My Other Secret Identity (1/2)
Rated: PG
Lois sighed and pulled at the tight waist of her dress as the heavy backbeat of the band began to pick up again. Couples that had previously mingled harmlessly throughout the cavernous ballroom began to make their way toward the large dance floor, surrounding her, swaying to the rhythm. She was acutely aware of the fact that she was alone, her “date” to the party late as always, but she didn’t mind all that much. After all, it wasn’t socialization that brought her there in the first place.
As her eyes swept across the dancing masses around her, a slightly overweight man in a loud, sequined white jumpsuit brushed by her, his dark hair well greased and perfectly coiffed. It was an Elvis get-up that would make even the most devoted impersonators nod with approval, although most impersonators didn’t have a dead ringer of Pricilla as a dance partner. Lois raised an eyebrow in appreciation, but she soon found herself smiling as she finally caught sight of the man’s face. All the sequins and hair goop in the world wouldn’t make that face any less recognizable, she thought as she sauntered toward him, deftly avoiding those dancing in her path.
“Senator Stone,” she said with a smile as she approached the man, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Senator Stone?” she repeated more loudly, now mere inches from her target. He still seemed blissfully unaware of her presence, although she swore that she could see his jaw clench as she spoke his name. With a sigh, she glanced skyward, cursed under her breath, and then cleared her throat as she regarded her subject again. “Elvis?” she said, and, finally, he turned toward her.
“Yes darlin’?” he drawled, his voice lower than she was expecting, his smile sly. Lois gritted her teeth and smiled as sweetly as she could.
“As chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, what can you say about rumors that certain regimes in the middle east are secretly plotting against U.S. interests?” she asked quickly, anxious to hear the response. She had been waiting for weeks to ask that, counting the moments until she was able to be in the same room with the man and present the question that no other journalist seemed brave enough to ask. She was aware that maybe she seemed too eager, that maybe the question was too direct at the start of the impromptu interview, but all her excitement and nervousness quickly morphed into shock. The senator’s eyes seemed to flash with recognition at first, but quickly his expression turned blank, and a vacant smile quickly worked its way onto his face.
“I’m sorry, darlin’, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ask me about Ann-Margaret or blue suede shoes and I could talk all day. Leave politics to the politicians, not the rock and rollers.” With that, he nodded and turned away from her, leaving her to fume. Well, this party was turning out to be a real disappointment, she thought, shuffling through the crowd to the edge of the dance floor. Of course she had known that the biggest political event in town this election season was a masquerade ball, and yes, she had known that part of the ground rules of this particular Halloween party was that the attendees were to act the part, but somehow she had figured that the rest of the attendees would see that particular rule to be as dumb as she found it to be. But politicians being politicians, and being rather flexible when it came to reality, seemed to relish being other people, and all she had gotten so far was a whole lot of nothing. And a few bites of some rather awful free caviar.
Lois sighed as she leaned against a bare section of wall, watching the dancing politicians, regrouping. It was funny how so many of them were dressed as either beloved historical figures or beloved fictional characters, all of whom she was sure that they aspired to be in real life, generally falling well short. One of the New Troy senators, for example, was dressed as George Washington, although she doubted that he could utter the phrase, “I cannot tell a lie,” with a straight face. The Governor of New Troy was masquerading as Uncle Sam, but Lois was sure that the line “I want you,” when said to the ladies, was nothing new to him, if the rumors were to be believed. Maybe those strange discrepancies by themselves would make good copy, she thought with a grin, but the thought was soon squelched as she became aware of a presence next to her.
With a start, she turned to her side, her eyes first catching sight of a hand, clad in a black leather glove, firmly planted on the wall beside her. She followed the arm, covered in a loose-fitting black shirt, toward the body of the man. It was hard to stifle an appreciative gulp as she found the shirt cut open in a V at his chest, revealing a very well-defined set of muscles. At his neck, a silver chain held a heavy black cape, which was slung over his shoulders. Only as her eyes reached his face did she begin to smile, recognizing immediately the features that were hidden beneath a black mask and shadowed by a black, wide-brimmed hat.
