A/N: I dedicate this chapter to my beta, VictorianSuperman, for leaving the best comments in the margins that I've seen in the last 50 chapters. ;-)


Metropolis, August 19, 2010, 9:37 pm. Jim and Chloe relaxed on their sofa, enjoying the soft breeze from the open window blowing through the apartment as they watched a sitcom on TV. A commercial came on and Chloe stirred from her spot nestled against her husband, making as if to get up. He leapt to his feet ahead of her, anxious to do her bidding.

"What do you need?"

"Sit down, Jim!" she admonished, as she braced herself to rise up from the sofa. "I am perfectly capable of getting myself some ice cream."

He pushed gently on her shoulder to make sure she remained in her seat before striding purposefully into the kitchen. "I know you are," he called back from the bar, "But I can get it to you in half the time so you don't have to worry about missing the show." Jim suddenly reappeared at her elbow with a half-eaten gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in one hand and two spoons in the other. "Here you go, Love."

Chloe batted her eyelashes at him. "My hero…OOoofff!" Alarmed, Jim snapped his head around in time to see her face contort in pain.

"What?! What is it?"

She pointed at her rotund stomach as she caught her breath. "It's one of our little soccer players…he or she just tried to score a goal, owwww…"

"Are you ok?" he asked while looking slightly panicked and unsure of what to do. "Is this normal?"

"I think so…" Chloe dropped her spoon in the tub of ice cream and dashed the hair from her face with one hand while holding her husband's palm over her midsection with the other. "Can you feel that, or is it just me?" They waited together in silence until something pushed against Jim's hand.

"Whoa" he said, feeling the baby kick his wife from the inside while watching her grimace in pain. A fresh blow was dealt and he stared at her abdomen in shock. "What do you think that was?"

She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly as the severity of the blows slowly abated. "It felt like an elbow to me—looks like the sibling rivalry is beginning just a little bit early…" Chloe looked over at Jim's face as he pondered the years of bickering and kicking to come. "What? Just be thankful you don't have to feel like a small bounce house at all hours of the day and night."

"Well it's not like I don't have the padding," he exclaimed, patting his stomach firmly. "If I'm not careful, I'll start to look like Josh. Between finding out about the kids, Clark, and the stress of this Uncle investigation, I must have gained at least fifteen pounds!"

"Oh yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that; how's the story going?" She slurped down another bite of the slightly melted ice cream as she waited for his response.

"Even with the notes from our not-so-secret source in the Bureau, we're still not getting any further then we were before. We literally have a mountain of information and nowhere to take it. Lois suggested that the three of us re-canvas the area immediately surrounding ground zero of the fire to see if we can't get anybody to open up to us now that the place isn't crawling with cops, but I really don't know how far that'll get us." Jim let loose an exasperated sigh before pressing on. "It's so irritating to watch everything move along so slowly, and now that I know the secret it's gotten even harder seeing just how this whole thing has been affecting Clark. I want to help him but I feel as though I'm not doing a damn thing except making it harder for him to catch whoever is responsible for supplying the bad heroin and killing all those people. Did you know there have been nearly thirty deaths in the last two and a half months because of that stuff? Clark says that what's making the heroin so lethal is 'alien' in nature…and in some perverse way I think he's blaming himself for that too! Why can't it be simple like in the movies where the hero just swoops in and catches the bad guy, huh? Hollywood always makes everything seem so easy…I can't even imagine what Lois goes through, dealing with him like this at work AND at home. Talk about hard."

Chloe reached a hand out and placed it square against his chest, causing him to meet her eye. "Welcome to the curse of knowing the truth, Jim. We warned you that this wouldn't be easy, and this is just one of the many side effects of knowing what we know. The only real positive that comes from you knowing the 'secret' is that we now have each other to lean on when it comes to worrying about him."

"I know." Jim let loose a sigh and placed his hand on her burgeoning stomach once more to see if he could feel the babies kick, trying his best to shake off the lingering frustration he brought home with him at the end of the day.


