I will not be posting updates during Christmas and New Years, cuz the holidays, yo. Further on that, I'm going mostly offline to avoid as many Star Wars spoilers as possible.
So have a good holiday, hope you all did well on your exams, stay chill, and I'll see you in the new year!
Chapter Seven: What A Scoop
The week moved along and Clark began to settle in to life at the news-desk. His in-tray didn't pile high, Perry didn't shout at him very much, and his fellow reporters seemed to treat him with an odd sort of respect. The sort of respect that you gave an old predator who was too aged to be very dangerous anymore, but you still didn't want to piss it off, just in case.
They also didn't talk to him very much, but Clark had sort of anticipated that. He hadn't banked on making friends on the first day or in the first week. They were still feeling him out in their own way, trying to get the measure of this rookie who had been made to shadow Lois Lane for the week.
Clark didn't want to think that becoming Lois's shadow for the week had robbed him of his chance to make work-place friends, but he couldn't help notice that when people did talk to him (no matter the capacity), their eyes slipped sideways to mark Lois's location and presence. Like they were checking on the apex predator who was sated for now, but still highly territorial in the wrong moods. They censored themselves, seemed to take an extra second to reply like they were double-checking their words, and in general, they seemed to watch their step if she was in the room.
They didn't seemed to respect Lois so much as they feared her. And they seemed to act like she had a claim on Clark.
It was very odd behavior for grown adults.
There were people who didn't act like this, but they weren't exactly the type of people that Clark wanted to make friends with.
Outside of the still-unknown politics of the newsroom, Clark was also finding life in Metropolis to be to his liking. At least now that he had found an apartment, a four hundred dollar a month studio in the artsy and diversely ethnic neighborhood of Little Bohemia. The lease didn't open until Saturday, but at least there was an end to his stay in the flophouse-- ahem, single occupancy hotel.
Outside of even that, Metropolis got its first dose of significant change.
For the very first time in its history, the West River was going to be vitalized and invigorated. Bulldozed and demolished first, but then rebuilt from the ground up with more than just a splash of spackle and a fresh coat of paint. Now that it was more of a reality than before, everyone was talking excitedly about it. The West River was to become a fashionable new area with shops and restaurants and classy apartments that would even be affordable for the lower class. The complete absence of a police presence would be one of the first things to be addressed. Police Commissioner Henderson had already announced the construction of a precinct and the hiring of another fifty police officers, just to start.
Various philanthropic agencies and individuals were putting forth money to relocate the residents of West River before demolition began. Other sponsors put forth their bank accounts to fund a building or repave a street, in the name of good PR. Never one to be the last to the party, Wayne Enterprises had sidled in to Luthor territory and offered up a hefty sum to bring some jobs to the area.
But the biggest contributor wasn't LexCorp (as one might have expected after Wayne Enterprises stuck their noses in). It was the home-grown Future World Industries and its very photogenic CEO, Deirdre Merlo.
"I hate this bitch." Lois grumbled, glaring half-heartedly at the screen of her tablet.
The news was playing back this morning's recording of GBS reporter Tracy Kallan was getting the scoop on Ms. Merlo's contribution to the urban renewal project. Tracy Kallan was their most photogenic news reporter, one of the "beautiful people" who could have made an excellent living doing photoshoots or acting, whether she had the talent or not. She'd had some work done, for sure. Deirdre Merlo was also similarly attractive, in a more exotic way compared to conventional American standards. Large, almond-shaped eyes, glossy black hair, and a darker somewhat golden skin tone that suggested an Indian veering towards Middle Eastern background. She looked like the very kind of person you would find on the red carpet or the catwalk in the latest winter fashion. Not behind the desk of a successful national company that dabbled in a little bit of everything.
"Why?"
The question did not come from Clark (as Lois would have preferred), but rather from their fellow reporter Joyce, an unmarried thirty-something who was still fishing around and tended to drop her panties at the first sight of someone young and attractive.
