Fear of Discovery II: Nowhere to Hide by Yvonne Connell Rating: PG-13 Submitted December 1999 ______________ Author's Note ----------------- This story is all Wendy Richards' fault . She encouraged me to write an altClark story, and this is the result. It follows on from my previous story, Fear of Discovery, but I've tried to ensure that this one pretty much stands on its own. This is the story of altClark and his life as a single and somewhat lonely superhero. 'Butteries', by the way, are an Aberdonian delicacy (my home town in Scotland). People usually eat them for breakfast, warmed up, and personally, I like them spread with butter while they're still warm so that the butter sinks into the bread, then covered with jam or Scottish heather honey. You can only buy them in the North East of Scotland - which is probably just as well, otherwise I'd eat far too many of them (being exiled to SE England as I am). Email to: Yvonne@yconnell.fsnet.co.uk Feedback: Private/public comments of any description are welcome. No editing. ____________ Fear of Discovery II -------------------- The alley was quiet except for a scrawny dog snuffling around the trash cans bunched together at the end nearest the street. Metropolis was a busy city, but this was a forgotten corner where drunks sometimes sheltered or addicts sought relief for an all too brief moment in time. Tonight the alley was clear, probably because an MPD squad car had just cruised slowly by. The dog found the end of something interesting and possibly edible, and started to pull on it with its teeth, but when the air started to vibrate strangely at the far end of the alley, it looked up and barked to warn off the unfamiliar presence. Its barking became more aggressive as the vibrating air slowly solidified into a dark shape. When the dark shape coalesced into the form of a man dressed in a blue ski-suit with a yellow belt, red briefs and a red, flowing cape, it stopped its barking suddenly, stared for a moment and then ran off into the night. It would be some time before the dog was brave enough to scavenge in that particular alley again. Clark Kent unlocked the front door of his apartment and entered just as his answering machine kicked in and a voice with a Southern twang rang out loud and clear. "Clark, just where the heck are you, son? I checked the world news reports again but there's nothing major going down, and the MPD say they haven't seen you for days. Alice had to throw last night's dinner in the trash, and you know how she-" Clark slammed the door shut and sped over to the phone to pick it up. "Hi, Perry. Sorry about Alice's dinner." "Clark! At last. Where have you been?" "I-I had to help a close friend in trouble." "For two weeks?" "He was in a lot of trouble." Was it really that long, thought Clark. "You could have phoned." "Ah...not from where I was. Look, Perry, I'm really sorry that I missed your dinner last night, and I'm sorry I've been out of touch for so long. It was just... something I had to do." "I see," said Perry, plainly not understanding at all. "Well, I guess we all have commitments we can't break from time to time. You'd better call that editor of yours, though. I hear he's pretty mad." Clark sighed deeply. Life just seemed to get more and more complicated the longer he acted out this dual role of journalist and super-hero. He'd only been in the other universe for a few days, and although he had been warned that the elapsed time across universes could be unpredictable, he had never expected to be explaining away a 14 day absence. "Sure, I'll call him." "I'll talk to Alice about rescheduling dinner, but it's gonna take some doing. You know she doesn't understand your sudden Superman absences like I do." "Yes, tell her I'm sorry." He seemed to be saying a lot of that. "I will. But look here, son, it's good to have you back. Just don't disappear on us again like that, you hear?" "Sure, Perry. And thanks." Clark replaced the received and slumped down on a chair, his cape scrunched up beneath him. One of his best friends was mad at him for missing dinner, his editor was ready to throw him out, and even that dog in the alley had run away from him. Was there anything else? Oh, yes, that video he'd rented over two weeks ago was now way overdue and he had a bad feeling about the contents of his vegetable basket. He decided to ignore it all and make himself a cup of coffee instead. He needed to adjust to being back home. Barely ten minutes ago, he had been saying farewell to his opposite number in a different universe, having spent several days helping him survive a cruel plot to ruin his life by exposing him to the world as a man with a secret identity: that of the superhero, Superman. After an initial awkwardness, the two men had become as close as brothers, and it had been a wrench to leave his friend to return home. Now he had to get used to living on his own again. He did a quick change out of the Superman suit into a comfortable pair of jeans and a black T-shirt - God, it was good to be wearing his own clothes again - and padded into the kitchen. Ignoring the pungent smell of rotting carrots which his super-sense picked up, he made coffee while his mind wandered back to the other universe again. Clark and he had made the startling discovery towards the end of his visit that they could read each other's minds, and whilst they had decided to avoid using the facility except in emergencies, nevertheless, he had become used to feeling a constant presence within him. Clark had likened it to growing an extra limb: at first it felt strange, but once you became accustomed to it, you began to take it for granted. Today the limb had been severed. Taking the coffee back to his sofa, he sat down and tried to stretch his mind outwards, to see if he could re-establish the link. Maybe if he could imagine what Clark was doing right now, he could make contact...when he had left, Clark had been optimistic that their latest attempt to show Clark and Superman as two separate men had been successful, so he was probably checking the news reports. He tried to imagine his friend sitting in front of the TV, his arm around Lois - his heart lurched at the thought of Lois - as he flicked through the channels...but nothing. The link had gone. OK, what did he expect? There was no link before across the universes, so why should there be one now? He gulped down a large mouthful of coffee and stood up decisively. No point in dwelling on it. Do something useful. He dealt with the rotting vegetables, took the video back and paid the gigantic fine with a grimace, bought some more food whilst he was out, came back home and picked up the phone. Time to phone his editor. "Pinedo," said a harried voice. "Hi, Ralph, it's me, Clark." "Clark. Clark. Don't tell me, it's coming back to me...tall guy with a strange taste in ties...it's on the tip of my tongue...yes! Clark Kent. You used to work for me once, didn't you?" Clark took a deep breath. "Ralph, I can't explain why I disappeared for two weeks, and I'm sorry about the Johnson piece, but I'm back now. Do you still want the next part of my homeless series?" "Do I still want the next part of your series? Let me see now...we printed an ad saying we're running a five part series...do I want part three? Tough decision. I tell you what, Clark, you tell me. Do I want part three, or shall I run another ad saying we're sorry, but the Daily Planet can't count? We thought there were five parts, but really there's only two." "You want part three?" answered Clark tentatively. "Of course I want part three! The Star are just waiting for us to make some stupid slip-up like this, so yes, write parts, three, four and five. Preferably sometime before the next ice-age." "I'll get on it right away, Ralph." "You going to tell me where you were, or is this some mystic Superman thing?" "I'm sorry, I can't." "Look, Clark, we all know you have to run off at the drop of a hat to do your rescues, and I think I'm right in saying that I already cut you quite a lot of slack because of that. God knows, the city needs someone like you. But two weeks! It wasn't girlfriend trouble, was it?" Clark rolled his eyes. The man had a one-track mind. "No, Ralph, it wasn't anything like that." "Because, you know, I'd understand something like that." I bet you would, thought Clark. "No, it was just something important, but private." "OK, OK, I know when to stop asking questions." Clark could almost feel the conspiratorial nudge in his ribs, despite the fact he was only on the other end of a phone. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ralph." "Bye, Super-Clark." Clark groaned out loud as he replaced the receiver. He hated that nickname, and had told Ralph several times that he disliked it, but the man was impervious to his objections. How he ever got the editor's job was a mystery to Clark. Well, not quite. He thought it was probably because the newspaper's owner, Mr Olsen, had decided that it was time for an injection of youth into the paper. After all, Mr Olsen was quite young himself, and probably thought that because he was successful from an early age, other youngsters could be equally successful. Clark was sure that Ralph would have performed well at interview, and despite his obvious deficiencies, had managed to amass some pretty impressive credentials. The Washington Post spoke very highly of him, although Clark wondered privately if they had just incredibly desperate to get rid of him. Come back, Perry, please, he thought. But Perry was mayor now, and far too busy to have anything to do with the editorship of the Planet. Digging out his notes on the homeless series, he tried to think himself back into the world of down-and-outs, doss-houses and street begging which had been his concern before his excursion into parallel universe travel. He already had a good idea of how this next part was going to be written, so the job should have been easy. However, his mind kept wandering back to his recent adventures, and so the article took him twice as long as usual to complete. Nevertheless, it was done, and after a couple of passes through to check it over, he emailed it to Ralph. He was just getting up to fetch another cup of coffee when the noise of sirens made him stop, spin into the suit and fly off to see what he could do to help. The fire was a raging inferno by the time he got there. Flames were roaring out of the shop windows and shooting up the front of the building. Already, the shop sign had melted under the heat from the fire, and the fire brigade were fighting a losing battle with their hoses. Clark could see that they were trying to move inside, which meant that there were still people trapped, and without hesitation flew directly through the flames into the building. Experience of these situations had taught him that a moment spent listening for heart-beats was much more effective than frantic searching and calling out, and that was what he did now. He detected two people, in a room behind the one he was standing in. Seconds later, he was setting the wife down beside her husband and unwrapping her from the protective folds of his cape. Immediately she grabbed hold of his arms, saying, "Carrie, my daughter! Have you got her?" Clark's heart lurched. He'd missed the third heartbeat. He flew back inside and listened intently. Tuning out the sounds of the fire as much as he could, he listened for the rhythm of a child's heart, praying that he wasn't too late. For a split second he was torn between resorting to brute force to find the child and continuing to listen, and then...very faintly...it was there. The slightly higher pitched, faster rhythm of a terrified child. He followed the sound to a chest freezer at the back of the shop, and yanking the door up, found a little girl huddled into a tight ball in a corner. As soon as he lifted her gently out she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He pulled his cape around her and flew outside to her parents and the paramedics. "Thanks, Superman." The father clapped his hand on Clark's shoulder in gratitude. "Glad to help." Clark smiled briefly before turning his attention to the fire again. One strong, even blow of super-breath, and it was extinguished for good. He turned back to the father. "Any idea how it started?" The man's expression hardened from relief to something more aggressive. "No. No idea at all." "What about the fire brigade - did they say anything?" "Look, Superman, I'm just grateful my family are safe." He turned away abruptly to talk to his wife, leaving Clark to puzzle at the abrupt brush-off. Two days later, Clark had put out his fourth fire in the same district and was beginning to wonder just what was going on. It was unusual but not unlikely that two fires could happen in the same area, especially a poor area where these had taken place, but four? Something wasn't right. He asked the fourth group of people he rescued if they knew how the fire had started, and just like the first family, the shutters came down and they refused to comment. It was time to get more persistent, and so he spent some time chasing down the victims' addresses so that he could interview each of them in case anyone was willing to talk. At the same time, he tried to put together a theory on why so many fires might be happening in the same small area. A phone call to the fire department yielded a small clue: the fires were being treated as suspected arson cases. That was enough to make him contact Chen Chow, his friend on the Chinatown Gazette. "You want to shoot some hoops tonight, Chen?" "Sure. What time?" "Around 7 OK for you?" "All right, see you then. Should I bring my notebook and pen with me?" "Why would you want to do that?" "Well, a guy doesn't hear from his buddy for over three weeks and then suddenly he wants to play ball with you the very day he calls you. You're on a story, Clark." "I'm always on a story." "Yeah, yeah, and I'm always eating Chop Suey. Just remember to leave the super-strength at home, OK?" "See ya." Clark had worked hard at this particular friendship. They had been friends since college, but when the truth had come out about Clark's true identity, Chen had been understandably confused and wary of the person he thought he knew. Clark had done everything he could to demonstrate that he was still the same person he had always been, but things had come to a messy stand-off when they had tried to play ball together for the first time. Clark had been pleased that Chen had accepted his invitation to play, but the first five minutes were stilted and unpleasant, and then Chen had suddenly stopped with the ball tucked under one arm and said, "I don't know why you bother...no, I don't know why *I* bother. This must be a big joke for you." "What?" "Pretending that I might actually be able to beat you. I mean, I must be just like a toy to you." "No, you're wrong, it's not like that-" "Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? I feel like-like this big." He held his finger and thumb up close to illustrate his point. "Here I am, playing with my college buddy, thinking we're pretty evenly matched, today I feel like I could beat him, and all the time, you could just crush me like a fly." "I would never-" "I thought you were just like me, and now you turn out to be some weird alien who can fly!" "Do I get to say anything here? Or are you just going to yell at me all night?" The two men stared at each other in anger and frustration. Chen bounced the ball a couple of times on the ground before throwing it abruptly to Clark. "OK, speak." "To begin with, I would never hurt you, or anyone else I cared about for that matter. I use my strength to stop people from getting hurt, or to stop bad guys commit crimes. You must believe that?" "Maybe." "Chen! When have I ever hurt you? When have you ever seen me hurt anyone else, or heard of me doing anything like