Previously On Specimen S:
"I need to leave," Clark said, his voice sinking to barely a whisper. "I can't stay here anymore."
"Clark..." Martha said.
Clark shook his head sadly. "I don't want to go. But I don't see what other choice I have."
"There's got to be some other way," Martha argued.
"If I leave, Trask will have a hard time finding me. And maybe he won't make the connection between Kansas and you guys and me. Maybe he'll think I was just passing through the area."
"You're assuming he'll ever hear of today's incident," Martha pointed out. "He probably won't. You realize that, don't you?"
Clark sighed. "Of course I do, Mom. But I can't hang my hopes on 'probably.' Trask is an evil man."
"Where are you going to go?" Jonathan asked.
It was a simple question, and not one that Clark had an answer to yet. He shook his head.
"I don't know," he admitted softly. "I just know that I can't stay."
"Oh, Clark," Martha sighed, distressed.
"It's okay, Mom," he said, coming to her side and resting his hand on her shoulder. "I'll be okay. And besides, it's not like I'll ever really be all that far away. I can come home anytime to visit with you guys. Just so long as I'm careful about it."
"Son, it's not going to be the same without you here," Jonathan said.
"I know, Dad. But I promise, I'll still come home at least once a week to have dinner with you. And I'll still come in to help with as much work on the farm as I can. Besides, it shouldn't be that difficult for me, wherever I wind up. You guys know that I have a knack for languages. I should be able to just...blend in...no matter where I go."
Clark stopped and sighed. His hand reflexively curled and uncurled, making a fist and relaxing it again. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a sign of how unhappy he was, and how tightly he was trying to stifle his emotions. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to lose the only home he'd ever known. He didn't want to go out blindly into the world, trying to find some other place to settle in, hoping against hope that Trask would never find him.
But he saw no choice. His own desires paled in comparison to the greater responsibility of keeping his parents safe. And if that meant leaving behind his friends, his job, and his home, he would do so.
***
July 6, 1990
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
The word echoed in Clark's brain as he hastily packed his few belongings in a well-worn suitcase. He had to leave this place, and fast. He had to leave before anyone suspected that he was more than he seemed. How could he have been so careless? Carelessness had been what had gotten him into this self-imposed exile in the first place.
He looked around the small but comfortable cabin, nestled in the Canadian wilderness. He'd gotten a good deal on the place. The rent was more than reasonable and the place was fully furnished. It had been close enough to the paper he'd been working for, though he had only been a free-lancer. But he'd steadily been working toward trying to convince his boss to take him on full time. He had even thought he was getting close to achieving that goal. Until now.
Now he had ruined it all.
He couldn't believe it. He didn't regret what he'd done. But the rumors had already started flying.
He'd been at the bank that morning, cashing the meager paycheck he'd made by submitting a few articles to his boss. He'd been standing in line, patiently waiting his turn to speak with the teller. Two men had burst into the bank, hooded and masked. They had ordered everyone to lay face down on the floor before aiming their guns at the teller. They had demanded cash and threatened to shoot the hostages if their demands were not met.
Clark had been able to discreetly slip his glasses down enough so that he could aim his heat vision at one of the men's guns. The pistol had instantly heated up, and the robber had screamed, dropping the weapon. That had taken the second man off-guard. As he'd turned to his partner, Clark and another man had rushed the two thieves. It hadn't been difficult for Clark to subdue the man who'd still maintained a grip on his gun. Clark had wrested the weapon from the man and tossed it aside. The teller, in the meantime, had tripped a silent alarm. Within minutes, the local police had shown up, made the arrest, and thanked the two men who'd helped to apprehend the criminals after taking their statements.
Clark had slipped out as soon as he could, just barely making it out of the bank before the first reporters showed up. He'd found the closest vacant alley and had taken off at maximum speed. For a while, he had hovered above his rented house, too high for any prying eyes to see him, ensuring that no nosey agents of the press came knocking on his door. When they hadn't, he'd finally allowed himself to land and start packing.
