Lauren yawned, and set her watch forward while waiting for the other passengers to disembark. Cassandra looked fresh as a daisy, and had made three friends on the flight. Lauren did her best not to be jealous of the younger, more attractive woman. Eventually, the crowd thinned enough that she was willing to stand up and get her own carry-on bag out.
After processing through security, they discussed lodgings, and got set up at one of the hotels. Lauren freshened up, then checked the batteries on all her equipment, and started making phone calls. She already had two interviews set up, but needed to check what else needed doing. Cassandra was impatient to get going.
“It's in the city, I can feel it.” She sounded awed and excited, like a little girl at Christmas. “So is he.”
Lauren smiled. “Can you give me an address?”
Cassandra frowned at her admonishingly, then brightened. “Maybe. Give me your Boston map.” Amused, Lauren did so. Cassandra looked around at the walls. “Which way is north?”
“I have no clue. I've never been to Boston before.”
“Well, where are we on this?”
Together, they studied the map and the view of the city outside the window, then got a fair idea of how they corresponded. Lauren watched as Cassandra slowly turned in a circle, eyes closed, arms outstretched, palms up, as if she were using Braille radar or something. One hand stopped moving and pointed, and Cassandra kept turning her other arm, then pointed with that as well, in a different direction.
“This way is the stationary source. That way is Superman.”
Lauren made a note of the directions, then asked, “Would you mind if I tested you on that?”
“Okay. How?”
Lauren pulled out a blindfold she'd packed. “I really ought to have a professional stage magician do the testing, but we'll have to make do with me for now. Put this on, I'll spin you around, and then I'll ask you to do that again.”
Cassandra pointed in the same direction for the stationary source; Superman had moved.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark found terrible problems at every turn, it seemed. Polluted water, abuse in foster care, schools that were like war zones. There were places he could help, and places where all his powers were worthless. Even when he could help, the wrecked lives he saw were heartbreaking. Eventually, he took another break from rescuing, and visited the nurse's station at the hospital dressed in street clothes. He doffed his hat and held it against his chest, politely.
“Is Mr. Goldberg accepting visitors?”
The nurse stared at him, and swallowed. “Uh…” Clark wondered what was going on in her mind. “I'll, uh…I'll check. Who may I say is visiting?”
“Calvin Ellis.” Clark handed her one of his freshly-printed business cards. It read: Calvin Ellis, Investigative Reporter and listed his cell phone number. She took it and read it twice, then bit her lip.
“One moment, please, and I'll check.” She walked away down the hall, glancing over her shoulder at him. Clark felt a bit uneasy. He knew objectively that women found him handsome, but this seemed to be something else. He couldn't quite puzzle out her reaction.
A minute later, she was back. “I'm sorry, he's asleep at the moment. His daughter is somewhere around; she's been here most of last night and today, but she seems to have gone off for the moment. She may be in the cafeteria. I left your card at his bedside, would you care to leave a message as well?”
Clark considered speaking to the daughter, then decided that could wait. She must be quite upset; he could leave the family in peace a while longer. “No, thank you. The card will suffice. Thank you very much for your assistance.” He nodded his head and turned to leave.
“You're quite welcome, Mr. Kent—uh, Ellis! Mr. Ellis.” The nurse corrected herself quickly.
Clark was shocked, but kept his smile fixed as he walked away. Coincidence, or…? With a sinking feeling, he stopped in front of a mirror, setting his hat back on his head, inspecting his disguise. His glasses hadn't slipped off. His clothes looked fine.
Everyone knows who I am, here. Why didn't changing my name work? Was it too close to my Kryptonian name? Maybe everyone knows that too. They know what I look like, as well, and I've probably been in the news today. Clark walked out of the hospital, worrying. Then he stopped, out of the way, and eavesdropped.
“Oh, God, Carol, I blew it.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“What?”
“The man who thinks he's Superman was here.”
“Wait, you mean like on the news? Was he in costume?”
“No, he was in street clothes, dressed up like Clark Kent, only he was calling himself ‘Cal Ellis’. He wanted to talk to Mr. Goldberg in 413.”
“So what happened?”
“As he was leaving, I called him ‘Mr. Kent’ instead of ‘Mr. Ellis.’ If he doesn't come back, Jenny's going to kill me. She's got a crush on him.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Carol, come on. Six foot two, muscular, gorgeous, jet black hair and blue eyes. Good manners I haven't seen in decades. Old-fashioned business suit and glasses. It's like he just walked off of the movie set.”
“So does he look like Christopher Reeve, Dean Cain, or the new actor?”
“Not really like any of them. Sort of Dean Cain, maybe, only about a decade older. He looks the way he's supposed to look—he looks like Superman.”
“You don't think…?”
“What?”
