“I trust you know what you know how to do this,” Clark had busted us into STARR Labs when my retinal scan didn’t work. Maybe it was my damn glasses glare - my eyes were healing somehow - maybe the scan was used to my damaged eyes. But who knows. I don’t feel like I know anything anymore.
“I’m not that stupid, Robin.”
We’d laid the man on a surgery table, his bottom half still had the bedsheet laid over him. Clark didn’t look up from his work.
He’d swapped his private eye coat for a lab coat and kept his glasses on, which I found amusing and a little strange; it’s not like he needed them.
“Bring the DNA, Robin.”
I selected a single hair from the man’s head and pulled it out. I gave it to Clark, who put it under the scanner.
I sat on the edge of the surgery table and gazed at the man’s face. An exact lookalike. If it isn’t actually him, my pessimistic mind reminded me. There was no one in the lab when we got there, even the security system was shut off. I wanted to do a search, but we arguably had more important things to do.
His eyes looked dead and glassy. His skin was almost like a vampire’s. I knew it couldn’t be a magical transformation, once the changed individual sustained so much damage they would instantly change back to their true form. To my knowledge, Bruce had never practiced the dark arts, so he couldn’t have changed himself, died, and become himself again. I racked my memory for any other forms of change I knew of. There was hypnotism, maybe this was Bruce and someone had hypnotized him to think he was someone or something else, but then I remembered Bruce knew ways to deflect hypnotism so it wouldn’t affect him. Maybe this man, this lookalike, had been hypnotized to think he was Batman, but someone would have to have infinite accurate knowledge of him for that to work, and I could think of no such a person.
Maybe the man had physically changed himself. Physically changed himself in a way that couldn’t be changed back without a lot of work and money.
“Damn thing won’t work!” Clark shouted and smacked the scanner through the wall. I looked up in time to watch glass shatter across the lab floor and drywall crumble.
I sighed. He stared at the ground. Clark, Bruce had said, wasn’t used to being vulnerable. He’d never had to truly think a day in his life other than the thoughts “find its weakness, but don’t kill it.” He’d never had to work out a strategy, or find a go-to guy, or when he did need a lead, he would just ask Batman. Ask Bruce. But now he’d been dropped in the deep end of the pool without knowing how to swim. He was sinking fast, and there was finally no one to pull him out. Clark always thought he knew. But you never actually know anything until you’re powerless.
Yes, the situation was unfortunate, and maybe I was just used to being powerless. But I’d always been taught - and I’d always known - to prepare myself for what I thought was the worst case scenario. Maybe right now that scenario, for the both of us, was not knowing what to do, and not knowing if we were doing the right thing.
I looked at the man again. I took off my gloves and touched his face. I rubbed my thumb over his cheek and took it away. No smudge, so it wasn’t the world’s best makeup job. I felt around his hairline and neck, his lips and eyes. Nothing peeled off. Clark had taken interest in my procedures. I bought my hand up to my chin in thought. Not magical, not makeup and not mask. I could only think of one other thing.
“Are you sure you can’t get those scanners working?”
“Well as you can see,” He spoke in a harsh tone and gestured to the wall, the floor, and shattered parts.
“Okay.” I inhaled loud enough for anyone to hear. “I’m so sorry, Bruce.” I murmured.
“Wait, what?”
I cross-punched the corpse as hard as I could in the nose. It broke like a loose tooth with a sickening crack.
“What the hell did you do?!”
I tore off the bridge of his nose and examined it. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Just as I thought.” I looked up at Clark with a glint in my eye. “Plastic surgery.”

 We were back at Wayne Manor, in the same room where we’d found the body. We’d left the unidentified man on the surgery table, although Clark had torn off Bruce’s cape when I asked him to. I left a note pinned to the wall as an explanation for the dead man, and an apology for the broken scanner. We - didn’t say who - would pay for it as soon as we could. Clark debated with me, saying we shouldn’t leave a note, there were people that could easily trace it back to us. I told him they had absolutely no information on me whatsoever, and it’s not like we were signing the note. Also, if we had broken into STARR Labs without leaving a note, it would be just plain rude.
Clark didn’t give me any argument about driving this time, he climbed into the passenger’s side in total silence. Bruce’s torn cape was folded neatly and placed on the dash.
