Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "Ulysses"

"See you Monday, Lois," Jenny called, waving.

"Sure thing, Jenny," Lois said, slipping her laptop into its bag. "Don't let Lombard corner you into going on a date with him."

Jenny shyly pushed away a strand of dark hair from her face. "What would be so bad about it? Have you ever been on a date with him?"

"Yes," Lois said with an exasperated widening of her eyes. "The worst part about it is that he thinks he's the biggest romantic on the planet. Now look-I'll bet he's going to try for either you or me next week. Heaven knows what he'll propose. It could be anything from a football game to a restaurant-but it won't be a nice restaurant and you don't want to go to a game with Lombard. He'll get so engrossed in the game, it won't be much of a date."

Jenny giggled. "Okay, I think I get the picture . . ."

"Don't do it unless you want your Saturday ruined," Lois said, smiling. "I'll see you."

Slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder, she left the bull-pen and headed downstairs. She exited the main lobby and stepped onto the street, took a deep breath of soft, early-spring air along with all the smells-pleasant and not-so-pleasant-of the rebuilding city. Instinctively, she glanced up at the sky, but there was no sign of Superman today.

Kal-El, not Superman, she reminded herself. Clark had told her in the letters that he hated the name. She felt a little bad about it, since she was the one who first suggested the name in that ice-cold interrogation room nearly six months ago, but it had become something to joke about in their correspondence.

They dared not use the actual word "Superman," of course, for fear that someone-a tech-savvy reporter or even the government-might be monitoring their emails. "The Name That Must Not Be Named" was the code they'd agreed upon. It was much more funny than "Superman" could ever be.

But she still hadn't talked to him face-to-face since that night on her fire escape. She hadn't seen Superman-no, Kal-El!-in nearly three weeks, when the last of the city's clean-up was squared away. But the letters continued, thank God. She didn't know what she'd do without them at this point.

She was about to take the first step down into the subway station when someone sidled up beside her. Lois' lips parted in irritated surprise when she recognized Glen Woodburn.

"Miss Lane," he said with a familiarity that crawled all over her. He held out his hand. "Nice to run into you today, of all days-just when I had something important to say to you."

Lois gave her copper hair a feisty toss. "Oh, how convenient."

"Yes, it is . . . mind if I walk with you a little ways?"

"Yes, I mind, but I guess I don't have much choice." Lois came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and looked him full in the face. "All right, Woodburn, what do you want?"

"To offer the olive branch," he said.

"For what?" Lois asked sarcastically. "For sending Zod and the FBI after me, or for pointing every gossip columnist with questions about Superman in my direction?"

Woodburn slammed his hands in his pockets. "You and Superman were fair game, Lois . . ."

"That's Miss Lane to you. And fair game, my foot! You made up some kind of fantastic romance story on the testimony of one anonymous witness-"

"A story you didn't deny," Woodburn said coolly.

"You know, it's people like you who make me think Princess Diana and Jackie Kennedy had every right to hate the press," Lois snapped. Catching the rising tone of her voice, she glanced around to make sure they weren't attracting attention; she ran a hand through her hair, trying to compose herself. "So you're offering the olive branch. What else?"

"A chance to talk about Superman for yourself, without the threat of 'anonymous witnesses,' " he said with a chuckle. "Listen. It's been six months since the battle-a major anniversary, you'll grant-and the Spectator is running a series about that day."

"I can't write for you, Woodburn," Lois said, shaking her head. "I'm under contract with the Planet, you know that."

"I'm not talking about a story, I'm talking about an interview," he said eagerly. "We want to interview you about your arrest, your interactions with Colonel Hardy and Dr. Hamilton-great men, great men-and of course, Superman. Minus the romance, of course."

Lois raised her eyebrows. "I wrote my own stories about the battle within weeks of the event. Consult those and quote me, if you like."

"No, Miss Lane, we want your words, your memories, straight from your lips to our site."

Lois narrowed her eyes. "You mean, you want what I know about Superman. The rest of the story can go to hell, for all you care."

