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Title: The Wind At Midnight
Rating: PG-13 overall, I think.
Characters/Pairings: Bruce/Clark. Bruce, Clark, Alfred, Lucius, Dick, Luthor 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: Damage reports, and a saviour?
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. Conceit inspired by James Blish's 'Cities in Flight'. Rest is mine.
The Wind At Midnight
Part XII
They fell through the air, almost drifting, the silence that wrapped around them broken only by the crumble and splash as debris continued to fall from the City's flanks into the surf. No ships were firing, no beams hissing. There was nothing, save the ruin of Gotham, and Clark felt the fine, delicate tremors as Bruce shook in his arms. He pulled him close, held him as gently as he could, and tried not to feel the blue fire of the man's eyes against his cheek.
They passed a Luthoran boat, passed right over its spine, its cockpit. Inside, the pilot was staring blankly out through the Glass, his mouth open, his eyes dull, and Clark realised distantly that they hadn't expected it. Even Luthor's forces hadn't known, hadn't understood the destructive power that hovered at their backs. These missiles ... there had been nothing like them, no force of war, of raw death to match them. He felt an instant of vertigo, felt the future spiralling away into the maelstrom of Luthor's dark intent, a foreboding so deep and terrible that it froze his spine.
What wars would come, now? Who stood to die for offending the exiled Lord? Atlantis? New York? London?
Earth?
And then she loomed above them. The Black Lady, shuddering and wounded. Gotham. He flew in close, letting the touch of Bruce's hands direct him, and drifted through the hollow silence over her shaking sides. Around her, curling underneath to survey the stricken parts of her. His eyes followed Bruce's as they traced the damage through the veiling shadows, as they picked out the great rents torn into her. Steam hissed and swarmed around them, escaping directionless from damaged vents, the broken ends extruding from the glistening rock beneath them in helpless desperation. She was disabled, it was obvious. Even without the damage to the Ramparts, even without the precious silver lost and raining as so much useless debris into the sea and sand, Gotham could not fly again. Not like this. She would flounder, helpless and lost, unable to steer herself.
The Black Lady had not fallen. But she was grounded, and completely at Luthor's mercy.
"There," Bruce said hoarsely, pointing upwards to the Ramparts, past the dull shine of exposed silver, to the entrance to one of the boat hangars. Clark nodded silently, still stunned, still afraid. He said nothing, flying straight towards the gap, all his focus on getting his Lord home. To whatever was left of it.
The hangar was deserted as they flew inside. Deserted, except for the bodies. Dome workers, servicemen. Caught as the fire-flowers took the ground from beneath their feet, the walls from over their heads. No sign of wounded. Maybe there had been none. They were close enough to one of the impacts ... Clark shook his head, trying not to wonder, trying not to see, and drifted to a halt as Bruce clenched his fists in Clark's uniform. He settled them down, picking his spot amongst the debris, and gently let go of Bruce.
Freed, the Nightlord stood for a moment on the tilting floor, staring out at the destruction. At the bodies of his people, the wounds of his City. He was shaking, silently, as Clark watched him, his face a frozen mask of fury and grim determination. The warm light of morning filtered around them, pooled gently among the fallen, and Bruce's eyes shone fierce and desolate from the shadows it traced over his face. He stood for a moment as if grieving, as if honouring his fallen. And then he straightened.
Clark met his eyes as Bruce turned to him, met the icy intent in them, and nodded silently. Bruce held his gaze for a moment, some warmth struggling to the surface of him, a yearning that Clark leant instinctively forward to answer. But it slipped away, and Bruce was once again the Nightlord, wounded and angry.
"This way," he said brusquely, turning away, and there was nothing Clark could do save follow him.