I now held it in my hands - ungloved - and nervously twisted it. I stared blankly at the wall, the candles around me were still lit.
We now knew Bruce wasn’t dead. Or, at least, wasn’t to our knowledge. We’d searched the house, the Batcave, for any form on note or trace of him and found nothing. I looked in the computer, hacked the database, searched the browser history, nothing. I racked my brain for anything he might have said, hinting that he’d gone somewhere or was planning to go somewhere. I was frustrated I couldn’t hack into all of the files in the Batcave, but there was probably a good reason for that.
The Cave didn’t have a security system, despite its large size nothing often went on inside that Bruce didn’t know about.
Alfred had died of a stroke recently, so there was no lead there, may he rest in peace. The computer Alfred wasn’t budging no matter what amount of hacking I did, which figures, Bruce is the one who taught me. Of course he wouldn’t teach me to hack his most private files.
Clark sat on the edge of the couch, his foot nervously tapping. If I wasn’t so worried I might have found pleasure in the scene, the Last Son of Krypton brought to his knees by a mere thought of a friend gone. A mere thought.
A thought. An idea. Telepathy. Jo’nn. The Martian Manhunter could establish telepathing contact with Bruce and we could find him! I looked up at Clark with the confidence of my new idea shining through. I rushed to the computer, pausing only for a second to see the confused look on Clark’s face. The drapes of the floor-to-ceiling windows fluttered behind me. Who was faster than a speeding bullet now?
I pounded out words on the keyboard with more power than a locomotive. I leaped through multiple firewalls with a single bound. “Martian Manhunter”, I entered into the H drive search box. Text came up: no files match your search. I wouldn’t give up. I entered every variation of the keywords Martian Manhunter, Jo’nn Jones, Watchtower, Mars. By the time I got to my last search, Clark was standing behind me, leaning on my chair.
“Bruce wouldn’t have have made it as easy as a keyword search.” He stepped up to the keyboard. “All of his file names probably adhere to some kind of code.” Numerous numbers and phrases were pounded out by Clark into the searchbox. My hope was slowly diminishing when on what seemed like the thousandth try, something came up. I essentially hip checked Clark out of the way, which was unnecessary in the grand scheme of things, the computer screen was as big as my bedroom wall. Clark didn’t go very far. I clicked on the tab. It opened a file.
The Martian Manhunter’s file photo was the first thing that caught my eye, placed in the upper left-hand corner. Pupiless eyes stared back down at me from the screen, dull green skin and a blue cape. The famous red X went across his chest. I had never met him, but I’d heard he worked wonders. The first bit of the document was just physical descriptions and power descriptions, limits and such. Shapeshifting, can become invisible, also can pass through objects. Mind reader, telepathic powers. Power limitations: Electricity neutralizes powers. Cannot easily read Thanagarian’s minds. Once entered a mind, it is a physical fight to that mind’s defenses. Any damage sustained when inside a mind will affect the real Martian Manhunter. If he dies in a mind, he dies in the real world. Rapid healing powers. Age: unknown. Lifespan: unknown.
Well I suppose I could figure out an approximation with logic, the Justice League first started working in about 1934. It’s 1980 now, 48 years later. Gez, Bruce is old. I look up at Clark. They’re all old. But Clark got his powers - that includes youth - from our red sun. So as long as the sun was here, Superman would be. I looked up at the screen and continued reading. It wasn’t fair.
So Jo’nn Jones was at least 70 years old, the file said he came to Earth when he was about 20. According to human logic, that age made sense. When Jo’nn had lives on Mars, he’d had a wife and two children. But then there was an invasion that killed them all. All except him.
Arguably it would make sense that a Martian’s life would be longer than a human’s, their years and days are longer than Earth’s. But 70 years is still a long time, no matter what planet you’re from.
I scrolled down further into the file. A bold phrase caught my eye. The date was less than a month ago. I read it outloud to Clark, although he was probably already reading it.
“Martian Manhunter a.k.a Jo’nn Jones killed by the villain known as Bruno. All traces of his body were turned to ash in the fire that followed. Ashes scattered into space. Only known survivor of the attack is The Question.”
