Fine. Clark had been... how should he put it. Lowballing. Yeah. He'd maybe, somewhat to a degree been lowballing how many times he'd accidentally sort of mostly obliviously foiled assassination plots against him.
At least for this particular one he could say he'd been aware of it. Kind of. Not the assassination part of it, exactly, but.
Clark was trying, alright. He figured it all out eventually. That's all that really mattered, anyways, right?
.
[2 months 20 days ago]
Clark found himself walking home later than usual thanks to the latest journalistic investigation he'd been put on; the sun had already begun its descent in the sky.
Ironically enough, Mr. White had put Clark on the case of the unsanctioned demolition that'd occurred in the unoccupied warehouse downtown - the very one that'd blown up with Clark in it, not that his boss knew. No, although Clark was quite shocked to find out that the demolition hadn't been mandated, he kept his mouth shut on his personal involvement with the issue, not wanting to bring attention to his 'miraculous' survival. He was thankful that, as it turned out, Mrs. Clancy had quit her job at the Daily Planet that very day for some work opportunity (of which kind, Clark didn't know) in Morocco. It meant that she wasn't around to obliviously mention that the bombing site was where she'd had plans to meet with Clark that same day.
Clark was drawn from his musings as a scratchy voice barked out, "Hey," and he slowed his stroll to a stop, glancing questioningly to the side.
He had to withhold the urge to let out an exasperated sigh, instead dawning on a fearful expression as he hunched his shoulders in and ducked his head to look 'up' at the other man. Said man was at least a foot shorter than him, and his weight reflected the same difference. Still, the guy was standing menacingly at the entrance of the dark, narrow alleyway with a rather alarming looking knife held tightly in hand.
"Get in here if ya know what's good for you," the man hissed threateningly, gesturing Clark forwards with his knife and taking a step backwards to make room.
Truly, Clark's lungs burned with the urge to exhale out a groan. He was already late as it was in feeding Ms. Sachrine's puppies. There were only two more days before she returned home, and he'd really rather not lose his good streak with their care so shortly before her arrival - new hip and all.
Still, even though there didn't seem to be anyone else around (which was a bit strange, now that he thought about it, seeing as to how this was normally a rather busy walkway), Clark could do nothing but obey the man's commands in the current persona he was in. So, he nodded meekly and inched his way forwards into the alley, keeping his palms up and level with his own stomach.
"Gimme all yer money," the man - mugger - demanded, taking a quick step forwards and invading Clark's space.
Clark had to force himself to keep still even though it'd be so, so easy to incapacitate the guy - just a rapid forwards thrust of his palm and the man would be out for the count - but Clark Kent couldn't do that.
Honestly, Clark had half a mind to take a self defense course just so he could have an explanation for being able to beat his opponents in situations such as these, but not only did that not fit in with his persona, it also came dangerously close to his Superman self. Which, of course, meant that Clark was stuck in his current predicament just like he'd always be in times such as these.
"O-o-of c-c-c-course, s-sir," Clark stuttered hurriedly, stuffing his hand into his back pocket to grab his wallet. Within the same second, the mugger shifted his weight forwards, an inarticulate shout forming on his lips, and Clark could see what would happen before it even did.
In the stretched out moment that it took for the man to thrust his knife forwards towards Clark's stomach, Clark had thought of no less than fifty-eight different ways he could avoid the blade.
Not a single one accounted for him being limited to the abilities of the completely human, bumbling Clark Kent.
Clark really ought to ask Bruce how to fix that.
For now, however, it was too late.
There was a furious shout, the ripping of fabric, and then the screeching and grinding of metal.
Silence.
Clark took a moment to glance at his attempted stabber, but the man took no notice of him at all, too busy gaping rather unattractively at the mangled blade in his hands. Honestly, his lower jaw was so unhinged that Clark had half a mind to wonder whether the guy might manage to dislocate it just through the sheer force of his clearly dumbfounded shock. Either way, Clark used the distraction as an opportunity to super-speedingly whip out his phone from his front pocket and tuck it into the waistband of his pants and under his shirt so that the upper half of the device was over where the 'stab' had been aimed at.
"G -golly, sir, I s-s- sure am lucky I kept m-my ph-ph- phone right there," Clark stuttered out as convincingly as he could, raising his hands shakily and taking several 'hurried' steps back. The man's gaze finally snapped up towards him, and Clark lowered one arm to fumble with his shirt, lifting the material to show the man just in case the guy needed any extra convincing, brandishing the blatantly unmarred WayneTech phone that was covering the targeted spot over his stomach in the mugger's direction.
The man stared at him with a gradually increasing degree of unmasked horror, gaze darting between Clark, the phone, and his own brutally sharp, serrated knife that was now bent sideways to the handle at a ninety degree angle, the tip of it completely crumpled like it'd been made out of paper instead of pure steel.
There was another moment of silence that Clark felt to be growingly awkward - from his own standpoint, at least. Gosh, Clark really needed to get out of here so he could swoop back in as Superman and finish this up right quick. He had to admit he was a bit perturbed by how quickly the mugger had escalated to violence; Clark had clearly been more than willing to comply with the man's demands. Honestly, it was almost like the guy had been ready to stab Clark from the beginning.
Curling his shoulders in and adopting a meek, cowardly air, Clark fumbled around in his back pocket again and tossed his - empty (thank you again, superspeed) - wallet in the mugger's direction, willfully ignored the harsh flinch the action caused in return, and bolted out of the alley with his metaphorical tail between his legs.
As soon as he was around the corner, he dashed for the nearest alleyway from where he could whip off his glasses and fly back out of fast enough to not be caught by the naked eye, searching for a telephone box and mentally cursing the city's newest movement to remove a majority of the booths. Clark was sure that Luthor was somehow behind the decision.
By the time Clark had found one, completely changed into his Superman regalia, and raced back to the alleyway, the man was gone, leaving Clark stumped and admittedly somewhat frustrated.
I couldn't have taken that long, he thought to himself with faltering surety. It'd only taken him a minute at most, and that mugger sure hadn't seemed of the state of mind to wander off anytime soon.
Ah, darn it.
Clark sighed, chest deflating from its proud, intimidating puff as he raked a hand through his hair. He'd have to keep a careful ear out for any more muggings in the near future. It wouldn't do for someone with more… penetrable skin to run into that clearly less than stable man in Clark's stead.
.
[Meanwhile, on the other side of town]
"Look!" the assassin known by many in his line of work as 'Hacker' shouted, shaking the mutilated knife in his fist at the gathered crowd before him. He sniffled wetly as he choked around another wracking sob, cradling the blade close to his chest. "Look at what he did - this was a gift from my father, after my very first assassination," the man whimpered, lovingly stroking a trembling finger against the worn, engraved handle of the utterly mangled knife. "Look at how he massacred my boy," the man wailed, falling to his knees and gesturing despairingly towards the heavens, knife still firmly in hand.
The rest of the assassins present murmured amongst themselves, shuffling restlessly as one of them stepped forwards to hesitantly pat their mourning member on the shoulder.
Unease sat heavily against all of their chests, and they eyed one another with wariness clear in their eyes.
This Clark Kent was clearly no normal man. To have survived what was known in certain circles as 'Assassin's Poison,' to have come out unscathed from a mass bombing, and to have been left with nary a scratch from Hacker, who was infamous for his, well, hacking - and having done so while simultaneously either destroying these assassins' faith in their own abilities or decimating their will to live…
No, Clark Kent certainly was not normal.
The question was, what sort of monster was he?