Continued from
Investigate - Chapter 1/? (Kal-El) [Investigate - Chapter 2/? (Super)]
Metropolis was like many cities he had passed through in his travels, and yet there was something that drew him in unlike any other place on Earth.
He had re-entered life in the civilian world several months ago. He had started out with small, simple cases to get back in the swing of investigative work. Fortunately, especially with his name still well respected and known in certain circles as an investigator, he fell back into the groove quickly.
His first substantial case involved a scientist, Samuel Platt, whose ‘estranged’ wife was convinced he had been murdered. She hired Clark to find the truth because she feared her husband had been correct. The space program called Prometheus was in danger, and if that was the case, so was she and her daughter -- her daughter who needed the project if she ever wanted the chance to walk again.
In the end, he was able to determine Platt hadn’t committed suicide but was murdered by a superior in the project, a Dr. Baines. But Baines wouldn’t see her day in court, for a convenient helicopter accident killed her before Clark could involve the authorities.
Oh, yes, Clark knew there was something bigger going on, and he had his suspicions, so he pressed on. Which led him to the Messenger on the night of the launch. The Messenger was the space shuttle that would deliver Prometheus’s final provisions as well as team of scientists, technicians, and station maintenance staff.
It was very fortunate that he had followed his gut, for soon after he arrived, roughly thirty seconds before launch, he heard a woman’s voice in an area that should have been void of people.
“I have to warn them!” she cried as the thrusters were fired.
He looked through the rocket structure to find a woman frantically slicing through wires behind a panel she had just pulled free.
His eyes quickly spotted the reason for her impromptu destruction of vital, spacefaring machinery.
There was a small bomb embedded in some explosive putty on the wall.
He didn't allow himself to hesitate.
Thanks to his time as an SFS officer, he knew how best to avoid cameras and relocate people without harming them while moving at, literally, breakneck speeds.
He turned the cameras that he could away from where he was moving so there would be no chance of his form being caught on film. He fried the rest with a quick zap of his heat vision and accepted that the world would likely discover he existed no matter what he did next--but at least they wouldn't know what to look for.
An instant later, he reached the bomb and determined he had enough time. He grabbed the woman, carefully wrapping his arms around her while placing her head between his shoulder and neck to prevent whiplash before zipping off the Messenger and depositing her in the grass near mission control. Without pausing, he shot back to the Messenger.
Using his abilities and knowledge of explosives, he quickly and safely defused the bomb and left its remains on the floor beneath the explosive putty after verifying he had not left fingerprints or anything else that could be used to find him. He certainly didn't want to deprive the authorities from possibly finding those responsible for this near tragedy. With any luck, he could gain a lead on who was responsible through his many contacts.
He pulled back, about to leave the area now that he knew the danger was over and because he could hear people moving toward the level he was in.
“Attention, colonists, the mission has been scrubbed. Prepare to disembark,” a voice boomed over the P.A..
Clark correctly assumed it was the launch commander.
He could hear the crew cry out their deep dismay and bitter disappointment. A few even began to cry, despairing over the mission failure and how the space station itself was now at risk as vital equipment to several of its systems needed to arrive before the month was out. So many medical discoveries that likely would have occurred within the next few years would now be set back an indefinite amount of time--assuming it happened at all.
Clark’s thoughts went to Mrs. Platt and the fact her late husband, Samuel Platt, had been killed over trying to save Prometheus--and his daughter's hope to walk.
And then Clark knew. He couldn’t just leave.
He swallowed, knowing there was no going back after this but doing nothing . . . he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do that.
He moved, flying out before positioning himself within the base of one of the still smoking thrusters so he couldn’t be seen.
Verifying all the hatches of the Messenger were still sealed, he pushed aside any second thoughts and pushed up.
It was freeing, in a way, to do something so public, and yet it was terrifying.
He heard the gasps of disbelief first, from the station and then Mission Control, and then he heard a cacophony of voices from within the ship raised in rambling astonishment.
“What's happening?!”
“Are we lifting off? We've got to be lifting off!!”
“How? The thrusters are dead now!”
“This is too slow and steady to be the thrusters. What on Earth is doing this? This is impossible!”
Clark pressed on, going higher and higher until the sky around him darkened and he left Earth's atmosphere.
Finding the station wasn't difficult, and he soon docked to it, although he had to wait until Mission Control got over their stupor and opened up the docking clamps. Apparently witnessing the impossible made them uncertain about what to do.
