Now. Metropolis. The LexCorp Tower:
"The world is changing, Mercy."
"Sir?"
"Lex, my dear. You must call me Lex."
"Mr. Luthor. One more time at least."
He smiles. Ivory teeth gleam. Flawless. Any other woman would have felt a fire inside. Mercy Graves doesn't. She doesn't have time for things like that.
"My dear, the other associates call me Mister Luthor. I tour the building—particularly the hermits in R and D—and they call me Mister Luthor. You are not them, Mercy; you're better. And you must act like it."
"But…sir…"
"Yes?" He leans forward on his desk, propping his head on one elbow, and smiles. His eyes are deep and green. Even a cursory look suggests that he's perpetrating one's soul.
Lex Luthor is smart like that.
Whenever he meets someone knew, he catalogues them. He looks at them with a simple glance and he knows them. He's a social scientist, almost. Aside from the aeronautics, the pharmaceuticals, the weapons contracts and the like…Luthor's business is people.
"These superpeople are uniting, and they're giving a bad name to the rest of us. We don't have any powers. You know this."
"That's why we have to stay one step ahead…Lex."
He smiles. That wolfish, beautiful, deceptive smile. "You're learning."
After the…dismissal of previous bodyguards—inferiors who thought they knew how to defeat him—he's decided to hire another. Mercy Graves the third. In many ways she's a guttersnipe. Street trash. At least…she was.
She cleans up well.
Then.
It's hot out. Ungodly hot. Through the curls of smoke and the liquor stench seeping into her clothes…it's hot. Middle of the summer, glowing orange moon, roaming bands of oversexed and overambitious men looking for fun…that kind of hot.
She's sweating like crazy—that's what her upright Christian mind tells her. She's sweating like a man. An overgrown ape, a stinking pot-bellied ogre with too much scotch in him and too much time on his hands. And all too happy to bring his friends.
She wasn't so much minding her business—that excuse doesn't work—she's just a vagrant looking for dinner. She just happens to be camped out in the alley behind Turner's steakhouse tonight. Tomorrow night it'll be Yancy's Deli, the next night who knows. Maybe the Leicester Hotel. She's a vagrant, and a hungry one at that.
She just happens to be in the right place at the right time.
These men are in the mood for adventure, and a hot number like her….well, they're automatically interested. The fishnets and the ratty miniskirt and an equally ratty brassiere covering her—she's an easy target. A target any man would be happy to have. A target the police would be more than willing to arrest.
Quite frankly, she's beautiful. In a dangerous way. Brown roots are hiding beneath her platinum blonde, colorless lips behind the scarlet lipstick, ugly green mascara around her baby blues. She whores herself up to look weak. It's a good cover.
The apes congregating around her fall for it.
There's a lone streetlight puttering through the last stages of its life, still giving out light even as it flickers and dies. She's on the floor leaning against the brick wall—even the bricks are hot. She gets no relief. The apes in front of her approach slowly. One is squat and fat; a cigar hangs loosely from the corner of his mouth. He smiles, toothless.
The other is a little taller. Just as ragged, just as stubbly. He doesn't smoke like the fat one. But he's the first victim.
Mercy inches off the ground—the cold ground—and slides up the wall. She readjusts her skirt as she gets vertical. The apes move in, hands motionless at chest level, fingers curled over sickly, looking for a grab.
"Cheer you up," the tall one says. His eyes sparkly in the darkness. "Good time, sweetie."
She smirks and runs one hand across her waistband, sticking a thumb underneath the material. "I doubt it." Her voice is sweet and firm: Aphrodite at war. "How old are you?"
"Old enough, sweetie," the squat one grunts. "Show you a good time. Real good time."
She cocks her head. Smiles, deceptive. "Then come closer."
"Yeah," he says. His hands lower below his waist. He's getting ready. So is she.
His eyes keep flicking away from her; to the wall behind her, to the ragged bra covering her tits, to his rail-thin accomplice. It's a dead giveaway.
