Notes: Before reading this story, there are a few things you MUST keep in mind. This story attempts to deal with the aftermath of the STAS episode "Legacy" (in which Darkseid brainwashed Supes and had him attack Earth and other planets). Though Batman makes an appearance and assumes an important and (hopefully) interesting role, this story is largely set in the Superman universe. It is also set after my other story "Mere Words," though you don't have to read it to understand this one.
Before someone, having read the story, jumps up and says, "Hey! That's not how the military/drug cartels/business tycoons work!" I just want to clarify: I did research, but really I'm just a college student writing fanfiction because I couldn't find a job this summer. I tried to make things sound as accurate as possible, but at the end of the day I'm just not Dick Wolf. I figure if in "Legacy" Lois Lane can bust into a military complex without turning heads, I can get away with a few unlikely scenarios.
Also…Sam Lane appears in this chapter. I don't read a lot of the comics so I really have NO idea what he's like, though my understanding is that he's rather sexist. So…I just kind of made it up. For instance, the bit about them not speaking for five years is straight out of my head. I hope that comic purists can forgive me.
Anyway—hope you enjoy!
Laundry List of Warnings: This story contains drug use and drug dealing; violence; some implied sexual content; adult language. UPDATE 8/17: Will be rated "M" in about two or three chapters. Yeah, it's not a kid's cartoon anymore. Sorry. *sheepish grin*
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, and I probably butchered Sam Lane—all in the name of art. Er, fanfiction.
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Chapter One: The New Seattle
Rain: it beat the rooftops senseless, overflowed the reservoirs, caressed the tops of peoples' heads, slithered down hair and skin and rubber boots, touched people indiscriminately.
Over the familiar hum of rain he heard his feet swish against the water in his shoes. His umbrella had utterly failed to protect him. Once in the vestibule, he closed his umbrella with three definitive shakes, taking care to not splash water on the bouquet of zinnias. He knew he should ring the bell, but didn't. One hand was weighed down by the dripping umbrella, the other by a gesture of his love.
And for the first time since he'd bought them at the florist, he looked—really looked—at that love. On the walk here, against the grey sky and the rain, the zinnias had glowed with the power of their color. Now, under harsh florescent lights, they seemed bleak and a little limp. How stupid of him—zinnias can't survive without sunlight. And there hadn't been sun for long time.
Fifteen minutes later he was walking to the other end of the block. He saw the sky become alive with lightning and felt the force of it inside him, briefly. It wasn't until he reached the end of the block and had already thrown the flowers away that he remembered he'd left his umbrella in her building.
---
Joe, I'm starting to think that Metropolis is the new Seattle.
Are you kidding? It's the new Noah's Ark!
Both disc jockeys guffawed at the lame joke. She turned off the radio and pulled the car into reverse, easing it out of the parking spot. As she was about to pull out, a movement caught her eye. Through the rain-streaked windshield she could see a man at the street corner gently lay what looked like a bouquet of flowers in the garbage.
Clark.
Clark in the rain without an umbrella. Clark and his broad shoulders, awkwardly and uncharacteristically slumped. Clark crossing the street and not looking back, regardless of how much she stared or how long the driver of the car behind her blared its horn.
"All right, shut up!" She finished pulling out quickly, but not because she wanted to accommodate the car behind her.
Although she should have turned left at the light, she instead drove on to the block where Clark walked. Not that she could explain why. It wasn't like she could offer him a ride—she had somewhere to be.
Maybe she just wanted to him to see her.
His gait was decidedly un-Superman-like. You walk any slower, Smallville, she found herself thinking, and they'll have to declare you dead. It did not surprise her when, even without deciding to, she found her foot on the gas petal lifting slightly, the car relaxing. Her fingers around the steering wheel loosened. She was so close she swore she could see rain drip from his nose.
Ten after eight. Twenty minutes to get to the bar. She leaned her foot on the gas petal. Deep down, she was relieved to know that she didn't have time to look back—she just might have stopped.
---
A slim and seductively jade-green bottle slammed against the countertop. BAM, it said, but it also said Iraq, it said Lois and it all but screamed, "You've had a little too much to drink, my friend."
Sam Lane didn't jump, didn't flinch, but merely threaded his fingers around the bottle's neck and drank.
…A survey conducted by Metropolis University revealed that 89% percent of Metropolis still does not trust the Man of Steel. Yet this is down by nearly 7% since last month…
"Well, I guess people are comin' around…"
Lane looked up from his bottle to the round face of the bartender, who was drying a mug. Around them, other people, mostly men, were sipping drinks with the quiet that a Sunday entails, blankly watching the news report. Several images flooded the screen: Superman rescuing residents of a burning building, Superman shaking hands with the mayor at a recent press conference, Superman flying at a distance against the grey sky.
"Slowly but surely," Lane muttered.
Noticing the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, the bartender offered him a sympathetic grin as he put the mugs away. "Not a fan?" he asked casually.
Lane peered up from his glass. "Can't say I am."
