For the reader:

After watching BvS, I had a LOT of criticism of the film, mainly with the writing. Not being one to give criticism without offering a solution, I have put my money where my mouth is, and have written a Superman and Batman story of my own.

The characters in this story are not just characters: they're comic icons and beloved heroes. But because they've been portrayed by many different actors, and in different ways in television and comics, everyone has different images of these characters. As a service to you, I will tell you what versions I've chosen for these characters.

I've drawn inspiration for these characters from the comics, animated shows, and of course, feature films. For the purpose of imagining these characters, I will go into what inspired each of them.

George Reaves is, and always will be, the definitive Superman/Clark Kent for me. For Superman in this story, picture him having gone through the Gym Jones training regimen that Henry Cavil went through.

For Batman, I chose Affleck's version of the character, but think Ben Affleck circa 2003 (Daredevil).

For Lois Lane, Teri Hatcher will always be Lois for me. Lois, the Planet's newsroom, Ma and Pa Kent, and ADA Mayson Drake are lifted directly from "Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman."

Lex Luthor for this story was inspired more by John Byrne's take on the character in the 1986 Man of Steel miniseries and later Byrne era comics. For this, think Vince D'onofrio as he appears in the Daredevil TV show.

For Mercy Graves, think Gwendoline Christie.

Maggie Sawyer and the S.C.U. are likewise lifted from the Byrne era comics. If you need an actress in her part, think Tilda Swinton in her forties with short, auburn hair, chain smoking.

For Joker, think "Batman: The Animated Series," and just put Mark Hamill circa 1984 (Return of the Jedi) in the makeup.

Diana/Wonder Woman is the current DCEU version, with Gal Gadot.

Much as I love Melissa Benoist in the role, my Kara Zor El/Supergirl will always be Helen Slater circa 2004 (Supergirl).

This story forgoes the MoS film, as I wanted to portray Clark's and Bruce's relationship from a different angle. I've reread this one several times, and I've tried my best to give it the love it deserves (correcting typos, plot inconsistencies, and awkward sentences that I did not catch before). Read on and enjoy!

Thank you.

Kansas, August 1976

It was a hot August day, and the Kents were on their way home from a visit with Jonathan's aunt Mae the next county over. Their old truck had no air conditioning, and with the three of them squeezed into the cab, it was sweltering. Little Clark had wanted to ride in the bed with the hay, saying, "It'll be a hay ride, Dad!" Ever sensible, Jonathan and Martha had said no, leaving their ten year old son to pout with his arms folded.

"C'mon Clark," Martha said. "It's not so bad."

"I just wish we had air conditioning, Mom."

"This is a farm truck, son," Jonathan said. "Don't have no air condishnin. We're workin' folks son, not soft city folk."

Before she could say anything to soften her husband's gruff comment, she saw something in the road. "Jonathan, what's that?"

Up ahead on the side of the road was a stalled car … but it was no ordinary car. It was not a Cadillac or a Lincoln, but Jonathan knew that it was a luxury car. It was a dark green convertible, its tan top lowered, steam rolling out from underneath the car, and from the seams in its hood. A tall, well-dressed man in a waistcoat and fedora hat waved to them to get their attention. A distinguished older man with thinning hair, a blonde woman, and a child who looked to be about Clark's age were still sitting in the car.

As the Kents brought their truck to a stop behind the big car, the man walked up to the driver's side to explain the situation. He was a tall, slender man, good looking, sporting a stylish mustache. Jonathan wagered that the man's tailored waistcoat cost more than the truck the Kents were driving. Classical music filled the air, a fitting accompaniment to the stylishly wealthy man. Now that they were up close, Jonathan spied the badge on the trunk of the car that read, Rolls Royce. The car costs more than our house!

"Oh, thank heaven you've come along!"

The man's voice was cultured, its upper crust northeastern accent a stark contrast to the Midwestern accent Jonathan was used to. Martha stared appreciatively at the man, and Jonathan could hardly blame her; he was dashing and handsome, and obviously a man of great wealth.

