Chloe was frozen with sheer, unrelenting shock. What in Gods name was Lionel Luthor's license doing in this Livingstonite's hands? How. When. Why?
"Wh-where did you get this" she managed to stammer out from behind her wide-eyed gaze. "Who gave this to you?"
"Eyeh fund et un mai o'n" the artist said, eyes still glued to the pavement in front of him.
"Where's you find it" Chloe asked, trying to get whatever clues she could out from behind his dreadlocks.
"Eyuh kin shaw ewe, but yew mussnt teil nuhwhun." He said, gaze finally lifting from the concrete between his feet.
"Alright, that's fine, just please, take me there." Her mind was still racing. She had yet to hear of Lionel since their, if very brief, encounter in his limousine. Was he still alive? If so, then why stay in hiding all this time. Surely, though, he had not given away his identification so readily. Perhaps he was leaving clues, so that those who needed to now could find him. A million different possibilities swarmed through Chloe's head.
"Prahmus naht ta teil eniwhun?"
"yeah, sure. I promise. Just, just wait here. I'll be right back." And, just like that, Chloe was lost in the crowd again, her cries of "Jimmy" mixing in with drumbeats and footfall.
Jimmy Olsen had nearly filled his video card to the brim. Dozens of photos of Livingstonites, as Metropolitans called then, playing, laughing and begging would soon join thousands other images already hogging the majority of his hard drive. Just as he was about to get a perfect shot of two children playing in an old, moldy-looking fountain, a slight, but entirely recognizable voice barely grazed his hearing: "Jimmy."
He turned about face, straining to hear the voice again. "Chlo!" he called back into the mixed crowd of yuppies and so-called hippies. After several minutes of calling, the two were within sight of one another. "COME QUICK" the voice called to him. And, at the drop of a hat, he was rushing his way through the crowds. Someone could be hurt, or, worst, dying. Too many times had Chloe called out to him in Livingston Square for such an occasion. By now, he could almost say that he "knew the drill", however disturbing a term that was for such an instance.
Within minutes, he could see that Chloe had stopped running, a sign that was either entirely good, or entirely bad. When he arrived, he saw her resting her hands on her knees, standing near the lead drummer from earlier that morning. Her expression was hard to understand, a mix of hope, fear, and shock he assumed. His face soon mirrored hers.
"I think he found Lionel." It took all the resolve Jimmy had not to fall flat on his ass.
"Eit's jest ower dis hiul." The drummer declared, trying to lead his two followers on, noticing their slower pacean labored breathing. The two had been walking for quite a while, as he had lost his trail several times in the less cultivated parts of the forest. Oddly, a light snowfall had begun, even this early in fall. An extreme cold front had swept much of Kansas, Metropolis included. Their breath could be seen before them, and an odd mix of crunching snow and ruffling leaves responded to their footsteps. As the trio reached the top of the hill, Chloe could peer out and see the well-manicured lawns below them, littered with fountains and statues, many of which where covered with graffiti and the newly-fallen snow. Above them, the high-rise buildings of downtown Metropolis rose. Workers could be barely seen repairing the Daily Planets globe.
"Say, eet's jes dahn der." The drummer declared, feeling a little tired and sort of breath in the weather himself. Below them lay a thick patch of brush and foliage, with a few trees fallen intermittently. Slowly, carefully, the three of them ventured down. Bits of broken glass still lay gleaming among shredded papers and assorted other trash. It seemed as if this ground had yet to be recovered from the blackout. Thoughts of that fateful night began to flood Chloe's mind yet again. Just as she was about to succumb to them, the drummer's voice called her to attention. "Rait der, missus. Eyuh dun fownd dat liesinz rite der." Chloe followed his voice and accompanying gesture to a patch of thick brush, covered with snow and amber-colored leaves. She ventured forward carefully, nervously.
Peering down in through the brush, trying to separate some of it. Chloe let out a gasp and then a shrill scream. Her eyes had stared right into his.
"Jimmy, call nine-one-one." She said quickly, abruptly. It only took a moment or too for Jimmy to have an operator on the line.