that?" "I guess I haven't. But why bother to pretend I can beat you on the court? That's just a joke." "No it isn't. You don't understand." "No, I don't." "OK. This is hard for me to explain, but I'll try. What you have to remember is, I've been hiding this thing all my life. So, all my life I've been acting like I've got normal strength, a normal range of physical abilities. Nowadays, it's a habit. I can be super-strong, or I can be normal. When I play ball with you, I'm normal. When I race you for the ball, I'm putting just as much effort into it as you are, because I don't let myself use my powers - they're...switched off." "But you could switch them on if you wanted. You could beat me every time." "Sure I could, but where's the challenge in that? Don't you realise how dull life would be for me if I let myself win every single time?" "Oh, poor, poor, Clark." Clark groaned inwardly. He was making a complete mess of this. How could he be an award-winning writer and not be able to string the words together to say what he meant when it really mattered? "Why can't you let me be normal?" he blurted out in frustration. "Because you're not!" countered Chen. Clark felt as if he'd been punched in the face. He turned on his heel and walked away in silence. "Clark!" He continued to walk. "Clark!" He broke into a jog. It was time to put distance between himself and the ugly incident. He heard footsteps behind him, but didn't feel like stopping. "Clark, don't go all supersonic on me now, or I'll never catch you up!" That made him stop. Chen came up breathlessly behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I should never have said that." Clark laughed mirthlessly. "It's true, isn't it?" "Give me a minute here..." Clark waited while Chen caught his breath. "Maybe, but I should still never have said it. It was cruel and unnecessary. You're a good friend, and I don't want to lose that." "Neither do I." "OK. We can make this thing work then." "I guess we can." "So, tell me about the flying. Do you really fly, or do you just do, like, giant leaps in the air?" They continued up the street, Clark doing his best to describe how he flew to his friend, and even revealing a couple of powers which hadn't yet been exposed in the media. "Super-hearing? Wow, that could be useful!" "Useful? Embarrassing, more like, when it happened for the first time." "When was that?" "At home one night..." "Oh." "Yeah. I thought they were fighting at first...all those odd noises, you know?" "Well, let me tell you, you don't need to have had super-hearing to have been through that." "Oh?" "Let me tell you about my big sister..." They finished up the evening in a bar, exchanging stories about growing up until the barkeeper threw them out at closing time. After that point, the friendship was rekindled, and Clark made sure that he kept in regular touch with his friend, knowing that he was very lucky to have at least one person with whom he could have a normal relationship. ******* "Oh, no, you don't!" Chen switched hands and darted away to his left as Clark came around his right side. A quick twist on the ball of his foot, a leap in the air, and the ball was home and dry in the net. "So what do you want to know about Chinatown?" Chen asked. "Nothing, really." "Oh, come on, Clark. Stop being so coy. You're not here for the exercise." "OK, OK. But it's really not Chinatown. Have you heard about these fires?" "In the garment district? Yes, sure. And you're wondering, since that's next door to my patch, do I know anything?" Clark nodded. "I know there's a lot of scared people around. I know the Chinatown shopkeepers are keeping their heads down and hoping it doesn't spread to them." "Do you know why they're scared?" "Wouldn't you be scared if you thought your place was going to go up in flames?" Clark pulled a face. "Sure, but there's more to it than that. The fire department say it's arson, but I'm guessing these people aren't setting the fires themselves. I bet most of them haven't got any insurance to collect." "No, but maybe they're still paying for some." "You mean an old-fashioned protection racket?" "It might be old, but sometimes old works best, you know?" "Who do you think is doing the protecting?" "Can't help you there. But my money would be on one of the big crime syndicates, maybe looking to diversify their portfolio." "I heard Billy Shand let his son take over part of the operation." "Yes, it could be Michael. He's been desperate for his own little piece of the action for a while now. And he'd be the kind of guy to try something new, just to prove himself to the veterans." "This is all guess-work, though." "Not all. I've heard about the protection racket from some pretty reliable sources." "Why aren't you investigating it?" "Not enough resources. We've got plenty to report on in our part of town, and I figured you'd be around soon enough to look into it with the might of the Daily Planet behind you." "So you knew I'd be asking you about the fires?" "Hey, I'm a reporter! What do you expect?" "I expect you to be suitably impressed when I do this." Clark lobbed the ball into the net, but it bounced off the edge of the ring and back down into Chen's waiting arms. "Oh, very impressive, Clark. What's the matter? That's the second time you've missed." "I guess my mind's not on the game. Sorry." "You going to tell me where you were for two weeks?" Clark smiled ruefully. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Try me." "Thanks, but if I told you, you'd think I was really weird." "You mean flying isn't weird?" Chen held up a hand quickly as Clark balked at his comment. "Only kidding. Come on, you've got me interested now." "Some other time, maybe." Clark knew he would never tell Chen where he had been. Chen was a good friend, but Clark was aware that his friend still thought him strange, and he didn't want to amplify that any further by claiming to have passed into a parallel universe. They managed to maintain a happy, but ultimately superficial relationship, which was as much as Clark felt he could expect in his situation, and he didn't want to lose what he had worked so hard to build up. No, this was one part of himself that he was going to keep completely private. After all, he told himself, he needed some secrets when so much of his life was in the public eye. If that meant he couldn't share his feelings of loss following his departure from the other universe, then it was a small price to pay. ****** Looking down the short row of houses, Clark wondered if he was going to be any more fortunate with this family than he had with the others. So far, he'd visited two sets of victims, and had two very brief conversations which had terminated in doors being firmly shut in his face. Perhaps he should try a different tactic this time. He'd tried sympathy and subtlety, maybe this time he'd try the direct approach. When the door opened, he began, "Hello, I'm Clark Kent, from the Daily Planet and I really think you could use my help." "I doubt that, unless you're a qualified plumber," replied the woman he remembered rescuing a few days ago. She was holding a large spanner in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. "I've done my share of DIY plumbing - maybe I *can* help." "Sorry, I don't let strange men into my home." The door began to shut, but Clark intercepted it with his hand. "Why are you so afraid?" "I told you, I don't talk to strange men. Are you going to let go of my door, or do I have to call the police?" I'm the next best thing, actually, Clark thought to himself, but refrained from further comment and let go of the door. "I could have told you that would happen," said a voice behind him. He turned around, and discovered a woman - a very attractive woman, his subconscious pointed out - standing on the sidewalk regarding him cynically. "You won't get anyone to talk to you," she continued. "They're all too terrified." "I know, but do you know what they're terrified of?" "I have a few theories. How about you?" "Likewise, Ms-?" "Drake. Mayson Drake." She held out a hand, and he clasped it. She had an assured, firm handshake. "You must be Clark Kent." "That's right, but how did you know?" "I recognise you from your picture in the Planet. Although it doesn't really do you justice." Clark blinked. "That's...that's...a nice thing to say," unlike that, thought Clark, which was a dumb thing to say. "You still have the advantage over me. You know who I am..." "I work in the DA's office. Assistant DA." "Ah. So the DA is interested in these fires?" "Yes." "And that would be because...?" "Because they weren't accidental. But you knew that, or you wouldn't be doorstepping the victims." "So who does the DA think is behind the fires?" "Sorry, Kent, that's as far as I go." "Not even a hint?" "No. But..." Clark waited, hopeful that his open, honest smile was going to work after all. "Look, I want you to know I don't usually do this sort of thing, but..." Yes! thought Clark. "I've got this spare ticket for the new Lethal Weapon movie, and I wondered...well, I wondered if you'd like to go? With me, I mean. Tonight?" Clark was all at once confused and completely at a loss as to what he actually thought of the proposition. You're not going out with anyone else tonight...so what's new?...she's very attractive...why me...why has she got an extra ticket...say something, you're staring... The thoughts whizzed through his mind one after the other. "Of course, maybe you've seen it already. Or you probably hate Mel Gibson movies. Let's just forget it, I shouldn't have asked-" "No, I like Lethal Weapon movies. I'd love to come." The words were out of his mouth before he was aware he'd made a decision. "Oh. Right. Good...good, so I'll meet you there?" "Where?" "Uh, 7.30? No, I mean, the Cinemax on Brewer Street. At 7.30." "I'll look forward to it." "Yes." Clark expected Mayson to walk away now that the date was fixed, but it didn't look as though she was going anywhere. It occurred to him that she hadn't yet done what she came here to do (on the other hand, maybe she had, whispered his subconscious) and was waiting for him to remove himself so that she could get on with her job. He started to walk down the street. "See you later," he said over his shoulder with a smile. Rounding the corner of the street, Clark glanced around quickly to check no-one was looking, and then did a quick spin change into his suit. It wasn't necessary to hide the change, of course, but he still felt uncomfortable laying bare his split identity for all to see. He flew up above the clouds, doing circuits of the skies above Metropolis. He couldn't believe he'd just accepted an invitation to go out with someone he'd met for about 30 seconds. What if she was an axe-murder in disguise? Well, of course, he wouldn't be in any danger, but it wouldn't make for a great night out. How did he know she really was an assistant DA - she could be anyone...she could be the arsonist, in fact. OK, so he'd check her out when he got back to the Planet. Then at least he'd know who he was dealing with. Why on earth had she asked him out? There was that comment about his picture...did she find him attractive? Or maybe she was just asking him out to find out what he knew about the fires? Maybe he could find out what she knew...no, that wasn't fair, he was going out with her on a date, not an interview. Was this a date? Or was it just a convenient way of using up an extra ticket? Why was he going? Because you find her attractive, answered a little voice in his head. Yeah, she's attractive...OK very attractive...but is there anything else? I don't know, said the voice, just go on the date and see what happens. At least you get to see a movie you know you'll like. Yes, but what if it's not as good as the others? "Just go!" he yelled at himself, startling a passing pigeon into a brief nose-dive before it recovered its equilibrium. "Sorry," he called after it. He shook his head in self-mockery. Talking to pigeons...I really *must* get out more. ***** "If only law-enforcement was as easy as that in real life," said Mayson as they left the cinema. "At least we don't have housewives doing the weekly supermarket run with a shotgun propped up in their shopping basket anymore," replied Clark. "Yes, Perry White has done a lot to clean up this city since he became mayor. But it still takes a whole lot more than a couple of crazy cops and one big shoot-out to catch the bad guys and put them behind bars." "I guess I do the easy part - catching them, I mean. You do the tough work of actually bringing them to trial." "Yes...actually, I'd forgotten you do your own share of law-enforcement. You do a pretty good job of hiding away that side of yourself." Clark smiled wryly. "I figure it's like working for the IRS, you know? 'So what do you do for a living, Clark?' 'I fight for truth, justice and the American way.' Kind of a conversation-killer." Mayson laughed. "I guess it could be. But at least you're not taking people's hard-earned cash away from them." "You know, I never thought of charging for my services...what do you think - five bucks for cats up trees, 50 for stopping runaway trains,100 bucks per criminal caught?" Mayson looked sideways at him. "You *are* kidding?" "No, I think it's a good idea. I could collect all the money up and give it to a different charity every week...what's your favourite - Save The Whales?" "And what are you going to do when someone can't pay? Refuse to save them? Or will you have 'save and rescue' schemes for the less well-off?" "OK, so the details need some work. Maybe I'd need an agent for that - do you know any good ones?" "No-" "And I could have certificates. 