"Thomas Wayne," the man said, by way of introduction. "I have business holdings in Smallville of all places, believe it or not. Thought it would be nice to drive the family down and stretch the legs of my new Corniche. Not used to this heat, and I fear she wasn't up to the task. Overheated!"

Jonathan got out and shook the man's hand. "Jonathan Kent." He then motioned to his wife and son. "This is my wife, Martha, and our son, Clark."

Thomas Wayne's eyes lit up. "Martha? Splendid! That's my wife's name too! And might I say, she's just as lovely."

"Thank you." Jonathan liked the man instantly, but the name suddenly rang a bell. "You said you're Thomas Wayne … the Thomas Wayne … from Gotham?"

"The same," Wayne replied. "Good to meet you, Jonathan Kent."

"Let's see what's going on under the hood," Jonathan offered.

As her husband went with Thomas Wayne to inspect the engine of a car that cost more than thirty thousand dollars, Martha and Clark got out and went to the passengers. Martha Wayne wore clothes that Martha Kent could only dream about. Thomas saying that Mrs. Kent was as lovely as Mrs. Wayne was a stretch; Martha Kent looked at the statuesque woman with a degree of awe. Mrs. Wayne looked like she had stepped right out off of the big screen, reminding her a bit of Katharine Hepburn.

The older man stepped out of the car and slid the seat of the big coupe forward so that Martha Wayne could exit the vehicle. He offered her a hand, which she daintily took, and then stepped out onto the grass. At her full height in her high heels, Martha Wayne was as tall as Jonathan. She wore a Parisian peasant style dress that showed her long legs below the knees. A pearl necklace and a diamond ring bigger than anything Mrs. Kent had ever seen were ostentatious reminders of the incredible wealth the Waynes enjoyed. Martha Kent wore dungarees and button down shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots Jonathan had surprised her with for her birthday.

"Madame," the older man said. "Allow me to introduce Martha Wayne." The man had a British accent, reminiscent of David Niven. The boy got out of the car, likewise well dressed like his father. "And this spritely young fellow is Master Bruce."

"Oh, Alfred," Martha Wayne implored. "No need for such formality." She then turned to Martha and Clark. "It was very kind of you to stop. Three cars have passed us by already, and the one callbox Thomas found was out of order."

"You're a long way from town, Mrs. Wayne," Martha Kent replied. "And of all days! Land sakes, it must be a hundred!"

"Only one thing to be done," Mrs. Wayne replied with a smile. "Alfred, would you pour us some refreshment please?"

"But of course, Madame." The butler opened the lid to the car's center console, the air around it misting as the cold air met the hot Kansas air. From the cold compartment he removed two cans of Pepsi, handing one each to Clark and Bruce, and then a bottle of champagne and two glasses. As Alfred served the ladies champagne, Martha Kent marveled as Mrs. Wayne effortlessly turned car trouble into a social event.

"Champagne makes everything better," Mrs. Wayne declared as Alfred handed Mrs. Kent her glass.

Martha Kent imbibed the bubbly drink, and thought she had died and gone to heaven. "Mrs. Wayne, what is this?"

"Dom Perignon '53," Alfred declared.

Martha realized that the bottle of champagne would cost more than most folks in Smallville made in a week. She looked up at Martha Wayne in shock that the wealthy socialite would be sharing this expensive drink with a small town hick.

"Decadent, I know," Martha Wayne declared, her voice every bit as smooth and rich as the champagne. "Don't worry; there's plenty more at home." Then she stooped down to Clark's eye level, smiling like an aunt reuniting with a favorite nephew. "And who is this handsome young lad?"

"This is my son, Clark."

"He's a handsome one," Mrs. Wayne noted. "In a few more years, he'll have Kansas women swooning." Clark made a face at the remark. At only eight years of age, Clark's interest in girls was limited to how well they played baseball and rode bicycles. Mrs. Wayne smiled at the boy as he crinkled his nose. "One day, young Clark, you'll see things differently."

Martha Kent saw Bruce making the same faces Clark was making, burying his face behind a handheld game of some kind when he realized he had been seen.

