Rated: K
She'd fallen through a window from the twentieth story, been held up at the hot dog stand outside the Planet, and she had burns on her wrists and ankles from the ropes the terrorists had used to tie her up when they'd dumped her in the closet on the frigate.
Her skirt was scorched from when she hadn't been quick enough to escape the blast from the flame thrower entirely, but that wasn't nearly as bad as the bits of fluff she had in her hair from the asbestos they'd tried to suffocate her in. She was barefoot now, which was a relief because she'd turned her ankle climbing the fence outside the facility, or, well, really from landing on it crooked after falling off said fence, having been startled by the guards. She spared a moment to mourn the loss of her favorite kitten heels, kicked off when she'd had to scale the banks and throw the dogs off her scent. She bowed her head in remembrance and noticed that her blouse was shredded . Must have been those mutated cats that one nut job had sicked on her when she'd picked the lock on the lab. She scratched her chin, and flakes of what she could only pray fervently was mud fluttered off. She'd gotten her copy in, and in time to make page one of the Friday edition.
She noticed an exasperated Smallville picking his way to her across the still bustling newsroom, an extra large latte in his hand for her, and an even bigger frown on his face, probably also for her. She didn't know what he was getting so worked up about.
It was just another Thursday at the Daily Planet.