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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 21:42:01 GMT -5
Duty Bound # 3 Story By: Batkid Cover pencils by: Mogget and Mordakleep Cover colors by: Batkid Edited by: Jay McIntyre [/i][/center]
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 21:45:20 GMT -5
Clark gritted his teeth. The screaming was the worst part. With his superhearing he could hear a German mortar as soon as it was launched—but others couldn’t. The high-pitched noise from a ‘Screaming Meemie’, as they were termed, was bad. The following silence just before one hit was worse. Then, the screaming resumed, but not from the Screaming Meemie. From its victims.
Clark shrugged his pack further up on his back, trying to ignore the faces of those who were obviously dead and heading instead for people he could help. He ignored bullets being sprayed around him. At present, he wasn’t concerned about other soldiers seeing him walk away unharmed from getting shot—everyone was too distracted.
“Come on,” he shouted to one soldier, drawing him up in his arms and slinging him over his back. He headed for another man laying several yards away. Another soldier stepped on a mine right next to the fallen man Clark was going to rescue. Clark retched, sickened, before continuing to get the soldier on his back to safety. He wished he had his indestructible cape to drape over the man to shield him from bullets. He wished he could fly up the hill and take out the German soldiers, maybe take them to a prison in America. He wished he could use his laser vision and take out the German Hetzer tank that was forty yards away. He wished…
Dumping the injured soldier behind a large tree, Clark stopped. Why wish? Why not do it now? He could have this whole war over in a day. Find Hitler. Stop the Japanese. Defeat the Germans. Liberate the prisoners at concentration camps. Why not do it? Sure, it would blow his cover, but the war would be over. He was surprised when he realized just how much he hated those who had initiated the war—he, whom his friends thought mild-mannered.
Clark stood in the open, thinking, oblivious to the bullets slamming into him and focusing only on the screaming coming from around the world. That screaming… that was reason enough, wasn’t it?
Why not do it?
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 21:47:28 GMT -5
“Bruce.”
Bruce started, glancing around. It only took him a moment to realize that he’d fallen asleep in a chair beside his butler’s bedside. He glanced over the unconscious man quickly, looking for any sign of a change and finding none. He sighed, concerned.
“Bruce.” Bruce glanced up.
“Yes?”
Dick hesitated. “What is it, Dick?” Bruce asked.
“Do- do you have to go back,” the boy asked hesitantly. Bruce nodded. The boy’s eyes darkened solemnly. “Did you find anybody you know when you were there?”
“Superman,” Bruce replied, after checking to be sure that no one was close enough to hear. That brought him to thinking of the hero. He owed Clark—big time.
Dick’s features relaxed. “Oh, then you’ll be okay,” he responded, relieved. Bruce was surprised.
“Okay because I’m with Superman?” He asked. He shook his head, wondering how in-depth he wanted this conversation to go. “He’s not—he’s not really Superman,” Bruce tried to explain, eyeing Dick’s confused look. “He’s the man who is Superman.” He glanced around again, peeking out the open door from his chair to be sure no one was nearby.
“Like—“ Dick began.
“Yes,” Bruce nodded, eyes flashing a warning.
Dick’s face showed Bruce he understood. “But, still,” he persisted. “Isn’t he… like that, even out of costume?”
“Yes,” Bruce told him, watching the effects of his words. Dick was evidently assured; the boy leaned back. He would be with Superman.
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 21:56:30 GMT -5
The trip back was long, and by the time he was back on American soil, Alan Scott had mixed feelings about going back to the war. He loathed the idea of going back, but even more than that, he wanted to get back and do his part.
Let’s end this thing, he thought wearily. The war had gone on for entirely too long.
Alan found himself bounced to several different locations before ending up in California to await orders. In the flurry of activity in the days since he’d been back he barely had time to complete a thought and was relieved when he finally found a few quiet hours before he went to sleep. His thoughts turned inevitably to the war, and the people he had left behind. What was that one soldier’s name, the big one? Kemp, Klemp… Kent, that was it. He had looked so vaguely familiar… He turned to some other men who were walking in. “Ever heard of Clark Kent,” he asked casually. The men looked surprised at the question.
“Who?”
“No…”
“Who is he?”
“A friend of yours?”
“Yep.”
Everyone turned the two people who had simultaneously spoken the last word. “Yes?” Alan asked.