For some reason, the second she had brought her tablet out to watch the interview, Lois had drawn a crowd to Clark and herself in the Daily Planet lounge/break room. Aside from Joyce (who had spent more time this week eyeballing up Clark than doing anything else), there was Steve Lombarde, the burly muscle-bound sports columnist who was fond of shirts that put his hairy, manly chest on display. He walked around like a bronze Adonis with a package too big to fit between his legs.
Beside him was Brad Hunter, who was the extreme sports columnist and often spoke loudly of going into amateur motor-cross while showing off the scars he'd gotten from his weekend warrior-ing on the waters of Lake Testosterone.
Put together, Lombarde and Brad were possibly the single most obnoxious entity in the microcosm of the Daily Planet. Neither had been successful in wooing Lois into a date, but their only strategy was to flex their muscles and push for the best. It took a lot more than just a bunch of bulging muscle fibers and off-brand cologne to woo the likes of Ms. Lois Lane.
"She looks fake." Lois said, in response to Joyce's inquiry. "Look at that smile. I just wanna punch her teeth down her throat."
Lombarde drew his attention away from the screen and smiled toothily, pulling his lips back far enough that you could see the gold crown capping one of his molars.
"Why Lois, that sounds like jealousy." he commented. He had a deep baritone voice that was, tragically, quite smoky and sensual, like dark chocolate for the ears. If only it could have belonged to a less obnoxious pig...
"It's not jealousy. It's just a generalized feeling of ill-will and queasiness that springs from no actual reason." Lois explained. Her scowl wasn't as strong and defined as it normally was.
"Well, if you're not jealous, I'm a flying pig." Lombarde said, snorting in a manly if slightly phlemgy way.
Lois smiled. "That's right, Lombarde, you are a flying pig. Emphasis on 'pig'." she said.
"Whatever Lois, all I'm saying is that jealousy comes in many forms." Lombarde went on, while throwing an arm across Clark's shoulders like they were old buddies. "I guess any woman of your small--" He looked Lois up and down, looking for something specific, but had to settle for something general. "Small-ness -- would be jealous of Ms. Merlo's pouty lips, her perfectly natural and amazing tits and really Kent, check out the skirt's skirt."
Even the news cameraman had given in to the male gaze and he really oughta have stayed professional. When the image shifted to Tracy Kallan and Deirdre Merlo walking down a hall, the shot was definitely being taken from butt level.
"Ain't that the tightest ass you ever seen?" Lombarde went on appreciatively, poking an always sweaty finger on the screen to pause the playback and admire the view. Tight, round, lifted, what a view! "She must be firm, if you know what I mean."
"Oh yeah..." Brad agreed, swapping knowing looks with his fellow sports writer.
"Lois is firm." Clark said unthinkingly, his mind wandering back to the Monday afternoon when he had been pulling Lois out of Lake Superior. It was Friday now, but his hands hadn't forgotten the feel of her body. The gentle swell of her curves, the taut and quivering muscles, the overwhelming fragility he'd felt in those few moments when his mind had caught up with his hands and realized just how normal and breakable Lois was...
Then Clark caught a glimpse of Lois's reddening and appalled face, Joyce's dropping jaw, and realized just what Lombarde had actually meant by 'firm'.
Oh, that meant something else entirely...
"Kent," Brad started, leaning over the back of the couch. "Did you and Lois-- fandango?"
Clark felt himself redden. Lois turned absolutely crimson. Apparently taking this as confirmation, Lombarde let out a barking laugh and slapped Clark several times hard on the back, with a force that would have floored anyone else.
"Good job, Kent!" he roared. "'Bout time someone did the dirty dance with the Mad Dog! Good on you, kid! Collaring her like that takes guts!"
"You survived the night! I thought for sure she ate her partners' heads afterwards!" Brad agreed, nodding and looking mighty pleased with himself. "She didn't claw up your back too much?"
"Wh-What? I-- We--! Ah..." Clark's attempt at an explanation petered out before it even got started.
