Lauren got Cassandra on the cell and homed in on her, and they met on a street corner. Lauren paid the cabbie, gathered her things and said, “All right, which way?”

“It's somewhere on this block, but I'm having trouble finding it, exactly. It's as if it gets blurry when I get too close.”

“Well, okay…let's bracket it then.”

⛉ s ⛉

Murray Goldberg watched his daughter fondly as they rode home. His darling little girl was safe. When they got home, he would have to write up everything he knew, and then—very gingerly, and without telling Sarah what he was doing—test out his psychic muscles, and see whether he was okay in that department.

He looked at the business card in his hand. He didn't recognize the name. What would a reporter want with him? Had there been some special effects when he worked his magic? Had his effort drawn some kind of notice? He would have to turn on the news. Then he remembered something.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Dad?”

“What was that you said yesterday, about a man breaking into the apartment?”

“Well, you said that you didn't invite anyone over. I got in and found a suitcase and a notebook in the living room. When I stopped by later to shower and change, the suitcase was gone.”

“But not the notebook?”

“No. Uh, I took it.”

“Show me.”

Sarah pulled it out, and Murray puzzled over the notes. He realized that the diagram of the apartment was a map giving the precise location where he had summoned the light. This must be another mage, but one who didn't know his system, because his notes on Murray's writings were incoherent. Murray was excited. He must have drawn the notice of another psychic—a real one, not those silly fakers.

“I want to meet this fellow. He and I should have a lot to talk about.”

“One of yours, then, Dad?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I'm sorry I worried you, then. But how did he get into the apartment?”

“Maybe he was overeager to meet me. Or more likely, the door was left open. Whoever brought me in might have forgotten because he was in a hurry—and I'm not complaining. Simple enough explanation, sweetheart.”

⛉ s ⛉

Doug didn't buy the Superman story, but he didn't have to. The important idea was that something strange was happening locally. Here, on Earth. Now the data made sense. It only took a few moments to crunch the numbers; given that the signal from Japan was that much weaker than the one here, and the Chicago instruments…well, if that was an anomalous spike and he took the average value…It became rapidly clear that the effect was very local. On the order of a couple of miles away.

Rummaging in his desk, Doug found an old map of Boston, abandoned by some visiting scientist or other during a conference, and spread it out. With a pencil he sketched a rough circle, refined his calculations, and drew a more accurate one.

He looked at the map, and came to the obvious conclusion; the circle cut through Back Bay, the North End, part of the airport…and the Jefferson Physics Lab over at Harvard. Doug felt triumphant, and started making phone calls, determined to find out who in the Harvard Physics Department had just made a breakthrough of some sort.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

⛉ s ⛉

Clark couldn't stay mad at them. He just couldn't. The artists couldn't stop sketching, one of the writers was completely mute through the entire meeting even when asked direct questions, another was embarrassing in his adulation. A few were hardheaded enough to defend themselves, but conceded that knowing the people they wrote about were real and could be hurt or killed by their storylines did change things. Clark asked for more lasting progress in Metropolis, time between villains to do some peaceful good. He asked for more positive educational material to be included in the comics, for the benefit of both worlds. Eventually, the writers started batting storylines back and forth, and spoke of starting a new comic—Clark was startled to learn just how many comic series had been written about him. Most of all, he taught them about his world.

He told them about Metropolis, the smell of the streets, the pulse of the city, the moods of the districts and neighborhoods and the hole-in-the-wall diners where you could get a really good hot dog. He told them about The Daily Planet, what it took every day to get an edition out the door, about Perry's vast competence, Jimmy's daring, Lois' determination and competitive zeal. He told them how much he admired the people he worked with, and how very much they accomplished daily with no superpowers whatsoever. He told them about his childhood, and what he had learned of Krypton. He told them how to negotiate for peace, how to talk down a jumper, how to report to the police, how his testimony was examined in court, and how to make the painful choices of when not to intervene. He told them his hopes, his dreams, and his fears, and he told them of his unwavering determination to do what was right, to stand for the truth, and for freedom.

They listened, and recorded, and Clark was sure that his words would be played back again and again, that his message was getting through, that they understood their responsibility now. He breathed easier, knowing the most important task of all had been accomplished. And then, a few of the more logically-minded staffers started a different discussion…

Everyone had been startled to find that he considered their stories only partially accurate. They debated explanations, compared notes, and came up with a theory: that in creating the DC universe, they had been, to put it politely, less than utterly self-consistent. That the Superman sitting with them now was a self-consistent construct composed of all the thoughts and ideas that everyone in the world had about Superman. He was the truest example of those stories possible. The theory did explain why the most popular stories in the Superman genre tended to be, in Clark's assessment, the most accurate.

Clark offered the counterproposal that there were many versions of Superman in different parallel universes, and he was the version closest to what the summoner wanted, or perhaps the closest to what all the people of the world thought of as ‘Superman’. He wasn't ready to concede the nonexistence of the rest of his universe yet. They argued philosophy for a while, and then back to science. At some point, Clark asked about the trigger of the great Depression.

“The stock market crash happened in September 1929 in my world, but not until October here. Why did you write the change?” Clark asked.

The writers looked at each other in confused silence, then back at him. “September 17th,” he specified. “Why that date?”

“Does anybody remember that storyline?” One of them asked.

“I'll check the database,” another volunteered. A few minutes later, he reported failure. “Nobody wrote that storyline, Superman. As far as we're concerned, the stock market crashed in Metropolis on October 29, 1929, the same as it did here.”

“But I learned that in U.S. History from Mrs. Wheeler in tenth grade, back in Smallville High,” Clark protested. Somebody started scribbling frantically; that happened nearly every time he opened his mouth in here. “Why wouldn't the dates match?”

“Time travel,” one of the writers suggested.

“Sure! Lex Luthor goes back in time, planning to make a killing in the stock market and to get out just before Black Monday. As a side-effect, he causes the crash to happen sooner as a result of his meddling.”

“But Lionel Luthor started out poor,” another protested.

“So did Lex,” Clark added. Heads turned to him again. “His father didn't give him anything; Lex is self-made.”

“But that's not the way…” a voice died out, shushed by another.

“He could have done it using another name, left a giant trust to himself by complicated legal machinery. Picked some big financial-sounding last name, like Witherspoon or Bentley or Carshen—”

“Carshen! I knew it!” Clark exclaimed. Heads turned again. “I've been working on a story for the Planet about possible corruption in the Carshen Foundation funds in Metropolis. It's the kind of machination that has Lex's feel. I didn't think to look for the source all the way back in the founding charter; I'll have to read it closely when I get back.” Clark caught himself. “If I get back. I'm sorry for interrupting, gentlemen, please continue.”

A jaw hit the floor. “Uh…I was just going to suggest that storyline.”

One of the artists sketching Clark in profile paused and looked around. “Okay, that's weird.”