Woodburn shrugged, chuckled disarmingly. "Well, he is a major part of the story-"

"Let me make something very clear," Lois interrupted. "Every reporter, politician, and general in the world wants to know what I know, but I have no interest-none-in being interviewed about Superman, or in giving away his secret for any amount of money you could throw at me. You can't intimidate me and you can't bribe me. I will not betray him, and certainly not for a paparazzi sewer like your website. Take that and quote it in your paper!"

Woodburn looked like someone could knock him over with a feather. Lois turned on her heel, whipped out her subway card, and passed through the gate. She was about to turn a corner when she heard him calling out to her.

"You can't protect him forever!" he shouted. "One day it'll all come out. It always does."

Lois gritted her teeth and turned around. A few people were watching now, alerted by Woodburn's loud voice, but for the most part the busy station went on as usual, paying little attention to the feuding reporters.

"Maybe it will," Lois called back. "And when it does, you'll have me to reckon with."

With that she marched down the corridor to the westbound platform, uneasy at the thought that people were still so determined to discover Clark's secret, but satisfied, too, that she'd finally given Glen Woodburn the smackdown he deserved.

The prairie grass was starting to turn green again. A soft breeze made it look, to Clark, like the rippling waves in the Metropolis harbor. He rolled down the pickup's passenger window and leaned his head back, allowing his senses to soak in the lonely Kansas beauty.

"It's days like this that make the sky look enormous," Martha said, ramrod-straight but perky in the driver's seat. "Kinda nice to see all that blue without a cloud in sight."

"It reminds me of the sky over the Pacific," Clark said quietly. "Makes you feel free."

"Well, now, don't fly off on me."

"I won't. But I do want to take you on another flight soon."

"Oh, no," Martha said with a laugh. "I've had enough flying for a while."

"Come on, Mom!"

"No." She smiled sheepishly at him. "Sorry, Clark. Your flights are beautiful but I just can't stand the heights."

She parked the new pickup-the replacement for the one Zod threw into the house-just off the road at the cemetery. Together they walked slowly through the rows of headstones, a ritual Martha had performed every Saturday morning for sixteen years.

Clark always felt a little uncomfortable in the cemetery. He couldn't forget the time when, as a six-year-old, he'd attended a funeral and first discovered his ability to see through things. The involuntary veering of his vision through the coffin about to be lowered into the ground had so disturbed him, he had nightmares for weeks.

After that, the veering would strike him without warning. The worst experience happened at school, when the sight of his teacher and classmates fading into skeletons made him hysterical; he locked himself in a storage closet until his mother coaxed him out again.

It was that evening when he finally broke down, in tears, and told his parents. Neither of them showed any horror or embarrassment. Mom had gently rubbed his back while Dad counselled him to head off the inclination "at the pass"-to catch it before it took control, to steer his thoughts not towards whatever his body wanted him to see, but towards what God wanted him to see or think on.

Such counsel made all the difference in the world years later, when hormones tempted him to do the same thing with a girl's clothes, or when desperation to pass a test tempted him to sneak a peek at the answers in the teacher's book. He put the counsel to good use now, refusing to allow his thoughts and vision to penetrate below the surface of the ground.

His mother's voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

"He always believed you were made for greater things, and that when the time came your shoulders would bear the weight."

Clark looked up, startled, and realized they stood before his father's grave. Martha gazed at the headstone with a faraway look in her grey eyes. Clark took a deep breath.

"I just wish he could've been here to see it," he said.

"Oh, he saw it, Clark, believe me," Martha said.

"Do you ever think that if I hadn't come into your lives, he might still be alive?" he asked quietly.

Martha jerked her head up. "Your father loved you more than life itself. He had no regrets in that moment-the tornado-and neither do I. Got it?"

Clark nodded, staring at the headstone. To lighten the mood again, Martha reverted to teasing.

"Sometimes I do wonder what he'd say about that suit, though."

Clark smirked. "I can see him now. Laughing."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't laugh . . ."

"Yes he would," Clark insisted, amused at the thought. "He'd have one good laugh-but then he'd see the seriousness of it. He'd know it was time to use my gift."

