Before we get to the story, I have some warnings for you:
1. This story will be posted in short segments, hopefully weekly.
2. This story will be written in the first person.
3. The latter part of this segment is dark and WHAMmy.
4. I have no idea how long this story will be, or even what will happen next.
That said, there are reasons for all of those. The WHAM is, of course, to give the story a nice suspenseful rolling start. The others can all be explained by the way the story itself works. You see, I'm going to leave what happens next up to you, the readers.
Here's how it works (or how I hope it'll work...):
I'll post parts on Mondays. In the comments folder, I'll ask a question. Generally, that question will be "What should Lois do now?" (I'll be open to suggestions for Clark, but, as the title suggests, I'm not expecting much of him at the moment. Also, please keep in mind while you're reading that I'll be asking that question.)
Wednsday night, I'll collect your answers. I'll take the ones I'd be willing and able to write and turn them into a poll. That should be most, if not all, of the serious suggestions. I'm sorry to tell you, though, that Lois will not be taking time out of a life-or-death investigation to go get a haircut, no matter how many of you would have voted for it.
The poll will expire Friday at midnight (US Eastern Time). No one, including myself, will be able to see the results until then.
I'll check the results Friday night, and do my best to write the next part over the weekend so I can post again on Monday.
Hopefully, it'll all work out. It'll be interesting to see.
I have just two more notes before we get to the story.
This story is set in an alternate season three. Most events occured as we saw them on the show, but don't count on that when making or voting for suggestions.
Last, but certainly not least, I need to thank Kaylle. Thanks to some intense brainstorming with her, I know exactly who the villains are, what they want, and what they've been doing. She was a huge help, so no fair repaying that service by bugging her for info.
She also beta read this part for me, for which I am very grateful. With a story like this, it's even more crucial than usual that I give the readers just enough information -- not too much that you just jump ahead, but not so little that you're left frustrated and without any good options. So, if this story works, a large part of the credit goes to her.
Well, I think I've said quite enough. Time for Lois to take over...
Feb 1, 1996
Lois's POV
It was a bright, clear morning. I remember that. They'd been predicting snow, but I didn't see a cloud in the sky. I smiled to myself. It had been a week since I'd come home from Tempus's twisted alternate universe, and I was still riding high. I'd left the people of that world with newfound hope. With the help of the the Clark Kent of that universe, I'd made a real, noticable difference. It had felt good, really good. At the same time, the experience had given me a greater appreciation for the comforts of home. Sure, there were neighborhood with gangs and guns, and many of the city's officials were probably corrupt, but it was a far cry from the world I'd left. It had been a place of fear and paranoia, where no one walked the streets unarmed, where Tempus had nearly been elected mayor, and where, as far as everyone knew, Lois Lane was dead.
So, as I drove to work that day, I did so in a cheerful mood. I was warm and safe inside my Jeep, the weather was better than I'd been expecting, the people around me didn't have automatic rifles, and in just under two weeks, I was going to marry the most amazing man to ever walk the earth (or, for that matter, to fly above it). I did, however, spare a moment to grumble to myself about the capricious accuracy of the weather forecasters. When I was a kid, they'd been fairly consistent. If they'd told you it was going to snow, you could at least be fairly confident about crossing "snow" off the list of what to expect. In the years since then, the accuracy of their predictions had gone up from about five percent to about sixty, which was completely unhelpful. You just never knew what to expect.
When I got to the newsroom, the first thing I noticed was that Clark wasn't there. It wasn't like him to be late, and he'd have told me if he'd gotten a lead on a story. If he wasn't at his desk, it could only be because Superman was needed elsewhere. I hadn't heard anything on the radio during my drive over, so it probably wasn't anything major. Hopefully he'd be in soon. We'd lost several days' worth of wedding planning time, thanks to my little extradimensional "vacation," and we were still working to catch up. With the date so close, things were starting to get tight.
I sat down at my desk and sorted through the messages that had been left for me. Half of them were about the wedding. My mother alone had called no less than eight times already that morning, hoping to settle some detail or other. The florist had also called with a minor crisis, the band was trying to get us to agree to pay overtime for the last hour, and some city bureaucrat was notifying us that we couldn't get a marriage license without certain documented blood test results. I put those messages in a pile on the side of my desk. I'd deal with them when Clark came.