"How many rounds? Three or four?" Lombarde asked, fishing for details in a 'just between us guys' tone. "I always figured Lois would have a lot of stamina, with the shit she gets up to every day. I hope you had good recovery time, Kent. She must have worked you over hard. You look exhausted."
"I always figured that Lois would be a real demon in the sheets." Brad opined. "Y'know, scratching, biting. You got any teeth marks, Kent? Hickies or anything like that?"
"Guh..." Clark sputtered, his mind a useless churn of words. He met Lois's eyes from just two feet away and felt as helpless as she looked to get this situation back on track. He wasn't oblivious to Lois's expression, which was becoming increasingly angry and flustered, her cheeks turning red just as much as her hands were clenching like she was about to choke a bitch.
While Lombarde and Brad were busy patting Clark on the back and congratulating him for doing good, Joyce had an entirely different thought in her head.
"I can't believe you, Lois." she snapped, looking betrayed. "You know, it's hard enough for someone like me to find a good man without a wonton whore like you seducing every single available man--"
"Excuse me, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Lois demanded, turning slowly on the older woman like a turret. "You've slept your way through half the married men in the city--"
"Divorced." Joyce insisted.
"Almost divorced." Lois corrected. "I remember Ryan McKinnon from downstairs. The ink hadn't even started drying on the paperwork before you went down on him in a utility closet and you're calling me a wonton whore? I'm not the one preying on desperate men looking for a good rebound fuck--"
Joyce rolled her eyes. "Get over yourself, Lois. Stop projecting your massive insecurities onto me, just because I don't have to seduce innocent country boys who don't know any better--"
"Now that I think about it, the only guy Lois could get is the clueless country boy." Brad agreed, nodding.
"Yeah, she couldn't handle all this." Lombarde flexed all the way down to his waist (his muscles moved in a bizarre undulating motion) and he sent a dashing grin in Joyce's direction. "I like my women to have a little experience when it comes to utility closets."
"I'm sure I could handle all that." Joyce said, scanning the sports columnist's very muscular form, her eyes lingering on the noticeable bulge in Lombarde's tightly-fitted crotch. There was no doubting that Steve Lombarde was a very masculine specimen and his prowess wasn't entirely over-exaggerated, but he just flaunted it so much.
"Then go fuck each other already." Lois suggested sourly. "And leave me alone. I was having a nice lunch until you groakers showed up."
"Aw, don't be like that, foxy lady." Brad cooed, reaching to pat the younger reporter on the shoulders. "We're just being friendly, teasing. You know what that is, right?--"
"Don't even touch me!" Lois ordered, slapping at the oncoming hands.
"You need to smile more, Lois." Lombarde told her, leering. "Unbutton your blouse a little and--"
"That's enough." Clark said. He didn't raise his voice and he didn't sound particularly angry, but there was a commanding quality -- the Alpha Male tone that made really just about anyone take notice.
Brad and Lombarde were unapologetic Alpha Males. They flirted with and bedded and sweet-talked anyone they pleased. They were muscular, masculine, dominating, with a presence that could fill a room. Top dogs, the pair of them. Nobody was more superior than them.
But when Clark put up his spine for all to see, Lombarde and Brad uncharacteristically quieted.
"Ms. Lane and I did not have sex." Clark said. He had completely straightened out his shoulders to their broadest width and his overall height had grown by an inch. "The two of you need to keep your hands to yourselves, especially when you're in my presence. Hassling a woman for her sexual relations is not the behavior of a gentleman, or even a good man."
Clark directed a piercing glare at the two sports columnists. He didn't feel the subdued navy blue of his eyes was nearly as effective as the usual eerie bright blue, but the two older and larger men seemed to cow a little.
"Nor is it the behavior of a good woman." he added, directing the glare at Joyce as well, to make sure she knew he was including her in this. "If you're not going to be civil and treat myself and Ms. Lane with due respect, then you're more than welcome to leave. In fact, I encourage it."
