Washington DC

For most people, Lois wouldn't have to cover her approach this way. As primarily a writing journalist, Lois was known far more via said writing than her actual appearance. It allowed her to meet people, talk to them, approach them about information without needing to deal with a certain hesitation and stigma attached to journalists. Not that Lois could blame others for it, quite a few were annoying persistent and dangerously obsessive.

Then again, skulking a man for two days straight and waiting for him in his favorite restaurant bathroom might just push her into the aforementioned category.

But in this instance, she had no choice. The bullet embedded into her journal, as she told Perry, had no point of origin. It seemed as though no one else had them. No one else sold them. But clearly, someone did have them and did sell them to mercenaries in what is now known as the Superman incident. When more obvious arms dealers and war profiters weren't the source, then it was logical to turn to more powerful, and sneakier ones: the US government.

As secretary of state and former man of the military, he would know the dark dealings of the government, if he wouldn't openly say so to her. She knew from her father how army men felt about such topics. They either ignored them, regarded them as a necessary evil in service to a higher cause or quit in outrage over it. Given the fact Swanwick wasn't living in some house of timber out in the middle of the forest, she logically assumed he fell somewhere in the first two categories.

In her own defense, she tried to reach out to him through official channels but Swanwick was quick to evade her. They met and worked with one another during the Black Zero Event and her reputation, once people realized who she was, preceded her. So, she decided to observe him for a while to pick up on his routine, even if it meant extending her stay for longer than what Perry anticipated. She knew he'd stomach it if only to get something no one else had on the Superman incident.

Suppressing a sigh, her thoughts wandered back to Clark as she waited for Swanwick to enter the men's bathroom. She only heard about the statue being vandalized when she was already landing in DC. A good few hours after it happened. The instant she did, she called Clark to find out if he was okay. He told her he was, that it didn't bother him and that she should focus on the task at hand instead of fussing over him.

The problem was: Clark wasn't a particularly good liar.

His success with protecting his identity came from him being himself both in and out of costume. Though she found him more bold and confident in the suit than in his civvies. He didn't need to pretend like someone else because he wasn't. And he wanted that honesty to shine through by his face being exposed for everyone to see it. Masks made people nervous, an ordinary face didn't. That and the fact many people suspected someone like Superman probably didn't have a "regular" life to bother with like they did.

But mask or no mask, the defacing of the statue eerily reminded her of the initial protests to Heroes Park. How vehemently people argued and protested over it, once almost turning to physical violence which the police forced managed to prevent. She noticed how he intentionally skipped channels with news at home, avoided speaking about it unless he absolutely couldn't do so and noticed him trail off with a thousand yard stare.

He tried to get involved in that incident, to speak with people but Lois talked him out of it. People were already on edge just about the idea of being for or against him there. Him actually appearing could lead to both sides, and the police, attacking one another in the ensuing chaos. It was very hard to speak rationally to people when they were that spiteful and tense. Even if they were aware of their own behavior, they couldn't let go of it well enough to stop themselves.

But things calmed down, Metropolis was being rebuilt and Clark helped out immensely with the entire process save for Heroes Park. Speeding up the entire undertaking, allowing it to become complete in months when it could have taken years. Then he moved on to other places where people needed him, showing everyone what he was really about. It seemed like things were going to enter a sort of normality soon. Until Africa.

Now things were tense again, people were drawing lines in the sand about Clark once more. And if the vandalizing of the statue was any indication, it could get considerably worse unless the truth came out. Even if she suspected Clark himself might not like what the truth actually was.

The door to the bathroom opened and Lois raised her head over the door, using the downed toilet seat to give her leverage. She couldn't help but smirk when she spotted Swanwick. Bringing herself back to ground level, pushed the door open and stood just at the edge of his sight.

He vaguely glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. "I think you've got the wrong room, miss," He told like a gentleman as he buttoned up his pants.

"Secretary Swanwick, you haven't been returning my calls," She told him with a grin, prompting him to take a better look at her.

"Miss Lane," He washed his hands in the sink. "If you'd like an interview, Major Feris is just outside those doors."

"You're treating me like a stranger?" She replied playfully, raising an eyebrow at him.

"No," He turned around to face her. "I'm just treating you like a reporter."

"Far enough," Her smile faded as she decided to cut right to the chase. "Is the US government providing experimental military grade rounds to mercenaries and/or rebels in Africa?"

Swanwick momentarily broke eye contact, bowing his head slightly before meeting her gaze once more. She noticed how he stiffened up with the accusations, something her father did as well whenever she tried to pry something he didn't want her to know out of him.

"You know," Swanwick began, putting his hands into his pockets. "With balls like yours, you belong in here. What's your source on this? A tin foil hat?"

