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Chapter 7

348 Hyperion Avenue

In their bedroom, the atmosphere was relaxed, but the anticipation of the upcoming infiltration lingered in the air. Lois, standing in front of the mirror, tried on several outfits before finally settling on an elegant burgundy dress that flattered her figure while reflecting the confidence of a woman ready to step into a world of high-stakes gambling. The rich, intense color was her favorite—and, more importantly, it was the one that never failed to melt Clark’s resolve.

Meanwhile, Clark sat on the bed, practicing shuffling and dealing cards with an almost supernatural precision. His movements were quick, nearly imperceptible to the human eye. Yet his focus continually drifted toward Lois, who was admiring herself in the mirror. He had removed his glasses—a private gesture he reserved for moments when he was simply Clark, unburdened by the weight of being Superman.

He watched her, captivated, letting the cards slide effortlessly between his fingers, though his mind was no longer on the task. His eyes lingered on the curve of her back, the way the light caught her hair, and the grace with which she adjusted the necklace resting on her collarbone.

Sensing his gaze, Lois turned slightly toward him, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“Clark, you’re supposed to be practicing your dealing skills, not playing the admiring husband.”

Clark smiled softly, the cards slipping from his hands onto the bed without him even noticing.
“How am I supposed to focus when you’re standing there, looking like that?” His voice was low, tinged with passion.

Lois raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, before walking toward him, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor.
“Oh, is Mr. Kent having trouble staying focused?”

Clark gently took her hand as she reached him, pulling her toward him. She perched on his lap, her dress pooling elegantly around them.
“I assure you, I’m focused... just not on what Perry asked us to do.”

He pressed a tender kiss to her bare shoulder, his hands gliding over her hips. Lois closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the intimacy.
“You really should get back to practicing, Clark. We need to be ready for tonight.”

Clark sighed, his mischievous smile betraying his lack of interest in the cards.
“Fine... but you’re so much more captivating than any deck of cards, Lois.”

They lingered in the moment, stealing a brief reprieve from their hectic lives, before Lois rose, her lips curling into a playful smirk.
“Alright, dealer, back to work.”

Clark sighed, retrieving the cards, though his gaze never left his wife, stunning in that burgundy dress.

Black Star Circle

Clark, disguised with a neatly trimmed beard and round glasses, wore a sharp ensemble: a fitted white shirt, a black vest, and a bow tie. He was wrapping up a game of blackjack with a professional smile.
“I’ll now reveal my hand. The dealer has 20—you lose,” he announced, gathering the chips from the disappointed players, who stood and walked away from the table.

A man approached, raising his hand as if to stop them.
“Don’t leave just yet—Carl’s coming. You’re about to see real skill!” Humility, it seemed, was not Carl Bowers’ strong suit.

The games continued, and Carl, as promised, played with remarkable skill. Players came and went. A man seated next to Carl leaned in and murmured something in his ear. Clark’s super hearing caught every word.
“Nice fireworks this morning. The boss couldn’t stop raving about you.”

Carl was about to respond when murmurs swept through the room. He turned to see Lois entering on Perry’s arm.
“Check out the doll,” he muttered under his breath.

Lois and Perry’s entrance had been carefully choreographed to draw just the right amount of attention while maintaining credibility. Draped in her satin burgundy dress, perfectly tailored to her figure, Lois exuded understated elegance. Long silk gloves adorned her arms, and a delicate necklace graced her neck, signaling a woman of wealth and privilege. Her hair was styled in a sophisticated updo, giving her the air of a composed businesswoman. She scanned the room with a confident, slightly detached expression.

At her side, Perry, clad in an impeccable black suit, adopted a more reserved demeanor. He leaned in to murmur something to Lois, perhaps offering advice or encouragement. Their camaraderie felt natural, well-rehearsed.

They approached the main gaming table, where Carl Bowers—their target—sat.
“This is where the real fun happens,” Perry announced with a confident grin, straightening slightly to draw the attention of nearby players. “Miss Thornton has a particular fondness for risk.”

Lois offered a poised smile, taking a seat and casually eyeing the stack of chips in front of Carl.
“Risk... it’s what makes things interesting, isn’t it?” she said, her tone cool and calculating as she focused on the dealer’s cards.

From his position behind the table, Clark immediately recognized her but kept his expression neutral. He briefly glanced at Perry before returning his attention to the cards.

Carl, grinning, turned his attention to Lois, flashing a charming smile.
“That’s a rare quality in newcomers. I hope you’re up to the challenge.”

“Oh, I never play unless I’m certain I’ll win,” Lois replied with icy confidence.

As Perry observed the other players, blending seamlessly into the background, Clark continued to deal the cards, using his super hearing to pick up on the whispers surrounding Carl. Key information was beginning to surface.

One player leaned toward Carl, nodding toward Lois.
“We should keep an eye on her. She seems to know what she’s doing.”

Carl, amused, chuckled.
“I hope so. It might make the night more interesting.”

Lois, staying perfectly in character, turned her head slightly and flashed Carl a mysterious smile before placing a significant bet on the table.

The game was just beginning, but already, Carl and his men’s attention were fully fixed on her. Perry exchanged a brief glance with Clark, knowing that the next moments were crucial.

As the tension grew with each dealt hand, Carl’s smug grin remained firmly in place as he racked up another win.
“Seems like luck’s on my side tonight,” he declared theatrically, stacking his chips. “Maybe this game is too subtle for some.”

Lois clenched her jaw but kept her face composed. She hated losing, especially to someone so insufferably smug.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she said coolly. “You’re playing with overconfidence. And overconfidence often leads to a fall.”

Carl laughed, clearly entertained by her remark.
“You sound like someone who loses often, my dear. Maybe you should bow out while you still have a few chips left.”

Lois leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing.
“Or maybe you should worry about what happens when your ‘luck’ runs out. Because I have no intention of folding.”

Perry, watching the scene unfold, played his role perfectly, maintaining an air of experienced authority. Clark continued to deal the cards, his expression unreadable but his senses keenly tuned to the room’s dynamics.

“Place your bets,” he said calmly, waiting for the tension between Lois and Carl to spill onto the gaming table.

Carl cast a disdainful look at Lois as he placed his chips back on the table.

"Very well, let’s see what you’ve got. Hopefully, your boldness is well-founded."

He laid down his cards, revealing a hand that was clearly a win. Lois muttered under her breath, her fingers brushing against her remaining chips.

"You’re lucky again, but luck, as you know, can turn quickly."

Carl raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"You seem quite confident for someone who’s losing. Perhaps you’ve got another trick up your sleeve?"

Lois offered a faint smile, her eyes glinting with defiance.
"Perhaps. But you should know that overconfidence can be a trap. And it seems you’re a perfect example."

Carl straightened, amused, and gave the table a light tap.
"You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But sometimes, guts aren’t enough to beat skill."

Lois stood from her chair, leaning slightly forward to meet Carl at eye level.
"And sometimes, arrogance and conceit aren’t enough to maintain a facade. I wonder how long you’ll keep your mask from slipping."

Carl rose as well, their faces inches apart, the tension palpable.
"What are you implying? Do you think you can intimidate me with threats?"

Lois met his gaze head-on.
"I don’t make threats, Carl. I state facts. And believe me, the night is far from over."

Sensing the rising tension, Perry intervened, placing a calm hand on Lois’ shoulder.
"Why don’t we leave it at that for now? We could all use a little breather after this round. Louise, why don’t you grab a drink? Carl, I’m sure you could use a break too."

Carl chuckled mockingly.
"Very well, let’s take a moment to relax. But I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got up your sleeve, Louise."

Lois turned slightly, joining Perry as he escorted her toward the bar.
"Don’t get your hopes up, Carl. I’m not ready to fold just yet."

She paused to murmur to Perry,
"He’s far too sure of himself. We need to find something to bring him down."

Perry nodded in understanding, while Clark, lingering in the background, watched the exchanges closely, searching for opportunities to gather additional intel.

Carl strolled toward the bar with a self-satisfied grin. Lois and Perry followed, their exchanged glances filled with strategy. At the bar, Perry ordered drinks while engaging in casual conversation to blend into the environment.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.

Perry turned to Lois, offering her an encouraging smile.
"A glass of champagne for Miss Thornton, please. And for me, an aged cognac."

Lois kept her sharp gaze on Carl, observing his every move across the bar. Taking a sip of champagne, her expression remained unreadable.
"So, Perry, what do you think of the situation?" she murmured.

Perry replied in a low voice, his eyes scanning the room.
"Carl Bowers is clever and incredibly self-assured. He clearly trusts his abilities. But that might be where we can get him. He’s overconfident. We need to use that against him."

Lois nodded in agreement, her focus never wavering from Carl as he chatted with a group of players.

"I’ll have to be even bolder to unsettle him. And Clark—he needs to stay sharp. Every detail matters when trying to understand Bowers’ true motives."

Perry agreed.
"Clark’s doing great. He’s already picking up key intel. We need to keep playing the part and stay discreet."

Lois turned to Perry, her resolve evident.
"I’m going back to the table and raising the stakes. I want Carl to feel threatened. If we can push him to make a mistake, we might unearth something incriminating."

Perry nodded, appreciating Lois’ determination.
"Alright, let’s do it. I’ll stay here and keep an eye out for anything useful. Be careful, Lois. And make sure to keep the upper hand."

Lois adjusted her deep burgundy dress with grace and confidence before heading back to the blackjack table. Her movements were deliberate, her demeanor unshaken.

Carl greeted her with a smug smile, perceiving her boldness as a challenge he was eager to meet.
"Ready for another round?" he asked, his tone teasing.

Clark, in his role as the dealer, dealt the cards with precise and practiced movements. At the blackjack table, the tension was palpable. The players were focused, and the atmosphere buzzed with excitement.

Carl, in high spirits, stacked his chips with a disconcerting ease, a smirk playing on his lips. He seemed to savor every moment, his eyes fixed on Lois.
"Looks like luck is on my side tonight," he said, theatrically rolling his chips across the table.

Lois, gritting her teeth, slid a stack of chips to the center of the table.
"You know, Carl, luck is often a matter of perspective. And sometimes, those who seem the most confident have the most to lose."

Carl, amused, gave her a disdainful look.
"You’ve got guts, Louise. But don’t forget, the game is about strategy. Let’s see if your bravery matches your words."

