She probably *should* care, but she didn't have the energy.

She probably *should* have accepted their offer of counselling.

She probably *shouldn't* have pulled off such a convincing act of wellness during the compulsory session with the shrink.

Should she go into the cell now? The prisoner was awake.

She decided against it.

That was another change.

The young, carefree version of Lois Lane hadn't thought too much about risk ... not until after the event, anyway. But now ... she certainly didn't want to end her life and her career on the floor of a cell at the hands of an alien. Possible alien.

So, for now, she would observe - from the distance and safe sterility of her office.


Part 2

An hour later, Lois had divided the contents of the shelves and desk drawers into two categories - personal and business. She packed Trask's belongings into boxes, reflecting how much could be deduced about a person from his possessions.

Trask had kept only one photograph in his office - it was a snapshot of a humble house with a neat, if uninspiring, garden. The camera - she presumed - had been held at an angle. Either that, or the house was in mortal danger of sliding down the slope.

He liked a drink - bourbon whiskey being his preference.

He read books. His collection included fiction of the murder mystery genre and non-fiction books about medieval times.

He enjoyed crossword puzzles. He'd hoarded at least ten books of puzzles. All the puzzles he'd attempted had been completed - except for one - presumably the one he had intended to finish the following day.

There was something unspeakably sad about the solitary unfinished puzzle. Sad ... and disconcerting. For Lois, death had lurked at arm's length for years ... but nothing had ever rammed home her mortality as definitively as a crossword puzzle half-completed by a man she'd never met.

Lois shut the book and added it to the box.

She straightened and glanced through the viewing window.

The prisoner was lying on the floor on his stomach. As Lois watched, his arms straightened, and his upper body - ramrod straight - lifted.

He was doing push-ups?

An alien? Doing push-ups?

That suggested a whole lot more 'humanness' than anything she'd read in Trask's notes.

It suggested a fundamental knowledge of the body - that it required exercise. An understanding of cause and effect. Could it be indicative of the ability to plan ahead? Was it possible that - despite all of Trask's efforts and the length of time that had passed - the prisoner hadn't given up the hope of freedom?

Or perhaps, by now, it had become his habit to cling desperately to anything that even hinted of normalcy.

He stopped suddenly, lumbered to his feet, and shuffled to the back left corner of the room. He sat down - with his right shoulder propped against the wall. His head turned, and his eyes fixed on the door of his enclosure.

Lois leant forward and looked down and to her right. The door opened, and Shadbolt entered. He carried a thick rod in one hand. It was about four-feet long, and it had a roughly hewn chunk of glowing green rock secured to the top of it. In his other hand, he held a small plastic mug containing a liquid that looked like water.

Lois's eyes swung to the prisoner.

His shoulders had curled inwards, and his head had dropped into his hands. Lois grabbed the binoculars she had found in Trask's drawer and put them to her eyes.

The prisoner's fingers were buried in the entanglement of his hair; his knuckles protruded like snow-capped mountains, and the muscles of his forearms bulged with tension.

Shadbolt placed the mug on the concrete floor and left the cell.

The door shut, but the prisoner didn't move. Lois waited, her eyes trained on him, her breath stilled. Finally, his shoulders heaved, and his head slowly lifted from his hands.

Lois raised the binoculars again and focussed on his face.

Pain was engraved in his posture, seeded in the tightness of his mouth, etched into the strained muscles of his neck.

His skin was slightly flushed. His eyes were dark as they peered out from their sunken pits, giving an impression of eeriness that seemed almost ...

Almost alien.

Lois dropped the binoculars to the desk.

Scardino had said that the Achilles rod was necessary to control the prisoner. Trask's notes had confirmed this. Neither had mentioned that the rod caused him pain.

But having witnessed one occurrence of the rod entering his cell, Lois had no doubt.

Being exposed to it didn't just disable him - it *hurt* him.

Trask had insisted that the Achilles rods were a necessity.

The prisoner had killed twice already.

But this was ... Lois pushed the word away before it could form in her mind.

It snuck back.

Inhuman. This was inhuman.

Trask had believed that the prisoner wasn't human ... that he'd come to Earth to destroy and conquer. But did that mean he deserved -

The prisoner hauled himself to his feet and stood for a moment, one hand on the wall to assist his balance.

He walked unsteadily towards the mug, picked it up, and drank eagerly. He lowered it to chest level and stared at the liquid.

Lois leant across her desk and looked down at him. He was only a few yards away, and she could see his face more clearly. The skin of his cheeks was mottled and scaly. His lower lip - almost hidden by the fringe of facial hair on his upper lip - was cracked and dry.

He raised the mug, but before it reached his mouth, he lowered it again.