They scrambled up the slight tilt to floor of the hangar, feet skidding in the dust and debris, making their way around the bodies. Clark tried not to look at them, but he couldn't help it. So young, many of them. He found himself saluting them as he passed, the old gesture, an instinctive offering of respect. Once, it almost caused him to slip, sending him skittering into Bruce as he struggled not to fall to his knees, and the Nightlord caught him by the shoulder to pull him up, something strange in his eyes. Clark shrugged sheepishly, his own emotions still storming so clearly in his face, and followed again as Bruce kept going. It occurred to him, half way up the hangar, that he could have simply kept flying, saved both of them all this trouble, but somehow that seemed ... wrong. To take it easy, when all around them had died so uselessly ... He kept his feet resolutely on the ground, and fought it through the old fashioned way.
The silence of the dead hangar fled as they passed through into the thoroughfare, heading into the Ramparts proper. It was slow in coming, the noise, but it grew with every step they took, swelling into a dull roar from somewhere beyond the walls that surrounded them. And then, far sooner than Clark would have expected, Bruce led him past the silver core, and the corridors opened up around them, swarming with people.
It was different, Clark realised dazedly. It wasn't a Rampart like those he knew. The silver skin was no more than that, a pretty extra despite its essentiality, and inside activity swirled around huge Dome Engines, and vast ribbed contrivances that he had never seen before. The sails, he remembered. Gotham had sails.
But more than that, it was the people that caught his eye. He and the Nightlord had fallen out into a river of them, flowing from the outer skin in towards the City itself, milling and frantic. There were wounded here, alright, propped into niches along the corridors or carried along by their fellows, their sick cries blending into the wall of noise that surrounded them. There were alarms blaring, somewhere, and the constant hiss of steam, and the panicked babble. For a second, it was too much, overwhelming, and Clark lost his way in the press, dizzy and almost afraid.
Then Bruce caught his arm as he turned, and pulled him close, raising his voice in a booming cry that cut through the surrounding din. "Silence!" he roared, and after a moment shocked stillness bloomed in a circle around him as people turned to see who was shouting at them. A momentary silence, and then ...
"Lord Wayne!"
"It's Lord Wayne!
Clark stood dazed in the center of a widening circle, listening as the mutter spread around them, voices whispering in awed realisation, relief, excitement. Lord Wayne. Lord Wayne's back! He escaped! That'll teach the bloody bastards! Lord Wayne ...
Clark looked at Bruce, trying to see his face, his expression as he stared out at the sea of his people, at their palpable relief at his presence. But the Nightlord only looked calmly out at them, waiting patiently for them to subside, waiting to speak. "I need to know the nearest operable rail line to the City Bridge," he called when they stilled, straight to business, the urgency practically humming through him. No mention of his absence, no words to soothe them after the attack. Just raw efficiency, brusque command. And to Clark's surprise, they responded. Instantly. The crowd parted, melted around the lines carrying the wounded to medical stations, and a path clear for their Lord to follow.
"Third mono off the East Rampart's still running, sir," said a Dome Engineer off to their right, dipping his head respectfully. Bruce nodded his thanks, already moving. Clark hesitated a second, conscious that they were watching him, noting the Metropolis uniform he wore, but no-one moved to touch him. He looked around, confused, and saw Bruce, standing poised to move, watching him, waiting impatiently. There was no animosity whatsoever in the Nightlord's face, only calm expectance, and Clark realised that was what stayed their hands. Their Lord trusted him. Even if his people had just nearly sent them into the sea, slaughtered their brothers, that was enough for them. They let him pass.
He stepped slowly up to Bruce, feeling their eyes follow him, the suspicion of them, but Bruce was waiting, his eyes holding Clark's, his hand reaching out for him, to pull him forward. Clark took it, feeling the warmth of it, feeling the compassion in those harried blue eyes. He smiled, once, shyly, and saw Bruce smile back for the barest of seconds.
And then they were running.
