xparrot | Fic: All the Difference, part 3

After watching JLU concurrently with Smallville, it's difficult to keep their canons from getting entwined in my mind, especially since the SV Clex backstory fits in so nicely into the tetchy Supes/Luthor relationship JLU presents. However, I never intended for this story to be a crossover. Therefore I'm at a loss to explain how the Batman keeps sneaking in. I suppose sneaking into things is one of his specialties. And he is a convenient foil.

Please forgive typos and grammatical flubs (do point them out, just don't laugh at my idiocy when you do - not that anyone has, you've been very nice about that!) -

gnine was a dear sister and beta'd this for me yesterday but I'm posting on very little sleep now, being as Lex was prodding me to write him smashed (Lex smashed, not me) at 6 AM (My 6 AM, not his; it was about 1 AM his time, and Why can't you just pass out when you've had that much scotch? I ask him; but this is Lex.)

Smallville: All the Difference, 3/? {2,736 words}
PG, Clark/Lex, futurefic, AU (in a manner of speaking)
Lex Luthor wakes up in his own bed, in his own penthouse, infinitely far from home.

All the Difference (3/?)

This was not one of Lex Luthor's better days.

Possible explanations ran the gamut from the practical and probable--extended dream, drug- or psychic-induced hallucination, insanity--to the possible if extreme--elaborate virtual reality, impressively scaled Justice League conspiracy--to the increasingly unlikely--altered timeline, parallel reality, alien abduction.

By Occam's infamous razor, insanity was the most likely explanation. It wouldn't be his first (or second, or third) psychotic break. True, he wasn't experiencing the jazzed-up rush of schizophrenic adrenaline, but aspects of this reality were unquestionably demented.

However, were the present world a product of his damaged psyche, then he had little recourse but to live in it until either the logical inconsistencies tore it apart, or he awoke medicated in a padded cell. Possibly both. In the meantime, better to assume he retained his sanity and proceed from there.

"Mr. Luthor?"

He hit the intercom button. "Yes, Jill?"

"Your two o'clock appointment is here."

To that end, he had gone to his office as if today were a day like any other. Mercy accompanied him with refreshingly familiar professional poise. She kept her distance a foot further than usual but otherwise was indistinguishable. His secretary likewise seemed no different, and the day's schedule produced at his request held no surprises. Save perhaps that it was so similar. Same date, same weekday, same year; same meetings. He cancelled the EPA appointment (deciding the quarter's allotment of bribes could wait a week), dismissed Mercy on a fact-checking errand across town that earned him a raised eyebrow but no comment, and retreated to his office alone.

And spent several minutes sitting behind his desk, studying his computer screen. It looked the same as always. The desk, too, was generally alike, excepting a few details. Most specifically, a small photograph in a tasteful silver frame had replaced the ostentatious gold-leafed portrait of Lionel that he kept half-turned toward the door as a reminder to himself and any visitors. This new picture was turned inward, for his eyes only. At least he presumed no one else was meant to see it. Clark Kent and himself, with Kent's arm around his shoulders, both of them beaming matching cliche grins. Picture-perfect and insipid. He turned the frame away.

Were this an artificially induced hallucination or a virtual reality simulation, the object of either might be to obtain his passwords or other vital LexCorp data. He deliberated for some minutes at his computer's logon. Though if that were the objective, then surely they would have taken more care in constructing their scenario. To get so many details so oddly wrong...he tapped his fingers on the glass desktop, feeling the cold surface vibrate slightly against his nails, a simple and sublimely insignificant sensation. Far too delicate for the crude neural net of his artificial hand to detect.

In the end, he opted for a rudimentary test and entered a particular password, a significant name appended with a few random numbers. The password was accepted, obediently logging him on with a blink of the screen. To the unobservant eye, he was accepted into the system. Just as any upper level LexCorp programmer worth his salt would have been able to fake.

Except none of them would have included the tiny icon in the corner of the desktop, an "86" outlined in purple. Lex's eyes narrowed. No VR simulation could have anticipated that, no matter what traitors he might have among his employees. The mere existence of LexCorp Protocol 86 was known to a very select few, and this password protection he had programmed himself.

