Boy With No Name

Futurefic AU, angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

If my blood can save lives, maybe I should come forward... - Clark Kent, "Resurrection"

I don't have a name.

I live in a little white box. I've always lived in it, as long as I can remember. It's exactly long enough for my cot, and wide enough that I can take ten steps from my cot to the wall. There is a toilet, a shower, and a sink across from the cot, and in the perfect whiteness of the door there's a slot where a tray of food appears three times a day. There's a mirror over the sink, and one bright light overhead. It's very, very clean and smells of disinfectant, and I never leave it.

When I look in my mirror, I see a boy with dark, wavy hair and green eyes looking back at me. That's all there is to see, really. The wall is white. The sheets on the cot are white. Even my clothes are white.

For a long time, I wondered if everyone in the world lived in a little white box. The doctors and teachers that I saw every day, did they live in the same sort of room? Obviously if they did, they got to leave their rooms sometimes, because they came into my room.

I didn't like it much when they came in, but I figured it was better than being alone all the time. Being alone was boring. When they came in, they spoke curtly to me, and then they took blood out of my arm. They still do, every single day. There's a little badge on the front of their white coats that says LexCorp: Making the World Better Through Medical Technology, with their name on a tag beneath it. When I was younger, I couldn't sound out the names, but now I can read them all.

The teacher helped me learn to read. She started with books that had sentences like the cat ate the rat, but those were easy. Before long she had me reading other stories, stories with much bigger words.

"Subject displays the typical rapid learning ability and excellent memory," she'd scrawl in her notes. (It took a little while, but I learned to read upside down pretty quickly, too.) At first I wondered what that meant. Typical for what? Was I just like everyone else? But if I was, then my memory wouldn't be excellent... it'd be ordinary. Average. At least that was what I figured.

Anyway, before long I was reading big books with no pictures. And as I read them, I began to realize not everyone lived in a little white box. In fact, it seemed that no one did. People lived in houses, and had parents, and families-- all words that I didn't quite understand.

"It's fiction," she said shortly, when I asked about it. "Fiction means it's all imaginary."

"So in real life, everyone lives in a box?"

"Of course," she answered, and scribbled some more notes. By now she'd realized I could read her writing upside down, and took care to tilt her clipboard so I couldn't read it at all.

I didn't quite believe her, but I had no actual proof other people didn't live in boxes. And really, why would I live in a box, and everyone else live in houses? Why would everyone else be able to travel around on bicycles, or in cars, and go to places like malls and stores, when I couldn't ever leave this box?

By now, I knew it wasn't a box, not exactly. The right word for the place I lived was cell. I lived in a cell. I'd read about cells in stories. When people did something wrong and went to jail, they lived in a cell.

I began to worry that I'd done something wrong. Maybe I was in jail. Maybe I'd done something illegal when I was younger, and that was why I was here. The idea tormented me. It scared me. Maybe I was a terrible person who'd done terrible things, and just didn't know it.

Every day, they drew blood from my arm. The doctors always touched me with a certain caution, as if physical contact with me was mildly disgusting, and they never smiled at me, or even looked me in the eyes. The syringe they used had a glowing green jewel on it, and it made me feel icky. They told me more than once that having blood drawn made everyone feel bad. I didn't like it, because it felt like my skin was crawling and my stomach was tying itself up in knots. But it was just part of my life, something that happened every single day, and I guess I'd gotten pretty used to it.

The doctors talked among themselves sometimes, with no concern for the fact that I was in the room.

"You'll note that the blood continues to retain its healing factors," one said once, holding up a vial filled with my blood, "no matter how many duplicates of the original genetic material are made. Cancer, heart disease, mental disorders... all are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, thanks to the almost miraculous qualities of this substance."

The assistant, who seemed more tentative, spoke hesitantly.

"But if the subjects were ever allowed rights, then all the progress we've made..."

"Rights!" The first doctor laughed coldly. "There can be no human rights for something that is not human."

"But the editorials in the Daily Planet... the rallies... the senators who support the cause..."

"There is no cause," the first doctor snapped impatiently. "There are only a few overly emotional fools who would pull us back into the Dark Ages, when people died of so many maladies that are almost entirely gone now. Do you really suppose the public would tolerate returning to the days of death and suffering? Do you really suppose the public cares about rights?"

The assistant looked embarrassed. "I suppose not..."

The first doctor sighed. "At any rate," he said, a little more gently, "the subjects are terminated before the onset of adolescence, in order to avoid the development of the secondary abilities that were displayed by the original subject. The public would never tolerate the manifestation of such abilities, and we both know it."

"I suppose you're right," the assistant admitted. "I simply worry..."

The conversation faded as they left my cell, but I heard others like it, over and over again. They tended to speak as if I wasn't there at all. But no matter how much I listened, I couldn't quite understand it.

It seemed as if my blood was valuable somehow. As if by giving it every day, I accomplished something worthwhile. Somehow, I dimly understood, my blood had to do with the words they all had stitched onto their white coats: Making the World Better Through Medical Technology.

But what, I couldn't guess.

The days slid by, one like another, dull and tedious and endless. The monotony was broken only by the hour or two when my teacher visited the cell, and the doctors came in to draw blood and make their notes. I had little to think about, and slowly, I started to wonder what was outside my cell.

Not about what the greater world was like. True, I liked to lie on my cot and dream about movies and bowling alleys and farms, to try to picture them in my head. But a more immediate question nagged at me-- what exactly was right outside my cell door?

The walls were soundproof. I couldn't hear anything, not even footsteps approaching. I never knew anyone was coming until the door opened. And when the door opened, and I snuck a peek outside, all I could see was more whiteness. A white corridor, I guess, just as glaringly bright as my cell.

I asked, but no one would answer me. And so, more and more, I began to wonder what was down the corridor.

I tried more than once to open the door, but it wouldn't open. Nothing I could do would force the handle to turn. There was no way of escaping my box.

My prison.

Slowly, I came to realize that was what it was. No matter how much they told me everyone lived this way... I just couldn't believe it. It didn't make sense. Everyone couldn't possibly live in a small cell, having blood drawn every day. There had to be more to most people's existence.

There should be more to my existence.

Oppressed by the relentless drone of monotony, I began to dream of escape. And slowly, my dreams turned to plans. Simple plans, of course, because I was still very young. But over the course of the months, my quiet acquiescence to fate slowly shifted into a grim determination to escape.

And today, when the door opened... I ran.

I brushed past a white-coated doctor. She gave a little squeal of panic, as if touching me had frightened her somehow. As if it had repulsed her. But maybe she was only startled. She grabbed for me, but I dodged to the side, avoiding her grasp, and ran down the corridor as fast as I could.

And then my mouth fell open.

The walls were stark white, and they rose high on either side of a wide central courtyard, which was surrounded by a clear plastic railing. As I raced down the corridor, I saw that on this level, there was a cell every twenty feet or so. From outside, the walls of the cells appeared to be transparent. You could see in, as if the wall were made of glass, but I guessed the occupants of the cells couldn't see out, any more than I'd been able to.

And every cell had an occupant.

Me.

Stunned, I ran on, looking into each cell. Every cell-- every last cell-- held a dark-haired little boy with green eyes, a little boy who wore the exact same face I saw in the mirror every day. A little boy who probably had blood drawn from his arm every day, exactly as I did.

There were at least fifty cells on this level, and as I ran, I looked up and down, seeing that this wasn't the only level of cells. There were levels above and below, and everywhere I looked, I saw myself, over and over and over again.

There were dozens of me.

No... hundreds.

Hundreds upon hundreds of dark-haired, green-eyed boys with no name.

-The End-

What a Shame

Futurefic angst
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
The music is "What a Shame," by Shinedown.

I watched it all up close
I knew him more than most
I saw a side of him he never showed
Full of sympathy for a world that
Wouldn't let him be

"I was Superman."

I remember the first time I met him, and the odd words he spoke. His voice was cracked with age, his back bent, his eyes rheumy. He must have been over eighty, yet as old as he was, he had no place to call home. His hand shook as he reached out to accept the dollar I offered.

"I flew," he muttered, his eyes vague, his words halting. "Once upon a time... I flew."

I looked more closely at the old man. Despite the ravages of time that had etched his face with creases, he looked as if he could have been Superman, once upon a time. High cheekbones, a square jaw, faded green eyes. In his youth, he could have been the famous superhero.

But Superman had disappeared forty years ago and was presumed long dead. This poor old guy was just delusional. Of course he wasn't Superman.

"I believe you," I assured him, politely and utterly untruthfully, and walked on.

That's the man he was
Have you heard enough?

The next time I saw him, a much younger man had him up against a brick wall, one hand squeezing his throat, his other hand balled into a fist. The old man was trembling with terror, his eyes wide.

"Hey!" I ran forward, doing my best to look dangerous-- not easy for an accountant. But despite my nerdy profession, I was a pretty big guy, and I sure as hell wasn't going to quietly stand back and let some poor old homeless man suffer a beating.

The young man turned his head and looked at me. "He tried to take my whiskey," he growled.

I guessed in a cold, empty life, whiskey was something men might fight to the death for. "He's just an old guy," I said. "He's a little confused, that's all. Let him go."

The young man glared at me for a moment, then threw the old man back against the wall with contempt and stalked off, bending to reclaim his bottle. The old man leaned against the wall, wheezing and rubbing his throat.

"You should be more careful," I said gently. "I know you wanted the whiskey, but he could have killed you."

He shook his head, still gasping for breath.

"I didn't want it," he muttered. "I wanted him... to stop drinking. He's addicted. He needs help."

I frowned at the old guy, wondering if he was for real. Probably not, I figured. Probably he'd just wanted the whiskey for himself.

But maybe not. There was a sheen of sincerity in the tired old eyes that made me think twice. Suddenly I found myself strangely certain that he had truly been trying to help, that he'd risked a beating in an effort to help the other man.

This old man, I thought with an odd feeling of admiration, had guts.

"Be more careful," I told him, and walked on.

What a shame, what a shame,
To judge a life that you can't change
The choir sings, the church bells ring
So won't you give this man his wings?
What a shame to have to beg you to
See we're not all the same
What a shame

"Superman" seemed to live on a bench not far from my office, and I found myself noticing him more and more often. Sometimes he was merely sitting on a corner, waiting patiently for handouts. But often I saw him doing other things, too. Giving a piece of bread he surely couldn't spare to another man. Pulling weeds from flowerbeds in the park. Stopping arguments between two quarrelling men with halting, soft words.

I was ashamed to realize that at first I'd thought of him as merely a homeless beggar, almost subhuman. But the more I saw him, the more I began to realize he was a man. Just a man, like any other. Perhaps better than most.

He and I weren't the same. I was a young man, working a professional job in a plush office, my whole life ahead of me. He was ancient, homeless, the best years of his life long behind him.

And yet... he was still a man. It shamed me to realize I'd ever thought of him, or of anyone, as somehow less than human.

I passed him one day on the street, and handed him a five. He'd been standing there mumbling to himself, muttering strange, disjointed words that didn't make much sense, but he accepted the bill and smiled, showing teeth that were discolored with age.

"Tell me something," I said, spurred by a sudden curiosity. "How did you wind up on the streets?"

He blinked at me a moment, as if no one had ever asked him that question before. Maybe no one had ever expressed an interest in him before. God knew I'd barely exchanged five words with him, in all the time I'd been passing him. I'd given him money, but I'd never really bothered to speak with him.

"My father," he said in his slow, jerky sentences. "I wouldn't walk the path... he chose for me. He tolerated it for a while, but eventually he... stripped me of everything... and sentenced me to live... here. Among the lowest of humans, he said."

Something about the way he said the words sent a shiver down my spine, and suddenly I could imagine Superman being stripped of his powers, like a god banished from Mount Olympus, cast down to Earth and forced to live out his days among mortals...

I shook myself mentally, reminding myself that this wasn't Superman, just an old, deluded man.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. "How long have you lived this way?"

