to see if the Man of Steel would do a clean break. Superman backed off, and for just a moment it looked like Batman might lunge at him, but the break stayed clean as they moved back into the center of the ring.
Superman was stronger than Batman, but Batman was clearly more agile, managing to keep Superman from getting to the ropes so he couldn’t do any of his more famous aerial moves. They moved around the ring easily, their bodies in flawless sync--every time Clark would do something Bruce would counter it; for every move Bruce made Clark was ready. Clark could read Bruce so well by now that it felt instantaneous, more like telepathy than knowledge.
They picked up the pace naturally, letting the crowd noise rise up with them. Clark could hear Luthor outside the cage yelling encouragement to whoever seemed to be on top at the moment: “Kick him, Batman!” “Rip his arm off, Superman!” Bruce’s hands were warm now, his eyes snapping sparks every time Clark drew close, a fierce smile on his face.
Time to take it outside the ring a bit.
Superman caught Batman off the top rope as he tried to do a crossbody. Pivoting, he hurled the Dark Knight bodily out of the ring, sending him crashing against the steel cage. The crowd gasped in unison as Batman sprawled to the floor so dramatically that Clark felt a moment’s relief when he saw Bruce make the check-in with the ref, squeezing his hand to let him know he was all right.
Clark’s turn.
He went up and over the ropes as if to land right on Batman, but Batman jumped to his feet and used Superman’s own momentum to slam him hard against the cage. The clang of steel against flesh seemed to ring out across the audience, and Clark felt the metal lattices cut into his back. That’ll leave some nice welts, he thought with satisfaction through the pain.
Superman hauled himself to his feet and they battled around the ring. Neither of them were moving as fast as they had been, and Clark felt real fatigue starting to drag at his muscles, felt sweat slicking his skin. Time for third gear.
A flurry of moves, give and take. Batman was starting to look desperate; Clark could hear the announcers mentioning that Batman’s strength lay in agility rather than sheer strength, and that as the match wore on Superman’s advantage would grow. With a sudden burst of offense Batman backed Superman into a corner and they rested against each other for a moment before Bruce backed away again. Another clean break.
“Hey!” yelled Luthor, and Superman turned just in time to catch the kendo stick that Luthor had tossed into the cage. “Go get ‘im,” said Luthor with a feral grin.
Superman took the kendo stick and snapped it across his knee into splinters and tossed it aside with casual contempt. The audience howled with delight, but their howls shifted cadance into a very different emotion as the Injustice League came down the ramp to surround the cage, circling like sharks.
Both Batman and Superman continued to fight, one eye on the villains surrounding them. Batman was slowly but surely growing more tired than Superman. Superman did two suplexes and then attempted a pin, but Batman kicked out. Then Batman pulled off a beautiful arm drag into a pin, but Superman kicked out. With every near fall Clark could hear the audience excitement rise a notch. They were getting really hot now.
“Batman!”
The Dark Knight turned as Luthor tossed another kendo stick into the ring and caught it out of the air. For a long moment he held it there between himself and Superman, glaring at him. The crowd noise rose. And rose. Clark could feel Bruce waiting until it reached its plateau, and at that precise moment he snapped it over his knee. The crowd screamed as he turned and hurled the pieces at Luthor--not with the disdain Superman had, but with a blind fury that sent the pieces careening into the cage to scatter at random. “Are you insane?” he screamed at Luthor. “I don’t trust him--” He pointed at Superman, and his hand was shaking. “I don’t trust the most noble, good-hearted, kind, and valiant man I know--” Clark blinked hard; Bruce hadn’t told him exactly what he was going to say, and the raw emotion in his voice hit Clark harder than any blow. “If I cannot trust him, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever trust you!”
He turned back to look at Superman, his face filled with grief and pain, and launched himself back at him, his arms swinging wildly, clearly driven to the edge of exhaustion. Superman sidestepped and pulled him down into a headlock, feeling Bruce’s sides heaving like sobs. It had been twenty minutes now and they were both reaching the end of their endurance.
The crowd noise peaked; the Justice League were on their way to the ring to brawl and chase off Luthor’s villains. Clark took the opportunity to rest against Bruce, feeling his body shaking against him. “Bruce,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Are you okay?”