Sifting through the work-related messages, I found little of consequence. Legal needed whatever evidence I could give them about Baron Sunday's criminal activities. After he'd escaped from Superman, he'd apparently left the country. He'd never been taken into police custody, but we'd still written the story. Now safe from arrest, he was attempting to sue the Planet. He didn't have a leg to stand on, of course, but Legal wanted to cover all the angles. I made a mental note to copy the relevant files and drop them into an interdepartmental envelope.
The next few messages were company memos. I glanced at them and tossed them out. An envelope from Washington, DC caught my eye. The government was still sorting through the aftermath of the treasonous NIA plot we'd exposed with the help of Jimmy's father. The president himself had made sure we were kept up to date on the progress of the investigation and the restructuring, or at least the details that weren't too highly classified. I looked through the latest. Nothing too earth-shaking, but certainly enough for a sidebar.
Having gotten to the end of the messages, I took a second to look around. Clark still hadn't arrived, and the news feeds still weren't reporting any Super activity. I squelched a pang of worry. Maybe the media hadn't caught up to him yet. Maybe it was just one of those days when small things cropped up, one after another. Nothing to worry about. I booted up my computer and took a minute to check my email. A message came in with the subject "A tip for you" from "SecretSanta@goal.com." It was probably just some crank, or someone with some worthless information they thought was a hot tip. The address itself didn't say much for the credibility of the sender, though it was intriguing. It was obviously an account which had been set up for anonymity. There was no name, just Secret Santa. Knowing it was from a GOAL address didn't help very much, either. Get Online At Lexcorp was a popular service provider, though I'd never understood why. My aversion to anything associated with Lex Luthor aside, I just couldn't see why anyone would put up with it. Their menus were all graphical, supposedly to make navigating through their maze of services a little easier. A good idea, in principle, but even with the Planet's modems, which were capable of transferring over fourteen thousand bits of data per second, a single menu took an intolerably long time to load. Still, like I said, a lot of people seemed to like it. A few businesses, too, so I couldn't even be sure that the message was from a personal account, although the anonymous username made it seem like a safe bet. I considered deleting the message, but then decided that it couldn't hurt to at least give it a look. There weren't any attachments, so at least it wasn't a virus.
TO: LLane@dailyplanet.com
FROM: SecretSanta@goal.com
DATE: 02/01/96 07:02:56 AM
RE: A tip for you
Dear Ms. Lane,
You may be interested in the contents of a certain shipment coming in to Pier 31 at around 11 PM tonight.
Love,
Your Secret Admirer
It was certainly an interesting message, I thought. I wasn't too happy about the implications of that signature, but if it meant a scoop, I was willing to put up with some extra attention. Not that I could be sure that the information was at all reliable, but it might be worth checking out. Maybe there was a legitimate reason behind my so-called admirer's desire for anonymity. Of course, it could also be a trap, but I wasn't too worried about that. I'd gotten out of plenty of tight situations before, and now I had Superman to back me up.
At least, I hoped I did. Clark still hadn't turned up, at work or on the news. Well, he was Superman; he could take care of himself. I pushed my growing unease aside and got to work on the NIA sidebar. As I was finishing it up, though, I heard a news report about an airplane that was in trouble. They were calling for Superman, but there was no sign of him. No one knew where he was, no one had seen him, no one knew how to find him. I tried calling Clark's pager. I groaned when I heard it beeping at his desk. He'd left it there last night after dashing out for a rescue. He must have forgotten to come back and pick it up. I had no way to get in touch with him, and my gut was telling me with increasing urgency that something had happened to him. I only wished I knew what it was, and, more importantly, what I could do about it.
******
Clark's POV
I woke up to pain. It was dulled somewhat by the grogginess, but that wasn't much consolation. I wasn't really used to either sensation. I tried to remember what had happened, but didn't come up with useful information. Obviously, I'd encountered Kryptonite, but I didn't know how or why. I decided to give my head some time to clear before trying to prod through my memories again. Instead, I focused on taking stock of my surroundings.