People cleared the path ahead of them, the word already spreading through the Ramparts. Bruce ignored it, ignored the whispers that followed them, all his focus on what lay ahead. On his City, and his duty to save her. His urgency spilled over into those around them, into Clark as he followed behind, and it felt as if the itch between his shoulder blades was Luthor's dark gaze on his back, the great battlecruiser out beyond these walls readying the final salvo. He felt Bruce speed up, heard his harsh rasps of breath through the surrounding noise, and without even consciously deciding it he was in the air. He caught Bruce up as he swept forward, ducking low beneath the steel beams that crisscrossed the ceilings as they ran. The Nightlord didn't even bother to be surprised, only turned himself awkwardly to call hoarse directions in Clark's ear, his need and his trust equal and desperate. Clark held him close and obeyed.
They burst clear of the Ramparts in minutes, arching out into the City airspace beyond, and Clark tumbled through the air before he could pull up, surprised again by the speed of it. Not his City. He wasn't comfortable enough with Gotham. But Bruce didn't seem to mind, pointing off to one side, to the steel path of a monorail curving out from the Ramparts behind them, stretching forward into the City. Clark didn't bother landing, didn't bother trying to board the train. He just held tight to the man in his arms, and flew down over the line, following it into the heart of Gotham.
He could feel her around them as they flew, her towers filled with panicked people, her rails and airways buzzing with emergency servicemen. The mono dove almost to her base, down beneath the auspices of her buildings, curving through the higher towers at her center to the looming height of the Wayne Tower, the Bat emblem still flying proud at its summit. The City Bridge. Clark watched it as its shadow fell over them, and tried not to feel as if the blind eyes of its windows were accusing him.
"Up," Bruce said quietly. "Sail hangar on the thirtieth floor." Clark nodded silently, climbing already. The building rushed past beside them, expectantly, and Clark wondered what was waiting for them inside. But there was no time to hesitate, nothing left to fear except what lay behind them, and he carried them both to the landing without a word.
An old man stood waiting for them, standing silent and watchful in a severe black suit, only the muted gleam of silver at his high collar to marr the sobriety of him.
Bruce paused when he saw him, staggering a little as Clark let him gently down, one arm still wrapped around Clark's shoulders. The elderly gentleman said nothing, moving forward without a sound, reaching out gently to touch the Nightlord's shoulder. Clark felt a tiny tremor pass through the man at his side, enough that he almost moved to block the older man, but then Bruce was reaching out, reaching to grasp the man's hand firmly, stepping forward into his embrace for the smallest moment. Then he stepped back, his flank warm against Clark's side, and shook his head.
"Alfred," he said, softly, and Clark wondered at the shaking warmth of it.
"It's good to see you back among us, sir," Alfred replied, quietly. Almost inflectionless. But there was a softness in his eyes, a relief that let Clark understand that, like Tim, this Alfred was someone Bruce loved. Then he blinked in surprise, as the man turned to face him. "And you, Master Kent." He inclined his head gracefully in Clark's direction, a gesture of such quiet dignity that Clark bowed back instinctively, and smiled warmly at him. "I must thank you for bringing Bruce here back in more or less one piece. That is not an easy thing to accomplish, and we're grateful."
"Ah, you're welcome?" Clark managed, and felt warmth flash through him when the anxious lines of Bruce's face softened for a moment in gentle amusement. "Sir?"
"Alfred," the man corrected, gently. "A simple Alfred will do nicely, sir."
"Alfred," Clark repeated, bemused. But Bruce was moving, walking past Alfred into the building proper, and Clark's feet had started to follow him before he knew it, the habits of the last day already deeply ingrained. Alfred smiled sadly at him as he passed, turning to follow them both with a silent, graceful stride. It reminded Clark a little of Cassandra, the bodyguard, and he wondered if everyone in this City was as ready for violence as those who surrounded her Lord.