But where was he to go? Did it matter? Would Trask hear of this rescue and the rumors of the gun which had mysteriously heated itself?
It was time to move on.
Clark shoved the last of his clothing into his luggage, then hurried to his computer. He typed out a fast letter of resignation, and sent it to his editor. Then he sent a note to his landlord, informing him that he was leaving the month's rent on the kitchen table along with the key to the place. By the time he was done, curls of smoke rose from the keyboard.
Clark frowned at that. It frustrated him sometimes, that modern technology still wasn't able to keep up with his speed.
He waited until evening was coming on, then he left the cabin for the last time. Without a look back, he shot up into the sky and bolted away from North America.
***
September 21, 1991
"I don't know, Mom," Clark said, sighing, as he paced the living room of the Kansas farmhouse where he'd found his family, so many years ago. "I just can't seem to help it. It's like a curse or something."
"It's not a curse, Clark," Martha argued back. "You're doing what your heart tells you is right."
"I know," Clark sighed again, hanging his head into his chest. "But look what it's doing to my life."
"Clark," Martha said, groping for words.
She didn't have a chance to find any more before her son gently cut her off.
"I know that I shouldn't feel badly about helping people. I don't. And I don't regret doing the things that I've done. It feels really good to be able to use these powers to help, to save lives. But, as soon as I'm finished, I can all but feel Trask on my trail."
"Son," Jonathan said, speaking up for the first time since Clark had related his latest rescue and subsequent move. "How can you be sure that he's even still after you?"
"Dad, I grew up under that man's rule. I know him far too well. He won't be content to know that I'm out there, somewhere in the world. He always threatened that he would see me either under his control or dead. And I believe that. It wasn't a bluff."
"That may be, but we can't even be sure he's still alive," Jonathan pointed out. "Look at Pauly Overton. Forty years old and healthy as a horse. Bam. Dies of a stroke."
"I know," Clark said, still pacing. He reached the wall and kept moving, until he was traversing the room's ceiling. "But I can't afford to hope that Trask is gone. All the time, I feel this...noose...tightening around me. Every time I make a rescue or help out in some small way, I wind up unable to sleep well for weeks. I see Trask in every shadow. I feel his eyes on me in every public place - be it at a Papal Mass in Rome, or in the Louvre while admiring the paintings, or on the streets of Tokyo. Every minute, I'm expecting to see him jump out before me with a chuck of Kryptonite."
"What can we do to help?" Jonathan asked, looking up at his distraught son.
Clark sighed again and slumped his shoulders. "There's nothing you can do. I have to figure this out on my own, I guess."
"You can always come back home," Martha added.
"I know. And I appreciate that, Mom. But I can't risk it right now. Not until I figure out a way to either deal with my desire to help people without the fear of exposing myself for what I am, or find a way to squash down the instinct to help at all."
Martha raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You really think that's a possibility for you?"
There was no reproach in her voice. There was only genuine curiosity.
Clark shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is...I have to do something."
***
October 4, 1992
Clark Kent had all but lost track of how many places he had lived in. If it hadn't been for his flawless memory, he probably wouldn't have remembered all of the countries and cities he'd been in. Some of them had been amazing. Others had made him feel uncomfortable and out of place, like the alien he truly was. And none of them had yet felt like home.
Of course, that hadn't been why he'd left them. He couldn't afford to just pick up and leave because he wasn't fond of a place. He couldn't just dash off because he was homesick. He had only ever left those places because he'd used his powers and the rumor mill had once again begun to turn.
Although, he had to admit, he was getting a little better about the whole thing. He'd found discreet ways to employ his super abilities without drawing too much attention. Slowly, he had figured out ways of helping without putting himself too much at risk. A cough could cover up a blast of his powerful breath if he needed to blow a car out of a collision course with a pedestrian, for example. It had helped him settle in places for longer periods of time. He'd lasted six months in Italy before he'd slipped up badly and had been forced to flee. He'd managed a month in Spain. He'd lived in Germany for three months. He'd even landed a full time position at one of the German papers.
