Clark met Lois in the Plaza Hotel lobby at the appointed time. He took in the marble floors, the towering pillars with high ceilings to match. A luxurious cavern that reminded him rather of a train station, with travelers running to and fro, albeit well heeled ones, only with more decoration, more glitz and glamor, to disguise the transitory nature of this place – grand canvases hanging on the walls, giant potted plants, and the sparkling chandelier hanging over reception, however he turned right into the lounge, with its scattered fine leather seating centered around low lying coffee tables, like miniature solar systems and found Lois already there, off in her own little world, notebooks and newspaper articles spread around her and chewing on the end of her pencil, a nervous habit he hadn't seen her do for some time.

There were a few other journalists he recognized waiting with them, along with hotel guests and visitors, but this wasn't a press junket. One of the penthouse suites had been rented out for the purpose of receiving interviewers. A home away from home.

She waved distractedly to him as he sat down across from her, her eyes never leaving her papers, but he did not take personal offense. He knew how focused she became before interviews, and did not say anything more to her, respecting her process. Besides, he wasn't feeling very talkative either, too distracted by the myriad, unexplainable sensations he was experiencing: sweat forming on his neck, skin prickling, the hairs on his arms standing on end. And the impression of a terrible stillness in the air, choking and heavy.

He had learned to trust his instincts, those knowings that spoke in different, ways, without words and beyond reason, for nothing he knew at the moment warranted this reaction. He had told Lois previously if she should ever need his assistance, he would help in any way possible. She had already told him she had a bad feeling, and still did, judging by her silence and concentration. And though they did not speak nor share as easily to each other as they once did, he felt it necessary to reach across that divide to communicate what he knew, and to hope that she would understand what he was saying, despite not having adequate words.

"Lois."

"Yeah?"

"Something's not right. I don't know what, but..."

She reached over took his hand in an iron grip. She looked him in the eye, and he knew she took him seriously, just as he had taken her seriously, back at the Daily Planet. Then, she gave him a smile that said come hell or high water, she was ready.

"Don't worry Kent. Just stick close to me. We'll be fine. But do me a favor: let me do the talking."

He planned on doing just that, as she went back to her notes, and he went over his, until it was their turn. They took the elevator up together, an altogether different feel than their last shared lift; then at odds with each other, this time in solidarity, strangely at odds against the stranger they were about to meet.

And he pondered, as the floor numbers on the electronic display grew larger and larger, did it always have to be that way? Could people only throw aside their differences and petty, personal disagreements, could people only unite in the face of a common enemy?

"Ah, Ms. Lane. Welcome, I have been looking forward to meeting you most. I have great respect for your writing. Please, sit down."

"Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls, but thanks anyways."

Despite Lois's brash reply, Clark knew she was already on the defensive, could hear her increased heart rate and he couldn't say he blamed her. The feeling of intimidation from this man was much, much worse in person. Tall, even taller than Clark, and heavily built, also more so than Clark, muscles barely contained in the black suit clinging to his shoulders. Hair like crude oil and eyes like onyx, hard and unflinching.

It was his voice though, that was most displeasing. Supremely confident in a way Clark had never heard before. It was different than Lex's prideful boasting, different than Batman's low growl, different than Diana's steady fire; it was chillingly impenetrable in its power.

"I assure you, I am most sincere. And would you do me the honor of introducing your companion?"

"Yeah, sorry about the last minute change of plans, but such a big article, figured why not have two minds instead of one working on it? I will still ask the questions just as we planned, but this here is Clark Kent."

Clark stuck out his hand almost in spite of himself, plastering a smile on his face, but also having the urge to place himself between this man and Lois, even though he knew she would never ask him to do so.

"Pleased to meet you, and please don't mind me during the interview. I'm just going to be taking some notes here for Ms. Lane."

"Don't let his quaint small town manners fool you. Kent's got a mind like a steel trap. He's also here as my walking reference book and fact checker."

"Is he now? Your presence is unexpected, but do believe my sincerity once again, when I say that I could not be happier you have joined us."

As Clark was trying to process the undertone of that statement, for to his surprise, he did believe the sincerity, yet could not understand why that would be so, only to have that non-understanding rocket out of control when the man took Clark's hand in his, the force behind it terrifying in its irrationality.

It was not lightning and thunder that struck him through, nor was it a sense of flying or being thrown, or sinking and drowning, to have this man's fingers wrap around his palm. It was complete and utter blackness.

A black hole of grief and despair and rage, of things so beyond his comprehension he could not name them, as well as the most unsettling feeling of being stitched together with him, that not only their skin but their very souls were in contact, contact that felt absolutely and utterly irrevocable.

That the hand in his would never let him go, and neither would the fate that had brought them to meet today, that theirs was a shared destiny, encasing them in chains and strangling them to the point where Clark felt he literally could not speak, could not see, could not breathe.

And how surreal that was. To have his inner and outer experiences so out of alignment with each other. Traversing a deep mystery within, while without he was standing in the sitting room of a penthouse suite ready to conduct an interview, that would begin and end, that Lois would later write an article about, and that he would most likely never see this man again.

"Are you alright, son? You're suddenly pale. Perhaps you're dressed too warm for the weather today, it is unseasonably warm. Take that coat of yours off and sit down while I get you a drink of water."

