Agent Davison knew things were going to get bad, but he didn't realize how fast.
The streets of Metropolis were in chaos!
Cars were racing through the streets at life threatening speeds, only to crash into one another, making a traffic nightmare even worse. People fled their wrecked vehicles and took to the streets on foot, clutching their belongings tightly, running as fast as they could down the crowded roads.
Already the looting had begun. Store fronts were broken in; everyone from young teens to the elderly climbed in and out of their dark interiors, carrying everything from electronics, to clothes, to gallon and 24pack cases of water; to medications and first aid supplies.
A store owner was standing in front of his store with a shotgun in hand, waving it nervously back and forth as a small group threatened to rush him and overtake him. A quick blast into the air showed that he meant business and sent his would be attackers and looters fleeing.
And Agent Davison watched it all from the passenger side of the large black SUV.
Agent Sanders was behind the wheel, navigating cautiously along the opposite side of Metro Parkway. The red and blue lights danced off the cars they passed, the buildings that stood abandoned and forgotten, and the faces full of fear and terror, despair and uncertainty.
They were headed towards Midtown; 1938 June Street to be exact. Clark Kent was easy enough to find in the Metropolis Department of Motor Vehicles database. Agent Davison's also ran his name through the MPD's database, with unusual results; he didn't find a thing. Not so much as a parking ticket. Clark Kent had no criminal record. Had never received a ticket, paid his taxes on time like clockwork, and appeared to be, by all standards, a model citizen.
That alone made Davison nervous. This man, this Clark Kent, had grown up in a small mid-western town of Smallville, Kansas; graduated high school, and then simply disappeared completely from the grid. For nearly the next six years, Clark Kent seemed to have fallen off the planet! No reissued Drivers Licenses, Identification Cards, known address, Social Security records or tax filings; not even so much as a library card.
And then, "poof", like magic, he reappears and lands a job at the Daily Planet as a staff reporter, gets a Drivers License, and apartment, and a life. A few years later, he and Lois Lane file for a marriage license, they get hitched, and live happily ever after. At least until his budding bride lands on every television channel from here to Katmandu, getting tortured by a psychotic lunatic who's resume includes blowing up a ferry full of people and a school bus.
So far, all attempts to contact Mr. Kent had been in vain. They tried his home line repeatedly, only to leave numerous messages on the answering machine. They called his job and were told he left work early the day before and hadn't returned since. They tried his cell phone, only to leave more urgent messages. They could only hope he would still be home and not scrambling through the chaotic city streets.
Yes, Agent Davison decided; there was more to Mr. Clark Kent than he let on. The only question was "how much more"?
"Sir?" Sanders broke the silence.
"What's on your mind, Sanders?" he answered, not looking at her.
"Back at the office, sir… I'm sorry…"
"Sorry for what?" he asked, although he knew the answer.
"I kinda lost it in there," she admitted. "Seeing that woman tortured like that… the pain she was in… I… I just couldn't handle it. But I want you to know that it won't happen again, sir."
Agent Davison sighed. He sat up straight in his seat and looked at her evenly.
"Agent Sanders, I want you to listen to me very carefully;" he began. The other agent tensed slightly in her seat and struggled with the decision of which was more important at the moment; looking at the road, or the man sitting beside her.
The road won… but not by much.
"The day seeing something like that doesn't affect you, even if it's just a little, is the day your off this team. Do you understand me?"
Sanders glanced at him, her face and eyes full of confusion. "Sir?"
Agent Davison turned back towards the window. A small boy was standing alone on the street. He was crying. Two men ran past him, neither far out of their teens, and both looking like they were already well acquainted with the judicial system. One of the men looked back and gestured towards the other. They stopped and approached the small boy slowly.
The younger looking of the two placed a gentle hand on the boys shoulder and knelt beside him. The boy immediately turned into him and cried against his chest. The man lifted the boy in his arms and they three of them continued on up the street.
Agent Davison let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"You know why I joined the MHD?" he asked softly.
"No, sir." Sanders answered.