But always he had come close to being discovered. He'd grown ever more fearful and restless, fleeing before Trask could find him, assuming the man was still alive. He knew Trask had never been caught. He and the rest of Bureau Thirty-Nine had vanished into thin air. Clark figured that the police had probably all but forgotten their search for the man after so many years.
Clark sighed as he wandered the halls of the Cairo museum. It was getting late. He checked his watch. Three fifty-two in the morning. His shift was nearly over. Just another hour and eight minutes to go. Then he would go back to the tiny apartment he was renting, attempt to get an hour or two of sleep, then hit the streets looking for a story to write up, all the while hoping that the paper would agree to buy it from him.
The halls of the museum were eerily quiet as he patrolled. It both comforted him and unnerved him in the same instant. It was nice, in a way, to be all alone, his colleagues all patrolling other areas of the building. And yet, he missed the sounds of life around him - the chatter of people, the snaps, clicks, and whines of cameras, sneakers squeaking on the floors. It seemed so odd for the place to be stone-quiet.
Clark passed a glass case that stood in the center of the room he was in. He peered in, fascinated, as always. Beyond the barrier was a mummy, almost perfectly preserved, except for a shattered foot. The mummy even had some wisps of hair barely clinging to its shriveled scalp. It simultaneously captivated Clark's mind and creeped him out, knowing that the object on display had once been a living person.
As he stared, he couldn't help but wonder about his own future. What if Trask found him? What if Trask killed him? Would his alien body be preserved and stuck on display for the untold millions of Earth to ogle at? Once more, he heard the cynical carnival barker's voice in his mind.
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Step right up! See the amazing alien body! He looked like a man, spoke like a man, but possessed powers beyond imagining! See how, even in death, nothing can pierce his flesh! See how, even in death, no flame can burn him!
Clark shuddered in the dark, moving away from the nameless body in the glass case.
***
February 13, 2193
Tempus frowned as he took stock of the world around him. Everything had started out so promising. He'd handed over the infant Kal-El to Cameron Trask. The man had been so eager to possess the alien infant. He had been so ready to begin the process of turning the baby into a super soldier, one with the ability to take down entire governments on a whim, all while barely batting an eyelash.
When Tempus had left this universe, he had done so secure in the knowledge that he had won the battle.
With Kal-El nothing more than a science-experiment, a lab rat, a brainwashed minion, there was no way that Utopia could possibly exist. It was a complete impossibility.
But as he looked around Metropolis now, he didn't see any of the trash or graffiti that should have greeted him. He didn't see the violence he'd been so desperately ready for. In fact, there was no sign at all that his plan had worked. Curious, and more than a little annoyed, he wandered through the quiet streets. Dawn was just streaking the sky above him with pinks and blues, and puffy white clouds trimmed in gold from the rising sun. He headed straight for Centennial Park, knowing he would get his answer there.
Only a few early morning risers were out. Tempus nodded irritably as he passed an older man walking his black lab, the dog straining against his collar, hoping for a run. He scowled at the two college age women who jogged toward him down the freshly asphalted path. They had the audacity to shoot him matching dirty looks. That caused Tempus to chuckle to himself. No matter what else, in Utopia or not, there were elements of human nature that did not change.
He found the place he was looking for easily enough. He could find it with his eyes closed if he had to.
The Fountain.
The place where Clark Kent and Lois Lane had become engaged to be married. Now immortalized as a shrine to the Man of Steel and the woman he'd bound his life to.
Some time after they had both passed on, their descendants had gone public with their true identities. But society had been well on its way to becoming Utopia, and there had not been a backlash the way Tempus would have liked to have seen. Instead of condemning the superhero as a liar - after all, he had misled the world a few times about who he really was - the world had celebrated the alien. Statues had been erected in his honor, depicting him with his wife, both as Superman and as Clark. Some even showed them with their children, like this one, and still others with their children and grandchildren.
