*Content warning: These chapters contain descriptions of gun violence, with some of the victims being young children.
17
The week passes relatively uneventfully, and I get settled into a comfortable routine. I run each morning and do patrols of the city and surrounding areas. I then meet Lois for breakfast—usually at Bobby Bigmouth’s Bagels and Buns—and we head into work. In the evenings, I do another patrol and often end up overseas, addressing emergencies on the opposite side of the world. In particular, I continue to monitor the situation in Aleppo, and I’m pleasantly surprised and relieved when the tentative “ceasefire” I’d negotiated continues to hold. I usually get home by 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. and manage several hours of sleep to reset.
Lois’s story comes together as we uncover a group of multiple pharmacists working out of three VA hospitals near Metropolis to procure and resell opioids to the vulnerable veteran population, many of whom are homeless and have major medical issues. Friday morning’s paper carries the story with our first shared by-line in huge type on the front page—VA Pharmacists Arrested In Opioid Drug-Related Deaths, by Lois Lane and Clark Kent.
Mid-morning on Friday, Lois and I arrive at the newsroom to cheers and an interesting mix of party decorations, including a large banner hanging over the entrance to the conference room with the words “Congratulations Lane and Kent!” painted in red, blue, and yellow block letters. I smile at Lois as she takes my hand and leads me down into the loud, boisterous bullpen. Perry approaches, a silver and blue sparking party hat on his head, and hands us each a glass of champagne.
“To Lois Lane and Clark Kent!” he declares, raising his own glass. “Best team in town! Congratulations, you two! I smell a Pulitzer, Lois!” His toast is echoed by our colleagues around the room. Lois laughs and takes a long sip of her champagne. I smile and nod thanks to everyone as they approach and shake our hands. Many are wearing hats like Perry’s and toss confetti on us.
Lois seems to enjoy the attention, and she is quite at ease as she shakes hands, jokes with our coworkers, and ushers me around the newsroom. We eventually arrive at her desk, and she turns to me and notices I still hold my full glass of champagne. She leans over toward me and takes my glass.
“You don’t drink, do you?” she whispers into my ear.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” But I don’t offer her more. No reason to ruin the mood.
“Ah, well, more for me,” she laughs. She straightens up, smiling brightly, and drinks my whole glass of champagne in one long sip. “Jimmy!”
She pats me gently on the shoulder and then hurries over to Jimmy’s desk, where he sits working at his computer, his silver party hat slightly crooked on his head.
I watch her for a few minutes as she thanks Jimmy for his help earlier in the week and then proceeds to question whether his computer expertise would allow him to hack into the DEA to help with our follow-up story. He looks up at me with wide eyes and then back to her, shaking his head vigorously, and she laughs, throwing her head back. Her long, silky curls fall around her face as she smiles at him and assures him that she is joking. She glances over at me, her dark eyes twinkling with humor, and laughs again. An uninhibited, joyous laugh like I haven’t heard from her before.
Another of her protective walls has crumbled.
Or she’s slightly tipsy from drinking two glasses of champagne. I can’t tear my eyes away.
Beautiful. She is incredibly beautiful. I smile tightly as I try in vain to push away my growing feelings for her. Yep, I admit it. She is beautiful, brilliant, funny, and kind, and I’m definitely falling in love with her. These are not his feelings. I’m 100% sure they are 100% mine. In fact, I haven’t felt his presence or had any more visions since Monday.
She dazzles me with another smile before turning and heading back up the ramp toward the coffee machine. My eyes follow her, and I jump with surprise as Perry’s hand pats my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him approach.
“She’s a firecracker, that one, Clark. You’re a lucky man.” Perry chuckles and pats me on the shoulder again, then heads off toward Jimmy’s desk. “Jimmy! Where are those photos of Superman saving that school bus from going over the South Street Bridge yesterday? I need them ten minutes ago!”
Jimmy squeaks a quick, “On it, Chief!” He then jumps up from his chair and jogs toward the dark room.
My gaze drifts back to Lois, who now pours a cup of coffee while she chats idly with Marcy Burns, the travel editor. They lean in close together, whisper conspiratorially, and then look in my direction and laugh again. Lois’s eyes meet mine, and she flashes me another blissful smile.
