Waking A Miracle By Aria Rated: PG Submitted: November 2004 Author Notes: Wow, where to start? This story started out of my desire to contribute something meaningful to this community. After so many years of reading all of the wonderful L&C fiction on the archives, I wanted to give something back. I've already submitted one story before, but it was about eight years ago or more, and I think my writing, both in style and form, has matured past my ability to describe the difference other than, "Ummm, well, it's better." <=== Notice my perfect command of metaphor there. Since there is no established canon where this story breaks off from, I guess you could call it elseworld. However, I borrow dialogue heavily from the show from the Pilot, Strange Visitor, and a bit from Neverending Battle. Speaking of which, many thanks to Caroline, whose wonderful website of L&C scripts helped me beyond words in the writing of this story. And of course many thanks as well to the L&C script writers, from whom came so much sparkling dialogue. Many thousand thanks to my beta readers Sara, Gary, and Nick. Sara you started as and continue to be a true bastion of inspiration for me, and a pleasure to work with. Gary, I hate you and love you for being so nitpicky, and Nick, you were a huge help when I was hashing out the plot for this monster. Additional thanks goes to MDL for encouraging me and giving more general comments on my ideas. I'm including the obligatory WHAM warnings, but don't worry, there are laughs and good feelings abound as well! This is a drama, so it's got the full range :) I absolutely thrive on feedback. Whatever you feel like sending me, from praise to constructive criticism, is just fine with me. My goal is to improve my writing (my *dream* is to write professionally), and if you have some suggestion to help me do that then by all means, criticize. My e-mail for the time being is aria5@vt.edu, and I check it regularly if you don't feel comfortable posting feedback to the boards, but I have no problem with publicly posted stuff so feel free to zing or gush at me with whatever method you feel like using. ;P And so, with the introduction out of the way, let us begin :) //============== Waking a Miracle //============== Overwhelming was the first word that came to her mind. Janice Forrester stood, heavy shopping bags clutched in her hands, an island of inactivity in a sea of frantic bustle. She imagined that she could hear every rushed breath, every frenzied heartbeat, every curse and shout, every belligerent car horn, and every other noise from there to the end of three blocks down, even despite the harsh, chest-melting thrumming of bass emanating from a nearby boom box. Casting a disapproving glare towards the adolescent with the monstrous stereo perched on his shoulder, she shifted her bags and glanced to her left. A handsome young man stood next to her, a brown, ragged suitcase resting at his feet beside him. He was relaxed, not fidgeting like the rest of the frenetic crowd around her. The movement of air generated by passing cars kicked his trench coat into more the guise of a cape flapping in the wind, and in the breeze, his suitcase bumped into his leg in an odd rhythm. Bright golden letters, 'CK,' glinted unevenly in the light. She wondered briefly what the 'CK' might stand for. Carl? Clay? Chris? No. He looked like a Charlie, she decided. He was a striking man. Dark black hair fell unruly almost down to his shoulders, but the muted sunlight that pushed through the canopy of buildings overhead glanced off it brightly enough to make it appear dark brown. Glasses framed his oval face, but unlike some folks she knew, they did nothing to detract from his olive complexion and wide, soulful, brown eyes. She met his gaze by accident and quickly averted her eyes, as was the appropriate thing to do, but couldn't suppress a gasp at the spark she had received in just that short set of moments. The pain and desolation that hovered in his stare was enough to make her shudder, even though the air passing capriciously about her was balmy. She had seen that look before once in a puppy she had found abandoned and stranded in the alley by her apartment. A handsome man, yes, but not an unmarred one, she decided. That man had known pain. The acrid scent of exhaust bled into her nostrils as the sudden roar of traffic to her left made her realize that the walk light had come on in her corner. She was struck and jostled about as the crowd standing behind her refused to wait for her to move. Wobbling like a bumped bowling pin, she nearly lost her footing, but a firm, reassuring grip around her arm righted the tilting horizon. "Are you all right, Miss?" Maybe-Charlie asked. His voice was soft and he wore genuine concern on his face. Janice stared back into those chocolate eyes, trying and mostly failing not to drown in them. "Y-yes. Fine, sorry, and thank you," she stammered as he released her. She brushed off her light coat and righted her shopping bags. He gave her the smallest of smiles before she stepped gingerly out into the crosswalk. Her heel caught a nick in the pavement, but she saved her balance, this time under her own power. In several minutes, she knew Maybe-Charlie would be only a fading memory. The main group of pedestrians was already out in the middle of the street, and Janice was lagging slightly behind when she froze mid-step. She noticed sounds of distress and glanced up the hill. A metro bus was careening down the road, swaying drunkenly back and forth in its designated lane. The driver was gesturing, and the horn blared obnoxiously, over and over like a steady stream of insults. "Look out for the bus!" Maybe-Charlie's rich voice pierced her panic. People were scattering. The young man carrying the boom box rushed back towards her, and suddenly, she was yanked out of harm's way. The bus whipped past her as cars down below on the street flew up onto the sidewalk to avoid the oncoming battering ram. She could hear the terrified screams of the bus patrons through its open windows as it barreled past her, only several feet away. The gust of air that accosted her as it swerved by set her hair on ends. A banshee's wail of torn and twisted metal echoed off the towering buildings up and down the street as the bus collided with a line of parked cars. Glass shattered, and the tires of the bus left ugly black scars on the road. The behemoth came to a slow halt, and people began evacuating, spilling out the rear and sides like disturbed ants. Several of them were staggering about, clutching wounds of varying severity. The driver had not yet emerged. Not knowing what possessed her to do so, Janice glanced back at Maybe-Charlie. He was standing there, his face pale as fresh white-wash, eyes squeezed shut. His fists were jammed into his pockets and his lips were clenched into a tight, straight line. Janice stumbled to her feet, thanking the young man with the stereo for pulling her out of the way. "Sir, are *you* okay?" she asked pointedly toward Maybe-Charlie as she brushed off her coat. He had not moved an inch yet. The man's eyes opened and he glanced around haphazardly, as if he had forgotten he was standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, until his gaze came to rest upon her. "No, not really," he whispered. And then he was gone, rushing down the street in the opposite direction, suitcase in hand, as the dull whine of sirens began in the distance. ***** The cicadas were keening. Dry soil cracked under young Clark's feet, and aging tawny grass spread out into the dying September fields like rotting carpet. The small, off-white farmhouse stood just up on the rise, framed in a halo by the sun. The world seemed to stretch into a flat, treeless eternity before him, as though it were God's cruel joke to set him on a treadmill. His father's bright-red truck sat in the distance, smoke billowing from the hood in lazy, bulbous plumes. There was a man standing nearby on the road, staring, but not helping. His arms were crossed before him, and his feet stood apart in a haughty, superior posture. Clark felt his insides twist, and the stretch of dusty road before him snapped back into place like an over-taxed rubber band. He was there at the truck, staring dumbly at the occupants. He had never moved so fast in his life. Dust was scattering upwards all the way from the farmhouse. "Mom, Dad, wake up," he called. He approached the vehicle and nearly ripped the door off. Metal screamed at him. "Mom?" His mother was at the seat behind the wheel. Her eyes were closed and her chest wasn't moving. She was still, like those mannequins at the department stores in Wichita, except blood trickled down over the crown of her forehead. The smell of dry turf and smoke burned his nose. "Dad?" His gut wrenched when he heard no reply. The bright golds and sun hues that framed the late afternoon seemed to fade into a bleak dullness. He should have been faster. He had been in the kitchen when he heard the screeching of metal. He could remember his father shouting something. Shouting. He should have moved the second he had heard. "Wake up, please." But he hadn't moved, not right away. There had been a moment, just a moment, of hesitation. "Please." The man that had been standing on the road finally approached. "Do you see now?" he asked. Clark shook his head. No, he didn't see. There was a strange solid thing gathering in his throat. His breaths shortened as he tried to inhale around it. "Do you see now the pain you caused me when you took my Sarah away?" Clark blinked and turned. The man was tall. His face was broad and unblemished, and his brown hair was very short. He was wearing a dull gray jump-suit. "Who are you?" he asked the man. The man's eyes widened and he pointed to himself. "You have the audacity to ask me who I am, Alien, after you already took pains to ruin my life?" The man wasn't making sense. He choked on his words, his face turning scarlet, his eyes watery and bloodshot. "You killed my Sarah, and now I'm showing you what will happen every time I catch you using your powers. You freak. Alien. Scum." The man was spitting, his words coiled and rolled in Clark's stomach like a snake. "Look there!" The man gestured to Clark's silent parents. "That's your fault and yours alone." He leaned back into his crossed-arms, haughty posture. "You don't understand yet, do you?" Clark felt the pricks of tears in the backs of his eyes, but he wouldn't let them come. Not yet. The thing in his throat wasn't going away either. The man's lips slithered into a leer. "My name is Jason Trask, little alien, and I will make you understand." "Son?" The word reverberated in his head for a few seconds as though it were carried on the rumble of distant thunder. "Son?" The voice repeated, but seemed to be a few pitches higher and not so distant this time. Clark blinked his way back into the present and winced. Calls for help, so numerous in this city, were taking their toll on him. Every cry shot through him and seemed to set his body into a quivery, nauseated, useless-feeling lump, and always there were the horrible flashbacks. Noisy, horrible, Technicolor flashbacks. He could still remember how long the road had looked when he had been trying to get to his parents. He could still remember the sounds of their screams and the ripping of metal -- a ghastly sound at that, as though someone were scraping nails over glass. But that was the past, and in the present, the room was quiet, save for the sound of traffic lifting up through the window panes like the scent of warm food wafting out from a homey kitchen. "I'm sorry, sir, what were you saying?" His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. Way to go, Clark... This was not going to make a good impression, that was for sure. His hands started to clam up a bit, and the wood of his chair's arms began to feel slippery. He forced himself not to make any obvious gesture of wiping them dry. At least the room wasn't blotted like a watercolor anymore. He blinked a few more times. Perry White, editor of the Daily Planet, sat across from Clark, looking at him with a piercing gaze. Mr. White was wearing a dark set of pants, a light blue cotton shirt, and a rumpled vest. His suit jacket was hung over the back of his heavy wooden chair, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. The smell of ink and new paper hovered in the air, and his desk had marked up papers strewn about as though a gust of wind had done the sorting for him. Mr. White stared at Clark for a long set of moments, the ticking of the office clock marking off the end of each long second. One. Two. Three. Four. Mr. White's eyebrows waggled almost imperceptibly, and his pupils dilated a bit. Five. Clark felt hot for a moment, as though he were an ant under a magnifying lens on a sunny day. "Dan Carlton called me about you," Mr. White said. "He's a good friend of mine. We used to go golfing on Sundays before he took that editor position out in Kansas City at the Star." Five seconds, and Mr. White had already, no doubt, formed an opinion. The knowledge was daunting. "Yes, sir. I worked for Mr. Carlton for a year after I got back from Australia," Clark replied noncommittally. Bad. This was going bad already. He tried to shake off the last pound of the cold ball of guilt clenched in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't help, he had to tell himself repeatedly. He couldn't help. Ignoring those cries was the most aid he could offer. If he tried to assist, more would be hurt than if he just did nothing. You're a coward, a voice said. Perry grunted. "Sounds like you've done some traveling." "Yes, sir," Clark cleared his throat and continued, "Before Australia, I was in Nepal. I spent a few years after college traveling everywhere I could. I'm conversationally fluent in pretty much any language you can think of." "A citizen of the world." "I guess you could say that. Although this is my first time in Metropolis." Liar, the voice said to him. But Mr. White had no way of knowing that, he reasoned. His stomach curled. "And you hail from Smallville? That's..." "Kansas, sir." "Right, Kansas." Mr. White flipped through Clark's writing samples. His lips moved a bit as he read, and his eyes moved right to left as he quickly skimmed the top article. His face got a bit brighter. Clark suppressed a small cheer. He had chosen that article from the small handful he had written for the Kansas City Star under Dan Carlton. That particular piece was about corruption in the city's appellate courts. Several justices had been taking bribes. "Tell me, son. Why is it that you want to be an investigative reporter for the Daily Planet?" Mr. White leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands in his lap. Clark looked upwards and thought about the question. Why did he want to be a reporter? He remembered the warm feeling he had when the papers had blitzed thank yous for and speculation about his amazing feats across every front page from Metropolis to Borneo. "Mysterious Saves = Miracle Man?" a bold headline had shouted. He recalled one article claiming, "For the past month or more, this planet has been witness to an unending fountain of miraculous turns of good fortune, from the Air France jetliner that landed itself with no engines intact, to the averted repeat of the Exxon Valdez disaster. There is no seeming relationship between these events, but all witness accounts are the same. A mysterious figure in black appears, saves the day, and is gone before anyone can determine surely if it's an apparition, hopeful imaginations, or a flesh and blood individual. Regardless, Miracle Man seems to be a dream come true, and a recurring one, at that." But it wasn't about the celebrity or the thanks. Every