Here’s the new part for the story - I forgot to mention that I’ll try to post twice a week, I hope you’ll enjoy this.
Chapter 2“Nothing travels faster than the speed of light, with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.”
(Douglas Adams)
The front pages scream at me, Superman’s emblem searing in vivid reds and yellows.
The words blur.
“No,” I whisper, barely audible. My knees weaken and my pulse pounds in my ears, each beat a hammer blow. The air grows thick, unbreathable, and every gasp feels like drowning.
My hand moves toward the paper, trembling violently, but I stop short. Someone might see. A camera lens, a tabloid reporter lurking - waiting to turn my shattered composure into tomorrow’s headline. I can’t break down. Not here. Not now.
I long for invisibility, for the safety of shadows where no one can see me fall apart.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I drag in shallow, stuttering breaths. The dizzying spiral of panic slows, but only just. My fingers curl into tight fists, nails biting into my palms. Whatever this is, I’ll face it. Just not in the open.
Superman.
The memory of his rejection claws at my mind, raw and relentless. Since then, nothing. No words, no explanations, only silence. The headlines blur again, spinning into a vortex of dread. It can’t be true. It’s not possible. They have to be wrong.
“No,” I choke out, my voice a threadbare whisper. “No. No! It’s not true!” My world narrows to the Star’s merciless proclamation and I stumble against the counter, desperate for something to hold on to.
I force my lungs to expand, dragging in deep breaths, fighting the creeping darkness at the edges of my vision. My legs feel like lead, but I ground myself against the rough wood of the newsstand counter, the splinters digging into my palms. The vendor’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Miss? You okay?”
The world hangs in suspension, waiting for me to respond. My voice, hoarse and brittle, finally breaks free: “The Star. I’ll take it.”
The coins clatter onto the counter and the folded newspaper lands in my hands, far heavier than it should be. A cruel confirmation of the unraveling I’ve fought so hard to ignore.
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. Later. I’ll cry later, when I’m alone. The paper crumples in my grip, its sharp edges biting into my palms, grounding me in a reality I can’t bear to face. My breaths come short and jagged, the weight of it all threatening to crush me.
Superman’s emblem blazes across every front page, the headlines blurring into a chaotic whirl. Panic claws at my insides.
When did I last see him?
The unease in my stomach churns into full-blown dread. “No,” I rasp, barely audible. “No, no, no! It’s not true! It can’t be!”
The Star’s headline sears itself into my mind, the words as sharp as a blade: SUPERMAN FOUND MURDERED AT LEXCORP.
I stagger home, reporters swarming like vultures, their questions a distant roar, but I don’t care anymore if they see me unraveling. Nothing matters but the truth I clutch - a truth that threatens to rip my world apart.
My apartment door finally comes into view. Someone - police, maybe? - kept the crowd from entering the building with me. The moment I step inside, the chaos outside fades, but the terror inside me only grows.
I clutch my arms around myself, inhaling the faint scent of your sweater, desperate for comfort. It doesn’t help. The words on the crumpled paper flash in my mind, unforgiving and absolute.
“No, no, no!” I choke out, shaking my head as if I can will the truth away. My trembling hands unfold the newspaper, the bold letters screaming their cruel message again: SUPERMAN FOUND MURDERED AT LEXCORP.
The smaller headlines gnaw at me, echoing in my mind: “Nation in Mourning.” “President Garner Urges Unity: ‘Find the Hero Within.’” Hollow words, meaningless in the shadow of this impossible loss.
It can’t be real. Superman, indestructible, snuffed out? Impossible. My mind clings to denial, searching for cracks in this nightmare. It’s a ploy. A fabrication. A lie.
But the whispers of doubt creep in: it was in other papers too. I shove the thought aside, desperate for proof it’s all a mistake.
The newspaper drops from my hands, a cursed relic, as I turn to the TV. My heart pounds, each beat an agonizing plea for hope. But the screen greets me with the same theme, stark and relentless.
The truth crashes down, suffocating.
Superman is gone.
Denial grips my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. The room tilts, blurring into a fog, and the television’s flickering screen dissolves into a distant, meaningless glow.
“Yesterday afternoon, Superman’s body was discovered in the basement of the LexCorp Tower.”
The news anchor’s voice echoes in my ears, the words slipping through my grasp like sand. I try to piece them together, to force them into something coherent, but they refuse to make sense.
