The leaves outside Chloe's apartment had begun to turn. There was a noticeable draft drifting through the worn old wood window frames. A slight fog was forming around the edges of each, blending perfectly with the small curls of fog streaming silently out of her lips. The heat had gone out again, and she could see a few trashcan fires forming in the early morning in the building across from her. Her newly-installed little stud seemed frozen straight to her still-tender, recently-pierced nostril. In a moment of candidacy, Chloe was tempted to try and lick it or something, but memories of A Christmas Story soon had her thinking twice.
At times like these, Chloe wasn't sure whether or not she missed her old dorm room, with her old laptop and bed and desk. The laptop, rather miraculously, had been saved-or, at least, it's hard drive, though the rest was lost in the inferno at Met U that followed the blackout. Some blamed it on the students, others a few disgruntled professors. Chloe didn't believe either story. She'd moved in with Jimmy after her first hospital visit. At first, it was only supposed to be temporary: she could barely protest through her sobs. He slept on his old, beat-up couch and let her take the slightly-less-worn bed. It was the "appropriate thing to do" he said. She thanked him repeatedly, and tried to get some sleep. She only had nightmares the first night. Parts of her previous few days that were fighting to resurface from the blackened haze she'd shrouded them with. It was a week before the "incidents" began. She'd woken up in his small kitchen, unable to explain how she got there, or why the palms of her hands were bleeding. He told the doctors later that her screams had woken him from his couch. She never remembered screaming. The traces of blood underneath her nails would later explain how the bleeding started. She'd, in a fit of something between rage and grief, griped her hands while sleep-walking so tightly that her nails pierced the skin. It would happen six more times, each being progressively worst, before she broke his old mirror. She'd loved that mirror. It spoke of a bygone era of opulence and grandeur. "I never liked it that much anyways," he'd told her on the walk home from the hospital. She knew he was lying.
That was almost a month ago, and the old scars were still on her hands, her arms, even a matching pair just above her knees. She'd had two more "incidents" since the one with the mirror.
Something about the clear, cold air drifting in from her-his-their window almost helped her forget all that, as her fingertips unconsciously traced all the tiny scars left behind by the stitches. She was dressed simply in her favorite gray hoodie, it was originally his, and a plain pair of boy-short cut panties. She'd roused to the early sunlight first, as he still dozed in the bedroom. It had only taken a few weeks for certain aspects of his more chivalrous persona to rid themselves. He made her feel strangely safe in this citywide slum that had resulted from last spring's blackout. She knew that was something unique, and held onto it-and him-as voraciously as she could. Chloe suspected he felt the same way.
Shivering legs woke her from her daydreaming, and soon, crystal-clear hot water was pouring out of her cheap, battery-powered electric kettle. In times like these, the one thing one couldn't run out of was tea. And, with a bountiful supply of all of Tazo's different varieties stashed from a looting trip to Starbuck's, her shivers soon slowed, and eventually, under several layers, stopped.
After she slipped on a pair of jeans that were a little too tight and Chucks that were a little too big, and was brave enough to venture to the fogged windows that lined the south wall of his-her-their apartment, it seemed like it might be a good day to go down to the park. The people there would need them, on a clear cold day like this. And besides, there was plenty of tea to go around.
A whole mob had gathered around the two of them, amazed by their sheer presence. A thick, staccato beat filled the air as Chloe and Jimmy tried to squeeze through the shivering, huddled mass. She barely caught sight of one of them, a tall stocky man with wide features and dreadlocks hanging down to his waist. Small bits of ice were lodged into his braided, barely-graying locks, mixing in with beads and various other items. She'd seen him several times on the streets. He was lucky to have a real instrument with him-a home-made djembe. Most of Livingston Square's artists beat on plastic buckets, or trashcans, or anything else they could find. Occasionally, someone would have a guitar, and would soon find themselves in better conditions. After 10 minutes of non-stop rhythm, a small mob had formed around the group, now a dozen drummers strong, each with a slightly different instrument, different style, and different sound. Dreadlocks was obviously the leader of the pack, but several others followed. In another moment of spontaneity, Chloe began to dance in the middle of the circle, carrying a large jug of tea in each hand. Jimmy whipped out his camera, as usual, framing the circle around her, with leaves falling behind. Just as his shutter clicked, a few drops spilled out of the top. Dreadlocks paused for a moment, only a moment, and the rest of the beat faltered and stopped behind him. In the corner, one artist kept the beat going a little longer than the others, but the glares soon killed the music.
Dreadlocks spoke. "Hay, Mon. Tell yhur ghurl nat ta speel da ghuds, nah." And, just as soon as his thick, grating voice, full of gravitas, had begun, it was replaced with the beat, once again. The Tazo was served piping hot, the flavor of the day African Red Bush. "Something to wake us up." Jimmy had said. He began taking photos from there.
His old 35mm had been smashed in the riots, and he relinquished himself to a Planet-supplied Rebel. As the building was being remodeled post-blackout, he and Chloe had a few days off before they had to get back to work. The background on his old MacBook would remain the dilapidated globe on top of the Planet's building. Much of their work, now, concerned covering the recovery and homeless of Metropolis. Many refugees read of their hometown from their computer screens in Gotham and several other cities in the region. The age of the newspaper, even after so immense a "Digital Disaster" (as the 48 point font on the front page had declared it) it seemed, was waning.
