Steampunk III

[icarus_chained]

I have window, I post! Also, having just finished chpt 5, I have to upwardly revise the number of chapters this is going to take. *sigh* I can never tell when I start how long a thing is going to be. I should stop trying. Currently, I'm guessing between 8 and 10, and hoping it's the lower of the two. Anyway!

Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Will be Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, Arthur, Cass this chapter.
Summary: Almost a quarter of a century ago, the cities of Earth were torn from the earth by some mystic upheaval and set flying, before threatening to fall back. To prevent the incredible loss of life if they fell, structures known as Ramparts were rapidly constructed, containing the material apparently most susceptible to the new mystical gravities of earth: silver. A new world order was built, as the deserts created on the surface during the Upheaval denied cultivation, based on Cities and flightpaths and park-grown food, a world in tentative political and physical balance. And now that balance is threatened. 
Chapter summary: Clark has to retrieve a cloak. Slight problem? It's in rather unfriendly territory. And once he has, Lord Wayne poses yet another problem.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.

The Wind At Midnight

Part III

 

 

Clark took a handsail down to the Atlantis Tower, settling his feet firmly on the runnerboard and letting the wind in his face calm him until he could think things through. Flying always did that to him, and like this, so free and easy, was the best of all. Up here, there was only him, the movement of the sail under his hands, and the rising wind to carry him where he needed to go. It had been that way every since he had made his first handsail out of the illegally modified lightsail of a cargosailer. He was born to the skies, and sometimes it seemed as if he weighed nothing at all in the air, performing the kinds of manouvers with a handsail that only kids half his size could manage. It had been what had gotten him where he was, that gift for the skies.

It had been what had ultimately brought him to this pretty pass, too.

The Atlantis Tower still stood over the sea, stern and accusing in the fading light. It took him nearly an hour to reach her, with the lesser power of the handsail. Metropolis had moved on from the site, west over the Louisianite Desert, following the path of the sun at a slower pace than normal, but still tied to the daylight paths. Given what Luthor had just done, they could hardly afford to allow the night to catch up to them, and plant them firmly inside Nightside territory. Gotham, on the other hand, had stayed put. He could see her, drifting in the distance over the Atlantic, waiting to slip back into the twilight. He almost felt like she was glaring at him, and under the circumstances could hardly blame her.

He helped steal her Lord, after all.

There was a clamour on the Tower as he swept down onto the west boat platform, as their skyward Longlasses picked up his uniform. After Luthor's little display, and with Gotham standing by, Metropolites were probably not very welcome at the minute. And sure enough, not two minutes after the runningboard had touched the platform, a familiar figure burst through the Tower doors and strode angrily towards him.

Arthur, King of Atlantis, was not happy. His eyes swept over Clark's face, registered him as no less than one of the original landing party, and his features settled themselves into hard, stony lines. He made no effort at all to nod in greeting. "Commander!" he barked, and it was not a welcoming tone.

Clark bowed low, his own expression one of rueful acceptance. "Your Majesty."

The Sea King stared at him, his voice low and dangerous. "You had better have a very good reason for returning here, Metropolite," he warned, and Clark shrugged uneasily.

"Ah, yes," he began, and wondered how to phrase his request. There was probably a very clever, very diplomatic way to do this. But, looking at the angry lines over the Sea King's eyes, and remembering the odd smile on Lord Wayne's battered face, suddenly honesty seemed the best policy. After Luthor's treachery, to treat these people with anything else seemed repugnant.

"And it is ...?" There was no patience in the question.

Clark squared his shoulders and met the King's eyes honestly. "Lord Wayne sent me to fetch his cloak," he said simply.

Arthur stared at him. Clark stared back, face clear and devoid of deceit. The Sea King raised an incredulous eyebrow, but Clark's composure never broke. That was the request he had come here to make, the only request, and it was now up to the other man how he chose to respond to it.

"Lord ... Wayne ... sent you?" the Atlantean finally asked, in obvious disbelief. Clark smiled sheepishly.

"Well, not exactly," he admitted. "He didn't ask me to come here, specifically. But he did ask for the cloak, and since it wasn't with the rescue ... with the boat, I thought you might have found it. So I came to ask."

Arthur just looked at him. "Are you a spy, or an idiot," he wondered, and Clark stiffened in affront.

"Neither, I should hope!" he answered stiffly. "Look. It was Lord Wayne's only request, and Luth ... and no-one else seemed inclined to fulfil it, alright?"

The Sea King studied him for a moment longer, frowning, before turning away with a hard smile to start walking towards the doors to the rest of the Tower. "Then come with me," he called back, over his shoulder, and he seemed almost to be saying 'if you dare'. Clark blinked, then followed with a wry shake of his head. He didn't appear to be making any friends.

