I've emerged from a snow and sleet storm to give you...the second chapter! But Dear Readers, please don't fret that I won't update. I've got five chapters written so far but I'm trying to space out the updates, about 2 to 3 days between chapters. I don't want to post too many chapters too fast and then be all nervous about finishing the next one in time. It's like Batman vs. Superman-you've gotta give the creators enough time to get the darn thing right ;)

Hope any of you in the path of this latest polar vortex are staying warm!

Just wait, though wide he may roam

Always, a hero comes home

He goes where no one has gone

But always a hero comes home

-Idina Menzel, "A Hero Comes Home"

"Anything in particular we should do with him, sir?" the morgue officer asked.

Clark, aching at the sight of dozens of cots in the huge, chilly room, looked where the man indicated. There lay his nemesis, still in the Kryptonian suit so like his own. Zod's skin was as grey as his suit and his eyes-thank God-were closed. It was strange to see him like that. Clark resisted the urge to shudder.

"We thought maybe you'd, uh, have some preference for burial or-or-"

"You mean like some burial ritual?" Clark shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea what they would've done on . . . on his world."

The officer looked at him helplessly. "Then you don't have any wishes about it?"

Clark wanted to say, "No, take him away and don't let me see him ever again"-but something checked him. What would be done with the Kryptonian's body if he didn't take it?

The answer came quickly: they'd probably give him to science. Zod was the only alien left on Earth besides himself. Everyone would want to know what exactly Earth's atmosphere did to a native of Krypton, how the two races were different, how they were the same. They might learn plenty from Zod's corpse about Clark's own make-up, and about his one weakness: Kryptonian atmospherics, ecology, matter.

Zod could betray him even in death.

Not only that, but the general had been a being of artificial genes, and those genes were decided upon, before he was born, by an oppressive government. If tyrants here on Earth tried to seize upon Krypton's bioengineering secrets, it could prove disastrous. And Jor-El had instructed him to warn the people of Earth against making the same mistakes as the people of Krypton . . .

"On second thought," Clark said, "I think I'll take him myself, if that's not against the rules."

The officer looked relieved. "Of course it isn't against the rules. You could easily say you're the closest-living relation, so it's more than all right."

A little while later, Clark flew high above Earth's curving orbit, resisting gravity's pull until he was well beyond the atmosphere. Halfway between Earth and the moon, he looked back.

Only yesterday morning he'd been aboard Zod's ship. He'd stood in his small, cramped cell, looking down at Earth through the hole he'd blasted in the wall with his fist. His father-the one he'd never known-stood beside him, his grey-bearded face grave and earnest.

We wanted you to learn what it meant to be human first, so that one day when the time was right, you could be the bridge between two peoples . . .

He then directed Clark's attention to the free-falling escape pod and immediately Clark saw Lois inside. Panic for her life filled him. He hadn't known until that moment how much she meant to him.

You can save her, Kal. You can save all of them.

Jor-El's words had been a clear green-light to forsake Krypton and defy Zod. Earth was home. The humans he'd known all his life were more his flesh and blood than the Kryptonians who only wanted them dead. Clark was the bridge between two peoples, but he'd have to throw in his lot with those on one side of that bridge.

He now glanced down at the body held in his strong arms. For the moment he felt no hatred for Zod, only pity. The general had been the victim of his own lust for power and revenge. He'd wanted the Codex, had been determined to kill Clark for it. He wanted to get even with Jor-El, too, for embedding the code into Clark's cells.

So in a way, it was the Codex that had destroyed him. Clark doubted he'd have this strength if the code hadn't been ingrained in him, even when he added the effect of the Sun's rays on a child of Krypton to the equation. The Codex may have been the only thing that made him Zod's physical superior.

The secrets of Krypton, however, would remain concealed. The Codex was in Clark and, to a lesser degree, in Zod. If Clark ever had a child, its influence would continue in a new, half-human bloodline. But no one would ever study it. Not if he could help it.

Clark released the body in his arms. He didn't throw it away nor give it away reluctantly; it was just a smooth, natural movement. Zod would be consigned to the stars, to the God beyond the universe that Clark believed in as surely as he believed in his own, new purpose.

It had been three days since the battle and Clark sensed his strength starting to wane from sheer exhaustion.

The worst-hit areas were, of course, closest to where the world engine had hammered a crater into the ground. Buildings had collapsed all around it and only a few survivors were found. Recovering the bodies and cleaning up the area was now top prioriy. Since it was also the hardest area for the recovery crews and paramedics to get to, Clark had all but taken charge. The police officers and FEMA personnel he talked to didn't seem to resent that, either.

The second night, though, he felt like . . . a line from a character in a movie he'd seen years

ago came back to him . . . "like butter scraped over too much bread."

With a groan he lifted a twisted gridiron from the ruins of a fallen skyscraper long enough for an officer and a rescue dog to search for any survivors. When the officer emerged again with a mournful shake of his head, Clark let the heavy frame fall.

"Sir, maybe you should sit down a minute," the officer said with awkward concern.

It was odd to hear anyone call him "sir" and at first Clark looked around for someone more worthy of the title. When he realized the officer was talking to him, he sighed.

