The following days had been quiet. Going back to work at the Daily Planet was too demanding than Clark anticipated. At least Perry was willing to give some people time off after the incident. It was understandable and it wasn't the first time Perry had the heart to give people time to regain their composure after several occurrences whether it was personal or much bigger. Because of everything, Clark personally decided that it was best to stay awhile at his parents' farm before heading back to Metropolis.
It had been one hell of a day. He started his first day working and trying to make a living in Metropolis. Life in the city was supposed to help shape any person's future who wanted to work there, especially the Daily Planet. Saving a plane full of people was one thing, but the untimely arrival of criminal renegades who were not only from his home only made things worse.
And then, Jonathan's funeral . . .
Clark felt absolutely numb throughout the entire service. He never bothered wiping the slow streams of tears. The Kents' friends offered their condolences while they knew nothing of Jonathan's true death. The cover story had been an accident, but that was best for now. The remembrance of seeing Jonathan's grunts of anguish as his wound from Zod's heat vision gushing never faded. It never changed despite that Jonathan was never related to him. Clark really did feel like his father died. He was a man who raised him with the best of his ability like any other. He was scared and deeply worried that his son would be denounced and feared.
The more Clark thought about the sacrifices from Jonathan, his mind then trailed to General Zod.
Zod.
Clark cringed at the internal mention of the man who murdered his father, along with all those who were unlucky to not have made it out during the melee. Or was it really Zod that murdered him? Two deaths happened as a result of flying home scared, unwilling and impotent to compromise with a United States general, whom he promised to bring his daughter to safety. The threat was over, and he didn't have anyone to answer. His little act of defiance cost one dear life to him and one forced murder.
Or was it self-defense? He wished it felt like it. This man was anything else rather than an innocent man, but Clark couldn't deny it was murder. This felt different than sending enemies into another world where there is no escape. Or was it worse than death? A world without time passing and possibly no way out. There was no telling.
Zod may have been dangerous, in addition to a well-intentioned extremist, though he was scared. There was no doubt that whatever did destroy Krypton had shaken him. Shook him hard enough to go over the edge by taking a whole planet by force. Clark recollected when Zod assessed Krypton's annihilation. The misery in Zod's eyes, how he described thousands of families butchered and then all were slaughtered in one instant. He lost his kind. Their kind. And he had to stand and helplessly watch his wife being pulled away from him where the afterlife wouldn't grant him access.
He didn't deserve death.
Before Jonathan's funeral, he decided to give Zod a formal remembrance. Despite his hostility and cruelty, he was once a man of principle that the House of El recognized. He wouldn't be forgiven, but he wouldn't be forgotten either. Clark's Kryptonian legacy has been long remunerated with blessings of hope. This wouldn't be the man that Jor and Lara-El would've wanted for their son. Neither the Kents. And not himself. Murder and totalitarianism may have been the House of Zod's legacy but not his.
Clark carried Zod's corpse and took a sharp upward climb. He traveled so far until the Earth left him and the blackness of outer space surrounded him. All around him was nothing but quietness. Not a sound was heard, and the infinite quietness wouldn't cease. Taking one look of dignity, he raised his arms that were no longer affected by gravity and Zod's body ever so slowly moved away from him.
Dru-Zod's closed eyes brought Clark peace as the last of the House of Zod drifted away from him as tiny specs of coldness began to appear on the bare skin of his face.
No more lives, no more killing, Clark vowed to himself as he turned back around and dove downward back home.
Fighting in a war wasn't exactly what Clark had in mind aside from being an example of decency like the House of El was known for. Not murder. Not death. No one was meant to be killed. This wasn't supposed to be a warzone. Ursa's words still held a hard truth. This was a war, and wars have casualties.
He deeply yearned that a self-defensive circumstance wouldn't rise again . . . Another life taken would destroy his soul.
Because of that, the entire world now believes that any kind of lifeform outside of Earth is perilous and aggressive. Even if that meant him. Every day, Clark couldn't avoid the countless news channels that covered the story and—worst of all—fact that the entire planet just found out that there are aliens out there and they just tried to ravage all of mankind. The biggest topic was concerning the blue-suited alien. Many eyewitnesses have claimed to have seen him. Luckily, the Guardian pilot and crew did testify that the blue-suited alien did save their lives. Some kids who did watch the duels between him and the Kryptonians were overly amazed and excited to tell their stories.
