When I was a boy, I was very fat: a decadent (and misguided) byproduct of my station.
My mother, God rest her noble soul, loved me very much, if my memory serves me correctly. My father, I suppose, felt certain feelings for me, though he was a man of few words and little presence. Perhaps he did love me, and perhaps he did love my mother, once, though my experience with him was (and remains) limited. I was six when cancer claimed my mother, and, even before then, my father had little time for either of us. I suppose I cannot fault him too terribly, as the time he failed to put in with me, he put into the company, and I have reaped those benefits, in the long-term.
His indifference, too, left my mother and me with a great deal of time together, and, as best as I can recall, these times account for the most pleasant moments of my life not to be attached to work. My father had, evidently, promised her that she would never have to work again, and I had very few responsibilities outside of learning to tie my shoes. And so, I spent most of my early years attended to by assistants, accompanying my mother on shopping trips and "business" lunches and, if I promised to be a good boy, I could expect a hearty treat at the end of the day. Most psychiatrists or experienced parents might say that this behavior fostered in me the idea that I could have whatever I wanted without having to work for it, and perhaps it did. But, even today, I have trouble resenting her. She was innocent to a fault, my mother: a computer programmer by trade who spent most of her life shadowing her father at WayneTech, she had no time and, indeed, no affinity for friendships. In many ways, I was the only friend my mother ever had.
To this day, she was the only friend I have ever had.
After my mother passed away, what tenderness my father possessed died with her. He would never say it to me directly (He rarely said anything to me, directly or otherwise, from that point on), but I know he blamed her death on me. To my end, I spent much of my childhood blaming him for… everything else. But, much though I was consumed with sorrow and confusion at my mother's passing, at the age of six, I was consumed more immediately by confusion as to why my father would not buy me ice cream every day. After a week or so, bereft of trips to town and their heaps of toys and treats, I voiced my sincere displeasure to my father.
It was the first time that I remember feeling fear.
February 26th, three years ago…
Clark was always one to try and be pragmatic. A lifetime of hiding and second-guessing had taught him that much, at any rate. But, while he had only been in Metropolis for a month, he couldn't shake the feeling that everything was going to work out, here. Yes, it was far more cramped than Smallville. Yes, people seemed generally much grumpier. And yes, it cost a considerable amount more to live in even his small apartment than he had hoped. But, ever since Clark had stepped off the bus into Metropolis, he felt as though he was, somehow, in the right place (And not entirely because freaks and weirdoes were more commonplace on big city streets than in small-town Kansas). Life moved at the frenetic pace of his own mind, and Clark could always find something to distract himself from the more frustrating of his thoughts and feelings. Every day, there were new things to see and new things to learn, and Clark faced every new day prepared to experience them.
Even if he was still unsure of what he wanted out of his life, Clark knew that, whatever it was, he would find it here.
These days, Clark found it much easier to attend school. There was more to think about at Metropolis U than at Pratt College, in Kansas. In particular, he had found an especial fondness for keeping track of shuttle bus routines. While he had driven all of his things here in Pa's old pickup, Clark took particular satisfaction in keeping track of both his class times and the routes of the shuttles that would get him to and from his apartment. The less time his mind had to wander, the easier things became for him, and, in time, he found himself hearing regular comments about "that huge guy" who sat bolt-upright on the bus, a leather briefcase hugged tight to his chest, beaming like a moron. He didn't mind. Even these backhanded remarks seemed to tell him that he was doing something right, for a change.
Today, as he got off the bus to hike to Professor Hamilton's class, he stopped for a moment to drink in his newfound sense of satisfaction. The world was just beginning its descent into spring, and the faint scents of snowfall were giving way to the sweet, warm smells of blooming plants and clear sunlight. The world still hummed around him, but now, he could pick out other sounds. The wasp's nest that was beginning to come to life outside of Winston Hall. The chugging of bus and car engines on the streets, nearby. The roar of industry pulsing throughout the city. Everything seemed to be falling into place, anymore. It made him want to…
"Get off the bus, asshole," someone grumbled behind him. It was easy to get lost in thought, in times like this. So lost, in fact, that all 450 pounds of one's unnaturally large frame might prevent everyone behind him from going anywhere, had one been so uninclined to move out of the way. Snapped back to reality, Clark huddled down against his briefcase, half embarrassed, half mischievous, and hurried off to class.