Joyce got the message that Clark Kent was not going to be joining her in a utility closet rendezvous where the dress code didn't require pants and pushed off the couch, vacating the area with a sneer and a disgusted noise. Other than straightening out his usual hunched posture, Lois saw no other physical change come over the country hayseed, but she did see Lombarde do something she had never seen before.
The burly, muscle-bound columnist cowered.
It wasn't much of a cower; Lombarde's backbone and tendons were permanently pulled upright in the most intimidating posture he could make. Cowering was not a posture his body was accustomed to. But all the same, he effected as much of a cower as he was capable of. Like the beta wolf following his lead, Brad too seemed to fold in on himself. Their expressions weren't exactly shame-faced (too proud for that sort of display), but it was clear that they had just been called out and they knew it.
Lois had a sudden thought that Clark had just done the verbal equivalent of peeing on the table leg to mark his territory. He had fanned his tail feathers, puffed out his chest, and was ready to lock horns with the next dissenter. He was asserting his dominance over them, telling him that he was the Superior Alpha Male here.
For a moment, Lois firmly believed that Lombarde would fire a return volley and perform a flamboyant dominance display, but maybe he sensed something Lois didn't. Maybe that big nose of his was good for something other than snorting cheap cologne. He raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay, whatever you say." he said.
His tone was lackadaisical, but his posture was far from it. He had been defeated by a six-foot-something farm boy wearing a bad tie. And he knew it.
Lois quietly reveled in glee at this while Lombarde vacated the couch, taking Brad with him. The stench of their combined cologne started to fade. Clark watched them leave and Lois watched him stare after them, his jaw still set in a firm manner. A shiver darted down her spine and it was not an unpleasant one.
Wow, Alpha Male Clark Kent is kind of tingly.
"Heave your balls up off the floor, Smallville, before someone trips over them." Lois suggested, wiping the sweaty fingerprint off her tablet screen. "Where were you hiding that spine all week? I was this close to thinking you didn't have one."
Clark blinked owlishly through his glasses. "What?"
The transformation happened in an instant and the easily flustered hayseed with his hunched shoulders had returned, peering at his mentor with wide and weirdly innocent eyes. Lois smiled.
"Thank you, but I don't need you white-knighting for me. I can take care of myself." she said, closing out the Tracy Kallan interview. She'd had enough of Deirdre Merlo for the next month.
"Ah-- You're welcome?..." Clark rubbed the back of his head. "I wasn't really white-knighting... I was defending myself as well as you. I didn't like what they were saying about-- us."
"Then brace yourself, Smallville. By the end of the day, the rumor mill will have churned out the details of our sordid affair." Lois said briskly, opening another window on the tablet.
"Oh... great." Clark fell back into the flat cushions of the couch and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't want to deal with workplace drama."
"No one escapes that. It's a fact of life." Lois told him plainly. She scooted closer to him and showed him the tablet. "Here, this might brighten your day. When I asked, Lieutenant Sawyer at the Met P.D. Special Crimes Unit sent me the names of everyone they arrested at the meth lab bust Monday. So I started digging."
"What did you find out on Mr. Colon?" Clark asked, sitting up a little.
"Oh no, I don't care about Mr. Colon. He was just the hindbrain. He wasn't important in the wider picture." Lois swiped her finger across the touch-screen, bringing up a mug-shot. "I care about this guy. He's the forebrain and I want to know who he was reporting to."
Clark frowned a little at the mug-shot. It featured a grown man about his age, just under six foot. Sandy brown hair, almost-hazel eyes, and a rather distinct slope to his jawline and nose that struck a familiar chord in the reporter's memory.
"Is that Kyle Faust?" he wondered.
"Who? You know him?" Lois asked eagerly.
"I might." Clark took the tablet from her for a closer look. "He looks like one of my old classmates, from Smallville High. Kyle Faust."
"One of the bad boys?" Lois questioned. Anyone peddling meth in their twenties probably hadn't been the squeakiest of squeaky clean teenagers.
