ACT 3
1
The drive to the Metropolis Museum began uneventfully, with Jimmy Olsen double-checking his gear like any diligent photographer: camera, batteries, and memory cards. Yet, beneath the routine, there was an underlying tension. Working alongside Lois Lane was more than a professional opportunity—it was a step closer to understanding the mysterious death of his older brother, Henry. Lois was one of the few people who had known Henry well, and Jimmy hoped she might unknowingly offer a clue.
Lois, however, didn't strike Jimmy as calm or approachable. Her demeanour was intense; she bit her lower lip repeatedly as if suppressing words she desperately wanted to say. Finally, she broke the silence. - "How does it feel?" - she asked abruptly.
Jimmy blinked, confused. "What?"
"Following your brother's footsteps." - she clarified.
He hesitated, caught off guard. - "How did you?"
"You look just like him." - Lois interrupted, her eyes never leaving the road. - "It's uncanny. You're like… a walking déjà vu."
Jimmy lowered his gaze. It wasn't the first time someone had commented on his resemblance to Henry, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. - "That obvious, huh?"
"With all due respect…" - Lois replied with a faint smile. - "You're like Back to the Future IV: The Return of Olsen."
The analogy was as clumsy as it was vivid and Jimmy couldn't help but wince. - "How was he? At work, I mean."
Lois's expression softened and for a moment, she seemed lost in memory. She thought of Henry the cool, funny guy who had once dated and married her cousin Chloe. They'd worked together chasing stories about Green Arrow and later the Blur. Her voice dropped a notch. - "Big shoes to fill, Olsen. That's all I'll say."
The words carried weight but they were vague enough to leave Jimmy unsure of her true feelings. He didn't press further, noticing her discomfort. Instead, he stared out the window, silently resolving to uncover the truth about Henry's death. The official explanation, a botched robbery never sat right with him. Too young to join the police, Jimmy had chosen journalism as his way to investigate. The Daily Planet's resources, combined with this internship, could give him a fighting chance.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, save for the low hum of the radio. Soon, they arrived at the Metropolis Museum of Art and at the entrance they presented themselves. - "Lois Lane and James Olsen, Daily Planet. We've scheduled an interview with Director Swank about the Ezra Small exhibition."
"Just a moment, please." - The receptionist picked up the phone, dialing to confirm their appointment. As they waited, Jimmy prepped his camera, checking batteries, memory cards and taking test shots but he soon stopped, frowning. A whisper. Faint, almost imperceptible. At first, he assumed it was the director approaching, but no one appeared. The whispers persisted.
Lois eyeballed him. - "Something wrong?"
Jimmy's brows knit in confusion. - "Don't you hear that?"
"Hear what?" - Lois tilted her head, looking both amused and annoyed. - "This place is quieter than a graveyard on New Year's Eve."
Jimmy smirked faintly. - "Didn't know your New Year's parties were so morbid."
"Wiseass…" - she muttered, rolling her eyes. But Jimmy didn't respond, his focus elsewhere. The whispers persisted, growing slightly louder. He tried to pinpoint their source, but before he could, Director Swank arrived.
"I'm sorry for the delay, I'm Director Swank." – The woman presented herself, greeting Lois.
"Lois Lane."- She forced a smile. - "This is James Olsen, the photographer."
Lois and Jimmy followed the director through the exhibition halls. Lois was less thrilled about covering the event than she was about enduring a conversation with Cat Grant. Tediously, she asked the first question, clicking on her digital recorder. - "So, how did this exhibition about Ezra Small come about?"
Lois's boredom contrasted with the Director's excitement. – "It was always our intention to do an Ezra Small exposition. He's like the American Nostradamus."
Lois raised a sceptical brow. - "Better than Edgar Cayce, the guy who predicted the rise of Atlantis?"
"Even better." - the director replied with a knowing smile. - "Until recently, very little was known about Ezra Small's personal life. After all, he was Smallville's founder."
"If there was so little, how did you gather enough for an exhibition?"
"Professor Willowbrook: Professor at Kansas University." – Swank responded without hesitation. - "He was instrumental in collecting information. He was the little push we needed and several documents and personal belongings appeared on that day."
"How?"
"A Location near the Kawatche caves outside Smallville. The several earthquakes which happened on Sinister Friday unfold the documents and the personal belongings."
Lois's casual interest sharpened. Something about this struck a chord with her, though Jimmy couldn't quite grasp why. As Lois continued the interview, Jimmy roamed, taking random shots but the whispers didn't stop. They were more noticeable now: annoying, frustrating. He glanced around, determined to find their source.