Bruce’s eyes were unfocused, his breathing shallow. He was lost in his character, and Clark felt something like awe touch him in that moment. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as the heels fled to thunderous applause, as the heroes stood outside the cage, guarding it.
Bruce made a sobbing noise, but then he rested his head against Clark’s for a fleeting moment. “Never,” he whispered back.
And then it was time to go again. They hadn’t discussed this, it was all improv melodrama, but Clark knew where it had to go. “Why?” he yelled, feeling Bruce’s heart hammering against him. “Why won’t you trust me?”
“I can’t!” Batman screamed, and threw off the headlock, staggering to his feet. He came at Clark again, his arms tracing roundhouse blows that Superman dodged by the narrowest of margins as Clark read Bruce’s body, their twinned exhaustion making everything seem distant and far away. Superman climbed the turnbuckle, preparing for his finishing hurricanrana--and Batman dropkicked him. Clark caught a glimpse of Bruce’s eyes, bright with adrenaline and exhaustion, and realized at the last second that Bruce had overshot. He pulled back, but Bruce’s feet connected solidly with his chest and sent him tumbling off the turnbuckle and into the cage with more force than he had intended.
He felt the links come up hard against his forehead, and then the floor was knocking the wind out of him. He staggered to his feet, hearing a ripple of reaction radiate out through the crowd, and resisted the impulse to wipe at his forehead. Shame to waste it, he thought as he felt blood trickling down his face, stippling his chest.
Batman glared at him as he climbed into the ring, no chagrin at all on his face. He waited, letting Clark take the lead and decide what to do with this sudden crimson addition to the story.
Superman put his chin up, letting the blood run down his face. Then he slowly raised a hand and wiped off his cheek. Keeping his eyes locked on Batman, he held up his hand, smeared with scarlet. “You asked if I bleed,” he said. “And I do. I’ll bleed for you. For our friendship. For my brother. If you trust me.”
For a second, Clark saw Bruce’s throat work. The audience was still, watching.
“I can’t,” mouthed Batman, and the crowd--sighed.
Batman staggered forward, clearly on his last legs, and the fight began anew.
The end was a wild, desperate scramble, devoid of any artistry. Just two men struggling to stay standing, powered by nothing but will and determination. Superman caught up Batman’s head in a running bulldog, dropping him onto the mat, and for a long moment they both stayed down. Clark could feel his hair dripping, the sweat mixing with his blood, his breath coming hard as he staggered to his feet, propping his back against the turnbuckle.
In the middle of the ring, Batman pulled himself slowly to his feet and stood, swaying. He tried to take a step--and his knees almost gave out. He was clearly almost unable to move, staying on his feet only through sheer power of will. His chin dropped to his chest. Then he raised his head and looked at Superman for a long moment. “Go on,” he said into the nearly-silent arena. “Do it.”
Clark looked at him. This had always been where this match had been going, even though they had never discussed the specifics. They hadn’t needed to. It was the only possible ending. “I’m sorry,” said Superman.
“I love you,” said Clark.
And then he gathered himself up and leaped forward to deliver his flying finishing punch at Batman.
Batman toppled over, eyes closed, going limp as he crashed to the mat. The crowd seemed to all take one great whooping breath together, and then they all started screaming as the ref made the count.
Clark put his head down on Bruce’s chest, hearing his heart pounding. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them had to.
Match of the year.
Superman finally staggered to his feet as the cage was lifted. The Justice League came in and stood around him, patting him on the back, speaking to him. Flash had off one of his gloves and was wiping the blood from Superman’s face. Clark knew there were tears running down his cheeks, and he didn’t care. He struggled for breath, and caught a glimpse of Luthor’s face outside the ring, shaking his head, his eyes filled with grudging admiration.
And then he felt the other members of the League stiffen and murmur, and knew that behind him, Batman was getting to his feet.
Superman turned to look at Batman, who stood in silence. Finally, Superman stepped forward, his hand out, his face hopeful but wary. Pleading.
The crowd murmured, waiting.
Batman’s fists clenched. Then, with what had to be his last shreds of strength, he kicked Superman’s outstretched hand away with a sharp, vicious movement. Clark heard a groan of disappointment ripple through the arena.
And he heard it transmute into delight as Batman staggered forward and threw his arms around him.
