*Addition to the author's note: I can't seem to write anything without automatically assuming that smart phones exist. So although the story
is set in the 90s, please don't be bothered by the presence of cell phones that can text, take and send pictures, browse the Internet, etc.
And now, where were we...
6
She gives me her address, rests her head against the window, and closes her eyes. I’m pretty sure she falls asleep before I’ve even pulled her black Jeep Grand Cherokee away from the curb. The drive is short, but I am unable to relax. Outside the walls of the apartment, it is more difficult to keep my superhearing in check, and I clench my jaw and stare at the well-lit road ahead of me as I try to block out the harsh noises of this Metropolis. A man is holding up a liquor store down the street, and the store clerk is terrified, her heart racing. Across town, police are in a standoff with a gunman holding his wife and child hostage. And a fire rages at a warehouse down in Hobbs Bay. I resolve again to get the story written by tomorrow morning so Superman can get back into the skies.
Before long, we arrive at her apartment building. A parking spot is conveniently open right near the entrance, and I carefully ease the Jeep into the spot. She doesn’t wake as I turn off the car. Her breathing is regular and steady, and her lips are slightly parted in sleep. She seems so peaceful, and I am reluctant to wake her. However, I gently reach over and rest my hand on her shoulder.
“Lois?” She shrugs and mumbles but again does not wake. I squeeze her shoulder softly and raise my voice. “Lois, we’re here.”
This time, she stirs and sits up, and I pull my hand away.
“Oh, that was a quick drive,” she says. Her hands shake as she rubs her eyes and then gathers her purse. “Thank you, Clark.”
“You’re welcome,” I say quietly.
I pull the keys out of the ignition and hand them to her. She stares at them for a minute before shoving them into her pocket, and we step out of the car together. The quiet, tree-lined street is dark except for a single street light illuminating the sidewalk just in front of her building. She locks her car and starts up the steps. She realizes I’m not following her, and she stops and turns around toward me.
“I’ll just…” I make a small motion with my hand, which I hope is the universal signal for ‘go flying of my own power,’ even in her dimension, and give her a small smile. She understands and nods.
“See you in the morning, then.”
“Yes. I’ll call you when I’m finished with the story,” I suggest.
She again nods, which causes her to yawn, and she regards me one final time before turning and heading into the building. I stand in the shadows watching her until she is safely in her apartment with the doors locked behind her, and I then scan the street to ensure no one will see me before launching myself up into the sky toward his apartment.
Though it is dark, I’m careful as I fly, and I remind myself again that Clark Kent and Superman are two separate people on this Earth. Reflexively, I scan the city, a scowl growing on my face as I see just how bad it is. In addition to what I had heard earlier, I can now see several other incidents that could use Superman’s help. There is a huge pile up on the highway involving an overturned tractor trailer and at least five other vehicles. Emergency crews are trying unsuccessfully to extract the truck driver from the overturned cab. Down the road further, at the end of the exit offramp for the downtown district, a man with a gun forces a family out of their vehicle, jumps into the car, and takes off, leaving the mother, father, and young child stranded in the dark. The child is crying and clinging to her mother. And in an alleyway right around the corner from the Daily Planet, a man grabs a woman’s purse, shoves her against the wall, and takes off out the alleyway and down the street. I feel heat growing in my eyes and my vision turns slightly red. Then I blink and turn away, knowing I cannot act tonight. It is almost painful.
I reach the apartment—his apartment—and land on the balcony. I am alone for the first time in several hours. And I have a lot of work to do. I let myself in and glance around, studying everything in greater detail than I had before. Not much stands out, except the artwork on the wall, which grabs my attention. I focus my vision on the signature on the lower right corner of the canvas—
Martha Kent. I smile as I picture my mother as I last knew her. Many of my memories of her faded long ago. But I recall that she loved art and poetry. I remember that she taught an art class at my school on Wednesday afternoons, and all the kids adored her. I wonder if this world’s Martha Kent did the same for this world’s Clark.
