Sorry for the kinda late post - I know I usually post in the morning. Thanks for being patient, and as usual, thanks for all the great feedback
Waking a Miracle (11/??)
She had one of those sleep headaches that you get when you catnap for an hour when you should have taken a full night's rest. Everything ached, her eyes were watery, scratchy even, and she didn't know how she had managed it, but Lois was standing inside the carefully cordoned area marked, "Press," as George Thompson's meeting with the Metropolis Labor Union came to a close, looking for all the world like an extra for a Clear Eyes commercial. One of those "Before application, you look like this!" extras.
"And so, if you do your part as Metropolitans, I promise when I am in office, I will do my part. I *will* solve your wage problems when I become this great country's next president," George Thompson was saying.
Cameras flashed about, reflecting off of his eyes, and making her dizzy all in one strobing, stabbing motion. She shielded her gaze with her hand as more flashbulbs went off. She should have taken an aspirin before she left.
After Clark had left the previous night, she had tried to get to sleep, but her nerves were frayed and it had taken a half hour to get into a doze. Then, she had been woken up as Lucy came stumbling back in. It had taken roughly forty-five minutes to get Lucy to calm down enough to explain what had happened.
"The diner down the street!?" Lucy had cried, flailing her arms wildly. "Do you have any idea who the heck resides in a city diner at 3 AM in the morning on a work night!?"
Well, yes, Lois did, unfortunately. Full complements of having to investigate a conspiracy regarding mislabeled ingredients at local frozen bacon and eggs redistributors. Imagine! A nefarious vegan had schemed to replace all Metropolis breakfast foods with Tofu... That had been a front page break when she'd finally proven it. But there had been much pain in the process. A large biker with a beard named Bob had spent the entire duration of her stakeout sitting in her booth drooling at her and showing off all his tattoos in alphabetical order, but starting with numbers zero through nine. Although, Lois hadn't been able to get a word in edgewise to explain she understood, Lucy being almost as accomplished a ranter as she was. It must have run in the family, compliments of Ellen Lane.
However, after she had calmed down somewhat, Lucy had been appropriately dismayed for her when Lois had explained what had happened on her side of the universe with Clark. Lucy had hugged her. Both had moped. Until Lucy had announced she needed to sleep, and that Lois did too.
Then, *finally* she had managed to get about an hour nap in before her six AM alarm rang off, and here she was, ninety minutes later, standing watching the nation's front-running political candidate drone on and on about the minimum wage problems that the MLU had been having in the docks area. It was almost enough to get her to fall back asleep. Did the man intentionally reserve his most boring campaign topics for early morning press conferences?
That probably made him even more evil and maniacal than she had originally expected. Maybe he wanted everyone to fall asleep so he wouldn't have to answer questions. From the looks of her colleagues, it was almost working. She didn't see a single individual taking notes anywhere, and Carol Fout from the Star was listing so badly she looked drunk. And one of the cameramen nearby appeared to be taking pictures of his shoes, inadvertently of course.
Well, she hoped it was inadvertently.
Anyways, suffice it to say, the rather circuitous point was that she was tired. Very tired. Except that anxiety served as no caffeine ever could.
And the lesson in all this? Coffee was never a good idea. Not even decaf, black.
What had happened last night? She wasn't exactly sure. No, she was pretty sure. She had been a dope -- pressing, and pressing, and pressing Clark for information he obviously didn't want to give. On a social visit, no less, that *she* had invited him to -- and not even under false pretenses. Nope, she had wanted him for coffee, not an interview -- not that she hadn't ever stooped to doing that sort of thing. But not *this* time.
Lucy. Was. Right. Painful to admit, but true. Well, admitting it here where no one was witness was all right, but Lucy would never hear a word of it. And neither would Clark, or anyone else she knew.
She ground the words in like bamboo shoots under the fingernails.
Lucy. Was. Right.
She scared men off. Dominatrix Lane sounded like a more appropriate nickname than Mad Dog to her. She clenched her fists and unclenched them. Was she doomed to remain a single spinster, down to the finish line?
Probably.
