Hey everyone,

Your comments= Me reading them, talking about them, showing them to anyone and everyone who will sit down and listen for days! Thank you, so so much! Really, the feedback, especially you guys pointing out the specific bits or sentences that you like are just, so wonderful! Thank you! And also, you're comments make me laugh too, seriously your puns are on point. Really, really touched that you guys went to so much effort of writing me comments that give feedback about what you liked, and that you guys noticed I was trying to add in more details (as requested). Because I do try to incorporate your feedback. :D

This next chapter (as with almost every chapter I've written so far) doesn't make sense on it's own, and won't fully give away all the answers. Actually, I hope it leaves you with more questions. Thanks for being so patient with how long it takes me to write, but at least this chapter is super-long to make up for it! As always, enjoy!

On the roof of the apartment building block, Harry's small garden provided me with a sort of safe-haven. Small green shrubs were meticulously trimmed and arranged along the sides of the brick wall in their plain cream coloured pots, a weather-beaten sun chair and rectangle metal table pulled up next to the highest part of the wall, offering some sort of protection from the wind. When I thought about it, it was really only Harry and I that came up here, most of the other tenants in the building either didn't know it existed, or were too old to walk up all the steps. Which meant that this evening I had the place to myself.

Admittedly it had been a while since I'd been up here; as it had taken a lot of self-talk to finally work up the nerve to stand on the top of any building roof again. Although, I hadn't exactly allowed myself to peer over the edge like I used to, because I was fairly certain that if I did, unpleasant memories of the cold barrel of a gun pressing against my lower back, and how it felt to plummet off the side of one would come rushing back into my head. Huffing out a sigh, and readjusting my position on the sun chair, I audibly said "No." Trying, and failing, to avoid thinking about that night.

Instead my thoughts drifted back over today's events, trying to sort the bizarre into some kind of order. I wriggled in my chair, absent-mindedly running my thumb against the cool metal pendant in my hand, but no matter how I sat on the chair, I managed to find a bruise somewhere. At this time of the night it was cold, and I tugged my woolen blanket around me tighter.

I'd woken this morning, yet again in a fit of nightmares and managed to summon my strength up enough to flop into the shower. Where I was fairly certain I discovered new shades of purple, yellow and blue in bruises covering my body, not yet captured by any artist's imagination. My face, which I'd been half terrified would be the very worst of them all, was surprisingly normal, in fact, in a strange turn of events, it was better than normal.

I'd stared at my reflection, making a mental checklist for all my features, because I was more than a little worried that half of them might be missing. My eyelashes, my hair, and eyebrows, all present, still a mousy brown, not green. What a relief, I let out a puff of breath.

Vanity aside, I peered closer at my reflection, and tilted my head to the other side, a flicker of confusion stirring inside me. Something was different, and I couldn't quite figure out what it was. Again I tilted my head, and pushed back my damp hair, my fingers running against porcelain smooth skin. I scanned my face again, my fingers running along the edge of my hairline, searching for a chicken-pox scar, that was no longer there. I bit my lip and pulled a face, lifting up my phone to use as a flashlight, moving the light across my face, searching in the mirror for what was missing.

I gasped when I realized; I no longer had freckles. Not one. Not a single freckle. My face was as smooth as a baby's bottom, which I'd always thought was a rather inappropriate expression to describe anything, but now could think of nothing else more appropriate.

"Green gunk on face equal a baby's butox." I muttered to myself, more than a little weirded out by how soft my skin felt. Whatever the kryptonite-based liquid had been intended for, I figured it hadn't been as a beauty treatment. However, if losing my freckles, blisters along my arms, and a rainbow-mimicking body was the worst I got from the Alpha-Lord incident, then I really had nothing to complain about.

I'd shrugged and decided to get on with the rest of my day, which involved covering my face, arms, neck and hands with bright, orange face-paint, and getting in my car to start my first day back at work: as a carrot.

As part of a new promotion for Fantastic Fries' new range of fries, made out of, you guessed it, carrots, I got to be the lucky worker who walked down the street the fast food restaurant was located on, offering everyone free samples.

Usually this was my least favourite part of the job; in the past I'd had to dress up as a potato, corn, and zucchini, because yes, you can make chips out of zucchini. The costumes were always too big, uncomfortably hot, and stank like bad BO, but today I was relieved. It was one less person to comment on the blisters on the side of my neck and hands where I'd hit the metal grate, and should mean that I wasn't going to get a repeat of overweight spandex guy, recognising me from the news and laughing at my near death experiences. I still wasn't over that one. Nope, not by a long shot.