time someone he had rescued walked home on their own two feet, every time a loved one got to say a few more words to their special someone because of something he did... He tried very hard not to leave indentations where his fingers rested, clutching the dampened chair arms as though they were life preservers. Every time somebody got killed because you tried to help someone, the voice taunted, because you thought if nobody recognized you, you would be safe. You'll never be safe... A small sound came from his throat, but Mr. White didn't seem to notice. He had gone back to looking at the writing samples. "Well, sir, if I can't..." Mr. White looked up and Clark forced his voice to remain even. His heart throbbed nervously in his ears, and the room seemed much hotter. "If I can't be some sort of Miracle Man, a symbolic icon of all the right morals and values, fighting my way through every injustice with my brawn, I'd like to do what I can with my pen. The media is society's metaphorical watchdog, for when the literal watchdogs aren't functioning. Sir. And as for being at the Planet, any reporter would be crazy for not wanting to work at the most widely read, trusted, and distributed newspaper in the world." Perry White smiled at that, and Clark felt the knots in his taut muscles begin to loosen a bit. ***** The televisions blared in the background of the Daily Planet's ever-active bullpen as news from across the world came in over the wires, and the scrolling marquee on the wall updated every few minutes or so with the latest information about the markets, car accidents, Messenger launch failures, candidacy debates, and whatever else happened to be happening that day at that moment. Reporters, messengers, researchers, and copy boys ran this way and that as the sound of ringing telephones dotted the bustle with their chorus. At least... That's how she would have described the newsroom if she were writing her novel. But no, everything was mostly dull today. The marquee had been repeating the same message all morning. Messenger launch failure. Messenger launch failure. Messenger launch failure. Because it was basically the only thing that had happened. Lois Lane leaned back in her chair and sighed as she watched the news on her small desk set. After reorganizing her desk, watering her plant, refilling the coffee pot up at the refreshment station, moving her nameplate from the top of her monitor, down to in front of her lone, dilapidated plant, and then back to the top of her monitor again, finally resorting to harassing the police to rustle up some criminals, she had run out of things to pass the time. Inspector Henderson had basically hung up on her, although the low-pitched grunt he'd made at the end of the conversation might have been a polite goodbye instead of a growl, given the fact that, well, it was Henderson. But, anyways. After that, she had even lowered herself to checking the court dockets. 235 speeding tickets and not a single felony. It just wasn't fair. The world was conspiring against her. She crossed her legs at the ankles and used her heels to prop her chair back comfortably. This seemed like just one of those days where she was doomed to be bored. At least she didn't feel so bad for resorting to the television to see if there was any news she was missing somehow. It was a purely justifiable act of desperation! "Transport vehicle Messenger, piloted by Commander Jack Laderman and carrying the final propulsion module for Space Station Prometheus, is scheduled for lift-off Friday at 9 A.M.," the anchorwoman on LNN commented. Lois rolled her eyes. Who could have ever guessed that this would be the top story? "Many hopes are riding on the success of this mission, especially in light of the failure of last week's unmanned launch. Space Station Prometheus, an international effort, is still lying low in its orbit, awaiting the arrival of the remaining modules, including the colonist habitation module scheduled to launch next week. Once all are in place, the Station will be lifted into permanent orbit." Lois resisted the urge to bite back at the TV. The repeated delays and malfunctions, to her, just screamed ineptitude. Typical government ineptitude. She had done a preliminary investigation as soon as reports that the first shuttle launch had failed had begun to trickle in, but had been bounced around to so many ignorant department heads she had ended up switching tracks and had spent the rest of the day researching the space program. The anchorwoman continued. "Dr. Toni Baines, Director of the Extra-Planetary Research and Development agency, reminds us that timing is crucial. A series of delays and launch failures has put EPRAD's back to the wall." EPRAD, in the past several years, hadn't managed to complete a single mission successfully, which she suspected was more the reason that their future projects were threatened than just the failure of this particular one. She had decided she could easily write an op-ed piece regarding the tribulations of EPRAD, but that there certainly wasn't any breaking news in yet another one of their projects going down the tubes, which was too bad, considering that the goals of the projects were beneficial to just about everyone. She had visited EPRAD's facilities just to make absolutely sure there was nothing fishy going on, and she had gotten bounced around to different secretaries almost as if they were playing hot potato with her. The few supervisors she had managed to get through to could tell her absolutely nothing, and it had been easy to figure out that they had had no more idea about their own situation than she did. The whole trip had been a ridiculous waste of her time. The picture of the LNN anchorwoman flipped to Dr. Antoinette Baines. Her face was round, almost like a pie-plate in shape -- the short, sort-of-curled blond hair that framed it made it seem even more so -- and her make-up was impeccable. "Unless all modules are in place within the next few weeks, Space Station Prometheus will lose its orbit and fall back into Earth's atmosphere. That kind of occurrence would surely spell the end to any future projects and the space station as a whole." Well, Baines sounded sincere. Sort of. Lois glared, a bit angry that a woman could preside over such a mess of failures. Lois had to work her butt off just to make sure men were looking at her writing and not at her chest. This woman had managed to gain a director position, and now she was blowing it for herself and for women everywhere by making herself look like a bungling, bureaucratic fool. The LNN anchorwoman didn't seem to care, however, and moved on to the next story on her list. "And in other news, political golden boy, George Thompson, jumped ahead several points in the polls today. With the Democratic and Republican candidates clawing for approval, primaries only days away, for the first time in history, an Independent is leading the pack. Virtually an unknown before this year's candidacy race, George Thompson was a long-standing special agent in the FBI and also served in the Air Force earlier in his life, although neither career seems to be marked with any hallmarks of achievement. When asked why he had chosen no party affiliation, Thompson commented that he would do what was best for the United States, regardless of which party that plan fell under. When asked to elaborate on his campaign goals, however, he stated he would do what the people wanted him to do." "Well, that's just perfect," Lois snapped, unable to help herself. "It figures that this is the one country where a nobody with no real values, no campaign goals, no recognizable personality whatsoever, and whose only claim to fame is that he seems to be a darned nice guy, can become the leader of the free world." That had come out a lot louder than she had intended. The choir of telephones and jumbled noises seemed to hush as her last words sling-shot off the walls. Even the scrolling marquee seemed to slow down, as if wary of her next move. She rolled her eyes, feeling heat form on her face. Gazes were resting on her, pricking into the back of her neck, curious and intrusive. Whispers seemed to dart about like a morass of hungry locusts. She hoped her foundation was hiding the blush she felt creeping across her skin. Her chair protested, feet scraping loudly across the tiled floor as she stood and jammed it backwards with the backs of her knees. "What?!" She raised her hands outwards from her shoulders as if to say, 'I don't know,' but the mean spirit in her voice and the serious look on her face quickly dispelled that interpretation. She waved flippantly. "Go back to work!" The noise level returned to normal as everyone switched back to what they had been doing before, most notably nothing, and she collapsed back into her chair with a sigh. Several pens and pencils cascaded to the floor as she knocked over her pencil cup, but remembering that she had just gotten everyone to stop looking at her, she managed to withhold a flamboyant curse in favor of a sigh. They were gossiping about her, she knew. It was like her innate spider-sense. Lois, they're talking about what a cold fish you are again. Not a cold fish. Driven! A driven ice queen? Get a grip, Lane! It didn't matter what they thought as long as she was the one pulling in the Kerths and scaring up leads. Today, naturally, didn't count in that assessment, since there were no leads to scare. She bent to the floor to retrieve her spilled writing utensils, only to feel a familiar pair of eyes on her. "Morning, Lois," Cat Grant's snide voice dripped over Lois's shoulder. "On your hands and knees again, I see." Lois peered under her arm only to meet eyes with a heeled shoe. How Cat did not have back trouble with heels like that, she would never know. "Isn't it a little too early for you to be in, Cat?" she snapped as she rolled back onto the balls of her feet and pushed up into a standing position, pens and pencils clutched in one hand. "I thought ladies like you only worked nights." Cat's left eyebrow raised and a slow smirk spread across her face. She shifted on her feet so that the split in her dress was even more revealing. "Part of my job as a society columnist--" "Mud-slinging rumor monger," Lois interjected, rolling her eyes. Cat's voice rose, fighting for dominance, "--is to maintain an active social life." Every word was punctuated as her stare grazed Lois's figure from head to toe. "You remember what that's like... or do you?" Lois's cheeks started to burn with heat again. There was pressure in her chest that threatened to explode. "Listen, Cat," she began, her tone low, almost a growl. But Cat seemed to give up the subject and tilted her head towards Perry's office, a questioning look in her eyes. "So who's the new tight end?" Lois turned to follow Cat's gaze and noticed for the first time that there was a man in the office with Perry -- a very good- looking man with dark hair, a loose-fitting charcoal suit, and a horrific tie. "I have no idea," she answered, surprised. "Some new guy," Jimmy answered as he approached. There was... a thing... clutched in his hand. It looked almost like one of those horns circus clowns used, but... "Sorry, I overheard you two," he replied sheepishly when Lois raised her eyebrows at him. "It's okay." She eavesdropped all the time -- not like it was a sin when people were too focused on what they were saying to move somewhere more private. "What do you know, and what *is* that in your hands, Jimmy?" Jimmy glanced downward at his bundle. "It's, um, the horn for Perry's golf cart. He wanted me to fix it. The tone's still off but--" He cleared his throat. Lois looked at it in disbelief as he squeezed the bulbous end of the horn and a dull bleat emitted, kind of like she imagined a dying cow would sound, if she were in fact present, by some horrible trick of fate, at its death. Deadpanning for a few seconds, she could resist the temptation no longer. She threw her fists into the air and grimaced. "Please, send us a conspiracy! Anything! I would cover a movie premiere at this point!" she cried to no one in particular. Even Cat had no arguments. "Anyways," Jimmy continued, "Perry's looking at him for the open investigative reporter position. He used to live in Smallville, I think, but he worked at the Kansas City Star." "Smallville? I couldn't *make* that name up." "You know, Lois," Cat purred, "Sometimes the small town boys are the wildest." "Spare me the Danielle Steele novel, Cat." "You know, I've visited Chautauqua County once." Jimmy grinned and wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Think I've been imbued with rural powers?" Cat looked appalled, her lips curling in disgust. She took a deep breath and began to respond, but the phone on Lois's desk rang, and Lois gratefully extricated herself from the conversation before she heard Cat's no doubt searing retort. She lifted her phone off its cradle and answered, "Daily Planet, Lois Lane speaking." Please. Please, let this be a story, she chanted silently. "Hi, Lois. It's Scott." Her FBI contact's deep baritone voice filled her with hope that this might not be a slow news day after all. The sounds of Cat and Jimmy's verbal boxing match faded quickly. "Hi, Scott. How are you doing? Do you have information for me?" Hoping she hadn't sounded too eager, she shifted the phone to her other ear, grabbed a pen, and flipped open her notepad past pages and pages until she arrived at an empty one. "As always, but this is more sticky than usual. This is deep background, understand? I'm not to be implicated in any way." "Of course, Scott." She let loose a breath of indignation. "You know I always protect my sources." She had been to jail more than once for brief periods when the Shield Laws had failed to come through for her. She actually played poker with some of the Daily Planet lawyers from time to time. Mad Dog Lane didn't reveal sources. It was as simple as that. She had to pull the phone back from her ear when Scott let out a heavy breath into the receiver. "George Thompson -- you need to keep your eyes on him," Scott said. She suppressed a shiver as a rush of excitement twanged through her, and she smiled. Proof positive that no man was ever a decent individual. 'George Thompson,' she wrote on her pad. "Has he done something illegal?" There was a long pause, but she heard movement on the other end of the line so she knew he hadn't gone anywhere. "Scott? Has he done something illegal?" "Well, I can't say for sure." Hedging. Scott had called her to give her a tip and now he was hedging? What did *that* mean? Scott *never* hedged. He always gave her two minutes of fact after monotone, regurgitated fact, said his pleasantries, and was off the phone. This was big. Huge. Bigger than huge. Pulitzer! She brought herself back down from orbit in time to hear Scott finally continue. "Rumor has it there is a certain very hard to find FBI office called Bureau 39 that was somehow involved with the disappearance of Miracle Man last year, and also that certain parties are now trying to cover up what little points to the department's existence." 