As I grin back at her, a sudden sense of unease hits me. My smile fades into a frown as I focus my hearing outside the building and to the surrounding area. My eyes widen as I hear rapid-fire gunshots, screams, and sirens. A lot of them. I meet Lois’s eyes very briefly, and she nods to me, acknowledging that I need to leave. I turn and head hastily toward the stairwell, tugging at my tie. Thankfully, no one seems to notice me. I push open the door to the stairwell, scan ahead to be sure I’m alone, change into the suit, and launch into flight.
My stomach lurches as I exit the stairwell onto the roof and then take off into the sky.
Children.
I’m hearing the screams of very young children.
I extend my senses as I fly north as fast as possible and locate the source of the disruption—a single shooter at an elementary school about 100 miles outside of Metropolis, in a town called Briarwood.
I push my speed faster as bullets from the young man’s AR-15 assault rifle approach a group of first graders huddled in the corner of their classroom. Without slowing, I crash right through the window of the classroom and reach out to stop the bullets from hitting the terrified children or their brave teacher, who has covered as many children as she can with her body to shield them from the attack. My jaw set tight, I halt abruptly in front of the stream of bullets and catch them before they can bounce off of me.
The gunman cannot be more than 15 years old, and he recoils as he sees me, the wild rage in his eyes turning to surprise. He stops firing and drops his gun on the ground, raising his arms up in the air in surrender. It’s a good thing he is young and looks terrified, because I am angry. I have no time to hesitate, however, and I quickly confiscate his gun and lift him unceremoniously by one arm. I fly him and the gun outside to where a barricade of police cars is growing, and I drop him with the nearest police officer and then rush back into the same classroom.
The teacher is now standing, tears streaming down her face, as the children gather around her and all hug each other as they cry.
“Ms. Garland, are you and your students okay?” I ask quietly, noting her name on the placard on her desk.
All of the students turn and look at me in unison, but do not leave their teacher’s side. The young woman twists her head toward me and nods. Her bespectacled eyes are filled with terror, and she drops into a kneeling position and extends her arms out to embrace as many of her students as possible.
“Good. Please everyone stay here until you are instructed to otherwise by the police, okay?” I say more formally. All of the kids murmur “Yes, Superman” and continue to cry and hug their teacher.
I nod and exit the room into the hallway, my shoulders tensing as I hear more cries, screams, and confusion. The gunman had already worked his way through a large portion of the school before I’d arrived, and a quick scan identifies too many lifeless bodies.
Well, really, even one is too many.
But there are seven, including five children under eight years old and two faculty members. Many more are injured and need immediate transport to the hospital.
I close my eyes for a millisecond, burying the devastating pain I feel at this loss of precious life, and then I get to work. The most critically injured are moved first, carefully flown to the nearest emergency room, which is five miles away. I count sixteen critically injured, several of whom may not make it through surgery, and another ten with minor to moderate injuries. With each trip, I grow more hardened; more effort is required to hide my grief. As I finish my final trip, emergency crews at the school begin to evacuate all the survivors and start the heart-breaking task of identifying the victims.
I land lightly next to the police chief, who glowers at the gunman through the closed window of the police car. His face is tight with emotion, and he turns toward me as I step closer.
“Sir, I have transported all of the injured to Briarwood Hospital,” I explain, my voice low and taut. “Is there anything else you need assistance with here?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but his gaze instead drifts off toward the entrance to the school, where a line of school buses waits and groups of parents, teachers, and students linger. Finally, he shakes his head and drops his gaze to the ground.
“You never think something like this can happen in your town, I’ll tell you,” he says. He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “This is a quiet town, Superman. Nothing ever happens here. And now, this.” He motions to the confusion in front of him and then turns back to the gunman sitting in the back of the police car as he continues. “And I know this kid. Brian Stricker. My wife teaches English at the high school, and he’s in her class. His father is on my bowling team. I don’t even understand any of this.”