Clark had a particular fondness for Professor Hamilton. He was a short man with a thick beard and a tweed jacket always thrown on half-sarcastically over some old rock concert t-shirt or another. He spoke slowly and loudly and could never get through more than a few sentences without a moment of internal reflection to think very carefully about what he was going to say next. And, while Clark was fairly certain that years of loud music and debauchery had produced the Emil Hamilton of today, he could almost see himself becoming that old man, with age: a droopy-eyed, pleasant old fellow without a care in the world, save the frequent misplacement of his own keys.
"As a quick note before we leave," Hamilton sighed, relieved to have finished another lecture, "I want to make a quick change to the syllabus schedule. So, for those of you who still have your syllabus, please take it out. For those of you who don't… Well… You know… Shame on you." There was a general chuckle about the lecture hall. With a barely-contained smirk of satisfaction, Clark removed his syllabus from the front of his immaculately-kept binder and hunkered down.
"I'm a little bit disturbed by our collective test scores, lately. And, if your first essays are any indication, there are very few of you who seem to be picking up what I'm laying down. Specifically, I take sincere offense at those of you who elected to write your papers on how Middle Easterners have tense relationships with the West because… And, I'm quoting here…" Hamilton pulled out a packet of paper and adjusted his glasses. "…'The Middle East is a hotbed of terrorist activity that began in the Middle Ages as crusades against European forces in Jerusalem, and now includes efforts to eliminate all other people in the world, including Europeans, Americans, and…'" Hamilton chuckled here and pinched the bridge of his nose, "'Asians.'"
There were a few snickers at this, though it was clear that the anonymously-sampled victim was only one of a substantial few in the hall who shared such a view.
"Apparently," Hamilton continued, "The Middle East is no longer also included when discussing Asian cultures." He sighed, dropped the paper, and paced. "Look, folks, I'm a man of the world. My best days are well enough behind me, and more than a few of those days are a haze of illicit drug use and public love-making. I'm not the brightest man alive, and I've made many of the same mistakes you will." His tone dropped. "But when I assign an essay on 'tension between the Middle East and America,' I'm not actually saying, 'tell me how much you hate the god-damned Arabs.'"
There were a few gruff murmurs. From the center of the hall, a thickly-built man in a back-facing ball cap chimed in. "Then why do they hate us?"
Hamilton smirked. "Why do they hate you? Why, oh why would the amorphous and ambiguous 'they' hate you and your broad-sweeping generalizations and your half-hearted attempts to learn about something else besides how drunken one can get before passing out? I just can't imagine."
Actual laughter spread throughout the hall. The meathead's Agent Orange of entitlement began to get heated. "Yeah, well, you tell that to my buddies in Iraq who have to scoop their friends' brains up in a cup every day."
Hamilton sighed, a wry smile ever-present on his face. "Did you get that line from the same website that you cut and pasted your paper from, Mr. Franks, or do those buddies of yours actually exist?"
Meathead scoffed and began to shake his head, as though he were liable to "lose it" on Professor Hamilton if he kept this conversation up any longer. He returned to his meaningless series of frat-boy chortling with his cohorts. Hamilton gestured out toward the windows of the hall.
"For those of you who can, I want you to take a look out of those windows. What do you see?" There was no answer.