"I… I'll do that, thank you." Clark managed, as he did indeed sit, as did Lois in the chair beside him, and without thought, he reached for her hand underneath the table, as though he was gripping for dear life, and her brow immediately furrowed, and she ducked her head low to urgently whisper.

"Sweetheart, what is it?"

He could only shake his head.

He didn't know. He truly didn't know. It was even more inexplicable than the current reality that he and his ex-girlfriend were now huddling together, holding hands, with her having just called him the pet name that, even when they were dating, she had rarely used with him.

That despair did not dissipate, try as he might, to root himself to reality, that Lois was asking questions and this man was answering them, they had found a relatively easy rhythm with each other, that Lois was not needing to be nearly as aggressive, as Clark had at times seen her have to be, that the man was not needlessly evasive, he was calm and collected and never lost his temper even in the slightest.

The sun was shining outside, and shining into the beautifully neutral room they were sitting in, peach and cream colors abundant, the scent of a fresh bouquet of flowers wafting around them. Everything was going swell, fine as it could be. Lois' heart rate had returned to normal, the man's had never left it, yet his own heart-rate never stabilized, it pulsed and thrummed, beating loud as a drum. Neither could he control the sweating that had started and wouldn't stop, under his arms, his back and the back of his neck and he fought the urge to loosen his tie, as the minutes and seconds dragged.

How laughable, he had thought he was coming here to protect Lois, and instead after a few pre-interview jitters, she was managing fine on her own, swell, as she often did, carrying the conversation as she had always intended to do.

Even their guise for him being here hadn't worked out as intended, for when he checked his copious notes, after the clock had ticked almost all their time away, he was disturbed to find nothing more than a mess of lines and dots and squiggles. It looked vaguely Kryptonian, except for the fact that not matter what language one tried to read this in, the letters were completely illegible. And ditto for when he thought back on what he had heard, and couldn't remember a single story or thread or fact or anecdote that had been spoken.

He had gone through the motions of listening and writing without actually doing them, and he hastily removed his pages from possible viewing, closing his notepad and stuffing it rather gracelessly into his briefcase as the interview mercifully came to a close. He heard Lois making some final chit chat, and he steeled himself for one final confrontation with this man, who had and continued to so profoundly unnerve him, who had rent from him all sense of stability to the point where he was questioning his sanity.

He had been in the presence of plenty of folks who bore him ill will, who had punched, kicked, outright beaten him, who had shot him, spouted profanities and curses at him, and yet none of them compared to how this man caused him to feel, and as said man took his hand in parting, and as his eyes dragged Clark's to his, those bottomlessly dark eyes that once Clark made the mistake of daring to peer into them bound Clark's to his, just as the hand in his was binding, a crushing weight, ready, willing, and able to drag Clark down to the depths, of where he did not know, only that it was further down than he ever wanted to go, yet with the amount of force this man wielded, Clark was of half a mind to let him.

Let him take him, for he could see no other alternative. Clark could not stop the shudder that ran through him at this concession of defeat, yet after that, there was an eerie relief, as his shoulders relaxed, no longer trying to bear the brunt of this unseen battle, but simply giving in, because he could go on no further.

His grip on the other man's hand also gave out – and in a moment when he wasn't sure of much anything else, when even his super-powered body seemed to be failing him – he was at least assured in his earlier deductions when the other man did not let go of him.

Even as the rest of his body followed suit, as simultaneously as if someone had thrown a switch, he was in a heap on the floor, and of course, he was not alone. The man had still not let go of him, had actually supported him on his way down, was in the process of moving him to a different position, picking him up and tossing him over one shoulder as easily as if Clark weighed but a feather's worth, as though he and his weight were no problem at all.

He heard Lois call out his name, his first, he noted absently, and he heard the rumble of this man's vocal cords up close, as he spoke to Lois, and Clark desperately wanted to tell her that though he had conceded, he did not like this and he did not want this, did not want to be incomprehensibly connected to this man, and did not want this man to transport him he knew not where.

Yet, what could he expect her to do about it? Carry him herself? Lois was many things, but she could not support him as a deadweight, and it was too late. That was no parting handshake anyway, it was the end and the beginning and the end all wrapped up into one indistinguishable loop, and Clark already knew it: as surely as he knew he was about to lose all consciousness; as surely as he knew he would eventually get it back; as surely as he knew when the man let go of him – laying him down on a soft, giving surface, a couch Clark believed – that this would not be the end of his contact with him.

It was only beginning and ending and beginning, and there was one final rush – of energy or adrenaline, he could not say – but it allowed him to open his eyes, to see the man's looking right back at him, ablaze with aims and ends Clark knew little of, and to put the sum of his wonderings into one pitifully whispered question.

"Who are you?"

The answer he got, equally quiet, only meant for the two of them, was both delay and confirmation, and that gave him profound relief, that this was not imagined only, on his part, though the man could surely deny he had ever said it afterwards, it was so vague.

Clark heard it regardless. "In time, son. In time."

However, it was the deliriously pleased smile that overtook the man's face after he said it that was the true answer, the most revealing, the one he could not hide, as though for all his power and brilliance and fortune, he had just received the one thing he truly wanted.

Something Clark could look forward to going over and over again, as to why that could possibly be, however for now, the rush was gone, and the light behind his eyes gone along with it.