Metropolis, August 19, 2010, 11:08 pm. Clark stretched out in his recliner, bare feet hanging over the foot rest as the lamp in the corner cast a soft glow over the jean shorts and t-shirt he wore and the paperwork spread out in his lap. His eyes scanned the thin sheet in his hands while his ears focused on three heartbeats; that of his two children sleeping in their bedrooms down the hall, and of Lois tiptoeing barefoot and trying to sneak up behind him.

"Hi Honey," he said softly without turning around.

She stopped just behind him, her hands on her hips. "You know, just once I'd like you to pretend to let me surprise you."

He shuffled the sheets on his lap before setting them aside on the end table before patting his lap for her to sit down, an invitation she was only too happy to accept. "But you pleasantly surprise me all the time," he exclaimed, leaning over for a kiss. As she pulled back for air, her shrewd hazel eyes quickly caught sight of the papers with the FBI logo on them.

"Again?" she asked, exasperated. "What more do you expect to gain from re-reading the Bureau's profile on the guy? It's not as though something is going to magically leap off the page and bite you on the nose."

"I know," he sighed, following her glance to the pages beside him. "But I can't help it. This person is a puzzle wrapped in an enigma and I'm determined to get inside his head now so that I know what I'm up against later—because that's inevitably what it's going to come down to, me versus him. This man isn't Lex Luthor, Lois; he's an unknown and even with my abilities I need all the advantages possible at this point. I mean, look here—the profiler says he's most likely in his mid-30's to late-40's and that, given the role he plays in the drug trade and his relative anonymity within the community, he's probably lived in the Slums all his life so as to have enough of a 'friend' base to cover for him. It also says he has a near-genius IQ but that he probably never had the means or the opportunity to go to college; if he's that smart then he's going to be ready for me…heck, he's probably been ready for me for years! That's probably how Kirk got a hold of the Kryptonite that burned up in the fire…also, the profiler says that Uncle most likely doesn't have a rap sheet of any kind, but theorizes that there must have been some sort of traumatic event in his early life, something that made him the ruthless ghost of a man he is today."

Clark turned his head and stared at his wife, his blue eyes wide and full of concern. "This is the one thing that I just don't understand. What can lead a person to break so radically from knowing what's right and what's wrong and leave them not giving a damn about it?"

She stared at him curiously and wiped the dark hair that hung over his eyes. "With everything that's happened in your life, you very well could have gone the same way," she offered quietly.

He met her gaze, his face very solemn. "I think that's what scares me the most…knowing just how easily our situations could have been reversed…"


East Side Slums, August 20, 2010. Clark, Jim and Lois slipped into Luciano's Market in the late afternoon, very much in need of sustenance after their grueling and unfulfilling morning. They were re-interviewing neighbors and witnesses from the devastating July apartment fire, checking to see if anyone's stories had changed over the last month and a half while also seeing what people had to say about names the trio fed them to try and determine who Uncle was. The work was slow going, as people weren't telling them who Uncle was however the neighbors were telling them who he wasn't, by virtue of their body language and other verbal and visual clues. The pair of reporters and the photographer from the Planet had been able to cross off the names of a handful of potential suspects in the case and decided to pick up a quick bite to eat to revive themselves before talking strategy.

"I think we need to head back to the office and pull up a new list, if what you're saying is true," Lois commented over her shoulder to Jim as she reached out for a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. "If the people we've talked to aren't lying so much as withholding the truth, then maybe we'll get further by feeding them more names…the less they talk about one the more we know we're on the right track." She grabbed three ham and cheese sandwiches.

"No no no, you try these instead," an elderly man in a wheelchair called out kindly to her in a heavily-accented voice. She took note of the plaid, wool blanket kept over his legs, even in the late summer heat, as he spoke again. "Bruschetta, mozzarella and tomato, made fresh this morning by me, see?" He held up his clean muscular hands as if for inspection after passing her the sandwiches. "You like better, trust me."

"Thank you, Mister…?"

"Luciano, Pasquale Luciano. I own the store; me and my boy, Marco," he informed them, gesturing to the brooding, middle-aged man behind the counter.