The look on Clark's face before he had left, when he had finally snapped... Well, she would never forget it. He had looked like he wanted to throw up. He had looked like he was in agony, like he wanted to flee right out of his skin, but didn't know where to go or what to do when he got there. And he had looked like he really wanted to kiss her again. All wrapped up into one -- a four-for-one look special.
Her curiosity was burning inside her like a wild flame. What was Clark's role in this mess? What would cause him such turmoil?
A wave of applause shuffled through the crowd, so she clapped along, although not entirely sure what for. She didn't consider anything George Thompson said to be particularly applause-worthy, and probably, as it were, he was the worst political candidate to date as far as ideals, which he of course had none of, went. Vague and ambiguous seemed to be George Thompson's modus operandi. Yes, America, I will do that thing for those people in that place, sometime in the future! His pitches were ridiculous. And also there was the whole issue of why she was investigating him in the first place.
She continued to think, assembling what she knew in slow order.
George Thompson was a known UFO nut. He was leader of some mysterious organization called Bureau 39, which, unfortunately, Lois was unable to prove even existed at this point in time. She suspected Bureau 39 was a continuation of his Project Blue Book work. Her contact in the FBI had nebulously connected both George Thompson and Bureau 39 to the disappearance of Miracle Man, which seemed to her to indicate that Miracle Man was indeed real, and was indeed an alien. George Thompson, throughout the years, had been connected with various individuals. Burton Newcomb, one of those individuals, she planned to interview later in the day. Jason Trask, who Clark seemed to rank as a cold-blooded killer and was strangely terrified of, was still an unknown quantity, although she expected Jimmy to get back with her on his research about Trask later in the day. Either that, or she would be barking on his heels all afternoon after she was done with Newcomb.
So where did that put Clark?
Clark was from Smallville. He was an incredibly sexy, incredibly nice guy, who smiled *incredibly* too darn much. He was easy-going, although he seemed to have a nervous quality about him from time to time. His eyes were wondrously expressive. When he looked at her, she felt the world peel away from her, and she felt special.
Facts, Lane, facts!
He was perceptive, educated, worldly, and well-built. Really well built. Seven world wonder, well-built. Good old Pyramids Clark. Although, the Babylonian Hanging Gardens were long gone in a pile of biodegraded rubble, weren't they? Well, Clark was hopefully biodegradable, so it still fit.
Sort of.
She'd migrated off the facts trail, hadn't she?
Hmmm.
His avoidance of the Trask issue annoyed her to no end, and while she conceded she probably shouldn't have pressed the issue during their 'date,' she would have done so during the day anyways, after the ball mess was out of the way.
Their date. Well, it wasn't really a date. More of a convenient togetherness that happened at her suggestion. And it had just so happened that during this convenient togetherness, she had managed to lock lips with him in what had proven to be one of the most earth-shattering kisses she had ever participated in. Explosive. More so than his ties.
But still not a date.
Then why had she felt so bereft when he'd left? And why had she needed to talk to Lucy for almost a half-hour?
God, Clark was a good kisser, even when he was ready to bolt and was just the unwitting recipient of her own advances. He had been surprised for a moment, almost stumbling, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, but... Wow.
And she had scared him away.
Way to go, Lane.
Her eyes started to sting a little and she brushed them with her index fingers.
Yeah.
Anyways, Clark.
Not a traffic violator, not an axe-murderer. Just Clark.
She was getting nowhere, wasn't she?
"Any questions?" George Thompson's voice pierced through her veil of wayward thought processes.
Finally, what she had been waiting for, what she had slogged through this entire press conference for! She raised her hand and yanked her small micro recorder out of her briefcase. There was a flood of voices and movement as the throng of reporters all clamored to be the first one picked, but she didn't stoop to hopping up and down. Not for George Thompson. She waited calmly.
He gestured towards the rabid group. "You first," he said.
Well, he *technically* was pointing at her. And about twenty other reporters. If she twisted a little, his pinky was jabbing right at her.
"Lois Lane, Daily Planet," she belted. She heard a familiar chorus of twenty grumbles and tried not to grin.
