Fear of Discovery III: Coming Home by Yvonne Connell Rating: PG-13 Submitted November 2000 ______________ Feedback: Private/public comments of any description are welcome. No editing. Author's Note ----------------- This story is a continuation of Fear of Discovery II: Nowhere to Hide. Knowledge of that story will probably enhance your understanding of this story, but hopefully isn't essential. All you need to know is that it's set in the Alternative Universe. My thanks, as always, go to my beta-reader, Wendy Richards, who cheerled me through many, many months of painfully slow writing. This, and its predecessor, would never have been written if it hadn't been for her encouragement and excellent editing, proof-reading, plot-vetting and idea-generating skills. She even re-edited the story for the fanfic archive, incredibly quickly and with a very keen eye, considering how many times she'd already seen it. Wendy: you're a star :). Mention should also be made of Helene, who came late to beta-reading duty, but who gave very valuable insights and extremely witty comments which frequently put a huge grin on my face. Fear of Discovery III: Coming Home ---------------------------------- Previously on Fear of Discovery II: The 'Other' Metropolis A few nights later, Clark was patrolling around the Hob's Bay area when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a brawl taking place in one of the many seedy night-clubs in the district. When he arrived on the scene, he found that almost all the occupants were caught up in the fight, the bar staff having retreated behind the counter and pulled up a protective grille. After a few abortive attempts to pull pairs of fighters apart - they merely engaged with someone else close by - in exasperation he began picking up participants one at a time and dumping them a couple of streets away in a random pattern. Most protested vehemently at such cavalier treatment, but his answer was the same to all: "You're only a couple of streets away, in that direction. Maybe by the time you've walked back, you'll have cooled off. Just don't think you can start up the fight again wherever you go: I'll hear you, even if I don't see you." As he plucked fighters away, he reflected that maybe he should be delivering them to the nearest police precinct, but there were so many of them, and a quick consultation with a couple of the staff told him that no-one was entirely sure who the original perpetrators were. When things began to quieten down a little, he noticed there was still music playing in the background. Nice voice, he thought, as he pulled a particularly violent pair apart and dumped them within sight of a precinct office, just in case. Returning to the club again, he glanced at the billboard outside...awful name - sounds like someone from a bad romance novel. A hefty guy came reeling towards him, and he just managed to catch him before he crashed to the ground. This is almost comical, he mused. The whole room is fighting with each other, and that singer is plugging on doggedly with her set - does she really think anyone is listening? Curious to see who this crazy woman was, he glanced up at the stage - and his jaw dropped a mile. "I've got a crush on you," she sang in a sexy voice, holding one elegantly-clad arm out towards her oblivious audience. That wasn't Wanda Detroit at all - that was Lois Lane! Now read on... *************************************************** He froze, staring at the woman of his dreams, the woman he was going to love, the woman he had given up hope of ever finding. She was here, right here in the same room as him, and she was even more beautiful than her counterpart in the other universe, more stunning in person than any picture could possibly convey. His heart was thumping as he watched her singing, obviously a professional to her fingertips in the way she carried herself on the stage, the way she sold the song to the non-existent audience. He had to get rid of these people and talk to her- Reality intruded in the form of a solid punch to his jaw from the heavy man he was still holding on to. Taken completely by surprise, his head swung round with the impact, sending him off-balance and unable to hang on to the guy anymore. "Hey! I punched Superman!" yelled the triumphant escapee to no-one in particular, pushing his chest out and gesticulating proudly. Two iron-like hands grabbed his upper arms from behind. "Yes, and it was a very bad mistake," said a stern voice in his ear, and then he was being hoisted up into the air and unceremoniously dumped in the street. "If I were you, I wouldn't try it again," said the voice. Clark hurried back to the club, now completely empty of clientele. She was just finishing her song, and he stood in rapt attention while she sang the last line and then struck a seductive pose during the last few bars of the accompaniment. As soon as the music ended, her body-language changed abruptly from seductress to tigress as she glared down at him with both hands on her hips. "Well, thank you very much!" she said sarcastically. "Uh, that's OK, Miss...Ms Detroit. Are you all right? C-can I do anything for you...I could see you home, if you like? Some of those ruffians-" "-were my audience, and you just threw them all out! I just lost a night's pay because of you, so no, I think you've just about done enough for me tonight." She yanked off her enormous clip-earrings and turned to go backstage. A single slow hand-clap from the back of the room stopped her. "Brava, my dear, brava! A performance up to your usual standards of excellence and professionalism." She turned to face the owner of the suave, measured voice. "Lex. How nice to see you." Clark eyed the man emerging from the shadows at the back of the room. Lex? Was this Lex Luthor, of LL Industries? Whoever he was, he certainly exuded the confidence of a man used to command and power, and he obviously liked to spend his money on the good things in life, judging by the expensively-cut dinner suit he was wearing. "And Mr Kent," continued Luthor, turning to Clark. "A pleasure to meet you at last. I see reports of your physical strength were not exaggerated - may I compliment you on your attire?" Luthor flicked his eyes over Clark's tall, brightly-coloured form. "Most...eye-catching," he finished sardonically. "Superman. My name is Superman." Something about this man already had Clark's hackles rising on the back on his neck. "My apologies, *Superman*. I didn't realise the name mattered, since we all know you're really Clark Kent." Luthor was now close enough to proffer his hand to Clark. "Luthor. Lex Luthor. You may have heard of me - I run a small construction company." "Oh, I've heard of you." Clark shook the cool, firm hand, squeezing with just enough pressure to transmit the strength he commanded. "I've already rescued the victims of one of your less successful ventures." "If I warned the gas company at Gable Heights once, I warned them a thousand times, but they didn't listen," replied Luthor, shaking his head regretfully. "A tragic disaster - yet so avoidable. It's a criminal offence, in my opinion, to use new, untested designs on a project such as that." "Such as that?" "A poor neighbourhood, where no-one will have the resources to make an official complaint. Criminal, I tell you, criminal." "Yes, criminal," agreed Clark, eyeing Luthor with hard eyes. "Fortunately, I was able to house all the victims in one of my rental properties nearby." At vastly inflated rates, no doubt, thought Clark. "Very good of you, I'm sure." "Lex always takes care of the victims, don't you, Lex?" Lois - Wanda? - had descended the stage steps and was walking up to them. Clark's heart started doing its loud thumping in his ear again...he had to talk to her alone, he just had to. "Ms Detroit, I enjoyed your singing very much. Have you been working here long?" he blurted out. "All my life - at least, the parts I remember," she added caustically. "But I guess you wouldn't understand what it means to be alone with only a bottle of whisky for comfort, would you, Superman?" Maybe not with the whisky, but I could write a whole book on loneliness, thought Clark. "Wanda, my dear, you know that's all behind you now." Luthor turned back to Clark. "Wanda had a small health problem, but I'm glad to say she made a full recovery. I'm so proud of her." "I'm sorry to hear-" "Forget it, Superman. As Lex says, that's all in the past." She turned her back on them and walked towards the backstage exit. "Ms Detroit! Are you sure you're all-" "Don't you have another fight to break up somewhere?" she shot over her shoulder. "Somewhere preferably not here?" "I-" "I think that's your cue to leave, Mr Kent." Clark dragged his gaze back from the door Wanda had disappeared through to stare firmly at Luthor. "*Superman*. I'm so sorry, I must try to remember to match the name with the costume. So rude of me." "Perhaps you'll get it right next time we meet." Luthor smiled pleasantly. "I'll look forward to it." Clark took off in a blur of red and blue. ********* Wanda sat at her dressing-room mirror, cleaning off the thick make-up she wore for the bright lights on stage. She attacked her face with irritated swipes, throwing the soiled cotton-wool pads with forceful aim into the trashcan beside her. That overgrown boy scout! What did he think he was doing, chucking out her audience like that? The fight had been about as threatening as a ladies' knitting circle arguing about the best recipe to use for cookies - except that the knitting circle had the added risk of women yielding knitting needles as dangerous weapons. Didn't he realise there was a fight like that every night of the week at the Ace O' Clubs? The audience didn't think they'd had a good time unless they'd punched at least one other person in the room. A soft knock on her door interrupted her internal diatribe. This better not be the boy scout back again to ask if she was OK. "Oh, it's you." She abandoned the open door and sat back down at her dressing table to finish her face. Two strong hands landed on her shoulders from behind. "You were so good tonight, my love. Thank you for singing my favourite number again." "Yeah, it's always a crowd-pleaser." She got up to start peeling herself out of the tight-fitting sheath-dress she was wearing, but before she could reach back to undo her zip, his hands gripped her hips from behind and his head came around to nuzzle in the nape of her neck. She twisted out of his way. "Not now, Lex." His hands regained her hips and started slow circling motions around them. "Come on, Wanda, you know how much you want it." His lips caressed her neck again while one hand came around to clutch clumsily at her. Oh...to feel his hands on her body, to know that he wanted her so much...to know that at this single point in time, she was the one in possession of the power...but no! She didn't want this, didn't need this. "Leave it out, Lex. I'm tired." She moved away from him again, but he renewed his caressing more insistently and intensely. She wrestled with her feelings - it was comforting and flattering to receive his attentions, but she knew what she'd feel like afterwards. Maybe this time would be different... But no, ten minutes later her optimism was dashed, as it always was. She heard him walk over into the tiny bathroom and flush the evidence of their intercourse down the toilet while she rearranged her clothes. Out of the corner of her eye she caught her own reflection in the rusty full-length mirror on the back of her door...she turned away. She didn't want to see herself right now. He came back into the room, not a hair out of place: he could have been preparing to attend a company cocktail function. His arm came around her shoulders and his lips slanted across hers briefly. "You see, my dear? I always know what you want." She pulled out of his grasp. "Do you, Lex? Or is it what you want?" "What we both want, surely, my sweet?" He crossed to the door and opened it. "Alas, I have to leave you now, but I'll see you tomorrow?" "I'm always here, Lex." ********** Clark lay sprawled full-length on his sofa, cursing his own stupidity and weakness. How could he have been so pathetic as to just give up because she rejected him and fly away with his tail between his legs? He should have stood his ground and insisted on learning as much as he could about her. What if she wasn't there the next time he went over? What would he do then? He'd been searching for this woman for half his life, and now when he'd finally found her, he ran away! - if that really was Lois he had just met, he reminded himself. He had no evidence that he was right about that, other than her appearance...but he just knew, he just knew that she was Lois. He only had to find out why she was working under a pseudonym as a singer in a nightclub, hanging on the arm of Lex Luthor...that had been the worst part, finding out that she was involved with that man. Already, Clark hated him intensely. Not just for his arrogant, supercilious manner, but for the other thing... Flying away from the club, Clark had suddenly decided he was making a big mistake - he couldn't let her go now, not just when he'd found her at last. He'd reversed course, and had dropped down in front of the stage door. Prising the door open with his fingers, he'd wandered around the gloomy backstage area, trying to work out which door led to her dressing room, until a noise had made him stop in front of a battered black door with 'Slinky Susan' scrawled on a small card. Maybe this was hers - he didn't think there was anyone else on the bill for the club tonight. He was about to knock on the door when he heard it: "Mmmm...oh, Wanda, what you do to me..." It was Luthor's voice, undoubtedly. Moments later, he heard her gasp loudly, and then his voice again: "Oh, God, I'm so hot for you!" He listened for a moment in ugly fascination to the pants and gasps coming from behind the door, and then suddenly he was stumbling through the corridors, pushing through doors, fumbling with the stage-door handle, and then at last he was out into the cold night air, gasping for breath and feeling sick to his stomach. He launched himself straight up into the air and flew home in a mindless blur, away from the horrible, disgusting truth about Lois' relationship with Luthor. ********** Wanda turned her face up into the meagre stream of water coming down from the showerhead, closed her eyes and tried to let the water wash away the memories of her encounter with Lex. Her hands moved slowly around her body, hugging herself and then tracing the contour of her waist and hips, bringing one hand up to cup her breast and lift it away from her body. She had a pretty good body, a nice flat stomach...she smoothed over it with the palm of her hand...why did she let herself give it to that piece of garbage? Sure, he was attractive, he had power and money, but she could do better, couldn't she, with a body like this? That voice in her head, reminding her of her real worth, the fact that she was damaged goods, fit only for a corrupt businessman on the way to the top of his evil, muck-ridden career. Not that she knew he was like that when she first met him. As he so frequently reminded her, he was the one who rescued her from herself, picked her up from nothing and built her up, found her a job, got her a place to live. At least she wasn't living in that claustrophobic apartment of his anymore, she reflected, although that was probably just because it wasn't good for his image these days to have a woman like her living with him. Anyway, at the time, he had seemed kind: anxious to grant her a living space of her own, concerned for her and interested in her. He took her out, gave her money, made her laugh, made her forget her troubles. He was witty and charming, and he always came every night to hear her sing and clap the loudest of them all, even when she forgot her words and had to make up the verses. In fact, it had become a private joke between them, because she had become pretty good at inventing new verses on the spot, writing new stories in her