Clark dealt the cards swiftly and efficiently, closely observing the players’ reactions. The game intensified with every hand. Carl kept winning, but Lois refused to back down, increasing her bets with growing determination.

"You know, Carl, I’m starting to wonder if your victories aren’t just a little too… consistent," she said, her tone challenging.

Carl shrugged, still smiling.
"Maybe. Or maybe you just haven’t figured out your cards’ true potential yet. The game’s complicated, Miss Thornton. You have to know when to bet big."

Lois leaned in, her eyes locked on Carl.
"Alright then, let’s show this room what betting big really looks like."

She placed a significant bet on the table. The air was thick with anticipation. Carl, still confident, matched her bet with ease.

"Let’s see what you’ve got up your sleeve," he said, his smirk unwavering.

Clark revealed the cards. Carl’s hand was another resounding win. Lois, visibly frustrated but unwavering, kept her composure.

"You’re lucky, Carl. But luck can change. And believe me, I don’t intend to let you win that easily."

Carl, savoring his victory, leaned toward Lois with a provocative smile.
"You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But spirit doesn’t always beat skill. Maybe you should bow out before the night costs you more than you bargained for."

Lois clenched her fists, glaring at him.
"I have no intention of leaving until I’ve proven you’re far from invincible."

Carl chuckled and addressed the other players.
"We’ve got a real competitor here. May the best hand win."

The game resumed, and the tension was at its peak. Bets increased, and each card revealed seemed to amplify the intensity of the confrontation.

Lois responded by sitting at the table with calm confidence.
"Ready. Let’s see if Carl Bowers’ luck can still shine in this game."

Carl made a grand gesture, sweeping the cards in front of him.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets. May the best one win."

Lois, focused, straightened in her chair, a determined glint in her eyes. She adjusted her bet, the largest of the evening.
"Very well, Carl," she said, her voice full of defiance, "let's show the spectators what true skill can achieve."

Carl, amused, looked at his hand and then at Lois with a smug smile. He nonchalantly raised his bet.
"You’re bold, Miss Thornton. But boldness is not always rewarded."

Clark dealt the cards, the room thick with anticipation. The tension was palpable as the cards were revealed one by one.

The cards were turned over slowly, and Carl observed with confidence. But as Lois revealed her final hand, a satisfied expression lit up her face.
"Let’s see if your confidence is well-placed, Carl."

She unveiled her hand: a perfect combination, a blackjack. The players around the table murmured in astonishment. Carl, visibly surprised, stared at his own cards in disbelief.

"Blackjack," Clark announced, his voice calm yet tinged with surprise.

Lois sat up straight, a triumphant smile on her lips. Carl’s chips slid across the table toward her, and she stacked them with assurance.

Carl, stunned, watched the chips being transferred, his facade of confidence shattering. The circle around the table fell silent, the impact of Lois’ victory resonating in the room.

"It seems luck has turned, Carl," Lois said, her expression proud yet composed.

Carl, forcing a smile, tried to regain his composure.
"You’ve done it, Miss Thornton. You really do have a talent for the game."

Lois, still smiling, slowly rose, her movements full of grace and satisfaction.
"Perhaps you underestimated my skills, Carl. But I’m far from done with what I’ve started."

Perry, observing closely, stepped beside Lois with an approving smile.
"Well done, Louise. You made quite the impression."

All eyes followed as Lois and Perry moved toward the bar, leaving Carl and the other players stunned. The energy in the room was palpable, murmurs and speculations growing louder.

Carl, lost in thought, turned to his associates.
"I’m going to need to reevaluate this evening," he muttered, his arrogance replaced by humiliation.

Clark, still in the background, observed Carl and his companions intently. Lois’ victory might just be the key to uncovering crucial information. The game had shifted, and with it, the rules of the investigation.

Lois added,
"Excuse me, gentlemen, this game has been fun, but I need to powder my nose."

She rose elegantly and headed toward the back of the room. On the way, she cast discreet glances, noting details around her. Once in the restroom, she paused briefly to ensure no one was following her, then slipped into a less-traveled side hallway.

She reached an inconspicuous door marked simply “Staff Only.” After a quick glance to confirm she wasn’t being watched, she pushed it open and entered. Inside was a small, sparsely decorated office with a dark wooden desk, a shelf filled with files, and a safe embedded in the wall.

Lois got to work immediately, sifting through the files on the desk. She quickly flipped through the documents, discarding irrelevant ones. Her eyes landed on a folder marked "Confidential." She opened it carefully and found detailed plans for explosive devices.

Her heart racing, she took photos of the plans with her phone, ensuring she captured every critical detail. She also noted the key to the safe lying on the desk.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway startled Lois. She quickly closed the safe and looked for a place to hide. She slipped into a closet, closing the door just as Carl entered with one of his men.

Inside the closet, Lois listened closely to their muffled conversation.

"That Louise is something else! She’s clearly fearless."
"And she’s so classy too!"
"Don’t let her distract you. Now, any updates on my transfer? Mrs. Church promised it within 12 hours of the explosion. I hope she kept her word."

Lois listened intently, trying to grasp the context. Carl seemed impatient, and Mrs. Church’s name came up again. This confirmed Mindy Church’s crucial role in Bowers’ organization.

Carl’s associate replied in a low voice,
"I checked earlier, and everything seems in order. The transfer was made as planned. But you know how Mrs. Church operates; she likes her plans to be airtight and always keeps control."

Carl grunted.
"Good. Let’s just make sure everything stays on track. We’ve got more tasks to handle before the next meeting."

After a few moments, the footsteps grew fainter as Carl and his man walked away. Lois waited a few extra seconds before stepping out of the closet, careful not to make any noise.

She quickly returned to the gaming room, where Perry was waiting anxiously.
"We’ve got something, Perry," she said in a low voice. "Carl Bowers and his associates are working with Mrs. Church on something far bigger than what we’ve seen tonight. It looks like there’s a carefully orchestrated plan underway."

Perry nodded, his expression serious.
"All right, we need to act fast. Let’s gather all the evidence we can and get in touch with the authorities. We can’t let these people carry out their plans."

Lois and Perry headed for the exit, determined to put an end to Carl Bowers’ and Mindy Church’s activities before it was too late.

His Story

Her Story


Happy holidays, everyone! I hope yall enjoy.

Previously...

Meanwhile...

----------

Her Story: Part Two

At least Dr. Mulligan had been eager to help when they returned to the institute. She and Bruce had a lot of new information by the time they stepped back out into the morning sun: John Doe was reportedly obsessed with science fiction, particularly time travel and the works of H.G. Wells. His fixation was so intense that the psychiatrists had never been able to get the truth of his past from him, only an elaborate fantasy about living in the distant future and traveling in Wells' fictional machine. Doe was also obsessed with Superman and the reporters Clark Kent and Lois Lane.

They paused on the freshly-salted walkway outside the gates, and Claire turned to Bruce. “So, I guess Lois is our next lead?”

“Unless you want to hold a séance so we can talk to a dead 19th century author.” Bruce ran his eyes over her, then shook his head. “Then again, my sense of what's impossible has been changing, recently; I probably shouldn't be surprised if he *does* turn up.”

**********

They landed in the backyard of a two-story brownstone, boots crunching on the snow . This was allegedly the house where Clark Kent, a man with an incredibly big secret, lived with his wife Lois Lane, the reporter who thrived on exposing big secrets. The high privacy fence surrounding them lent more credence to the idea, but it still went against everything Claire remembered of the woman.

Inside, Lois's voice was speaking animatedly to someone. She passed in front of a large window, clutching a phone to her ear. “—but there hasn't been anything on the news, so I don't...” Lois stilled and stared out the window, straight at them. “Martha, he just came back! I'll have him call you.”

Claire's eyebrows rose.

The back door flew open, and Lois ran out into the snow. She stopped just in front of them, every muscle tense, and a hand that had been reaching towards Claire now flexed awkwardly and dropped to her side. “Superman! What's—uh—what's going on?” Her eyes flicked to Bruce.

Bruce stepped forward. “We need information about John Doe. I understand you and your husband have encountered him before?”

“You *both* need information?” Lois furrowed her brow, looking at Claire again.

Claire cleared her throat. “Um, yes. Do you know much about his obsession with time travel and...uh...alternate universes?”

Lois stared at them for a while, then closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, great! Not again!”

Bruce and Claire exchanged a look.

Lois sighed. “Come on; we can talk about this inside.”

**********

The three sat around the table in a bright, cozy kitchen. Lois leaned back in her chair, one hand curled around a cup of hot cocoa while the other rubbed her forehead. “Okay, where to start... John Doe's real name is Tempus. He likes violence and mayhem, and he desperately wants to prevent Superman's descendants from bringing about a peaceful future called 'Utopia'. Clark and I first met him two years before we got married.”

Claire lowered her own cocoa and blinked in surprise. “So you *are* married, then!” At Lois's confused expression, Claire's cheeks began to feel warm. “I just...wondered. Based on what I thought I knew about the Lois Lane of my world, it didn't seem possible.”

Lois brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled sheepishly into her cup. “Well, it was a long, rocky road to get to that point, I'll admit. After our first real date, I slammed the door in his face.”

“Date went poorly?” Claire sipped her drink.

Lois shook her head. “No, date went too well. I realize that probably doesn't make any sense...”

“It does.” Bruce shifted in his chair, apparently studying the far wall.

Claire sighed. “I must have a type.”

Lois met Claire's eyes again, her cup half raised to her lips. “Do you mind if I ask what things are like in your universe?”

Claire smiled ruefully. “Well, I know I don't look like it right now, but back in my universe, I'm a woman. My husband and I have been married for just over a year. When I found myself...well...” She waved a hand down her torso. “...like this, I thought I was still in my own world, so I went to him for help—or at least, the man I thought was him.”

Lois's eyes widened and flicked to Bruce. “You.”

He gave a non-committal grunt.

Lois smiled down into her cocoa. “That's a lot like what I did back when Tempus tried to strand me in another universe. I found that world's Clark Kent, and we ended up helping each other.” She took a sip and then paused, a frown creasing her forehead. Her gaze snapped back to Bruce. “She told you everything, didn't she?”

Bruce gave another non-committal grunt.

Claire's cheeks felt warm again. “Sorry. If anything, I thought it was *you* who couldn't know the truth about Superwo—ah, Superman.”

Lois stared at her with an unreadable expression. “So you trust Batman?”

“With my life.” Claire met her gaze, unflinching.