'Conspiracy? Bureau 39 = ? FBI cover-up of MM disappearance?' More notes flew down onto her pad. More excitement. Not only was it bigger than huge, it was her dream story. "Involved with the disappearance?" she asked. "What is Bureau 39? What does this have to do with Thompson? It wasn't even solidly proven that Miracle Man existed in the first place!" Suddenly, she became aware that she was thwacking her pen against the corner of her desk in an odd, but very loud, rhythm -- like a drunk woodpecker. Jimmy and Cat had stopped arguing and were standing side by side, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and both were peering at her. She swallowed and stilled the pen, giving them what she thought was her best, most hopeful smile. "Thompson is supposedly Bureau 39's supervisor, at least in name." More scribbled notes. George Thompson was Bureau 39's supervisor, 'in name.' What did 'in name' mean? That would imply somebody else was really pulling the strings. Wouldn't it? Or maybe it meant he wasn't really a supervisor in the sense of the word she thought of -- signing checks, making a few decisions here and there, but never really getting his hands dirty, not knowing anything worth knowing. *Maybe* he went down into the trenches with his men! And did what, exactly? "What do you mean, 'in name'? What's Bureau 39?" "You'll have to find that out for yourself, Lois, because even I don't know." Scott sounded much more relaxed now, like someone who had gone in for dental work dripping with apprehensive nerves and was pleased to find out nothing bad was really going to happen. But... She was flummoxed. That couldn't be everything! He couldn't dangle a piece of meat in front of her and then explain that, well, he didn't really know what *kind* of meat it was. Or if it were really meat at all. Which brought about a whole new set of issues. Because if it wasn't meat, well then, what was it? Fruit? "Scott, come on," she protested. "Don't throw me a bone and then yank it back out of reach." "I'm sorry, Lois, I really don't have anything else. Just watch Thompson, and I'm sure you'll get your story." The sound of the dial tone put a very definite period on that exchange. She growled as she slammed down her phone and looked at her notes. She had a bunch of questions, and she wasn't even sure what they were about. "Well?" Jimmy asked expectantly, reminding her that he and Cat were both still standing there. She shook her head. "I have to talk to Perry." She stood and made a beeline for his office, leaving her pair of spectators gawking in her charged wake. ***** The interview, he thought, had progressed fairly well after he had finally steadied his footing. The last remnants of the call for help that had so startled him as he had sat down had faded with time, and Mr. White had actually started to converse casually with him after a while. There had even been an anecdote about Elvis interning as a cub reporter. That had taken some effort to keep a straight face about, but he'd managed. "No," Clark had said, "I didn't know Elvis wanted to work at the Planet." He was enduring another pause in the interview as Mr. White churned further through Clark's portfolio, when the door rocked on its hinges and opened without so much as a knock for precursor. "Chief! I have a Pulitzer story for sure!" The cry was a feminine machine-gun. A gust of air from the outer newsroom flew past and startled the papers on Mr. White's desk. Mr. White's eyes widened just a bit, as if he had spotted an oncoming train and was nailed to the tracks, but his composure returned so quickly Clark debated whether he had imagined it. He heard the click of heels echoing off the floor behind him, and a tingling sensation began on the back of his neck. Clark turned to face the intrusion. His breath caught, and he stared, despite how rude it seemed. For the barest of moments, her eyes locked on his, and the world spilled away. It was the first time in his life he had floated without leaving the ground. The voice, relentless in haunting him, was silent, and her thrumming heartbeat filled the void left in its wake. Exquisite. She blinked and shifted her gaze back to Mr. White. "Chief," she began again, "I think there's a story here. I got a call from my contact in the FBI, you know, Scott, and--" Her voice seemed to be fading in and out. He saw her lips moving, arms gesturing frantically, but that was all. Her brown hair, cut in an immaculate bob, framed the motions of her head as she cycled through her speech. Sound came roaring back. "--he's claiming there's some sort of *cover-up* going on about a Bureau 39 and that Independent candidate, George Thompson. I think--" Mr. White finally stood up to intervene. His hands splayed, he pointed to his chest and cleared his throat. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something here?" Her gaze twitched to Clark and then back to Mr. White, and her lips closed into a small 'o' shape. "Oh." Her tirade stopped, but the tension in her posture told him she was just waiting for the light to turn green again. This woman, whoever she was, was pure spitfire. Clark felt his breath come back to him at last, and he stood, his chair creaking obnoxiously as he did so as if to say, "This man didn't know to stand when a beautiful lady entered! The idea is just now processing through his thick cranium. Look and behold the Neanderthal..." He barely held his mouth closed. If he were to say hello now, he was sure it would come out something like, "Uhhh." Great job, Clark. Drooling will really help the image. Silence ticked by for a few moments. Clark watched varied emotions shift through Mr. White's features, from annoyance to acceptance to pride... His eyebrows seemed to tick each one off in fast succession. The editor, it seemed, was going to introduce them. "Lois Lane," Mr. White gestured to the woman and then moved his hands to point towards Clark, "Clark Kent." Lois Lane. Clark felt as though air were rushing through his veins when her eyes flicked again to him. He hoped the burning sensation he felt across his brow, cheeks, and throat was not a blush. A surreptitious glance downward revealed that his feet, at least, still remained firmly on the ground. Lois Lane. He had read many of her articles, but not once had he imagined, well, this... You're still goggling like a fish, Clark. But the world was speeding past, and all he could do was blink. Lois Lane. "Nice to meet you," she said, so quickly she sounded like one of those dolls with a pull cord, with some sort of maniacal puppeteer yanking at the string. She inhaled a bit, and Clark started a mental countdown. Three. Two. One. "Anyway," the whirlwind started again, "This could be the story of the century! It might solve the Miracle Man mystery and bring down Thompson all in one fell--" "Lois," Mr. White enunciated, his tone low and cautionary. "What happened to the investigation on the Messenger launch?" She was flippant. "I wasn't in the mood. Every station is covering it already and--" Mr. White's voice got even lower. "Looois..." "There's nothing there, Perry!" Her face took on a look of urgency. "It's nothing but a malfunction in a fragmented organization that doesn't know its own arms from its feet. I could write something for the op-ed page if you want, but you never seem to have a problem coming up with people to jaw jack about their opinions for twelve paragraphs. I'd much rather be investigating a scandal involving our potential future president!" "Now listen here, Lois, I--" A young man in casual wear took that moment to knock on the side window of Mr. White's office. Probably a gopher, Clark thought. The kid looked pointedly at Lois and mimed talking into a phone with his thumb and pinky. "Gotta run!" Lois exclaimed after looking over at the boy. "Catch you later, Chief." With a small wave and a quick about-face, Lois Lane was gone, and Clark finally began to catch up with the world around him. Lois. Lane. Lois Lane. The woman had put such conviction and strength into her stories that he had imagined she would be complicated. Domineering, uncompromising, pig-headed... It seemed she was all those things and more, but also... "Brilliant." Clark sighed. "Well I, uh..." White shook his head, as if he, too, were trying to clear some cotton from his brain. "What was that, son?" "Nothing, sir." "If that woman wasn't one of the best damn investigative reporters I've ever seen, I'd..." The editor sighed, shook his head again, and returned to his seat. Clark followed suit. It briefly occurred to him that Lois had mentioned, in a part of her tirade that he'd actually managed to hear, something about investigating Miracle Man. He supposed it should worry him that a three-time Kerth-winning investigative superstar was looking into him. But the voice hadn't caught up with the situation yet, and he was still peacefully stuck on batting her name backwards and forwards in his head, as though that would make some sense of the wide array of feelings that had overtaken him the minute she had barged into the room. "Well, look, Kent, you seem like an intelligent guy," Mr. White began. For a minute, Clark tensed up again, and the clamminess to his hands returned. Was this the end of the interview? He hoped he hadn't blown it. The smile that crept across Mr. White's face, however, told him his fears were unfounded. "Your writing samples are exactly what I'm looking for. Dan Carlton couldn't say enough about your reporting skills over the phone. You came in here a bit nervous, and you're not quite as experienced as I'd like, but I can see you've got a good set of ideals and are ready to stand up when you're challenged. That's exactly what I like to see in a reporter, and exactly what I want for the Daily Planet. I'd like to extend you a job offer." "That's..." Clark was speechless. He had hoped for over a year that the Daily Planet would eventually be his home, and the idea had been looking more and more realistic as his interview with Mr. White had approached, but, finally obtaining his dream instead of just dreaming it... Well, that was, "Wow." "When can you start?" Mr. White asked. Without even thinking, Clark replied, "Tomorrow." "Good." Mr. White stood, came around to the front of his desk, and offered Clark Kent a hand to shake. "Clark Kent, welcome to the Daily Planet." ***** "Help! The scaffolding is coming loose!" The screaming was like an ice pick to his brain. Clark squeezed his eyes shut and stood still as a steel pylon. He was on the landing of his potential new apartment, but at that moment, it could have been Mount Everest from how thin the air suddenly seemed. Deep breaths were the ticket, he tried to convince himself. Deep breaths. But the nausea and light-headedness didn't go away. The voice came back with a vengeance. Coward, Clark. You're a coward. Nobody would notice if you just did it. Save them! Real quick. You can move faster than sound, nobody will see. Trask couldn't possibly be keeping you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. Could he? And yet he found himself back in Kansas, running down that dirt road to the smoking remnants of his parents' truck, Trask standing idly by as his mom and dad died in terror. His body felt cold and tortured as he relived their screams, the subsequent sound of warping, tearing metal, broken glass, and the dream-like silence that followed in the moments after. Sssave them, coward, the voice hissed. He felt like he was being ripped in two, and his chest constricted when he finally decided it wasn't worth the risk. It wasn't. He couldn't take that chance again. Not ever. Accidents happened in life. They were unavoidable. But if that logic was so applicable, why did he feel like he was being rent like a piece of meat at the hands of a butcher? He longed for the euphoria he had felt in the presence of Lois Lane to return, but it seemed to have been thoroughly kicked out of the way by the city's never-ending tumble of distress calls. His whole body was tense, tremors of stress running through him like electricity through a wire. How was he going to endure living in a city like this? He was loath to even debate it, but... Lois Lane. He pictured her exactly as she had been when she'd decided to storm into his life earlier that day. The tremors settled into dull vibrations. Far from relaxed, he at least didn't feel like he was going to throw up anymore. He sighed. He still didn't know what to think about her. A new pain began whenever he rolled her name through his head, but it was a different kind of pain than what he was used to -- one that most certainly was not bad. It was more... a wanting. A wanting to fill a hole he hadn't even realized he'd had. This whole bit was crazy, he knew. He didn't even know the woman. But years in the future, when memories of now were dulled like aging watercolors, he knew he would still remember with perfect clarity what he had felt when she'd walked in on his interview. And like a drug, he knew it was something he wanted to feel again. His whole nervous system seemed to tingle at just the thought of seeing her tomorrow. Wow. He was going to work with her. Oh sure, he had no delusions it would be a partnership. But he would see her. Every day. Co-workers with the intrepid Lois Lane. That had a nice sound to it. What *are* you talking about, Clark Kent? I thought we were discussing what a coward you were. "Clark Kent?" He snapped to awareness. The heavyset landlord had snuck up on him without much, if any, effort. "Yes," Clark said as he turned to face a man dressed in a sloppy pair of pants, white undershirt, and red corduroy jacket. "Name's Floyd." Floyd did not proffer a hand to shake. "The one-bedroom I had open, right?" Clark nodded. "You look pale," Floyd commented as he fumbled with the keys a moment until he found the right one and pushed it into the aging lock. "Not sick are you?" "Just a dizzy spell. I didn't have much to eat today." It was a bald-faced lie, but Clark didn't think he could feel any worse at the moment. In the place he had heard screams just minutes ago, he now only heard silence. The door creaked open loudly enough to make Clark wince. That would need some oil. Floyd made a grand gesture as he stepped inside the apartment, but the disheveled look of the living space made it seem almost like he was a ring-leader at a circus. Yes, folks! It's the messiest, most ruinous apartment on the market in the world. Behold the patchwork paint job! The uneven flooring! Behold! "Quietest building in Metropolis," Floyd commented proudly as a nearby car alarm pierced the air and the ventilation system began to make a heavy whumping noise, as though it were conveying something considerably more solid than air through the ducts. "You married?" he asked. "No." Clark glanced around. What a dump, but... There was something that just seemed right about it. Floyd pried further. "Girlfriend?" "No." There were layers thick dust on the floor and the counters, and full-blown breeding piles of dirt heaped up like mountains in the corners of each room. Papers were strewn everywhere. Some of the furniture was overturned or broken or both. Had the last resident been related to a cyclone? "Boyfriend?" Clark paused and looked at Floyd, an incredulous look on his face. Was there nothing this man would not ask? He felt oddly like he were under a microscope, being picked apart piece by cowardly piece. He didn't think his pallor had even hinted at returning since Floyd had started talking to him. "Me, I mind my own business." Floyd shrugged. "Where you from?" "Kansas." Screams. Metal. Blood. He tried very hard to make sure his voice didn't crack. Clark turned away from Floyd and moved into the kitchen. When he placed his hand on one of the overhead cabinet handles, the door fell off. He resisted the urge to jump back a bit. He'd barely touched it, that couldn't have been him. Floyd was unperturbed, and Clark untensed a bit. "Few screws is all," Floyd explained. Clark moved to the sink and turned the faucet on. Brown water that looked slightly more appealing than tar glopped down into the basin. "Minerals," Floyd assured him. "Good for the liver." Clark was very glad he didn't have to eat or drink. He moved on to the living room area, pushing aside some debris with his foot as he hazarded a path. There was a beautiful multi-paned window that went at a slant from the ceiling to a dilapidated