head to tell through song. Then, gradually, he had become more possessive of her. He didn't like it when she came front of house after her spot to talk to the clientele, and he especially didn't like it if one of them offered her a drink. Of course, that was understandable under the circumstances, but he was aggressive about it, not concerned anymore. He started to call her after work, ostensibly to make sure she had arrived home safely, but she realised after a time that he was really checking up on her. Snippets of conversation around the bar, on the few occasions when she could get up there, made her realise that his business dealings were less than straight, and when rumours ran through the club of the untimely death of one of his competitors, she knew then that he was not the person she had naively thought he was. Not like the boy scout. He was so straight he was as boring as hedge-clippings, and probably just about as imaginative, witty and amusing as a pile of horse manure. Good-looking, in a cartoon cut-out sort of way - she'd give him that - and a body to die for, but if she was going to spend half her life in an outfit like that, she'd sure as eggs make sure she kept it a secret. Which brought her back to Lex and his secrets. She knew one or two, and she was pretty sure there were a whole lot more buried in his past, not to mention the stuff he was up to now. Maybe one of these days she'd expose him for all to see. That would give her great satisfaction, and it would definitely be imaginative, witty and amusing if she had anything to do with it. She would show everyone what a sick, evil man he was, how he manipulated the people who worked for him, how he used the system against itself, how he pretended to care but didn't give a damn - best of all, she'd tell the world what a lousy lover he was! But who was she kidding - how could a pathetic night-club singer do anything to hurt someone like Lex Luthor? ********** Two years previously... Lex Luthor strode purposefully into one of Lagos's safer bars, pumped up with adrenalin after his successful business meeting. At last, he'd sorted out the final strands of that mess from two years ago, when the gun-running operation in the Congo had gone sour because of that damned meddling reporter. God knew where she was now, since he'd heard she'd disappeared following the debacle at the handover point. Served her right, anyway - if it hadn't been for her, he could have been enjoying a night out at the Metropolis Opera instead of being stuck here in this God-forsaken town, dodging beggars and con-men and handing out sweeteners to corrupt officials. What he needed right now was a long, cool drink and the warm, soft body of one of the more presentable women draped around this bar. Glancing around, his eyes lit on a dark-haired woman propped up against the bar. Her split skirt was revealing a lot of slender, shapely leg and as far as he could tell from this distance, she looked as though she had a little more class than the rest of the dubious talent on offer. He walked up to the stool beside her, sat down and ordered a drink. She had her back to him, so he took the opportunity to eye her up and down more carefully, noting the chipped high heels, the ladder running up the exposed length of her long leg, disappearing into the split of her straight black skirt, the cheap polyester blouse and the way her body slouched over the bar, one hand clutched around a tall, half-consumed drink. Chipped nails, and long dark hair needing the urgent attentions of a hairdresser. Perhaps not so classy after all - still, she was slender, and the leg held promise. "May I offer you a refill?" he asked, leaning across to her. He took a pull from his own drink, waiting for her answer. When none came, he touched her arm briefly. "I offered you a drink." Her head came around slowly so that he could just about see her profile. "Wha...?" "Would you like a drink?" he enunciated the words carefully and a little louder. This wasn't looking so promising after all. "'kay." She shoved her drink along the bar to him. "Cream soda." Oh, yeah? In a pig's ear, he thought. "Are you sure you wouldn't like something stronger?" "Soda's fine." "Soda it is, then. Barman," he raised his voice, "a cream soda for the lady, if you please." Turning his attention back to the woman, he tried to gain her attention again. "You're American, aren't you?" "Yeah. So're you." "Yes, thank you, I knew that. What brings you out here?" "Dunno." Her drink arrived, and she swivelled around on her stool to retrieve it and take a gulp, revealing a pale, swan-like neck as she tipped her head back. There was definitely something about this woman, he thought - more than the average drunken has-been washed up on the shores of life. She dumped the drink back down onto the bar, resuming her hunched-over, slouching posture. "What's your name?" "Wanda. Wanda Detroit." Awful name - sounds like the femme fatale heroine from some trashy romance novel. "That's a pretty name," he commented. "Why don't you let me see your face so I can see if it's as pretty as your name?" "'kay." She drew herself up straight and swung around to face him. "Hi. I'm Wanda. Who're you?" Luthor stared. It couldn't be. She was dead, wasn't she? And what was she doing here in Nigeria, when she had disappeared in the Congo? Maybe it wasn't her at all, just a lookalike - an incredibly close lookalike, though: he'd seen plenty of pictures of her in the papers back in Metropolis when she'd disappeared, and this woman could be her twin. "Guess I'm not pretty," she concluded from his silence, and turned away from him. "No! No, you're very pretty - let me see your face again." He studied it as she turned to face him again. The same colour eyes, same colour hair - different make-up, but the shape of her face looked the same. "Wanda - that *is* your name, isn't it? You didn't ever have another name, did you?" "Nope. Jus' Wanda." "And are you on your own here in Lagos, Wanda?" "Yeah." She shifted uncomfortably on her stool. "'Scuse me - gotta go to the bathroom. Too much soda." She climbed clumsily off the stool, twisted on her high heel and would have toppled to the ground if Luthor hadn't grabbed on to her. "Thanks." He let go and watched as she stumbled a couple of steps across the room, then stopped and quietly folded down to the floor. He leapt off his stool and crouched down beside her. "Wanda?" He slapped her face gently a couple of times, but she was out cold. Putting his hands under her arms, he hoisted her up to a limp standing position. "OK, Wanda," he said to her unconscious form, "you're coming with me." ********** Luthor paced up and down his hotel bedroom, constantly glancing at the unconscious woman lying on his bed. She'd been like that for hours now, and he was starting to get worried. The odd thing was, she didn't have alcohol on her breath, and just to be sure, he'd checked her arms and legs for needle tracks and thankfully found nothing. Of course, that didn't mean drugs weren't still a possibility, but surely anyone in any kind of chemically-induced stupor would have come out of it by now? This was rapidly becoming a mess - what had started as a celebration and the chance of a little stress-relief without strings attached was turning into a major reclamation project with absolutely no hope of anything more stimulating than a cup of strong black coffee. At least he'd managed to figure out how she'd got here, and he was now pretty certain that she was indeed Lois Lane, ex-reporter from the Daily Planet. It came to him when he was reflecting on the day's business exchange: since he had been dealing with associates of the people she had been spying on two years ago in the Congo, it was just feasible that she was actually attached to those people in some way. Inspiration had then struck, and he'd phoned his business acquaintances to find out if they knew a Wanda Detroit. After exchanging some lewd innuendo about her, during which he learnt that she was surprisingly chaste for a woman in her situation, he had managed to find out that they had picked her up from a couple of guys they knew about a year ago. Guys in our line of business? he'd asked, and was rewarded with the information that yes, it was indeed the people he'd been dealing with back in the Congo. Thus armed with fairly conclusive proof of her identity, he'd looked over at her face for the umpteenth time and noticed a small scar on one temple. He knew there had been gunfire when everything had blown up at the handover point, so maybe she'd been caught in the crossfire, and this scar was the result. That could explain the amnesia, and possibly why she'd adopted a whole new personality. His last stroke of genius - and it had taken genius - was to hook his laptop up to the hotel's phone system, connect to the internet and after much trawling around and many dropped connections later, had finally managed to download a picture of Lois Lane from the Planet's archives. His eyes travelled from the picture to the face of the woman on his bed. The woman in the picture had a clear complexion, a pleasant smile, and eyes that sparkled with life and intelligence. The woman on his bed had dark circles under her eyes, although a poor attempt had been made to hide them with thick, cheap-looking make-up, sunken cheeks, and although her eyes were shut now, he remembered the dull, lifeless expression in them when she had turned to face him in the bar. Maybe he should just dump her now, before things became any more complicated. He wanted to be out of Lagos, out of Nigeria, and most of all, out of the gun-running business once and for all. He had plans, grand plans, for his future, and the arms trade, although very, very lucrative, was just too inconvenient: he hated travelling to these places and dealing with these sordid people who wouldn't recognise a Wagner opera if the whole boxed set was dumped on their stupid, uncultured heads. He had amassed plenty of funds from the business to finance a sizeable business venture back in the US, and that was just what he intended to do once he escaped from this hell-hole. On the other hand, revenge was a very sweet thing. This woman was single-handedly responsible for putting back his business plans by two years, and it occurred to him that he could have a lot of fun with her, now that she was essentially a blank canvas on which he could write whatever background he wanted to. In her better days, he had felt a certain attraction towards her, despite her strong nuisance factor, so it wouldn't be altogether unpleasant to have her as his...companion. The corner of his mouth curled up at the thought. How sweet, how very, very sweet: Lois Lane, returned to Metropolis and hiding in plain sight of everyone. He could pull this off, he really could - assuming she ever regained consciousness, of course. He walked over to the bed and shook her roughly. "Come on, Wanda, wake up!" He slapped her face a couple of times, and managed to raise a faint moan of protest, but nothing more. He shook her again, and tried rubbing her hands vigorously between his own. "Come on, my darling, wake up so that we can get out of here back to civilisation." Still no response. It was time for positive action; time to call in professional help. *********** "Well? What's wrong with her?" Luthor demanded. The doctor regarded the arrogant, aggressive man before him. He wondered what the relationship between this man and the woman on the bed was, although he thought he had a pretty good idea. Well, the man was going to be disappointed tonight. "Nothing," he replied, turning to pack up his medical bag. "What do you mean, nothing? She's been like that for hours." "There is nothing wrong with this young lady that a few decent meals and some rest won't cure." Privately, he doubted that this man would be even remotely interested in providing any of that, but one lived in hope: without hope, his job was an endless round of desperate people with sad, blighted lives. "And how long will that take?" "That is out of my hands. It will take as long as it takes." "I'm sorry, I thought I had engaged a doctor for his professional opinion, not a quack with a side line in homespun philosophy." "Sir, I'm sorry if you don't like my diagnosis, but that is all I can tell you. This young woman has obviously spent many months subsisting on a minimal diet and with little or no sleep - once she has those things, she will begin to recover. Unlike many of the unfortunate women I see in similar circumstances, she doesn't exhibit any symptoms of alcohol or drug abuse - it's more likely that her run-down condition and confused behaviour is the legacy of one of the many tropical diseases we have to offer the unprotected traveller here in Africa." "So she is sick." "No, merely exhausted and malnourished." "What about that scar on her head?" "Obviously an old bullet wound. But that is completely healed now, and I see no evidence of head trauma - just one of the many people in this city for whom life has dealt a poor hand. Feed her and rest her; she will be fine." *********** Luthor wondered what this idiot doctor would say if he told her that this woman with no evidence of head trauma had completely forgotten who she really was, but decided that that was something he preferred to keep to himself. Well, at least she wasn't about to die on him; that much was obvious. Time to get rid of this fool and move to phase two of his rapidly forming plans for Lois Lane. *********** "I knew you'd see things my way, Miguel. Libel suits can be so expensive, can't they? Now, what time will the aircraft be ready for me at Lagos airport?" Luthor completed the travel arrangements with his erstwhile business partner, and dropped the receiver back on to its cradle with a satisfied smile. So nice to be able to draw on an already burgeoning network of favours waiting to be called in. A few more hours, and he and his new-found companion would be out of here at last, bound for Metropolis on Miguel's private jet. ********** "Mmmm...wassamatter?" "Wanda, my love, how are you?" Luthor leaned over her, his hand on her arm, his face a picture of concern. He waited while she stirred restlessly on the bed, mumbling indistinctly as she resurfaced from her slumbers. This was the fourth time she'd woken up since they'd embarked on their journey back to Metropolis; every other time, he had fed her with sedatives to send her back to sleep, but now that they were back in his apartment and he had access to the appropriate drugs, it was time to let her wake up - on his own terms, of course. "Wanda, how are you feeling?" he repeated, finally managing to attract her attention by shaking her arm. She looked up at him with glazed eyes. "Who're you?" "It's Lex, Wanda, don't you remember me? I said I'd take care of you, and here we are, back in Metropolis in my apartment. How do you feel, my darling?" "Metropolis?" "Yes, dear, Metropolis, where I live. Where *we* live. Now, do you feel up to a little light lunch?" He turned away from the bed, picked a tray up from the trolley behind him and showed her the contents. "Chicken salad, some fresh fruit, and a glass of orange juice. "Think you can manage that?" She nodded slowly. "Good. Sit up, and let's get you back on the road to recovery." ******* She pushed herself up and accepted the tray of food onto her lap. Everything was so hazy. She had absolutely no recollection of how she came to be in this man's apartment, and only the vaguest memories of having met him back in Lagos. He had been nice to her, she remembered that, and he was being very nice to her now. She glanced over at him, sitting on a chair beside her bed; he smiled back at her and nodded encouragingly at the tray in front of her. She picked up a fork and began to pick at the small, bite-sized pieces of chicken mixed in with the attractively-presented salad before her. Why was she in bed, and why did she feel so woozy? Was she recovering from a long illness - he had mentioned something about recovery, so perhaps that was the answer? Her eyes travelled across the tray to