The corners of his mouth turned up in a mirthless smile. "Like Moses," he said, "I've wandered... in this wasteland... for forty years."

Forty years. Forty years of an aimless, hungry, homeless existence. I gave an involuntary shiver, and thanked God for my well-appointed apartment and the food I ate every day.

I wondered if, like Moses, this old man would get a glimpse of the Promised Land before he died, or if he'd die in the desert, never having seen a glimmer of anything better.

I shook his hand, wished him well, and walked on.

There's a hard life for every silver spoon
There's a touch of grey for every shade
Of blue

I began working in the local soup kitchen, ladeling out soup three nights a week. Sometimes I saw the old man there. Sometimes he was there to eat, but more often he was there to help. People called him Clark, but I had no way of knowing if that was his real name or not. As old and confused as he was, he himself might not know his real name.

I'd never given much thought to the homeless in Metropolis, even though I passed them every day on my way to the office. But I started making donations to the soup kitchen, and the local homeless shelter, too. This time of the year, in late summer, the shelter was fairly empty, but I was told it would fill up in the winter, and that my donations would be much appreciated then.

I wished there was more I could for the old man, and all the others like him, living on the streets without enough food and without proper shelter, but I didn't know what else to do for them. As far as I could tell, no one else really knew what to do for them, either.

With a pang, I remembered what Jesus had said, two thousand years ago: You will always have the poor with you.

Two millennia later, it was still true.

That's the way that I see life
If there was nothing wrong
Then there'd be nothing right

The fire had blazed up in an old abandoned building, only a block from my office. Like everyone else in the office, I walked down the street, curious to see the flames. The fire department was already there, struggling to put out an inferno that couldn't be extinguished. The old building was clearly not going to be saved. And really, there was no reason it should be. Like so many things in the city, it had outlived its usefulness.

For some reason, that thought made my mind turn to the old man. I glanced around, wondering where he was.

And then, as if I'd conjured him up, I saw him staggering out of the smoke and flames, dragging another man with all his pitiful strength.

I stared, wondering if he'd gone into the building to save the man, or if they'd both been trapped inside. Either way, it must have been a fearful effort for his ancient body to drag out the other man. He was lucky to have made it out alive.

The firefighters rushed toward him.

But before they reached him, he collapsed.

And for this working man they say could
Barely stand
There's gotta be a better place to land
Some kind of remedy for a world that
Wouldn't let him be
That's the man he was
Have you heard enough?

"They tell me you went into that building to save the other man," I said. His eyes were closed, and I doubted he could hear me, but I wanted to speak, to grant him the sound of another human voice. "Maybe you really are Superman."

His eyelids didn't flicker. He had suffered burns in the fire, but the greater problem was smoke inhalation, which had badly damaged his lungs. He was on oxygen, and they'd told me he almost certainly wasn't going to survive.

He'd walked straight into a burning building to save a man-- a homeless man whom society judged just as valueless as he was, a man whose cigarette had started the blaze in the first place-- and in the process, he'd given his life, freely and without fear.

I very much doubted I'd have the courage to do the same now, let alone when I was eighty.

I patted the old, liver-spotted hand awkwardly. This man barely knew me, and yet I was the only person in the world who seemed to care enough to sit a vigil at his bedside. And I hadn't cared nearly enough. I'd passed him on the street, saying hello, handing him a few dollars I could easily spare. I'd served him a few bowls of soup. I wondered now what else I could have done for him.

I wondered now, when it was too late.

What a shame, what a shame,
To judge a life that you can't change
The choir sings, the church bells ring
So won't you give this man his wings?
What a shame to have to beg you to
See we're not all the same
What a shame

Sometime during the night, his slow, labored breathing stopped, and he faded quietly out of life. The hospital chaplain had arrived an hour or so ago, and had been sitting with me. We both straightened up, staring at the old man's body, and the chaplain placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said gently.

I didn't bother to explain it wasn't my loss, not really. It was no one's loss. Or it was the world's loss. I wasn't sure, and couldn't explain the confused grief that rioted inside me.

I knew next to nothing about this old man.

And yet I knew enough to know that he'd earned his place with the angels.

God forgive the hands that laid you down
They never knew how, but your broken
Heart can break the sound
And change the season
Now the leaves are falling faster,
Happily ever after
You gave me hope through your endeavors
And now you will live forever

Outside, the sun rode high in a crystal blue sky, and red and gold leaves drifted down from the trees. The sunlight shone through the stained glass, illuminating the casket at the front of the church in red and blue and yellow light.

I sat in the front row, my head bowed, and listened to the pastor intoning words of comfort and hope.

I sat alone.

Of all the people the old man had helped, all the lives he had touched, all the souls he'd known in his long lifetime-- none of them came for his funeral. Aside from the pastor and the choir, I was the only person there.

I'd wanted the old man to have a decent funeral. I'd paid for the casket and the burial plot; I'd asked the pastor for songs and Biblical passages I felt were appropriate. But it did little to assuage my guilt. Once again I felt the bitterness of having done something for the old man in death, when I could have done so much more for him in life.

I lifted my head and looked at the casket, glowing with red and blue and yellow light. Not for the first time, I wondered if perhaps he hadn't been merely a confused old man, if perhaps he'd really been Superman.

And not for the first time, I wondered why it should matter to me. Who was I, to judge this man? What did it matter if he'd been an anonymous, homeless man, or the world's greatest superhero?

He'd been a man.

In the end, that was all that mattered.

What a shame, what a shame,
To judge a life that you can't change
The choir sings, the church bells ring
So won't you give this man his wings?

-The End-

Funeral For a Friend

Perry futurefic
PG (character death warning)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

Clark Kent: I just can't help thinking that... Whitney's skin wasn't bulletproof. His bones weren't unbreakable, but he still put himself in harm's way so the world could be safer. I wonder if I didn't have my abilities if I'd have that same kind of courage.

Jonathan Kent: Son, there is no doubt in our minds that you would.

"We are here today to remember a great American hero."

The casket sat at the front of the cathedral, draped in an American flag and surrounded by red, white and blue flowers. The vast building was packed to overflowing with mourners, and outside thousands more thronged the street, waiting to pay their last respects. Cameras set up in the church broadcast the event to millions or even billions more.

"Superman was not born on this planet." Perry White spoke in clear, measured tones, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. God knew it wasn't easy. "But he committed himself, body and soul, to keeping us safe. Not just America, but the whole world. He defended us for fifteen years. And in the end, he willingly sacrificed himself to save us all."

He looked over the crowd, seeing masked, caped superheroes scattered throughout. It looked like every superhero in the world was here. Superman had been the leader of the Justice League, and he imagined the superhero community must be in something of an uproar right now, though he had no way of knowing for sure. He wondered how they felt, if they grieved the way the general populace did. Judging from the way their heads were bent, he thought they must be grieving almost as much as he himself was.

"Superman was invulnerable, in most circumstances," Perry went on. "But he knew perfectly well he could be injured, or even killed, by the technology of the aliens who attacked us last week. And yet... and yet he faced them anyway. To protect us, to save us, he faced them without hesitation."

As he spoke, he remembered a seventeen-year-old boy, struggling to save him. Somehow the boy had lost his amazing abilities and become as fragile as any human, and yet he'd risked his life to save Perry's unworthy neck. The boy could have easily been killed that day, all due to Perry's stupidity.

But he hadn't died. Thank God for that. They'd both survived, and the boy had gone on to be the world's greatest superhero.

Perry had known, the minute he laid eyes on Superman, that he was Clark Kent. Of course he'd known. He wasn't stupid, and the minute Superman came to town, he'd figured it out. The fact that Clark wore dark-rimmed glasses, alternated a wide, goofy grin with foot-shuffling shyness, and generally acted like a clueless, bumbling idiot hadn't fooled him for a microsecond.

And yet after some thought, he'd decided to keep Clark's secret, because he could easily understand why superheroes needed to conceal their identity in order to protect their families. He'd been torn nearly in two by the issue, had considered it from all sides for weeks. His job as editor in chief of the Daily Planet was to bring the truth to the public, and the truth was that Superman was Clark Kent. And on a more practical level, exposing Superman's secret identity would have sold a lot of papers, no doubt about it.

But it also might very well have caused Superman to stop working as a hero, which could have killed a lot of people in the long run.

Perry had never regretted that decision, and last week's events had made him more certain than ever that it had indeed been the correct decision. Because if Superman hadn't been around, Earth would be a smoking ball of charcoal right now.

He paused for a moment, blinking back tears. Not only had Earth lost a great hero, but he'd lost a colleague and close friend. There were so many more things he wanted to say. He wanted to talk about Clark Kent, journalist, loving husband, devoted son, and a damn good friend.

But no one was here to remember Clark Kent. No one except him, and a handful of others-- his widow, who was seated in the press section and trying valiantly to conceal her tears; Jimmy Olsen, who'd known and protected Clark's secret for years; Martha Kent, who was seated near the front, struggling to look dignified and calm, as if a stranger, rather than her only son, lay in the coffin.

Very few people in the crowd even knew the name Clark Kent.

But everyone on the planet knew the name of Superman.

Perry pushed aside his memories of the dark-rimmed glasses and Clark's wide, goofy grin, and focused on the memory of a heroic figure patrolling Metropolis' skies, his crimson cape ripping behind him.

"And so," he said, "we gather together on this Veterans Day to remember all the veterans who have fought and died to protect our country, as well as those still among us. But most of all, we remember Superman, who gave his life to protect us all. Not just the United States of America... but every person on Earth."

He heard his voice cracking again, and paused, steadying himself, then forced out the last words of his speech in a ragged whisper.

"May we never forget him."

-The End-

Olsen's Diamond Blues

Jimmy and Tess
Season 8
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

When I was just a little young boy,
Papa said "Son, you'll never get far,
I'll tell you the reason if you want to know,
'Cause child of mine, there isn't really very far to go."

Well baby, baby wants a gold diamond ring
Wants it more than most any old thing
Well when I get those jelly roll blues
Why I'd go and get anything in this world for you.

Same old story and I know it's been told,
Some like jelly jelly - some like gold
Many a man's done a terrible thing
Just to get baby that shiny diamond ring.
-Grateful Dead, "Dupree's Diamond Blues"

He had to get her a diamond.

Chloe Sullivan wasn't the type to complain, but Jimmy Olsen wasn't blind. He saw the way she looked at the big, tacky plastic ring on her left hand. He saw the way other people looked at it, too.

He definitely saw the way Clark Kent looked at it.

Clark was Chloe's best friend, from time immemorial, and Jimmy had always suspected there was more than a little romance between them. Last week, that had been confirmed, quite painfully, when he'd found a letter, written from Chloe to Clark years ago. I'll let you go for now, hoping that one day you'll fly back to me...

The letter was ancient history, but what worried him was that she'd carefully tucked it away, hiding it the way she'd conceal something infinitely precious. And besides, there had been so much raw emotion in it that it had scared him. As he read through it, he'd sensed a passion and a commitment he'd never felt from her himself.

But that stupid letter didn't matter, not really. Because he'd won Chloe. She'd agreed to marry him, not Clark.

Despite that, he couldn't seem to forget the stupid letter. And the scornful glances Clark kept tossing at the plastic ring really rankled.

It wasn't like CK was rich. He'd been working his mom's crappy little farm till recently, barely keeping it afloat, and a month or so ago he'd finally gotten a job at the Daily Planet, writing obits and filing and doing other crap work. He wasn't making enough to buy diamonds either.

So if he tried to steal Chloe away... well, it wouldn't be with a diamond he'd bought. Even so, Jimmy kept having this vision of Clark dropping down on one knee in front of Chloe, holding up a diamond ring, and saying something like, It belonged to my mother... and now I want you to have it. Over and over again, he imagined Chloe blinking hard, and reaching out to accept it with a tremulous smile.

Paranoia, the more logical part of his brain informed him. If Clark had ever had any intention of proposing to Chloe, he could have done it a long time ago. He wasn't going to propose to Chloe. They were just friends. And even if he did, well, Chloe wasn't going to go for Clark. She loved Jimmy, or she wouldn't have agreed to marry him.