"He was one of the bullies who made the smarter kids do his homework for him." Clark replied. "Then he turned out to be part of a doomsday cult living in Smallville who believed that some ancient old god was destined to destroy the world once they had freed him from his mortal flesh."
Lois raised her eyebrows.
Clark shrugged. "They thought it was me."
It had been the most interesting and the one of the most harrowing moments of his life so far. There had been nothing like finding out that a doomsday cult had set up shop in Smallville. And there had really been nothing like finding out that the cult thought he was the mortal incarnation of some Lovecraftian style ancient deity whose destiny was to set the earth aflame and save the chosen few to populate the new world that would be born from the ashes of the old. And it would be a long time before anything surpassed waking up to find that he had been tied to an altar.
"And you still didn't leave town?" Lois questioned.
"The cult disbanded around the time of the meteor shower. I guess they thought it was cataclysmic enough." Clark explained. More like, they had disbanded because of the meteor shower. That tended to happen when a six-foot chunk of space rock took out the ceiling on its way down.
"Tiny Town sounds like a horror movie." Lois commented, shrugging. She cleared her throat. "Anyways, are you sure about the identity of the forebrain?"
"Not one hundred percent." Clark admitted. "It has been six or seven years since I last saw Kyle, but it does look very much like him."
Even in his two years abroad around the world, he hadn't really seen anyone who had the same particular slope to the nose and chin that had been Kyle's most distinctive feature.
"Great." Lois took her tablet back. "We should run that down to the police. They don't have much to go off of. The forebrain is vigorously exercising his right to remain silent and anyways, Turpin the Terrible says we can sit in on the questioning, so they're expecting us down there anyways."
"Turpin the Terrible?" Clark repeated.
"Don't stare at his eyebrows or they'll eat you." Lois advised.
She was joking. Probably.
They collected their coats from upstairs and made their way back downstairs to the lobby, informing Marilyn at the front desk that they would be heading out if anyone needed to get a hold of them.
The building that housed the Metropolis Police Department and affiliated services wasn't an unreasonable walking distance from the Daily Planet building. Not a walk you might feel inclined to make when the weather was awful, but Lois had a new coat. She had taken her swim in Lake Superior as a hint that she needed to invest in a longer, thicker winter coat. Her new coat draped to her knees, a black wool weave that had an interior down lining and a deep hood. She loved it.
"It's nice out." Clark commented, gamely ignoring the thicker snowfall. There hadn't been one day this week where it hadn't snowed enough to bury the city.
"Canada's throwing up on us."
"You have such a way with words, Ms. Lane."
"I do, thank you."
They set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Clark walked a little behind Lois to provide some sort of windbreak for her, since it was coming cold off the water. The cold didn't affect him nearly as much. Despite her new coat, Lois was still wearing skirts that weren't long enough to provide ample coverage (long enough to be office-appropriate, but otherwise...). She did have a new scarf and a good pair of gloves to match, so she was being more sensible about the winter weather.
They made it to the end of the block before Lois spoke up again.
"Hey Smallville, you said that you were adopted, right?"
"Uh, yeah." Clark nodded. He didn't remember telling her, but he must have. It wasn't something he really advertised to everyone he crossed paths with.
"Just out of curiosity, humor me -- have you ever thought about looking for your birth parents?" Lois wondered.
"I've thought about it, but I've never made an effort to follow through." he admitted.
"Wht not?"
Clark shrugged. "They're my parents, Johnathan and Martha Kent. They're always going to be my parents, no matter where I came from."
"Sentiment is fine, but didn't you ever get curious?" Lois asked. "You can't tell me you never stared at your ceiling at three in the morning wondering how you would have grown up if you hadn't been adopted."
No, Clark couldn't have or else he'd be a big fat liar. He was absolutely curious about his birth parents, those two people who had sent him here from beyond the stars. He wanted to know who they were, and why they had jettisoned him to Earth. He was an alien. He had been born on a different planet, into a different culture. He was from another world that was just as foreign and alien as the far side of Pluto.
Of course he wanted to know about his birth parents.
But how was he supposed to find out?