Tempus gritted his teeth as he rounded the bend in the path, coming out from behind the tall evergreen hedge that lined the walkway. The Fountain was still there, along with the statue of Lois and Clark, and their half-breed mongrel children.
Somehow, his plan had failed. Even with Kal-El handed over to Trask, something had gone wrong. Somehow, he'd still managed to find Lois in this universe. And whenever that happened, Utopia was an inevitability.
He needed a new plan. He had to find some way of preventing those two from linking up. He thought carefully over his college Lane History classes. As he did so, glaring at the statue before him as though he himself possessed heat vision to melt it, a seed of an idea took root in his mind.
Smiling to himself, he put his back to the statue and swiftly left the area. He had preparations to make.
***
February 16, 1993
"Perry!" Lois Lane cried, rushing through the bullpen of the Daily Planet. She pitched her voice loud enough to cut through the chaos of sound all around them. "Perry!"
Perry turned at the sound of Lois' voice. It was clear that whatever she was approaching him about, she was excited. He squashed down the proud smile that was threatening to break out over his face.
"Yes?" he asked, as she finally reached his side. "You have something for me?"
Lois thrust a handful of pages at him. "Here's the stories on the bank robbery, the rash of car thefts, and yes, even the opening of the Lexor. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we talk in your office?"
Perry raised an amused eyebrow at Lois' babble. The girl could talk a mile a minute without pausing for breath, but she was also one of the best damned reporters he'd ever seen. She already had two Kerth Awards under her belt, and, if Perry's instincts were right, she had a good shot at winning another one this year as well. He gestured to his office, opening the door and letting her step inside first.
"What's this all about?" he asked, as he seated himself behind his desk. "And cut straight to the chase, if you don't mind. I'm in the middle of something big here."
"Perry, this is bigger than your trip to Graceland," Lois said, smiling as though she knew a secret that he didn't.
"Easy for you to say," Perry huffed. "Now, spill it or leave my office."
His tone with her was gentle, teasing almost. He loved the young woman before him like a daughter, and she knew it.
"Gunrunning."
"Come again?"
"I've got a lead on a gunrunning operation," Lois clarified.
"Uh-huh."
"In the Congo."
"Where'd you get this information?"
"Bobby Bigmouth. He got it from someone in the government. Weird name. What was it? Tampos? Timpas? Anyway, it doesn't matter."
"So you..."
"I want to go over there, Perry. I want to be the one to crack this story open."
"You sure you can trust this?" Perry asked, concerned.
"Bobby's never lead me astray before," Lois said, shrugging. "You know his leads always pan out. I have the articles to prove it."
"I don't know about sending you over there by yourself," Perry said, fidgeting with a pencil. "It's pretty rough over there right now. Especially for someone like you. Young, attractive, American, and female."
"Perry..."
"Now, Lois, I know you feel like you have the right to this story. And ordinarily, I'd agree. But I don't know if I'd feel right sending you over there."
"Perry!" Lois said, her voice hitching up an octave as she fought the impulse to yell. "This is my lead. You can't send someone else!"
"I didn't say I was going to stop you," Perry said with a sly grin. "But I want you to take Eduardo with you."
"Eduardo?" Lois squeaked. "Oh come on, Perry! What's he going to do, other than get in my way?"
"Lois," Perry said, in a warning tone.
"No, Perry," she argued back, crossing her arms. "A story this big could be Pulitzer worthy. And if you think I'm about to share it with anyone, you can forget it right now."
With that, Lois was out of the editor's office. Perry sighed as he watched her retreating form. It was clear that her mind was made up. And, editor or not, there were times when he knew he would never be able to change her mind. Lois would do whatever she wanted, despite what he asked, begged, or ordered her to do. One day, it would get her into trouble. He was sure of it.