Her eyes trailed over Bruce, narrowing as they lingered on the mask.

He met her scrutiny with a cool and even stare. “How did you get back from the other world?”

Lois blew out a breath, suddenly fascinated with her cocoa. “Well, what's one more stop on the way to Crazytown? I got help from H.G. Wells.”

Bruce was silent for a moment. “You mean...his books?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean the real, live man with a real, working time machine. He's kind of a self-appointed guardian of that future Clark and I are supposed to create.”

“Of course.” Bruce's face became expressionless beneath the cowl.

“He usually shows up whenever there's a problem in the time-line that needs fixing.” Lois frowned. “Actually, I'm surprised he hasn't been in touch, yet.”

Claire thought for a moment. “Is there a way we can contact him?”

Lois's fingers tapped against the side of her cup. “Well, he's a time-traveller; if we leave a message somewhere he could find it, he should be able to show up at any time no matter when he leaves from.” She paused, closed her eyes, and rubbed her head again. “...I hate time travel.”

“Let's do that, then.” Bruce studied the table for a moment, his chin resting on a gloved fist. “There's a time-capsule getting buried in Gotham Square Park on New Year's Eve. Anything in it is likely to get noticed by people interested in history.”

Lois nodded. “I'll write the note, then.” She fetched a notepad and pen from a nearby drawer and began writing. After several moments of scribbling, she looked up. “How will we get it into the capsule?”

“I'll take care of that.” Bruce held out his hand.

As soon as Lois placed the folded paper in his glove, the air began to tingle. There was a soft rap at the kitchen door. Lois bolted to her feet and answered it, revealing a small, Elderly gentleman in a waistcoat and bowler hat. Behind him, some kind of sleigh was now parked in the snow-covered yard, right across the trail of footprints they had left.

Lois smiled and held the door wider, stepping out of the way. “Mr. Wells! For once, I'm really glad to see you!”

The little man smiled and tipped his had to her as he entered. “Best of the season to you, Mrs. Kent.” He nodded at Claire. “Superman.” When he turned to Bruce, his eyebrows rose. “The Batman? My goodness, I hadn't expected your path to cross with theirs for years, yet!”

“We have a situation, Mr. Wells.” Lois pulled a chair out for him at the table.

As Wells sat down, he held up a yellowed version of the note Lois had just written. “So I infer. Tempus, again?”

She nodded. “Again. Though I should probably start by explaining that this isn't Superman.” She motioned to Claire.

Wells stared at Claire curiously.

Claire returned to her seat, brushing her cape aside and crossing her boots at the ankles. “In my universe, I'm Super*woman*.”

Wells' eyebrows raced to the brim of his hat. “Good heavens! That does quite explain a few things...” He turned to Lois and grimaced. “My apologies for not detecting this latest upset. The truth is, I did notice a few changes to Utopia's history, but the effect was so negligible and the cause so obscured that I took it to be a mere instance of what some call a 'quantum wobble'.”

“A wobble?” Lois dropped back into her chair and glared across the table at Wells. “You're telling me that having Superman completely disappear only caused history to *wobble*?!”

He held up a finger. “Ah, but Superman has not disappeared; merely been replaced.” He turned to Claire. “Tell us, Madam: could you sit by and do nothing if the good citizens of this world were in danger, even though this universe is not your own?”

Claire shook her head. “Of course not!”

His smile was knowing. “Quite right. And how would you respond to the knowledge that a child would soon be born whose closest match to a father is you?”

Lois flushed, and her voice lowered. “Clark doesn't know yet.”

Wells kept his eyes on Claire.

Claire took a deep breath, thinking it over. “Well, I guess...we'd have to work something out. I know the kid wouldn't be able to understand the truth for a long time, but...I don't want to live a lie. I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “There's no way I could pretend to be someone's dad. Other than that, though, I'd still want to help in any way I can.”

Wells turned back to Lois with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “And there you have it. Superman remains in the sky, his child is raised as well as can be expected, and Utopia eventually comes to pass.”

Lois threw her hands up in the air. “So then, Tempus swapped them for nothing!”

“From his perspective, yes,” said Wells. “You see, my dear, Utopia is founded on the ideals of selflessness and always trying one's best to do good; ideals that Tempus cannot internalize.” He pulled out a pocket-watch and studied it with a grim expression. “Unfortunately, while his latest gambit has failed in the grander scheme, it may have succeeded on a more personal level. There are infinite timelines, and we have no way of knowing which one holds Mr. Kent.”

Claire sat straighter in her chair and folded her arms. “No, Tempus did not win. Some way or another, either my husband will find me or I will find my way back to him. That's just how things are with us.”

Lois crossed her own arms also and stared at Wells. “It's the same with me and Clark. Neither of us will give up until we've come back to each other! So if there's two on that world trying to find this one, and two here working to find the other—”

“Three.” Bruce stepped forward from the corner he'd been lurking in and rested a hand on Lois's shoulder. She looked up at him with a little start, and he met her eyes. “I have...resources. I'll do whatever I can to bring your husband back to his family.” He shifted his gaze to Claire. “And I will do whatever it takes to send you home to yours.”

Claire blinked back the forming tears. “Thank you!”

Lois grinned at Wells. “So, I'd say the universe doesn't stand a chance!”

A soft beeping from Wells's pocket interrupted the moment. He drew out a small device, stared at it, and his eyebrows suddenly rose to meet his hat. “Good heavens! Is that...?”

“Is that what?” Lois's grin gave way to a look of impatience.

He gaped at her. “The tracking beacon Utopia's peace keepers placed on Tempus at his last incarceration! Quite naturally, it stopped transmitting shortly after his escape; doubtless found and destroyed. But somehow, it's now transmitting again!”

A thrill rushed along Claire's spine. “So we can find him, then!”

Bruce held up a hand. “Not so fast: it could be a trap. Why else would a man who made a clean get-away suddenly give up his position?”

Lois rose to her feet. “Well, there's one obvious way to find out. Mr. Wells, let's go!” She darted to the kitchen door, flung it open, and headed straight for the time machine.

Beneath the cowl, Bruce's eye twitched.

Claire shrugged apologetically and pushed her chair back from the table. “It's how she works. It used to drive me nuts back when I worked at the Planet, but I've got to say, it always got results.”

“This explains so much,” Bruce muttered as he followed her out the door with Wells close behind.

**********

The world dissolved in a swirl of color as the machine lurched in a direction that didn't exist. Claire's hand automatically found Bruce's. He tensed a moment, then reached over and patted it. The light surrounding them slowly coalesced again into shapes and figures, and finally, they found themselves inside a very familiar barn.

The steady beeping from the tracking beacon Wells carried suddenly developed an echo somewhere in the room. At the far end, the man from the storage closet was barely recognizable beneath his bruises and had been thoroughly tied up with rope. A short distance away, at the source of the echo, three people stood staring in their direction: Lois, Bruce, and a woman whose features Claire recognized. “You!”

“You!” They spoke at the same and raced towards each other, meeting halfway. “You're in—”

“—My body!” They turned to the elderly gentleman dismounting the machine. “Mr. Wells—”

“—change us back!”

Wells held up a placating hand; the other gripped another strange-looking device. “Quite right, quite right. Now, do hold still; this won't take but a moment...” He fiddled with a few dials. “Let's see now...there.”

Space bent and shifted around Claire. When it stopped, she was a bit shorter and standing next to a dark-haired man. She looked down at herself, feeling to make sure she was really back in her own skin, and was dimly aware of the man doing the same. Claire shut her eyes a moment, listening: when she heard the faint flutter in her womb, she breathed a sigh of relief. “It worked! I'm—”

“—me again! Lois!”

“Bruce!” At the speed of thought, she was in her husband's tight embrace, his arms holding her fast against his chest and his mouth crushing down on hers. A long time later, she pulled her lips a breath away from his. “I missed you so much.”

He dropped a kiss onto her hair. “I missed you, too.” His eyes conveyed so much more than his words could ever manage. They would make time for all the things that remained unsaid, but this moment in a crowded barn was not the right one. So, in an unspoken agreement, each slipped an arm around the other and they headed over to the other couple.

Claire reached her free-hand out to shake the man's hand. “Um, hi. I'm Claire Wayne.”

“Clark Kent.” He returned the shake while keeping an arm around the alternate Lois. “It's nice to finally meet you. Your husband is...full of surprises.”

Claire smiled at the woman. “And so is your wife.” She turned towards her own world's Lois Lane, standing alone in a corner of the barn. “I...owe you an apology, Lois. And probably a few explanations. Is it all right if we talk, later?”

Her old partner shrugged. “Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes for the jobless trophy wife.” A smile told Claire that the barb had only been meant as a joke. “Sure, we can talk.”

“Thanks.” Claire scanned the room for the other Bruce and found the big goof trying to blend into a patch of shadows in the corner. “As for you...” She sped to him and pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you for everything!”

He awkwardly returned the hug. “Um, you're welcome.”

Her husband's steady heartbeat grew louder as he approached from behind her. “Hello.”

“Hello.” The other Bruce looked hers over.

Her Bruce slipped an arm around her again and put a hand forward. “Thank you.”

The other Bruce nodded once and accepted the shake.

Before releasing his hand, her husband leaned closer to his counterpart and lowered his voice. “Take risks.”

His counterpart stared at him.

“I can only infer what your life is like...” He swept his gaze over the famous costume. “But in case you're like me: don't try to go it alone. Gamble on friendships, partnerships.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “And if you ever get an opportunity to have Martha Kent in your life, take it!”

**********

As the old song lyric proclaimed: for the holidays, you can't beat home-sweet-home. Claire sighed contentedly as she curled up on the couch, her head on Bruce's shoulder and her hands cradling a cup of eggnog. A jar of her mom's homemade sweet pickles rested on the coffee table; it wasn't quite the traditional Christmas snack, but something about the smell of gingerbread put her off anymore. She reached for a pickle, dunked it in the eggnog, and savored a creamy, crunchy bite.

In the easy-chair across from them, Lois looked up from her own eggnog and visibly gagged. “How can you eat those together?!”

She grinned and dunked it again. “Happily, now that I don't have to worry about hiding clues from a detective anymore!”

Bruce chuckled and took a sip from his brand new mug.

Just then, her dad poked his head into the room. “You kids might not believe this, but there's a sleigh outside!”

Lois smirked. “Are reindeer pulling it?”

