Here’s the third part, earlier than I expected and since I am done with the last edits, I’ll try to post the next part tomorrow. I won’t make any promises though, because I am on vacation next week.
*** Part 3 - Break Away ***
Clark rose slowly, shedding the superhero suit and tossing it into the laundry basket. The feel of the fabric clung to his skin, a reminder of the relentless hours he'd endured—hours battling the tempest in Africa, hours navigating legal meetings, hours being ineffective even as people needed him.
In the dim bathroom, he bypassed the light switch, moving toward the shower in darkness. The water cascaded, a soothing reminder of vulnerability. After hours of superhuman feats, of pushing his limits to be the hero everyone believed in, he needed this—a moment to feel the fragility of his existence.
Standing there, the hot water enveloping him, he wrestled with guilt. Guilt for feeling upset while his friends and family were safe. Guilt for missing the appointment with Muzi Buna's representatives. Guilt for walking so blindly into the red Kryptonite exposure over and over again. If only he'd been less self-absorbed, he might have organized aid sooner, and saved more lives.
Burdened by the weight of his powers, his mind compiled the missed opportunities. He could have transported tools and building materials, scouted better locations for homes, helped to build sturdier foundations—but instead nature’s wrath had swept away their fledgling dwellings.
The water washed over him, cleansing not just his body, but his conscience. He vowed to push harder, to be more than the sum of his powers. Because sometimes, even Clark Kent needed a break—to break away from his own limitations and find strength anew.
If only he weren’t Clark Kent, tethered to Metropolis. If he could break free, dedicate every ounce of his being to aid, perhaps he could mend the broken lives. His forehead pressed against the cool bathroom tiles, eyes clenched shut.
Unconsciously, he cranked the shower’s temperature to its zenith, seeking warmth to thaw the chill in his bones. But no water could cleanse the stain of his failure.
As the stream cooled, he stepped out, tearing another towel to shreds in his frantic drying. Dressed, he wandered to the kitchen, craving oolong tea. The kettle evaded him, it must have already disappeared into the boxes.
He settled back on the couch, not willing to look for it. .
Caught between distraction and inertia, he wavered. Normally, he’d retreat to Smallville after a particularly exhausting rescue, the familiar fields of his childhood offering solace. His parents, always there, their unwavering support cradled him. He could pour out his frustrations, bare his vulnerability. They listened, allowing him to be weak when strength eluded him. His fears found voice, and he was simply himself.
But tonight his parents were here in Metropolis. As always they‘d rushed to their son‘s side as soon as the situation arose, concern etched in every line on their faces.
They had gone out to Shuster’s Island with the man whose life Jonathan saved during the subway incident months earlier. The friend’s name eluded Clark; his mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts.
Should he call their hotel? Leave a message? No, he decided against it. They deserved their night out, free from the worries he’d already piled upon them. They’d insisted on staying, but he’d declined.
“Go,” he’d urged, his voice strained. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll manage.”
It was his fault. They’d wanted to wait. He’d encouraged them to be elsewhere.
“Strategy meetings with lawyers could take half of the night,” he’d reasoned with them. “I’ll call you when I’m done with them.”
“Are you sure, honey? We wouldn’t mind.” His mother added, her gaze bore into him.
He’d been so sure he’d find one—a legal ally to navigate the complexities of his current situation.
“Yes, there’s nothing you can do and I want you to meet your friend, dad.” He’d been sure, but that was before Superman was summoned to Muzi Buna.
Now, they were somewhere in the city, and he lacked the energy to search. His limbs weighed heavy, and the thought of explaining—of unraveling the tangled threads of his life—seemed insurmountable.
Their unwavering support warmed his heart, yet guilt gnawed. They’d left their farm to be there for him, and he wondered if he’d ever be enough to repay their sacrifice.
He’d broached the unthinkable yesterday: giving up Clark Kent. Their shock was palpable. Still, they’d started packing with him, despite their reservations about their son’s decision to give up his dual identity. Perhaps time would soften their resistance, revealing that this was the only path.
Several boxes already stood ready for their move to storage.
