As promised here's the first part of the next story, I'll try to post the second part the day after tomorrow. FDK is always appreciated.
Chapter 1Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.
(David Ogden Stiers)
“Goodbye, Mad Dog Lane…”
I have to leave her behind, too.
The words linger, haunting me as I return to the silence of my apartment. Not only the Kents but the whole town of Smallville had welcomed me with open arms, warmth spreading from every corner, every gaze, every word.
In contrast, Metropolis seems cold and foreign, almost hostile.
From the entrance of my apartment I let my gaze drift through the dimly lit living room. The familiar furniture, decoration and photos take on an otherworldly quality, alien, as if they belong to someone else, a whole woman, not the fractured wreck I am now.
Is it really me in the pictures?
On the coffee table a notebook catches my gaze, its worn cover bearing your name. My heart clenches as I recognize it.
You left it here, mere days before the Planet's destruction, then it stayed here, forgotten. I had intended to return it, but the countless arguments that distracted us made it difficult. Following our last fight I hurled it across the room in a fit of frustration.
Only now I understand that I wasn’t really angry at you, I was disappointed in myself, for letting my life, my routines be destroyed. For feeling helpless in the face of losing the Daily Planet. For not being able to be the friend you needed.
As I stand amidst the wreckage of my existence, memories flood back - the notebook, a silent witness of our shared story. I wish, within those pages would lie the answers I’ve been yearning for.
How do I survive saying goodbye, when the mere thought of leaving you behind only twists the dagger deeper into my soul?
I wrench my gaze away from this tangible relic of your existence here, the door slamming shut behind me as I abandon my luggage, heavy with Martha's comfort food and mementos of a life past.
Exhausted, I collapse onto the loveseat, scooping up your notebook as I pass and clutching it tightly to my chest, as if it might reveal your final thoughts. But the world swims, obscured by the tears brimming in my eyes.
The warmth of Smallville‘s embrace feels a world away, and the love your parents showed me is unable to fill the void that’s engulfing me.
After weeks in your childhood home‘s warm atmosphere, nothing in my apartment seems to offer any similar sense of comfort or welcome, despite Perry‘s and Jimmy‘s meticulous care during my absence.
I can’t stop the deep sigh from emerging at the thought of Perry, Jimmy… they’re good friends, great friends even.
But they're not you.
Perry picked me up from the airport.
His voice still echoes in my memory as he shared important news, every word carefully chosen, as if he feared I’d break under their weight.
~~~
“Honey,” he began, in a subdued tone, “I know you are probably not ready to hear this… but I have received a message from Franklin Stern.” Despite everything, he couldn’t contain his excitement. “He reconsidered buying the Planet. Yesterday he signed the paperwork and it looks like we could be back in business in a few weeks.”
Silence filled the car as I stared out the window. Then I replied, my voice barely a whisper. “The Planet… coming back?” The words both a comfort and a pain.
Perry nodded, his face lighting up with a rare smile. “Yes, Lois. And there's more. He wants you back on the team.”
My eyes filled with tears, my voice trembling. “Me? But Perry, I don’t know if I can do this… without him.”
Perry reached out, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “I know it’s hard, Lois. But think about it. The Planet needs you… We need you.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t walk into that newsroom and not see Clark’s desk. It’s too much, Perry. It’d be like losing him all over again.”
Perry’s expression softened, his own eyes misting. “I understand, Lois. But remember, Clark would want you to keep fighting, to keep that fire in you burning. He always loved your passion for journalism.”
With an aching heart I replied, “I’ll think about it, Perry. I promise.”
And then I couldn’t contain the sobs anymore.
~~~
I can step back into the role of Lois Lane, but the sight of your vacant desk - or worse, your desk filled by another reporter - could shatter what little of me remains and extinguish the last flickers of Mad Dog Lane.
During the past few years, she had become an integral part of me, fighting fiercely and passionately for justice, defending the innocent with adamant resolve. But life has a way of unraveling even the strongest bonds.
It would be another Goodbye. Lane and Kent are forever lost.
Weighed down by my memories, I slowly get up and replace the notebook, focusing instead on the tasks ahead. I need to store all the perishable goods Martha has given to me.
But before I can proceed there’s something I need to do first. As promised, I dial your parents’ number to tell them I arrived back home safely.
Returning from their haven, I hoped the weeks spent amidst our shared memories of you would help me repair myself, to get rid of the feeling of being torn from the inside. They embraced me, allowed me into their memories and welcomed mine.
The world insists on spinning and I, a reluctant participant, find myself grappling with the ghost of your absence, which lingers, an indelible stain on my soul.
While I’m waiting for them to pick up, I begin to open the first zipper.
Atop lies the football, a gift from your parents. I pick it up, feeling the rough surface, and let myself be distracted. Its leather, softened by years of play, carries the faint scent of sweat and grass, as if it holds the echo of games long past. Childhood memories are etched into the seams, stitched by hands that will never grip it again. There’s a musky, familiar smell, leather mixed with dirt and time, that pulls at something deep inside, a longing for the days when this ball was still in motion, when the one who held it was still here.