They stood for a long moment, letting the audience’s benediction touch them. Then Batman stepped back and nodded once. He started to leave the ring, and his knees buckled; Superman started forward as if he couldn’t help himself, then checked himself with an effort and let Batman steady himself on the ropes.
Everyone watched as he made his way up the ramp, and the wondering joy of the crowd slowly rose into applause and cheers that followed him out of the arena.
“We’re the top story on all the major web pages,” Clark said, shifting so the ice would touch a different aching part of his body.
“Of course we are,” said Bruce, not looking up from his phone.
“Poor Corbin. New champ and no one’s talking about him.”
“Sucks to be him,” Bruce said blithely. “We should have been the main event.”
“You’re going to be bitter about that forever, aren’t you?”
“Damn straight. At least until--” Bruce stopped talking abruptly, staring at his phone. There was a flurry of quick finger motions as he sat forward, silent.
“What?” said Clark, but Bruce ignored him.
“Wait,” he said, half to Clark and half to himself. “If I… And then…” A slow smile started to spread across his face. Well,” he said. “Just what I needed to make tonight perfect.”
”What?” said Clark.
Bruce stood up and tossed the phone onto the bed, then grabbed Clark by the hand and dragged him up into something that was half dance and half hug, ignoring Clark’s groaned protests.
“Clark,” he said, throwing his arms out, “I just made the final deal. All the pieces are in place.”
Tomorrow night, you and I are taking over the DCW.”
Relationship: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Tim Drake, Steph Brown, Cass Cain, Jean-Paul Valley
Continuity: Heroes of the Squared Circle, a DC/pro wrestling fusion.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 4700
Summary: "Black and blue. Fight night! The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world. God versus Man. Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus bat of Gotham!"
As all art is said to aspire to the condition of music, all wrestling aspires to the condition of brotherly love. --Thomas Hackett, “Slaphappy”
“Batman!” Superman’s voice seemed to carry to every corner of the arena. “I think you know we’re not done.”
Batman kept his back to Superman, standing on the other side of the ring. “Don’t make me beat you again,” he said.
“You’re not going to beat me again,” Superman said. “Because the next time we meet, I want it to be…” He paused, and Clark could hear the energy in the audience pick up, anticipatory. “...in a steel cage.” A roar of approval. “No more outside interference, no more Kryptonite. Just you and I, man to man, facing each other down.”
Batman didn’t turn, stayed silent.
“Or are you afraid to face me without help?” Superman jibed.
The Dark Knight turned at that, crossing the ring with a few strides to slap Superman across the face. The arena went silent with shock, and Superman went very still, staring at Batman, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I’m not afraid of you or of anybody,” Batman said. “And I welcome the chance to meet you in a steel cage, Superman. I’ll show you the steel that’s in my soul, and no one will doubt my will again.”
“I’ve never doubted your will,” said Superman, his voice unnervingly calm. “Or your pride.” He reached out and grabbed Batman’s chin, too quickly for Batman to avoid it. “But don’t doubt mine, either,” he said, then pushed Batman away from him, sending him staggering across the ring.
The camera cut to end the show with the two of them still staring each other down.
“Hold on, I’ll find one of their videos,” Steph said, tapping at her phone. Cassandra Cain leaned over her shoulder to point, and Steph said, “I know, I know, this one, not that one.”
“One of whose videos?” Clark asked, dropping into the chair next to Bruce’s at the coffeeshop table.
“Oh, Bruce was asking us about any young wrestlers we might know that would be good to keep an eye on in the future,” said Tim. “He already knows all the kids in Sora, and then Steph remembered these two backyard wrestler kids.”
“Backyard wrestling?” Clark couldn’t keep his nose from wrinkling a bit. “I don’t think we should be encouraging that.”
“I know, I know,” said Steph. “Unregulated stupid kids falling off things and thinking it makes them cool. But these two are unusual. They’ve basically got a whole little promotion of their own going. One of their parents paid for a decent ring, they even charge admission to the neighborhood kids. Entirely self-taught, and Clark--they’re naturals. Look.”
She held up the phone and Bruce and Clark leaned in to get a better look at the video.
On the screen were two kids--they couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and maybe younger--dressed in crude, clearly hand-made bright costumes. The younger-looking one was a sullen-eyed boy with dark hair that fell across his eyes, who stood in the center of the ring glaring.
