I own nothing, save for a lifelong affection for Clark Kent; Lois Lane and (almost) all characters in the Superman Universe. If I did own the characters, I'd be playing all day long. Please be nice, this is my first swipe at fiction.
It felt like ages since she had put pen or, in this case, pencil to paper. Effectively, it had been. The world had changed in the course of twenty-four hours, shifted on its axis due to one man's refusal to accept the death of an old regime. The world was nearly swallowed whole, both lives and innocence were lost, and here she sat writing notes in the burned-out shell of a Starbucks. She couldn't quite decide if the air carried an odd hint of overdone Café Latte, or if it was a remnant from the battle, but the former was the slightly less heartbreaking. It was all information she promised Clark she'd never share, and information that the government would never let see the light of day.
Still, the words, no matter how fleeting, grounded her and kept her stitched together. The words kept her planted to one spot for another day, and that was why she sat scribbling in an armchair amidst the rubble. The sun was soon to rise.