"There's some grass out there. Some trees. The rest of the campus. Beyond that? Eh. There's the city. Beyond that? I-95 and some other roads. After we get past all of that, though, what you can see, or what you can imagine you might see starts to break down. For most of you, there's nothing beyond this city until you get home. To New York, to California, to Kansas, to wherever you come from. Between here and there, you don't stop to think about the people that live in those houses off the highway. Why would you? It doesn't mean much to you, provided you don't stop at a convenience store to get gas and pothead snacks." Chuckles all around.
"My job is not to tell you how to feel about those people. My job is to tell you that those people are there. My job is to show you that the space between you and somewhere you've never been isn't empty. In that space, there are people. Millions and millions of people with different thoughts. Different ideas. Different dreams. There is a world out there full of people, and when the time comes that you meet any one or one-thousand of those people, you'll know that my job was to tell you how, and more importantly, why, they may react to your presence." He smirked. "Or, in Mr. Franks' case, why they probably hate you." The classroom was filled with actual laughter at this as people realized more and more that Franks, for all of his muscle, was not much of a threat to Hamilton.
"So," he finished. "Because this is my job, you're all going to try this assignment again. You can pick up your papers on your way out the door and take them to the Islamic Cultural Center on Keystone Avenue. I want them back a week from today, and I want them to tell me what you learned on your field trip. It'll be like we're in first grade all over again. "
The laughter had faded into groans and mindless shuffling. Clark was unconcerned. He had seen his grades online, the day before, and knew there was not much that he would have to change. Instead, his mind was still focused on Professor Hamilton's words, and, in particular, how they related to the black iron box that he kept on his desk, at home.
"…The space between you and somewhere you've never been isn't empty."
Maybe… Just maybe.
The following is a transcript from the video log of Dr. William Kane. The date of the recording is encrypted for security purposes.
Log #1
Kane: My name is Dr. William Kane, chief bio-engineer of Luthor Engineering and Development, Applied Chemical Technologies department. I am recording this video log to track the progress of File #11241974, codename: Project Daybreak.
(Kane adjusts glasses; takes sip of water)
Kane: I have been forced to record this log from my home and directly to a portable jump drive while disconnected from the internet because my… employer, for all of his vast intelligence and ingenuity, has deemed my lab notes as property of Luthor Engineering, and that removal from the ACT laboratories presents a severe risk of theft by a rival company. My team and I are not even allowed to log our own notes. Mr. Luthor has informed us that he will personally be logging and reviewing the data nightly. Please understand that I have a great deal of respect for my employer. He truly is a good man. But I'm afraid he may be… Well… Perhaps it is best not to say.
(Kane adjusts collar)
Kane: I feel that there must be some record of my examinations outside of those contained in Mr. Luthor's databases because… Um… If I am being honest… I am afraid. Subject Daybreak appears to be docile and possessing the best of human interests in mind, but I suspect that, like the rest of us, it may only take a single bad day to cause Daybreak to become hostile. God help me, but he may very well live to see that one bad day during his stay at Luthor Engineering.
(Kane wipes brow)
Kane: It is wrong to keep Daybreak confined and comatose in the laboratory. He is a thinking, feeling, speaking organism. Conversely, the world needs to know what he is capable of and, if something terrible should happen, how to fight against him. I can only hope that, when we are done with him, he will be allowed to leave, and will understand why we are doing what we are doing. If you…
(Kane sighs)
Kane: If you are viewing this, then it means that one of two things has happened: One, Mr. Luthor has lost our data and needs to review what I may be able to provide within these logs. Or two, I have been found out, and this data provides the only opportunity for the general public to know what has transpired. Either way, I sincerely hope that this will be enough. I am unable to smuggle any information out of the laboratory, even on a common napkin. They search us before we leave, for the night. And so, I shall have to commit all of my progress to memory and recount it as best as I can before the evening is over. It will be a challenge. But, my mother did always say that I was a bright child. I sincerely hope that I live up to her expectations.
(Unidentified noise outside Kane's apartment. Kane looks outside window)
Kane: Well… at any rate… I just wanted you to know what you are dealing with, here. My notes begin in Log # 2.
(End recording)