the glass of orange juice and the single white pill beside it. "Have I been ill?" she asked. "In a way," he answered, "but don't you worry your pretty head about that now. You just concentrate on eating and getting well again." "How did I get here?" "I brought you back with me from Lagos - don't you remember? You collapsed in the bar, I took you back to the hotel, and then we both came home in Miguel's private jet." "Oh." She munched on some of the salad, beginning to realise just how hungry she really was. It felt as if she hadn't had a proper meal for months - of course, if she'd been ill, then maybe she hadn't been able to eat properly for some time. But then, if she'd been ill for a long time, what had they been doing in a bar in Lagos? "When did we get back?" "Just yesterday, but you were so tired after the long journey, I let you sleep on through until today. Come on, my sweet, you must eat. I tell you what, why don't I leave you in peace to finish your lunch, then we'll chat some more later when you're feeling stronger?" "OK." "Good!" He stood up and leant over to kiss her lightly on her cheek. "You don't know how lucky I feel to have you here with me, Wanda." He walked to the door and turned with a smile playing over his face. "Don't forget to take your medication." *********** Lex bounded gleefully down the corridor to his living room. This was so much fun, this play-acting business - and that last line, about feeling lucky to have her here with him! If only she knew just how lucky. ************ Days passed in a confused blur for Wanda. Lex attended her constantly, bringing her meals, staying with her until she became too drowsy to sit up, talking to her about inconsequential things, amusing incidents he'd encountered at the office, always smiling, always cheerful. Once or twice she had caught him off-guard and seen the concerned, worried expression on his face as he watched her slowly eat, and gradually she began to realise just how much he must care for her. She didn't understand why, because she was pretty sure she wasn't worth the attention, but for now it was easier to relax and let this kind, understanding man look after her. The only thing preventing her from relaxing totally was the fact that he refused to tell her very much at all about Lagos: whenever she broached the subject, he would become distressed, saying it would only upset her and he didn't want her upset, and then he would insist on talking about something else. The lack of information was beginning to eat away at her, making her imagine all kinds of terrible things which she might have done. Combined with a constant feeling of depression and the certainty that she was in some indefinable way a pretty worthless human being, the effect was to sink her self-esteem to rock-bottom levels. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, she was never able to remain awake and focussed for long enough to dwell on the matter, so instead she tried to concentrate on taking care of herself and regaining her health for him: at least that was something she could do right. After about a week, she was beginning to feel a lot, lot better. In fact, Lex remarked upon it himself, saying how wonderful it was that she'd been able to reduce her medication down to one tablet a day. "Maybe I could get up today, Lex." "If you're sure, my sweet. You don't want to rush things." "It can't be any worse than lying here all day long - I guess I have to get up sometime and start living again. And there's something I wanted to ask you- " "Anything, my dear," he smiled. "I want to know about Lagos. I want to know about me." "There's nothing to know, my dear," he replied dismissively. "Nothing that matters, anyway." He stood up suddenly. "Look, if you really feel ready to get up today, how about I set up a lounger out on the balcony for you? It's a lovely sunny day, and you could sit there and enjoy the beautiful views over Metropolis." "Lex, that sounds nice, but first, I need you to tell me what happened, or what I did. I can't move on in my life until I know where I'm coming from, what I did that's so awful that you can't bring yourself to tell me about it." "Wanda, all you need to know is that I love you and I want to take care of you. The rest, as far as I'm concerned, is ancient history, and it doesn't matter to me one jot what other people think about us." "You see, that's just it. What might other people think about us?" "My love, it's irrelevant!" "Lex, it may be irrelevant to you, but it isn't to me. You seem to forget, you know all about me, whereas I know almost nothing about me. How do you think that makes me feel? I know I'm not worth much-" "Don't ever say that, Wanda! You're worth as much as any woman in this city - at least, to me you are." She rode over his objection. "-but I have to know why I feel like this. Lex, I just can't go on this way - I have to know!" Luthor looked pained. "Wanda..." "Lex, it can't be any worse than anything I'm imagining." Luthor sighed heavily. "All right, if you really insist on pursuing this, then I give in. What you want, I want too. But I'll cut you a deal. First you come out to the balcony, get some fresh air, rest a while, and then I'll tell you." "OK." She didn't think that sounded like too much to ask, and anyway, she was ready to get up and move around a little. ******** Walking out from the French windows onto the balcony was quite exhilarating. The sun was shining, the view over Metropolis was breathtaking, the air was warm, and at last, she could hear the faint sounds of the city drifting up from below. The apartment had started to feel very claustrophobic and horribly silent the last couple of days when she'd started to feel better, and it was wonderful to be out in the fresh air with more than the sounds of her own breathing to accompany her. She looked over at the lounger Lex had set up for her, at just the right angle to view the city at its best, with a small round table just next to it- Lex rushed past her to the table and hastily collected up a bottle of whisky sitting there. "I'm sorry, Wanda, that was thoughtless of me. I'll hide this away." Wanda frowned at his retreating back. What was all that about? A few minutes later he was back, carrying a chair for himself which he set down at the other side of the table. "All right, my dear, you can ask me anything you want, and I promise you I'll give you as honest an answer as I can." She gripped the arm of the lounger tightly. Now that she was finally going to find out the truth, she was suddenly nervous. What if the truth was actually worse than anything she had imagined? Was she a criminal on the run? Did she have children and a husband she had abandoned somewhere? Worst of all, had she perhaps even killed someone in Lagos? She took a deep breath: better get that one out of the way first. Not able to face him, she gazed out over the city as she posed her question in a low voice. "Did I kill anyone?" He laughed. "Of course not, my dear." She let out a breath she hadn't even been aware she was holding. That was the worst that she could imagine dealt with; now to the lesser, but only marginally less disturbing, theories. "Am I a criminal?" He shook his head vigorously. "No." "Have I ever abandoned anyone close to me?" "Not since I've known you." She looked across at him. "I haven't known you all your life, Wanda - I can't tell you what you did before I met you." She grimaced; he was right, and somehow the knowledge left her feeling even more uneasy. It also raised another question. "How long have you known me?" "I met you for the first time when you came up to me in that bar." She stared. "But...all this, all you've done for me, all the time you've spent with me, and you've only know me for less than, less than..." She trailed away, realising that she had no clear idea of just how many days she had been living in his apartment. "Less than two weeks. I know, I'm crazy. I take a woman like you back to my hotel, go to all the expense of hiring a private jet to bring you home to Metropolis, spend days nursing you and feeding you - all after one brief meeting in a bar in Lagos. But I guess that's what love does to you," he finished with a beaming smile. A woman like me? thought Wanda. What does that mean? "But why?" she asked. "I told you - I love you, Wanda. And when you're in love, you do crazy things, and it doesn't matter what the person you love is, what they once were, all that matters is your love for them." "What was I, Lex?" He leaned forward with an expression of deep regret and sadness. "I think you know already, Wanda - and I told you, it doesn't matter." "I *don't* know! Just tell me, for God's sake!" "What do you think you were doing in that bar?" "I don't know - having a drink?" "You were certainly doing that. But that wasn't the only reason you were at that particular bar. Wanda, it was a certain kind of bar, the kind of bar people - men - go to..." "It was a gay bar? Is that what you're telling me? I'm gay? You're gay?" She frowned and shook her head in frustration. Nothing was making any sense here at all. A look of impatience suddenly crossed his face, to be hurriedly covered up with something softer. "Wanda, I'm ashamed to tell you this, and I hope you won't think any less of me when I admit that I, myself, went to that bar with a single purpose in mind - to pick up a woman for the night. It was a moment of madness - not something I would ever normally entertain, but I had just completed a difficult business deal and I suppose the success went to my head. I'm sorry." She stared at him. He seemed such a respectable, kind man - good looking, in a way - why would he need the services of a prostitute? Furthermore, what had it to do with her? He obviously saw her still looking confused and puzzled, so continued, "As soon as I sat down at the bar, I knew that it was a mistake, that I should just go - but then you came up to me and that's when my world turned upside down. I could tell immediately that you were different to all the other women in the bar, even if you were using the same...sales techniques as the rest of them. You were beautiful, and when you talked, I could hear the wit and intelligence in your voice, the laughter which had once been so much a part of you - of course, anyone else might have said it was only the drink talking, but I knew there was more to you than that. Then when you touched me..." he laughed in embarrassment, "well, if it had been any of the other women in the room touching me there I would have been disgusted, but you...your touch was like electricity. I knew I loved you from the moment I met you, Wanda, it's that simple. I was about to ask you if you'd care to have lunch with me the following day, when you stood up to get closer to me and promptly collapsed right in front of me. Well, the rest you pretty much know. I took you back to my hotel, called a doctor to make sure you were all right, and then decided I had to get you out of that hell-hole and bring you back here." Wanda stared out blindly over the city. She was a prostitute; that's what he was telling her. A pathetic, worthless, drunken prostitute, hanging around bars to pick up total strangers and earn money from them by selling her body to them. Now it all made sense, now she knew why she had this constant feeling of emptiness, of world-weariness - she was from the dregs of society, a used, dirty shell of a person, a thing for other people to take their mindless pleasure from. She felt disgusted by herself, sick at the thought of her body being invaded like that, sick at the thought of the perverted things she had probably done. Suddenly, she had to be alone. She lurched out of the lounger, distantly aware of Lex calling to her, and ran through the apartment to her bedroom, where she fell on the bed, curled up in a tight ball, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging herself. Disgust permeated her body and mind - she couldn't get past the image of herself on a bed somewhere...she shivered violently and hugged herself tighter. Was this worse than all the other things she had imagined? Yes, it was, it was terrible, it was revolting...had she even used precautions? Had she ever been pregnant? Oh, God, had she ever...? Tears were running down her face as she turned over all the frightening possibilities...and all the time, the image of herself with men she didn't know...no, no, no! A hand touched her shoulder; she flinched away from it. No-one was to touch her, no-one! Least of all him. "Wanda." No! Go away! "Wanda, listen to me." She grabbed frantically at the bedclothes underneath her to try and pull them over her head, to hide herself away from him. "Wanda, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I told you." His hand was on her shoulder again, and she tried to escape from him, but this time he wouldn't let go, holding both her shoulders firmly and trying to turn her around to face him. She struggled against him, fighting with him, desperate to shake him off so that she could be alone, but he was too strong for her. "Wanda, you need to calm down. We'll get through this together, but I can't help you if you won't let me. Calm down, stop struggling, and we'll talk about it." "No!" she cried, trying to pull away from him, turning her face away from his. He held her firmly and repeated, "Calm down." She struggled some more, but her strength was rapidly fading now. Out of breath and beginning to feel dizzy from the unaccustomed exertions, she lay limply on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably in utter defeat and helplessness. Over her sobs, she heard him say, "I'm going to get you something to help calm you down," and blessedly, his hands left her shoulders. Left alone for a few minutes, more terrors struck her - what if her illness was a consequence of her past? Did she have one of those terrible diseases - worse still, did she have AIDS? Was she dying? Right now, she wasn't sure if she cared, except that it scared her. She didn't want to die of some horrible disease, sick for months on end, perhaps even years. If that was true, then somehow she'd find a way of ending things before they got that bad, even though that scared her just as much. She heard him come into the room again and put something on her bedside table. "There's a sedative and a glass of water on your table. I know you don't want me here, but I'm staying until you've taken that, so you may as well do it now." He was so right - she wanted him gone. She couldn't face him, didn't want to feel him touch her, didn't want him anywhere near her for a long, long time. Slowly, she rolled over, pulled herself up to the table and took the medicine. Thankfully, he was standing at the door so that she didn't have to look at him, and she rolled back over into a tight ball once more. "Good. Get some rest, and we'll talk when you're feeling better." Feeling better! She would never feel better, ever again. *********** Present Day... Clark tried for the third time to get his head around the email describing new procedures for claiming expenses. Something about getting a pre-printed form from salaries with his staff number on it...original receipts only...no paperclips...three copies...what was that bit about his line manager? He started from the top again...pre-printed form...receipts in triplicate...no, original receipts only...paperclips in triplicate...staple line manager to top... "Those paper-pushers up in salaries sure know how to make a simple procedure more complicated than filling in your tax return, don't they?" Clark turned to his temporary editor, Jeff Greenstreet, and grimaced. "Doesn't help when your mind's a million miles away, I guess." "Oh? Anything I can help with?" "Thanks, Jeff, but no - this is something I've got to figure out on my own." Jeff suppressed a small frown. It wasn't so long ago that Clark had come back to work after resolving some very tough personal issues, and it didn't bode well for the young reporter if he was still pre-occupied like this. He kept his tone light, however, when replying. "Well, you know