I turn to my task. The journals, laptop, and portfolio still sit at the table, and I quickly formulate a plan. It is going to be a long night, even working at superspeed.
Two minutes later, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I settle down at the table and read through each journal. The text is detailed, well-written, and sobering. He wrote about Kal-El in the third person, with a clearly practiced air of detachment. Also, he wrote not only for his own benefit—to remember events, traditions, ceremonies, war strategies, places, and people—but also for her. Occasional pages are headed with
“To my love” rather than a date. His neat handwriting tells of how much he misses her and how determined he is to come home to her as quickly as possible. The messages are not meant for me, but I feel compelled to read them. Then, I again feel as though I have intruded on a private moment between lovers. I close the last journal half way through, after a particularly heartfelt entry in which Clark explained how he pictured her beautiful smile every time he struggled to get through the challenges he faced.
I reheat my coffee with my heat vision and take a long sip, then open the journal back up, skipping the rest of that entry. As my fingers touch the text on the final page, I feel a dreadful cold sensation spread through my body. I try to pull away, but I can’t move. The room around me swirls and dissolves, and I am once again standing in an unfamiliar place, a large broadsword in one hand and some type of laser gun in the other. Wind whips around me, blowing dust into my eyes. In the distance, two twin towers are on fire, and smoke billows into the red sky. Next to me, a man—Lieutenant Ching, I realize—shoulders a large weapon that resembles a machine gun. He turns to me and speaks in a language I should not be able to understand. However, I answer in the same language, and he nods. We turn around. Behind us, our huge army is amassed. I raise my voice and yell a command, thrusting my left arm up into the air toward the burning towers. The army shouts back, and we turn and sprint toward the flames. My lungs burn and my muscles ache with the effort, but we don’t stop. There is movement ahead, and the enemy line shudders and erupts with blasts of high-energy lasers and beams of fire as we approach. We continue to forge ahead, straight into the thick of the battle. I swing my sword and fire the gun, striking down enemy soldiers as I continue resolutely toward my goal. Ching remains at my side, and together, we lead our army closer to the burning towers. The wind grows stronger, and I push my way through the masses until I stop atop the flat crest of a hill. Ching shouts a warning from some distance behind me, but I cannot make out his words. The barren rocky surface in front of me spans several miles, but my focus is a man directly ahead of me—a tall, thin man in all black armor. Lord Nor. He is flanked by three guards, but he waves them off and pulls a long black sword from its sheath. It glints in the red sun, which dips lower in the sky, and I feel a shiver of fear run up my spine. He sneers at me and addresses me in perfect English.
“Kal-El, the abomination—the alien. You are not one of us. You don’t belong here, Kal. I am the rightful ruler. I know what is right and just for my people. And I will kill you and lead them, as I was born to do.” He advances with astonishing speed, and I feel his sword cut into my left side as I attempt to dodge the strike.
I inhale sharply and open my eyes to a dimly lit room. I am back at the apartment, sitting at the kitchen table. The pain from the blade still resonates in my side, and I pull my hands away from the journal in alarm.
I don’t feel the need to finish reading his final entry. I know the ultimate ending. I close the last journal and move on to his portfolio.
7
The next hour is spent studying his writing style, and I realize I have very big shoes to fill. I read through all of the articles in his portfolio, and then I read them all again. Most are stories with his own by-line, but some are shared by-lines with Lois or Perry White. The topics cover local, national, and international news, although he seemed to have been partial to humanitarian-related issues. His writing is meticulous, clear, and sophisticated, with a strong, rich vocabulary that is not overbearing. I find that I agree with Lois; he was a much better writer than I could ever hope to be. But for now, I have to do my best to pretend.
I refill my coffee again and then sit as I mentally outline the article. It will be lengthy and detailed, and I wonder whether Mr. White may need to run it in a special issue. The headline will be simple, I decide. SUPERMAN RETURNS: An Exclusive Interview And Look At Life On New Krypton, by Clark Kent. Mr. White may change it, but simple is always a good rule for a headline, and it matches the other Clark’s style well.