'I was saved by Superman'," he outlined the label in mid-air with his hands, "with a tasteful logo embossed in the corner. There would be different levels, maybe bronze, silver and g-" "Clark!" "What?" "You can't be serious." "Why not? I could make a lot of money. The certificates might become collectors' items - generations of Metropolitans would hand them down to their children, and there would be museums dedicated to the larger collections. It could be the start of a whole new culture." Mayson bashed him playfully in the arm. "Enough!" "You think?" "Yes, joke's over." "But I was looking forward to designing the logo on my laptop tonight." "Yeah, yeah. You want to get something to eat instead?" "I guess I could tear myself away. You know anywhere near here?" "There's a half-way decent pasta place on the next block - you want to go there?" "Sounds good to me." ***** "...and so my Dad sent away for the application form without even telling me, and here I am, Assistant DA. How about you - did your parents have a hand in you becoming a journalist?" Clark picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his lips with a brief smile. "Not really," he said over the rim of the cup before taking a gulp. "What did they want you to be - a superhero?" Mayson asked with a twinkle in her eye. "A farmer, probably." He held the cup up in front of him and studied the pattern on it. "Probably? You mean they didn't ever say?" "That's right. They never told me." He took another gulp of coffee and put the cup down. This was getting too heavy: he didn't want to dump all his personal problems on her tonight. It wasn't fair on her, when they'd only just met. "We should get the check." He started casting his eyes around to find their waiter, but his attention was drawn back to the table when he felt Mayson's hand on his. "Clark, what happened?" His gaze was drawn to her eyes, full of enquiry and concern. They weren't going to allow him to duck the issue after all. He drew a deep breath and heard himself say, "They died. But that was a long time ago - I was just a boy." "How old were you?" "Ten." "I'm sorry. It must have been terrible." "It got easier. And like I say, it was ages ago. Things are different now." He dragged his eyes away from hers and glanced around the restaurant again. "Where's that waiter got to? I swear he's avoiding us." He was still searching around when Mayson stopped a passing waiter decisively with a hand on his arm and said pointedly, "We'd like to pay. Now." Within two minutes, they had settled up and were walking down the street. "Where do you live?" asked Clark. "Oh, it's OK, I can get a cab from here." "You sure? I should see you home." "That's very kind of you, but I'll be fine. Really." She spotted a cab driving towards them and flagged it down. She said something to the driver and then turned back to Clark. "This was nice." "Thank you for inviting me." "Thanks for coming." "I had a great time." "So did I." "Maybe...maybe we should do this again?" Mayson broke into a wide, happy grin. "I'd love to. You pick the time and place." "OK, I'll call you tomorrow." He looked at her, so pretty, sensitive and fun, and suddenly impulse overtook him and he clasped her lightly by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. Not expecting a response, he was surprised when she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back. Her lips felt so warm and soft on his cheek, her body so gentle and sweet-smelling...it seemed like a lifetime since he had felt these things. She broke away from him and turned back to the taxi. "Don't forget to call," she reminded him through the window as it drove away. "I won't," he called after her. He stood on the sidewalk staring after the cab as it disappeared around a corner. This was exciting. And scary. He'd only just met her, and already he'd caught himself wondering, is she the one? That was just plain ridiculous - how could he be thinking that after one night? Yet she had left him with a light heart and a smile in his soul which made the world seem a brighter, happier place to live in than it had during the past few days. This was how he had felt when the alternative Lois first came into his life and turned it upside down. Maybe Mayson was as close as he was going to get to his own Lois. He decided to walk home rather than fly, wanting to make the evening last by taking his time making his way through the streets of Metropolis, re-living the best parts of their night out together. The next morning, he bounced down the ramp to his desk at the Daily Planet, ready to face whatever challenges Ralph or anyone else was able to throw at him. He didn't even care when he spotted his editor moving across to intercept him in front of his desk, waggling his eyebrows suggestively with a huge grin on his face. "Looks to me like you've sorted out that girl-friend trouble, Clark. Had a good night out yesterday, did we - or should that be a good night in?" Clark's good temper nearly evaporated...what was Ralph insinuating about Mayson? - but then he realised that Ralph couldn't possibly know anything about the previous night. The man was just fishing as usual. He smiled pleasantly. "That's really none of your business, Ralph. Was there anything else you wanted to ask?" "Clark, you're no fun, do you know that? You really need to go out and get yourself a life, instead of just playing the good boyscout in between communing with your Kryptonian roots or whatever it is that you do at home." Clark felt the smile cracking, but he was determined that his good mood was not going to be destroyed today, so he shrugged helplessly and tried to change the subject again instead. "I'm starting an investigation into the fires I've been helping put out down in the garment district. I've had a tip-off that there could be some sort of protection racket going on: that would explain why the families are terrified but no-one's saying anything. I'm going to talk to a few sources on the street today to see if I can find out who might be behind this...if that's OK with you, of course," he added belatedly. "Have you got any leads? Anything we can actually print?" "Not yet, but you know how these things take time..." "Yeah, yeah, like parts of series that are two weeks overdue." "Didn't you get-" "Yes, I got it...not bad, not bad at all, though I had to cut it a little. Had to make space for that new competition we're running. Sorry about that - I'll make sure we run the whole of the next part." Clark sighed internally. Ralph was always doing this - cutting copy to make way for whatever the marketing department's latest copy-selling gimmick was. And he would always promise to make it up next time...Perry would never have done this. He would have fought it out with marketing, kept the meaty content and when the paper's sales stayed on target, he would have made sure marketing knew all about it so that next time he wouldn't even have to fight the battle. He wondered what Mr Olsen thought about the direction the Planet seemed to be heading in - Clark guessed the owner must approve, although it was possible that he just wasn't aware of the decisions like this one which were being made. Maybe Clark could find a way to make sure he did...he turned his attention to the present. "So how about the investigation?" he asked. "Yeah, OK. Could be a juicy scandal in there somewhere." Or a serious human interest issue, thought Clark. He would make sure that was the way the story was told, not in the more colourful, sensation-seeking manner which occasionally found its way onto the pages these days. He didn't often do investigative journalism any more - his Superman role tended to make certain aspects of the job more difficult - but he was pleased to have the opportunity to turn in a piece of work written the way he thought it should be. A reminder of the old Planet style. He had just sat down behind his desk when his phone rang. It was the reception desk downstairs, saying that there was a little girl wanting to talk to Superman. This was a surprise: when he'd first become Superman, in full view of the public, he'd had his share of hero-worshipping visits from children - and sometimes their parents - but things had pretty much calmed down lately. A small pang of guilt flickered through him as he stood up. He didn't like to spend too much of the Planet's time on this sort of thing, but at the same time, he always took special care to give generously of himself when children were involved. He changed in the lift, and emerged resplendent in his suit with a broad smile on his face, his cape billowing majestically behind him. He spotted the girl straightaway, sitting on one of the visitors' chairs, her short legs dangling in mid-air while she gazed around with a small frown on her face. Striding across, he crouched down in front of her and said, "Hello, I'm Superman. What can I do for you?" "You don't have to tell me that, I'm not stupid." "OK, you got me there. I guess this-" he gestured at his suit, "-is a dead give-away, isn't it?" "Yeah. My Mom says it doesn't leave much to the imagination." Clark coughed to hide his embarrassed laugh. He wasn't sure if the girl really understood what her mother was referring to or not. "Yes. Well. So, what was it you wanted?" The girl glanced around the busy lobby anxiously before leaning close to him. "Can we go someplace else?" "Sure, you want to come upstairs?" "OK." Clark was aware of the curious glances from his colleagues as he led the little girl through to the conference room. He didn't often come into the newsroom dressed as Superman - another part of his effort to keep the two identities apart - so they were naturally wondering why today was different. Well, they would just have to keep wondering. He closed the conference room door and they sat down at one end of the large table. Smiling gently, he invited her to tell him what the problem was. "Mommy and Daddy were told not to go to the police, but I figure you're not the police so you're OK. Anyway, I wasn't supposed to hear that, so really no-one's told me not to say anything, so I'm not doing wrong, am I?" "Who told your Mommy and Daddy not to say anything?" asked Clark, side-stepping the right/wrong question until he knew more. "A man. A real bad man. They send me upstairs when he comes, but I sat on the stairs round the corner so I could hear what he said." "What did he say?" Her bottom lip began to tremble. "He made Mommy cry. I never heard my Mommy cry before. And Daddy shouted at him, and then he went all quiet. The man said bad things would happen." "What sort of bad things?" "He said he would torch us. I don't know what that is, but it sounds real bad." She looked up at him with eyes wide with fear. "I heard him light a match once...that was when Mommy cried..." Clark reached over and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Where do you live, honey?" "Above a shop." "And what sort of shop is it?" "Daddy sells clothes. You won't tell them I told you, will you?" "I won't tell anybody anything you don't want them to know." "Cross your heart and hope to die?" "Cross my heart." "OK. Because Daddy says not to talk to strange men, and I mustn't go anywhere with a person I don't know. I don't know you." "I don't think Daddy would mind you talking to Superman. Now, you know my name, but I don't know yours." "It's Clara. Clara Jefferson." "Pleased to meet you, Clara Jefferson. You did a very brave thing, coming here to talk to me. How did you get here?" "I took a bus and then another one. I spent all my money." "Well, don't worry, I'll make sure you get home safe." "Can we go flying?" "Sure we can. Clara, has the bad man come to your house more than once?" "He comes once a week, on Mondays usually." "Do you think you remember enough of how he looks to help me draw a picture of him?" "I think so." Twenty minutes later, Clark had a portrait of the 'bad man', and Clara was ready for her first Superman flight. He dropped her well out of sight, just around the corner from her house so that she could walk the last hundred yards or so by herself. She was very excited by the flight, and he had to remind her to 'act normal' in front of her parents so as not to raise any suspicions. He flew up high and watched her until she stepped inside her house, and took a brief peek through the roof to make sure she was being properly welcomed by her parents. Satisfied that she was safe, he flew back to the Planet, changed back into 'Clark', collected the sketch and set out for the best place he knew to find 'Frank the Food', his favourite and best informant. "OK, what d'ya want?" boomed the large man over his shoulder as he stuffed the previous customer's money into his cash register. "Double chilli-burger with all the trimmings, large fries. Please." A beetroot-red face jerked around at the sound of Clark's voice...the rest of the rotund figure followed at a more leisurely pace. "Clark! Where ya been, buddy? A guy can only wait so long for his next - what did you say those Scottish pastries were called again?" "Butteries. Or rowies. Sometimes morning rolls." "Jeez, why can't they just have one name for a thing?" "Maybe something that good deserves more than one name." "Could be, could be. So what you got for me this time?" Clark held up a bulging white paper bag in front of Frank, who leaned forward to take possession, only to have it pulled out of his reach again. "But first," said Clark, "I need information." "Try a library," replied Frank, eyeing the paper bag as it dangled just out of his reach. "Do you like chocolate, Frank?" "Maybe." "Thick, dark chocolate wrapped around rich, creamy truffle?" "Could be." "Some of these chocolates have pure cream fillings. But you probably don't like cream, do you Frank?" "OK, OK, so what d'ya wanna know?" Clark held out the picture he had drawn with Clara's help. "Do you know him?" Frank took the picture into a large, sweaty hand and studied it. "Nope," he said definitively, handing it back. As Clark took it from him, he held out his hand, palm up. "Give," he said. "Frank." Clark admonished his informant with a stern look. "OK, at least give me a sample of the merchandise. I'm getting weak here from lack of nutrition." Clark pulled out one large truffle and handed it over. Frank demolished it quickly. "Not bad. Belgian?" he deduced. "Very good. I'm impressed." "It's the cocoa butter. More than a certain level, you're talking high-class product. Add in the right flavour truffle, and it's got to be Belgian." "I see. So tell me, Frank, what are people saying about Michael?" "Michael Shand? Plenty." "Like..." Clark encouraged expansion by swinging his hand around in mid-air. "Like - he's a greedy little upstart who's screwing up his Daddy's operation by charging too much. Like - Michael couldn't organise his way out of a paper bag even if he had a pair of scissors. Like, Daddy's going to pull the plug soon to protect himself if sonny boy doesn't get his act together. That kinda thing." "Any idea when?" "Do I look like a Dictaphone? Listen, this stuff is a word here, a gesture there - people don't show me their appointment diaries, you know?" "OK. What's Michael's operation?" "Let's just say he thinks he's living in Chicago in the 1920s and he's feeling very protective. Now, do I get my truffles, or do I score you off my list of nice people?" Clark rolled his eyes and handed over the bag. "Where's my chilli-burger?" he asked. "You don't wanna eat that rubbish, Clark, it's bad for your heart." "And truffles aren't?" "Truffles are the food of life. Burgers are cholesterol-laden death-traps." "Frank, your logic astounds me as usual." "Just don't forget those Butter-things next time!" called Frank to Clark's back as he walked away. Clark raised a hand in acknowledgement. Back at the office, Clark wrote up some notes on his computer whilst glancing at the phone every few seconds. He should phone Mayson, but what should he say? They'd done the movies and the informal dinner, so what next? It was probably too soon for dinner at his place, so they needed to meet on more neutral ground...she'd said she liked art, and he did too, but not passionately, and he certainly wasn't an expert. He remembered the Monet exhibition at the Metropolis Museum of Art - maybe he could get tickets for that. Everyone liked Monet, didn't they? Half an hour later, he'd managed to procure two evening tickets, and in a sudden burst of inspiration, had remembered a French creperie nearby that he was sure Mayson would love. Now to make the phone call. He was just picking up the receiver when an unwelcome voice intruded. "Got anything for me to print, yet, Clark?" Clark dropped the receiver as if it had stung him. "Working on it, Ralph. But-" "These things take time. I know. Trouble is, this is the Daily Planet...