Meet Clark Kent
New York City had never ceased to be a center for world commerce, it only took a short and much needed break. 9/11, the Iraq War, and the 2007 Housing Crisis had taken their toll on the Big Apple, but fortunately for its 9.3 million inhabitants, it was also one of the first cities to rebound. Government stimulus packages accelerated the completion of the rebuilt World Trade Center in 2013 and prosperity would soon follow. Thirty-four Fortune Five Hundred companies relocated to Manhattan and six more existing businesses already located within the city’s limits were catapulted onto the list. An attempted presidential assassination at Madison Square Gardens and two more Gulf Wars did not slow New York’s meteoric ascent to the top of the business and political world. In fact, it was said that the tax money generated by New York’s businesses were solely responsible for funding reconstruction in the Middle East.
The skyline had expanded beyond the view of what any artist could have imagined. The immense cityscape made the Dubai of the early millennium look like a child’s play set. World Trade Center buildings One and Two highlighted a truly breathtaking silhouette of twisting, turning, and endlessly rising creations of unbelievable skyscraping architecture. The light from this modern metropolis could be seen from the lunar launch base over 240,000 miles away without the assistance of a microscope. This bustling center of innovation and wealth had truly become a beacon of hope to the rest of the world.
And, there could not be any place better from which to get daily news. Over six hundred global news media distributors were located here, but none were more respected than the New World Reporter. Known loosely as the “New Rep”, this conglomerate was responsible for bringing news to all parts of the world via television, film, internet, radio, and print. Nestled securely between floors two-fifty and three-seventy-five of WTC 2, the New Rep employed over twelve thousand people in their Net Media division alone, including Clark Kent and James Miller.
Clark was a writer and James was a photographer. They were both in their fifties and had been friendly since their first day together at the New Rep twenty-two years ago. It was only with the tragic death of Clark’s wife that their bond was cemented as James was there to pull Clark out his darkest and deepest days of depression. James was the only person aside from his mother that Clark could trust and he confided in him regularly. James had a family of his own: a wife of thirty years and two daughters, one in college and one a senior in high school. Both men loved their jobs and collaborated often, winning several awards for their coverage of terrorist cells still operating in the largely peaceful Middle East. They had a unique but clear connection that made working together easy.
The doors of eight enormous elevators opened simultaneously onto the 260th floor of WTC 2 and into the offices of the New Rep’s net-based international division. Forty people per car spilled into work chattering about things as trivial as “the Knicks game” and as important as “how the stock market directly effects world peace.” The 9:00 a.m. shift had arrived refreshed, ready to deliver the news, and for the next eight hours, there would not be a nook, cranny, corner, cubicle or bathroom stall where anyone could find peace. Amongst this crowd were Clark and James, having already met for their morning coffee and bagel routine, but still talking.
Both men walked briskly, smiled widely, and really looked their part. Clark dressed in three piece suits, usually opting for blue or gray, and his shirt was always stark white. Always white, no stripes or patterns. An olive colored overcoat, a briefcase and a businessman’s hat that almost sat down on his glasses completed the look for which he was known. Maybe he was overdressed (most everyone else wore khakis and a golf shirt) but he had been taught to “dress for the job he wanted, not the one he had.” Incidently, he had no idea what job he would rather do than his own, but this advice was at least a good excuse for being old-fashioned and looking out of style for the time.
James was a head shorter than Clark, and about thirty pounds lighter. An athletic looking black man with green eyes, he kept his hair short and was clean shaven. He wore light-weight cargo pants, an outdoor shirt, and hiking boots every day, regardless of whether or not he was going out in the field to shoot. His wife would often remind him that he worked in the largest city in the world, not the Serengeti, but he refused to change into office attire. He would remind her that he may need to be in the desert by the end of the day and wanted to be ready for anything. Clark loved this about James: his commitment to preparedness. He didn’t even wear a watch because he was afraid looking down at his wrist could momentarily divert his attention away from the shot he needed to get.
These two were an odd pair but their minds worked brilliantly together and sometimes even more productively in opposition to the other. Despite the fact that they shared an office, they were the best of friends.
“So how was D.C. anyways?” said James. His eyes darted from face to face around the corridor and he gave smooth nods of recognition to everyone he knew.
“It was great. Great weather. Just a real nice weekend,” replied Clark. He, too, was intent on acknowledging his coworkers, but was slightly more awkward in his gestures and his nods were accompanied by a very short, stiff wave.
“Did you get to see any of the sites or was it all work and no play?” asked James as he went for his key to unlock their office door.
