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“He speaks Kryptonian?”
Mercy stepped into Lex’s office, assuming -- as usual -- that any angry outbursts required her presence. She closed the door behind her, taking care to only use the balls of her heels as she walked across the hardwood.
Lex was standing by the massive television in the corner, clutching the ultra-slim LexCorp remote in front of him like he was warding off something evil.
Mercy didn’t need to look at the screen to know exactly what had infuriated him today. The headline had only hit the NYT and WaPo app pushes a good thirty seconds prior.
“He speaks Kryptonian,” Lex repeated, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Can you believe that?”
“He is Kryptonian,” Mercy risked, leaning against his desk. Lex took precious time to look away from the television and roll his eyes at her.
“He’s never demonstrated any modicum of fluency before. He could barely stammer through his own name a few years ago.” Lex pressed the remote to his lips, eyes narrowing. “He’s been practicing. Why has he been practicing?”
Mery glanced at the screen, assessing what Lex had seen. Superman was still on stage, answering rapidfire questions from the sea of reporters as CNN continued to delay its commercial break.
“--do have specific terms for those around us on a daily basis,” Superman said on-screen, smiling around the pearly-white incisors Lex hyperfixated on whenever they were visible. “For family, friends -- even enemies.”
“You don’t have many enemies, do you?” A reporter prodded. Superman’s dimples made another dazzling appearance.
“You’d be surprised. But no, I don’t make a habit of naming enemies.”
The remote in Lex’s hand began to creak from the pressure. Mercy smoothed a hand down her skirt, preparing for the worst.
“What about Mr. Wayne?”
The camera abruptly jerked over to the opposite side of the stage, where Bruce Wayne was waiting, patiently, at the Wayne Enterprises-branded podium.
Ostensibly, he was there to present the language grant the City of Metropolis had just received. Superman hadn’t necessarily been scheduled to speak; that hadn’t stopped him from making an appearance. Wayne was a consummate professional; no one would have guessed that he hadn’t anticipated the interruption.
The question created a fascinating pause. Even the audience quieted, reporters and cameramen leaning forward to hear Superman’s response. The CNN production team couldn’t seem to pick a focus -- Superman, or the smirking Bruce Wayne who seemed in on a joke no one had explained yet.
“Copaani mirshmure'cye?
Superman’s smile widened. “Me'copaani?”
“Ne'johaa.”
With one final smirk in Wayne’s direction, Superman turned back to the crowd, spreading his hands.
“Riduur. That’s what I call him in Kryptonian.”
The reporter who’d asked the original question nodded, accepting the response with far too much seriousness. “I see. And is that a friendly name or title?”
“Absolutely,” Superman said. Mercy saw Wayne’s lips twitch, and resolved to replay the clip later. There was clearly something not being shared. Any attempts by the reporters to follow up on the meaning were quashed by a blinding, boyish smile.
“Can I hear some applause for our guest?” Wayne asked onscreen. He led a brief round of applause, nodding at Superman. “Anything else before Superman goes back to work?”
Predictably, the joke caught a few chuckles. As the crowd began to settle, a new reporter shoved a useless recorder forward, leaning over her colleagues’ heads.
“And what about our hometown hero?”
Superman looked at her with a politely blank expression. The remote gave way in Lex’s hand, shattering into shiny plastic pieces that flew across the carpet.
“Lex Luthor.”
“Oh,” Superman said, then nodded. “I don’t have one for Mr. Luthor, but I sincerely respect the work his foundation has done alongside Wayne Enterprises. These grants wouldn’t be possible without his support.”
“I’m going to blast him out of the sky.”
Mercy spared him her typical questions -- who? with what? how are you going to make sure you don’t get charged for it? -- and nodded.
“He doesn’t have a name for me?” Lex continued. He was squeezing his hand around empty air like he hadn’t noticed the missing remote yet. “I’m his number one enemy. I’m the FIRST one who deserves a name! He gave Bruce Wayne a name before me?”
“Mhm,” Mercy agreed. They had a limited amount of time before Lex realized he no longer had a remote, and therefore, no way to change the channel.
“Funny how this grant bullshit doesn’t include his language,” Lex said. “He could be sharing it with the world, but no. He’s just showing off.”
“Wayne spoke it.”
Lex waved a hand. “He just parrots what he hears. I’m sure Superman prepped him for that oh so witty rejoinder.”