So at work, I'd gladly stepped into the adult-sized carrot costume and spent my morning walking up and down the street, standing in the carpark, and offering strangers samples of our '100% chemical free carrot fries". Sometimes I even managed to smile through all the little kids that kicked at me, just because I was wearing a ridiculous costume, while their parent's laughed and said, "Oh he's so cute. Let me get a photo."

Sometime during my lunchtime, as I'd sat down on a park bench, contemplating if I was about to give some little kid nightmares of cannibal vegetables, I heard a not-so-discrete whale mating noise. I frowned, dropping the chips I was about to eat, and looked around suspiciously, peering around at passersby on the street.

I doubted that there were that many people in Metropolis that knew how to imitate the unmistakable sound of a whale's mating call, and even fewer who thought that it made for an ideal way of covertly getting someone else's attention. The low-pitched, mournful sound came again, and several pedestrians faulted in their steps, throwing a curious glance at the man crouching behind the rubbish-bin in a side alley a small distance away.

Wondering what on earth my former professor and work-colleague from the Metropolis museum could want, I got up and walked over to the trash can. Watching, mystified, as I saw his bald head, and bottle-eyed glasses poke out for a moment, and then bob away further into the alley, as he almost tripped and then ran half-crouched behind the out-cropping of a brick doorway.

"Professor, is that you?" I asked, more for the sake of at least pretending that his efforts at secrecy were working, than not actually being able to recognise him.

I heard his characteristically indian accented voice, as he hissed urgently, "I'm standing in the brick doorway. A little to your left." He added helpfully.

Hmmm, I hummed absentmindedly. Stepping around a water-puddle, and squeezing myself into the too-small-space for an overly-large carrot costume. "What's up Professor Patel? And erh, why the need for secrecy?" I queried, as I looked him over, making note of his poorly groomed facial hair, his wringing hands, and the general look of unease about him, as he shifted from foot to foot.

His hands darted forward, and grabbing hold of my shoulders, he pulled us closely together so that I could see every wrinkle in his ageing face in detail. His eyes darted from side to side, and he licked his lips nervously, whispering quickly, "They know, that you know. I'm so sorry Jamie. I couldn't hide it from them, just like I couldn't hide it from you. I don't know how they found out, or who told them, but they know."

His voice rose louder as he hurriedly talked, sounding more paranoid and non-sensical as he continued, "Oh Jamie, why do you always have to ask? Why can't you be like everyone else and not ask questions? You've always been too clever for you own good. Too talented. I should have known I couldn't hide my favourite pupil forever. I should have known."

His face screwed up in emotional anguish, and I brought my hands up to his shoulders, interrupting as I soothed, "It's all right Professor. Whatever's the matter, it's ok. We can fix it. Now tell me what's wrong? Who's upset you so much?"

Now he did wail, and cupping my orange face in his old and weathered hands declared, "There you go again Jamie, asking questions you shouldn't."

I interrupted again, my voice sounding somewhat gurgled as I tried to ask through the Professor's hands squishing my face, "Professor, I don't understand. What's wrong? Just tell me why you're so scared?" Alarm growing in me the more I watched the Professor.

He shook his head mournfully, and lowering his voice again he rambled, "You don't understand, it all started with the whales. And I was just like you back then, too curious for my own good. I found out… I, I, made a bargain with them you see, and then everything went back to normal, they're going to come take me again. I thought it was all behind me, and then 60 years later, there you are, asking the same questions that I asked back then. So smart, so clever, what took me years to understand you realised in a matter of weeks. But what does it matter, time doesn't matter to them. But it matters to us, it matters to us. We have so little time you see. They're coming for me. He won't stop until he's found them, and they won't listen. They don't understand what he's like, they don't understand how ruthless he is. It's only a matter of time until he finds them. But they're not like us mortals, they don't understand the danger they're in, they don't understand that this time I can't fix things..." His voice had grown louder to be heard over the sound of rushing water, and his breathing ragged with panic.

Shouting to be heard over him, I cut him off mid sentence, "Professor, you need to calm down. Calm down! You're safe. Nothing's going to happen to you. Just calm down." I repeated again, trying to get through to him, yanking him into a hug, until his hands stopped fluttering around, and I felt his posture relax into my carrot costume.

Pulling back, I asked in a soft voice, seeing that he appeared calmer now, "Professor, what's wrong? Who do you think is coming after you, and do you want to go to the police?"

The professor let out a nervous laugh, and shook his head wearily, "No, no they won't be able to help me now."

"Why not?" I asked still in that soothing tone, trying to get eye contact with him, as he fixedly looked past my shoulder.