“It is truly a crime that a beautiful woman such as yourself is all alone at a party such as this,” he said with a bad Spanish accent, his free hand reaching for hers, clasping it, and drawing it toward his face for a gentle kiss. “Would you like to have this dance, miss...?” He looked at her questioningly, appraising her outfit. Lois laughed lightly.
“Grant,” she said, wiggling her upper body ever so slightly. “Cat Grant.” Lois couldn’t be entirely sure, but her new companion appeared to raise his eyebrows ever so slightly at the name. “And I would love to dance, Senor Ke-“
In a split second, his gloved hand hastily dropped her hand and flew up to her lips, stopping her in mid-utterance. “Tonight, I am Senor ZORRO, my lady.”
Lois couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes, but she didn’t resist as he pushed away from the wall and wrapped his arm around her back, leading her toward the dance floor. “This whole thing is so silly, Clark,” she said as they took their place among the masses on the dance floor, positioning themselves so that they were tastefully apart from each other.
“Have a little fun with it, Cat,” he answered, dropping the fake Spanish accent, putting an emphasis on her stage name for the night. “I mean, how often do you get a chance to interact with the political elite under circumstances like this?”
“It’s like interviewing fictional characters,” Lois said flatly, her eyes wandering toward the crowd around her. “Take Senator Elvis, over there. He could tell me enough Elvis parables to put Perry to shame, but when I ask him one question about his job and he acts like I’m from outer space or something.”
“Maybe it’s the dress,” Clark, Zorro, answered with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling under the black mask. Lois felt her cheeks redden, her arms unconsciously pull themselves in toward her body. The dress she had picked out would’ve been at home in a movie about space and/or “the future,” produced sometime in the 1950’s. It was metallic silver and entirely too skimpy, but Lois couldn’t deny that she had the body to pull it off. Besides, it really was something that the real Cat Grant would wear, and it was a real steal. Still, it didn’t scream journalistic integrity. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Clark.
“It wasn’t the dress,” she said, although he seemed unconvinced. “It’s the whole concept of this ball. I don’t know how Perry expects us to get anything worthwhile out of a party where everyone is pretending to be someone else.”
“It just takes patience,” Clark said, still smiling. “You start off talking about things related to the character, but as time goes by and the conversation deepens, part of the façade begins to fall away and the real person behind the costume comes through.”
Lois looked at him, surprised, and then looked away. Maybe he hadn’t been late to the party, after all. Maybe he’d just been hanging around, coaxing the secrets of the state budget from the New Troy Treasury Secretary while talking about the social merits of whatever comic book character he had come dressed as. Or maybe not. “I guess,” she answered, not especially willing to concede that he had a point, and not entirely convinced that he even had one in the first place. If anyone had the patience to sit through long, boring minutes of meaningless, contrived conversation, it was Clark, but it seemed like a lot to put up with in order to get a nugget of story. In the case of politicians, the story behind the façade probably wasn’t worth waiting for in the first place.
They danced in silence for a moment, his hand positioned on her back locking her in a comfortable embrace, one that felt so natural, it was almost disarming. But he was just a good friend, she told herself. Sure, they had grown close over the year and a half or so that they had worked together, close enough that she could read his moods and expressions, but their closeness was that of colleagues, and nothing more. Still, she thought as she let her eyes wash over him, nobody looked quite as good in black as Clark did. It was hard to deny how handsome he was, it was hard to deny the look he got in his eyes whenever he saw her. It was that look that had always scared her, because it was that look that told her everything she ever needed to know about him, and how he felt about her. She knew before he ever said it that he was in love with her, and even though he had taken back that declaration, she knew deep down that it was still true. It was flattering, of course, but Lois wouldn’t let herself view his affection as anything more. To acknowledge it, to explore it, to try and decipher what her feelings were toward him, would take the kind of emotional investment that she just wasn’t willing to make. It was better like this, she told herself. To love Clark as a friend, a colleague, a brother, was so much easier, and wouldn’t lead to the heartache and devastation that would probably await her if they ever deepened their relationship.