At least there was that.
Unfortunately, the positives didn't sway other people's opinions on Clark's intention of being heroic or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Other stories entailed that they only saw him fight the aliens. Whether or not the blue-suited alien was unsafe to Earth as those he was combating, eyewitnesses have added that there were property damages and civilian casualties that were unlucky enough to cross their path.
Clark saw that St. Martin's Hospital was crowded shortly after the alien ship fell into the ocean. Hundreds were checked in for long-lasting injuries. There were several reports of immediate fatalities and those who unfortunately succumbed to their injuries. Clark tried to listen for the exact number of deaths reported, but the ache in his chest was too great and his numbness took over. It worsened when his haunted eyes detected shots of those who either were affected by the incident or those who suffered losses.
In addition, one of the more outspoken politicians about the subject, Senator Joseph Cray from Washington D.C. was given an interview. "We did not ask for this," he said on camera. "This was an unspeakable act of violence that nobody asked for. Lives were ruined all because they were looking for someone else we didn't ask for. What if there was someone else who wants him too? Or someone worse? Aliens are real, and we are now at the mercy of someone who's just like them. General Sam Lane was in contact with this alien, and General Lane complied with it. And wow, we're—what—teammates with it? How long before we are plunged into another war?"
Because of Senator Cray's statement, as well as other witnesses, public opinion on the blue-suited alien or the "flying man" was now mixed. Others think he's some sort of savior, while others think he's just as precarious as Zod and his cronies. Individual interviews have commonly stated that this "Kal-El" is a loose cannon, wondering how long it will be until he decides to mimic Zod's motives.
Anger surged through Clark over this outrageous and groundless statement. The Senator wasn't even there. Clark angrily found the power button to the TV.
He heard softly-paced footsteps and Martha entered the living room. She looked at her son with a deep despondent face. She had long recognized that kind of anger. The same kind since he found out who exactly he was. She steadily placed herself next to her aggravated son for the first time since the day he left for Metropolis, a life away from here.
Clark's voice was calm, but Martha could sense that he wasn't. "They don't know what to think. I don't know what to think."
"What they think," Martha said calmly, "is irrelevant."
"That's always been relevant, Mom," Clark answered. "The idea of what my birth father stood for was to be the best for everyone. I wanted to do that, but that would also mean being alone. What I did today . . .," He shook his head, releasing a sharp exhale. "What happened today . . . What I did . . . I'm more alone than ever before."
Martha calmly slid her hand back and forth on her son's shoulder. "Clark, you did the best you could, sweetheart. And I want you to let you know that Jonathan didn't die because of you."
"Then why do I feel like that?" Clark asked assertively.
"Clark, honey," she said understanding her son's grief. "Listen to me. Your father and I have loved you with all our lives. But remember what we've told you—once you're out there, there's nothing you can do. And there was nothing you could've done at that moment."
Clark sighed deeply. "Then I've made a mistake. This was all a mistake. All of this. I'm the wrong person. Being someone to hold ideas and beliefs. I wanted to do what you and my birth parents stood for. To do the right thing. I thought I was ready to make these decisions. I had no idea that I would have to make these . . .," his face tensed. ". . . these impossible choices."
Clark's throat swelled once more. He had mentally admitted it himself more times than he would ever bother counting but saying it out loud was unbearable. "I killed someone."
"There was no other way," Martha calmly reminded. "He was going to kill us."
"He still didn't deserve it, Ma," he said solemnly. "He was scared and alone. Like me—"
"Don't," she interrupted. "Don't compare him to you. You're not like him, do you understand me? You did not have a choice," she said with emphasis. "And I, in a million years, would not have blamed you any less for what happened to Jonathan."
She was right. He wanted to believe her, but he didn't. It didn't even feel right leaving Metropolis for a few days, but he needed some form of comfort.
He ducked his head and took a deep breath. "I really miss him, Ma."
Martha embraced her son tightly. "I miss him too."
"After all these years of having no one . . . I thought I could change that when the time was ready. To not be alone anymore." Shaking his head to himself, he ducked his head. "I was wrong."
