The WGBS Evening News, September 11th, 2000, Vicki Vale reporting:
"Bit of exciting news today out of Metropolis, Mike, as Presidential Candidate Lex Luthor begins to put together some top-level officials for his transition. Mister Luthor was spotted at Pebble Beach for a round of golf with retired Air Force General Sam Lane, while his Vice Presidential candidate Pete Ross was seen to visit Snoqualmie, Washington, where retired General Frank Rock resides. The move adds some weight to Mister Luthor's campaign. According to the latest poll from Pew, Mike, forty-two percent of respondents say that if the election were today they would vote for Lex Luthor. That number is sure to cause some waves in both the Bush and Gore camps. Coming up after the break GCN takes to the streets to ask Metropolitans, Mister Luthor's hometown supporters, what they think of their candidate. Now this…"
Jenny.
She was tired. Thirteen years in and she was tired.
She tried to remember when it had all gone so wrong—she tried a lot actually, but memory is faulty. As everyone's is. Late at night, after Wally has fallen asleep and she looks in through an open door to see him lying on the bare mattress, she dreams of better things.
They said there was time travel. Alternate universes.
Worlds out there, far beyond this one, where things were different. Where maybe she—
More worlds she would never see.
Thousands of miles from here there were men and women who saved the universe. Who lived outside themselves, served others, and kept the rest of the world safe at night. She envied that. Always did. She never held it against them—city slickers with chips on their shoulders. She kind of.
Believed.
Closest she ever got to seeing one was The Flash. In the old days when she was young but my god she still remembers it. She thinks about that day a lot. Up in Keystone on a shopping trip with Mother. Always a big day when you got to go shopping with Mother. You'd get up early and she'd say Now we're going to Woolworth's and the Blue Fox after so get dressed, we're going to have a fun day.
Mother was keen in that way. Growing up where they did, when they did, there wasn't a lot of money for stepping out as Daddy would call it. But her and Mother did enough. They were happy.
Other things happened. School and involvement. Any sort of club she could get her hands on. Anything and everything. She cheered for four years and dated Wally for eight, ever since she grabbed his hand in fourth grade and he grabbed back and they shared a smile. Other things happened. He took the football team to state and when they won the title, he thanked her and God, in that order.
That was so long ago, though.
So long ago that even her memory of it is now faulty. The way everyone's is.
She was going to be so much more. Once upon a time.
And now there was none of that.
Once upon a time. A fairy tale cliche, she thinks. Not for her. Not anymore.
Once upon a time a very bad man came to town and laid the beloved truth before her.
Jenny.
Those people in Metropolis. The rich and powerful, like Wayne?
You'll never be one of them.
He didn't even need to say it. She saw it in his eyes, through the tobacco haze. Those eyes.
Those horrible green eyes.
She thinks about him a lot these days. And she thinks about Wally.
She wishes he could understand what she's going to do.
She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a ratty corner of a legal pad. She pulls her phone out of the other pocket and dials.
"Greyhound Kanz'City, how can I help you?"
Clark.
Joseph.
Kent.
And the voice of Zod, from ages before, echoing in his memory.
Clark.
That's the name they gave you. Isn't it.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
He was flying.
Far above the Arctic Circle where the sun hovers omnipresent on the horizon—
Miles above the disappearing ice shelves—
He did not feel the cold. He did not even feel, as he climbed above the Earth, the distant heat from the Sun warming a million capillaries in his skin. Even as he looked at his own hands—
Father.
He had spent some time wondering why he'd built this fortress in the first place.
A place to get away? I fear it's a fatuous thought, Father. I couldn't get away if I wanted. My powers won't let me. I hear everything. I see everything. I help where I can. And—
He took a deep breath and it was then that he felt the cold. He slowed, and right himself. Ahead the sky was cloudless and dark, black space above, pure tundra below and stretching out for miles. And if he held his gaze long enough he imagined he saw the curvature of the earth. He looked down, and focused his gaze on the Earth itself. The tundra was undisturbed and desolate. He heard the wind howling across the white dunes but regarded it as an intellectual curiosity. He looked deeper and saw through the ice. The sea. Deeper—dark silt and fossils underneath—deeper. A mantle. Finally, a molten core. Warm and beautiful. In tandem with their sun, Father, their molten core gives this planet stability it would otherwise not know.
If not for the dynamic miracles that brought this Earth into being. Out of all the impossible chances, for events to conspire in such a way that this Earth formed the way it did, with the life it contained—
Father, it is a miraculous place. Worth cherishing in every way.
So why do I feel like this.