Superman. Dead.No. It’s impossible. The Man of Steel, the unbreakable beacon of hope - gone? He’s defied gravity, shattered the impossible, rewritten the rules of existence. He can’t just… disappear.
My hands tremble as I clutch the remote, my fingers white-knuckled, as if I could somehow rewind time, erase the nightmare that’s unfolding. Lex Luthor’s twisted smile flashes in my mind, a dark specter that tightens the knot in my chest. Did he really succeed? Did he extinguish the light that has guided us all?
No. It can’t be true.
I’ve seen too much - impossible rescues, battles against forces far beyond our comprehension. Superman isn’t just a man of flesh and blood. He’s a symbol, etched into the heart of Metropolis, painted in the sky every time he takes flight.
He can’t be gone.
He just can’t.
I lean closer to the TV. The anchor’s voice drones on:
“Superman’s lifeless body was discovered in the depths of LexCorp Tower.” The words echo, but my mind refuses to accept them.
No. This has to be a ploy, a trap to draw out the real villain. Maybe he’s wounded, hiding, recovering in some secret sanctuary. My heart clings desperately to this fragile thread of hope, racing against the cruel certainty threatening to take hold.
The sunlight spills through the window, indifferent to the nightmare unfolding in my world. My gaze falls to the newspaper on the coffee table, its screaming headline -
“Superman Dead” - blurring beneath my tears. I grab it, crumpling the page in my fists as if destroying it could erase the truth.
Denial is all I have. My shield against the grief waiting to consume me. I’ll scour Metropolis, interrogate every criminal, hunt every lead. Because Superman can’t die.
Not when the world still needs him.
Not when I still need him.
I clench my fists, refusing to believe. LNN’s report reeks of deceit. Their facts must be wrong, twisted somehow. Desperate for answers, I flip the channel, searching for clarity - or an escape.
Jerry Retchin’s talk show fills the screen, its garish glow slicing through the shadows. His words hit like a blow: “What do you think about Ms. Lane’s involvement in Superman’s death?” The accusation hangs in the air, sharp as a blade. My breath catches, my composure teeters. They don’t know the truth - the tangled web of secrets and lies that binds us all.
I switch again. Barry Dunning’s voice cuts through the static, merciless and clear:
“Exclusive evidence from police sources…” The screen lights up with horrors I can’t unsee: a green-glowing cage, an ax, and…
My stomach twists violently.
There’s too much red.
I stumble to the bathroom, choking back a sob. My body rebels against the truth, convulsing as I retch into the porcelain. Tears streak my face, mingling with bile as I clutch the cold tiles, desperate for something solid in this unraveling world.
The images won’t stop: the cage, the ax, the lifeless hero. Superman, gone? It defies reason. My mind claws for denial, but the horror remains.
“Where are you, Clark?” I whisper, broken.
The room swallows my question, the walls echoing with my despair.
I clutch the sweater tighter, its softness a cruel reminder of comfort now lost. Once a lifeline, it feels like a phantom touch, slipping through my fingers. I rub my arms, seeking solace, but find only emptiness.
“Could I have saved him?” The thought claws at me, relentless. Regret settles heavy in my chest, a weight I can’t escape. But the past is immutable, its edges cutting into me.
My legs shake as I force myself upright. Shivering, I clean up in the bathroom, the mirror reflecting hollow, unrecognizable eyes. Back in the living room, the air feels suffocating. Superman is dead. Clark is gone. And I’m alone.
Your absence gnaws at me, Clark. Perry would have had you on the phone the moment you reappeared. But silence stretches endlessly. If you knew what happened to Superman, you’d call me. But you haven’t.
Metropolis holds no answers. My last hope lies with your parents. If anyone has heard from you, it’s them.
I sink onto the couch, the phone trembling in my hands. My fingers fumble, exhaustion and fear making even this simple task monumental. I dial the number you gave me weeks ago, after the story about the computer virus.
The line rings, and I hold my breath, the silence taut with my prayers. That scrap of paper - your parents’ number - has become my lifeline, the only tether to you in this unraveling world.
I remember how guarded you were when we talked about our secrets. I knew then you were hiding something. I let it go, thinking you were entitled to a secret after helping me hide Eugene.
But now, every unanswered question feels like another piece of you slipping away.