He plunged his other hand into the remaining water and ran his dripping fingers across his eyes and cheeks.

He was washing!

He dipped his fingers into the water again and cleansed the rest of his face.

Then, he carefully placed the mug on the ground, swept back his hair, and washed his neck and throat.

The mug was almost empty. He poured the remainder of the water into his palm and then quickly splashed it onto his chest.

After rubbing vigorously - though surely with limited effect - he dried his hands on his shorts and then attempted to dry his face with his hands.

Lois picked up Trask's notebook and searched for one of the entries she had read the previous night. She found it.


December 6, 1991

The battle to overcome the threat to our planet continues. The brute is a despicable beast - his ability to survive such squalor confirms that he is nothing more than a dirty, contemptible animal. He doesn't deserve to live.


Dirty?

He certainly looked dirty - and Lois didn't even want to think about what he smelled like - but from what she'd witnessed, his filthy state seemed to be something that had been imposed on him rather than his own choosing.

Had they given him toiletries early in his capture, and he hadn't used them?

Or had he somehow found a way to turn soap and water into a weapon?

Or was this just another aspect of Trask's plan to 'break his spirit'?

Lois frowned. What possible danger could there be in simple grooming items?

Should she order that he be provided with a bowl of water?

That would mean exposing him to another dose of the Achilles rod.

She paused. Undecided.

What would he want?

Was he capable of *wanting* anything? Anything beyond basic instincts?

Sudden realisation clattered into her mind.

He had wanted to drink the rest of the water!

He was thirsty ... but had chosen to wash himself instead.

He was dehydrated - that explained the sunken eyes and the rough skin.

Lois lurched from her seat and tore out of her office. She stopped, returned to pick up her keys, and locked her door.

She forced herself to walk sedately down the short flight of stairs and into the staffroom. Shadbolt was there, drinking coffee and reading a magazine entitled 'Astronomy'.

He looked up sullenly.

"Why did you take a cup of water into the prisoner?" Lois enquired.

He gestured to a piece of paper pinned to the corkboard. She crossed to it and saw that it was a timetable. Today, the prisoner was to be given water at ten in the morning and food at eight o'clock this evening. The next four days were listed - the times changed inexplicably, but most days involved only the provision of food and water. Yesterday's program had included a 'discipline session' - and another one was scheduled for Wednesday.

She turned to Shadbolt. "Who ordered this?"

"Trask."

She didn't want to ask, but she had the feeling that hearing would be preferable to witnessing. "What's involved in a 'discipline session'?"

"Two of us beat the alien with the Achilles rods."

His tone - so unaffected, so blasé - churned bile through her stomach, but Lois smothered her disgust. "How often are these discipline sessions deemed necessary?"

"Twice a week. Sometimes more."

"What determines their frequency? The behaviour of the prisoner?"

"No," Shadbolt said. "How quickly his wounds heal from the last one."

He was deliberately trying to shock her - but Lois had seen too much to be openly affected by someone like Shadbolt. "When does he get soap and water?" she asked.

"He doesn't."

"Why not?"

"Because he's not here for a vacation."

"I want you to get a bowl of water, some soap, a washcloth, and a towel, and take them into the cell."

Shadbolt made no effort to hide his contempt. Lois wasn't sure if it were directed at her or at the prisoner. "Why?"

"Because they are my orders."

His upper lip curled. "So, you're either a do-gooder or a megalomaniac who gets a cheap thrill out of throwing her weight around?"

"I want it done now," she directed.

"Trask made a ruling that we are not to enter the cage alone."

"You were alone when you took him the cup of water."

"That was my choice. I cannot be forced to risk my personal safety."

His experience of the job was clearly *very* different from hers. "Are you refusing to comply with my directive?"

"Are you going to stand here and watch me to make sure I do as Madam has ordered?"

Lois shot her gaze directly into his narrow eyes. "Will that be necessary?"

He took a long swig from his coffee. "I know you can see into the cage from your office." He stood and passed her. "But I also know that if I don't comply, there is very little you can do about it." He turned to her and smirked. "Because we both know you will never enter the cage."

"A bowl of water, soap, a washcloth, and a towel," Lois said. "I want the water clean, the bowl almost full, and the towel dry."

Shadbolt's eyes collapsed to an unpleasant squint, but he said nothing.

"Don't mess with me," Lois warned in a low voice. "If you do, it won't be me who loses."

He didn't respond verbally, and Lois watched him saunter away.

Twenty minutes passed after she returned to her office. The prisoner spent the time sitting on the concrete, his back against the wall. He stared ahead, his face blank. What did he think about?

Escape?