I quickly realized I'd been blindfolded. Not a good sign. I tried looking through it, but it was no use. My powers were gone. From the feel of my skin, I was in the Suit. That didn't seem right, but I wasn't sure why. I tried to move around a bit, but didn't get too far. I'd been tied to something. A chair, probably, but I couldn't be sure. The bonds were tight, more than I could hope to break through or slip out of, given my weakened state.
My headache was starting to clear a bit. Not much, but enough for me to realize that there were voices nearby. I'd been hearing them since I'd woken up, but they'd been too indistinct to catch my attention through the pain. They were getting closer now, though. From the sound of their footsteps, I guessed that several people were walking through a nearby concrete hallway.
A door opened. The voices became much clearer.
"... about that, but I'm sure you can appreciate the need for secrecy." The voice was clearly male, but not one I recognized.
A female voice responded. It seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't come up with anything solid. "Yes, but I don't like it when the secrets are kept from *me*."
"Well, we can talk about that later. First, I'd like to introduce you to my guest."
"After you."
He chuckled. "You still don't trust me, even with your... friends looking out for you?"
Her voice turned deadly serious. "I don't trust anyone."
"A sound policy, if a lonely one." I heard footsteps, then the man spoke again. "See? It's safe. No traps."
More footsteps. Some heavy ones, followed, at last, by a lighter set. "That's him?" she asked.
"Yes. Not much to look at now, is he?"
"I want proof. You say it's him. If he doesn't have his powers, how do I know that it's not a trick?"
"With this." Suddenly, I felt a searing pain. I gasped and pulled away. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the pain was gone. "Here," he continued, "take it. The box opens smoothly, and, as you can see, he's blindfolded. If it were anyone else, he'd have no way of knowing when you opened it."
A pause. Footsteps. Another pause, then pain. I struggled, but it only got worse. "Oh, it is him!" she exclaimed delightedly. The pain continued.
"Careful, not too much. I want to keep him around a while longer."
"Why?"
"For fun. Oh, it's safe enough. He can't get out of here, not tied up like that, and not if I keep that box around."
"It's still a risk."
"It's worth it. Here, watch." A TV turned on, but I didn't pay any attention to it. Not with the Kryptonite still there.
"What's that for?"
"Just wait. Close the box."
A pause, then the pain subsided. I knew that if my captor wanted me to listen to the TV, I'd be better off ignoring it, but it was the only sound in the room. I couldn't help but pick up the words. I was confused to realize I was listening to a commercial. It ended, and another one came on. Still woozy from the Kryptonite, I wondered if the plan was to torture me with an endless stream of commercials. Then a new voice came on.
"Welcome back. I'm Leslie Willis, and you're watching LNN. Our top story tonight: Where is Superman? There have been no reported sightings of the hero today, despite frantic pleas for assistance. Earlier today, a commercial airliner bearing 327 passengers crashed due to mechanical failure. LNN obtained this recording of the pilot's conversation with Metropolis International Airport's control tower.
"I shut down engine #4, but it doesn't look good."
"Try to keep it level. We're clearing the runway for you. Emergency teams are standing by."
"Oh ****! There goes #2! I don't think we're going to make it!"
"Stay calm. We're calling for help. Just try to keep it level."
"I'm trying, but if you want to send help, it better be soon. I'm losing control here! Oh, that's it. Only Superman can save us now!"
Leslie's voice came back on. "Calls were sent out through Emergency Services and the news media, but Superman did not arrive. All passengers and crew who were aboard the flight are presumed dead. The exact cause of the failure is under investigation, but preliminary reports suggest faulty maintenance. An FAA spokesperson told reporters that investigators have no reason at this time to suspect foul play. LNN is asking that anyone with information about the whereabouts of Superman please call our toll free news line at 1-800-555-1234.
"In other news, gang violence in Metropolis is on the rise. In the last three months, the number of reported firefights has increased..."
The woman laughed, covering the sound of the television. "Oh, you're cruel. I like that!"
"So, do I get to join your little club?"
"I'd prefer to talk about that somewhere a little more... comfortable."
"Certainly. We'll just leave our guest to entertain himself, then."
The footsteps retreated. The door closed. I sat, weakened, pained, blindfolded, helpless. I tried to rest, to gather my strength, but I couldn't tune out the continuing litany of people I'd failed to save. I struggled, with myself and with my bonds, until sheer exhaustion finally brought me some measure, however temporary, of peace.