The professor sighed, and squeezing my hand he pressed something round and cold into the centre of my palm, curling my fingers around the object before I had a chance to look at it, or question him about what the object was, as he said matter-of-factly, "Because they're already here."

I turned my head, my hands dropping to my sides in astonishment, as a wall of water, as tall as a two-story building, and stretching from one side of the alley to the other quavered and shimmered, while the other side of the street remained untouched by water, looking exactly the same as it had before. It was as if some invisible force was damming the clear blue water, stopping it from receding back or moving forwards.

I watched in confused amazement, and dumbstruck stepped out of the door-frame, mutely following the professor as he shuffled forwards, taking the glasses of his face, and slipping them away into his tweed blazer pocket. His stood in front of the mass of water, as if seeing something in it that I couldn't, with a look, if I wasn't mistaken, of resignation.

If he addressed his next few word to himself, to me, or to the wall of water I wasn't sure, but he said in a manner that a child does when they know that there is no way to talk they're parent out of the life-long grounding that they're about to be inflicted with, "Well, I knew that it was only a matter of time. I suppose there is no way I can convince you out of this is there?" His words were met with a low pitched noise, that was short in its response, and if I didn't know better, sounded an awful lot like a whale.

Putting his hands on his hips, the professor retorted, a hint of exasperation in his voice, "You may not believe this, for all you boast of being immortal, but burying your heads in the sand, forgive the expression, is no way to deal with the problem. A mere mortal he may be, but the same legend that helped me to find you, also tells of a weapon that is able to kill immortals like yourself, and Lex Luthor will not stop until he's found it."

Again, the Professor's word were met with a low-pitched noise, but suddenly the mood of the conversation changed, if you could call the dialogue between the Professor and whale noises a time when the whale called again, it sounded distinctly lower and angry, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. The Professor quickly turned to face me, but before he could warn me, the wall of water wavered, and then collapsed.

Water gushed forwards, engulfing me and knocking me off my feet as it swept through the alley way and spun me around in it's cold embrace. For a second the air was knocked out of me, and my mouth was full of salty water, everything a confusing swirl of turbid water, the street landscape and free sample of chips. Then, as suddenly as it had all appeared, the wave of water disappeared, washing out onto the main street. Leaving me in a puddled of orange-tinged salt-water, lying up against an upside down trashcan, sputtering and coughing. I dazedly stood up, looked around and realised that I couldn't see the professor; he was gone.

I'd ran out of the alley, squelching and yelling the Professor's name over and over again, until I'd asked to borrow someone's mobile to call the police. When the police had eventually rocked up, I gave a statement to two obviously skeptical officers.

Really though, why was it so hard to believe? Everyone already knows that Metropolis is home to a flying alien, and yet an unexplainable mass of water, capable of making whale noises and abducting a professor can't possibly exists?! Ok…. well, maybe I can understand at least a little bit why they were cynical, but I could honestly say now, that I'd seen stranger things… Well, maybe.

Now I sat on the rooftop thinking over the day's events, fighting of a sudden overwhelming exhaustion. I'd spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find the professor, and trying to make sense of what had just happened, but no one in the police force had been able to find him and neither had I. When I'd asked one of the forensic officers to take a sample to prove to them that the water hadn't just come from a leaky bathroom tap, one of the younger officers had began to take a sample, and then been told off by one of the officer's I'd initially met with. So instead, I'd gotten a vial of water thrust into my hand, and been told that the most the police could do, was put out a general announcement that an elderly, ethnically indian Professor had gone missing between the hours of 13:00-13:30, and was suspected to be suffering from some kind of mental illness.

That last part had made me downright mad. As if Professor Patel was mentally unwell, sure he was a little strange, in hindsight that may have been one of the reasons we had always gotten along so well, but I could only think of a handful of people that had the sharply acute intelligence to rival that man. He had a warm wonderful sense of humour, and had always encouraged me to pursue my love for ancient civilizations, and under his tutorage I'd felt like I'd been able to truly learn in leaps and bounds. Yes, his behaviour had seemed a little strange this afternoon, but his love for mouldy cheese, tweed jackets, and indian rock-bands had also always seemed strange to me too. So for the local police force to say that he was probably experiencing early onset dementia (and heavily implying that I was too) was beyond preposterous. Besides all that, I reflected, dementia doesn't progress from non-existent to severely debilitating over the short amount of time I hadn't seen him, without any warning symptoms.

My attention turning back to the object in my hand, I flipped the small metal disc around again, wondering why the professor had given it to me. At first I had thought it was a Greek coin, but no Greek or Roman coin I'd ever seen had the symbol of a trident on it's front and back. It was old, that I was sure of, but I wasn't sure how old it was, or even if that mattered. I yawned, frustrated, worried and confused, and now very tired.