After assuring himself the colonists had safely disembarked to the station, he returned to Earth, knowing the General would instantly know it was him and that nothing would ever be the same again. He could hear his dad now, worried about how the world would respond and cautioning him on future activities that further displayed his existence. Oh, he knew his parents were proud of him and would be relieved to know he had diverted disaster, but they would be concerned. Afraid for him. They knew how the world could be, how unforgiving, fearful, and judgmental. And so did he. He grew uneasy, going through everything that had just happened and each of his actions, afraid that even though he had been very careful about not being seen or leaving something behind that would point to him, he might have missed something.
But he hadn’t. As the days wore on, the media continued to be mystified by what or who had taken the Messenger up to the appropriate orbit and helped it dock to Space Station Prometheus, not to mention handled the bomb and removed the investigative reporter, Lois Lane, from the shuttle beforehand.
His parents were both relieved and thrilled for him. For so long they had watched as he wrestled with himself in trying to decide between what he wanted to do and what was safe to do.
Now it seemed there wasn't as much to fear as they all thought.
And so he started doing more. Donning a set of old painter’s clothing, dull brown and unimportant if destroyed, he stopped holding back. He continued to be unseen, but he no longer feared how the public would react to the results of his actions, in part because it was predominately being viewed positively.
At first it had been downright weird and somewhat worrying when groups of people began theorizing it was an angel or some supernatural force that had taken pity on humanity. But then he saw how it was impacting the general public.
They were happy when they heard about the ‘miracles’. It gave them something to be thankful about, reminded them that not everything was bad in the world.
He was careful about not doing too many things in Metropolis, so he still travelled, occasionally at weeks at a time, trying to do at least three major things overseas every week.
And then the bizarre heatwave struck Metropolis.
O o O o O
After a week away in Smallville and occasionally flying beyond the States to spread out his rescues, he expected the Autumn winds to have given way to snow in Metropolis, but instead he found boiling heat and not a soul wearing a jacket or even long sleeves. It was really bizarre, but he supposed the weather could be strange sometimes.
Entering the precinct to find Inspector Henderson, Clark was grateful for his invulnerability though not as much for his superior senses. He could tell everyone was miserable in the heat, and the smell of sweat in the air was palpable.
“Kent,” Henderson greeted him the moment he spotted him.
“Inspector,” Clark returned, wondering if there was something urgent or if Henderson was just full of coffee as he often was.
“Got another case for you, if you're available,” he said.
“I am,” Clark assured as Henderson came beside him.
“Great. I've got a real head scratcher for you,” he said, leading him into his office and closing the door. “The father, Mr. Tibs, has inquired if there's been any progress on finding his son, Gregory.” He handed Clark a plain manila folder creased with age. “Cold case, fifteen years. Tibs heard through the grapevine that older cases are being reexamined and a few have been solved.”
Clark opened the file and began skimming it. “No body, but murder suspected.” He looked up. “Any other reason why you want me to look at this one specifically?”
“There is a possible tie to another cold case, but a new pair of eyes on it is needed. In the initial investigation, one of the detectives was too close to it so may have been seeing what they wanted instead of what was.”
“Who was the detective?”
“Detective Hubert Drake. Unfortunately, he passed away about five years ago, but he did help train me.”
“How was he too close?”
“His daughter was dating Greg, so he knew him. Not well, but he had a few discussions with him and the like before he disappeared. They had a budding amiable relationship from what he told me.”
Clark nodded, glancing down at another page. “I'll start looking into it.”
“Thanks. Here's the father's card. He said he's willing to pay for your time.”
Clark pocketed the card.
“If you need to speak with anyone who had been on the case before, let me know. For those still around, I have most of their contacts.”
“Alright,” Clark said, already mentally going to work on the case.
O o O o O
There was a problem. It wasn't normal. And it was too dang hot to think properly.
Lois shifted in her desk chair, hating the dampness of her clothing pressing into her back if she happened to recline too far in her seat.
This weather, why was it happening? Nowhere else in the country was suffering from any sort of heat wave, so why Metropolis?
That morning's press conference with the Mayor, and incidentally with Lex Luthor, Dr. Edward Saxon, and Dr. Goodman, had very nearly been completely unhelpful. They had only learned two things. One, the scientists were baffled. And two, LexCorp had the means to provide the needed power for the city and that it passed its safety inspection with flying colors. Small mercies.