"Maybe you're right." Martha frowned. "But now it's time to think about the future, isn't it? What are you going to do when you're not saving the world? Have you given any more thought to that?"

"I have, actually," Clark said slowly, and with a smile. "I need to find a job where I can keep my ear to the ground, where I can go somewhere dangerous without people asking questions . . ."

"Like, the police force?" Martha prodded.

Clark frowned. "I've thought of that. I've also thought of journalism."

"Journalism!" Martha cried, half-amused, half-skeptical. "Don't you need a degree for that?"

"Not if I was a freelance journalist. They call them 'stringers.' "

" 'Stringers?' "

"Yeah. I wouldn't be considered regular staff, but if I proved I could tackle an assignment and write well, I could be sent to cover breaking news sites. Emergency situations where Kal-El, or Superman, if you prefer, could show up and do what he was meant to do all along."

Martha frowned. "Where did you learn all this?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Lois. But she doesn't know I'm considering this. I just asked her some discreet questions about journalism and then did my own research."

"And I suppose you're hoping you'll get a position with the Daily Planet?"

Clark nodded.

"Because of her, or because of the advantages of being based in Metropolis?"

"Both."

Martha looked wryly at him. "Well, at least you're honest about it. Promise me you'll take it slow. Don't rush into anything with her . . ."

"I won't, I promise," Clark said quickly. "For her sake as well as mine. But this isn't set in stone yet. I still have to get the job."

"And how will you go about doing that?"

Clark smiled, more to himself than to her. "I guess I'll have to pay a visit to Mr. Perry White."

He thought as soon as he walked into Perry White's office that this might've been a bad idea-not because Perry White might betray him, but because Perry White might have a heart attack at seeing Superman in his office at eleven o'clock at night, uninvited and almost as if he'd appeared by magic.

The famous editor almost fell backwards in his swivel chair when he saw Clark, clad in blue and red, standing in the middle of the room. He composed himself with impressive speed.

"How'd you get in here?" he demanded, whipping his glasses off his face.

"Fire escape," Clark said calmly, keeping his arms folded over his broad chest. "Sneaked past your hard-working interns without a problem."

"And how will you get out without being seen?"

Clark gestured with his head. "I'll fly out that window behind you."

A flicker of amusement passed over Perry's honest face. "I'm gonna assume you know who I am and we don't need to make any introductions. I'm also assuming you have something pretty important to say to me if you're gonna scare the dickens out of me this late at night."

Clark allowed a slight smile to soften his own face. "Right on all counts, Mr. White."

Perry stood up and went to the door. He opened it, peered out, then shut it again and locked it with a key from his pocket. He motioned for Clark to sit down. Clark obliged him, hoping it would make the editor feel more secure.

"What can I do for you, Superman?"

Clark drew a deep breath, willing himself to emote once again the steely confidence of this Superman he'd turned into. "This is all off the record, Mr. White."

"Understood."

"I've spent the past six months in the public eye. Now that Metropolis is back on its feet, it's time for me to step back and let the city rebuild. I want to help Earth, not become its babysitter. But I'm still being watched, and not just by well-meaning everyday people." Clark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked Perry in the eye. "The government has sent drones after me. I finally had a conversation with General Swanwick about it about a week ago."

"Oh?" Perry prodded.

"I made short work of the drone and told Swanwick not to send another one after me. I'm not a threat to America. I grew up in Kansas. I love this country. But if I'm going to help, it'll be on my own terms and Washington needs to accept that."

Perry cleared his throat to keep back a smile. "I have a feeling a lot of people would've liked to see you standing up to Uncle Sam."

Clark wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he went on, choosing his words carefully. "My work here is done for now, but I know I could be called back to Metropolis at any point, or to some other crisis in the world. I need an inside track on world events. But for Earth's sake-and for mine-I can't stay in this suit all the time. I need a cover, and one that will allow me to keep my ear to the ground . . . "

"Here at the Planet," Perry finished slowly.