Clark for his part watched in rapt fascination as his small town country mother rubbed elbows with the wealthy Mrs. Wayne. He was somewhat envious of Bruce, who held the brand new Mattel Auto-Race game in his hand, though he put the thought from his mind; Clark had yet to encounter an electronic game, or indeed, any game that he could not master and beat within a minute. The boy seemed friendly enough, but was too engrossed to put the game down. Bruce was also less sturdy than the boys Clark played with, and the young farm boy chalked it up to soft city living. He wagered that Lana could probably take Bruce Wayne in any sports. Still, they were always stuck with odd teams; perhaps with the Waynes in town, they could finally play baseball with even team numbers. The still-playing classical music caught his attention, and Clark looked into the car and saw the source; a stereo eight track tape deck.

"That's so cool!"

"It's an eight track," Bruce declared. "Straus's Blue Danube."

"Got any Skynard?"

Bruce looked at his mother, then at Alfred, and then back at Clark. "What's Skynard?"

Before Clark could answer, his pa called out to him. "Clark, they've got a busted lower hose. Get the repair tape and a couple gallons of antifreeze from the truck. We should be able to get them back to town."

"Sure thing, Pa!"

Clark ran to the truck and did as he was asked, bringing the two jugs of Prestone antifreeze and the hose tape to his father, who was now crawling under the big Rolls to affect the repair. His father's hand came out from under the car to take the roll of tape, and then he began grunting and muttering about how little room there was to work with the car at this angle. Not even thinking about it, Clark walked to the passenger side corner, grasping the bumper, and lifted.

"This help, Pa?"

Thomas Wayne stood open mouthed, and Martha Wayne gasped. Bruce ran to the front of the car and looked with astonishment as Clark held the front of the car a good eight inches above its normal height, the wheel barely touching the ground. Pa Kent slid out from under the car saying, "That oughta do it." He saw Clark, and gave him a very stern look. Oops, Clark thought, lowering the car gently to the ground.

"These luxury cars have very soft springs," Pa Kent declared. "Makes shifting them up like that a piece of cake." He picked up the antifreeze and said, "Thanks, son, but don't go touching other people's cars like that. It ain't good manners."

"But you needed …"

"No buts son," his pa said with a laugh. "That's what jacks are for."

"See, young Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Hard work makes you stronger."

As Clark ran off with his father to put their tools back in the truck, Bruce tried to lift the car like Clark had, but it would not budge. He looked at the Kansas farm boy with newfound respect. Bruce had never been athletic, and was often picked on at the private school his parents sent him to. He imagined that with a friend like Clark, the bullies would not stand a chance.

Smallville, three days later ...

The Waynes made it to Smallville without any further trouble, and Thomas Wayne's purchase of a recently shuttered factory was accompanied by the news that jobs would be returning to the area. While the locals cheered, and the Waynes were well received, Bruce was bored. They would be in Smallville for a week, and while the hotel outside of town was nice enough, there was nothing to do. After three days, the hot new game, Auto Race, had lost some of its luster.

As Bruce sat around wondering what to do, his mother blew in, calling, "Bruce, come on. We're heading out."

She wore blue jeans and a red blouse, a look he had never seen her in. He got up and went with her, wondering what she had in mind, and why she was fetching him herself instead of getting Alfred to do it for her. He followed her down to the rented car that she had insisted upon having, as Thomas Wayne was off with the Rolls. Unlike the Rolls, the rental was a Ford Mustang II with a T-top; a tiny, sporty car by comparison. She opened the door for him, closing it after he got in, and then went to the driver's side and got in.

"Mom … you're driving?"

"Of course, Bruce," she said with a laugh. "It's nice to be pampered, but sometimes, it's fun to just do it myself."

"Where are we going?"

"My small-town sister invited us over. You can play with Clark."

Bruce was puzzled. "Mrs. Kent is your sister?"

"Of course not," she laughed as she shifted into first gear. "But she's a Martha too, and I just feel close to her."