window-seat. Sunlight streamed through the panes in what seemed like solid shafts because of all the dust drifting around in the air. Beyond the window there was a patio and then the solid brick wall of another building. "Nice view." Floyd gestured to the window in question. "You see out. No one sees in. Walk around in the buff. I do." Clark stared at the overweight landlord and tried very hard not to picture it. At least he wasn't asking questions anymore. "How much?" Clark felt compelled to ask after glancing around again. He doubted he would find a better place -- this apartment was quite large considering he was in the middle of a populous city. The brief home he had made in Kansas City had been about half the size, for an exorbitant fee, and Kansas City wasn't even that large in comparison. With a bit of cleaning up, this place would probably end up being quite suitable. And of course, there was the curious feeling he had gotten the moment he'd entered -- that he was somehow destined to feel at home here. "950," Floyd answered. "950?!" Clark felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. That was steep. Real steep. "You want cheap?" Floyd asked. "Go back to Iowa." "Kansas." Floyd didn't seem to notice the correction. "This is Metropolis. Nine even. Take it or leave it." Clark made another circle of the apartment. He put his hand on the banister, and the handle came off in his hands. If he hadn't known better at this point, he would have doubted his self- control of his powers. "Mind if I make a few repairs?" he asked. Floyd seemed to debate with himself for a moment. "I guess not." "When can I move in?" That drew a very small sliver of a smile from the landlord. "Soon as the check clears." Clark drew out his checkbook. This would hurt, but not as much as staying in a hotel. He needed a home, and his savings from Kansas City would allow this expenditure, provided his paycheck from the Planet arrived in a timely fashion. "I'll have extra keys made," Floyd replied as Clark placed a filled-out check in his hands. He glanced around one more time and sighed. This was going to be quite a fixer upper. ***** Clark stepped off the elevator and allowed himself a long, deep pause. Putting a hand on the railing over the bullpen, he overlooked the bustle below. The newsroom of the Daily Planet seemed wholly different now that he was officially a part of it rather than a vagabond passing through, and he wanted to take a moment to absorb it all. A deep inhalation brought him the sharp scent of already cooling coffee, which was wafting over from the nearby drink station. There was a dull electrical whir of computers and other electronic equipment drifting around in the air, over scored with random staccatos of telephones, typing, voices, and television sets. A copy boy pushed past him, apologizing blithely behind himself as he ran down the ramp, but Clark was looking elsewhere and barely noticed getting hit in the first place. He had spotted Lois at her desk down below. She was typing something, sipping at her coffee at odd intervals, unaware she was being watched. She paused to stretch and then went back to her task. Dedicated, he thought. "Olsen!" Mr. White poked his head out of his office, his voice rumbling through the air. Most people in the newsroom seemed to duck their heads further into or behind whatever they were working on when they identified the source of the yell, but Lois seemed unperturbed. Clark turned his gaze and squinted, resisting the small urge to pull down his glasses and zoom in on Mr. White. There was something bundled in his hands that Clark couldn't really identify. It looked like a horn... But... "Olsen!" Mr. White repeated. "I asked for this to be fixed!" A horrific sound emanated from the thing as Mr. White raised it and squeezed the round end. "This sounds like a stampeding whoopee cushion, not a golf-cart horn!" "Coming, Chief," came a groan from elsewhere in the pit. Clark saw the boy who had motioned Lois out of the office yesterday pop up near one of the Xerox machines in the corner, shoulders slumped, and a small frown on his face. He ran a hand through his short hair and headed towards Mr. White to grab the offending item. Lois still hadn't even looked up from whatever she was doing, engrossed and either unaware of the disturbance, or in possession of good focusing skills. Her coffee mug went up to her lips again. Centered, too. Clark smiled and walked down the ramp, across the pit, and to Mr. White's door. He knocked lightly. "Don't come back til that's fixed!" Mr. White's voice filtered through the glass, somewhat muffled. Clark peered through the cracks in the blinds and saw that the editor was sitting behind his desk, pouring over some copy with a fat red pen. A desk lamp cast a harsh glow on the sheet of paper and on Mr. White's face. In the light, dozens of markings screamed upwards like flames from the edited piece of copy. Clark opened the door after some hesitation and poked his head in. "It's Clark Kent, sir. You asked me to be in at eight- thirty today." "Oh, Kent." Mr. White's tone was apologetic as he looked up. "Well, I just sent Jimmy to fix that damned horn so your intended tour guide is tied up. Oh, and call me Perry, or Chief if you have to. Mr. White makes me think of the suits upstairs. Let me see, who could...?" The rest trailed off in a mumble as the editor thought to himself. He got up from his chair, and Clark took care to step aside as he ambled to the door. The fat editing pen nearly rolled off Mr. White's desk, but it caught on the lamp. Clark traced its movement with his eyes. "Lois!" Mr. White yelled in a similar tone to the one he had just used for... Jimmy? Olsen. The shocking volume made Clark wince - - it sounded like a jackhammer to his head at this distance, but it did seem to get the job done. Clark turned to glance beyond Mr. White's shoulder. Lois looked up and stood, unmoved by the editor's terrorizing intonations beyond what appeared to be simple curiosity. "What's up, Chief?" she asked as she walked up a few seconds later. Bold. Mr. White pointed back to his office with a tilt of his head. Clark backed up a bit and all three of them shuffled in to the editor's office. Lois flicked her gaze to Clark as she walked past, and Clark felt his heart jump a bit. "Well?" she asked. Mr. White, no... *Perry*, Clark reminded himself, turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Clark, you just go with Lois for today while I figure out what desk to put you at. Have her show you around and then you can shadow her to start learning the ropes. You two remember each other from yesterday, right?" He didn't really give them a chance to answer. "Good." The speech was so quick Clark almost thought it seemed like Mr. White was trying to avoid talking with him, but it was Lois that the editor was ticking his gaze to every other word. "Yes, thank you, sir. I mean Chief," Clark said. "What?!" Lois snapped at nearly the same time. Things were apparently sinking in. "But, Chief!" Her arms folded over her chest, and she looked decidedly more hostile than curious. Clark grinned. It seemed the Chief hadn't been trying to avoid talking with him, but rather with her. He watched the editor bolster up his posture as if he were preparing for physical blows. Argumentative. "Lois," Perry sighed. "You told me yesterday that the Messenger story was a dud." Lois's eyes grew wider. "But the Thompson story--" "--Hasn't got a leg to stand on until you locate more than hearsay," the Chief finished for her, his tone low and his pronunciation slightly elongated. Lois flushed a bit and threw up her hands, starting to pace a bit. "Which I can't do if I'm giving office tours!" The papers on Perry's desk let loose a shrill ring. Growling, the editor rushed over to his desk started moving aside documents trying to find the phone. The red pen which had so precariously hung on to the desk cascaded to the floor as papers shifted back and forth. "Lois," Perry grumbled, "I really don't have time for this. Take Clark around for the day. Hell, maybe he can help you with the Thompson thing." The Chief finally found what he was looking for and lifted the phone off the hook. He held the receiver to his chest with one hand and with the other used the butt of the phone to corral Clark and Lois out. Exiled to the bullpen, Lois turned a one-eighty and raised a hand of protest. "But--" she growled, only to be met with the door closing in her face. She reached for the doorknob and turned it, her body lunging forward as if she planned to charge back in, but Perry had planned for that. The doorknob didn't budge, and she almost slammed into the door before she stopped her momentum. Clark, through the slits in the blinds, could see Perry chatting on the phone with his back turned to them. Lois cursed up a streak, ending the sentence with an, "Arrrgh!" for good measure. Quiet for a moment, she stood there trying to catch her breath. The pink in her cheeks and ears receded, but her eyes narrowed dangerously when she looked over at him. Gorgeous. "What are *you* smiling at?" she snapped. Clark held his hands up and shook his head, indicating he hadn't meant to provoke her. Gorgeous, yes, but she was definitely *not* happy. He heard some very quiet chuckles far back in the bullpen that Lois was most likely unable to hear. Everyone closer to their position was making an extra special effort to appear busy and inattentive to a one Lois Lane. This was apparently not an unusual occurrence. She looked at him for a long moment, either oblivious of the inattentive attention she was receiving from the bullpen, or not caring. She then spun on her feet with her index finger outstretched, rotating through all the points of interest with a speed that he hadn't thought even he was capable of. Air buffeted him as she whirled around. "There's the copiers, there's the televisions, conference rooms are over there, bathrooms up that way, locker rooms are down a floor along with the mailboxes -- I'm assuming you're smart enough to know how to use the elevator." He opened his mouth to thank her, but she was already gone when he looked back at where she had been standing. He stood there with his hand outstretched and mouth gaping for several moments before he caught up with the situation, closed his mouth, and looked around. The click of her heels on the tiles of the floor allowed him to follow her trail back to her desk, but when he arrived, she was already sitting and working again, sipping coffee as if nothing had happened. He faced the front of her desk for several moments. She didn't look up. He took the moment to examine her working area more closely. It was fairly organized on the writing surface -- a bent and torn notepad that seemed veritably ready to burst with scribbles sat to the left of her keyboard, a stapler here, tape roll there, an overflowing rolodex next to her monitor, and a small dying plant in the corner, but the rest was a mess of article pinups and tape. Headlines screamed back at him: Miracle Man Saves Air France Flight 402. Miracle Man Averts Oil Spill. Spree of Alleged Arsons Rocks Metropolis -- Miracle Man Saves the Day. And more. Dozens more. Obsessed? He blinked. Lois was still 'not noticing' him. "Ah," he cleared his throat, suddenly at a complete loss about what to say. He felt heat cross his face as he imagined himself a lone flagpole in a parking lot of working people, and more pointedly, *sitting* people. "Ms. Lane?" he hazarded as he glanced around. The clackity-clack of her typing stopped, and she finally looked up. Her eyes flashed like fire, an eruption clearly imminent. "Let's get something straight," she began. "I didn't work my butt off to become an investigative reporter for the Daily Planet just to baby-sit some hack from Nowheresville." Courageous. He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. "And another thing. You're not working with me, you're working *for* me. I call the shots. I ask the questions. You're low man. I'm top banana. That's the way I like it. Comprende?" "You like to be on top," he grinned. "Got it." Something about her... If it had been any other person on the planet he probably would have found himself annoyed at the rudeness, but with Lois Lane, it just made her seem more wonderful, and he had no earthly idea why... His observation earlier that she was domineering seemed to short-change what she was in actuality. In *actuality*, she had airs worthy of a goddess. Snobby. She sneered at him, not amused. "Don't push me, Kent. You are *way* out of your league." Well, that was certainly true. And yet, even with the voice chipping in, he didn't feel appropriately debunked. He felt... happy. At least he managed to stop the stupid grin that was spreading across his face to keep her from snapping at him again. Silence ticked away until the clackity-clack of Lois's typing began once again. He looked around the news room for a while until it became painfully obvious she didn't intend to engage him in conversation any time soon. "So what's with all the Miracle Man memorabilia?" he hedged, hoping to regain conversational footing. "My Pulitzer, if I ever figure out where he went." She didn't stop typing, nor did she look up from her screen, but she apparently saw his mouth open. "And no, you can't help. He's *mine*." With such vehemence, he had no doubt of her sincerity on that topic. She had sounded downright possessive. Insecure. "I wasn't going to ask that." That gave her pause. It almost seemed to him as if she expected him to try and horn in on her work. "Oh," she replied, her voice quiet. "I was going to ask what this curiosity about Thompson was?" "A contact called me the other day and told me there might be a connection between Miracle Man's disappearance and Thompson, among other things." Clark shook his head. "That's impossible." He remembered vividly the tortures that had been exacted upon him, the face that laughed at him each time he was forced to fall. It was a wholly different visage than George Thompson, whose was old, thin, and angular. No... Trask was younger, heavier, and rounder, and it had *always* been him. That, he was sure of. He closed his eyes for a moment, but it seemed as if the image of his tormentor was burned on the undersides of his eyelids. "How would *you* know?" Lois's eyebrows raised in inquiry and she finally stopped typing. Her chair creaked as she leaned back in it. "Because..." Clark fought for an explanation. "Well..." Grasping at straws. He should have known better than to interject statements that were based entirely off his first-hand experience like that. "If this man was so miraculous, what could an ordinary human have to do with his disappearance?" He knew it sounded a bit lame, but what else could he say? Miracle Man disappeared because he's a big flaming coward? Because Jason Trask acted out one threat too many? He doubted he could have explained either with any level of ease, even if she had known who he really was. You're quite possibly the strongest man in the world, rumored unkillable, and you let a human bully you? Coward... "Well that would be the point of me investigating it," her voice dropped in pitch, and she spoke slowly as if she thought she were catering to an idiot. "To find that out." He swatted the voice away before the queasiness began. "What makes you so sure Thompson's a bad apple?" He mentally ticked off confident as well. "What makes you so sure he isn't?" "Not every politician is corrupt, Lois." The last word had slipped out unintentionally. He hoped she didn't mind that he'd called her by her first name, especially since she seemed to be distancing from him as much as possible, but she didn't even appear to notice. "I'll bet you this one