“A friend of mine in high school,” one man began. “He died a few years ago— broke his neck when he fell off his barn roof while he was shingling it.”
“Uh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Alan offered sympathetically. “But that can’t be the same guy I’m thinking of.”
“He’s a reporter,” someone spoke up. Everyone turned to the other person, a lean sandy-haired fellow who looked to have more freckles than there are stars in the sky. From his slow drawl, Alan knew he hailed from the south.
“From where?”
“East,” the man—a boy, really—drawled. “A big-city reporter from Metropolis. My aunt lives up that way,” he explained. “I’ve been up a few times and saw the guy’s articles in the paper. Why d’you ask?”
“I met him, or at least a man with the same name,” Alan replied. “Just wondered where he came from. He seemed familiar.” He grinned. “My mistake, I guess.”
“Sure he was Clark Kent?” Another man questioned. Alan was puzzled.
“Yeah. Why?”
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 22:11:46 GMT -5
Clark finished out the next few days mechanically, planning out his moves. First, he would deal with battles in Germany and France. Or maybe he should liberate concentration camps again. Getting his hands on Hitler was a priority, too.
“Clark, you okay?” One concerned buddy asked him. “You seem—“ “I’m fine,” Clark responded, irritated to be interrupted during his planning. The man backed off, though Clark could hear him whispering with another buddy ten yards away.
“He’s been really moody the past few days,” Clark could hear the man begin.
“Guess that last fight really did it,” the man’s buddy replied. “We just gotta watch him.”
“Watch Clark?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Stress,” the second man answered seriously. “I knew a guy who cracked here a coupla months ago, went nuts during a fight. He heard a Screamin’ Meemie and that did it. It took three of us to get him out of there.”
The other man seemed to consider that. “Clark’s a big guy,” he admitted. “Pretty strong, lugs the flamethrower. If he cracks…”
“It’d be hard, but we gotta do it,” the second man stressed. “Just watch him. It’s all we can do right now.”
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 22:16:09 GMT -5
Bruce was perusing the newspaper when it hit him. Next week is Dick’s birthday, he realized. He glanced at Dick, who was listening attentively to a radio program.
“Dick, next week’s your birthday,” he said. The boy’s face flushed. “Why didn’t you say something before,” Bruce wondered. Normally, Dick would discuss his birthday for weeks before the actual date.
“It’s not that big a deal,” the boy told him.
“So many big things are going on right now, Dick, that you need to be careful not to lose sight of the little things. ‘Stop and smell the roses’, as the saying goes.”
“I don’t like roses. I like daffodils better,” Dick stated matter-of-factly. Bruce laughed.
“Okay, daffodils, then.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke. Then he considered.
“I’m leaving in a couple of days. What say we do a birthday party before I go? It will have to be small—“
“I don’t really want a party,” Dick stated. “’Sides, we can’t have a cake, ‘cause Alfred says we have to ration everything—or maybe we are rationed…” He stopped, trying to recall the butler’s exact words.
"It’ll be hard to find the butter, flour and sugar,” Bruce mused. “Of course… if I know Alfred, he was already setting aside the ingredients he’d need to make a cake. No promises, but I can check it out,” he offered.
“Do you mind if we wait until Alfred’s better?” Dick asked.
“That, Dick…” Bruce ruffled the boy’s head, “Is a great idea.”
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 22:24:11 GMT -5
Back in camp, Bruce wondered at the change in his friend. Clark seemed sullen and withdrawn; when Bruce tried to lure him into a conversation, Clark gave short responses. Finally, Bruce cornered him.
“Clark, what’s wrong,” he asked quietly. Clark looked at him sourly.
“You try listening to this all the time,” he responded. ”All. The. Time.” Bruce blinked.
“Listen to the war?”
“Listen to the gunshots,” Clark responded. For the first time since he had returned to camp, Bruce got a good look into his friend’s eyes and was struck by how haunted they were. “Listen to the orders to murder millions. Listen to the screams.” Bruce was quiet, unsure how to respond.
“I can stop this, Bruce,” Clark said more eagerly. “I can make everybody stop.”
“Stop fighting?”
“Stop everything!” Clark brushed a hand through his hair, the ever-present curl returning neatly to its place. “I can stop the screams.”