It was strange to hear her say that. Martha Wayne and Martha Kent had nothing except their first names and their gender in common, but Bruce was glad for the change of pace. Clark was personable enough, and at least Bruce would not be board in the hotel room. His mother turned on the radio, trying to find a classical music station, but to no avail, so she settled on a rock and roll station. On one song, the singer said, "Turn it up," which his mother did with a laugh, and the car was filled with the sound of electric guitar, and a southern man singing about his sweet home in Alabama.

"Who's this?"

"This, Bruce, is that "Skynard" band Clark was talking about." She chuckled as she turned up the radio. "I wasn't always Mrs. Wayne, you know. When I was young, I was quite an independent girl. Drove my parents crazy, but it's what caught your father's eye. I like the classical and swing music well enough, but sometimes, a girl just needs to rock."

Bruce watched his mother transform from a wealthy socialite into a carefree, independent woman. Years seemed to come off of his mother, even though she did not look old in the least. It amazed him what a wardrobe change and the lack of make-up could do. Suddenly, his mother looked as though she belonged in Smallville. As the car drove from the hotel to the Kent's farm, Bruce felt as if a weight was lifted from him. Gotham, the private school - it was all so … oppressive. Out here in Kansas, in Smallville though, the oppressiveness of Gotham was a world away. He listened with his mom to the southern rock as the car sped along, waving his hands out the open T-top roof.

And in a short while ...

Smallville was indeed small, and it did not take long for Mrs. Wayne to drive to the Kent's farm. The long dirt driveway to the house looked straight out of an old movie or television show. As they neared the house, Bruce saw Mrs. Kent on the front porch waving, a sturdy, red headed girl roughly his own age standing with her. The car came to a stop, Martha Wayne waving out the open roof of the car.

"Martha," Mrs. Wayne called out as she alighted from the Mustang. "I feel like I've stepped back in time coming out here! I love it!"

"Time moves just a bit slower here in Smallville," Martha Kent replied with a laugh. "And hello, Bruce. Land sakes, it's nearly one! You both must be starved!"

"Who's she?" Bruce asked as he took his seatbelt off, and before his mother could respond.

"Lana Lang," the girl said. "Clark told me about you. Said you might play baseball with us."

Bruce nodded, and bowed at the waist. "Bruce Wayne," he said by way of introduction.

"Good," she said quickly. "Let's eat, and then we can play!"

Bruce looked around. "Where's Clark?"

"Clark's out with Pa, workin' the back forty," Mrs. Kent announced as if it were obvious. "Now come on in both of you. Sandwiches, sweet-tea, and coffee are waiting."

Bruce's mom smiled at that, then held up a bottle of wine. "A little something from Les Baux-de-Provence, just for us ladies."

"Me too?" Lana looked hopeful, but Mrs. Wayne shook her head. "Sorry, my dear, but this is a treat for when you've matured."

"Mother, we have it at home all the time," Bruce objected, trying to stick up for Lana.

"You don't want wine before playing baseball," Mrs. Kent warned. "Those boys they play against can be mean. For the life of me, I don't know why Clark, Lana, and Pete put up with them!"

"Cause we whip 'em every time," Lana explained with a laugh. "And that's with only three or us!"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at this. "How many of them are there?"

"Four," Lana said. "But it don't matter no how; we got Clark, and he never loses—ever!"

Bruce recalled Clark effortlessly lifting the Corniche, and imagined she was right. Clark Kent was the same age as Bruce; ten, but he looked more like he was twelve—a very big twelve. His thoughts were interrupted when the bell of a bicycle rang. Lana called out, "Pete," and then ran from the porch to greet a black boy riding a blue Schwinn Stingray, all decked out with ape hangers, a banana seat, and a tall sissy bar. Baseball cards clipped to the forks made a ticking sound as the spokes contacted them.

"Lana," Pete said. "Ma Kent."

"Pete, come on in!" Mrs. Kent beckoned the boy, who ran from his bike to hug the waiting Ma Kent.