“No.” Her dad frowned. “In fact, nothing seems to be pulling it at all, so I'm not sure how it got here. There's a man inside who looks like some kind of historical re-enactor.”

Pickles forgotten, Claire leapt to her feet and followed her dad out onto the porch with Bruce and Lois tagging close behind. Her mom already stood at the railing, watching an approaching figure. Sure enough, it was an elderly man in a bowler hat. Claire lit up. “Mr. Wells!”

H.G. Wells tipped his hat. “Season's greetings to you all! I do hope I'm not intruding?”

Her mom pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and reached out to shake his hand. “Not at all, Mister...Wells, was it?”

He nodded. “Yes, Madam: H.G. Wells.”

A confused frown knitted her mom's forehead. “Wait—H.G. Wells? The writer?”

“Quite.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

Her dad stared at the newcomer. “The *dead* writer?”

“Sometimes.” He gave a slight shrug, then turned to address Claire. “I took the liberty of storing this world's coordinates in my machine so as to check on its future, and I thought, in the spirit of Christmas, that some 'good tidings' might be in order.”

Claire relaxed against Bruce's side as his arm came up around her. “Back in the other world, you said that Tempus didn't ruin its future. Is that true for here, too?”

The time-traveler's eyes sparkled. “Even better, Madam: the repairs to the damage have left both universes in a better state than before!” He dipped his head at Lois. “Ms. Lane, your renewed friendship with Mrs. Wayne here is an asset to both of you, the importance of which I cannot overstate.” He turned to Bruce. “And of course, in my own universe, years of mistrust between Superman and the Batman have now been completely elided. Their alliance not only accelerated the creation of Utopia, but made it remarkably stronger.” Wells grinned. “I cannot fully express my delight upon showing Tempus the future he helped bring about. I daresay, seeing what his own hand has wrought may do more to rehabilitate him than all the efforts of purer souls!”

A deep laugh rumbled in Bruce's chest. “Well, I won't hold my breath on that, but it serves him right.”

“Indeed.” Wells smiled. “I may look in on this world from time to time, if that suits you all. In the meantime, a merry Christmas to all of you!”




_And A Happy New Year_

Previously...

Meanwhile...

----------

His Story: Part 2

The old farmhouse was just like the one Clark had grown up in. Hopefully, the people inside were also the same. He landed behind a wood-pile and set Lois on her feet. Even though she wasn't *his* Lois, he still kept hold of her hand as they made their way through the ankle-high snow to the kitchen door. If she thought it was weird of him, she didn't comment.

The door swung open just as they reached the back step. “Claire!” His mother came outside in her slippers and pulled him into a tight hug. Despite the difference in universes, the comfort of her touch was the same.

Clark allowed himself to relax and return the hug. “Hi, Mom.”

She pulled back and studied his face, cradling it in her hands. “Honey, what happened? Bruce called last night asking if you were here, and this morning he said you never came home!”

“He thought I came here last night?” Clark's eyebrows rose. “So, he knows I can fly?”

His mom frowned in confusion. “What?! Why wouldn't he—” Her gaze moved behind him to land on Lois, and her eyes widened. She looked back to Clark. “Claire? What's going on?”

Clark grimaced. “It's really complicated. Could we come in and I'll try to explain?”

Her mouth pressed into a firm line. “Please do.”

**********

The door closed behind them, shutting out the cold. Clark went to the table and pulled a chair out for Lois, taking the one beside it for himself. His mother stood by the stove, watching them, her arms crossed and her expression wary. Clark looked her in the eyes. “I know a lot of this is going to sound completely crazy, and some of it might even be a little hard to follow. But please hear me out, and—” His gaze fell on the large jars lining the counter beside her. “—Are those your famous sweet pickles?”

His mom nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Clark swallowed down the building saliva. How long had it been since he'd tasted any of his mom's homemade pickles? Months? Years? For some reason, he'd failed to take advantage of the opportunities he'd had back in his own world. Her recipe was incomparable, from the perfect crunch of the cucumber to the salty and flavorful brine...

A jar appeared on the table in front of him, and his mom wordlessly unscrewed the lid.

“Thank you!” He reached for one of the plump, green delicacies and bit into it with gusto. It was even more heavenly than he remembered! He opened his eyes to find Lois giving him an odd look. “Um, sorry. What were we talking about, again?”

His mom's amused expression quickly sobered. “About why you left your husband wondering where you are, and why you flew a reporter to our house.” She looked up at Lois. “No offense, dear.”

Lois waved the comment away. “It's okay, I understand. And don't worry: none of this is going to print.” She watched Clark's enthusiastic chewing for a while, scrutinized the jar of pickles, and reached in to try one.

Clark swallowed another bite. “Lois can keep a secret, Mom. I trust her with my life.”

His mom looked between the two of them, a frown creasing her forehead. “And...why do you trust her that deeply?”

He sighed, polished off the remains of his snack, and reached back into the jar for a fresh one. “Well, like I said, it sounds completely crazy...”

**********

By the time Clark reached the end of his narrative, his mother had sunk into the chair across from them. Now, she sat watching Clark with wide eyes and a slightly befuddled expression. “So, this Tempus character...sent you to another universe...to change the future?”

Clark nodded. “That's right.” He took another bite of pickle.

She frowned. “A future created by H.G. Wells?”

“No, by Superman.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Actually, H.G. Wells said it was the descendants of Superman and—” He hesitated. “—and my wife.”

His mom rested her chin on her hands and gave him a sharp look. “Your world's Lois, you mean.”

Lois turned to him with wide eyes.

Clark squirmed a little. “...Yeah.” He straightened and met Lois's gaze. “I'm sorry for not telling you. I guess I just figured it wasn't relevant.”

“Right. Of course not.” Lois huffed. “Secrets are just a *thing* with you and Claire, aren't they?”

His mom chuckled. “They are, Dear. I know Jonathan and I are at least partly to blame.” She looked at Clark again. “So, is your wife expecting?”

Clark shook his head, staring down at the small stub of pickle remaining in his hand. “We actually can't have children.” He popped the stub into his mouth, letting it's comforting flavor lessen the hurt. “I'm not sure what H.G. Wells meant when he referred to our descendants; he was probably being metaphorical. Either that, or maybe someday we'll get cleared for adoption. But when we looked into the possibility of having kids the natural way, the test results showed that it was genetically impossible.”

His hand felt around the bottom of the jar, but he realized with a start that nothing was left in the brine. He looked up at his mother, chagrined. “Oh! Mom, I'm so sorry; I didn't realize how many I'd been eating!”

She smiled softly. “It's all right, dear.”

He stared at the depleted jar in disbelief. “I don't know if Claire's taste-buds are different from mine or if pickles just taste better in this universe, but they seem to really hit the spot. It almost feels like I *need* them!” He licked a drop of brine from his fingers.

Lois stilled. “You mean, like a...craving?”

Clark shrugged. “I hadn't thought about it, but I guess that's—” He froze.

His mother nodded.

His pulse pounded in his ears. Clark closed his eyes and tried to tune it out, listening for any other sounds within his body. When he heard the tiny flutter in his mid-section, he opened his eyes with a gasp.

His mom was watching him silently. He met her gaze, almost afraid to ask the question. “She's...? *I'm*...?”

“Just a couple months along, we figure. Bruce doesn't know yet.” His mom seemed to think for a minute. “Honey...” She reached across the table to put a hand over his. “Clark. If we don't find Tempus, or anyone who knows how to send you back...what's going to happen if you have to stay?”

Clark stared at her. It was a possibility he'd been afraid to contemplate when the only thing at stake was returning to his wife and parents. But, this... “No.” He shook his head. “No. I'm sorry. I can't...”

His mother looked crushed.

“Maybe we can be friends when he—or she—is old enough to understand the situation, but I can't pretend to be this kid's mom.” He slumped in his chair. “That's just a bridge too far, even for me!”

Lois shared a surprised look with his mother. “But...you'd still go through with...having it?”

He stared at her in confusion. “Well, of course. This isn't my body, so it's not really my choice, is it? I have no doubt that this kid is wanted.”

His mom nodded. “Very.”

“So who am I to destroy someone else's happiness for my own convenience?” He gingerly rested a hand on his belly. Claire's belly. If they did manage to switch back, she would come home to the life she wanted.

His mother sighed with relief.

“Of course, I have no idea what to tell her husband.” Clark raked a hand through his hair and was caught by surprise as his fingers continued to drag through the strands for far longer than he was used to. He shook his hand free.

“Just tell him the truth, Dear, the same way you told Lois and me.” His mom caught up his other hand and patted it. “He won't like the situation, but he'll be able to understand and deal with it.”

Clark looked at her warily. “You seem sure of that.”

She nodded. “I am. In fact, rely on him to help us get you home and my daughter back.”

“What kind of person is he, exactly?” Clark pulled his hand back and tilted his head in confusion. “Back home, I only knew Bruce Wayne to be a playboy and an idiot, but after what happened at the Planet, I'm not sure what to think!”

His mom studied Lois for a moment before turning back to him. “He's the man my daughter chose to share her life with. Her whole life: all of it. You want me to trust you about Lois; trust us about Bruce Wayne.”

“Fine. I'll go see if I can find him.” Clark pushed his chair back and stood.

She held up a hand. “You won't need to; he's coming here.” At his shocked expression, she smiled. “You're not the only one who comes to us when there's a crisis. He'll be needing his parents, and as of last year, that's Jonathan and me.”

**********

His father's pickup truck rumbled up the driveway. Clark thought he heard two people inside, but when the kitchen door opened, only his dad entered the house. He paused in the doorway, staring at Clark, then immediately rushed forward and pulled him into a bear hug. “There's my little pumpkin! Honey, you've had everyone so worried!”

“Uh, hi Dad.” Clark awkwardly returned the hug.

His mother turned away from the sink, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. “Jonathan, we've got a strange situation going on.”

“How strange?” He loosened his grip on Clark, lightly resting his hands on Clark's arms and studying him with a worried expression.

“Child-in-a-cornfield strange.” She nodded towards Lois, who was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee.

His father's eyebrows climbed. “Lois Lane? What brings you here?”

She grimaced, setting her cup down on the table. “It's a long story, Mr. Kent. It's better if I let Clark explain.” One hand motioned towards Clark.

“Who?” His dad followed the motion, only to look down at Clark with a confused frown.