"Lois, I doubt going back to the office for a new list now is going to get us any closer to finding Uncle today. We might as well give it up and come back tomorrow or Monday," Jim called out as he rounded the corner with three sodas in his hands, not having seen Mr. Luciano before. The female reporter took note of how the older man's face dropped at the mention of their quarry and his eyes darted over worriedly to his son's, who looked back at his father with just as much concern. She sensed a lead.

"Mr. Luciano, this is my friend, James Olsen, and I'm Lois Lane-Kent. Jim, this is Mr. Luciano and his son, Marco; they own the store here…how long have you owned the store again, Sir?" she asked politely, inclining her head toward him once more.


Clark surreptitiously watched the exchange from several aisles over as he purposefully hunched over the individual sized bags of potato chips. He'd heard the heart rates of both the older man and his son skyrocket the minute they heard Jim utter the name Uncle. He chose to remain out of sight a moment longer to see what his wife was up to.

"Th-thirty-five y-years," the old man stuttered, obviously scared. "D-did you say Kent, as in t-the reporter?"

"From the Daily Planet yes," she replied enthusiastically, pulling out her press badge for him to see. "We're doing a follow-up piece about last month's fire a couple blocks over from here."

"And you t-think Uncle was involved?" Lois' eyes gleamed excitedly at the older man's slip; add to that the fact that he was so obviously rattled meant that they were definitely on the right track. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Marco moved slowly out from behind the counter and over to his father's trembling side.

"We believe so, yes. Why, do you know him? Might you be able to help us get in touch with him for an interview?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, Mrs. Lane-Kent," Marco fairly growled through semi-clenched teeth, one white-knuckled hand gripping the handle of his father's wheelchair tightly. "You and your friends."

Jim interjected thinking only his stomach. "But we haven't paid for our food!"

Marco took another menacing step forward just as Clark made his way toward his wife and friend, allowing himself to stand up to his full height in the hopes that his sheer size would ward off any trouble the younger Luciano might have in store for them. "Perhaps we'll try your sandwiches another time," he intoned, looking from father to son while gently guiding Lois away. The older man in the wheelchair seemed to be on the verge of tears he was so frightened, while his son stood by seething in silent anger. The bell on the door clanged behind them as all three emerged out onto the sidewalk, empty-handed, and they began walking towards the main thoroughfare.

"He knows something," Lois informed her companions the minute they were out of sight of the market.

"No, really?" Clark asked sarcastically as they made their way down the street to find a cab. "Lois, those men weren't just being evasive, they were downright petrified. They know who Uncle is, and they must know him more intimately than others in the neighborhood—he might even be related to them for all we know."

A young man in a hooded sweatshirt caught wind of the trio's conversation and turned his head sharply, recognizing that they were talking about the Lucianos. He swiftly took off in the opposite direction to inform his boss as to what he'd heard.


A block away from Uncle's warehouse, Parker caught sight of Shane running like the hounds of hell were on his heels. "Hey Freeze!" he shouted, stopping the young man cold. Shane skidded to a full stop, rounded his shoulders and ambled over to the older man in Uncle's operation. "Where're you running off to like that? What's going on?"

He pulled the hood away from his face. "I was over by Luciano's and I heard these people—two men and a woman—talking about how they were looking for Uncle and that they know that the Lucianos are hiding something. I don't think the old man and his son gave him up, but whoever those people are they don't sound like they're going away anytime soon. I was just on my way to warn Uncle now, see what he wanted to do about it."

The gruff middle-aged man put a hand on Shane's shoulder just as the young runner turned to head back to the warehouse. "Don't bother; he's got enough on his plate right now without having to deal with this. I'll take care of it."

"You sure?" Shane asked, shifty-eyed and uncomfortable at the older man's readiness to take control of the situation.

"I'm sure, now run along…I bet you got a lot of other business to attend to." He patted the boy on the back and watched him trot down the alleyway between warehouses until he was out of sight.


Clark took off shortly after they returned to the Daily Planet from lunch, leaving Lois and Jim to delve further into Pasquale Luciano's life. He figured that by varying his routine from his usual patrols he might be able to catch more drug runners, or perhaps even Uncle himself, putting an end to the nightmarish situation before it got anymore out of hand.

