(*The Patriette bursts into , dusts off, curtsies deeply*)

Hi, guys!

Okay. Changed for Good is OFF HIATUS. I never told anybody, but...I actually had two more chapters in reserve. But I was so discouraged about the story and feelings of sci-fi-know-how inadequacy, I decided not post them out of fear that they wouldn't be well-received. Probably an irrational fear, but I was dealing with a lot of negative thoughts about ALL my writing at that time so please forgive me. It was a review that I got today that got me thinking, "You know, a pox upon my own self-criticism. Just finish the thing. People are asking for it anyway."

So. There's this chapter, and then another one...and because I'm very busy with life and a World War II novel, the end will probably not come right away...but it will be in the works. Especially since I have parts of the epilogue already written.

Again, consider this story OFF HIATUS. And a pox upon my self-criticism. Here goes nothing. (*clicks "post new chapter"*)

As soon as he descended on the roof of LexCorp's enormous riverside lab, Clark spotted a tall, shadowy figure kneeling rather precariously on the edge. The Batman hardly moved, shrouded in his massive black cape; his eyes, however, were bright and alert, scanning the area surrounding the lab.

"Glad you're here, Bruce," Clark whispered, dropping to his knees beside him, half-wishing his own suit could be so well-camouflaged.

"No problem," Bruce replied in his raspy whisper, never glancing at Clark.

"I owe you one."

"I'll remember that next time I need Superman to save my behind."

Clark smirked, accustomed by now to his ally's smart mouth and knowing Bruce wasn't that irritated. After all, it had been Bruce who'd offered to come. It wasn't like Clark had asked. He clapped a hand on his friend's armored shoulder and dropped down to the ground, right next to Luthor's snazzy black car.

There were no windows in this lab, except for one small, square one in one of the doors. Clark opened the door—unlocked—and stepped into a cold, narrow, but well-lit hallway. He hesitated only a moment, then started walking forward, keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings. If he had to escape, he needed to know the way back to this door . . .

Or I can always just crash through the ceiling to the roof. I'd rather not do damage to a building if I can help it, but . . .

"Ah, you came!"

The voice, bellowing over an unseen speaker system, nearly made him jump out of his skin. Clark froze, peered through the walls on either side. To his left, beyond the wall, was a conference room, and Lex Luthor was sitting alone at a table watching a security camera. Clark gritted his teeth in contempt and irritation.

"First door on your left," Luthor said, leaning back his chair. "Come on in."

Clark thought about calling back, "No, you come out here so I know you don't have the door booby-trapped!"—but that would be cowardly and a bit bully-like. He was here to prove, for the sake of his friends, his family, and his city, that he wasn't afraid of Lex Luthor. He blinked to end the x-ray vision, strode quickly down the hall, and slammed open the door with the palm of his hand.

Lex Luthor's young sharp features beamed with cool satisfaction as he gestured for Clark to take the seat on the opposite end of the table. Clark didn't, and instead took a chair much closer to Luthor. The young billionaire looked irritated, but quickly masked it and twiddled a pen in his long fingers.

"Time for a man-to-man," Clark said coolly. "Isn't that what your message said?"

Luthor smiled, tapped the pen on the table.

"What is it you want to tell me?" Clark asked, still keeping his voice calm and quiet, almost polite. Maybe too polite. "I have better things to do than sit here and watch you gloat over the fact that you got me in here. It's true, you did—but don't think for a minute you can control me."

"Why not?" was the nonchalant reply. "I manuevered you right into my territory."

"But you're still not in complete control. And I don't have all night."

"Why? Because you have to get back to knocking up Miss Lane?"

In spite of himself, Clark felt himself turn red. Luthor gave his bald head an amused shake.

"You're such a Boy Scout," he laughed softly. "Or at least, you do a good job of keeping up the façade of a Boy Scout. What's that old oath? Something about keeping yourself 'physically strong, mentally awake, morally straight,' right? You do pretty well for yourself on the first two, but the last one . . ." And he clicked his tongue contemptuously.

Clark glowered at him in silence.

"I mean, come on," Luthor went on, his voice so cool it was almost indifferent. "Who in their right mind thinks breaking your own countryman's neck is 'morally straight?' Or how about crashing through every d— building in downtown Metropolis? You think that was responsible behavior from a super Boy Scout?"