Clark, surprised by the editor's intuition, nodded. "That's what I was thinking-in a freelance position."

The editor sat back, his hand at his mouth, a thoughtful pose. After a moment's uncomfortable silence in which Clark felt himself beginning to sweat, Perry spoke.

"Can you write?"

"I can, and pretty well."

"Have some of it on hand?"

"Not at the moment, but I can send several pieces your way tomorrow."

"You know your cover won't hold if you can't prove yourself a worthy employee of the Daily Planet."

"I wouldn't have come here if I didn't think I could prove it," Clark said a little defiantly.

Perry gave a slight chuckle-an encouraging sign. "And I suppose I'd have to pretend like this conversation never took place."

Clark allowed himself a smile. "I'm counting on you to keep my secret for the good of this planet."

Perry shook his head, self-deprecating. "And to think, a few months ago I was telling Lois not to print anything about you for fear it would turn the world upside down."

"That was a good call. The world wasn't ready."

The editor nodded. "All right. Send me some of your writing tomorrow and I'll give you my final word after the weekend. This is just a stringer job, mind you. I won't be giving you a regular position or anything."

"I understand perfectly," Clark said, standing up. He extended his hand to Perry. "I'll send you my writing tomorrow . . . under the name of Clark Kent."

{Email from Clark to Lois}

Dear Lois,

Expect to see me on Friday. Can't say what time and I don't want to tell you where. I'd like to surprise you-but not enough to startle you completely and give ourselves away. Just keep your eyes peeled. I can't wait to see you.

Clark

"Come on, Lois . . . when are you gonna throw me a bone?"

Lois looked up from her computer and saw Steve approaching, holding up two tickets. She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes or glance knowingly at Jenny, who stood behind her waiting for an article to deliver to Perry and his big red pen.

"Courtside seats for the game on Saturday? What do you say?"

"I say . . ." Lois said, stapling a small stack of papers, "you should go back to trolling the intern pool. You might have better luck there."

As she spoke, she handed the stack to Jenny. Almost immediately she realized her mistake. Jenny was taken aback by the sudden attention. Steve grinned and held out the tickets; Jenny, half-laughing, half-appalled, shook her head.

"Lombard! Lane!"

Lois glanced up, startled, and saw her boss coming towards them. Contrary to her initial fears, however, he didn't look upset, not even irritated. Hey, at least she wasn't in trouble.

"I want you to meet our new stringer and show him the ropes," Perry said, leaning his elbow against the top of Lois' cubicle. "This is Clark Kent."

Lois' breath caught. She could hardly believe her eyes. The young, dark-haired man standing behind Perry was tall but slightly-slouched, dressed in an unassuming but neat ensemble of blue jeans and dark flannel shirt. And he wore glasses. Large, thick-rimmed, dorky glasses.

He gazed around the bull-pen with shy interest, turned slightly away from her, but when he heard his own name he moved to face the cubicle. Lois' heart rate went sky-high and she quickly glanced down.

It was him. His eyes were the same, keen and alert and deep, deep blue.

She could hear Steve introducing himself. She looked hard at him, but there was not a trace of recognition in her colleague's demeanor. Lois rose to her feet. Clark's calm eyes fastened on her, cool and unknowing.

"Hi," Lois said, extending her hand, forcing all her mental and physical energy into keeping a straight face. "Lois Lane . . ."

She never knew what possessed her afterwards to say it, but before she could stop herself, she heard herself add, "Welcome to the Planet."

The double meaning would be clear only to him. Clark's mask faltered. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then lifted them again with a quiet, thankful smile that made her stomach flutter with joy.

"Glad to be here, Lois," he managed to say.

Lois returned his broadening grin, neither of them caring-at least for that brief second-who saw or heard or guessed.

I had no idea what a "stringer" was before I wrote this chapter. It's really odd, the things I'll start reading about when I need answers. A few months ago I was researching the concept of hyperspace for the sci-fi novels I'm writing, and last week I was researching freelance journalism for my Superman fanfic. No shame, though, no shame...I learn something new everyday ;)