Today’s part comes a bit later than I hoped. Sorry, I hope you enjoy. Now that we destroyed all of Clarks resilience, his façade becomes weaker. Let’s see what will happen next…
~~~
*** Part 5 The Straw Broke The Camel’s Back ***
“Help!”
Clark groaned, the urgency in that cry slicing through his fatigue. Someone needed him—needed Superman.
The digital numbers on his bedside clock glowed 6:17 a.m. Barely half an hour since he'd last checked. His restless sleep had granted him mere minutes of respite.
“Help! Somebody, please help!” The pleas escalated, frantic and desperate.
He pushed himself up, muscles protesting as if they'd been pummeled. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted at the dim light filtering through rain-streaked windows. His temples throbbed, memories of the sound weapon's assault echoing in his skull. But this weariness—it was different, deeper. A fatigue he'd never encountered before.
“HELP!”
His bed beckoned, a sanctuary from the world's cries. Yet he knew he could never forgive himself if someone perished while he lay cocooned in his blankets.
Clark swung his legs over the edge, feet meeting the cold floor. The heavy rain, relentless through the night, had finally eased a bit, but its damp chill clung to his skin. Memories of yesterday's mission—the soggy suit, the weight of responsibility—flooded back.
Still, only seconds later Superman was airborne and hurled himself towards the source of the scream.
Outside, Metropolis stirred. He scanned the streets, vision piercing through walls and vehicles. And there it was: an out of control bus hurtling down a broad, straight avenue. Luck, bad weather, and early hours had spared catastrophe, so far.
Superman soared ahead of the runaway vehicle, arms outstretched. With gentle force, he slowed its momentum, guiding it toward an abandoned lot. The passengers remained safe, their startled faces pressed against fogged windows.
Moving to the bus's side, he pried open the doors. The driver slumped over the wheel, skin mottled with swollen, angry red patches. Acutely ill, perhaps injured. Clark's own breath hitched; urgency pulsed through him.
He leaned closer, scanning him and quickly assessing. The man breathed, but something was off. Urgent care was required. Superman's duty was relentless, even when fatigue clawed at his bones.
When he turned to the passengers, seeking answers of what had happened, most merely shrugged—a collective ignorance that hung heavy in the air. But one nearby figure stood out: a middle-aged woman, her presence a cacophony of scents.
Bleach clung to her, a sharp chemical tang. Hair spray whispered of salon chairs and transformation. And then there was the perfume—cheap, cloying, an assault on his superhuman olfactory senses. Makeup and food odors mingled, creating a dissonant symphony.
His headache, persistent and gnawing, intensified.
She tapped his shoulder, invading his personal space. Arms crossed, she pressed closer, her urgency palpable. “Excuse me, Mister Superman, what do you think you're doing? I have a hair salon appointment in thirty minutes! I need to get there ASAP!” She emphasized her words by poking him in the chest with a sharp claw. “Afterwards, I have an engagement with my friends that simply cannot be postponed!” Her words cascaded forth, a blend of haste and exasperation coloring her tone.
Clark blinked, momentarily baffled. How could a hair appointment outweigh a medical crisis or the safety of everyone aboard this bus?
From behind her, a muttered voice dubbed her “Barbecue Betty on the rampage.” A fitting moniker, he thought.
A man stepped forward, countering her loudly “Hey, lady, no one cares about your beauty regimen. Let Superman do his job.” His tone brooked no argument.
The woman's sour expression twisted into disgust. She shot the other passenger an angry glare. “But who am I talking to? You’re all men,” she spat, eyes sweeping the bus. “You don’t know the struggles of womanhood—the hardships we endure.” Her voice climbed, almost screeching. “And you, alien”—she pointed at Superman—“not even a real man! You're clueless about the real world. Now I won't be ready, and the rain will ruin my makeup! You freak!” She pushed against him, futile rage propelling her.
Superman, adamant and outwardly stoic, held his ground. The weight of humanity's absurdities pressed upon him. Saving lives was easier than navigating the complexities of a scornful woman. The woman—Barbecue Betty, as the passengers aptly dubbed her—radiated hostility. Her words, like shards of kryptonite, pierced Clark's resolve. Two years in this dual existence, and still, the world's madness surprised him.
The rain, relentless and unforgiving, blurred the line between hero and human. Superman, burdened by both strength and vulnerability, grappled with a situation that defied logic and was wasting a dying man’s precious time.
“Ma’am, please step back!” His voice, steady but strained, cut through the chaos. The driver's labored breaths were a ticking clock. Clark cradled the man, calculating distances to the nearest hospital. Time was a merciless adversary.
But Barbecue Betty resisted. “You can’t have me miss my appointment!” Her banshee wail grated on his superhuman ears, adding to the persistent ache in his head. “They'll charge me!” Her grip on his arm tightened, desperation fueling her defiance. “Either you take me first, or I'll sue you!”
His patience frayed. “Madam, one last warning!” Superman's voice, usually a beacon of reassurance, now held an edge. But before he could continue, other passengers intervened. A skirmish erupted—accusations, chaos, humanity at its most absurd.
Clark turned away, eyes on the driver. The man's fate hung in the balance, a consequence of their collective madness. “Go!” another passenger urged. “We’ve got this!”