"Thanks, but I 'sat down a minute' an hour ago. Let's keep going."

"Half a moment!"

Clark turned, saw a man in a suit standing in the street below. There was a stodgy dorkiness about him that made Clark immediately think, Politician's aide. Smothering a flare of irritation, Clark made his way carefully down the rubble-mountain, the officer and German shepherd trailing close behind.

The man, accompanied by another tired police officer who'd escorted him here, held a clipboard under his arm; he extended a clean hand to Clark, who grasped it with a very dirty one.

"Nice to finally meet you, Superman," the fellow said.

Clark forced himself not to wince. Of all the stupid, laughable names . . .

"I'm Mayor Watson's chief of staff, Charlie Parr," the man went on. "Mr. Watson wanted me to tell you how grateful he is to you for saving the city from certain destruction. He'd tell you himself except that he's in the hospital nursing a broken leg."

Clark nodded, surprised and grateful, in turn, for the gesture.

"He's been kept up-to-date with the recovery efforts from the hospital," Parr went on, hesitant now. "He, uh, wanted me to tell you that you-uh-have gone above and beyond the call of duty and-well-out of concern-he respectfully requests-respectfully-that you take a break and rest yourself before returning-if you choose, that is-to help with the recovery."

Clark, whose attention had been diverted by the sight of an enormous backhoe rolling down the street, looked at Parr abruptly. "Wait, what?"

The poor aide looked nervous. "It's a respectful request. The mayor is concerned you might, well, wipe yourself out."

So even the mayor of this city cared. In spite of himself, Clark smiled. "Mr. Parr, if Mayor Watson won't think I'm avoiding my responsibility to Metropolis-"

"Oh no, no," Parr said quickly. "He doesn't think that at all. He's genuinely concerned."

Clark thought a moment, glanced around. This street did look better after the two days of relentless labor. If they could afford a day without him, he could rest and return with renewed strength.

"Thank the mayor for me, and tell him I hope he'll be speedily released from the hospital," he said.

"Sure thing," Parr said, smiling like a very friendly dork.

Clark stepped away from him, remembering the humorously unfortunate effect in Smallville of taking off while standing too close to another person. It had knocked poor Pete Ross off his feet in the damaged IHOP and even made Faora-Ul stagger against the wall. Once at a distance, he clenched his hands at his sides, pushed hard against the ground with one foot, and shot into the sky.

If x-ray vision was his most unpleasant ability, flying had to be the most enjoyable one. He sailed high into the atmosphere for the second time in twenty-four hours, but this time it wasn't to perform any necessary ritual. He'd had a sneaky suspicion ever since the end of the battle that he was being watched closely. The government would be trying to find out where he lived and he was going to throw them off his trail.

He began to move faster-faster-faster-until he was amusing himself by keeping pace with a satellite that zipped through orbit at hundreds of miles per hour. Then down he went, back through the atmosphere that never singed his skin, until he was in the clouds over the Pacific.

For a short time he was over the Australian outback, then over Mount Everest. Europe passed in a blur of color before giving way to the icy Atlantic and the graves of countless ancient ships . . . Metropolis reappeared, broken but fighting to recover . . . Gotham, smaller and grittier than the more sophisticated Metropolis . . . and then smaller towns, the Appalachians, the great American plains . . .

Kansas.

It was almost night but his keen vision made out little Smallville, the charred Main Street and the ruins still left to clean up. Clark's chest tightened with guilt; he should probably divide his time between Metropolis and his hometown. Tonight, however, he turned away from the town and headed for the wrecked farmhouse he could easily discern ten miles to the north.

To his surprise, he caught the flicker of an electric light in the kitchen. He descended quietly. An innate caution prevented him from calling out to his mother right away. The likelihood of a helpful neighbor being with her was high.

Two days ago there'd been no power. The hole in the roof was now covered with a blue tarp. Pieces of the old pickup truck, looking like the remains of an oversized, recycled Coke can, slumped in the front yard; somehow someone had taken it apart and removed it from the house.

Clark crept closer. Everything was quiet except for what sounded like a radio in the kitchen. He jumped when Dusty, the border collie, let out a sharp bark.

"Hush, Dusty," Martha Kent ordered. Clark came within view of the screen door.

"Mom?" he called.

At the salutation, his mother ran out of the kitchen and appeared behind the screen door. She threw it open and ran to him with her arms open; he caught her, hugging her and lifting her an inch or two off the ground. Mom's arms flew around his neck and her hand cupped the back of his head.

"My baby," she whispered.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," she said, hoarsely. "Some of the men from church came and tarped the roof, see? They took the truck out, too. The power came back on this morning. Come inside-no, wait, stop! Wipe your feet first."

Clark scraped his boots on the welcome mat and showed her the sole of one. Martha nodded, satisfied, and opened the screen door for him.

"You look worn to threads," she said in a softer tone. "Are you all right?"

"I'm very, very tired," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "They all but sent me home on account of it."

"I'll bet you're hungry, too. I'll fix you something. Get out of that suit, honey, and I'll make

you some supper."