*Daily* Planet, you get it? We print the news every day, not every few days. I have blank pages to fill. I know the sales team would love to fill them with ads and earn fat commissions, but if we don't print at least *some* news, no-one wants to read the paper, no-one buys the paper, and we're all out of a job. Comprende?" Glad you noticed we need to print news, Clark thought. "I'm getting close, Ralph, I just need a little longer." "Well, you've got 48 hours to give me some copy, or I'm pulling it. Now get out there and use some of that superspeed of yours to bag us a story." "All right, Ralph." "And Clark?" Clark looked up at him expectantly. "You can phone her now." "Who?" "Your girlfriend. Bet the old superspeed comes in real handy in that department too, eh, Clark?" Ralph grinned broadly. "I don't know what you mean, Ralph." "Oh, I think you do. How many times a night, Super-Clark, three, four, five?" Clark remained mute. "Well, of course, maybe things are different on Krypton. Maybe you do it all by telepathy. Is that what Kryptonian girls are like, eh, Clark? Strong, silent types - good for a quick one in the photocopying room, I'll bet. Maybe you could introduce me to her?" "Excuse me, Ralph, I just remembered I have to return a video." Clark stood up quickly and strode over to the elevators without further acknowledgement of his editor's presence. Thankfully, the elevator came straightaway, and he escaped into the brief sanctuary it offered. He could feel rage bubbling up inside him, and he desperately needed to gain control before he did any serious damage. He thumbed the stop button and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes in an effort to regain his inner calm. Of course, he'd received taunts before, even before people knew his secret - at school, and at his foster homes, but somehow, this man had the uncanny knack of getting right under his carefully built-up defences, going right to his core where he was most vulnerable. Maybe it was because Ralph was his boss. All the other times, the taunts and jeering had come from people who were his equal, or at least had no direct authority over him. He guessed he'd been lucky that none of the adults he'd come into contact with while he was growing up had been like that. Ralph, on the other hand, continually reminded him that he was different, that he stood out from the crowd, that he didn't fit in. It was actually employee harassment, he realised, but he couldn't very well go to personnel and tell them. How could Superman, the world's strongest person, claim to be hurt by a few words from his boss? He was invulnerable, wasn't he? No, I'm not, he answered himself. I'm lonely. With that thought, he remembered Mayson again, and fumbled inside his jacket to see if he'd got his cell phone with him. He had, so he let the car continue on its journey, and called her from the lobby. "Hi, it's me." "Hi, me." Why did two words from this woman leave him tongue-tied? He'd never had this problem with Lana...harassed, maybe, but not full of things to say and no way to say them. Stall, stall... "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" "No, in fact I'm glad you rang. Gives me a break from this report I've been trying to write for the past hour. So, what kind of day has yours been so far?" "Mixed, I guess. My boss is hassling me for copy." "Your boss...that would be Ralph Pinedo?" "Yes." "What do you think of him?" "He's..." Clark was searching for a diplomatic way to describe Ralph, but was coming up blank. "He's a little raw, don't you think?" Raw...that was one way of describing him, thought Clark. "And frankly, I don't like what he's doing to the Planet," Mayson continued. "Seems to me he's trying to 'dumb down' to the Star's level - all these competitions and special offers. It's all gimmicks and no substance - present company excepted, of course." "He was well respected at the Post," suggested Clark. "Yeah, so well respected they practically hung out the flags when he left. I've got a friend over in Washington, and she says there were rumours of sexual harassment, although nothing was ever done about it. Face it, Clark, the guy's pocket lint." "I-" "I know, I shouldn't pre-judge the man based on hearsay. Heck, I should know, I'm a lawyer. So aren't you going to ask my how my day's been?" "Well, I could, but it would be much nicer to ask you in person." "Oh?" He could hear the sudden hopefulness in her voice, and thus encouraged, pressed on. "You said you liked art, so I hope that includes Monet?" "You didn't get us tickets for the Monet exhibition, did you?" "Yes," said Clark, suddenly wary that he'd made a huge mistake. "Clark, that's wonderful. I've been wanting to go to it since it opened, but I've never managed to get tickets. When are we going?" "Tonight?" Panic again - he'd forgotten to check she was actually free tonight. "Taking a chance there, weren't you, Kent? But yes, I'm free, and I'd love to come." Relief washed through him, and they rang off after making arrangements to meet later in the day. ********* Clark forced himself not to float upstairs to his apartment as he returned home from his second evening with Mayson. Once again, they'd had a great time together, the conversation flowing effortlessly from topic to topic, sometimes sparked off by one of the pictures they were gazing at, sometimes started by a chance remark from one or other of them. Each had shared some of the hairier episodes from their careers, and there had been tender moments when more intimate details were revealed and when hands touched and gentle caresses were exchanged. Best of all, Mayson accepted him for what he was, and gave no hint of wanting to change him in any way, or make him sublimate part of his identity for her. She took his alien origins in a matter-of-fact sort of way - that was who and what he was, and she seemed totally at ease with it. This was so refreshing after his experience with Lana, who had wanted him to hide himself away and refrain from ever using his special gifts in any way. Come to think of it, Mayson was a lot like Lois. She was almost as good-looking as Lois, and probably just as bright. Maybe he should give up any lingering hopes of finding his Lois, the woman who was lost in the Congo before he even came to Metropolis, and settle for Mayson instead. The alternate Lois had given him an all-too brief glimpse of what he would never experience in his own dimension; his heart still ached for her in a way he didn't fully understand. He didn't think he loved her, but there was still a very strong pull towards her which he had found almost impossible to ignore while he'd been close to her. In some ways, their most recent encounter had been easier for him than the first time he met her, because her husband Clark had always been present and thus served as an unconscious barrier and reminder of reality. He still had to keep his distance from her for his own sanity - he recalled an embarrassing moment when she'd reached out to him and he'd flinched away from her. God knows what she must have thought of him then. But now he had Mayson. Of course, it was too soon to be thinking of long-term plans, and he was going to make sure he didn't rush her at all. Who knew - things might not work out between them anyway, but he was going to give it his best shot and enjoy it while it lasted. The phone rang suddenly, jolting him out of his reverie. "Clark Kent." "Chocolate mousse." said Mayson. Clark laughed. "I thought we settled that!" "No, you settled it. You said chocolate fudge cake was the superior dessert and then you changed the subject. Don't think I didn't notice." "Well, the waiter was beginning to give us funny looks. Especially when you threatened to ask the rest of the restaurant for a vote on the issue." "I like a democratic decision." "Mayson, they didn't even have either dessert on the menu!" "But they should have. Anyway, like I say, chocolate mousse always wins over fudge cake - and I am prepared to defend that position in a court of law." "Mmmm, I can just see Ralph's headline - Assistant DA Defends Mighty Mousse." Mayson giggled. "Or, Clark Kent's Cake Causes Catastrophe in Court." "Mousse Mayson Makes Mountain out of Molehill?" "Oh, please! A girl can only take so much alliteration in one day." "OK, I promise to stop if you agree that fudge cake is better." "No way, buster. But I tell you what, how about you bring that picture around tomorrow and we can settle the argument over lunch." "Sounds fair. What time?" "Around one is fine." "All right. Just don't expect me to eat any mousse." "Clark!" "'Night, Mayson." "Goodnight, Clark, and sweet dreams. Mousse-filled, I hope." "May-" he began, but she'd put the phone down. He chuckled as he replaced the receiver - he'd have to get back at her for that. He had been reticent to tell Mayson about the picture when she had asked casually if he had any new leads on the arson case. It was important to respect the little girl's privacy, so he'd talked vaguely about his conversation with Frank the Food and nothing more. However, Mayson had told him a little more about the DA's problem, and he had begun to think that perhaps he should share more with her after all. Apparently, the DA had been trying for years to snare a high-ranking member of Billy Shand's syndicate, and they now thought that Michael was looking like the weak link in the chain. They were pretty sure that the fires were his responsibility, and because it looked like the operation was turning sour, they were pulling out all the stops to build a case against him. The theory was that once they caught someone like Michael, the rest of Billy's operation would begin to unravel. Clark could see that a lot of lives could be saved if they were even partly successful, and so after an inner tussle with his conscience, he finally told her about the picture, and she immediately suggested checking it against police records. He agreed enthusiastically, knowing how much it would advance the case if they found a match against a known felon. Gazing at the receiver he had just replaced, his mind wandered back to brave little Clara and her family. He could only imagine how it felt to live in constant fear of the knock at the door, the unwelcome visit from someone who effectively ruled your life. Everything would be tainted by it - even the happy times would be dulled by the constant pressure, the glance over the shoulder to check all was secure. Clark had known sadness and loneliness; he'd experienced fear, but mostly his fear was of inner demons, like his developing powers, which sometimes seemed uncontrollable and wholly inhuman. That had been almost terrifying at times, but he had never been scared of another person...well, not physically scared, anyway. He felt pleased that Mayson and he looked set to bring some light into these blighted lives. The next morning, anyone entering Clark's apartment would have been forgiven for thinking a whirlwind had passed through. There were ties; brightly patterned ties, sober striped ones, cartoon-festooned ties strewn over the couch, together with jackets, trousers, slacks and shirts all jumbled up together. Clark stood before this mess in his underwear and an unbuttoned blue shirt, running a hand through his hair in bemusement. This is crazy! What is suddenly so difficult about choosing what to wear? You're acting like a teenager, he berated himself. Just wear these pants...he grabbed the nearest pair...with this tie...another lunge for the one with little yellow stars...and this...he picked his favourite jacket...and get going! A quick spin later, he was staring at himself in the mirror again...never did like that tie ...in fact, I don't know why you keep it ...try the modern art one again...she likes art . Another lightening change, and another critical examination in the mirror. "All right, Clark, that's it. If she doesn't like the tie, too bad." He rushed out the door, determined not to give himself time to rethink yet again. The morning dragged by. Ralph was out of town for the day, so there wasn't even the distraction of playing word-football with Metropolis' answer to Casanova . By 11 o'clock, Clark was killing time by surfing the web for people called Clark, and by 11.30am, he had begun to hope that someone would yell "Superman!" - nothing serious, just a cat up a tree would do - just so he could do something. Eventually, the clock inched its way up to 12.30pm, and Clark couldn't stand it any longer. If he walked really slowly, he could stretch the 10 minute journey to Mayson's office into 20 minutes, and probably by the time he'd waited for traffic signals to change, the other 10 minutes would be gone. Easily. Fifteen minutes later, Clark knocked on Mayson's office door. It opened just as he was drawing back for a second rap with his knuckles. "Hi," said Mayson a little breathlessly. "Hi," replied Clark, his fist still held up in mid-air. "You going to hit me with that, or is it some kind of special Kryptonian greeting?" He looked at his fist in surprise. "This? I...no, actually, sorry," he laughed nervously and swung his arm back down again. "Well. You better come in." She held the door open for him and invited him in with a sweep of her hand. "Thanks," he said, walking past her and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. His eye was caught by the screen on her PC, which was turned around just enough for him to see the results of the search she had been conducting on the web...Mayson zoomed past him and perched on the desk right in front of the screen, blocking his view. "So...lunch first, or business?" she asked with an overly-merry tone. "How many did you find?" "I'm sorry?" "I couldn't help noticing your search..." Clark gestured vaguely in the direction of Mayson's PC screen. "Did you find the one living in the Antarctic?" "How?...oh." A wry smile crept over Mayson's face. "What can I say? It's been a slow crime day." "I'm flattered you were looking for Clarks and not Maysons." "Two hundred and fifty-four Maysons. And three who spell it with an 'i' instead of a 'y'. I did that one first." "Oh." "Look, how about we take your picture downstairs and then grab some lunch." "OK, fine." Clark handed her the brown manila envelope he was carrying the sketch in. Mayson pulled the picture part way out to take a look. She raised her eyebrows in appreciation. "Nice drawing. Who did it?" "Uh, just someone I know." "Protecting our sources are we?" "Just like you might protect a witness." "OK, but it's talking to people like your source that helps me find the witnesses to protect in the first place. Then we catch the bad guys." "Maybe. But this source remains anonymous." "All right, for now." "For ever." He looked at her seriously. "This is not up for discussion, OK?" Mayson stared back at him in silence for a minute before jumping up from the desk and walking over to the door. "Come on, let's go," she said. Clark stayed where he was. "Mayson?" "Clark, your source will be safe and secure. I promise. Now come with me so I can show you the best hot dogs in town." Clark was still hesitating, so she walked back to him, grabbed him by the arm and started marching back to the door. It was either rankle her by using his strength against her, or comply, so he gave in and followed. Satisfied that she had got her way, she transferred her hand up to his shoulder, and he found his arm automatically snaking its way around her waist. "Nice tie, by the way," she said as they walked into the elevator. ***************** Clark sat bolt upright in bed, his heart thumping. He recognised that cry...please, not her, not now. He flung the suit on and sped out into the sky in the direction of the frightened voice. This was the sixth time he'd been out tonight, and he was already feeling ragged and tired...something bad was going on in the garment district tonight. All the fires had been small and quickly containable, but so many in such a short space of time was unprecedented. He arrived at Clara's house, to find a small bonfire raging right in front of the house, blocking the entrance. The flames were lapping at the windows of the house, and inside, he could see Clara and her mother cowering together as far as they could get away from the windows. Blowing the fire out quickly, he ran inside to check that they were unharmed. Tears were streaming down Clara's face, and when she saw Clark, she ran up to him and starting pummelling him with her small fists, shouting, "You said you wouldn't tell! You said you wouldn't tell!" Clark caught her hands gently; he didn't want her to hurt herself against him, and crouched down in front of her. "Shhh, Clara, it's all right now," he said quietly, hoping she would take the hint despite her distress and not give the game away to her mother. "No it's not," countered Clara with a wail. "Daddy's in the hospital, and Mommy's scared, and the bad man came, and my Daddy got hurt, and it's all your fault!" "Clara..." said Clark helplessly. He was becoming upset by Clara's distress, and he really didn't know what to say to her to calm her down. "What is she talking about? What did you do?" Clara's mother had come across to comfort her daughter. Clark stood up. All of a sudden, he had an inkling that something terrible had happened and that he was somehow involved in it. Nevertheless, faced with Clara's anxious mother, he really couldn't keep the truth from her. "Clara came to see me to tell me about the man who comes to visit you and threaten your family." "Oh, Clara!" exclaimed her mother. "I did it for you and Daddy, I didn't talk to any strange men 'cos Superman isn't strange." "She was very brave to come and see me on her own," added Clark. "And you didn't think you should tell us that our daughter was wandering about Metropolis on her own, or that she was in the possession of some very dangerous information? Is this how you operate, Superman? I thought you'd have better judgement than that." "I-I-she was very concerned that no-one find out, because she was afraid of this man, and when someone takes me into their confidence, I respect that." "Superman, she's a child! She doesn't know about these things. How can you expect a kid to know whether it's safe to keep something secret or not?" "I'm sorry, Mrs ?