Bolt, From Dubuque
By: C. Leuch <isuleuch@hotmail.com>
Rated: PG
Submitted: May, 2004
----------------------

This is an alt-world take on Bolt From the Blue. I won't 
say much more, for fear of giving the story away, but I 
hope you enjoy. Thanks to my beta reader, LauraBF, for all 
her help and support.

The characters of Lois, Clark, Lana, and any other 
recognizable characters are the property of DC Comics and 
Warner Brothers. All original characters are my exclusive 
property.

*******************************************************

	In the corridor of the dormitory, doors seemed to 
stretch into infinity, most of them tightly closed, but 
some cracked open ever so slightly, sending slivers of soft 
yellow incandescent glow into the sterile fluorescent light 
of the drab hallway. One of those doors was open more than 
most, an old habit borne from the inviting personality of 
the room's occupant. Normally he didn't have any reason to 
hide behind closed doors, but as a sigh escaped his lips, 
he wondered if now might not be a good time to change that 
policy. To the casual observer, such a sound would normally 
be lost amongst the din of televisions and casual 
conversation, but the sigh echoed off the concrete walls 
and into infinity, its almost supernatural staying power 
carrying its despair to ears it wasn't meant for. In fact, 
it wasn't meant to be uttered at all, but sometimes even 
the gentlest of souls couldn't help but get frustrated. 
Inside the room sat a handsome, dark-haired young man, a 
phone clutched to his ear and a defeated look on his face. 
His lips curled down into a frown as his fingers absently 
played with the phone cord, the silence on the other end of 
the line telling him that his friend had heard the sigh, 
too.
	No, she wasn't just his friend, he amended, she was 
his girlfriend, and she had been for some time. But there 
were moments when he just didn't know what to think about 
her. Now was one of those times, and as the silence 
stretched on for several seconds, he found himself 
wondering just what it was that he had seen between them. 
She could be so stubborn sometimes, so selfish. Surely she 
hadn't always been that way, had she?
	"Lana," he said, his voice rising somewhat, framing 
the word so that it was almost a question.
	"Clark, I told you. You can't," she said, her tone 
almost harsh. Lana had never been one to overwhelm him with 
concern and understanding, but at least she had always been 
kind. He realized that it probably took an infinite amount 
of patience to be involved in a relationship with him, but 
he didn't expect Lana, his oldest and best friend, to lose 
hers so quickly.
	"I just want to fly out and visit for the weekend. 
What's so wrong with that? It HAS been three months since 
I've seen you." He glanced over toward his desk, and the 
framed photograph of his blonde-haired beauty that seemed 
to be staring at him no matter where he was in the room. 
Her smile in that picture was sweet, her eyes soft. That 
picture was more than three years old, but he still saw her 
that way in his mind's eye. The only real time he'd spent 
with her in the ensuing years had been weekends here and 
there, mostly during the summers. He knew she had cut her 
hair, and he knew that some of the girlishness had gone 
from her face, but it was so hard to remember when he never 
was able to see her. They talked on the phone, sure, but it 
wasn't the same. Nothing compared to seeing her in person, 
to touching her, feeling her, just being in her presence. 
The frustration of knowing that it was physically possible 
for him to be at her side in a matter of seconds made the 
separation that much more painful.
	"You might get caught, Clark, and THEN what would 
happen to you? We'd see a lot less of each other if they 
locked you in a lab someplace. Just save up some money and 
visit me the real way, the honest way." The words seemed so 
straightforward, but then again they always did. It was an 
argument that they'd had at least once a month for years, 
and it was one that she always won with the help of some 
well-placed and entirely sensible warnings. He just wished 
they seemed more sincere.
	"Yeah, I suppose," he said, his voice sounding flat 
even to him. It took a great amount of willpower to stifle 
another sigh, but somehow he managed. The thought occurred 
to him that maybe he should just fly out there anyway, just 
to see if there was a reason she didn't want him around, 
but he pushed it away, mentally belittling himself for 
being so negative.
	"I'm glad you understand," Lana said. "I'm sure 
you'll have a good weekend anyway. I love you," she said, 
and for a moment, Clark let himself embrace that. Maybe she 
did really love him, and maybe she did only want the best 
for him. Whether she did or not, she was all he had, and 
that was really what mattered in the end.
	"Yeah, same here. Bye," he said. Slowly, he pulled 
the phone away from his ear, looking at it for a moment 
before finally placing it back in its cradle. Why did 
Metropolis have to be so far away, he wondered as he 
flopped back onto his couch. If it were even in the same 
time zone, he could visit her and nobody would raise an 
eyebrow. But trips of over a thousand miles could hardly be 
accomplished by the average cash-strapped college student 
who had to be back in class on Monday. Of course, 
Metropolis was the type of place he could visit and be 
completely anonymous, blending into the crowds. Nobody but 
Lana would even have to know he was there, but she'd have 
none of that, and it was frustrating.
	When they had graduated high school, he had been 
certain that he and Lana would get married someday, and he 
knew back then that they would've been happy in their life 
together. But for whatever reason, as graduation neared, 
she had decided to enroll at Metropolis University, even 
after telling him that she would follow him and a large 
number of their classmates to Midwestern State. It would be 
a better opportunity, she had said, and he couldn't argue 
with that. If given the choice between a high profile 
school out east and a public Midwestern university, he 
would probably take the one out east, too. But he hadn't 
been given that choice; it hadn't even occurred to him that 
it WAS a choice, because they had plans, a future.
	It would've been easy to become bitter right then and 
there, but he didn't let himself. When life hands you 
lemons, you have to make lemonade. That's what his mother 
always used to say, but it had taken a long time for him to 
acknowledge that she had a point. Knitting his eyebrows 
together, Clark reached into the back pocket of his jeans, 
pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. The worn 
photograph that stared out at him showed the smiling faces 
of his parents. They almost seemed to exude love right 
through that piece of photographic paper, and for a moment 
it filled him with warmth. It had taken a long time for him 
to be able to look at their picture with anything other 
than sadness. For years after their deaths, it had been 
hard to go on. Silver linings to dark clouds seemed to be 
impossible to find, not that he had been looking, but then 
one day he had sought the confidence of Lana Lang, and 
everything seemed okay.
	She had been his friend ever since he could remember, 
and as she got older, there was just something about her 
that seemed to call to him. They had grown closer as 
friends, and she had coaxed him to open up, to share his 
pain with her so that he didn't feel so alone. During one 
of those sessions, he had looked at her and felt something 
that he hadn't before that moment. The way she sat there, 
her eyebrows raised in anticipation of the answer to her 
latest question, her blond hair bobbing ever so slightly, 
her pink cheeks giving her creamy skin a welcoming warmth; 
it had all sought to mesmerize him, stirring something deep 
down inside that made him do something more impulsive than 
anything he'd done in his life to that point. Without a 
second thought, he had leaned in toward her, ever so gently 
seeking out her lips with his own. What had started out as 
a gentle kiss rapidly degraded into something deeper, 
hotter, with the power to take away all conscious thought 
and just make him feel needed.
	From that point on, she was his world, his companion, 
his lover, and his confidant. After a while, he even 
summoned the courage to tell her everything, to show her 
all the things that he could do. The risks in sharing that 
with anyone were many, and he knew that all too well, but 
he thought she would love him regardless of what he was and 
where he was really from. But that gift of infinite 
understanding that she had didn't seem to extend to this 
one thing, and as he told her the whole truth, he saw her 
eyes widen and her mouth curl up into a smile that looked 
about as real as the Jackelope hanging on the wall of 
Maisie's Cafe. Maybe it had been a shock, he told himself. 
Maybe she just needed time to absorb it, but something 
about her eyes after that night told him that there was 
something deeper going on. It probably wasn't a coincidence 
that she made her announcement about Metropolis University 
shortly after that, but back then, he had chosen not see 
the correlation.
	It was quite a bit harder to ignore it now, though, 
especially after another phone call filled with quiet 
disapproval. Sometimes he couldn't help but feel that Lana 
wished he couldn't do all the things he could, and 
sometimes he couldn't help but agree. Being normal would be 
a wonderful thing, especially if it meant the respect and 
true love of the women he considered the love of his life, 
and he was sure trying his best to make it so. But being 
different meant many wonderful things, too, and that 
couldn't just be ignored.
	The picture of his parents stared back at him from 
the wallet, offering all the support that a picture 
possibly could. "What do you think, Mom? Dad?" he asked it, 
waiting for an answer that he knew would never come. His 
parents had known who and what he was, and they had never 
thought less of him because of that. They had never 
discouraged that side of him from blossoming, but they had 
also died long before most of what he could do had 
manifested itself. A thousand times he had asked this 
picture the same question, and a thousand times he just got 
smiles in response. 'Don't be anything less than what you 
are, son,' he could hear his dad say. His mom gave smiling 
consent. Never did they say, 'to heck with Lana Lang,' 
although he had expected it more than once.
	With a slight smile and a nod of thanks, Clark closed 
the wallet and tossed it onto his desk. If his parents 
approved of Lana, then he supposed he should just stick 
with it. They would both be graduating this year, so maybe 
there was hope for them yet. In the meantime, he had a 
sudden thirst for lemonade. His smile deepening Clark 
looked over toward the Midwestern State football poster on 
the wall. Some of his earliest, happiest memories were of 
warm winter days spent on his father's lap watching 
football, and Clark couldn't help but think that maybe a 
game would be the perfect thing to chase away his dark 
mood.
	The booming of a stereo began to echo down the 
hallway and through his open door, the heavy techno beat 
being accompanied by the groans of those who had rooms 
closer to the noise. With a grin, Clark got up and pushed 
the door closed, sealing his sanctuary off. His new, happy 
mood called for celebration, and what better way to 
celebrate than to crack open some cream soda and watch 
movies all night on cable? Sometimes it really was good to 
be a bachelor.

*~*~*

	The sky above the stadium had been steadily growing 
darker throughout the afternoon. On the field, the players 
paid no heed to the weather, but the once capacity crowds 
had quietly left, frightened away by the increasing rumble 
of thunder in the distance. Even the students, the hardest 
of the football crowd to scare off, had trickled out. Now 
only the die-hards, the true fans, or the truly crazy 
remained. Clark, never one to be frightened off by mere 
weather, looked appreciatively up at the sky as a ribbon of 
light jumped from cloud to cloud. Lightning was one of the 
more beautiful things in nature, its inherent danger and 
power making it that much more hypnotic. Of course, he was 
allowed a certain vantage point of lightning that few were 
able to see, from deep inside the clouds and from high in 
the stratosphere, and he was able to look upon the storm 
now and dream of ways he could get closer, to feel that 
prickly sensation on his skin when a bolt was about to 
strike. Nobody else felt this need, though, and as he 
looked around, it became readily apparent that everyone 
else had long since taken refuge at someplace safer. In 
fact, there was only one other person left in the upper 
level, and that was the security guard dutifully keeping 
watch over the section. He suspected that the guard wasn't 
exactly thrilled to have such a close-up view of the 
clouds, his body language conveying as much as he looked 
nervously back and forth between the sky and the game.
	A pained smile formed on Clark's face even as a stab 
of pity sliced through him. The only reason the guard was 
there was because of him. He certainly wasn't willing to 
endanger anyone else for nothing more than his personal 
pleasure, even if the actual odds of getting struck by 
lightning were astronomical.  Quickly, Clark rose from his 
seat and made his way down the steps and toward the exit. 
As he reached the front of the balcony, he clutched the 
steel handrail a foot or two away from where the guard was 
leaning against it. The most apologetic smile he could 
muster quickly flashed on Clark's face as he looked toward 
the guard and opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to say 
something to the effect that they should both probably 
stake a claim in an area that would be a little drier once 
the rains came, but the hairs on his arms began to stand on 
end, and a slight shiver ran through his body. He looked up 
toward the sky to try and find that telltale sign of an 
impending strike just as a white bolt of heat shot from the 
clouds. In less time than it took to blink, electricity 
arced toward and through him, grounding itself in the 
concrete at his feet. The force of the bolt threw him 
backward through the air and onto the empty bleachers. Out 
of the corner of his eye, he could see a streak of safety 
orange flying in the opposite direction, and a sickening 
feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach.
	Another flash brightened the sky as he laid on his 
back, suddenly feeling slightly short of breath. He'd 
probably been struck by lightning half a dozen times, and 
none of those had resulted in any type of adverse reaction 
in him before. Then again, he had never been grounded 
before, either, but it was odd to feel so drained. Now 
wasn't the time to dwell on that, though, and slowly he 
forced himself to a sitting position, remembering the 
security guard who had apparently also been hit. As his 
eyes scanned the area around him, he could see the limp 
body of the other man slumped against the railing, his 
chest moving up and down ever so slightly.
	"Oh my God," Clark said, grimacing as he pushed 
himself off the bleacher and stumbled toward the other man. 
The rows of bleachers that separated them proved to be 
somewhat hazardous to someone who was a little lightheaded, 
but with each step Clark felt his strength return a little 
more, and he made it to the other man in due time.
	"Hey," Clark said as he took him by the shoulders and 
shook him ever so slightly. The security guard's head 
flopped from side to side limply before he seemed to catch 
himself, his eyes opening ever so slightly. Clark let out a 
relieved laugh as he met the guard's eyes with his own.
	"What the heck happened?" the guard asked. He seemed 
confused for a brief moment, but gradually recognition 
came, and he looked around, finally clutching at himself 
frantically.
	"You got struck by -" Clark started.
	"Lightning. Oh, wow," the guard said, cutting him 
off. Clark looked down at the man's raincoat, alarmed to 
see a small amount of smoke raising from the now somewhat 
melted fibers.
	"How do you feel?" Clark asked, backing away. Behind 
him, the flurry of footsteps ascending the stairs to the 
balcony told him that the paramedics would be there 
shortly.
	The security guard stilled his movements, looking 
down at his smoking jacket, and then back to Clark. "Fine," 
he said, his eyes narrowing once again. "Great, actually. 
It's weird." He looked toward where he had been standing 
once the lightning hit, then back at Clark. "What about 
you?" he asked slowly.
	Clark smiled as wide and reassuringly as he could. 
"It missed me," he said, lying. Most people, when flying 
through the air, don't have the presence of mind to stop 
and look around, and Clark was pretty sure that the other 
man would take what he said at face value. It wasn't that 
he thought the guard would get suspicious to see Clark in 
as good of shape as he was, it was just that if any 
officials learned that he had been struck, he'd be dragged 
to the emergency room for sure. His secret would be out 
then, and all of his worst nightmares would come true. The 
security guard seemed to buy it, though, nodding slightly 
as he kept his eyes locked into Clark's.
	As if on cue, the paramedics arrived at that moment, 
rescuing Clark from further questioning. One man asked 
Clark what had happened, and if he had been struck, but 
Clark dutifully told him the only truth that he would let 
anyone know, and the group turned all of its attention to 
the security guard. Quietly, Clark slipped away, down the 
stairs, to a nice secluded spot on the other side of the 
stadium, UNDER the balcony. As the rain began to come down, 
the game continued on, the good guys pulling away from 
their opponents, and gradually, Clark forced himself to 
forget his most recent brush with mother nature.