That particular fake password would have triggered a flag. Lex now had access to a dummy replica of his database, falsified data that would be cursorily convincing. It didn't have to be any more than cursory. If he didn't disarm the flag in ten minutes, the protocol would be activated. This wasn't a mock-up of his computer; it was his computer.

He clicked on the 86 icon, returning him to the true logon screen, then hesitated a moment. Lex's real password was a twelve-digit alphanumeric string that changed every twenty-four hours according to a mathematical formula. A new formula was implemented on a bimonthly basis, always an equation of his own design. It wasn't foolproof, but it was as good as he was going to get within the limits of modern computer technology.

He had three chances to logon before Protocol 86 was automatically invoked. Having wasted one already, he was careful in entering the day's correct password. Though with the other differences--

The password was accepted, with no 86 this time. The genuine database. Lex blinked, though didn't go so far as to allow himself a sigh of relief. All the same. Whatever other changes there might be in this scenario, be it hallucination or alternate timeline, LexCorp was still his.

Whatever it might be here. He spent the next hours going over emails and stock portfolios, quarterly reports and online newspaper archives, collecting random data points and correlating them against what he knew. If this were a simulation, then it was remarkably, even illogically, thorough. Which didn't rule out the possibility of alien abduction; extraterrestrials were not particularly known for their rationality. Superman being a case in point. His species' fashion sense alone was cause to question their sentience.

For all Lex knew, there was a race of aliens out in the cosmos that specialized in plucking important figures from their homeworlds and installing them in psychosis-inducing facsimiles of their real lives. Perhaps telepathically drawing inspiration from their victims' own thoughts. Every statistic and article he read now might be a subconscious production of his own mind. It would explain why nearly all of LexCorp's subsidiaries were posting earnings equal to or higher than their true value. Classic wish fulfillment.

Disregarding certain other alterations, of course. He refused to consider the morning's events. Perhaps these hypothetical aliens were confused by strong emotions. Or else they had the same base tastes in entertainment as the unwashed soap-opera-consuming masses found on Earth.

Perhaps he was insane after all.

Or else this wasn't a simulation. Other universes were more than just fiction. He had read Hamilton's paper a couple years ago, and for all the flack the man had taken, he was not a crackpot. To say nothing of Imogen Carrefour's research at Khronos; her scruples may have been lax but the theory had been sound.

If this were real--a true reality alternate from his own, an effect of manipulated history or a parallel world, that he had somehow slipped the bonds of space-time to fall into--then it was profoundly, incredibly, irrationally--disturbing.

"Your two o'clock appointment is here," his secretary said over the speaker. "Shall I send Mr. Wayne in?"

"Yes, do so," Lex said, rising from his chair and coming around the desk to greet his visitor. He was bracing himself so as not to give anything away, and yet still when the man himself walked in, Lex had to catch himself.

Because this was Bruce Wayne, indubitably and exactly, blue eyes and black hair, the square-jawed prince of Gotham. And yet this wasn't Bruce Wayne at all.

Lex had met Wayne on multiple occasions, both business and social engagements. LexCorp and Wayne Enterprises had partnered on a few deals, but Wayne had severed most of those ties several years prior. "Nothing personal," Wayne had said, "you understand. It's just business, your style's not the way Fox gets things done, you know?" and he had made a great show of buying Lex a drink. The billionaire playboy, portrait of a dissipated youth turned adequately responsible, in a haphazard, vaguely idealistic way.

But Lex had seen Wayne angry once, when he had suggested their joint robotics project might be more profitable in the military sector. That temper had blown over in a moment, but it had been enough for Lex to see the truth. The popular knowledge that Lucius Fox ran Wayne Enterprises, with Bruce Wayne an amiable figurehead hardly filling his father's groundbreaking shoes, was dead wrong, a misunderstanding that Wayne perpetuated for his own ends. Lex hadn't bothered to find out why, but he recognized the steel fist within the glad-handing velvet glove, no matter what rumors denied it. Even if Wayne had never showed a sign of it to him since that one instance.

