Bruce's gaze didn't break as Arias turned toward the steps.
Not once.
But he didn't make a scene.
There were too many cameras. Too many eyes behind tinted lenses and silent drones humming just overhead. Instead, he fell into step beside Arias, the two of them ascending the marble stairs in practiced rhythm.
The moment they crossed the boundary where the press could no longer lip-read, Bruce spoke.
"What's the meaning of this, Arias?"
His tone wasn't theatrical. It was dry. The sound of a man with too many questions and not enough illusions left.
Arias didn't look his way.
"You'll have to be more specific," he said, voice steady. "I've done a lot of things recently."
Bruce's frown deepened. He waited until they cleared the fourth step before replying.
"This whole sovereign Gotham angle," he muttered. "With your resources, you could've just asked for it. You could've demanded it in exchange for peace between Markovia and the U.S."
Arias allowed himself a slight smile, subtle enough to be missed if you weren't watching closely.
"Well, for one," he said, "I don't govern Markovia."
Bruce didn't respond. He knew that was technically true but only an idiot would believe Arias wasn't the true ruler.
"And two..." Arias continued, "I thought it was important to show the people who the real villains are in this country."
He finally turned his head just enough to glance at Bruce out of the corner of his eye.
"Make no mistake—I was pushed into this. They killed civilians in my city. Tried to frame me. That wasn't politics. That was blood for headlines."
Bruce looked away for a second, jaw set.
He couldn't argue the facts.
The government's attempt to paint Arias as a terrorist—by orchestrating an actual terrorist attack—was indefensible. He'd seen the fallout himself. Countless officers who died trying to keep the streets clear.
But accepting this new Gotham felt like swallowing a rusted nail.
"There had to be a better way," Bruce said. "You could've exposed them without lighting the whole country on fire."
Arias scoffed under his breath.
"Always the optimist," he said. "You and Clark."
They reached the upper landing. The crowd below still roared in waves, chanting different names—some yelling for Arias, others for Diana.
A few even called for Bruce. It sounded almost confused. But that was the nature of public support—it didn't have to make sense. It just had to be loud.
Arias continued, "That's why I gave you this role."
Bruce turned his head slightly. "I'm not interested in your games."
"Too late," Arias said. "You're already on the board."
They stopped briefly at the top of the steps. The other members were lined up, watching.
Arias didn't pause. He stepped forward.
"You've always had ideas, Bruce. About how things should work. About how people should be governed. Instead of punching petty criminals in alleys and changing nothing, I've handed you the power to do something."
He tilted his head slightly.
"I assume you read the full description of your post."
Bruce didn't answer.
He had read it. The role of Steward of Foreign Affairs came with sweeping authority—embassies under direct control, international negotiation privileges and the ability to broker global initiatives under Gotham's new flag.
It was a position that could reshape the world.
And that was the problem.
"You're only here," Arias said, "because you know you can't ignore it."
Bruce didn't reply.
Because he was right.
The handshake ceremony began the moment they reached the others.
Slade was first—face steady, posture unmovable. He gave Arias a short nod but didn't offer any extra courtesy. Theirs was not a friendship. It was function.
Diana shook Arias's hand with the restraint of a soldier, resisting the urge to allow herself a smile. No warmth. No hostility. Just discipline.
Pamela didn't hide her discomfort. Her grip was weak, her hand cold. She didn't make eye contact. Still playing the role.
Gordon's hand trembled slightly when he took Arias's. Not from fear. From something heavier. He didn't speak. Just nodded once.
Dr. October was the only one who looked at ease. She smiled faintly as she shook Arias's hand, like this was just another experiment yielding expected results.
Bruce came last.
The handshake wasn't long. It wasn't firm.
But it made every ousted official standing nearby stiffen.
To them, it wasn't a handshake. It was confirmation.
Confirmation that Bruce Wayne—darling of the elite, boardroom hero, billionaire philanthropist—had been working with Arias all along. That he'd picked his moment. That now, finally, he was cashing in.
The cameras clicked.
**CLACK-CLACK-CLACK**
A thousand shutters recording what would be printed in every paper in Gotham.
All seven of them stood in a row, facing forward.
Diana with arms folded.
Slade standing perfectly still.
Pamela with her arms behind her back, expression carefully blank.
Gordon staring straight ahead, face carved from stone.
Dr. October smiling politely like she was already calculating the political fallout.
Bruce Wayne, hands folded neatly in front of him, looking as calm as ever—except for the way his fingers kept twitching slightly at his side.
And Arias.
Center stage.
———
It had taken three days and more death than Superman could stomach, but they finally had something that almost looked like stability.
Almost.