***
February 20, 1993
Clark Kent sat at the sagging, shabby bar in the hotel he was staying at. He sipped absently from the mug of beer in front of him, his eyes sweeping over the other patrons surreptitiously. Not many people were around, and those who were sat in small groups of two or three, all with their own drinks. Some spoke in low tones, ones that Clark could easily pick out with his special hearing, if he bothered to. Others laughed loudly. A couple of men threw darts down at the far end of the room. But for the most part, the people around him were subdued. Even in here, the heat of the day still ruled, despite the efforts of ceiling fans and heavily shaded windows. The air was so thick with humidity that he felt as if he were drinking it rather than breathing it.
He sighed softly, trying to figure out his next move, and staring into the amber liquid before him as though it would yield the answers he sought. He hadn't really been thinking when he'd fled Borneo. He had merely let the winds take him where they wanted. And somehow, that had led him to the Congo.
For three long days he had been here, trying to decide what to do next. Should he stay here for a time and see if he could make a home of it, even for a short time? Should he pick a new place on the map, leaving once it grew dark out? Should he fly back home, to his parents, and ask their advice?
No, he had to rule that last one out. The last time he'd done that, he'd wound up arguing with them until late into the night. They had wanted him to end his self-imposed exile. But he just couldn't muster up the courage to do that. He still had nightmares about Trask discovering who he was. And in those nightmares, the people he loved always got hurt or killed, without fail. Besides, he hated arguing with his parents. He loved them fiercely and always felt guilty when he argued with them.
No, he would have to figure this one out on his own. With another hearty sigh, Clark drained the rest of his mug, then set it down. The heavy glass made a solid thunk as it made contact with the wooden bar top. It was his third beer since plopping down on the worn barstool and, judging from the look on the bartender's face, he wasn't going to be permitted to have another. It was times like this when he actually hated the fact that alcohol had absolutely no effect on him. He really wished he could get drunk enough to pass out in his room for a few hours and have a deep, dreamless sleep.
At least the bar served decent food, he thought to himself. It had been a few weeks since he'd last eaten a meal, not really needing to since the sun gave him all the nourishment he required. He hadn't even really had the opportunity to fly home for his mother's cooking. So the meal tonight had been more than welcome. He actually wished he could afford another round of food, but he simply hadn't had much success in finding work. Freelance work wasn't bad, but it was unpredictable and didn't pay as well as a staff job. Not that it mattered much. Clark was constantly on the move as it was.
As Clark gazed down at the empty mug on the scratched bartop, he regretted his decision to blow his much needed money on something as pointless and frivolous as beer. Not only did it have no effect on him whatsoever, but it hadn't even been that great of a brew, leaving behind an unpleasant after-taste.
Stupid, he chided himself.
Unsure of what to do now or where to go, Clark reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a few bills and set them on the bar. He was about to stand and leave when his hearing picked up two voices speaking toward the back of the room. They were talking in hushed whispers, but what had jarred his attention was the fact that one of them, the female, sounded oddly familiar to him. He listened intently for a moment, feeling guilty for eavesdropping, but needing, on some primal level, to figure out where he'd heard that voice before.
"Come on, Karl," the woman said, a hard edge to her voice. "I didn't fly all this way for you to tell me that you have nothing."
The dark-skinned man she was talking to shook his bald head. "I'm sorry, Miss Lane. I can't help you."
"Damn it, Karl! You know as well as I do about the rumors."
"That's all they are, I'm afraid. Rumors."
Clark blinked. The man - Karl - had said Ms. Lane. Suddenly, Clark found himself sitting in the bleachers of the Metropolis University football field after he had broken his third record. He was being interviewed by Lois Lane, the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Could this woman possibly be the same person? Had fate crossed their paths again?
He had to know. He twisted in his seat a little, just enough to peer over to where she sat, in a prim, crisp khaki business suit, modest pumps, and pair of sunglasses resting atop her dark tresses. Clark's breath caught in his throat as he looked. She was a little more mature looking, a little more hardened by the world around her, but he would recognize her anywhere. Her hair, once so long, had been cropped into a neat pageboy style, but there was no doubt in his mind that she was the same woman who had interviewed him and stolen his heart all in the same moment.