I take a deep breath and start typing. Definitely not at a normal speed.
I write and write and then delete and rewrite. The article takes on a shape of its own, and I seem to be at its mercy. Occasionally, I get a strong sense that he is guiding my words somehow. Maybe it’s because I just spent a substantial amount of time reading his writing, both in the journals and in his portfolio. Or maybe this odd connection he and I share has actually affected and is influencing my writing style. Either way, I am glad for the ease with which the story comes together.
Despite my speed, the article still takes me several hours to write. When I finish, the final article, which is conceptually broken into several subsections, is nearly 15,000 words. The first section, which is the longest, contains an in-depth interview with the Man of Steel and details of the conflict Superman helped to resolve. The next subsections describe various aspects of Kryptonian life—primarily their history, traditions, language, and culture. And the final subsection, which is fairly short but impactful, distinguishes between the philosophies of the people of Earth and the people of New Krypton, with commentaries on the benefits of democracy over aristocracy and the importance of letting humanitarian issues guide political and philanthropic efforts—all topics that he frequently wrote about in the journals.
I reread the article several times, correcting a few typos and grammatical errors, and then, I save the completed file, close the laptop, and settle back into my chair. The enormity of the day’s events hits me, and I take my glasses off and rub my eyes wearily. A quick glance at the clock reveals that it is nearly 3 a.m., and I hope maybe I can grab a couple hours of sleep, which should be enough to refresh me.
Leaving my glasses on the table, I stand and move to the sink. I rinse out my coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher and then grab my duffle bag and head into the bedroom. The layout and décor are almost identical to mine, and for a moment, I forget that this is not really my bedroom. I set the duffle bag down on the bed and pull out some sleeping shorts. I then speed through a quick shower, brush my teeth, and collapse onto the bed.
My eyes close, but I don’t immediately fall asleep. Instead, I extend my senses out to the city around me. I hear Lois’s heartbeat first, steady and strong, and a calming sense of relief fills me knowing that she is sleeping soundly. Reluctantly, I then shift my focus to less comforting sounds—a fight has broken out at a homeless shelter on 17th Avenue in downtown, a television in a neighbor’s apartment is reporting on civilian casualties from a NATO-led bombing in Yugoslavia, and breaking news on a local radio station describes the rising death count from a devastating tsunami that hit the southern coast of Japan just hours ago. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. Then I pull the comforter up around me, bury my head in the pillow, and silence my superhearing. Within minutes, I fall into a dreamless sleep as exhaustion overtakes me.
8
I groan as I roll over and glance at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. 6:30 a.m. Nice to know my internal alarm clock, which never allows me to sleep in past 7, is still working despite my interdimensional travels.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and sit up. Morning sunlight filters through the window, and I drag myself up out of bed and pad into the kitchen to start a new pot of coffee. As the coffee brews, I step over to the table and tentatively pick up the cell phone Lois had left for me—a well-used Samsung, similar to a phone I’d replaced about a year ago. I’m mildly surprised that my fingerprint successfully unlocks the screen. Besides some important contacts, the phone has been wiped clean—there are no photos, no texts or voicemails, and no search history. Good. It feels slightly less intrusive knowing that I don’t have access to this small part of his past life.
I close my eyes for a moment and focus my hearing to find her heartbeat. Unlike last night, when she slept quietly and her heartbeat was steady and regular, it is now racing and erratic, and I hear her sniffling. I stop eavesdropping and open the contacts page on the phone. She is up, so I can call. Or maybe she’d appreciate a text more than a call, so she can respond when she’s ready. Yep, that may be better. I compose a short text.
“Good morning, Lois. I hope you slept well. I finished the article a few hours ago. Let me know if you want to come here, or I can stop by your place so we can discuss. Thanks.” I set the phone down and walk over to the refrigerator. Inside, there are a few staples—milk, butter, eggs, cheese, lunch meats, and some fresh produce. Since the apartment has been empty for three months, I realize she must have somehow managed to find the time and energy to go shopping yesterday. For me. I’m not used to such thoughtfulness. I remind myself to be sure to thank her later.