The phone still rings and I clutch the receiver, my heart pounding when I hear someone pick up.
Your mother's voice, fragile and frail yet familiar, fills the void. "Hello?" she says and I can almost see her standing in the cozy farmhouse kitchen, sunlight streaming through the window, her hands trembling.
"Martha," I whisper, my voice catching. "It's me, Lois." The words tumble out, a flood of emotions I can't contain. I’ve only been gone a few hours, but already I want to tell her so much but I can barely even force the words out.
"I'm home," I continue, my voice breathless. "Perry dropped me off." The football slips from my fingers as I again sink onto the loveseat, burdened by countless remembrances overwhelming me from the memory-laden bags. Martha's silence stretches across the line, heavy with unspoken words. I imagine her clutching the phone, tears in her eyes, missing her son as much as I do. My gaze falls on the Smallville high sweater lying atop my clothes and I pull it from its place, clutching it tightly, stroking over the soft, worn fabric.
“Lois,” she finally says, her voice breaking. “We’ll always be only a phone call away, should you need us.” Her words pierce my heart and I close my eyes. “And you’re always welcome in Smallville,“ she added.
“Thank you,” I blurt out. After a short pause I add, “Perry said the Planet will be back open soon. He wants me back on the team. But it feels wrong without Clark… There are so many memories of him there. How will I survive, watching someone else at his desk?” Tears burn in my eyes, staining the sweater as they fall.
The silence on the other end of the line is profound. I can almost hear Jonathan in the background, his steady presence offering comfort. "Perry will understand, honey," Martha whispers. "I’m sure he’ll give you all the time you need and if you can’t return he’ll understand that too." And suddenly, the weight of it all, our loss, their love, the secrets, crashes over me. I bury my face in the sweater, inhaling the scent of memories and letting the tears flow.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice raw. “For everything.“
Martha's fragile voice responds, “Oh, honey…” and I know we're connected by more than grief.
As our voices crackle through the phone line, the image of an invisible thread connecting us, covering the distance, conjures in my mind. We exchange whispered reassurances, promising to call if the buden of our grief ever becomes too heavy. With that unspoken pact hanging in the air, we reluctantly hang up, severing the thread.
I carefully unpack the bags, each item from Smallville a relic of your past. The room fills with memories, the scent of your cologne, the worn edges of old books, the photograph of us laughing together. These fragments surround me, a bittersweet embrace, as if you’re still here, whispering secrets to me. And yet, I wonder about the weight we carry - the invisible baggage that shapes our choices, our hearts heavy with love, loss and longing. How will the weight of your death shape my decisions in the future?
Half an hour later all bags are emptied and stored away with a few chosen items scattered around, still in need of a place where I can put them.
While scanning the room for a fitting place I spot my Kerths, hidden behind glass. I can’t help but remember the days when my work persona, ‘Mad Dog Lane,’ was forged. She emerged during my early days at the Planet, shaped by Claude and refined by colleagues who prioritized sensationalism over truth.
The pseudonym, whispered by colleagues in both mockery and awe, served as an armor and a curse. Mad Dog Lane battled injustice with a ferocity that allowed no vulnerability. Yet behind the headlines and bylines, I was Lois Lane, a woman who wielded her pen like a blade, slicing through half-truths and deceit to hide her own fragile, scarred heart.
I open the cabinet and take one Kerth out, it has a fine layer of dust on it. Before everything… I used to clean them weekly.
And then there was Claude, the ill-fated affair that left emotional wreckage in its wake. Mad Dog Lane became my guardian, snapping at judgmental co-workers. They labeled me the “ice-queen” and “frigid,” ignorant to the pain hidden behind my aggressive facade. All the lies had tainted their perception, leaving little room for my side of the story.
The memory of him resurfaces, vivid and raw. I'm back in the bustling newsroom, the scent of his perfume, Armani’s eau pour homme, thick in the air, clinging like an invisible fog. The sharp bite of citrus mingled with the heavy, floral notes of spice, unsettling in its familiarity. It had been intoxicating then, much like his charm, luring me closer, wrapping around me until I couldn’t see the truth behind his lies.
Claude, with his French accent and sly smile, had woven a tangled web - a master manipulator. His charm was magnetic, drawing people to him like insects to a venus flytrap, helplessly trapped in the sweetness before they realized it was poison.
~~~
"Claude," I'd confronted him one evening, my voice edged with frustration. "Why do you twist the truth? Why play these games?" The thought of our shared night and his betrayal leaving a bitter taste in my mouth
He'd leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting. "Because truth is malleable, my dear," he'd replied. "It bends to our desires, our fears. And people? They crave stories, not facts. As reporters, we control the narrative."
The thought made my stomach twist. I'd wanted to argue, to shake sense into him. But Claude was a maestro, conducting symphonies of deception. He'd whispered half-truths, spinning melodic illusions, and my colleagues had danced to his tune. The interns, wide-eyed and eager, had become unwitting pawns. The young women - bright, capable - had been silenced, their voices drowned in the discord of office politics.
