TITLE: I Can't Believe It's Not Murder!
FIRST PUBLISHED: February 27, 2023
SUMMARY: Ever since Joker gained godlike powers over the universe, Superman is now a former Arkham inmate-turned-bodyguard for bald billionaire Lois Lane. Two near strangers, but with a connection neither can explain... // Lois takes Superman to his first real job, a surprise inspection at the Murder Palace.
SERIES: Jura Regalia [part 5]
oOo
“Keep up, big guy, or we’ll be late,” Lois says. She’s in fine form as the businesswoman today—six-inch heels, shimmering purple eyeshadow under a tasteful updo of dark green hair. Her pantsuit is gunmetal grey, purple pinstripes sewn into the fabric with metallic thread. Superman is still tugging awkwardly at his tie, feeling clumsy and awkward in civilian wear.
“Yes—of course, miss Lane,” he says, tripping over his own tongue—he zips to the door, a slight bow as he opens it for her and Lois gives him a look half-amused and half-disturbed, but all arrogance.
“I told you, you don’t need to call me that,” she murmurs.
“Well—I know that, but—since I work for you, now—professionalism,” Superman stammers, a blush rising on his cheeks. Truly, he knows he could call her Lois. Lois, Lois, he could say her name all day, the way it sounds at home on his tongue—but he’s trying to remind himself. Keep some distance between you! He’s not really her—her lover, or something; she has enough men, big and strong and dimwitted, parading before her, leaving their scents in her palatial rooms. And it’s not like—like he’d mind, and being near her he’s been tempted even in this short time as her bodyguard to touch, to run his hands down her back, lean down to her ear, whisper once, “what do you want with a place like this, Lois? All this pomp and circumstance… it doesn’t suit you.”
“And you do?” she’d drawled.
“Well…”
She’d let him kiss her that time, too. And deepened it, and for seven entire minutes he was in heaven. Then some obnoxious cuckoo clock Superman had never seen before popped out of the wall and blew raspberries until they parted, panting and a little flushed. He’d seen the temptation in Lois, too—the knowledge that she could be with him, that she could be someone else with him than the woman she’d decided to be. And then her walls had come slamming down. He’d expected drugs, sedation, electroshock, something to remind him and her of their real relationship, but she’d been far more subtle. That night, she’d brought in six men (that look a fair bit like me, Superman couldn’t help but notice) and had sex with them all night while he waited just inside the doorway, “guarding” it against any intruders. And he’d tried to be polite, tried not to look, but he couldn’t help but listen—couldn’t help but glance over, even, once or twice, just to be sure—well, each time he had, she’d been looking straight at him, focused, determined.
Anyway.
Since then, he’s tried very hard to remain professional.
Miss Lane.
He doesn’t think he can take another repeat performance of… that. Another blush rises to his face just remembering it.
Today, they’re going to the Murder Palace.
Technically, it’s called, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Murder!” which Superman had said, when Lois first mentioned the trip to him, seemed a little distasteful.
She’d smiled, then. Just a fleeting, sharp little thing. Enough to put in his pocket for a rainy day. “No one’s eating the damn thing,” she’d replied. “It’s just a catchphrase.”
But everyone calls it the Murder Palace, and no surprise why: when the limo crawls to a pneumatic stop outside the strip shining in New Vegas, its insectoid legs clicking against the ground, the building with its gleaming façade, its huge windows, blares out in neon signs and dazzle. “The genuine murder experience—with none of the moral conundrums!” and “feel GOOD about killing again!” it claims. When the two of them make it inside, the ceiling is decorated in aquatic themes; glass-sided, circular “attractions” dotted within the huge space, which of course hosts a complimentary bar, gambling house, and hotel as well. Even this early in the morning, there’s a crowd; but the crowd parts before Lois like it’s the Red Sea. Superman scans the area, looking for unregistered weapons, or anyone paying her too much attention. It’s his job, and anyway, it beats looking at the creatures inside the glass cases.
No, Superman reminds himself uncomfortably. Men. And forces himself to look at the next one. A tall man with blue eyes and dark hair. Chained in place, of course. Just a glance, but it’s one glance too many—he sees a customer, grinning, hefting an axe; just strolled in through the one-way door. Now everyone on the floor can see the display—the way the axe falls thudding into the man’s shoulder, the wet squelch, sharp snap of bone and a spray of blood against the inside of the glass. The man screams silently. None come with vocal cords; “if they want that, they have to pay extra,” Lois had explained to him.
She’s watching him now like she had then. Calculating. He doesn’t know what she’s looking for. Hatred? He can’t muster it. All he can feel is a kind of queasy disgust. He drags his eyes away from the scene and back to her, stepping a little closer now. As though to protect her from the very thing she’s enabling.
“Sick, isn’t it?” Lois says flatly.
He meets her gaze with a disarming charm. A false veneer of pleasantness. “No, it’s… just a lot to take in.”