"Clark, listen to me," Martha said more assertively. Her son turned his depressed face towards hers. "It's not where you're from that makes what your birth parents would want. It's that you are capable of doing great things for other people, even if you weren't born this way. You just have to realize what that means. And you won't know what that means if you don't take a step out there. We're all afraid of what's outside of what we call home. Until we take that first step that's outside of that precious barrier, we're all strangers. Sometimes, the best way to be recognized is to step out from the shadow and stand tall in the spotlight, unmoving long enough until they see you. The real you. It's like what we told you long ago, Clark, the first step is always the hardest. And once you start that path, watch and see how far that spreads. From there, you'll know where you will go from there."
Clark slightly drifted his eyes away. He did remember those words long ago ever since he was a child. The first step was the hardest. It really was the hardest. The decision to save the plane was reluctant, but it was the right thing to do, regardless of the inevitable repercussions of being discovered.
Clark opened his arms and let himself lean into Martha's arms, holding him tight in an intimate embrace. He felt a melancholy smile form on his face. He hadn't felt this comforted since the day he found the rocket in the barn and he was held.
"Some people said that they think you were amazing, you know," she whispered in his ear. "And I do too. So did Jonathan. You did the best you could, sweetheart. You've just got to find a way to prove that you're good. However long that takes."
The next day, Clark carried Zod's corpse out in the front yard. He made sure that Martha wasn't there to see this. He wanted to face this and make this decision independently. Zod was a respected general in the past; he should have at least deserved something like this, even if corruption had polluted his principles into killing Jonathan. Zod's body was placed with his arms and legs flatly at his sides and eyes forcibly shut for good.
Concentrating, Clark's eyes burned, and a small flame latched itself onto Zod's body and soon consumed him.
Later that day, Clark looked back at the 'S' symbol on his blue uniform. The uniform shimmered as much as it did when he first saw it. Its glistening still compensated for the diamond-shaped emblem on the front, still radiating in its bright red and yellow combination.
He remembered his birth father's words . . .
"No matter where you go, Kal-El, you will always carry our strength in you."
Jonathan's last words . . .
". . . always be the better man. Always be the best you can be. Like we did."
The last survivor of Krypton and the last son of the House of El would have a savior for Earth. If he was going to be the better man, than this was going to require much more than being someone who can fly and lift a car with little to no effort. There will still those who believed that the alien called "Kal-El" was someone who came to help and stop anything bad from happening if he could.
He had to be exactly that. It also meant accepting the inevitability that actions have consequences. If the House of El brought hope, he had to try.
The memory of what he read in the museum in Metropolis then trailed. How those immigrants were treated for merely being outsiders. They also provided lifelong values for their foreign land, despite their differences.
According to Zod, Krypton had a mighty empire that ravished so many planets, who had nothing to do with anything. Krypton was tyrannical at a time before it settled in within itself.
Earth and Krypton had shady histories. Both were ridden with cruelty, but they had every opportunity to make themselves better. Krypton didn't have a chance, but Earth still has one. Earth's not a perfect world, and it probably never will be.
But it can be better.
He briefly contemplated on telling the whole world that he is the flying man. Though, that would be tough. For as long as he could remember, he was Clark Kent, a boy who grew up with dreams of being a reporter and now works at one of the country's largest media corporations. At the same time, he was a descendant of a highly respected and noble family. He wanted a normal life, but the other life couldn't be simply ignored. After all, only he had the power to stop a plane from falling. One can't be without the other, he found.
He was both. A man of two worlds.
He did have one epiphany—maybe there was one way to display a remembrance. Some sort of monument aside from the items that came along the rocket he was in. He was fascinated with the ship Zod commandeered. Aside from the tiny rocket that he could no longer fit in unlike when he was an infant, that ship was the only piece of Krypton there was. And it was a large lost fragment.
When it was time for him to return to Metropolis, he donned his blue suit and soared back across the country. He flew out outside of the atmosphere to avoid any unready bystander's attention.
As he reached his new hometown, he aimed right at the ocean side, right where Zod's ship had fallen into the obscure watery depths. Taking a breath, Clark dived below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. He was impressed by how unaffected his eyes were from the saltiness of the water. His vision was never impaired, save for the darkness that grew as he descended further away from the sunlight.
Flexing his eyes, he viewed all around via x-ray vision. Everything was much lighter, and he did make out several canyons of coral. Anticipating seconds followed, and he picked up one large object several kilometers away at that point. At the ocean floor was Zod's ship. Its hull was still unscathed, and its exterior shell had barely noticeable signs of wear or combat. It was perfectly intact, almost as if the ship served as a submarine.