Davison was silent for a long moment before he answered. "I was a rookie agent. My partner and I had chased a serial murder suspect into this ratty, run down strip mall. Our guy was fond of fire. Seven girls over three years; each one between five two and five four, seventeen or eighteen years old; brown hair, brown eyes. All of them had that 'girl next door' look. They were all found burnt beyond recognition. We had to use dental records, and in one case, DNA, to identify one of the vics. Forensics couldn't figure out what kind of substance this guy was using. It wasn't gasoline, wasn't an explosive, wasn't napalm, wasn't white phosphorus. It was something they had never seen before…
"Anyway, we had the guy cornered, and my partner goes in first. And as soon as he turns the corner, a ball of fire blows out the door and knocks me through a wall. My partner caught the full force of the blast. There wasn't enough left of him to fill an ashtray."
Agent Sanders glanced at him again. Davison continued to stare out the window.
"Turns out; our man was a pyrokenetic. He could create and manipulate fire with his mind. And our man wasn't a man… he was a seventeen year old boy. The victims had all been girls he was trying to score with. Maybe they said 'no' and he lost his temper. Maybe they said 'yes' and he lost control…"
Silence again, long and deep. Only the distant sounds of a terrified city floated through the SUV's dark interior. Screams, cries for help, gunshots, fire alarms…
"I signed up for the MHD right after. I realized that the world was changing. The rules were changing. We're not fighting men with guns and knives and bombs anymore. We're fighting people who can bench press trucks, and run faster than the speed of sound, people who can fly, people made out of metal, people from other planets and different dimensions. People who can kill you by just thinking it. People who can scream so loud your brain turns to jelly and your insides explode. People who can make your worst nightmares come true. We're fighting against real monsters.
"And the only difference between us and them is this." He pointed to his chest.
"Powers don't make you a monster, Sanders. It's losing your heart. It's losing touch with those around you… those without any powers. Once that happens, once you can't connect with them, can't feel their pain or their suffering… that's when their lives mean nothing to you. Nothing at all. And that's when you become a monster. The kid, he had every chance to turn himself in, to find help, after the first girl. But he didn't. Not after the first, not after the seventh. He thought his powers placed him above the law. He lost touch with his humanity.
"What we saw in there was tough to watch. You cried because you felt that woman's pain. That's not something you should apologize for. It means you were in touch with her humanity. Don't lose that. Ever! If you do, Agent Sanders, and you will no longer have a place on the MHD. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." She answered. "I understand completely."
"Good." Davison responded, and was silent again.
"Sir?" Sanders said after a long moment.
"Yeah?"
"The broadcast… it didn't seem to affect you… I mean… you didn't really show any emotion…"
"Not showing emotion is not the same as not having any."
"I realize that, sir. But… I was just wondering… How do you do it? How do you stay so focused and level headed when everything around you is going to hell in a hand basket?"
"Serenity Prayer." He answered simply.
"Excuse me?"
He sighed. "Lord, Give me the strength to change the things I can, the patience to accept the things I cannot…"
"And the wisdom to know the difference." Sander finished.
Davison looked at her. "There are only two types of problems in this world, Agent; the ones you can change and the ones you can't. There was nothing we could do for Mrs. Lane at that moment. But we could start working on getting there. You focus on that, on the task at hand, and you work on the things you can change and maybe, just maybe, you'll get a chance to work on the things you thought you can't." He looked back out the window.
The SUV made a left, then a right, and three blocks later, another left. It stopped finally in front of the large high-rise building. Two MPD squad cars were already parked along the curb, a total of three uniformed officers and one detective were standing outside the building, waiting for the two agents to arrive.
Sander parked and turned of the ignition.
"Sir?"
Agent Davison turned and looked at her.
"What happened to the boy? The pyrokenetic?"
Agent Davison regarded her carefully, then turned towards his door and pulled on the handle.
"I killed him." He answered as he climbed out and closed the door behind him.
"Is he in there?" Agent Davison asked as he approached the other men.
"We've watched a few people leave, but as far as we can tell, he wasn't one of them. He could have skipped out before we arrived, but there's no way to tell." The detective answered. "If he's in there, he's in there."
"Alright… we go up!" Davison began. "But I want to be clear on this; this guy probably just saw his wife being tortured on national television. I don't even want to imagine what that does to a man, but the last thing we want to do is let our guard down in there."
"You saying he's a suspect?" the detective asked.
"I'm saying that his wife was just feed what looked like enough volts to light a few dozen Christmas trees and maybe he saw it. If he did, he hasn't made any attempt to contact the authorities for help, hasn't answered his phone, and if he's home, hasn't made any attempt to flee a city that may just go 'boom' in a couple hours!"
