Cat Out of The Bag
“What did you do to him? How that even be possible?”
Clark blurs out, loudly. Without thinking straight, certainly.
Clark could tell the moment his reply left his mouth has turned the conversation in an unpredictable route and now the other party is furiously glaring at him and slowly drawing out his sword. He no longer hides his hostility and aggressiveness, which is no way good.
“So you know.” The stranger’s attention is dangerously narrowed on him.
There’s a tint of green on the edge of his blade. The familiar nauseous threatening rising from his stomach tells Clark this sword is painted with Kryptonite. He can feel the phantom pain before the blade cuts him open.
The dose is not high enough to render Superman useless, but good enough to make him uncomfortable and alerted.
Clark backs down and flies higher in instinct. A grapple gun is shot at Clark at the exact moment and the hook mercilessly latches on to his angle. Clark is yanked and throw back toward the stranger. What is waiting for him is nothing other than the Kryptonite embedded sword.
The sword is not aiming at killing Clark at this very moment but it’s a close call. This gives Clark some leeway to clumsy avoid being cut off some limbs.
This dangerous dance only continues for barely seconds before Clark cuts down the grapple line with his heat vision and fights his way out.
Now Superman is back to float in the middle of air and put some good distance between himself and the other, holding his hand up to show he has no intention of further engage.
He doesn’t want to fight, like at all. Even though the stranger is pissed off by one sentence said wrong from Superman, but he comes here for info that only Superman could provide. He is not getting anywhere if he kills Superman in the process.
Clark knows this as well.
He tries to control the damage.
“I don’t want to fight you. I’m just confused,” says Clark honestly. “It’s just… never mind. I know what I smell, and it is real. I will try my best to understand what’s going on.”
There are artificial alpha and omega scents in the market and some black-market brands are so strong to cover people’s real caste. But the thing about scents is that even the best chemists and biologists couldn’t fake some random person’s scents, even though it’s all broken down into chemicals and pheromones. The ratio is too complicated to make the scents smell right. It’s all about impressions and different people have different interpretations.
There is no way someone could fake an omega scent with undertone of Kryptonian pregnancy… wait.
“He is not an omega.” Clark frowns.
Bruce Wayne is a Beta, though the tabloid whispered he’s supposed to turn out to be an Omega in his twenties, since the Wayne family is an ancient line to breed strong Alphas and Omegas. If Wayne is still in his twenties, he might be a late bloomer for his presentation. But if he went un-presented for his entire teenage years and young adulthood he is not going to present right now. It’s too late to be possible, and it’s not uncommon for pups exposed to extreme conditions when grow up go un-presented for their entire life.
Maybe Clark reads everything wrong, though it couldn’t get any better to involve an unknown omega in this dreadful situation. It’s pretty solid evidence that indicates the other has encountered an omega carrying a possible Kryptonian baby.
But the stranger confirms him, unhappily. “He is not.” He tries to conceal his frustration, but Clark wouldn’t say it’s very successful. “He is fucked up.” There is hatred in these words, part of it directed at Clark.
Clark drifts lower to meet with the other eye to eye.
“Tell me what you know and how to get rid of it.” The stranger squares himself and demands.
“I must see him in person to evaluate the situation.” Clark frowns while explaining. “Kryptonian pregnancy is complicated and could become very different from the regular human one. I need to see him to know which stage he is in. Please bring him to me.”
“Not going to happen.” The stranger counters.
“Then bring me to him.” Clark replies.
The stranger doesn’t fancy this idea either. They are glaring at each other for quite a while and in the meantime, the other must re-evaluate the possibility to torture Superman to get whatever he needs.
Clark is not going to simply hand over any things to unknown and possible hostile party and like he said, Kryptonian pregnancy is complicated and there is no way he could explain it in short time. He is prepared to start round two.
However, one of sudden, the stranger changes his mind. Something happened and upset the stranger, but Clark detects nothing changed from their surroundings. Must from some inbuilt comm in his headpiece and outsiders are feeding him information. Clark picks up some tiny fuzzy noise originated from the other.
