This is another poignant chapter, Jenni. I so love the way you show us "Letour's" innate utter goodness. Lacking any memory of who he is, knowing nothing about what sort of ideals he used to believe in, and lacking superpowers as well as money, he'd rather get thrown off the bus himself than sit idly by when a pregnant woman is being threatened:
At first, he'd tried to ignore the altercation, but when the obnoxious passenger had lashed out at his heavily pregnant wife, Letour hadn't been able to control his instinctive need to protect the weak.
His instinctive need to protect the weak... I love it, Jenni. Seeing that I'm just posting a story where I'm making Clark behave extremely selfishly, I must tell you that it warms my heart to see you getting Clark's wonderful goodness so perfectly right.
In fact, Clark doesn't just get thrown off the bus for saving a woman from a beating. Later in this chapter, Clark gets thrown out of a village for helping another would-be victim:
The community he'd left behind had made it clear he was unwelcome after he'd saved a fellow immigrant from a beating.
Love it, Jenni.
I was sad to see that Clark had been left in China all alone for two years now, with no memory of who he is. Also, I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten any of his superpowers back. I thought that when those constant injections of Kryptonite ended, perhaps his powers would return. But maybe he was being poisoned with Kryptonite for such a long time that his powers were destroyed for good? Or maybe the reason for his powerlessness is that he still has Kryptonite embedded in his brain, which would also explain his persistent amnesia?
I must repeat that I love the way you manage to strip Clark of almost everything that is *him* - his memory, his name, his powers, his country, his friends and his family, anyone at all who knows him - and still you manage to make him so essentially
him. And let me repeat what I said before, you paint such a beautiful picture of Clark's essence and innermost self.
And I bet you must have enjoyed yourself writing that delightful Scotsman, John MacDonnell! Even I had a lot of fun reading his delightful Scottish accent. Hmm... you are Scottish yourself, Jenni... did you, by any chance, model Mr MacDonnell after some nicely quirky neighbour of yours? And... hey! MacDonnell's Jeep is called Genevieve? Well, that reminds me of two things. The first is Camelot, which I associate with high romance. Somehow that name seems like a tribute from John MacDonnell to his wife, like another way of telling her how much he loves her. (Even though I do seem to remember that Genevieve may ultimately have been unfaithful to King Arthur.) But if we invoke Camelot and high romance here, certainly the name of the Jeep could be a sort of tribute to Lois and Clark, too?
The second thing the Jeep remends me of is you, Jenni! Well, you did have John MacDonnell call his transportation "Genni", didn't you? And you said that this isn't a Mary Sue story, but I'm not sure that I totally believe you - and hey, who can blame you for writing yourself into the story as a jeep?
It was so good to see such a nice man - and his wife! - take Clark under their wings. I loved the way John MacDonnell was thinking of Marje, making her come out like a cross between the two most important women in Clark's live, Martha Kent and Lois:
Marje would be happy with their new odd-job-man. She was always fond of picking up waifs and strays.... Aye, she'd give them both a right royal welcome when they reached home; a wood-scented fire burning in the stove to heat the hands and feet and a wee dram.... or two, to warm the insides. He just hoped she'd left the cooking to Li-ying. One thing Marje couldn't do was cook! Maybe he should have mentioned it to Letour. He'd let him think Marje was a paragon....
Yes, maybe John MacDonnell should actually have mentioned that to Letour. Maybe that would have reminded the man without memory of another beloved woman who wasn't a good cook?
But it was great, at least, that John MacDonnell could make Clark understand that he was an American. But, Jenni, you are almost too ironic when you make poor Clark think this:
And which was it? American, Canadian... or Alien? He could discount the last one, couldn't he?
Ahh, poor Clark! But things do look a little better now, Jenni. I'm feeling a lot more hopeful. I'm hoping you can find a way to bring Clark back to his family before his children grow up too much. This sentence was so poignant:
Some nights the dark haired woman would come to him, or he'd see a laughing boy catching a ball, or little girls cuddling into his chest, but all these visits were ephemeral.
All in all, this is a beautiful chapter, Jenni. Another one. I'm very much looking forward to the rest of your story.
Ann
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), you've laid bare his essence: a man who has a truly generous spirit. This is such a touching portrait: the quiet outsider, the man with weather-beaten skin and a second-hand jacket, living rough and often hungry yet still quietly heroic, helping others when it would have been easier to look the other way. 
Two years wandering in a strange country with no memory from his former life, unwelcomed for protecting weak and unhelped peoples, suffering hunger, cold, sleeping in the open, away from home and from his family for three years... It's heart-wrenching. 
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