Everyday is Tuesday

Metropolis

Big Brother isn't watching you. Everyone is watching you. They are also watching everyone else. Every phone has a camera and video, so the idea of a private moment is slowly vanishing. Cameras watch you at the store, the bank, the ATM, school and on the street. You can't get away from them. Everyday more and more cameras pop up all around you. The moment something happens it's on YouTube and splashed all over the web. No one it seems can be a dick in private anymore. Everybody gets to see it. If you fall down at your wedding, several cameras catch every embarrassing moment. They might even try and sell it later to one the reality shows. Bloopers used to be a term just for famous people making mistakes in public. Now everyone is fair game.

The grainy, video of Superman's confrontation with the Justice League was everywhere. It brought the usual condemnations from the talking heads in the media. They were mostly directed at Superman, but several took the opportunity to rail against the Justice League, the self appointed protectors on high. It seemed the only thing people love more than a scandal was rehashing a scandal in detail.

Clark was finished for the day. He sat in a diner having a bowl of soup, vegetable beef, a sandwich, a club and a cup of coffee. He was alone. He wasn't angry any more. Depressed, confused, yeah, but not angry, not the way he'd been angry. He regretted what happened between him and the other Justice League members, but he hadn't apologized to them. He wasn't sure he owed them an apology.

But he would apologize.

Clark had agreed to be part of the team, even if it was in the background. That meant he had responsibilities to it. The League worked because of its reputation, along with its results. If the reputation was damaged, it made it harder for them to do their job. Since he played a part of damaging it, he would make amends. He would say all the right things and hopefully they would move on. There was no I in team as Hall had pointed out on numerous occasions.

The incident still troubled Clark. It wasn't even what most would think that bothered and sadden him. He knew he'd let his temper get the best of him and he wasn't happy about that. It had just been a really shitty week and he finally went off. He wasn't proud of it, but it happened to the best of us. He hopefully would learn to control his emotions better in the future.

What still bothered and sadden him though, was his teammates reaction. He'd been fighting at their side for almost five years now. While he wasn't close with any of them, he thought they knew him a little. When he cut loose, really cut loose on those robots, his teammates had reacted like everyone else always had. He scared them. Their first thought wasn't to talk to him or even ask for an explanation, but to control him. If even his fellow superheroes were frightened of him, what chance did he ever have of really being accepted? If they of all people couldn't see past what he could do, then he was more alone than he thought.

Maybe if he'd been more open with them from the beginning it might have helped. He doubted it. Things might have gone smoother, but eventually something would cause them to have that same look in their eyes that they had outside of Dallas. They would know that if he really wanted to, there was nothing they could do to stop him. If it had been his intention, they would have all been dead within a matter of moments. He could tell them he would never kill and they might even accept it, but in the back of their minds they would always know he could. That was the kind of power that made people scared, even heroes it seemed. Now that they knew, they would always wonder what if?

The answer to that question would trouble them even more.

So again he was alone. His experience with Karen had shown him that even his own kind wanted nothing to do with him. He was still attracted to her, but the sting of being rejected overrode that. He'd opened himself up to her, been vulnerable and she'd pulled away. He wouldn't make that same mistake again. The sadness over his encounter with Karen seemed to dominate his feelings. It wasn't just that she was a beautiful woman, either. She was like him, a Kryptonian. She was his best chance at knowing who his people actually were. He could read about them and watch every hologram, but that would only be the knowledge of a book or movie. To actually talk with a living, breathing Kryptonian and find out what they were really like was so tantalizing, but apparently not to be.

He knew what having sex with a Kryptonian felt like. It was unique, amazing, bittersweet and ultimately so sad, he wasn't sure he wanted to keep the memory. He would though, just like every other memory. Maybe that was the curse, rather then the blessing of being Kryptonian. You remember everything. Maybe the weight of remembering contributed to their destruction in the end. Clark didn't know and it seemed he wasn't going to get the chance to know.