I could barely keep my eyes open, and for a moment I could smell the scent of a cinnamon scroll and strong coffee, before I forced myself to concentrate back on the problems at hand. What had happened to the Professor? Where was he now? How on earth did all that water get there? Why hadn't the Professor been surprised to see it there, and since when could he understand whale talk? There was so many questions buzzing in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more my fear for the Professor grew.

I rested my head back against the chair, staring up at the starless black night sky, and forced myself to blink, as for a moment my vision blurred with the strong pull of sleep. I sat up and shook my head to clear it, but if anything my vision became more blurred, the way it does if you're looking through water to the bottom of a lake. Bringing my hands up to rub my eyes sleepily, I let out a small gasp when I'd pulled them away, as I took in my surroundings.

Thinking to myself, "Toto, we're not in Kansa anymore." I stared flabbergasted at the small, busy diner I now stood in. The place had an almost retro throwback decoration to it, a mix of vintage 1950's artwork and slightly more modern 70's themed colours, dark orange table tops, and 1950's salt and sugar shakers on every table. Most surprising of all, was the fact that now noticed a familiar figure sitting down in one of the window temporarily ignoring a cinnamon pastry and a mug of coffee, as they tried to stuff about 30 paper-napkins back into the broken napkin holder.

I shook my head in disbelief, even in my dreams, I'd be guilty of clumsily breaking something. Because, sure enough, as I moved closer to the woman, I realise that the guilty individual was me. I was wearing my only professional blue blouse shirt, white blazer and dark blue pants, probably the only outfit that I contained in my closet that looked remotely close to office wear; a far cry from my usual neat jeans, woolen cardigans and pastel coloured shirts.

I took the booth chair opposite myself, taking a moment to study how I looked from an outside perspective, so to speak. I considered myself to have one of those faces that could be both pretty and ugly. I had sharp features, a slim nose, oval shaped face and a strong chin. When I smiled only my bottom teeth showed. My face was too strong to be considered the 'typical' beauty. From many angles I could look down-right ugly, but I liked to fancy that sometimes, when I dressed myself up, I could even look pretty. I glanced out the side of the window; I was only vaguely familiar with this part of the city. I looked back at myself, now fiddling nervously with the ten remaining napkins that somehow wouldn't fit back in their container.

"Might I just say how ravishing you're looking today." I said in mock flattery, snorting at my own joke, and then waited expectantly for myself to laugh too, figuring if it cracked me up, then it should also make the other me laugh. Boy, was that a bizarre thought.

"You come here often?" I tried again, since my last joke hadn't aroused any reaction from myself. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, staring at the other me. Watching myself as I looked outside the window, apparently unable to hear me, or just pointedly ignoring me.

I wasn't sure which alternative was worse. The fact that maybe I was stuck in a dream where all I could do was sit there and watch myself break-napkin holders in an outer-body experience, incapable of interacting with my surroundings, or the possibility that maybe I could see me, and just didn't want to be seen associating with myself. Because, if it was the latter, then I was just rude, and I seriously wonder what that said about the condition of my psych.

The sound of a small metal bell above the door jinggling made both of me look up, as yet another unmistakable figure walked uncertainly into the diner. Too tall for the door frame he had to hunch his shoulders, pausing a moment to hold the door open for an older man leaving the shop. My mouth dropped open, I made a noise like a goat bleating (hey, at least it's an improvement on my previous banshee imitations), and I stood up so quickly I knocked the tabletop with my hip, jostling the table and knocking the salt container to the floor.

"Damit it." I heard myself whisper, as I realized that it hadn't been me, so much as the dream version of myself who had actually knocked the salt jar over. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that the other me would do something like that, and considering I couldn't actually interact with my surroundings, it made a lot more sense for the Dream-me to have been responsible for knocked the table.

The young man's head whipped in my direction, and I open and closed my mouth, watching in astonishment as he strode over, knelt down and started helping Dream-me scoop up the salt now spilt all over the floor. Dream-me was kneeling down trying to clean up the mess with some of the leftover napkins, while I stood watching the young man's head, full of all too familiar black wavy curls bob about and I listened astonished to the exchange between us, them, err, whatever.

"I'm uhm, sorry, you don't, you don't have to help." Dream-me mumbled apologetically.

"No. No it's all right, I don't mind. I like helping." The young man reassured, pushing up the bridge of his nose black framed glasses, giving a familiar, good-natured laugh as he knelt back on his heels.