He hovered two miles over the Slums, focusing his energy on what was transpiring on the streets below. Clark was learning to no longer ignore the dull throbbing in his temples from the Kryptonite and instead turned his attention to the locations where the pain was most acute. Along the waterfront was the first and obvious spot, as the debris from New Krypton still managed to wash ashore in tiny pieces all these years later. There were also several blocks of buildings where he sensed the Kryptonite's presence, but he couldn't say for certain which apartment or even which building it was in. Clark realized for the first time that up until now he'd always encountered Kryptonite in its raw form, and that if its physical appearance had been altered even in the slightest he wouldn't necessarily recognize the danger until it was too late. It worried him to no end knowing that so much of the deadly rock from his home world lay scattered out in the open miles below his feet and potentially in the hands of his enemies, yet he was helpless to do anything about it.


He strolled back into the conference room where Lois and Jim were working and nervously re-adjusted his tie. "Hey guys, how's the background into Mr. Luciano coming?"

"Not bad, CK," Jim replied, chewing noisily on a stale snack from the vending machine. "He emigrated here from Italy in the mid-1960's and opened up his own shop ten years later. His wife passed away in 2001 and—oh Lois, you're going to want to hear this—he lost his leg five years ago in a drive-by during the Slum's drug war. Apparently Pasquale Luciano got shot and doctors were able to remove the bullet, but somehow the wound became infected and eventually they had to amputate. That's when his son Marco decided to step in and help him run the business. Marco has no wife or kids, and he and his father live together in an apartment behind the store."

"So they're clean then?" Clark asked, trying to assimilate the new information.

"Not exactly," Lois chimed in, taking the pencil out of her mouth and glancing over the top of her glasses at her husband and friend. She slid several pieces of paper towards their end of the table. "Marco is Pasquale Luciano's youngest son—there's another son, Paulo, who's two years older. He owns a small machine repair shop on the edge of Downtown Metropolis, near Chinatown."

Jim spluttered on his snack mix, having missed this piece of the puzzle. "Wait, so Paulo could be Uncle?"

Clark shook his head vigorously as he read the information Lois had passed to him; the curl peeked out briefly from under the mess of dark locks before disappearing again. "No; he's married with two kids, went to trade school after high school and owns his own business—not to mention that he's on the older side of the profile that the FBI compiled."

"And Clark would know, he's been studying that thing backwards and forwards since we got it," Lois announced, drumming her fingers along the tabletop before her.

A pause fell over the room and all three listened to the bustle just outside the door. Lois and Clark locked eyes and a silent communication passed between them while Jim sat in the middle, trying to decipher it all.

"Well if Paulo isn't Uncle, then who is?"

"Marco," Lois and Clark answered as one.


East Side Slums, August 20, 2010, 10:57 pm. "I'm sorry, but we're closed," Marco called out to the dark figure making his way up the steps as he stood behind the glass door about to lock up. Parker persisted and forced his way into the dimly lit market.

Glancing down at the smaller man, he snarled. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Marco raised his hands up in surrender as he recognized the man. "I don't know what you heard, but we didn't tell them anything! They were the ones asking the questions and we threw them out without giving them any answers, I swear!!!"

"Well, then this will ensure that you won't tell them anything the next time they come around…" He pulled back his fist and decked the grocer swiftly across the face before the man had a chance to defend himself—and the hits just kept on coming.

"Marco? Marco, what's going on?" Pasquale asked worriedly as he wheeled himself out of the back room at the loud noise. He watched in horror as the street thug whaled on his son, and he grabbed the baseball bat kept just behind the storeroom door. Pushing himself toward his son's assailant, the bat held aloft in his right hand, the old man cried out, "You leave my son alone! We no tell them nothing, you stop this!" He was about to bring the weapon crashing down on Parker's bald head when the man reached up and grabbed the bat in his meaty hand, twisting it out of the old man's grip and throwing it away down a nearby aisles.

"This goes for you too, Old Timer," Parker said menacingly, turning his attention to the man in the wheelchair. He hit Pasquale so hard above his left eye that the impact sent the older man sprawling on the cold floor as his wheelchair spun into a toilet paper end display two aisles away.