Chapter Text
DRAGONFLIES MIGRATE TO METROPOLIS, AND IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK
Written by Lois Lane
There is a current rise in an organization that calls themselves the Dragonflies and they are becoming prolific throughout Metropolis in a motion not dissimilar to a full on migration.
The Dragonflies, who are identified via the brooches of the very same insect that they wear on their chest, are a group who claim to be uplifters of justice as well, but are entirely composed of civilians and humans.
That's right. If you happen to have any sort of power, you are barred from entering the organization and their rallies. The Dragonflies claim that this is not an act of malice, but rather protection, as they hope to spread their message of fairness and justice throughout not just Metropolis, but eventually the world.
With their motto, “Clip Capes and Spread Wings”, their movement to advocate for more government interference on behalf of the average citizen against superpowered individuals grows stronger by the day.
Their continued message reverberates throughout Metropolis, which everyone knows belongs to the Man of Steel.
But if they think they can get Superman to hand over his cape for “clipping”, then they're sorely mistaken…
BREAKING NEWS: CRIME RATES IN GOTHAM HAVE INCREASED BY 5% SINCE LAST MONTH'S FLOOD
Gotham has always had a high crime rate throughout the last century, but it has noticeably increased since the flood that took place three weeks ago.
The GCPD is in scrambles trying to keep a hold of the mess that is the underground crime network, but it is becoming clearer that the police can only do so much.
So whose fault is it, then?
Whose is it other than the Bat's?
The various crime lords within Gotham might be able to terrorize each other, but none of them aside from Batman can claim to terrify its citizens, as well.
May the mask be destroyed, and justice be served…
“This is horrible.”
“I quite agree,” Alfred said. His face was scrunched with disgruntlement and he squinted down at his cup of tea with such a look of scrutiny that it was a wonder the brown liquid didn't jump up and run away. “What an unusual blend. I must remember to refuse any shipments from this company in the future.”
“Not the tea, Alfred,” Bruce groaned, though he did push away his own cup, which sloshed a bit of the offensive liquid onto his desk. Gross. “This. They're calling Batman a menace to society.”
His lip curled with frustration as he continued to rifle through the newspaper, unable to bite back a scowl as he glanced over the incendiary words and jabbed remarks.
“They're not even trying to be subtle about it.” Bruce absolutely did not sulk as he rolled up the paper and tossed it into the waste basket beside his desk. “What kind of idiot makes a report like this? Calling Batman responsible… they're treating him like he's that Spider kid from Queens.”
“Your penchant for referring yourself in third person aside,” Alfred said drily, walking over to slide a tablet onto the desk and frowning in disapproval when Bruce refused to look at it. “It might be prudent to address this as Bruce Wayne, at the very least.”
Bruce stared.
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“I thought I told - “ Bruce grinded his teeth. “I thought I told them to stop writing about me!”
“Yes, Young Master, I am sure that you have the power to take away their First Amendment right.” Alfred stirred the grotesque tea with such sharp movements that it was clear he was doing it deliberately to convey his annoyance. “You cannot keep - “
“Don't start - “
“I am not starting anything - “
“Dammit, Alfred, I said I don't - “
“Language!” Alfred said harshly.
Bruce shut his mouth shut with a clack.
He squeezed his fists on top of his desk, his nails short and bitten as they dug into his scarred palms. He thought about them, about the torn skin on his knuckles and the bruises that littered his fingers, and it used to be that they made him feel better.
To know that he was making a difference, to help Gotham in the only way he knew how, but now he was just… lost.
Lost because that whole crap festival (he could imagine Alfred's glare if he dared to think of anything more offensive) with the Riddler and Falcone had been messy at best, horrible at worst, and these days he often leaned towards the latter.
In some ways, Bruce had learned lessons he couldn't have learned otherwise without the literal disaster that befell Gotham and therefore made him understand just what kind of person Batman had to become in order to truly serve Gothamites.
On the other hand, that was simply one pro in a sea of cons.
As much as Bruce loathed Falcone, everything that he had done, the ties he had with Bruce's father, that didn't mean that Falcone hadn't been a structural pin in the chaotic threads that weaved Gotham's underground crime network.
Without the pin, the threads had all become loose, and they threatened to tangle up with each other in knots that were impossible to sever, at least not without hurting innocents in the process.
Bruce ran a hand through his hair, the strands long and stuck in between his fingers as he did, since he needed a haircut but refused to get one.
Dammit.
“Young Master,” Alfred said, and his voice wasn't tender, but it was soft with something Bruce refused to acknowledge as his hand reached out and brushed aside Bruce's bangs, like he was still a child.
Bruce turned away on instinct, knowing that he was pouting like a toddler, but unable to do anything else.
Alfred sighed.