“Damn it!” I yelled and pounded the keyboard. I put my head down. Clark leaned on the desktop as if he were wounded. I clutched Bruce’s cape as tears filled my eyes. Why, Bruce.
Why.
Our one lead, gone.
No, Bruce would have said. Your one easy lead. The obvious one. The simple one. There is always more than one. Good girl. Good soldier.
Good girl.
Good soldier.
I look up at the screen. The otherwise dark room was illuminated by its light. I rest my chin on the top of my hands. Why did he leave? Where did he go?
“I’ll search the house again.” Clark said.
I barely nodded and he left me. I got up and started pacing, not back and forth but just random wandering, a habit I’d picked up from watching Batman think. To the computer, the desk, wall, showcase, then back again but in a different order. The cape was swung over my shoulder like a baby blanket.
Lead. Lead. Lead… Gunshot. That’s it!
“Clark!” I was running upstairs and he was running downstairs and we collided. We tumble down and somehow I land on top of him instead of the other way around. He probably would have crushed me had it been that way.
He bumped his head and put a dent in the wall, but I was unscaved. “You okay?” He nodded. His glasses were cracked in both lenses and his coat was torn more. I don’t see why he wore them. He didn’t need them. I got off him and began running up the stairs again.
“What was so important we had to fall down the stairs?”
“You heard a gunshot, right?” I called from upstairs. Dawn began to shine through the windows, drowning out the light of the still-lit candles. I searched the walls for crumbling drywall and possible bullet holes.
“Yeah, why?”
“If we can find the bullet, we can find the gun or projectile, and if we can find that we can find who used it, and that might be a clue!” Clark stood on the threshold and stared. I paused. “What’re you waiting for?”
He took off his cracked glasses and attempted to clean them. “Nothing.” He murmured.
I turned back to the wall and began inspecting again. Clark did the same.
“Why don’t you just use your x-ray vision? That would be faster.”
“Right.” He stepped back and scanned the wall with his eyes. “Nothing.” He turned to another wall. “Nothing.” The floor, and finally the ceiling. “There it is.” He pointed to the archway. He flew up, kind of clumsily, produced a flat blade and cut the bullet from the wood.
He tossed it to me like it was hot, then promptly came down. I examined the bullet and looked around for a gun.
“How do we know it came out of a gun?” Clark asked. “I mean, how many villains do you know of that actually use a gun as their main weapon?”
“Right. Well, do you know of any villains whose projectiles fire bullets?”
“Well I don’t know of any villains, off the top of my head anyway - Lex Luthor maybe - but Vigilante uses guns. Maybe he can help. Or at least tell us where the bullet came from.”
“Can we get ahold of him?”
“It’s 2 in the morning. We should probably get some sleep. And let Vigilante sleep, wherever - and whenever - he is.”
“Fine,” I squinted into the morning sun, a bloodred sunrise that granted sailors storms. “Guest room’s on the left,” I pointed down the hallway.
“I know.” Clark said.

I’d thought nothing of that statement until I laid down in bed. “I know.” He’d said. How? He’d never been here before, well, he’d been in the Batcave, but not Wayne Manor. Maybe when he first got here before dusk he’d taken a look around, but that was so unlike him to do so, even though he worked as a reporter. Clark really never looked for anything or at anything other than that of which he was focused on. It was just unlike him. Speaking of things unlike him, in his battles, he’d always known a thing to do. Not quite a plan, but an instant reaction. He’d also use his powers. Tonight, it seemed to me like I knew more about him than he did. The bullet thing was strange - he’d thrown it to me like it was going to bite him. Clark had no problems with guns to my knowledge, and he wasn’t afraid to use them, should there ever come a time when he would have to. Not like Batman, where a gun alternative was the first thing he looked for.
He’d also been more quiet and somber, another thing much unlike him. Superman. Extrovert. Lover of the people and beautiful things. I had seen Superman - Clark - act somber before, but he had quickly bounced back instead of burying his thoughts inside of him.