Even so, Jimmy kept seeing the way she looked at the plastic ring on her hand. He kept hearing the words of that letter in his head.

And he worried.

He thought he had reason to worry. He hadn't failed to notice that since Chloe had come back from prison, she hadn't made love to him. Not once. There was a distance between them now, and it scared him. He was deathly afraid CK was going to exploit the problems they were having, and steal Chloe away from him.

Somehow or other, he had to get Chloe a proper engagement ring. He had to let CK know that she was his, now and forever.

He'd painstakingly visited every jewelry store in Metropolis and Smallville, and come to an inescapable conclusion: he couldn't afford the kind of ring Chloe deserved. He couldn't afford much of anything. And no one was willing to extend credit to a kid with a tiny income who hadn't even finished college yet.

He knew that he really had no business asking a girl to marry him if he couldn't even scrape up enough to buy her a shiny little rock. The truth was that the two of them were simply too damn young to get married.

But the problem was, he'd already asked her. And she'd said yes. He couldn't back out of it now.

And the more he thought about it, the more he developed the irrational conviction that if he didn't buy her a diamond ring... Clark was going to.

Okay. So he had to have a ring. Somehow, he just had to get one. Burglary was not an option-- he was nervous and jumpy by nature, so he'd make a really lousy criminal. He'd never manage to break into a store and get a ring successfully. He'd be sure to set off an alarm or leave fingerprints behind or something.

And the fact that he was even thinking about stealing, even in a casual, never-gonna-happen way, worried him. But he was that insane on the subject of Clark, especially now that he'd read that letter. He was that scared of losing the woman he loved to CK.

He haunted jewelry stores, looking at rings he couldn't possibly afford, and worried.

Fortunately, the problem solved itself for him a few days later. Tess Mercer, the acting CEO of LuthorCorp and editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet, called him into her office.

"I understand you're getting married, Mr. Olsen," she said, smiling. "Congratulations."

Jimmy smiled back. Tess was a lot nicer than Lex Luthor had been. Better to look at, too. She had long red hair and emerald green eyes, along with a body that filled out her power suits very impressively. There was a gentle warmth in her eyes, totally unlike the glacial cold in Lex's gray ones.

"Thanks," he answered.

"But your fiancee's ring..." She shook her head, looking dismayed, and Jimmy felt another flush of embarrassment at the confirmation that everyone was looking at Chloe's ring with pity and scorn. "You've been a valuable asset to this newspaper for two years now, Mr. Olsen. I wonder if we're paying you enough."

Through the embarrrassment, alarm bells went off at the back of Jimmy's mind, but he ignored them. The boss was conveniently hinting at a raise, at the exact moment when he happened to need one. That was a good thing.

The fact that the coincidence worried him was just a leftover from dealing with Lex. Lex had never done anything for anybody without expecting something in return. But Tess wasn't Lex.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, he thought, a little desperately. Don't.

"I haven't had a raise since I got here," he admitted.

Tess shook her head, flipping through the papers in a file-- his personnel file, Jimmy realized. The smooth, perfect skin of her forehead puckered in a slight frown.

"An oversight, I'm afraid," she said, thumbing through papers. "Due to all the turnover we've had lately, no one's had the chance to review your work. But I've spent the morning looking over your file, Mr. Olsen, and I don't mind telling you I've extremely impressed with your work. Your photography is top-notch."

Jimmy felt his cheeks turn pink. "Thank you."

"I see that you were working upstairs, but got demoted to the basement last year, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with Mr. Luthor."

The unfortunate misunderstanding had been his clumsy attempt to strongarm Lex, but Jimmy thought it best not to say so. He nodded.

"You're too good for the basement. Much too good." She spoke decisively. "I'm moving you to the twentieth floor."

Jimmy gaped. The top floor. The top floor. He was being promoted to the real bullpen.

That meant respect. It meant the opportunity for a lot more front-page work.

And it meant a lot more money.

He was so totally going to be able to buy Chloe that diamond now. He was so happy he could barely restrain himself from dropping to the floor and kissing Tess' expensively shod feet.

"Th-thank you," he managed to stammer out.

"Don't thank me." She spoke warmly. "You deserve this, Mr. Olsen. It's really criminal that you've remained in the basement for so long, when you're capable of producing work like this."

Jimmy thought about stammering out another thank you, but decided just to keep quiet. He tried not to grin foolishly. "Is that all, Ms. Mercer?"

"I think so. Go ahead and pack up your things. There's a desk waiting upstairs for you, along with a forty percent raise in pay. Oh, and I'm going to write you a check for a bonus today, too. After struggling along at this woefully low pay level for two years, you certainly deserve one. I believe in rewarding competence, Mr. Olsen. And you are very definitely competent."

Jimmy felt like the world had suddenly shifted under his feet. Everything had changed with bewildering abruptness. All the dark clouds had blown away, and the summer sun was shining down on Jimmy Olsen. He grinned at her, and turned toward the door.

But then she spoke. "Oh, Mr. Olsen. There is one other thing."

He froze. Fear squeezed his heart. Suddenly he remembered the time he'd asked Lex for help to save Chloe, and how Lex had manipulated him in return.

Relax, he told himself. She's not Lex.

He turned back to face her, trying not to look panicked. She's not Lex, he reminded himself, a desperate mantra. She's not Lex. "Yes?"

Tess spoke casually, apparently absorbed in his file. "I have a few concerns about our newest hire. Clark Kent, the young man in the basement. You know him, don't you?"

"Well... sort of. I mean, not really. We're not like friends or anything..."

"But he's your fiancee's best friend, isn't he?"

Jimmy felt the net falling over him, metaphorically speaking. No, he thought wretchedly. This is not happening to me again. I am not going to be used this way... I'll just quit...

But he wouldn't quit, and he knew it. She knew it, too. Everyone knew he needed the money. He had to get that diamond.

I'm the girl of your dreams masquerading as your best friend...

"Yes," he answered dully. "He is."

"I've observed a lot of strange things about Mr. Kent." Tess put down the file and looked up at him, her green gaze earnest. "Things that don't add up. Things that make me suspect he's quite... unusual, if you take my meaning."

He took her meaning, all right. Tess thought Clark was a meteor freak. And Jimmy had a feeling that might just be the truth. He'd seen some odd things that had made him wonder, too.

And what LuthorCorp did to meteor freaks-- well, he'd heard enough from Chloe to know strange abilities were not something you wanted to advertise to LuthorCorp. Not unless you wanted to wind up in a lab.

"I don't think so," he answered. "He's just a regular guy."

"I think you're wrong, Mr. Olsen." Tess smiled, and suddenly she didn't look sweet and kind any more. She looked like a cobra. "I want you to put those crack journalistic instincts to work, Mr. Olsen, and find me some solid evidence on Clark Kent's abilities. I want you to put your brilliant photography skills to work, and bring me some pictures of Clark Kent doing the peculiar things he does. "

"But I'll be on the twentieth floor, and he's in the basement..."

"Don't worry, Mr. Olsen. He's your fiancee's best friend, after all, and I know he hangs around her constantly. You can use her friendship with him to watch him."

"But I--"

Tess spoke right over him. "Furthermore, I'll see to it that you're assigned to work with him on a regular basis. Which doesn't mean you won't work with better reporters, too, so that we can see your work gracing the front page more frequently. But never fear, you'll get plenty of opportunities to observe young Mr. Kent."

Jimmy tried, very weakly, to resist. "What if I don't want to observe him?"

"Oh, but you want to do this, Mr. Olsen. Because you're one of my best photographers. You deserve this promotion so much. And... well, it's a very good thing for your career to be working upstairs. Don't you think?"

Jimmy closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about a shiny diamond ring on Chloe's hand, gleaming as it announced triumphantly to the world, Chloe Sullivan belongs to Jimmy Olsen.

He swallowed. He knew Chloe wouldn't want him spying on Clark. Clark was her best friend.

But... well, he'd never liked Clark all that much. He liked him even less after his discovery of that frigging letter last week.

And if Clark did happen to have meteor abilities, and LuthorCorp put him into a lab... well, that'd be a real pity, all right, but it would definitely keep Clark and Chloe apart.

So really, this situation wasn't all that bad. He was getting a raise and a promotion... and he had the chance to get rid of a rival for good.

Something cold and wintry settled into his chest, driving the fear and the guilt away. He nodded. "Sure, Ms. Mercer. I'll see what I can find out."

"Very good, Mr. Olsen." She put his file aside and looked up at him. "As I said, you'll be getting a bit of a bonus today. I think you'll find it's enough to take care of a much nicer ring for your fiancee. Next time she comes in here to visit you, I want to see a diamond on her finger, not plastic."

Jimmy envisioned Chloe wearing a big diamond on her finger, a diamond that said plainly, Clark Kent is in the past, and Chloe and Jimmy belong together forever, and he smiled.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I'll get her a better one right away."

"Good." Tess smiled up at him. The cobra faded, and she looked as sweet as he had when he'd walked in. "Good afternoon, Mr. Olsen."

Dismissed, he turned and walked from her office. The wintry sensation that had settled into his chest didn't fade. He didn't want it to fade. He embraced it.

He thought maybe this was how Luthors felt-- all ice on the inside. No remorse, no pity, no mercy. Just ice.

He headed for the elevator, thinking over the morning's events. He had everything he'd ever wanted now, and a chance to get Clark out of Chloe's life for good.

He ought to be appalled by the thought, appalled by what he was willing to do in order to make sure he got what he wanted. But somehow... he wasn't.

Clark Kent was standing in his way. Clark Kent had always stood between him and Chloe. The letter he'd found had been a painful reminder of that.

But Clark wouldn't get between them any longer. Jimmy was taking his life into his own hands. With Tess' help, he was going to fix everything.

A little spying on Clark Kent wasn't too great a price to pay. And if Clark wound up in a lab somewhere as a result-- well, he was probably better off there, anyway.

Whistling cheerfully, Jimmy got into the elevator and let it carry him down.

-The End-

Off the Record

Clark and guest star
Smallville crossover
Early season 8
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

"Ugh! Flannel!"

Seated at his loft desk and filling out a college application, Clark Kent glanced up at the annoying, nasal voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. There was a brilliant flash of light, and suddenly a guy appeared, seated on the couch. He was middle-aged, with a receding hairline, and there was a snarky smile on his face that gave Clark a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wore a blue and red plaid flannel shirt and jeans, an exact mirror of what Clark was wearing.

Clark rose to his feet. He was quite likely the strongest guy in the world, so he didn't have a total freakout when strangers came onto the farm, even if they did it in a really bizarre way. Still, he thought it was best to be... cautious.

"Hello," he said, carefully.

"Oh, aren't you polite." The stranger rolled his eyes. "Martha brought her son up to be so courteous. It's charming, really. Makes me want to vomit."

Clark raised his eyebrows. "You know my mom?"

"I know everything about you, Kal-El. And frankly, I'm not all that impressed."

Clark blinked, slightly alarmed by the use of his alien name. "Who told you about me?" he demanded.

"No one had to tell me. I'm omniscient."

Clark uttered a short laugh. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. You don't believe me? I can tell you all about how you ran away from home when you were ten, and wound up wandering lost in Metropolis for two days. Or how you cheated on an English exam your freshman year, right after your x-ray vision developed."

"I did not mean to--"

"Tell it to the judge, sonny. Oh, wait... that's me."

Clark didn't like the sound of that. He scowled down at the guy. "Who appointed you judge?"

"I did." The guy stood up. He was narrower than Clark, slender and not particularly well muscled, but almost as tall. There was an air of authority around him, despite the receding hairline, and Clark had to fight the urge to take a step back. Something deep inside told him this guy was very, very dangerous. He squared his shoulders, looking as intimidating as he could.

"Get off my farm."

"I don't think so." The guy favored him with a sneer. "You're just sitting here, moping about your former girlfriend. And considering you're the strongest man on the planet, that's really sad."