Until now. The gloves were off, this moment; the man striding into his office was dangerous, and knew it, and made no effort to hide it. Four hundred dollar leather loafers but he walked on the balls of his feet, like a fighter or a big cat. "Lex," he said, shaking hands, and his voice wasn't Wayne's prattle, but a growl.

"Bruce," Lex said, falling back on courtesy until he could evaluate this new version of the man. "How good to see you again."

"Better than the last time," Wayne said brusquely. "But that was good work with those seismic dampers."

"Ah." Lex had gone through his recent email correspondence, enough to confirm that the purpose of this meeting still was the planned Wayne Foundation Youth Hospice. Lex had been stalling the project for months, by stint of various contractor buyouts and a new zoning regulation pushed through the Metropolis city council in record time. The Foundation's ties to certain vigilante organizations were a matter of poorly obscured public record, and he wasn't about to let a Justice League recruitment center go up in his city, three blocks from the LexCorp Towers.

Judging by the emails he had read this morning, the project was rather further along in this--simulation/timeline/universe. But not too late to stop it, he presumed.

None of the emails, however, had mentioned a damn thing about seismic dampers. "It was nothing," Lex lied glibly.

"You saved a lot of lives," Wayne said. His blue eyes were so penetrating as to be accusing. No wonder Wayne rarely looked anyone in the eye; it would be hard for even bubble-headed socialites to buy his clown routine when pierced by that focus.

Then again, Superman fooled people with bad suits and a pair of black-framed glasses, so Lex was probably overestimating the intelligence of the average human being again. It was a persistent problem of his.

"Lex?"

Wayne's growl sounded little enough like Superman's baritone, but his tone was too similar to those concerned questions this morning. "My apologies," Lex said. "I've got a lot to do today, if we could get down to business?"

"Of course. Regarding the tower specifications, I'm thinking to divide the construction between contractors, to assure that no one firm gets potentially problematic levels of access to the entire project," Wayne began, taking a seat on the couch and taking out his laptop and blueprints, which he spread over the low table. "As we'll be using Metropolis firms, I want your advice on who's best. This isn't lowest bidder work."

"Naturally not," Lex said, pulling up a chair and picking up one set of blueprints. Trying to keep his face expressionless while he asked himself why he hadn't thought of this before. Really, it was brilliant. Partnering with the project, he would have access to all of the designs. Of course it wouldn't work if he hadn't had Wayne's trust--but he did have it, obviously. Enough that Wayne felt comfortable being himself instead of the brainless aristocrat.

Positively genius. And these designs--were also genius. It was all Lex could do not to study every minute detail, as Wayne went on about contractors and electrical engineers. He contented himself with committing all he could to memory. The main structure of the planned hospice was as expected, state-of-the-art, cheap home-away-from-home for those who most needed it. The ventilation and fire prevention system was a new Wayne Enterprises model, but the supplemental electric generator was LexCorp tech, and could power ten such facilities. The place could be run on a song.

That was expected, but the radio tower on top of the building--that was expected, too, if not included in any of the pitches Lex had heard before. That explained the generator; the power would be needed for the direct feed to the Justice League Watchtower. This auxiliary command tower would be able to coordinate emergency efforts in Metropolis and all its suburbs. Why, it might be better to let them build the damn thing; if he knew its innards like this...

No wonder Wayne trusted him with this. Lex didn't just know these plans; he had helped design them. He recognized his own hand in the electronics, the fusion of micro-tech and macro-construction. Matching the tower's resonant height to the in-building wireless to both amplify and contain the signal--and what an elegantly simple solution to the feedback overload, that must have taken him days to come up with. The system would be well-nigh impossible to crack externally. Unless, of course, one knew the precise pattern of frequency variation, and having been its designer...

Genius. Lex might have applauded himself.

"--my own people will handle the hardware installation," Wayne was saying, "but I assume you'll want your engineers on the software. But we can discuss that later." There was an edge to his tone that suggested he had noticed Lex's preoccupation.