*~*~*

	"I really don't need to go to the hospital." The 
sentence brought strange stares from the men and women 
attending to him, but it only seemed to deter them for a 
moment. A stretcher clattered its way up the stairs, giving 
him his cue to move to a standing position. "I feel great, 
really."
	"Sir, we just need to get you checked out," one of 
them said. The general demeanor of the man, combined with 
his immaculate buzz cut, made his patient think that maybe 
he was a ROTC in his off hours. Guys like that didn't often 
take no for an answer, but this was going to be the 
exception to the rule.
	"Tell you what," the security guard said as he stood 
up. "If I start feeling anything weird, I'll motor over to 
the emergency room. Until then, I'm good." The various 
medical personnel surrounding him looked at each other, 
then collectively shrugged and backed away, gathering their 
equipment together and filing one by one down the stairs.
	"For your own sake, I hope that you do at least stop 
by the ER later," Buzz Cut said, drawing a smile and a 
thumbs up from the security guard. After a long look, he, 
too, took off down the stairs, leaving him alone at last in 
the balcony, just as the cold, fat raindrops began to fall.
	What a dreary capper to an eventful afternoon, he 
thought with a sigh as he followed the procession down the 
stairs. Getting struck by lightning was one of those things 
that didn't happen to very many people, so it was nice in a 
way to be unique in that respect. Maybe he should ride his 
luck and buy a lotto ticket, he thought with a grin.
	The acrid smell of something burning brought his 
attention back to the here and now. Taking a deep breath, 
he inhaled the aroma and followed his nose, turning his 
head from side to side before finally looking down. On the 
right side of his security uniform, underneath the orange 
plastic rain poncho, he could see a twisted hunk of plastic 
letting off the occasional wisp of smoke. Now on the 
concourse and out of the rain, he slid the poncho off, 
revealing what was left of his plastic nametag. On their 
own, his hands reached out for the deformed lump, and he 
was surprised that it wasn't as hot as he thought. It might 
not be hot now, he thought, but it was hot enough to melt 
earlier. Lightning was annoying that way - it tended to 
burn and scorch and destroy. Lucky for him, his nametag 
bore the brunt of destruction on this particular day. He 
had the sudden urge to find some salt to throw over his 
shoulder, but he refrained, reminding himself of all the 
times he had proven to have been born under a good sign.
	"Kevin," he heard, and turned. His boss was striding 
toward him, rain still dripping off of his bright orange 
security rain poncho. Normally the boss wasn't one for 
niceties, but between calling him Kevin as opposed to the 
usual 'Mr. Jones' and the look of concern etched on his 
face, it sure looked like this was one of those rare times. 
"What happened to you? I heard you got hit by lightning."
	"I guess I did," Kevin replied, looking at the 
nametag that was now sitting in his hand. His boss looked 
down at the almost indistinguishable piece of plastic, his 
mouth forming in an "o" in surprise, before looking up 
again.
	"I'd say so," the boss said, reaching out for the 
object. "Why don't you head home. I think we can handle the 
rest of the game fine," he said, his face turned toward the 
former nametag that he was now turning over in his hand. 
Kevin looked out through the torrential downpour toward 
what was left of the crowd, and decided that was the 
understatement of the year. Before too much longer, the 
security force would outnumber the spectators.
	"Thanks, chief," Kevin said as he turned away from 
the monsoon outside, drawing an absent nod from the boss. 
With that, he took off toward the gate, again marveling at 
how altogether wonderful he truly did feel. Sure, he was a 
security guard, but nobody had ever described Kevin Jones 
as the athletic type. Bookish, yes, kind of nerdy, yes. 
Weird, definitely, but even the weird could do security at 
football games. His couch potato lifestyle never left him 
with a whole lot of strength, but right now he felt like he 
could punch a hole through a concrete wall, or leap over 
the campus bell tower in a single stride. As he neared the 
exit, he jumped up into the air, his hand outstretched 
toward the seating section marker, intending to hit it, but 
not really expecting to. Almost by magic, he seemed to jump 
higher than he ever had before, hanging in the air and 
defying gravity for a second before arcing back to earth. 
As his feet hit the ground, he looked around with wide 
eyes, wondering if anyone had seen what he had just done. 
There was nobody, though - even his boss had moved on to 
other places. Maybe he hadn't really done what he thought 
he had done at all. Lightning tended to fry peoples nerves, 
didn't it? It was quite possible that he had just imagined 
that. But then again, what if he hadn't? It was 
just....odd.
	His energy to perform daring athletic feats now gone, 
he walked meekly out of the stadium gates, through the 
rain, and back toward his apartment. Maybe he did need some 
rest, after all.

*~*~*

	Kevin grunted as he rolled over, the rustle of paper 
causing his eyes to open. The sun streaming in through the 
partially closed blinds bathed his messy apartment in 
light, causing his hands to fly up and shield his eyes. The 
pleasant haze of sleep remained in place as he allowed his 
eyes to adjust, his mind wandering back to some of the 
dreams that he had had over the course of the night. He 
knew that in one of them he had been a gangster, well 
dressed yet tough, hanging out with guys named Vito and 
Vinnie. In another, he had been a millionaire, living the 
high life in his fabulous 100 room mansion with a very 
blonde wife. There seemed to be a recurring theme among 
these dreams, he thought, wondering when the last time he 
had dreamt about his own life was. It wasn't a cause for 
concern - the two or three psych classes he had taken told 
him that mental illness generally involved more than dreams 
of another life. If anything, it was the American way. 
Imagine what his dreams would be like when he got out into 
the real, monotonous world of the 8-5 working stiff. He'd 
probably dream he was a different member of the royal 
family every night, that's what. And that wasn't an 
entirely unpleasant prospect.
	Satisfied that his eyes were properly adjusted, Kevin 
removed his hand from in front of his face, looking around 
to see what it was that had awoken him. It only took a 
second to locate the small stack of comic books lying on 
the floor next to the couch, the top few of which were open 
and overturned. A hazy memory from the night before popped 
into his mind, and he realized that he fell asleep on the 
couch reading comics. The exploits of Spider-Man and the X-
Men had lulled him right into a state of security and, 
finally, to sleep. It was no wonder, he thought as he 
reached over to straighten up the pile, the characters in 
those books felt like family. Whenever something bad 
happened, they were always there for him. Some men turned 
to girlfriends, he had his Super friends. Which was 
probably why he didn't have a girlfriend.
	Once he was sure that the stack was in good shape, he 
flopped back onto the couch, grabbing at the remote control 
as he did. Flipping the TV on, he decided that he wasn't in 
any hurry to get up. He absently scrolled through the 
channels, frowning as something seemed to not be right. 
Yes, it was Sunday, and yes, there were an over abundance 
of pro football pregame shows on at the moment, but that 
wasn't it. Settling on a station at last, he wrinkled his 
eyebrows together, the odd feeling growing stronger. It was 
strange, he thought, but the picture seemed unusually 
jumbled today. The crispness that he always enjoyed was 
gone. It almost seemed as if the picture was pixilated 
somehow..... His eyebrows raised in surprise as he realized 
that what he was seeing were the individual colors, the 
blue, yellow, and cyan that made up all color television 
screens. A quick glance toward the end table told him that 
he didn't have his glasses on, either. Personal experience 
told him that he should just barely be able to make out 
shapes on that screen as far away as it was, but he was 
apparently seeing things in such fine detail that it was 
distracting.
	His eyes going wide, Kevin suddenly sat up on the 
couch, turning his gaze toward the large container of comic 
books in the corner of the room. This was very familiar. 
Deliberately, he turned his gaze toward his arms, his hand 
dutifully pulling the short arms of his t-shirt to his 
shoulder, revealing a very nice bicep underneath that 
hadn't been there the day before.
	"I'm Peter Parker," he whispered, a million thoughts 
running through his head. Slowly, deliberately, he got up 
and walked toward the window, feeling like nothing so much 
as a coiled spring ready to pop at any moment. Looking out 
at the street, he could see the people outside, just as 
clear as could be. Changing his focus, he looked up above 
the roofs of the buildings across from his apartment to the 
tall dorms on the edge of campus. He could see things that 
he never could before, he realized. If he concentrated, he 
could see through the window and into the room - he could 
even tell what people were watching on television. That had 
to be half a mile away, but as incredible as it was, he 
could see it. Taking a quick step to the side of the 
window, he looked at the wall, and then down at his hands. 
Being bitten by a radioactive spider gave Peter Parker the 
powers of a spider. Kevin had been struck by lightning, and 
now....
	It all fit. Inexplicably, he had felt great after 
that bolt hit him, and even now he felt healthier than he 
could remember. Somehow that lightning had done something 
to him, he just had to figure out what it was. Going on the 
standard superhero model, that you are what you get mutated 
from, whatever powers he had probably had something to do 
with lightning. So what could lightning do? Apparently it 
had very good eyesight, he thought with a chuckle and a 
shake of the head. It also must work out, he thought as he 
flexed his newly acquired muscles. Who knew that lightning 
was in such great health? Kevin snorted once, hysterical 
laughter threatening to burst through his normally steely 
exterior. He didn't know if the laughter was because of the 
somewhat amusing thoughts he was having, the enormity of 
what had probably happened to him, or a combination of 
both. Either way, he needed to get it under control. Maybe 
he needed to be more analytical about the whole situation. 
Yeah, he thought, the hysterical tide ebbing, analytical. 
Logical. Straightforward. Focused.
	Okay, lightning was always supposed to be fast. The 
phrase 'done in a flash' didn't come from just anywhere, 
after all. The world's fastest comic book superhero, The 
Flash, used lightning as his symbol, so it was probably 
safe to assume that Kevin would likely be fast, too. That 
was the first possibility. Looking around the room, he bit 
his lip and wondered how he could try and be fast inside 
his somewhat cramped apartment. It was probably better left 
for the out of doors, especially considering how clumsy he 
had a tendency to be. The corners of his mouth turned down 
slightly at the thought of having to wait to use one of his 
newly acquired toys, but the sensible part of him told him 
it was for the best.
	Okay, speed was the obvious first choice, but what 
else might he be able to do? Lightning was hot, just ask 
his poor nametag. Maybe he could make stuff hot, too. But 
how? Staring sightlessly toward the floor, his mind began 
to put forth all sorts of possibilities. Maybe he just had 
to touch something, or maybe it was a frictional thing, or 
maybe all he had to do was...think.... The thought no 
sooner popped into his mind when a wisp of smoke began to 
rise from the very spot he was looking at, a dark circle 
forming around it as a flame began to grow. With a yelp, he 
stomped it out, cursing under his breath as he pondered the 
loss in deposit that would cause. The heat thing definitely 
worked, he thought as he took some deep breaths, calming 
himself. And to think, he didn't even have to go out of the 
house to find that out. He might want to wait until he was 
someplace safer to fine tune it, though.
	That new power now out in the open, Kevin began to 
get giddy as he pondered the possibility of having even 
more lightning related powers. Since lightning came from 
clouds, maybe he could cause rain showers, or maybe he 
could float. Or maybe he was prone to static charge, and if 
he rubbed his feet on the carpet long enough, he could get 
little lightning bolts to shoot out of his fingers like 
that guy in the bad sci-fi movie he watched last weekend. 
His mind wandering back to the burnt spot in the carpet 
under his foot, images of a flooded kitchen and lightning 
scorched furniture filled his mind, and he realized that 
this might be a good time to get cleaned up so that he 
could do some more pondering in a safer place. It would be 
hard to keep his mind from wandering, especially since it 
was all just so exciting. For years he had read the comics 
and dreamt of doing what they could do, knowing full well 
that it was all fiction, but now he could conceivably live 
that life. How wonderful that would be, and how frustrating 
to have to wait to find out what exactly it was that he 
could do.

