Seeing the manor in person is even more impressive than all of the photo shoots and spreads in the various magazines. The house is at once stately and overwhelming, like something the royal family of England would own, and the grounds seem to go on forever. Clark wonders how many people Mr. Wayne employs just to keep up the property – and thinks it's probably more than the entire staff of the Daily Planet. He wonders if maybe he's chosen the wrong profession. The front door is opened by a stiff-backed, impeccably dressed butler? majordomo? (Clark's unsure of the vernacular), who takes his overcoat and hat and leads him down a maze of hallways to a cavernous room housing an Olympic-sized pool. "Mr. Wayne will be with you shortly." Clark stands where he is, pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger as he waits. His fingers itch to take out his iPhone and snap a few shots of the view outside the floor to ceiling windows, but he doesn't. Despite the fact that he's been dispatched all over the world to cover stories ranging from the civil war raging in Libya to the Royal Wedding, he's never encountered such a blatant display of wealth. It's like Mr. Wayne wants the world to focus on his fortune. Clark's well-honed reporter's instincts wonder why. He turns his gaze back to the pool as the man himself, Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy and CEO (even if it is in name only) of Wayne Enterprises, rises from the water like a Greek god rising from the sea. He's ridiculously fit and has a chiseled face that must drive the women (and some of the men, Clark thinks) insane. Every muscled and toned inch of Mr. Wayne reeks of arrogance and privilege, of old money and blue blood. Mr. Wayne wraps a towel around his waist and sticks out his hand, still slightly damp from the pool. The shake is firm, solid, business-like. Nothing redolent or weak about it. "Mr. Kent is it?" Even Mr. Wayne's voice is firm, no-nonsense, at odds with his image. "Thank you for agreeing to come to the house. The office is too formal for an interview, wouldn't you agree?" Without waiting for an answer, he gestures at a nearby table, laden with fresh fruit and two bottles of Bollinger Blanc champagne chilling on ice. "Would you like a glass?" "Uh, sure, I guess. If you are," Clark amends, and doesn't mention the fact that it's nine in the morning. He supposes the rules are different for billionaires. And he's learned the fine art of playing along to get his stories. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne." "It's Bruce. My father was Mr. Wayne." For a split second, something dark flashes behind Bruce's eyes. Then he expertly pops the champagne cork and pours two glasses, offering one to Clark. "Here you are." "Thanks." "Have a seat." Bruce gestures at the plush chairs and Clark gingerly sinks into one as Bruce relaxes into the chair across from him. Clark suddenly feels overdressed in his suit, and wonders if Bruce had maneuvered this entire scene on purpose to discomfit him. If so, he wouldn't be the first to try, and he wouldn't be the last to fail. Clark digs his voice recorder out of his jacket pocket and holds it up. "Do you mind if I record this?" Bruce waves a negligent hand, the gesture at once dismissive and elegant. The god granting favor to a mere mortal. "Not at all. My life's an open book." "Uh, well, I obviously don't agree with that or I wouldn't have made the trip from Metropolis to be here." Bruce smiles – not his normal, vapid, red-carpet smile that Clark's used to seeing – but something altogether calculated. Like he's reassessing Clark right in before Clark's eyes. It's an odd feeling. Clark's spent his entire adult life blending into the background. Avoiding the spotlight at all costs. His job is to report the story, not become it. "Well said," Bruce replies and taps at the recorder. "So ask your questions and let's see what we find out." It feels like a test. Like perhaps Bruce is hoping to find out more about Clark – which is absurd. Clark doesn't even move in the same plane of existence as Bruce Wayne and men of his ilk. They really are from different planets. But still... There's something about that smile, in that challenge, like Bruce has a secret and he's daring Clark to find it. Clark turns on the recorder. Gathers his wits about him, steels his resolve. He has a feeling he'll need all of his expertise and more. "Well, if there's one thing I like about my job, Mr. Wayne – Bruce – it's the challenge." "Excellent," Bruce smiles, and, yes, there's definitely something more to this rich playboy than meets the eye.
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