my door's always open if you need anything." He was turning to walk back to his office when Clark's voice stopped him. "Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about." "Sure. You want to talk here or in my office?" Clark hesitated. He wanted to tell Jeff about what he was planning for his next investigation, which was perhaps better done in Jeff's office, but he also didn't want it to look as if he was always running to the boss for private chats. It was bad enough that he already held a privileged position at the Planet, being the only permanent member of staff with a completely free hand to choose his own projects, without it looking as though he needed constant support from Jeff. His boss came to his rescue. "Actually, I just remembered I have to phone Gene in London before he leaves the hotel," he said, glancing at his watch. "You want to swing by in, say, ten minutes?" "OK." ************** "Thanks," said Clark, turning to close Jeff's office door behind him. "Take a pew," replied Jeff, waving at the chair in front of his desk. "Thanks for what?" "For stopping me looking like I can't tie my own shoe-laces without talking it over with you first," replied Clark with a smile, settling down into the chair. Jeff raised an eyebrow. "Don't know what you're talking about, Clark. Gene was waiting for that call." "Sure he was." "Besides, you can help me with these while we're talking." He fished in one of his drawers and produced an open jar of cookies. "Julie made them." "Your eldest?" "Yes." He selected a cookie and held up the misshapen lump for Clark to see before thwacking it on the side of the desk with no discernible effects. "I love her to bits, but she can't bake for love nor money. Here, have one." He held the jar up to Clark. Clark picked one out and eyed it cautiously. "Why don't you just throw them all out?" "I couldn't do that - she made them for me!" "Yeah. Of course." Clark clamped his jaws around the side of the cookie and employed a touch of super-bite to break a piece off. "Very...crunchy," he said around the mouthful. "Terrible, aren't they? Anyway, what can I do for you?" Clark munched his way around the tasteless rock before replying. "Just wanted to let you know what I'm planning on doing next." "Which is?" "An expose on Lex Luthor." He swallowed with a grimace, dropping the hand holding the cookie surreptitiously down to his side. "You know - the guy who owns LL Industries? I think there's a whole lot more to him than meets the eye." "Ah. You do know he's up for Businessman of the Year, don't you?" "No?" "Yes, for building up one of the most successful construction companies in Metropolis in less than two years. He's also getting to be quite a figure in Metropolis society these days - made a big donation to one of the homeless charities just last month." "Probably so they could house the victims of his latest construction disaster." "Hey, Clark! Where's your unbiased reporter's viewpoint?" "Let's just say I have my own reasons for thinking he's not the caring philanthropist people might think he is." "Hmmm. Well, don't turn this into a personal vendetta, will you? I don't mind a strongly worded expose, but it's got to be backed up with hard facts." "Don't worry - it will be." Jeff considered the determined look on Clark's face. "This doesn't have anything to do with that other thing you were talking about, does it?" Clark shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Maybe." "OK, the first whiff of personal bias, and you're off the project - you got that?" Jeff looked sharply at Clark. "Got it." "OK." Jeff picked up the cookie jar and held it up to Clark. "Come on, eat up your cookie - we've got another ten to get through yet." Clark sighed and held up the hand he'd been hiding over Jeff's trash can. Fine sand-like crumbs descended from his fist into the bin. "Sorry," he said guiltily. Jeff's mouth curled up at one side. "Guess those super-powers come in real handy sometimes, don't they?" *********** Clark returned to his desk and the tedious expenses email. After reading it blankly another couple of times, he gave up and closed it down. He just couldn't stop thinking about her. He'd tossed and turned most of the night, arguing with himself about who she was, how she could possibly have come back after all this time, and why on earth she was attached to Lex Luthor - especially if she really was who he thought she was. Lois Lane wasn't the kind of woman to associate willingly with a toad like Lex Luthor, he was positive of that, but last night's evidence obviously contradicted him. He had tried to blot out those few ugly moments outside her door, but they kept playing over and over in his mind despite his efforts, and he always arrived at the same conclusion: she hadn't protested the man's attentions at all, she had been a willing participant. Which brought him to the other puzzle: why was she living under a pseudonym, and behaving so clearly out of character? The Lois Lane he knew was a vibrant young woman with a keen sense of humour and a quick intelligence; the woman he had met last night seemed jaded and sad. If she really was Lois, what had happened to her? Something so awful that she had decided she needed to submerge her old identity completely? Maybe she had done something terrible - or maybe she was under the witness protection scheme. That would make more sense for someone like Lois, a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong. It was quite possible that she had gained knowledge of some incriminating evidence, but had somehow compromised her own security at the same time. Except that they wouldn't bring her back to her home town, and her personality wouldn't have changed so radically from the Lois Lane he knew. Of course, he hadn't actually ever met *this* Lois Lane, but he'd heard Perry talk about her, and she hadn't sounded that different to the one he had met. His only ray of hope was her first comment on stepping down from the stage: "Lex always takes care of the victims." That didn't sound like someone besotted with her man, it sounded more like someone who knew some pretty murky things about her boyfriend - if that was what he was. So if she wasn't blind to Luthor's faults, then that was something which Clark could exploit: perhaps she would be willing to talk to him about what she knew. However, he still needed to make sure he wasn't wrong about who she was, and there was one man who could help him with that. He grabbed the phone and dialled. "Perry White." "Perry, what are you doing tonight?" "Clark, is that you?" asked the mayor of Metropolis in a slow drawl. "Yes, it's me," replied Clark impatiently. "What are you doing tonight?" "Ah - nothing, for once, as it happens. Why? You're not asking me out on a date, are you?" Perry asked with a laugh. "I want you to come to a nightclub with me." "A nightclub? Ah, Clark, that's very nice of you, but my nightclubbing days are over, I'm afraid, ever since the episode with the fourteen tequilas and the woman from Mars. Why don't you come around here? - I think Alice is planning one of her Mexican specials tonight." Normally, Clark would have pursued Perry's tangential remark about tequilas and aliens, but right now he only wanted to discuss one thing. "I think I've found her, Perry." "Who?" "Lois. Lois Lane." There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. "Now, hold on a minute there, Clark. You're saying you've found Lois Lane?" came the wary question at last. "Yes, she's a singer at this nightclub I want you to come to." "She's a singer...Clark, are you feelin' all right, son? Not been neglecting yourself again, I hope? You know what happened last time you did that." "Perry, I'm fine," replied Clark quickly. "But I need you to come with me to the club tonight so you can tell me I'm not wrong. I know it's her, Perry, even if she's...different to the way she was." "I tell you what, Clark - why don't Alice and I come over there? We'll bring the food with us and we can all have a quiet evening together - you can tell me all about your cousin and how he's getting' on back wherever he comes from." "I know this sounds crazy, Perry - I know *I* sound crazy, but humour me, OK? Just come down to the club and tell me what you think." Perry sighed deeply over the phone. "Clark, I thought you told me that woman who turned up out of the blue claiming to be Lois Lane was actually an impostor. Now you're telling me she's re-appeared, but this time you think she really is Lois? You're not making much sense here, son." "No! I'm talking about the original Lois Lane - the one that was lost in the Congo." There was another long pause while Perry considered how best to let Clark down gently. "Clark, I never understood why you spent so much time looking for someone you never even met, but I thought you'd finally gotten over that. It's no use, son, she's lost to us forever, and we just have to get on with our lives the best we can." Clark drew in a quick breath in surprise. "You knew?" "That you were spending just about all your spare time looking for her? Yes, it was obvious, son, from the way you started disappearing at strange times of the day. At first I thought you were just flying off on Superman duty, but when you disappeared for hours on end and there were no reports of major disasters around the world, it was pretty obvious you were up to something else. I saw how you and the...impostor got on so well together, so it didn't take much to put two and two together." "Oh," replied Clark in a subdued voice. He'd thought he had hidden his single-minded search across the globe for her pretty well, and it came as a shock that his good friend had known all along, even though they hadn't been working in the same office together any more. "Don't feel so bad, Clark," reassured Perry. "I'm sure no-one else noticed. It's just that I have this secret weapon called Alice - she was the one who first suggested it when you could hardly wait long enough to finish your dessert one night." "Oh. Sorry." "Don't worry about it. But Clark, you have to let her go. I know things have been tough for you lately, what with...Mayson, and all, but there are plenty other fish in the sea for a good-looking guy like you. Give it time - you'll see." "I know, Perry. I'm sure you're right. But please, just humour me this once? As a friend? I just need to know if I'm right, that's all. I promise I won't ask you again." Perry sighed again. "You say she's a singer?" "Yes. She's pretty good, actually. Do you like light jazz?" "So long as it's written before 1970, I like just about anything. OK, Clark, I'll do it, on one condition." "Anything." "If she tries to sing any of the King's songs, I'm leaving." Clark smiled. "I don't think there's any danger of that." ************* Clark spent the rest of the day checking into LL Industries and Lex Luthor. It appeared that Luthor had purchased a tiny construction company about two years ago when it was just about to sink into financial oblivion, changed the name and had immediately begun sinking copious quantities of his own money into the business, expanding it exponentially. After the first bloom of growth, during which time the company attracted a couple of small, but high-profile projects, the company had continued its growth principally by acquisition, swallowing up several medium-sized construction businesses along the way. Clark wondered where Lex had acquired the capital necessary for such a venture; as far as he could discover, the man had no inherited wealth, which meant he must have earned (or perhaps stolen?) the money with his own resources. He filed that question away for further investigation. Another item requiring more research was the contract the company had won from the city for a new exhibition centre: to his admittedly inexperienced eyes, it was an unprecedented size of contract for the company to win, given that it beat two of its much larger competitors at the time. Surprisingly, the company had a reputation for an enlightened attitude towards its staff: several business magazines cited it as a glowing example of the modern approach to staff relations. It was the only company of its kind to run a free creche for all its staff, for example, and the medical provision for employees was reputedly second to none. There was a generous profit-sharing scheme, and holiday entitlement and other benefits were above average for the industry. The picture emerging was of a astute businessman with a great deal of flair and a philanthropic bent: the ideal candidate for Businessman of the Year. If Clark hadn't seen the results of LL Industries' shoddy workmanship for himself - although that still required proof, he reminded himself - and heard the hints of dissent from people connected to Luthor, he probably would have been queuing up with the rest of the great and good of Metropolis to shake the man's hand. However, he knew in his heart that the man was evil, and he would do everything in his power to hunt him down and stop him before he insinuated himself any further into the lives of the citizens of Metropolis. ************ Perry stopped when he saw where Clark was leading him. "You have to be kidding me, Clark. This is where you think you found Lois Lane?" Clark looked at the gaudy pink and green neon lights advertising 'Girls, girls, girls', the plastic, yet still-wilting palm tree outside the battered black-painted door and the doorman built like a Sumo wrestler standing in front of it, and shrugged helplessly. "I know it doesn't look promising, but trust me, she's here." "'Wanda Detroit - the hottest act since...Slinky Susan'?" Perry read from the advert posted over one blacked-out window. "That's her name?" he asked incredulously. Clark put a hand on Perry's back and gently propelled him towards the door. "Come on." Once inside, they settled down at a small circular table near to the stage and ordered a couple of drinks. Perry eyed the greasy glasses plonked unceremoniously in front of them distastefully. "Don't suppose you brought any disinfectant with you, son?" Clark smiled. "I'm sure the alcohol will kill any germs." Perry took a cautious sip. "Not when it's this watered down, it won't." he replied with a grimace. "I guess at least I'll have a clear head to view the action with - if I can see anything at all in this," he added, indicating the darkened room about them. "I think the clients prefer not to see each other," commented Clark. "Hmph! Figures." After downing a couple more watery drinks each, a drum roll signalled the arrival of the compere, who announced in deep, breathless tones the imminent arrival of Wanda, who was apparently the sexiest singer this side of Las Vegas. The unimpressed audience continued their chatter as the music started; a fast, up-tempo song obviously designed to break through the background noise. The curtains parted, and there she was. A mass of curly brown hair surrounding a neat-featured face, elegant bare shoulders above a bright red full-length pencil dress with long, close-fitting sleeves, and red, high-heeled strappy sandals to complete the ensemble. She brazened her way through the song, apparently oblivious to the lack of attention she was receiving from her audience, giving it every ounce of energy and verve it needed to sell the shallow, throw-away lyrics. Clark was spell-bound. Just as last night, when he had been knocked sideways by her presence, this second encounter was no less transfixing. She might look like a hard, worldly-wise nightclub singer playing up to her unsavoury audience with ease, but to him she was beautiful, captivating, and pure Lois Lane from the top of her overdone hairdo right down to her red-varnished toe-nails. His dream had come true. Clark dragged his eyes away and turned to Perry with eyebrows raised in question. Perry shook his head emphatically. "No way," he mouthed back to Clark. Clark looked back at Wanda, now belting out the final long high note with a thumping accompaniment underneath. He had to admit that right now, she looked nothing like the Lois Lane he knew, and certainly wasn't behaving