Superman lifted off, rain streaming past him. The man in his arms wheezed, life slipping away. St. Mary's hospital loomed ahead—a sanctuary against the storm.
And Barbecue Betty? Her screams echoed, lost in the downpour. “I’ll sue you all! I deserve respect!” But respect, like time, was a luxury they couldn't afford right now.
Landing, he stood there, rain cascading off his saturated form, the weight of responsibility pulling at his shoulders. The automatic doors of the emergency room slid open too slowly, revealing a haven of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. His cape, once a symbol of hope, now clung to him like a shroud.
“I need a doctor,” he called out, urgency in his voice. The driver, unconscious and fading, lay in his arms. Two nurses materialized, their movements swift and practiced. A young doctor joined them, eyes assessing the situation. This early, the ER buzzed with activity—nightshift remnants being tidied, preparations being made for the day ahead.
“He was already unconscious when I found him,” Superman explained, voice low but urgent. “Less than five minutes ago, I stopped his bus. He was hunched over the wheel, no signs of injury, no identifying bracelet. Just the rash.” His x-ray vision had revealed nothing alarming—plaque in the veins, perhaps age-related. But nothing to explain this sudden collapse.
“And…” he hesitated, unwilling to reveal how much the woman’s words had hit him. “I couldn’t take him immediately with me, because there was a woman who grabbed me and tried to block me.
The doctor listened, nodding. “And the woman?” he asked, glancing toward the entrance. “Was she injured too? Do you need to get back to help her?”
Superman’s jaw tightened. “She clung to me, demanding priority for her beauty appointment. Said she’d sue if I didn’t comply.” His frustration simmered. How could vanity eclipse compassion?
The doctor’s gaze softened. “You did what you could. We’ll take it from here.” Nurses wheeled the gurney away, the driver’s life hanging by a thread.
As Superman turned to leave, he heard the blonde’s screams echo through the rain. “I’ll sue you all! I deserve respect!” He clenched his fist, torn between worlds—the hero who saved lives and the man who grappled with humanity’s worst absurdities.
Drenched and weary, he watched as the gurney disappeared through the doors marked "Emergency" and "Staff Only." The doctor's commands echoed, a desperate bid for time.
Around him, the ebb and flow of humanity continued. The emergency room buzzed with urgency, a symphony of life and death. People moved—purposeful, focused. He, too, was a fixture here, a silent sentinel. No one paid him heed; he preferred it that way. Strangers' awe still unsettled him.
Would they save the man? Had he acted swiftly enough? The weight of responsibility bore down, familiar and uncompromisable. Another family teetered on the precipice of loss. Another name etched on his conscience.
His mind's eye filled with pictures of life’s events: a graveside gathering. Friends, eyes red, whispered condolences. A graduation ceremony, chairs filled one left conspicuously empty. A bride stood alone, no one to give her away.
Lightning crackled, jolting him. His Superman facade snapped back into place. But the walls—were they shifting? His feet anchored, yet the world swirled. Sweat clung to his skin, foreign and unwelcome.
Focus! He commanded himself, breaths shallow. But a voice cut through the disorientation. “Superman, are you alright?”
He turned, meeting the nurse’s gaze. Compassion softened her features. “I'm fine,” he managed, the lie bitter on his tongue. “Just… a momentary lapse.” The cape weighed heavily, a reminder of his dual existence—the hero who saved lives and the man who grappled with his own fragility.
And somewhere, beyond these sterile walls, Barbecue Betty's shrill threats echoed. Respect, he mused anew, was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"Yes!" he blurted out, breathless. The nurse's brow furrowed, concern etching her features. He steadied himself, tried again. "Yeah, I just wondered... the man I brought in. Will he make it? Can you tell me? No medical jargon. Just... will he live?"
The nurse's voice dropped to a murmur, mindful of eavesdroppers. "You're shaking," she observed. "If you weren't Superman, I'd think you were having a panic attack." She offered water, but he declined. Composure was a superpower he needed now.
A gust of wind slammed a nearby door shut, jolting him. Heart racing, he forced his focus back to the nurse. The hospital walls seemed to shift, but he dismissed it.
Stay grounded.
She considered, eyes sharp. "From what I heard, he was lucky you brought him in when you did. Thank you for acting swiftly—it saved his life."
A shaky smile tugged at his lips. Now he could return home, maybe snatch an hour of sleep before duty called again. He thanked the nurse and stepped outside. The morning sun peeked through storm clouds, a promise of renewal. Only the wind remained, a reminder of yesterday's fury.
Superman ascended, warmth bathing him. The strange sensations faded. No sweaty palms, heart rate steadying. Normal for him.
He'd fly home, rest, and hope that humanity's fragility didn't haunt his dreams.
Back in his apartment, he slipped into sleep shorts and a shirt, the weight of the morning clinging to him. His suit lay discarded, a silent witness to his dual existence. Setting the alarm for 8 am, he hoped for an hour's respite—a delicate oasis in a storm of responsibilities.
Work would beckon, perhaps with a hint of disapproval for tardiness. But after a night of restless vigilance, he craved rest more than approval. He needed the brief nap, a stolen moment to recharge. And if fortune favored him, the sun would emerge victorious, piercing through stubborn clouds.
Later, above the city's hustle, he'd bask in its warmth — Superman, the sun's favored child, seeking solace in its golden embrace.
TBC