Ready for more air, Clark skyrocketed back to the surface before taking another deep breath. Returning to where he found it, he steered himself right where the ship met the sandy floor and crouched. Luckily, it was easy to squeeze himself and make a space between the floor and the hull. After enough space, Clark raised both arms and pressed his palms up against the still cold metal of the hull.
Flexing himself, Clark then launched himself upward as fast as he could. He was thankful that his lungs weren't failing him, and it was only a ten-second period before he broke the ocean ceiling and returned to Metropolis' sunny greeting.
With his breath restored and no innocent bystanders present, Clark moved himself away from the city and continued further out into the Atlantic with the ship held above him. Wherever he wanted to keep this, it had to be as far away from anything and everything as possible. Anywhere near or within a civilized continent was the first idea that he thought of. For something this big and obvious, it was too risky to place it somewhere in the deep in the mountains or a barren open area. The only possible location he had in mind was the northern arctic region. Maybe the North Pole, where inhabitation was unlikely.
So, now I'm Santa Claus, Clark silently tittered to himself.
Fortunately, the trip to the arctic wasn't as long as it took for him to soar across the country from Smallville to Metropolis. The air got colder and foggier. The Kryptonian suit reacted accordingly. Instead of feeling the climate's air, the suit provided a warming defense that covered everywhere, save for his head and hands, still clutching the hull. The unrelenting grasp gave him all the strength he needed to fight the Arctic's depressing temperature. He needed to find a place that was isolated and buried behind massive glaciers or mountains that would act as a cover. Anything to keep it hidden from human eyes.
A couple of seconds followed, and exactly what he was looking for began to appear. The fog eclipsed the landscape, but Clark's vision wasn't entirely impaired. He could make out that there was a series of glaciers that stretched out from overhead rock formations.
Clark ascended from the frigid waters and soared overhead to where he could look down and observe the entire landscape.
Indeed, there was a circular pattern of ice and rocks mixed together, almost as if it was imitating Stone Hedge. Right in the middle was a massive depression. Within the pit-like vicinity was nothing but hard ice that rested perfectly within its cold crib. By the radius of the pit, the ship would be an almost perfect fit. The radius seemed slightly bigger than the ship's by Clark's aerial calculation.
Ready to relieve the load above him, Clark dropped altitude while easing the ship into its designated location. The ship sang scraping noises along the sides of the icy rocks, but its nigh impenetrable armor was left unaffected. The only form of damage it suffered was Clark's escape when Zod captured him.
A couple of painstaking seconds followed, and Clark touched down. Clark carefully moved himself while shifting his palms along the hull until he was on one edge of the ship. Crouching, Clark lowered the ship, which softly crunched the ground beneath it. There was plenty of space between the front entrance of the ship and the interior of the pit. Clark proceeded to face the front of the ship once more and decided to have another look inside, albeit his own accord. No fear of fanatics who control it. The ship was now his to look back on and glorify that his heritage had a vast reputation of accomplishment. He then thought about placing the emergency shuttle his parents found him in somewhere onboard as well as some of the artifacts that were found in it.
Clark entered the ship and the awe he felt earlier struck him again. It was more free and more soothing. The icy coldness he felt on his hands and face vanished as the ship's doors closed around him, sealing him into the familiar blue lit crystal walls. The vessel was without power. It was a matter of time before the temperature outside would make its way in. Unless there was a way to activate the ship in some way. It would be wise to be careful with the phantom engine, however . . . Maybe toggle with the controls in the large room where Zod commandeered his group.
He made his way to the main control room and felt uneasy. It was almost depressing to see that all the lights from the technologically advanced consoles illuminated the room.
He recalled that those consoles did give trivial and important information about many things. In addition to planetary specifics, they might also have more documentation about Krypton—its entire history. Though, they were all detailed in a Kryptonian language that he had no idea how to decipher. Would it be possible to learn how to read a Kryptonian language? The Hand of Rao already learned how to speak it flawlessly.
The possibilities dazzled, but another epiphany crossed his consciousness. He may have safely placed a ship—his ship, though, he still needed to find a way to show the public that he was as modest as Martha encouraged him to be.