The murmurs intensified as he stepped forward, his footsteps echoing faintly against polished wooden floors. He entered a dimly lit room, eerily out of place among the museum's modern displays. It was a perfect replica of a 19th-century living room, frozen in time. A musty aroma of aged wood and leather lingered in the air.
Everything inside, the chairs, the table, the bookshelf even the intricately carved wooden clock resting on the mantel, seemed frozen in time, untouched by the modern world. A faint, musty aroma of aged wood and leather hung in the air, making the room feel both intimate and suffocating.
The whispers grew louder as he entered. At first, they were unintelligible, just a murmur of voices swirling like a breeze through the confines of the room. Then, as Jimmy crossed the threshold, the whispers began to form distinct words and phrases, fragmentary but hauntingly familiar:
…
…
"…traveller of both time and space…"
..
…
…
"…elders of the gentle race…"
…
…
…
…
"…all will be revealed…"
…
…
…
…
"…Let me take you there…"
…
…
…
The voices tugged at his consciousness, compelling him to turn toward the centrepiece of the room, a large, ornately carved wooden chair. Unlike the rest of the furniture, which was simple and functional, this chair radiated an almost otherworldly significance. Its high back was etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shimmer faintly under the soft, amber glow of a nearby lamp. Symbols, some geometric, others resembling ancient glyphs, danced along the edges of the armrests, shifting subtly whenever he tried to focus on them.
Jimmy's pulse quickened as he stepped closer. His eyes were drawn to the chair's seat cushion, a rich crimson fabric that seemed untouched by time, free of dust or wear. The whispers grew louder, no longer mere fragments but full sentences that dripped with a strange mix of urgency and allure:
"…Let me take you there…"
Before he realized it, Jimmy was lowering himself into the chair. As soon as he sat, the world around him exploded in a riot of light and sound.
Images flooded his vision with a blinding intensity, visions of sprawling landscapes, towering cities bathed in golden light and darkened skies filled with swirling constellations. A sea of faces flashed before him: men and women from different eras and civilizations, their eyes filled with wonder, fear, and wisdom. He heard a symphony of sounds, melancholic chants, rhythmic drumbeats, whispers of ancient tongues, all blending together into an overwhelming orchestra of the unknown.
Fragments of knowledge surged through him like electricity: equations and symbols he couldn't comprehend, maps of places he had never seen and fragments of stories from worlds that defied the limits of his understanding. He felt as though his mind were expanding, stretching to accommodate an entire universe of information.
His body trembled violently as the images became erratic, flashing faster and faster, slipping through his fingers like sand. The whispers turned into a deafening roar, and the chair seemed to vibrate beneath him, as though it were alive, channeling some unfathomable power into him.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
The connection was severed with an almost physical force and Jimmy was flung backward, landing hard on the floor several feet away. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping as his vision blurred and his head spun. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at the ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest.
When he finally managed to sit up, he saw Lois and Miss Swank standing at the entrance to the room, their faces frozen in a mix of confusion and alarm. The chair sat silently where he had left it, now as still and ordinary as the rest of the room. The whispers were gone. The air was heavy with an unnatural stillness.
It wasn't until he looked at his front, Jimmy realized both Lois and Miss Swank looking at him, dumbstruck.
He should be ashamed of what he had just done but surprisingly to both Lois and Miss Swank, he was far more involved with that place which suddenly, had become mute: No more whispers, no more images.
Lois's voice finally broke the silence. – "Are you ok?"
Jimmy chose to ignore Lois's inquire, playing himself as someone who hadn't been there. – "So, this is the place to take some photos, right?" – And so, he walked away and began taking photos as Lois exchanged a bewildered glance with Miss Swank, but neither said a word. They simply watched as Jimmy moved through the room, his hands steady on the camera but his eyes betraying a deeper, lingering unease.
2
The air was crisp as she approached the heavy steel gates of Belle Reve, her breath forming mist in the chill. She wasn't there for a social visit. There were whispers in the magical community, whispers about dark forces stirring within those walls. It had brought her here to investigate and she knew the guards wouldn't make it easy for her. She was no stranger to the bureaucratic hurdles of high-security facilities like this.
She walked up to the security checkpoint, where two guards stood behind thick glass, looking her over with suspicion. She flashed her ID and gave them her most confident smile.