Lois dabbed her neck with a wet cloth, trying to think of a new angle, a new perspective that could help her get to the truth.
The building’s air conditioning unit was being pushed to its maximum capacity and the Bullpen still felt like a sauna. She could hear Perry bellowing into the phone for more fans. Many of the staffers already had small personal fans on their desks, but they did precious little to keep them cool.
Even Cat, wearing a bikini, was suffering. How was a woman to write about this heat wave when all she could think about was a tub of luscious chocolate ice cream?
“Jimmy!” she called, a thought coming to her.
“Yes?” he asked, rushing over.
“Get me a map of Metropolis and get me as many different sorts of maps as you can of the same area, only of city buildings, roads, sewers, gas lines, power lines, everything you can find involving underground utilities and the like. I want to compare things, particularly with a heat distribution map.”
“Sure thing,” Jimmy said eagerly.
‘There has to be a reasonable explanation other than Jack Frost taking a random vacation!’ Lois thought.
O o O o O
The case was certainly cold for a reason, but Clark pressed on, going through every evidence report and photo. He concluded similar things the initial investigators did, but the events also hinted at something more. Greg was a good kid with high prospects. He had a college scholarship lined up and was in the process of making a decision -- lawyer or doctor. According to the interviews conducted at the time, Greg had had an analytical mind tempered by the desire to help people. He had the ultimate goal of either becoming a Judge or a Neurosurgeon, he just hadn't been sure which path suited him more.
Clark shook his head. It was such a shame. The kid certainly had had a sound foundation for becoming anything he wanted. So what had happened?
He had disappeared the night before graduation, oddly enough. His girlfriend, Mayson Drake, had been the last known person to see him, and that had been at a bus stop.
He didn't feel he would get anything useful at the moment from interviewing people who had been interviewed fifteen years prior. Accounts given after a few months were rarely useful to begin with, let alone ones recounted years later. He put the papers down and headed to the library to go through the city's records and old newspaper articles.
He found it quickly and instantly knew this was the case Henderson had mentioned being possibly linked.
Two girls had been found murdered around the same time Greg disappeared. Normally that alone wouldn't suggest a link, as Metropolis is a big place and crime is unfortunately common throughout, even -- or perhaps especially -- fifteen years prior, but one of the girls had been attending the same high school as Greg.
She had a rough home life, which included suspected physical abuse, and had barely been allowed to graduate due to her grades. It was really sad, and the second girl’s situation hadn't been much better.
He made a few notes, including the names of the girls’ parents. According to witness accounts, counter to what most people would suspect, it was the first girl's mother who was possibly abusive.
Clark paused, wondering if another avenue would be worth looking into first. It wouldn't be the first time where abuse at home led a minor to even more irreparably tragic situations.
He would need to check police records for any human trafficking arrests.
O o O o O
This had stink all over it, and it wasn't because she was sweating.
The new Lex Corp Nuclear Power Plant was at the heart of the highest temperature and the aquifer far beneath the surface almost perfectly mirrored where the elevated surface temperatures were, which meant the nuclear plant was responsible for the heatwave.
Lois frowned.
How could this have been missed? How could engineers not connect the dots? This was huge! Was this an honest mistake or was there a conspiracy? It could certainly be linked to money. The Plant was expected to easily make a multi-million dollar profit in the first year alone.
She needed to understand more of how the Plant was releasing the heat exactly, and if there were any negatives to the city and aquifer, other than causing ridiculous temperatures.
O o O o O
He got a possible lead and quickly followed it, going to Metropolis’ Correctional Facility.
“He’s all set, Mr. Kent,” the officer said.
“Thank you. Shouldn’t be too long,” Clark said.
“Hope you get what you need.”
Clark nodded his appreciation and entered the interview/interrogation room.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Mr. Crowder,” Clark said, taking a seat across from the inmate.
The room was cold and stark. The walls had been painted a dozen times over, and the floor had grooves where chairs had shifted over and over. There were even worn areas on the table where hands of hundreds of inmates had touched.
“Can’t hurt me,” he said gruffly. “So you want to know about the sex trafficking going on ten plus years ago?”
“Yes, and if you remember any faces specifically.”
He shrugged. “There were a lot of people, to be honest. Who are you looking for?”
“They’ve already been found, actually, I just want to know if they were involved in the trafficking in anyway. It’ll help with a different case.”
“If this helps you, will you inform the judge of my assistance?”