So, it’s a team. Clark assumes.
“Fine.” The stranger huffs, sounding more toward his backup than Superman. He turns and leaves. Clark follows. There is a white and shining high-tech vehicle parked in the back streets and stranger hops on it, takes the lead and heads in the direction of Gotham.
Ghost-Maker, it’s what the stranger refers to himself. He says before he gets in the car as self-introduction.
Clark takes it as a truce and gives a nod.
When Ghost-Maker races toward his hide-out, Clark flies high in the sky. He takes his time to leave some messages in case he is lured to a trap and needs backup. He doesn’t think it’s necessary, but he needs to take cautious in case he is dealing with a new, probably not entirely legal, unregistered and unknown organization. He will delete these messages when he comes back in one piece tonight.
Funny thing to think that Clark was not always so careful in the past. Maybe the crisis from last year did a number on him. Or the absurd situation is getting on his nerves.
Clark is still not comfortable thinking about how Bruce Wayne got involved and ended up being pregnant with a Kryptonian baby. It must be some mad scientist’s experiment but still comes with a question “why him”?
Your average mindless billionaire sometimes could be a laugh in gossip magazine, but he doesn’t deserve this.
Back to think about experimenting… the Man of Steel does bleed no matter how rare it is. It’s highly possible that some unknown entity collects Clark’s blood and does experiments on it. The thought alone makes Clark sick. He should be more careful with his own flesh and blood in the future if he doesn’t want to end up with an army of children without his consent running free.
If Clark wants to revive Krypton, he has so many better ways to do it other than this.
Ghost-Maker’s hide-out is a house on the skirt of Gotham. The house itself looks plain and normal. There’s quite a distance between its neighbors, and an awful lot of trees and bushes. Nobody will have clue about some mysterious men coming in and out.
The garage door silently opens when Ghost-Maker hits the driveway. He parks there and leaves the garage open.
Superman descends from the sky and walks into that dark garage. No lights turned on until the garage door is fully shut behind him. Then, a door silently opens and a path leading to the basement is shown. There are strips of LED lights automatically turned on to light the path.
A slight burnt smell is floating in the air.
Something is not right.
The path spiraled to basement isn’t long. Only took seconds for Clark to get through. It’s a large space divided into multiple sections. Passing the entrance there are monitors hanging high on the wall and consoles beneath them. And other devices and large equipment. Training area. Mini chemical lab and med bay. It’s a well-stocked headquarters. Or something similar to it, whatever it’s supposed to be.
But not a wreck.
The lights are flashing above. Monitors are displaying red warning signs. Wires are broken out from boxes and cut out. Something crashed and left broken pieces all over the ground. Couple doors are clearly busted and hanging half open. One has a staircase behind it, probably leading to the upstairs. Before Clark could manage a word, Ghost-Maker disappears behind the door.
Clark turns back to what is in front of him and starts investigating. The basement is quiet, and he cannot hear anything other than humming of the computers and machines. Whoever used to occupy this place is long gone.
He flies to the mini med bay first. There are a few drops of blood dried on the ground and scalpel and forceps tinged with dark red tossed aside. Whoever stepped on the blood and left a couple of blurred footprints must be barefoot. Everything implies that someone using the medical tools to cut open the flesh and take something out, but there is no bullet to be found … oh, there is a waste of smashed chip nearby.
So, it’s a tracker.
Clark turns around and finds the back corner of the basement is isolated by transparent glass walls. Inside it has a shower, toilet and bed, looks like a confinement room. There are hookers and leather strips installed on the concrete walls and IV stand. With close inspection, broken manacles dangling near the bed. There’s blood left on manacles. Someone was restrained in this room cut themself when try to get out.
And this someone, no doubt is Bruce Wayne.
He spent long enough staying on this bed, the blankets and pillows hazardously laid on the bed are soaked with his bittersweet scents. It’s the same scents he sniffs in his dreams and from the handkerchief, but with intensity and complexity. The scents are still fresh, couldn’t be hours old. Clark could distinguish every subtle detail in the scents and changing moods along with them. He could tell there was sadness, distress, fear, protection and determination, burnt like acid to his nose, making Clark feel sad and angry at the same time.