Cities were still limping. Some barely breathing. Streets were lined with hollowed-out shells of homes, cars flipped and charred, signs torn down and spray-painted over with slogans that changed by the hour.
Stores had been gutted. Banks burned. Whole neighborhoods leveled—not by bombs or supervillains, but by their own neighbors.
Superman stood alone in the ruins of what had once been a school in downtown D.C. The building behind him was half-collapsed, its windows broken, the American flag on its pole reduced to a blackened strip of fabric.
Dust still drifted in the air. You could smell the fire even after it had died.
He looked toward the distance—toward the White House, now ringed in mobile barricades and makeshift tents. Inside, broadcast equipment had been assembled in the West Wing's ruined press room.
And for the first time in days, the air wasn't filled with screams. It was filled with waiting.
Superman sighed and flew to the scne. No cape. No emblem. Just a dark suit, tattered at the cuffs, dirt still clinging to his boots. His eyes were bloodshot—not from injury, but from everything else.
The cameras turned on.
And he began.
"Good people of America," he said, voice steady—but sharp. No smile.
"I understand you're angry. I understand you feel betrayed."
He paused, letting the words hang.
"Believe me. I feel the same."
His voice was projected through physical speakers and satellite feeds—but also directly, via supercompressed sonic waves. His voice bounced across rooftops.
It carried past towers. In Washington, D.C., it could be heard without the help of a speaker. It rang through the air like thunder waiting to fall.
"But violence," he continued, "is not justice. And it never will be."
He stepped forward again.
"All former government officials responsible have been apprehended. And they will face trial. You have my word."
The crowd—those who were gathered at barricades, those who were watching on phones or listening through radios—remained silent.
"But while you burn homes and loot stores," he said, "I want you to ask yourselves something."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"What future are you leaving for your children? Your families? For the innocent people caught in the middle of this?"
He didn't wait for a response. He knew there wouldn't be one.
"Today, a hospital in Seattle burned to the ground. All the children inside. All the elderly. Many of the staff. Gone."
He pointed to the distance—toward a ruined apartment complex.
"Did they lie to you? Did they create the system that hurt you?"
"No," he said. "They didn't. But they died anyway."
He exhaled—controlled, but not calm.
"You think you're fixing things. That this is catharsis. That this is punishment. But all you're doing is making things worse."
The wind moved gently around him. Ash fluttered through the air like dead snowflakes.
"You want change? Then demand it. Organize. Vote. March. Hold people accountable."
He let the words settle.
"But don't become what you hate."
His voice lowered.
"Earlier today, a man looted an electronics store. He got out with a car full of televisions, appliances, tech worth thousands."
Superman looked down. A flicker of something crossed his face.
"When he got home, his family was gone. Wife. Children. Burned inside the house. A stray Molotov. Wrong address."
He looked back at the camera.
"Another man brought his family to a protest. They weren't even near the front lines. His daughter was four."
Superman clenched one fist.
"She's dead now. So is his wife. So is his son. All gone. All because someone wanted to make a statement."
His tone didn't break. But the pain crawled beneath every syllable.
"You want justice. You'll get it."
He paused.
"But even if every corrupt official burns—what you've lost will still be gone. Forever."
The silence that followed was longer than the others.
Then he said, softer:
"When the dust settles… you'll have to live with what you did. And there won't be anyone left to blame."
He looked straight into the camera.
"Make the right choice."
The feed cut.
The city didn't cheer. It didn't erupt into applause. But for the first time in days, it didn't move either.
Some protestors stepped back from barricades.
Others dropped their signs and walked away.
A few just stood there, staring into nothing.
There were still looters. Still anarchists grinning in alleyways. But they were no longer surrounded by crowds. They were just shadows now—outliers in a city slowly remembering how to breathe.
Superman stood outside the White House gates for a moment longer.
Then he looked up.
And took off.
**WHOOMPH**
The wind cracked like thunder as he launched skyward, the ground quivering under the sheer force.
His eyes were already locked east.
His destination wasn't a city anymore.
It was a nation.
Gotham.
Author's Note
Whew.
This stretch of the story was… let's say structurally ambitious. Stitching together global riots, national collapse, divine cloning, and hostile nation formation without the entire narrative imploding was a task. But somehow, we've landed.
What comes next? A pivot.
The following mini-arcs will shift gears—moving away from explosive narrative so far toward something a little more intimate. Character-driven. Slower in pace. Think less "government toppling" and more "psychological chess"
Expect bonding, growth, some uncomfortable introspection, and—naturally—manipulation. Worldbuilding will thicken. The is so the foundations for the next arc can be quietly laid out, all while expanding on the current cast of characters and relationships.
Also, new characters incoming. Yes, more names to remember. No, I'm not sorry.
Thanks again for the support.
Now let's get weird (er).