The Daily Planet, December 26 1998: "Turning Away," by Lois Lane:

"'I thought, for the longest time, that I was stuck here. I guess I felt like maybe Gotham was what I deserved. So here I was, and then one day here comes Ebola, Ebola right? In America. On my block, in my building. I watched the apartments on either side of mine whittle down one by one, every day an ambulance came and took someone else. Still I stayed. And then the earthquake hit, made this giant crack right up our street, swallowed up the trolley like a joke. I looked at Michael and I said that's it. We packed and the car still worked and we could get out enough, and I said, that's that. We're with his parents here in Whitehorse. It's really a great little suburb. But sometimes, Miss Lane, I've got to tell you, I think about those people we left behind. I wonder if they made it..."

What disturbed him the most was how quiet it was.

Normal cities, intact cities, with the background detritus of modern life, had rhythm all their own. But not this one. Gotham in particular, he well knew, was a character all its own. Whole city blocks lit up with native celebrations, local flair—all the excitement that makes life worth living. Now, Gotham had none of it. An earthquake saw to that. A city of twenty million, reduced to ashes in an afternoon. A massive exodus followed, during which the living fled the city. Chanced it elsewhere.

He reflected dryly on his own realisation that these people, survivors at least, had escaped their doomed world for a better one.

He frowned. And lied to himself: from up here it doesn't look so bad.

Just.

Quiet.

There were lights once. Twenty million heartbeats. And now there were so very few. Even in Metropolis, he could feel the hum of millions of souls, civilization happening all around him. Not here. Gotham was gone. Instead it was a No Man's Land. And after the outbreaks and the cataclysm, only the valiant, the venal, and the insane remained in this place. Where once pinpricks of light that were distant skyscrapers bathed the city in electric bliss, there was nothing. No blinking GRN radio towers. No soft sodium filaments up and down Grand Avenue. Not the slow churn of the UrbaRail through Newton.

They're all dead, Father.

He breathed and braced himself.

You've seen dead things before, Clark.

Still.

All those people.

He focused. A boy and his Airedale, in a camp in Grant Park. Lex's camp. The boy was eating, and sharing bits of his meatloaf with the Airedale. Clark forced a smile. They were making do.

He began his descent, October air crisp and cool against his face. He allowed himself to feel it. After all, important to feel like them. Important to be among them, and to feel as they feel. Right Father?

He didn't know.

He wondered again when it was he started feeling this way. And remembering his early days this way. So separated from mankind. Not just separated either. But. Above.

It was hard to deny the rush his enhanced senses gave him.

The first time he remembered using them, he was—

Running.

Across the field. Unbearable summer sun, he soaks it up without even knowing it. Soft dirt under him, between the rows, crisp yellow wheat stalks raking against his jeans. He legs burn. His arms burn. His chest burns. Hot sweat rolls down his back and simmers under a crisp white shirt.

He keeps pushing himself, and faster he runs. Until, almost, the smooth earth fades into bland pastels fading around him. He doesn't know where he is, maybe Kansas still, maybe Nebraska, somewhere flat and warm. He's comfortable in the warmth in the sun. It's there that he feels most powerful. But he doesn't know it yet. How can he.

He smiles, and it turns into a laugh. He keeps going. Eventually the field ends in a broad terminus of a fallow field, abandoned and forsaken. He stops. And breathes, and every breath lights up every inch of him, he's pulling hot air into lungs that feel like they're gonna blow at any moment. He smiles again. Then he gets an idea.

He jumps.

He jumps, and for a long minute forgets he's even in the air. He laughs like the man he wants to be, a deep throaty wail, he's so pleased at himself and at this new trick of his, this new power, that he forgets himself.

He lands in the bed of Whitney's dad's Custom Deluxe, and he breathes some more, deep and greedy. And he jumps again. And again.

He jumps all the way home. Short bursts. But he keeps pushing himself, keeps pushing. He figures if he jumps half a mile every time, five ought to do the trick. Maybe more. Maybe—

He stops jumping when he hears his name, Ma calling dinner.

Clark opened his eyes.

Luthor had come into this No Man's Land swearing to end it. Doing his usual Luthor business: throw money at a problem, and use his Lex Charm, to make it all go away.