His mother shook her head and rested a hand on his dad's shoulder. “Never mind, it's complicated. For now, let's just say that Lois is in on the family secret.”

“WHAT?!” His head snapped up to gape at Lois.

Clark took hold of the other shoulder. “It's okay, Dad. We can trust her.”

He stared at Clark. “Pumpkin, what's going on?” The worried frown began to deepen.

Clark winced. “It really is complicated. I'll tell you everything, but I think I should talk to Mr. Wayne first. Was he the one in the truck with you, just now?”

His dad's eyebrows flew into his hairline. “*Mr. Wayne*? Claire?!”

“Is he here?” Clark pressed.

“Uh, yeah.” His dad pointed in the direction of the old barn. “He was really worked up, so he went straight to the barn to tackle that old tractor.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Clark went to the door and took a deep, steadying breath before heading out to find the man who'd married his counterpart.

The door closed behind him just as his mother spoke. “It might even be weirder than the cornfield, Dear.”

**********

Footprints in the snow led from the pickup truck to the barn, just as his dad had said. Their course took him past the woodpile, where his and Lois's own steps were still plainly visible, and it seemed Mr. Wayne had taken a few steps towards that trail before turning and moving on. Hopefully, his mom was right about Mr. Wayne being able to understand this latest craziness.

The footsteps ended just at the barn door. It hung slightly ajar, creaking in protest when Clark pushed it further open and let a shaft of daylight bisect the shadows. The tractor was propped up on cinder-blocks beneath a hanging work-light, though the light itself wasn't on. His dad's toolbox lay in the middle of the floor. “Hello?” Clark stepped inside. “Is anyone here?”

A faint “pop” went off in his ears, and Clark's limbs suddenly felt stiff. A startled yelp escaped him just as his entire body went rigid. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't move; his muscles wouldn't even respond.

Shadows moved at the edge of his sight, and a figure stepped into his peripheral vision. Clark tried in vain to turn his head. Eventually, the figure circled around between him and the tractor, and Clark could see plainly who it was. Tempus grinned. “Hey, Clark, how's it hanging?”

Clark couldn't force his jaw to work.

Tempus strolled up to Clark and leaned against him as though he were a pillar. “You know, I really had such high hopes for this plan: change history in two worlds with one little swap. It was brilliant! And at first, it even seemed to work: imagine how excited I was when I skipped ahead a few centuries and found out there was war in the future, instead of that insipid Peace Council!”

He held up a strange metal tube, tossed it in the air, and caught it in his hand again. “Tragically, it turns out that what those morons call 'war' is really just a glorified game of freeze-tag!” He scowled at the tube, tucked it into his pocket, and turned his glare onto Clark.

“This is getting very tiresome, Kent. It seems that no matter what I do, your goody-goodiness keeps infecting the rest of the world! Trying to kill you as a baby didn't work. Kidnapping your wife didn't work. Trapping you in a time pocket didn't work.” Tempus stepped back and reached into the inner pocket of his vest. “But then, I remembered the words of the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century:” His mouth curled into a sadistic grin as he pulled out a revolver and leveled it straight at Clark's head. “'Why don't ya just shoot him?'”

A wooden pole slammed down onto Tempus' wrist, sending a flash of green just past Clark's head with a thunderous blast. The revolver dropped to the floor as the time-traveler clutched his hand. Bruce Wayne stepped into the light, turning the pole so that the long, metal tines at the other end were now right under Tempus' nose. “This is a pitchfork.”

He swung the handle of the pitchfork into Tempus's leg, eliciting a fresh howl of pain. “Years ago, my father-in-law gave me a very detailed lecture about its uses.” The fork's handle now swept into the man's stomach, and Tempus, already having to balance on one leg, fell backwards onto the floor of the barn. “Specifically: how it can be used on anyone foolish enough to hurt his little girl.”

Bruce stood over Tempus and speared the massive tines into the floor, barely missing the man's inner thigh. “Let's see how well I was listening.”

**********

When the brutality was over, Mr. Wayne fetched a coil of rope down from the wall and began expertly tying Tempus with it. Given that the man was now unconscious, it was probably an unnecessary precaution. Clark tried to call out to the billionaire, but without a functioning tongue, the pitiful sound that escaped his throat bore no resemblance to words.

“One moment.” Mr. Wayne fastened the last knot and gave a satisfied grunt. Afterwards, he stood in front of Clark, looking him over. “Let me see something, here...” He took Clark's arm in both hands and very carefully flexed it at the elbow. “One for yes, two for no: did that hurt?”

“Uh-uh,” Clark managed.

“Do you feel anything?”

“Uh.”

“Good.” He released Clark's arm and resumed his study. “He said war became a game of freeze-tag. That must mean they use non-lethal weaponry. Paralyzing someone permanently wouldn't be much different from killing them, and bullets would be cheaper. So, either there's a way to undo the effect, or...”

Clark managed to work his jaw.

“...it eventually wears off.” He folded his arms and met Clark's gaze. “Mr. Clark Kent, I presume?”

“Uh, yeah.” His limbs were still rigid, but at least now his mouth could move, and the arm Mr. Wayne had manipulated was slightly less stiff than the other.

His eyes narrowed. “That explains a lot.”

Clark lowered his head, but the effort for a full nod was a bit too much. “I'm sorry for causing you trouble. All this must have driven you up a wall.”

Mr. Wayne stared at him for a moment, blinking, and then a laugh burst out of him. “Now *that* is more like how my wife would behave.” He sobered quickly and met Clark's eyes again. “How do we get her back?”

Clark turned his head towards Tempus. “He's the one who swapped us, so unless my friend Wells can find me, he's the best bet for putting us back.” His eyes slid back to the supposed playboy. “You, uh, really did a number on him, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce, please.” He sighed, and his hands clenched and unclenched. “It's been...a long time since I watched a stranger pull a gun on someone I care about. I admit it's not something I can handle very well.” He looked at Tempus. “Of course, now it seems we're going to have to wake him up somehow, so we can have a little chat.”

Lois's voice reached them from the door of the barn. “Any way I can help?”

**********

Bruce threw a bucket of cold water onto Tempus's face. The man sputtered, groaned, and slowly opened his eyes. “Auntie Em, is that you?” His gaze darted over the three people in the barn, and he groaned again. “Great. Just great. I've got Brainless, the Man of Rust, and a psycho who needs to ask the wizard for a therapist.”

Lois stepped forward, crossing her arms. “Tempus, right? You seem to have upset a very dangerous man. Now, Clark over there tells me that you love violence, but I bet there's still an exception for violence directed against you. If I'm wrong, though, then Clark and I can simply leave.”

Tempus's eyes widened and flicked up to Bruce. His voice became a squeak. “What do you want?”

“I think you know.” Bruce leaned against the pitchfork and loomed over the bound time-traveler. “He wants to go home—” He pointed to Clark. “—and I want my wife back. Now, either you're the man who can make that happen, or you're just a man who made me very, very angry.” His eyes narrowed. “Which is it?”

“The first one! The first one!” Tempus swallowed. “There's a beacon... It's more like a homing device, really. I disabled it when I escaped...”

Bruce shifted his grip on the pitchfork.

He spoke faster. “But I can fix it again and then Wells or somebody will come and I-can-swap-them-back-I-swear!”

Clark met the inquiring looks of the other two. One shoulder was finally loose enough to sort of shrug. “He seems to be telling the truth. It would be easier to tell if his heart wasn't racing from panic.”

“Hrm.” Bruce glared down at Tempus again. “It could be a trick.”

“No tricks!” Tempus wriggled a bit in the rope, but it didn't give. “If you don't trust me to swap them, Wells can do it himself when he gets here. We shop from the same catalogs. All I need to do is fix the beacon.”

Bruce's glare deepened. “Right. So we untie you, and the so-called 'beacon' turns out to be a weapon or a method of escape.”

Lois stepped forward. “Maybe I could fix it. Get the device off of him and have him tell me what to do.”

“Lois, no!” Clark forced one arm to move slightly towards her. “If something goes wrong, you could get hurt, or lost in time, or even killed!”

“Don't worry about it.” She nodded towards Bruce. “I've got some pretty good insurance, right here.”

Bruce turned to Tempus, his grip on the pitchfork visibly tightening. “Well?”

Tempus whimpered. “I'll tell her what to do. It'll be fine.”

“Fine then.” Bruce looked back at Clark.

Clark sighed. “Fine.”

Tempus closed his eyes. “Utopia's Re-Harmonizing Center had better not be showing Green Acres in the rec room again.”

**********

After an interminably long time, Clark was finally able to move from the spot he'd been standing in while the others worked on Tempus's device. He stretched, took a few aimless steps, and sighed with relief. “That was unpleasant.”

The work-light shone brightly down on the tractor. Lois sat in its seat, staring down at the pieces in her lap as she tried to fit them together the way Tempus had described. Clark walked up to her and rested a hand on the tractor's frame. “Do you want me to take over, in case it's dangerous?”

Bruce's voice cut in before Lois could reply. “No.”

Lois glanced at Clark. “I can get it.”

“But I'm invulnerable,” Clark pointed out. “You're not.”

Lois looked up from the device again and met his eyes. “Tell you what: how about we bet one of your mom's homemade pickles that I can do this?”

Her meaning was clear: it wouldn't be just his own life he'd be risking for hers. Clark slowly nodded and backed away from the tractor.

Some time later, they all stood in the glow of the work-light, staring down at the device in Lois's hands. She took a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing...”

Bruce pulled Clark further back as Lois clicked the last component into place. Nothing seemed to happen: nothing glowed, or beeped, or hummed. Lois frowned. “Did I do it right?”

The hairs on the back of Clark's neck began to tingle, and he whipped around. The space in front of the barn door shimmered slightly. All at once, the light began to bend in all directions. A glowing blob coalesced into the shape of a sleigh, and the time machine appeared.

Clark's attention snapped to Wells' passengers, particularly the familiar-looking man in spandex seated behind Lois. “You!”

“You!” They spoke at the same time and raced towards each other, meeting half-way. “You're in—”

“—my body!” They turned to the elderly gentleman dismounting from the machine. “Mr. Wells—”

“—change us back!”

Wells held up a placating hand; the other gripped a somewhat-familiar device. “Quite right, quite right. Now, do hold still; this won't take but a moment...” He fiddled with a few dials. “Let's see now...there.”