*~*~*

	Watching the run rise over the Kansas wheat field was 
an incredibly calming and spiritual thing, Clark thought. 
The dew from the grass dampened his shoes, soaking through 
to his socks and tickling his skin, but he hardly paid any 
attention to it. In the crisp morning, the sweet smells of 
the hay and the yellowed wheat reached his nose, making him 
recall similar times spent during his childhood so very 
long ago. Back then, he had only been allowed a few moments 
to watch the birth of the morning before having to resume 
his chores, but even then the sight had touched him. Back 
then, unlike now, he had at least had someone at his side, 
someone who he knew would provide him with all the help 
that he needed. Now he had just the memories of that loving 
support, but sometimes that was enough.
	He pulled his jacket tighter across his chest, his 
eyes wandering away from the ball of yellow fire in the 
eastern sky and toward the lonely farm house that stood in 
the distance. At one time, the paint had been kept 
immaculate, the porch covered with potted flowers and 
handmade wooden furniture. The barn across the yard had 
stood proud, its red paint somewhat faded, but not overly 
so. The fences in the surrounding fields had been taut, 
lovingly maintained by a man who had had a passion for 
doing what he did, maintaining the land. That had been a 
long time ago, though, and times had changed. A new family 
lived in the house where Clark had passed so many happy 
days, but it wasn't hard to tell that the pride they felt 
for their home wasn't as strong. The barn leaned 
dangerously to one side; the house had begun to gray and 
was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Weeds sprouted 
up in the lawn, growing tall and proud as if they didn't 
know that they weren't supposed to be there.
	With a sigh, Clark forced himself to look away. 
Immaculate or not, this farm was that family's home, and he 
envied them for that. Just being near it was as close to 
heaven as he could get with his feet still on the ground. 
In the small thicket where he stood, far out of sight of 
the inhabitants of the house, he could find some peace, 
make everything right with the world. As his gaze turned 
toward the swaying expanse of crops, he let his mind open 
up.
	Yesterday had not been the release that he had 
expected. Something about watching the violence of football 
always let him channel his anger and fear away, but that 
healing time had been cut short, and it could've resulted 
in tragedy. In normal circumstances, Clark could outrun a 
bolt of lightning - he should know, he'd done it before. 
But that security guard just happened to be there at that 
very moment in time, and Clark's inability to get himself 
and the guard away from the oncoming danger had resulted in 
the strike.
	Shaking his head, Clark amended his previous thought. 
It wasn't that he was unable to get them out of the way, it 
was that he couldn't do so without unmasking himself and 
the secret he held. Fortunately the other man hadn't been 
injured, but there had been other times where his inaction 
had caused harm to come to others. Accidents on the road 
that he had seen happen, accidents that had seemed to take 
an eternity, even though he knew it had only been a 
fraction of a second. When the twisted and battered bodies 
were pulled out of the wreckage, he always felt physically 
ill with guilt. He had seen fires hold victims in their 
midst and had done nothing; he had seen terrible violence 
between men and just watched as they injured themselves and 
those around them. Every time he saw something that he knew 
he could prevent if given a choice, a part of his heart 
shattered.
	Looking back at the house, Clark felt the shadow of a 
tear begin to form in the corner of his eye. His parents 
didn't raise him to be passive, they taught him to care for 
his fellow man. If someone was in trouble, he needed to 
give them all the help he could, and whenever possible, he 
did that. At the same time, though, they had known what 
would happen if someone ever found out about him. By doing 
what was right, he would be sacrificing his whole life, and 
in the end, he just couldn't do that. All the powers he 
had, all the things he could do, they all served to torture 
him, and he was sure there was a small place in hell for 
someone so selfish as he.
	Harshly wiping the moisture away, Clark tore his gaze 
away from the house and back toward the sun. If there were 
just some way to help out, he would do it in a second. But 
he didn't know what that way could possibly be. All the 
times he had come back here to the comfort of this small 
patch of Kansas countryside and sought solace in his 
memories, he had still yet to find his solution. Sometimes 
it felt as if no answer would ever come, but the optimist 
deep inside of him told him that some day, somehow, he 
would see his destiny. If only the wait weren't so 
frustrating.
	With a sigh, Clark began to lift off the ground, 
slowly at first, then with increasing speed. No answer had 
come today, but there would be other days. Until then, he 
had homework to get back to.

*~*~*

	The area deep inside Memorial Park, once consisting 
of several acres of pristine forest crawling with happy 
woodland creatures, now looked like a scene from a disaster 
movie. The smoke still rose from some of the shattered 
trees, while others just sat forlornly on top of the 
trampled undergrowth. A circular area the size of a 
baseball diamond was now completely devoid of any forms of 
life, leaving only a patch of dirt and the remnants of a 
pair of shoes. Kevin Jones leaned against a tree stump at 
the edge of the decimated area, staring wide-eyed at the 
destruction he had caused.
	It had been established that, like lightning, he 
moved very fast. It had also been confirmed that he could 
set things on fire by looking at them, and that he was 
impervious to harm. His day of discovery had started as he 
ran through the forest at ever increasing speeds, the trees 
flying by at an alarming pace. When he inexplicably found 
out that he could see right through things, he forgot to 
pay attention to the objects he was seeing through and 
managed to mow trees down in astonishing numbers. From that 
point on, the forest was doomed.  Before too long, he 
decided that it might be better to try and confine his 
destruction to one place, just to try and minimize the 
damage. The park was fairly secluded, but he suspected the 
campers and hikers that frequented it would stumble across 
his handiwork and get suspicious. With any luck, none of 
them would be around today, but on a Sunday during the 
fall, he wouldn't hold his breath. The smaller the area he 
confined himself to, the less likely he'd be to have 
unwanted visitors, and the more freely he could play.
	It was certainly true that most of the damage had 
been accidental, but Kevin had to claim responsibility for 
the bare circle. The lush undergrowth of the forest floor 
had met its demise as he had tested for static charge. 
Either rubbing his feet against dirt and plants just didn't 
work as well as using carpet, or he really couldn't build 
up a charge and shoot lightning bolts from his fingers. 
Either way, the underbrush and his shoes had paid the 
ultimate price for that experiment, although one positive 
did come from it. While unleashing his frustrations, he had 
discovered the power of flight, and suddenly the rest of 
his discoveries didn't seem as important.
	Hovering in the air, his bare feet dangling inches 
off the ground, he had finally decided that, while 
certainly fun, maybe these powers he had served some larger 
purpose. Maybe he had some sort of greater calling in store 
for him. Heat vision was neat, being able to run really 
fast was the dream of every procrastinator on Earth, but 
flying, THAT was truly something special. That was the 
thing that dreams were made of, the thing that comic 
illustrators used to inspire brilliant images. But no real, 
non-fictional man could fly on his own, at least not until 
today. It had to be a sign, he had decided as he lifted 
gently into the air, willing himself high enough to see 
above the remaining leafy canopy. Just playing with his 
powers wouldn't be enough. He needed to follow the examples 
set by his fictional heroes - he needed to BE a hero.
	The thought had caused him to land at the edge of the 
clearing and lean against the rugged stump, his mind 
churning. Kevin Jones, a superhero? He'd read enough about 
them that he probably knew what to do. Zip in, put his 
hands on his hips and look stern and disinterested as bad 
guys shoot all manner of weaponry at him without any luck. 
How hard could that be? Of course, to be a true superhero, 
he needed a colorful spandex outfit and equally colorful 
and awe-inspiring name. No hero worth his salt would go out 
without a secret identity, although, he thought as he 
squirmed ever so slightly, secret identities always seemed 
to come with their own sets of problems. But what else 
could he do? If his family saw him on TV doing daring 
feats, there was no saying what would happen, but whatever 
it was, it wouldn't be pretty. The two or three friends he 
did have would go crazy, and when the campus found out that 
one of their own was that guy flying around fighting crime, 
well, it would be mass hysteria. The media and groupies and 
bad guys would be following him everywhere, chaos would 
ensue, and....Kevin Jones would no longer be.
	So, okay, a secret identity it was. But what would he 
call himself? And what would he look like? He'd always had 
a great fear of spandex, but that was before he got his new 
physique. Still, even the most respectable pro wrestlers 
wouldn't be caught dead in bright spandex suits anymore. 
It's not like he could just go to the store and get one, 
either, and there was no way he was going to pick up a 
needle and thread to make his own. The world would 
certainly forgive him if he went for something a little 
more mundane, and the more he thought about it, the more a 
certain costume idea began to appeal to him. Something that 
would let everyone know that he held the awesome power of 
the lightning bolt within him.
	At that thought, his head snapped up and a wide grin 
broke out on his face. As he stared at the blue sky, the 
newspaper headlines began to flash through his mind, 
proclaiming the glorious exploits of the world's first and 
only real live superhero, a man who would simply call 
himself Bolt. And that sky would be his home, at least it 
would be between classes until he got bored with the whole 
hero scene. With one last look around the clearing, Kevin 
willed himself up into the air ever so slightly, then shot 
through the sky faster than anyone could see. All he needed 
was to buy his costume, then watch out world. Bolt would 
soon be on the job.

*~*~*

	Clark shuffled into his dorm room, emotionally tired 
even though the day was still young. Smallville might be 
the place he went to try and gain some answers, but 
inevitably when he returned, so did most of his problems. 
He knew better than to believe that a simple trip to his 
boyhood home would resolve anything, but at least it gave 
him some perspective on everything. Still, he thought as he 
tossed his coat on a chair and flopped down on the couch, 
at least he had the better part of the day to recover. He 
reached for the remote and turned the TV on, hoping to get 
his mind off the turmoil in his life and onto better 
things. The channel that first appeared had a commercial 
on, so he set about running through the channel selections 
at almost superhuman speed, taking only a fraction of a 
second to absorb the content of one before moving on to the 
next. As his thumb quickly pressed the channel arrow on his 
remote, he noticed that a lot of stations that normally 
didn't carry news seemed to have some sort of reporter on 
them, often framed is some sort of comically skewed camera 
angle. At times when he was trying to relax, normally the 
news was the last thing he wanted to watch, but as the 
reporters appeared channel after channel, he found that his 
curiosity was piqued, and he stopped to see what the big 
story was.
	The man that greeted him was tall and handsome, and 
apparently meticulously coiffed at one point in time. But 
that time had long since passed, and now his hair was 
sticking out at several odd angles, and his face was shiny 
with perspiration. The top button of his shirt was open 
behind his loosened tie, and his hands nervously flew up to 
grab the knot and pull it down even further as he talked. 
"We're standing in the heart of downtown Metropolis," the 
man on the television said, his eyes wide and his breathing 
rather rapid. Looking over his shoulder, his hand moved 
from the tie to the hair, patting it down somewhat as he 
searched the sky. Around him stood many other reporters, 
all equally disheveled and excited, all looking up into the 
air for something, but Clark couldn't imagine what. "A 
throng of reporters and ordinary citizens have all 
converged on this area after a police officer reported that 
he had been assisted by a man who flew down from the 
heavens. Security camera footage from surrounding buildings 
has corroborated the incredible story. Since the initial 
report, this flying man has been spotted at least twice 
more in a three block area. With any luck, he will show up 
again so that the whole world can see him for themselves."
	Clark immediately sat up, the remote nearly falling 
out of his hand. He knew his mouth was hanging wide open, 
but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. The person 
they were describing apparently could FLY, but as far as he 
knew, nobody but himself possessed that particular ability. 
Certainly there wasn't anyone out there like him, was 
there? His parents had never said anything about it, but 
they really hadn't had the chance to tell him all that much 
about his heritage. What if this person was some sort of 
relative? What if they were here to find him? As the 
questions shot through his mind, the camera began to pan 
around the area, showing nothing but a crowded city street 
in what was a relatively normal looking area. A police 
cruiser sat in the middle of the scene, its occupants 
walking around and guiding the masses out of the streets to 
allow for traffic.
	As the camera continued to scan the cloudless sky, a 
dark speck appeared in the distance, weaving back and forth 
in the air between the buildings. Larger and larger it grew 
as the crowd in the area became deathly quiet and everyone 
stared in blind awe. Clark found himself scooting anxiously 
along the couch, closer and closer to the television. The 
man on the television came into focus as he landed in the 
center of the mob, immediately drawing the attention of the 
reporters.
	The man's figure wasn't overly impressive. He was 
roughly as tall as the surrounding crowd and wearing a worn 
pair of tennis shoes, jeans, and a loose-fitting San Diego 
Chargers football jersey over a white t-shirt. His eyes 
were covered with a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses, and 
some brown hair poked out from beneath a silver helmet. His 
face wasn't particularly memorable, although he looked 
somewhat familiar to Clark. He appeared to be college aged, 
no older than 30 or so, although when he smiled he looked 
like he could almost be half that old. As the roar of the 
surrounding crowd began to build again, he just smiled and 
grasped his hands behind his back, rocking from heel to toe 
until the noise began to abate once again.
	The noisy silence went on for several minutes before 
the new hero held up his hand and cocked an eyebrow, 
holding the pose until, finally, the voices muted. "My 
friends," he said in a loud voice, eliciting the memory of 
memories inside of Clark. Whoever this was, Clark was sure 
that he'd met him before, but the details of just when and 
where held themselves just beyond his grasp. "I come here 
to do my part for the betterment of society. I would like 
nothing more than to assist the police in any way I can, 
and make the streets of Metropolis and other cities 
throughout the country and the world safe for everyday 
citizens." Turning slowly, he looked back and forth at the 
members of the crowd, making sure to regard each reporter 
separately. "Please do not fear what I can do. Rather, 
please embrace my talents as I have, as a special gift that 
was presented upon me so that I can help you. Questions?"
	All at once, a roar erupted around him as the 
reporters shot questions at the stranger and addressed 
their audiences anew. The man reporting on Clark's station 
opened his mouth to speak, but before he could offer his 
expert view of the situation, the phone in Clark's room 
rang. It was the distinctive double ring that only came 
from calls from one source. Cringing, Clark got off the 
couch, looking at the phone once before finally picking up 
the receiver.
	"I didn't do it," he said, hoping to preempt the tide 
that was most certainly coming. The other end of the line 
remained silent for a blessed moment before a string of 
words erupted from the mouthpiece, drowning out the TV and 
the further insight into the stranger who somehow seemed to 
hold Clark's powers, as well. As the litany progressed, 
Clark uttered the occasional grunt to let Lana know that he 
was still there, but there was no way he could possibly fit 
any whole words into the one-sided conversation. He pulled 
the receiver away from his ear ever so slightly, trying to 
hear the juicy details about the new superhero, but failing 
miserably. He wanted to do nothing more than to go out to 
Metropolis right then and there and confront this man, 
but.... Somehow he imagined that when the press was done 
with this guy, the skies wouldn't be safe for him for a 
very long time. And Lana would most certainly not want him 
anywhere near this other guy, for fear of giving away 
something that she wasn't ready to have him give away. It 
was too bad, too, because it might be fun, or at least 
insightful, to meet someone like him.
	Dragging the phone to the couch, Clark sat down 
again, feeling suddenly dejected. Today could be 
monumental, it could be scary, it could be many things to 
many people, but whatever it was going to end up being for 
that man on the screen would have consequences for Clark, 
as well. He just wished he didn't feel so... hemmed in. 
Looking down at the receiver, he sighed audibly, knowing 
that Lana wouldn't hear it above her ranting. Watching the 
crowd on the television give its undivided attention to 
this new hero, Clark could only imagine himself in the same 
position, and that finally brought a smile to his face. He 
didn't think he'd be one for all that attention, but at 
least it was all positive. Nobody was standing there in lab 
coats, nobody was cowering in fear of this guy. All he saw 
was interest and gratitude, the stray awe-filled stares and 
oddly appraising looks, but nothing that he would think 
anyone could fear.
	Eventually the hero flew off into the sky, and the 
crowd watched him leave, then turned toward the camera 
again to finish their broadcasts. As the man on Clark's 
channel began to talk again, Clark saw something that made 
his hand go limp and the phone receiver slip away from his 
ear. There, in the eyes of that reporter, was the most 
remarkable thing: hope. The words he spoke, which Clark 
could now hear, were accentuated with a spark of positive 
energy and an enthusiasm that Clark almost never saw from 
reporters. And that man, whoever he was, had given him 
that. If that wasn't a sign, Clark didn't know what was.
	Grasping the phone tightly and bringing it up to his 
ear, he said Lana's name until she finally quieted. "I need 
to go," he said simply.
	"Hey, wait a minute," Lana started, but Clark just 
hung up the phone. That might come back to haunt him later, 
but for right now, he couldn't just sit there. He had to 
get out there and talk to this guy, and then, well, then he 
had a lot of thinking to do. In one short moment, the 
insight he couldn't find in Smallville presented itself, 
and he couldn't allow himself to pass such a momentous 
thing by.