Clark wondered if that would work. He landed slowly, gingerly, at the gates of Camp Lex, spread as it was among Grant Park. He took it in for a half of a moment. Floodlights on the perimeter, no fences, little Isuzus and haulers and small-scale machinery dotting the camp. Rows and rows of Quonset huts from the entrance on Grand up to the river. At the base of the statue of Grant, Clark saw it. Luthor's personal hut. More heavily guarded, less worked over than the rest. A museum quality to it.

Not covered with lead.

"Hm."

He straightened himself. Took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes and then opened them again. On demand.

Father.

He landed right in front of Luthor's Quonset.

The guard was watching him land.

Superman suppressed a smile when he saw the guard sling his AR back over one shoulder and lean against the jamb.

"You know," he said. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing that."

"That makes two of us," Superman said.

The guard laughed.

"I'd like to speak to him if it's alright?"

The guard made a face. "I gotta call it in."

"Of course."

The guard was talking into his shoulder. "It's him. He's here to see Mister L."

Silence. The guard looked back at him and forced a smile. His shoulder squawked back: "He can come in."

"Aight," the guard said and stepped aside. "It was nice to see you again, sir."

"You too," Superman said.

The door, plain enough, especially for Luthor, cracked and opened. Mercy standing there in a grey wool coat, hair back and tight in a fresh braid that went down her back.

He passed her without a word.

Luthor was standing there, behind a folding table with a PowerBook on it. The rest was a spartan appointment, a pop-up wardrobe with the flap open and showing seventeen versions of the same black suit within, a King bed with dark purple sheets perfectly laid upon it, a camping lantern on another fold-up table. A canvas folding chair by the fold-up table with a copy of Capital, rumpled and worn, in the seat. A stack of newspapers as high as his desk, The Financial Times at the top, some photo of Luthor on the cover. Subtle.

Superman took it all in. Quite the contradictions. He wondered if he allowed anyone other than Mercy in here. Wondered if any of the hundreds of Remainers LexCorp had hired had seen their new boss's trappings. If they ever could. If they ever would. If he ever cared to show them. If he—

"Hello," he said.

Luthor smiled. "It's nice to see you, Superman. Mercy, please leave us."

Superman cocked his head and watched her go. He waited until he could see she was gone, walking across the camp and not merely spying outside the door like a child. Finally he looked back at Luthor.

"I came to talk," Superman said.

"Does Batman know you're here?"

"Does he know you're here?"

Luthor chuckled and shook his head. He stepped out from behind the desk. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up twice, no tie, and the top button of his shirt undone. Business casual. He slung a blazer on.

"What can I do for you?"

"I saw your announcement yesterday," Superman said. "Congratulations, Candidate Luthor."

Luthor bowed. Imperceptible and forced. "Thank you."

"Now," Superman crossed his arms, broad blue over the red and yellow diamond on his chest. "Tell me what you're really up to."

They locked eyes for a moment.

Luthor broke first: "Let's take a walk."

So they did. They walked slowly, out of the hut, beyond the guards who merely tipped their ball caps at both men. They skirted the camps, and Superman again saw the boy and his Airedale on a cot by the MASH unit. The dog was asleep in the boy's lap, and when the boy saw Superman he smiled and tracked him walking the whole distance. Superman waved, and the boy waved back.

Once they were out of the boy's sight, he looked up at the dark and ruined cityscape, what was once Wall Street and the Solomon Wayne Courthouse up the block, grey stone and cement in its heyday now broken in half, very nearly perfectly, across the centre of a shattered terracotta roof.

Superman reached out and felt the weight of the dead city around him. The asphalt beneath his feet. The night air howled through the desolation.

"Have you ever considered," Luthor said. "That this is mankind's natural state?"

Superman looked at him.

"No."

"No?"

"Not at all."

"Hm."

Superman frowned and beheld the camp as they walked. He supposed he imagined more people out and about within the camps. As if there were things to do, things to spend money on. So he had to keep reminding himself there was none of that here. No shops or diners, no income. No culture. Just scraps of the world that was. He sighed and looked up, felt the night breeze wash across his face. Not a natural state, Father, no. But. An interruption. Something not meant to last.

He hoped.

What few people remained outside huddled around oil-drum fires for warmth, and did not acknowledge either of them.

"Well," Luthor said. "I have."

"I think," Superman said. "It's your natural state. It suits you. A cynical place for a cynical man."

Luthor looked at him. "Not always. "

They stopped. They were at the northern edge of Camp Lex. The river and concrete barriers below them, clean stone angles for shorelines on either side.

