I hang up the phone slowly, saddened by the whole turn of events. Clark will stay at the police station till Superman is released, I know it. Sure, he could break out of there without blinking an eye. But he wouldn’t. That’s not the kind of man he is.
I know.
I’ve always known.
Oh sure, I was as awestruck as the next guy when Superman made his debut. But I’ve been a newspaperman too long not to look under the surface. Superman and Clark Kent are the same person, I’d bet my Elvis collection on it.
Something made that young man settle down here and put down some roots. Like he’d found the thing he’d been searching for his entire life. I’d like to think it was the Daily Planet, but I’m pretty sure it’s got more to do with his sometimes-partner.
He’s grown a lot in the few months he’s been here. Settled into his dual roles as journalist and superhero. Carved out a life for himself and been happy.
But not anymore. Now he’s in a world of pain, and for what? A half-baked theory?
What must it be like, being vilified because of who and what you are? Being thrown into jail for saving lives in an act that I’m certain came to Clark as naturally as breathing?
The hardest part of my job is making the distinction between what is right and what is newsworthy. Publishing the theory that Superman was responsible for the heatwave had to be done. As editor, I know that. But as Clark Kent’s friend, I’ll do my best to make sure the truth is found.