*~*~*

	Rows of cars filled the streets as far as the eye 
could see, lining up in the spaces between the massive 
skyscrapers, their colors creating an interesting mosaic as 
they reflected off of the glass around them. In the back of 
one of those cars, the passenger growled and watched as 
pedestrians, many of whom were carrying video cameras, 
streamed toward her destination while she sat stuck in 
traffic. Digging around in her purse, she found a ten 
dollar bill and thrust it toward the cab driver. Grasping 
the handle of the door, she tensed and prepared to join the 
running mass of people ever before her fare was accepted.
	"I'm getting out. Keep the change," she said. As soon 
as the money was taken from her hand, she was out the door, 
going as fast as her dress shoes would take her. Leave it 
to the biggest story in Metropolis in decades to happen 
while she was in the middle of a project presentation, 
wearing a dress for the first and last time that year. Her 
backpack flopped against her body as she ran, the books 
inside threatening to knock her off balance more than once. 
The run seemed interminable, but eventually she could see 
the flashing lights of a cop car signaling the location she 
had been looking for. At that moment, the crowd turned a 
corner, and suddenly, in front of her, she could see a 
stagnant mob, all looking up at the sky, all quiet as quiet 
could be. She immediately stopped and followed their 
collective gaze, and saw what appeared to be a man, flying 
though the air. In a matter of seconds he came down from 
the sky, landing only a few feet from where she was.
	It was all true, she thought as the crowd began to 
roar around her. She had heard rumors of the flying man's 
existence earlier in the day, but had chalked it up to 
tabloid speculation. Upon hearing evidence of surveillance 
camera corroboration and the growing horde of media 
gathering at the scene of the confirmed sighting, she had 
high tailed it over there. She considered herself a 
journalist before anything else, and she did mean anything. 
If it meant missing class to get the big story, then so be 
it. If the scoop was big enough, she had been known to 
leave in the middle of tests or presentations without so 
much as batting an eye. She had even been known to leave a 
cousin's wedding to get in on a relatively important 
development in an investigation she had been a part of. 
There were those who said that going to such lengths for 
the sake of a relatively unknown college newspaper was 
probably foolish at best and downright crazy at worse, but 
her philosophy was that any paper she worked for, be it the 
Daily Planet, the Metropolis University Daily, or the 
advertiser they give out for free at the grocery store, 
would be the best because she was there. Someday she would 
make the big time, but until then she would do the best 
with what she had. And what she had, right now, was a front 
row seat to the story that every journalist in America was 
covering.
	The flying man waiting patiently for the crowd to 
calm down. From her close perspective, she could see the 
slight beads of sweat at his temples, giving away an inner 
nervousness that was very well disguised by his stoic 
exterior. Once, as he rocked back and forth, he looked at 
her and gave a hint of a smile, causing a hot flash of 
excitement to shoot through her. All too soon, though, his 
attentions were elsewhere, and as he began to speak, he 
looked at everyone around her individually, although she 
was pleased to note that no other spectator got the near 
smile that she had received. Fortunately she had the 
presence of mind to activate the tape recorder she kept in 
her coat pocket at all times, capturing his simple yet 
powerful words. As he finished, he asked for questions, and 
that was when she finally spoke up, even as the rest of the 
crowd did, too.
	"Lois Lane, Metropolis University Daily. What should 
we call you?" she yelled, her voice barely audible to even 
her above the din. If he needed a name, she could certainly 
provide him with one, no problem. Someone who did what he 
did could be nothing short of a Superman, a name which, she 
had to admit, was pretty catchy.
	She didn't actually expect to have her question 
answered, if only because most of the other reporters 
yelling questions of their own around her were far more 
well-known and respected than she was, but to her surprise, 
the mysterious man turned to her and smiled again, this 
time without any hesitation.  "My name is Bolt," he said, 
almost as if he were talking only to her. She smiled back, 
noting for the first time that the shirt he wore had 
lightning bolts on it. Cheesy, she thought, but not beat-
you-over-the-head cheesy.
	More questions were asked and answered, and her tape 
recorder caught it all, but she found her mind wandering to 
the finer attributes of this man who stood in front of her. 
In the no-nonsense world of Lois Lane, the idea of 
attraction was an academic one. Sure she had had the 
occasional tingle of the spine when seeing a handsome man 
from afar, but that wasn't love. That was lust, a dangerous 
thing for someone who was trying to go far in the world. 
Lust, that blind attraction toward men, could only get in 
the way of her dreams and aspirations. Unchecked, who knew 
where it would lead? That wasn't to say it was a bad thing, 
but it wasn't THE thing as far as she was concerned. The 
important thing was to find someone who she could trust, 
who had enough respect for her to let her go her own way, 
but without being a doormat. Ideally, her perfect partner 
would probably be a lot like the man in front of her 
appeared to be - not the prototypical knight in shining 
armor that every little girl wanted to grow up to marry, 
but someone who she could respect. And if there was 
anything she felt for this man she had only met a couple of 
minutes ago, it was respect. She respected the fact that he 
had saved people, she respected the fact that he had the 
courage to come out in front of all these people, and most 
of all she respected the way he handled himself under the 
pressure. That made it okay for her to search for the 
lustful side of herself that she would've normally ignored, 
so look she did, and she had to admit that what she saw 
wasn't bad at all. He was very endearing when he smiled, 
and seemed so young and innocent. At the same time, she 
thought as her eyes wandered down to his biceps, he was 
very well built. He had other physical assets that a girl 
could go for - namely, the whole flying thing, and his 
strength. And he obviously had an innate goodness. She 
found herself smiling as she pondered the possibilities. 
Normally she wasn't one to go chasing after men, but he DID 
smile at her, a flirt if she ever saw one.
	It was hard to say whether she was truly attracted to 
the man in front of her or if she merely built up the 
shadow of attraction based on the idea of him. She eyed him 
in a new light as he continued to talk, but all too soon he 
smiled again, then took off into the air, casting another 
glance at her as he moved further and further away. A 
squeak escaped her lips as he grew into a speck in the sky, 
and she began to realize that whatever private flirtation 
they'd had obviously didn't mean anything. He was a 
national celebrity now, the first one she'd ever really 
seen up close, and it would be more likely than not that 
she'd never see him again. Suddenly realizing that she was 
still holding her tape recorder in the air in front of her, 
she yanked her arm down and looked around. All the rest of 
the media was packing up, some were already leaving, and 
here she was, watching her fantasy boyfriend leave without 
so much as a goodbye. Her cheeks began to burn in acute 
embarrassment, and she decided that it was time for her to 
leave, too. Her feet, assaulted on the run over, were now 
on fire, burning with every step. She longed to find a cab, 
but unfortunately, traffic was still at a standstill. 
Traffic wouldn't be going anywhere for quite a while, and 
if she wanted to get out of the city and back toward 
campus, it was walk there or don't get there at all.
	She went on as long as she could, passing block after 
block of gridlocked traffic and wary drivers, before she 
decided that she couldn't take anymore. The rest of the 
pedestrian traffic had long since gone its separate ways, 
leaving her relatively alone on the sidewalk. There was 
plenty of room to sit down, but as she looked at the 
ground, littered with grime and bubblegum wads, she decided 
that it might be safer to find someplace a little 
more...sanitary to rest. Fortunately, there was an alley 
nearby, and what looked to be a well-swept set of steps 
leading into a door. Turning to the corner into the shadowy 
alley, she maneuvered over toward the steps and sat down 
with an audible sigh. Sitting down had never felt so good, 
she thought as she wrenched one of she shoes off and rubbed 
her feet. Surely dress shoes were an invention of some 
sadistic sicko who didn't have to wear them. If she ever 
saw her apartment again, this pair would certainly be 
relegated to some dark and dusty corner, never to be seen 
for a long, long time.
	Lois closed her eyes and leaned against the door, the 
adrenaline high of earlier finally wearing down for good. 
Getting up might be a very hard thing to do. But just as 
she let herself begin to slip away into a pseudo nap, she 
sensed some movement. Her eyes popped open just in time to 
see something fall from the air to a spot beside her. The 
sound of a gunshot followed, and she turned with a yelp 
toward the sound, her heart racing in anticipation of what 
she might see. Standing there in the alley was the most 
handsome man she had ever laid eyes on, bent over one of 
the filthiest men she had ever seen. A gun was clutched in 
the hobo's hand, but there was no blood anywhere.
	She could only stare at the strange sight in front of 
her, her breaths coming in ragged gulps. The handsome 
stranger looked up at her, an intensely determined 
expression on his face, his chocolate colored eyes slowly 
locking into hers. Hotness knifed through her, filling her 
with the type of raw awareness of him that she thought was 
only a fable. It made all the innocent crushes that she had 
felt in her life before that moment seem downright 
insignificant. Even her brief flirtation with the city's 
new superhero absolutely paled to this. The academic in her 
screamed words of warning, but she knew she had nothing to 
worry about. She knew a knight in shining armor when she 
saw one, and she was certainly looking at him at the 
moment.
	They stared at each other for what seemed like 
forever, before some sort of fear or embarrassment seemed 
to come over him, and he looked away. Flustered, he stood 
up straighter and looked out into the neighboring street. 
He made a move to straighten out his somewhat rumpled 
shirt, but his hand was in a fist, holding something that 
he didn't seem to anxious to get rid of at that moment. 
Looking at his closed hand for a second with wide eyes, he 
quickly thrust it into his jeans, then cleared his throat 
and began to stride into the depths of the alley.
	"Hey!" Lois called out with enough power to mask the 
terrible shaking that was beginning to take over her entire 
body. He stopped abruptly, but only turned about halfway 
back toward her. "What happened, just now?" she asked, 
looking toward the unconscious man a couple feet from her. 
She knew, of course, the gist of what had happened. 
Gunshots tended to be very telling. But for whatever 
reason, she needed to hear his voice; she needed to have 
him say something, anything.
	His eyes met hers again, and she felt at once 
comforted as his gaze ever so subtly soothed away her fear.
	He gave a tentative smile. "I was passing by and 
noticed this man," he said, pointing to the hobo, his voice 
soft and calming. "Lucky for you, I was able to get to him 
before he got to you."
	Anticipation lingered on his face, and she nodded 
ever so gently, hypnotized by his words. There was probably 
more to the story than that, but the details weren't 
important at the moment. Looking back up at him, she smiled 
back, bringing him noticeable relief. "I'd like to thank 
you for saving my life," she said, pondering how easy it 
would be to get lost in those eyes. The smile he gave in 
response was absolutely stunning, and she found her heart 
beating rapidly again, but this time not through fear.
	"I couldn't imagine doing otherwise," he answered, 
the beautiful smile on his face reflected in his voice. For 
a moment, Lois let herself forget about the world, all the 
problems it held and stories that were just crying out to 
be written. It was a humbling thing to have faced death, to 
know that she owed her life to the bravery and generosity 
of another. There were so many things she could say to him, 
so many questions she could ask, but she wouldn't. In 
reality, though, there was only one thing she wanted to 
know.
	"What's your name?" she asked, hoping that THIS hero 
would leave her with some way to find him again. His smile 
faded abruptly at the question, though, and she knew right 
away that she wouldn't get her wish.
	"It's not important," he answered, the earlier 
radiance gone from his voice. "I'm glad you're okay." With 
that, he gave her a nod and disappeared onto the sidewalk. 
Lois squeaked and tried to get up to follow him, but she 
found her body unwilling to comply. With a groan, she 
managed to fight past the aches and pains and stand up, but 
by the time she reached the entrance to the alley, he had 
already disappeared into the city.
	Her hands balled into fists and she pounded the side 
of the building in frustration. Two heroes, two 
disappointments. She supposed she could forgive Bolt for 
being less than forthcoming - he WAS a major celebrity, and 
in his position, she would probably have flown off, too. 
There really hadn't been anything between her and him 
anyway, just the idea of a romance. What she had seen as 
flirtation had probably been nothing more than basic 
friendliness, something she had apparently been oblivious 
to. But this man, he was different. That deep and all-
consuming attraction she felt for him had most definitely 
been mirrored in his eyes. His voice, too, had been so 
gentle, his words so flattering. But then, abruptly, he had 
left when she asked his name. He was a mysterious hero who 
seemed for all the world like a normal, average Joe, but 
apparently there was more to it than that. A normal person 
wouldn't have any reason to hide.
	Questions, she thought as she looked up into the sky, 
there were suddenly so many questions. She knew that 
something had fallen from the sky right before he showed 
up. She also knew that a gun had been fired, but, she 
thought as she scanned the alley, there was no sign of a 
bullet impacting anything. What if.... The idea was almost 
too ridiculous to comprehend, but in a world where flying 
men were known to exist, it wasn't beyond the realm of 
possibility. There could be more than one superhero, 
couldn't there?
	Lois shifted her gaze back to the cityscape beyond 
her alley sanctuary, a knowing smile creeping across her 
face. What a story THAT would be, if she could prove it. It 
would be something that no other network or newspaper would 
have. Lois Lane could finally claim the ultimate scoop, and 
maybe, just maybe, she could meet the man of her dreams 
again in the process.