The cell phone behind me buzzes, and I close the fridge, turn back to the table, and pick up the phone again.
“I will come to you. Be there in a half hour.” The message is impersonal and short, but I don’t blame her. Today will probably be more challenging for her than yesterday.
Half an hour. Hm. Plenty of time to make a simple breakfast. Maybe the least I can do for her considering she went through the trouble to stock the fridge for me. A small smile grows on my lips. Time to play Master Chef.
I quickly get dressed in gray jeans and a black T-shirt from my duffle bag, throw on my shoes and socks, and again take stock of the contents of the fridge and cupboards. Flour, butter, strawberries, sugar, bell peppers, eggs, potatoes, and ham. Easy ingredients to make a couple filling dishes, and I should have enough time. With the help of my superspeed and freezing breath, homemade strawberry turnovers are in the oven baking within a few minutes. I then chop up the peppers, potatoes, and ham and crack half a dozen eggs into a bowl. I cook the potatoes and peppers with a bit of melted butter and seasonings and then add the ham and eggs. The eggs cook quickly, and within a few minutes, the scramble is done. I turn off the heat and check on the pastries, which are a perfect golden brown, with bits of the strawberry filling oozing deliciously out the edges.
As I pull the pastries out of the oven, a tentative knock comes at the door. I set the baking sheet on the stovetop, grab my glasses, and jog over to the door. I know it is her before I answer, but I feel a bit anxious, and my shoulders tense. I open the door as I paste a smile on my face—not too enthusiastic, but welcoming—I hope.
However, my smile quickly fades as I see her. Her cheeks are pale, and her eyes are puffy and red. Her hair, like yesterday, is pulled back in a low ponytail, but a stray lock falls down, framing her face, and she reaches up with a shaky hand to push it back behind her ear.
“Good morning,” I offer as a greeting.
She doesn’t respond. I step back and motion her inside. She wraps her arms tighter around herself and moves past me into the apartment. Her eyes wander around as though she is seeing the apartment for the first time, although nothing has really changed since the day before. I close the door and hurry down the entry steps after her.
“Can I take your coat, or…?”
The question hangs in the air, and she finally shakes her head.
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” she says hoarsely, pulling the coat around herself stiffly. She clears her throat. “Sorry, I, uh—is that breakfast?” I have a feeling she was about to say something else. But I don’t pry.
“Yeah, yes, I-I wanted to thank you for stocking the fridge for me, so I made breakfast—uh, if you’re hungry, that is. There’s strawberry turnovers and an egg scramble with potatoes and peppers and ham. Nothing fancy, but…” My voice trails off as she lets out a small laugh. She turns to face me, and I see a hint of a smile in her eyes. I adjust my glasses. “What?”
“You babble when you’re nervous,” she replies. She turns back to the kitchen. “He used to do that too. It’s adorable.”
“Wh-wha—I don’t—I’m not nervous.”
She laughs again. “You are so nervous.” She steps toward the counter, eyeing the turnovers hungrily. “You’re worried about me, because you’re a kind, thoughtful person, and you want to help make me feel better. So you made me this wonderful homemade breakfast—which is something he could never do, by the way—he could barely heat up water in the microwave—but you’re also worried I’m going to perceive this gesture in the wrong way and think that you’ve overstepped your welcome, which could upset me when my emotional state is already quite questionable. So you’re nervous.” She spins around to face me, a smirk on her face. “Did I get that about right?”
My cheeks turn bright red, and I laugh as I drop my gaze to the floor momentarily.
“Maybe,” I admit. I raise my eyes back up to meet hers, but she has turned back to the kitchen and is leaning over the strawberry turnovers, fresh out of the oven.
“This looks amazing. I can’t believe you put all of this together with what little was here.”