Clark still said nothing. His whole body was tense. When he found himself glaring so hard at Luthor that he felt the heat rising behind his eyes, though, he blinked hard, drew a shuddering, almost-frightened breath. No, not the lasers—for God's sake, Kent, control it!

"And of course, knocking up Miss Lane isn't 'morally straight,' " Luthor added with a snort. "Not by Boy Scout standards."

"Stop," Clark said, his tone dangerously low. "If you say that again, I'll—"

I'll what? Sock him one in the jaw?

Luthor smiled, sensing the conflict in his victim. "You know what, let's change the subject. Let's talk about the past few months since September, when one of my friends, conveniently placed in the press corps at the memorial service, stuck you with a needle."

Clark let himself breathe again. "What about it?"

"Know what was in that syringe?"

"Yes," Clark said firmly. "Bioengineered cryogel harvested from the Kryptonian scout ship that crashed in the middle of Metropolis."

Luthor pretended to be impressed. "You've done your research."

"So have you."

"For a good cause," Luthor said, leaning forward in his chair for the first time and folding his arms on the table. "It's good to know what can stop you in your tracks, Superman, just in case you turned on this planet you claim to love so much. The people, the ordinary people, they might trust you and think you're some guardian angel, but those of us in charge, those of us who pull the strings, we don't trust you. Not one bit."

Tell me something I don't know, Clark thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

"I've made a business deal with the United States government you might be interested in," Luthor went on, still eyeing Clark closely. "Remember that drone you took down a couple years ago? According to General Swanwick, you told him everyone had to play by your rules—"

No, I said I wanted to help on my own terms.

"—but no one trusts you. Which is why the military wanted some sort of defense against you, in case you decided to go rogue." Luthor narrowed his eyes. "I gave them what they wanted, and it'll be sent up into space tomorrow."

"A new drone," Clark murmured; everything was suddenly coming together.

"Precisely." Luthor's tone had lost its forced indifference; now his voice was intense, clipped. "A drone that'll keep a close, close eye on the benevolent illegal alien everyone calls Superman, but with a special defense mechanism."

"The cryogel," Clark said, more to himself than to Luthor; a cold, sickening horror settled in his chest.

"You are sharp," Luthor said with a slight shake of his head. "Your people had a pretty good handle on the technology. The equipment aboard the wrecked scout ship was sophisticated, obviously built to defend the ship from intruders. In fact, the cryogel reacts defensively against attack. We've developed it enough so that any attack on the drone will trigger the stuff. It'll lash out at the attacker, so fast and so hard it'll break the skin. Like that needle that went right through your suit last September."

"Then the needle was made of the same material?" Clark asked before he could stop himself.

"More or less," Luthor said, tilting his head from side to side.

Clark clamped his lips and folded his hands together so tight, his knuckles whitened. So this was what Luthor had been developing and experimenting with for the past year . . . a drone focused on him that would put up a fierce fight if he ever tried to do away with it. His battle with the world engine and its slithering, powerful tentacles, made of the same substance as the robot sentries and this new weapon, came back to him. He'd been wiped out by the end of that fight.

"I called you out here to give you that warning," Luthor said, rising to his feet. "I'd advise you to leave government equipment alone from now on. You may go now."

Clark bristled at his condescending attitude, but he got up and looked Luthor in the eye. He was a good five inches taller than the young schemer, and for a second, as Clark looked down at him, Luthor looked a little uneasy.

"I'm not surprised by the government's mistrust," Clark said quietly. "I just hope the people of this planet haven't forgotten that we all fought Zod together, and that the loss of life was far more important than the loss of your business investments in the city."

He gave his head one of his regal nods and turned on his heel. There were no booby traps on the way out the door. As soon as the cool night air hit his face he swept back up to the roof again, where Bruce lifted his cowled face in surprise.

"That was quick," he growled.

"He gave me everything I needed to know," Clark said, and this time he was the one who kept his eyes from meeting his friend's. "Let's get out of here."

He debated whether or not to call Lois that night and tell her what had happened. Eventually he looked at the clock and realized he'd argued with himself long past her bedtime. She might be a night owl, but even she wouldn't be awake at three o'clock in the morning.