"What's happening?" Bruce asked quietly, striding confidently towards some destination of his own inside the City Bridge. Clark watched that confidence, stricken by it. In the unfamiliar surroundings of Metropolis, Bruce had been commanding enough. Here, in his own City ... he truly was Lord, here. It almost made Clark fear. In Metropolis, he had had something to offer, some expertise. What could he offer the Lord of Gotham in his own City? Then Alfred answered, behind him, and Clark shoved all such concerns aside. They had far bigger problems.
"Luthor has been demanding our immediate surrender, sir. With frequent hints as to the consequences should we refuse. To be frank, I believe he is taking the opportunity to gloat, at some length." Clark winced, anger rising again in his own chest. "Master Dick has been playing rather masterfully to that, to buy time for Master Tim to finish bringing his boats in." His voice softened, became sad and quiet. "Not that he needs too much time for that, now," he finished softly, and they all knew exactly what he meant. There weren't too many boats left for the young air commander to bring in.
Bruce stopped outside a large set of doors, plain and functional, his head bowed as he paused to rest his hand lightly on the handle. He didn't open it, didn't turn around. "No," he said, very quietly, and Clark flinched from the sound of it, his hand pausing where he had been reaching out to touch the man's shoulder. But he didn't fear Bruce, was never going to, and his hand found its own way to rest gently on the curve of the dark cloak, his thumb rubbing soothingly at the back of Bruce's neck, and couldn't help but smile when the man tipped his head back into the touch. Bruce turned to look at him, gratitude warring with the cool determination in his eyes, and smiled as he turned back to open the door.
The first thing they saw, looking in, was Luthor. His face filled the for'ard Glass, exactly as Clark had imagined him outside, his features moulded into patrician sadness, and his eyes glittering with the madness that floated beneath. In front of him, standing firm beneath that insane stare, was a young man Clark had never seen before, a man in the uniform of a Commander. And though his head was bowed as if in surrender, there was a angry edge to the taut line of his shoulders that denied the seeming subservience.
"I would advise leaving Master Dick the floor for the moment, sir," Alfred advised softly, appearing at Bruce's side, though Clark could swear he had never heard him move. "We've got the terminal to the Clocktower running the connection down to Lucius in the Engine Room. Miss Barbara will put you through."
Bruce nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the young man, but he made no move to interrupt. Instead, he turned left, skirting cautiously around the edge of the room, that same instinct for invisibility that Clark had seen in Metropolis coming again to the fore. He did his best to follow, and since Luthor didn't shout after them, he assumed he'd gotten away with it. And as they moved into the blindspot of the Glass, into the Commander's peripheral vision, he saw a flicker of connection, of recognition between him and Bruce. He might have imagined it, but he thought the tension ebbed a little in those taut shoulders.
The radioGlass to the Engine Room showed what looked for all the world like a vision of Hell. Steam billowed around the lower terminal, with men in bulky black suits rushing through it in blurred shadows in the background. Bruce tapped a signal into his end, frowning heavily as he surveyed the damage, and a man nearing Alfred's age appeared in front of the Glass, the heavy lines of his face seamed into a frown of concentration. That frown slipped for a second as he saw who he was speaking to, and a smile broke free.
"Bruce!" the man rumbled, his voice soft and round and a little cracked. "Back in the land of the living, I see!"
"Evidently," the Nightlord replied, wryly, and Clark saw again the ease with which he connected with these people. This was Bruce's City, to his core. "What's the situation down there, Lucius?"
And just like that, the frown was back. "We're sitting ducks, I'm afraid," the Enginelord said, shaking his head. "Three of our upper vents were torn apart, and two of the lower steering vents are currently up to their necks in sand and seawater. The Engines are vastly overheated. I've got Victor up inside the cooling systems, trying to keep her under control. No. I'm afraid we're not going to be moving any time soon, Bruce. We're stuck waiting for that little monster to fire, unless you've got an idea up your sleeve that you're not telling us about?"
Bruce shook his head gruffly. "Working on it. What about the lance? Can she fire?" Clark looked at him oddly, at that, but Lucius was already shaking his head.