“I can be pretty resourceful,” I say. I move into the kitchen and open the cupboard to find the plates. “Would you like some?”
Her stomach growls in response, and she blushes slightly.
“Yes, please.”
“Okay.” I smile sideways at her as I pull two plates out of the cupboard and am rewarded with a small smile of hers. “Coming right up.”
As I portion out the egg scramble and turnovers, she moves to the table and sits in front of the laptop. She opens the screen and reaches out to the keyboard, but then hesitates.
“Your story…May I?”
I turn toward her, a plate in each hand, and I nod as I set down one plate in front of her and one on the opposite side of the table. I repeat the process with two fresh cups of coffee.
“Yes, of course. It’s pretty long. I hope that’s not a problem with Perry. And I-I did my best to mimic his writing style. You were right, you know—he—his writing was on another level—I’m not nearly as good of a writer as he was. But I read every one of the articles in his portfolio, and I tried to—” I cut myself off as she looks at me with a goofy grin. “What? Oh, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” She nods and purses her lips as though trying not to laugh. I chuckle and sit down across from her. “Well, I will admit that I’m nervous about the story. I-I hope you think it’s…good enough.”
Her smile fades as she clicks a few buttons on the laptop. A moment later, she picks up her coffee cup and begins reading. I lower my eyes to my plate, but my appetite is suddenly gone. I shouldn’t be here while she reads, I realize. I shove a big bite of the egg scramble into my mouth and force myself to avoid watching her. After several minutes, she sets her coffee cup down, and I glance up at her. Her face is tight with concentration, and her eyes shift from left to right as she works her way down the page. A single tear slips down her cheek, and she reaches up to wipe it away, but does not stop reading. Her food remains untouched. I drop my eyes again to my plate and pick up the strawberry turnover. The smell distracts me, and I take a big bite, savoring the flavors and texture of the pastry. Her stomach growls a complaint, and she reluctantly reaches for her own pastry. I sneak another glance at her as she takes her first bite. Her eyes close, and a small sound escapes her lips.
“Oh, wow, Clark, this is...very good.”
She gives me a small smile and wipes another tear from her cheek before taking another big bite. Her eyes shift back to the laptop, and she scrolls slowly down the page reading as she polishes off the pastry.
I finish my breakfast and start working on the dishes as she continues reading. Within a few minutes, the kitchen is cleaned up, and I dry my hands and turn back to her. Her plate is nearly empty, as is her coffee cup, so I grab the pot of coffee and give her a refill as unobtrusively as possible. She swallows as she glances up at me, pain in her eyes, and she murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”
I nod in response and refill my own coffee cup before settling back opposite her at the table. She is not quite done reading yet, I know. I close my eyes as I sip my coffee, and I again allow myself to focus my hearing outside of the apartment. It is Saturday morning, and compared with the previous night, the city seems calm and quiet. Traffic in downtown is light, with no major accidents. There is a small apartment fire several blocks away, and a peaceful protest march gathering in Centennial Park. Listening out further, I hear a news broadcast describing the tsunami cleanup efforts in Japan, and I inhale sharply as they state the current death toll. One thousand five hundred thirty-two. I lean forward and rest my head in my hands on the table.
“Are you okay?”
Her voice is filled with concern, and I feel her eyes on me. I swallow and nod miserably, but don’t look up.
“Sorry, I-I will be. There’s, uh, there was a-a tsunami in Japan yesterday. Over 1,500 people died.”
“Oh, Clark, I’m so sorry…” She pauses a moment and takes a sip of her coffee. In a quiet voice, she says, “This world needs Superman as much as you need to be Superman.”
I nod again. I feel sick to my stomach.
“The story…are you almost finished? Sorry it’s so long.”
“I just finished,” she answers, setting her cup down. Her long pause makes me nervous again, and I finally raise my eyes. She is watching me curiously, tears still pricking at the edges of her beautiful deep brown eyes. She swallows and looks down. “You were wrong you know. You are every bit as good a writer as he was.” Her voice is soft and kind but filled with an unforgiving sadness. “It is perfectly executed. Long, yes, but it needed to be. And it reads like he wrote it himself.”