"Oh, that's just wonderful," Lois complained, throwing her hands up into the air in exasperation. "I'll just fly back home tonight. Then the Daily Planet can post a detailed article on the fact that there are only rumors of a gunrunning ring operating in the Congo. We should sell out by noon! My editor will be thrilled that he agreed to send me here. In fact, I should go home and clear off some space on my shelf for all the awards I'll win for reporting that nothing is happening here."
"Ssh!" Karl cautioned her. "Not so loud. You don't know who may be listening. It could be dangerous to your health."
"I'm a reporter," Lois argued back, though her voice did drop a little lower. "Danger is part of my job description."
Karl chuckled a little. "Miss Lane, do you have any idea what would happen to a woman like you if the smugglers got wind of you on their trail?"
"Aha!" Lois said in a triumphant whisper. "So there are smugglers."
Karl sighed. "I merely ask in a theoretical sense."
"That's a load of bull, if you ask me."
"Ms. Lane..."
"I don't need you to protect me, Karl."
"Fine. Have it your way," the man said, standing. "Goodbye, Miss Lane."
Karl turned his back to Lois and swiftly made his way out of the bar. Lois' color rose in aggravation. She stood, slamming her palms on the wooden tabletop, then stormed out of the room, calling after Karl. Clark listened for a few minutes, as he made his way out of the bar. But the man never replied to Lois.
"Fine," Clark heard the woman mutter under her breath. "I'll just have to do this the hard way."
***
February 25, 1993
Clark had been shadowing Lois Lane for days. The gunrunning story didn't interest him in the least. He wasn't the type to swoop in and steal someone else's story. But he had been concerned about Lois' safety. So he had appointed himself her unseen protector, staying in the shadows, always out of her detection.
So far, she hadn't managed to get into any trouble, but Clark had the gut instinct that it would find her sooner or later. It was just a matter of where and when. And all the while, he ached to be able to approach her. He wanted so badly to talk to her, get to know her, and allow her to get to know him. But he was afraid. He didn't want the inevitable questions of why was he in the Congo, was he competing for the same story, how did he manage to randomly come across her, here on the opposite side of the world from her home. And so, he contented himself with watching from a distance, listening to the mesmerizing sound of her voice, getting to know, in intimate detail, the unique sound of her heartbeat.
Clark watched as Lois left the hotel where she was staying, which, as luck would have it, was the same as the one he'd checked into a few days before she had arrived in the Congo. It was late, but the heat of the day still lingered in the air. The humidity was so high that Clark's clothes clung limply to his body, though he did not sweat. He stayed in the shadows as he watched her get into the rental Jeep she was using. For a few moments, she merely let the vehicle idle, waiting for the air conditioner to fully kick in. Then she was off, driving through the night.
Clark followed behind, flying through the dark sky. He barely had to exert any energy to keep up with Lois, though her driving pattern did leave him more than a little worried about her. If she kept driving the way she was, she wouldn't need the gunrunners to find her in order to get hurt or killed. Clark shook his head to himself and flew on.
Two hours later, Lois pulled the car over to the side of the road. She got out, armed with a tape recorder and camera. Clark dropped in altitude a bit, closing the distance between them slightly. He wanted to be as close to her as possible, without giving himself away. He could be at her side in the blink of an eye if need be, but he still didn't want to leave any unnecessary space between them.
He followed her as she took off into the underbrush, wading through various ferns, sapling trees, and high grasses until she was close to a mile from her car. A ramshackle cabin stood in the gloom, light spilling out from the single grimy window in the side facing them. Lois cautiously approached the building, ready with her camera. The window was open, allowing in as much of the night air as possible.
