PART FOUR
Clark was still smiling as he switched off the computer and headed to the bathroom. He knew that last night had only been a dream, but what a dream! He could still feel her on his body. Maybe Lois was just a fantasy, but that fantasy was better than his daylight reality.
It was far more enjoyable to think of the night before than the day ahead.
A quick shower, shave and flight later, Clark landed in front of an imposing sky-scraper that was situated on the fringes of Metropolis's business district, two blocks back from Centennial Park.
He wasn't smiling now.
He stared up at the building and supressed a shudder. While he accepted the need for the organisation itself, he hated having to deal with the suits of the Superman Foundation. The accountants and business managers were bad enough. The public relations and marketing staff were infinitely worse.
Clark felt as though he had nothing in common with any of them. He was, by nature, a quiet, self-effacing man. Only an accident of fate had led him to dress up in red, yellow and blue, and had made his the most famous face on Earth.
He hated the fame, but the Foundation's PR people loved it, and they stoked the celebrity machine enthusiastically.
But, as much as Clark resented the Foundation's activities, he accepted at least some of them as necessary evils. The Foundation was charged with protecting his image and worked tirelessly to prevent opportunists from exploiting his likeness and the famous S-symbol.
Lawyers and sales people worked hard to generate income. Business managers and accountants redistributed the funds to good causes across the Earth.
And once a month, Clark, along with representatives from all of the Foundation's departments, was expected to attend a board meeting. Together they would coordinate his public appearances for the weeks ahead and he would be briefed on where funds were being directed.
Ironically, Clark was the only person on the board who didn't get any remuneration from the Foundation. He had so far managed to avoid having to take any money for his Superman activities, although for a while it had been difficult.
Clark had had to access his savings after he'd lost his byline at The Daily Planet. He'd been teetering on the edge of an overdraft and eviction before desperation had led him to create his alter ego, K-C Jerome. If Clark had had to eat to survive, his financial situation would have been a whole lot worse.
Clark doubted that anyone but the most churlish would fault him for accepting funds from the Foundation. Indeed, its lawyers and accountants took pains to point out that they drew salaries from the Foundation, and Clark, as its raison d'etre, was an employee just as surely as they were.
But Clark resisted the temptation. He couldn't help fearing that accepting money for what he did would sully Superman's image. He did what he did because he could, not because he wanted the fame or glory that came with it.
Also, so long as he refused payment, he could delude himself that he was in control of his destiny. No contracts. No financial ties. No obligations. No responsibility towards the suits he hated so much. He could walk away from being Superman and from the Foundation at any time.
He wouldn't walk, though. Deep down he knew that he'd passed the point of no return a long time ago.
Clark Kent was imprisoned by Superman and it was a life sentence.
And he never felt the weight of that sentence more strongly than when he was at the Foundation.
*****
Lois Watched as Clark straightened his shoulders, took a fortifying breath and strode past the doorman who was standing at the downtown sky-scraper's entrance.
She couldn't help but notice that Clark barely acknowledged the doorman's obsequious "Good morning, Mr Kent. The board is expecting you." Clark's curt manner was at odds with the impression she had previously garnered from him of unfailing courtesy.
Clark glanced at the stairs then decided to take the elevator. Lois wondered if he was deliberately taking his time to get to wherever it was he was going.
As they waited for the car to descend, Lois looked around. Like its exterior, the sky-scraper's foyer was a riot of classic art deco. She vaguely remembered once hearing that several high-rises in this part of downtown were considered to be amongst the country's finest examples of thirties design. She idly wondered which internationally famous architect had been responsible for this particular one. Then she ran her eyes down the business directory that had been fastened to the wall.
That must be it. The Superman Foundation. And, wow! Whatever it did, it sure did a lot of it because the Foundation took up fully half of the building's office space.
A ding alerted her to the elevator car's arrival. She dodged through the doors after Clark, just before they closed and Watched as he pressed the button for the penthouse level.
Why, she suddenly wondered, hadn't he simply flown up there? Why bother with the front door when a window would have done as well?
But she got her answer as soon as she entered the board room. All of the windows were sealed and whatever air circulated this high up was recycled through a noisy air-conditioning system. Obviously, the original architects hadn't designed the building with the convenience of visiting superheros in mind. Most likely, they'd been remembering the nineteen twenties and the need to keep executives securely inside.
"Ah, Mr Kent." The man at the head of the board table rose and extended his hand towards Clark.
"Mr Brown," said Clark, as he shook the proffered hand. He glanced around room. "Gentlemen. Ladies."