"I'm here to see Dr. Harris, I'm special agent Zatanna Zatara." - Zatanna explained smoothly, her eyes glinting with practiced charm. - "I have clearance from the office. You can call if you like."
One of the guards, a tall man with a stony expression, hesitated before picking up the phone. - "We'll need to confirm." - He dialled the number, his eyes never leaving her.
Zatanna remained still, not bothering to rush him. This was standard procedure but her patience wore thin. She'd been in places far more dangerous than that and she wasn't here to waste time.
The other guard, a woman with a headset, frowned as she glanced over at Zatanna. - "You sure you should be here at this hour, Miss Zatara?"
Zatanna gave her a polite but firm nod. -"I'm afraid it can't wait."
The tall guard put the phone down with a curt nod. - "Clearance granted. You're good to go."
"Thank you." - Zatanna didn't waste a second, stepping past them and heading toward the entrance of Belle Reve. As she walked through the facility, the eerie stillness of Belle Reve surrounded her, the weight of its history pressing down on her shoulders. She wasn't there for any personal vendettas, she had a job to do but something about this place felt off.
She had just passed the first few security checkpoints when the loud, shrill sound of an alarm shattered the air.
"Code Red! Code Red!" - The voice over the loudspeaker echoed through the halls, sharp and urgent. - "Containment breach in Ward C! Patient escape in progress!"
Zatanna stopped in her tracks, her hand instinctively reaching for the pendant around her neck. A spike of dark magic hit her like a punch to the gut. The force was unmistakable. She'd felt it before, raw, chaotic power that was beyond simple escape. This wasn't just a breach; this was a threat. Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and headed toward the security room, her senses heightened. She knew she couldn't waste time. The alarms would have the place locked down soon enough, and whatever was happening in Ward C could reach Metropolis if it wasn't stopped.
Reaching the door to the security room, Zatanna slipped inside quickly, using a spell to slip past the guards who were too distracted by the emergency to notice her. She moved swiftly to the control panel, her fingers dancing in the air as she manipulated the footage. The screens blinked to life, showing grainy, distorted images from Ward C. She was looking for anything that could give her a lead.
The footage was jittery but one thing stood out: a figure moving in the shadows. A blur, but the dark energy surrounding them was unmistakable.
She zoomed in: On the screen, she saw one patient, his movements erratic, almost frantic but it wasn't just his face that caught Zatanna's attention, it was the pulsing, dark aura surrounding him. It wasn't just any escape. It was magic, dangerous magic and it was heading straight toward Metropolis.
She leaned closer to the screen, trying to make out the source of the disturbance, when a shadow seemed to loom larger, distorting the footage even more. Zatanna narrowed her eyes. That dark energy… she knew it all too well.
Her pulse quickened as she recognized the telltale signs of someone who had access to the most dangerous magic in the world:
Her breath caught in her throat. The person manipulating this escape… they knew what they were doing.
"No…" - she whispered under her breath. - "Not again." -
She took a step back, her mind racing. Whoever was behind this had control over far more than just Holdsclaw. They had something dangerous and Zatanna wasn't going to let it fall into the wrong hands.
Zatanna didn't hesitate. She turned and, in a flash, drew the necessary symbols in the air, vanishing from the security room just as quickly as she'd entered. She had no time to waste. The chaos from Ward C was about to spill into Metropolis and she needed to get there first.
3
Clark sat in the back of the courtroom, hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees. His focus remained locked on Lex, studying every detail, the way he held himself, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped once against the table before going still.
Lex had barely reacted when Clark had asked him about Tess. No flicker of recognition, no frustration, no attempt to sidestep the question with one of his usual sharp remarks. Just silence.
Clark wanted to believe it was real. That Lex wasn't lying. That the man sitting at the defence table truly had no memory of the past, the betrayals, the experiments, the lies, the bodies left in his wake. That he was a blank slate, as close to innocent as Lex Luthor could ever be but Clark had spent too many years hoping for that to happen, only to have Lex prove him wrong time and time again.
He let his super-hearing extend over the courtroom, drowning out the hum of reporters murmuring to each other, the shuffling of paperwork, the judge's slow movements as he prepared his notes.
His focus zeroed in on Lex's heartbeat, steady, unfaltering, not spiking in panic or hesitation. Either he was telling the truth, or he had become such a master of deception that even Clark couldn't read him anymore.
That thought unsettled him. People could change. He believed that with all his heart. He had to. If he didn't, what was the point of any of this? And yet, doubt gnawed at the back of his mind.