It was a shame, though, a part of her said. How many truly honest men were there in the world? Who else could possibly be as kind and considerate as Clark? Who else would always be there for her, without demanding anything in return? Maybe one man, she thought with a smile, the form of Superman materializing in her vision. Superman didn’t have a bad bone in his body. He was polite to a fault, kind, and had never let her down. He was in every way her ideal man. But she was beginning to realize that he was also an illusion, someone who cared for her, but could never give her what she wanted. It was easy enough to see in his eyes that same look that Clark always seemed to hold, but unlike Clark, Superman kept himself distant, never told her his secrets or feelings, never let her see the man inside. In some ways, Superman behaved toward her as she behaved toward Clark. With so much in common, maybe it was no wonder she was attracted to him, she thought with a sigh. That spandex outfit certainly helped, too.
“So, how man people did you save on the way over tonight?” Lois asked, the subject of Superman reminding her that her partner was now masquerading as a hero. He blanched, a surprised expression coming across his face, coaxing a laugh out of her. She gestured toward his costume. “Zorro. The whole do-gooder thing suits you.”
His expression softened, the smile coming back to his lips. “The alcalde decided to give the peons a break and take the day off,” he said, slipping back into the Spanish accent. A mischievous twinkle glinted in his eyes. “I did, however, save a stranded motorist from the clutches of a bandit.”
“Ooh,” Lois said, acting suitably impressed, finally enjoying indulging a little fantasy. “My hero,” she continued, the arm behind his back drawing him in a little closer.
His smile faded again, an expression clouding his features that she couldn’t quite read under the mask. Maybe she’d gotten a little too comfortable with their closeness, Lois thought, but Clark wasn’t pulling away from her. Even as he seemed to study her face, he drew his arm tighter around her back. What was she missing? She didn’t think there was any kind of double meaning to her words – she was just playing around. He knew that, right?
After a moment, he seemed to relax. “I just help when I am needed,” he replied, although his smile didn’t seem quite as natural as it had earlier. Yes, she had definitely missed something, but she wasn’t going to go crazy trying to figure out what. If Clark was nothing else, he was an enigma. He disappeared at weird times, making the dumbest excuses, often leaving her in situations that no polite man would leave a lady in. She tended to overlook those instances, if only because they ran counter to all his other considerable charms, but she had begun to realize that there was something strange going on with him. Maybe he had some sort of ailment that caused him to run off – a weak bladder, perhaps, or something else that was potentially embarrassing. Clark should know that he had no reason to be embarrassed around her, that she accepted him no matter what the flaw, that he could trust her. On the other hand, she didn’t tell him everything about herself, did she? Well, not purposely, anyway. Still, there was plenty that he didn’t know about her, that she hadn’t told him, but none of it was earth shattering, and none of it was important enough to cause her to run out on him. His disappearing acts and odd behavior were always lurking in the back of her mind when they were together, and she hated it. She hated that he let her wonder about whatever it was, agonize over it, and get angry at him because of it.
With a sigh, Lois looked away from Clark, desperate to get her mind on other things. “So tell me, how did you manage to get that thing in here,” she said, pointing to the sheathed sword attached to his belt.
Clark looked down, his eyebrows knitted together in question. His features had softened again when he looked up at her, the nervousness now completely gone. It was almost as if they had never shared that vaguely tense moment. “It’s plastic,” he replied, his eyes locking into hers. “I couldn’t even slice a Z into a loaf of bread with this thing. Probably had an easier time going through the metal detector than that dress.”
“Maybe if this was a whole dress, it would’ve been a problem,” Lois said, although she remembered that Clark had never been present during Cat Grant’s more notorious moments, when she tended to wear just enough to not get an X rating. But he knew her reputation well, and a quick bob of the head told her that Clark caught her drift. “As it was, they probably didn’t think that this dress constituted a lethal weapon.”
Clark smirked, and he didn’t even need to formulate a response. She knew quite well what he would say if weren’t the gentleman that he was. “I guess they don’t know...Cat Grant that well, do they?” he said instead, and Lois just smiled.
