It was going to be a long night.

Some of the time, Clark's efforts were straightforward and helpful. He stopped four muggings. He averted what would likely have been a four-car pileup. He helped out at a laboratory that had a chemical containment breach before it became a hazard to the neighborhood. He stopped an arms shipment coming in at the docks, disguised among mechanical repair parts; that one would bear some investigation, later.

However, his efforts were often being met with less than full gratitude. He ruined three stakeouts, according to the angry police, because he had apprehended the small fry, letting the big operators get away without having done enough to incriminate themselves. He was doing too much collateral damage to buildings whenever he moved too quickly, and in one raid, one suspect died when three of the men opened fire on him simultaneously at point-blank range. It had been so long since anyone was that foolish, he was taken by surprise, and he only had two hands; the third ricochet killed the man who fired it. He'd probably catch all three bullets if there was ever a next time, but he still felt badly about it, and it took some arguing with the local police before they let him go. They were a bit upset that he couldn't even promise not to leave the Universe, much less the city, but he agreed to show up if still on Earth when they announced that they needed him.

It was hard to arrive too late. It happened sometimes, back home, and there were plenty of crimes that he simply didn't hear about in time, because he was asleep, or wasn't listening, or couldn't be in two places at once. It was happening a lot in Boston. Also, no one was calling for him. Dozens and dozens of crimes were taking place in Boston this evening, and no one was calling his name. Sometimes they couldn't have called for help in any case. He couldn't be everywhere, watching everyone, all the time.

He looked through a roof as he flew, and saw a man strike a woman, knocking her down, then grab her and strike her again. Clark flew to the window and ordered him to stop, then smashed his way in and collared the man, hoisting him against the wall with one arm.

“Where were you?” the woman sobbed. Clark looked at her bruises, then snatched a blanket with his free hand and offered it to her to cover herself.

“I'm sorry I'm late.”

“Where were you?” she screamed, beating her fists feebly against him. Clark swallowed, and tightened his grip on the man until the criminal started howling in pain, Clark only restraining himself with effort. Maybe once a month he had to deal with a situation this bad back home, and Clark had experience weathering the emotional storms of victims. But this was the fourth such case tonight.

What is wrong with these people? Clark wondered in disgust. He tied the man up after emptying his pockets, called the police, and without identifying himself (he didn't want to waste the half-hour explaining himself yet again) told them to send someone over along with a counselor.

He found a female neighbor to stay with the woman until the police arrived, then apologized for the window and flew out of there. There's too much, he realized. I'm going to have to triage. And I'm not going to get much sleep tonight. Hopefully, I can spread my reputation quickly and scare the crime rate down to something manageable, soon.

I can't let this continue.

⛉ s ⛉

“Good evening, and welcome to the Eleven O'Clock News. Our top story: a rash of reported sightings of Superman, believe it or not. Apparently, police and news organizations have been flooded with calls from people claiming that they were saved from muggings, accidents, and disasters by a man dressed up in a Superman costume. Apparently, the person or people pretending to be the Man of Steel have made appearances all over Boston, beginning with the incredible emergency landing of an airliner at Hanscom Air Force Base earlier this afternoon.

“Apparently, we even have some of the local men in blue claiming that they have seen the Man in Blue. We go now live to Police Headquarters…”

⛉ s ⛉

Clark flew back to the hotel, slept for three hours, woke after disturbing dreams, and flew out to save people some more. By spacing it throughout the night, he could make it appear that he was out there all the time. It would be best to give the impression that he never slept. After another hour, he came back to his bed and slept another three hours, then a bit tiredly, decided to go ahead and face the new day.

He showered, dried himself off with a couple of towels, and then looked in the mirror. He could tell that he was a bit worn out, but he doubted anyone else would notice. There was another problem, however, which he realized as he looked for a hand mirror he didn't yet possess: he had a day's growth of stubble.

How was he going to shave his beard without heat vision?

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Nothing else worked; he'd tried. Well, a kryptonite blade would, of course, but that seemed to be overkill, and there didn't seem to be any kryptonite on this Earth either. The thought gave him pause.

No kryptonite.

Clark considered that, rubbing his stubble. No Lex Luthor. None of the villains who kept him so busy all the time. No mad scientists with giant robots, or mutant plagues, or invading aliens of any kind. The only disasters this planet faced were natural disasters, conventional wars…and a crime rate that was abhorrent to any civilized person, yet these people took as the natural course of events.