The bartender nodded, still grinning. "You know, I felt that way too," he said. "When I saw the news report that night, I…felt so betrayed, ya know? And I thought his story about being brainwashed was just an excuse. But then I thought about it and—why bother making an excuse and then trying to win back people's trust? You know, he's saved loads of people—like my brother-in-law. He's a construction worker. He was operating a crane that suddenly broke—would have caused a lot of damage if it hadn't been for Superman. Can you imagine the devastation if it weren't for him?"
Although he was sure the bartender meant well, perhaps even meant to function as a voice of reason, Lane could feel the heat flood his face and neck. He was just barely able to keep his voice a normal pitch when he replied, quite calmly, "I don't need to. I saw it."
"We all saw it, but you know, the TV news reports can twist the truth—"
"Let me clarify. I saw it from the Pentagon.
The bartender flinched, and for some reason Lane could not explain, it gave him great satisfaction. "No disrespect," he said quietly, "but I agree with the editorial from the Daily Planet—we owe him a second chance. Did you read that piece?"
A strange smile possessed Lane's lips. "Yes."
"And? You're still not convinced?"
Lane's practiced thin-lipped smile, balanced by an uncompromising glare, said it all. Even before he spoke, he could see the understanding unfold on the bartender's face.
"Young man," Lane said, "we're at war. There's only one chance."
---
Rain pummeled the docks, massacred the unprotected water. Great. She parked as close to the bar as she could, and turned off the engine. For a moment she sat there, listening to the rain. As each drop grated against her nerves, she wondered what kind of karmic retribution caused the rain to get heavy just in time for her to get out of the car. Across the street were the docks, but she saw nothing but endless gray. Not a soul stirred in this tired neighborhood known as Suicide Slum.
Just fucking great.
She pulled up her hood and made a mad dash for the nameless, lopsided bar.
Surprisingly, it was darker inside. Smoke encircled her, even though smoking in bars had long been banned in Metropolis. Among the chatter of a few scattered patrons, she caught soundbites from the news overhead—Superman did this, Superman didn't do that. The lone barman wiped down the counters with little enthusiasm. When she saw a man hunched over the corner of the bar, bile rose to her throat. She swallowed and approached him. The innocent click of her heels rang in her ears, but he did not stir.
"Daddy."
Sam Lane merely downed the rest of his Heineken while his daughter just stood there, awkwardly fingering her purse strap. Finally, he emerged from the bottle and looked up at her with cold, glassy eyes.
"You're late, Lois."
Lois took the opportunity to offer him an appraising glare before sitting next to him. She slammed her purse on the bar, wanting desperately to say something mean, something clever and mean, but her mind was a silent, red slate.
"What do I owe the pleasure?" Sam Lane forced a smile. Lois did not return the gesture.
"Business," she said curtly.
Lane snapped his fingers in the bartender's direction, and indicated to Lois. "New story?"
"A Stella, please," Lois ordered. Then she said to her father, "Yeah. Front page stuff." The bottle of Stella Artois was poised at her lips, and Lois realized that she hardly even remembered it appearing. She took a deep breath. Get yourself together, Lane. "It's about those kids who OD'ed on that new drug. The one they're calling Lucid Nightmare."
The information had the desired affect on her father: his eyes widened, and he struggled to swallow the beer. He looked at her, at the triumph glowing on her face, and considered his next move. At least, he recovered himself and smirked. "You always did aim high, didn't you?"
Lois set her bottle down. "Just doing my job," she said. "Especially when lives are at stake."
"What? You think you can solve the world's problems just by writing a couple sad words? I read your editorial on Superman a few weeks back, by the way. It was sappy, but I do admire your guts to stand up for him when no one else will. Is that your new thing, Lois? Left-wing bleeding-heart sap? Betraying your country so that you can get laid?"
Lane turned his attention back to his drink, already too drunk to care about the consequences of his words. Lois watched him impassively. Her eyes darted to the green bottle, her imagination weaving dangerous scenarios: the bottle coming down hard on his head; blood everywhere; bits of jade-green embedded in his red face.
She forced herself to ignore it all. After all, this was nothing she hadn't anticipated.
There was no way she was giving up now.
"The kids who OD'ed," she said in a voice that sounded too thin to be her own. She cleared her throat and added force: "I know that drug came from the military."
"Everyone knows that the drug came from the military," Lane bristled. "The thing is, nobody knows what the military is using it for. And if you think I'm going to tell you, you've got another thing coming. I serve the United States of America—I, unlike you, will not betray—"
"I also know that the drug didn't originally come from the military, because the military is not in the habit of storing kryptonite or fear toxin…which are the drug's prime ingredients."
This time, she had Sam Lane's full attention. With a sort of bleak triumph, Lois realized that this was the first time she had rendered her father speechless.