“Your parents were imperfect,” Alfred said lowly. “That much you know now. But your father left behind his legacy for you to uplift, and without that legacy, you would not be able to keep Gotham safe.”
“I can't,” Bruce rasped. He scrubbed his hands up and down his face, suddenly feeling so tired and like he had aged twenty years in the past minute. “I - I can't. I'm nothing without Batman.”
“And Batman would be nothing without you,” Alfred said firmly. “I am not asking for much, Young Master. An interview is all that's needed. You need to become public again, if only for a moment, to ease your shareholders and the board.”
Bruce brooded.
He loathed to admit he was ever wrong, so instead, he decided to go with the idea that Alfred was right, which was only marginally less painful to think of.
The current shareholders of WE were restless, and some were pulling out too fast for the company to keep up with. This was especially the case for foreign investors, because as much as Alfred liked to nag otherwise, Bruce did read every single file and email that was sent to him, even though it caused him excruciating agony.
The off-shore investors were too nervous. Spooked. Gotham had always been rather shady to invest in, but with the recent power imbalance caused by Falcone's death as well as the physical damage caused by the flood, people were anxious.
Just one more flood, and Gotham could get wiped out for good.
Just one more wayward villain, and WE would be nothing.
Just one more slip-up from the Bat, and people would leave in droves.
Bruce was nothing without Batman, he still stood by that. Alfred's spiel about Batman being nothing without Bruce was only half right, since it was less about Bruce himself, but more about the money.
Bruce could build every single gadget and tool in the Batcave by hand, but he couldn't produce raw material by pulling it out of his ass. If he could, he would go digging in the earth for it himself, but even he could recognize how stupid that was.
Without investors, WE would continue to plummet, and Bruce would have nothing left to support the Bat.
“Well?” Alfred asked. He had a knowing look as he brewed another pot of tea, though judging by the smell, it was thankfully chamomile instead of whatever monstrosity he made earlier.
Bruce looked down at the tablet, gritted his teeth, and said, “I'll… think… about it.”
Alfred looked pleased.
“Very good, Young Master.”
The Bat was good at brooding.
Bruce was trying his best to stop it, but he didn't really know how.
By this point, he was convinced that he was just built for brooding, and though some inner part of him that sounded awfully like Alfred's voice nagged that he was instead sulking, he ignored it and continued to crouch on one of Gotham's many gargoyles.
The city was a mess.
She was always a mess, and, as Lois Lane had so eloquently stated in several articles, “hot garbage”, but tonight it was truer than ever.
The flood had devastated Gotham, and that was an understatement.
It was late, maybe around 2 AM if Bruce had to guess, and though Gotham had never been the glimmering city of lights like Metropolis was, it was still very possible to look down on the streets and recognize various buildings and roads due to the numerous lights and notoriously high night-life Gothamites liked to indulge in.
But now, it was like looking down at a sea of darkness. Some buildings had been able to escape the wreckage and had weak, flickering lights that at least told Batman where to aim and swing with this grapple, but most weren't so lucky.
The air smelled foul and like cracked, wet asphalt, and occasionally, he could hear soft grunts or curses as some dead end thug tried to mug another innocent mother or another.
Petty crimes like those often ended swiftly on Batman's part, but he loathed how the civilian he tried to protect always eyed him in horror, like he was going to turn and try to rob them next.
So Batman brooded, and he raised a hand to run his fingers through his too-long hair, aborted the motion, and settled more onto his chosen gargoyle.
He eyed the wrecked streets of his city and scowled fiercely at the state of them.
It had been a month since the flood, but reconstruction was slow and often hindered because of Gotham's poor weather, and also because the workforce had been cut in half when civilians had fled in fear of the Riddler's schemes.
People continued to trickle in by the day, but they were all still uncertain and shaken, and they lacked faith that Gotham could be restored.
They lacked faith in Batman, which was why people never trusted him even as he apprehended one thug after another, why mothers always tugged their children close anytime his shadow lingered nearby, why his first love, his Gotham, suffered.
Bruce needed to figure out a way to fix it all, but how?
For his first two years as the Bat, he had held vengeance in one hand and ruthlessness in the other. They had both served him for a short while, and while he had succeeded in breeding fear into the hearts of criminals, he had somehow managed to do the same to innocent civilians.
Bruce hated himself for it.
He wasn't - good at that sort of thing. Being seen as something other than fear incarnate was hard to wrap his head around, and even more than that, he hated how much he wanted it.
He wanted Gotham to embrace him rather than reject him. He wanted his people to uplift him rather than shy away. He wanted to protect rather than misguide.
He wanted to be better.
Ow. His neck hurt.
He rolled his shoulders, the muscles having tightened without him realizing, and he almost winced when his neck made an ominous cracking sound as he did.
“Long night, Batman?”