He followed the King through halls and stairwells filled with bustling activity, and looked around him with interest and a little awe. The stateroom they had used last time had been purposefully decorated to impress, but even in functionality, Atlantean aesthetics soothed and excited by turns, calling on all the myriad faces of the sea. But her people, here and now, were grim and ready for something, moving with purpose and noting his uniform with hostility. Clark winced internally, and wondered how great an enemy Luthor had just made them. But the potential for Atlantean hostility slipped from his mind as their King led him into a room with only a single occupant, and Clark stared at her in dismay.

Lord Wayne's bodyguard, an injured Cassandra Cain, stared back.

She was in not nearly so bad a condition as her Lord, but Clark flinched from the prominent bruise on one delicate cheekbone, from the slight limp that marred the fluid movement he remembered. She was so young, too. And as he looked at her, he couldn't help but remember the terrifying roar as the boat's aft exploded, the sickening lurch as the only thing that had stood between this young woman and death had slewed around her and fallen burning into the sea. His hands shook. This girl, looking into his eyes, had almost been killed by his Lord.

Her eyes flickered to the stern figure of the Sea King, standing at his shoulder with a dour expression. "Majesty?" she asked, her voice oddly stilted, and Arthur shrugged.

"He claims your Lord sent him," he said, the suspicion ripe in his voice. "Something about a cloak?"

Clark spread his hands helplessly as she looked back at him. "He did ask for it," he tried to explain, and her eyes narrowed on him. He shifted uneasily beneath her gaze, and tried to keep his eyes from that accusing bruise on her cheek, eventually settling on watching his own shuffling feet.

Then, after a moment, she moved, slipping away through the room and into a closet, her stride still graceful despite the marring injury. She reappeared a second later, a length of midnight blue material folded in her arms. Both men stared at her, and she shrugged easily.

"Good man," she explained to the incredulous Sea King, and turned to smile gently at Clark. "Trust him, yes?"

"How can you be sure?" Arthur growled harshly. She ignored his angry stance with more aplomb than Clark could have mustered, and came over to press the cloak gently into his hesitant hands. Clark looked down at her in guilty confusion, and shook his head. Her smile broadened.

"Kind eyes," she murmured, tracing one small hand over his cheek. He flinched in shock, and her smile turned a little sad. "Bruce trust you, yes? You do not fail him." It was half injunction and half assurance, and Clark found himself awed by her calm trust. He felt a sudden need to protect her, this small, deadly young woman, and reached up to take her hand gently. She did not flinch from him, though his uniform gave her definite reason for distrust, and left her hand nestled in his larger one.

"I won't," he promised, a little hoarsely, and she nodded as if this was what she had expected all along, before turning to the Sea King.

"He must leave before boat comes," she said quietly. "Brothers not so understanding."

"Maybe they've reason for that," Arthur observed, but the vehemence had left his tone. Cassandra shook her head with a small smile.

"Bruce need him," she answered, with absolute certainty, and he shrugged.

"Come on, then," he muttered gruffly, and jerked his head to indicate that Clark precede him through the door. With one last gentle squeeze to reassure her that he would at least try to live up to her faith in him, Clark obeyed. Her eyes crinkled at him as he left, lifting the bruise to greater prominence even as her smile denied it's existance, and inside him determination settled over his heart. He wouldn't fail her. He had done it once, in failing to stop his Lord from trying to kill her. He would not do so again.

Back on the summit, the Sea King eyed him curiously as he stowed the cloak in the small storage case on the back of the handsail, and as he straightened Arthur suddenly held out a hand. Clark froze, looking at him, and the Atlantean shrugged uneasily.

"My confidence in Metropolite honour has dipped drastically recently," the Sea King explained harshly, then took a breath to calm himself. "But ... this is an honourable thing to do. You've helped restore my faith, a little." Clark blinked at him in surprise, then took his hand with a smile of gratitude. His heart lifted at the words.

"I'm glad to have done so, your Majesty," he replied, softly and sincerely. Metropolis did not deserve the disdain Luthor had brought on her.

"But!" Arthur warned suddenly. "Note this. If that man dies, having trusted us to keep him safe at least here, where he was taken ..." He paused, and his eyes glittered with fury. When he started again, his tone held dire warning. "If he dies, Metropolis and her traitorous Lord will know the full extent of Atlantean fury, I promise you. If Wayne dies, there will be nowhere on this planet Luthor can run. Not from me. Do you understand!"

"I ... I understand," Clark said quietly. The King of Atlantis smiled harshly at him.

"You tell him that, if you can," he instructed. "Tell Luthor who's coming for him. Atlantis will not stand to be betrayed." And with those parting words, he turned and strode away, his green cloak flapping in the wind, his back stiff with fury. Clark stared after him, his heart filled with sudden dread, and a new determination as he lifted off once more.