What was so different about people here? How had history gone so awry? And where were all these mundane criminals coming from? What motivated them to turn to crime?

Could poverty be that rampant here? That made no sense; this city seemed to have all the typical amenities, more or less. He had to look into the causes. The problem was too big for the direct approach.

But first, a mirror. And then some possibly painful experimentation—or else he was going to have to grow a beard while he was here.

⛉ s ⛉

Sarah Goldberg came home in the early hours, and found the apartment nearly the same as she had left it, with two changes: the suitcase was gone, and one of the windows was open. She was beginning to wonder if she were imagining things, but then she pulled out the notebook she had taken, and looked through it again.

Addresses, both here and for the old house they lived in before Mom died. Dad's credentials. Titles to some of his books, and what looked like some gibberish notes on Dad's gibberish research. Notes on the apartment, and a floor plan. And a list of questions:

Why the summoning?

How did he do it? Where are the notes on it?

Is there a time limit? Duration?

Who else is capable of doing this?

What resources are needed to send me back?

Can I contact home?

What's wrong with my vision?

Why do things work differently here?

What happened to this world?

A strange list. Sarah wondered if maybe Dad had invited a kooky colleague to visit, and then forgot about it after his heart attack. Maybe his memory was confused. If so, she might have offended the man by stealing his notebook—but dammit, he was obviously going through her Dad's things! Why would he spy on a man he was visiting?

And where was he now?

⛉ s ⛉

Clark set down the comic book and picked up another, sighing. It was grotesque, reading some of these…these parodies of his struggles. There were scenes, moments, that were honest portrayals though, and stirred memories of the actual events for him. It was eerie to see his very thoughts depicted, and those of his foes. Clark looked at his list of writers and stories, searching for commonalities.

The most accurate stories were not particularly falling into groups. It wasn't as if any one writer for the comic books was the source of the information from his world. It was more as if someone else were dropping hints all around. He needed to find that source of information. It could be that magician who he needed to get back home.

Needing a break, Clark leaned back and listened to the city. It was early in the morning commute, and a rather shocking amount of foul language was being used by Boston drivers. A few moments' listening revealed the cause: an eighteen-wheeler had jackknifed on the northbound lanes of…I-93? But didn't that…? Clark shook his head. Civil geography varied significantly between this world and his own. Here, I-93 ran through Boston. He recalled a memorized map, then changed quickly and flew out the window. A minute later, he had lifted the wreckage clear of the highway and set it down in an empty parking lot nearby, righting it as he did so. At high speed, he scooped up the rest of the debris and got the lanes clear, then stood to one side and waved the cars on with a smile.

None of the cars moved. The drivers in the lead cars stared at him, wide-eyed, while those farther back began honking. Clark waited a few more moments, then sighed, gave up, and flew away, with a brief nod to the police officer on the scene. Awe was flattering, when it occasionally came his way, but he was discomfited by this rather uncomplimentary shock he kept getting around here.

Well, as long as he was in costume…Clark swept over the city, finding a few crimes in progress, but not many. He visited the pediatric ward at Mass. General. He found an inner city school in shocking disrepair and built them a new roof. He helped an elderly woman carry her groceries. Then he found a teenager about to shoot up with drugs and gave him a good talking-to; it took a surprisingly long time, but Clark had years of experience with this sort of thing. He just didn't expect to be doing it so often. He was disappointed in the guidance counselor, and concerned about the parents. Looking for more resources, he located and visited the Department of Social Services. It was a sobering experience.

He spent the next four hours X-raying various houses, and apprehending abusive parents he caught in the act. A dozen parents arrested, a dozen children brought to hospitals, and Clark needed a break to get his temper under control. The social worker was weeping with gratitude, relieved that all the children were willing to talk freely because it had been Superman who saved them, and told them always to tell the truth.

Clark caught his breath at 5,000 feet, feeling his pulse settle back towards something normal. This city could keep him busy for months on end, but its problems were impossible to ignore. In his life, Clark had had to accept that many disasters would happen while he was asleep, and more while he wasn't listening, and more in distant places when he couldn't be in two places at once. But in all his years, he had never been any good in Metropolis at walking away from a disaster happening right in front of him. This whole world was an ongoing crisis. He was going to have to be more hard-hearted if he was going to get any work done on getting home.

Reflecting on the bruises and broken bones on the last child he had rescued, Clark decided that hard-heartedness could wait a bit longer. He set his jaw grimly, and went back on patrol.

It was going to be a long day.