"Jeez, wait your turn, Lois," mumbled the familiar voice of Walter Nguyen of LNN from directly to her right. She swung her briefcase from one shoulder to the other as she adjusted her footing, accidentally thwacking him in the hip. Hard.
She shifted again. Her shoes were pretty uncomfortable. It was a shame that innocent bystanders were getting hurt because of it.
Walter shuffled back and disappeared into the crowd. The rest of the group stopped complaining fairly quickly. She flicked an errant lock of hair away from her face and stuck her micro recorder out in George Thompson's general direction.
"Mr. Thompson," she began, slightly more snitty-sounding than she perhaps intended, but she didn't really care.
"Please, call me George."
What *was* it with people correcting her lately? She resisted the urge to snap back. Focus, girl. Focus!
"Mr. Thompson," she continued. "I was curious if you could tell me what you did while you were a member of Project Blue Book in the Air Force, and also, what connection you have, if any, to Bureau 39."
George Thompson stilled, and his gaze hardened considerably. His hands gripped the podium, and his PR-intensive smile was no longer present -- not even just a quirk of the lips.
Oh, she had certainly pegged him now.
Her colleagues apparently had noticed this reaction as well, even if they didn't know what the heck she was talking about, and grew silent, staring at Thompson expectantly.
"I don't see what that has to do with the Metropolis Labor Union," he commented.
Too late now, Thompson, you're live, and now you look like you're hiding something. She resisted the urge to smile wickedly as more cameras clicked and seared like lightning.
"Project Blue Book," Thompson explained after an extremely long pause, "Was a project involved with investigating unusual occurrences in United States airspace. You can read all about it in public records, I'm sure. It's certainly not classified."
"You mean UFOs?" she pressed. It drew a chuckle from the surrounding cadre of reporters, and the look on Thompson's face was a priceless example of why she loved this job.
Dominatrix Lane, ahoy! She flicked a mental whip at him.
"Yes, I suppose the *uninformed* would call it UFO hunting. Any other questions?"
She refused to let the dig sting. He had given her all she needed, even if he didn't know it. By refusing to even acknowledge her reference to Bureau 39, not even so much as a, "What's Bureau 39?" she knew he was hiding information about it. His reaction to the question alone, before he had even responded, had proven substantially enough to her, that something fishy was going on.
Something very fishy.
Before she knew it, the press conference was over, and George Thompson was ushered out to a black Ford Taurus with solidly tinted windows. He glanced around to the left and the right before he slithered into the back of the car, followed quickly by his press secretary and his campaign manager.
She hailed a taxi with a shrill whistle and shuffled her way into the back seat. "Follow that car," she said, pointing ahead to the receding taillights of George Thompson's escort vehicle. He was probably just headed to his next campaign stop, but she was going to find out for sure before she went in to the Planet.
"This ain't no movie, Lady," the cabbie grumbled as he pulled out into traffic, several cars behind Thompson's.
She clenched the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb, leaning into the support. Her head was simply throbbing at this point. "There's a $20 extra in it for you if you don't lose him," she sighed.
The cabbie just shook his head and shrugged. "All right."
"Don't follow so close," she hissed.
That warranted another shrug as the cabbie lengthened the distance to a half a block, and then a full block.
"Turn your lights off!"
"Lady, it's broad daylight. Keep your shorts on."
The car ahead came to a brief stop after about two minutes, and the press secretary and the campaign manager got back out again and stood on the corner. The pair chatted idly on the street, as if there was nothing unusual about it, and Thompson's black Taurus began to pull away, leaving them behind.
She perked up instantly.
That *certainly* wasn't standard campaign trail procedure. Was it?
After several minutes, Lois began to grow more suspicious. At first, it seemed like they were going in very wide, erratic circles. Well, squares, technically, what with the general layout of a city block. They passed by the bay more than once, and not on the same side of the car, either. So actually it must have been zigzagging rectangular... things. Whatever.
And then the trail straightened out a little and stopped cutting back on itself. The buildings went from warehouse and large constructs, like that of the docks where the press conference had been held, to upscale and ritzy as they traveled through one of Metropolis's more exclusive neighborhoods, and then back to smaller and more seedy as they went along.
