Hello all! I know it has been a long time since I've been on here but I recently started working on my LnC fanfic again. As I started on Zenith again, I realized that there were some minor tweaks I wanted to make to it. The more I worked, the more the minor tweaks became major changes and a new story, Stuck in the Dark, emerged. Originally I was going to wait until I had it complete to post, but I have to admit, I'm a feedback junky and I am so insanely curious to get the opinion of others on it that I decided to go ahead and start posting the chapters. I think I am about 75% finished with the story and have 25 chapters written at this point. I honestly don't know how many chapters the final story will have in it but I'm thinking it will be in the 30-35 range.
This story is an AU take starting at the end of The Eyes Have It. I've read every story I could get my hands on based on the events of that episode and have done my best to come up with a completely unique take on it; however, there may be some similarities to something I've read at some point. Any similarities are accidental and I apologize in advance if I encroached upon anyone else's concept. Additionally, I do not own any parts of LnC and do not make any profit off of my writing. Finally, I do not have a beta reader at this time, but I have tried to catch as many mistakes as I possibly could before posting. Once I finish Stuck in the Dark, I will be working on a rewrite of one of my earliest stories Zoe Meta and then I plan to go back to Zenith and finish it off. It may not seem like it but I really do hate to leave things unfinished but I had written myself in a corner that I didn't know how to get out of at the time. I'm hoping some time away from it will provide a path forward in that story.
Enough rambling... here is Chapter 1 of Stuck in the Dark
Kal closed the entry door behind him and set his things in their usual resting place. Moving to his kitchen, he started preparing dinner with practiced precision. The stir fry wasn't the most complicated of meals, but it did require a decent amount of chopping, which he took time to do at normal speed. If this were a year ago, dicing the vegetables at super speed would have been automatic; however, as with most things in the past few months, many tasks now required more focus than super speed would allow.
As Kal chopped the vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board echoed in the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional sizzle as he added them to the pan. Each movement was deliberate, a testament to the newfound pace of his life in Moore. Gone were the days of rushing through tasks with superhuman speed, replaced instead by a slower, more deliberate approach. With each slice of the knife, Kal couldn't help but reflect on the events that had led him here. The decision to leave Metropolis had been a difficult one, driven by the need for solitude and reflection after the traumatic events that had left him blind as Superman. Yet, as he stood in his kitchen, surrounded by the familiar comforts of his new home, Kal couldn't shake the feeling of resignation that hung over him. Here, in Oklahoma, he had found a temporary refuge, a place where he could retreat from the world and come to terms with his new reality.
He could understand why so many felt that cooking for one wasn't worth the effort, but cooking had always been one of his favorite activities, something that helped to relax him regardless of what was going on that day.
Dinner was simple, the act of cooking grounding him in a way few things did these days. As he finished his meal and rinsed the last of the dishes, the quiet of his home settled around him. No rush. No distractions. Just the steady rhythm of a life he had built—one far removed from the chaos he had once known.
But even in the silence, his mind wandered.
It always did.
By the time Kal stepped into The Daily Oklahoman the next morning, the familiar hum of the newsroom greeted him, a stark contrast to the solitude of his kitchen. Here, the air buzzed with conversation, the clicking of keyboards, the shuffle of papers—a steady current of productivity that moved around him as he made his way to his desk.
Once Kal was settled into his desk at The Daily Oklahoman, he found his refreshable braille display and reread the latest edits to his article. Journalism had always been a part of his life, but here, it was different. There were no front-page stories about Superman, no high-stakes investigations that put him in the line of fire. Just words. Stories. Facts.
That was supposed to be enough.
The scent of coffee drifted through the air as a nearby colleague set their cup down with a soft thunk against their desk. The rhythmic tapping of keyboards filled the space around him, but Kal felt oddly removed from it, as if he were listening through a filter, just a step removed from the world moving forward without him. The steady pulse of newsroom activity should have felt grounding, but today, it only highlighted the disconnect.
“Ellis, you good?” Mark Anderson’s voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
Kal turned slightly toward the familiar voice. “Yeah,” he answered, though it was mostly habit.
“You’re quiet today.”
Kal let out a faint smirk. “Aren’t I always?”
Anderson chuckled. “Fair point. Just don’t forget—some of us actually need coffee to survive.”
Kal shook his head lightly as Anderson walked off, the sounds of the newsroom settling back into the comfortable white noise of productivity. He turned back to his article, letting his fingers brush the keys, but the words blurred in his mind. This was what he had built for himself—a place where he could still do meaningful work without the weight of Metropolis on his shoulders. A place where no one called him by the name he had left behind, where he didn’t have to be anything but Kal Ellis, journalist.
Yet, even as he settled back into his chair, he found himself listening. Not for sirens, not for cries of distress, not for the near-imperceptible shift of air currents that once signaled danger—just... listening.
The silence between the sounds stretched longer than he expected. It pressed in on him, making him aware of just how much space he was occupying, how much space he had given himself to disappear.
Kal ran his fingers over his article with meticulous focus one last time. The words were solid—concise, well-structured—but they felt distant, like he was reading someone else’s work. Journalism had always been about connection, about uncovering the truth, but lately, it felt more like a habit than a purpose.
He exhaled and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple.
Just as he considered taking a break, a voice cut through the hum of the newsroom.
"Ellis, got a second?"
Kal turned his head slightly. Mark Anderson. The tone in his voice wasn’t casual.
Something about it told him this wasn’t just about another assignment.
Kal pushed back from his desk, his fingers trailing briefly over the edge before he stood. He didn’t rush, didn’t let himself assume anything as he moved toward Anderson’s office. It wasn’t until he stepped inside and heard the distinct sound of an envelope sliding across the desk that he felt the shift.
A thick, heavy envelope.
His fingers brushed the edges of the envelope before he traced the raised lettering on its front. The thick cardstock was sturdy beneath his fingertips, the embossed lettering unmistakable. He already knew what it said—he didn’t need to read it to understand the implications.
Kerth Awards Committee.
His stomach clenched.
Kal had felt a lot of things since coming to Moore—relief, frustration, even peace at times. But this? This was entirely unexpected. A recognition of his work, his words—not his name, not his face, not the larger-than-life figure he once was, but his journalism.
It should have felt validating. It should have made him proud.
Instead, it unsettled him.
The weight of the envelope suddenly felt disproportionate, heavier than it had any right to be, as if it carried something more than just a formal notification. It carried expectation. It carried exposure.
It carried Metropolis right to his doorstep.
He ran his thumb over the edge, the sharp corner pressing into his skin. Had he really thought he could slip away unnoticed? That the work would speak for itself while he remained in the background, unknown?
Apparently not.
A shadow fell across his desk as a familiar voice broke into his thoughts.
“You’re up for Explanatory Journalism,” Anderson said, his tone casual but full of amusement. “Big deal. Means you’ll need a suit, which I’m guessing you don’t own.”
Kal exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on the envelope as if it might slip from his hands. A suit. A stage. Applause. The last time he’d stood in front of a Kerth audience, it had been as Clark Kent, reporter. And before that? He’d stood in front of the world as Superman, larger than life, untouchable.
Now? He wasn’t sure what he was anymore.
“I—this must be a mistake.” His voice came out quieter than intended.
Anderson scoffed. “Not a chance. Your article caught fire.” He leaned against the desk, clearly pleased with himself. “I told you, Ellis, you’ve got a voice people pay attention to. No point trying to avoid the spotlight now.”
But that was exactly what Kal had been trying to do.