That led to another idea.
Lois.
He recalled when she told him that she was still looking for a story that would mean something good. Something that would make a long great impression and not another column-on-the-side-tabloid scandal story. Plus, the Daily Planet was looking for him too. Anything to get an interview.
Using his own phone would be too risky. He'd have to make a more drastic approach such as the Kents' house phone. He copied Lois' number and dialed. Martha promised not to listen in on the conversation; Clark made looks every time she had a curious look. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was assuming that he may have liked her.
"Yellow?" came the deadpan voice that made Clark smile.
"Hello, Ms. Lane," Clark spoke in an assured voice.
"Wayne, if that's you again, I swear to God, I'm gonna shove my foot up your—."
"No, no, no," Clark stammered. "It's me."
"Who?"
Silently clearing his throat, Clark said, "it's me, Kal-El."
"Wait, what?" Well, that got her attention. "How'd you get my number?"
"Someone I know," he answered sincerely.
"You got it from Clark?"
"Yes."
Lois chuckled. "You know, you really pissed off my dad."
"Yeah, I heard."
"Why are you calling?" she asked curiously.
"A friend told me that you've been looking for something. Something great to write about in the paper."
Lois bolted up from her seat. An interview? With an alien? "Yeah?" Lois said enthusiastically caught off guard. "Uh, yeah, sure. Sure. I'd like that." An interview that wouldn't just push her career, but also give something the people of Metropolis to finally read something positive for a change. A break from stories about the City Hall would be nice.
"Alright then," Clark discreetly beamed. "Rooftop of that building where you are—oh, what was it called. . ."
"Daily Planet."
"Daily Planet. Yes," Clark faked. "I'll meet you there tomorrow at three o'clock. Oh, and come alone."
"You got it."
Clark pressed the end call button and let out a loud relieved exhale. At long last, something was working out.
He glanced behind him and noticed that Martha was sticking her head out from the kitchen doorway. Clark's face flushed. How long was she staring there? She better not get the wrong idea—
Martha nodded suggestively and winked while clicking her tongue.
Her son rolled his eyes.
Lois wasn't planning on waiting for another five minutes. It was a wonder if this guy was even an on-time guy, like right at three o'clock on the dot and not some minor leeway. Anticipation pumped her heart quicker. Same spot. How interesting. The first place she saw him too.
She looked at her watch. 2:59. If only she had the power of grabbing someone and pulling towards her and not have to wait. At the same time, it would be entirely reckless; you wouldn't want to mess with someone who could lift a car and even a friggin' spaceship.
3:00.
Lois' attention at the sky heightened. Alright, where is he?
"Good afternoon, Lois."
Letting out a surprised cry, she turned around to see that he was only five feet away from her. Really? That close? Couldn't have given off a little warning?
Clark flushed. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—"
"Jesus!" Lois exhaled.
"Sorry," Clark said. "I had to sneak up here. Technically speaking, I'm still an unknown."
Oh. Well, that did make sense. Her dad did keep calling her, wondering if she had seen him. Now that she was about to publish this, things were about to get really interesting. Hopefully, he'll finally get off his high ground and read something she wrote for once.
Lois released a slight chuckle. "Right," she said, biting her lip. "So . . ." her voice trailed while she reached for her pen and opened up a fresh new page on her notepad. She had no idea where to start. Here he was, and all those years of knowing which questions to start with completely gone in an instant.
Clark tilted his head. Hopefully, this wasn't too overwhelming.
Lois delayed an awkward laugh. "I have so many questions. I don't know where to begin."
Clark grinned. "It's alright. Asked myself the exact same thing. Take your time."
Calculating her sentence, she said steadily, "Where are you from?"
"I'm from a faraway planet. I don't know exactly know how far away though. My birth name is Kal-El. I'm a descendant of a well-known family from a faraway world. I'm the last survivor of a planet that was destroyed. It was called Krypton."
Lois scribbled on her notepad. Krypton. . . C-R-I . . . No, this was way too important to screw up. "'Krypton'—how do you spell that?"
Clark paused. That was a good question. Only the pronunciation was known. He supposed he could make up something. Who knew the English spelling of that anyway?
"K-R-Y-P-T-O-N," he said as if he knew all along.
"Alright," she fathomed writing more. "And, you're, like, completely impervious to pain?"