Clark glared at him. "I am not moping."

"Sure. You're not moping, and I have a full head of hair." The guy shook his head, sadly. "You could be out there saving people, or moving ahead with your life, and instead you're sitting here, frittering the time away. Something really needs to be done."

Clark sighed. "Look, I was thinking about going back to college..."

"College? Boring. Been there, done that, wound up with my head in a toilet. College is just a stepping stone. I've been watching you for a long while, sonny, and I'm getting tired of the stepping stones. Everything in your puny little human lives moves much too slowly. Booooring. I think it's time you skip right to the good stuff."

Clark frowned. "There's nothing wrong with college..."

"Yeah, except it's dull as the empty space between galaxies." The stranger moved across the loft and looked at Clark's desk. "Now, this. This is interesting. An application for the Daily Planet, huh?"

"They won't hire me," Clark said. "I checked the requirements. It takes a BA, plus three years of experience with another newspaper..."

"Experience?" The guy spun around, looking indignant. "But you're Clark Kent! The Daily Planet is your destiny!"

"Uh... right." Clark was starting to think maybe he ought to just superspeed out of his loft. This guy was beyond weird and well into scary. "It's my friend's Chloe's destiny, but me..."

"Oh, Chloe." The guy waved his hand dismissively. "She's never interested me. Too damn smart. Smart people bore me."

"So I'm guessing that you're interested in me because--"

"You're dumb as a stump. Right."

Clark felt anger boil up. "Get. Out."

"Make me, Jethro."

Annoyed, Clark zipped across the loft in superspeed, but the guy was no longer there. A white flash seared his vision. Clark turned around, blinking, to see the guy appear on the other side of the loft. He tried again, but the guy disappeared a second time.

"You can't catch me, you know." Clark turned around and found that the guy was seated on his desk, his ass planted firmly on the Daily Planet application.

Clark took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Okay," he said. "So I can't catch you. Could you just get the hell out?"

"I don't think so. I'm interested in you, Kal-El. Your story isn't playing out quite the way I expected it to, and I'm thinking maybe it needs fixing."

Clark glared at him. "I've had enough people play God with my life, thanks."

"True. But you've never had an actual god play with it."

"Are you telling me you're a god?" Clark snorted. "I'd think a god could get rid of male pattern baldness."

"Ouch," the guy said, running a hand over his thinning hair. "Just for that snotty remark, sonny, I'm going to do the god thing, and wreak a horrible and unjust punishment on you. I'm going to pair you up with the worst woman you can possibly imagine."

"Yeah, right." Clark scowled. "Just get out."

"No, no, not yet. Just as soon as I revamp a few things. I've been following your life for years, but currently, it's really boring the hell out of me. I seriously think you need to go work at the Daily Planet..."

"I already told you, they won't hire me."

"They hired your friend Lois Lane."

"She slept with the boss. I was brought up not to do that."

"Oh, right, you're Martha Kent's sweet little boy. Too nice to sleep your way into a job. Well, I can fix that. You'll have your job, no fellatio, cunnilingus or coitus required. Just walk into Human Resources tonight and give them your application."

"It's really late. They won't even be open."

"Sure they will. I'll make sure someone's conveniently working late."

"Look, that's not the way I want to get a job, okay? I don't want you to--"

"Of course you don't. But what you want is irrelevant. I want to be amused, and right now you are sorely failing me on that score. Okay. So that's taken care of. Now Lana's got to go for good..."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on, you don't really love her. You were just hanging onto her because she was an artichoke, and now you're moping because she dumped you before you got a chance to dump her. True?"

"No, I really loved her--"

"Please. Anyone with eyes could see that the girl you really love is Chloe Sullivan..."

"What? No. Chloe's my friend."

"And once again you demonstrate the self-awareness of a walnut. But I expected nothing less of you. Of course you're in love with Chloe Sullivan, kid. You've been in love with her for years."

"Uh..." Clark tried to process that, and couldn't. "But I..."

"She's perfect for you, too. Too perfect. I can't watch happy romance. It bores me to tears. I hate chick flicks. And I can't even think of the last time I picked up a Harlequin novel."

"You read romances?"

"It was a long time ago," the stranger assured him. "Once upon a time, I had a romantic streak. But hanging out with humans cured me of it. Now I just like to see people suffer."

"Fabulous," Clark said with a sigh. "Look, I need Chloe, okay? Even if you really do have these powers, you can't take her away from me."

"Oh, I won't. I'll just change her personality a bit--"

"What?"

"It'll be good for her. She'll get even smarter. Trust me. And because of your snotty comment about my hair, I'll be matching you up with the worst possible person."

Clark stared at him. "Are you talking about..."

"Yes!" The guy grinned widely. "Lois Lane!"

"No." Clark held out his hands in front of him. "No, no, no. If you're talking about romance..."

"Not just romance. You and she are going to work together, too! For the rest of your lives!"

"I'd rather have hot iron spikes thrust through my eyeballs."

"I know, and that's the point." The guy's grin widened, so that he looked more than a little insane. "I'm telling you, it's great being omnipotent."

Clark looked at the guy warily. Surely he was just bluffing about all this. He wasn't omnipotent, or omniscient. Gods didn't wander into remote Kansas barns and start talking about rewriting people's lives... did they?

"I'm okay with the way my life is going," he said at last, keeping it polite, just in case. "I mean, I know I haven't exactly been as proactive as I could be..."

"Because you've been all focused on Wanacakes. Who needs to save people when you have Twu Wuv?"

Clark reminded himself that he couldn't reach the guy to strangle him. "Okay, so yeah, I've been a little preoccupied. But I'm starting to try to turn things around. Like I said, I was planning on going back to college. Maybe I'll start going to the city to help people a little more..."

"Boooooring," the guy intoned. "I want to see some big changes. It's more interesting that way. I told you, go into the Planet and hand in your application, and you won't need a degree. No need to do all that boring slogging through classes when you'll get hired anyway, right?"

"Um... but I can't write well enough. I don't know enough about journalism. I mean, it's a world-class newspaper, and all I have experience writing is articles on gym mats and bleachers. That's why I need to take classes."

"You'll learn on the job! You'll have Lois to help teach you!"

Clark snorted. "Lois can't write, she can't do research, and she can't spell."

"I can fix that. I will fix that. Lois Lane is now a hard-hitting investigative reporter who writes brilliantly."

"Oh, come on. You can't just rewrite people."

"What part of omnipotent don't you understand, sonny? I can do whatever the hell I want. I can turn you into a purple slime creature from the Gamma Quadrant if I want."

"Uh... I'd really rather you didn't."

"It'd be an improvement, if you ask me. But okay, no purple slime. Let me just fix your life a little more. So... romance and work with Lois..."

"Please. No."

"Too late. Already done. You should be grateful, kid. I once turned someone who aggravated me into an Irish setter. You're getting off easy. Okay, so meanwhile, Lana's gone for good, because she was really dragging the whole story down..."

"My life is not a story!"

"Whatever. She was boring the pants off me, and not in a good way. Every time you two stared longingly at each other in the loft, I wanted to puke. So she's gone, and Chloe's being rewritten, because you guys were just too perfect for each other, and we can't have that. Conflict is a lot more amusing than happy endings. So you can look forward to some really fun fights with Chloe in the future..."

"I don't want to fight with Chloe!"

"Arguments are good drama, sonny. Think of the audience-- which in this case means yours truly. I like to see quarrels. Falling in love with a person you hate is good for laughs, too."

Clark felt his temper beginning to fray. "I don't care how omnipotent you are," he growled. "You can't make me fall in love with anyone."

"Oh, I totally can. And I will, just because it's going to be funny to see the two of you snarling insults at each other and then kissing. Like 'Moonlighting.' Only, well, you're no Bruce Willis. And Lois is no Cybill Shepherd. Although she does have a really impressive pair of--"

"Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I've gotten strangely interested in your life, kid. You should be flattered. You may be the strongest guy on the planet, but you're still just a pipsqueak in cosmic terms. And yet I'm sort of interested in how this all turns out. Not that I couldn't find out, because I'm not bound by your primitive understanding of time and space. But peeking at the ending would be cheating."

"What you're talking about doing," Clark said in his most reasonable tones, "sounds like cheating, too. If you're interested in how it all turns out, then why not watch it turn out the way it's supposed to, instead of messing with it?"

"I mess with things. That's just what I do. I piss on them and see if it makes the flavor any better."

"Oh, thank you so much for that lovely image..."

"You're welcome. Now. Let's go through the changes I've made. You're a professional journalist now, working toward your destiny with a smart, sassy reporter across the desk..."

"I'm sorry. Did you say smart?"

"I told you, I've rewritten her. She's smart now. Got an intellect you wouldn't believe."

"Yeah, right. Look, I like Lois, but I don't think she knows how to tie her shoes."

"She does now. She's heading for a Pulitzer, I'm telling you."

"A--? Hey, wait, this is starting to sound familiar..."

"Ah, finally he catches on. Yes, I'm the one who wrote up the scenario for that crazy world you found yourself in not too long ago. It wasn't Jor-El. It was me."

"But that was, like, totally nothing like the real world."

"You need to ask yourself, is the real world real?"

"That is the stupidest question I've ever heard."

"I can see why you almost flunked philosophy in high school, kiddo. Not your strong point. Okay. So yeah, that scenario didn't bear a lot of resemblance to what you think of as the real world, but you have to admit it was amusing."

"But it wasn't anything like real life. I mean, the Pulitzer thing, that's Chloe..."

"I already told you, forget about Chloe."

"But that's not fair. Chloe's worked hard to get into the Planet since she was a little kid. She's the one who deserves a Pulitzer. Lois just sits in the basement listening to Whitesnake on her iPod."

"I gotta be honest, kid, I've never understood the value you mortals put on work. Working hard isn't smart. What's the point in struggling toward a goal all your life, when you might just get hit by a Mack truck tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but Chloe..."

"Never mind about Chloe. She's not for you, not anymore. Not professionally or romantically. The two of you are too good together. The first time you kiss each other, it'll all be over and you'll be together for eternity. No conflict."

"Maybe I don't want conflict in my life."

"And you think what you want is relevant because...? I already told you, this is all about me. But of course everything is."

Great, Clark thought. He was apparently dealing not just with a god, but a god with a, well, god complex. "Look," he said, as politely as he could manage, "if you could just kind of go away and not touch anything..."

"Too late, sonny. It's all been rewritten. Lois and the Daily Planet are your destiny now. And I'm really looking forward to seeing how you cope with it all."

"I'm not going to cope. I'm going to try to figure out how to put things back the way they ought to be."

"No, you won't. Because you're part of the story, and as soon as I flash out of here, you're going to forget anything's changed. It'll all seem perfectly logical to you."

"But... Lois Lane. Intellect. Pulitzer. Come on. Seriously, do you think I'm stupid enough to believe that?"

"You're on the inside of the story. You believe what you're presented with. Otherwise you go nuts."

"Um. Okay. Assuming that's true, what's in this for you? If you've been enjoying watching my life-- which is totally creepy, by the way-- then why mess around with it?"

"Just because I like shaking up the status quo. And because it was getting boring. Sometimes things need a major rewrite. The truth is, happy people are boring people."

"I wasn't happy."

"But you were about to be. Chloe was going to come over here tonight. The two of you were going to get to talking, and then you were going to kiss her, and..."

"You're telling me you want to take that away from me? Why?"

"Kid, I'm not one of the nice gods, okay? I'm really more the Loki type."

"Yeah, but... but..."

"I won't deny the appeal of a good sex scene. But after that-- well, I told you. I'm not into Harlequins or Sleepless in Seattle these days. Real romance bores me senseless. Watching you and Lois snarl at each other for the rest of your lives sounds so much more amusing."

"It sounds like hell on earth."

"And hey, that's totally the point. Your hell is my sitcom." The guy stood up, removing his ass from the Daily Planet application, and gave his wide, insane grin. "Well, Kal-El, I gotta be going. If you ever hear laughter when you think you're alone... you're not crazy. It's just me."