The subject of his glare was a girl with red hair, cut short, a pair of goggles on top of her head. She grinned and removed the goggles, tossing them into the crowd of kids--not a small crowd, either, Clark noticed. Then she went to the ropes and waved out at them. “I’m sorry, but I’ll need those back later,” she said. “They’re not cheap!”
Everyone laughed. And as they laughed, the dark-haired boy launched himself at her back. She spun to counter him--and Clark felt his eyebrows go up. Steph was right, they were naturals. They knew how to move, how to involve the crowd, how to tell a story. The boy finally emerged victorious to the mingled cheers and boos of the crowd, and the girl got to her feet to address them all once more.
“Remember the names! Carrie Kelly and Damian al-Ghul! And buy our t-shirts!” she added, waving toward a stand set up on the lawn.
“Al-Ghul?” Bruce was frowning as the video ended. “That’s an...interesting name. I worked with a promoter named al-Ghul in Asia. I wonder if he’s taken that name as an homage or if…” He shook his head.
“Either way,” Clark said, “I agree these two kids are impressive, but we can’t go recruiting children. Anyway, they’re likely to lose interest as they get older.”
“Not these two,” said Cassandra. “I can tell. The way they hold themselves. They’re wrestlers. They need guidance.”
“Hm,” said Bruce. “Well.” He looked at Cassandra, who looked back at him without smiling, her black hair falling into her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Good,” said Cassandra.
“Lexie!” Billionaire Brucie’s nasal voice cut into Lex Luthor’s discussion of this week’s match. He ambled down the ring with a mic in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. “Oh Lexie, let’s have a chat.” He started to get into the ring and realized with comedic suddenness that he couldn’t easily get into the ring with both hands occupied; after a moment he handed the whiskey glass to Luthor, who stood, looking annoyed, as Brucie clambered into the ring, then brushed off his bespoke suit. “Thanks so much,” he said, taking the whiskey glass back.
“Why exactly are you here interrupting me, Bruce?” Luthor snapped.
Brucie batted his eyelashes at Lex over the rim of his glass, taking a sip. “I do hate to interrupt your excruciatingly important recap of previous events,” Brucie said, and Clark saw Lex’s eyes snap legit annoyance for a second. “But I knew this was the only way to get you to listen to a little...proposition I had for you.”
Luthor rolled his eyes and made an impatient gesture with his hand: go on.
“It seems to me that you’ve got a wealth of smaller, talented folks and a dearth of ways to use them,” Bruce said. “Folks like Blue Beetle, Metamorpho, Creeper, Trickster, Parasite, Red Robin--” He had stopped for applause with each name, but had to stop for notably longer with Tim Drake’s. “Kyle Rayner, Scarecrow, Shining Knight--so much talent that deserves more recognition. And as it so happens, I’m here to suggest a means to that end! I’m here to propose the Thomas and Martha Wayne Memorial Tournament--” He waved the hand with the whiskey glass as if pointing at an invisible marquee, “--to showcase your cruiserweight wrestlers.”
The crowd was torn. On the one hand, they hated “Billionaire Bruce Wayne” and what they believed to be his pretense of being the real orphaned billionaire. On the other hand…
The cheers quickly drowned out the boos as the audience decided it loved the idea of a cruiserweight tournament too much to hate it, even if it did come from Billionaire Brucie.
Bruce flicked a quick eyebrow upward at Lex, and Clark remembered how Lex had so often argued people were here to see the big heavy hitters, not smaller guys. The he opened his arms invitingly to Lex: Shall we?
“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie,” sighed Luthor. “As the heir to the Wayne fortune--” He weighted the words with irony, making clear he didn’t believe it for a second, “I’m shocked that you don’t understand how a business works. The DCW is a publicly traded company, which means I cannot simply make unilateral decisions--in fact, aren’t you a shareholder?”
“I am?” Bruce’s face was a caricature of surprise. “I guess I have so many stocks in so many places; I had totally forgotten. How interesting!”
“Well, don’t bother to look it up, you don’t own enough to make decisions,” Luthor said. “It’s all very technical, but believe me that I have to keep in mind the bigger picture, which you seem unable to see.”