Bruce didn't glance up when he heard the ever recognizable voice of someone he didn't know, which was a contradiction that vehemently disagreed with everything he had taught himself as acceptable.
Still, he felt his muscles bunch up again underneath the kevlar, and he sourly thought to himself that he was truly the unluckiest man in the world as he grumbled, “Superman.”
The Man of Steel floated down with all the casualness of someone who was only half his size, and not at all like someone who could float in the first place.
It was clear just by looking at him how out of place he was in the dark cityscape of Gotham. His cape was a bright red that matched the rather embarrassing trunks he wore (why on the outside?) and the blue of his suit was rather elementary.
He was, annoyingly, as handsome as ever, and Bruce wanted to punch him for it. His eyes were that otherworldly shade of sapphire and his dimples horrified Bruce. Even worse, that signature curl of black hair was a little chaotic that night, and every time it threatened to touch one of Superman's eyes, he would blow up a small puff of air to try and move it out of the way.
“This isn't your city,” Batman said tersely, pointedly trying not to look directly at Superman's stupidly handsome face and do something morbid, like blush. “Get out.”
“Always the conversationalist,” Superman said easily. He floated down enough so that he was at eye-level with Bruce, which pissed him off since Superman was already a few inches taller and Bruce didn't need the reminder, thank you. “And in case you forgot, our cities are sisters, Batman.”
“Sisters never choose to be sisters,” Batman said drily.
Superman coughed. “Was that a joke?”
“No.” Yes.
“I heard what happened,” Superman said after a moment of awkward silence. He cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck, and it came to Bruce with astonishing clarity that Superman was young.
He couldn't have been that much older than Bruce, maybe only two or three years older, which put him in the solid mid-twenties range.
A god-like alien was within the same age bracket as Bruce, jesus christ.
“You'll have to be more specific,” Bruce said. He looked away, drawing his cape tighter around himself and trying to sound as dismissive as possible. “With your ears, you hear plenty.”
Superman laughed this time, but it was more short and uncomfortable rather than full of humor, and he said, “you've got me there. I meant the flood. Riddler, right?”
Bruce stiffened.
“What about it?” Bruce snarled harshly. He would have felt sorry about it if it weren't for the fact that he could distinctly recognize the look in Superman's angelic eyes as he floated a bit higher and glanced at Bruce.
Pity.
The Symbol of Hope was pitying him, and Bruce didn't know whether to punch him and break his hand trying, or to punt him back to his home planet that he kept raving about in his interviews with Lois Lane.
Bruce stood up without warning, his cape snapping in the humid wind and nearly slapping Superman on the arm, whose face pinched with alarm as he quickly bent out of the way.
“Get out,” Bruce rumbled.
“Batman - “
“Get out!” Bruce roared. “Go back to your glittering Metropolis and leave Gotham alone! This isn't your city, and I'll be damned if you think you can stick your nose where it doesn't belong.”
“What, I - “ Superman sputtered, and some vindictive part of Bruce felt triumphant at the sight. For all his powers and all his strength, he could get flustered. “No, I didn't - Batman!”
Bruce took out his grappling hook and swung away. It was a bit too chilly that night to try and face the wind, but he endured it anyway, gritting his teeth when he landed on a nearby roof with grace and realized that there was already a figure there waiting for him.
“Go home,” Bruce growled, side-stepping Superman and trying to get around him. “I don't know how they do things on Krypton, but on Earth, we don't go around trying to save people who don't need to be saved.”
Superman's brows furrowed at that and his nostrils flared, the first indication that he was finally starting to become angry. The second indication was the sharp inflection of his words as he said, “that was uncalled for.”
“What's uncalled for is you arriving in Gotham when I had made it specifically clear that I don't want anyone to lay their hands on her,” Bruce hissed, refusing to feel sorry about the jabbed remark even though some part of him squirmed at the anguished look on Superman's face.
“No, look - oh, will you just listen to me?”
A hand with enough strength in one pinky to level a building reached out and grabbed at Bruce's elbow.
He paused.
They stood there, frozen in time, their capes wavering in the wind in a tangle of red and black as Bruce kept his back towards the most powerful being in the world, and somehow it wasn't the hand on his arm that hurt him, but rather the gentle sting of the wind blowing directly into his eyes.
“I didn't come here to upset you,” Superman said quietly. His grip on Bruce never tightened beyond a light hold, even though they both knew without a doubt that he could crush the armor into nothing. “Please. Hear me out.”
The larger, pettier part of Bruce didn't want to.
He wasn't lying when he said he had made it abundantly obvious that he didn't want any interference with Gotham. As new as he was to the whole vigilante scene, he had been adamant to the start that no one, especially not Superman, had the right to lay a finger on his city.
But Bruce wanted to change.