Alone in his old flat, the one he'd kept ever since moving to Metropolis two years ago, Clark lay on his back in bed and thought about his conversation with Luthor. The continuing mistrust of the military irritated old wounds of isolation. It obviously didn't matter that two and a half years had passed since the battle; it hadn't been long enough to prove himself to those already charged to protect his adopted country.

Who knew how many other governments across the globe had the same opinion.

Clark sighed, punched his pillow, and groaned in frustration when his fist went right through the cushion. He snatched up the other pillow and dropped his head on it. When he closed his eyes, he saw Luthor, the world engine, the robot sentry, felt the pain of the world engine's tentacles squeezing his rib cage until he couldn't catch his breath. His eyes flew open again and he swallowed hard.

Lois' words came back to him. "If you think you're in any real danger, Clark, just act fast. I'm not asking you to run, just please don't hesitate to protect yourself. Please."

He clenched his teeth, glared at the ceiling. Protecting himself now meant leaving the drone alone unless he wanted a fight like the one he'd had two Septembers ago. He'd have to submit to the surveillance whenever he was in the sky, which meant he could never again casually fly to Kansas like he had been doing. God forbid they ever trace him there. He'd have to drive or catch a plane. Like an ordinary person.

Something on the nightstand caught his eye. He propped himself up on his elbow and grabbed it: one of the little ultrasound snapshots Lois had given him last night before he left Smallville. Clark smiled, ran his thumb over his daughter's tiny profile. On the other side, in Lois' small, neat handwriting, was written the name Martha Claire. It was the name they'd picked out, after his mother and the little baby she'd lost.

You've got a daughter to think of now, Clark reminded himself as he stared at the picture. It burns you up to have people watching you and treating you like you're a freak. But it'll be worth it if you live to see your baby. Well worth it.

Lois slapped the soft bread dough and tossed a strand of hair from her forehead. "There! Surely I've punched and socked and squeezed it hard enough now?"

Martha raised an eyebrow and poked the dough. "How long did you knead it?"

"Umm . . ." Lois glanced at the clock. "Maybe three minutes?"

"Better go for another two," Martha said dryly. "Unless you want crumbly bread, of course."

Lois groaned, but took up the dough again and slammed it onto the counter, sending loose flour all over her forearms. "I swear, by the time I get the hang of this my arms are going to look like Clark's."

Martha threw back her head and laughed at that, but didn't give Lois a reprieve. Lois turned

her head towards the television in the living room directly opposite the kitchen doorway, trying to catch up with global news while she worked. Her grasping hands suddenly clenched on the dough and she froze.

"Martha. Martha, look."

Her mother-in-law shut off the faucet and approached, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Lois hurried into the living room and turned up the volume.

" . . . secret launch of a new high-tech drone recently purchased by the American government has become a worldwide emergency," the newscaster was saying with undisguised worry. "According to a Pentagon spokesperson the drone has unexpectedly gone rogue and judging from its trajectory may choose a random target in the Metropolis area. Citizens are urged to remain in their homes until the drone is apprehended."

A map flashed across the screen and Lois sank to a seat on the couch. The projected area of attack was small—too small. Why would a random drone close in like that on Metropolis?

"Good grief," she whispered. "Where's my phone?"

Martha whirled, snatched it up from the table. "Who are you calling?"

"Clark first," Lois said. "Then my mom."

The launch had gone fine, but General Swanwick still watched with mixed feelings as the silver drone rocketed into the sky. On the one hand, he agreed with the defense department—somewhat—that surveillance of Superman was good and necessary. Lex Luthor's assurances that this drone was virtually indestructible had made a good deal look even sweeter, especially after Superman took out that last drone, the one that had been programmed to track him whenever he went over American airspace.

But on the other hand, General Swanwick never liked making deals with the devil, and Luthor was a devil if he'd ever seen one. He didn't like testing Superman, either. The alien had been polite enough even after destroying that other drone, and had never given the United States any trouble. In fact, the usually-stoic general had a hard time concealing his admiration for Superman nowadays.

If Lex Luthor and the other military officials found General Swanwick unusually quiet today, he wasn't about to let them in on his thoughts. And if he could, he was going to let Superman know that this wasn't his idea. He, at least, had tried to keep his end of the bargain.