Lex forced himself to put down the blueprints. Easily, not letting his gaze drift back to them one last time. Like he had seen them a dozen times before. The frequency pattern wouldn't be written down on these public plans anyway. He would never be that imprudent. "Yes," he said, "for now, it looks in order. I'll have my secretary draw up a list of LexCorp's preferred local contractors. You might want the League to run a background check."

He said it--not quite as a joke, but less than a serious suggestion. Fly fishing, casting out a lure. But Wayne nodded curtly, not smiling. "Already on it," he said. "My Watchtower shift's tonight, after the meeting; I'll have full access to the database, provided nothing more important comes up."

It was all Lex could do not start to his feet. A catch this big he hadn't expected. Trust was one thing, but for it to go this far...he had never tried to figure out the Batman's identity; he had never had sufficient motivation. Bruce Wayne had been on the short list of possibilities, but all the same...

Wayne returned the blueprints and laptop to his briefcase, and stood with Lex, but stopped before heading for the door. "Lex," he said, "are you feeling all right?"

"Absolutely." Would a smile be reassuring, or could he help smirking?

"It's not like you to be this distracted." Wayne studied him, Batman's glare no less invasive than Superman's x-ray vision. "Clark's been worried."

Lex felt his face stiffen. "Has he."

Whatever his expression was, Wayne misinterpreted it. "Not seriously, he says. But he mentioned something about dreams. He was thinking of talking to J'onn."

J'onn J'onzz, alien telepath. That would...not be optimal. "Clark," and Lex managed not to stumble over the name, "worries about a great many things."

"He does." Still, Wayne's gaze didn't waver. "Clark's my friend," he said, "but the League's not about personal affairs, and you're free to tell me this is none of my business."

Lex forced out a chuckle. "No, not at all."

"However," and Wayne's voice dropped lower, to the bass rumble that must strike terror into the hearts of Gotham thugs, "if a personal affair starts affecting a colleague's performance of his duties, then it becomes my business."

Idly Lex wondered if Batman handled relationship problems as he did his superhero work. Domestic dispute resolution by way of suspending someone by one foot thirty stories over an open street might explain why Bruce Wayne never dated the same woman for more than a month.

"You needn't worry," Lex said. "Clark and I are fine. Why, just this morning he...well, never mind. You already know he's super."

Wayne didn't twitch, not so much as a quirk of the mouth. But extensive dealings with the Joker would numb anyone's sense of humor. And Lex had never called himself a comedian.

"I'll give Clark your regards at the meeting," Wayne said.

"Don't keep him out too late," Lex replied, managing a smile, as he wondered how long it would take him to find wherever he was keeping kryptonite in this dimension.

tbc...

Notes:

Hamilton: That's Dr. Emil Hamilton from Superman TAS and JLU, not Dr. Stephen Hamilton, late of early Smallville. In the Superman ep "Brave New Metropolis" he was test running a dimensional portal which opened into a parallel world (where Superman and Lex Luthor were partners in fascist domination of the city, in fact, though they didn't remain allies. *sigh*)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

bonnysprite.livejournal.com

See obviously a Lex without Clark is a great deal more daft.

Bloody idiot, he's got everything he's ever possibly wanted and he's instead interested in finding kryptonite, so this Lex can lose his hand to?!

Okay, I'm calm now.

I did like your Bruce very much. I think him and Clark are a lot closer than most people have them be. They appreciate each others strength and I'm fairly certain only Clark ever treats Bruce as an equal and is any kind of friend. It's mainly because of Bruce's standoffishness, but I'm sure that once Clark decides to become your friend there's very little anyone can do to disuade him.

As for drunk Lex who refused to leave you in peace, I'm almost entirely certain that Lex gets drunk with the very idea of being inconsiderate. Passing out would very much be not a part of that plan. {g}

p.s. should probably have done this before, but i've friended you, hope that's all right ... cheers

From:

excavations of a fangirl mind

Fic: All the Difference, part 3

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