Lois crouched below the window, listening for a long time, the tape recorder in her hand. Clark hovered behind the wide trunk of a tree, directly behind Lois. He scanned right through the solid bark and through the wall of the cabin. He frowned. Lois had been right. There were definitely gunrunners in the building. He watched as they carefully packed weapons into crates labeled coffee, palm oil, rubber, and cocoa.
Lois carefully peered through the window, just enough to barely be seen at the lower edge. Her camera began to snap pictures, the sound all but imperceptible. Photo after photo she took, pausing only to swap out the rolls of film with fresh ones. She stayed there for half an hour, maybe more, before she finally lowered the camera and shut off the tape recorder.
Within the building, the men were finishing their task. Clark heard them lightly joking with each other as they carefully tucked away the last of the guns, then nailed shut the crate they were in. He realized that they were getting ready to call it a night, leaving behind only a couple of guards. Lois realized this as well, and she stealthily began to move away, back through the jungle to her Jeep.
But in the darkness, she didn't see the protruding root from the tree where Clark was hiding. She hit the ground with a thud and an involuntary gasp of pain as she landed flat on her stomach. At the same time, her body crashed nosily through a fern. Inside the cabin, voices rose to shouting. Clark could see the men within reaching for their guns.
Quick as lightning, he flew to the building. Finding a heavy, broken tree limb, he did his best to bar the door. The men inside pounded against the door, frantically trying to get at their eavesdropper. Two men headed to the window, poking the barrels of their firearms out into the humid air. Clark heard their fingers tightening on the triggers. He had just enough time to check the limb once more and position his body behind Lois. An instant later, he felt the bullets skipping off his back.
Lois, meanwhile, had gotten back to her feet. She took off through the jungle, running as fast as she could manage. Clark stayed behind her, floating just an inch above the ground so she would not hear a second set of footsteps. Now and again, he could hear the sharp crack of the gunrunners' weapons firing at random into the jungle. He heard the crash of the door as they finally muscled it open. He heard them spreading out in all directions, looking for Lois.
He allowed himself a small sigh of relief when Lois was safely back in the Jeep and speeding back toward the hotel. For a moment, he stayed put, hidden in the deep shadows of the jungle, utterly unnoticed by Lois. He wondered if he should round up the gunrunners or if he should tail Lois all the way back to the hotel. But in the next second, he made up his mind. He needed to follow Lois. He needed to ensure that she was all right. He could come back for the gunrunners later, or send the authorities to the hideaway Lois had managed to find.
Lois drove so quickly that she managed to cut the travel time almost in half. Clark stayed with her, flying above the roof of her car, his senses alert for everything and anything. The gunrunners did not follow. That made him uneasy. He had thought for sure they would be tailing the car as closely as possible. Something was going on, he just wasn't sure what.
At last, the hotel came into sight. Lois finally relaxed her foot off the gas pedal, allowing the vehicle to slow down somewhat. She pulled into a spot as soon as she hit the modest parking lot, then hopped out of the driver's seat. For a moment, she stood there, leaning against the car. Clark heard her nervous, yet relieved, laughter quietly slipping out into the night.
"Lois, you've really pulled it off this time," she whispered to herself. "Pulitzer, here I come."
Pushing away from her rental car, she headed back into the hotel. Clark shadowed her, careful to ensure that she did not notice his presence. He took advantage of her momentary distraction in the lobby as she asked the clerk if there were any messages for her, using it to get ahead of her. Something wasn't right in the hotel. He could feel it in his bones.
He had long since discovered what room was Lois', so he headed there first. The light had gone out in the hall, plunging it into deep shadows. Clark grew more and more uneasy. He passed her door, pausing once he was certain he was cloaked enough to avoid her detection. He tuned in his hearing, listening to the sounds of life all around him. He heard snoring coming from several rooms on the floor, since it was bordering on five am. In one room, an insomniac was flipping listlessly through the few television channels. At the other end of the hallway, he could hear a businessman mumbling to himself as he packed his things, rushing to make his flight.