Space bent and shifted around Clark. When it stopped, he was taller and standing next to a dark-haired woman. He looked down at himself, patting his body with his hands to ensure it was real. In the corner of his mind, he was aware of the woman doing the same. “It worked! I'm—”

“—me again! Bruce!”

He grinned up at his wife and sped towards her. “Lois!” He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, savoring every second of it.

When the kiss finally broke, he set her back down on her feet, his hands still resting lightly on her hips even as hers still cradled his jaw. She ran her thumb along his cheekbone and looked into his eyes. “There's something you should know: someone else knows the secret, now.”

Clark looked towards the back of the barn, where the real Claire was still indulging in her own reunion with Bruce. “Let me guess: playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne?”

“Batman, actually.” She jerked her thumb towards a corner by the door, where a dark figure in a cape and cowl stood shuffling awkwardly next to her counterpart. Lois shifted her gaze to the couple behind Clark and frowned. “Wait, Bruce Wayne?”

Clark raised his eyebrows at Lois. “Batman?” He thought for a moment. “That...explains a lot, actually.”

The other couple finally drifted towards them, each with an arm around the other, and Claire reached her free-hand out towards Clark. “Um, hi. I'm Claire Wayne.”

“Clark Kent.” He shook her hand, keeping his other arm wrapped around Lois. “It's nice to finally meet you. Your husband is...full of surprises.”

She smiled at Lois. “And so is your wife.” Claire turned towards the other Lois, who was now standing alone. “Lois, I owe you an apology. And probably a few explanations. Is it all right if we talk, later?”

The other woman shrugged. “Well, I suppose I can spare a few minutes for the jobless trophy wife.” A smile took the sting out of her words. “Sure, we can talk.”

“Thanks. As for you...” Claire sped to a patch of shadow and wrapped her arms around the figure hiding there. “Thank you for everything!”

While Bruce Wayne strolled off to have a word with the man his wife was hugging, Clark turned to his wife's counterpart and pulled her into a quick hug as well. “Thank *you* for everything.”

“Don't mention it.” She gave a sheepish smile.

“If there's anything I can do to repay you,” Clark began.

The other Lois shook her head. “You already gave me back my best friend. I'd say we're even.”

Lois slipped her arm back around Clark's waist and smiled at the other woman. “Thank you for helping mine.”

**********

The old song lyric was true: there was no place like home for the holidays. In the townhouse on Hyperion avenue, the morning sun danced over the ornaments on the tree, making them sparkle. The scent of his mother's gingerbread wafted from the kitchen, and both she and his father were on the sofa laughing heartily at the argument unfolding on the living room floor.

“In what universe does Lois Lane *not* want to go first?” Clark drew himself up into a kneeling position and held the box out towards Lois again, giving it a slight shake so that it rattled enticingly.

Lois leaned away from him, nearly bumping into the lower branches of the tree, but kept her grip on the smaller, foil-wrapped box. Her eyes glittered with mischief. “Oh, I do want to go first. I'm *giving* you your gift first, see?”

“Aha!” Clark laughed. “The truth comes out. All right, I'll open it...”

“HA!” Lois grinned triumphantly and thrust her box in his direction.

Clark smirked. “...after you open yours.”

Their battle was interrupted by the phone ringing. After exchanging a look with his wife, Clark stood and went to answer it. “Hello?”

“Kent?” The gravelly voice on the other end was familiar.

Clark's eyebrows rose. “Bruce?!” Lois and his parents looked up at him in curiosity.

“Yes. I won't keep you long. I just...” There was a pause. “Given the recent situation, it seemed appropriate to call and make sure that you were having a good holiday.”

At once, his mother was on her feet. “Is that the man you and Lois told us about?” She crossed the living room even as Clark nodded, and she put her hand out for the phone. “Let me speak to him.” As soon as Clark relinquished the phone, she brought it to her ear. “Hello, this is Martha Kent.”

“Ah, hello, Mrs. Kent.” Bruce sounded surprised.

His mom smiled. “Martha, please. Listen—Bruce, right?”

“Yes?”

She glanced at the others in the room. Lois and his father nodded. Clark, sensing the idea, added his agreement as well. His mom turned her attention back to the phone. “Bruce, I don't know what your plans are for today, but if you have time, we were hoping you might be able to join us for Christmas dinner.”

“Well, Mrs...um...Martha.... That is quite an honor, but I...” There was another long pause. “...I suppose, if it wouldn't be intruding...”

She waved a hand even though he couldn't possibly see it. “Oh, Honey, after everything you did to help bring my son home, you're more than welcome here! Now, we were thinking of serving around one o'clock; would that work out for you if Clark gives you a lift?”

“Um...yes?”

“Great!” She grinned. “We'll see you later, then. In the meantime, have a merry Christmas, Bruce!”

“Ah, and you as well.”

She thrust the phone back into Clark's hands and smiled at him before returning to the couch.

Clark brought the phone back to his ear. “See you soon, Bruce. Merry Christmas!”

“...Merry Christmas.” The phone clicked, and the dial-tone began to hum.

Clark set the phone down on the end table and resettled himself on the floor by the tree, putting an arm around Lois. “Well, that was a nice surprise.”

“Very.” Lois snuggled against his side and raised the box so that its ribbon brushed against his nose. “And speaking of surprises, open your present!”

He tilted his head back and laughed. “All right, I give!”

“No, *I* give. You get!” Lois grinned impishly at him.

“Fine!” Still chuckling, Clark took the box from her hands. Lois watched him intently as he tugged the ribbon away and pulled apart the lead foil. The plain cardboard box gave no indication of its contents. He lifted the lid, finally exposing a coffee mug.

“A...coffee mug?” It was a perplexing choice for a Christmas present, but any gift from Lois was still a treasure to be cherished. He pressed a kiss against her temple. “Thank you, Honey. I'll be sure to use it every morning!”

She chuckled. “Look at it and tell me what you think.”

“All right, let's see here...” He lifted it out of the box and read the slogan on its side. “World's Greatest Da—” He broke off.

Lois slipped her arms around him. “Merry Christmas, Clark.”




_And A Happy New Year_

Earth

It was on a sunny Monday morning that a well-rested Lois exited the elevator and, with her customary energy, moved rapidly down the ramp into the newsroom. She was wearing a charcoal pinstripe pantsuit with a lavender silk blouse. The outfit’s excellent cut and tailoring announced to the world that she was ready to take on anything the week had to offer.

“Any word from Henderson?” she called out to Perry as he exited his office.

“Great shades of Elvis! Slow down, Lois! Where’s the fire?’ Perry said, with not a bit of anger. He loved how determined a certain reporter sounded tearing through the newsroom.

Over by the new coffee station that Franklin Stern had just purchased for the bullpen, Talmadge offered, “Henderson contacted me on Sunday evening. Simcoe was not at his apartment when they sent over those uniforms Friday night. Detectives Javier and Beckett, as well as that writer fella was with them.”

Lois put down her briefcase and said in disbelief, “Beckett was with them, and they failed to catch him?”

Jimmy said from the coffee station, “Wow! Kate Beckett is one of the best detectives on the force. She must be annoyed at missing a chance to bag Simcoe!”

Talmadge walked over to her desk while stirring a cup of coffee, the smell of his fresh hazelnut brew threading around her. “There is another alternative. One that none of us are going to like.”

“Simcoe is dead?” Perry said flatly.

Lois muttered softly about people grandstanding while drinking flavored coffee as she booted up her computer. The monitor sprang to life with the Daily Planet’s colorful logo appearing on the screen.

Talmadge took a long sip from his cup and said, “Yeah, something like that. Bill Church, Jr. is not as ‘understanding’ as his father. If he suspects that Simcoe was going to be a problem, he might have decided to make that ‘problem’ disappear.”

“Wait a second! Why did Henderson contact you and not me?” Lois said suddenly, more than a little peeved.

Perry, who had started walking towards Cat’s desk, turned back to them, and said, “What’s this Lois? Bill Henderson didn’t get in contact with you. What’s going on? He’s your best ally on the MetroPD.”

Talmadge leaned over Lois and said softly, “He tried to, both on Friday night and most of Saturday, but you never picked up the phone. I knew you were with your family because that’s my assignment. Care to let your, um… our boss in on the secret?”

Lois groaned. After leaving Clark’s apartment Saturday morning, she went to her parent’s home for a visit. Lucy was there as well, and when one thing led to another, she ended up spending the day with them. Being with them was a great way to put the worrisome message from New Krypton out of her mind, at least temporarily. She knew that Perry was only asking because he cared. It could not hurt to let the chief know her whereabouts.

“Perry, as you know, with Clark … away, family time is important to me, so I was with them for most of the weekend. But that still doesn’t explain why Henderson didn’t leave a voice mail on my machine! There must be some kind of boy’s club connection going on!” She grumbled.

Perry shoved his hands in his pockets and said to the hapless duo. “Listen, it doesn’t matter who Inspector Henderson didn’t call, but it matters why he did call. Find out what happened to Simcoe, otherwise the connection to Intergang is broken and your follow-up story is as dead as Elvis.”

At that moment, Lois’ phone rang shrilly on her desk. She snatched it up quickly, listened briefly and then said, “Detective Reed? Great to hear from you, especially since Bill seems to have lost my phone number.” She was silent for a moment and then breathed excitedly, “No kidding? Simcoe’s in MetroGen under police protection? Guarded condition? Can I see him? What room?” Lois pulled out a pencil and a pad of paper and wrote hastily.

Only seconds after Lois started talking to Detective Reed, Talmadge’s phone also started ringing. He took the call and with his usual quiet manner, talked to the person on the other end of the line, wrote down notes, and then hung up almost around the same time as Lois.

“Who called you? Henderson?” she asked sharply.

“No. My section chief, Harold Zhao. Apparently, Mr. Simcoe was attacked by a low-level Intergang thug on Sunday morning just as he was going to the supermarket. He was under protective custody by the Metropolis police, but the FBI has taken over that detail as of ten minutes ago. Detective Reed and Inspector Henderson are probably being informed even as we speak.”

Lois glared at Talmadge. She was about to yell at him, but thought better of it and said, “That is a little high-handed, don’t you think? If it were not for courageous Dr. Siebert, his patients and my story, the Bureau wouldn’t have a clue about Intergang. Now they are telling MPD to simply hand the case over to them?”