"No, but it's metal," Lois reached into her bag and pulled out the plastic bag containing the bullet pried from her journal. "My sources haven't been able to identify it at all. Not even a close friend working in the Pentagon. The only thing I know about it is that it was used during the Superman incident and that no one knows where it came from. We haven't been told the truth."

"Here's the truth," He stepped closer toward her as an edge crept into his voice. "A nosey reporter went somewhere where she shouldn't have, Superman went to save her like some rogue combatant and things escalated beyond his control."

"Things did escalate," Lois admitted, stepping closer towards him. "But Superman didn't kill anyone. Like I told your grunts in the CIA who, might I add, riled up the rebels in the first place, getting one of their own killed tried to blow me and innocent people up to cover up their own mess, those men were dead and burned well before Superman showed up."

"Because you are most definitely an objective source on Superman," He told her with a sarcastic laugh. "After he saved your life multiple times a year ago, can you really say you're keeping your emotions out of this? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel like you owe him something?"

"I do owe him," She replied without hesitation. "But like you said, I'm a journalist, and I've investigated people I like and dislike for whatever reason before and that never stopped me before. This time is no different."

That wasn't entirely the truth but a good way to cover up a lie is with a few sprinkles of honesty throughout.

"Look," She sighed. "I went to the desert and people died for no good reason I can find. It keeps me up at night, it should," She reached out to him with the bullet bag. "If you really believe Superman murdered those people, then you can throw this in the toilet and we'll never see each other again."

Swanwick glanced between her and the bag, the previous stern expression replaced by a conflicted one. With a loud sigh, his shoulders slumped and he took the evidence. "I'll see what I can do," He slid the bag into his suit pocket. "But it'll take me a few days, and I'll be calling in a lot of favors to find it what you want."

Lois smiled. "Thank you,"

"Don't thank me yet," He warned her. "The things you want me to look into aren't the kind you talk about casually, especially in this city. I'm gonna be putting my neck out on the line for this so I need an assurance from you before I completely agree to this."

"Anything," Lois promised without hesitation.

"No interviews or statements from me on this. Whatever I find out about this bullet, I tell you as a friend and that's it. But if you think I'll be exposing potential government secrets-"

"I wouldn't want you to," Lois reassured him. "I'm an army brat general, I know how you guys feel about this stuff."

Swanwick snorted. "Yet you ask anyway."

"The truth needs to have its day in the sun," She told him with a confident smile and promptly walk out of the bathroom. As she walked back onto the streets of DC, she a lot better than she had since before leaving for Africa. There was no guarantee Swanwick would find anything, but the possibility that he could. The possibility of the truth coming out was enough for her.

Gotham City

Wallace Keefe felt better in these past few days than he could remember at any other point after the Kryptonian invasion. The one responsible for costing him his legs, his job and recently, even his family. The damage tone to his legs was severe, amputation was the only option or the dead flesh would've left his healthy body parts at risk. He still felt them, a sort of phantom pain that was common with amputees, even if they were aware of their limbs being gone, the brain wasn't so quick to catch up.

Ever since they day it happened, Wallace felt a rage building up perpetually inside him. A rage against the whole ordeal, against the alien god who caused it to happen and even against his own, former employer Bruce Wayne. The man who left for months on end doing God knows what with God knows who, probably drinking and whoring himself into an even earlier grave. At a time when his employees, his family, needed him. A time when the people against Superman needed a voice in the Heroes Park protests to combat Lex Luthor.

But he wasn't there. He just ran away and left them all to pick up the pieces of their ruined lives. Thinking his various money payments would keep them happy. Wallace only accepted it for his surgery, and never since. He sent the payment checks back to Wayne, telling him of how he failed his people when they needed him. A practice going on for months by now, and given the lack of response from him, Wallace knew he was right: Wayne didn't care.

A realization which, along with the failure of the protest group to prevent the Heroes Park monument from being built, took a toll on him. Not helped at all by his wife choosing to leave him alone in Gotham, taking their daughter away with her. He spiraled into a sense of depression for a time, trying to find comfort in alcohol and collecting evidence of the so-called "good deeds" of The Superman. Anything to keep his boiling anger and sense of helplessness at bay.

But then Batman came back, and everything changed.

One man in a costume, taking the law into his own hands when other, more official parties didn't have the balls to. Using his new method of branding to send a clear message to people: Gotham belonged to the Batman and you can't do a damn thing about it. Wallace remembered the news of the first branding, how it sent a jolt of inspiration through his person like electricity. He was awestruck by how such a simple act could send such a clear message. At that moment he knew the time had come, he needed to continue the work of his previous protest group.

So he did, wearing a makeshift Batman mask, he rolled into Heroes Park during the cloak of night and climbed onto the statue with some difficulty. He sprayed his message on it and promptly wheeled away. Given the multitude of people he passed on the way there and the lack of any police officers after him, Wallace knew he succeeded. He doubted he was even a suspect, who'd believe a cripple would do such a thing? For once, his disability paid off.