He had said as much to himself earlier, didn't he?
Before the flood, Bruce wouldn't have hesitated to tell Superman to stick his self-righteous goody-two-shoes-ness up where the sun didn't shine, and to wipe with a sheet made of kryptonite to boot.
But that was before, and this was now, and -
The people loved Superman. They did, and as much as Bruce didn't want anything to do with him, he could understand why.
Superman was handsome, heroic, all that textbook nonsense that seemed to fit a hero, and him, to a T. There was no denying what colors you wanted to see streak through the sky in moments of danger, and Bruce - Bruce wasn't that kind of man, the type to inspire hope and dreams and love, but he also didn't want to be the man to inspire just fear.
Gotham needed a harsh hand, yes, but she also needed a soothing one.
Bruce glanced to the side, at Superman, and marveled at him.
He was different. He was - good. Admired. Beloved, even.
Bruce needed to know how.
“Fine,” Bruce said, and that seemed to surprise Superman enough that he let go, and Bruce immediately tucked his arm to his side, hiding it under his cape and hoping Superman wouldn't dare pull another trick like that again. “Talk.”
“Something from Metropolis is bleeding into Gotham,” Superman immediately said, like he sensed that Bruce was only one wrong word away from swinging off again and never looking back. “I don't know what it is, exactly, but I've managed to put out a few feelers and find that it's extending into here.”
That got Bruce's attention.
“Bleeding?” Bruce demanded. “You're talking about the crime rings here.”
Superman nodded. He looked troubled, which was quite sickening considering he was someone who could literally hold up the Empire State Building if he had to.
“The organized crime scene in Metropolis isn't as prolific as it is here, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Whatever's going on is leeching over, but I can't figure out what's taking place in Metropolis without knowing what's happening here as well,” Superman said.
Bruce squinted. He replayed the words over in his head, trying to figure out what it really was that Superman wanted, and when it dawned on him, he couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.
“You want me to cooperate.”
“It's more than a cooperation,” Superman said insistently. He was floating closer now, the toes of his boots just barely scraping the concrete of the rooftop, and Bruce wanted to shove him back. “I can't ask you to step aside and let me investigate on my own, that's rude.”
Rude? Some part of Bruce's brain said incredulously. That's so… juvenile.
“What I'm asking for is a partnership.” Superman extended a hand, his fingers relaxed but steady as he stared at Bruce like he couldn't believe he was doing this. Bruce couldn't believe it, either. “Just for this. I need your help, Batman. We can keep Gotham safe together.”
Bruce stared at Superman's hand and vaguely wondered if he could slap it away. Probably not, at least not without losing a few fingers, but it was the thought that counted.
A partnership was the least desirable outcome for Bruce, no matter the reasoning. Gotham was already unstable as it was, and its citizens were wary of the one masked vigilante that had gotten directly involved with its affairs.
Involving another one, especially such a recognizable one from Metropolis, was practically begging the underground criminal network to flock to Gotham and breed like a disgusting batch of bacteria.
And most of all, Batman worked alone.
But Superman is the most widely recognized and celebrated hero throughout the world, not just in Metropolis or just in the States, he thought blankly to himself. He knows how to talk to people and make them trust him. Parents ask him to save their children all the time, and they never flinch even when he uses his full powers in broad daylight.
He's useful.
He could help.
“A partnership implies a give and take,” Bruce rasped, watching as Superman began to frown more as his hand went untouched. “Equivalent exchange. Do you know the law of conservation of energy?”
“Yes,” Superman said, looking rather confused. “Energy can't be created nor destroyed. What does that have to do with - “
“I'll let you interfere.” Bruce interrupted, only feeling slightly sorry as Superman scowled. “But on one condition. You help me become more than - more than.”
“More than…?” Superman trailed off.
Bruce clenched his jaw.
“More than what I am now,” he finally said. “Gotham needs me, but I need her just as much. The Gothamites are scared of me. I can't figure out how to - “
He cut himself off.
Superman blinked slowly. “You want me to be your PR manager?”
Bruce whipped around, snarling and his face horrifyingly hot underneath his mask as he spat, “forget it, that was stupid, I - “
“Deal.”
Bruce glanced over his shoulder again.
“What?” He said.
“I said deal,” Superman repeated, his voice stronger this time and that steely look of determination flashing across his face, like he was fighting another gigantic monster or something similar. “You help me investigate what's going on, and I'll help the Gothamites love you.”
Bruce flinched. “Love is a strong word.”
“Just shake my hand,” Superman said, exasperated.
Bruce grunted and tentatively wrapped his fingers around Superman's. His grip was surprisingly warm even through Batman's gloves, and when they shook just once, Bruce felt like an itch on his back was getting scratched.
Superman smiled.
“Glad to have you on board, partner.”