"Yes, I've gotten curious." he said to Lois. "I just- I don't know if I'd be able to find them, if I started looking. I mentioned that tornado in Smallville when I was a year old, remember? I was actually found in the fields nearby after the storm. No one ever came looking for me. Everyone figured I had been orphaned by the storm."
A look of surprise shot all over Lois's face. Clark wondered what her face would have looked like if he'd told her the actual truth. He had been found in the field, yes, but his parents tended to leave the part about the spaceship out of the re-telling. They didn't mention the gabbling language he'd been speaking; baby babble to the uninformed, but anyone with a PhD in linguistics would have found it shockingly structured. Given the ferocity of the tornado that had leveled Smallville, no one had seen any reason to question the story the Kents had given. A storm orphan was more than plausible, under the circumstances.
"But you might have living relatives." Lois insisted.
Not on this planet.
Clark just shrugged, glancing down the street to see if it was clear. There was a fuel tank truck stalled on the curb on the other side, flashing its yellow hazard lights.
It was entirely possible that his birth parents had indeed left him a means of getting all his questions answered. They would have had the foresight to do as much, knowing that he would have a lot of questions. And he had a lot of questions.
And if there was something like that, it would definitely be on the ship...
Clark's eyes drifted to the stalled fuel truck, its long, gleaming tank gathering a patchy layer of snow while the driver argued with the tow-truck man. He heard the screech of a car and the wail of police sirens from just down the street, heading up this way fast. He saw a small child, no more than four years old, lose her tiny grip on a bouncy rubber ball that rolled away into the street. The child tugged her hand out of her mother's and went to retrieve the ball with no mind for the fact it was in the middle of the street, just past the stalled truck.
Clark saw the get-away car and its entourage of police squad cars roar through the intersection.
He saw the patch of ice on the road and the get-away car's path of travel and just knew what was going to happen next.
The get-away car hit the ice patch and spun out.
He saw this all in a span of three seconds and knew that he couldn't just stand there to watch helplessly. Because he could do something.
And then he moved.
"Well, if you want to start looking for them, this is a good job to have because connections, Smallville." Lois started encouragingly, because she was about three seconds behind and lacking the perception of the world that Clark had.
Then she saw the get-away car spin out, its brakes squealing as the driver struggled to stop in time, but the forward momentum was too out of control. And she saw Clark, closing in on the tiny child and her bouncy ball.
The next thing Lois was totally sure of was the fuel truck going up in a gunshot explosion of flames.
"Clark!"
For a split second, winter was banished as the fireball roared up into the air and intense heat rolled across the street, so much that Lois thought her face would scald the second the cold air rushed back in. Then the flames receded back towards the truck.
The damage wasn't extensive. It had been a brief, if violent explosion, but the initial burst had died out quickly. There was still a lot of shrieking, however, that echoed in Lois's ringing ears alongside the police sirens. She saw someone go streaking by with their clothes on fire. The flaming bystander was tackled by another brave bystander and shoved into the slushy snow in the street gutter.
The truck driver and the tow man were singed, but otherwise unharmed. The driver of the get-away car had doubtlessly not lived through that, judging from the blackened and scorched frame of the vehicle. There was the shocked mother, staring at the place that her daughter had been occupying just seconds ago.
Where Clark had been just seconds ago.
"Clark?" Lois called out, surprised to find that her voice was trembling. No, that was just the adrenaline. Not the fear that the stupid rookie might have been charbroiled! Not her clueless hayseed of a partner!
I still need him!
"Clark!"
Lois put anger into her voice this time, hoping a little display of temper would draw him out. Prove that he hadn't been neatly incinerated. Her own voice seemed to cut sharp in her throat and there was a suspicious kind of lump...
She felt it blossoming in her chest, a panicky sort of fear that sprang from some place raw and primal and visceral. The kind that put tears in your eyes, whether you wanted them or not. For a second, Lois felt irrational. Just irrational. She had known Clark exactly four days. She didn't really like him all that much. He was untested, a rookie, so green around the edges he could have sent out shoots like a tree. They weren't friends. How could she be friends with a Kansas hayseed who politely called her "Ms. Lane" and held the door open for her?...