After all this time, could his mind still stretch beyond these walls to the world outside?

Did he remember his life before?

Did he dwell on revenge?

Did he ever think about the men he had killed?

Lois had just about decided that Shadbolt wasn't going to do as she had ordered when the prisoner's head suddenly jolted towards the door.

He turned away and draped his arms over his knees.

Shadbolt walked in, carrying a bowl and a rod. He carefully placed a full plastic bowl - slightly larger than a dinner plate in diameter - on the floor. He straightened and slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He withdrew an old, hardened cake of soap and positioned it next to the bowl.

"Hurry up," Lois muttered urgently as she glanced to the prisoner. "Can't you see what this does to him?"

Shadbolt withdrew a rag from his shirt pocket and folded it before laying it next to the soap.

Finally, he lifted the towel that was slung across his shoulder and spread it on the concrete. He knelt next to it and slowly ran his hand across it to flatten it.

"Just get *out* of there," Lois muttered.

Shadbolt picked up the plastic mug, stood to his feet, saluted insolently in her direction, and took himself and the rod out of the cell.

The extended exposure had compounded the effect on the prisoner. The muscles of his back were twitching, and it was almost five minutes later when he unfolded from his position. He stood shakily, steadied himself, and then looked up.

Even his beard couldn't hide the depth of his shock.

He scanned the room.

Then, with swift jerky steps, he crossed to the bowl.

He sank to his knees.

He cupped his hands together and leant over.

For almost a minute, he drank. His actions were restrained and deliberate. Was that just his way? Or was he being careful not to spill even a drop of the water? Or did he understand the importance of rehydrating slowly?

After he'd finished drinking, he wet the cloth, brushed the soap across it, and washed his face. He hung the rag on the side of the bowl, soaped his hands, and proceeded to wash his hair.

He leant over the bowl and dipped his hair into the water, splashing water through it. He picked up the towel and patted his dripping face. He vigorously dried his hair, leaving it spiked like a woolly hedgehog. Lois felt a smile tug at her mouth. Now he *really* looked like a Wildman.

He worked down his body - arms, chest, sides - methodically soaping, rinsing, drying.

He was familiar with the items.

And he had the desire to be clean.

Having finished his upper body, he stood and undid the button of his shorts.

Lois turned away.

Human or not, he deserved a scrap of privacy.

Half an hour later, she ventured a peek into the cell - and gasped.

The bowl was empty. The cloth was in the bowl, with the soap resting on top of it. The towel was neatly folded and placed next to the bowl.

The prisoner - dressed in his shorts - had returned to sitting against the back wall.

He was certainly cleaner.

He didn't look so ... tormented.

Lois picked up a marker and hovered above Trask's December '91 entry. She put a thick red line through the word 'dirty', slapped the book shut, and reclined in her chair.

For the first time in weeks, she didn't have to search for something to occupy her mind.

She had made the most fundamental mistake possible.

She had assumed something.

She'd assumed that before the prisoner had been captured, he had lived in the wilds like ... an animal.

Lois picked up the notebook and turned to the first entry.


August 2, 1987

I have prevailed against the alien threat to the people of Earth. Today, I found, captured, and conquered the monster who was sent here as a precursor to the invasion of our planet. As I write these words, I observe him through the viewing window. His body glistens with still-damp blood from the wounds that were necessarily inflicted to guarantee our safety during the precarious business of transporting him to his cell.

Of pressing importance is the need to deny him any opportunity to communicate with his co-conspirators in this evil plot. I must find answers to the questions regarding the scope of his powers. I must know my enemy thoroughly.

I will show him no mercy. He is not human. He is an animal - a dangerous, vile, depraved animal - who knows nothing but brutality and violence.

His mission was to conquer. His destiny is defeat.


The phrase 'dangerous, vile, depraved animal' had painted an image in her mind of a beast living in the woods, probably terrorising local communities.

But wild beasts did not know how to use a washcloth and towel. Wild beasts did not use soap. Wild beasts did not value cleanliness.

He *must* have - at some point - lived with humans. Or, at least, observed them.

She needed to know more. She needed to know about his life before Trask had captured him.

Lois picked up her phone and dialled.

"Daniel Scardino."

"Mr Scardino, it's Lois Lane."

"Please," he said. "Call me -"

"You said you had boxes of Trask's notes - from before the prisoner was captured."

"Yes. I was told that, following the capture, he brought them to headquarters as evidence of alien life on Earth. He insisted that they remain here because he believed there was safety in having the *proof* stored off-site."

"Could you send them to me, please?"

There was the slightest hesitation. "You're *not* calling to tell me you have reconsidered taking this assignment?"