There is also something alarming about Wayne’s scents, on some instinctual level Clark believes, but couldn’t tell. But one thing for sure, he is carrying a Kryptonian pup, and it smells like Clark’s. It’s a unique undertone of the scents, like something to distinguish between family and outsiders. Clark is no stranger to it and there is no need to avoid the fact. Though he still doesn’t get how and why.
Superman or not, Clark is not about to shy away from his responsibilities. He may not know Wayne much, but whatever is concerned Krypton is his responsibility.
The first question.
“Where did you go?” He murmurs.
“Mr. Batman has left 56 minutes ago.” An engineered voice kindly replies. “Although I have not located his whereabouts yet.”
Clark jerks his head up, only sees monitors displaying a floating white ghost shape figure on the screen in distance, both surprised by sudden voice and the mention of Batman.
“Batman has been here?” Clark zooms close, stares at the monitor. “Did he take Bruce Wayne away?”
This is definitely the least possible place to hear Batman’s name that Clark could ever imagine. Is this all three months long MIA about? Trying to focus and solve a missing person case?
On second thought, Batman did seem to drop off the grid the same period when Bruce Wayne stopped showing.
It’s not Clark saying a missing person case is not important but from whatever he knows about Wayne in media and Batman in person, these two never speak good for each other. Although this doesn’t mean these two have any history, it’s simply never on anybody’s mind to put these two together in the same picture. They don’t belong.
But a case is a case. It makes sense why Batman dives so deep to save someone.
Suddenly hearing your missing (former) colleague’s name surprises Clark, giving him complicated feelings about kicking the other out of the League while Batman was working on saving people, although he knows that’s not all his decision back then. There’s a vote. It’s fair.
Or as fair as it could be.
“I’m not sure what you are asking. Do you mean…” The voice sounds like to illiterate the question but gets cut down by a stern call.
“Icon.”
Ghost-Maker walks out behind the door he disappears to. Clark is too distracted to notice his approach.
“Yes, master.”
So, Batman broke Bruce Wayne out like an hour ago when Ghost-Maker was in Metropolis talking to Superman. That’s sufficient time for Batman to retreat to a safe house in Gotham.
Through the years knowing each other, Superman may once or twice ask Batman’s opinions about his resident billionaire, just in case Wayne is not as evil as Luthor. “He’s irrelevant” is the most what Clark coaxed out from the reclusive Bats despite other subtle insults/reply before himself started get questioned about why one of sudden Superman was interested. There are couple times Wayne was saved by Batman and made to the headlines. It’s safe to say the Bats at least tolerates the billionaire through the years. Therefore, it’s unlikely that Batman will harm him or want him to be harmed.
He broke him out for good.
That makes who restrains Wayne at this place in a bad position. Who clearly is Ghost-Maker.
But this also introduces more questions, like why he seeks help from Superman if he is the one contains Wayne in the first place? How is he related to the pregnancy? It’s not like you could conduct experiments in this small operation base. This means Bruce Wayne was transferred here after conception.
It's not like Ghost-Maker is about to answer any of these.
He doesn’t talk about what he has found upstairs or anything but only says.
“He won’t be able to get far.” Ghost-Maker asks, “how about you track him down?”
Batman or Bruce Wayne? Clark isn’t so sure which one they’re talking about now. But it’s hard to track down the vigilante on any good days, Ghost-Maker should know this, the billionaire should be an easier one to start with.
Take a deep breathe, Clark briefly closes his eyes and expands his hearing. Thousands of sounds of people talking, passing, leaves and branches shuffling, wind blowing, water dripping down, and more cross Clark’s mind, but yet he finds anything useful.
He needs something to locate the billionaire, something very special, one of a kind.
Superman opens his eyes, asking.
“Do you have record on Wayne’s heartbeat by any chance?”
-x-
Some time ago.
The headlight catches a slender silhouette far away down the road.