anything like her, but he was positive - this *was* Lois Lane. Wanda was moving into a slower, sexier number now, taking the microphone off its stand and strolling slowly around the stage with it. She watched her audience as she moved, and gradually, the background noise faded away as more and more people took notice of her performance. Clark followed her every move, studying her intently, noting the way she carried herself, watching her arm movements, her head movements, and always staring into those dark brown eyes whenever he could. It wasn't long before Wanda noticed the attention he was paying her, and with a curl of her lip, began to step down from the stage and advance on him, returning his stare with her own, equally intense eyes. She stalked around their table first, running her fingers lightly through Perry's hair until he ducked away from her, then coming to stand directly in front of Clark, singing at him, seemingly mocking him with her sexy words. He watched, mesmerised, as she first perched on their table, leaning over provocatively to him and giving him a clear view down her cleavage, and then stood up again only to sit abruptly in his lap. He couldn't stop a quick jerk of shock, and then his whole body tensed as she laid an arm around his shoulders and brought her face up close to his for the last line of the song. The audience broke into enthusiastic applause while she continued to smile knowingly at him, and then as quickly as she had dropped onto his lap, she was up again and walking back to the stage. "Thanks, *Super*man," she breathed into the microphone in a sultry voice. Clark cringed as the whole room turned to stare at him. The spotlight, which had been following Wanda around the room, swung around to highlight him and Perry at the table, and he forced a tight smile before raising his glass up to Wanda. "Thank *you*," he replied, willing the spotlight to leave them alone and return to its rightful place. Clark glanced over at Perry when at last they were plunged back into welcome darkness again. His friend was wearing an expression not unlike the one he used to give Clark when he was late with a story: thunderous. ********* "Tell me, Wanda dearest - what possessed you to sit in the lap of our noble superhero, Clark Kent?" asked Luthor, lolling casually in Wanda's dressing-room chair. The toilet flushed and Wanda emerged from the bathroom. "He was staring at me and I decided he needed to be taught a lesson - that's all." She reached behind to unzip herself out of the tight-fitting dress. "Allow me," volunteered Luthor, and stretched out with a hand to pull the zip down her back. He patted her bottom. "You know how much I hate seeing you with other men." Wanda moved back out of his reach and shrugged out of top half of the dress. "I wasn't *with* him, Lex - it was just all part of the act. The audience loved it." She pushed the rest of the dress down and stepped out of it. "Well, I didn't. I hated it. Next time show a little more restraint before you start touching up the clients - I thought we had left that kind of behaviour behind us, my darling." Wanda bit her lip. Always grinding her nose in it, always reminding her where she came from, and always with that sickly sweet endearment she was beginning to hate more and more each day. She picked up her jeans and started to put them on. He swung around in the chair to face her. "My, my, Wanda, isn't that a little premature?" She pulled up the zip and reached for a sweater. "I came on early this month." "Again?" he frowned. "Yes." She avoided his eyes by pulling the sweater over her head. "I guess it must be stress or something." "Perhaps. Well, that reminds me - I've made an appointment for you with Mr Phelps. He's an excellent man, I hear - the best gynaecologist at Met General, apparently." "Lex, I don't need to see anyone about this. I told you, it's just a stress thing - besides, some women are never regular." "Unlike you, my dear, who, as far as I'm aware, was as regular as clockwork until a few months ago. I'm just concerned for your health, Wanda. It doesn't hurt to go for a check-up - we can't be too careful with your background, you know," he finished, his face a picture of concern. "Lex, I'm fine!" she protested. "Wanda, do this for me, please? I need to know you're all right." "Lex..." "Phone my secretary - she'll give you the date and time." Wanda turned away quickly to hide her panic. She'd known that this was coming for some time; there were only so many times she could get away with feigning the onset of her period as a way of avoiding him. Now that she had overplayed her hand, he was calling her bluff. No doubt the doctor would report back to Lex that she was perfectly normal and that there was absolutely no reason for her increasing irregularity. The only weapon on her side was the fact that this wasn't an exact science; as far as she knew, no doctor could tell conclusively whether a woman should be regular in her monthly cycle or not. Nevertheless, Lex would undoubtedly think his suspicions about her avoidance tactics were indeed correct. Of course they were! She hated herself more and more every time she allowed him to use her like he had last night, and despite her optimism, the experience always left her empty and unsatisfied. Her attraction to him was rapidly waning too; nowadays all that was left was his power - that, and the power she held over him during those brief moments when his lust for her overcame him. At that time she knew that she was the one in control; the one who could make him senseless with desire. Well, now she had an even greater power: the power to refuse him her body. Yesterday, she decided, was the very last time that Lex Luthor was going to have any kind of sexual relations with her. Bolstered by her new-found strength, she smiled to herself: such a shame he didn't know last night was the last time - he had missed his last opportunity to get it right. She turned to face him again. "I'll phone her first thing tomorrow, Lex." Oh, how nice it was to see that chink of self-satisfied triumph on his face, knowing how disappointed he would shortly be. ************ Perry hadn't said a word to Clark since they left the nightclub, other than a gruff acknowledgement when he suggested they leave. Now they were walking through the dark streets towards the centre of town, looking for a cab to take Perry home. Clark had offered to fly him, but Perry had merely shaken his head. "Look, Perry, at least yell at me or something. You'll feel better if you yell at me," tried Clark again. "Hmph!" snorted Perry. "Or you could hit me...although you better give me a bit of warning if you're going to do that, so you don't hurt yourself on me. Come to think of it, yelling might be safer." "Clark," replied Perry at last, suddenly stopping and turning on him. "get this straight: I do not want to hit you. I don't want to yell at you. I don't even want to argue with you. What I do want to do is give that - that *woman* a piece of my mind!" Clark's heart sank; this didn't look good for his hopes of having Perry confirm his identification of Lois. "Why?" "Why? Let me tell you why - not only does she make you look stupid, she attacks me and then as good as announces to the whole room that the Mayor of Metropolis is frequenting a seedy nightclub! That damned spotlight might as well have been a TV camera - one of them is probably already hotfooting it to the nearest scandal rag to sell their story for a few measly bucks. "Perry, don't you think you're over-reacting just a little? I'm sure they're pretty used to seeing people like you there." "People like me? Clark, I am *not* 'people like me'. You," Perry jabbed his finger in Clark's direction, "of all people, should know that." "I'm just trying to say they probably won't even think of trying to make anything of seeing you there. Besides, I'm the one she named, not you." "Hah! Just another reason to give her a piece of my mind. Look, son, I know you think I'm being petty and image-conscious here, but things are different now that I'm the Mayor. God knows, I've worked hard enough to get this town turned around from being a gunsmith's paradise to something more like it used to be - I can't afford for people to get even the slightest excuse to slide back into old ways: *I* have to be squeaky-clean, even if the rest of Metropolis isn't yet." Clark sighed. Perry was right, but he still thought his friend was over-reacting. "I guess this means you don't think she was Lois?" "Hell, no!" Seeing Clark's stricken face, Perry softened his voice. "Sure, son, there were similarities - I could see how you might think she was Lois, but there was no way that salacious, wanton creature was Lois Lane. Best give it up now, son, like I told you before - it'll only end in more heartache if you try to kid yourself." "But I told you she would be different," reminded Clark, still hoping for even the slightest hint of reassurance from Perry. "You did, and she was. She was so different, she wasn't Lois." "And remember she's four years older than when you last saw her." Clark reached inside his wallet and pulled out a small newspaper cutting. "Here, look at this," he said, offering the picture to Perry. "Add four years and maybe some bad experiences and then tell me what you think." Perry pushed away Clark's hand without looking at the picture. "I don't need a picture to remind me of the best damned reporter I ever had the fortune to work with. I'd know her anywhere, and trust me, Clark, that woman wasn't the bright, intelligent, sharp-witted person who was going to be the first Pulitzer Prize winner the Planet had seen for ten years." "But-" "No buts, Clark. Forget it and move on - I don't want to see another fine reporter lost to whatever tragedy took Lois from us. Now - you gonna fly me home, or what?" "I thought you didn't want me to?" "That was before these darn shoes started killing me. Just...don't go too high or too fast, you hear?" Clark cocked an eyebrow. "You don't want to be seen in a night-club, but flying over the skies of Metropolis in Superman's arms is OK?" "Heck, it's so dark no-one will see us, Clark. But...just in case they do - just make sure it's, ah, an appropriate position they see us in, all right?" "Sure, Perry," replied Clark with a faint smile. ************ "There just isn't enough money in the budget to send you and Pete to the Congo on a wild goose-chase, honey, and that's final!" Wanda woke up with a start, her heart thudding in her chest as the alien words echoed through her head. She opened her eyes to reassure herself that she was still in her room in Metropolis, taking in the tatty curtains and peeling wallpaper made visible by the light filtering in from the street-lamp outside her window. Yes, she was in her dingy lodgings near the club, not standing in an office somewhere having an argument about travel arrangements with some middle-aged guy in a suit. Who was he? - his face was familiar...she struggled to reassemble the fragments of the dream still lingering in her mind's eye. He'd been heavy-set, his hair-line receding and beginning to show traces of grey, his face lined but not unattractive. Her eyes widened in surprise when she finally placed him - he was the guy sitting next to Superman at the night-club! What was he doing in her dream? She didn't know him, although in retrospect his face was familiar; maybe he was another of those political types who came down to this part of town for the kind of entertainment their wives would never provide. Those guys never usually sat so near the front, though. Well, whatever, he sure didn't belong in her dream - and why was she arguing with him about going to...where was it? The Congo? The thought sent a chill down her spine: her geography wasn't that great, but she was pretty sure the Congo wasn't that far from Nigeria, where Lex had found her. She turned over in bed and drew herself up into a tight ball, just as she always did when the terrors from her past life came back to haunt her. ************* In the cold light of day, the Ace O'Clubs looked even less inviting than it had the previous night. The neon lights, now unlit, looked grubby and messy, the posters stuck to the blacked-out windows were peeling and gaudy, and the morning sun revealed just how pock-marked and chipped the black front doors were. The wilting plastic palm had gone; in its place were a couple of plastic sacks bulging with smelly waste material. Obviously no-one was welcome here during the day: the doors were firmly shut, and the whole place gave the impression of a lifeless, dead building. Clark pushed his glasses down his nose and took a look through the doors. It was probably a waste of time coming here at this time of day, but he had failed dismally to concentrate on work at the Daily Planet, so desperate was he to find out more about Wanda Detroit. He would have come back here last night after dropping Perry off at home, but Superman duties had kept him occupied most of the night until just before dawn, when he'd finally crawled into bed for a couple of hours before getting up again to go to work. Jeff's early morning staff meeting had dragged by, and then he couldn't stand it any longer - he had to try and find her, talk to her in any way he could. Her presence in Metropolis had been gnawing away at him as soon as had he first discovered her, and the more he thought about her, the more he wanted to just drop everything and pursue her full-time: every minute he wasn't looking for her was another minute when she might disappear as suddenly as she had reappeared, and he knew he couldn't bear it if he lost her now. Perry's rejection of her true identity had been a set-back, no more. And all the time, the searing memory of having her captive in his lap for those few precious moments burned through his mind and body. Her touch had sent shivers down his spine and urgent messages elsewhere as she had moved restlessly over him in time to the song - sensations so much more intense and sudden than anything he had experienced with either Mayson or the other Lois. He should have seized her there and then and born her away in his arms to the farm in Smallville, where he could have...what, exactly? Explained why he suddenly felt the need to kidnap someone? Told her she was really Lois Lane, ex-reporter for the Daily Planet? She would have laughed in his face, or tried to scratch his eyes out - she certainly wouldn't have believed him. No, it had to be the softly, softly approach, and the first step was to find her. The interior of the club was as deserted as its exterior, and he was about to turn away when he caught sight of a side-door, which he'd dismissed as belonging to another building, falling shut. He transferred his gaze back indoors, and triumphantly spotted the barman from last night sauntering across the floor of the night-club. At last, a potential lead. He raised his hand and banged forcefully on the door for a good long time. The barman looked up momentarily from where he was restocking the bar, made a rude gesture at the door, and stooped back down to open up another crate of beer. Clark thumped harder, wondering if he could accidentally-on-purpose break the catch on the door. Probably not - this was one of the many times when the lack of a secret identity was a serious disadvantage. "Hey!" he called out. "This won't take long!" Now the barman was ignoring him completely, but there was no way he was going to give up now. Turning a disadvantage into an advantage, he concentrated a thin beam of laser light on the metal catch just visible between the doors - it didn't matter if anyone saw him, and he could merely weld it back together afterwards. OK, so the edges of the door got slightly singed in the process, but given the state of the door, he didn't think anyone would notice or care. "I let myself in," he explained sardonically as he strode up to the bar. "Yeah, well you can just let yourself back out again. We're closed," replied the surly barman. "I don't want a drink. I just want to talk." "Find a shrink." Not a bad idea, thought