*~*~*

	Flying above Metropolis once again, Clark was finding 
it very hard to catch his breath. It had nothing to do with 
the altitude, or his recent exertion. He told himself that 
it was adrenaline and the fact that his secret could've 
possibly been found out, but deep inside, he knew it was 
her. The most stunning creature on the face of the planet 
was back in that alley, probably still searching the street 
for him, and he would never be able to get her face out of 
his mind. Those eyes, that hair, the way she kept her poise 
even in the face of what she undoubtedly knew was a near 
death experience. All combined to give the picture of 
someone he wished with all his might he'd met under more 
normal circumstances. As it was, he hadn't even gotten her 
name, which was just as well since he could never see her 
again.
	It had started out innocently enough. His quest to 
find the new hero of Metropolis had brought him to the 
city, a place much larger than he remembered. The few times 
that he had traveled there before, it had always been by 
conventional means, being led by people much more familiar 
with the city. He'd always gone to predetermined places at 
predetermined times to see people who knew him. When 
looking for one stranger among several million in a 
location that he knew largely from reputation alone, 
however, the place took on a much less cozy character. The 
sky had been searched first, but then his eyes had turned 
downward, toward the throngs of people that made their way 
along the endless miles of sidewalks, undoubtedly bound for 
somewhere important. He scanned each of them at first, his 
mind processing the faces and clothing of each person 
individually before rapidly moving onto the next. As the 
minutes ticked by and the streets flashed underneath him, 
he stopped trying to take in everything, instead looking 
for anything seemingly out of place. Even then, the new 
hero was nowhere to be found. He didn't know exactly how 
much time had passed or how many streets he had seen before 
he finally decided to give up and head back, but as he was 
about to leave, something caught his eye, and suddenly home 
was the furthest thing from his mind.
	Clark's progress through the air had immediately come 
to a halt as he stared at the scene below him, mesmerized. 
A woman sat in a dark and lonely alleyway, her eyes closed, 
her demeanor relaxed. There was no doubt she was unaware of 
the man that was making his way silently toward her, the 
gun in his hand pointed at her head. It was an ambush of 
the worst sort, and Clark didn't have to be an expert to 
know that there wouldn't be a happy ending for that poor 
woman in the alley. Under normal circumstances he would've 
probably turned away, resigned to her fate and the fact 
that he couldn't help her if he wanted to keep his secret. 
But for whatever reason, those well-coached warnings never 
came, and without even another thought, he was descending 
to Earth. In a flash he was on the ground, clutching the 
barrel of the gun even as it was shot into his hand.
	The hot whisper of exploding gunpowder licked at his 
skin and the bullet deformed as it hit his hand. Clark knew 
that he was invulnerable to most things, but getting shot 
was a new experience. Normally he'd be too cautious to try 
and test his limits - he wouldn't run into a fire just to 
see if he could get burned any more than he'd get shot just 
to make sure he was bulletproof. Fate seemed to want him to 
know that fact on this day, though, and for a moment Clark 
found himself pondering the implications of the new 
discovery, his gaze locked on the twisted piece of lead now 
crushed against his palm, the eyes of the criminal he now 
held by the shirt following his own. Out of the corner of 
his eye, Clark could see the other man's eyes go wide with 
shock, then a shudder wracked the man's body and he went 
limp. Clark dropped him to the ground and stepped back, not 
knowing what to feel. Years of holding back, of seeing the 
worst things happen while he stood silently by, were over. 
Deep down, he knew he had been meant to help, and now he 
had finally allowed himself to do so. He had expected to 
feel scared when that moment finally arrived, apprehensive 
at the very least, but he didn't. There was only an 
overwhelming feeling of rightness, almost as if he had 
found his destiny. Far from being afraid, he almost felt 
giddy, excited at the idea that he had changed fate, 
righted what would've turned out to be a great wrong. In 
retrospect it might have been a really stupid thing to do, 
considering there were two potential eyewitnesses right 
there, but did it matter, really?
	The sound of quick ragged breaths caught his 
attention, and he realized that while he'd been staring at 
the man, he'd been completely ignoring the woman whose life 
he'd saved. Turning to her, his eyes found hers and 
suddenly the rest of the world just fell away. The 
cacophony of thoughts and feelings that had been swirling 
in his head seemed almost deafeningly silent as he drank in 
the depths of her eyes, replaced by a new and exciting 
surge of emotions that he couldn't pinpoint at first. It 
was love, he realized with a start, the fabled love at 
first sight, the holy grail of all emotions. Whatever it 
was that he had felt toward Lana couldn't compare to the 
almost paralyzing intensity of the feeling that ran through 
him. Never had he even dreamed that another woman would 
elicit such a response in him, although now that he had 
been allowed to experience it, he couldn't fathom how he 
could've contemplated committing to a life that held no 
such feeling. The concept of love at first sight was 
something he really hadn't believed in before that moment, 
something he thought only existed in the world of soap 
operas and romance novels, yet here it was, and he seemed 
helpless to stop it. All at once he felt hot and cold, 
completely safe, completely at home with who he was.
	But who was he, he wondered, slamming home the 
reality of the situation. As far as she knew, he was some 
normal guy off the street who came to her rescue, which was 
just as well, but it wasn't true. If she knew who and what 
he really was, she certainly wouldn't be looking at him the 
way she was. For her sake as well as his own, he couldn't 
let this go any further. Might as well spare them both the 
heartache that would come when she found out his true 
nature, he thought, recalling the way Lana's perception had 
changed when she was let in on the truth. Straightening up, 
he pulled his eyes away from her and started walking toward 
the street.
	Her voice had called him back, and he stopped, the 
mental connection that lingered between them not allowing 
him to leave. She wanted to know what happened, she wanted 
to know his name. His heart was heavy as he turned away 
from her, knowing that he couldn't reveal his identity to 
her. It was for the best, he had told himself over and over 
again, but even as he flew back across the country and 
toward his home, he longed for her. The beauty of the 
countryside, the vastness of the blue sky in front of him, 
things that usually calmed his thoughts and soothed away 
hard feelings, seemed to hold no sway over him anymore. All 
he could see was her face in his vision, something that had 
an adverse affect on his ability to fly in a path 
resembling a straight line. In fact, he had been mere 
inches away from putting the local news affiliate off the 
air, the bright red and white stripes of the tower getting 
lost in the mental filters erected through his wallowing. 
That more than anything drove his mind back to the present, 
and he continued his flight in silent concentration, his 
mind forcibly turned away from the encounter in Metropolis.
	He was almost back to campus when he saw something 
that caused him to do a double take. There, in front of 
him, was a man in the sky, flying rather slowly, his hands 
thrust awkwardly in front of him, his path a little less 
than steady. Clark hung back from the man, observing. This 
was undoubtedly the new hero that he had heard about, and 
from this angle, his outfit sure seemed to match what Clark 
had seen on TV. It was kind of odd that the hero would be 
in this part of the country, but as someone who'd been on a 
joy flight more than once, Clark could certainly understand 
that he might want to take an excursion across the fruited 
plains. Still, as Clark followed, the man headed toward 
Kansas, right to the town his college was located in, and 
landed on the roof of an apartment building. Clark hovered 
in the air for a moment, puzzled, suddenly curious as to 
why it was he had looked so familiar on TV. As the man 
walked into the stairwell and disappeared into the depths 
of the building, it finally hit Clark that this new hero, 
whoever he was, was a fellow student at Midwestern State. 
What were the odds that another superpowered being would 
just happen to be at this college at the same time as 
Clark? Maybe more spaceships had landed in Kansas, maybe 
there was a whole underground society of people like him, 
maybe....
	Maybe he was just struck by lightning, his 
subconscious finished, and Clark instantly remembered the 
incident the day before. Of course! THAT was where they'd 
met before. But why would being struck by lightning 
suddenly mean that this man had the same powers that Clark 
did? The desire to fly down and follow the man through the 
apartment building was incredibly strong, but the shy side 
of Clark asserted itself, cautioning him against such a 
confrontation. Maybe someday they would talk, but he didn't 
know what he could possibly say right now without giving 
away something he'd rather not give away. He supposed he 
hadn't thought that through before leaving on his quest to 
begin with, but he honestly didn't expect to run into 
someone from Midwestern. This could hit very close to home. 
It was much better to be smart about the whole thing. His 
mind made up, Clark slowly turned and made his way home, 
knowing that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything 
for the remainder of the day.