The glasses were weird, too. Even though he’d cracked the lenses he still used them, as well as the overcoat. Could he be hiding something? And the dead man, the way he’d picked him up in the airplane carry instead of his arms, it was almost like he was trying to favor himself. Even when he flew up to the ceiling he seemed clumsy. Dazed when we’d fallen down the stairs. Winced in pain, pain whenever he punched or hit something. I hadn’t met him face to face prior to tonight, so I couldn’t know if the way he acted around me was off, but he was still very unlike himself. Reaching for the driver’s side door of the Batmobile as if he knew how to drive it. Always wearing a coat. My blinks slowly grew longer. Bright sun shown in, ignoring the navy blue drapes and their feeble attempt to block it out. I took off my own glasses and slept, although it was not a very restful slumber.
A bang. A flash. Smoke. Another bang, flash, smoke. Swords clashing, a dark alleyway. Screams. Yells. Fear.
Then it changes. Electricity, yells, a wall and a man. An island somewhere, but then nothing.
The nightmare replays in my head a hundred times before I finally wake up. Drenched in sweat, and my hair - though short - still manages to get in my face. Bang. Flash. Smoke. Shock, power, danger. I got up and went out of my bunker. I walked down the hallway where Clark and I had found the man on the way to the kitchen. The candles surrounding the scene had finally gone out, although recently; a thin smoke drifted lazily off the wicks like incense. I made it halfway to the kitchen before I realized I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I could see perfectly. I rushed back to my room and picked up my glasses. Same yellow rims, I looked closer at the lenses.
If you blinked you would have missed it. Every three seconds or so, a tiny flash on a nanopath would spark across the lenses of the glasses. Unless I stared at it and expected it, I wouldn’t notice it. I definitely wouldn’t notice it if it was a half-inch from my face and I was peering through it. Were these glasses fixing my eyes?
I cracked them once, about a year ago, when I was on a mission with Bruce. One of the Mutants punched me square in the nose, thank God they were shatterproof. But I knew if I went home with cracked glasses my dad would kill me. So after the fight, Bruce and I went back to the Batcave, or rather he lead me there, and I sat in a chair while he fixed my glasses. There was a lot of welding and glass-cutting noises, but about an hour later, he gave me a new pair. Still the same yellow rims, like the old ones, but the new lenses were tinted light green, like a cruddy pair of sunglasses. I put them back on and was happy to have my vision back. “Too back we can’t fix eyes without surgery, eh?” I remember saying. His lips quirked up into the smallest grin, as if he knew something I didn’t.
That was the only time I ever saw him smile.
I put the glasses on, then took them off. For about five minutes I repeated the motion, holding the glasses up to my face and then taking them away, trying in vain to spot any difference. To me, the lenses now appeared as if  was looking through a window; they didn’t blur my good vision like most pairs of glasses would.
I’ll have to ask and thank Bruce if we find him.
No, you damn pessimistic mind, when. When we find him.
I pocketed the glasses and resumed my journey to the kitchen. I was greeted once again by the pleasant smell of honey as I passed the candles in the hallway. The smell of black coffee burst into my nose when I stepped through the kitchen door. Clark say at the table, sipping coffee and reading the paper. I poured myself a cup and was surprised to find my favorite creamers and sugar and the milk and the milk were already laid out. I smile and pour all of the sugary junk into the black mass I couldn’t tolerate. I walked over to the table and sat down. Graphs and papers were scattered all over the table, and an old laptop slowly charging next to it. Clark set his coffee down and rubbed his eyes. His coffee was black.
Like my soul. Bruce has responded almost jokingly when I had asked him if he’d wanted any creamer. Bruce knew what creamers I liked. Bruce drank his coffee black. Bruce stayed up all night, looking at charts and graphs.
I almost asked “Clark”.
Instead I said, “Good morning, what were you looking for, and, did you find it?”
“I’m trying to find out where. Bruce is.”
He’d hesitated. He opened his laptop and entered the password. I knew that laptop. It was Bruce’s laptop. He was the only person who knew the passwords to it. Anything on that device was off limits to me; I had tried to hack it once, but since then I have deemed it un-hackable.
He, almost angrily, pounded out words into whatever exclusive searchbox he was using. He slammed his fist down on the table, frustrated. It didn’t break.
“I haven’t found him yet, but I’m so close, Carrie.”

Carrie. He called you Carrie. I smirk. I knew something he didn’t know for once.
“Pulling an all-nighter? How very, un-Clark of you.”
He froze. Got him, Carrie. Piece of cake. But don’t, don’t directly bust him yet.