is." The conviction in her tone was stronger than steel. One look at her face told him that strength extended outward into every part of her. He felt a buzzing heat of admiration set down upon him, and he sighed. If only he were able to stand up to the world the way she seemed to want to. But even so, he hadn't meant to light this particular spark -- enthralling though it was to watch it burn. "Lois," he tested again. He was delighted to see she genuinely didn't seem to care. "I wasn't trying to make this a competition." His words only seemed to kick start her further. Her chair shot backward, and she was on her feet. "JIMMY!" she shouted. "Get me all the stuff you can on George Thompson and a Bureau 39." "On it," came a mumble from somewhere off to the right, followed by the strange blurping moan of the horn Perry had spotlighted earlier. As he peered back at Lois, Clark could hear whispered curses from Jimmy. "Lois--" She held up her right index finger to her lips. "Shhh-- Hello, my name is Lois Lane, I'd like to set up an interview with Antoinette Baines about the Messenger malfunctions. Yes thanks, I'll hold." When she turned he saw the phone clasped in her other hand. How this woman moved between tasks so fast was beyond him. Driven. His list of adjectives was growing so long he feared he'd end up with a dictionary soon. She hazarded a glance his way. "Might as well formally finish this story so I can move on," she explained. "Mind if I pull up a chair?" "Just don't get in the way." "Wouldn't dream of it." "Good, because-- Yes, thanks. What time is good for you?" Had he mentioned thrilling in his list yet? He sat down and watched her as she chatted into the phone, her voice mesmerizing him into a dull, relaxed state. All in all, today was a pretty good start, he supposed. ***** Juggling multiple grocery bags, a set of keys, and a stack of file folders was quite a balancing act, Lois decided as she hopped around to keep from toppling over. She bent over a bit, trying to grab her key ring with her teeth, belatedly realizing that there was no way she would be able to unlock the door with only her lips for a grip on them. Soooo... tottering, she twisted and leaned backwards until her back was protesting and the grocery bags were resting more on her torso than her hands. The manila folders that had been stacked on top of the bags cut backwards and caught on the underside of her chin, but didn't finish their fall. She took as deep of a breath as she could manage in her position, trying not to pay attention to the stars that were beginning to form in her vision. Somehow, she managed to get the key in the first deadbolt. Progress! But she couldn't lean back far enough to get the key up to deadbolt number two, so she tried a new method. Leaning forward, she propped her knee up on the wall beside the door and rested the bags on her thigh. The folders threatened to cascade downward, but she pressed her chin down like a paperweight and forced them to stay. Well, this was certainly uncomfortable. Deadbolt number two clicked open as she twisted the key in the lock. It was like a game at this point. There was absolutely no way she was putting the bags on the ground now, not when she'd gotten this far. Luckily, when she shifted to lock number three, she was able to catch all of her cargo before it fell off its precarious resting spot. Lock number four proved to be the easiest of them all. The door gave way, and she nearly didn't stop herself from falling flat on her face, but somehow, she maintained her balance and didn't lose one single item from her collection to the floor. She let a triumphant smile radiate from her face as she hobbled her load over to the counter and set it down. Whew. She took a deep breath as the manila folders cascaded off the top of the bags and fanned out like toppled dominoes across the counter. "Lucy, you home?" she cried. "I brought dinner." There was no immediate answer. Lois managed to cram all of the TV dinners she had bought into their small, overtaxed freezer. There was already a ton in there, which she hadn't remembered when she had gone grocery shopping. Actually, it seemed her entire grocery list was already in the fridge and pantry, in duplicate, as if some double of herself had already gotten home from shopping for the night. Try though she did, she could not remember having gone to the supermarket earlier in the week, so... Hmmm. She shrugged and tossed a dinner into the microwave. The light came on, and the dinner spun lazily in circles, starting to bubble a bit as it went. As the machine whirred, she turned back to the fridge to grab a drink, but found she was being watched. "Hi!" she exclaimed to Lucy, trying to hide her surprise. "You in for the night?" Lucy shook her head and hopped up onto the counter. "I'm meeting Jose." "Jose?" Who the heck was Jose? Her sister seemed to shuffle through losers faster than a dealer did cards in a poker game. "Is he new?" She tried to keep her tone neutral, and tried even harder to hide the grimace that resulted when she realized she hadn't. "Lab tech," Lucy shrugged. "Works on my floor." Lois opened her mouth to reply, but the microwave's harsh ping interrupted her. Her two-minute macaroni was done. She turned to fish it out, grabbing a fork from the silverware drawer with her free hand. "So..." Lucy began. "What are you up to tonight?" Her gaze was tracing the file folders that were strewn across the counter. "I've got a ton of work and-- Luce, don't start," Lois threatened as she closed the silverware drawer with her hip. Here it came, Lois thought. The speech where Lucy lectured her that she wasn't social enough. That she didn't get out enough. She allowed herself an inward growl. She got out plenty! Just today she had gone to get groceries, and the proof was in the fridge that she'd somehow already done that earlier this week as well. That was twice she had had to gamble on which checkout line was the fastest, and twice she had had to complain to the manager about the lousy service, threatening to run an article about the dirty truths of express lines, that they weren't express at all, but rather a trap to those with fifteen items or less to be stuck staring at all the trash tabloids and impulse candy. Which she hadn't bought, by the way. She had gotten her fudge bars from the candy aisle like a good shopper. Totally *not* impulse. And wasn't there always somebody who had misread the sign, a full cart of junk in tow and fifty coupons to scan in, who they let through anyway? Wasn't there? Pathetic how the management had no policing whatsoever set up on those lines. Actually she would put that in the suggestion box next time she went-- "Did you find an escort to Lex Luthor's White Orchid Ball?" Lucy interrupted. Oh that. Lois frowned. She wanted an interview with Lex Luthor almost as bad as she wanted to find out what had happened to Miracle Man. Jimmy had pulled her out of Perry's office early yesterday to talk to Mr. Luthor's personal assistant. The woman had been pleasant enough to chat with, but it was fairly obvious that the billionaire was dodging her, and dodging quite well. This ball was the only chance she had at getting up close to the man -- being rich certainly did help for when one wanted to be a recluse from the media. "Not yet." Lois finally took a bite of her macaroni and grimaced. It was a bit rubbery, and the cheese was drippy in some places, but practically a solid mass in others. It smelled decent, at least. She chewed a bit as Lucy continued to grill her. "Lois, it's tomorrow night!" Lucy sounded quite exasperated. "What about Alan? I thought you liked him." "I did," Lois replied honestly. Alan had been quite nice actually. Very good-looking and polite, but not chauvinistic like most of the pigs she'd managed to land in her life. "But after the second date he didn't call, so..." That's right, Lane, because you're an ice queen. Men don't want a career woman like you, they want sleaze like Cat -- a woman who doesn't wear clothes, she wears new skin. She grimaced when she thought of her own, 'Don't touch me' business suit. The shoulder pads, dark colors, and fat heeled shoes made her look taller. Tougher. Strong. But certainly not delectable. That, however, was okay with her. She didn't need another trip down memory lane, like 'Claude: The Return', except it'd be one of those crummy remakes with a different actor playing the lead. "What happened with that other guy, Barry? He still leaves messages on the machine." Lois rolled her eyes and put her fork down, macaroni finished. "Please." "He was a very nice guy. He brought flowers." And chocolates, and more flowers, and called more, and-- Well the guy was a borderline stalker. "He's a periodontist." "And Mitchell?" Lucy asked. She was pacing now. "Hypochondriac." Now *that* made for some interesting dates. Has this fork been cleaned? I see a speck. Are you absolutely sure? Lois, don't use the bathrooms in public places, do you have *any* idea how many diseases are congregating just on the doorknob alone? Lois! Don't take the mints by the cash register, they have more urine particles on them than a lot of places in the bathroom. And of course it was hard not to laugh when he placed a handkerchief over his nose to filter the air. "They can't all be bad, Lois. They can't all be stupid or boring. What are you waiting for?" "Fine," Lois conceded. "I'll ask Mitchell to take me." At least Mitchell was too preoccupied about catching himself a cold to do anything lascivious. He hadn't even tried to kiss her -- probably because of the germs. In fact he gave her so much personal space a lot of times it felt like they weren't even together. Was it sad she was finding that to be a good aspect? "I'm not just talking about the ball, Lois. You have to get out more." Yep, there it was. The 'you have to get out more' speech. Lois had been wondering what had taken so long for that to finally come out. She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Will you stop?" she asked. "You sound like Dad. Jeez, I'm only twenty-six." She flashed back to the last conversation she had had with her dad. It wasn't, "Congratulations! You graduated from college, and I'm so proud of you!" It was, "Do you have a job yet? Are you absolutely sure you want to be a journalist? They're so low- paid... It's too bad you only had a 3.9 average, 4.0 would have looked so glowing on your resume." Her cheeks started to burn a bit, and she bit back a growl. "Twenty-six today. Thirty-six tomorrow," Lucy said, her hands gesturing flightily. "Give it a rest, Luce." She didn't want to have this discussion again, she just didn't. By the time she was thirty-six she planned to have a Pulitzer, nine more Kerths, and a man hanging off *her* shoulder rather than the other way around. "And I know why Alan never called you again... dragging him to that Women in Journalism seminar, 'Weak Men and The Wise Women Who Love Them.' You've got to stop scaring them off, Lois!" "What are you talking about?" It wasn't her fault that men were scared off by a woman who could think for herself. A woman who didn't have to bat her eyes and make him think all his ideas were good. Who didn't have to say, "Hoooooney, can I borrow the checkbook for some new shoes?" It was disgusting some of the behavior she saw these days. Lucy yanked on her arm and pulled her into the bathroom. "Look in the mirror. You could get any guy you wanted, but do you have to be so smart all the time? So intense?" Lois looked at her reflection. She didn't seem particularly pretty. Okay-looking yes, certainly not unattractive, but she didn't see a knockout. Her face was too round and her hair was too boring. Easy to style, but boring. Boring mucky brown. Plain. "Look, I'm just being myself. If they're not man enough to handle me, then I'll wait for someone who is." She threw up her hands and walked back out into the kitchen. You're not being yourself, Lane, you're being what you know men wouldn't want you to be. Something clenched in her gut. "I just hate to see you sitting home," Lucy said, her voice sounding plaintive. "I get out plenty. I have dates." "You have interviews. It's not the same thing. Lois, I just want you to meet a super guy -- wait a minute. I know that look. You're smiling. Who did you meet? Why have you been stringing me along this whole conversation?" Lucy bubbled. Her eyes widened, and the grin that was on her face screamed pure elation. Lois shrugged. The smile had sort of slipped out. Really. She hadn't meant it. "Well," she confessed, "There's this new guy at work." Way to throw a dog a bone, Lane. Yep, there she goes. Lucy bounced up and down like a cheerleader on drugs. "Is he cute? What's he look like? What's his name? Have you two been introduced yet? What's he like? Has he asked you out?" "I am not going to gossip like a fourth grader with you. Lucy, he was attractive, this little chat just reminded me of him, and that's as much as you will ever hear from me." She mimed pulling a zipper across her lips for good measure. Lois could immediately tell that Lucy was not and would not ever be satisfied with the answer she had just given. The look on her sister's face was one of unadulterated agony at being kept in the dark, but Lois, for one, did *not* want to discuss Clark. A change of subject seemed to be in order. Though Clark had been rather cute in an innocent, hick meets the city, doe-eyed way. What had she called him? A hack from Nowheresville? That was a class A zinger, she thought, enough to keep any slobbering hormonal man away. Except he had kept smiling at her throughout the day, and whenever she'd looked over and caught him doing it, she felt a little breathless. It was unnerving at times. N.O. Ever notice Clark and Claude have three identical letters? That was a bad omen for sure. Wasn't it? They both had dark hair too. Not that he hadn't surprised her in an un-Claude like way by completely avoiding an offer to 'help' her on her Pulitzer story. Everyone at the Planet knew she was interested in exposing what had happened to Miracle Man, and everyone had learned early on that any information about it went to *her* or they risked her wrath. She had learned her lesson the first time -- she kept her notepad in sight at all times, and hunted down anyone who threatened her turf with such a vengeance that the gossip mill had started calling her Mad Dog. Not that she minded that much. It was better than Ice Queen, and it struck fear in the hearts of mortal reporters. She had noticed that at some point all the new employees had suddenly started giving her a very wide berth, an action she attributed to the gossip-mongers who got early warnings out. Clark, though, seemed to be laid back enough to take her temper in stride. It was weird finding someone who was neither chauvinistic nor terrified of her. She wondered about that for a moment. Bad, Lois. Didn't we say we weren't going to think about him? She blinked. "Hey," she finally administered her one-eighty. "I'm supposed to be the big sister here, remember? Go meet..." What was his name? "Jose," Lucy said. "Lois..." "Have fun!" Lucy gave up at that point and disappeared back into her bedroom to finish getting ready, leaving Lois alone at the counter with the pile of folders in front of her and her empty macaroni tray. Jimmy had given her this stack at the tail end of the day, claiming it to be the definitive guide to everything she did and maybe didn't want to know about George Thompson, but he had woefully explained that Bureau 39 had seemed to elude his more basic searches. Well, that made sense, considering the rumor was that somebody was trying to cover it up. It kind of ruined the point if it was easy to find. So... What could Bureau 39 be? She perched