“Of course,” Clark agreed, “But it will take time for anything you tell me to bear fruit, assuming it’s truthful.”
“I understand. So what do you have?”
Clark opened the folder and placed out some photos, four out of six of them being dummies: known people who had no ties to trafficking or the like at all.
“Do you recall if any of these young women were victims or accomplices in the trafficking fifteen or so years ago in Metropolis?”
Crowder carefully looked at the photographs. “Hmm. This one looks familiar,” he said, pointing to the girl who went to high school with Greg. “Yeah, I remember. She was one of the newbies. From what I remember she was found dead though.” He glanced up at Clark. “I heard she was going to cause trouble for a ring. Something involving a boy who she had talked to or something. He supposedly convinced her to rethink her decisions. To warn you this info is third or fourth-hand, so I have no idea if this is even close to the truth, but young love, especially one sided, often causes trouble.”
“I’ll take any information. Like you said, it can’t hurt me. Do you know anyone I should ask who might know more?”
“George Stin might know something. He’s a lifer though. Not sure if he’ll want to bother helping you.” He paused and looked back at the other photos. “I don’t recognize any of the others. Sorry.”
“No problem. Thank you for your time. You’ve actually been a big help.”
“Hope you get what you’re looking for,” he said, standing up.
O o O o O
Bill Henderson would never underestimate Kent after that day. In just over a week, he had cracked open yet another cold case and had gathered enough evidence to lead a felon to admit to participating in an assault and getting them to identify others involved, including one who was still living free.
And that was where they were at. They had a search and arrest warrant and were about to knock on the front door of the suspected human trafficker and murderer. They had the house surrounded and had only driven unmarked cars into the neighborhood.
“You set?” Henderson asked Kent.
“Ready,” he said.
Henderson knocked on the door.
The door opened, revealing a fifty year old or so man. “What do you want?”
Henderson held out his badge. “I am Inspector Henderson. Are you Mr. Jeffrey Grant?”
“Yes,” he said, straightening.
“We need you to come with us. We have a warrant for your arrest,” Henderson said.
“For what?” he asked angrily.
“For the first degree murder of Gregory Tibs and human trafficking,” Henderson answered.
Grant instantly moved to slam the door and dashed backwards. Kent quickly prevented the door from closing, allowing Henderson to go in. Kent entered right behind him.
“You’re not taking me!” Grant shouted.
The next ten seconds were both the fastest and yet the slowest ten seconds of Henderson’s life. Henderson, Kent, and another officer rushed after him.
Henderson saw the gun too late, but Kent was already in front of him.
“Kent!” Henderson shouted as the gun went off several times.
Kent kept moving, tackling Grant to the ground, providing Henderson with the opening needed. Henderson kicked the gun from the man’s hand, expecting Kent to keel over any second.
“Kent! Kent! You okay?” he shouted.
“Yeah, I'm fine. He got my vest,” Kent answered with a grunt, getting up as they cuffed the fuming man.
“Heavens on Earth, Kent, why did you do that? Your head could have been blasted off!”
“Nah, he was aiming at your head, not mine,” Kent answered simply.
“You’re unbelievable,” Henderson said, heart in his throat as he spotted the four holes in the PI’s jacket. Those would have hit him, and one very easily could have hit his head due to how he had been positioned.
“You sure you’re okay? You’re going to have bruises at the very least,” the other officer said, his eyes wide.
“I’m fine,” Kent said, stiffly bending over to help them lift the would-be cop killer to his feet as the officer began stating his Miranda rights.
Henderson locked eyes with Kent, his gratitude beyond words.
The remains of Greg Tibs were recovered the following week soon after the interrogation of Jeffrey Grant. The truth that was revealed was a sad account of the kind efforts of a young man being stamped out by a cruel pimp who viewed people only as a means of profit. The only solace was knowing a family now had answers and could lay their loved one to rest.
O o O o O
“This will become a disaster if it's not stopped! A
meltdown, do you hear me?!” Lois shouted, standing at the front desk of city hall. “We have proof that's causing the heat, and Dr. Goodman here can explain everything. Where's the Mayor?”
“I'm sorry, Ms. Lane, but the Mayor has already gone to the Plant for it's opening,” she said apologetically.