“Oh, gosh. Well, let’s see,” he started, “I saw the new Capitol Building, uh, I went to the Lincoln Monument, had some great meals, met some real nice people…” he trailed off. “…went to the new Smithsonian Museum…”
“Modern Warfare? I hear it’s incredible. Did you have time to see the whole thing?” asked James. He unlocked the door and both men entered the office.
“Yep, took the tour,” Clark smiled as he closed the door behind him and laid his briefcase on his desk.
Their office was small and sparsely decorated. Two metal desks with computers faced each other with about three feet of walking space in between. There was a good sized window directly in between the desks that offered the only redeeming visual quality to the room as it looked out past WTC 1 and over the city. The walls on Clark’s side were bare, as was his desk, except for the picture of his late wife. On James’ side of the room hung two of his award winning pictures, held up crookedly with thumb tacks. His desk was in utter disarray with papers and photo negatives everywhere and in seemingly no order. The only sign of normalcy were his pictures of the wife and kids from different times in their lives or family vacations.
James continued as he set down his camera case and pulled out his chair, “You know, they will sometimes give you a ‘behind the scenes’ look at things if you flash your press pass.”
“Not there,” said Clark, “trust me, I tried.” He twisted in the corner taking off his hat and overcoat.
James considered not asking the next question, but he did anyway: “Did you see the Superman suit?” Clark stopped, one arm still in his jacket, turned around and glared at James.
“Yes. Yes I did, James. Why?” But before he would allow an answer Clark continued, “You of all people should understand that… I mean… just because my name is…goddamnit James!” Clark was visibly frustrated by a seemingly harmless question and shucked his jacket into a heap on the ground in protest.
“No, no, no. That’s not why I asked. Take it easy, buddy. I’m sorry, okay? I just think that suit is cool as hell and I’ve always wanted to see it myself, that’s all.” James had seen this response out of his friend once before. They were eating dinner in Cleveland and Clark decided to pick up the check. The waiter, upon seeing his name on the credit card, announced to the restaurant that the “real Superman” was in the house and then snapped a picture with his phone. Clark did not smile for the picture or show any emotion whatsoever. He simply signed his bill and the two men got up and left. On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, James asked Clark if he had left the kid a tip. Clark responded, “Yeah. On the gratuity line I wrote ‘don’t be an asshole.’” James laughed, but he was the only one. That incident was about five years ago and this conversation had apparently tipped Clark’s mood in the same direction.
An hour or so went by with only the sound of tapping fingers on keys and mouse clicking. James looked up to see Clark take off his glasses, lean back in his chair, rub his temples and let out a held breath. He looked back at James and said, “I didn’t mean to spout off. I know you didn’t mean anything. It’s just… We’ve never really talked about this, but I hate that my parents gave me this name, you know? The crap I’ve had to put up with…”
“I understand, man. It’s cool,” said James, now set back in his chair.
“Still, sometimes I wonder why the hell I went into journalism at all. I mean, although I’ve always kind of looked like the character I never let that define me or shape who I was going to be. But I always seemed to be fighting myself or others because of it. And for what? A name?” He let out another breath and continued, “At some point, I just stopped fighting and even started to accept it, but since Elaine died it‘s harder to…” he stopped and put on his glasses.
“It’s alright, man. ‘Nuff said,” and James went back to his work.
“You know,” said Clark, “I was born with mild jaundice and the doctor suggested that my parents expose me to sunlight in small amounts to help clear up the condition.” He smiled, “So, I guess I did get some sort of healing power from the yellow sun. Maybe I do have some things in common with the Man of Steel, James.”
Without looking up from his desk, James grinned a huge grin and said, “You know, you can call me Jimmy, Mr. Kent.”
“Isn’t it obvious why I don’t?” replied Clark. Both men laughed and then worked the rest of the morning in a content silence until the stomach growls made it hard to concentrate.
“ ‘The Deli on 5th’ sound good for lunch?” said James, breaking the quiet.
“ ‘The Deli on 5th’ it is,” confirmed Clark.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Introduction: The Awkward Reporter
The Awkward Reporter
The Museum of Modern Warfare, now the most visited tourist destination in Washington D.C., was packed to capacity, but no more crowded than any day since its opening. The entry was a grand atrium with a glass ceiling one hundred feet high, a width twice that, and a depth that made the back wall hard to see from the twelve foot revolving front doors. The structure was a work of art that belonged in a museum of architecture itself.
Carbon-based ultra light tanks, plasma cannons, EMP emitters, and radar-silent missiles highlighted the large pieces of technological weaponry spread across the floor of the immense lobby. Winged and disk-like flying masterpieces of air-to-ground assault hung from steel cables secured to the iron beams that supported the ceiling. From this great display hall expanded four two-story corridors that housed exhibits of smaller scale but equal interest. Individuals gathered in clusters and outstretching their necks to read the lighted placards that accompanied each item. Still others, grouped into herds of fifteen or twenty, paid the extra thirty-six dollars for a two hour guided tour. The sheer size and scope of the building and its contents made it nearly impossible to see everything offered in one day. In fact, the last exhibit on the tour was so far from the front doors that self-guided observers hardly ever made it far enough to take it in.