-" "Jefferson." "Mrs Jefferson, I'm sorry if you don't agree with what I did, but you have to believe me when I tell you I was doing what I thought was best and safest for everyone. Besides, I have had experience of this type of situation before." "Oh, so you're leaving a trail of damaged kids behind you, are you?" "No, that's not what I meant." Clark took a deep breath. "What I meant was-" "Look, just forget it and leave us in peace, OK? I think you've done enough damage for one day." Clark turned to go, resigned to losing this particular battle and not wanting to upset these people any more than they were already, but then he remembered something. "Mrs Jefferson, what happened to your husband?" "He got beaten up, what do you think?" "Why?" "Oh, for God's sake...they wanted to know who talked, of course. Why do you think this neighbourhood is going up in flames tonight?" Clark stared at her in shock. "Please, just go," she pleaded, turning away from him. Clark walked out the door in a daze. His eye was caught by the mess of bonfire outside and slowly, he began gathering up the rubbish into his arms, his mind numb with the implications of what she had just told him. On autopilot now, he floated into the air and found a dump for the garbage before heading home. Once back inside the haven of his apartment, Clark ripped the Suit off and flung himself down on his sofa, not even bothering to get dressed again - what did it matter, no-one was going to see him, no-one was going to visit him. Especially not now - he, the most stupid person in the entire world. He sat with his head in his hands.... What had he done? How many people had been hurt, how many lives blighted by his stupid, ill-judged decision. He should never have told Mayson about the picture, never. He should have kept it to himself and found his own way to investigate it. The other Clark wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake, he was sure. But it wasn't fair: how was he supposed to always know the right thing to do - he didn't have anyone to ask, anyone to check things out with. That damned Suit made everyone think he automatically knew everything, did everything right, always made the right choice, when all the time he was questioning his decisions, never quite sure of the correct course of action, or whether even to intervene at all. No, he was very imperfect, and tonight his imperfections had caused a lot of hurtful damage. He lifted his head up and looked over balefully at the discarded Suit, lying in a crumpled pile on the floor near the door. Mrs Jefferson was probably right about Clara, too. What made him think he should keep information about a young child from her parents? They needed to know that she was liable to leave the house and travel half-way across the city without their knowledge. What if she had gone out again without telling them and got lost? Perhaps ended up in one of the less salubrious parts of town? He would have been to blame for that as well. Maybe he wasn't cut out for this life after all. Maybe Lana was right: he should live the life of a normal human being, forget his superpowers and just fade into the background. He used to be good at that, in fact it was a useful survival mechanism when he was growing up in foster homes - be as little trouble as possible, and people won't bother you. He liked being one of the crowd, feeling like he blended into the scenery, and consequentially, he found the attention he received as Superman one of the hardest aspects of the job to accept and cope with. He could go back to being a proper journalist if he gave up being Superman. Perhaps he could move to another country where he wouldn't be instantly recognisable and start all over again. That might even be fun, learning a new language and new customs, inventing a new identity for himself. He looked over at the Suit again. Funnily enough, it was his first Suit; the one that Lois had made for him. He could see her stitching on the cape where she had straightened the line for him. It would be a fitting end, he thought, if he finished in the Suit he had started with. He got up, padded over and swiped it up off the floor, studying those stitches and running his thumb over them. She certainly wasn't the neatest seamstress he'd met, but the sewing had survived innumerable washes, fires, floods, explosions, mud slides, earthquakes...what would she say now if she knew he was contemplating abandoning it forever? She'd probably come up with a brilliant one-liner, and then talk him into changing his mind. Well, she wasn't here, so he wasn't changing his mind. He hung the suit up and retired to bed again. *********** An hour later, Clark was still wide awake, lying in bed, and staring at the ceiling. He couldn't help wondering how things had gone so wrong. What had Mayson done with the picture that was so indiscreet that the extortioners now knew that someone from the neighbourhood had given information to the authorities? Whilst he was angry at himself, he was almost as angry at her for messing up so badly, and he ached to find out what had happened. Suddenly, he was lurching out of bed and throwing on whatever clothes came to hand first. He was going to find out. Pounding on the door to Mayson's apartment, he began to wonder what would break first - the door, or his patience. He was on the point of giving in to his impatience by calling out to her when he heard the sounds of bolts being drawn back and locks being undone. The door opened to reveal a bleary-eyed Mayson dressed in a full-length silk dressing gown, her blond hair sticking out in all directions. "Clark! What are you doing?" "Who did you give the picture to?" he demanded. "Wha-the picture? Oh, that picture. I gave it to - hang on, just what the hell do you think you're doing, coming over here at..." she peered at her watch, "3.20 in the morning?" "Asking the questions I should have asked before. Who did you give the picture to?" he repeated. "The right people. Just what gives you the right to come storming over here demanding answers to irrelevant questions-" "This is not irrelevant." "And you're shouting." "I-" he started in a loud voice, but continued more softly, "I am not shouting. Who are the right people?" "Clark, I'm sorry, but I don't answer questions yelled at me at 3.20am in the morning by crazy men who have nothing better to do than fly over here and bang on my door all night." "Well, fine. I'll just go over to your office and find out for myself." "You'll do no such-" "Look, lady, just tell him who you gave the picture to so we can all get some sleep around here, OK?" It was a neighbour, calling down the corridor from his own front door. Neither Mayson or Clark had realised they were still talking with her door open and with Clark still outside. "You'd better come in," muttered Mayson and stood aside to let him pass. Clark waited until she'd shut the door, then drew breath to speak again. "Sit," she commanded, cutting him off before he could start. He sat on the edge of her sofa, while she settled into an easy chair and pulled her dressing gown protectively around her. "OK, what is all this about?" she asked. Clark spoke slowly and carefully, as if explaining things to a small child. "I need to know who you gave the picture to, because whoever saw it told the bad guys, and now the bad guys are punishing the whole neighbourhood for talking." Mayson stared at him in horror. "Oh." "So, who?" "I was going to call you, but it was late...we found a match in the police records. The guy's name is Ed White, a small time crook they'd lost track of about a year ago." "And?" Clark prompted in a tightly controlled voice. "And I passed the information on to the Arson Task Force." "Oh, great. So it was too late to tell me, but it was fine to let half the MPD know about it, plus the staff at the DA's office." "Clark, you agreed to let us check it out." "Yes, but not for you to broadcast it to half of Metropolis." "Oh, don't be ridiculous! A couple of people at my office, and one person in the MPD. Get some perspective." "Oh, forgive me for being upset. It's just, when people get hurt and it's my fault, I take it personally. I'm kind of funny that way." "So that's what this is really about. You feeling guilty." "Yes, me feeling guilty. Just like you should." "Clark, I did my job. I don't feel guilty for that." "I'm sure that's what the man stoking the fires in the concentration camps said. 'I'm just doing my job'." Mayson stared at him in silence before getting up and striding across to the door. "Get out." She yanked the door open, the rage inside her making her eyes flare. Clark stood up and stormed across to her. "This isn't over." "Oh, yes it is. This is very much over." Clark strode quickly out of Mayson's apartment block and immediately took off into the sky, carelessly causing a sonic boom as he flew furiously through the night to god-knew-where. Almost blind with rage, he didn't notice the mountain range until he narrowly missed flying straight into a cliff face, changing direction at the last second to drive upwards until he found level ground at the top. Thus brought to his senses, he landed abruptly and kicked the nearest boulder viciously into orbit, belatedly checking with his supervision that it didn't hit anything important on its way. The white heat of his anger having spent itself, he flopped down on the rocky mountain top to fume more quietly to himself. What did Mayson think she was doing, telling the arson task force without letting him know first? Obviously, someone in the chain of people who now knew about the picture was an informant for Michael Shand, and that must have been how Ed White ended up accusing the families of turning snitch. Surely Mayson must have had an inkling that there was a bad apple in the system somewhere, yet she still went ahead with her ruthless pursuit of justice. Plus, she didn't seem to have one ounce of remorse about what she'd done, as if witnesses were just expendable flotsam in the drive to catch criminals, especially the high-profile, headline-grabbing ones like Michael Shand. She'd said it was over, and as far as he was concerned, any relationship with such a hard-nosed person certainly was over. He wasn't a softie himself - life hadn't allowed him that luxury - but he liked to think he had compassion and sympathy for others. Which was why this was so hard to bear. He had made a disastrous mistake, and a lot of people were being hurt because of it. He cared about these people, yet he had managed to make their lives a worse misery that it already was. Why, why, why was he so stupid? The other Clark would never have made this mistake, but then the other Clark had proper parents, the other Clark had Lois...oh, Lois! You would have told me what to do, told me where I was going wrong. He lay back on the ground and stared up at the stars, letting his mind freewheel. What to do now? He'd promised himself to give up the superhero charade, but he'd told Mayson he wasn't done with this mess, and that was certainly true. He couldn't just abandon the people whose lives he'd wrecked; somehow he had to make amends. He now knew who was at the sharp end of the operation, but to cause it to shut down, he had to demonstrate a link between Ed White and Michael Shand, and he had to do it as quickly as possible. At the same time, he had to protect these people as much as he could...so how could he do all that? By maintaining a 24 hour vigil, he decided. He would watch and follow Ed White every time he came into the neighbourhood, tracing his every move until he had the evidence he needed. In between times, when his quarry was safely occupied on a long-term activity, he would keep an eye on people's houses, stopping as many fires from being lit as he possibly could. In short, he wouldn't rest until he'd made things right again. *********** The young man tugged his back-to-front baseball cap more firmly down onto his head before reaching inside the black rucksack for one of the rag-stuffed bottles. Flicking open his lighter, he lit the end of the rag and drew his arm back to throw it at the nearest front door. His arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket when he pulled it forward, because its path was stayed by a steel-like grip on his wrist. "Tut-tut! Playing with fire at your age? What would your mother think?" said a hard-edged voice from behind him. He twisted around to find a familiar caped figure staring at him with a grim face. "You're hurting me!" he protested. "Relax, I'm Superman. This won't hurt a bit." Superman yanked the bottle from the young man's hand and held it up close to his face. "Aren't you going to put it out?" the man asked querulously, flinching from the flame. "Why, does it bother you?" "Superman, it's going to blow!" "That's OK, it won't hurt me." "What about me?" "Well, that doesn't matter, does it? After all, you were going to throw it at those people's door, so what difference does it make if you're on the receiving end instead?" "Because it'll kill me, you dumb alien! Put it out!" "You going to tell me why you were doing this first?" "Because that's what I do. Put it out!" "Because that's what you do...nope, sorry, I don't get it. You'll have to explain some more." "This guy told me to. He gave me ten bucks to throw the bomb at this house. Now are you gonna put it out?" Superman stared intently at the young man's face as he fired a quick shot of freezing air at the flame to snuff it out. "Who was this guy?" Superman asked, maintaining his fixed gaze. "I don't know...some guy." The young man broke eye contact and started wriggling in Superman's grasp, more confident now that the bomb had been 'defused'. Superman laid the bottle on the ground, still hanging onto the man's arm, before fishing a picture out from behind his cape. "Did he look like this?" he asked. "Dunno." "Look at it!" "I ain't no stoolie, Mr Pantyhose. Let me go!" Clark's fragile patience finally ran out, and he flew the man swiftly to the nearest police station with a brief explanation of his misdemeanours, before rushing back to resume his vigil. He'd found a useful perch out of sight on top of a long-abandoned church which gave him a view of most of the district. He interspersed sessions watching from here with circuits around the area, and once a day he would fly home, bolt down whatever food he could find, and fly back, all within the space of less than 60 seconds. Food stocks were running pretty low, but he reckoned he was staying outside in the sunshine a lot so he should be OK. So far, he'd managed to stop five fires, but each time it was the same. The person setting the fire was doing it for the first time, and had been employed by a nameless person, usually in a bar - but never the same bar twice. No-one would identify the person from