Picking up the salt container, dream-me joked, "I don't usually a-salt people on my first meeting with them." Holding out my hand, Dream-me offered, "I'm Jamie."

Superman, because brown-coat jacket, checkered-shirt and oxford shoes aside, it was unmistakably Superman, enquired, "As in, Jamie Bayliss?" Dream-me nodded that yes it was, and then smiling, Superman said, "I'm Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet."

"What?!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, my hand coming up to cover my face, "You're kidding me! Clark Kent, but that's, Clark Kent is so normal!" I'd jumped up onto the chair, and was waving my hands up and down in excitement, watching in disbelief as Superman, no, Clark Kent and Dream-me shook hands.

"Clark Kent!" I yelled again, running my fingers through my hair and breathing heavily, "I, that's so, American…." I trailed off, before shouting in realization again, "You work for the Daily Planet! Don't you already have a full-time job saving people! How is this even possible?" I barely noticed a waitress come over with a broom and pan, telling Dream-me not to worry about the mess and enjoy my lunch, and then Clark Kent and Dream-me walked back over to our tables, talking about some email he'd sent me.

I jumped back off the chair, and scuttled backwards, as Clark sat down on my side of the booth, and Dream-me sat on the other. "You know," Clark began, in an almost embarrassed voice, "I wasn't expecting to meet with a woman. I assumed from your name, and your profession, that you were a man." He smiled, his cheeks dimpling, and I wondered if Dream-me was as affected by that one expression as I was, openly staring at him now that I wasn't in any danger of being caught ogling him.

Dream-me looked down at my her lap and shrugged her shoulders, blushing slightly. Which was weird, I hadn't known until just now that I blushed, "Yeah, I get that a lot." Clearly the dream version of me was equally smitten with those dimples just as much as I was, otherwise my responce to that comment was usually more sassy.

Adding to the conversation, I said, "Yeah, we do get that a lot." Even though I knew that no one could hear me.

Clark nodded, and began, "If you don't mind could we…" at the exact same time that I started "I only have a short lunch-break so…" We both stopped short, smiled at each other and then I quickly gestured for Clark to continue, "I was just going to say that I don't have very long to spare. Lois and I have to catch a plane in an hour, and I didn't mean to be here this late." He smiled apologetically, leaning closer with one of his forearms on the table, "What err, what were you going to say before I so rudely interrupted."

Dream-me blushed again, and I wondered if that was something I did a lot, and if when Clark said 'I didn't mean to be here this late', he really meant I got caught up saving some old lady from a burning building' or something else as equally heroic.

Dream-me blurted out, "No, no I was actually going to say the same thing, except you know, minus the flying with my girlfriend part. I mean uh, not that I have a girlfriend,and not that you fly, because girls aren't my, well there not…. And that's what planes are for... Sorry." I added, "Sometimes my mouth keeps talking before my brain has a chance to catch up."

"No, no it's all right. But I feel obligated to mention that Lois isn't my girlfriend, she's a work colleague of mine, and she'd be the first to point that out." He jovially said, and yet, I noticed when Clark spoke, he didn't smile, and his shoulders had dropped.

Dream-me must have picked up on that too, again not exactly surprising considering she would notice what I notice, and said compassionately, "That's her loss."

Clark didn't smile, but his gaze rested thoughtfully on Dream-me's face, saying softly, "Thank you."

Dream-me shook her head unconsciously, breaking the spell of the moment, "Uhm, no problem, sorry again it's not really my business." Changing the subject back to the apparent reason for the meeting, Dream-me continued, "But uh, I think I can help you with the information you're after for the piece you're writing."

For a moment Clark's words became distorted and muffled, and I thought I felt his hand touch my shoulder. I stared at Clark and Dream-me, and I reached out to touch Clark's arm with my fingers, but it didn't produce any reaction from him. His word became clearer for a moment, and then I lost the ability to hear what he was saying all together as my surrounding became blurry and began to sway back and forth, the sensation akin to standing on a boat deck, or being rocked in someone's arms. Then, the way that the surface of a pool ripples so that you can't see your reflection anymore, my surroundings shifted and dissolved out of focus.

Now I felt the smooth texture of my pillowcase underneath my chin, and my limbs felt heavy with an unsual, overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Too tired to open my eyes, I sighed happily as I felt someone pull my doona cover up over me, and I wrapped my hand around the fingers still grasping the doona.

"Thanks" I whispered, before the hand gave mine a gentle squeeze, slowly untangled our fingers, and without the usual telltale squeak of wooden floor boards, or knocking over of my textbooks, I knew they'd left my room.