“My goodness,” murmured Brucie, “Could it be that the DCW isn’t as financially stable as it seems?”
For just a second, there was a flash of something in Luthor’s eyes: worry, or anger, or both. He opened his mouth, but then Metamorpho’s music hit and the Element Man strode down the ramp to yell at Bruce Wayne and make clear that he didn’t want to be in any stupid patronizing cruiserweight division, he wanted a shot at the intercontinental title, buddy!
“Actually,” said Rex Mason backstage later, wiping off his white facepaint, “A cruiserweight tournament sounds like a pretty cool idea. Not that I’m really complaining about getting a shot at the IC title, either. Keeps me in the public eye, even if I’m going to lose.”
“It would be a pretty nice idea, wouldn’t it?” said Clark.
“Well, too bad you’re not running the company, Clark,” said Rex, slapping him on the back.
Clark grinned and went looking for Bruce, who was holding a flier for the next pay-per-view in his hands, staring down at it. Hal Jordan was standing over him, talking loudly, but Bruce wasn’t looking at him.
“A thirty-minute cage match,” Hal said, throwing his hands in the air. “They’re putting the heavyweight title match on after a thirty-minute cage match between Superman and Batman. I can’t believe it. This is bullshit.”
“I know,” Bruce said. He crumpled up the flier--emblazoned with Green Lantern and Metallo’s faces--and lobbed it into the trash. “We should be the main event. It’s the hottest feud of the year, it’s the best storyline of the year--and Lex isn’t giving it main event billing, is he blind?”
Hal transferred his incredulous stare from Bruce to Clark, who shrugged: He isn’t wrong. “My point is,” said Hal, “That you guys shouldn’t be getting thirty minutes and you shouldn’t be getting a cage match! The crowd’s going to be totally blown up when you guys are done, the title match is going to be an afterthought. It’s clear favoritism.”
”Favoritism?” Bruce jumped to his feet. “Favoritism? Lex has done nothing but try to bury us and everyone we associate with for years now, and he finally realizes we need some real time and the right setting to finish up this chapter of our story--that’s not favoritism, that’s doing the bare minimum to promote this story!” He stomped over to the trash and pulled the crumpled flier out, unfolded it and waved it in Hal’s face: “And look at this! Look at us, way in the back. The most anticipated match of the year, and he shoves us in the background. It’s bad for everyone.”
“Well, it sucks to have to follow it, that’s for sure.”
“How’s about you try to top it?” Bruce shot back.
“Our match has almost no build, no storyline--what the hell, Bruce, we’re not magicians!”
“Sure we are,” said Bruce, and his smile at Clark was sweet and smug.
Hal threw up his hands and stormed off.
“Hal’s right that Luthor didn’t have to give us so much time and the drama of a cage,” Clark said once he was out of earshot.
“He’s conflicted, I know,” said Bruce. “He wants to make money without relying on us, but we’re the best he’s got and he knows it. He ends up hurting his promotion to try and hurt us.” He shook his head. “When our time comes, you can bet we won’t make the same mistakes.”
“You seem pretty confident that our time is coming.”
“Oh, it is,” Bruce said with relish. “There’s just a few more pieces to put in place. We’re almost there. But for now…” He nodded slowly. “We’ve got our blow-off match coming up. And then another chapter of Superman and Batman’s friendship will close.” He rolled up the crumpled paper and tapped Clark’s head with it. “Wham wham wham,” he whispered.
“Wham wham wham,” Clark whispered back. “Always.”
It was the night of their cage match. The arena was alight and abuzz with the atmosphere that only big pay-per-views had. Clark went out to help set up the ring, enjoying the ritual of it, the feel of the ropes and the boards beneath his hands. As he finished up he blinked to find Jean-Paul Valley sitting with one of the lighting technicians in front of the lighting board, his foot still in its cast propped up on a stool. “Uh… hey,” Clark said. “How’s the foot doing?”
“It’s doing well,” Jean-Paul said. “There’s some pain, but nothing I can’t bear.” He looked up at Clark and smiled, and Clark was startled at how sweet it was. It had been a long time since he had seen Jean-Paul smile, he realized. “I’m observing the lighting tonight,” he said. “I happened to give them some ideas into how to achieve some better effects, and they seemed...rather excited.”