herself on a stool and opened the folder labeled "GT Timeline." It seemed he had been in the Air Force. He was a member of project Blue Book from, essentially, its start in 1947 to its finish in 1969, at which point he transferred into the FBI as a special agent. Project Blue Book... She did a double take. Wasn't that the Air Force's organization of UFO fanatics? They had formed up around the Roswell crash and just didn't go away. She wished she could remember precisely the details but she was sure it had something to do with UFOs. George Thompson was UFO obsessed. George Thompson was possibly related to the disappearance of Miracle Man. She weighed the two facts in her head. It was a loose connection, especially since the origins of Miracle Man were still a complete mystery. No one had even disproved that it was nothing more than an elaborate hoax yet, but she was one to disbelieve the hoax theory after seeing witness after witness report the same thing. A man in black with a funny symbol on his chest flies in in a blur, saves the day, and flies back out again, usually so fast that he had finished his job and was gone before someone could even react enough to pull out a camera. She resisted the urge to get frustrated with the fact that she had been working on his disappearance for a year now and had come up with absolutely nothing. All she knew was that he had stopped appearing to save the day after the spree of arsons that had swept Metropolis. The city had been sucked into a swell of riots as building after building burned to the ground. Firefighters couldn't keep up with the blazes, and only with the initial help of Miracle Man had the fires been contained reasonably well. Even with the full weight of the FBI brought down on the investigation no culprit had ever been found. The CIA and NIA had not gotten involved, spokespersons from each stating with absolute certainty that the fires had not been the result of any known terrorist cells. Miracle Man naturally could not be flagged down for comment about any clues he may have spotted in the course of his fire-fighting, but after several weeks, it became apparent that he was no longer in the business of rescuing at all. It was as if the man had vanished from the face of the Earth, which, given his seeming quick entrance onto the scene of reality, wasn't entirely implausible, she supposed. So was Miracle Man an alien? Oddly, she felt more relieved thinking he was an alien than she did when the popular belief was that he had just been some unexplained magical phenomena. Like an angel or something. She hated magic. Maybe he had a ray gun. Earthlings, I come in peace. She laughed in spite of her self. Klatu! Verata! Stop it, Lane. Niktu! Stop! She focused again. She had to admit that it did seem a little ridiculous. Miracle Man, she suspected, was just a man with a lot of neat gadgets, like Batman from the comics. Except this wasn't the comics, and she knew they didn't have technology to make a man appear to fly unassisted. She had investigated that avenue until she couldn't stand to talk to another scientist again. Unless *maybe* he had access to classified government stuff and the only scientists who knew about it were ones they kept locked up underground in some bunker somewhere with no way to escape and no way to contact-- She shook her head again. George Thompson. George Thompson. She rubbed her temples with her index fingers. Geeeeeooooorge Thoooooooooooompson. I will get you, George Thompson, she thought. She dumped out the next folder. It was a list of all the unclassified cases he had worked on as an FBI agent. The ones she wasn't allowed to see were blacked out, as was typical of government documents. She rolled her eyes. Three fourths of the list was blacker than Miracle Man's purported costume. Nothing caught her eye in that folder, at least not yet. Next folder was a stack of photos. She flipped through them slowly until she came upon one that made her stop. There was no caption, but she could tell quite plainly that the man in the center was George Thompson. A much younger George Thompson, but what struck her was his eyes. There was no innocence there, despite his young age. She guessed he was maybe in his early twenties when it was taken. He was standing on some barren field, his Air Force uniform clashing brilliantly with the desert behind. A long metal fence with a barbed wire top stood in the distance, the only item of any elevation in the picture besides George Thompson himself. She flipped to the next photo and was brought to an even longer pause. George Thompson was at the center again, but this time older. He had a man on either side of him. The one on the left seemed slightly older than Thompson, and the one on the right seemed about the same age as Thompson had been in the picture she had just flipped away from. They were sitting at a table all in uniform -- it looked to be some sort of formal affair. The man to the left was holding a pen and there was something on the table that he appeared to be signing. A large crowd was gathered behind the three. None of them appeared happy. She wondered about that. She flipped the photo around, hoping to find some sort of label, but there was nothing, not even a date. She flipped back to it and stared at their faces again. Nothing seemed to jump out at her until she looked at the left-most man one more time. General Burton Newcomb, she thought. That was who he was. A very decorated general. He had retired recently, and the affair had managed to land a smaller article in the Planet on the second or third page -- she couldn't remember exactly. He was a lot younger in this picture, which was why she hadn't recognized him right away. She would double check with Perry first, but the more she thought about it the more she was sure that was who it was -- and he lived in Metropolis, that was good. She could get an interview, maybe. Next photo. Again no date or description. She quelled a flash of annoyance. The trio of the previous picture was down to two men, and they were in suits instead of Air Force uniforms now. Without actual dates to assist her, she guessed it was after Thompson had switched from the Air Force to the FBI. George Thompson and the young man that had been to the right in the previous picture stood posing like it was just any old picture taken spontaneously. But even if it looked like a completely normal affair, something not normal was happening in that picture. Finally she was able to put her finger on it. The man to the left -- the younger one this time, not Thompson. His eyes had the same dark look about them that early Thompson's eyes had had, but there was something more. Something even darker. That man, she decided, was not nice. Not nice at all. His eyes seemed to be undressing her, and the smile on his face was more reminiscent of a leer. Something had happened between the span of those two photos to make him go from 'regular Joe' to 'warning bells: this man is dangerous' in her mind. And Thompson looked... She couldn't decide how to describe it. Haunted, maybe? He had aged terribly between the two photos, looking more as he did now, with silver hair and ample crags to his face, claw marks gripping the corners of his eyes in a vice of time. His angular face had grown thinner and more pronounced. Whereas the younger man didn't appear that much older at all. It was obvious no more than ten years or so had passed. So Thompson got older and the younger one got darker. She stared at the photo. Thompson and the unnamed man stared back. "I'm going out!" Lois practically fell off her stool as Lucy slammed the door behind her. Her heart thudded like a rampant timpani in her ears, and she took deep calming breaths. She pushed the folders aside. Contrary to popular opinion, three times out of five... no, she amended... two times out of seven, she knew when it was time to quit, and besides, a bubble bath sounded just delectable at the moment. ***** A blaze was going steadily in the study's fireplace. Shadows danced along the walls as sharp pops of wood and heat gave the room a percussive background noise. The sky outside the window was dark and purplish, a sliver of lighter navy blue rimming the horizon to the west. Buildings surrounded the hotel, sprouting from below like trees -- only a few were taller than the Lexor. But the view wasn't what interested him at present. Under the dim light of the one lit lamp in the room, George Thompson flipped to the next page of his book. The tattered pages glowed slightly under the odd illumination. The book was a cheap fantasy novel that he had picked up a long time ago and never gotten around to, but it was entertaining, and he was enjoying one of the rare moments he had to himself. The door behind him slammed open as if on cue. "Someone is looking into your FBI records." George looked up from his book and stared at the intruder. "I'm running for election," he shrugged as he uncrossed his legs and leaned back further into the heavy, wing-backed chair. "I don't find that surprising." Trask's eyes widened slightly, and the look on his face seemed indicate he was evaluating George's intelligence. "Someone from the *Daily Planet* is looking into your FBI files," Trask clarified. George put his book down and stared. So? he wanted to say, but the look in Trask's eyes just screamed rampage. And a rampage was something that he really just didn't need at this juncture. "That's where the Alien works now," Trask stated pointedly. George shrugged again. Trask was becoming more and more of a liability. More unstable, more... frenzied... as time went on. He set himself off on witch hunts, often without any proof beyond circumstantial evidence that there was something amiss. Several case files had been closed prematurely as a result of his behavior, one of which the subject had turned out, during the autopsy, to be a genuine human. Trask had just shrugged it off as an acceptable loss. "Well it *is* his job now, Trask," he attempted to placate the man. "It's probably routine. Think about it -- how would he even suspect me enough to investigate me? The only one who's been a troublemaker in this organization is you." Trask ignored the jab. "We need to act. Now!" George couldn't have cared less about Clark Kent. The man had proven to be no more a risk to this country than any normal human. In some cases, he had helped. But Trask, due to George's own interference, was stuck to Clark like muck to a sewer and would not be turned off the trail. If anything, he had become more obsessed as time went on, and George had little doubt that Trask had slowly developed a psychosis. "Relax, Jason," George soothed. "This campaign puts me in the perfect position." Ever since Sarah had died, Trask was like a fly that couldn't be swatted. Or perhaps a beast, pouncing on everything that moved and impossible to calm down. "To what?" Trask made a face. "Smile pretty for the cameras?" The suits had found out about Trask's little... indiscretions... with Mr. Kent. They had left the Metropolis arson investigation unsolved, but they had made it clear that Bureau 39 was to be shut down, once and for all. Officially, that was. Unofficially... Well, that was another matter. "No, Trask. Think, what are campaigns based on?" "Public opinion." Trask was to be silenced. Publicly. In a way that would remove all possibility of doubt and conspiracy theories, and certainly all lingering attention on just how far Trask's connections went, and who they were indirectly sanctioned by. The plan was already in motion, if only he could keep Trask leashed long enough. "And who better to destroy Clark Kent once and for all than the public? Our hands will be washed entirely of this whole messy business. Besides, I think that our science team has finally found something we can use. A rock with certain... unusual properties." "A rock?" Trask snorted and began to pace. George traced his movements with his eyes. "What are you going to do, throw it at him?" "The boys say it isn't from Earth." George had been inclined to agree after seeing it. The rock had hummed and pulsated, a sickly lime-green color that was strong enough to provide illumination in a dark room. He had never seen anything like it. "They say that it emits a very high band of radiation that doesn't seem to affect humans, at least not with short-term exposures." "Doesn't affect humans?" Trask finally seemed to relax a bit. A slow, sickly grin crept across his face. "You mean you finally found something that might affect the Alien?" "Magic-eight ball says, 'Signs point to yes.'" Perhaps this would get Trask to relax a bit. All George needed was a few more days. Just a few more. "Astounding! When can we test it?" Or not. "Patience, Trask. Patience," he soothed. George could only hope it was enough. ***** The abominable snowman, Clark thought as he looked in the bathroom mirror. He looked like the abominable snowman. Every inch of him was covered in gray, powdery dust and grime. His hair looked a striking shade of silver, but had none of the shine of natural hair color, and his face looked pale, more a dull taupe than flesh. He smiled, but noted his expression appeared rather odd when he looked like father death. The good news was that all the furniture in his apartment was in the upright and locked position, and all the dust was swept up. He had a line of trash bags along the living room wall that had nothing but dirt and debris in them. He had gone through the place with both a vacuum and a broom, multiple times each. Several vacuum bags had been claimed in the bitter struggle. The beautiful window that vaulted over his living room area was now spotless, along with all the other mirrors and windows in the place. He had gone over all the countertops, shelves, molding, appliances, and furniture with rag after rag sprayed with cleaning solution and polish. Everything that wasn't salvageable was now in the dump in the alley -- he had carried several loads of woodchips and pieces of... things... down using the service elevator. Clark had also replaced all of the broken or burnt out light bulbs. The process had taken about six hours. His new landlord Floyd had stopped to check on him, watching for several minutes, but didn't offer to help. He had questioned what Clark was doing, grudgingly accepting the answers, and then he had walked off again, probably to harass the next tenant. Next up was to paint and refinish everything, but that could wait until the following night or until the weekend. He had a working shower that didn't spray brown goo, a mattress, a clock, a beat- up dresser closet combo to keep his clothes in, and a general atmosphere that wasn't so clogged with dirt anymore that he couldn't breathe. As far as he was concerned, he could live off just that indefinitely. Now, there was only one thing left to clean, and it was in dire, dire need of attention. He turned the hot/cold knob all the way into the red, twisted on the water in the shower, and let it run a few minutes until the water had pooled slightly in the basin and was sending billowing mushrooms of steam into the air. The mirror turned clouded, and Clark could no longer see his ghastly white visage. He stripped quickly and left his soiled clothes on the floor in a small heap, hopping into the shower stall as they landed with a rustling thud. Warmth buffeted him, and ribbons of brown water sluiced off him in thick, solid-looking threads. He sighed with pleasure into the warm spray. Grabbing his washcloth, he began to soap himself off in lazy circular motions. Like the before and after pictures of a detergent commercial, his skin was two drastically different tones where he had scrubbed and where he had not. He couldn't recall another time in his life he