Clark's sketch. It was incredibly frustrating, and he knew that tonight he had almost gone too far with that boy - he shouldn't have threatened him like that - but he was finding it harder and harder to contain his emotions. Also, he hadn't even spotted Ed White yet, although tomorrow was Monday, and he was hoping to pick him up at Clara's house and follow him to wherever he handed over the money. Meanwhile, he spent long hours atop the church, pondering his life. For much of his earlier years, he had been pretty much a loner, and had built up a tough shell around himself as protection. He taught himself not to dwell on the past, not to miss his parents, not to expect too much from life. The gradual appearance of his incredible powers had been frightening and totally disorientating, but he had learnt to hide those away too and restore normality and control to his life again. Then there was Lana, and he wasn't alone anymore. Lana broke down his barriers, softened his edges, while at the same time helping him strengthen the illusion of normality. It felt safe, secure...but ultimately wrong. He couldn't be himself when he was with her, he felt he was always apologising for something, always trying to make amends for something he had said or done. He was never at ease, but at least he had company. He got used to that company. Next, the alternate Lois Lane steamrollered her way into his life, and everything turned upside down. Under the bright light of Lois' personality, he had seen the truth about his relationship with Lana: she wanted something he couldn't give her - a normal, safe, all-American husband with a no-risk job and a decent income. Not an unreasonable ambition, quite a modest one, in fact, but not one that he could deliver. Lois taught him not to deny his differences, but instead to embrace them, and so he had broken up with Lana and taken up this crazy double life as superhero-cum-newsman. Now he was alone again, and it hurt. God, how it hurt. Not at first - the whirlwind of public attention following his 'coming out' made sure he was too distracted to notice his loneliness. There was also the complication of explaining Lois' sudden disappearance again, and the departure of Perry from the Planet, to be replaced by the wunderkind from Washington, Ralph Pinedo. It was around the time of Ralph's appointment that he realised the few friends he once had were suddenly missing, that his apartment was empty and uninviting, and there was a yawning gap which Lois had filled for all-too-brief a time. How was he supposed to cope? He thought he'd done pretty well, by emerging sane from his frightening and lonely youth, but then fate upped the ante by letting him meet Lois Lane, not once, not twice, but three times! And he'd had to meet his alternate parents after twenty-odd years of learning to cope with their premature death. Mom and Dad...he'd had nightmares about that car-wreck for months, years afterwards. It still came to him even now - sometimes a difficult save would trigger it. Hearing the squeal of tyres, running like crazy to get there before the collision but never quite making it, seeing the blood splashed garishly over the windscreen...and then the explosion. The devastating explosion, knocking him back, destroying his life. He suddenly felt a lump at the back of his throat, and his eyes pricked with unshed tears. This was crazy, what was the matter with him? He was over all that years ago. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to centre himself again.... He took some deep breaths, and tried to push the emotions back down again, just as he had been doing for so many years. A sound snagged his superhearing, his eyes shot open and turned towards the sound to catch the evil glimmer of a fire a few blocks away. Even as he was taking off and flying over to put it out, he was regaling himself for his private self-pitying session . Not that it would have done any good, judging from his experience thus far. He landed in the backyard and extinguished the small fire with a couple of breaths. That done, he looked up to find three white faces watching him from the back door. Father, with a protective hand on his young son's shoulder, and mother, her hands still wringing the dishtowel she had been using for the washing-up. The little tableau froze him to the spot for a moment, and the two parties stared at each other across the backyard: the harried superhero, standing resplendent in his bright colours, and the frightened young family. "Thank you, Superman," said the father, breaking the spell. "Is-is everyone all right?" stammered Clark. "Yes, thanks," replied the father. That was Clark's cue to depart, yet he was strangely reluctant to move. Something about the picture before him...the boy was about the same age as he had been just before the accident... The mother stepped forward hesitantly. "Superman, are you all right?" "I-I'm fine." "You look tired." Clark forced a smile. "Me? Oh, I never get tired. I'm sorry, you just reminded me of someone I once knew." "Oh." "If everything's OK here, I'll be on my way." He launched himself up into the air, so intent on putting space between himself and the house that he didn't hear the short exchange between mother and father. "Honey, did you see his face? I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so weary." "Yeah, he sure looked like he's got the world on his shoulders." "I guess I never thought how tough it could get for him. He should take a rest." "Martha, you're such a sucker for birds with broken wings. I'm sure he's got someone to look after him." "I hope so." Clark resumed his perch on the church top. OK, from now on he was thinking happy thoughts, and nothing else. All that self-absorption had got him precisely nowhere, and it was even interfering with his job. It wasn't good if the people he was rescuing thought he wasn't up to the task; they needed to have complete confidence in his ability to help them. That kind woman had said he looked tired, but he wasn't tired, just a little sad. He couldn't be tired - he was eating, wasn't he? And he was getting plenty of sunshine (as well as his fair share of rain, he grimaced to himself). So what he needed was a game to keep his mind occupied...a few minutes later, he had the perfect idea - OK, it wasn't exactly a game, but it was personally satisfying. 101 ways to humiliate Ralph...let's see, number one: how many of Ralph's sexual conquests are actually just tea with his mother? ********** "Mickey, I'm gonna say this once, and once only. You clean up your operation real soon, or you're gonna be looking for a new career. And it won't be in the family business, you get it?" Billy Shand lit up his cigar and took a long, slow draw. "But Dad-" "-and that includes getting your people under control," continued Billy with a jab of the cigar in Michael's direction. "What's to control? Everything's just peachy," protested Michael. "Peachy my a-" "-and the money's rolling in. What's your problem?" "My problem, Mickey, is that your clients are this far," he held finger and thumb close together, "from squealing to the cops. You give them no hope. You charge them so much they can't pay, you torch them every night, so what's to lose, they ask themselves. They may as well go to the cops as wait for you to set fire to their homes." "Dad, give me some credit. Someone already has gone to the cops - that's why I'm doing this." "Mickey, you gotta learn to be subtle. Running a racket is a fine balance - and you ain't got it yet." "I can be subtle," said Michael defensively. "You, Mickey, are as subtle as my lawyer's annual bill. You got Superman breathing down your neck." "I'm working on that." "You better be, 'cos if you screw this up, you pull us all down with you." "Ok, Ok, I can do it. Just leave me alone and I'll make us a stack of dough." "Mickey, you foul up, you'll be so alone you'll feel like you was livin' on the Moon. Now go be subtle." Billy waved his cigar dismissively at his errant son, who scowled before stomping out of the room. Actually, Michael was completely at a loss as to what to do about the Superman problem. It was getting harder and harder to find people willing to carry out his campaign of terror, so tight a hold had the alien on the situation. All he had so far was a vague rumour that a guy who knew some other guys had found something he thought might hurt Superman. He was desperately trying to convert the rumour into fact, but it was slow work, and now his Dad had just made things harder by turning up the pressure. He was well aware that most of his authority derived from his father, and if word got around that his Dad didn't have any confidence in him, then control really would begin to slip from his fingers. Well, he'd just have to crank up the heat even more, and chase even harder for the Superman deterrent. ********** Clark hovered high over Clara Jefferson's house, waiting for Ed White to appear for his regular Monday-night collection. He'd been watching for over two hours now, and with every passing minute, he was becoming more and more frantic. What if his vigorous defence of the neighbourhood had deterred the man from appearing tonight? What was happening around the rest of the streets while he was watching Clara's house? He was making super-sweeps around the area every ten minutes, but so much could happen in ten minutes...maybe he should make it five? What was he going to do if he actually spotted a fire - what should his priority be? Even worse, the hover was becoming hard to maintain. Twice now, he had abruptly dropped ten feet before managing to stay his descent and climb back up again. There was no denying it: he was getting tired, and this only served to increase his anxiety. If he didn't pick up Ed White tonight, he was quite sure he couldn't manage a complete week of 24-hour neighbourhood policing, so his opportunity to right his wrongs would be gone forever. Time for another sweep...nothing. Well, at least his constant presence seemed to have done some good: the crime rate had definitely dropped off since he started the vigil. His eyes dropped back to Clara's house. At last! A quick zoom in to check that the man was actually Ed White, and then he x-rayed through to the living room to make sure that the exchange didn't become violent. It looked as though Clara's mother had lost the will to fight, however, and the envelope was handed over quickly and without comment from either side. Now he had to follow Ed White wherever he went, for as long as it took until he could see what happened next to the money. He was painfully aware that this meant abandoning the neighbourhood vigil, but hopefully the calming effect of his efforts so far would linger for a while. ********** One thing that surprised him about Ed White was his behaviour upon leaving Clara's house: sneaking into a quiet alleyway, he split the money he collected in half. Half went into his wallet; the other into a brown manila envelope. No wonder Michael had a reputation for greed if his operatives were doubling the charges to his 'clients'. Clark watched White visit several other houses in the neighbourhood, and the pattern was the same each time - he wasn't just skimming off the top, he was taking a full 50% of the takings. Clark was elated and felt newly energised by this information. His investigation and hard work were beginning to pay off at long last. The ensuing twelve hours spent following White were extremely dull and something of an anti-climax after the triumph of finding him in the first place. It appeared that apart from his illegal activities as collection agent for Michael Shand, Ed White led an uneventful life: he drank in a bar, ate from a hotdog stand, drank some more in a bar, then went home alone to sleep it off. Once Clark was sure his quarry had settled for the remainder of the night, he dashed home himself for three Oreos, a slug of orange juice and, as an afterthought, a lump of cheese. Carbohydrate, vitamin C and some protein - should be a reasonable balance, he reckoned. Then it was a quick check around Metropolis: his conscience had been tugging at him ever since he started his single-minded vigil over in the garment district. Now that things were a little better under control, he needed to make sure the rest of the city was all right - and make sure the criminal element didn't get too complacent about his protracted absence. He still felt as though he were working on borrowed time, however, so when he spotted a mugging in progress, he swooped down, grabbed the mugger without comment and immediately delivered him to the nearest precinct office. A few words to the desk sergeant, and then he was off again. Another swift pass over the city uncovered a robbery in progress, and once again, he dealt with it with the minimum of comment and delay. A final pass gave him the all clear, and with a sigh of relief, he flew back to check that Ed White was still safely slumbering away in his bed. He knew that he'd really only made a token effort, but the pull back to his investigation was just too strong to resist for any longer. ******** Another day dawned, and Clark felt thankful for the tentative light of dawn as it emerged over the city. These quiet spells gave his mind far too much free time to roam around, usually bringing things to his attention he'd rather not think about. For example, he'd remembered his promise to Ralph to bring in some copy about this investigation within two days. He'd well and truly blown it this time. He wondered if he'd have a job at all to go back to when he finished this one: sometimes he got the distinct impression that Ralph would rather dump him from the payroll than keep employing a person who was unpredictable, and who was so obviously at odds with the new style Ralph was pursuing at the Planet. Even his colleagues thought he was unreliable - they didn't like to be partnered with him, and although he received the same invitations to parties and other celebrations that everyone else did, he knew they didn't really expect him to turn up. Snippets from accidentally overheard conversations told him that it wasn't malicious, and they genuinely seemed to like him, but he was no longer one of the crowd, but stood apart in his own peculiar category of workmate-cum-superhero-cum-celebrity. Ed White was on the move. Clark had already seen him remove his stash from his secret hideaway, and now he was heading across town to a more upscale part of the city, where smart designer shops and stylish pavement cafes were frequented by well-heeled business executives. White sat at a table in one of the cafes and ordered an espresso. As Clark watched, his stomach rumbling in protest at the lack of breakfast, White pulled a menu out of the holder in the middle of the table, glanced around quickly and then placed his manila envelope inside the menu. He stuffed it back into the holder, gulped down the rest of his coffee and stood up to go. Now what to do? Follow White, or keep watching the table? Clark elected for the latter, and his efforts were rewarded minutes later when a smart, fiftyish man wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase settled down at the table. He pulled out the menu, pocketed the envelope, and finished off by ordering and consuming a generously large breakfast. Clark's stomach growled its annoyance at the neglect it was suffering, but there was no respite, as 'briefcase-man' was up and making his way across the street to a branch of the New Troy Bank. Got you at last! Well, nearly. He x-rayed through the bank's walls to see briefcase-man paying in money to one of the cashiers, but he couldn't make out the account details. There was also too much background noise for him to tune into what they were saying. Maybe he should keep track of this guy for a while longer, and if he continued to make deposits at this bank, then Clark could