I swallow hard as I listen, knowing this man will be grieving for his town for months, if not years, to come. Hell, I will be grieving as well. This is the first time I’ve dealt with a school shooting, even with all my time as Superman on my world. They did happen on my world, though relatively infrequently, but I was never close enough to hear or fast enough to respond.
I feel sick to my stomach as I notice splotches of blood on the ‘S’ symbol on my chest. My jaw tightens again, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.
The police chief steps away from the police car and crosses his arms over his chest. He seems to remember then that I’d asked him a question, and he turns to me.
“Sorry, Superman. No, I don’t think we need any more assistance from you,” he replies. His eyes shift back to the school. “But thank you. Without you, the situation would have been even worse. Our officers were still several minutes out from arriving, and we had no armed personnel at the school.”
I can’t find any words to respond. I just nod briefly. He holds my gaze for a moment before his walkie-talkie squawks, calling him back to work. He gives me a tight smile and takes off at a brisk walk toward the school’s entrance. I take another deep breath and slowly rise up into the air. After one last glance over my shoulder at the scene below, I head up into the sky and toward my apartment. Tears threaten, but I hold them back through sheer force of will.
A few seconds later, I land on my balcony and push open the door. I stumble and don’t bother to stop myself from falling to the ground. On my hands and knees, I crawl into the corner of the room, bury my head in my knees, and wrap my cape around me, trying to block out images of bloody, lifeless, tiny bodies. And I allow myself to cry.
I don’t hear the knock at the front door or the door opening and closing a moment later. I don’t even hear her rapid, regular heartbeat or footsteps as she approaches. But as my body shakes with anguish, I feel her hand on my arm and then her body settling up against mine and her arm wrapping around my shoulders. Her quiet voice murmurs indistinguishable words into my ear, and she leans against me as I continue to cry.
Thank you, Lois. Thank you. I can’t speak to tell her this. Not now. Not yet. But she knows.
18
Slowly, I regain control over my emotions, the immediate pain and grief easing. Her presence next to me provides a comfort I’ve never known before, and I open my eyes and turn my head in her direction. She lifts her head from my shoulder and gives me a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Leaning on me slightly, she shifts her feet underneath herself and stands, then offers me her hand. Another simple gesture that fills me with gratitude.
I take her hand and push myself up off the ground. My legs feel oddly stiff, and my knees tremble. I frown as I glance down at the suit. The ‘S’ is darkened by dried blood, and several other streaks mar the blue fabric on my arms, chest, and legs. Blood stains my hands as well, and my heart races as I turn my palms up, unable to pull my eyes away.
A young boy with stunning blue eyes stares up at me, his face red from crying, and he screams as I lift him gently; I feel a slippery wetness on his back where the bullet pierced through his side, and I carefully shift him in my embrace to prepare for the flight to the hospital.A hand on my arm drags me back to the present, and I look up sharply at Lois’s deep brown eyes, which watch me with concern.
“Let me help you,” she offers quietly. I just look at her for a moment, allowing her to anchor me to the present. However, I realize she’s waiting for me to respond, and I blink several times and nod. “You can shower and clean up, and I’ll take care of the suit. Okay?”
Her voice is kind and gentle. She’s done this before. With him.
A tightness grows in my chest as he makes his presence known again, somehow. Flashes of memories that are not mine obstruct my vision—a red cape wrapping around the broken body of a three-year-old girl who did not survive a car wreck; a panicked rush around a crowded ballroom in the split second before an explosion rocks the building, and a devastating realization that he is too slow; flames licking angrily at dark red boots that refuse to burn as shaking hands reach out to lift a lifeless woman from the blackened rubble of an apartment fire; dirty river water draining from a once-bright yellow school bus as it is lifted from silt, his jaw set tight as he blocks the grief of knowing twenty-one children will not be returning to their families that afternoon. I stagger with the weight of the memories and screw my eyes shut. He gifts me one final image—Lois, her kind, knowing, beautiful smile, waiting for him after each incident with a comforting hug, gentle words, and a shoulder perfect for crying on.