had been so dirty, not even during the brief period he had been doing rescues. Well, he amended, there had been the one time. He started to scrub much harder, as if there were a spot of dirt he just couldn't get out, working up a rich lather as he went. Suds were everywhere, and his washcloth seemed to be thinning in the center. Bare threads still held it together, but the towel fuzz that gave it its good scrubbing quality was disappearing in large patches. Another squirt of shampoo went into his hair, and he worked his fingers across his scalp in a frenetic haze. The steam was thick enough to cut on a chopping block and his extremities seemed to blur into a fog-hazed oblivion. More scrubbing. Dirty. The only sounds were the thudding rainfall from the showerhead and his own soft panting -- it was as if the city outside had disappeared into a soundless void. When he put his head directly under the spray, the thudding became a steady, relentless thunder, and everything felt hot. He stood baking for several long minutes in the virtual silence. The water running off him was crystal clear, and he felt so wet he was heavy with it. Closing his eyes, he let the water continue to buffet him across his front, striking him, hitting him. He braced himself against the cold, slick wall tiles and rested there until the water started cooling off and the thick steam began to dissipate. Finally, he turned the water off and grabbed a puffy black towel. The water had chilled off so substantially that by the time he turned it off there was no need to turn on the exhaust fan, but he flipped it on anyways. The mirror was still fogged over with condensation, and the walls seemed damp. He slicked his dripping hair back out of his face, smooth against his scalp, and peered into the mirror. All he saw was a blur until he swept his hand across it and cleared away some of the moisture. His features seemed sharper and more angular, and his face still looked grim even without the dust. The vague shadow of stubble that had begun to form made him look even more haggard. With a sigh, he finished drying off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He walked back out into his bedroom and, mindful of his overall dampness, pulled his suitcase up onto his mattress rather than sitting down to bend over. There were a few remaining sets of clean clothes -- he didn't need to visit the laundromat just yet. He did need more things to wear, that was for sure, but it could wait until his first paycheck. Splurging to get the apartment and, on top of that, splurging *more* to buy the proper supplies to fix it up had ended up making a rather sizable dent in his pocketbook. He had enough suits and casual wear to get him through the week, at least. He rifled through his suitcase, looking for his last clean pair of flannel boxers, when his hands struck something smooth and soft. He stopped. He hadn't remembered packing that... That was supposed to be in the trash in Kansas City along with most of his other former belongings. Breath caught in his throat, he pulled the uniform out of his suitcase. It was black spandex -- his reasoning having been that he was less likely to stick out in black. It was supposed to have made him harder to see, and thus less likely to have been spotted on rescues. Stupid, Clark. He had realized belatedly that any form of rescue work was going to get him recognized soon enough. Newspapers had splashed speculation and bold type headlines proclaiming things such as, "Miracles: Man or Myth?" Mere weeks after he had started doing larger rescues, he had been dubbed Miracle Man, even though nobody had proven the thing doing the rescuing was actually a man. He ran his hand over the silver 'S' symbol. The texture was rough and glittery, and his fingers seemed to snag on it from time to time. At the time when he had made it, he couldn't resist adding a copy of all that was left of his heritage to his costume, but looking back now, it had been stupid to give himself such a recognizable look. It was stupid to have ever tried the whole get-up at all in retrospect, but... After fifteen years of silence, how could he have known that Trask was still keeping tabs on him? The man *murdered* your parents, Clark. Obsession like that doesn't go away. He brought the uniform up to his face and buried himself in it, trying hard to keep his breathing steady. It still smelled of acrid smoke and death, even after all this time. Or maybe he was imagining it. The scent tickled the back of his throat and urged him to inhale his last moments as the world-renowned could-be hero, could-be angel. He kept his eyes closed, trying to keep the world blurred and black like his uniform, but that seemed to bring the memories even closer to the surface. They threatened to burble forth like a geyser, and this time, he couldn't keep them at bay. His chest constricted and suddenly he could see flames. Everywhere. They glowed and blurred like orange dancers. Mesmerizing in his state. He was tired, so much so that the feeling seeped into his bones and infected the marrow underneath with a cold deadness. Everything ached and the smoke was suffocating him. The alley between two of the burning buildings was a luminescent inferno. The shadows quivered and leapt about. And he was dirty. Covered in soot and grime and grease and chemicals and smoke and nastiness that he couldn't identify. If he could have clawed his own skin off just to escape the soiled, slovenly feeling, he would have. So tired... He just wanted to curl up and hide in a hole until the misery was gone, but there were still three buildings burning in the distance, and the two that towered directly over him. He could hear the screams of the victims inside, piercing his eardrums so harshly he thought he would die from the assault. "Help me," they screeched, as if expecting someone, someone like him, would be able to come to their aid. He could hear them coughing, goggling, and flailing like fish out of water, even the ones in the buildings several blocks away. And the sirens, the sirens and the radio talk, the explosive boom of the buildings crumbling around him like houses of cards in a breeze -- he could barely think straight. But he didn't move. "You see this in my hand?" Trask stood in front of him in a hefty black ops uniform. In the strange light, he looked like a floating, ghostly head with two hands drifting along side. The fire glanced off his irises and made his eyes appear incandescent. He was clutching a small, blinking device in his hands, and he seemed unaware of the destruction and chaos surrounding them. "What are you doing here?" Clark choked. He hadn't seen Trask since the day his parents died, but he would never forget his face. Not then, and certainly not after tonight. More screaming clawed at him and rent him from the inside out. Some of them were kids. Crying for their parents. Trask grinned. "I'm teaching you a lesson. I can see from the look on your face you hear them. Save them, and I keep killing. I have twenty-five more buildings rigged to go off as we speak, and I'd say you look about ready to collapse as it is. I guess there are limits to how super you really are. How many have we gone through today? Twelve?" Clark looked at the transmitter. "Don't even think about zapping it or me, or every single building I rigged will suddenly get a lot hotter." "The people are dying," Clark whispered. His throat felt tortured and raw, and his eyes burned in the dancing light. "Why are you doing this?" "You've forced me into this, Alien. Didn't I tell you before that this would happen any time I caught you using your powers? I've obviously been too lax. Save them, and I keep killing. Walk away. Disappear, and the dying stops. It's your choice." One of the far away buildings that had managed to hold on to its moorings began to crumble, and the foundation gave way in a rumbling superheated vortex. The collapse wreaked devastation on Clark's tortured eardrums. Some of the screaming stopped, but he was far from grateful. "You can't be everywhere at once, but I can," Trask proclaimed. He hit a button and three more buildings erupted in flames. Clark blinked as his new apartment came back into focus. So many dead that night, and the following morning he had seen some headlines thanking him for helping to save the first batch of buildings that had succumbed to Trask's handiwork. He tossed the uniform away from him and stared at his hands. Miracle Man. He went back into the bathroom, but this time it was to vomit. ***** This was quite potentially the worst coffee ever concocted. It tasted as if someone had recycled the beans six times already and had left them in the machine for further punishment. Lois winced and took another sip. The stuff was just not settling well in her stomach. Her innards felt like a brick was gathering there, which was fairly astounding since this coffee was theoretically a liquid. Theoretically being the key word. When she gave up and poured the noxious contents of her steaming cup into her desk plant's pot, it was definitely more viscous than normal coffee should have been. Poor plant -- it seemed like it was taking more and more hits for the team lately. The past few weeks, it had started taking on a wilted demeanor. "Morning, Lois." She felt a small shiver race through her and looked up to see Clark arriving. Most people avoided her, especially early in the day. She rarely got a simple good morning -- at this point she suspected most people thought she was some horrible, dragon-like harpy that ate fair copy boys for breakfast. Not that she minded, much -- having everyone avoid her sure made getting her work done easier. But nope, this man gave her a small smile and started to pull up a chair without any apparent hesitation. For a moment she was speechless. Lois Lane, the babbling brook to babble all brooks, had her mouth open and nothing was coming out. "Maybe for you," she answered, finally recovering. She had an image to protect. Snarl, goes the dragon, she thought wickedly. "I've been at it several hours already." Dr. Baines, as Lois had suspected, had been a complete waste of time. She had given some sob story about how everyone would miss Captain Laderman and that he was one of their best. Then she had explained that they didn't know what caused the malfunction, and wouldn't until they examined the shuttle. And *then* she had not-so-kindly told Lois that they really didn't have much else to discuss. Well, okay, Lois granted. Dr. Baines hadn't asked her to leave until after Lois had boisterously explained that she was there because she had to be, and that she thought the space program was a quintessential example of the government throwing money down a rat hole. But it was true! She finished typing up a quick article about her interview with Baines and hit submit. She hoped Perry wouldn't be too angry that it basically read, "I went to see Dr. Baines. Dr. Baines told me nothing of importance." After all, she had a far more interesting lead at the moment. "Jaw-dropping exclusive?" Clark quizzed her. She looked over to Clark and noticed for the first time he seemed a lot more subdued than he had the previous day. His skin was paler, and his eyes had lost the twinkle she'd noticed yesterday. Not a huge difference, but he did seem like some of the lights in his personality had gone dim. Not that he didn't still look gorgeous. Oops, was she staring? "Hardly," she grumbled. "Are you okay?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. She forced herself not to raise her hands to her lips and tried to keep her face straight. She had *meant* to ask that as far as he was concerned. Clark blushed a bit, and his lips quirked upward. "Just didn't get a lot of sleep." "There's a shocker. No cows lowing you to sleep anymore." This man was not her friend. This man was not her friend. Not. Her. Friend. This man was a *man*. And leading him on would certainly do her no good. If Clark was annoyed or confused by her signal changes, he didn't show it. He actually chuckled. "It *is* a bit noisy here." Their eyes met, and for the briefest of moments, she could swear he wasn't referring to the traffic when he mentioned the noise. But the double meaning dangled there like a big question mark and his face was oh so much more interesting to look at. She licked her lips and tried to ignore the flutter in her chest. Was it hot in here all of a sudden? They really needed to consider waiting until later in the fall to switch the heaters on. This was downright sweltering. The Daily Planet's heating bill must be atrocious and easily exploitable. She made a note to investigate that at a later date. A magenta-colored scarf whipped across Clark's face and Lois was snapped from her mood like the tip of a cat 'o nine tails being put to good use. Cat stood there with a predatory grin, showing off her too-gorgeous teeth as she let her eyes go wide and threw the fingers of one hand towards her chest as if to say, "Who me?" Clark stood up from his chair. "Oh, I'm so sorry," Cat sighed, batting her eyes. "I really should watch where I'm going." Suddenly, it didn't seem so hot. Frigid, more like. Lois wanted to yank Cat's eyelashes off. It was genetically impossible for lashes to be that long naturally -- they were probably the result of seventeen layers of cheap mascara. Lois crossed her arms and tried not to think about how her morning routine involved slapping some foundation on, putting curlers in for ten minutes, and declaring victory. Clark's mouth opened and closed. And opened again. "Hello, I'm Clark Kent." He extended his hand towards Cat. Cat swallowed the offered canary and moved towards Clark with a sinuous gait that was surely meant to show off her legs and hips. As Cat's heels struck the floor, Clark's trapped look growing deeper with each individual step, Lois could only think of that scene from Jurassic Park where the kids were in the car, watching the water tremor in the cup as the T-Rex approached. "Catherine Grant, 'Cat's Corner.'" Cat's hand snaked out in front of her, and she held it out as if she were royalty expecting Clark to bend over and kiss the outside of her palm. "Yes," Clark said, his eyes seeming to light up with recognition. "I've read your column." Lois rolled her eyes. He'd read her column, had he? To his credit, at least he wasn't panting or drooling, or really showing any signs of interest. Actually, he looked quite terrified. Lois might have even found it amusing if it weren't happening practically on top of her desk. Cat leaned in very close, and Lois's hands shot out to keep her plant upright as Clark unwittingly backed into it. "Then my reputation precedes me," Cat said, her voice so low and throaty it sounded like a growl. "Among other things," Lois couldn't help but interject as she yanked her plant to safety and put it on the other side of her writing space. This was sexual harassment. Right there on her desk! But if Clark hadn't the sense to cry foul she wasn't going to stick her neck out for him. At least he wouldn't look so darned delectable after Cat had chewed him to pieces. "I know what it's like to be new in town." Lois bit down her disgust. Had Cat swatted his nose with her index finger? "I'd be happy to show you around." Lois couldn't see Clark's face anymore, but she could hear him goggling. After several strange utterances, she heard him say, "That's very nice of you, Ms. Grant." Clark snuck away from the tackle and rotated the discussion, conveniently making it so that Lois could see both of them. Cat took Clark's escape ploy in stride and leaned in even further, showing off her plunging v-line, not-quite-enough-material-to-be- an-actual-shirt shirt. "Cat," she corrected as she let loose a positively libidinous leer. "Cat," Clark said in return, his teeth biting off the word as if it were something that tasted like rancid meat and he was trying to get as little as possible of it into his mouth. "Maybe when I get settled." "It's a date," Cat announced, gave another predatory smile, and walked languidly off, scarf twirling behind her. Lois shook her head and glared at her retreating form. Clark stood there for several moments, looking for all the world like a lost and extremely dumbfounded small child. "Is she always like that?" he asked as he returned to his seat. The look on his face was not a happy one. "To any man with a pulse," Lois confirmed. So, not only was Clark nice to Lois, he didn't look like he was pleased at being targeted for another notch on Cat's garter belt. Cat had been practically pinning him to her desk, and still he had managed to remain polite without showing signs of interest. Maybe he was gay. But then, she couldn't think of any gay man who would ever be caught dead wearing such a horrid tie -- it looked like a finger-painter had gotten drunk and jotted down the Battle of Midway on it using mismatched fluorescent polka dots. She wondered briefly where it was even possible to buy ties like that. No department store worth its salt would carry such an abomination. No, this would have had to come from some men's magazine, special ordered. 