Bruce had a response on the tip of his tongue when another soldier motioned to him. “Hey, Wayne, welcome back,” the soldier greeted him. “Can you come help me for a second?” Bruce looked back at Clark.
"I’ll be back,” he informed him. He followed the other soldier for several yards.
“It’s about Kent,” the man began.
“What about him?” Bruce asked, dreading the answer. The other soldier shrugged.
“You two seem to be buds, so I figured I’d tell you. He’s changed since you went back to the U.S. I’m afraid he’s going to crack,” he told him honestly.
“Crack?”
“From the stress. He’s been moody. Once he complained about the screams. I knew someone who went nuts on the field from the stress. I don’t know if you can talk to him, or what, but this could get him killed,” he replied simply.
Bruce nodded, letting the seasoned soldier’s words sink in. “I’ll see what I can do,” was all he said. The man slapped Bruce’s arm, relieved. Both men spotted Clark striding towards them.
“Wayne,” Clark called. “I’ve gotta talk to you.” Bruce walked over to his friend, and the other soldier left. “Are you going to help me?”
“Help you what?”
“I’m not cracked, Bruce. I’m not crazy. I know what the guys have been saying, but that’s because they don’t realize yet.”
“Realize what, Clark?”
“We can stop this war,” Clark said. “Stop the pain. We’re more than your average Joe, Bruce. We’re… super G.I. Joes.” Bruce’s eyebrow cocked. Clark ignored him and went on. “We have the power to stop everything that is going on.”
“That’s not what—“
“What? Not what we’re here for? This is what we’re meant for.” Bruce’s mouth flattened.
“What would you do if you caught up with some Germans running a concentration camp? Or if you heard a Japanese bragging about being a part of the Pearl Harbor attack? What would you do if you caught up with Hitler?” Clark didn’t answer.
“You’re not yourself, Clark. If you saw that happening, say you saw a concentration camp, would you be able to hold back?” Clark looked stunned.
“Hold back? Why would I hold back?”
“Think about it. You’re more powerful than a whole camp full of soldiers. If you were to—lose your temper, you could…” He stopped, sensing he had gone too far.
“Kill them? Murder them? Superman doesn’t kill, Bruce.” Bruce was glad he had decided to have this discussion privately. Clark stalked away.
“I’m not a monster, Bruce,” he said without looking back. “I’m here to save people, not hurt them. If you want to help, to really make a difference, you know what you have to do.”
Bruce sighed as he watched his friend walk away. This war, he felt, was not to be fought by unleashing the wrath of the Justice League. Even Wonder Woman had implied that she thought it his destiny when he had received the draft notice. That he would go as Bruce Wayne, not Batman. And with the way Clark was now… did the world really need a wrathful Supeman exacting vengeance? No. They weren’t world police. They were helpers, protectors… Bruce stopped on that last word.
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Post by arcalian on Jul 21, 2009 22:27:16 GMT -5
Alan Scott was going to his new assignment, remembering the conversation he had recently had with some other men in the Air Corps.
“He’s a reporter,” someone had spoken up. Everyone had turned to the other person, a lean sandy-haired fellow who looked to have more freckles than there are stars in the sky. From his slow drawl, Alan had known that he hailed from the south.
“From where?”
"East,” the man—a boy, really—had drawled. “A big-city reporter from Metropolis. My aunt lives up that way,” he had explained. “I’ve been up a few times and saw the guy’s articles in the paper. Why d’you ask?”
“I met him, or at least a man with the same name,” Alan had replied. “Just wondered where he came from. He seemed familiar.” He’d grinned. “My mistake, I guess.”
“Sure he was Clark Kent?” Another man had questioned. Alan had been puzzled.
“Yeah, why?”
One of the men had grinned. “We hear another Clark joined up with the Air Corps.”
“Another Clark?” Alan had questioned, thoroughly confused.
“Yep,” the sandy-haired boy had replied. “Clark—“
“Nah, let him find out himself later,” one of the men had smirked. “It’s a crazy rumor. I for one don’t believe it.” Though Alan had pressed for details, he hadn’t gotten any more than smirks.
Wonder who the rumor’s about, he pondered. He checked the sign on the door. Yes, this was the right place. He strode in, taking in the room in a long glance.
“Hey, you the new guy?” A man had asked, turning to face Alan. Alan’s jaw dropped when he saw who it was…
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