I wanted to see where this went.
“Clark” regained his posture. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
That statement was another mistake on his part. Diana told me once he reacted in a similar way; the two were at a party and began dancing, but an attack interrupted them. Later on, when she had figured it out, she asked him to finish it. Denial was Bruce’s first reaction. Secret identity was one of his prized attributes, although it seemed now that everyone knew who he was. When he’d “died” a couple months ago, he had been identified. The Batman, Bruce Wayne.
But your cover is blown, Bruce. Follow-up question, is the mission compromised?
I finished my coffee and put the mug in the sink. I can hardly contain my excitement. How I kept my expression to a smirk I’ll never know. I walked around the room and started drawing the drapes like I did every morning. “Clark” was oblivious I was moving closer to him, he typed away on his computer. Printed sheets around him read “Most searched: Darkseid, Lex Luthor, Cadmus, Brainiac”, and multiple maps, as well as old Pentagon documents. Bruce had access to nearly everything one way or another. Awesome.
I walked behind him and pretended to look at the laptop. “You’re still wearing your coat. And glasses. And hat. Aren’t you uncomfortable?”
“No,” he promptly responded.
I grabbed his hat off of his head to reveal hearing aids attached to his ears.
“Give it back, Robin.” He still typed away at the laptop. There was no doubt in my mind now.
“Bruce.”
“I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out.”
“Why did you disguise yourself from me?” Even though I’d suspected it was him for a while, tears still filled my eyes. Angry tears. Tears of betrayal. I threw down his hat. “I thought you were dead! You could’ve given me some kind of warning or sign or, something!”
He still typed. “Sit down, Robin.”
I slumped into a dining room chair and rested my chin on my hands. I stared at him, waiting for him to begin his usual enlightening speech.
“Clark is missing.”
“Okay, whadaya mean, missing? Like, you haven’t seen him in a while, or he’s not at the Watchtower or Metrotower or whatever? Didja check the North Pole?!”
“Don’t you think I would’ve?” he snapped. I became small again. He calmed. “No. He’s not at Metrotower or the Watchtower or the North Pole. He’s not in Metropolis or Gotham or Justice mountain. There’s no word of him at The Daily Planet. He’s disappeared off the face of the earth without telling anyone or leaving a trace, which is, for lack of a better word, un-Clark of him.”
I snickered at his use of my statement.
“So is that what you’re searching for? A trace?”
“Well, yes. Anyone that’s heard of anything, secret codes, documents, even lazy eyewitnesses would be helpful right about now.”
I smiled again. Anyone who knows anything knows eyewitnesses are near useless. People can be paid off, blackmailed, or even just forget. They’re only human.
“So then why did you dress up as him?”
“I didn’t want to set the world aflame with panic. Think about it; if Metropolis noticed that their ‘guardian angel’ was gone, or America their ‘super soldier’, or a world their ‘god’."
The mood had instantly become dire with Bruce’s metaphors to Superman as a deity. I thought it was unnecessary, and almost unusual for him. But then I remember, people overreact when they’re angry. Even Batman. I forget that a lot.
“So,” He’d apparently finished typing and closed his laptop. “How’d you figure it out?”
I smiled. I thought myself so clever for picking up on all of the clues and putting two and two together. But unfortunately and usually, all of the clues I picked up were the ones that he’d meant to drop. Well Carrie, I guess we’ll just have to see this time.
“My first clue was how you picked up the man by the candles when we were looking for needles. You picked him up in an Airplane carry instead of in your arms. I remember, and know, that it’s easier to lift someone that way. I could even pick you up if I wanted to.” He nodded and I continued. “When you reached for the driver's side door of the Batmobile. Looking back, you tried covering up that you were Bruce by walking to the front door of Wayne Manor instead of going to the garage and appearing disoriented and confused. But once you headed to the garage, you acted like you knew. You walked with a confidence that a timid Clark wouldn’t have had. You even argued with me. In STARR Labs, you kept your hat and coat on, or rather you switched out your coat. I think that’s the first time I suspected you were hiding something. But now I know, you wore the hat to hide the Superhearing aids. The glasses, I’d imagine, are what gave you the X-ray, and should you have needed it, laser vision. But how was it activated?”