“Excited’s not the word,” said the technician--Neal, Clark dredged the name up from his memory. “Jean-Paul’s got some amazing insight into the use of light and shadows to create effect.”
“My major was in electrical engineering,” Jean-Paul said like an explanation.
“Well, I’m sure it’s quite a letdown after being champ,” said Neal, but if you wanted to direct the lighting for a house show or two, just to try your hand…”
“Oh,” Jean-Paul said. He sounded almost stunned. “I think I’d like that.” He beamed up at Clark. “Have you and Bruce finished blocking out your match?”
“Actually…” Clark scratched the back of his head, feeling self-conscious. “We haven’t discussed it much. It’s our last match for a while,” he said to Jean-Paul’s raised eyebrows, “And, I don’t know, we want it to come from the heart. We want that...energy, you know? We know the beats we want to hit, but if you think about it too much it gets stale.”
Jean-Paul nodded slowly, approving. “You know your own hearts and your own characters. The energy will flow naturally from that.” He paused, then got carefully to his feet. “And for the record, Clark,” he said, “I told Luthor I wanted you to be the next champion. You would have been the right choice.”
He held out his hand, and Clark took it, feeling awkward.
“Thank you,” Clark said simply, and Jean-Paul nodded and sat back down, quickly losing himself in animated conversation about lighting once more.
“Black and blue,” intoned Lex as the cage slowly settled down around Superman and Batman. He threw his arms out wide. “Fight night. The greatest gladiator match in the history of the world!”
Clark met Bruce’s eyes without wavering as the cage came into place with a clang, flat and final.
“God versus man,” cackled Luthor. He was really getting into it. “Day versus night. Son of Krypton versus Bat of Gotham!”
The most miniscule flicker of annoyance went across Bruce’s face, and Clark knew exactly what he was thinking: that “Son of Krypton versus Knight of Gotham” would have worked better.
“Ring the bell!” yelled Luthor.
The crowd was molten. Screams and cries seemed to rise around the ring like greedy waves. But in the cage Clark felt calm settle over him. This was it. The last match in this feud. The end of this chapter. Make it count. Match of the Year. He looked at Bruce and knew the camera was picking up everything on his face as he felt it: the resolve, the worry, the sadness. It just meant something different on Superman’s face than on Clark’s.
Superman put his hand out for the traditional handshake. Batman stared at it, then shook his head, taking a step away and raising his hands up for the lockup. The crowd noise ebbed away as people settled in for the match.
Superman blinked hard, and the cameras caught a glitter of tears. He lowered his hand and stepped forward, and the match began.
It started slow, with a variety of lockups and testing-outs, establishing that they were equally matched. Bruce was fighting without gloves tonight, and his hands on Clark’s skin were cold at first. Batman got backed into a corner by Superman and the ref warned Superman he had to step away; the crowd waited to see if the Man of Steel would do a clean break. Superman backed off, and for just a moment it looked like Batman might lunge at him, but the break stayed clean as they moved back into the center of the ring.
Superman was stronger than Batman, but Batman was clearly more agile, managing to keep Superman from getting to the ropes so he couldn’t do any of his more famous aerial moves. They moved around the ring easily, their bodies in flawless sync--every time Clark would do something Bruce would counter it; for every move Bruce made Clark was ready. Clark could read Bruce so well by now that it felt instantaneous, more like telepathy than knowledge.
They picked up the pace naturally, letting the crowd noise rise up with them. Clark could hear Luthor outside the cage yelling encouragement to whoever seemed to be on top at the moment: “Kick him, Batman!” “Rip his arm off, Superman!” Bruce’s hands were warm now, his eyes snapping sparks every time Clark drew close, a fierce smile on his face.
Time to take it outside the ring a bit.
Superman caught Batman off the top rope as he tried to do a crossbody. Pivoting, he hurled the Dark Knight bodily out of the ring, sending him crashing against the steel cage. The crowd gasped in unison as Batman sprawled to the floor so dramatically that Clark felt a moment’s relief when he saw Bruce make the check-in with the ref, squeezing his hand to let him know he was all right.
Clark’s turn.
He went up and over the ropes as if to land right on Batman, but Batman jumped to his feet and used Superman’s own momentum to slam him hard against the cage. The clang of steel against flesh seemed to ring out across the audience, and Clark felt the metal lattices cut into his back. That’ll leave some nice welts, he thought with satisfaction through the pain.