They wordlessly enjoyed each others company for a few more moments, and then, as the song ended and a more upbeat tune replaced it, they made their way off the dance floor. Quite a few couples had taken the occasion of the song change to have a seat, and they both knew that this would be an opportune moment to get down to work. Although, Lois thought, she doubted that she would be more successful than she had been so far that night. “Back to the old grind,” she said as she and Clark finally split apart.
“Yeah,” he said, obviously disappointed. “Save another dance for me,” he continued, that soft Kansas sincerity in his eyes, then finally dropped his hand from her back. Lois nodded, and with that, he turned away, his eyes sweeping the room for a moment. She watched as he seemed to find his target, a woman dressed in Victorian garb seated alone at a table, then strode confidently toward her. As he reached her, he gave a bow, probably acting the part of the charming don, obviously opening her up. The two quickly became locked in animated conversation, and Lois had to look away as the embers of jealousy began to burn within her. She told herself it was a professional jealousy, that Clark was just that much better with the one-on-one, touchy-feely interaction, but she knew that the somewhat smitten look on the woman’s face was a large part of the problem. Well, she thought, absently tugging at the dress, two could play at that game.
Her eyes locked onto a man standing forlornly next to the punch bowl, alone. If she were to guess, his short stature and French-looking military outfit would lead her to believe that he was dressed as Napoleon. No wonder he didn’t have any friends if he was trying to play that part, she thought with an inward smile. Cat Grant probably had no idea who Napoleon was, and because of that, the dictator would have a new friend.
“Hello short, dark, and handsome,” she said as she approached the man, her voice deep and husky in her best imitation of Cat Grant. The man turned toward her, his eyes wide. He was just tall enough that eye level for him was about mid-chest on Lois, and he wasn’t shy about keeping his gaze at an even keel. This was going to be a very short conversation if that continued, Lois thought, fighting her urge to tell him that her face was up a little higher. “Who are you supposed to be?”
The dopey expression that had affixed itself on his face morphed into mild surprise, and he finally looked up. “I am Napoleon,” he said with a passable French accent. Lois couldn’t tell if his consternation was part of the act.
“Guess I shouldn’t tell you what a great time I had when I visited Russia a few years ago,” Lois quipped. Napoleon’s mouth went flat. She wished she knew who he really was, so she could find the right buttons to press, but she couldn’t quite place the man’s face. He probably wasn’t anyone important, which was just as well, because she didn’t know how she would be able to turn the conversation away from late eighteenth century European politics. Lois sweetened her smile, and her new companion seemed to forget his consternation.
“So, uh, how about you, mon cherie? What shall I call you?” he asked, inching ever so slightly toward her. “And why do I feel the sudden need for a TV dinner?”
Touche, Lois thought, although her smile didn’t falter. She was a professional, she told herself, and it would take more than a few verbal jabs to raise her hackles. And besides, if she played the game right with this guy, she might actually get something resembling a story from this party after all. “Name’s Cat Grant,” she said, limply holding out her hand. He just looked at it, then looked up toward her, a confused look on his face.
“Who?” he asked, the French accent momentarily gone.
Lois’s smile faltered as she pulled her hand back. “Former gossip columnist at the Daily Planet,” she said, although he still seemed puzzled. “Too obscure?” she asked.
Napoleon nodded. “A newspaper reporter? Nobody here would know one by sight unless they hung around the capitol on a regular basis.” He took a sip from his cup and raised an eyebrow, his eyes never wandering far from her form fitting costume. “You do appear to be quite intriguing, Ms. Grant,” he continued, the accent back again. “Maybe you could tell me some Metropolis gossip and I can tell you about the glories of the revolution.”
The look on his face was somewhat sleazy, his eyes hungry, and Lois could feel the bile begin to rise in her throat. But, she thought, nodding and plastering a smile on her face, this was business. And if he tried anything funny, well, four inch heels definitely helped in self defense situations.