Talmadge shrugged and said, “In my world, that’s the way things go. Still, if we hurry, we can get a statement from Simcoe, which will dovetail neatly into the article. Despite having sustained two gunshot wounds, he’s ready to turn state’s witness for a shorter prison sentence. He’s even willing to do it without an attorney present! Considering all the help you have given; Agent Zhao has given permission for you to come along and listen in while he asks questions.”

In answer, Lois shut down the computer, stuffed her notes in the briefcase, threw on the heavy orange jacket she had just discarded, and raced up the ramp, only steps behind Talmadge.

***

MetroGen’s large, airy central lobby was a flurry of activity as the two reporters walked up to the main reception area. Several people sat on long, dark couches, thickly upholstered in
heavy-duty industrial gray fabric, as they waited for their turn to visit ailing loved ones and friends. As Lois and Talmadge approached the reception area, an orderly pushed a young Asian woman holding a tiny sleeping newborn in a wheelchair. They were followed by a small entourage of family led by a smiling young man who had to be the father. Lois watched as the group exited the lobby to the outdoors, eager to face this new chapter of their lives. Lois wondered if she and Clark would ever have such a privilege.

The reporters presented their press badges to a silver-haired volunteer who spoke in a genteel Virginia accent, “I am sorry, but a press badge does not permit access to the Intensive Care Unit right now. The police department has closed it to everyone except emergency patients.”

Before Lois could speak, a familiar voice reached her ears, “Good to see you Lois, even if it’s for work. Why do I have a feeling you have something to do with the ruckus taking place in the ICU?”

Lois turned around and saw Clark’s oldest friend from Smallville, Dr. Pete Ross standing by the desk. The powerfully built man, wearing surgical greens and a stethoscope hanging around his neck, came over, gave her a hug, and smiled down at her with warmth and affection.

“Are you just leaving a surgery or preparing for one?” she asked with a tiny smile.

“Neither. I’m getting started with my rounds. Wearing this outfit rather than a shirt and tie only makes me look more official.”

“Hopefully, those patients appreciate that they are in the care of the best Neurosurgeon in Metropolis!”

Pete was about to reply when he took note of Talmadge standing close to Lois, as if he were protecting her from some perceived threat. The doctor’s normally affable blue eyes turned suspicious, and he said to her, “Who’s your friend?”

“Uh, this is my temporary partner, Paul Talmadge.”

She introduced the two men and watched as they sized each other up like a couple of prizefighters. Pete, she knew was doing it in defense of his friend, but why in the world was Talmadge acting so protective? Surely he did not think someone from Intergang would attempt to harm her in MetroGen? Besides, at this point, they should be more concerned about Simcoe’s safety than hers.

Pete nodded slightly, comprehending a great deal with those few words. He looked at the receptionist who was respectfully watching the exchange and said, “Mrs. Harness, Miss Lane is a friend of mine, she and her associate can go upstairs. I suspect Detective Reed and Agent Zhao are expecting them.”

The older woman looked concerned, “Ah… are you certain Dr. Ross? I was given strict instructions by Dr. Yanos. The Director of Administration told me not to let anyone except the police or FBI agents into ICU.”

Pete rolled his eyes. He and Yanos had a long history together. The man was a glorified general practitioner and a general pain in the butt. Not someone he had any intention of fearing.

"Oh yeah… Dr. Yanos. I’m certain, if we don’t let them go upstairs there will be more trouble … but not from administration. Guess what? I have a patient to see up there, so I’ll accompany them to ICU.”

“Yes, doctor.” With those reassuring words, the receptionist produced special passes with a red-edged border for Lois and Talmadge. “Please wear these at all times while in the ICU. The patient’s location is written on the pass. A police officer will meet you at the elevator.”

The walk down to the bank of elevators was conducted in silence as was the ride to the twelfth floor.

When the heavy metallic doors flew open, they were stopped by a burly, uniformed police officer with a beefy red face and a no-nonsense attitude. He held up his hand and barked in a rough voice, “Only authorized personnel from the MPD and the FBI at this point. Get back downstairs!”

Talmadge growled, “My name is Paul Talmadge. We have passes, permitting us to be up here.” He didn’t want to reveal his association with the Bureau of Investigation.

Pete said, “I’m Dr. Ross. I have a patient on this floor suffering from Trigeminal neuralgia. These people were …”

The officer cut Pete off, refused to listen, and then said, “That fancy medical lingo doesn’t interest me. Repeat. Go back downstairs!

Before another word could be spoken in protest, a woman’s voice cut through the air and echoed around the corridors, which had both MPD uniforms and federal agents standing by stairways, supply closets, and elevator banks. “Let them through Kevin, if you don’t want to see your name and poor conduct mentioned in Lois Lane’s story tomorrow.” Jerking her thumb in Paul’s direction she said, “This is Agent Talmadge, who works for Agent Zhao.” Detective Reed said harshly in her Texas accent that brooked no nonsense.

The cop, his face flushed with embarrassment, wisely stepped aside, but not before he gave the trio a suspicious look.

“Detective Reed! Thanks for getting us past the over-zealous traffic cop.” Lois said as the group walked down the corridor.

“No problem, Lane, just remember this the next time it’s necessary for me to talk to you off the record,” the detective said with a smirk.

Pete tapped Lois on the shoulder and said, “This is where I leave. Time to attend to my patient; thankfully, it was a simple procedure and he’s recovering. At least the poor guy doesn’t actually have trigeminal neuralgia. I only said that to get us past the policeman.”

Detective Reed shuddered and said, “That sounds painful.”

“Yeah, it’s a severe facial pain—perhaps one of the most excruciating pains encountered in medicine. Trigeminal neuralgia is a chronic condition that causes sudden, extreme burning or jolting facial pain that lasts for up to two minutes. The intensity of the pain can be frightening and physically incapacitating. Sadly, I have gotten a few cases with this condition and the patient just wants relief.”

“That’s terrible! What is the cure?” Lois asked.

“MetroGen is among a few hospitals in New Troy to provide the level of care required for the treatment options for this debilitating condition. We are also the only hospital in the region that offers the Gamma Knife radiosurgery technology for treating this condition.”

Talmadge said sourly, “That cop by the elevator seems to have the same condition, except the pain is not in his facial nerves, but much lower!”

The group took a moment to realize that Talmadge had cracked a joke. Their laughter was heard down the hallway, and no doubt reached the pompous man’s ears.

Lois, understanding that Pete’s time was short, turned to the others and said, “Can you both wait just a minute? It’s important for me to speak with Dr. Ross.” They walked down the hallway as Reed and Talmadge watched.

As soon as they were out of earshot she said in a whisper, “I heard from Clark last night.”

Surprised, the big man looked around and said. “What? How?”

She bowed her head and bit a trembling lip, “A device… like a courier, brings holographic messages to me from his home planet.”

Pete’s eyes grew wide. But kept the volume of his voice down, “My God, that is amazing! Is he all right? When does he expect to come home?”

“If only we had some idea! He’s fighting an insane civil war, so nothing is certain. He’s so far from everyone he loves...” Abruptly, Lois’ brown eyes became awash with tears that she fiercely wiped away. “I’m sorry for keeping this from you Pete. He’s your oldest friend and you have a right to know. For a while there I was drowning in self-pity. His… ‘abduction’ has been difficult for everyone.”

Pete gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “This has been harder on you than all of us. Remember, you can always contact me… please don’t be a stranger.” He glanced down the corridor at the two people anxiously waiting for her. “Now you better get back to your partner and the detective. It looks to me like they are getting a tad impatient.”

Lois glanced back at them. “They can wait a moment longer. Perry saddled me with Talmadge because of this investigation I’m involved in. He’s also a genuine reporter from Washington, which makes his cover that much more believable.”

Pete chuckled. “Yeah, I was wondering what that tense guy was doing with you. Listen, if he gives you any trouble, page me.”

A grateful smile spread across her lips. “Yes, big brother!”

The expression on Pete’s face grew serious. “Clark is like the brother I never had. You are his fiancé, which kinda sorta makes you my sister. Make certain Agent Talmadge is aware of that fact. Better he tangle with me now, rather than with Clark later.”

The unspoken words between them were: If there is a later.

She nodded. “I will. It was great talking with you again. Time for me to get back to my interview.”

Pete shook his head, and then sighed. “What would Lois Lane be like if she was not tracking down a major story? Call me later. I want to know what Clark’s up to. Take care of yourself...sis. I’m going to talk to Mom and Dad Kent tonight. Now go on. Talmadge looks like he’s about to have a stroke; take my word for that as a doctor.”

With that he gave her arm a squeeze, turned, and walked down the hallway.

Lois rejoined the duo. Detective Reed said, “The big blonde guy looks familiar. Who is he?”

“Dr. Peter Ross, ER neurologist and Clark’s best friend. He was asking how I am doing.”

Reed’s face flushed, embarrassed and then quickly, “Oh, I remember him! He helped save Detective Carter last year. He’s a great surgeon! I thought he was one of the attending physicians in this case. I heard Joss Carter is finally going to marry her boyfriend John Reese. Sorry, didn’t mean to pry into your personal business, but we need to get this interview done before we put Simcoe under serious lockdown.”

Lois looked around at the number of uniforms and agents in the hallway and waving her arm at them. “What do you call this? Minimum security?”

“It’s the best we can do under the circumstances, Miss Lane. My team has been here since Simcoe arrived on Sunday,” a deep masculine voice said. “Everyone involved in this case, says that there would not be a case without your help. That’s the only reason, we are granting this interview with Mr. Simcoe. I am only sorry your fiancé, Mr. Kent, is not here as well.”

Talmadge turned and said, “Lois, this is my Section Chief, Agent Zhao.”

Before them stood an Asian man of medium build, his suit slightly rumpled, as if he had taken a catnap in it. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, yet he stood ramrod straight and greeted the reporters cordially. Lois took the man’s hand, shook it, and then said, “Thank you, Agent Zhao. Well, it looks like everyone’s here. Detective Reed, care to lead the way?”

“Yeah, time we got something started before Director Yanos falls down on us like a hammer for disrupting the patients and their routine.” With those words, she stalked down the corridor and turned left.

They came to a hallway that was full of uniforms and serious looking men and women wearing special listening devices that coiled from their earpiece down to their collars. Lois was impressed. No one was playing anymore with Intergang; if Simcoe would point his finger in the right direction, they had every intention of keeping him alive long enough to reach the witness stand.