That mix of emotions flickering across her brow again. Disgust. But approval, too. “You’re a terrible liar, Superman.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m glad,” she says. And then turns away and continues her stride through the room. Making a beeline toward the back rooms and the manager, while Superman tags behind her, trying to figure out why she’s glad he disapproves of what she’s up to. He supposes he could take it that she’s just glad he’s a terrible liar. That he wouldn’t be capable of keeping secrets from her.
But that’s not the answer.
He knows it deep in his gut.
“Cash, how’s it going?” Lois is saying, to a tall, thin manager, sharp-dressed like the Reaper himself.
“Oh, miss Lane…” Cash says in an oil-slick voice. “What a surprise to have you here. We didn’t expect you around for another month.”
“That’s why they call it a surprise inspection,” Lois says drily. “Listen, I need to go over your books. I’ve been getting some numbers I don’t like recently. Way too many thumbs-down, negative eleventy-twos, not enough zillions. You’re getting the same amount of clones as everyone else.”
“That’s true, but this outlet is more popular than the others. The placement—”
“Has been accounted for. Come on, Cash, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Lois jerks a thumb back at Superman. “I’ve got a new hire. Recognize him?”
Cash rakes a dismissive once-over across Superman for a moment. “Another goon? I hardly see why I should be impressed—”
Superman unbuttons the black suit to reveal a glimmer of the symbol hiding underneath it. Cash’s eyes grow wide. “S-S-Super…”
“You got it,” Lois says. “Now. The books.” She jabs her ring finger against the desk, and Cash hurries to comply.
Business as usual. Revenue and clones accounted for, Lois calls it a day, strolls back into the main hall in a fine humor while Superman walks behind her. She sends him a grin. “So how about it, for your first real day of work?”
“Not bad,” Superman says. “I wonder why you’re trying to alienate me, though.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Starting with this?” Superman wonders, moving into step beside her. “When you have all sorts of evil schemes that wouldn’t disturb me half as much? Your environmental causes, the orphan-saving endeavors… what are you trying to find out? How much I can take?” he holds out an arm, nearly absent-minded. But not quite. Lois’s grin turns thoughtful; she takes his arm and the two of them walk out of the Murder Palace that way, silent screams and far-less-silent killers on every side; glam, the shining lights. When they reach the vast, gaudy double-doors in gold foil and faux-blood and step out into the muggy air, the sky is full of the sweet scent of blueberries. A storm’s coming from the north. Foil glinting in the distance.
“For a killer, you’re not fond of murder, are you?” Lois murmurs. She glances up into the bright sky, and he watches her profile. Tempted, again. The soft blush of her cheeks; her glossy lips. “So I wonder… why did you kill Lex Luthor?”
Superman blinks. “The man who doesn’t exi—” he stops himself.
“Exist?” Lois gives him a wry look. “I should say so. After you killed him, he’d have a hard time existing.”
“Who was he?” Superman asks. Knowing, then, that she knows. And that she’s willing to tell him.
“A reporter,” Lois says. Quiet. “He had something to say about everything I did. Something to yell about it, really.” She waves a hand back at the Murder Palace. “He called that ‘a crime against human decency’ said there was no real difference between a clone and a human being. Made a damn fool of himself. The IQ Curators practically tore him a new one, said their seal of approval was unquestioned, approved by the big kahuna himself. Each and every clone is completely mindless.”
“They didn’t look mindless,” Superman says. Glancing away; seeing a few far-off pies shake the palms on the other end of the boulevard.
“They aren’t,” Lois says. “But with vat-grown people we can say whatever we want and the rest of the world will believe it. Anyway…” she shrugs. “He was smart. Maybe too smart. You never answered my question, Superman… why did you kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Superman answers honestly.
“Hm.”
From a long way away, the limo crawls toward them. Its carapace shining black. A gleaming, snakelike whorl against the crowded tarmac.
“‘Hm?’” Superman prods.
“I just find it interesting, that’s all,” Lois says. “You seem like a person who wouldn’t commit murder without a reason.”
“Dangerous talk, miss Lane,” Superman says. “Looking for logic. You should leave that to us crazies.”
“Should I?” Lois says. She looks toward the encroaching car. Flatly, in the dull heat; a few strands of synthetic hair curl around her ear. “Sometimes I wonder…”
Superman thinks of the U.F.O. Irrationality, and a shiver moves through him, even in the heat. “Lois…”
There’s something terrifying in her. Something he could turn into belief without even trying. But he can’t; can’t drag her down to his level. Can’t think of her snatched out of the sky…
She looks at him; sharp, too sharp, too smart. Like Lex Luthor, the man who doesn’t exist.
If she steps wrong, will she, too, cease to exist—?
He kisses her, heated and too close, just as the storm hits; crumbs and sweet juice run between their lips; a whirling pie-plate knocks Lois’s hair askew; it crashes to the ground at their feet as he runs his open palm, stained purple, over the shell of her scalp.
“Don’t wonder,” he murmurs. A prayer against her tongue.
“Sorry, big guy.” Her violet eyes open, electric. “You can’t make that choice. Not for me.”