As Napoleon launched into the mind-numbingly boring details of the battle of Austerlitz, Lois glanced over toward Clark, seeing him locked in what appeared to be a much more interesting conversation. He seemed to sense her gaze on him and turned his head, locking eyes with her, giving her a reassuring smile. His eyes left hers momentarily, looking toward her companion, who was now visually groping her in a way that she could practically feel. Clark’s forehead wrinkled slightly, his eyebrow no doubt arched underneath the black mask, as a teasing smile settled across his face. Lois puckered her lips ever so slightly and twitched her eyebrows, causing his smile to broaden. They were flirting, she realized, her mind flashing warnings that she roughly pushed aside. Nothing wrong with a little harmless fun between friends. Clark’s cheeks reddened at her gesture, and he quickly looked away, giving his attention once again to his companion.
“And that is the story of the incredible triumph of the French army,” Napoleon continued as she turned back toward him. “Perhaps I can give you a more intimate view of the...French armaments?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in anticipation, is hand now reaching for hers. Lois took a step backwards, trying valiantly to stifle a shudder.
“Well, ah,” she started, trying to think of the most diplomatic way to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier. Her thought process was disturbed, though, as a large boom jarred the room. The music stopped very suddenly, and all eyes were drawn toward the entrance to the ballroom, which was now clouded in smoke.
Even through the haze, Lois’s eyes were drawn toward a flurry of activity at the periphery of the room. Large potted plants dotted the walls, creating dark spots and shadows that hadn’t seemed sinister before that moment, but now, in the midst of what could only be some sort of hostile attack, she almost expected to see terrorists with guns emerging from those shadows. What she saw instead, though, were people whose presence she should’ve anticipated. Of course Washington would send secret service agents assigned to guard the powerful politicians in the room. And, she thought darkly, anyone bold enough to launch an assault on such people would have to anticipate their presence.
Another loud bang echoed through the room at that moment, this one shaking the floor and knocking many of the partygoers to the ground. The punch in the large bowl on the table next to Lois sloshed around enthusiastically, covering Napoleon’s shirt with bright red, cherry-flavored splotches, although he seemed too frightened to notice. Indeed, many of the people around the room were now starting to panic, and with good reason. Her eyes widened as she glanced around the perimeter of the room again, noticing with alarm the darkly clothed bodies rapidly sloughing to the floor. She turned her gaze upward, toward the darkened skylight in the ceiling, and noticed the glint of light off the tip of a gun barrel. Someone up there was taking out the secret service agents, and nobody else even seemed to notice. She had to do something.
Lois took a quick step away from the table, but was stopped as a hand reached out and grabbed her arm. “Wait,” Napoleon said, pointing to the center of the room. Several men had now surrounded the majority of the crowd on the dance floor, their large guns displayed prominently. Certain members of the crowd seemed to be singled out, immediately being plucked from the masses and dragged, guns to their temples, to separate corners of the room. Only a couple of men were left to guard the remainder of the partygoers, most of whom seemed too scared to do anything other than stare wide-eyed at their captors.
Gently, Lois pulled her arm away from the pseudo Frenchman. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been held hostage before,” she said, smiling lightly at his wide-eyed look of horror. There probably wasn’t anybody in Metropolis who had been taken hostage more than Lois Lane, not a fact that she necessarily prided herself on, but she certainly knew her way around the twisted mind of a gunman by now. Of course, she was usually rescued by Superman just in the nick of time, which generally emboldened her to do things that ended up with her being held hostage in the first place, but Superman never complained. Tonight’s situation wasn’t her fault at all, which she would be sure to point out to her hero if and when he came to her rescue this time, but until that time came, she wasn’t about to sit around and wait. And Napoleon, the great French warrior and egomaniac, sure wasn’t going to be any help tonight.
Pondering her next move, Lois scanned the room, her eyes eventually falling on Clark. His companion seemed somewhat panicked, although he appeared to be absolutely calm. Well, no, Lois thought, that wasn’t true. He seemed a little too calm, his eyes locked almost too sharply onto their captors, his jaw muscle twitching in a way that only happened when he was nervous or tense. His expression was quickly becoming one that Lois was very familiar with, one that he only held right before he disappeared to wherever it was that he always ran off to. But there was nowhere to run off to tonight, not with gunmen at every exit. And she needed his help
Lois stared down the nearest gunman, willing him to look away long enough for her to move toward Clark. After a few moments she got her wish, and she slinked toward her partner’s table as quietly as a metallic dress and four inch heels would allow. As she neared him, she noticed that he was still fixated on the gunmen, so much so that he didn’t even appear to see her approaching. She laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him practically jump from his seat. As he turned toward her, raw determination seemed to burn in his eyes for a moment, but only a moment, enhancing his façade as a hero of some sort, and making her believe, if only for a second, that he could fulfill that role.