A few people nodded in return. Most didn't bother.
Clark sat to the immediate right of the chairman in the place that had obviously been saved for him. Lois made a mental note of the unspoken power-play and rolled her eyes.
There was no warm welcome for Clark. There were no pleasantries. Nothing to suggest that this was anything more than a chore for any of the participants. And the rapid-fire round of self-introduction were solely for the benefit of a new board member. Nobody seemed to think Clark deserving of a similar degree of consideration.
Then again, maybe he already knew these people of old.
Lois soon bored of the meeting. Surely the Foundation could have simply emailed its quarterly accounts to Clark and saved everyone a lot of time and effort. Then again, she thought, as she glanced over at Clark, maybe this was the only way to get him to pay any attention to them. He didn't look particularly interested. That was quite some doodle he was executing in the margins of his set of board papers!
The agenda crawled on through legal actions completed and pending and a schedule future public appearances before moving on to funding applications. By the time they got there, Lois was losing the will to live -- or would have been, had she not already been dead.
Clark, however, was perking up a little. Clearly, this was where his interest in the Foundation lay. Apparently, even though he didn't seem to have much interest in its other activities, he cared a great deal about the good the Foundation could do for others.
Somehow she wasn't surprised.
"... and then we have an application from an orphanage in Kenya. The amount they are looking for is unrealistically small. The business plan lacks sufficient detail. I'm minded to suggest refusal on the grounds that--"
Clark glanced up from the papers in front of him and interrupted. "I know about this one. In fact, I suggested they got in touch with you."
Several people groaned, and Lois was sure she heard someone mutter, "Not again! He's got to stop doing this!"
If she had heard the comment, Lois was certain Clark must have done, too. For all the reaction he gave, however, he might have been deaf.
Clark continued. "The orphanage was forced to find new premises in a hurry. The only building available that was large enough to house all the children doesn't have adequate water and sanitation. The money they're asking for is for a one-off capital project. I hardly think a detailed business proposal is required here."
"Of course it is. How are they going to schedule payments to their labourers? How--"
"The labour is going to be done by volunteers. And I said I'd help, too. They won't need any heavy machinery or extra manpower. All they need is the money to pay for pipes, basins, baths and toilets. Oh, and they need to connect everything to the sewerage system. That's it."
One of the men -- a lawyer, Lois remembered, from the earlier round of introductions -- scowled and said, "Mr Kent, that is not it. As I have told you countless times in the past, we use contracts and contractors for a reason. Someone has to be liable if something goes wrong, and we do not want it to be us!"
"Not everyone can afford lawyers!" Clark pointed out.
"They could if they submitted a more realistic business plan in the first place!"
Lois had a feeling that Clark was only keeping himself from punching a hole in the table-top by sheer willpower alone. "Are you telling me," he asked, "that, if the orphanage had put in a bid for a larger sum of money, you'd have been more likely to recommend approval?"
"Of course," several people chorused.
"Do you have any idea how ludicrous that sounds?" Clark asked.
"Only to the naïve or idealistic mind, Mr Kent," said the lawyer. "To the rest of us, it is merely common sense."
"And the orphanage? Will you give them the money?"
Chairman Brown looked at Clark with disfavour. "We're going to have to, since you more or less promised them that we would. Which I'm sure you know. If you weren't... who you are... I'd assume you were deliberately manipulating the system to get what you want. But you'd never stoop to such... underhand... tactics, would you, *Superman*?"
Clark didn't answer, but Lois, along with everyone else around the table, knew what his answer would have been. Of course Clark had manipulated the system, just as he had done countless times in the past and as, no doubt, he would do countless times in the future.
No matter how the seating arrangement worked, Clark was the real power in the room.
And the rest of the board didn't like it. Not one jot.
Brown moved down the agenda. "Right. Any other business, anyone? No? Great." He sighed with something akin to relief. "That's it until next month, then," he said. "Thank you, everyone."
There was a collective scraping of chairs and a mass stampede in the direction of the exit.
Clark also rose to leave, but as he headed towards the door, one of the PR people snagged hold of his forearm and said, "Mr Kent... If I might have a quiet word, please?"
Clark's lips thinned, but his voice was polite when he answered. "Of course, Miss... Simmons, isn't it?"
She nodded. "You remembered."
"Well?" he asked. "What can I do for you?"
"I heard," she said, "about your appearance at that orphanage the other day."
"The Coates' Orphanage, yes. I delivered their tree. Its director said the kids were thrilled."
"I daresay they were. However, the fact remains that the appearance was not agreed through the Foundation. How are we supposed to manage your schedule if you go off and do things on your own?"