So here he sat, alone, a television screen above the counter replaying the scene from Dallas. The other members of the Justice League were probably already meeting to decide what they ought do about him. He should go and make things right. He should be apologizing at this very minute and saying all the things that would defuse the situation. When the waitress asked if he wanted a refill on his coffee, Clark nodded. He would go and do all that, just not right now. It was the necessary thing to do, but he wondered if it was the right thing. He didn't feel like he needed to apologize. In fact, part of him thought they should apologize for not trusting him. It might sound petty, but he didn't feel like doing the 'right thing' this time.

He would though. Life was lonely enough; he didn't need anyone else being afraid of him.

Rome

The alley off the main thoroughfare was like something out of a labyrinth. Twisting and turning through neighborhoods, till you were either completely lost or found what you were looking for. The neon sign only worked half the time, so it blinked at irregular intervals, Martedì in pale blue letters. A very large man dressed in all black stood at the door. The thing everyone noticed first about him was his nose. It was by any standards, enormous. It had been broken so many times; it took on an almost Cubist painting quality. It was as if you could see it from four different angles all at once. He had duel roles, bouncer and gatekeeper. No one knew his name; he was just the guy at the door or just the Guy. He didn't pretend to be anything but he was. His judgment was final.

Perspective admittants would stand in front of him and wait for a decision. Either the door would open or he would take a long drag on his ever present cigarette and give you the slow shake of his head. It was that simple. You were boiled down to your essence in one look. His judgment was final, worthy or unworthy. Many had tried to figure out what his criteria was, but it seemed to have no rhythm or reason. Being the most famous or beautiful was no guarantee you would be admitted.

There were of course ways you could ensure you weren't admitted. Talking too much or pretending like you were friends with the Guy almost didn't get you even a glance before you were rejected. Causing any problems or trying to bring in people that had already been turned down got your turned away. Once you were admitted, you were always admitted, as long as you didn't break the Guy's rules. Some people had mused that the club was so popular just because of the Guy at the door. It was like an affirmation that you were cool to be allowed in by the Guy. It wasn't about money or looks or fame or even connections, it was just you were cool or you weren't. The Guy was the arbiter of cool and everyone wanted his seal of approval.

Everyone whether they admit it or not wants to be thought of as cool. Your dear sweet grandma, she likes to think that even at her age she'd rocking the culottes and plastic crocks, with the sun visor look. She'll stop before she leaves the house for the early bird special and glance into the mirror one last time just to be sure. Yeah, she looked cool. Your Mom and Dad, as hard as it is for you to believe, they still think their cool. When you're not in the car and unfortunately some times when you are, they'll crank up the Whitesnake and rock it out. As they sing, "here I go again on my own!", in their mind they're cool. Everyone wants to be cool. Unfortunately most of us aren't. So even when it's just a 'Guy' on the door at some back alley club saying it, we like it more than we want to admit.

The club was loud and dark. It was little more than a square dance floor wedged into a rectangular space. A bar and some tables and chairs surrounded the dance floor on all sides. It was wall to wall with people. Like the guy at the door, the club knew what it was and what it wasn't. If you wanted to dance or drink, you found the right place. If you wanted to eat, well, go someplace else. The walls of the club weren't lined with knick-knacks or signs. They were minimalist, Bauhaus, just the exposed brick and mortar. The tables and chairs were plain, dark wood. If you were looking for some large cushioned booth in a V.I.P. champagne room set off from everyone else, well, again, go someplace else.

The pulsing beat of the music seemed to reverberate through everyone in the crowded small club. Simple track lighting on the ceiling flickered and flashed randomly over the writhing crowd, but that was all the decorations. As the night went on and the dance floor got more crowded the intensity seemed to climb. It was as if they were all part of a collective wave rushing towards the shore. The beat made them one, driving them faster and further until the room seemed to vibrate all around them.

Karen and Helena were at the center of the dance floor, part of the whole. Sweat glistened off their skin as they moved to the beat, partners coming and going but the dance continued. To the unobservant eye they were similar. They were just two young American women partying it up on holiday. Those that took a closer look, though, saw they were a study in contrasts.