“Lois, what are you doing?” he asked, a hiss in his voice, his expression quickly morphing back into the tempered worry more typical of Clark. He gestured toward the chair, indicating that she should sit. “You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
“Something tells me that I’m pretty low on the priority meter for these guys,” Lois said, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. She glanced toward the woman in the Victorian garb, recognizing her for the first time. No wonder Clark wanted to interview her, Lois thought, well aware that she, too, would be more than happy to chat with the wife of the governor. Right now, though, Lois and Clark seemed to be the last thing on her mind as her eyes shifted around the room, no doubt in an attempt to locate her husband. Lois felt a burst of sympathy for the woman, and she tried in vain to see if maybe the governor wasn’t one of the hostages taken by the gunman, but the terrorists kept their charges well hidden. After a moment, she gave up, turning her attention back to Clark. “Can you see who they have taken hostage?” she asked.
Clark gave her a long look before turning toward one of the corners. “Several high ranking senators are in attendance,” he said. It never failed, Lois thought. Clark seemed to have the eyes of a cat, able to pick things out that nobody else could ever see. Strange for a man who wore glasses, but then again, maybe he had a really good eye doctor. “Senator Stone, for one, as well as a couple others who are intelligence committee members.”
“You think they want information?” Lois asked, biting her lip, her mind churning. The intelligence committee was briefed on all the highly classified state secrets that any terrorist would love to know. These men knew the limits of the nation’s security system, as well as the home phone number of the CIA and FBI directors.
Clark nodded, cocking his head slightly to one side, a frown forming on his face. “Sources,” he muttered, something in his expression telling her that he was entirely sure of what he was saying. “Snitches, plants. They want to know who’s inside.”
Lois opened her mouth, ready to ask him how he could possibly know that, but she quickly closed it again. It was better to just add it to his other eccentricities and focus on the bigger picture. Important members of the senate were being threatened, and she didn’t like sitting idly by when she could do something about it. What that something was, she wasn’t entirely sure, but sheer will and several years of tai kwon do surely had to account for something.
Lois sighed, looking away from the activities of the room and focusing absently through the table in front of her. Martial arts didn’t mean a whole lot when the other guy had a gun. If only there was some way to level the playing field. With a start, she turned toward Clark, her eyes widening as she caught sight of the sword strapped to his belt.
“Your sword!” she said, pointing toward it. Clark, who was still absorbed in whatever conversation he was apparently overhearing, turned sharply toward her.
“What about it?” he asked, confused. Lois smiled and scooted her chair closer to his.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
“It’s plastic,” he answered, although he still appeared to have no idea what she was getting at. Lois couldn’t help but smile more broadly.
“They don’t know that,” she said, pointing to one of the gunmen. “And I bet when it’s jabbed lightly into someone’s back, it feels just the same, too.”
Recognition finally shone in his eyes, although the frown on his face told her that he wasn’t buying it. “They have hostages. They see anything funny and bam, I have the death of a senator on my head. I’m not willing to take that risk,” he answered, and Lois couldn’t deny that it was the logical answer. But that didn’t make it the right answer.
“What if you do nothing and they kill the hostages anyway? Could you live with that?” His frown seemed to deepen at her words, and the light blush on his cheek and his diverted gaze indicated to her that he wasn’t comfortable with that scenario, either. “I’m not saying that you should go out there and do anything obvious. Start by catching one of the stooges off guard, then discretely steer them to some dark place and take them out. Nobody will have to know.”