Superman, the world’s hero, was ensnared by his own dilemmas. Thinking about it felt Herculean now. His dual identities warred within him. Yesterday, shedding “Clark” seemed right. Today, Superman’s deeds felt inconsequential.
He sank deeper into the couch, eyes drawn to the table. Unboxed photographs, memories wrapped in old issues of the Daily Planet. The top frame held a snapshot: him and Lois, half-hugging, smiles exchanged. When had that been? His own smile mirrored hers.
Boxes loomed, open and closed. He lay back, staring at the ceiling. Was he right? Could he abandon Clark Kent? Leave Lois?
In the light of recent developments, should he cease being Superman?
As a child, he’d yearned simply for normalcy. To be like the other kids, without powers, without his strange and unknown origin. He just wanted to fit in.
As an adult, his dreams had shifted. He yearned for a life—friends, a job—but above all, he craved a connection deeper than the one he shared with his parents or friends. These desires seemed commonplace to humans.
The first exposure to Kryptonite where he’d glimpsed life without his gifts, a void more agonizing than any battle, had proven that he’d been right to release the desire for mere normalcy. His pivotal kiss with Lois had felt like the universe aligning. Yet reality was less obliging.
The inception of Superman, sparked by Lois’s inadvertent suggestion, had once seemed straightforward. His powers were now easily embraced as the gift they were and the hero’s mantle allowed him to wield them openly.
But recent days had blurred the clarity that had first come with wearing the Suit. The hero’s future hung in uncertainty. The lawsuit loomed—if he lost, how would he pay the hefty fine? And what of Lois? Unbeknownst to her, she was woven into Superman’s fabric. Without her unwavering support, could he continue?
Who was the man stripped of his heroics? And who was the hero without the man?
Lois’s name echoed in his mind, a siren call. Should he call her? Hesitation gripped him. Would she even answer? His own shortcomings weighed heavily. Could he expect her to stand by him when he faltered, while withholding equal support to what he would now be asking of her?
The phone lay there, a silent judge. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Or perhaps he should let it be—a tacit testament to his own inadequacy.
For the better part of his first year at the Daily Planet, Lois had regarded Clark as an unwelcome intruder in her life. Superman, on the other hand, was the dazzling deity in a crimson cape. But now, he saw his superhero alter ego as an inconvenient interloper—one who persistently meddled with his existence, especially matters of the heart.
Lois, with her well-documented trust issues, had somehow endured his presence. Gradually, she began to view Clark as more than an annoyance. Perhaps—just perhaps—she even harbored feelings for him, as he secretly hoped. Their friendship blossomed, and she understood that Superman could only be a close confidant, nothing more and nothing less.
Then, mere weeks ago, as Clark and Lois went to the courthouse they had shared an electrifying kiss—before tragedy struck. Mayson's death unfolded in Clark's arms, a cruel twist of fate. She had just uncovered his dual identity, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his second suit.
"That's what you've been hiding," she'd whispered.
And then, in a matter of seconds, she was gone. No chance to explain, no opportunity to apologize. Clark had witnessed the impact of that revelation on her, for a second he had seen hurt and resignation before life drained from her eyes. He wondered if she would have accepted Superman as an integral part of Clark Kent.
Perhaps he should have seized the moment, revealed his secret to Lois. But every time they tried to discuss their feelings, duty called, pulling him away. Their relationship strained under the weight of missed chances and abrupt exits.
He'd dashed out on Lois more times than he could count, interrupting her mid-thought, offering flimsy excuses that even he found laughable.
And now, to add insult to injury, Agent "Please-Call-Me-Daniel" Scardino materialized out of thin air, armed with an inexhaustible supply of salt to rub into the wounds left by Clark's disappearing acts.
Sighing, he decided to seek solace in a movie or show, hoping they would distract him from his brooding thoughts. But as he turned his attention to the TV, he realized his mistake: it was still tuned to LNN from last night. The screen bombarded him with images of himself—flying through stormy skies, drenched in various substances, and cradling someone in his arms. The newscaster's voice wove a tale of tragedy, emphasizing his refusal to grant an interview.
"We attempted to interview Superman regarding the refugee crisis in Muzi Buna," the reporter's words echoed. "But as the footage shows, he declined to speak."