Helena certainly drew her share of attention. The best way to describe her dancing was polished. Her movements were controlled and precise. Her style would remind you of choreography, equally comfortable at the ballroom or the discothèque. There was a fluid, sensual grace inherited from her mother, but the overtones of her father were there too. Her eyes never closed. They were always open, watching, observing, taking in faces, angles, and always aware of her immediate environment. By now it was second nature to her, so ingrained she didn't even have to think about doing it.

Karen, on the other hand, her eyes were closed. She seemed lost in the moment, giving herself over to the beat and the atmosphere. Her dancing had more of an impromptu immediacy, as if she didn't know from one moment to the next what she would do. The people around her sometimes didn't even seem to register. Dance partners might last for a song or two and then be replaced, but she hardly seemed aware of it.

They had been friends since they were both seventeen and knew each other better than just about anyone. The last moments in their world and the shift to this one were traumatic for both of them. They talked about it less now then when they first arrived. Perhaps it was their different upbringings, but they viewed it completely different. Helena was a realist. The possibility of getting back seemed rather remote to her. Even if they did get back, there was no telling how bad things had gotten in the five years they'd been gone. They were here and probably were going to remain here. She adapted to this fact and moved forward.

Karen on the other hand was more of a dreamer, Helena thought. She believed that anything was possible. Getting home was her focus, no matter how long it took. She didn't see this as the world they were apart of now. This was just a setback, a bit of a sidetrack and eventually they would get to where they belonged. Helena had stopped arguing the point and just accepted this as part of Karen's nature. The thing that did fascinate her was Karen in a club. It seemed to be the one place she felt free. She had always been a bit of a flirt and party girl back home, much to her cousin's distress. Since they'd come to this world, it was only out in clubs like this, that Helena saw that side of Karen. Oh, she could still flirt when needed, but that had a more calculated tone to it. Out here on the dance floor or at the bar she almost seemed to accept this as their home now. Why this way, Helena hadn't figured out.

She asked Karen once, but her reply was that she just liked to dance. Whatever the real reason was, Helena at the moment didn't care. Karen had been moody and depressed since the night of the trade show. If going out to a few clubs could lift her spirits, then they both won. For tonight, they could just be two young women in their early twenties having fun. Still, as Helena glanced over at Karen one more time, she couldn't quite figure out what was going through her mind. She seemed so focused on the dancing, as if it were the only thing in the world.

Karen was unaware of Helena's concerns. Her eyes were closed as she danced to the beat, letting it guide her movements. She sensed all the people around her, but they were secondary. Out here on the dance floor she didn't have to think about everything else. She could just get lost in the music. This felt safe. In the world of the nightclub, she could temporarily act as if everything were all right. She could be herself. It was all transitory. The men she met tonight, danced and flirted with, she would probably never see again.

There was no attachment involved.

That was the one thing Karen didn't want, attachments to this world. She'd already lost her whole world and those closest to her; she didn't want to go through that again. It was the reason she was so focused on getting back. Her last memories of home were watching Superman, Wonder Woman and Batman die. There had been nothing she could do. If she could get them back, then maybe, just maybe they could arrive before all that happened. Maybe she could save them this time.

To form any attachments to this world felt like a betrayal to her own world. It was like a signal that she was giving up. She just couldn't do that, for if she did, then they were really gone forever. So to her this world, which was so similar, yet so different, was just a temporary stop until she figured out how to leave. It meant she would beg, borrow, flirt and steal if she had to, to get the things she needed to get back home.

On the dance floor, everything else slipped away for a while. She could be anywhere, even back home on the dance floor. This club could be its own little universe and all her problems where stopped outside by the Guy at the door. The interesting, pretty faces all around her were just flickering pictures she wouldn't have to see again. It was a moment in time and once it was over she didn't need to look back.

The only dark cloud on this horizon was Clark. Karen hadn't been able to put that night out of her mind. She'd seen the video of him with the League and immediately wondered what part she played in it. She felt guilty and depressed over her actions. It seemed even the Guy at the door couldn't keep those from following her in.