"Hang on," Clark said, desperately. Just in case this guy was for real, he wanted to try to keep him talking, to see if he could get the guy to reverse any changes he might have made. "Don't go yet. Uh... what's your name?"

"I have many names, kid. Loki is one of them, actually. Anansi. Till Eulenspiegel. Brian Peterson. The Kryptonians called me Bashu. But you can call me Q."

"Q? Just Q?"

"Just Q." The guy smiled. "Not that you'll remember me, or my name. Or any of this. This is all... off the record."

Brilliant white light flashed.

Clark blinked, slightly confused. He was sure he'd been sitting at his desk... and yet now he was on the other side of the loft. Oh-kay. Weird.

He wandered back to his desk and looked at the college application he'd been filling out. Boring, he thought, not quite sure where the thought came from. A few minutes ago he'd been psyched about the thought of going back to college, but now... well, blah.

He picked up the other application, a blank one that Lois had brought him a month ago, before he got stuck in a Russian prison. It was an application for the Daily Planet.

He knew he wasn't qualified. Not even a little. But... well, what the hell. He thought it would be fun to work at the Daily Planet. Plus, Lois worked there. And Lois was, well, she was smart and hot. She irritated the shit out of him, but she was a hell of a journalist. She could probably teach him anything he needed to know. And really, who needed a degree anyway?

He sat down at the desk and began filling out the application. Suddenly he lifted his head, puzzled. The loft was empty but for him, and yet he'd thought he heard a faint, distant echo of mocking laughter.

But there was no one around.

Just my imagination, he decided, and went back to filling in the application. An odd sense of anticipation curled inside his chest. By tomorrow, maybe he'd be sitting across the desk from Lois, working at the Daily Planet.

He couldn't explain why, but he had this strange sense that working there, side by side with Lois, was his destiny.

Clark Kent and Lois Lane, partners in reporting.

It sounded great to him.

-The End-

Read Off the Record 2 here.

Marvelous

Chloe/guest star
Season 8
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Still from KryptonSite.

"I hear you help freaks."

Seated in her office at the Isis Foundation, Chloe Sullivan looked up from the computer screen, startled. The receptionist hadn't let her know that she had a client, and she hadn't heard anyone come in. But on the other side of the desk, a boy stood, staring at her.

He was a cute kid, maybe ten years old, with the skinny look of a kid that didn't get enough food to keep up with his growth. Freckles were spattered across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Dark hair curled from beneath a baseball cap emblazoned with the words Fawcett City Marvels, and huge, deep brown eyes stared at her appraisingly.

"Hi," she said, smiling, although inwardly her heart sank. Oh, no, not another kid. "I try to help."

She tried, but so far her track record wasn't all that great, especially not with kids. With a pang, she remembered Bette, the teenage girl she'd tried to help a few weeks ago. She and her friend Clark Kent had done their best to help the girl, but they'd wound up having to put her into Belle Reve.

Even though her friend and colleague Oliver Queen had bought Belle Reve and was transforming it into a place that would truly help the meteor afflicted, rather than oppress them, she didn't like putting people into an institution. God knew she herself had been terrified she'd have to be institutionalized when she first realized she was meteor afflicted. It wasn't a fate she'd wish on anyone.

Intellectually, she knew that about seventy-five percent of the meteor afflicted developed psychosis severe enough that they couldn't function in normal society. Those people had to be institutionalized, for the safety of themselves as well as others.

But emotionally, when she had to put people into an institution, she couldn't help feeling that she'd failed them.

She put her worries aside, trying to focus on this one little boy, rather than the other lost and frightened people who'd walked into her office over the past month. "I'm Chloe," she said, smiling at him. "What's your name?"

"Billy," he answered. "And I'm a freak."

Okay. He was here for himself, then, and not because he was worried about someone else. "Can you tell me about your problem?" she asked, keeping her tone as gentle and nonthreatening as possible.

He shrugged one skinny shoulder. "I get bigger," he said vaguely.

"Bigger. I see." She nodded seriously. "Are you from Smallville?"

He cocked his head, and pointed to his cap. "No, ma'am. I'm from Fawcett City."

"But you've been to Smallville, right?"

"No," he said. "Not ever."

Chloe frowned slightly. She knew a few people who had abilities that weren't meteor derived. It did happen, but it was rare.

If his powers weren't derived from the meteors, it meant that this lovely little boy wouldn't have to worry about coping with meteor psychosis. Then again, he might have been to Smallville as a baby, and simply not know about it.

It occurred to her that his parents would know.

"Billy," she said, as carefully as she could, "I wonder if you'd let me talk to your parents."

He stiffened, staring at her, as if trying to decide how much to trust her. At last he muttered defensively, "Don't have any."

"What do you mean?"

He shuffled his feet nervously on the blue industrial carpeting of the floor. "They died when I was little," he mumbled. "I live alone."

Oh, God. She had to help this kid. Meteor freak or not, if he was living alone on the streets, he needed help.

"Do you live here in Metropolis?" she asked.

"No." He frowned at her, an expression that said, You aren't paying attention, are you? "I told you, I live in Fawcett City."

Fawcett City was clear across the country, and she wondered how a homeless kid could have gotten to Metropolis. She hoped he hadn't hitchhiked. But she put the matter aside for now. "So you don't live with foster parents or anything?"

"I can take care of myself," he said, slightly defiantly. He puffed out his skinny chest and lifted his chin, but all it did was make him look skinnier. He was so small and underfed that her heart went out to him. "Anyway, I'm not here to talk about that. I wanted to ask you about being a freak."

"I don't like that word," she said, very gently. "You're not a freak. Neither am I. We just have... abilities."

He bit his lip. "I just... it's scary sometimes, you know?"

"I know," she said, nodding and hoping he'd tell her more.

"I just... I use it to help people. I asked for it so I could help people."

She blinked. There was a new wrinkle. "Are you telling me you wanted your power?"

"Yeah. I wished for it, and I got it. But now, sometimes.... I wish I'd never asked for it."

"I know what you mean," she said with a sigh.

He looked at her consideringly. "What's your power, Miss Chloe?"

An involuntary smile curved her lips. This kid might not have parents, but someone somewhere had drilled manners into him. "I heal people," she answered. "I can even bring people back from the dead sometimes."

His dark eyes went wide. "Wow."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Wow. The only problem is, when I save someone... I die."

His eyes got even bigger. "You die?"

She nodded. "Last time I was dead for eighteen hours. My friends were afraid I wouldn't come back at all. I don't know what'll happen next time I heal someone... if I can ever heal anyone again. See, my power seems to be gone now."

He looked intrigued. "How do you get rid of a power?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," she answered. "It just went away. But usually, they don't. I don't know how to get rid of abilities on purpose. We're studying it, but right now, there isn't a reliable way. People just have to learn to live with them."

"I don't really want to get rid of mine anyway. I just..." He swallowed, and his dark eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "Most of the time, I like my powers. But it's so much responsibility. I'm not sure I'm ready for it..."

His tenor voice broke. Driven by an impulse she had no control over, she came around the desk, knelt, and wrapped her arms around his skinny little body.

He pressed his face into her shoulder, and sobbed.

She held him for long moments, patting his back gently. He felt like skin and bones beneath her hands, and she could feel him trembling.

Poor little kid, she thought. If she'd had such trouble coming to grips with her power, she could only imagine how difficult it was for a little boy, who didn't even have anyone at home to help him adjust.

"It'll be all right," she whispered. "Let me help you."

His sobs died to snuffles, and then he lifted his head, looking as embarrassed as any ten-year-old boy who'd found himself crying in front of a stranger. She let him go, and he wiped at his freckled cheeks.

"Billy," she said, very gently. "You said you asked for your power to help people. Do you use it to help people, or to hurt them?"

He looked up at her with those big dark eyes. "I help people," he answered. "Always."

"Me too," she said softly. "I know it's a big responsibility, but if it lets us help people... maybe it's not that bad."

He nodded, his eyes far too serious for his age. "Yeah," he answered. "I know it isn't. It's just sometimes it's... it's so heavy, you know?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I know."

She turned and headed around the other side of her desk, intending to start taking notes. She settled into her chair and lifted her hands to the keyborad. "Now, Billy, can you tell me..."

She looked up, and gaped.

The room was empty.

*****

Chloe left the Isis Foundation at seven that evening. The minute she'd realized Billy had gone, she'd raced out of the office and looked everywhere for him, but he'd vanished, so completely she almost wondered if he was a figment of her imagination. She'd put the word out to her connections on the streets and in the shelters to keep an eye out for him, but so far no one had spotted him.

She'd stayed a little late in the hopes that he'd come back, but he hadn't. At last, her heart heavy, she locked the door and walked out into the night.

She couldn't help feeling like she'd failed the boy. He'd needed more than a few words of comfort and a shoulder to cry on. He'd needed food and shelter and people to love him. He'd needed someone to help him figure out exactly what his power was, and to help him learn to deal with it. She'd berated herself all afternoon for her unfortunate moment of inattention.

But really, who could have dreamed that a skinny little kid could be so fast?

She headed toward her car, which was parked two blocks away, on Broad and Vine. The cold October breeze blew over her face, and stars shone overhead. Pools of golden light from the streetlights lit the darkness.

Suddenly someone stepped out of the shadows just in front of her. The blade of a knife glinted in the overhead light.

"Give me your purse, lady."

She thought about screaming for help, but the blade was only a few inches away. Sighing, she handed over her purse. Fortunately, she was broke right now, so there wasn't much in it. Helping the meteor afflicted didn't pay much.

Unfortunately for her, the guy didn't seem inclined to take her purse and run. He took a step toward her, so close that she could smell the scent of alcohol and his rank body odor. He grinned down at her.

"And now... let's have a little fun."

She didn't feel like having fun. She lifted her knee hard, clobbering him in the balls. He grunted, and she turned around and ran.

Within three feet, he'd caught up with her, grabbing her by the hair. Great, she thought grimly. Just my luck. I get mugged by the one guy in a thousand who isn't knocked to his knees by a blow to the groin.

Maybe the guy was superpowered somehow, or maybe he just was less vulnerable there than the average male. But regardless, all she seemed to have accomplished by kneeing him was to piss him off.

He twisted her hair in his hand and forced her up against the nearest brick wall, the blade at her throat.

Now, she thought, would be a very good time to scream for help. But she didn't quite dare scream, not with the blade against her skin. She wasn't sure even her friend Clark could get here fast enough to stop the guy from slashing her throat.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. That was odd, she thought irrelevantly, considering that the stars had been shining overhead when she'd stepped out of Isis. And besides, they didn't usually get thunderstorms here in November anyway...

Suddenly there was a blur of red and a thump, and the guy fell to the sidewalk, unconscious. The knife clanged harmlessly against the concrete sidewalk.

Chloe sagged against the wall with relief. Clark, she thought gratefully. It was always her friend Clark, blurring in to save her.

She peered into the shadows and saw a big guy standing there. He was just as huge as Clark, and his hair was just as dark. But he wore a goofy costume that looked like it was straight out of the pages of Warrior Angel, a red, skintight suit with a golden lightning bolt on the front, and a short white cape with gold braiding. She frowned, wondering if Clark had decided to take up wearing a costume for some reason.

"Clark?" she said, tentatively.

He took a step toward her, and the light from the streetlight illuminated his face. It wasn't Clark. The man in front of her was beautiful, all square jaw and commanding chin and dark, lovely eyes... but he was a stranger.

"My name is Captain Marvel," he said, in a deep, resonant voice.

Her mouth fell open. Suddenly she remembered a little dark-haired boy standing in her office, wearing a baseball cap that read Fawcett City Marvels, telling her earnestly: I get bigger.

Oh, my God, she thought, staring into the dark eyes with shock.

She'd seen those eyes before.

For a long moment, she was too stunned to say a word. But nothing could keep her silent long, and before long her ability to talk came back.