“We need to send word to them! They cannot allow it to become fully operational!” Dr. Goodman exclaimed. “I'll make some calls, Ms. Lane. You go over to the Plant directly and convince them to at least hold off until other scientists can look over the evidence,” Dr Goodman said, a number of officials within earshot understandably growing alarmed at the claim of a coming nuclear meltdown.
Lois didn't need to be told more and dashed out, catching a cab in record time.
“To LexCorp Nuclear, and there's a fifty in it for you if you floor it,” she said.
“Whatever you say, lady,” the driver said, happy to make some extra cash.
They made it to the nuclear plant in minutes. She paid him in seconds, including the promised tip, and slammed the car door behind her before rushing to the entrance.
Flashing her press pass to security, she rushed in, coming to all the other members of the press as Lex Luthor stepped up.
“Let us wait,” he said, putting his hand on the main power switch, “No longer.” He closed it, fully initiating the sequence for the core to go fully operational.
“Stop!” Lois shouted, forcing her way through to the front.
“I'm afraid that stopping is not one of the options, miss,” Luthor said, slightly bemused that a reporter would interrupt such an event.
“I have evidence that your plant has a leak in the core and it will meltdown if fully engaged. This plant has been the cause of the heatwave! The leak has been heating the aquifer water under Metropolis. Dr. Goodman, the physicist you and the Mayor know by the way, is contacting the Environmental Impact Committee and their scientists this very moment to review the evidence. We must shutdown the reactor due to the leak.”
“Believe me, there’s no leak,” Luthor calmly countered as someone came up and whispered in his ear. “We’re on-line, the fuel rods are hot,” he said, pleased as he and people around began to clap.
“We’ve got to shut it down!” Lois shouted, disgusted by the arrogance of this man ignoring her claims, she didn't care who he was or that she had been hoping to interview him, she knew she was right!
“We can’t shut it down. Once the sequence has been initiated, it’s physically impossible. It’s one of the safety features,” Luthor said just as a security guard rushed in and an alarm went off.
“There’s a breach in the containment chamber,” the guard stated, frantic. “The cameras--”
There was a large metallic moan and more alarms began to blare.
“Meltdown?!” someone cried, frightened. Many others screamed.
“No, this isn’t a meltdown,” a man beside Luthor assured. Very likely one of the Plant’s engineers.
“Sir, the core is cooling! The sequence . . .” a man by one of the system panels breathed, unable to believe what he was reading.
“What?!” Luthor shouted. “That’s impossible!”
Lois heaved a sigh of relief, though she was just as curious to learn how this miracle had occurred. Had the mysterious savior of the Messenger made another save?
Before she could think more on it, several more people entered the already crowded control room. She instantly recognized the city's Chief Health Inspector, a member of the Health and Safety Board, and a number of other high ranking, concerned individuals with Dr. Goodman. Lois smiled. This was a good news day in more ways than one.
O o O o O
It was nice being friends with Inspector Henderson at the precinct. Solving a number of cold cases paid dividends to say the least -- as well as saving the man’s life.
They were still trying to determine who exactly could have made the bomb that had been placed on the Messenger, and unfortunately they seemed to have hit a dead end, but Clark now had a list of possible suspects who could have made it (oddly enough several of them were companies based in Metropolis). But that wasn’t the only benefit of being Henderson’s friend. He knew the authorities were trying to figure out what/who was responsible for saving so many citizens. Currently, they had zero leads, which was a huge relief after the nuclear meltdown fiasco.
He was grateful that he had been within earshot of City Hall and managed to oversee what was going on within LexCorp Nuclear Plant from high above in the clouds. Of course, as soon as Luthor flipped the switch he had had no choice but to intervene.
He had long determined that he didn’t need to worry about leaving fingerprints unless the material was covered with a putty-like material or lightly greased or dusty because he, for whatever reason, did not excrete oil from his skin and very rarely ever produced sweat. It was very handy in many situations in the past, particularly when superfeats were necessary.
Of course, there were still cameras and possible eyewitnesses to worry about.
So he moved quickly, entering the facility, breaching the inner doors, disrupting the security cameras, and giving a number of guards and scientists a great scare when he physically removed them from the room surrounding the containment chamber. Without any pause, he then reentered, barred the doors, and then entered the heart of the power plant.
The act of preventing the magnetic locking arm from engaging with the fuel rods had been a little challenging, but in the end it was no match for him. It was extremely satisfying to hear the metallic snap above him and the sound of the entire nuclear core shutting down as the alarms continued to blare.