Clark. Maybe a psychiatrist could explain why Lois is behaving the way she is - he'd have to look one up later. Right now, though... "I'm looking for Wanda Detroit." He watched the man pick up bottles and place them on shelves: he was being ignored again. "Do you know where I can find her?" he tried. Instead of answering him, the barman emerged from behind the bar and walked away from him towards some steps leading downstairs. Clark followed him down to the grubby stockroom piled high with crates of drink and watched him heft a crate of mixer drinks. "What else do you need?" Clark asked. The man glanced back at him disdainfully. "Being nice ain't gonna make no difference." "Probably not, but you may as well make use of me - you do know who I am?" "Yeah, I know - Wanda sure made you look stupid last night." "OK, so right now I'm just stupid enough to want to help you." "Two of them," he pointed, "and three of those. If you break any, you pay double." Clark gathered up the crates, including the one the barman had picked up, and supersped upstairs, his unwilling informant following more slowly behind. By the time the man had reached the top of the stairs, he'd emptied all the crates into the appropriate places and stacked the empties in a neat pile. His unwilling informant glanced, unimpressed, at the completed task, shrugged into his jacket and walked towards the doors. "Hey!" called Clark. "What about Wanda?" But the man ignored him and walked out into the street, slamming the door behind him. Clark felt a quick rush of frustration and anger - couldn't the guy at least answer him? He supersped out the door, caught up with the man and grabbed him by the shoulder to spin him around. "I asked you a question," he gritted. The man looked at the hand on his shoulder. "What you gonna do now? Dance with me?" Clark snatched his hand away in exasperation. "Just tell me where I can find her and you'll get rid of me." "You don't wanna get involved with Wanda." "I'll decide that, OK?" "She's Luthor's girl, and you don't wanna mess with him. People have a habit of disappearing around Luthor." "I think I can handle Luthor." That comment earned him an assessing look. "I guess you're probably the one guy who can, at that. He'll still find a way to destroy you, though." "All I want to do is talk to her." Sensing a tiny chink in the man's reluctance to impart information, Clark pulled some dollar bills out of his wallet and showed them to him. "What's her address?" The guy snorted. "You think that's gonna buy you an address?" Clark glared and produced some more money. "Okay?" "555-4936." "That's a phone number." "That's all I got, buddy." He snatched the money from Clark and walked away. "Don't come looking for a job here when Luthor gets you fired from the Planet!" he shouted over his shoulder. ************** "Whoever you are, you better have a damn good reason for getting me out of bed." She sounded weary and very angry. Clark winced: of course, for a night-club singer, this was still the middle of the night. "I do have a damn good reason," he replied. "Well, spit it out before I die of boredom here." "I have a complaint." "See a doctor." First psychiatrists, now doctors? Clark couldn't help smiling - did he give off sickness vibes or something? "You left before I had a chance to thank you properly last night." "Buddy, everyone wants to 'thank' me - take my advice and go back to your wife. She loves you. I don't." He heard her start to put down the receiver. "Wait! I don't have a wife." "Talk to your boyfriend then." There was a click, and the line went dead. Clark re-dialled immediately, and listened to the phone ringing...pick up, Lois, please pick up! The phone casing creaked under the pressure of his tightening grip as he waited anxiously for her to reply. "Buy a pet. Or go for long walks. Just quit phoning me." "I prefer flying, actually." He held his breath, waiting for her to figure it out. It didn't take long. "The boy scout. You like my singing, boy scout?" "I thought you were great." He could hear her sardonic smile over the phone. "Yeah, I could tell." Oh, God! She noticed. "Sorry." "Don't flatter yourself - you're not the first," she told him. "Besides, it's good for business - the management like it if I can send one more customer to the girls later on." Clark didn't miss the bitterness in her voice - it didn't sound as if she enjoyed that aspect of her work. "But I guess you wouldn't understand that, boy scout." Oh, he understood it all right! He understood all too well the frustration and unfulfilled longing she could engender in a man, and, he thought ruefully, he probably had a great deal more experience than any other man in that room of containing or refocusing that longing need. However, his solution would never be the one she was implying: he could never use another human being like that. On the other hand, he resented her implication that he was incapable of experiencing those feelings - did he really appear that cold and unemotional? "Oh, I understand more than you might think," he found himself telling her. A low, dry laugh told him he'd said the wrong thing. "The boy scout exterior hides a bleeding, passionate heart, does it? I've heard it before, buddy - OK, the packaging's different, but what you're telling me is that you're a sensitive, caring man who's going to take me away from all this grime and degradation and we'll build a new life together raising ten kids and a cute dog called Spot. Forget it, boy scout, I know every pick-up line in the book." "I don't want to pick you up, I want to talk to you." "Same thing." "Maybe not if I say I want to talk to you about Lex Luthor." He held his breath - she could so easily knock him back again, or if he'd read the signals right, she would rise to the bait. Which would it be? There was the slightest of pauses before she answered. "What's to talk about?" she asked in a bored voice. "He owns one of the biggest construction companies in Metropolis, makes loads of money, gives some of it to charity, and wears expensive tuxedos. Just like any of the other businessmen who 'weren't' at the club last night." Clark listened to the carefully bored voice and knew he'd snagged her interest. Pressing on, he decided to test his theory about her opinion of Luthor. "Actually, I hear Luthor is different. I hear he cuts corners to save costs, yet none of his employees have ever reported him to the any of the regulatory bodies in the industry." "So I guess what you hear must be wrong. No reports means no cost-cutting." "Do you really believe that, Wanda?" asked Clark softly. "Do you really believe that Luthor is one of the best employers in this city? Do you believe that LL Industries got to be one of the most powerful companies in this city by astute business acumen alone?" "Sure. Why would I think anything else? Anyway, I'm just a night-club singer - what do I know?" Clark could almost hear the unspoken thoughts contradicting her words. "I think you know a lot, Wanda. I think you know more about Luthor than you pretend you do - why don't you and I meet up and talk about it some more?" "I told you, I don't know anything." "OK, how about we meet anyway - you can tell me what you don't know, and I'll tell you what I don't know." She laughed derisively. "Could be a long conversation." "Fine - I've got plenty of time. Where do you want to meet?" "Gee, boy scout, once you latch on to something, you don't let go, do you? You got any relations in the ferret kingdom?" Clark smiled. "Not as far as I know. My parents were farmers." Now why had he told her that? The last thing he wanted to do was dredge up all of that with her, when what he really wanted to concentrate on was her problems and her identity, yet something had made him want to share a fragment of his personal life with her. "Oh, yeah - Smallville, wasn't it? Didn't they die when you were pretty young?" And how had she known that? A minute ago, she'd sounded disinterested in just about everything outside her own small patch of existence, yet she knew this? He supposed his personal details had been splashed all over the media when the Mayson thing had happened, but he was surprised that she had taken any kind of interest in it. Had she looked it up since they had met, or had she followed the story as it had happened? His stomach suddenly lurched: she had probably been in Metropolis the whole time he had been meeting Mayson, dating her, kidding himself that he loved her and not Lois, holding her in his arms while she died...emotions were coming tumbling down upon him as he relived those terrible weeks with the additional knowledge that his suffering had been needless...a sudden flash of lifeless eyes in front of him as he breathed air into useless lungs set his heart racing and his hands shaking. It could all have been so different - Mayson would still be alive, and Clara Jefferson's father wouldn't have been hospitalised: he should have searched harder for her, he knew he should have... "I'm sorry - I shouldn't have asked," said a soft voice in his ear. She had obviously misunderstood his silence for old pain at the loss of his parents...well, that was just fine. He wasn't going to burden her with this, especially when he could hardly cope with the realisation himself. "It's OK - it all happened a long time ago." He churned out the stock phrase he always fed people when they needed to be reassured that they hadn't reopened an old wound. Not that it was ever true... With an effort, he pulled himself out of the maudlin fugue he was descending into and pushed forward into the future. "How about that meeting? What about somewhere neutral like a hotel?" "I have a better idea." He listened with widening eyes at her suggestion. "OK, Wanda. I'll see you this afternoon around two." ************* In a cramped, dingy basement office below the LLI building, a bored operative wearing headphones suddenly sat bolt upright and hit the rewind button on her tape recorder. Listening more attentively the second time through, she scribbled a couple of notes on a pad in front of her then reached out a hand to the phone to dial a seldom-used number. "Mr Luthor? There's something on the Detroit tapes I think you should hear." ************* Clark gazed out over the city from the window of the slowly rising boxcar, marvelling with renewed wonder at the vastness of the metropolis laid out below him. "Ever seen a movie called the Third Man?" he asked Wanda. "Not that I can remember. Why?" "Orson Welles meets with Joseph Cotten on the big Ferris wheel in Vienna. I thought maybe that was where you got your inspiration for this." He gestured at their surroundings and at the view outside, a renowned feature of the Big One, the appropriately-named Ferris wheel at Metropolis' amusement park. "I just wanted somewhere we wouldn't be overheard. I guess me and Orson must think alike." "Well, just don't jump out the door like he did." "You mean you wouldn't rescue me?" "I'd rather not have to. If you want to go flying with me...well, that's different." "My, my, Mr Kent! Do you offer all your interviewees free flights? Is that how you get them to talk - threaten to drop them if they don't tell you what you want to know?" Clark baulked. "Of course not! That's not the way I work!" "Relax, boy scout - I was only kidding. What happened - left your sense of humour at home today?" No, just my sense of balance, thought Clark. He'd had time to think some more about Wanda's apparent knowledge of his history, and one thing stood out above all others: he had to know if she'd been in Metropolis during the nightmare of the past few months. It probably wouldn't make him feel any better; in fact it made him feel sick just thinking about it, but he had to know just how cruel fate had been to him. He wondered how soon he could decently come out with the question - indeed, how soon he could tell her everything he knew about her. Part of him wanted to blurt the whole thing out all at once: tell her who he thought she really was and why, tell her about alternate universes and somehow convince her that their pattern of life should mirror that of the other Lois and Clark's, take her away from Lex Luthor and turn her back into the person he knew she should be - but he couldn't. At best, she would laugh in his face and call him crazy; at worst she would retreat even further away from him and deny him once and for all this most precious of gifts he'd been handed. So for now, he had to play an agonised game of waiting and gentle probing; teasing snippets of information from her about herself. "Actually, I preferred it when you called me Mr Kent." He turned away from the window and looked at her directly. "Clark would be even better." She returned his serious gaze with an amused smile, seemingly considering his request for a moment before replying. "OK, *Clark*. And I guess you want to call me Wanda?" No, actually, I want to call you Lois. "If that's all right?" "It's better than 'hey you up there on the stage with the small ti-'" she stopped herself just in time, turning away from him to look out the window. "You get the idea." Clark found himself assessing the area in question - they didn't look small to him, they looked just perfect, like everything else about her. He snatched his eyes away when she suddenly turned her head towards him, her lip curling in unvoiced laughter at him when she saw where he'd been looking. "You had some questions for me, *Clark*?" she asked, her eyes mocking his poor attempt to hide his interest in her cleavage. "Yes...how long have you known Luthor, Wanda?" His eyes bobbed down to her chest again of their own accord and he had to drag them back to the cityscape once more in order to focus on the main reason for their meeting. "Around two years." "How did you meet?" "In a bar." "In a bar where?" "None of your damn business - I thought this was about Lex, not about me." "I'm just trying to figure out how well you know him." It was obvious to him that Wanda didn't want to talk about how she met Lex, but he had to know if he was going to find out what had happened to her since she had disappeared in the Congo. However, his cover reason was equally important. "I need to know how much you know about him." "I told you, I don't know anything." Well, he'd walked straight into that one! Time to retaliate. "Then why are you here?" She turned deliberately and looked straight at him. "I like the view." Her face was serious for a second before it broke into another mocking smile. "Anything's better than the cruddy wallpaper back at my apartment." ************** Marnie Mayhew swore loudly, and adjusted the finely-tuned laser microphone yet again. Why did they have to keep moving around? It was bad enough that they'd picked this stupid big wheel to meet on, forcing her to keep adjusting the line of sight as the wheel slowly turned and the cars changed their position relative to one another. It was even worse that she hated, absolutely hated, heights - her natural place was in a basement listening to tapes of people's phone calls and conversations, not dangling God knew how many feet above the ground in a shoe box trying to record one of the dullest conversations she'd ever had the misfortune to listen to. OK, sex probably wasn't an option here, but couldn't they at least have an argument? ************** Wanda had crossed over to the other window, leaving him standing like a dummy, off-balance yet again. Had he imagined her meaning just then? Did she really mean she thought he was good-looking, or was she just making fun of him again? This conversation was turning out to be even harder than he had anticipated; he had expected her to be prickly, but he hadn't expected her to confuse him like this all the time. He rallied his thoughts once more and tried to return to his interview questions. "So you've known Luthor for two years?" "Yes, Clark." "But you won't tell me how or where you met him?" "No, Clark." He watched her petite form as she gazed out the window, taking in the way she hugged herself as she answered his questions with sing-song monosyllables, pushing