But people said that when you went through a dangerous situation with a person, you couldn't help but be friends with them. Because that hazardous, stressful occurrence was the thing that showed you what that person was made of. It bypassed all that introductory stuff and opened them up like the answer section of a textbook and in thirty seconds, you knew that person better than you could have imagined for having met them three hours earlier.
Clark had saved Lois's life when he could have saved only himself.
She knew him very well, whether she wanted to or not.
She might even consider calling him a friend.
I still need him...
Across the street, the mother started to make horrible, pitiful noises while the people around her tried to offer some meager comfort. Then a loud wailing sob pierced through the noise of the sirens and the ringing in Lois's ears. She lurched around, wobbling on her two-inch heels and--
Clark!
There he was, all six-plus feet of him clutching the little girl who was busy screaming lustily in fright. His coat was smoking, his hair was standing straight up, there were embers sparking along his shoulders, and he looked absurdly proud of himself, that broad smile and gleaming eyes, never mind the smear of soot on his cheek or the red tint of his skin.
There should have been theme music, as he strode and the hem of his long coat spread out around him like a cape. A brass band trumpeting out something like the chorale piece from "Jupiter". That long, serene yet triumphant fanfare that oozed hope for a brighter tomorrow.
All of a sudden, Lois felt absurdly proud of him.
The girl's mother made a hysterical noise and bolted across the street to retrieve her daughter. Clark released the little girl back to her sobbing mother's grateful arms through a patter of applause, then turned and made his way back over to Lois.
His polyester tie was singed, his coat trailing smoke, and his hair must have caught fire at the tips, though it looked attractively wind-blown. Otherwise, he looked no worse for wear and wore a rather jaunty smile.
"Sorry about that, Ms. Lane. What were you saying?" he asked, as though he had done nothing more than stop to tie his shoelaces.
Lois stared him in a moment of disbelief and shock before she found her voice.
"I am not proud of you!" she told him sternly. "That was stupid and you smell like a bonfire!"
"But the little girl's safe?" Clark shrugged. He looked over his shoulder at the wreck. "I wish I could say the same for the car driver..." he added sadly. But there would have been no way to rescue both of them and call it a fluke. In the end, his attention had been focused on that tiny life; getting that girl out alive.
Lois patted his smoking coat sleeve. "Try not to think on it." she advised. She considered offering him some further advice, about looking at it as though the driver had already dug his grave, thrown his life away, and other sentiments like that, but looking at Clark's downcast face told her that such commentary would not be appreciated at this time.
If it had been anyone else, Lois would have gone on with that commentary no matter how callous it seemed, because she had learned long ago not to get hung up on what other people thought about her. If they wanted to dislike her, who was she to stop them?
But for once, she didn't want someone thinking badly of her. She didn't want Clark thinking badly of her.
"C'mon, the police are going to want a statement from us." she said, taking his arm to lead him to the nearest squad car. "And then we can write the story."
Clark blinked and then shook his head. "Is that all you think about?"
"When the news happens in front of you, don't hesitate. It's how we make our living, Smallville." Lois reminded him. "Besides, it'll be a nice feel-good story for the public. Not a front-pager, exactly, but it's a good scoop. Just focus on the brave thing you did. I don't know too many people who'd rush into a fireball like that. It'll be a good human interest story."
Clark still wished that he could have saved the car driver as well, but he wasn't a super-human. He wasn't even human, but that was only a biological thing. He was still human down to the bottom of his alien heart. And a human couldn't save everyone.
The car driver was dead, true, but Clark had also prevented a larger tragedy. One could argue that the driver had signed his death certificate the instant he decided to do whatever it was that put the cops on his tail. That didn't mean he hadn't deserved to be saved, that his death wasn't tragic, but he had been fully aware of the consequences. Not like the little girl who had just gone to get her ball.