Then his presence fades rapidly, and I feel her hand on my arm again. I inhale sharply and manage to nod in response to her question. Her hand slips into mine, and I almost pull away; the blood on my hands feels dirty, and I don’t want her smooth, warm skin tarnished by it. However, her grip is strong and assured, and she leads me toward the bathroom, where she stops just outside the door. Wordlessly, I step into the bathroom, remove the stained suit, and hand it out to her around the edge of the door. I’m not modest; after all, I fly around in public wearing spandex tights that are, well, quite tight. But I keep my naked body well hidden behind the bathroom door.
“Take your time, okay?” she suggests, her hand briefly brushing against mine as she takes the suit from me. My eyes meet hers, and I nod.
“Thank you, Lois.” My voice rasps in my throat. The words are not sufficient to communicate the magnitude of what she has given me. But they are all I have right now. She tips her head and then turns away toward the kitchen to go wash the suit.
I close the door carefully and move to turn on the water in the shower. My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, and I halt abruptly, my gaze drawn to my chest. Centered under where the iconic ‘S’ symbol would be, my skin appears discolored by blood that had seeped through the suit. I reach up and touch the spot, and stabbing pain flares through me—a detached, distant pain that is not mine. I jerk my hand away, and the discomfort vanishes. My lower lip trembles as I touch the discoloration again. I hear far-off wind, battle cries, and a muffled grunt of pain.
I can’t die here. No, no, no. Lois, I love you… His thoughts, I know.
I feel an urgent need to get clean as soon as possible, and I turn on the water and step into the shower immediately. Ice cold water splashes on my chest, washing away the blood. I close my eyes and stand under the steady stream for several minutes as the water heats. Finally, I pull myself out of the daze I’m in and wash myself thoroughly. Soap and hot water rinse away the blood on my hands, chest, and arms.
I wish it would wash away the images that won’t leave my head.
I finish, turn off the water, and grab a towel from the rack as I step out of the shower. I dry myself off quickly and wrap the towel securely around my waist, then exit the bathroom into the bedroom to find some clean clothes. I absently choose a charcoal suit and slacks with a light blue dress shirt and gray striped tie from the closet, and I turn back toward the bathroom to get dressed.
Lois is standing in the doorway, her eyes wide as she stares at me. I freeze. Her eyes seem to drag up from my chest to my face, and her cheeks turn bright red as she waves her hands toward the kitchen.
“I, uh, was just coming to check on you, and I see that you’re, uh, fine, very fine, yep, so I’ll just go make some tea, maybe. Tea sounds good, right?” Her voice is slightly higher than normal, and her gaze has again drifted down a bit lower. She looks up sharply as she seems to remember that my face is above my neck.
“Yes, tea would be great,” I reply with a small half smile. “Thank you. I’ll just get dressed now.”
As I step toward the bathroom, I hear her turn and mutter unintelligibly to herself. A moment later, sounds of tea being prepared reach my ears as I pull on my briefs and pants. Her voice is clearer now, and she still mutters to herself. This time I can hear her words perfectly.
“He’s not my Clark, he’s not my Clark… God, he looks so much like…” Guilt forces me to stop eavesdropping. Of course she would be comparing me to him. They probably had a very active love life. So she’s probably very familiar with…all of me…
I slip my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and then rest my hands on the sink. I feel selfish; I’ve leaned on her too much, when she is still grieving the loss of her fiancé. I raise my eyes to the mirror, and as I stare at myself, I resolve to be stronger.
With shaky hands, I button up my shirt and then deftly knot my tie.
No, his tie. And his apartment. And his suit. His story, his life.
This is all so confusing.
Am I still me? Or am I him?
His thoughts invade my head randomly, and I cannot even always differentiate my feelings from his. I lower my head briefly to my chest and take a deep breath as I exit the bathroom.
Lois sits at the table facing the bedroom, and she looks up at me as I emerge around the corner, a tentative smile on her face.
“Hey, you look a little bit better now,” she says, standing and moving to the counter, where the teapot sits. Her earlier embarrassment is gone, and her color has returned to normal.