"Look at this," Luthor said. "These buildings went down in the earthquake and blocked the river. The flooding wiped out a neighborhood. My crews cleaned it out in a week. Tell me something. Children died here, and where are your friends? Where is the Amazon's storied compassion? Where is the Lantern and his magic ring? He could fly in here and fix this tomorrow. The Martian could make everyone forget. Batman would live forever supplicant to such a solution. Or did he stick to his pride and tell you to stay out."

Superman said nothing. Made a face and crossed his arms. "Enough."

Luthor stared at him.

He said, "I ran into Corben last week. Trying to sneak in here on one of your tech shipments. Can you imagine the damage he'd do?"

Luthor scowled. He said, "If he'd made it here, we both know what would've happened."

"Do we."

"Our mutual friend would have ripped him apart and made an example of the remains. And you know it. So what's really bothering you, you fatuous egotist?"

"I'm trying to help you, Lex, people are watching—"

"I'm aware of the political situation and I'm afraid your fears are unfounded: the city will reopen on New Year's Eve as projected. All will be welcome back as heroes of the city that persevered. Or don't you want a humanitarian victory here?"

"Coming here was illegal," Superman said.

"Oh, and here you are."

"You could go to jail."

"I'm not beholden to an immoral law."

"You're not beholden to any law."

"You're goddamn right I'm not!"

Superman breathed.

Luthor turned back to the river. "You came here to ask me to stop. I won't, and you know that." He turned back. Locked his dead eyes on Superman's. "Don't you. I have done good things before, you know. Perhaps I'm capable of it again. Saving the world. Being what you can't be. You might ask Hal Jordan about it, if that were possible."

Superman was quiet.

"On the off chance you're serious," Superman said. "About any of this. The presidency. Saving this city. Do me a favor. Earn it. Or you know what I'll do."

Luthor turned. "You—"

But he was gone.

Lois.

She was doing about three things at once. As usual. Drinking, and flipping through newspapers, and listening. The channels cycled variably between CNN, NewsHour, Lehrer, or GCN, Engel trying to be political, Ryder and his natural bombast. It was fading in and out in her attentions: every few minutes one of them would say something useful. But for the most part it was talking heads, Lex's favourite phrase, trying to find relevance.

So there she was. Sitting not in the davenport but on the floor in front of it, legs curled to one side, a bulbous glass of Merlot next to her, a stack of the days papers, the Planet atop them, on the other side. She grabbed the remote and stopped. On WLEX, Woodburn and Vale, and Cat Grant moderating, were talking about a lot of things.

Gotham. And Metropolis. And Superman. No Man's Land. The Batman, if, so they said, he even existed.

And Lex.

She took a long drink when Vale said his name.

It was only yesterday he announced.

She remembered. That day, and too many more.

She remembered the Sea Queen, all those years ago. Luthor, grotesque in those days, although at least he still had hair, so at least there was that. Luthor lending her a dress for the gala and leering in close at her. All plaudits and slick smiles through cigar fog. When they first met, and every day since. Standing there in his dinner jacket, that golden goose of a smile, surface value and nothing underneath.

She shot up in an instant. Pulled the drawer open on one of the coffee tables and slid out the album in one smooth motion. Flipped it open, and the sheets were heavy and dry between her fingers. The first page, her resignation from Nimbus. The next, the article in the Planet: "Terror at Sea." Not her idea but it worked. The photo was Luthor's mugshot.

She smiled. Even the memory of it enthused her, all these years later.

Having hired terrorists, ex-Sandinistas or something, and set them loose on the Sea Queen as a test of Superman, who was still so new in those days, Luthor found himself instead in the lock-up. Public endangerment was the official offense, but that only scratched the surface. Illegal weapons supplies to foreign terrorists—terrorists operating in American borders at all, quite a novelty in those days.

Oh Luthor posted bail the next morning and no investigation ever came of it. But that didn't stop her. She drew her fingers slowly over the yellowed newsprint, and remembered. Luthor's arrest was the start of something special. Something she wasn't sure she had words for. To this day.

Superman's career. Luthor's everlasting rage.

And her growth.

Beyond just being…Lois.

He saved her life.

She closed the album fast, and slid it back into the drawer. Slunk down into the davenport and ran her hands up and down her lap. Breathed. Looked around, and kept back the tears.

Clark. You saved me.

Ever since that night. She'd had the same dream.

She's falling. She's always falling.