I could have saved the driver too. I have these powers and I could have used them to save the driver. Clark thought, glancing at the scorched, wrecked car when they passed it at a distance. He could just see the charred form in the front seat.
But I don't think I could have done it as Clark Kent...
There was a funny thing about social media. Back in 2003, no one had cared about it. Social media and networking sites like AnneX and Tripod and Shuttr had existed, all design to share with and connect to users around the world. But no one had been terribly interested. Try though they did, the marketing teams had failed to uncover any really good reason for the lack of interest.
And then, the very next year, the entertainment branch of WayneTech had unveiled their first generation Pearl smartphone and the Diamond tablet computer (slate and hybrid options), both featuring the Portal Mobile OS and connecting to the internet through the Mosaic Bubble Wireless Network. Then, practically overnight, it became very very easy to access the internet from just about anywhere.
And social media just exploded in response. Shuttr, AnneX, and Tripod tripled their user capacity within the first six months. Other sites like Chirp, Jumblr, and Anthill, Pixart, Ping, and Corkboard were created and they became very popular very quickly. The usual dating sites came into use, the two most popular these days being Hitch and Verge. Ease of access seemed to be the driving force and the marketing teams quickly urged their companies to make the user interfaces much less complicated and much more welcoming.
Suddenly, the world was connected in a way it had never been before.
And all because WayneTech had created a phone that could access the internet wherever it was.
By the time the Pearl G2 had been released in mid-2006, other companies had gotten in on the smartphone action. Queen Consolidated had put out the Crown G1 and the accompanying Q-pad tablet on the Nebula Mobile OS. LexCorp had followed with their Odyssey G1, marketing it as the smartphone that would make the Pearl obsolete. But the Pearl was idiot-proof, user-friendly, and fairly inexpensive, whereas the Odyssey still needed tweaking in those departments. Nonetheless, it was still popular for those who could afford it and had the patience to figure it out.
Needless to say, by the time Clark Kent saved a small child from a fiery death, nine out of every ten people had a smartphone and were very proficient at not just capturing the scene, but posting it somewhere online five minutes later. They Chirped about it. They blogged about it. GIFs and screen-captures were on Jumblr and Shuttr within the hour. By the end of the day, half the world had seen it.
The majority opinion was that Clark had just gotten very lucky to exit the fireball with just some singed clothes. A miracle, an act of God. The blessings of the patron saint who looked out for inherently good people like Clark Kent.
There was also the paranoid minority who blogged frantically about aliens, immortals, chosen ones, lizard men, and whatever else that people sincerely believed was out there in the world.
And then it crossed the desks of men like Dr. Anthony Sullivan. Despite the ominous build-up, he was not a bad guy. He worked as a mechanical engineer for S.T.A.R. Labs and in his free-time, he was an amateur star-mapper. Only "amateur" because he didn't get paid for his contributions to the world of stellar cartography.
He was considered intelligent and capable and ahead of his time, but his coworkers commented that he was further 'round the twist than most scientists. Indeed, he was slowly laying claim to the title "mad scientist" for how radical his ideas were compared to the current status of today's technology. For example, when Mars was in perihelion and at its closest to Earth, travel time was anywhere between four and nine months. One of Dr. Sullivan's purported advancements in technology could reduce that time to just two months, regardless of where Mars was in its orbit.
But he had no way of proving it was possible because the current level of technology just couldn't manage that so soon. So they called him mad and let him tinker away with things because most of the time, he came up with improvements that were useful and possible.
All the while, Dr. Sullivan let himself quietly stew at his work-bench and hoped that the universe would find it suitable to give him a break.
He got that break. When the video of Clark Kent diving into a fireball to save a little girl popped up on his newsfeed and Dr. Sullivan suddenly felt very validated. To him, it finally meant that he had not lived the last two decades in vain. It meant there was still some hope that things could turn out all right in the end.
Dr. Sullivan paused the playback and touched the screen when it had caught Clark's full image. Right there - there was the hope for the future he had been waiting for. At last.
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