Mercy risked another prod. “You speak some Kryptonian.”
That was enough for Lex to turn around on his heel, his furious gaze pinning her to the floor, the subfloor, and the skyscraper under their feet.
“I understand Ancient Kryptonian,” Lex said, which was, at best, a lie. His jaw tensed. “I’ve read every file we pulled out of that Scout Ship. It’s an extraordinarily complex language. I’m surprised he even knows how to speak it.”
“Superman?”
“Yes.” Lex turned back to the television, pointing at the screen. “It shouldn’t even be possible for him to teach it to Wayne. Humans don’t have the vocal organs required to make some of the sounds.”
Mercy very mercifully chose not to bring his attention back to Wayne’s crystal-clear, confident pronunciation. If it was a fluke, it was a fluke.
It didn’t seem like a fluke.
“Tell Gary I want a name.”
When she didn’t respond, Lex turned around, finally acknowledging her silence. He gave her a bored look, like she was tiring him.
“Call Gary, I know he has people on the ground right now. Tell him I want a name.”
“Of course,” Mercy said. This is going well.
“NOW.”
She pulled out her phone, quickly pulling up Gary’s number. The press secretary responded instantly to her query. The response -- a sole emoji -- wasn’t exactly encouraging.
“What did he say?” Lex asked impatiently over his shoulder.
10:32 am ET - Gary M.
>>>You owe me.
10:32 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>Fine.
“Incoming,” Mercy warned. The way Lex bounced on his heels would have been adorable if he’d been anyone else.
“Superman,” one of Gary’s reporters called out, raising their hand. “Let’s give Lex a name, huh? We don’t want him to feel left out!”
The crowd murmured their agreement. Lex fist punched the air where he thought she couldn’t see it.
“I don’t want anyone to feel left out,” Superman replied. He glanced at Wayne, who appeared uncharacteristically blank on the other end of the stage. “Cyare?”
Wayne leaned away from his microphone, mouthing something to Superman. Surprisingly, Superman nodded in agreement, turning back to the crowd.
“Hutuun’la laandur shabuir.”
The reporter nodded like she’d understood. “And the meaning?”
“It’s an older title,” Superman acknowledged. Wayne’s poker face was immaculate. “I’ve heard Mr. Luthor has some knowledge of my language. He will understand the significance.”
“Which is?” another reporter asked. “Give us something here, man.”
Lex leaned forward until he was nearly touching the television. Mercy hid a smile behind her hand, not willing to risk him seeing it in the reflection.
“It qualifies his character, his motivations, and his pastimes,” Superman offered graciously. “It’s an ancient title. One that has been used by my people for millennia.”
A binder hit the ground with a large thud. When Mercy looked away from the television screen, Lex was already kneeling on the floor and paging through it.
“-la converts a word to an adjective typically,” Lex muttered. He licked his thumb, snapping the papers over. “Buir…that sounds familiar. Why do I know that one?”
Gary’s name pinged on her phone again.
10:36 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Happy?
Mercy glanced at Lex, looked back at Wayne again, and pursed her lips.
10:36 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>Any insight into what it means?
10:37 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Nerds from PBS are right next to me. Will update.
Mercy slipped her phone into her pocket. She made an encouraging noise vaguely in Lex’s direction.
“--the double u is important. It’s a noun. Hoo-toone? Huh toon? Huh toon lah. Luh?”
As Lex puttered around, Gary pinged her again.
10:40 am ET - Gary M.
>>>PBS is saying maybe -- warrior brother? Courageous brother? The second word might be an adjective. They’re guessing -- transparent? Clear?
10:41 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>You better be 100% sure.
10:42 am ET - Gary M.
>>>As sure as I can be about a language no one reads or speaks other than Superman, yeah.
Mercy looked up. Lex was examining the limited voice samples and transcripts of Superman speaking Kryptonian. Most of the translations he’d assembled were tentative guesses. Rao had been the only word he’d settled on a firm translation for -- God.
She had her reservations on that one, too.
10:43 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Can we ask Wayne?
10:44 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>You’ll be fired before you open your mouth.
10:46 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Jesus. Fine.
10:47 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Tell him honorable warrior. PBS ain’t sure about the brother thing. Could be a cousin thing? Their family units are fucked up, remember?