So that when he pulls the knife, she ducks to one side and buries a stiletto in his thigh. He yelps like a little girl and falls to one knee. The rail-thin accomplice shrinks back, surprised and motionless. She slams her palm into the base of his skull. His head jerks forward. His head slams into the concrete, and he watches a stream of blood pour out of his mouth.
He feels a hand on a tuft of his hair, pulling him up. Gently. She rubs his shoulders and turns him around. He wipes the blood from his chin and looks into her eyes. She winks and grabs his temples.
And slams her knee into his chin.
Crack. Snap. Severed vertebrae. Life leaves him with no fanfare.
She lets him fall to the ground, back to his pool of blood, and turns to face the rail-thin accomplice. He's still scared motionless. One of his hands quivers, just outside his pocket. She readies herself, legs shoulder-width apart, and beckons him.
His legs waiver. Her eyes dart to his boot, and she sees a small trickle dripping from the denim and forming a shallow pool around one foot. She can smell the ammonia. A small part of her is disappointed.
"Go," she says. He chuckles nervously once, turns and sprints.
She crouches over the dead one, checks his wallet and appropriates spending money. 63 dollars. Surprising, for an ape. Even so, it's money for a new skirt. Money for a new bra, aside from this ratty-ass thing—barely covers the twins as it is. Money for some good takeout from the Chink place up on thirtieth.
The lamps from the street bathe the alley and her backside in a rich orange. While she's crouched over the dead ape, rummaging through his pockets, she notices it.
A long shadow falling over her and the ape, a geometric cut-out against the streetlamps.
It's him. And she doesn't even know it yet.
Now.
He's standing at the window, arms clasped firmly behind his back. The custom Versace jacket tugs and forms precisely to his body. Ten thousand—an acceptable price tag for success.
Luthor slouches ever so slightly and rolls his eyes. You're subscribing to your own lies again, Lex. That's for them.
He raises his head and looks out at the cityscape: a shining assortment of forks and knives passing as architecture. Yes, that's for them. Lies are the ties that bind. Make them think they have a good hold on things. You…well, you know you have a good hold on things. You've made that hold for yourself. You didn't inherit it, you didn't steal it.
You made your destiny. And you're about to make hers.
A voice calls to him from behind. "Do you…like my resume, Mr. Luthor?"
He smiles and turns around. Slides one hand into his pocket and sits on the edge of his desk. His free hand opens the manila folder she's provided and thumbs through her resume.
It's complete bullshit. All of it.
Then.
She pivots around at the sight of the shadow, turning her crouch into a lazy Indian-style on the concrete. All of the sudden, he's standing over her in his 5th Avenue getup. The brown trench coat belies the richness underneath.
Lex Luthor. Smiling through his teeth and looking at her like a doting old grandfather. Truth? He's not much older than her—twenty years maybe. But he looks young, and in good shape, despite the layers of trench coat and business suit. He's probably got the build of a linebacker under there.
Even to a drifter like her, the name rings a bell.
Lex Luthor. Rich as balls. What the hell's he doing here?
"Um." she scratches her head. "Hi."
"Hello there," he says warmly and offers a gloved hand. She stares at it like it's diseased. And starts wringing her hands—a nervous tic. "Don't worry. I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."
"Such as?" She stands and steadies herself.
Well," he shrugs, feigning distance. "I saw it. All of it. Your little shenanigan a moment ago."
"What, do I have a stalker now? Listen, Luther—"
"It's Luthor. Get it right."
"Whatever," she sneers. "Are you stalking me? Lookin for a good time, mister moneybags? Take your goddamn business elsewhere. I don't sell that shit anymore."
"No, I suppose not," he says behind a thin leer. He pocketshis open hand; the other has adeathgrip on a briefcase held tight against his leg."Not after the university kicked you out for dealing--among other things. What was it, Mercy? PCP? Heroin. Or were you just giving yourself away to the football team."
Her hand flies through the air, and she doesn't even realize it until after she's slapped him. He rolls with the strike and plays it off.
"Good," he admits. "That was all I needed."
"For what!" She's getting agitated. He's counting on it.
"Employment. If you're willing, of course." His eyes narrow and he brings another gloved hand up to caress her chin.