Clark’s eyes scanned the huddled groups of terrorists and hostages, no doubt noting the total disregard that the men seemed to have for the rest of the room. Even the terrorists in charge of the majority of the partygoers were out of direct line of sight of each other, and most seemed too preoccupied to notice much around them. It really would be fairly easy to, say, blend into the crowd and slowly approach one of them, catching them off guard. And Clark apparently knew it. If he had any doubts, they seemed to disappear as his eyes caught sight of the seemingly lifeless bodies of the secret service agents lying around the room. He looked down toward his sword and then at Lois, resolve in his eyes.
“Wish me luck,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a self-depreciating half grin. Lois smiled despite herself, and, as he stood, she found herself reaching out and grabbing his arm. He stopped, looking at her with a question in his eyes, and she had to fight the urge to stand up and kiss him. Instead, she just squeezed his arm and nodded.
“Good luck,” Lois said, aware that her voice betrayed her momentary, totally irrational lust. His smile widened, a spark growing in his eyes, before he gave her a tip of the hat and headed away, blending into the crowd. She followed him as best she could, noting how natural it seemed for him to hang back and become one with the group, observing his target without being too obvious. When the time came for him to make his move, he quickly slipped into place behind one of the gunmen located very close to where Lois was seated. Clark drew the plastic sword from its sheath, slowly bringing it up and jabbing it lightly into the back of the man with the gun. The gunman stiffened, his eyes growing wide.
“Do not move, senor,” Clark said, dropping back into his Spanish accent. Why did he have to do that now, Lois wondered, fighting the urge to go over and elbow his ribs until he decided that maybe he should be serious again. The fact that the attention of half the people in the room seemed to be drawn toward him at that moment only made it worse.
“Or else what?” the terrorist asked, his voice smug. “You might have a blade, but I have a semiautomatic, and it takes just one twitch of my finger to kill half the people in this room. If you don’t believe me....” He trailed off, a sadistic smile forming on his face. Lois couldn’t help but notice the man’s finger tense on the trigger of the gun. Clark evidently noticed, too, although he didn’t seem necessarily scared at the prospect. Clark turned toward Lois briefly, his eyes sad, his mouth turned down in a small frown. It was almost as if he was conveying an apology to her without speaking, although, as far as she was concerned, he had nothing to apologize for. After a moment, his expression seemed to steel again, and his attention was turned back to the gunman.
“Who IS that masked man?” the lady in the Victorian garb asked, drawing Lois’s attention away from the scene in front of her, if only for a moment. As far as anyone in that room was concerned, he was just Zorro, the mysterious hero in black. This woman surely had no idea that underneath the façade was an ordinary farm boy from the heart of the nation’s breadbasket, as normal and average as anyone else. He wasn’t the prototypical hero; in fact, Lois wouldn’t have known before tonight that Clark had it in him to face down something like this.
“That’s just...” Lois started, intending to tell the woman that it was her partner up there, a mild-manner journalist, but suddenly he wasn’t there anymore. In a blur of motion, both Clark and the gunman were gone, although the gunman quickly reappeared again, dazed, tied to one of the chairs at Lois’s table. In a matter of moments, before anyone in the room could comprehend what was going on, all the other gunmen disappeared, reappearing only after being bound to other objects around the room. After a moment, another figure also materialized, this one dressed in blue and red, his uniform unmistakable, although his eyes were obscured by a black mask and his head was covered in a black hat.
“Superman!” the woman said, completing Lois’s sentence, which was just as well, because Lois could only manage a squeak as she looked at him. In his arms were the guns that had previously been pointed at various dignitaries, guns which were now twisted and mangled, guns which were being dropped to the floor with a dull thud even as she watched. As soon as his hands were free, Superman reached up and pulled off the hat, revealing dark, slicked down hair, then removed the mask. He had never had his glasses on, Lois realized as his face was revealed. That whole night, there had never been lenses between his eyes and hers, and she hadn’t even noticed. But that wasn’t the worst. They had been partners, friends...more? And he still hadn’t said anything, not one word. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry.
Amidst the gasps and the cheers from the grateful crowd, Superman turned toward Lois again, his expression no doubt full of regret and apology, but she wasn’t going to humor him, not this time. With as much dignity as she could muster, which probably wasn’t much, considering the attire, Lois turned away from him, toward the door, and walked out without looking back.
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TBC next week