Now the heat was back on Superman, further fueled by the allegations of him murdering rebel soldiers in Africa. Wallace couldn't be happier about it, the world was in danger and he found it so bizarre that people were alright with such a threat flying around with no one controlling him. No one to keep him in check. The gears were turning again, his old protest buddies were already busy gathering old members back together again for a march on Washington DC, to speak with the leader of the Superman committee.

As he exited the elevator to his tenement building, Wallace wheeled over to the door of his apartment when he noticed a man standing next to the door. He wore a long, black winter jack which covered a majority of his body all the way down to his knees. He had short, black slide back hair and the look of a man who'd seen things and promptly killed anything approaching warmth in himself for it.

"Mister Keefe?" The man walked up to him, giving him a warm smile and extending his hand out for a shake. Wallace slowly shook it. "Frank Robbins, representative of a party interested in your cause, sir."

"My cause?" Wallace raised an eyebrow at the man.

Frank nodded. "Of course, could we speak of it inside?"

"Sure..." Wallace pushed his chair to face the door, opening it with the twist of his key. Swinging the door open, he went towards the kitchen to leave his groceries. "Sorry about the mess," He told Frank hospitably. "I don't get many guests around here."

"I've seen worse," Is all Frank said on the matter as he sat down at the meager dinner table next to the couch and television. Wallace reached into the fridge and gestured towards some beer but Frank shook his head.

"So," Wallace began, wheeling himself over to the table with a cold one in hand. "What was this about my cause?"

"Come now, mister Keefe," Frank leaned back into the chair. "We both know your dealings with the anti-Superman initiative, you were one of its first and strongest supporters. Always at the front lines during the Heroes Park protests, you even managed to get yourself caught on camera for a few minutes."

"And yet my talent agent hasn't called me about any work," Wallace joked, earning something resembling an honest chuckle from Frank. "What exactly did you have in mind for my group?"

"Not your group, per say," Frank reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. "But you specifically."

Frank pulled out an envelope and handed it over to the man in the wheelchair. "In there you will find 50 000 dollars, an airplane ticket to Washington DC, the address of a suit tailor, stylist, both of whom have been paid in advance and the address of an all expense paid hotel in the city during your stay there."

Wallace looked at the man with a blank expression on his face as he tried to process everything he just told him. Without a word, he reached into the envelope and found everything inside. The addresses, pictures of what the places look like, the 50 grand. All he now lacked was the motive behind it.

"Who are you?" He pushed back the envelope, eyeing Frank with suspicion. If that was even his real name.

"As I told you, I represent an anonymous party interested in furthering your cause."

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it that you're on the up and up?" Wallace asked with skepticism oozing from every word. "How do I know you're not some terrorist group using me for their own agenda or some politician in DC trying screw over the competition by backing me up?"

"The only one we're trying to screw over, Mister Wallace," Frank told him conversationally but not without a slight edge to his voice. "Is Superman. My employer also lost a great deal during the Superman attack and with the recent events in Africa, he feels it is time for someone who shares his ideals to go before the Superman committee and give the cause a face and a voice. Someone who can perhaps even bring the Man of Steel himself there and face him down."

"Why me, though? Why not Gary or Marshall? They're the ones who've lead us so far."

"Because mister Keefe," Frank leaned in towards the man, pulling out the phone from his pocket and handing it over to him. "We know you're willing to go the extra mile."

Wallace felt a shiver go down his spine as he watched the footage play out. He saw himself rolling towards the statue from an overhead angle, likely from a camera hidden in the trees. Seeing enough, he gave the phone back to Frank. "Okay," Wallace exhaled. "You've made your point."

"Don't look so defeated mister Wallace," Frank patted him on the shoulder though to Wallace it felt as strong as the worst punches he's ever gotten. "We're not blackmailing you into this, we're giving you an opportunity to show the world who Superman really is. To look him in the eye and let him know what he's done to you, and thousands of others."

In spite of the warnings a saner part of his mind was sending to him, Wallace couldn't help but let the temptation of the offer overwhelm him. His imagined himself on Capitol Hill. Facing down Superman, letting him know what the world really thought of him. Protests and vandalizing could only get him so far, this was the next step. The necessary step to bring about real change in the world. A validation of everything he's lost and fought for over the past year.

He would be a fool to miss this opportunity, the identity of this anonymous party and his motivations be damned.

With a grin on his face, Wallace reached out the Frank. "You've got yourself a deal."

Another two in one! Like last time I thought about making these individual chapters but neither had the 2000 word minimum limit I wanted so I smashed them together. For the next two chapters, you can expect some Clark/Superman action and an entirely original scene that wasn't in the film but one I think you'll find works in the context of the story. Then, we'll be moving on to the Knightmare & First Meeting!