"Not entirely," he answered. "I get tired, sure. But I do get some fatigue. There's also some kind of material on that ship that lowered by endurance."
More scribbling. She might as well be writing a science fiction story. "And, uh, how big are you?" She loudly cleared her throat. "I mean, how tall are you?"
"Six foot three."
"So . . ." Lois bit her lip. Dodged that one. "Why are you here?"
Clark swallowed to hide having to clear his throat out loud. He gently lowered his head and morphed his confident expression to a calculating pensiveness.
"That's one question I've been asking myself for so many years. But now I do know. All I'm here to do is help. I was raised by a mother and father who told me that sometimes there isn't an easy way to be immediately accepted. And even if I'm not, then they can be sure that there is someone to watch over them, or better yet—to do the right thing. When I found out what I was capable of, I knew that one day, I had to reveal myself to the world when it really needed me. I was afraid of being discovered and outcasted. It's okay to be afraid, but if you let that fear take you, you'll never have the real power of doing the right thing. Even if no one is there by you, no one is willing or caring to look your way, you can't let that stop you from doing what's right."
Lois' concentrated writing on her notepad turned to a deep thoughtful demeanor. When she was done, she then smirked spiritedly. "Did you memorize all that before you came here?"
Clark lightly chortled. "Well, it's the truth."
Lois gave an understanding nod, scribbling down like mad. "Well, honesty's the best policy. But. . .," her words got lost among her scribbling. "It's still a good speech. Right. Uh, sorry. Alright then. So," she cleared her throat. "Suppose the military doesn't want you hanging around. They were after you, and you ran away. Now, they're declaring you a danger or a threat, and you say that you want to do the right thing. What do you have to say about that?"
Clark displayed a look of deep pensiveness. There really wasn't a reassuring answer for that question or himself. He ran away instead of facing up to what he did. Eventually, he'd have to own up to what happened that day.
"I ran," he conceded. "I ran because I was scared. But now. . . I'll have to one day come to terms with my actions. Until then, I can't let whatever is out there do it again. Besides, your father won't listen to a word I say now that I'm still hanging around.
"Oh, please," Lois scoffed. "I don't give a shit what my dad thinks. Besides, some think you're pretty awesome."
"Yeah?"
"Dude," Lois said while pulling out her phone that immediately displayed a YouTube video.
The video depicted a young boy who looked about ten or eleven.
". . . and then this blue guy flies in," the boy described excitedly, "and smashes into that other guy. The other guy tries to beat the blue guy, but the blue guy just goes—" he made a sound that imitated lasers while gesturing with his hands to imitate the heat vision. He then gestured a loud punching sound. "It was like Dragon Ball Z!"
Clark shielded his bashfulness with a feeble burying palm, unable to keep a straight face.
With a smirk, Lois put her phone away. "Looks like you've got some fans."
Clark chuckled warmly. At least there were in fact some that caught on to his heroics—some that even thought it was awesome. "Glad to know," he replied. "What about you? You a fan?"
Lois made a face. "Yeah, you kidding me? You saved my ass, like . . . twice? I lost count, man. . ."
Clark laughed. "Well, you're welcome."
"Don't mention it. And that . . .," she pointed at him. "That, uh, is that a suit from your planet?"
"It's a Kryptonian suit that was passed down by my family."
"Is it, like, uh. . . powerful or something? Do you know what it's made of?"
"You know, I'm not even sure," he answered truthfully. "It was one of the things that were recovered from Krypton, and I managed to hold onto it."
"Huh. . ." Her eyes shifted to his chest and scrutinized the emblem. "What does that 'S' stand for?" she asked.
"Oh, this," Clark noticed. "It's, uh," he chuckled. "Actually, it's not an 'S'. It looks like one though. Well, actually, it's a symbol of my family crest. It stands for the House of El."
The corner of her mouth stretched. "Shouldn't it be an 'L' then?"
Clark smiled. "Yeah, probably. But it is what it is."
Lois then gave another kind of smile that indicated she was thinking of something.
Clark caught onto it. "What?"
"Since it looks like an 'S' on planet Earth," she said calculatingly, "I think I know what we can call you."
She was smirking, but Clark could read that this wasn't the usual smirk she'd make when being sardonic. This was the face of being onto something creative, and that was enough to make Clark smile warmly.
THE END