Footsteps.
Lois was coming. Clark slunk deeper into the shadows. Lois reached her door and inserted the key into the lock. That's when Clark heard it. The soft click of a gun's safety mechanism being disabled. Clark dove at Lois.
"Look out!" he called, as he tackled her to the ground.
Lois landed face first on the old, worn, musty carpeting. Clark pressed his body lightly against her, forming a shield. He knew his body would be able to protect her from what was coming.
"Hey! What the hell are...?"
Gun shots exploded, ripping apart the silence and piercing the wood of the door. They left holes in the wall on the opposite side of hall, the wood splintering and taking flight in all directions.
"It's all right," Clark tried to reassure the woman, hoping she wouldn't be able to twist enough to get a good look at him. "I'll protect you."
A bullet skipped off his forehead. He was infinitely glad that Lois was currently staring only at the floor. Clark heard the hollow click as the shooter pulled the trigger on an empty bullet chamber.
"Stay down," he ordered Lois.
Then, before she could do so much as take a breath, he dashed away, into her hotel room. With a small bit of assistance from his incredible speed, he tackled the shooter before the man could finish reloading. The man fumbled with the new magazine of bullets as Clark grabbed him from behind. He securely grabbed the man's wrists and held them behind his back. With a tiny bit of calculated pressure, he forced the shooter to release his grip on his weapon, then he kicked it across the room.
Taking one of Lois' scarves, he quickly bound the man's hands. He only hoped the thin, gauzy material would hold him. He shoved the shooter into the chair that stood by the window, then used another scarf to tie him to it. One final scarf bound the man's ankles to the chair legs.
In the next moment, Clark had his back to the man and was out the door. He had worked so quickly that Lois was only just now starting to venture a look up. Clark was beside her in an instant, bending over her and offering his hand to her. She took it blindly and he helped her to her feet.
"What...what just happened?" she asked in a dazed voice.
"Your source...Karl. Looks like he was in league with the gunrunners."
"Oh God," Lois groaned. Then she paused, thinking. "Wait...how did you...?"
"It doesn't matter," Clark said. "What matters is that you tell the authorities everything you know about the gunrunning operation."
"You wouldn't be trying to steal my story, would you?" Lois asked, giving him a hard look.
Clark let out a soft laugh. "No," he reassured her. "You did all the legwork on it. Print your story. I dare-say you should win some awards with it." He gave her a grin, knowing that she probably couldn't see it.
"Come into the light," she asked, as the pounding of footsteps sounded behind her.
Clark shook his head. Police swarmed into the room, weapons raised. "They are going to need you to make a statement."
"And you," she countered.
"No," Clark said, stepping backwards a pace. "I can't afford to be associated with this." He took three more steps backwards.
"Wait!" Lois cried, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "You saved my life. Thank you. But please, at least tell me your name."
Clark hesitated. He couldn't give her his real name, but he didn't want to lie and make up one either. And yet, he wanted so much to reveal himself to her. Maybe, just maybe, it would allow him to get to know her. He desperately wanted to get to know her.
"I'm...a friend," he finally said.
"Miss Lane!" Two of the police officers approached Lois. She turned to look at them. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, fine. Just a second," she said, waving them away and turning back to Clark.
But he was already gone, zipping down the stairwell at the far end of the corridor and heading to his own room. Once there, he slipped out of his window. Tonight, he would patrol the area, ensuring that no further attempts were made on Lois' life. And once she left the hotel, heading back to her home, he would move on again.
As he circled around the hotel, a silent sentinel, he kept his hearing tuned to Lois. He listened as she filled in the authorities on what had taken place that night. Once they were satisfied, he heard her pacing her room, perhaps still riding the wave of adrenaline he was sure she had to have been experiencing. She picked up the phone after a while, dialing a long series of numbers to call overseas.
"Hi, Perry. Yes, I know it's after midnight. But I have one hell of a story for you..."
To Be Continued...