I want to tell her that I think he helped me, in some way. But she’s not ready for that.
“Thank you,” I manage instead. “Will P-Perry like it, you think?”
She nods and closes the laptop as she stands.
“You’ll be teacher’s pet, just like he was. It’s very good. And not a single typo in the whole document.” A small smile works its way into the corners of her mouth, and she laughs. “Perry used to joke that Clark didn’t even need an editor. I think he just cheated and always rechecked his work at superspeed several times before turning in the copy.” She glances at me pointedly, and I grin as I shrug an admission while adjusting my glasses. “Ah ha, guilty, I knew it.” She forces out a laugh and moves her plate to the sink.
Her good mood fades, however, as she turns back to face me. The smile is gone from her face, and she exhales shakily as she meets my eyes.
“I called the Kents right before you texted me this morning.”
“Ah.” I hesitate and lower my voice. “That must have been hard. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“No,” she says, moving back to sit at the table again. “No, it was something I needed to do on my own. And not something you needed to hear. Their grief, that is.”
“I understand.”
She closes the laptop and grasps her coffee cup but doesn’t drink anymore. Her fingers tap absently on the mug, and she blinks several times.
“And, um, they weren’t exactly thrilled to hear that you are here,” she admits, glancing almost nervously up at me.
My jaw clenches, but I say nothing. Of course it would be a shock to them. They just found out they lost their son, and now they are told an exact look-alike is here to pretend to be him. Any sane person would struggle with that. Lois continues.
“They…they didn’t have H.G. Wells show up and explain everything, several times, like I did. And they aren’t as connected to the world and international news, so they don’t see quite as much as I do—I mean how bad it is getting out there and how much the world needs Superman. They just see that their son is gone, and I’m telling them I have a ‘replacement.’ I’m sorry, Clark, I know they will come around after they meet you. But grief does funny things to people.”
I nod and rub the back of my neck. The Kents from the other universe had been welcoming and kind, even in the face of tragedy when their Clark had been missing. But at the time, I was just there to help bring him home, and Martha Kent seemed to know that her son was not dead and just needed to be found. I cannot imagine the pain the Martha Kent of this world is feeling right now. But since the Kents now know about me… I look up at Lois hopefully.
“So do you want to call and talk to Perry, and I can, uh, let the world know that Superman is back? There’s an apartment fire on Colman Avenue and 7th Street—” I shift my focus for a moment to get an update on the fire—“and there’s a young child stuck on the fourth floor who could really use Superman’s help.”
“Oh, right, yes, of course, go!”
She watches me expectantly. I fly into the bedroom and change at superspeed, then stop in the doorway to the bedroom, crossing my arms over my chest as the brilliant red cape settles behind me. Her eyes are wide, as though it hadn’t really hit her that I had superpowers until that moment, and I take a deep, nervous breath.
“Is, uh, my suit—is this the same as his? I didn’t check his closet.” I turn around once so she can see the whole suit.
“Yeah, yes, it’s identical,” she replies, fumbling with the buttons on her coat. “It looks perfect. Um, be careful, and all that.”
This is probably where she’d usually give him a peck on the cheek or a hug before he’d rush off to save the day. But I’m not him. I nod at her.
“Thanks. I’ll be back in a bit,” I say, and I take off out the back door to the balcony and launch up into the sky.
I keep my superhearing focused on her for a moment as I speed toward Colman Avenue. I hear her let out a small sob and sit down heavily at the table. The apartment complex comes into view; smoke billows up into the sky, and fire fighters valiantly try to put out the flames. And, as I fly down through the flames, straight toward the young boy huddled fearfully in the corner in the back of his room, I hear her dial a phone number. Her shaky voice, brimming with a sort of forced optimism, says, “Perry, good morning, I…I have some good news.”
