Here you go kids. As I write this, my fax machine is humming with updates from the Planet via the Blue Boy Scout himself.
Don't laugh -- it's all true.
Disclaimer: Superman and his fellow characters are the property of Warner Bros. Studios and DC Comics, and created by Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel. The fact that Clark has overly sensitive hearing, and complains about how loud we play our music, is beside the point. After all, he could stop crashing in our basement (literally) and actually sleep at his own place in Metropolis.
5. Willpower
In his new apartment, Clark unpacks the jumble of bags and boxes flown up from Smallville -- and down from the Arctic -- constituting the few items every Superman needs to round out the vintage dinette suite and threadbare couch. Out of the first box come extra crimson and cerulean suits, replicated by the Fortress -- before the crystals were hijacked -- along with a brace of microbreathers for short forays into space. These will come in handy tonight.
Tonight – I'm not going away this time without saying goodbye.
Clark finishes unpacking at super speed, an uncharacteristic blur in tie and glasses.
Done. I'm glad I confided in mom when I went to pick up my stuff. Sometimes, I think that little human is stronger than I am. I sure do miss her.
He goes into the kitchenette and reaches into the fridge, pulling out a glass milk bottle imprinted 'Smallville Dairy'. He holds the cold glass against his cheek for a moment -- I'm gonna miss the farm –- and removes the paper foil seal. He rests the moist lip of the bottle against his own bottom lip, and tips the container up to let the full-cream whole milk pour over his tongue, and down his throat. The chill taste reminds him of home, and the contrast with his own extreme body temperature is refreshing. He places the half-empty bottle on the table's melamine surface, and sits down. A simple pad of paper awaits his ministration, and he regards it as if he needs to ask its permission to take on such a responsibility as a goodbye letter to Lois.
Clark takes another drink, and picks up the pencil. He twirls it for a moment in that way teenagers do when sitting an exam, and then starts to write.
Dearest Lois,
If you are reading this, know that I do love you, and I'm sorry I can no longer be there for you and my son. I hope you can forgive me for deceiving you, but my decision to work beside you as Clark, and stay close as your friend, was to keep you safe. To hide in plain sight. and be there when you needed me, was my only thought. The fact that, someday, you may come to hate me for the subterfuge, was of no consequence where your well-being was concerned.
I have enclosed the key to my apartment at 796 Dana Avenue – and paid the rent for one year. I have given your name to the landlord as a sublet, and all my possessions will revert to you in a separate will under Clark Kent's name. There is a hidden panel in the bedroom closet, behind which are certain things Jason may, someday, find useful.
All my love forever,
Clark/Kal/Superman
Clark drains the milk bottle, and places it in the sink. Going back to the table, he folds the letter, sealing it and his house key into a white envelope. He slides it into a larger manila envelope labeled:
'To Lois Lane -- eyes only -- Open on confirmation of Superman's death'
Whirling himself into uniform, Superman scoops up the envelope, and stashes a couple of microbreathers in his cape pocket. He makes a quick scan outside his high-rise window, and takes off for the Daily Planet. After taking a nostalgic turn round the rooftop globe, he blurs into the deserted newsroom, stops, and deposits the envelope on Lois's desk.
At that instant, the elevator pings and the doors open, letting a weary Lois trap him like a deer in her headlights. Before she can utter his name, he exits out the window and shoots upward through the stratosphere, beyond the capabilities of any radar system, but feeling Lois's eyes track him nonetheless. His heart races, and his pulse pounds, but he knows he must get his feelings under control if he is to be ready for the ordeal before him.
He snaps on a microbreather.
Breaching the mesosphere, Kal begins a measured deep breathing technique, gleaned from a Tibetan ascetic he befriended during his early years as a freelance war correspondent. By the time he reaches the thermosphere, his oxygen needs are reduced to the point where the microbreather is more than enough to sustain him.
His need for oxygen, after all, is not for his lungs so much as for his brain, a minor difference from his look-alike earth cousins.
VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE
The closer he comes to the inky Kryptonian blot in the skyscape, the louder the piercing crystal call becomes.
VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE
Aware of the nagging ache caused by the still-distant Kryptonite, Superman slowly approaches New Krypton.
It's drifting just beyond the exosphere in a rapidly disintegrating low orbit -- unlike the high orbit of the remains of the old '96 Delta 2 rockets.
That space junk will circle the earth for at least another hundred years -- or until I've seen enough of it.
Willing himself to ignore the urge to 'take out' the garbage, Kal uses his super vision to scan the surface of the grotesque crystalline mass, looking for some weakness he can exploit.
VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE
The crystal din cuts through the silence of space, and into Superman's mind, with the resolve of a cognizant being.
VHEE VFHEEE FVEEE FFEEVEE-- then, as if by design, it stops…
…and they are there… glowing in his telescopic field of vision, his crystals -- his precious gifts from his biological father -- scattered like chaff over the squalid surface.
How can I possibly rescue them?
Superman looks with longing at his prized possessions – so near, yet so unattainable --except at unknown cost.
As close as he dares, he floats in orbit around New Krypton, transfixed like a statue, staring as if through unbreakable glass at unattainable museum treasure, when the crystals begin to shift.
My eyes are playing tricks – except… that DOESN'T happen to me. They moved.
They are MOVING.
The crystals rise as one, turning in space, and home in on their owner; free of earth influence, their dormancy ended, they go to Kal-El. He plucks them out of the vacuum surrounding him, and secretes them in his cape for safekeeping. A look of relief suffuses his handsome features, and he braces himself for the task ahead.
Perhaps a focused beam of heat vision might break the island into smaller, more manageable, pieces --
-- or… into smaller, more destructive, pieces that will all fall at the same time -- and that I will be powerless to stop.
I wish I could clone myself.
Maybe… a burst of super breath. Right. No breath in space, hence no super breath. Okay -- sign of oxygen deprivation -- stupid thinking.
Outer space complicates things.
My strength… and my flight… on earth against inertia, without friction here in space, defy all laws of physics.
This is NOT easy…
Pa once told me – son, if you believe you can do it, you can.
If it isn't physics, it must be my will.
Keeping a comfortable distance, Superman circles the island.
There – on the underside – an outcropping of solid magma, and it's mostly lead.
Maybe I could ram it.
I could.
I must.
I think I can I think I... can -- don't... lose it Kent…
-- back home... with Jason reading "The Little Train That Could".
Clark focuses on his objective, swallows his doubts, and positions himself directly opposite the natural magma shield. He backs off to gain distance.
Got to… visualize the speed… will myself to go faster than I…
His muscles straining and popping with tension, Superman's lips work as he counts down to the burst of absolute super speed he will need to ram Lex Luthor's ill-conceived progeny into oblivion -- without shattering it into deadly earth-bound meteors --
-- and, without killing himself in the process.
TBC
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