Bruce was not sure what to make of this. In Gotham, the white kids from good neighborhoods did not generally mix with the black children, but Mrs. Kent greeted Pete Ross like he was a second son. To the Kents and Lana, Pete was just another kid. Bruce smiled. This is how it should be, he thought.

"Thanks, Ma Kent," Pete said. Then he looked over at Bruce. "This the new kid Clark was talkin' about?"

"Pete, this is Bruce Wayne," Mrs. Kent said, "and he's come all the way from Gotham City to play baseball with you, Clark, and Lana."

"Solid," Pete said with a smile, giving Bruce a thumbs up. "Good to meet you, Bruce. I'm Pete Ross."

Mrs. Kent herded the kids into the kitchen where sandwiches, fresh baked cookies, and sweet tea awaited them, and then retired to the living room with Bruce's mom. As the two women indulged in the Provence rosé wine, the three fifth graders devoured their lunch and snacks. It soon became apparent that Bruce was not a baseball player.

"You mean you don't play at all?" Lana was aghast at the very idea.

"I try, but I never get picked," Bruce explained. "My dad plays with me, but I'm not very good. I'm afraid I shan't be an asset to you this afternoon."

Pete and Lana looked at each other, astonishment turning to smiles, and finally, they broke into giggling.

"Shan't?" Lana laughed as she said it. "You sound like my Aunt Gertrude!"

Bruce became quiet, not sure if she was in earnest or was making fun of him.

"Don't worry, Bruce," Pete said. "We've got Clark. All you need to do is hit the ball and get on base. Lana'll crack one out into the backfield and get on base, then I'll get the bases loaded. Clark'll knock it outta the park, and we all go home!"

Bruce shook his head. "What if they catch it?"

"Don't worry," Lana assured. "They won't."

After a huge lunch ...

Clark finally joined them and loaned Bruce a spare bicycle. It was not as nice as Bruce's Italian road bike, but it was something to ride at least. The four of them had ridden to the field, where four large boys awaited them: The Dalton brothers; Jed and Eli, and Luke Vernon and Wyatt Parker. They were all big, athletic boys, and Bruce was convinced that Luke had been held back a year. Only Clark equaled them in size.

"You picked that scrawny kid for your team?" Jed Dalton dismissed Bruce immediately.

Clark shrugged. "Why not?"

"He's so dainty," Wyatt teased. "You sure he aint a girl with short hair and boys' clothes?"

It did not seem to matter. No matter where he went, bullies seemed to come out of the woodwork—only this time was different.

"More of a man than any of you," Lana said.

"Yeah," chimed in Pete. "Bet he can make it 'round the bases before any o' you can lay a finger on him!"

Oh, I wish he hadn't said that, Bruce thought.

"If you think he'll be too much for you," Clark added, "then maybe you should just forfeit the game."

"No fuckin' way, Kent," Jed Dalton cursed. "We'll kick your asses!"

"Said that last time," Lana quipped.

The four boys fumed, but had no rebuttal. It seemed that Lana had found the right comeback. They flipped a coin to see who was at bat first, and the bullies won. They lined up at bat, Jed Dalton going first. Pete put on his mask and his mitt, assuming the catcher's position, as Clark took the pitcher's mound, and Lana and Bruce took up positions further back.

Kent threw the first pitch, a blinding fastball, which Jed swung wildly at. Clark's arm was like a canon, and the big farm-boy fired off two more fastballs, striking out Jed in short order. Wyatt was next, but he could not hit a thing Clark threw. Bruce had watched professional baseball, and Clark's pitches looked like they were on par with those of a major league pitcher. The boy stood commandingly, as if he were number one in the league and knew it. Three more fast balls took out Eli Dalton, and it was their turn at bat.

Bruce was first up at bat, at Lana's insistence. "Bunt," was all she said as she gave him the bat. He stood nervously as the catcher, Eli Dalton, mercilessly insulted him. Wyatt pitched a curve ball, but Bruce knew not to even try; it was several inches off from the plate.

"Ball one," Pete called.

The next pitch was a faster ball. Bruce did not swing, but it was right over the plate.

"Strike one," Pete called out.