She patted his shoulder and went back into the kitchen. Clark stared after her, amazed as he always had been by her resilience, then headed to his old bedroom.

He'd worn the suit so long, he had to peel it off his skin; he folded it and the cape-both compressed to an astonishingly small size-and slipped them into the chest of drawers, beneath his ordinary clothes. After pulling on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he sat down at the kitchen table. Martha set a plate in front of him.

"The Morrises brought me a meal yesterday and these are the leftovers. Eat up. I've already had my dinner."

Clark pulled the plate towards him. "I had an apple for breakfast but that was it. I'm starved."

Martha was horrified. "Good grief, I don't think I've ever known your metabolism to run on such low fuel!"

He hadn't, either, and lit into the meal. She sat down beside him, watching him for a few moments. When she spoke, it was in a lowered, softer tone.

"Is it as bad in the city as they're saying?"

He tore his piece of bread with a dismayed nod. "Terrible."

She laid her hand over his. "I'm sorry you had to do away with one of your own kind."

"He's not one of my own kind," Clark muttered. "Or rather, he wasn't. I don't want anything to do with anyone who senselessly murders thousands of people-or threatens my mother."

Martha lowered her eyes with a small smile. "Well, thanks for coming to my rescue, hon."

He squeezed her hand, shuddering to think of what might've happened had he not come in time. The sight of Zod bellowing down at her had enraged him like nothing else.

"Are you going back?" she asked after a moment.

"I told them I would. But I'm only spending half a day there. Then I'm coming to Smallville."

"In that suit?" Martha asked, jabbing her thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

Clark smirked. "You think I shouldn't?"

"You might give poor old Mrs. Lee a heart attack if she sees you in it."

"You think she'd recognize me?"

"Clark," she said, gently incredulous. "Everyone I've talked to recognized you."

Heart sinking, he looked away. She grabbed his hand again, spoke in a gentle whisper.

"They recognized you-but no one will breathe a word about it. They understand, sweetheart. Everything makes sense to them now. But you know Kansas folks. Everyone knows; therefore, no one'll talk about it because there's no need to discuss it."

He gulped a mouthful of food, too relieved to respond. Martha patted his hand, then drew hers away, taking a deep breath and tossing her head. "So, Miss Lane gave me a call the other night."

Clark swallowed hard. "Good. I mean, I asked her to . . . I thought you'd want to know we

were both all right."

Martha leaned forward on her folded arms. "She's a nice girl. For a reporter."

Clark said nothing, but he held his breath.

"She was a big help to you, wasn't she?"

He nodded slowly.

"I think she's a tad bit in love with you."

Clark smiled cautiously. "I think I might be a tad bit in love with her."

Martha sighed. "It doesn't really surprise me. I could tell when you two were planning on how to get the baby shuttle out of the barn that you had a . . . an understanding. She could finish your sentences, but you kept her brain out of the clouds."

Clark's smile broadened. Lois had been so excited over the baby shuttle and the hope of defeating Zod, she'd been almost giddy. He'd had to purposefully remain calm in the hopes that she'd not succumb to delusions of grandeur or swift victory.

"No one else but you and Dad has ever believed in me like she does," he said.

Martha tucked a greying strand behind her ear. "She's also the first young woman in your life who proved she'd risk everything for your sake, and that says something to me. Want some coffee?"

He answered in the affirmative and she went to the counter. He mulled over what she'd just said for a moment, then asked, "Do you mind if I pursue the friendship?"

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Mind? Why would I mind?"

"Well, I know there was some friction between the two of you when she came here in July."

Martha winced. "What else was I going to do when some strange girl comes asking questions about my son? I hope she forgives me for it."

"Well, she told me on the back way to Edwards Air Force Base that she respects you a great deal. She feels bad about even probing our story . . . but really, how else was she going to walk into our life? I don't hold it against her."

"The strange workings of Providence," Martha mused, bringing a mug to him. "I don't mind as long as she keeps your secret. Bring her out to the farm to visit once I've got the house fixed up a little. I might even be able to cure her of some of her city-slicker ways."

He woke early the next morning and Martha fixed him breakfast. Then he slipped into the blue suit and she helped him fasten the cape to his shoulders. It was the second time she had done so.

The first time, he'd been preparing to surrender himself to Zod. She-calm, steady Martha who rarely showed deep emotion-had cried. Even he'd been unable to hold back tears and had to tear himself away from her, knowing he might never see her again.

This time, however, there was cheer in the preparation. She stepped back, put her hands on

her hips, and gave him a long evaluation.

"It's pretty odd to see your figure like that after years of hiding it behind baggy t-shirts," she said, scratching her head. "You've got a fine one, that's for sure."

"Just so long as it doesn't attract an army of screaming fangirls," Clark teased. "I'll see you

this evening, okay?"

"As Clark, or as Superman?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Mom, don't you start. If I've got to have a second name, can't people at least call me by a real one?"

She swatted his backside as he passed her. "People won't remember 'Kal-El,' but they will remember 'Superman.' In matters of style . . ."

" . . . swim with the current," he finished, laughing. "I'll come as Clark. See you."

He bent and kissed her cheek; she patted his arm, and he took off.