Lois suppressed a gasp, and not because her fare was approaching ridiculous. Which, it was. Completely ridiculous. Cab fares should be contingent on actually *going* somewhere, not driving around in zigzagging rectangular... things.
George Thompson's car, two blocks up ahead from where they were now, was headed towards Suicide Slum, and she knew his next Metropolis campaign stop was nowhere near it. He was due at Centennial Park for a ribbon cutting something or another, for some new kids daycare program later in the afternoon.
Interesting, indeed.
The car made a left and stopped outside a large, oblong warehouse. The building was all black, and the windows were boarded up. The pavement outside leading up to the main doorway was covered with skid marks, flattened gum and grease spots, trash, and other things she didn't want to think about or even attempt to identify.
"Stop here. I'll walk," Lois commanded the cabbie, who shrugged again. He seemed to be happy enough with his extra tip that he wasn't going to give any extra lip.
She smacked several twenties into his hand and took off, low to the ground and near the wall, but mindful of her briefcase, which was actually sort of new, and still fairly clean, unlike the rest of her god awful surroundings. She ducked into an alley and peeked around the corner of the building as Thompson got out of his vehicle.
Thompson looked around again and spotted the cab, which was now driving towards him at normal speed, and she held her breath in her throat for several seconds. Thompson didn't appear too suspicious, and she was immediately thankful that she had gotten out and hidden well before he'd spotted it. Or at least, she hoped she had.
She crunched up against the wall even harder, barely peeking around the end where the corner met the street. The cold roughness of the brick stabbed through the thin fabric of her light-weight business suit, and the breeze kicked up some dirty, grease-spotted newspapers which caught on her pumps, but she kept her eyes on Thompson.
Thompson went into the building and didn't come back out. Car alarms dotted the breeze that flitted past her on gentle wings. She heard the heavy thrum of bass as someone in a beat up yellow sports car drove past with the volume set way too high. The alley stunk of garbage, and she kicked away the papers that were collecting on the points of her shoes. She watched with bated breath.
But still, Thompson did not emerge.
She watched for forty-five minutes. At least the stench of the odiferous alley had faded to a dull unpleasant annoyance, rather than remaining its former noxious self.
What did a presidential candidate have to do in a beat up old warehouse in Suicide Slum for an hour? She glanced at her watch. 10 AM. Thompson wasn't due in Centennial park until 11:30 AM, which was a fairly large gap that allowed for some free time. She found it unusual that he hadn't made any interim appointments to occupy himself.
Very interesting.
Maybe this was a secret hideout. Or something. Did government agents need hideouts these days? In her experience, they just used their regular office, and maybe got an alternate fax extension.
*Maybe* they had kidnapped Miracle Man and were keeping him hostage in this very building! But what would you kidnap an invulnerable flying man with? Fly paper? A big fish net?
That didn't seem right.
Maybe it was a secret government installation that you needed a password for, like Swordfish, just to enter. Hmmm. She should have invested in a shotgun microphone from Jimmy's little Spies 'R Us catalogue to see if Thompson had said anything when he approached the door.
Or, maybe, he just wanted a quiet place to have lunch with some friendly rats.
Most likely, however, Thompson was the only real rat around.
She fished out her cell phone and used information services to get the number for Thompson's press secretary. She punched in the numbers, never letting her eyes leave the warehouse, which still sat quiet and unassuming down the street. No Thompson in sight.
"Yes, hello. I'm wondering what George Thompson's campaign itinerary for today is?"
The voice on the other end of the line was extremely unhelpful.
"So he's not appearing anywhere in Suicide Slum, Metropolis today? At..." She glanced up and down for a street sign. Ah. There it was. "Bessolo Boulevard?"
"No, ma'am," the confused man on the end of the line answered.
"Oh well, silly me! It must be one of those look-alikes. Thanks!" she said, and turned the phone off with a grin.
10:15 AM and still no Thompson. He'd been in that warehouse a full hour, or he'd covertly exited from another door.
Either way...
George Thompson, she thought, I'll have you on the front page in no time.
*****
TBC...
(End Part 11/??