In times past the Fortress was a crystal outgrowth of Kryptonian materials that had accompanied the young Kal-El to Earth. That original structure did not last very long after his debut. It moved around. Changed shapes. The very first iteration was destroyed in battle between Superman, a man named Dominus—
And Luthor.
Clark rebuilt. A crystal remnant remained. Some piece of home. Yes he rebuilt, and so this place—
This Fortress of Solitude—
Remained.
He stopped high above the spires and righted himself. Took another deep breath and allowed himself to feel the subzero arctic wind course through his lungs. Invigorating him. He looked at his hands and smiled as he beheld the microscopic joy of a million nerve-endings light up and dance beneath the surface.
He lowered and the cape flowed up and away in a grand flourish.
The crystal peak parted and gleamed in the eternal sun.
Then.
Home.
The spires closed back over him, and the Fortress spoke in a calming tenor:
"Recursive diagnostics complete. All systems are functional and nominal. Welcome back, sir."
"Thank you, Kelex."
The golden robot was at his side. A lifetime ago it had served Jor-El with distinction, distinction enough that Jor-El had included a digital copy of Kelex's program in Superman's birthing matrix before sending it—
Away.
The robot was in the shape of an inverted tear drop, and hovered around Superman at a distance. Awe and respect, perhaps, or a digital imprint of that cold, efficient world. "Shall I begin dinner, sir? Will Miss Lane be joining us?"
"No," he said. "It's not a leisure visit."
"Of course, sir. If I may, bioscan reveals an elevated heart rate and sleep deprivation. May I suggest you rest before your duties, sir?"
"I'll take it under advisement," Superman said and patted what passed for a shoulder on Kelex. "Can you give me a moment please?"
Kelex said nothing, but hovered away.
Superman landed, as he always did, at the foot of the holoprojection of his parents.
He had made it himself, in an afternoon. The two of them side by side, one arm a piece holding a similar projection of—
Krypton.
Jor-El and Lara.
Superman looked away.
Father, I no longer wish to have these feelings.
At the base of the projection was an electronic console. Switches to control internal systems, a graphical display to interface with Kelex and Kelor, and to deploy security countermeasures in the event of armed incursion. Controls for the holoprojection itself. His fingers danced across the panel.
Looked up at Jor-El, there in his ceremonial finery. Or at least what Clark had been told was ceremonial finery.
Did you wear it as our planet died, Father? As mother gave birth to me? Was it the chief habiliment of the Science Council? Did they wear it as they mocked you? As the planet split asunder and—
"Kal."
Superman turned. On instinct he said, "That's not my name."
"Kal-El," it spoke, and out of the darkness came Jor-El. Not his father. Rather a projection from the Fortress' living software. a digital impression of the man he once was. Clark had interacted with him so infrequently over the years. Usually only in moments of great trial. Jor-El moved slowly, hands touching at the fingers at his center, every movement predetermined. A radio-memory that could interact with the living, far after its own death. Surely, that too was a miracle. Surely—
"Father—"
"You appear distressed."
Superman looked at the console, and the holoprojection.
Jor-El said, "I understand the human desire for verbal emotion. It is a quality worth possessing, Kal."
"There is an election. In my country. One of the candidates is Lex Luthor. His candidacy, and our shared history…I find myself in doubt, Father."
Jor-El did not move. It merely said, "I understand."
Superman looked at him. "Do you?"
"The chronicle of your time on this world," Jor-El said. "Speaks of this Lu-Thor."
Superman started pacing. "I don't know what to do anymore, Father"
Jor-El frowned. As much as it could. "A challenge: why is this man so important to you?"
"I've been doing this for so long," Superman said. "With Luthor. With others. He's escaped justice for so long. He flouts human laws. He's done it all his life. He'll keep doing it as long as he lives. He is everything wrong with these—"
Jor-El waited.
"With humanity," Superman said.
"What will you do," Jor-El said. "If this man becomes their leader?"
Superman—
He allowed a scoff. "Leader, Father, is not the same as President."
"The assumption of office implies leadership. He has led others before."
"Villains, Father."
Jor-El was silent.
"Villains," it said. "Of your story, or of their own?"
Superman—
—Didn't have an answer.
Is it possible that this is nothing. That my own judgments have clouded the issue. Maybe Pete was right. Maybe Lex—
Maybe—
Maybe I don't have a place or an opinion on this. It is a temporal matter.
If I return and tell these people—
If I really care for them—
He looked at Jor-El. "Lex Luthor cannot be President, Father."
"You are certain?"
Superman nodded. He glanced at the ground and then into Jor-El's digital eyes.
"I am, Father," Superman said, "He is vain, cruel. Unrepentant. He believes killing me will make him a savior."