She punches him in the stomach, and in the momentary confusion yanks the briefcase from his occupied hand. Another kick to his calf sends him to the ground and gives her a quick getaway.
At the corner a block away, she stops and looks back checking for followers. None. She sighs. "Perv."
Now.
"I trust you'll find the situation amicable, then?"
Luthor's voice brings her back to reality. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
"Good," he says calmly. "You can start whenever you like."
Then.
Three nights.
It takes him three nights to find her. Not out of necessity or any worry about the contents of the briefcase—whatever credit cards were in there can be cancelled, documents falsified. Though…what possible use could those things be to a common whore.
Well. Not just a whore. She's demonstrably better than "just a whore."
So, on the third night, Luthor pays a personal visit to a Suicide Slum flophouse and gets her room number. The door's unlocked, and when he steps in the room he smells cheap whiskey and bad cigarettes. And her, sprawled lazily on the floor, miniskirt ridden up to her ribcage, brassiere halfway across the room.
"Charming," he says frankly.
She stirs at the sound of his voice. Her eyes flutter open and she wipes the smudged mascara away. Luthor clears his throat and she pulls her miniskirt down to cover herself. She props herself up on one elbow.
He claps his hands together and speaks affably. "Wild night, eh? My hard-earned money at use. Or maybe it's just earned money."
"Listen," she wavers. "I only used, like, fifty bucks. I'll give it back."
"I know you will." He pulls his gloves off and crouches in front of her. "I know how you will, in fact."
One of her eyebrows arches.
"You'll work for me, Mercy, as a private bodyguard. Think of it as extended security. The Richest Man in the World needs guarded, and if your actions previously are any indication you're more than qualified."
Her eyes dart back and forth for a moment. "You're not worried about the briefcase? Or me punching you?"
"Hardly. Call them resume builders. Now…get up." He stands and turns to leave.
She lingers on the floor for a moment, nursing a headache and a shiver curling up her spine.
Bodyguard. And he says I've proven myself.
Where the hell do these guys come from?
"So you can stay there on the floor," Luthor says passively, looking at the floorboards. "Half-naked, half-baked, half-witted. At the very real end of a rope, thanks to some unsavory acts in your past."
"So you have been spying on me."
"Consider it talent scouting," he says, turning to her. The dark of the room makes him look imposing, and for a bald guy in a trench coat, he pulls it off nicely. His eyes are narrow, staring straight into hers. "Do we have an agreement?"
"I'd have to think about it."
"Think about the prospect of getting decent food for once. Decent clothes that cover up a little more than what you're peddling on the corner."
"I'm no whore," she grumbles.
"Of course you aren't," Luthor says through a frown. "That's why I'm offering you this. Look out your window and you'll see two kinds of people. The enlightened and the unenlightened—patricians and plebeians, though I don't expect you to know what any of that means."
She shrugs.
"But I take a vested interest in other people, Mercy, particularly people in whom I can sense some kind of future. Your future lies with me. Whether you know it or not."
The only sound is Mercy's breathing, rhythmic against the humidity in the apartment. She leans forward an d closes her eyes. Two minutes later she opens them and looks at him.
"What do I get?"
"Everything," he says. "Car, residence, benefits. But the best thing? You get a new life, Mercy. You'll work for me, and you'll enjoy it. I guarantee."
She stands, and he gets within an inch of her face. When he speaks the words come forth in a beautiful verbal stream, like he knows exactly what he wants to say. All the time. Something stirs, deep inside Mercy Graves.
"Despite your past, I can make you something better than gutter trash. I know you're not a good person—good people are overrated. You're just a person, one I can shape and make better. All I need…is permission."
He stares at her. And nothing else needs to be said.
Just a person.
But one that can be made better.
Face it Mercy, everything you've done until now hasn't done you any good. All the men and the drugs and the parties. It's only gotten you here. A wreck of a woman, lying on the dusty old floor of an old apartment building in the shittiest part of town. What a long way you've come, baby. Take the offer. Nothing else compares—really. Just do it. Take it.
And don't you dare look back.
"I'm in."
He smiles, ivory teeth gleaming, and meets her handshake. For the first time in a while...Mercy Graves feels something.