He had to save Wayne. Or Metropolis herself would pay the price for Luthor's foolishness.

---

 

It took him a little work to get in to see Wayne, but for once Luthor's obsession with order and respect proved useful, and his status as Commander soon persuaded the guards around the guest suite prison to let him through. He paused for a minute to take a deep breath before entering, the cloak tucked securely under his arm, and then opened the door with a knock to warn its occupant.

He stopped just inside the door too. But that was in pure dismay.

Lord Wayne stood slowly from where he had been resting against the far wall, and paced cautiously towards Clark as far as the chains around his wrists would allow. Those were a new fixture, Clark noted absently, and looked so out of place in the opulent furnishings of the suite. But he was preoccupied with the way the man winced and brought one hand to the bandages at his chest as he stood, with what Clark swore was a fresh bruise on one cheek, with the way his lip was split where it hadn't been before. Though the blue eyes were still alive and humourous in the battered face, and the mouth still curved slightly around the bruises at his obvious dismay, Clark still flinched from the mistreatment the man had so clearly suffered. And would continue to suffer, unless something was done.

"Commander Kent," Wayne noted wryly, the humour warm in his tone. "That was a very polite entrance, under the circumstances."

Clark flinched, his head automatically turning a little back towards the door. "Was it?" he managed, and then cursed himself for the foolishness of it. It was obvious the man's other 'visitors' had not been nearly so polite.

"It was," Wayne assured, his smile widening, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "And to what do I owe the pleasure, Commander, of so polite a visit?"

Clark looked down at his feet, the rueful humour of the man only shaming him more, in the face of all that he had allowed to happen to him. With rough movements, he tugged the cloak from under his arm, and held it out in mute appeal and explanation. It suddenly seemed such a paltry gesture.

"You asked for this," he muttered, not meeting the other's eyes as he moved forward to hand it to him. Wayne paused for a minute, before reaching out to lay hands covered in cuts gently over the material. But he didn't take it, and Clark looked up in surprise, to meet the curious gaze of intelligent blue eyes. He froze.

"I did indeed," Wayne said, slowly, consideringly. "And you decided to do as I asked, Commander?" Clark shrugged uneasily.

"I thought ..." He stopped, then decided he might as well finish. "It seemed as if you were asking me, my Lord." Wayne's lips flitted into a brief, delighted smile.

"Did it?" he mused. "I must have been, then. You strike me as a perceptive man, Commander." And he took the weight of the cloak from Clark's unprotesting hands, allowing him to back away from that weighing gaze with relief. "I do hope I didn't put you to any trouble?"

"None at all," Clark answered hurriedly, thinking of the ease of the flight, and how much he would prefer to do it all over again rather than be here this moment. And as he thought of that, something else came to mind. "Oh, and your bodyguard, Cassandra?" Wayne frowned, and nodded. "She's alright, and being well taken care of."

"She's here?" Wayne asked sharply, and Clark hurriedly shook his head as he realised what that sounded like.

"No, no!" he assured, dipping his head. "She was at the Atlantis Tower. The Sea King's salvage crews found her. He had arranged for a boat to come from Gotham to pick her up. I think it was leaving your City just as I pulled away from the Tower."

There was silence for a long minute, until Clark was prompted by it to look up again, and found Wayne staring at him in amazement. He frowned, and Wayne shook his head slightly in disbelief. "You ... went to the Tower, to get me this?" Gotham's Lord asked finally, warmly incredulous. "And considered it no trouble? None at all?"

Clark blinked, and shrugged sheepishly as he tried to explain. "Well, I asked the pilot, and it wasn't with you when you were re... recovered." Wayne grinned sharply at that little evasion. "So I thought it might be on the Tower, and I needed the flight to think, anyway."

Wayne stared at him, shaking his head in amazement. He said nothing for a minute, and Clark watched him nervously. But before either could say anything, there was a noise from further down the corridor, muffled by the door and the walls, and Wayne looked up sharply with worried, determined eyes. Clark looked at him, then turned to face the door.

"If you're going to use that to escape," he said softly, shifting to a defensive stance. "Now would be a very good time."

"It would indeed," came Wayne's wry voice from behind him. "So if you would like to absent yourself, Commander?" Clark shook his head, and that smooth voice took on a pointed edge. "While I appreciate your assistance, Commander, if you do not leave now you will lose all chance to explain yourself adequately to your Lord."

"I know," Clark answered simply. Wayne drew in a sharp breath.

"Don't be stupid!" he barked harshly. "I asked for the cloak because I can use it to escape, and it is an inoffensive thing to give me. A foolish choice, but not a traitorous one. I never intended to put you in any more danger than that! Leave now, while you have the chance!"