"Thank you for saving me," she whispered. "Billy."

One corner of his mouth curved up, very slightly.

"Thank you for helping me, Miss Chloe," he answered, his baritone voice utterly unlike Billy's tenor one. "Thank you for giving me the strength to keep going, and for listening to my doubts. Thank you for giving me a shoulder to cry on, and for reminding me I'm not alone. I appreciate it."

She looked at him, so tall and strong, so... well... marvelous. He looked more like a god than a man, beautiful beyond mortal men, powerful enough to carry the world on his shoulders, yet with the goodness and purity of a child shining from his dark eyes.

She remembered Billy's voice: Sometimes it's... it's so heavy.

She understood that. Her friend Clark was a full-grown man, with superpowers beyond that of anyone she'd ever met, and yet he'd hesitated to take on the mantel of a superhero. It wasn't an easy life for anyone, let alone a ten-year-old boy.

But Billy-- Captain Marvel-- didn't look as if his power weighed heavily upon him now. He radiated strength and confidence, as if he thought he could wield his powers to save the world.

Maybe, she thought, he could. He'd certainly saved her.

She bent, picking up her purse, and began to walk toward her car, and he accompanied her, walking beside her silently. The few people they passed gave him and his costume peculiar looks, but he seemed unconcerned, apparently oblivious to the fact that people didn't normally walk around Metropolis attired in gaudy red suits and gold-trimmed capes.

At last she paused next to her car and looked up at him. The sweet, innocent eyes of a child looked down at her from a sculpted face that would make a movie star weep with envy.

She remembered his words: I help people. Always.

Looking into those eyes, she believed it without question.

"Good luck, Billy," she said softly. "And if you ever need help... you know where to find me."

He nodded. "Maybe I'll come back again. Just to talk."

She reached out and patted his powerfully muscled shoulder, remembering the feel of his too-skinny shoulders beneath her hands earlier today. "I'd like that," she said softly.

The corners of his mouth curved up in the ghost of a smile. And then he was gone in a swirl of crimson and gold.

She stood there staring after him for a long while. At least, she thought, she didn't have to worry about little Billy starving or meeting a bad end on the streets. Billy was clearly able to take care of himself.

And yet, beneath that beautiful, godlike exterior... Billy was only a little boy. A little boy who needed someone to tell his problems to. A little boy who needed comforting, just like any other little boy.

And that was why she was running Isis, to help people who needed help. To offer not just information, but comfort and consolation.

She remembered Billy sobbing against her, and her throat tightened. He might have asked for his power, but it was an awful lot for a ten-year-old boy to carry on his shoulders. He needed someone to talk to, someone who understood at least some of what he was going through.

Sometimes it's... it's so heavy, you know?

She knew. And with all her heart, she hoped he'd come back to Isis before too long.

She didn't want him to carry his burden alone.

-The End-

Pitbull, Chapter 1

Manip by leothelion, used with permission of the artist.

Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17

Perry and full cast, from "Perry"
Season 3
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

2003

"Scientists are calling today's impact one of the most significant astronomical events of the last century. The enormous solar flare has already caused power surges..."

Clark Kent stared at the TV, fascinated. He didn't hear the sound of the front door opening, or his mother's voice calling his name.

"Clark?" A deeper voice finally caught his attention. "Hey, son, you want to give us a hand here?"

Clark twisted his head around. "Oh," he said, getting to his feet. "Sorry, I must've got sucked in. You caught me right in the middle of this news special."

He took a bag from his mother's arms, then trailed his parents into the kitchen. He put the bag on the counter, and Martha started to put the groceries away, bustling around the room with her usual quick efficiency. Clark watched her, reflecting that he probably could have completed the chore in less than five seconds. But he tried not to make his parents feel bad by doing their work for them. He'd learned a long time ago that didn't make them happy.

"What was the topic of the special?" Jonathan asked.

"Solar flares," Clark answered, "and the effects on Earth's atmosphere. According to NASA the sun took a direct hit from a comet today, and that caused one of the biggest solar flares ever to be recorded."

Martha smiled. "You sound intrigued."

"Well..." Clark grinned back at her. "Honestly, it's kind of a relief to be researching a cosmic disaster that has nothing to do with me." He glanced over at the clock. "Oh, hey, I have to be going. I told Pete I'd meet him at the Talon to swap some notes."

He shrugged on his coat, then grabbed his old red backpack. His mom glanced at him over the grocery bags.

"Need a ride?"

Clark looked out at the bright sunshine, and grinned again.

"Nah. I think I'll run."

*****

"...precipitates a huge explosion with powerful far-reached effects. The shock wave from this type of CME is so strong that it smashes the Earth's magnetic field, unleashing a geomagnetic storm. In layman's terms..."

Perry White stared blurrily at the television hanging over his head. He'd somehow found himself in a crappy little bar in the middle of freaking nowhere. He'd come to freaking nowhere on purpose, but the bar had been less deliberate. He'd been driving past when the idea of a drink had just grabbed him by the throat and refused to let go, like an itch he simply had to scratch.

The truth was, he'd scratched it a little too much. Hence the blurred vision. But despite his inebriated condition, he couldn't help but be fascinated by what the reporter on the television was saying. It was an interesting scientific story, a story with global implications. A real, serious story.

There had been a time when he reported on real, serious stories, too.

But that had been a long time ago, in the very distant past. A time when he didn't generally wind up in the middle of hick backwaters, drinking a liquid lunch.

He looked away from the TV and spoke to the bartender, his voice nearly as blurry as his vision was.

"Do you believe that there are powers greater than we can know, somewhere in the universe?"

"Sure," the bartender said. His voice had the condescending quality of speaking to a child, and Perry wasn't so drunk he didn't notice. The guy's tone grated on him. "Look, you mind if I switch back to the game?"

"Whatever," Perry said, shrugging. He didn't expect rednecks to be interested in science. It was a matter of training and background, and clearly the bartender didn't have any. Hell, he'd be surprised if the guy was smart enough to tie his own shoes.

The guy switched the station to a football game, and Perry grinned a deliberately irritating grin. "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for the Metropolis Sharks."

The bartender glared at him, and Perry lifted his shot glass to make a jeering toast. He raised his voice to make sure he could be heard. "To Littleville, Kansas... and all the little Kans-assians in it."

Not only was the bartender glaring at him now, but the guys on either side of him looked pissed, too. Bring it on, Perry thought, disregarding the fact that he was so drunk he had no chance of landing a punch in a fight. Hell, if he fell over he'd probably miss the floor.

But Perry "the Pitbull" White didn't back down from fights.

Well, yeah, he did. But there had been a time when he didn't.

Unfortunately, that time was in the distant past, too. He sighed, then sucked down his tequila and put the shot glass on the counter with a thunk. "One more."

"Look, pal..." The bartender was starting to sound exasperated. "We don't want any trouble here. I think you might have had enough."

Perry glared at him. "If you want trouble, buddy, you just try cutting me off."

The next thing he knew, he was sitting on his ass on the sidewalk outside the bar. A neon sign blinked over the door, garish even in the too-bright sunlight of a Littleville afternoon, proclaiming that this crappy little bar was called the Wild Coyote.

"Don't come back," the bartender said, and disappeared back into the bar.

Perry scowled at the swinging door, and slowly got to his feet. The world was spinning in a rather disconcerting manner, but he glared at the bar as dangerously as he could manage, just in case the bartender was still watching.

"Small town friendly, my ass," he grumbled.

*****

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'll find it."

Perry drove his rental car along a back road, a map in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Very vaguely, it occurred to him that having an object in either hand meant he didn't have a hand on the wheel, but he figured it didn't matter much. The roads in this part of Kansas were scarily straight, and there was no traffic, anyway.

Hell, even if he ran off the road, there was nothing to run into. There wasn't anything out here except empty fields bisected by narrow roads.

He decided he'd quit calling the place Littleville. Hicksville would fit it a lot better. Or Middleofnowheresville.

"No, no," he said to the cell phone, in response to his editor's increasingly worried queries. "I haven't been drinking. Thank you so much for caring."

He sighed as he closed the cell, then began folding the map. He decided it really didn't matter much if he watched the road. The car swerved a bit, but he wasn't too worried about it.

He got the map folded, then looked up to see a dark-haired kid in the middle of the road. Just standing there, gaping at him.

"Shit," Perry said, to no one in particular, and grabbed belatedly at the steering wheel. The car swerved sharply, barely missing the kid-- and thank God for that, because as many bad things as Perry had done in his life, running over a fresh-faced teenager would definitely be a new low-- and slammed into a telephone pole. Hard. The telephone pole slowly fell over, smashing the top of his car too.

Okay, so there was something out here besides fields, after all. And he'd managed to hit it.

Somehow Perry wasn't knocked unconscious by the collision, even though the front end of his car strongly resembled an accordion, and he doubted the top looked much better. He'd read somewhere that drunk people tended to survive accidents at a higher rate, because they were nice and relaxed. A very good reason to drink and drive, he figured. Drinking might have saved his life in this case.

The thought that he might not have had the accident at all had he been sober ran through his mind, but he shoved it away irritably. He was okay, and so was the kid, and that was all that mattered.

But even though he'd survived, he wasn't sure how he could get safely out of the car. He could see power lines sparking, and he knew if he got out, he was going to be barbecued.

The kid headed toward him, looking determined. Perry realized with horror that the kid was going to be the one who got barbecued. But to his astonishment, the boy walked right through the wires.

And then he yanked the door off the car and tossed it aside.

Perry gaped at him. The side of the car, he thought, could not possibly have been that damaged by hitting a telephone pole head-on. Yeah, maybe the telephone pole on top had bent the frame or something, but still, what the boy had done didn't seem possible.

The kid reached into the car and grabbed Perry, and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground on the opposite side of the road, safely away from the power lines.

The kid bent over him, looking worried. "You okay?"

Perry stared at him. Dark-haired, handsome, tall. Nice-looking kid, but... "You pulled the door right off the car with your bare hands," Perry rasped out. "You walked right through the power lines."

The kid looked taken aback, just for a second, and then he shook his head and grinned. "You're a little drunk, Mr..."

He paused, apparently waiting for a name. Perry looked at him.

"My name is White," he said. "Perry White."

Read Chapter 2 here.

Lane Change

Chloe and Lois, offscreen Chlark
Season 7
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Author's Note: I wrote most of this fic back in January. As a consequence, the story does not fit perfectly into current series canon.

"Everyone here hates me, cuz."

Lois Lane kept her voice low as she spoke into the phone. "I swear, the other reporters act like they want to spit on me. They're all treating me like a pariah. I think they're jealous."

On the other end of the line, Chloe Sullivan's voice sounded wry. "Jealous might not be exactly the right word, Lo."

"Well... you could be right. I think maybe it's gotten around that Grant and I were, uh..."

"Shagging on his desk?"

"I prefer to think of it in slightly more romantic terms, especially now that Grant's dead. But yeah."

"I told you that sleeping with your editor would get you in trouble, Lo. You should have taken my advice and broken it off, a lot earlier than you did."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

"You aren't listening to me now, either. When Lex started trying to force us to write those puff pieces about how great LuthorCorp was, you should have done like I did and refused to write them."

"Uh... you got fired, Chlo."

"So?" Chloe sounded determinedly perky. "There are other newspapers out there."

"Except that Lex has managed to blacklist you, and no one will hire you. Which is why you're working at the Cafe Cup."

Privately, Lois thought it was awfully ironic that she'd wound up at the Planet, even though she wasn't all that great a writer, and Chloe, whose dream had always been to write for the Planet, had wound up at a coffee shop a lot like the one Lois used to work at.

Chloe had dreamed of being a journalist and had worked toward that goal since she was eight, whereas Lois had kind of fallen into writing last year, just because Chloe was a reporter, and what she did for a living looked kind of cool. Journalism had always been Chloe's dream, not Lois', and Lois was fully aware she wasn't half the writer Chloe was.