Superman hauled himself to his feet and they battled around the ring. Neither of them were moving as fast as they had been, and Clark felt real fatigue starting to drag at his muscles, felt sweat slicking his skin. Time for third gear.
A flurry of moves, give and take. Batman was starting to look desperate; Clark could hear the announcers mentioning that Batman’s strength lay in agility rather than sheer strength, and that as the match wore on Superman’s advantage would grow. With a sudden burst of offense Batman backed Superman into a corner and they rested against each other for a moment before Bruce backed away again. Another clean break.
“Hey!” yelled Luthor, and Superman turned just in time to catch the kendo stick that Luthor had tossed into the cage. “Go get ‘im,” said Luthor with a feral grin.
Superman took the kendo stick and snapped it across his knee into splinters and tossed it aside with casual contempt. The audience howled with delight, but their howls shifted cadance into a very different emotion as the Injustice League came down the ramp to surround the cage, circling like sharks.
Both Batman and Superman continued to fight, one eye on the villains surrounding them. Batman was slowly but surely growing more tired than Superman. Superman did two suplexes and then attempted a pin, but Batman kicked out. Then Batman pulled off a beautiful arm drag into a pin, but Superman kicked out. With every near fall Clark could hear the audience excitement rise a notch. They were getting really hot now.
“Batman!”
The Dark Knight turned as Luthor tossed another kendo stick into the ring and caught it out of the air. For a long moment he held it there between himself and Superman, glaring at him. The crowd noise rose. And rose. Clark could feel Bruce waiting until it reached its plateau, and at that precise moment he snapped it over his knee. The crowd screamed as he turned and hurled the pieces at Luthor--not with the disdain Superman had, but with a blind fury that sent the pieces careening into the cage to scatter at random. “Are you insane?” he screamed at Luthor. “I don’t trust him--” He pointed at Superman, and his hand was shaking. “I don’t trust the most noble, good-hearted, kind, and valiant man I know--” Clark blinked hard; Bruce hadn’t told him exactly what he was going to say, and the raw emotion in his voice hit Clark harder than any blow. “If I cannot trust him, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever trust you!”
He turned back to look at Superman, his face filled with grief and pain, and launched himself back at him, his arms swinging wildly, clearly driven to the edge of exhaustion. Superman sidestepped and pulled him down into a headlock, feeling Bruce’s sides heaving like sobs. It had been twenty minutes now and they were both reaching the end of their endurance.
The crowd noise peaked; the Justice League were on their way to the ring to brawl and chase off Luthor’s villains. Clark took the opportunity to rest against Bruce, feeling his body shaking against him. “Bruce,” he whispered without moving his lips. “Are you okay?”
Bruce’s eyes were unfocused, his breathing shallow. He was lost in his character, and Clark felt something like awe touch him in that moment. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as the heels fled to thunderous applause, as the heroes stood outside the cage, guarding it.
Bruce made a sobbing noise, but then he rested his head against Clark’s for a fleeting moment. “Never,” he whispered back.
And then it was time to go again. They hadn’t discussed this, it was all improv melodrama, but Clark knew where it had to go. “Why?” he yelled, feeling Bruce’s heart hammering against him. “Why won’t you trust me?”
“I can’t!” Batman screamed, and threw off the headlock, staggering to his feet. He came at Clark again, his arms tracing roundhouse blows that Superman dodged by the narrowest of margins as Clark read Bruce’s body, their twinned exhaustion making everything seem distant and far away. Superman climbed the turnbuckle, preparing for his finishing hurricanrana--and Batman dropkicked him. Clark caught a glimpse of Bruce’s eyes, bright with adrenaline and exhaustion, and realized at the last second that Bruce had overshot. He pulled back, but Bruce’s feet connected solidly with his chest and sent him tumbling off the turnbuckle and into the cage with more force than he had intended.
He felt the links come up hard against his forehead, and then the floor was knocking the wind out of him. He staggered to his feet, hearing a ripple of reaction radiate out through the crowd, and resisted the impulse to wipe at his forehead. Shame to waste it, he thought as he felt blood trickling down his face, stippling his chest.