“Well, Dr. Forester did say the guy in costume last night turned out to be right about the X-rays. And some of those cops on TV sounded pretty convinced.”
“You've been watching too much TV, Carol. Don't believe everything you hear. He is gorgeous, though, whoever he is.”
Clark headed back to his hotel room, changed, and headed into the sky. He needed some air.
⛉ s ⛉
Lauren arrived at the correct office with five minutes to spare after a generous tip to the cabbie. She wondered whether she would have a long wait, and what kind of trouble Cassandra would get into while she was busy here. She took her notebook and rehearsed questions mentally, preparing herself for the interview.
At one minute before the hour the office door opened, and a big beefy man looked out. “Ms. Cooper?”
She stood smoothly. “Inspector O'Malley.”
“Please come in.”
They settled themselves on opposite sides of the desk. Lauren held up the tape recorder silently, and Michael O'Malley nodded his permission; she turned it on and set it on the desk between them. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I don't normally grant interviews this early in an investigation, Ms. Cooper. My office has released press briefings on what is publicly available so far. But you said you had unusual questions, so I'm willing to answer what I can—”
They were abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door, followed immediately by a head poking in. “Michael, they've got the fourth engine loaded onto the truck.”
“Any surprises?” O'Malley demanded.
“No, but there are a few requests—”
“Anything that can't wait fifteen minutes?”
“Uh…no.”
“Thanks, Aaron.” He waved the man out with a gesture. When the door closed, he settled back. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem. You have work to do, so I'll get right to the point.” The big man smiled when she said that; she had guessed right, the inspector liked the direct approach. “I've read the press briefings and spoken to your assistants. You've carefully avoided the topic I want to address, and I understand your reasons. So, to allay any reluctance you might feel, I'd like to show you a door handle that used to be on the roof access of the Chicago Tribune.” Lauren pulled out the crumpled ball of steel and set it on the desk in front of the inspector.
Michael O'Malley's eyes showed comprehension, but he was a cautious man. “What happened to it?”
“I asked Superman to bend it for me to prove he was who he said he was. He did that with his bare hands, casually. I met him yesterday on the rooftop. He came there looking for the Daily Planet.”
They locked eyes for several seconds. Then slowly, deliberately, the inspector reached out with one big hand, felt along the metal surfaces, and found the grooves. His fingers fit almost perfectly into the impression left by palm and fingers.
“He wears size ten gloves,” O'Malley commented dryly. “Never knew that about him before.” He shrugged, as if facing defeat. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“How many people saw Superman save the plane, and exactly what did they see?”
“There are six people ready to swear in court that they saw a man dressed as Superman holding onto what remained of the right wing during the descent, and ten more who are almost as positive. I think a few of those six have already been interviewed.”
“Yes, I read transcripts. Was there anything else strange, prior to Superman's arrival? Any…special effects?”
“Eyewitnesses described only sights and sounds consistent with the right wing of the plane ripping clean off.”
Lauren grinned. “Clean off? No wonder you haven't released any photographs of the plane yet!” O'Malley grunted. “How did the pilot cope? Did he see anything unusual?”
“The flight crew all saw Superman, but refuse to swear to it. The pilot acted appropriately—he flew his plane as best he was able and used the lift the airplane had, whatever its source. He didn't have a lot of choice about the navigation, though. The plane seemed to keep shifting back on course to Hanscom whenever it veered off the approach, regardless of his work on the controls.”
“Was there anything before Superman's arrival? A glow, a flash, sound effects?”
“The plane lost its wing nearly a minute before Superman arrived, and they were a little busy falling out of the sky after that.”
“Was it really metal fatigue?”
Michael O'Malley looked affronted. “Yes,” he answered coldly. Then he sighed, relaxing. “I understand your asking. But I don't lie in reports, and I don't lie to the press. I do my job old-school, Ms. Cooper. I dig for the truth, and then I report it. And I avoid jumping to outlandish conclusions without extraordinary evidence.”
Lauren smiled. “So do I, Inspector. So do I.”
⛉ s ⛉
Clark flew west, and neared Goth—neared New York. He had business down there, but not just now. He needed space to think. A burst of speed and altitude carried him past, and farther west. He considered visiting…Chicago, but that did not appeal just now either. Clark flew on, and angled south.
It was almost as if he were punishing himself, literally driving home the point. He knew what he would find, or rather what he would not find, but went on anyway. He had to see for himself, to accept the reality he now inhabited. This harsher, crueler human race inhabiting the world so like, and yet so unlike, his own.
Clark flew to a latitude and longitude that he knew by heart, and could pick out of the endless flat prairie in any season. He saw the distant highway was almost, but not quite, where it belonged, and his heart ached. Still, he descended, letting his red boots come to earth where his sneakers once had, long ago, and his business shoes after that. He stood and looked across unfamiliar farmland.
Smallville was gone.