And yet here she was, sitting pretty under the Tiffany lamps, while Chloe was serving espresso.

It just went to show you that talent wasn't everything. Sometimes being willing to bend a little, to cooperate with people you didn't necessarily like, was all it took.

What Chloe called working for the enemy, Lois called keeping her job.

"That's what you get for not being a team player."

Chloe sounded huffy. "At least I still have my journalistic integrity."

"Journalistic integrity doesn't pay the rent," Lois drawled.

Chloe sighed and changed the subject. "You only call me from work when you want something nowadays, Lo. What do you want this time?"

Lois sighed too, staring at the clutter on her desk. She'd gotten a lot of front-page headlines lately, but they'd all been stuff Lex had practically spoonfed her. She really wanted to prove herself to all the snotty, stuffy journalists at the Planet, who didn't believe you could be a real journalist without a degree, or a lot of experience she didn't have. They all hated her, and they didn't believe she'd earned her spot on the front page.

But Lois was going to prove them wrong, damn it. She was going to prove she was a real reporter. She was going to prove she belonged on the front page.

She just wasn't sure exactly how.

"I need a story," she said.

*****

"You have got to be pulling my leg," Chloe said that evening. She wore a dark blue apron, and poured coffee with smooth, efficient movements. Her golden hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head, and she managed to look like she'd been born to pour coffee.

Chloe always looked like she was born to do whatever she set out to do, Lois thought with a touch of envy. Chloe was good at everything.

Especially journalism.

She reminded herself that she was the one getting the front-page headlines now, while Chloe was reduced to pouring coffee. Talent wasn't everything.

"I'm not pulling your leg," she said, sitting at the counter, on an old, ratty barstool that had seen better days. This coffee shop wasn't as nice as the Talon in Smallville. "I need a story. A big one."

Chloe finished topping a frappuccino with whipped cream and walked across to a table to deliver it, then came back. "What makes you think I have any leads?" she said warily.

"Please." Lois rolled her eyes. "Just because you aren't writing right now doesn't mean you don't have a lead. You always have leads."

"Okay. Fine. So what if I have a lead or two? Why exactly would I hand them over to you?"

"Because you have no possible way of getting them printed?"

Chloe shrugged. "Lex may not own the Planet forever, Lois."

"But in the meantime, you have leads you're not using, stuff you probably want to get out there, so people know about it. Come on, Chlo. Don't be a dog in the manger. Give your leads to a girl in need."

Chloe bit her lip as she poured coffee into a styrofoam cup. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Something big. Something that'll impress all those stodgy, arrogant journalists at the Planet who hate my guts."

"Something big, huh?" Chloe looked even more thoughtful, and Lois frowned at her suspiciously.

"What do you have?"

Chloe smiled, a little wryly. "Nothing you can print, unfortunately."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because," Chloe answered, "it's all about Lex."

*****

So Chloe had a story on Lex, Lois mused that night as she was getting ready for bed. Lois was still living in the apartment over the Talon, but Chloe wasn't. Lex owned the Talon, and after Lex fired her, Chloe had announced she'd rather live on the streets than have Lex Luthor for a landlord. So she'd packed her stuff and stalked out.

She wasn't living on the streets, of course, but with her best friend, Clark Kent. Lois wasn't sure exactly what was going on there, and didn't want to, really. All she knew was that Clark had been living with Lana Lang, but that Lana had moved out when she and Clark broke up, and Chloe had moved in. She had a feeling maybe Clark and Chloe were comforting each other, helping each other through their losses by...

Ugh. Just the thought made Lois wrinkle her nose in disgust. She'd never been a big fan of Clark Kent, and the thought of Clark and Chloe comforting each other made her stomach heave.

Although if she were going to be perfectly honest with herself, she'd admit that wasn't true. Not really. Despite her years of pretending to loathe Clark, deep down she thought he was a really great guy, and gorgeous besides. Deep inside she thought she might even be a little envious of the closeness between Clark and her cousin.

When she'd first come to town, she'd flirted with Clark, just a little, but the hurt look in Chloe's eyes had been enough to make her back off in a hurry. She'd taken to teasing Clark instead, in a less than kind, big-sister way that made him roll his eyes and snark back at her.

Clark was even-tempered and courteous, and she was one of the few people alive who could really piss him off. And she did, on a regular basis, because it was a whole lot safer than brooding over any residual envy she might feel.

Anyway, as great a guy as Clark was, she wasn't about to risk hurting Chloe by chasing him. She and Chloe had always been closer than she and her own sister were.

But now that Clark and Chloe were shacking up, or whatever it was they were doing-- and she really didn't want to know-- she didn't have Chloe as a roommate any more. Lois had the place to herself. It was a nice apartment, too, one she was very happy to have. She had a good job, and a nice place to live.

And it was all due to Lex.

Writing an expose on Lex would be terminally, mind-blowingly stupid. Even if she could slip it past Lex and somehow get it published in the Planet, it would mean the end of her front-page headlines. Probably the end of her career. Because Lex would blacklist her, too, not to mention kicking her out of the apartment.

And she loved this apartment. She'd lived here for years. At this point, it felt like home.

So no, the Lex story was totally not going to happen. But Chloe almost certainly had some leads on other, less explosive stuff. Stuff that Lois could use to impress Lex and the obnoxious old guard at the Planet.

Lois just had to figure out how to get Chloe to give up her leads.

*****

"No," Chloe said on the phone the next day. "No, no, no. I told you already. No leads."

"Why are you being so mean about this?" Lois demanded.

"It's for your own good, Lo. If you're ever going to become a real journalist, you have to find your own stories."

Anger flared inside Lois at Chloe's dismissive words. "I am a real journalist, thank you very much. I've had eight front-page headlines, in the best newspaper in the world. That's more than you ever had."

Chloe sounded irritated. "At least I earned mine."

Bitch, Lois almost snapped, but hung the phone up before she could actually say it. She'd never used that word to her cousin, and didn't want to start now.

She really wasn't happy with the way her relationship with Chloe was starting to fray. When Lois had started working at the Planet, a few cracks had begun to appear in their formerly solid relationship. Chloe had been jealous of the ease with which Lois had been hired, and the fact that Lois had been sent on assignments right away, while Chloe had just stayed at her desk in the basement, writing boring, tedious crap.

Chloe had been even more jealous when Lex took over the paper and promoted Lois upstairs, into the bullpen, while Chloe had remained in the dark, dank basement.

Chloe's jealousy was the whole reason for any problems between them, Lois thought. It had nothing to do with her.

The truth was, she could sort of understand why Chloe was jealous. After all, Chloe had been working at the Planet for a couple of years, and to have her own cousin come in and show her up had to sting. But it wasn't Lois' fault that she knew how to work the system. She'd gotten ahead because she'd made the right choices, and she didn't see why Chloe should blame her for that.

At least that was what she told herself. Deep down, she wasn't quite so sure she was blameless.

She shrugged, doing her best to put Chloe out of her mind, and frowned at her desk. Aside from a piece Lex wanted her to write extolling the miraculous advancements of LuthorCorp's pharmaceutical subsidiary, she didn't have much to write.

Damn it, she thought. She really needed Chloe's help. Chloe really ought to help her. That was what cousins were supposed to do, to help one another through the hard places in their lives. Especially when the cousins had always been like sisters, the way she and Chloe were.

A little flame of resentment lit inside her. Chloe had leads, probably whole stories, that she wouldn't give up. If she had leads, she'd share them with Chloe in a heartbeat, after all. Chloe was just being mean and selfish and petty.

That made Lois angry.

And anger always impelled Lois to act.

*****

The old yellow farmhouse was quiet and still when Lois pulled up in her Ford. Chloe's Yaris wasn't in the driveway, and neither was the old blue truck Clark drove. Lois was pretty sure Chloe had to work at the coffee shop this morning, and Clark, she thought, had classes over at Kansas A&M today.

She had the place all to herself.

She went up the steps and pushed open the front door. She had a key, because she'd lived here for months at one point, but as it happened, the door was unlocked. Which figured. The Kents had never been much for locking their doors. People who lived out in the sticks tended to trust their neighbors to a ridiculous degree.

As she walked into the house, the old golden retriever, Shelby, lifted his head and thumped his tail. He figured she belonged here, because not only had she lived here, but she'd worked for Martha and Jonathan for a while, too. When he'd been younger, he'd followed her around the house, irritating her allergies, but he was getting older, and he only dropped his head back onto the carpet and went back to sleep.

Lois went up the stairs. She checked the spare room, but Chloe's stuff wasn't there.

She looked a little further, and found all of Chloe's things in Clark's room.

So the two of them were bumping uglies, after all. She was so totally not surprised. She rolled her eyes, trying to suppress the little spark of envy deep inside, then looked around and spotted Chloe's laptop on Clark's desk.

Cool, she thought. She'd been worried Chloe might have taken it with her, because Chloe rarely went anywhere without her laptop. But apparently Chloe took her work as a waitress too seriously to write on the job.

Lois flipped open the laptop and booted it up. Naturally, Chloe had her files password protected-- the girl had such a suspicious nature-- but Lois was able to figure out the password pretty easily. She'd known Chloe forever, after all. And given the fact that Chloe and Clark were apparently an item, it wasn't at all surprising that she was using Clark's middle name, Jerome, as her password.

She looked through Chloe's files, finding extensive notes and half-written stories on a lot of subjects. Good stuff, she thought. There were notes on all sorts of cool things, from Metropolis' mayor and his funding of projects that benefited his neighborhood, to a guy in Smallville who'd broken into a bank using some sort of weird telekinetic power. All interesting leads, and all about stuff that needed to be printed now, before it was so old no one cared.

Really, she told herself, she would be doing the public a favor by getting this stuff out where they could see it. The public had a right to know. It was wrong of Chloe to keep all this stuff under wraps, just because she couldn't use it herself.

Seen that way, her little jaunt into Chloe's private files seemed almost... noble. All for the good of the reading public. Really.

She spotted a file marked Lex, and clicked on it. The title read, Lex Luthor's Crimes Against Humanity, and unlike much of the other stuff, it seemed to be a complete article.

Lois read through it, and by the end, she was gaping.

"Now you know why he fired me," a voice said behind her.

Lois spun around, her hand at her throat. Chloe was standing behind her, looking less than delighted to see her.

"Oh, my God, cuz. You scared the hell out of me."

"Maybe," Chloe said, walking into the room, "you wouldn't be so jumpy if you weren't in the middle of snooping through my stuff."

"I thought you were at work."

"Nope." Chloe lifted the cup she held. "Just grabbing a latte at the Talon. I don't have to be at work till one today. But if you thought I was at work, I guess you didn't come over here to see me." She narrowed her eyes at the open laptop. "I didn't realize you were such a fan of my writing."

Lois lifted her chin, trying to look haughty. "This is all good stuff, Chlo. It needs to get printed."

"Don't try to justify this, Lo." Chloe's voice was sharper than usual. "You had no business trying to steal my stories, and you know it."

Lois shrugged, refusing to let the embarrassment and shame she felt show on her face. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she thought defiantly, and then felt even more ashamed.

Because it sounded exactly like something Lex Luthor would say.

"You have no business keeping all this stuff from the world," she said, trying to sound haughty and self-righteous. "Some of it's really important."

"The only story here that really matters," Chloe said, "is the one about Lex. And that's the one that can't be printed."

Lois lowered her eyes, looking away from Chloe's steady hazel gaze, and frowned down at the laptop. "Did he really do all those awful things, Chloe? I mean, I knew about some of them, but..."

"Yes." Chloe stepped right in front of her and stared at her, a compelling intensity in her eyes. "He's been imprisoning people. Experimenting on people. Torturing and killing people. That's why you shouldn't be working with him, Lois. That's why you shouldn't be helping him. He's not just a bad guy. He's a villain."

Lois swallowed. All of a sudden she felt ill. "Did this article have anything to do with why he bought the Planet?" she asked in a small voice.