get Mayson to gain access to the account details. Mayson...he'd been thinking about her a lot during his lonely watch. His initial anger had cooled off, and in the quiet calm of the night, he had begun to think that maybe he had over-reacted. She had only been doing her job, probably the best way she knew how, and he realised now that his comment about concentration camps had been extremely cruel and unfair. He still thought she could have told him about finding the photo match earlier, and she could have been a little more circumspect about who she told, but it wasn't an unforgivable crime. Moreover, he missed her. She was funny and quick-witted, intelligent and attractive. Very attractive. She had shown him a softer, caring side too, when he told her about his parents, and he was pretty certain she had strong feelings for him as well. He liked her, cared for her, although he wasn't sure if it was love...was it fair to continue a relationship on that basis? Even worse, was it fair to try and resurrect a relationship which had faltered on the rocks when he wasn't sure of his motives? Was Mayson just a substitute for the real thing: Lois Lane? But love doesn't have to be something you feel straightaway, he told himself, it can grow and develop, if you nurture it properly. Put away all thoughts of Lois, and concentrate on a future with Mayson. At least she was here and attainable; she didn't need to know that she was a compromise. The first step was to contact her, and after a couple of days watching briefcase-man he was ready. The guy collected from various sites around Metropolis, but he always went to the same branch of the bank to pay in his takings. Not very clever, thought Clark, but he didn't mind it if the criminals occasionally made things easy for him. Clark took a deep breath and dialled the number. "Mayson Drake." His heart did a flip at the sound of her voice. "Hi. It's me." "Hi." Mayson's voice had already changed from upbeat business-like, to low and defensive, but Clark plunged on nevertheless. "I have some important information I think you could use about the Shand case. Can we meet?" "Does this come with strings attached like the last lead you gave me?" "Mayson, let's not start all that again, I-" "If I recall, you were the one doing all the starting, not me." "Please, Mayson. This is important. It could turn the case around. Really." Mayson was quiet for so long, he began to wonder if she'd even been listening to him. Then came a reluctant "OK. Where do you want to meet?" "How about your office?" "When?" "I-I could come around now, if you're not busy?" "Clark, when am I not busy?" He was racking his brains for an answer when she continued, "Don't answer that." He heard her sigh heavily. "You may as well come anyway." ********* Mayson's intercom buzzed moments later. "Mayson, Clark Kent is here to see you." "Sure, send him up." Mayson replaced the receiver and waited expectantly for the rap at her door. This was going to be a quick exchange of information between professionals, and then he could get out of her life again. She wasn't having some sanctimonious do-gooder trying to teach her right from wrong: he saw everything in black and white, and life just wasn't like that. He knocked on her door, and she barked "Come!", painting her face with the best cold, non-committal look she could muster to make sure he got the message. She wasn't sure what happened to her face when he opened the door and walked into her office, but it probably wasn't non-committal. The self-assured, well-dressed man she knew a few days ago had been replaced by someone she hardly recognised. He was dressed in old, tatty jeans and a sloppy, faded T-shirt, he looked like he hadn't shaved for a couple of days, and there were dark circles under his eyes. She watched him in shocked silence as he came across the room and sat in the chair opposite her. "What?" he asked, puzzled by her silent scrutiny. "N-nothing." She cleared her throat. "So, what's this all about?" "OK, I know where the money's being paid into. I followed Ed White after he finished his collections, and he hands the money over to another guy. I don't have a name for him, but I've got a sketch so you can do a search for him. Anyway, this guy does pickups twice a day - at a couple of different places - and then pays the money in to a bank. The same bank every time, at around the same time of day." He paused in his monologue and looked expectantly at her. She shook herself mentally. She'd only been paying scant attention to what he was saying, as she traced the lines of strain around his eyes, took in the way his normally healthy tan had faded to a pale, sunken look, and watched his body language, which spoke of a man living purely on nerves and adrenaline. "Clark, when did you last get any sleep?" That wasn't the question she intended to ask, but it just popped out of its own volition. He blinked. "Uh, a few days ago. Why?" "A few days!" "I don't need as much sleep as you do." "Uh, huh..." In a pig's ear, she thought. You look awful. "So, what do you think...about the bank account, I mean?" "Well...you're hoping it will lead to Michael Shand, right?" "Yes, I thought we...you...could take the picture to the bank and get them to give you the bank account details. Or if you got a name for this guy first it would be even better." "Clark, I can't just waltz into the bank and demand they hand over someone's bank account details. I need a search warrant, and for that I need evidence." "I know that, but you must know a-a tame judge you can talk to - I thought all DA's had one." "Clark, that's the movies. This is real life." "Would it help if Superman came with you and told the judge what he saw? Come on, Mayson, I really need this." He leaned forward on the edge of his seat, his eyes pleading with her. "Listen to yourself - 'I really need this.' Who are you doing this for - aren't you taking this too personally?" "I meant, I need it so I can help some very needy people, and yes, I'm taking this personally. That's what I do." Well, it's high time you started detaching yourself from things like this, or you'll burn yourself out, thought Mayson. She regarded him assessingly. This wasn't turning out anything like the way she had planned it, yet there was no denying that he was on to something, and she had a responsibility to act on what he had told her. At the same time, she had to do something about his current state of exhaustion. "OK. First, we don't just go straight to a judge. You need to tell your story to one of our investigators and then he'll write up a search warrant affidavit. We'd usually take that to the judge on call for signing, but in this case, you're right, we need someone more...friendly. There is a judge, Judge Prescott, who might be willing to help," she admitted finally. "Great. When can we go see him?" "*We* are going nowhere. *You* are going home to bed to get some sleep, and *I* will go to see Judge Prescott." He stared at her. "No way." She folded her arms across her chest. "OK, then we drop it. Bye, Clark, it's been a pleasure." She waited for him to leave. He gave a mirthless laugh. "You won't give up this investigation just because I won't go home to bed. Besides, how much sleep do you think I'd get, not knowing what's happening?" He had a point. "All right. But this is just a temporary reprieve, OK?" "OK." He relaxed back in his chair a little, but then jumped forward again. "I almost forgot - I also found out that Michael's men are doubling his charges and keeping half from themselves." Mayson snorted. "That explains a lot." "And here's the picture of that guy." Clark reached into a back pocket and spread a sheet of paper in front of Mayson. She picked it up and studied it closely. "He looks familiar...hold on." She stood up, fished a file out of her file cabinet and opened it on her desk. Spreading the contents out in an increasingly messy pile, she hunted around for a while before grabbing a photo and holding it next to Clark's sketch. "Got you!" she cried triumphantly. "Who?" "Gordon Taylor. Did two years for fraud a few years ago, reputedly Billy Shand's accountant at the time, although I could never prove it. Does a nice line in aliases...Graeme Townsend, Gary Trevino, Gerry Thorpe - you sensing a theme here?" "GT - not very imaginative." "Imagination is not our Gordon's strong point. Although here's a good one: Gina Tipping." Clark raised his eyebrows. "Now that is imaginative." "So it looks like he's still in the business of fraud, except he's moved from Daddy's payroll to Michael's." "So, this is good, right? We have a stronger case for Judge Prescott?" "Yes, I guess so." "So, bring on your investigator and let's get this affidavit written." He was leaning forward over her desk, fixing her gaze with eyes wide open and bright with intense determination. It was impossible to resist the power of his intention: Mayson picked up the phone and dialled an internal number. "Hi, Joe, it's Mayson. Can you come up here for a few minutes - I need you to do an affidavit for me." Clark related his observations to Joe, and then Mayson added all the information she had regarding Gordon Taylor, and a short while later they had the required affidavit. Alone again, Clark resumed his pressure tactics. "You going to phone the judge, then?" "Yes." "Now?" "Clark," admonished Mayson with a glare. "The sooner you call him, the sooner we visit him, and..." Clark paused. "-The sooner I get rid of you. OK." Mayson reached for the phone, but Clark had already picked it up for her and was handing it to her. She gave him another glare before taking it from him and dialling the number. "Knows it by heart. Very interesting," commented Clark. "Shut up," mouthed Mayson back. "Hello, Wilbur, it's Mayson." She paused to listen while Clark mouthed "Wilbur?" with an incredulous expression. Mayson shooed him away with her free hand while replying, "And it's nice to hear your voice, too, Wilbur. But I have a small favour to ask of you. I need a search warrant-" She stopped, obviously interrupted by Judge Prescott, wincing as she listened to him. "Wilbur...I know...yes, I'm sorry...I will...but...Wilbur, it's for the Shand case," she finished loudly. A few more seconds passed while the judge gave his opinion on that piece of information, and then she put the phone down. Clark raised his eyebrows at her in question. "He says we can go around now, we can have five minutes, and it better be good." "OK!" Clark bounded out of his chair with new-found energy. Mayson regarded him critically. "You are going to change, aren't you?" she asked. Clark looked down at himself as if noticing his scruffy appearance for the first time. "I guess." He did his usual spin-change while Mayson watched in amazement. He flushed when he saw her looking at him. "I guess I've never done that in front of you before, have I?" "No...no, I'd say you haven't," she replied, feigning controlled consideration. "Actually, I don't usually do it in front of anyone. It's kind of a private thing." "Well, thank you for letting me see it. But, Clark?" "Yes?" She walked around her desk and up close to him. Clark's heart did a quick flip - what was she up to? He watched her face warily as she came even closer and clasped his wrist, pulling his arm up in front of her. Now he was really confused. "I think it looks better like this." She grasped hold of his sleeve, which had somehow become rolled up somewhere around his elbow and pulled it back down to his wrist, smoothing the fabric down along his arm. Then she clasped his hand lightly in both of hers for a moment before releasing him. "Th-thanks." Her touch had been so light it sent a frisson of excitement through his body, and now she was so close he could smell her perfume without recourse to superpowers. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up into his. "My pleasure," she replied softly, a smile dancing around her lips. "Mayson, I-" "Shh." She silenced him with a finger on his lips. Suddenly his arms were around her and they were locked in a fierce, passionate embrace. Bodies pressed tight together, lips to lips, arms roaming feverishly as if they could never get enough of each other, drinking in each other's scent. "God, Mayson, I'm so sorry," gasped Clark between kisses. "I should never have said what I said." "Shh," she repeated. "I overreacted-" "It's OK." She silenced him with another kiss. Clark was stunned. Kissing Lana had been play-acting compared to this. And yet...was all that stuff he'd read about the earth moving just over-blown fantasy? Trashy romance novels probably weren't the place to learn about real emotions, and this was pretty good, even without earthquakes - Mayson certainly seemed to be enjoying it. He surrendered himself to the delicious feel of her soft body against his. Gradually, the heat of the embrace diminished, and they were able to pull a little away from each other, still maintaining the contact through their hands on each other's arms. A corner of Clark's mouth curved upwards. "Does this mean we've made up?" Mayson swatted his upper arm. "Watch it, Kent!" He grabbed the offended arm theatrically. "Ow." "Quit playacting and let's go see Wilbur." "How come you call him Wilbur?" he asked as they walked out of her office and into the elevator. "Because that's his name," she replied tartly. "That's not what I meant," he said as the elevator doors closed. ******** Outside the building, Clark made as if to scoop Mayson up in his arms, but Mayson stopped him. "Let me guess. You don't like heights? It's OK, you'll be quite s-" "It's not that." "What then?" he asked, puzzled and a little disappointed by her reaction. Most people were excited by the prospect of a flight with Superman. "It's just...I don't think we should. You should," she amended pointedly. "I really don't underst-" "Clark, when was the last time you made a mistake with that spin-change thing?" "Well, I tell you, when I first tried it...wait a minute, what are you saying? You don't think I'm safe?" His voice rose incredulously. "Yes." "Mayson, that's ridiculous." "I think we should take a cab." She walked to the edge of the sidewalk, whistling and sticking her arm out to hail one. Clark followed behind her. "Come on! OK, I'm a little tired, but I think I can manage one short flight with a lightweight passenger." The cab drew up in front of Mayson, so she opened the door and turned back to Clark. "You coming?" "Superman doesn't take cabs," he hissed between gritted teeth. "Fine." She leaned forward, gave the cabbie an address and started to pull the door shut. Clark expelled a lungful of air in exasperation and defeat, stopped the door shutting and climbed in. "Happy?" he demanded. "Ecstatic." She replied with a smirk. As the cab drew away from the kerb, the cabbie shouted out, "So, Superman. Why is it that you're not flying today?" Mayson sniggered. Clark glared. Judge Prescott was a large man with a shock of red hair fading to grey, wearing a tweed jacket that had seen better days and a pair of muddy slacks of indeterminate shape. As Clark shook hands with him, he was aware of a razor-sharp intelligence hiding behind the smiling eyes, and the handshake was a lot firmer than the shabby, friendly exterior belied. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Superman," enthused the Judge. Clark mustered up a brief smile. "Clark. Please call me Clark." "And you can call me Judge Prescott. Only Mayson gets to call me Wilbur, don't you Mayson?" "I...uh...I-" "So! Let's see what you've got for me." He held out his hand to receive the affidavit. Mayson handed it over and he immediately began to read, waving an absent hand to indicate that they should sit. After what seemed like an interminable time, he looked up and fixed Mayson with a piercing gaze. "You want me to sign a search warrant based largely on hearsay evidence, is that right?" Mayson met him eye to eye. "Yes, but I think you'll agree the witness is a reliable source." "Yet you have no evidence that this man has associated with other members of your suspected protection racket?" "Not directly, no. But we have him collecting money from a drop-off point used by a known member of the racket." "As witnessed by Clark again." Clark and Mayson exchanged uneasy glances. "And an anonymous witness," volunteered Clark. Judge Prescott transferred his searching eyes to Clark. "Anonymous." "Yes." There was silence while the Judge stared at Clark, and Clark tried not to squirm. "How many days' work you put into this, son?" "A few." "I thought so - it shows." Clark couldn't help it - his eyes slid away from the Judge's in embarrassment at being found out. Abruptly, the Judge picked up his pen and signed the search warrant with a quick scrawl. "Catch the bastards for me," he said, handing the document back to Mayson. Standing outside Judge Prescott's chambers, Mayson turned to Clark. "Why don't you fly home and get some rest while I take this to the bank?" "But I can speed things up by pointing out the cashiers he dealt with." "Clark, even the Judge could see how exhausted you are." "How about if I promise to go home after you've got the bank records?" "Superman doesn't break promises?" "Well, Clark might, but Superman doesn't." Mayson looked at him with amused consternation. "You have different standards of conduct depending on what you're wearing?" "No. Well, yes. No." He fidgeted with his hands and feet as he swithered, finally coming to rest with his arms crossed defensively. "I was only kidding." "Uh, huh." Mayson was openly sceptical. "OK, this is a rock-solid, Superman-type promise. You," she pressed her index finger into his chest, "will go home to bed as soon as I have the records." Clark sucked in air through his teeth. "Can we make it 'home to rest'?" "You drive a hard bargain. Why not bed?" "I don't like going to bed in the middle of the day." "All right. And no sneaking off to respond to cries for help, or I will personally come round and kick your butt." He unfolded his arms and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Mayson, you don't want to kick my butt. Trust me." She raised an eyebrow in question, so he elaborated, "It would hurt you more than me." "Ah. I'm sure you have some sensitive spots, though." She smiled up at him. They were drifting closer to each other, lips almost touching, but Clark suddenly jerked backwards. "Not here." "Why not?" "It's too public." "Too public?" Mayson was confused. "What do you mean?" "I...I don't know. It just doesn't feel right." Mayson stared at him for a long minute, and then took a deep breath. "This is something we're going to have to talk about. But not now, let's get over to the bank." "Mayson, I'm-" "Clark, forget it. We'll talk later. Come on." She walked out into the street to hail another cab. Clark hurried after her, cursing silently to himself. He'd screwed that one up, for sure. The trouble was, he wasn't sure why he'd withdrawn; only that it was something to do with being dressed as Superman. Damn! Well, maybe he could figure things out at home before Mayson got too mad. The cab ride over to the bank was accomplished in awkward silence, each wrapped up in their own thoughts while the cabbie hurled the vehicle through the streets of Metropolis. As soon as they reached their destination, Mayson was out and marching purposefully into the bank. Clark jumped out to follow, but was stopped short by an irate voice. "Hey, Superman! I ain't no charity." Clark turned back to the cabbie. "I'm sorry, sir, if you'll just hold on one minute..." He supersped up to Mayson, who was just about to push open the door of the bank. "He needs paying," he said. "So?" "And I don't have any money." He held his hands out either side of him, indicating his attire. "Clark, I clearly saw you change from your street clothes into...that, and there weren't any clothes left on the floor when you finished. You must have money; pay the man." "OK, I have money, it's just not very accessible." "Oh, for heaven's sake..." She brushed past him and quickly paid the cabbie. "This is going to be an expensive relationship," she threw at him as she pushed the door open and entered the bank. He caught the door before it swung back and hit him in the face, sighed deeply and followed her in. Mayson found a free cashier, and asked to see the manager. Once sought, the manager listened while Mayson explained the reason for their visit. As soon as she understood the situation, she ushered them into a small office and shut the door. "This is a very serious accusation, Ms Drake." "We're not accusing the bank of anything, Mrs Penney." "Nevertheless, it will reflect badly on the bank if it turns out that these criminals have been laundering money through one of our accounts." "It will look even worse if the bank is accused of non-co-operation in a criminal investigation." Mrs Penney held up her hand. "There's no need to get tough with me, young lady. I was merely expressing my concerns. Now, which of my tellers would you like to talk to?" Mayson looked at Clark. "The third from the left. The other one I saw isn't there right now." Mrs Penney left to summon the teller. Clark glanced sideways at Mayson. "I wonder what the 'M' stands for." "Mrs M Penney? I hope it's not Monnie." "Ha. Very cute. Maybe she's a relation of J C?" Before Mayson had a chance to respond, Mrs Penney had returned with her teller. "This is Jeff Anderson. He's been with the bank for...how long is it, Jeff?" "Fifteen years next January, Mrs Penney. I joined the year after we merged with Gotham Mutual Credit." "Of course." Introductions were made, and then Mayson showed Jeff the picture of Gordon Taylor. "Yes, I know him. That's Gregory Tyler. He collects up charity donations and pays them in twice a day to one of our special charity accounts." "Some charity," observed Mayson dryly. "Looks like Michael isn't very clever, as well as a poor manager. This is going to be pretty straightforward to trace, I'm sure. I'd like all the records pertaining to this account, and any others which Gregory Tyler holds here. We'll also check for his other aliases, just in case. Superman, can I have a word while we're waiting?" "Of course, Ms Drake." The two of them stepped outside the office to talk. "You should go home now, Clark, I can take it from here." "You're sure you've got everything you need?" "Yes. I'll stop by tonight to tell you what I've found. Now go!" *********** Clark slowly peeled off his Superman suit and dragged on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Despite his protestations to Mayson, he really did feel completely lifeless. His mind, on the other hand, was working on overdrive, so sleep was definitely not an option. Instead, he flopped down full-length on his sofa and tried to make some sense of his feelings towards Mayson. Why was it wrong to kiss her in public dressed as Superman? Everyone knew he was Superman, so what difference did it make? OK, revise that - everyone knew that Clark Kent was Superman, but not everyone knew what Clark Kent looked like when he wasn't being Superman. Hopefully. He certainly went out of his way to keep the two personas as separate as he could, so that he could have some sort of private life...that was it! He didn't want a public relationship, something that would be reported in the tabloids, something that reporters would hound them day and night for. He knew what it was like for public figures trying to have a relationship - he knew some of the tactics reporters employed, even if he didn't approve of them himself. Was this selfish? Well, he could think of another reason, but he wasn't quite so sure that Mayson would understand this one. Clark had done his best to build up Superman as the perfect superhero, completely reliable and supposedly above human frailties - kind of sexless, really. It would destroy that image if Superman was seen kissing and cuddling his girlfriend - wouldn't it? Oh, this was so difficult! If he really wanted a future with Mayson, he couldn't keep pushing her away like this. That kiss in her office had been enough to show him that there was something between them, although...his mind wandered back to his first and only kiss with Lois. She'd kissed him like she would kiss her own husband, thinking that he was the other Clark, and not a visitor from another dimension. The world truly had seemed to spin around him at the moment when she embraced him with such emotion. Was that the power of real love, was that why it felt so much better than Mayson's kiss? Or maybe he was just exaggerating the whole thing, and it was nothing more than an accidental encounter. Being with Mayson had been nice, very nice, and that was good enough for him. And then, there was the whole issue of being Superman. He'd decided a few days ago that he couldn't do it anymore, yet here he was, still playing the part and planning his future as if the superhero was going to be a permanent part of his life. Just where was he going with all this? He was still tossing his emotions around in his mind, having tried and failed to distract himself by watching TV for a while, when Mayson arrived with news and a Chinese takeout. "Well, as Wilbur would say, we got the bastard." "Already? That was quick." "OK, I admit this is only in theory. But we've got a trail leading all the way back to Michael Shand himself, and once we've gathered in a few more pieces of paperwork, we'll be able to make an arrest." "Mayson, that's great!" "Yeah, and you know what's even better?" Clark shook his head slightly as he grappled with a particularly drippy spare rib. "You are finally going to get the sleep you need." He grimaced. "Well, you didn't get any sleep this afternoon, did you?" "Ah, see, that's where you're wrong," he countered, laying the bare bone of the rib on their 'rubbish' plate. "I distinctly remember falling asleep during the Simpsons on TV." "Clark, if you can remember falling asleep, then you didn't fall asleep." "Hmmm. I see your point. OK, I nearly fell asleep." "Exactly. So you're going to finish this, and then I'm putting you to bed." "Putting or taking?" "My, my, Mr Kent, that's very forward of you. But I'm afraid this time it's definitely 'putting'." His eyebrows went up. "This time?" "Don't push your luck. Now eat up, before I send you to bed with no supper." "Yes, Ma'am." "And wipe that silly grin off your face." "Yes, Ma'am." "And stop calling me Ma'am." "Yes M-" She clamped her hand over his mouth and glared at him in mock severity. "You going to be good?" He nodded. "Real good?" He nodded again, so she removed her hand. "Ma'am." "Clark!" She punched his shoulder. Eventually, she got him to behave enough to finish his food and get him settled for the night. Sitting on his bed, she still had a few things she wanted to say to him. "Clark, we haven't talked about that...thing yet." He made to answer her, but she stopped him. "I don't fully understand it, but I think I know why you pulled away from me. I've noticed you keep Superman very separate from Clark - you said you never do that spin change in public, for instance." A nod of agreement. "So you don't want Superman, the public celebrity, to have a very public relationship with the press hounding him wherever he goes. You want Clark Kent to have a normal, private relationship like any other guy. Am I right?" "Yes. How did you-" "What I don't understand is how you think you can sustain that for very long. What if we get engaged, or even, what if we get married? You won't be able to keep that from the public, so I think we might as well start getting used to the attention now." Clark hadn't listened much after the word 'married', and he could only stare at her dumbly when she finished. "Don't answer me now," she continued, "but think about it." "OK," he squeaked in a voice which seemed to have gone up several octaves all of a sudden. She wasn't done yet. "Another thing. What you did over the past few days was heroic, kind beyond belief, brave, and I'll always be in your debt for helping us catch Michael Shand. It was also incredibly stupid. You drove yourself to the brink of exhaustion, and you almost lost all sense of perspective in the process. You could have hurt yourself badly, and then you'd have been no use to anyone, let alone the people you strive so hard to protect. So you have to promise me you'll never do anything like that again." "I-I'm not sure I can. When I see people in trouble, I have to help." "Clark, you can't help all of the people all of the time. Even a superhero can only do so much." "I guess..." "And I don't want a boyfriend who's so exhausted he doesn't have any energy left for me," she added with a smile. "And I'm planning some very energetic activities for us both, believe me." "You are?" "I am. So do I get that promise?" "I..." "Clark?" "OK." He crossed his fingers under the blanket. "Good." She leaned across and kissed him on the forehead. "Have a good, long sleep." "'Night." "Goodnight, Clark." ********* So Mayson was thinking about marriage as well! Not only that, but she was thinking about their future together, with Superman playing a full role in that future. He had just told her that he couldn't stop himself wanting to help people, so maybe he should just give in to destiny after all and carry on being the superhero. An assistant DA and a crime-fighter should make for an interesting pairing - he imagined that things might get a little heated at times, like the other day, but they had overcome that, hadn't they? What if she ever became DA? That could be even more- His thoughts were interrupted by a huge, booming crash from outside. His eyes flew open and immediately caught the glint of flames reflected on the windows of his apartment. In an instant he was at the window, looking down into the street to locate the source of the explosion. It was a car. No... He dove through the window, heedless of the pane of glass he had just smashed, and was beside the car in an instant. Now he was shaking all over. She's not the only one who drives a car like this, she's not...he ripped the remains of the car door off its hinges, and crouched down beside the driver. Her head was lolling at a strange angle, her beautiful golden hair partly covering her face, covering the lips which had caressed him so sweetly only minutes ago. "Mayson," he whispered. He gently lifted the hair away from her face, stroking it into place over her shoulder. His hand felt for a pulse at the side of her neck, but there was nothing there. Perhaps he was mistaken...he reached for her wrist, and tried again there. Still nothing. No breath escaped from her lips either, but he shouldn't give up yet. As carefully as he could, he began CPR, breathing air into her lungs, watching her chest rise and fall, taking heart from this sign of normality, ignoring the dead eyes above him, staring unseeingly out into the night. He heard a siren approaching and felt a spark of optimism at the sound of specialist help arriving. Breathe, breathe...he could keep going forever if it meant she had a chance. Breathe, breathe...this time it was going to be all right, this time he wasn't going to let someone close to him die in a car wreck. Breathe, breathe...he felt a hand on his shoulder and brushed it off. He didn't need distractions now. Breathe, breathe...the hand was on him again, shaking him, making it difficult to work properly. Didn't they realise he was saving a life here? Breathe, breathe- "Sir! It's over. Please stop. It's over." No it wasn't. Breathe, breathe...there were more hands now, rougher hands, pulling him away, dragging him away. He was sitting on the cold sidewalk now, there was something draped over his shoulders, someone had a hand on his arm. "I'm so very sorry, sir. Did you know her?" He nodded slightly,