"I can't," Clark answered, calmly, and puzzled at the faint clicking as Wayne fiddled with something hurriedly behind him. "Two promises depend on my helping you, I'm afraid." He blinked as Wayne brushed around him suddenly, the shackles hitting the floor with muffled thumps and the clank of chain behind him.

"Promises," Wayne muttered angrily, drawing the cloak around himself with a wince of pain. "What promises, dammit?"

"I promised your bodyguard I'd help you," he answered, and when Wayne opened his mouth to argue, added: "And my oath to protect Metropolis likewise depends on it."

Wayne paused, glancing warily behind him as the guards began to speak with someone outside the door. He looked back at Clark desperately, met his calm, determined gaze, and sighed in frustration. "You are a very foolish man, Commander," he said at last, moving to the suite window and the balcony beyond. Clark, grinning, followed him.

"Lois says that all the time," he answered, and for a second before he stepped out the window, Wayne's face turned anguished. Startled, Clark hopped through after him, catching up to him as the man pulled a line from the lining of the cloak, clipping one end to his belt, and attaching the other to a curved piece of metal he extracted from the catch. Unfolding a retractable arm from the metal, he used it to secure the line to the balustrade, and stood up. Clark, who had watched this little process with fascination, looked up at him.

"Last chance, Commander," Wayne warned, with repressed frustration. Clark just shook his head with a smile, and held out his hand. Wayne looked at it, huffing lightly, then shook it, just as the door opened in the suite behind him. In the moment it took for whoever it was to realise he was gone, Wayne had seized both of Clark's hands, locked them firmly around his own waist, and swung the pair of them out across the balustrade. As panicked guards raced to the window, he muttered a brief 'hold on', and pushed away, dropping them both out of sight.

The first rush of wind as they fell took Clark as it always did, with a surge of unparalleled delight that not even the gravity of the situation could blunt. His arms locked themselves automatically around the other man's waist, eliciting a slight grunt of pain, and then the usual feeling of drifting took over, the lightness he always felt in the air. Wayne grunted in surprise at something, and then the line pulled taut as the clip on his belt slowed their descent, and the man flexed his legs powerfully to cushion them as they came in against the wall, ignoring the judder as the left one gave a little under the pressure. Clark mimicked him, taking some of the force on his own legs beneath Wayne's, and for a second they simply hung there, listening to the clamour above them.

"Are you alright?" Clark asked into the breathless interval. Wayne paused before replying, and his voice was cautious and wondering when he did.

"Yes," he said slowly. "A little ... curious, is all."

"About what?" Clark asked, curious himself, but just then the guards decided to start shooting down at them, and Wayne pushed off again hurriedly to set them absailing down the wall. "Tell you later!" he yelled back over the reports.

A little way down the wall, there was a sudden sharp tug on the line, and Clark looked up to see someone fiddling with it. Then there was the gleam of metal. He swallowed. "Ah, my Lord? What do we do if they cut the line?"

Wayne looked up sharply. "The line is made from a special material," he answered. "It will be difficult to cut." And since they did not immediately plummit to their deaths, despite the obvious efforts above them, Clark was inclined to believe him. But the repressed worry in the man's tone did nothing to reassure him.

Soon enough, they were out of range of the weapons. But the alarm had been sounded, and out here on the face of the building they were sitting ducks, utterly exposed. It seemed Lord Wayne had already thought of that, however, and when he suddenly pushed them sideways instead of out, Clark looked down to see another balcony beneath and a little to the right of them. As Wayne pushed off and released the line, Clark braced himself for the landing, and caught the other man easily as they hit the floor. Wayne grunted as the pressure disturbed his chest wound, and hurriedly freed himself, casting off the line in the same movement.

And then, for a second, they faced each other on the balcony, the alarm clamouring above them. Clark met Wayne's eyes with frank challenge, and Wayne frowned back heavily, balancing warily on the balls of his feet. But behind that cautious dismay, there was a kind of appreciation in those intelligent eyes, as if Clark fascinated him in some way. It was enough to let Clark hope that his help would be accepted.

And after a minute, sure enough, Wayne relented with a huff of pent breath. He stood straight, and shook his head with a wry smile in Clark's direction. "You are indeed a very foolish man, Commander," he repeated, but this time it was warmer.

"Clark," Clark answered, smiling, and Wayne blinked. "I doubt I'll Commander for much longer." And though the mention of it obviously caused the man some pain, Wayne reached out and shook his hand anyway.

"Bruce, then," he answered. "I'm hardly Lord here. Now. Which way would you recommend, Clark? You see, I'm not too familiar with your fine city."

Clark blinked at him, the gestured towards the window into the building with an ironic little bow and a smile. "Shall we, Bruce?"

Lord Wayne certainly had a handsome laugh.


Part IV: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/26441.html#cutid1