"It had everything to do with it," Chloe answered. "He knew I was writing it, and he put Grant at the Planet to keep an eye on me, because he knew I was researching him. I wrote most of the story almost a year ago, but I couldn't print it, because I didn't have the proof. But I've been working on getting the proof together, and once Lex realized how much I had, he bought the Planet and blacklisted me so I couldn't ever get it printed."

"Oh, my God, cuz. You're lucky he didn't just kill you."

"He threatened me. But I guess he figured this was easier. Less messy."

Lois was almost afraid to ask the question, but she had to know the answer. "Exactly what do I have to do with all this?"

"I think," Chloe said, "you're just Lex's way of getting back at me for daring to go after him. He made sure you were hired, made sure you got all the opportunities I didn't. That's Lex for you. He plays mind games. He punishes people when they cross him. He uses people."

Lois blinked against the tears that stung her eyes. She hadn't been hired because Grant saw the potential in her writing, or even because Grant thought she was sexy. She'd been hired solely because Lex wanted to hurt Chloe. She was only a pawn, being used by Lex Luthor in a complex, twisted chess game.

On some level, she'd always known she didn't belong at the Planet, but having it confirmed hurt.

She wasn't a real journalist, and never had been.

"And when he fired you, he moved me upstairs and made sure I had front-page headlines just to tweak you a little more," she said, her voice shaking.

"That's pretty much the size of it, I think." Chloe looked at her steadily. "Look, Lois, it's not your fault. Lex is a user. He'll use anyone, for anything. He even used Grant, and Grant was... well..."

Lois lifted an eyebrow. "Grant was what?"

Chloe hesitated a long moment. "Grant was a clone of Lex's brother Julian," she said at last.

Lois' mouth fell open. "You are kidding me."

"I wish I were, believe me. But it's true. Julian died when he was just a baby, and a year or two ago, Lex cloned him. So Grant was just another of Lex's scientific experiments, but a more personal one."

Oh, God. She'd been sleeping with a guy who was essentially a toddler. The squick factor there was off the charts. She stared at Chloe, shocked and horrified. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't learn Grant was a clone until after he died," Chloe assured her. "If I had, I would have told you right away. But since he was already dead by the time I found out... well, I figured you probably didn't need to know."

Lois blinked hard, thinking of Grant's broad smile, the sense of snark that had matched her own. She hadn't been in love with him, but she'd liked him a hell of a lot, and the realization that he'd been using her at Lex's behest cut deeply. "Maybe you're right. But I never had any clue he was a Luthor."

"I know. Not your fault, Lo. And honestly, I'm not sure what happened there. I think Lex had him killed, but I can't prove it. The point is, if Lex will use his own flesh and blood... he'll use anyone."

Lois lowered her head and looked back at the article on the laptop's screen. She thought of all the people she'd known who'd been hurt by Lex. Wes, the first guy she'd ever kissed. Grant, the guy she'd fallen for against her better judgment. And Chloe, who'd never wanted anything more than to write for the Daily Planet, and who'd had that taken away from her.

Anger, hot and genuine and righteous, began to burn inside her.

"Do you really have proof to back this up, cuz?"

"Hey, it's me." Chloe smiled wryly. "Do you even have to ask?"

"Real, solid, iron-clad proof?"

"Yeah. Clark and I spent months getting it all."

Lois frowned. "This could put Lex behind bars, Chloe."

"I know." Chloe sighed. "And believe me, I've been trying to get it published. But most editors won't even take my calls. Lex has them all intimidated into ignoring me. Even the ones halfway across the country, like the Star City Post, hang up the minute they hear my name."

Lois stared at the laptop, and a lightbulb suddenly came on in her head.

"Maybe you need to use a different name," she said.

*****

Two days later, the Star City Post broke the story, with the byline Lois Lane. Almost instantly, it was picked up by CNN and other online sites. Over the course of the morning, normal programming was preempted on the broadcast channels like NBC and GBS, too, as their news crews followed the unfolding story.

Lois half expected Lex to stalk into the Planet and confront her, but he never showed. Around lunchtime, Lex was arrested.

Lois sat at her desk in the bullpen and watched the events unfurling on the flatscreen TV hanging overhead. Then she picked up the phone and called Chloe.

"Hey," she said. "Are you watching this?"

"Yeah." Chloe sounded grimly pleased. "I'm glad Lex is headed for jail. I just hope they can keep him there."

"With all the evidence you found? He'll be lucky if he gets out before he's a hundred." Lois paused. "Listen, cuz... I'm sorry they keep using my name."

"Oh, well." Chloe sounded resigned. "Whatever. I mean, your name is on the article."

"But I didn't write it, Chlo. It isn't like it was just your lead. You wrote the whole thing. You did the research. I can't take the credit."

Chloe had admitted that Lois' idea of using a pseudonym was a good one. She'd tried to sell the article using a made-up pen name, but it rapidly became evident that most papers wouldn't even take a look at such a big article if the reporter that offered it to them had no credentials. Lois had some front page articles to her credit, even though they were all puff pieces, and she wrote for the best newspaper in the world. Using her name, they'd been able to convince an editor to take a look at it pretty easily.

And after that... things had moved fast.

"It's okay, Lo. The truth is... you were right. It was too important a story to keep to myself. I knew you'd get the credit for it, but it doesn't really matter, as long as Lex is behind bars."

Lois shook her head, even though she knew Chloe couldn't see her. She'd done a lot of soul-searching since yesterday, and she knew she didn't ever want to find herself going through the private things of someone who trusted her again, or working with a man she despised. That wasn't the kind of person she wanted to be.

She'd been sliding down a slippery slope for a while now, but damn it, she was going to climb back up if it killed her.

"No, Chlo," she said firmly. "I'm not taking credit for this. It's not my story. It's yours."

The story printed under the name of "Lois Lane" was now famous nationwide, maybe even worldwide... but it wasn't because of her. It was because of Chloe. That knowledge stung, but only a little. She knew that she hadn't done anything to deserve the recognition.

Despite the name on the byline, it was Chloe's story.

*****

That afternoon the head editor of the Planet resigned. Lois was half afraid that with Lex in jail, the Planet would close down, but it turned out that the Planet was actually owned by LuthorCorp, which meant Lionel Luthor seemed to be running things now. And to everyone's shock, for the new editor in chief he picked the man whose article had once put him in jail.

The next morning Perry moved into the corner office in the bullpen and began making the rounds of the desks, speaking with each reporter personally.

"Perry White," he said, smiling as he held out his hand to Lois. "I know we've met, once or twice, but I think my attitude has been, shall we say, less than gracious."

Lois made a face as she took his hand and shook it. "I guess I deserved it."

"Not at all," he said warmly. "If I'd realized you were using your close association with Lex to gather this kind of information and take him down, I wouldn't have treated you that way. None of us would have. We're all very impressed with your work, Miss Lane."

Lois closed her eyes for a moment. She wished she had been using Lex that way. But it had never really occurred to her. She'd been so focused on keeping her job that she hadn't really thought much about taking Lex down.

Still, it sounded good. It would totally redeem her in the eyes of all the journalists here if she let them believe that.

"In fact," Perry said, "I'd like to offer you a promotion, Miss Lane. To full reporter."

Lois' mouth dropped open. For a long moment no sound emerged, and then she started to stammer. "I can't... I mean, I..."

Perry held up a hand. "Just think about it," he said. "We need more writers like you, Miss Lane. Writers who can write and research. Writers who can topple giants. Writers with guts."

He smiled at her, and then turned around, heading for his office. She closed her eyes, because God help her, she loved being treated with that kind of respect. The way he'd looked at her, as if she were really somebody, somebody who belonged here.

And she could stay here if she wanted. All she had to do was claim it was her article, and she'd get a promotion, a fat raise, and national recognition as a serious journalist.

She watched Perry walking away and remembered her words yesterday.

No, Chloe. I'm not taking credit for this. It's not my story. It's yours.

A great job, respect, and a raise would be awesome. But what she wanted, more than anything else, was to climb back up that slippery slope and get her feet back on solid ground.

Slowly, she rose to her feet and spoke, firmly and resolutely.

"Mr. White," she said. "There's something I need to tell you."

*****

Chloe walked out of Perry White's office later that afternoon. There was a dazed look on her face. Lois looked up at her and smiled.

"Good news, cuz?"

Chloe looked back at her. "He hired me back," she said softly. "Not only that, but he offered me a position as a full reporter." She looked upward, a dreamy expression on her face. "Right here in the bullpen. Under the Tiffany lamps."

"I hope you said no," Lois drawled. "It gets awfully hot under these lamps."

Chloe blinked at her, clearly taken aback, and Lois burst out laughing. "Just kidding, cuz. I'm happy for you. Really. Too bad I won't be working here with you."

"About that." Chloe held out a hand. "I talked to Perry about it. I told him you were trying hard, and that I thought with some work you could become a really good reporter. So he agreed to keep you on if you want. Now, it'd be in the basement, but if you don't mind that..."

Lois looked back at her, and saw the truth written on Chloe's too-honest face. "You refused to come back if he didn't keep me on, didn't you?"

Chloe shrugged. "It was your idea that got the article printed," she said.

"Yeah, but it was your article, cuz. Listen, I can't..."

"Yes, you can." Chloe looked stubborn. "You have potential. Honestly, you do."

Lois shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, thanks. Really, it was nice of you to step up for me. But if I've learned anything in the last two months, it's that I'm not cut out to be a reporter."

"That's not true," Chloe said loyally.

"Oh, it's totally true, and you know it. Maybe my writing has potential, maybe not. But I don't have the drive. The truth is... I just don't care about it that much." Lois shrugged. "No big deal. I mean, jobhopping is what I do. Maybe one of these days I'll figure out what I'm meant to do. But reporting isn't it."

"Well..." Chloe bit her lip. "Okay, Lois. If you're sure."

Lois looked around at the Tiffany lamps and felt a little tug of sorrow. Up here, she felt like she'd accomplished something, like she was one of the big dogs. But the truth was she hadn't accomplished a damn thing on her own. She'd done it all because Grant and Lex had been using her. And even the nationally famous article published under the name "Lois Lane" hadn't been her achievement.

"Trust me, I'm sure. As a journalist, I left something to be desired." She sighed. "And maybe as a person, too."

"We all make mistakes, Lo." Chloe patted her shoulder. "What matters is where we go from here."

Lois gave her a wry smile. "I don't know where I'm going from here. All I know is... it won't be journalism."

She felt a little twinge of regret as she said the words. For a little while, she'd let herself dream of becoming an award-winning journalist. She'd let herself dream of fame and Pulitzers and enormous headlines.

But the truth was that had never really been her dream. It had always been Chloe's dream. She'd just kind of borrowed it for a while, tried it on like a child trying on her big sister's clothes.

And in the end, it just hadn't fit right.

"Seriously..." She waved a hand in a gesture meant to encompass the bustle of the bullpen. "You were meant for this, Chlo. I wasn't."

Chloe blinked hard, started to say something, and then just wrapped her arms around Lois. The two of them hugged, and then Lois picked up her purse and her few personal items, and headed for the door.

She paused just outside the etched glass doors and looked back into the bullpen. Chloe was sitting down at what had been Lois' desk, and suddenly Lois realized she'd failed to grab her nameplate. It was still sitting there in front of Chloe, on what was now Chloe's desk.

Lois watched as Chloe took her nameplate off the desk, stashing it gently in a drawer and replacing it with a nameplate that read "Chloe Sullivan." Lois thought about walking back into the bullpen to retrieve it, but decided against it.

Her nameplate might as well be hidden away in a drawer, forgotten. After all, despite her five minutes of fame, her name would be forgotten in journalistic circles before long. It would be as if she'd never been a reporter at all.

And that was okay. Because the truth was that for her, journalism had just been one job among many, rather than something that sparked in her soul and consumed her, the way it did Chloe. The truth was that Lois Lane had never been destined to be a world-famous, Pulitzer-winning journalist.

That was Chloe Sullivan's destiny, not hers.

-The End-