"Fact-checking?" Claude had scoffed. "That's for amateurs. We're artists, ma cherie. We paint reality with broad strokes, leaving room for interpretation."
And so, they reveled in gossip, embellished, embroidered, stitched together narratives that fit their biases. Each added a note, composing a melody of intrigue. The unrequited love affair, the envy of a young, green reporter, passion and longing hidden beneath polished exteriors, it all became part of the newsroom lore.
"Remember," Claude had whispered smugly, "we're not just reporters. We're storytellers. And stories? They endure."
I'd nodded, torn between admiration and disdain, the bitter taste in my mouth kept me from answering. But I began to wonder every time I watched my colleagues scribble headlines: How many truths had we sacrificed at the altar of storytelling? How many lives had been reshaped by our pens?
~~~
Claude's legacy lives on, his long shadow still looming over me even today. Even now, thinking about him makes my skin crawl. I’m unable to shake it off. In the end, that experience shaped me into a seasoned reporter, a three-time Kerth Award winner by the age of thirty, who wore death threats like battle scars. It made me sharper, tougher, more relentless. But it also left me hollow. In this world of half-truths and sensationalism, his betrayal remains a bitter reminder: verify, question and stand up for what's right... but trust no one.
I've always been chasing the truth - but at what cost?
In a sudden wave of fury, I throw the award to the floor, sweep the others from their place to follow the first. They clatter, one after the other, shattering into pieces. Trophies meant to represent my success now lie broken, useless like me. Symbols of a career built on strength, but also on the ashes of my trust.
Mad Dog Lane. She’s the one who helped me survive. The part of me that chose defiance over surrender, that fought tooth and nail, ready to bite someone’s head off before they could wound me again. But even Mad Dog couldn't silence the whispers, couldn't stitch up the damage left in the wake of his deception. My reputation lay in fragments, as shattered as the awards now scattered at my feet.
So, I built walls - impenetrable fortresses of ice and fire. Outwardly fierce, inwardly fragile. My heart hid behind those defenses, with Mad Dog standing guard, swearing to never let anyone breach the walls again. I believed if I could keep my emotions locked away, I wouldn’t have to fear being hurt.
I thought I was protecting myself. Instead, I became the ice queen in their stories - cold, untouchable, invulnerable. But where did that get me?
Now, my only confidants are a shoal of fish, endlessly circling in their glass sanctuary. They swim in silence, listening as I whisper my frustrations and dreams into the void. They don't judge, don't betray, don’t lie but they also don’t answer, don’t tease, don’t encourage. They are the only witnesses to the woman beneath the armor - cracked, weary, still longing for something more.
I was sure it was right that way - safe behind my walls - until you came along, Clark. With your earnest smile and unwavering belief in truth, you reminded me what it felt like to have a friend. To be a friend. You made me realize that there was still warmth in the world, despite the ice I had built around myself.
It can’t have been easy for you.
Mad Dog Lane barked, flashed her teeth, threatened to tear you apart, but you didn’t flinch. She growled and snapped at you, warning you to stay away. Yet you stayed, quiet, steadfast, never wavering. You saw through my defenses. You didn’t push. You didn’t demand. You just... stayed.
You, Clark, always by my side, a silent force of nature. Unassuming, yet powerful in your presence, you unraveled every mechanism I had carefully constructed. Mad Dog Lane recoiled, sensing the danger you posed to her fragile existence. But I, Lois, the woman behind the armor, felt something stir inside me. A warmth, a vulnerability that defied everything I’d promised myself I’d never feel again.
And then, when tragedy struck, it was all my doing. My own bad decisions, my own insecurities, manipulated by Lex, came crashing down around me. My heart had been a battlefield long before you entered the ring. Paul, Claude, Lex just took advantage of the wounds that were already there. Lex meticulously orchestrated the collapse, and I walked right into the trap.
I had built my life on Mad Dog’s defiance, but it wasn’t enough to save me from my own worst impulses. I let fear guide my hand. I dismissed your affections, so blinded by my need to protect myself that I couldn't see what was right in front of me. Foolishly, I proclaimed my love for the hero you became, but not the man who stood by my side.
When the hero turned away, I ran into the arms of the villain. I let myself fall, accepting his proposal as if it could somehow patch up the gaping hole inside me. But even as I prepared to walk down that aisle, there was a part of me that knew it was wrong. And then, the cruel twist of fate struck, ripping away any hope of reconciliation before I had the chance to make things right.
The fire that fueled Mad Dog Lane flickered and died, extinguished by the weight of grief. The passion, the drive, the fury that had once burned so fiercely inside me, gone. In its place, a hollow, icy void. Grief settled in like a relentless frost, consuming every last vestige of warmth I had left. Anger, once my constant and trusty companion, now gnawed at me from the inside, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.
Now, those gossip mongers have even more fuel for their fire. They were right to call me names because after your death, whatever spark had defined me, whatever made me ‘Mad Dog Lane’, was gone. All that’s left is a cold, paralyzing despair. The ice in my heart has taken over, and it feels like nothing can melt it. Not anymore.
T. B. C.