He left two seconds later, leaving city officials and the like to make their best guess as to what had just happened.
The Press ate it up, crushing the LexCorp Nuclear Power Plant by pushing for an in-depth investigation, as they suspected a cover-up or outright negligence by the plant's engineers and project management. To have such a design flaw be so overlooked was horrifying and unparalleled, incomprehensible really. The only thing that had the public's (and officials’) scratching their heads more was how the catastrophe had been stopped.
Huge machinery doesn't just stop and shatter for no reason. It was obvious something physical had prevented the rods from engaging and the only thing anyone could determine was that whatever had caused this was the same thing that had saved the space station. But the question remained, what or who was this? And why were they intervening?
Their continued dismay was an immense relief to Clark, so it was a huge, alarming surprise to receive the newspaper the next morning and find the front page article entitled:
Super, But Not SupernaturalIn it, Lois Lane outlined all the ‘evidence’ proving the miracles were being done by a physical being and that they were not only doing large rescues, but smaller, unreported deeds as well, including a number of saves he had done long before Prometheus. She had also somehow gotten first person accounts, including the boy in South America he had pulled from the river and a few others who had managed to recall someone carrying them in their time of need. The article was alarmingly and amazingly thorough and well thought out. There was clearly a reason why she was the top reporter for the Daily Planet.
She had even left a message at the end of her article directly for him.
'And so I close this article with a message to our secret hero. Please, whoever you are, whatever you are, and why-ever you are, please show yourself to us. Your actions have spoken for you and you have proven, at least to this reporter and I'm sure to many others, that you are here to help. Please let us thank you for the thousands of lives you have saved, myself included. We know you exist now and we are not afraid. I trust you know where to find me if you wish to talk. Thank you.’
He put the newspaper down, contemplative.
Could he do what she was asking? Allow people to see him?
He couldn’t do it as Clark, that was obvious, but perhaps . . .
What was he thinking? Was he actually considering any part of this? Why should he do as she asked? He didn’t owe her or anybody else anything, and yet . . . how much easier could things be if he was able to show his face? If he was able to talk to people? If he could work
with police and rescue teams instead of
around them
and without hiding his abilities?
But how could he? Wouldn’t people discover who he really was?
But who would think Clark Kent could do these things? There was camouflage in the mundane--or as mundane as a PI and former SFS officer could be at any rate.
Maybe this was possible. Maybe there was a way to do this.
Maybe. . . .
He needed to talk with his parents.
O o O o O
Lois trudged up to her apartment. It had been nearly two weeks since she had written the article and still nothing. Maybe this person didn't read the newspaper. Maybe they didn't read at all. Maybe they didn't even watch the news, which did make her wonder how they had learned about the nuclear power plant.
They had to have learned about it somehow, but there hadn't been enough time to learn by word of mouth alone, unless they had a contact within City Hall or the Nuclear Power Plant when the alarm was initially sent out, but she had no idea how to verify if that was the case.
Discouraged, she started unlocking her many door locks.
She didn't know what else to do. Four more notable miracles had occurred over the weekend and still no one had seen any hint of the individual. The only thing she seemed to have accomplished was create a nickname for their hero, thanks to her article's title: ‘Super, but not Supernatural’.
Thus, the public had dubbed him: Superman.
She sighed and entered her dark apartment, robotically relocking all the locks on her front door before turning on the lightswitch which -- didn't work.
“Great,” she muttered, taking a step toward the kitchen where she kept her flashlight and candles, but then she noticed something.
Something was different. Something wasn't quite right in her apartment. It was too dark. All of her shades had been drawn.
And then she saw a figure in the corner, draped in shadows. She quickly raised her purse, her hand closing around her pepper spray.
“I read your article, Ms. Lane,” he said, unbothered by the can aimed at him.
“What?” Lois asked.
That can't mean what she thinks, can it?
“I apologize for startling you, as well as for breaking into your apartment, but I didn't want to risk being seen by anyone but you,” the man said.
“You're him? I hope you can understand that I need you to prove it,” Lois said, knowing some maniac pretending to be the hero was more likely than the actual person coming as she had asked.
He disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the room, still shaded in darkness.
Lois’ heart started hammering in her chest, but it wasn't from fear.
“I-I . . . Thank you for saving my life before,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm.
She couldn't believe he was actually there!
“Glad I could help.”
She glanced around her apartment before going forward and taking a seat at the couch.
“Would you like to sit?”