him away from her both physically and mentally, and promptly lost his interview thread once more - he couldn't help wondering what had happened to her to make her so defensive and closed. He could only guess at the possible horrors she might have encountered as she made her way from the Congo back to Metropolis, but it was painfully obvious that these things had scarred her deeply, and he hated that. "I'm sorry, Wanda." "Sorry, Clark? What for?" "For whatever hurt you so much you still can't talk about it." He saw her hug herself more tightly, and pressed forward, hating himself for pushing her but needing to find out more. "Was it something that happened in the Congo, Wanda?" he asked quietly. She whirled on him, eyes wide with panic. "Congo? What do you know about the Congo?" "Not much. Just that-" "But that was all a dream! The Congo was a dream! That guy...your friend...he - he said he couldn't send me to the Congo, but that was a dream! Why are you asking about the Congo?" She shrank away from him as far as she could get and sank down onto the bench seat underneath the window. "A person I once knew..." Well, he didn't actually know her, but he felt as though he did, "she went to the Congo on assignment and disappeared for four years." "So? What's that got to do with me? This is crazy - it's just a coincidence, that's all. They say things like this happen all the time - you dream about something or somewhere, and then it comes up in conversation or on the news soon afterwards. It's just coincidence, like two people in a room having the same birthday, or, or the same name, or me liking Double Fudge Crunch bars when you do too. It's just coincidence, that's all, just a coincidence." Clark felt as though he was teetering on a knife edge - he couldn't go back and retract his question, yet if he went forward, he was going to upset her even more. Yet, he needed to find out why his mention of the Congo had shocked her so much, and he was beginning to suspect that she needed to find out more, too. He joined her on the bench seat, keeping a few feet between them so as to avoid crowding her. "What did you dream, Wanda?" She glanced sideways at him, and as he watched, the raw panic on her face was gradually replaced by the mask of world-weary indifference he'd come to know so well. "What do you care?" "I care a lot. I care that something upset you, I care that you're still upset even though you're trying to hide it, and most of all, I care that I might be the cause of your upset." She laughed humorously. "Don't worry - it's not your fault. I was like this way before you came along." "Wanda - look at me." He waited until she turned slowly to face him. "I care," he repeated quietly. "I want to know what happened to make you so sad, and I want to help in any way I can to make things better for you." She stared at him for a long time before she replied. "I think you probably mean that-" "I do, Wanda," he interrupted, pouring all his heart and soul into the words. "-and it's very sweet of you, but there's nothing you can do. This is the way I am, and that's all there is to it. Don't waste your time on me - I'm not worth it." Oh, God, Lois, but you are! "Never say that. Please never say that you're not worth caring about - it simply isn't true." She laughed, a nervous, ragged laugh this time. "I bet you say that to everyone." "Only you, Wanda." He moved a little closer to her. "Only you." He waited while she stared at the floor, collecting her thoughts together. Slowly, addressing the floor, she began to retell her dream. "I was in an office somewhere, with your friend from last night. We were having an argument, and he told me that he didn't have the funds to send me and Pete to the Congo on a wild goose-chase. Then I woke up." She looked at him. "What does it mean? Who was your friend, and what was he doing in my dream?" "That was Perry White...Mayor Perry White." "Oh." Clark watched her carefully while he spoke his next words. "He used to be the editor of the Daily Planet - where I work. Pete was a photographer at the Planet. He disappeared in the Congo at the same time as my...friend." She stared in fearful bewilderment at him, absorbing his words and slowly assimilating the implications behind them. He was sure she was beginning to believe what he was telling her, and encouraged by this, he moved tentatively a little closer still along the bench, closing his hand ever so lightly over hers where it clutched the edge of the seat. "Wanda, do you understand what I'm saying?" he asked gently. Her eyes went down to his hand on hers and came slowly back up to his. "Yeah, I understand. Nice try, Kent, but I'm not that kind of girl any more." She extracted her hand from under his and crossed it over her other hand. Clark frowned and shook his head in confusion. "What...?" "I know what your game is, *Clark*." His heart sank fast as he realised her shutters were up again with a vengeance. "You spin me some romantic yarn about me being your long-long friend from way back when, make me think I know you, and then whammo! Let me take you home, Wanda. Let me look after you, Wanda. Let me take you to my bed, Wanda!" She leapt up and strode over to the other window, staring out with her back to him. Clark was horrified: however did she think that was even remotely on his agenda? He was also furious with himself - he'd crowded her, got too close to her and forced too much information on her far too soon, and now she was rejecting everything he'd said, taking refuge in a total denial of his words. History was repeating itself, or at least, he was repeating himself, he thought angrily, as he remembered how he'd allowed himself to get too close to the other Lois that time so long ago in her house on Hyperion Avenue. The circumstances were different, but the actions were the same; he had almost kissed a happily-married woman who had a husband he respected and admired, all because he couldn't stop himself from wanting to be physically close to Lois. This Lois was no different; in fact it was ten times worse with this Lois, because he felt so right being near to her like this. However, he wasn't anywhere close to doing what she had implied by her last words, and he wondered again how she could have thought that of him. Hadn't she been repeatedly calling him 'boy scout' not so long ago, and virtually accusing him of lacking any interest in sex whatsoever? But perhaps this was how other men in her life behaved... "Is that what Luthor said to you, Wanda?" he asked, knowing with a rapier-cold certainty that he was right. "Damn you!" she spat. ************ Wanda gazed blindly at the view set out below her, her eyes suddenly blurring with unshed tears. What did this goody, oh-so-perfect boy scout know about real life? Real life, where you grabbed on to whatever scraps of survival you could; where you made compromises with your conscience; where you were a worthless piece of nothing and then someone came along and made you feel wanted again. Yes, Lex had taken care of her, and given her a home, and she had been grateful to him. He had been gentle and strong, patient and kind, and when he had first invited himself into her bed, she had truly believed that she loved him, or at least could learn to love him in time. She had wanted to give him back something for all the help he'd given her, and if his lovemaking was a little rough and one-sided, then that was a small price to pay for all that he'd done for her. It was only much later that she had realised that he now regarded it as his right to take her wherever and whenever he felt like it, and guarded his rights jealously against any other man who even remotely paid any interest in her. She was left clinging onto the notion that her participation was one small way in which she could take something back from him, while he, of course, continued to enjoy the regular release of his lustful needs. Now, here was another apparently kind and gentle man, telling her he cared for her and only wanted to help her; immediately she could tell how insidious his words were. Why, he'd hardly finished telling her how much he cared about her before he was sidling up to her and trying to break down her barriers with his apparently innocent hand-clasp. Well, she'd been bitten once, and she was damned if she was going to be taken in twice by a man like Lex. "Wanda, I'm sorry - I had no right to ask you that." His quiet, subdued words from behind her broke the brittle tension in the air. No, you didn't! she thought furiously. Even if you were right, you're as bad as he is. "I know you won't believe me when I say that I'm not like Luthor, but, Wanda, please at least think about what we've talked about - ask yourself why you had a dream about people and events you shouldn't know anything about. Those things actually happened four years ago, and I know you don't believe your dream was a coincidence - so what was it?" I probably overheard Lex talking about it, Wanda told herself. He probably said something about a reporter who disappeared in the Congo, and lots of people must have talked about Mayor White being ex-editor of the Planet, so I just filled in the gaps, that's all. She glanced outside and noticed gratefully that their ride was almost over. Just a few more minutes and then she could be shot of this pervert and his wandering eyes...her conscience pricked at her, telling her that she was being unfair: he wasn't a pervert at all, just a guy who cared, but she thrust the thoughts away, preferring to believe the explanation which fitted her view of the world most closely. All men were bastards, and only wanted one thing from her. The boxcar jerked to a standstill, and her fellow passenger was swiftly at the door, turning for a few last words. "I've left you my address and phone number." He pointed at the bench he had been sitting on, where she saw he had left a small scrap of paper. "I know you don't think much of me right now, but I'll always be here for you if you need me - or you can just yell help: I'll hear you." She watched his sad, anxious face dispassionately as he hesitated, apparently wanting to say more but unable to form the words properly. In the end, he relented with a simple request: "Take care of yourself, Wanda." He was gone before she could say anything. **************** Clark made his way glumly back to the Daily Planet, feeling dejected and completely defeated. One small error and he'd messed up everything. He had been so close to making her realise who she really was, but instead she now distrusted him completely, disliked him because of his insensitive questioning, and he was left knowing hardly anything more than he had before their meeting. He didn't know how long she'd been in Metropolis, he didn't know when or where she had tied up with Luthor, and he was no closer to finding out what happened to her between getting lost in the Congo and turning up in Metropolis four years later. Just before he left her, he had tried to summon up the words to ask her again to trust him, to believe that he was different to Lex Luthor, but her unwelcoming, cold expression had made the words die before they reached his lips, and instead he took refuge in a pathetic, empty plea that she take care of herself. A cry for help interrupted his thoughts, and it was with some relief that he spun into his suit and flew off in the direction of the call, knowing that at least in this he had a chance of doing something right for a change. The driver of the runaway truck was intensely grateful for his assistance, and he managed to raise a genuine smile of thanks when the man complemented him on his unerring efforts to keep the citizens of Metropolis safe from disaster. His smile grew even broader when he was informed that his services were appreciated far more than his 'cousin', who never seemed to have had time to stop for a chat after rescuing anyone. Clark knew perfectly well that his 'cousin', in other words, the Clark of the other dimension, hadn't stopped to chat because he didn't want to encourage speculation about his origins: explaining that you were a visitor from another dimension was guaranteed to have people calling for the men in white coats. Nevertheless, it was nice to know he was being favourably compared to CK, who after all was his role model. It was with a lighter heart that he walked down the ramp into the newsroom, where he found half the staff grouped around the bank of TV screens at one end of the room. Jeff caught his eye as he strolled up to find out what was happening and broke away from the group to meet him halfway. The editor regarded him with a mixture of concern and worry. "Ten-car pile up out on the freeway. I guess you're on, buddy." Clark looked past him to the monitors, taking in the tangle of metal and emergency service vehicles strewn over the freeway. He nodded jerkily and was already yanking at his tie when Jeff put a hand on his shoulder. "You gonna be OK?" He met his editor's serious eyes. "Yes," he affirmed, then feeling that his answer was inadequate given the man's obvious care and concern for him, added "Thanks," before speeding out of the newsroom and into the sky. Of course, he knew what Jeff had been asking: this was his first big road accident since the one he had flipped out on. Then, he had abandoned the scene to the thinly-stretched rescue services when he had encountered that poor woman trapped in her car, who had done no more than remind him too vividly of another woman who had died in a wrecked car; a woman he had thought he loved. But that was then, and this was now. The memories lingered with him, and he knew he would never forget those terrible moments: they were seared on his brain forever, but now he could cope. That was what his friend Clark had taught him - how to cope with the grief, and how to return to his life with a renewed sense of purpose and confidence. This rescue would be all right: he would undoubtedly encounter some fearful, heart-wrenching sights, but he would do his job to the best of his ability, go home and cope with the consequences, then put it behind him and move on. ********** Wanda sat morosely in front of her make-up mirror in the tiny night-club dressing room, mechanically applying the same shades and colours she had been wearing for the past year. The look was beginning to seem tired and unattractive to her eyes, in the same way that her whole existence was beginning to look more and more grey and unfulfilling. She would pull on one of the current batch of close-fitting dresses Lex had provided for her, go out on stage and sing her set pieces, avoiding the lascivious stares of the punters on the front row, take a drink backstage from the barman, then fend off Lex's attentions before dragging herself back to the dark, dingy hole which passed for home. Then she would sleep until late the next morning; sometimes afternoon when there wasn't anything else to do, zap a plastic meal in her microwave and force it down, carry out any other of the basic chores necessary to sustain life, watch TV for a couple of hours, and finally the whole cycle would start again when she left for the Ace O' Clubs once more. She found herself hoping that Clark Kent might be in the audience tonight again, despite her views on his behaviour earlier in the day. At least he was easy on the eyes, and he didn't openly leer at her like the rest of the crowd did. Her mind wandered back to his expression just before he had left her alone in the boxcar; he had looked sad and defeated, she admitted to herself - but then of course he did, because she had seen through his trickery, dashing his hopes of pulling a fast one on her. But there had been anxiety as well, her conscience pointed out, anxiety for your safety and happiness, and that was why he asked you to take care of yourself. That was rubbish too, though - he was only anxious that she would spill the beans on him: Superman the womaniser would make an excellent headline or two. Her lip curled in dry amusement at the irony of Mr Whiter-than-white being exposed as a weak-willed skirt-chaser, imagining