“I feel a little bit better,” I admit. My feet feel like lead, but I force them to move into the kitchen as I pull on my suit jacket. She hands me a mug filled with Oolong tea and then pours herself a cup as well. “Thank you. And…” I hesitate, exhaling sharply, and I shake my head slightly. I’ve never been very articulate. There’s so much I want to say to her. But the best I can do is, “Thank you, so much, for coming here for me. I-I’ve never had…”
My voice trails off. I can’t even finish my sentence. I lean back against the counter, my chin dropped to my chest as I fight the grief I feel from the morning’s events. I silently scold myself; I had just promised to be stronger than this.
She seems to sense my struggle, and she settles against the counter next to me, sips her tea, and then shifts to face me. I turn my head toward her, and our eyes meet. The dark depth of her gaze pulls me in, and I feel an intense longing. I immediately close my eyes.
“You’ve never had anyone to help you on days like today,” she finishes for me.
“Right.”
I take a sip of my tea.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks quietly.
I suspect she knows my answer already. But I shake my head.
“No. Not yet.”
She nods slightly and once again leans back on the counter. Images flicker in my head—the gunman carelessly firing his assault rifle, the bullets streaking through the air in slow motion, the terrified faces of the children huddled together in the corner, the window shattering as I flew through…barely fast enough. Almost not fast enough. And for the seven victims…not fast enough. My stomach turns, and all the air seems to be squeezed out of my chest. I close my eyes again to steady myself.
“Did he—did he usually talk to you about…?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment. I hear her heart rate increase just a fraction.
“Sometimes he would,” she answers hesitantly. “Although if he did want to talk about it, he’d usually be the one doing the talking… I’d just listen. Just be there for him. Other times it was too painful, like I’m sure today would have been.”
I swallow hard. I’ve seen a lot as Superman. Death and destruction caused by natural disasters—the tsunami in Japan being the most recent example—are hard enough to deal with; however, death caused by the actions of other human beings is so senseless and evil. Particularly when the victims are children…innocent children who should have their whole lives ahead of them.
“And in those cases, what would you do?”
My voice barely raises above a whisper. Lois again wavers for a second before answering. But when she does, her voice is steady and strong.
“Help him and be there, like I did for you just now. And usually this would help too.”
She sets down her tea and steps toward me, then reaches out, wraps her arms around my waist, and holds me tightly. Her head rests lightly on my chest, and I can smell her strawberry-scented shampoo. I hesitate only for a moment before returning the embrace, my arms enveloping her. A comforting warmth spreads through my body, and I feel more at home and loved than I’ve felt since before my parents died. A long, shaky breath escapes my lips, and I close my eyes.
“This does help,” I murmur softly into her hair. Her presence and strength seem to give me life. She holds me for several minutes, an unmoving steadiness about her. Finally, I pull away, and she smiles at me as she slowly releases me from the embrace.
“If you ever need this—a shoulder to cry on, a hug, a talk—and I haven’t anticipated it, please don’t hesitate to ask,” she offers. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Your job is harder than I know you will admit, and I’m here to support you when you need it.”
A wave of some emotion I can’t identify washes over me as some of the weight I carry on my shoulders at all times is lifted away. I nod as my head drops to my chest.
“Th-thank you, Lois,” I breathe. The only words I can manage right now.
Her hands, which had lingered on my chest, press against me, and I raise my eyes to meet hers. A quiet strength radiates from her. Her face relaxes into a comfortable smile, and she pats me on the chest.
“We should get going if we’re going to make that press conference at the Mayor’s office,” she says casually. She glances at the clock on the wall and grimaces, then looks back at me almost sheepishly. “Actually, we may need to cheat if we’re going to get there on time. Do you mind?”
I almost laugh. But I’m not there yet.
“Of course not, no problem,” I say instead, and I step back from her and spin into a clean Superman suit.
She nods absently and grabs her purse from the table, her shoulders stiffening. My expression tightens as I watch her attempt to relax; she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, I see both her vulnerability and her strength. I understand suddenly how much she loved flying with him… So this simple request, which has taken her an entire week to make, is a huge step in her healing process.
I offer her my hand and a gentle smile, and I hope she knows that I understand her hesitation. With another deliberate exhale, she takes my outstretched hand and allows me to carefully lift her into my arms. Her body relaxes into me, and I tighten my arms around her as I take off out the open door to the balcony.
And we fly together for the first time.