*~*~*

	The sharp buzzing of the alarm clock rudely pulled 
Kevin away from his dreams and into the world of the 
living. Normally, the solace of dreams was a place he much 
preferred to real life, but he found himself smiling as his 
eyes popped open, the promise of a new day filling him with 
excitement. Every minute of every day held at least the 
possibility of excitement, and when the inevitable moment 
came, rest assured that Bolt would be there. He almost felt 
downright giddy at the prospect of getting out into the 
world this fine morning.
	The smile faded from his face as he heard a rhythmic 
thumping from his ceiling. Almost unconsciously, his eyes 
focused through the floor and into the bedroom of the 
apartment above him, giving him a good look at something he 
had absolutely no interest in seeing. Slapping his hand 
over his eyes, he groaned, trying desperately to shove the 
mental image away.
	"I knew it, but yet I didn't WANT to know it," he 
muttered, silently cursing his carelessness. Through the 
course of many long nights, he had laid awake in bed, 
unable to slip into dreamland thanks to a sound very much 
like that one. During those nights he had found himself 
wondering just what it was they were doing up there, then 
imagining not so subtle ways to convey his displeasure at 
the situation. Now of all times, after a perfectly happy 
night of sleep, he finally got his wish, and it was 
everything that he had subconsciously known it would be. 
That was definitely not the way to start a Monday, he 
thought as he rolled out of bed.
	After throwing on some clothes, he trudged to the 
bathroom. His teeth may be invulnerable, but mouth fuzzies 
apparently didn't care. As he stood in front of the mirror, 
his toothbrush sticking awkwardly out of his mouth, he 
noticed a bit of a shadow across his face. Normally he 
wasn't the type who had to shave every day if he didn't 
want to, but this was a little more stubble than he wanted 
to deal with, he thought, running his free hand across his 
chin. After brushing his teeth, he pulled out his razor and 
shaving cream, lathering up well. As the blade met his skin 
and was gently pulled along his jaw line, he could hear the 
usual rough scratching sound, but there was something else, 
something grittier that he couldn't quite put his finger 
on. The first patch of skin began to be cleared away, 
revealing the rough looking stubble that was supposed to 
have been shaved off.
	Kevin pulled the blade away and looked down at it, 
noticing with horror that rough grooves roughly the depth 
of his facial hair had been worn into the metal. Cursing 
under his breath, he stared into the mirror, lost in 
thought. This was a disaster of the worst sort. It had 
never occurred to him that being invulnerable meant that he 
was destined to grow a beard and never cut his hair again. 
Just the thought of him being transformed into a creature 
straight out of the 60's counter culture was enough to 
seriously offend his more conservative values. He LIKED 
being clean-shaven, darn it. There had to be some way to do 
it. But for now there was no time. He cleaned the shaving 
cream off his face and dried himself off, shuffling 
dejectedly into the kitchen. So much for the happy promise 
of a new day. At least he could still take solace in the 
joys of eating cherry pop tarts for breakfast.
	As he settled down on the couch with his bounty of 
sugary breakfast, he turned on the TV, tuning into all the 
morning shows. In every one of them, he was the top story, 
something that raised his spirits significantly. He'd never 
even come close to being on TV before, except maybe as a 
faceless member of a large sporting crowd. All the 
conventional wisdom said that the camera put on pounds, but 
he thought that he looked pretty good. At the very least, 
he looked to be free of facial hair, something that 
wouldn't be true for a long, long time to come, given his 
current predicament. He even managed to look like he knew 
what he was doing, which had probably been the toughest 
thing that he could ever remember doing. The press seemed 
suitably impressed, which was good. Deep down he had been 
scared that somehow people would see through his disguise, 
that going public would do nothing more than feed the 
tabloids and conspiracy theorists and earning the fear of 
the average citizen. Good thing for him that he tended to 
be more of an optimist, though, and his nagging, doubtful 
voices had been ignored.
	Satisfied, full, and relatively happy again, Kevin 
grabbed his backpack and left the apartment, bound for his 
first morning class. Leaving the building, he began to have 
the funny feeling like he was being watched. It was absurd, 
he told himself. He was just paranoid after yesterday. 
There was no way that anyone could possibly know who he 
was; HE wouldn't have been able to know that the person he 
saw on TV was him if he hadn't actually been there. Still, 
the creepy feeling persisted, much to his annoyance. After 
his first class, he decided to use his free time to take a 
look around the country by air. As he left the ground, the 
creepy feeling just went away. Maybe it was some inner 
struggle with dual identities manifesting itself and he 
just felt safer in the air. Or maybe he'd just taken too 
many psychology classes. Whatever it was, it definitely was 
weird, but gone for now, thankfully.

*~*~*

	Cigar smoke hung low from the ceiling of the dank 
room, clouding the smell of mildew and paper, creating a 
fog that diffused the low wattage light coming from the 
single fixture above. Amidst the haze sat five men who, 
from outward appearances, were ordinary enough. Indeed, 
each of them held an ordinary job, each was a respected 
member of the community. But when the night came and their 
ordinary families huddled around the television sets, they 
came here, to be among people who shared like-minded 
interests. They were the first to admit that their beliefs 
were far from politically correct. In fact, most were 
pretty sure that their families would have them locked away 
if they knew what exactly did go on in this room night 
after night. But just because the outside world would laugh 
at them for their beliefs didn't make them wrong. Events of 
the world day in and day out made it plain, at least to 
them, that the opposite was true. Their group was right, 
and sooner or later the rest of the world would see that, 
too.
	"Gentlemen," one of the men said, slapping a 
newspaper down onto the table. The world's finest daily 
newspapers covered the surface, a tablecloth with 40 point 
headlines. 'Hero,' one paper screamed. 'The Hope of the 
World,' said another. All carried pretty much the same 
message, and all gave the smiling face that none of them 
would ever forget anytime soon.
	The rest of the men around the table lowered their 
papers, drawing their eyes toward the speaker. Taking a 
long drag on his cigar then gently letting it out, he fixed 
a grave expression on his face and continued. "I don't 
think I need to tell you that we have a problem on our 
hands. What do you make of this man - is he one of ours?"
	The rustle of newspaper filled the room as the men 
folded their papers and discarded them in the pile on the 
table. "He's not anyone I'm familiar with," a second man 
said, bringing a chorus of grunts.
	"If we were familiar with him, I wouldn't be asking 
the question," the first man answered, throwing a 
disappointed look toward his colleague. "Most of the ones 
we track don't have discernable faces, anyway, aside from 
the obvious."
	"And obviously," a third man continued, a smile on 
his face, "this guy's eyes are a little small and his skin 
lacks the greenish tint of our usuals."
	"Thanks, Ted," the first man said, shaking his head 
ever so slightly. "Have anything else to add?"
	"Actually, I do," Ted replied as he stood. Silence 
once again overtook the room as he made his way to what 
they liked to call the archives. One whole wall was lined 
with metal filing cabinets and vertical files. On top of 
the cabinets, tarps hid items that they had collected 
throughout the years, items that they knew full well the 
government would like nothing better than to get their 
hands on. Opening one of the drawers, it only took a moment 
for Ted to locate the file he was looking for.
	"Stories of flying men are not exactly common, but 
they aren't as unusual as you might think," he said. 
"Especially over the last five or so years, sporadic 
reports have come in from across the country and the world 
about a man who flies." He opened the file and rifled 
through it until he reached the page he was looking for. 
"This one, here, in Kansas City, Missouri. A lady was out 
for a walk when she thought she saw what looked like a man 
lifting off into the sky from a nearby alley." He flipped 
the clipping over, moving on to the next story. 
"Metropolis, New Troy. A kid says he was saved from falling 
off a bridge by a strange man."
	Ted circled back to his seat, closing the file and 
placing in onto the table. "Of course, nobody saw the man's 
face well enough to be able to identify him. About the only 
thing everyone agreed on was the fact that he was male and 
had a dark complexion."
	"Sounds fairly harmless," a fourth man chipped in, 
bringing nods from most of the other members.
	"They all seem harmless at first," the second man 
said, his voice steely. "But what happens when it all 
starts to go wrong? What happens when the press isn't quite 
so sweet on this guy? What happens when the crime bosses in 
that stinking town get a hold of him and demand his 
cooperation?"
	"You act as if this happens every day," Ted answered, 
the smile on his face morphing into a mocking one. "Last 
time I checked, our guys don't usually go public."
	"Nobody's even saying he's one of ours," the first 
man said, giving a sharp glance to the second man. "Not 
that I hear aliens talk every day, but from the way he 
talks, the words he uses, and the way he carries himself, 
he seems every bit as terrestrial as you or me."
	"Not many Americans can fly under their own power," 
the final man chipped in, again drawing nods from the rest 
of the assembled.
	"So what do we do about this one?" the fourth man 
asked as he picked a new newspaper out of the pile to read. 
The first man seemed lost in thought for a moment, but only 
a moment.
	"We watch him carefully, just to make sure. And," he 
said, looking at the second man, "we prepare for the worst. 
Who's to say there aren't more out there? And who's to say 
what kind of damage this man could cause if he got the 
wrong ideas into his head. Yes, we'll be ready for 
anything."
	A chorus of grunts again erupted, signaling the end 
of the discussions. The men leaned back and settled in to 
read their papers once more. None of them had any doubt 
that they would be prepared when they had to be. And none 
doubted that in the end the world would be oblivious to the 
alien dangers they had been saved from. They had their 
secret weapons, that was for sure, and when the time came, 
the aliens would wish they'd found a different planet to 
pick on.

*~*~*

	Clark felt a little dirty as he filed into the 
classroom and took a seat at his customary desk. Covertly 
sneaking around and spying on the guy who was the world's 
one and only superhero just felt...wrong somehow. He didn't 
know what he'd expected to see, but so far, all he'd gotten 
was an eyeful of normal student life. The guy walked to 
class, a backpack slung over his shoulder, adorned in jeans 
and a t-shirt. His face was covered with rough stubble that 
made him seem less boyish than he had looked the day 
before, brilliantly adding an air of scruffiness that was 
sure to silence anyone who thought he even remotely 
resembled the new hero. Every now and then he slowed down 
to greet another student, but for the most part he blended 
into the crowd, an ordinary college kid who was utterly 
unremarkable in every respect. Rather than watching him sit 
through his class, Clark had passed the time in the 
periodicals section of the library, soaking up all the news 
of the day that he could possibly find, from every 
newspaper that the university subscribed to. It had been 
hard to do, but it was interesting to see the range of 
responses that the fantastic Bolt, as he called himself, 
got from the press. All too soon, Clark had to get to 
class, all but ending his spying for the morning. There 
would be more time to take up his quest again in the 
afternoon, but he didn't know how badly he wanted to 
continue on this path. Maybe it was better to stop being so 
covert and just talk to the guy. That would be the more 
mature and responsible thing to do, certainly, but that 
protectiveness so deeply ingrained into him just wouldn't 
allow that.
	Clark took his usual seat in the classroom and 
settled down, letting his mind wander. It was a new world 
that he was living in now, one in which it was okay for a 
man to fly in public, and when such a man did a good deed, 
he was heralded and embraced as a popular icon. It was 
strange that after years of having conversations with 
himself about the value of heroism versus the reactions of 
the public, he could finally see what the real answer was 
without really putting himself at risk. The whole thing was 
wonderful and terrifying at the same time, but as he let 
himself mentally delve into the subject further, the 
professor stepped into the room, dropping an armful of 
materials on the table at the front of the lecture hall. 
After arranging things for a moment, the professor looked 
up and smiled, and the steady chatter in the room quickly 
trailed off. Clark roughly pushed aside his thoughts, 
grateful that he would finally have a distraction from the 
subject that had been tormenting him for the last day.
	"Good morning," the professor started. "As most of 
you know, I like to take the time every now and then to 
dissect current events, to take a look at the news of the 
day and try to find the story beneath the story. Unless you 
live in a cave, today's subject should be fairly obvious."
	It was then that Clark noticed that most of the 
materials that had been brought into the room were various 
newspapers. Internally groaning, he watched as the 
professor held the front page of each up one by one, 
reading the headlines that were now very familiar. Hero, 
savior, icon - each paper put its own sensationalist spin 
on the man who mysteriously appeared in Metropolis the day 
before.
	"Who, what, when, where, how. These are the facts 
that every journalist is taught to report on. All these 
cover those basics, and some try to delve into the why, 
although with a story like this one, that's a lot harder to 
come by. But what fascinates me is the way that none of 
these try to uncover the truly interesting aspects of this.  
Yes, the cover story itself is fascinating, the type of 
human interest story that every editor dreams of finding. 
But what makes it such an interesting story to begin with, 
the reason that people snatch up the newspaper and read 
every agonizing detail, is the IDEA of what a hero is. It's 
always implied, but nobody seems to be bold enough to step 
up and ask why this Bolt is considered a hero."
	Clark leaned back into his seat, letting the pencil 
fall out of his hands. Of all the topics in all the world 
to be brought up in his classes, why did it have to be this 
one? He felt a part of himself wanting nothing more than to 
stand up and walk out of class, to not have to be subjected 
to this issue that had become his own personal torture 
device. At the same time, though, there was that same 
fascination at seeing where the professor was going with 
this. It couldn't just be about reading the headlines or 
gushing over Bolt, there had to be more to it than that. In 
any case, the curiosity that had driven Clark to Metropolis 
last night and to the library that morning was more than 
enough to keep him where he was for the time being.
	The professor turned toward the chalkboard, writing 
the word 'hero' in large block letters. "So what is a 
hero?" he asked, looking expectantly into the audience. A 
few hands went up, but he waved them off as he picked up a 
set of note cards. "To some it's a sandwich. To history, 
Hero is a Greek scientist skilled in geometry, among other 
things. In mythology, Hero is a priestess. But if you go 
out on the street and ask the average child what a hero is, 
he'll probably conjure up an image of Michael Jordan or 
some other sports personality and tell you that a hero is 
someone who is good at something that you want to be good 
at, too."
	The professor leaned against the table and crossed 
his legs, a philosophical look on his face. "Modern times 
have distorted the meaning of that word, hero. To be heroic 
is to run fast or be able to dunk a basketball. Or, 
sometimes, it means the ability to get someone to do what 
you want. While it is true that one synonym of the word is 
celebrity, that isn't the WHOLE meaning. The dictionary I 
keep at home says that a hero is 'a person noted for feats 
of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has 
risked or sacrificed his life.'"
	Turning toward the stack of papers, the professor 
rooted around and found one with a large picture of Bolt on 
the front, holding it up for his audience to see. "When you 
look at this man, what do you see? You see a man who can 
fly, a man who apparently is very strong and very fast, but 
underneath it all seems ordinary enough. In that way he 
qualifies as someone who is capable of awesome feats, a 
hero by the most widely accepted definition. But do you see 
someone who is in danger, someone who has sacrificed 
something?" He stopped and looked at the picture, the 
classroom so quiet that even the slightest sound could be 
heard.
	"You'll be dissected like a frog, Clark," he heard 
his father say from across the years, the words as clear 
now as they had been then. Oh yes, if there was one thing 
Clark was very much aware of, it was the danger that loomed 
out there for someone like himself or Bolt.
	"On one hand it looks like this man has gained a lot 
of notoriety overnight - he's a world celebrity now, his 
face adorns the cover of most every newspaper published. 
Many people would like nothing more than to see their names 
in the paper just once. So celebrity can be counted as a 
benefit, even if there are some that might see it as 
anything but. But that's a whole different argument.
	"On the other hand, by publicly stopping crime, he's 
made himself an enemy of criminals everywhere. He put a big 
target on his back, and depending on how serious his 
enemies are, he put all his friends and loved ones in the 
line of fire, too. No doubt he's aware of this, if his 
unconventional attire says anything. Nobody's stepped up to 
say that they went to high school with the guy or knew him 
back when he was just a little Bolt, which means his 
disguise must've worked. Still, imagine what would happen 
if the criminal element were to find out who he is. How 
many of you out there would be brave enough to put yourself 
in danger like that?"
	The professor looked appraisingly at his audience, 
challenging them in a way. Clark found himself looking 
away, suddenly ashamed. Deep down he had known it, but he'd 
never allowed himself to admit it. Courage. Bravery. A 
strong sense of justice. If he'd ever possessed any of 
those, he probably would've been out in the world doing the 
same thing a long time ago. As it was, the words of fear 
and caution lodged in his brain long ago by Lana and his 
parents had taken away all of those. No wonder he felt 
empty sometimes, he thought. A new resolve began to build 
inside of him as he contemplated the path he would take 
from here on out. No longer would Clark Kent be a doormat. 
No longer would Clark Kent deny himself the use of the 
powers that had been given to him for the betterment of the 
world.
	"They say that a man has to crawl before he can 
walk," the professor continued. "What would it have been 
like to discover the ability to fly? What types of things 
would you have to be subjected to before you found out that 
you were impervious to harm? Here, you have the very 
picture of a seemingly innocent young man, but given what 
he must've gone through just to discover who and what he 
was, just the fact that he was willing to embrace that 
rather than hide from it means that he has more inner 
strength than most people I know. That fear of the unknown, 
the unforeseen reaction of the general mob, that is the 
greatest danger. But this young man overcame that, and he 
earned the label of hero."
	Clark wanted to cry. He wanted to shout with sorrow 
and anger and joy. But, ultimately, he could only stare at 
the floor, a light mist in his eyes. It was a ringing 
endorsement for a man that the professor had never met. The 
respect of the press and the love of the general public was 
truly overwhelming, and it stirred jealous feelings within 
Clark. This could've been his, but that fear had held him 
back. But the new Clark Kent, the brave and bold Clark 
Kent, didn't have any need to worry about the unknown 
anymore.
	The lecture continued on, but he wasn't paying 
attention anymore. As soon as he got home, he had to talk 
to Lana and tell her what he had decided. He needed to plan 
and analyze. His life was about to change forever, and he 
wanted to make sure that he knew exactly what he was 
getting into. Most importantly, though, he needed to find 
Bolt, and soon. There would be no more running away from 
the truth, and there would be no more covert spying.