“Do you see a guy down there?” The gangster sits on the passenger murmurs in surprise. “What’s the fuck?”
“Yeah.” The driver nonchalantly replies. “Weird.”
Getting closer, it’s clearly a man walking toward them. It’s hard to make out what his face is like, but he has a disheveled appearance.
His clothes look too clean to be homeless. More like a runaway, but he doesn’t shy away from the blind headlight fast approaching. He stands there watching the van fast approaching.
Maybe he wants to hitch a lift.
A thought crosses the gangster’s mind. “Stop! Stop!” He yells to the driver, with a sick smile showing on his face.
The driver complains but obeys. “What fuck are you thinking? It’s not a good idea you know?”
“Shut up. I will give you a cut. He looks like a good catch.” The gangster puts his right hand on his hip, where the gun is hiding, before rolling down the window and sticking his head out to check.
Oh, this one looks good, has a pretty face. The cloth he wears are loose and ill-fitted. Some random leaves stick out from his hair and coat. Like he just passed through some bushes.
“Hey.” The gangster greets, cannot withhold the greedy smile crossing his face. “What are you doing outside this late? Going anywhere? You know, it kinda cold out there.”
The man looks at him, doesn’t answer but only hums, like dream walking. It’s hard to tell if he realizes the other is talking to him.
The gangster licks his lip. “We’re heading to Gotham. Wanna’ ride?”
The mention of Gotham somehow catches the man’s attention, but he only silently stares at the gangster. With his silent icy blue eyes, it starts getting creepy.
“Anyone with you?” The gangster keeps talking just to make the one-sided conversation go. Maybe to ease his own nerves. He gets out the truck and approaches the man. The other doesn’t finch when he suddenly grabs him, but frowns. He is oddly calm with everything happening to him.
The gangster can see the man very good now and he gets a hold of his natural scents.
It’s sweet, like caramel and cinnamon sugar but with a burnt bitterness in it. Omega. But there is something behind the lovely sweetness and calling on instincts. The gangster’s sight involuntarily drifts lower until meeting with one hand holding on the other’s stomach.
The bump becomes hard to ignore if you know where to look.
A pregnant male omega.
That’s a rare sight for sure. The gangster doesn’t know if he ever saw one before tonight. If not on television.
It’s gonna sell. He knows. Like a ton.
There’s no short supply of perverts who wish to have a taste of this. He is not gonna deny. They will pay handsome for it. He will be rich.
“Good. Good. That’s going to be great. You’re coming with me, sweetheart. Now walk.” He pulls the omega. Surprisingly, the other doesn’t move an inch. It can’t be. “I said walk!” The gangster snarls, drawing out the gun. This close, the muzzle is un-avoidantly pointed to the other’s belly.
The other is startled. His eyes dart back and forth between the gangster and the gun, face confused. He turns his head around to see the driver, but the driver only watches with cold eyes.
First time this night, some real reaction is drawn out from the man. He clutches his belly with both hands in instinct. There’s a flicker of ice-cold sober flashing deep down in his crystal blue eyes. For a split second, he is almost intimidating.
This moment past too fast for the gangster to realize what’s happening but he suddenly gets a chill and starts to hurry things up.
He pulls and pushes the man with gun shakily pointed to him, forcing the other getting to the end of the van.
“Give me a hand!” The gangster yells at the driver. The driver reluctantly gets up of his seat and gets to the end of the van to open the back door.
The light is automated switched on in trunk, revealing five young and scared faces. They all scramble away from the door, making small scary noises. No one is tied up, but none dares to run.
After the man is forced to crawl in the trunk, the door’s shut behind him with blunt force and locked.
There are no seats in the trunk, and nothing to hold on to. The man can only sit on the floor like other scared boys and girls. He doesn’t bother to get close to the others, just stays in the corner.
The gangster gets back to his sits and opens the small observation window.
“Quiet!” He barks, satisfied when his voice causes another round of panic in his hostages. “We’re going to arrive at our destination in forty minutes. Then I will drop you, all of you. You’re going to make me rich.”
With a roar of the engine, the van starts to move.