"No. But I need some background information."

"OK," he agreed. "I'll have the boxes retrieved from storage and sent to you."

"Thank you," Lois said. "Also, there are some personal items here belonging to Mr Trask. Should I send them to headquarters?"

"Ahh ... there have been some problems finding Mr Trask's next of kin. The person he listed on his personnel file passed away five years ago. We haven't been able to locate any other family members."

"What do you want me to do with his belongings?"

"Can you stow them in a corner for a day or two?"

"OK."

"How's the job going, Ms Lane? Is everything OK?"

"Everything's fine, Mr Scardino," Lois said. "Thank you for arranging to send the boxes."

She hoped he would hear the implied closure in her tone. If he didn't, she was probably going to be rude. "If there is anything else -"

"Thank you, Mr Scardino. Good-bye."

Lois slammed down the phone as if it had stung her hand. The ability to engage in polite, meaningless conversation was essential out in the field. But she wasn't on assignment ... not really. She wasn't undercover. She wasn't pretending to be someone other than Lois Lane.

And in her darkest moments, she doubted she ever would again.

Lois looked through the viewing window. The alien was lying on his side on the concrete, his back towards her. She winced. It was clear why he wasn't lying on his back. The cold, hard concrete would be almost unbearable on his wounds.

Had *anyone* ever tried to interact with this individual?

Had *anyone* ever seen if he would respond to clemency instead of cruelty?

He'd killed two men.

Had *anyone* ever attempted to meet his basic needs? Soap? Water?

He'd killed two men.

Had *anyone* ever considered the possibility that, even if he were an alien, he might not be an animal?

He'd killed two men.

Or had they just assumed - right from the first day - that Trask's postulations were correct? That the captive was nothing more than a violent, mindless brute deserving the harshest of treatment?

He'd killed two -

And I would kill, too, Lois screamed in her head. In his circumstances, I would kill, too.

She almost had.

She'd come within a few seconds of killing a man.

Not in self-defence.

But in anger.

In retribution.

In hatred.

Lois's eyes rested on the disfigured back of the prisoner, and her tears coursed hot streams down her cheeks.

She hated this job.

She hated what it had done to her.

She hated the creeping cancer of justification that distorted the line between right and wrong.

She hated the violence and the merciless power of the strong over the weak.

She hated the never-ending struggle - the choice to kill or be killed, control or be controlled, dominate or be dominated.

Most of all, she hated herself.

Hated the hardened brittle shell that she had become.

||_||

At two o'clock that afternoon, Longford arrived for his shift, and for the next hour, the prisoner would be officially *guarded* by both him and Shadbolt.

Lois wondered if they would ignore Trask's schedule and enter the cell - thereby inflicting more pain on the prisoner. She decided that - a mere half dozen hours into the job - the time for limiting her involvement to observation was definitely over. This was her operation now, and it would be best if everyone understood that Trask's ways were no longer in vogue.

She locked her office door and took the steps two at a time.

Shadbolt and Longford looked up as she entered the staffroom. Longford was sitting at the table, and Shadbolt was at the coffee machine. She'd heard muffled laughter as she'd approached, but it had silenced at her footsteps.

"Good afternoon, Longford," Lois said. Without waiting for a reply, she strode to the corkboard and ripped the timetable from its pins. "If necessary, there will be a new schedule posted," she informed them. "However, nothing - I repeat *nothing* - is to be done for or to the prisoner without my prior authorisation. Is that clear?"

Longford nodded, but Shadbolt put his hands on his hips and looked towards the ceiling, a supercilious smirk contorting his features.

"Do you have something you wish to say, Shadbolt?" Lois asked in a cold voice.

He slowly lowered his gaze. "Do you really think that a barely-out-of-high-school girl can come in here and tell us how to run this show when we've been doing it for seven years?"

"Yes, I do," she replied coolly. She included Longford in her gaze. "Any further questions?"

"No, Ms Lane," Longford said, careful not to look at her.

Lois eyed Shadbolt, and when he didn't speak, she continued. "And to make it perfectly clear, this includes the 'discipline' sessions."

"Without the discipline sessions, it won't be safe for us to enter the cage," Longford said.

"Your safety comes from carrying a rod with you." She hated what she was about to say, but the ethos of protection of those who were her responsibility was too deeply ingrained for her to remain silent. "No one is to enter the cell without a rod. Is that clear?"

"If you're going to stop the discipline sessions, you might as well feed us to him on pretty pink plates," Shadbolt noted.

"If you would prefer, I can request that you be transferred out of this operation," Lois said.

Shadbolt sniggered. "Wouldn't you just love that? Then there'd be no one to stand up to your prissy ideas of indulging murderous invaders."