*~*~*

	Lana Lang sighed as she took a seat in the large 
lecture hall. Next to her, folded up neatly and draped over 
the arm of the well-used chair, sat a copy of that day's 
campus newspaper. It was there waiting for her every day, a 
gift from an unknown benefactor who apparently never paid 
much attention to the lecture before hers.  Normally she 
would snatch it up and read through the stories, more than 
happy to distract herself from the mundane and tired 
conversation around her. Yes, the articles were a little 
crude, and yes, the news tended to be a bit sensational, 
but she enjoyed it nonetheless. Usually.
	Today was far from being normal, though, a fact she 
was acutely aware of as her hand lingered over the paper. 
She knew what the headline would be, that was a given. Just 
the thought of reading about that individual who called 
himself a hero made her stomach clench up, but she couldn't 
avoid the news forever. Anyway, she thought as she picked 
the paper up at last, there was always the crossword 
puzzle. Surely THAT wouldn't be about Bolt. Actively trying 
to avoid the headline, she kept the bottom of the front 
page toward her as she brought the paper in front of her. 
Lesser headlines stared back at her, mostly related to 
campus reaction to the new hero. She started to open the 
paper in disgust when one headline caught her eye. It was 
quite small, buried in the lower corner of the page, but 
there, clear as day, was a headline that proclaimed that 
Bolt was not alone.
	Lana involuntarily shivered as her mouth went dry and 
her palms became damp. The page was shaking as she read the 
story, written by someone named Lois Lane. Apparently, 
shortly after Bolt left the night before, this woman was 
nearly killed in a dark alley, saved by a man who seemed to 
appear out of nowhere. She described his appearance, noting 
the differences he had with Bolt, but all Lana could see 
were the similarities to Clark. Dark hair, brown eyes, a 
quiet demeanor...the fact that he apparently flew into the 
alley and stopped a bullet with his bare hands meant that 
it couldn't be anyone else. There was something else, too, 
hidden in the way the article was written. Lana had 
certainly read enough Harlequin romances to spot that tone, 
the flowery words and reverence toward the subject that 
very subtly conveyed something deeper. 
Something...romantic?
	Without another thought, Lana angrily balled the 
newspaper up and flung it to the ground, letting out a 
growl as she did so. She sneered at it as it laid there, 
mentally uttering curses at Clark and thinking of all 
manner of ways to get back at him and this homewrecking 
reporter. In the back of her throat, a growl began to grow 
ever so slightly, growing louder and louder until suddenly 
it drew her away from her thoughts. Only then did she 
become aware of the spectacle that she was making of 
herself. With an embarrassed grimace, she pushed herself as 
far down into the chair as she could, making herself as 
small as she felt at the moment. Small, yet still full of 
anger. Who did Clark think he was, anyway?
	Earlier that morning, she had thought about calling 
him and giving him a piece of her mind for hanging up on 
her the previous day. At the time, she had almost been 
willing to concede that it must've been a trying day for 
him, but even that was a flimsy excuse for treating her so 
badly. Now, though, all concessions were gone. Apparently 
he had flown to Metropolis, completely against her wishes 
and all common sense, and publicly used his powers. As if 
the insubordination wasn't enough, he had also apparently 
seduced this woman. Did he think she wouldn't find out? Did 
he think he'd get off scot free?
	Lana clenched her teeth in anger, trying to avoid 
making another scene. The gesture was almost soothing, and 
as she pondered the situation more, her anger started to be 
displaced by sadness and resignation. Once upon a time, she 
thought she had loved Clark. He was by far the most 
handsome man to ever walk the streets of Smallville, and if 
she could've spent eternity with him, she would've been 
deliriously happy. At least, that's how she felt until he 
told her everything about himself. It had repulsed her to 
think that she had spent time at Lookout Hill making out 
with ET, so much so that she had become physically ill. She 
tried to hide these things from Clark, because it wasn't 
his fault what he was. But the thoughts of a future 
together, of sharing life with her knight in shining armor, 
just never came back. He could do things, freakish things, 
and after the revelations, that's all she could see. The 
handsome boy she knew had been replaced with...a thing.
	Maybe it had been unfair to string him along after 
they went to college. Maybe, in the back of her mind, she 
thought that all those things about him would go away. And 
even if she didn't, COULDN'T, love him anymore, he still 
loved her, and that counted for something. But she had kept 
him at arm's length, and it probably was only a matter of 
time before he saw through her, and started looking 
elsewhere for love and acceptance. If they were essentially 
through before, they were officially through now. And if 
Clark was too chicken to make the declaration himself, then 
she'd take the steps and do it for him. At least this news 
won't end up on the front page.
	Her mind made up, Lana let out a sigh and opened her 
notebook. The lecture was beginning, and so, in a way, was 
a new life for her.

*~*~*

	Thick, black smoke filled the air around Bolt, 
turning the world utterly dark. Around him, he could hear 
the subtle sounds of a fire - the popping and the groaning 
of the materials burning, the inward rush of air that 
fueled the flames. And somewhere underneath all that was 
something else, a sound so subtle it would be easy to 
believe that it wasn't there at all. He'd been honing in on 
it for a few moments now, acutely aware that the sound he 
was hearing was that of a human heart. The fact that 
anything survived inside this inferno was amazing in and of 
itself, but he needed to act quickly to make sure that 
whatever it was lived to see tomorrow. Swiftly, he floated 
toward the sound, crashing through walls as he did, using 
every bit of his enhanced senses to guide him. There, at 
last, he saw a man lying prone on the floor.
	Faster than the eye could see, Bolt picked up the man 
and flew him outside, mentally willing his charge to 
breathe just a few more breaths. Superhero or not, Bolt did 
have his limits, and without the help of a trained medic, 
this man certainly wouldn't make it much longer. It only 
took him a moment to locate an ambulance once he had 
cleared the smoke, and before any of the EMTs knew what was 
happening, the man was in a gurney beside them. Startled, 
they turned, gave him a surprised look, then quickly got to 
work. All Bolt could do was stand back and watch as they 
struggled to keep the man alive, whisking him into the 
ambulance and finally driving away.
	It was odd, he thought as he focused his attention 
back to the scene around him. He had never thought through 
the more human ramifications of being a superhero. He had 
thought it would be all fun and glitz, with the occasional 
marquee battle with some hypothetical bad guy. Overall, he 
should have a high sense of self-esteem, a certainty that 
he was doing right for the world. But somehow, as he 
watched the firemen spray water on the fire without much 
success and heard the sounds of suffering from the 
ambulances scattered around the area, he couldn't help but 
feel a little hollow inside. He had rescued several people 
from the flames, all told, but there were others that he 
hadn't found soon enough. That last man, thankfully, still 
clung to life, but his prognosis was grim. If Bolt had been 
a better hero, maybe he could've found him sooner. Maybe he 
could've found a way to keep the fire from spreading. As it 
was, though, he just felt...grimy.
	Looking down at himself, it was clear that that 
feeling wasn't unfounded. He was covered from head to toe 
in black soot, the sort of thing that the landlord would 
see on his clothes and thereby prohibit him from going 
anywhere near one of the building's washing machines. Not 
that he'd blame her for that. All the Tide in the world 
probably wouldn't help get that out, but.... He sighed. 
Before too long, he'd have to start trekking across the 
country in search of San Diego Chargers jerseys, because 
his college town in the middle of Kansas wouldn't support 
nights like these for very long.
	"Uh, excuse me," someone said behind him, startling 
him. Quickly, Bolt whipped around, pushing down the 
negative emotions and plastering his public smile on his 
face.
	"Yes, what can I do for you?" Bolt asked. Evading 
emotion had never been one of his strong suits, but even he 
was impressed at how...non-depressed his words sounded. He 
sounded like a hero, actually. That thought brought a 
genuine smile.
	"I'm Joe Gibb from the mayor's office," the man said, 
extending his hand. Bolt reached out and shook it gladly, 
noting the look of alarm that crossed the other man's face 
as a substantial amount of black grime rubbed off on him in 
the process. "I, uh," the man stammered as he wiped his 
hand on his pants. "I was brought here to invite you to a 
ceremony of sorts," he finished, his face revealing that he 
was a skilled politician.
	"Oh?" Bolt asked.
	"Yes. The mayor thinks that your contributions to the 
city so far can't be underscored," he said, gesturing 
around him. "He would like nothing more than to honor you 
for that. We were thinking maybe this Friday evening?"
	Bolt arched his soot-covered eyebrows. This was 
definitely interesting. While it was every superhero's duty 
to accept the ceremonial keys to the city he or she 
guarded, it was also in their best interests to stay far, 
far away from the political arena. Besides, he thought as 
he looked past Mr. Gibb, he didn't think his contributions 
had been all that impressive. Stopping petty crimes had 
pretty much been the extent of his heroic activities when 
he wasn't garnering publicity for himself. Today had been 
his first foray into the more serious hero duties, and he 
was well aware of his shortcomings in that area. Still, he 
thought as his eyes caught a reporting crew, their cameras 
trained on him, he could see how maybe the public and their 
elected officials thought he was worthy of such an honor. 
It was all the media had talked about since he had showed 
up on the scene, and apparently it had finally worked.
	Looking back at the politician, Bolt mentally 
reviewed his calendar. His new powers had made it possible 
to finish homework assignments faster than a speeding 
bullet. Unfortunately, all the time this freed was not 
filled by a busy social calendar. While his fellow students 
would probably be out on dates Friday night, he'd probably 
be watching reruns on cable. Under the circumstances, 
anything looked good.
	"That works for me," Bolt replied, a good-natured 
smile on his face.
	"Excellent!" Mr. Gibb replied. A nicely printed card 
was shoved into Bolt's hand outlining the ceremony time, 
location, and attire. "You do have a dress outfit?" he 
asked, appraising Bolt.
	The hero's smile didn't falter in the least. "I could 
wear my church jeans and dress black helmet," he replied, 
waiting for a reaction from the man across from him, but 
getting none. "Maybe clip a bow tie onto the jersey?" The 
politician's face looked awkwardly vacant still.
	"Well," he said, giving Bolt a slight nod. "We look 
forward to seeing you there." With that, he walked away, 
angling toward the press, most likely to inform them of the 
good news. With a shake of his head, Bolt jumped up into 
the air and took off toward home. He had a class to get to 
in a few minutes and a long shower to take between then and 
now. No matter how much of a hero he thought he was, being 
a college student definitely had to come first for Kevin. 
Lord knew that a backup career in lowbrow comedy probably 
wasn't going to happen for him, if today was any 
indication, and the hero gig definitely wasn't helping his 
financial situation. At least he finally found a way to use 
that clip-on bow tie his mom had gotten him for high school 
graduation.