Clark's eyebrows rose. "It was just a tree," he said.
"Just a tree this week. Last week it was a beach clean-up in Maine. The week before that... You can't go around doing random good deeds like this! These are golden photo opportunities and we miss them because you don't go through the proper channels!"
Clark stiffened. "I don't do them because they are photo opportunities. I do them because I feel like it."
Miss Simmons crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She looked like an irritated schoolmarm intent on chastising a small child.
"Look," said Clark with a sigh. "For the most part, I do the things you ask me to do. I give speeches at universities and to the UN. I help negotiate peace treaties. I even attended the premiere of that biopic of my life in Los Angeles -- which, incidentally, was excruciating to sit through. So what if I want to do a few things on top of that? If it gives me and other people pleasure, then what's the harm?"
"The harm is that you prevent me from doing my job, which is to make sure that you project the best image possible at all times."
Clark frowned. "And how is delivering a Christmas tree to an orphanage harming my image?"
Good question, thought Lois as she looked around the boardroom. How could a room so full of the trappings of Christmas -- the tree in one corner and the garlands that spanned the ceiling -- be so lacking in its spirit?
Only Clark seemed to understand the joy of giving. Only Clark didn't see good deeds as profit and loss accounts. Only in Clark did the Christmas spirit shine through, which was ironic because she knew that he hadn't bothered to put up any decorations at home.
The door to the board room was flung open from the other side, and a young woman -- possibly a secretary -- burst in.
"I'm sorry, Mr Kent," she said breathlessly, "but there's been an earthquake in Afghanistan, and the government is asking for help. And there is a plane full of people being held hostage in Namibwe. The terrorists want you as negotiator. I--"
"Excuse me," Clark said to Miss Simmons, and Lois caught sight of the almost comical look of relief on his face as he turned away, thankful for the interruption.
"Don't think this is over, Mr Kent," Miss Simmons snarled at his back.
Namibwe. Now, where had Lois heard of Namibwe before? Oh, yes...
Namibwe was one of the newer southern African republics. Free elections in the 1980s had brought more than a century of colonialism to an end. A left of centre government, led by a charismatic leader, had brought new hope to the country's poor majority.
Early hope had given way, first, to scepticism and, later, to despair. Rigged elections had returned President Rwinde time after time, and Rwinde's regime became synonymous with nepotism, corruption and human rights abuses. Namibwe's economy fell into ruin.
If terrorists had hijacked a plane in Namibwe, Lois could only imagine things hadn't changed for the better in the time she'd been away. If they even were terrorists. Hadn't someone once said that one man's terrorist was another's freedom fighter?
Lois Watched carefully as Clark weighed his options. She didn't envy him his task one little bit. Should he deal with the immediate aftermath of the earthquake in Afghanistan, or go to talk to the terrorists?
Clark didn't take long to reach a decision, which he hurriedly explained to the secretary. The disaster had already happened in Afghanistan and people there needed his help now. Other than taking a plane-load of people hostage, the terrorists hadn't done anything. Hopefully they would wait for him to get to them. There was no reason to suppose they wouldn't, especially since they'd asked for his help.
Miss Simmons, who had been hovering in the background, listening in to his conversation, didn't agree with his priorities. She argued loudly that the news crews would already be staking out the airport. There would be good coverage of his presence there, and who had even heard of any of the villages worst affected by the quake, anyway?
Clark didn't take the time to tell her that was hardly the point. Instead, he fled from the room. Lois followed hot on his heels.
She couldn't resist the temptation to cuff Miss Simmons on the back of her head on the way out.
This time they took the stairs.
*****
Lois had never been to Afghanistan before. Nor had she ever witnessed first hand the aftermath of an earthquake. She hoped she would never do either again.
There was dust and rubble and screaming people everywhere. There were men screaming for their wives, women screaming for their husbands and children, and children sobbing for their parents and grandparents.
There were people, blinded by tears, digging with their bare hands. There were bodies and casualties, covered in blood, placed next to each other on every patch of clear ground. Buildings creaked and groaned and threatened to collapse on the people working beneath them.
And through it all, Clark worked tirelessly, using his powers to find survivors and sift through rubble to rescue people.
"What are you doing here, Lois?" a voice said from behind her left shoulder.
Lois turned, and recognised a friend of Kilmartin's. "Hi, Patrick," she said. "I'm Watching him." She pointed at Clark. "And you?"
Patrick shrugged. "The usual," he said. "Helping out. Telling people where to go."