"It's interesting," Lois continued with confident bounce in her voice, "that this drug is made with a fear toxin that happens to be the exact formula the Scarecrow has used over the years. It's also interesting that a syringe worth of the drug contains about five milligrams of liquid, synthetic kryptonite. Both of which are illegal substances. So either the military is paying a company to produce this drug—or it bought it from someone." She leaned in. "I want to know who."
"How," Lane grounded, "do you know all this?"
Lois's poker face crumbled into a smug smile. "Surely, such an upstanding citizen like yourself ought to know that I have the right to protect my sources."
"Judith Miller didn't have that right," Lane shot back. "The rules change when it comes to national security."
"This isn't about Iraq or Afghanistan, and you know it. This is about Superman."
"With you, it's always about Superman."
"I'm not the only one. The military is obviously planning something against him, but someone's operating behind the scenes, I know it. Who?"
Her father regarded her silently for a moment. "I have the right to protect my sources," he replied, dead-pan.
"It's Luthor, isn't it?"
"Why, because he's another of your ex's?" Lane shook his head, his mouth drawn down to his chin, and Lois was sure she could read his mind: Women.
Above them, the news report recycled the same images of Superman soaring through the Metropolis skyline. Lois messaged her forehead. Stay focused. Don't take the bait. "A year ago," she began, much more calmly than she felt, "Luthor bought Scarecrow's formula from STAR…and I'm willing to bet he's been producing synthetic kryptonite for longer than that."
Her father merely checked his watch and drummed his fingers on the bar.
Lois's fist slammed against the bar. "Answer me."
She expected more degrading remarks. She expected a condescending smile, or him to continue ignoring her, perhaps even leave.
She did not expect him to let out a tired sigh and take her trembling hand.
"We haven't spoken in almost five years, Lois," he murmured, staring ahead. "Your idea of a reunion is exchanging information that could cost me my job?"
Lois blinked. That's right—she hadn't realized it had been that long. Nearly five years ago, she had been selected as a finalist for a Pulitzer, and lost. Seeing her father now, his brow so sternly furrowed as always, his eyes still blue and sharp, plunged her into that same realization she had had the day she decided to stop speaking to him. The stench of stale beer vanished, and was replaced by the faint vanilla scent she had worn for the awards ceremony; next she was turning the key into her door, stumbling half-drunk into her apartment, and kicking her heels off; then her father on the phone when she told him the news—her silent, disapproving father, whose off-hand remark "No, I'm not that disappointed"—those unforgettable words—brought her entire childhood into clarity.
It was the moment she realized that he always wished she had been a boy.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Both of them knew it was an admission of something beyond their current strife. On cue, her father abruptly looked away and waved his arm dismissively. "Don't waste your time. This is much bigger than you think. You'll never find out the whole story… And even if you did, you wouldn't live long enough to write it."
As he pulled his hand away, Lois, feeling a flash of panic, yanked it back. "Wait," she said. The angry gleam in his eyes dimmed. "You need to tell me what's going on, or give me the name of someone else who will. Look, Daddy…" Her voice faltered. "This isn't about the damn article. I…" She bit her lip. "I need to do this. For him. I need to save a life." God, did she really just say that? Why did he make her always sound so idiotic?
But Lane was too preoccupied yanking his wrist away to notice. "I thought that was his M.O." He whipped out his wallet and slapped a twenty dollar bill on the bar.
"Not in this case."
"What are you, his sidekick? Aren't you supposed to be his damsel in distress?"
"I'm his…" Lois stopped. Her mind went blank. Then she wondered why the hell she had to explain herself anyway? "Forget it. I don't know why I wasted my time."
Lois reflected that now was a good time to get the hell out. For some unexplainable reason, she lingered by him the way she would a curious stranger—the type one might find interesting, maybe because the chances of meeting again were slim. He offered to buy her a drink and she almost accepted.
"You give me information, and I'll drink to it."
"No. Not a chance."
"Fine," she said. "I'll find out eventually. But you probably should buy a copy of the Planet tomorrow. So should your pals at the Pentagon."
He nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
Their interaction ended. At that moment, she felt deeply connected to the bar, to its sticky counters and empty conversations. It was undoubtedly the saddest place in Metropolis. Without saying goodbye, she slid off the stool and walked to the door.
Cold winds blew rain from all directions and, standing at the edge of the street, she realized that her umbrella still lay by her father's feet.
---
His little girl would have died had it not been for Superman.
Yet there she was, bundled in his arms, all tears and whimpers, and he in a similar state. Above them, Superman lifted the tree that had snapped in two, which he had caught a moment before it almost crushed the five-year old girl. He watched the man with his daughter, listened to his pounding heart and his murmuring of, "Oh, sweetie, don't run out like that again" to match her own "Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
When they looked up and gasped at him, he knew he had hovered a moment too long and suddenly felt as though he were intruding. They watched him wordlessly, the wind whistling in their ears. Their eyes grew rounder with fear the longer he stayed, yet he himself could not look away from that fear.
The paralysis passed. Superman set the tree on the ground and shot up as a high as possible into the lightning-scarred sky.
To be continued…