'Men's Abominable Ties 'R Us,' or something. Which meant that Clark was pointedly and deliberately breaking a serious rule of fashion, or that he was just clueless about matching colors. *Maybe* he was colorblind. That would explain it. "She comes on a bit strong," he said with a shake of his head. "So what have we got?" "*We*?" She raised her eyebrows, forgetting about the tie. "There is no we," she snapped, immediately incensed. There was what she had been looking for -- he was trying to steal her story. It was all so obvious now. He wanted her notes so he could walk off and publish them behind her back. Maybe he had planned to butter her up and take her for a spin, first. It would explain the country-boy innocent act. She had almost been fooled. And just as quickly as she'd changed gears and leapt to that assumption, she started having doubts. He really just didn't have the same sleaze-vibe that most men seemed to have. Sure he smiled at her, but she had never once yesterday gotten the impression he was looking at naked Lois, or slowly-undressing Lois. He seemed to genuinely just like looking at her, clothes and all. And when he spoke to her, it wasn't as if he was pumping her for information. To her, his inquiries felt like he was just interested in getting to know her. "Sorry I--" he stuttered. "Well, Perry still doesn't have a desk for me. I figured I was--" He looked horrified. His eyes had gone wide and his whole demeanor was slouched and adorned with regret, as if he felt he had broken something sacred. It was rather cute. "Oh relax, Farmboy," she found herself reassuring him. Reassuring him!? Farmboy!? "Just so long as we're clear on the pecking order." Not my friend, she recited in her head like a mantra. Not friend. Friend not. Co-worker. Competition. Claude. Bad. Bad, Lois. "Top banana," he replied with a wry grin. "Right." "That's the way I like it," she concluded definitively, parrying his reference to one of their earlier conversations with the most serious look she could muster. Her mantra didn't seem to be working. "So what have you got that you're deigning to allow me a peek at?" That beam of his was infectious, darn it. She had to steel herself against duplicating it. Not friend. Friend not. Man bad. Co-worker. "Well," she began, "I looked into all the stuff Jimmy pulled up for me about Thompson. He's a UFO nut--" The grin on Clark's face faded so fast she almost started to wonder if he was manic. It figured there had to be *something* wrong with him. "Ah, heh, UFOs?" he mumbled. "Yeah." Lois flipped through her notes and ticked things off with her pencil. "He was in Project Blue Book. As soon as it was shut down he was out of the Air Force and into the FBI almost instantaneously." "Interesting career shift." "Suspicious," she confirmed. "Career military doesn't just jump ship like that in my experience. So my question is, what's the motivation?" Clark seemed to have homed in on the same thing she had, albeit with a little less clarity. He was still fairly green, after all, but she couldn't count on one hand the number of forced partners she had gone through that wouldn't have even been able to make even that simple logical leap with her. It was rather exhilarating. "I'm thinking that whatever he was doing in the Air Force, the only way he could continue it was by joining the FBI. Does the FBI have a UFO department?" She held her hands up in front of her, her index fingers and thumbs forming a vague diamond shape. "You know, Martian Files? Or something?" She stared through her makeshift picture frame, her eyebrows shifting as she considered the possibilities. He shrugged. She pulled out the deck of photos and flipped through them again, at a loss. "I just wish the photos Jimmy pulled had some form of identification on them. It would make it a lot easier to crosscheck names against government payrolls." Clark gestured to the photos. "Let me see." She shrugged and handed them to him. Did he expect to recognize anyone? Some of the photos were likely to be as old as he was, unless he aged better than a vampire. She blinked. "Don't tell me you actually know any of these people?" She hadn't thought it would be possible for Clark's face to fall even further from his earlier happy countenance, but it did. His eyes widened a bit as he flipped through the deck. He mumbled something that sounded like, "Ask," as he zeroed in on one of the pictures she had examined last night. It was the one where Thompson and the 'dangerous' man were standing there posing in suits. There was no mistaking the look of horrified recognition Clark was giving the photo in question, and the surprise on his features led her to believe it wasn't Thompson he was looking at with such dread. "Did you say something, Clark?" she asked, trying to prod him into speaking, but he didn't seem to hear her. Curiosity burned within her. How did Clark know this man? What had happened that was so horrible? Clark was breathing a lot more heavily now -- it almost appeared that he was having a small panic attack. "Clark? Are you okay?" She cursed herself for asking that. Of course he wasn't okay. And why did she care? Not friend. Friend not. Bad, Lois. Bad, bad, Lois. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Uh, Clark?" Even through his sport jacket she could feel knots of muscles corded and wound. And, wow, what muscles they were. He *had* to work out. Good Lord, he belonged on a calendar in full Technicolor glossy prints. She now worked with a potential Mr. January. She tried very hard not to focus on that, and resumed her 'not friend, friend not' mantra even though it didn't appear to be helping much. Several moments passed before Clark made a move to respond. He gestured nebulously towards the picture, but his gaze was centered on a point past the film paper, as though he were looking through to the other side of a mirror. "Jason Trask," he whispered. Lois looked at him. "Probably just some flunky. How do you know him, anyways? What was that all about?" "Lois, maybe this investigation isn't such a good idea. These people could be dangerous." That didn't sound like speculation to her. She grabbed the photos from his slackening grip, straightened the stack, and slapped it onto the desk. The photos settled with a loud clap and shuffled into minor disarray from the force. "Okay, Kent, what's the deal? You're smiling one minute and the next you look like someone died. On top of that, you were Mr. Optimist about this whole thing yesterday. And *no one*, got it, buster? NO ONE tells me something is too dangerous, especially not our newest Mr. Green Jeans." "I-- I'm sorry," he stammered. "I just. Got a weird vibe from- -" His voice fell off into silence. So, not only was he nice, but he could be as stubborn as she was. Great. She let loose a frustrated sigh. "Me too, but I still say Thompson is the story. You never answered my question." A flash of panic swept across his face. "Question?" "How do you know Trask?" She stared at him hard, determined not to let herself get distracted again. He was not looking her in the eye, and he had grown decidedly more twitchy. Clark *knew* something, and she was going to find out what. "I--" he floundered. She leaned in closer and crossed her arms over her chest. She meant business. "Well?" "I--" The door to Perry's office slammed open and the editor stalked out of it, eyes flashing. "There's been an accident with one of the construction workers on the corner outside," he announced, his gaze roaming around the room only to land on... "I want you on it, Kent!" Clark let loose a hefty sigh. The look of relief on his face was palpable. He looked at her and mouthed, "Sorry," but she knew he really wasn't. Damn it. "Is there a reason you're still here?" Perry asked as he ambled over. "Sorry, sir," Clark answered, and then he was gone. She had barely let the sight of his vacant chair register when she shoved hers back and got to her feet, eyes blazing. "Chief," she cried, slamming her fist on the desk for good measure. "How could you!?" The newsroom got decidedly quiet at that moment, and with what had become an all too familiar feeling, heat spread across her cheeks. But she didn't care. The Chief had just handed Clark Kent a get out of jail free, and she was going to make sure he regretted it. Oh yes. She set her mouth into a straight line and gave him what she esteemed to be her most deadly glare. Perry blinked. "How could I what?" His utterance wasn't really a yell, but the room had gotten so quiet, it sounded like it. She groaned and gestured for a minute before giving up trying to find words. "Forget it," she sighed. "Can you take a look at this while you're over here?" The newsroom began to regain its earlier noise level as people got back to work and stopped looking her way. She pulled the photo in question back out of the stack she had made earlier and gestured towards it. The photo was the one with the man she suspected to be General Burton Newcomb alongside George Thompson and the man Clark had identified as Jason Trask. The Chief took her subject change in stride and glanced at the photo. "Hmmm, General Newcomb." "I thought so! Thanks." That sealed it then. Trying to contain her excitement at having a lead that was not drier than Death Valley, she decided rationally and calmly that she would call General Newcomb later to set up an interview. Already trying to formulate a set of questions, she took a few moments to realize Perry had not left yet, and that he was staring at the photo in question with a look of keen interest. He was rubbing his thumb and index finger along his chin, deep in thought. "I know this picture," he finally said. "It's the stock Air Force press release photo of the day he signed away funding for Project Blue Book. It got used in the article I wrote on it way back in the day." He laughed and shook his head. "1969. That was a good year for Elvis. Why, I remember seeing him in concert at a--" "Chief!" she interjected. He snapped out of his flashback and looked back at the picture. "Hey, that's George Thompson isn't it?" "Yeah." "He seems to be popping up in an awful lot of places all of a sudden." "Yeah," she confirmed, slowly. Prodding. If he was going to destroy her interrogation sessions, the least he could do was admit-- "Oh, Hell, Honey," he caved before she could even complete the thought. "I never actually said no on this story, you didn't give me a chance to. I've learned it's best to let you fly with the bit in your teeth anyways, but this better be that Pulitzer you keep mentioning." She let loose a mega-watt smile. "Thanks, Perry." He shook his head and disappeared back into his office, mumbling loudly enough for her to catch the words, "Craziest woman..." something something. She sat back in her chair to do some thinking. It seemed as if a tapestry of clues was coming unraveled almost faster than her ability to process them. The photo in question with Burton Newcomb had been in 1969, when Project Blue Book had been closed down. The previously unidentified 'dangerous' man now had a name with the face, and Clark was for some reason terrified of him. Clark was also being close-lipped and infuriatingly stubborn. Didn't he know she would find out what the deal was before the week was up, regardless of whether he contributed or not? Look out, Clark Kent, she grumbled to herself. Still, there had been a look of panic in his features that had been unnerving, and even given her annoyance at his reticence, she still found herself worried. Given Thompson's position in the FBI, and the similar change in dress she had witnessed with Trask throughout the veritable timeline of photographs, it was logical to assume Jason Trask was in the FBI as well. Was Clark in trouble with the law? He had been cropping up to be a really decent guy. And as much as she tried to deny it or mantra it away, she was attracted to him. Given that information, it wouldn't be too farfetched to discover he was the worst scum on the planet, possibly a mass-murderer in disguise. But somehow the picture of Clark stalking around as a wanted serial axe-murderer didn't seem to fit. No one with a smile like that could be an axe-murderer, could they? She ignored memories of the warm feeling she got when he looked at her, smile devastating away any and all prior inclinations she had towards being her usual snippy self. Maybe he had an unpaid parking ticket. Or maybe there was something else going on entirely. What she did know was that there was a story around George Thompson. Scott had never given her false information. Not once. He was a veritable gold-mine of an informant, and she would have staked her career on his veracity at this point. So, the question was now whether she was looking at two unrelated stories in her midst, and hence just a disturbingly large coincidence, or if the one she was grasping at was even bigger than she thought. She tapped her pencil on her desk for a moment. Not friend. Friend not. Coincidences were Pulitzers. "JIMMY!" she shouted. "Get me everything you can on Jason Trask!" ***** Smoke billowed out of the nearby manhole, lazy and peaceful -- a perfect contrast to the surrounding bedlam. Fire trucks were everywhere, the sharp strobe of their emergency lights casting a haunting tone across the skin and clothing of the emergency workers and firemen who were running this way and that. A man lay silent on the stretcher two EMTs were loading into the ambulance. The only thing indicating that he was still alive was the oxygen mask that was cupped over his nose and mouth. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet. What can you tell me about the accident?" Clark asked after flashing his press badge, having managed to pull over a fireman who had not appeared to be too busy. Clark tried to ignore the slam of the ambulance doors. The man wasn't dead. There had been no fatalities. Things were okay, and the emergency crews had things well under control. The fireman pulled off his helmet and clutched it beside him at hip height with one arm. His blond hair was darkened with sweat, and his face was ruddy. He was very trim and very young. To Clark's eyes, he looked all of twenty-two. "Reggie Dale." The fireman shook Clark's hand. "We think a pipe got busted. It's a mess down there -- the smoke is making it hard to figure out just how bad the damage is." Reggie let loose a dry, rough-sounding cough, a s