Mercy cleared her throat. “Gary says he might have a translation.”
“What?” Lex’s head whipped around. His eyes were comically wide. “I usually treasure your reticence, but don’t you dare hold back now.”
“Honorable warrior.”
“Oh,” Lex said. The binder he’d been holding fell to the floor. “Oh…okay. I didn’t expect that. He…that’s what he said?”
Mercy knew, in her heart of shriveled up hearts, that the odds of Superman himself using those words were near-zero. Warrior could have been enemy. And honorable could be opaque or transparent or vulnerable, or a million other vague insults.
“We’ll have to fine tune the translation, but PBS is running with it.”
Lex rolled his eyes again. “Great, those nerdy fucks.”
“Anything else you want Gary to ask?”
“Yeah,” Lex said, puffing out his chest. “What does Wayne’s mean?”
“In comparison, you mean?”
“Bingo.”
Mercy typed quickly, her fingernails clicking against the screen in her haste.
10:44 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>Wayne’s?
It only took a moment for Gary to reply.
10:45 am ET - Gary M.
>>>PBS is having a harder time with that one.
10:45 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>Ask someone else.
10:47 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Asking.
“Well?” Lex asked. Mercy hummed.
“He’s asking someone else.”
“WSJ?”
Mercy shrugged one shoulder. “We’ll see.”
On the television screen, Gary raised his hand, drawing the camera’s attention. Mercy’s stomach plummeted all the way down to the squishy gel footpads in her heels.
“Before you go, Superman -- any chance you can let us know what Mr. Wayne’s name means, or where it comes from?”
A silent exchange passed between Superman and Wayne on the stage. The former smiled, stepping forward.
“It’s a bit of a private story.”
“They’ve had private moments?” Lex yelled. He threw the closest item-- a large piece from the shattered remote -- at the screen, furious. “He has a private name for him?”
10:49 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>You’re dead.
10:49 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Fuck you. I’m doing my job.
“Well, when you want to tell it, we’re here,” Gary said. Superman inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“Your PLEASURE? YOUR PLEASURE?”
10:51 am ET - Mercy G.
>>>He’s pissed.
10:51 am ET - Gary M.
>>>Pissy people tend to piss their pants.
Try as she might, Mercy couldn’t refute that. She pocketed the phone, flicking off the buzzer on an afterthought.
“I want everyone down in C-Level working on this,” Lex announced. He was far calmer than she’d expected him to be, which wasn’t a good sign. “Translate both immediately. And put out a request for Superman to visit HQ. He can talk about his stupid little grant while we work him for translations.”
Mercy nodded. “Understood.”
“Good.” Lex turned back to the television with a huff. On the screen, Superman was taking photos with members of the crowd. When someone handed over a baby for him to hold, Lex made a disgusted noise.
“I can’t believe people trust an alien with children,” he muttered. “Are they out of their minds?”
Mercy hummed along, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. C-Level was assigned, an invite was extended to Superman’s POC -- Lois Lane at the Daily Planet -- and three RFPs were being drafted for distribution to the world’s preeminent linguists.
Something hard fell on the floor. Likely another binder. His PA was going to bitch about the refiling for a week, and Mercy wasn’t inclined to write her up for it.
“Mercy?”
“Mhm.”
“Mercy.”
Mercy looked up from her phone. Lex was holding a handful of plastic, visibly caught between dismay and fury.
“How the hell do I turn this TV off?”
“Did you just call Lex Luthor a cowardly motherfucker on national television?”
Clark cringed. Lois didn’t back down. If anything, she inched closer.
“Well?”
“Bruce translated for you.”
“No, I just know the tone of your voice when you call people idiots,” Lois bluffed. “Funny thing though -- he wouldn’t translate his own name.”
“It’s not a name,” Clark said.
“Oh, do tell.”
“It’s…a title?”
Lois’ eyebrows lifted fractionally. “So the PBS translation is close?”
“What PBS translation?” Clark looked panicked.
“The one Bruce one or the Lex one?”
“There’s two?”
“Of course there’s two. You named them both on live television and then refused to translate.” Lois crossed her arms, taking pity on him. “I’m positive you said something sappy to Bruce, so spit it out.”
Clark dropped his hand and stared at her. Lois stared back. The near-empty bullpen around them grew suspiciously quiet. Almost Perry’s going to stand up and yell about something because he thinks it’s too quiet level of noise.