"Speaking of which…" one of the uniforms asked. "How much time are we planning on spending up there with this guy?"
Agent Davison looked at him… hard. "Officer…?"
"McNeal." The man answered.
"Officer McNeal." Agent Davison said in an even tone. "Consider yourself relieved. The rest of you, follow me."
And, mouth open and speechless, Officer McNeal watched them enter the building.
Unit 1221 was in the southeast corner of the building. The layout of the building was such that each floor had a no more than six units on each. The twelfth floor was no exception.
The elevator doors opened into a large oval space. The hall was well lit by recessed cans in the ceiling spaced roughly eight feet apart. The light played will off the cream colored walls with gold and silver accents. The wall to the left was home to a small round table, a small plant sat atop it. A large mirror hung above it. To the right was a large floor plant that was fake, but of high quality.
Agent Davison and Agent Sanders stepped out first, followed by the detective, and then the uniforms. The floor was covered with a rich tan colored carpet that made Agent Davison wonder how much a unit in this building went for. Not to mention what the Association Dues must be. He imagined the carpet was vacuumed daily and shampooed once a month, if not more. The oval space opened up in to a hallway that lead both to the left and the right.
Unit 1223 was directly in front of them, two large, ornate cherry wood doors with a square brass numbered plaque centered on the door to the right. To either side of the doors were larger plaques, the one on the left read "1221, 1225" with an arrow pointing left, the one on the right read "1222, 1224, 1226" with an arrow pointing right.
Agent Davison went left. The others followed.
Unit 1221 was at the end of the hall; a dead end of two cherry wood doors with its own numbered brass plaque.
Davison knocked on the door.
"Mr. Kent!? This is Agent Davison of the FBI, Meta Humans Division! We'd like to ask you some questions!"
There was no answer.
He knocked again, twice as hard. The large double doors shook slightly.
"MR. KENT!?" he shouted. "If you're in there, please let us in! We need to talk to you about your wife, Lois Lane…"
And again… there was only silence.
"Maybe we missed him…" one of the uniforms said. "Guys probably half way to Gotham by now."
There was a sound from the other side of the door then, faint and distant… The sound of glass breaking…
Agent Davison drew his gun. The others followed suit. He crouched low and to the left of the door, Agent Sanders went to the right side. The detective and uniforms took up flanking positions behind him.
The two agents exchanged glances. Sanders nodded, signaling she was ready. Davison nodded back.
He took a deep breath, raised his leg and kicked as hard as he could at the space between the two doors.
The lock broke, the wood splintered, and the door swung in, the two agents swinging in with it, the weapon of one agent sweeping high, the other sweeping low.
The apartment was dim, a small table lamp the only light. A figure was kneeling on the floor in the space between the coffee table and the wall. A flat screen television was mounted on the wall above the figure; its screen smashed and broken, a statue of some kind sticking out its center. Shards of glass sprinkled the carpeted floor below.
The two agents stepped cautiously towards the figure and took up station on either side of the kneeling figure, their weapons aimed at the back of its head. Agent Davison motioned to the detective and the uniforms. And without a word, they quickly fanned out to check the rest of the unit.
"Mr. Kent?" Davison said softly as he approached.
He knelt there, his shoulders slumped forward, the blue collard shirt spread wide over a muscular back… a back that shuddered now as Davison heard the tell tale signs of sobbing.
"Mr. Kent…" he said again, his voice soft and clear. "I'm Special Agent Davison of the FBI's Meta Human Division. This is my partner, Agent Sanders. We are here to help you, Mr. Kent, but you need to show me your hands."
And then, the faintest of moans escapes the lips of the kneeling figure. He raised his hands into the air slowly as he cried, his body shaking with each sob.
The tension drained a little from Agent Davison as he realized that the man before him held no weapons. The two uniforms and the detective returned to the living room, weapons still drawn, and shook their heads at Davison. There was no one in the unit besides them.
"Please…" the figure said softly, his face turning towards him.
Agent Davison looked down at the man; his black hair desperate for a trim and tossed about his head almost bang-like. His deep blue eyes; red and swollen and puffy with tears, partially hidden behind his thick, round glasses; his lips quivering as even now he tried to speak in a voice that seemed to fail him…
"Please…" Clark Kent said softly, his pleading eyes fixed on Agent Davison's own brown orbs. "Please help me find my Lois. Help me find my wife."