And he's always catching her.

He—

She looked back at the television. Woodburn was railing. "Why are we even talking about this, Luthor's not going to win."

Vale: "Glenn, come on—"

Woodburn: "No, listen—"

"Glenn—"

"We have a two party system for a reason," he said and slapped his hand on the desk, chortled and kept going. "Our entire political system is built around it, it's a tradition and you can't just upend that, and here comes Lex Luthor thinking he's cock of the walk, I mean come on, guys."

"Glenn—"

"Doesn't this strike the two of you as just a little ridiculous, I mean, what does he have to prove?"

Grant waved him off: "He's always come across as a man of the people, Glenn."

"That's an oversimplification," Woodburn said. "He—"

"Look," Grant said, "we all know he had a blue collar life, he grew up in the slums, and now he runs, what, Vicki, help me out here, one of the most-valued, most resource-rich companies on the planet? Here, report from the Financial Times last week, LexCorp stock outperforms Apple for the last three quarters, and that's after they brought, uh, Steve Jobs back and their stock went through the roof, so what does that tell you?"

"Fine," Woodburn said. "We're about public trust—"

"Alright," Vale said. "We can respect the man's progress, but I'm not about to worship him just because we all love success stories."

"Something else," Woodburn said, "When was the last time he had to face anti-trust lawsuits, I mean, LexCorp has fingers in, what, aerospace—"

"That's how he started," Vale said.

"Sure," Woodburn said. "Oil, he used to have fields in Venezuela before relations soured, uh, I think we have a certain ex-President to thank for that, he's got telecom, WLEX, GNN, he runs the Metro-Ledger and the Daily Star."

"Glenn," Grant said. "There you go again, a controlling interest is not 'running the paper.'"

"But just look at how it looks, Cat, come on. He's everywhere."

"Okay," she said. "And now he wants to be in the White House, I don't see a problem here. He's taking what he thinks is the next step."

"Okay, next steps, then," Woodburn offered up. "If we're gonna start thinking seriously about a President Luthor, we also need to start thinking about things like divestment, uh, the emoluments clause—if he gets elected, where does the business stop and the man start?—"

It was the front door opening that brought her back, that slow and easy creak of the wood, and she knew in an instant. She could feel him. She didn't have any superpowers but she knew him. When he entered a room. Whenever he was close to you…there weren't words for it really. You just felt bigger. Like he was focusing all his energy on you. Specifically.

Even for cool, cruel Lois Lane, whose parents had been there for her in form but never function, whose independence as a result colored just about every facet of her life, it meant the world. Her world.

She looked up at him and smiled, that weariest of smiles, but getting better. Getting better.

She grabbed the remote and muted the television and stood, one single flourished move, practiced.

Clark cocked his head like he could feel it. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said. Wiped a wisp of hair from her face. "Just stuck on this."

He wrapped his arms around her, warm and expansive, and she rested her head against his broad chest, feeling his heart beat. She touched one hand to her lips.

"How did it go?"

"Worse than I thought," he said. "I...I think I've lost my objectivity when it comes to him. I used to have some faith that he'd repent or something. See the error of his ways. I don't know anymore. There's been some shift."

He looked away, but kept her in his arms. She couldn't see it—part of the reason he kept the embrace—but he was frowning. He believed it too. And so here at the outset, even he was at war with himself over this.

Father.

"Clark," she said. Pulled away and looked at him. "What's wrong?"

He waited. Breathed. "I've been thinking of my father lately."

He's just a man. Why does he vex me so.

"Jor-El," he said gently.

"Oh."

Her eyes narrowed, eyes darted quickly. Looking for something to say. In all the years they'd been together she knew well enough that Jonathan was more central to Clark's sense of self than his biological father was. Certainly he was closer to Jonathan—he had raised Clark after all. Saved him from that field in Osage, nowhere near anywhere, probably saved his life. And certainly Jor-El also had some centrality in his life: not for nothing was he in a place of honor in his Arctic fortress. But to think of Jor-El now, out of the blue—

"Do you think it has something to do with Lex?"

"Yeah," he said. "I fear this is all throwing me for a loop. Making me doubt myself."

"We have to stop him. Superman could…"

"Lois, you know I can't."

She looked away. "Yeah."

"We have to keep doing our jobs, and hope the system works."

She smiled and laid her head against his chest. Felt his heartbeat again, slow and strong and wonderful. "I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

Continued…