Clark blinked first. “Damn it.”
“Translation please,” Lois said, making grabby hands at him. Clark made a weak noise of protest.
“Lois.” Then: “Which one?”
“Both.”
They both sat down at Clark’s desk in unspoken agreement. Clark’s cheeks were already a delicious shade of horrified pink.
“Spouse.”
Lois blinked. “What?”
“Well, it’s technically mate, since they didn’t have marriage like we know it on Krypton. And cyare is…”
Lois leaned in.
“Beloved.” Clark put his head in his hands. “He has a name. I just didn’t want to say it in front of everyone. Because it’s--”
Yours, Lois thought, nodding along. “And Lex?”
“Bruce’s translation was pretty good. I called him a pathetic cowardly motherfucker, yeah.” Clark looked up, blinking. “I guess it could also be translated as…delicate?”
“You’re calling him dainty?” Lois confirmed. Clark snorted, shaking his head.
“I’m calling him pathetic. And fragile.”
Lois tilted her head to the side, refusing to let it go. “So motherfucker was an ancient title on Krypton?”
“No -- maybe. I don’t know. No.”
Lois perked up. “So it’s a recent word then?”
“I have no idea.”
“How do you have no idea? It’s your language,” Lois said, lingering on the your.
“That Bruce and I are resurrecting from the dead, thank you very much.” Clark’s expression was pained. “All I know is midwestern slang. I can’t call him a bey-g, can I?”
“Not with that attitude,” Lois said, punchy. “Shabuir translates to someone-who-fucks-their-mother in Kryptonian. Really?”
“Lois.” Clark said.
“I genuinely want to know.”
Clark slapped a newspaper down on Bruce’s legs. The effect was ruined slightly by the massive comforter on top of his riduur and the sneering dog taking up the majority of his lap.
“Lex Luthor: Honorable Warrior,” Bruce read out loud, holding the paper up. “Well. It’s not like you can go on record and re-translate it. Especially since you ended up affirming the written record too.”
Clark sat down on the side of the bed, putting his face in his hands. “I didn’t think anyone would try to translate it! I just wanted to say something so they’d stop asking. “I’m going to have to lie and say it means warrior, aren’t I? Some king is going to ask for a name and I’m going to have to call him a motherfucker.”
“What if he is a motherfucker?” Bruce asked, already back to reading his iPad, his other hand stroking Ace’s head.
“That shouldn’t matter.”
“On the contrary. Not calling him a motherfucker if he is, in fact, a motherfucker matters quite a bit.” Bruce swiped down. “Because you’d be calling a motherfucker something that isn’t motherfucker.”
“You’re just trying to say motherfucker until I break, aren’t you?” Clark asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, my beloved shabuir.”
“You’re the motherfucker,” Clark said on reflex, then cringed. “That -- that came out wrong. I didn’t mean--”
“Cyare?”
Clark looked up, instantly melting at the term. That was one thing he hadn’t expected -- translating for people was a skill he liked to hone. Translating with Bruce was interesting and fun. Hearing himself speak Kryptonian was almost unbelievable some days.
Hearing Bruce call him beloved in his language -- his language -- was everything. Everything.
Bruce tossed his newspaper back over, flinging the corner of the covers open. Ace gave them both a peeved look, then hopped off the bed in search of someone -- likely Damian -- who wouldn’t move around too much.
Clark bundled himself under the comforter, curling up next to his husband. Bruce’s hand settled on his curls a moment later, gently carding through them.
“If he brags about it,” Clark said peevishly, “I’m going to tell him what it actually means.”
“Lek.”
“I’m going to add the translation to his database so when he looks himself up -- because he will, knowing Lex -- it’ll say motherfucker.”
“Gar serim,” Bruce said absently. “Solus?”
“Lek. He’s going to be so mad.”
“Oya.”
“Oya. Yeah.”
“They’re the same word.”
“I’m saying double yeah. T’ad’oye.”
“That’s not how you translate double yeah.”
“Okay, Ori’oya.”
“Big yeah?”
Clark groaned, pushing his face against the side of Bruce’s leg in protest. His husband’s hand continued to make tiny, dizzying circles in his hair.
“I hate you.”
“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum,” Bruce responded, causing something in Clark’s chest to warm. Then: “My honorable warrior.”
“UGH.”