Lois nodded. Patrick worked for Operational Services. "Let me know if there is anything I can do."
"Nah. You're all right, love. You stick with him. But thanks for offering."
Patrick ambled off, leaving Lois to her Watching.
She wished she could do something to help.
She wanted to cry.
*****
Night had fallen before Clark managed to tear himself away from the disaster area. Only when the first of the international relief workers arrived did he feel that he could leave with a clear conscience. Even then, had it not been for the hostage situation awaiting him in Africa, he would have stayed.
Clark didn't bother going home to change. He knew his suit was filthy and rank, but a quick swim in the Indian Ocean would take care of that. He'd been delayed long enough.
But when Clark circled Namibwe City's airport, all he could see was darkness. All he could hear was silence. All he could smell was...
Smoke.
Traces of gunpowder.
Blood.
And burnt paint.
Oh, dear God...
No.
He couldn't be too late. He couldn't bear it if...
But he was.
The twisted wreckage of the Boeing 747 was still warm to the touch.
*****
Clark went home. He didn't know what else to do. He turned on the television almost before he'd touched down in his living room. He flicked through the channels, his stomach knotting.
Canned laughter.
The theme tune to an aged sitcom.
A quiz show.
Sport.
More laughter.
Applause.
Soap opera.
"... stormed the Boeing 747 on the orders of President Rwinde. There were no survivors. More on the hour."
Clark staggered backwards and collapsed onto his sofa.
He pointed the remote control at the television and resumed searching, pausing when he reached LNN. This time he caught an entire report, complete with footage of the massacre.
His heart bled as he watched. And the phone began to ring.
*****
Did Miss Simmons have any idea how much damage a single phone call could do?
Lois looked at the shards of black plastic that once been a handset. How Clark had managed to be polite in the face of so much provocation, Lois had no idea. She would not have been.
He'd kept his temper under wraps until Miss Simmons had hung up at her end. Then he'd pulled the phone cable, along with its socket, out of the wall, crushed the handset between his palms. He sank back onto the sofa, curled in on himself and hung his head.
Lois looked down at him and felt on his behalf all the anger he apparently would not allow himself to feel.
So what if Clark's going to Afghanistan had meant that he wasn't around to prevent the massacre in Namibwe? That didn't give that... woman... the right to rant about how she had to clear up after him! So what if the Superman Foundation found itself having to field awkward questions? So what if Miss Simmons had to do the kind of work she was being paid the big money to do?
Miss Simmons was a complete cow!
Lois wanted to rush over to the Foundation and give Miss Simmons a piece of her mind.
But she couldn't. She wasn't allowed. Plus, for all the satisfaction that such an act might give Lois, what good would it actually do? There was no reasoning with some people, and Lois was pretty certain that the sour-faced Miss Simmons would be one of those.
Besides, Clark needed her.
Lois lifted her hand, then stilled, her arm half-raised. She so desperately wanted to touch him, to take away just a fraction of the pain he was feeling. But... should she?
She let her hand fall back down by her side.
The rules said she mustn't talk to him.
Something told her that, once upon a time, she hadn't been very good at obeying rules.
She took a step closer. Another.
She wanted to tell him that he was not to blame for those deaths today. He could not have known that a mad despot would order his army to kill four hundred innocents just to get at three hijackers. Nobody else had guessed that Rwinde had been that far down the path to megalomania and madness, so why should Clark have been expected to know?
She sat down beside him, the inches between them a chasm that she desperately wanted to cross. She wanted to wipe away his tears. She wanted to wrap him in her arms. She wanted to rock him gently, as though she would a child.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out to him because how could she *not* talk to him, when he sat like that, bowed down with misery and a guilt that was not his to bear. He needed someone so desperately. He needed a confidante. He needed comfort.
He needed her. There was nobody else.
Lois gave into temptation and threw caution to the winds.
*****
Something touched his cheek, a whisper of sensation that brought his nerve endings alive. He'd never felt anything like it outside of his dreams.
Outside of one dream in particular.
Clark gasped as he sat upright and looked around.
The room was empty.
But... there it was again. An invisible touch so gentle and so intimate that it grazed his soul.
He reached out blindly and found himself touching something solid. He explored with his fingertips, then felt himself being gathered into a hug.
He hadn't been hugged like that since... He couldn't remember when. Perhaps he hadn't been hugged like that, held to a warm and comforting busom, since he was ten years old and his parents had died.
Should he be frightened? There was nobody there. He was being embraced by air.
But...
It felt so good.
He gave into temptation, and he began to sob.
*****
TBC