"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?' a crisp female voice asked. Jimmy ventured further peering over Chloe's shoulder, frozen stiff. Framed by her shoulder and short blonde hair, and covered in a few leaves and light snow was the face of Lionel Luthor.
"Just, come quickly."
Black leather soles rapped lightly and quickly on what was either really good linoleum or really cheap tile. A hand, gloved in fine leather the color of oil tugged lightly at the cuff of the other. Fine imported cashmere flowed behind woolen trousers swaying with the movement. A crisp white collar framed a deep red tie, made of the finest silk. The gloves straightened the knee-length jacket around the suit coat. A red scarf was removed and pocketed. The receptionist at the front desk could somehow tell, even before she saw him that the guest of honor had arrived. As the man's bald crown slowly came into view from behind her thick glass window, she listened intently for the words she'd been waiting to hear all day:
"I'm here to see Lionel Luthor."
"Just down this hall sir. A man dressed in a cheaply-made suit motioned for Mr. Luthor, his voice betraying him on several occasions. "So.so sorry to hear of your loss. Your fa-father was a wo-wonderful man. A-a wonderful man indeed."
"Why thank you, Mr…Riley. That's very nice of you to say. Though, I'm sure you never had to live with him." The voice was crisp, smooth, and inviting, showing no signs of remorse or pity. The man in the cheap suit laughed nervously, not sure what else to do.
"I-I also just wanted to-to thank you personally, Mr. Luthor, fo-for al-all the work you've do-done for the city, s-sir. W-we r-really wouldn't be where we a-are t-today w-ihout your g-generous a-assistance."
"Well, in times like these, we are all called to help revitalize this city, our home, to whatever extend we can. Just because my extent is greater than some, that doesn't mean I'm worthy of more praise. Metropolitans everywhere having been doing what they can to make our home ours again. They are the ones who deserve this much praise, not me."
He was as polished as the fine Italian leather gracing his feet and as refined as all his other tastes. Lex Luthor had been the "benevolent billionaire" (as many in the media had named him) behind much of the reconstruction efforts post-blackout. Many suspected, accompanied by muted whispers, that a Peace Prize already had his name on it. In Senator Kent's absence, Luthor had assumed, after much objection, many of her responsibilities. Through passionate speeches, and, some suspected, much arm-twisting, he had contracted-out the redevelopment of Metropolis to several big name companies, most especially LuthorCorp. When some protested such a move, Luthor had simply replied: "In order to ensure the recovery of this, my home, and of these, my friends and neighbors, I have taken it upon myself to allow my company, LuthorCorp, to assume most of the responsibilities associated with the reconstruction effort. However, in an attempt to help Metropolis back on its feet, LuthorCorp will perform all services free of charge." As soon as the words were spoken, all of Luthor's protestors suddenly became his best friends. Luthor would pay all of the workers straight out of his own pocket, it seemed. And suddenly, everyone wanted to be on the LuthorCorp payroll.
"Whu-well, um.. he-ere we are, Mr. Luthor." The man opened the door to a small, well-furnished room. Luthor took a seat in a well-plushed leather chair the color of brandy while the attendant disappeared through another door, and into the morgue's "storage" area. A few minutes later, he emerged wheeling a metal table into the middle of the room. On it rested a black bag roughly the size of a human being. As he began to unzip it, it became more clear as to why it was of that specific size.
"That's him." The voice was undaunted, unchanged. No hint of emotion, neither hate nor love, rejoicing or remorse was heard in Mr. Luthor's voice. Just a simple, matter-of-fact "That's him."
"Well, then, sir, if you would just follow me into my office, we can sign these papers and have you both on your way. So sorry for your loss, Mr. Luthor." The latter statement was almost a footnote, a second-thought. Joshua Riley had to be at his best around so noteworthy a client.
As the door shut slowly behind them, neither of the two men noticed the slight movement beneath the black bag. Neither man was around the two seconds more it would have taken to see the corpse's eyes begin to open, aglow. Neither man would make it to the mortician's office before the explosion