He knew something was wrong when, just after he had stalked off the launch pad with Luthor and their companions in tow, a technician came running up to them. The young man saluted, but before Swanwick could acknowledge it he started talking a mile a minute.

"There's something wrong with the drone, we can't get it to respond to our commands."

"What?" Luthor demanded, cutting short the joke he'd been telling an unappreciative colonel and Captain Harris. "What do you mean, it's not responding?"

The young man shrugged, bit his lip. "We're trying to get it into a regular orbit position and it won't respond. It's like its computer has locked up."

"You're the inventor," Swanwick snapped, eyeing Luthor. "You look at it."

The young billionaire turned contemptuous eyes on the brusque general; straightening his suit, he brushed past Swanwick and followed the technician into the computer room. Swanwick motioned for his colleagues to come along; if this was about to turn into an emergency, Luthor needed to stay in his sight.

Luthor was sharp, Swanwick had to give him credit for that; he knew his invention, and sat at the computer giving it every command he knew. The numbers, however, stubbornly refused to change, and the drone refused to get into its correct orbital position.

When Luthor suddenly sat back with a tightened jaw, Swanwick leaned forward, palm against the computer terminal. "What's the trouble?"

Luthor swallowed, spoke through his teeth. "Get back, General."

"Have you lost your mind?" Swanwick snapped. "You are on military ground and here, I give the orders. What's gone wrong?"

Luthor kept his sharp eyes on the screen. "The drone is descending."

"Where's it descending?" Swanwick demanded.

"It's not just descending, it's honing in on a target." Luthor scribbled down the coordinates, handed them to Swanwick without looking at the general. "I'll try to stop it . . ."

Swanwick took one look at the coordinates, marched to a nearby map. He worked out the location swiftly, and a sick dread settled in his stomach.

"You'd better stop it!" he snapped, staring at the back of Luthor's head. "Because that drone is headed straight for Metropolis!"

Luthor flinched. Swanwick turned his glaring eyes on Captain Harris. "Alert all emergency personnel, let them know what's going on."

"This launch is supposed to be secret!" Luthor hissed, whirling in his chair. He reminded Swanwick of a water moccasin: sneaky and poisonous. "You blow the cover on this—"

"Son," the general replied in as calm a tone as he could manage, "I don't give a d— about your drone or your feelings about Superman. There are lives at stake and I'm going to alert anyone who can possibly save them from this invention of yours. Either get behind me, or get out of my way."

As soon as he saw Lois' number on his phone screen, Clark cringed—but he couldn't just let it ring. He jerked his arm through the tight sleeve of his suit and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey there." Her voice was soft, but worried. "Are you okay?"

Maybe she doesn't know. Clark glanced at the television screen, grabbed his cape off the bed. "I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm watching the news, Clark—you need to turn on the TV. There's a drone—"

"I know." He drew a deep breath, forced himself to speak confidently. "I'm going to take care of it right now. You just interrupted my wardrobe change."

"Oh, thank God!" She laughed a little shakily. "Okay, then, I'll let you go—"

"Hang on a second, Lois."

She fell silent, waiting. Clark took another deep breath, closed his eyes. As soon as he saw the

news story and heard about the drone, he'd experienced only a few moments of indecision. Now

that he had Lois on the phone, the conflict within him was unbearable. He swallowed and in spite of his best efforts, his voice shook.

"No matter what happens out there . . . remember that I was sent here for a reason. 'I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd.' Remember that? The poem the beginning of the Churchill book you gave me when we first started seeing each other?"

"Yeah? What's wrong? Are you worried you can't take it?" He caught a worried edge to her voice as he opened the bedroom window. He looked out into the empty alleyway behind the apartment building. Above it stretched the cloudless sky.

"Don't forget that I love you," he said, ignoring her questions. "And if I don't get a chance to tell you—"

"Clark, what's going on?"

"Thank you for everything," he whispered. "You changed me for the better and I'm thankful for every moment I ever spent with you. I love you."

She obviously couldn't speak and Clark couldn't bring himself to say "goodbye." Without another word he pressed "end call" and set the phone on the windowsill. Then he clenched his teeth and his hands, and set off to embrace the doom assigned.