"She's a space weapon, Bruce, like everything else we have. We fire her down here, she'll vaporise the Atlantic within a ten mile radius of the beam, and quite possibly punch a hole up through the atmosphere while she's at it." His expression was grave and sad. "I don't think we want to be firing something like that, not with his paranoid highness out there."
"No," Bruce agreed, softly. "No."
"So then what?" Clark asked, frowning as Bruce turned to look at him. "You're helpless?" The Nightlord shook his head, a bitter smile flitting over his features, as Luthor's voice continued to taunt them in the background.
"Unless we want to destroy this entire section of the planet ..." he said, and looked away again. "Yes. We are." And Clark had no idea what he was meant to say, what he was meant to do. He was standing in a doomed City, looking at her helpless Lord, a man he cared about with a depth and ferocity that frightened him, and he had no idea what to say.
And then it seemed no-one else did either, because silence fell over the Bridge so suddenly that Clark could feel his ears ringing with it, and he realised that Luthor had stopped talking, cutting himself off mid-sentance with no warning whatsoever. All eyes turned to the Glass, Bruce beside him stepping forward to frown as his eyes searched the man's face, but all of Luthor's attention was behind him, at his own bridge, and then a yell went up from the radarbanks, and they realised why.
"It's a City, sir!" a radarsman shouted up to the Commander, not having seen Bruce come in. "Coming in behind Luthor. It looks like ... I could swear it's Metropolis!" Clark started. Metropolis. His City ... He turned to Bruce, spinning on his heel, his eyes wide and excited. Bruce looked back at him, suspicion lingering in his eyes, but Clark didn't care. He knew, he knew ...
And then he heard it. The most beautiful sound in the world, stretching out across the ether to reach every radioGlass in range, echoing through Gotham's and Luthor's bridges alike.
"This is Lois Lane, Lord of Metropolis!" her voice rang out over the airwaves, stern and commanding, and Clark felt such a thrill of pride and hope that he almost lifted off the floor. Even Bruce, grim and suspicious beside him, couldn't help the smile that flitted onto his features. "I repeat, this is Lord Lois Lane, commanding all Metropolite forces to stand down! Immediately! Any Metropolite ship continuing this illegal attack on the City of Gotham will face immediate exile, and will henceforth be banned from every returning to Metropolis!"
Luthor leapt to his feet on the other bridge, fury shattering his controlled mask in an instant, drawing the stunned attention of everyone on either bridge. He stabbed his fingers at his own Glass, his voice a twisted growl of rage as it speared through the ether in response. "Woman!" he spat. "Traitor! What right have you ... how dare you ..." He didn't seem to be very coherent, Clark noted wryly. Which Lois immediately capitalised on with her usual aplomb.
"I dare, Mr Luthor," she answered coldly, "because your illegal actions have put the City of Metropolis at too great a risk to ignore, let alone forgive! You have brought us to the brink of destruction, challenged every major power on the planet, and for what? A grudge? No, Luthor, you are not fit to lead a City. And you shall not!"
"Now that's telling him," the young Commander noted, a smirk curling over features that had abandoned their pretended defeat entirely. Bruce flicked a glance in his direction, pride and warning in his eyes, but it was too late. Luthor had already been driven past tolerance, past madness.
The ex-Lord of Metropolis stilled, his features freezing for a long moment, the hatred flashing in his eyes the only animated part of him. And then, he smiled. Slowly, quietly. Bruce leapt forward, his mouth shaping a warning, as they saw Luthor's hand move over the controls ...
The battlecruiser visible in the LongGlass view in a corner of the Glass shuddered, and Clark gasped as he understood, as he saw. The ports flared along her, ready, waiting ... She was ready to fire again.
And there was nowhere for Gotham to go to evade her.
Part XIII: http://icarus-chained.livejournal.com/44478.html#cutid1