He hesitated, and even though she couldn't see his face, she could make out his uncertain posture.
“It's alright. If you prefer to stay where you are, I don't mind,” she said. The fact he was actually in her apartment and talking to her was more than she ever could have hoped.
She shifted back slightly, trying to get a better look at him without being obvious. She could tell his hair was dark and slicked back and what little she could see of his clothing was a little strange. The slippery looking fabric was tight against his arms and frame, reflecting the light that managed to reach him from the window. It appeared to be sapphire.
“I’m not entirely comfortable doing what you suggested in your article, Ms. Lane, but you are correct in saying people already know I'm here. And I must admit I've been thinking about how much easier some things would be if I could actively interact with officials during emergencies.”
“Well, I'm glad you're considering it at all. Can you explain why it's difficult for you though? I mean, I can guess but I would rather not assume things,” she managed.
“What would your guess be?” he asked.
“Honestly? I think you're afraid of something, and considering what you can do, that could include the government, how the public will react to you, etcetera, which is all understandable. However, I think it has more to do with why you can do what you can do than anything else.” She fell silent as he tilted his head a little, but, as he wasn't denying anything yet, she went on. “Forgive me for being blunt, but were you developed? A government program?”
“Some things might have been easier if that was the case, but no. I was born this way. I just wasn't . . . born here,” he explained.
“Born here? Do you mean . . . ?”
“Earth.”
Lois blinked. She supposed that made a bit more sense than a science experiment, but . . . an alien?
“I hope you haven't seen E.T.,” she blurted, earning a snicker from her visitor. She blushed slightly, but was relieved he hadn't taken offense.
“So where were you born?” she asked.
“Krypton, but I'm not ready to say much more than that. You can still ask me questions, I just might not answer.”
“Why not? I mean, you're not a felon from your planet, are you? I'm just saying that if you don't answer certain questions, people will assume the worst.”
“No, I'm not a felon. I'm more of a . . . refugee. I'm the only Kryptonian who made it here as far as I'm aware, and I've searched. Krypton . . . doesn't exist anymore.”
Lois slowly nodded, now getting a fair idea of why he didn't want to talk about it.
“How much of this do you wish to be on the record?” Lois asked, deciding he must have known she would wish to write an article on him.
“If you could omit the portion where I broke into your apartment, I would appreciate that.”
Lois grinned, noting the clear, bright humor in his voice. “Of course. As for the rest?”
“Anything I answered you may use. And for the future, unless I say otherwise, it's on the record. Fair?” he asked.
“Very fair. Thank you,” she said, before fighting back a gasp as he stepped forward into the light.
Most of his features were still too shrouded in darkness for her to describe him adequately to a sketch artist, but his clothing, his uniform, was clear. She could even tell there was a cape connected along his shoulders.
“What's that?” Lois asked, motioning to the large 'S’ symbol on his chest.
“My family crest,” he answered.
Lois smirked. “Ironically fitting, considering what people are now calling you, wouldn't you say?”
He smiled softly. “Yes, I was surprised when I heard.”
“How do you feel about being called that?” Lois asked.
Superman straightened. “Honored and humbled. When I started doing this, I didn't anticipate ever becoming widely known. I worked hard at not being noticed, but then I couldn't ignore Prometheus.”
“Do you like the name though?” she pressed.
“Yes. After hiding for so long, and frankly more than a little uneasy about ever being discovered, I am relieved that it has turned out this way. For my adopted planet to name me something in a positive light, not from fear or hate . . . I am grateful.”
Lois smiled, undeniably drawn to his heartfelt answer.
“Then let me be the first to tell you that we are grateful for what you've done, Superman. Thank you.”
Superman smiled. His features were still difficult to make out, yet she could tell his smile was warm and genuine.
“So what are you going to do now?” Lois asked.
“I’m not sure to be honest. I suppose it'll depend on where and how I'm needed next,” Superman said.
“That is something I've been wondering about. How do you know when you're needed?” Lois asked.
“I have pretty good hearing and, though I'm not sure why, my hearing picks up on calls of distress if I'm within a few miles.”
“That’s amazing! Are all of your senses like that?”
“Yeah, I--” He paused and tilted his head.
“What is it?”
“Someone needs help. Goodnight, Ms. Lane,” he said, vanishing a split second later with the window closing gently behind him.
Lois smiled softly. “Goodnight, Superman.”
She completed the morning’s article within an hour.
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