"What's the matter?" Eli teased. "City boy don't got the balls to swing?"

That made him angry. Forgetting Lana's admonition to bunt, when Wyatt's next fastball came Bruce swung as hard as he could. After seeing Clark's pitches, Wyatt's fastball did not look all that fast. The bat connected with a solid crack, sending the ball into the outfield. As Luke ran to catch it, Bruce ran to first base, just as Pete had instructed, his three teammates cheering him on. Luke got the ball, but not until after it had hit the ground, and threw it to Wyatt, who threw it to Jed.

"Safe," Pete called as Jed prepared to run in and tag Bruce.

It was Lana's turn at bat. She winked at Bruce, and when Wyatt's fastball came in, she bunted, sending the ball toward third base, rolling along the ground. As Wyatt ran to get it, Bruce ran to second, and Lana took first base.

Pete was up now. He swung at two of Wyatt's fastballs, accruing two strikes, but on the third pitch, Ross caught a piece of it, getting a pop fly. He ran to first and Bruce and Lana ran for third and second. Wyatt got the ball after it bounced on the ground near him. The bases were loaded.

Bruce could hardly believe it; the game was going exactly as Pete and Lana said. Now, Clark was up. Wyatt threw hard, his fastest pitch yet, but Clark hit it like it was standing still. Bruce watched the ball fly high, straight, and out of the baseball field. It was a home run. As Bruce crossed home plate, followed by Lana, Pete, and Clark, he could hardly believe this was happening. Bruce Wayne, the scrawny little rich kid, was on the winning team! He had been picked to play by someone other than the losers. He realized that he was screaming and shouting as loudly as Lana and Pete. Bruce Wayne never screamed and shouted.

They played four more innings before the Daltons, Luke, and Wyatt threw in the towel. Lana was good—real good, and so was Pete. Clark, on the other hand, was entirely out of their league, pitching and hitting at what looked to be professional levels. At the end, Kent walked over and shook the hands of the vanquished team, saying, "Good game. See y'all tomorrow."

"Later, Kent," Wyatt said good naturedly. "And Bruce, you're alright after all. See you tomorrow."

Bruce nodded and shook Wyatt's hand, wondering what had just happened. He had played his best game of baseball ever, and the small-town hicks had just befriended him. Lana, Pete, and Clark had cheered him on through the whole game. Suddenly, Bruce Wayne was out of his shell.

Four days, and a lot of bicycle riding and baseball games later ...

With Thomas Wayne's business concluded, the Waynes were ready to return to Gotham. Bruce did not want to go; Baseball and bicycling every day, Mrs. Kent's apple pie, and his new friends, Clark, Lana, and Pete, all were more fun than the big mansion at home. But it did not matter; a week in Smallville had come to an end, as all good things must.

"Y'all come on back, you hear," Clark said as Bruce stood by the Corniche. "We'll always have a spot for you."

Lana and Pete were there too, Pete shaking Bruce's hand. "We're the Sluggers, Bruce," Pete said. "An' we stick together!"

"I'll insist," Bruce replied. "Winter break, or maybe before summer's over."

"Pleasure to meet you, Bruce Wayne," Lana said. "Never met anyone from the big city before, but you're one of us now."

As Lana and Pete said goodbye and rode off, Clark stood with Bruce. Where Lana and Pete were loud and exuberant, Clark was more reserved.

"I don't have no brothers," Clark said out of the blue. "Lana's like a sister, and Pete's like a brother, but you? I don't know, but it's like we're brothers, Bruce. Real brothers, I mean, not just close friends."

Bruce nodded. It was weird, but he had the same feeling. He looked at his mother and Martha Kent carrying on like sisters, and his father, Jonathan, and Alfred discussing matters automotive and felt as though the Kents were family, family he had never met, but had somehow known all his life.

"You feel it too," Bruce said finally.

"We'll meet again, Bruce," Clark declared. "This is only the beginning."

Kansas, September 1976

The Waynes had left Smallville a month ago, but Martha Wayne had arranged to return with Bruce for a visit before the summer was out; a week in the country before school began. Clark was excited to finally reunite with his new friend. The phone rang, and he heard his mother's footsteps moving rapidly.