Batman glared at him as he climbed into the ring, no chagrin at all on his face. He waited, letting Clark take the lead and decide what to do with this sudden crimson addition to the story.
Superman put his chin up, letting the blood run down his face. Then he slowly raised a hand and wiped off his cheek. Keeping his eyes locked on Batman, he held up his hand, smeared with scarlet. “You asked if I bleed,” he said. “And I do. I’ll bleed for you. For our friendship. For my brother. If you trust me.”
For a second, Clark saw Bruce’s throat work. The audience was still, watching.
“I can’t,” mouthed Batman, and the crowd--sighed.
Batman staggered forward, clearly on his last legs, and the fight began anew.
The end was a wild, desperate scramble, devoid of any artistry. Just two men struggling to stay standing, powered by nothing but will and determination. Superman caught up Batman’s head in a running bulldog, dropping him onto the mat, and for a long moment they both stayed down. Clark could feel his hair dripping, the sweat mixing with his blood, his breath coming hard as he staggered to his feet, propping his back against the turnbuckle.
In the middle of the ring, Batman pulled himself slowly to his feet and stood, swaying. He tried to take a step--and his knees almost gave out. He was clearly almost unable to move, staying on his feet only through sheer power of will. His chin dropped to his chest. Then he raised his head and looked at Superman for a long moment. “Go on,” he said into the nearly-silent arena. “Do it.”
Clark looked at him. This had always been where this match had been going, even though they had never discussed the specifics. They hadn’t needed to. It was the only possible ending. “I’m sorry,” said Superman.
“I love you,” said Clark.
And then he gathered himself up and leaped forward to deliver his flying finishing punch at Batman.
Batman toppled over, eyes closed, going limp as he crashed to the mat. The crowd seemed to all take one great whooping breath together, and then they all started screaming as the ref made the count.
Clark put his head down on Bruce’s chest, hearing his heart pounding. Neither of them said anything. Neither of them had to.
Match of the year.
Superman finally staggered to his feet as the cage was lifted. The Justice League came in and stood around him, patting him on the back, speaking to him. Flash had off one of his gloves and was wiping the blood from Superman’s face. Clark knew there were tears running down his cheeks, and he didn’t care. He struggled for breath, and caught a glimpse of Luthor’s face outside the ring, shaking his head, his eyes filled with grudging admiration.
And then he felt the other members of the League stiffen and murmur, and knew that behind him, Batman was getting to his feet.
Superman turned to look at Batman, who stood in silence. Finally, Superman stepped forward, his hand out, his face hopeful but wary. Pleading.
The crowd murmured, waiting.
Batman’s fists clenched. Then, with what had to be his last shreds of strength, he kicked Superman’s outstretched hand away with a sharp, vicious movement. Clark heard a groan of disappointment ripple through the arena.
And he heard it transmute into delight as Batman staggered forward and threw his arms around him.
They stood for a long moment, letting the audience’s benediction touch them. Then Batman stepped back and nodded once. He started to leave the ring, and his knees buckled; Superman started forward as if he couldn’t help himself, then checked himself with an effort and let Batman steady himself on the ropes.
Everyone watched as he made his way up the ramp, and the wondering joy of the crowd slowly rose into applause and cheers that followed him out of the arena.
“We’re the top story on all the major web pages,” Clark said, shifting so the ice would touch a different aching part of his body.
“Of course we are,” said Bruce, not looking up from his phone.
“Poor Corbin. New champ and no one’s talking about him.”
“Sucks to be him,” Bruce said blithely. “We should have been the main event.”
“You’re going to be bitter about that forever, aren’t you?”
“Damn straight. At least until--” Bruce stopped talking abruptly, staring at his phone. There was a flurry of quick finger motions as he sat forward, silent.
“What?” said Clark, but Bruce ignored him.
“Wait,” he said, half to Clark and half to himself. “If I… And then…” A slow smile started to spread across his face. Well,” he said. “Just what I needed to make tonight perfect.”
”What?” said Clark.
Bruce stood up and tossed the phone onto the bed, then grabbed Clark by the hand and dragged him up into something that was half dance and half hug, ignoring Clark’s groaned protests.
“Clark,” he said, throwing his arms out, “I just made the final deal. All the pieces are in place.”
Tomorrow night, you and I are taking over the DCW.”