Chloe and Jimmy made their Saturday-morning rounds through out the square and adjacent park every week. The two had quickly dedicated themselves to helping as much as they could, wherever they could. Livingston, though, had especially touched them. It was a community of artists, right to the bone. Chloe couldn't count how many portraits of her had been paid for, then immediately thrown away. They simply didn't have enough room. Their walls were covered in Livingston art and photography. It was beautiful, but costly. Now-a-days, they simply had to, however regrettably, say no. Instead, they brought the artists tea, soup, or sub sandwiches, even, if one of Jimmy's photos had done particularly well. One of them, the shot of the Planet, made it to the cover of Time, and the whole square had a party.
For Jimmy, Livingston Square and Park was purely humanitarian. For Chloe, there were also, much more hidden, motives. Every face could be Lana, or Lois, or Clark, even. She feared the worst for Clark. It was hard to ignore the huge "In times like these" posters baring "Lex Luthor's" seemingly-sincere mug. Chloe, with no sign of Clark to be seen, was quietly morning what she believed more and more with each passing day: Zod was here, and he had made sure that Clark was not. She hoped and, maybe even verged on praying that no one else had met the same fate at the hand of Zod.
The noise, or rather, momentary lack there-of, startled Chloe from her thoughts. The beat was done, and the spectators all gave rounding applause. A bucket had replaced where Chloe once danced, and a few suits dropped pocket-change en-route to station, headed for the quickly-recovering business district. After the crowd dispersed, Chloe crouched down to give each of the artists and extra-strong cup, careful not slip in the two tea-puddles she had left. One of the artists' dogs followed after her, licking the puddles up while the steam still rose. When she got to Dreadlocks, she felt she needed to apologize.
"Ah nuh, no whurries, ghurl." He said, baritone as always. "Suh longhas evurywhun gids der fill." With a full-bellied laugh, he motioned to the dog. She always liked him best of the Livingston artists. He was an easy soul, and an old soul. When she brought him a cup of soup, or tea, or a small sandwich from the Starbucks she'd looted just months prior, he'd give her looks that reminded her of her grandfather, before he passed, or of Mr. Kent, before he did. Just, you know, with a little more soul in him, she thought to herself.
He finished the tea slowly, letting himself enjoy the warmth as long as possible. After she saw that he had finished, she almost moved on to the young girl next to him, had she not noticed a small, faint glint out of the corner of her eye. As she turned, he stretched out, allowing the usually-closed, very worn, leather vest that clung to his broad chest to fall open. Something in the inside pocket caught the light in the faintest way. As Chloe turned, she saw it was a small, laminated card, white in color. She barely saw the red "K" and "a" sticking out of the leather. He noticed her looking, and immediately closed his arms around him, faking a chill.
" I never knew you had a driver's license!" She said, genuinely and pleasantly surprised.
"Whut?" the musician said, trying to feign off her advancing questions. But the reporter in Chloe was kicking in, and curiosity was quickly going in for the kill.
"Oh, C'mon, let me see it! I'll let you see mine? I bet your picture isn't nearly as bad as mine," she said with a small chuckle, already half-way through fishing it out of the cute little wallet she'd purchased from a vendor just down the block.
He paused for a minute, closing his eyes, biting his lip just the slightest, looking both reticent an defeated, as he slipped the I.D. card out of his wallet.
"Prhamus naht ta tewl eniewhun?" he said, just before handing it over to her, equal parts guilty child and big, almost-threatening bear-of-a-man.
"Oh, it can't be THAT bad." She said, trying to catch his eyes to give him hers, but they glued themselves to the cold pavement in front of him.
It was a driver's license alright, she knew that immediately. But the picture was certainly not of the reggae drummer she'd known over the past few months. The hair was of similar length, but a different color-brown, and much better kept. A short-cut beard graced a much paler face resting atop a throne of Italian-cut wool the color of night, a finely-pressed crisp white-collared shirt, and a bright, deep, bold tie of silk. Chloe gasped, as the name confirmed it: "Lionel Luthor!"
An Author's Note(s): I hope you like this conglomerate of different (if ravaged) cities I've turned into post-blackout Metropolis. If anyone's gotten a whiff of (very tragically and regrettably) today's New Orleans, or the more artistic, less affluent parts of Manhattan, then well done. I've been lucky enough to visit both very recently, and have found great(if regrettably-found) inspiration in the stories and people I met and heard there. Expect more characters like Jimmy, Our newly-pierced Chlo, and especially Dreadlocks in future…speaking of in future…
For those who don't know, I'm moving off to college within hours. So, updating will be rather belated. I both love and hate to leave you guys hanging. (As I'm sure, from this last chapter, many of you can tell.) But, as my French roommate would say in an accent much better than my own: "C'est La Vie" At any rate, a little teaser to hold you over. This revelation is the introduction to events that will begin to really set things in motion. There's a theory out there about how Lion-El, as many have called him, fits into the Supes mythology. I've read it, and it makes perfect sense to this Kowatche(e?)Wannabe(e?), so, with all due respect to those who made the discoveries leading to it; I'm going to steal it. Oh, and for all those of you who have been asking where Clark is (what, no one wants to know where Lana ran off to? What about Martha and Lois chilling, quite literally, out with a certain evil Angel we all know and love to hate? Ah well…) Well, to make a long story short: he's on his way. I've said too much. Look for the clues, and you'll know where this is going before I do. I hope they haven't been too obviousKryptonsite…