~~~
“My parents wanted me to give you this!” You said, handing me a neatly folded piece of paper. I hesitated, my fingers tracing the edges of the paper. “They wanted you to be able to call them.” The neat handwriting revealed a phone number.
“But why? I’ve only met them twice.” I asked, glancing up at you, searching your eyes for answers. "Why would they want me to call them?”
Your pause held a weight, as if there were unspoken layers beneath your words. “If you ever thought you needed to or wanted to.” The cryptic undertone lingered, leaving me intrigued. You seemed conflicted as you answered. "They worry about me," you admitted, your gaze dropping to the floor. “After what happened with Trask… About what I do, the risks I take. They've seen the headlines, Lois. They know I'm not invulnerable."
I leaned against the wall, staring out into the night. "And they think I can keep you safe?" I mused. "That I can talk some sense into you? Perry would argue that might be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”
You chuckled, a rueful sound. "Maybe. Or maybe they just want you to know you're part of our family now. That you matter to them. They like you."
“Thanks,” I replied, accepting the paper. “But I don’t want to bother them. I’d rather bother you at three in the morning.” We shared a knowing smile, our late-night conversations a secret bond.
"But I'll keep this," I said, my fingers curling around the paper. "Just in case."
You smiled, a mixture of gratitude and longing. "Just in case," he echoed. "And Lois?"
"Yeah?"
"Feel free to call me anytime." We shared another smile.
~~~
My heart races like a wild stallion as the phone keeps ringing. Maybe they’re on the other line and not willing to be bothered by call waiting. Maybe they’re even talking to you.
But what if it’s not you on their other line? What if they don’t know where you are?
What if they don't know where you are? What if they harbor secrets of their own, shielding you from my desperate search? The seconds stretch into eternity, and I'm on the precipice of hanging up when a voice, a fragile whisper, reaches my ears. It's Martha, and her "Hello" is a threadbare lifeline.
"Martha," I rasp, my voice betraying the turmoil within. "This is Lois."
Her response is a tremor, a fragile bridge between hope and despair. Jonathan's voice joins the fray, a second anchor in this storm. "Lois, how nice of you to call," he stumbles over the words, grappling with emotions too raw to tame. "Are you okay?"
Am I? The question hangs in the charged air. I want to reassure them, to weave a comforting lie, but honesty claws at my throat. "Jonathan," I croak, my voice foreign even to my own ears. "I'm not okay." The silence stretches, a chasm of dread. "Do you know where Clark is? Perry said he's missing. I was hoping… maybe he's with you in Smallville."
Martha's sobs echo through the phone and I catch snippets of their hushed debate. My heart clenches and I force the words out before they can say anything, barely above a whisper: "He's dead, isn't he?" The truth, once spoken, hangs heavy, a leaden certainty that shatters hope into shards.
"Lois, he's…" Martha's voice trembles barely audible through the phone.
Jonathan chimes in to help her, but his words shattering the shards of hope into dust. “Yes, Lois.” his voice hoarse. “We're sure of that.”
“But…” my breaths come in increasingly shorter gasps. “He can't be, I still need him!”
The silence on the other end is heavy, stretching painfully before the voice returns, quiet but careful. “I know this is a lot to take in, but there are things we need to talk about - things I can’t explain over the phone.”
“What things?” My voice cracks as I force the question out.
A pause. Then, gently, “It’s better if we tell you in person. Can you come to Smallville? Please.”
The request lingers, a fragile thread tethering me to the heart of a mystery I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
There's nothing to decide. At this moment, Metropolis offers no solace; its tabloid reporters swarm like vultures, hungry for any scrap of news. The Planet lies in shambles, with my colleagues and friends leaving for new frontiers.
I agree. There's nothing keeping me here, no reason to linger amidst the city's relentless pulse. I book the next flight to Kansas, the promise of answers propelling me forward. Perry drives me to the airport, our silence echoing the unspoken fears that bind us. I’ve told him what your parents revealed and despite his shock he kept himself from asking questions, instead offering to bring me to the airport.
Everything seems a blur since my short conversation with the Kents. Outside the airport, I can see a young man waiting for me. The Kents would have driven themselves but we agreed on asking Wayne Irig's son, since neither of us are in a state to manage the hour-long drive.
In utter turmoil, I’m torn between wanting to see them, the people who shared a bond to the man I will miss for the rest of my life and resisting the contact, despising the fact that they will probably tell me everything I don’t want to hear.
T.B.C.