Lex was a strategist. If he had his memories, he wouldn't have walked into this courtroom unprepared. He would have ensured the judge was compromised, that the jury was influenced, that every variable worked in his Favor. The fact that none of those things had happened, at least, not that Clark had noticed, meant one of two things: Either Lex truly had no memory of his former self… or this was part of a long game Clark hadn't yet figured out.
His fingers curled slightly as he leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose.
This wasn't the Lex he had known. Not yet. Maybe not ever and that was what scared him the most.
Because if Lex was really starting over, if his past was gone for good, then for the first time, Clark had no idea what kind of man he was going to become.
And that uncertainty was more dangerous than any enemy he'd ever faced.
4
Jeremiah sat on a weathered bench in Metropolis Central Park, watching the world pass him by. The city had changed. The skyline was taller, the people moved faster, and even the air smelled different, cleaner and yet filled with an unfamiliar energy.
He drummed his fingers on his knee, his gaze sweeping across the park. Joggers passed by, a mother pushed a stroller along the paved path and further ahead, a group of teens hovered around a street performer. It was all so normal. Too normal.
His patience was wearing thin. He had woken up to a world that barely remembered his name, and worse, he had no idea where to find the one man he was after.
A presence settled beside him on the bench. No sound of footsteps, no warning, just a quiet arrival, like a shadow taking form. - "You're a hard man to find."
Jeremiah didn't flinch. He kept his eyes forward, watching a flock of pigeons peck at scattered crumbs near a hot dog stand. - "Still, here you are."
The stranger chuckled. - "You seem lost."
Jeremiah's jaw tightened. - "I don't have time for riddles."
"Then let's skip the formalities." - The man reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded newspaper, and handed it to him.
"Thought you might be interested in this." - Jeremiah took it reluctantly, his eyes landing on the bold, black letters across the front page: "LEX LUTHOR'S TRIAL BEGINS TODAY."
His fingers tightened around the paper. "Where?"
The man leaned back, crossing his legs casually. - "Courthouse on Fifth. Heavy security, press swarming the place just like you'd expect." - He smirked. - "Not exactly the kind of welcome party you'd enjoy."
Jeremiah finally turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. - "And why are you helping me?"
The man's smirk deepened. - "Like I said before… we have a common interest."
Jeremiah exhaled slowly, his grip on the newspaper relaxing. He glanced once more at the city around him—so oblivious, so fragile. Then, without another word, he stood up.
The man glared at him. – "Shall we begin?"
5
Every reporter was either writing, taking notes or reporting live to TV, the first day of Lex Luthor's trial. It was the story of the day, the trial: everyone wanted a statement from the recently resurfaced man, Lex Luthor but there was someone peculiarly interested: Clark Kent. Clark was far more interested in the man, Lex Luthor, rather than the trial itself. When he saw him for the first time since Sinister Friday, he saw the emptiness in Lex's eyes: no anger, just a numb look.
The security measures were many as Luthor was a synonym for treason, lies and enemies no matter what Lex Luthor's clinical condition was, the enemies would want a piece of him.
Alone with his lawyers, Lex was on a private room, specifically designed for the lawyers and their defendants. As much as he didn't want to, Clark had to follow one of the many Lois Lane rules of journalism to hear Lex's conversation with his lawyers: All he had to do was to focus his hearing just a bit.
"Was it wise to proceed right to trial?" - The doubt was clear in one of Lex's lawyer contradicting with Lex's methodical, straightforward answer.
"There was public disorder when an entire planet was trying swallowing Earth leading people to desperate, lunatic, mass hysteria. We want to exploit that while it's still fresh on people minds."
"I agree. "- The other lawyer declared. – "Lex Luthor wasn't certainly the only man who committed crimes on that day….and on that note, Lex, it's better an act of contrition."
The second lawyer looked oddly at his colleague. - "How does that help? He's lost his memory!"
"I may have lost my memory but I'm not stupid." – Lex quickly sacked the lawyer's pertinent question. - "I may be portrayed as the rich, white blue blood looking to buy a verdict, all powerful, above the law. Like everyone else on that day, I need a second chance."
Lex's resolute look made the lawyer ask the question. – "Do you really believe that?"
Lex sighed, disgusted. – "Do you really think I give a crap about that? I have no memory. Period." - Lex pointed his finger at the second lawyer. - "It's your job to sell the idea. Make it happen. I want this behind my back."
The lawyer cleared his throat. - "You scare me."
Continues in Act 4.