"The offer stands," Lois said. "One word from you, and I can talk to Scardino about discontinuing your involvement in this operation."

She turned from the staffroom and climbed the steps. Her words to Shadbolt could be taken as an offer, but she was sure he would discern the threat inherent in them.

Lois pushed the key into the lock of her office door with a grim, humourless laugh. She'd met plenty of Shadbolts in her career.

If only the rest of her life were as simple as dealing with an insignificant man suffering from Inflated Male Ego Syndrome.

||_||

At six o'clock, a catering company delivered two meals to the compound behind the warehouse. Lois figured they had no idea they were feeding a never-charged, never-trialled prisoner of the United States government.

She came down the stairs to see Longford accepting the two plastic containers of food - one larger than the other. He firmly shut the door to the outside world and walked with a slightly uneven gait into the staffroom. Once there, he stood, looking uncomfortable. "I think the higher-ups cancelled Trask's meal order," he said.

"That's fine," Lois said quickly. "I'll eat after I leave here." She gestured to the containers. "Are you going to take one to the prisoner?"

Longford ripped the lid from the larger plastic container, and the steam rose from it. "No," he said as he picked out a fork from the cutlery tray on the counter. "He eats at eight o'clock on Mondays."

"Why?"

Longford glanced longingly at his meal.

"It's OK," Lois said quickly. "You eat. But do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

He sat down and paddled the fork through the food - it looked like something Chinese. Chow mein, perhaps. It smelled good enough that Lois's stomach reminded her of how little she had eaten that day. "Go ahead," he said.

"Why is he fed at eight o'clock on Mondays?"

"Trask kept to a schedule. Most weeks followed the same pattern."

"For routine?"

Longford put a piece of meat in his mouth and chewed hungrily. "No," he said after he'd swallowed. "Trask liked to set the routine and then suddenly throw in a Wednesday routine on Saturday - he figured it would mess with his mind."

"From everything I read in the log, Trask believed the prisoner to be less than human," Lois said. "Yet he considered he had the acumen to keep track of days?"

Longford shrugged and took another mouthful. "I don't know what Trask thought. I just did what I was told." He leant back in his seat, reached to open the fridge door, and took out a can of Coke. "He'd also order that water be taken to him at ten in the morning for days on end and then suddenly change it to four in the afternoon."

Given the level of thirst Lois had witnessed today, making him wait an extra six hours was close to torture. "Has the prisoner ever attacked you?"

Longford popped the can as he shook his head.

"He's never tried to hurt you?"

"No," he said. "But I always take in a rod."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Moyne used to boast that in the middle of the night when everything was real quiet, he'd go in there without a rod."

"Did you believe him?"

"Dunno."

And he didn't care. That was obvious. Lois went to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup of the dark liquid. She frowned at it, wondering if it were drinkable. She decided to add milk and went to the fridge. She managed to dawdle long enough over the simple task of making coffee to ensure that Longford's container was empty when she turned from the counter.

"Now that you've finished, would you take the meal to the prisoner, please?" she asked.

"Now?"

She gave him a smile - it was rigid and artificial, but she hoped it would encourage him to defer to her order without resistance. She didn't have much time. "Yes. Then you won't need to go in again when you're here by yourself."

"Moyne'll be here in a few hours."

"The meal? Could you take it to him?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Longford dragged himself from his chair and peeled the lid from the small container. A stale smell filled the air.

"What *is* that?" Lois said, from behind her hand.

"His food," Longford replied, as if it were obvious.

"Who ordered the food for the prisoner?" She was sure she knew the answer to that question.

"Trask, I assume."

She knew what her first task would be tomorrow morning. However, there was little she could do tonight. She peered at the food. It was a cold, congealed mass that resembled dog food. Actually, Lois amended, she wouldn't even feed it to a dog. "Take it to him," Lois said. "I'll wait here. Go in, and come back quickly."

A rare flash of humour lit Longford's face. "Are you scared of him?" he taunted.

Lois reached into the tray, took out a fork, and offered it to Longford.

He shook his head. "Animals don't need no fork," he said. "Trask never let him have anything he could use as a weapon."

Lois replaced the fork and decided that she didn't need to witness the pain inflicted by the rod, or the prisoner's efforts to eat the dross that was his supper.

Longford took one of the four rods from the closet. He unlocked the door to the cell, picked up the food and disappeared.

He was back within seconds. He re-locked the door and replaced the rod.

"All done?" Lois asked.

He nodded. "Anything else? Or can I finish my Coke?"

"Finish your coke," Lois said. "I'm leaving now."

He picked up the newspaper and his Coke and grunted in farewell.