Room E-287D had two armed uniforms standing on either side of the heavy wooden door. Upon seeing Agent Zhao, they opened the door, allowing the entire group to enter. A thin tan blanket and a white sheet covered the patient, while numerous tubes and sensors were either inserted or attached to his supine form. Simcoe, a tall man with dark curly hair, lay with his head, neck and shoulders, propped up on pillows, to make breathing more comfortable. A plastic IV cannula snaked from the bag of fluid near the bed into a vein in his arm, slender but strong fingers held in place by a pulse oximeter. He stared up at the ceiling as if there was something of particular interest to him as they surrounded the bed.

Lois couldn’t help but sense that despite being in this safe, albeit sterile, environment the man reminded her of a menacing cobra; poised and ready to strike.

Agent Zhao said, “Mr. Simcoe, we have visitors here to witness the interrogation, FBI Agent Paul Talmadge and Lois Lane and of the Daily Planet, who as you are aware has written extensively about this investigation.”

The voice which emerged from the body was surprisingly smooth, yet almost as ominous as a snake moving over its victim’s paralyzed body. “Very well. My loyalties have shifted considerably since my former employers decided to give my body… ah, personal… ventilation.”

Zhao’s face became impassive, “Mr. Simcoe, immunity is only being granted because of your cooperation. Otherwise, once released from the hospital’s care you would have been placed in the general population of New Troy Prison.”

A bitter snarl erupted from his throat. “And lose your star witness against Intergang? Don’t make me laugh!”

“You got immunity, Simcoe, quit stalling.’ Reed snapped as she pointed a red lacquered nail in the prisoner’s face.

With a barely imperceptible shrug of muscular shoulders as if to give up something of little consequence, Simcoe replied with a tight smile, speaking as if to soothe an angry child. “Temper, temper Detective Reed. One would think you had a personal stake in bringing down the Churches. Are you upset with them because they raised the price of those false fingernails? What’s the color’s name? Blood red?”

Rather than let Reed answer, Agent Zhao laid a calmative hand on her shoulder. The sharp woman fairly bristled at his touch but stepped back from Simcoe’s bedside to compose herself.
Simcoe again gave that irritating little smile, knowing he had gotten the better of the policewoman and relishing the tiny victory. “Very well, let me begin. RoxxTen was purchased by Mr. Church Sr. six years ago, before CostMart’s operations moved into the state of New Troy. Apparently, he is a prudent man and wanted all the chess pieces on the board before the illegal segment of his operations began.”

“For the purpose of laundering the profits from their illegal operations?” Zhao asked.

“Yes, that would be correct,” Simcoe answered blandly.

Lois chimed in, “But why all the neglected payments to health care providers? Dozens of patients were stuck with bills that ran into the thousands of dollars which RoxxTen was supposed to cover in their health insurance policies.”

Reed mumbled under her breath, “What happened? Somebody get greedy. Sounds like garbage insurance to me.”

Talmadge who had been sitting back listening said tersely, “Using a legitimate business for money laundering makes sense from the criminal’s viewpoint. Still, if there is no clear evidence that Bill Church himself set this whole operation in motion, everything – Dr. Siebert’s assault, Elden Kraft’s possible death and anything else they might have a hand in – will be for nothing. The Churches walk.”

With a quick turn of his head, the prisoner said, “Elden’s dead?”

Talmadge shook his head and said, “Possibly. We thought you might point us in his direction.”

Simcoe said with a touch of concern for Elden. “He’s the key to the entire money laundering operation. Charles Belfield assigned him the job as the chief accountant who oversaw the entire process. But all that money pouring in… it was too much to resist. He started embezzling funds using his considerable computer skills. Unfortunately, according to him, there was a slight error made while coding the program. Instead of removing small amounts of money from the accounts that Intergang was funneling in, somehow patients bills were not paid.”
Christine Reed looked up, “Charles Belfield? The CEO of RoxxTen? He said he had no knowledge of any problems within the company.”

Lois quickly dived into her briefcase and pulled out her RoxxTen story file. Upon finding the right page regarding her conversation with No-Knees Nolan, she said, “According to one of my sources, Belfield used to work for CostMart as one of Church’s executives. He must be an Intergang higher-up.”

Simcoe nodded. “Correct, Miss Lane. Kraft and I took our cues from Belfield, but Bill Church was the one pulling his strings. Still, if Kraft had been a little more diligent in his programming duties, all the payments would have been covered and Intergang’s little shell game of monies would have remained hidden. To all concerned, RoxxTen continues to be an ‘outstanding’ insurance company, caring for its clients and their providers.”

Looking up from the file notes Lois said, “Are you serious? All these patients and their families suffered because some guy had his hand in the cookie jar …and couldn’t get it out?”
Simcoe nodded his head slowly, “Essentially, yes.”

“Some glitch!” Detective Reed snorted. “But that doesn’t explain why you went after Dr. Siebert. After all, company service reps don’t go around threatening doctors. Did the twisted computer program tell you to do that?”

With a smirk he said, “Computers are not my field. Just as hair care is not yours, Detective Reed.”

Christine Reed’s face flushed and she took in a deep breath, the harsh sound bouncing around the hospital room. The detective was angry and about ready to verbally slice into the prisoner. Thankfully, Zhao spoke before she could.

“Computer program errors can be tracked down, although it seems far-fetched to me that it happened quite the way you say it did. Still, the Bureau has qualified experts who can verify that part of your story.”

Lois had her own computer expert, Eugene Ladermer. When they got back to the Daily Planet, she intended to give him a call.

“Agent Zhao, you are welcome to try,” Simcoe said, casually pulling a loose blanket thread. “But despite Elden’s mistake, he covered his tracks within the program very well.”

“Terrific. How are we supposed to believe this fairy tale? Elden is probably dead and with him any evidence of the numerous crimes Intergang has committed,” Zhao grumbled.

“Why not find him and ask? I spoke with him that night at Capparelli’s.” Simcoe said in a flat, deadly tone.

“Yeah?” Reed asked her interest piqued, “He’s alive? Do you know where he’s hiding?”

“No.”

Rubbing her chin, Lois said thoughtfully. “Agent Talmadge and I were outside Capparelli’s on Friday night. We saw you talking to several persons of rather dubious character which automatically breaks your probation. Maybe we can ask Bill Church, Jr.? You two were pretty chummy outside the pool hall. Did Elden have a chat with him inside? Oh yeah, why did Junior take your pool stick case? What happened? Lost it in a bet?”

Simcoe, with a nasty gleam in his eyes, rebuked her by saying. “Lois Lane on a stakeout with someone other than Clark Kent? My, my, what would your dear absent fiancé think?”

Talmadge, who up to that point had been silent, in a rare show of emotion, slapped his palm on the cheap nightstand’s white Formica top, his voice raised in volume. “Stop avoiding the questions! Lois Lane and Detective Reed are professionals in their respective fields. The former and her fiancé brought down Lex Luthor, the Boss of Metropolis and the latter put away the cunning genius who created the Ides of March computer virus program that nearly crippled the country. If you keep needling them and everyone else in this room, I am sure between us and them we can find a way to put Bill Church and his son away without your testimony. Do I make my meaning clear?”

For the first time, a touch of worry shaded Simcoe’s voice, “Crystal.”

There was a brief silence in the room before Agent Zhao cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Simcoe, as Agent Talmadge said, answer the questions. No doubt, Ms. Lane, Detective Reed, and the rest of us have more important matters to attend to than dancing to your tune.”

“Yeah, now, once again. Why did you attack Dr. Siebert?” Detective Reed said.

“I… I was under orders from someone within Intergang to make an … example of Dr. Siebert. It was felt that if one prominent physician were ‘persuaded’ to rejoin RoxxTen then the others would fall in line, not wanting to suffer the same fate.”

Lois’ eyes grew wide, and she gasped out, “You weren’t going to kill him were you?”

Simcoe remained silent.

“Will you swear to that in a court of law?” Reed asked.

He glared at her and said succinctly, “I never said anything about killing the good doctor. Why would I give away my bargaining chip? Oh, Ms. Lane, regarding my cue stick? I did lose a bet. Bill Church Jr. will have it from now on.”

Detective Reed muttered a curse under her breath and said nothing. The man once again avoided a direct question and was arrogant in the extreme. But if it were up to her, once the trial was over, Simcoe could be left to rot in the bottom of some cold, dark pit.

Before another word could be spoken, Agent Zhao said, “I think it’s time we leave, Mr. Simcoe.”

Without a word of farewell or backward glance to the man laying down in the hospital bed, they departed the room and walked down the hallway to the elevator.

“That team of federal lawyers I saw earlier downstairs wants to depose him?” Detective Reed said briskly.

Agent Zhao rubbed his eyes. The man was exhausted. The past twenty-four hours had been long and wearisome. “Yes, to find out what else Simcoe knows and to preserve his testimony. Just in case Intergang gets to him before he reaches the witness stand. The intent is to allow the parties to learn all of the facts before the trial, so that no one is surprised once he is in court. Contrary to what countless movies and TV shows would have the public believe, springing a surprise witness at the eleventh hour of a trial is regarded as unfair, even if the defendants are a criminal organization. By the time a trial begins, the parties should know who all of the witnesses will be and what they'll say during testimony.”

“We can still write up the story, can’t we?” Lois asked.

“Not yet. But you have my word that the Daily Planet will get the exclusive. As Paul has mentioned to me on numerous occasions, this investigation would have stalled without your involvement, Ms. Lane,” Agent Zhao said respectfully.

Mollified, Lane bit back a retort, and instead graciously said, “Thank you for that, Agent Zhao.” Turning to the detective she said, “Christine, we’ll talk later. Tell Henderson I’ve got a bone to pick with him.” With that, Lois and Talmadge entered the elevator and shortly thereafter, departed the hospital.

In the parking lot Talmadge said, “Let’s head back to the Daily Planet with what we’ve got; so Perry won’t kill the story.”

Lois shook her head as she opened the driver's side of the Jeep. “No, Talmadge, not just yet.”

Puzzled, by this turn of events asked, “Why not?”

“Because we have to see a man about breaking into a computer.”

Her partner looked at her and gave a small groan of concern. “My assignment is to protect you, not get involved in breaking and entering!”

“Yeah well, this is not what we learned in college or at our respective newspapers. This is all part of getting the story and putting away the bad guys. Come on, it’s time we went down memory lane…”

A sharp spike of apprehension went down Talmadge’s back. He didn’t like the tone of Lois’ voice.