"Does he present a threat to your world?"
Superman nodded. "His blind hatred of me could cause a great disaster. As their leader, he would have access to nuclear weapons. Primitive weapons our world made obsolete hundreds of thousands of years ago, Father. That's not even the worst of it. The most dangerous weapon in the universe is the human mind, Father, and few on this world possess a more keen one than Luthor."
Jor-El was silent. Superman, still agitated, paced around him.
"I don't know what to do."
"Yes, you do."
Superman stopped and looked at him.
"You have earned their trust, Kal. You could return to your city and tell them the beloved truth. Save them from the yoke of the would-be tyrant."
Superman glared.
"And become one myself? Imagine such a world."
Jor-El waited a moment. Then it said, "I have seen it, Kal."
Superman looked at him. "With Zod?"
Jor-El nodded once.
Superman shook his head, plaintive and dogged. He looked at Jor-El. "The ease," he said, "with which I could rule this planet, Father. It disturbs me."
"I know," Jor-El said. "So your choice remains. You may continue the path of advisement and intervention you began so many years ago, with the hope that the human race will one day exceed its need for you. Or you may return and bring their errant society to heel."
Superman looked away.
Breathed.
He looked at Lara.
"Are we doomed, Father? Slave to our choices?"
"Kal," Jor-El said. "I sense your desperation with this human. He has earned your ire. But also your compassion. Show him the kind of man you are—the kind of man you have become."
Superman looked at Jor-El.
"—And the kind of man he never shall be."
Luthor.
And the end was in sight.
October, cold grey skies above and hardening soil beneath his feet. He stood on the lawn at Washington University, stuck in this Missouri wasteland, and imagined he felt the soil, seeping up through his Cole Haans. He wore a black coat that hung motionless about him. Underneath was one of the usual black Brooks two pieces, and a dark green tie in a simple four-in-hand under a spread collar. He stood outside the Field House, staring up at it. He did not feel the chill breeze upon him—or told himself he did not. The sting in his nostrils, the cooling surface of his face.
By now it was just the three of them.
Bush.
Albert.
And Luthor.
He had commanded Ohio, and Super Tuesday, and found himself having his own convention while the major parties fretted, wringing their hands over what was to be done with this Lex Luthor person.
He gave interview after interview. And it was all just.
Too easy.
Luthor cited the previous year's WTO protests in Seattle; he cited unrest in Yugoslavia, unrest in Yemen; he cited the No Man's Land and the Clinton-Gore "failure to act" as symptoms of a problem and himself as the solution. He said the right things. He looked presidential. What he found was that the media and the public were scant on details—big on fluff. Grant told him as much once, off-camera. But it was a lesson Lex Luthor knew all too well. He had been practicing it since childhood after all.
Say the right things. Details are for fools, for aliens with little red capes who don't share your appreciation for mankind.
Look the right way. Not a problem. He was the wealthiest man on the planet and had been since the public offering in Eighty-Five. Wealth and taste were second nature.
The Gotham Gazette, Vale behind it, called him a Great White Shark. "He has the same focused intensity, the same slow purpose and directed look." He wrote a counterpoint in the Daily Star the next Sunday thanking her, and when she went on Grant's show dumbfounded he took it as a win.
He reveled in it all. As his competitors quaked in their shoes and wondered why and when it was that people got so upset at their lots—Luthor took to television.
He went on WGBS with Cat Grant and when Woodburn saw an opening and jumped, Luthor turned it back on him:
"So Mister Luthor, you're a businessman but what makes you think you can run the government like a business? Don't you think it's erroneous to apply some bottom-line thinking to a social state? What would you tell a family of four who's afraid you're gonna cut their government assistance?"
Luthor smirked and looked Glenn right in his Buddy Holly eyes. He said, "It's not about trimming the fat, Glenn, it's about finding the right program that works for the right people. It's like employment. You find the right role for the right person, and you do all you can, you do your best to develop that person into a high-level talent. You create the sense of self where that person can bloom where they're planted, and then forty years later he or she can retire with dignity. There are a lot of moving parts to an economy, Glenn, and giving people the right tools to live the life they want to live is part of that. But I confess I'm only slightly surprised that you want to nail me on a gross generalization. So no, to answer your condescending question, I'm not going to sweep into office and disband the Fed or some such nonsense."
"But—"
"I'm not finished," he said and held a hand up. "Answer me this, Glenn, and you can think about it and when you've gotten a satisfactory answer you can let me know, but answer me this. Why does the prospect of a businessman running this government disturb you so? Is it me as a person or is it just conceptual?"