his good-looking visage plastered all over the tabloid newspapers with hysterical headlines to suit. Except he didn't once ask her not to say anything about their encounter, unlike Lex, who often told her to keep her mouth shut about something she had overheard or been an accidental party to. He also didn't try to force her to do anything she didn't want to - his only request had been for her to do some thinking, and the request had been delivered in quiet, pleading tones, not sharp, demanding tones like Lex used these days. And she was vaguely aware of some kind of recent crisis in his life to do with a woman - hadn't he disappeared for a while after she died? Of course, that didn't mean he actually loved her, or even cared about her; maybe there had been embarrassing consequences after her death which he had needed to distance himself from for a while. Anyway, why else would Clark Kent be bothering with her? There was that rubbish about his friend being lost in the Congo, but she didn't believe that story for a minute - OK, there were some weird co-incidences, but that was all they were. Weird co-incidences, she repeated to herself a few times as she completed her preparations for the stage. Nothing more, nothing less. ************ "Thank you, that will be all, Ms Mayhew." Luthor dismissed the greasy-haired, bespectacled little scrap of a woman with a wave of his hand. "Don't you want me to show you how to work the tape machine, Mr Luthor? Here, you press this button to re-" "Enough!" Luthor sighed and brought his temper back under control as she shrank away from him. She really had to be one of the most unattractive women in his employ, he thought wearily, glancing with distaste over the lumpy knitted waistcoat, droopy sludge-coloured cardigan and knee-length tweed skirt with the odd-shaped stain on one side. It had to be coffee, he told himself again, it just had to be... "I'll manage just fine, I assure you. Now go back down to that hole you call an office and continue your surveillance, Ms Mayhew." He crossed to the door and opened it for her, holding his breath as she passed by him and out of the room. If it wasn't for the fact that she was so good at her job, he would have dismissed her long ago and found someone less...fragrant to continue her work. It was a pity Mrs Cox wasn't knowledgeable enough in this field - however, his private secretary had several other admirable attributes which made her an essential part of his daily routine. Smiling as he remembered her most recent imaginative contribution, he switched on the tape recorder and settled down to listen to Wanda's conversations with her new friend. Several minutes later, he reached over and turned the tape off again. So Wanda was starting to get her memory back, was she? Well, perhaps it was time to wind up the Detroit project - he was getting bored with her these days anyway, especially as she was becoming less manageable than she used to be. He had enjoyed two glorious years of sweet revenge on her, and brought her down just about as far as he wanted to, but now the pleasure was waning. He had bigger fish to fry, and he was important enough in this city that he could get just about anything he wanted - including Mrs Cox, who after all was far more gifted at certain physical exertions than Wanda would ever be. Of course, it would have been grossly satisfying to see Wanda regain her memory and then realise just how triumphantly he had manipulated her, but that was too risky - she knew too much about him. No, better to dispose of her now, while she posed no threat. What of Mr Kent? He was obviously pathetically attracted to Wanda, which made Lex angry: he may have lost interest in Wanda himself, but she was still his woman and he was damned if anyone, especially Clark Kent, that sexless buffoon in tights and a cape, was going to take her from him. Mr Kent's interest was also inconvenient: if there was one person who could wreck his plans to dispose of Wanda, it would be the super-being. Finally, the man was apparently also intent on investigating Luthor's business dealings: this could not be allowed to happen. So, in summary, what were his action points? One: neutralise Clark Kent. Two: dispose of Wanda. He added a third: fund some research into Kryptonian physiology. ************ Wanda smiled hollowly at the fat businessman on the front row trying to sneak a peek up her skirt. Deciding to raise his pulse to danger levels, she bent down towards him, giving him a clear view down her cleavage and spoke in her best deep sexy tones into the microphone. "Got any requests, big boy?" She watched while he broke out into a sweat and stared with a fixed glaze down her front. Even the bald patch on top of his head was sweating, she realised in disgust. Reaching down, she grabbed his tie and pulled it up towards her, half-strangling him and forcing him even closer to her cleavage. The rest of the room laughed and clapped loudly, enjoying her humiliating treatment of the fat man. His face turned puce, but he retained enough of his wits to bring up a hand to try and fondle her, at which point she let go abruptly, making him fall back into his seat with a thump. The room roared with approval, and over their noise, she turned her back on them and breathed into the microphone, "Maybe not such a big boy after all." She whirled around and moved smoothly into her last number before the crowd could recover, cranking up the excitement in the room with the pace and clever lyrics of the song, finishing with a sudden plunge into darkness as she hurried off the stage to grab a mouthful of soda before coming back on to take her bows. A glance down at her victim told her he was still suffering, patting his face shakily with a folded handkerchief and swigging from his beer bottle in an ineffectual attempt to cool down. She nodded down at him with an amused smile, then escaped from the stage once and for all. Back in her dressing-room, she finished off the soda and dumped the glass on her dressing table. At least she was able to take her revenge now and then - and the beauty was that the crowd loved it when she did things like that, so no-one was likely to ask her to stop. Not even Lex. Her heart sank immediately when she recalled her disappointment on stepping out onto the stage; there was no sign of Clark Kent, but Lex was standing in the background, wearing his expensive tuxedo and his self-satisfied smile, clapping dispassionately at her antics. No doubt there would soon be a knock at her door. Her hands shook slightly as she cleaned off her make-up. Resolving not to allow Lex to have sex with her ever again was one thing; putting it into practice was going to be harder. She had no doubt that he would be aggressive, and for the second time that night, she found herself wishing that Clark Kent was around in case she couldn't cope with him. This was ridiculous, she told herself sharply: she could take care of herself, couldn't she? She didn't need some guy in a pair of tights to defend her from Lex Luthor. Anyway, as far as Lex knew, she had just started her period, so he wasn't likely to try anything tonight, was he? "My, my, Wanda, you certainly put that poor man in his place, didn't you?" Lex stood in the open door, smiling benevolently at her. She glanced up at him from her seat in front of the dressing table. "He deserved it - he was trying to look up my skirt." Lex continued into the room and shut the door behind him. "You must remind me never to try something like that with you, my dear. You were quite formidable." He stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, looking at her via the mirror. "My Wanda. How much you've changed from the weak little kitten I found so long ago. These days you're a tigress, my sweet." She ducked away from his hands and stood up to peel herself out of the tight-fitting dress. His hand was on her zip, pulling it down her back, before she could stop him. "Thanks," she muttered and tried to walk away from him, but his hands came round her waist and turned her around to face him. "I see such passion in your eyes, tigress," he told her, reaching up to pull the now-loose dress down her front. She tried to stop him with her hands but he resisted her attempts and managed to push it down so far that she was forced to free her arms from the arm-holes or end up bent double in front of him. "Don't hide from me, tigress," he reprimanded, bringing a hand up to fondle her. "Lex, don't you remember? I came on early yesterday." She pulled away from him again, but he held her fast in his arms, showing her a beatific smile as he did so. "Frankly, my dear, I don't believe you." Her heart was thudding in her chest in panic, but she pushed a puzzled look onto her face. "I don't understand. Why wouldn't you believe me?" "Oh, I have my reasons," he replied calmly. "Let's see if I'm right, hmmm?" His hand continued to roam over her without permission. She grabbed his wrist desperately, managing to stop him momentarily. "Lex, please! Leave it alone - I'll make it up to you in a few days' time, I promise. I could come round to your apartment, or, or we could go to a hotel...you know, one of those really posh ones, with all the extra gadgets in the bedrooms? You could even hire the honeymoon suite-" "Oh, yes, tigress, you're making me really hot with all these wonderful suggestions." He pushed his hand out of her grasp and continued on his way. "Let's see how hot I'm making you." Wanda was dizzy with desperation and panic. Without even thinking about it, her knee came up with all the force she could muster and hit him squarely between the legs, backing away frantically as his grip loosened on her and he doubled over in pain. "Bitch!" he ground out between clenched teeth, holding himself between his legs. "You'll pay for this!" She grabbed her clothes and bag and fled from the room, his warning ringing in her ears. ********** Clark stepped wearily into his shower, turning it up to full power so that he could feel it hammering hard against his skin, washing away the dirt and grime of the rescue operation on the freeway. As he had anticipated, the rescue had been a tough one, and despite his and the emergency services' best efforts, there had been one fatality. Unfortunately, the person who had died was also the cause of the disaster - the paramedics had told him that she had most probably suffered the heart-attack while still driving her car along the freeway. Why she hadn't pulled in as soon as the pain had started they would never know, and recriminations were both inappropriate and pointless. Worse for Clark had been the teenager with injuries so bad that none of the paramedics were sure whether he would survive the night or not. One paramedic commented that even if he did survive, he would be left with severe disabilities for the rest of his life. To Clark, that was a tragic waste of a young life, and he hated the fact that despite his incredible gifts, there were some things he could never put right. The sound of his door bell pulled him back to the present. Wondering who could be calling on him at this time of night, he dried himself at superspeed, pulled on his sleep-shorts and a short dressing gown, and took a look through the door. Not quite able to believe his eyes, he unfastened the lock hastily and gazed wide-eyed at his visitor. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" asked Wanda. "Sure..." he stood aside to let her walk past him, staring disbelievingly at her as she entered his apartment. "I guess you're wondering what I'm doing here," she said, walking down his stairs into the sunken lounge. "I am too. I mean, why should I trust you any more than I trust Lex..." she looked around vaguely at his apartment. "Nice brickwork...anyway, I guess I thought you're my best bet - my only bet, in fact. Pathetic, isn't it? I've lived in this town for two years and the only guy I think just might be able to help me wears electric blue ski pants and a cape. So here I am - do you mind if I sit down? Thanks." She dropped down onto his sofa without waiting for a reply, and huddled in on herself while fixing her gaze at the carpet. Clark had followed her down the stairs and was now standing opposite her, staring in stunned silence down at her. One piece of information from her monologue echoed again and again in his mind. "You've been in Metropolis for two years?" he blurted out, pleasantries and manners flying out the window as the need to confirm his worst fears over-rode all else. She looked up at him, about to confirm his tangential question with matter-of-fact bluntness, when she noticed his expression. She expected surprise, but what she didn't expect was pain: what did it matter to him how long she'd lived in Metropolis? "What's it to you?" "I..." he hesitated before shuttering away his feelings behind a bland expression. "It doesn't matter. Can I get you anything - a coffee, or tea? Or maybe you'd prefer wine or beer...sorry I don't have anything stronger." "What, no whisky or brandy?" He shook his head apologetically. "I guess coffee will have to do then. Relax, Clark, just because I'm a night-club singer doesn't mean you have to ply me with strong liquor to keep me happy." "Oh, I didn't mean-" "Yes, you did. Go on, go make me some coffee," she ordered. Clark took his time making the coffee to buy himself some thinking time. Why was she here? She had rejected him roundly after his ill-judged behaviour on the Ferris wheel, leaving him with the impression that he would have to work hard to regain her trust; he had expected to spend several phone calls persuading her to let him meet her again, yet here she was in his apartment already. He couldn't believe his luck - half of him wanted to shout for joy at being given this second chance to redeem himself. The other half told him that she had to be pretty desperate to come to someone she had rejected so recently - did she want something that only he could give her? That would surely have to involve superpowers, and he couldn't imagine why she would need that type of help. Or maybe she had decided to seek his help in bringing down Luthor - that would be wonderful, but again, why would she have decided he was worthy of her co-operation? What would make her desperate her enough? - she had to be afraid, he decided, which meant that she was in trouble. Oh God, what had Luthor done to her? He felt a quick surge of anger, knowing that if that evil man had caused her distress then he would be hard-pushed to maintain his objectivity. Taking a deep, calming breath, he carried two steaming mugs back into the lounge, handed her one and sat down opposite her. "So what can I do for you?" She cuddled the mug in both hands, the sardonic, world-weary exterior she usually wore now lost, leaving only hesitancy and vulnerability. Snatching a quick glance up at him, she started uncertainly. "I-I wondered if you might let me stay the night." "Sure, Wanda, of course you can stay. But why? Has something happened to your own apartment?" She laughed humorously. "Apartment. No, nothing has happened to my *apartment*." "So why...?" "Why can't I stay there? Because someone knows I live there, and I'd prefer that someone not be able to find me tonight." Clark felt a fresh surge of anger, but pushed it back down again. "Is it Luthor, Wanda? What did he do to you?" "Oh, nothing much." She took a slurp of coffee. "He just threatened me," she continued in a vain attempt at a matter-of-fact tone. "That probably doesn't sound like much to you, but you don't know Lex like I do. When he threatens someone, you start looking for the obituary." "I believe you, Wanda - the man's evil. But why did he threaten you? I thought you and he were...together." He would have said lovers, except that she didn't know that he knew that. "Not any more. I think he got the message about that when I kneed him in the groin." Clark raised his eyebrows in surprise tinged with admiration. "I'll bet he did! Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you, Wanda." She looked up and smiled wanly. "Yeah, I have a lethal knee actio