As a journalist, he despised the television anchor’s sensationalized wording. They cared more about headlines than understanding the complexities of the situation. The people of Muzi Buna had pleaded with him to leave. Their eyes, filled with gratitude and exhaustion, implored him to rest. “Superman,” they said, “you’ve done all you can. You need to take care of yourself.” But Clark couldn’t tear himself away. The fear of abandoning someone in need tore at him—an unspoken dread that another life might slip past his senses, lost forever.
Their homes lay in ruins, casualties of a war not of their making. Families torn apart, seeking refuge in a land already stretched thin. The world turned a blind eye.
"Now, back to our local news," the TV droned, ripping him from his thoughts. "A strike leaves hundreds of tourists stranded on Shuster's Island..."
He switched it off.
Superman had faltered today.
His gaze shifted to the telephone. Lois—always on his mind. Once again, he'd left her without explanation. Clark had failed today, too.
Restless, he paced, rearranging items in his living room. Perhaps it was time to confront both his identities—the hero and the man—before he lost everything. But every attempt to discuss feelings with Lois was thwarted by duty, pulling him away. His excuses grew flimsier, and Scardino seemed to relish twisting the knife Clark’s actions put into their strained relationship.
In this quiet moment, he wondered: Could he ever merge the two halves of himself? Or would he remain forever suspended between worlds, like a fragile bridge over troubled waters?
He considered the idea of spring cleaning at human speed—an attempt to burn off nervous energy and divert his mind from the recent rescue mission.
But after a short while, he abandoned the notion. The need to talk gnawed at him, relentless. He flung himself back onto the couch, fingers gripping the receiver. Dialing the number etched in his memory, he hesitated and pressed the hook back down. Was it too late to call her? The clock read half past ten. His time in Muzi Buna had felt like an eternity, yet it had been less than five hours.
Redialing, he listened to the steady beep of the busy signal. Lois's voice remained elusive.
Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath, wrestling with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Anger and frustration surged, weakening his grip on superhuman restraint. The receiver crumpled between his palms, but he halted just before hurling it to the ground with full force.
Yesterday haunted him—the way she'd pretended he didn't exist. He would have teased her for childish behavior, but her eyes betrayed deeper pain. An ordinary "I'm sorry" wouldn't suffice this time.
And then there was the matter of abandoning her to rescue the man now suing him. He couldn't explain, not without complicating their fragile situation. Yet, perhaps it didn't matter. He'd broken his promise to stay by her side.
Unable to bear the silence of his apartment any longer, he made a decision. The suit—usually a symbol of duty—now beckoned as an escape. Airborne, he always felt lighter, unburdened. Regardless of personal turmoil, flight liberated him. So, he spun into a fresh suit and rushed out, ascending into the sky.
Up, up, and away—away from doubts, away from himself.
He ascended higher and higher, escaping the earthly confines until he soared above the clouds. The cold, rarefied air filled his lungs, granting a fleeting sense of freedom. If only he could linger here, far removed from lawyers, mundane troubles, and the tumult of emotions. The sounds above the clouds differed from those in his apartment. Below, the city's chaos—electric currents humming through walls, car engines growling on rain-slicked streets, distant subway rumbles, impatient horns, and wailing sirens—formed a unique symphony. But up here, raindrops blurred the view of the tumultuous world below.
Yet even this serene moment unraveled. Memories tugged him back, gravity reclaiming its hold. He descended, returning to Metropolis—the city that both embraced and tormented him.
Lois. She held the power to dispel his doubts, to anchor him. Her busy phone line suggested she was home and alone.
The alley outside Lois's building beckoned—a perfect landing spot. But as he stepped from the shadows, he heard her voice, saw her greeting someone. Scardino. The man she’d turned to when he'd pushed her away repeatedly, despite promises to the contrary.
Raindrops kissed his nose.
So that was what the earlier phone call had been about - rendezvous with Dan. Clark blamed himself for the rift, for leaving her without explanation. Now, he wouldn't bother assuming his human guise. Instead, he shot upward, piercing the rain-laden sky, leaving a sonic boom in his wake.
Up, up, and away—away from heartache, away from the choices that haunted him.
TBC