*~*~*

	Clark stood in the rather shabby hallway of a 
Metropolis apartment building. The carpet, a thick brown 
shag that had probably been magnificent in the early 70's, 
was now threadbare, exposing the padding underneath at the 
most well-worn spots. The paint on the walls was once 
beige, but now seemed almost brown with age and grime.  
Bright colored doors interrupted the dirty beige walls, 
each reflecting the fluorescent light of the halls in a 
blinding, tacky orange glow. He supposed this building was 
the type of place that was uniquely Metropolis - well-used, 
worn, old-fashioned, and unkempt. He often got the feeling 
that a lot of people that lived in the city just didn't 
have much pride about where they lived, a concept that was 
entirely foreign to a well-raised Midwesterner like 
himself. What, through his eyes, was a ragged-looking 
building was probably considered quite high class to the 
person from Metropolis. The fact that his midwest born and 
bred girlfriend lived in a place like this and often raved 
to him about how lucky she was to have it made him wonder 
if he would even know her when she opened the door.
	He raised his fist, intending to knock on the door in 
front of him, but hesitated. When she had called him up the 
other night, he had expected the worst. Everything he had 
ever experienced from Lana in the past few years had told 
him to batten down the emotional hatches and prepare for 
hurricane Lana to unleash her verbal storm on him, but for 
once he was wrong.  Calmly she had spoken, telling him that 
she was sorry he had to leave the other day, and that she 
wanted him to come to Metropolis so that they could talk, 
just the two of them, face-to-face. Her voice hadn't been 
happy or sad, hopeful or angry, just very straightforward 
and matter-of-fact. His first instinct had been to shout 
for joy about the fact that finally, after pushing him away 
for so long, she wanted to see him. But as time had passed 
and he had allowed himself to review the call, something 
began to strike him as fishy. If Lana was anything, she was 
emotional. She could watch grass growing and be able to 
give a voluminous account of how it was affecting her. 
Given that, her lack of emotion was very troubling. He 
should probably be extremely worried about would happen 
once that door finally opened, but he found himself oddly 
calm as the moment approached.
	With a sigh and a shake of his head, Clark finally 
got the courage to knock on the door. He steeled himself 
from whatever emotions would unleash themselves at the 
sight of her, not knowing what to expect once he finally 
had to see her again, face to face. He could hear movement 
on the other side of the door, and after a moment the 
handle began to turn, almost in slow motion. At last, the 
door was opened, and there stood someone that he could only 
assume was Lana. She glanced up at him, her face revealing 
the soft features that he had always remembered, although 
there was an edge to her expression that he couldn't quite 
put his finger on. Almost before he could even blink, 
though, she quickly turned away, yelling something at her 
roommate. "Come on," she said as she turned back to him, 
grabbing him by the arm and pulling him down the hallway.
	"Uhm," Clark stammered, caught completely off guard. 
He had the strength to move mountains, but inexplicably he 
found himself being manhandled by his girlfriend and 
dragged through the hallway that had been fashionable back 
when people actually LIKED to listen to the BeeGees. And, 
for whatever reason, all he could think of was how strange 
her hair looked. He should probably be thinking about the 
coolness he had seen in her glance toward him, or maybe her 
lack of any kind of even token courtesy or manners as she 
had greeted him. He should even be feeling some surge of 
long forgotten tenderness at seeing her again after so many 
months, but his eyes were strangely drawn to her head. The 
long, flowing, golden locks that he remembered had been 
chopped short and dyed a reddish color, the type that made 
it patently obvious to anyone who saw it that it was fake. 
It was just this side of pink, in fact, and formed into 
dozens of sloppy-looking spikes that pointed in every 
direction.
	He was vaguely aware that they were descending a 
flight of stairs as his eyes wandered down her diminutive 
form. Once upon a time, Lana had been what he considered a 
very classy dresser, not unlike himself. In high school, he 
remembered, she had been fashionable, but always modest. 
Whatever it was that she had on now was neither. The top 
was a loud pastel, frilly and too tight. And, he thought as 
he stifled a gasp, too thin. It certainly didn't take x-ray 
vision to make out the flowery pattern of her bra 
underneath. Her jeans rode low on her hips - too low, he 
thought as his eyes narrowed. Plumbers would be embarrassed 
to bend over in those jeans, and that was saying something. 
In retrospect, it was probably a wonder he even recognized 
her at all, although he supposed there was no mistaking her 
smell, or the sound of her heart that was uniquely hers. At 
least that was still the same.
	Eventually he found himself stopped in front of what 
he still recognized as her car. The death lock that her 
hand had held on his arm had finally loosened as she dug 
through her purse for keys. He opened his mouth to say 
something, but words just didn't seem to want to come. He 
didn't know if he wanted to say something about her new 
look, or maybe engage in meaningless chitchat, or inquire 
about the reason for her asking him there. The words fought 
with each other, but in the end she was the one who spoke.
	"Come on, get in," she commanded as she glanced up at 
him and gestured toward the passenger door. Obediently, he 
complied, silently hopping into the car. They rode in 
silence for a while, his mind still utterly blank, Lana 
ignoring him. Finally, as the tall buildings flashed by 
around him, something clicked inside his mind, and the 
unreality of the situation began to fade. This was LANA, 
for goodness sakes, no matter how she looked. He knew her, 
right? Surely he could start up a conversation with his 
girlfriend, the woman he spent a great amount of time 
talking on the phone to.
	"So where are we going?" he asked, his voice sounding 
stiff and forced. She gave him a sideways glance, annoyance 
etched on her face.
	"A nice place I know where we can sit and talk," she 
said. As he gave her one of his patented smiles, she 
wrinkled her brow, steeling herself from his charms and 
ultimately signaling for him that there was no sense in 
continuing any conversation. Yup, he thought as he began to 
feel dread for the first time that night, it was going to 
be a long one. Very long.

*~*~*

	Lois Lane paced back and forth in the crowded 
restaurant waiting area, dodging children and the legs of 
patrons sitting on the surrounding benches, occasionally 
shooting a nasty look toward the hostess. Nobody ever said 
that she was a patient person, but as her stomach growled 
audibly at the scent of food in the air, she wondered how 
long a wait would be considered cruel and unusual 
punishment. She was only looking for a table for one, after 
all. Back and forth she walked, drawing disgusted stares 
from those around her. With a sigh, she pulled her coat 
tight around herself and decided that maybe it would be 
best for her to take her pacing outside, where the smell of 
food wasn't as great and there were no toes to step on. She 
checked to make sure that the pager the hostess had giver 
her was securely in place, and then strode toward the door. 
She had her hands on the polished brass handle and was 
beginning to push the door open when she just happened to 
look out the square window in front of her. There, walking 
toward her with an almost trashy-looking woman at his side, 
was her mythical anonymous hero, the magnificently handsome 
man who had saved her life earlier in the week.
	She found herself frozen momentarily as she watched 
him move, his every motion so fluid and graceful. Her eyes 
wandered up to his face, and she was stunned to see an 
expression there that she hadn't seen before, a weariness 
that seemed to make him look much older than he had the 
other day. The urge was strong to just stay and watch this 
man, to observe him with this other woman, to maybe make 
her presence known, but at the thought of that, she had a 
sudden flash of what would happen. This man had valued his 
privacy so much that the mere thought of saying his name 
had scared him to death. He'd probably have a panic attack 
if he knew that she saw him here with an acquaintance, 
looking very mortal, very human, and most certainly not 
like a hero. Not that Lois had never induced such a 
reaction in anyone else before - she recalled a professor 
or two turning interesting shades of purple when she 
confronted them as part of a big story, but this man was 
someone she CARED about. Little details like the fact that 
she had more or less exposed him in the newspaper shouldn't 
obscure the fact that there had been a weird mutual 
attraction between them. Anyway, the mischievous part of 
her thought, it might be more fun to do a little bit of 
covert spying. Okay, maybe more snooping than spying, but 
that kind of thing was her forte. Good reporters were 
merely average without a healthy appetite for snooping, 
after all.
	With a twitch of her mouth muscles and a sudden 
desire for her table to not come free for some time, she 
darted away from the door and pulled the collar of her 
jacket up. The door was just swinging open as she wedged 
herself into a spot on a nearby bench. Her gaze locked onto 
the ground in an attempt to be as inconspicuous and 
unrecognizable as possible, and she watched as a worn pair 
of sneakers walked by, followed by an immaculately 
pedicured pair of feet with cranberry painted toenails 
wearing flimsy sandals. As she was bringing her head around 
to follow their movement, the pager began to vibrate, 
causing her to jump. Darn it, anyway!
	Lois carefully maneuvered her way out of the waiting 
area and toward the hostess, giving her another dirty look. 
This one was for the service being too fast, a 
contradiction from her earlier dirty look, she realized, 
but she had been in the middle of something important. The 
hostess, apparently used to abuse, just smiled and led her 
to a table in the middle of a long row of two-person 
booths. As she tried to formulate a new plan of action for 
the night, she noticed that the table she was being led to 
was right behind another one that looked like it had 
recently been vacated. This held possibilities, she 
thought, suddenly willing the hostess to go grab the only 
other party of two that she had noticed in that lobby - her 
hero and his trashy friend.
	Her appetite back and her juices flowing, Lois 
situated herself with her back to the neighboring empty 
table and prepared for a very good supper.

-/-\-

	Clark looked around as he and Lana were led through 
the restaurant to their table. When Lana had said that she 
wanted to go somewhere to talk, he had kind of envisioned 
someplace a little more private, but in retrospect, this 
made sense. Even though he was sure that his abilities were 
at the root of what they were going to talk about, a 
conversation here would mean that they would need to be 
ignored, pushed away, which he supposed is what she had 
always done. Ignored them. Pushed them away. If they 
infringed on the fiction that their relationship had 
become, she forbade him from using them, ostensibly 
remedying the problem, but in reality just delaying it and 
causing it to fester. In the process, she had largely 
ignored him, pushed him away, and made him feel ashamed to 
be who and what he was. It wouldn't take much to feel 
resentful because of that, but anger and resentment were 
just things that he couldn't allow himself to feel toward 
someone who had also, at times, been very tender and 
accepting of him as well. Maybe it wasn't the deep and all-
consuming love that he now knew was out there waiting for 
him, maybe it was something more sisterly. In any case, she 
had stuck by him, even if deep down she resented him, and 
he couldn't begrudge her that. But she was making it hard, 
he thought as they were lead further toward the busy heart 
of the restaurant. Somehow, leaving things with less than 
the full truth just seemed wrong, but apparently that's 
what she wanted.
	Their table was small, in between two other tables 
and situated along a six foot high divider that was covered 
with colorful metal signs and other gimmicky restaurant 
memorabilia. The tables on either side of it were occupied, 
in both cases by lone individuals. Clark sighed as he sat 
down and gathered up the menu, mentally trying to figure 
out how to frame the impending conversation. Only after the 
order had been placed and the drinks had been set in front 
of them did he notice Lana staring at him. It was more of a 
physical feeling of her eyes on him, really, the type of 
feeling that would make a lesser man shudder. But Clark had 
seen that look before, and he sat back in his seat and 
folded his arms across his chest, waiting for her to make 
the first move. He didn't have to wait long.
	"How long has it been, Clark?" she asked, a smile 
almost trying to form on her face. She shifted in her seat 
and began to stare at the stained glass light hanging low 
above their table. If he didn't know any better, he could 
swear there was some faraway sentiment in her gaze. The 
optimist in him would always be there to tell him that 
there was, but with Lana he just didn't know anymore. Or, 
maybe, he just didn't care all that much. It was a sad 
testament to what their relationship had become, but it was 
true.
	"Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, have a 
great time. Share special moments together that would make 
their parents blush. Boy and girl prepare for college, boy 
tells girl his biggest secret.... Girl runs away." She 
sighed and looked at him, and he knew for sure the 
sentiment was real. She searched his face for a moment and 
then continued. "It seemed like a long time ago. It seemed 
like two different people. You know, for a long time I 
thought that if I thought hard enough about it, if I wished 
on every star and let myself believe that certain things 
could magically go away, then it would all be okay again. 
I'd wake up one day and it would be that summer again, and 
instead of you telling me far-fetched stories about distant 
planets and unbelievable powers, you'd sweep me away to my 
parents' barn and we'd talk about our futures together as 
normal, everyday people."
	Clark looked at her and felt a twinge of sadness. 
Sometimes he'd wished the same thing, probably staring up 
at the same night sky that she had. "We can't change who we 
are, though. Would you rather have not known? About me, I 
mean?"
	She shook her head and looked down at the table. "A 
relationship built on half truths isn't any better than one 
where one of us wishes the other were someone they 
weren't."
	"So the last four years...did you ever believe that 
there would be a future between us?" Curiosity was a strong 
emotion indeed. Maybe HE needed to know that the years of 
denying himself his true heritage weren't for nothing. Or 
maybe he was just a glutton for punishment.
	Lana shrugged and started playing with her shirt. 
"Maybe. I mean, you cared enough for me to stick around. 
That's more than I could say for..." she trailed off and 
her eyes got wide. She had never dated anyone but him in 
Smallville. He shouldn't be surprised that she looked 
around in college, but still, the words felt a bit like a 
slap in the face.
	"So what changed? Why this?" he asked, gesturing at 
the restaurant around them.
	Lana's eyes sparkled with something that almost 
seemed sad. "Because y