"Some people," Woodburn said after a gulp. "Are concerned that you're going to burn it all down. In spite of what you've just said."
Luthor smiled and leaned back. "I'm not a destroyer, Glenn. Just a man who wants people to think for themselves. If that means taking a hard look at what role government should play, then that's the future. And I have no qualms about facing such a future. I'd ask any voter who's serious about the world that's coming to join me."
The media devoured it.
NewsTime called it a pivot.
The Daily Star called it "Presidential to the last drop."
The Washington Post asked for a walking tour of LexCorp and a private interview.
The Daily Planet ran a puff piece on the mistreatment of television journalists.
Luthor went on Larry King the next night. When Larry asked him the hoary bromide about what a Washington outsider can do different, Luthor shut Larry away like he didn't matter. He looked right at at the camera, and said, "Times are tough, Larry. And the tougher times get the more the voters will realize they need someone like me in the Oval Office."
Well.
Here they all were.
He stuck his hands in his pockets, luxurious black calfskin gloves over his elegant tapered hands, and he cracked a smile.
Things were happening.
Things had already happened:
He goes to see Cat Grant, a week after the Woodburn interview, early October, the end in sight. He knew what day it was. He knew where she'd be—
The Jaguar was a gift off the line, a thank-you for the land-grant from LexCorp which made the factory outside Dover a reality. It's a marvel, dark green with tan interior and a custom wood steering wheel from a part of the juvenile redwood in the plaza before the LexTower. He shifts it into first gear and creeps through the cemetery streets, and once he finds her Chevette on one of the twists, he pulls into the berm and waits. But only for a moment.
He gets out out of the car and buttons his jacket.
And walks slowly towards the headstone.
There before a granite obelisk that reads "Adam Grant, 1987-1993, beloved son," is Cat. On her knees more accurately, one slender hand upon the stone, head bowed. She doesn't speak, and doesn't move.
"Cat."
Still nothing.
He cocks his head and finds the right amount of sympathy. He makes his voice crack and he summons out a feeble, "I'm sorry."
Cat slumps further, whimpers.
"The Toyman..."
Then he's at her side, a long shadow over her.
"Cat."
He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes.
"I'm so sorry, Cat."
She sniffs, and slowly she stands. He helps her up. Her eyes are black and streaming mascara down her face. The rest of her is beautiful. He ups-and-downs her and then he creates a smile.
"It's alright," she lies. "It's just."
"It's the anniversary," he says. "I know."
She dabs her eyes with her fingerprints and sniffles again. "God."
Sniffle. A hand across her nose. More tears.
Luthor makes a face.
"You."
He waits.
"You must think I'm a wreck, Mister Luthor, I'm so sorry."
"Cat," he says and they lock eyes. "You don't need to apologize to anyone. Not anymore."
She smiles and its weak, and Luthor opens his arms. When she falls into a hug he wraps her up close and when she lays her head into the crook of his shoulder he whispers sweet nothings.
"Listen," she says. "About yesterday."
Luthor shushes her.
He breathes deep and as he does he catches the scent of her. Finally places it. Tre'sor and tobacco. And shame. She reeks of it, and it makes him smile.
"I'm sorry this isn't a good time, Cat. But I need to ask you something."
Her face is buried in the crook of his neck and she muffles: "Anything."
"Come work for me. I need a Press Secretary."
She comes away from him and looks him in the eye. The mascara is a single dull smear across on her face.
"Press Secretary?"
"If we win, that is." Another fake smile. "I'm told I'm at the point now where I should start thinking about the transition."
Her mouth opens but only a little. Her eyes are roving around and her brows turn. Gears turning.
He holds her and waits.
Tightens his grip.
"Mister Luthor." The words trickle from her mouth.
He says, "Lex, dear. You must call me Lex." The old lie.
She cracks half a smile. Unassured but seeking confidence. She breathes and each breath brings a bit of calm, a bit of calm.
She looks down, and back up.
Into Luthor's eyes and they are so brilliant and green and she feels them stare right through her. Into her.
Into her very heart.
Her soul.
"Please," he says.
And he kisses her.
She meets it, and presses her hands into his arms.
And she says, "Okay."
And now here he was, at Washington University. Where nothing mattered and nothing ever happened. Millions of people live here and go their entire lives in quiet desperation. Something in him chafed at that, at these people for whom a quiet life was enough.
He felt Mercy at his side.
"They're ready for you, sir."
He looked up. Grey jagged clouds for a sky. He made another fake smile.
He turned and said something nondescript to Mercy. Brushed past her and in he went. To face the idiots and monsters. And all sorts of things in between.
Continued...