Lauren looked at the list of psychics in the Chicago phone directory and sighed. Well, part of investigative journalism was tedious research. She dialed the first one.

“Hello, Madame Rianna speaking.”

“Madame Rianna, do your powers work over the phone?”

“But, of course. How can I help you?”

“What time?” Lauren asked, concentrating hard.

“I have an appointment available at—”

“Never mind, thanks.” She hung up. If a psychic couldn't tell what she was calling about, and didn't know what time Superman had ripped his way into the Universe, they were clearly not legitimate or not powerful enough. Besides, Lauren had to keep these calls short. There were a lot of psychics in Chicago.

⛉ s ⛉

Michael O'Malley paced in his office in a rare free moment, waiting for Ann to call back with the manifest, and imagined writing a report that summarized the landing as an “Act of Superman”. The cause of the accident was already emerging; this plane had way too much metal fatigue and should never have been cleared by maintenance. Somewhere an inspector was on the take, or brutally incompetent, and Michael was going to have his head on a pike if this theory played out.

Aaron stuck his head in. “Michael! Turn on CNN!”

Michael looked around the office, found the screen and the remote, and did so. An image appeared, being played again and again, with computer enhancement, highlighting and arrows drawn in. The image showed the outside of a tall building, and focused on someone who was swinging back and forth from a rope on the outside, several stories up. Then he squinted. No, the motion wasn't right for that. It was more as if the person, dressed in red and blue, was flying back and forth, and waving, then abruptly rose out of sight, despite the camera's best efforts to track him. Michael turned up the sound.

“…the third report in as many cities of sightings of what appears to be The Man of Steel. The four doctors were returned to the hospital and claim that they have spent the last three hours in Haiti, assisting the flood victims, flown there in a powered-down helicopter by Superman himself. CNN is currently attempting to verify parts of this extraordinary claim from our office in Port-Au-Prince. As you can see on this footage, however…”

Michael sat down heavily, and looked again at the Polaroid he had taken of the claw mark in the fuselage.

⛉ s ⛉

Clark stood still for several moments, clenching his jaw. How dare they? He stared in amazement, trying to control his temper. The symbol of my house, my family line, my honor, sold commercially for anyone to wear or dishonor! He couldn't believe it. Did they think I wouldn't mind? Did they think I wouldn't notice? What, did they think they could copyright my symb—? Clark's thought stopped short.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Copyright my symbol.

As if I were a story.

Clark took a deep breath, and walked a little closer to the window. They think I'm just a story, here. They think they invented me. They don't know that I'm real. It was finally sinking in, the crazy story Lauren had told him, that people had been confirming everywhere he went—the looks, the amazement, the casual knowledge of his double identity evinced by several strangers in different cities…Clark rubbed his chin, thinking hard.

It was crazy, but there it was. In this world, someone had peered into Clark's, seen the events unfolding in Metropolis and told them as stories—perhaps suspecting that no one would believe that they were real. This world was apparently magic-poor, and weak in space, time and dimensional travel. Fiction was a mask to conceal the importance of the tales told, and perhaps enabled the telling.

Clark brought his attention back to the present, and looked again at the storefront. There were perhaps a dozen T-shirts in the window. Near his own symbol, Clark noted ones for the Flash and Green Lantern. Hoo boy, Clark thought, they aren't going to be any happier than I was to hear about this. There were several more that he didn't recognize.

Drawn by an almost morbid curiosity, Clark walked over, descended the stairs and entered the shop. It was a small and somewhat cramped comic book store. Unfamiliar music played over the speakers. He headed slowly over to the window, but mostly saw merchandise for an unfamiliar character in a red costume, with some kind of spiderweb design. Clark turned around slowly, and peered around corners of bookcases cautiously, unsure of what he would find; X-ray vision did not enable him to read anything but engravings.

He caught his breath. There they were: comic books with himself on the cover, stylized in various fashions. He snorted in derision at the improbably pompous look on his face in one drawing. Another rendered him with muscles corded and bulging to an extreme that he would never have been able to disguise with a business suit. Good Heavens! Clark had to choke down a laugh. Look how they drew the Justice League! The thought of Batman's reaction to that sketch forced him to put a hand over his mouth and double over. He'd stalk off with wounded dignity like a cat who'd just tripped on its own tail in front of witnesses. Probably after saying something harsh enough to distract us from our enjoyment, too.

Clark looked around at the shelves. One regular book caught his eye next: it claimed to be a collection of comic strips from newspapers in 1939-1940. He picked it up, staring in bemusement at the simplistic drawings, then turned to the introduction. Who was writing these things?

Clark read, stared, read it again. They told it as if it were just a jumble of ideas that happened to go together…as if his father might easily not have been named Jor-El…as if pieces of his world, his universe, could be torn up and rearranged as easily as moving words on a page.

How badly did they get it wrong? he wondered, and began to flip through the comics. There was no mention of Siegel being a magician or wizard, just a fellow writing stories. Clark puzzled at the storylines. This makes no sense. How old do they think I am, anyway? He shook his head. Here he was beating up gangsters in the late Depression, and over in that book he was still just a teenager. How old do they think Lois is? He flipped more pages. Is that supposed to be Jimmy? He shook his head at another page. Perry would never be that stupid. And Lois is a crack reporter. I could never fool her with a line like that. Parts of this were clearly oversimplified and overdramatized for kids. It verged on the ridiculous.

Clark picked up another book about himself and flipped through that as well. There have been movies. And TV shows. More than one. Whole sets of comic books, telling my story differently each time, changing the details to suit the writers' fancies…Some of these things actually happened. Some of them didn't. I can understand the made-up parts; but… Clark shook his head in confusion.

Where are they getting their information for the true parts?!?