“Both visions are controlled by intense body heat. You can change between visions with this switch.” He takes them off to show me. “Continue.”
“And under the coat, is that how you fly?”
A proud sneer shrouded his otherwise serious face. He took off his coat and shirt to reveal a skintight armour that almost looked like scales. It ended at his wrists and shirt collar. It’s the world’s first anti-gravity suit. He pressed two fingers to his neck and turned it on. He hovered about five inches off the ground.
“It uses an-”
“Extremely powerful electromagnet that harnesses the properties of our planet’s bipolar core, creating a reverse gravity effect and displays a human flying.” He gives me an know-it-all look. “Bruce it’s amazing.”
After beholding the glory that is human flight, I sat back down.
“I must congratulate your acting skills in STARR Labs, though. Smacking the scanner through the wall was a very Clark move. Bruce would have found out the problem and fixed it like that.” I snap my fingers. “You were dazed when you fell down the stairs, that was another thing. When you took the bullet out of the ceiling, you threw it at me as if it were on fire. I know you don’t like bullets or guns and that you don’t want to have anything to do with them. You also seemed reluctant to use your powers, as if you’d forgotten you had them. I almost had to suggest it to you.”
Bruce was hunched over his coffee, listening intently.
“Although there’s one thing I don’t get. If you were pretending to be Clark, why was there a dead man that looks just like you in the hallway, and why did we go to STARR Labs to investigate?”
“I have no idea who that man was, or why he was there, and because of my curiosity we went to STARR Labs to try and figure that out. But we couldn’t look for traces of DNA because the scanner was broken, and I couldn’t fix the scanner because I was pretending to be Clark. But we went there for information, knowledge, and traces of DNA.”
“So I get why you disguised yourself from the rest of the world, but why’d you disguise yourself from me?”
“What you don’t know can’t hurt you. If we happened to get captured, they’d see Robin and Clark Kent. Sure they’d ask questions, but then you could honestly say you didn’t know anything.”
Bruce opened his laptop once again and began typing. I got up for a little target practice.
“Bruce?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks for fixing my eyes.”
He looks up and stares at me for a long moment.
“You’re welcome.”

I violently threw knives at moving targets as I contemplated Clark’s sudden absence. I decided he wouldn’t just up and leave. From what I’d read in the papers, seen on TV, and what Bruce has told me, I’d concluded that much. I also gathered that he was softer than Bruce; he’d more attached to things. A true Boy Scout. A true American Soldier. He’s even engaged, I thought. Superman’s alter ego, Clark Kent, was engaged to Lois Lane, a Daily Planet reporter. She knew he was Superman. She probably already noticed he was missing too.
I’d also conclude it was possible he was hurt somewhere. I’d heard of countless battles where Superman had been reduced to a mere man. It was no secret he wasn’t invincible.
Could he have been captured? A silver blade met its target dead-center. Maybe it was one of those “I could if I really wanted to” situations. If Bruce really wanted to, he could kill Clark. Likewise, if Clark really wanted to, he could probably kill Bruce. I could probably kill someone if I wanted to as well.
Superman had made a multitude of enemies in his line of of work, so it was no mystery to me what kind of person would want to capture him, obviously a villain of any colors. Motive, likely revenge. Villains were the only stereotypical constant I knew of; Bruce had taught me that much.
Now, someone with the capability to capture Superman must either be extremely powerful, with lots of resources and money, perhaps even manpower, or someone who’s really good at blackmail. Blackmail could be the anything with a lust for money or power, with Superman’s personality all they’d have to do is grab anyone off the street and hold a gun to their head, no doubt he’d come running. But I think to actually capture him, they’d have to degrade him as a man. Reduce him to a mere mortal. The only way I knew how to physically do that was with Kryptonite.
They say Kryptonite is a rare stone, but a rarity in one place is plentiful in another, and the only person knew of that had plenty of it was Lex Luthor. How typical of him would it be to try and capture him, break him.
But something didn’t add up. Superman doesn’t go after threats unless they’re terrorizing something or had captured something of importance and were terrorizing it. Also, he never went alone, and he never battled something without letting the whole world know about it. He never did anything of importance or anything that would put anyone in danger without telling someone.
So it must be some sort of blackmail or capture.
I explored that idea.