"I'll get it," she called. Martha Kent flew around the corner, and answered the phone with an out of breath, "Hello?" She then exclaimed, "Alfred!"

Clark assumed that it was about the trip, final arrangements and such, but then he heard his mother begin sobbing uncontrollably.

"No—no, no, no! Oh, God, no!"

He ran into the kitchen to find his mother collapsed on the floor sobbing, the phone in her hand, listening to Alfred. Finally, she said, "That boy needs us, Alfred. We'll be on a plane tomorrow."

She hung up the phone, and looked at Clark, her face ashen. "Thomas and Martha—they're dead."

"Dead? Mom—how?"

"Shot outside of a movie theater. Bruce, that poor child—he watched his parents die."

One week later in Gotham ...

The funeral was held at Saint Mark's, an old, gothic church, which somehow made Bruce feel like he was in some kind of horror film. The boy was numb. With his parents gone, and their killer still on the loose, he almost felt as though death was stalking him, like it had missed him, and would return to correct the error. He saw the Kents enter the church, and got up from his seat, running to them. Ma Kent hugged him tightly.

"You poor thing," she cried. "And your parents—Martha …"

"I wasn't strong enough to stop him," Bruce sobbed. "I was too scared."

"He had a gun," Clark said. "There's nothing you could have done, Bruce. I'm sure you were plenty brave."

"You could have stopped him, Clark," Bruce said. "I don't know how, but if it was your father, you would have found a way! I'm not brave like that—but one day, I will be, I swear it!"

Clark nodded. "You already are, Bruce—you just don't know it yet."

The funeral ended, and the procession motored to the family crypt on the grounds of Wayne Manor, where Thomas and Martha Wayne's coffins were slid into their waiting slots. The priest pronounced the final benediction, and then it was over. His parents were gone, forever sealed away in the stone and marble necropolis. He could take it no longer.

Bruce ran from the crypt, not paying attention to where he was going. Clark called after him, but Bruce only ran faster, knowing that if Clark truly wanted to catch him, it would be no contest. Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath him, and he fell. He fell further than he had ever fallen, at least twenty to thirty feet, screaming all the way. Bats were flying all around him, screeching. It was terrifying. I'm dead, he thought. I'm dead! But he never hit the ground.

Bruce had stopped, mere inches from the floor of the cave, suspended in the air by his left arm. He looked up, only to see Clark looking down at him, floating in midair, as though he had taken a swan dive, caught Bruce, and then simply stopped. Bruce looked for the cable. Somehow, Clark must have had a bungie cable. He must have attached it to a tree, and just jumped. But there was no cable. There was no question of Clark's abilities.

The bats circled them, and Bruce cried out, terrified of the creatures. Clark lowered Bruce to the ground, where he fell to his knees, trying to get as close to the ground as possible, hoping the bats would leave him alone. Clark gently landed next to him, the bats still circling.

He realized that the bats were not hurting him, and slowly stood, the bats seeming to not be harrying him, but circling with him, joining him. Bruce wondered if it was Clark or him that the bats were warming to, but as he put out his hands, he realized that they were not afraid of him.

"They like you," Clark said absently.

"Bats …" Bruce looked at Clark. "You fly—like them."

"Yeah," Clark said. "Don't say nothin' to nobody—my parents know, but nobody else does, not even Lana and Pete."

Bruce nodded. "Your secret's safe with me, Clark. You can count on that." He then looked around at the bats. "It's like we're the same, them and me. Creatures of the shadows. People fear them …"

"They're not so scary as people think," Clark said, not catching that Bruce had made some connection, some mental breakthrough.

"People—cowardly and superstitious people," Bruce said, his voice raspy. "Criminals—are a cowardly and superstitious lot. They would fear the bats …" He abruptly turned to Clark. "The man who shot my parents—he was a coward!"

"The worst," Clark agreed.

"Yes," Bruce said. "The worst. But one day—they'll learn to fear the night!"