“I know you probably all recognize this. The U.S. and British Allied Air Forces used this particular model during the third Gulf War,” explained one of the guides.
She was tall, slender, and she spoke precisely with an easy smile as she led her group through the Smithsonian’s newest attraction entitled “Hand to Hand Combat Tech.” She was college aged, in school, and her patrons could tell she enjoyed her job. Well versed on more than just the basics, she could answer any question thrown her way, and did so enthusiastically. Her group this day was like any other: a family of four, a family of six, a retired couple, three WWIII vets, five or six students, and a reporter.
She loved the opportunity to guide a member of the press, and she had this one pegged even before he flashed his credentials. He looked like a reporter; like something out of a television show or a movie. He was tall, about six foot four, with dark hair, except for the streaks of gray in the temples. Despite the oversized, round-framed glasses and the sheepish, fumbling way he asked his questions (he had a million of them,) she thought he was handsome and found his demeanor charming. He was old enough to be her father, but she couldn‘t stop brushing her hair back from her face when she spoke to him.
Like the others in her group, his eyes were fixed on the final exhibit. But his stare was more intense than it had been; like it could burn a hole through the thick glass in which it was encased. Realizing his concentration would not be broken unless by words about the now object of his intense gaze, the tour guide continued, “This personal flying combat suit was used to get soldier-pilots behind enemy lines, into and out of situations and missions that were otherwise not possible on foot.”
She went on to explain the technology behind this marvel of modern science and engineering. It was made of mostly a light-weight lycra based material and had millions of individual fibers woven throughout that emitted an electro magnetic field powerful enough to influence and react to objects in its atmosphere. This was its basis for flight and propulsion; directing and redirecting electromagnetic fields. The sky-blue and steel gray suit had a retractable cape that was a free flowing fabric until an electrical charge was introduced to make it rigid so that it could act as a rudder. Additionally, molded carbon-fiber and kevlar panels added light weight protection from assault, although in action the pilots were famously hard to target, much less hit.
The pilots were elite; the best of the best. Their accounts of the suits usability were surprising even to the designers. This was quite simply the easiest suit to maneuver out of any they had tested, and they had tested hundreds. The direction of flight was determined by sensors in the pilot’s helmet: look up, down, left, right and fly in that direction with ease and precision. Actions like launch, landing, acceleration, and decceleration were all based on voice command. In short, the suit was entirely reactive to the pilot and in combat it was almost as if they were one.
This was an accomplishment of science, engineering, aerodynamics, and most of all human capability. But that is not why this suit was so well known. Despite the hard work and genius that went into its design and flight, this suit was made famous because of a nearly century old comic book legend that lent the military project its name.
“That’s right folks. The CIA called this the Superman Project during its developmental phases, and the name stuck. Once photos leaked of pilots taking these personal flying suits into battle, the Superman legend was reborn, spurring three new movies, two television series, and an entirely new universe of comic book characters.” The group laughed. “Now, all soldiers that served during this time were heroic in one way or another, but for obvious reasons, these guys were dubbed the Superman Soldiers of the Third Gulf War.” Almost everyone was smiling with amazement and a childlike giddiness. The guide had looked over and made eye contact with each of her patrons as she finished her talk. Her eyes settled on the reporter. He had not budged or broken his stare. “Any questions before we move toward the main atrium and conclude?” she said with a pause. The reporter was silent and still. She tried, “Sir?”
He did not redirect his attention. In an entirely different manner and in a deeper, more deliberate tone than before, he asked, “Was this particular suit ever functional?”
Surprised as his stoic demeanor she replied with the wording she had been taught, “Yes sir, absolutely functional. All exhibits in the Smithsonian Museum of Modern Warfare were at one time in use on the battlefield. This type of weaponry, however, is no longer in use. Like so many of the other items on display at our museum, the Superman Project was decommissioned in 2025 with the signing of the International Disarmament Act.” Her words elicited no emotion nor did they break his hold. Then addressing the group, she continued, “Okay, if you’ll all follow me we will work out way back to the main entrance.” The group ambled clumsily and slowly away, except one. While they all chattered about the wonders they had seen the reporter kept his intense stare on the suit. The guide approached, “sir?” No response. Again, “sir?” She placed her hand on the arm of his suit jacket. He blinked and snapped his head around as if he had just been awaken from some hallucination.
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry,” he started. “I guess I just got caught up in the fantasy of it all. It is truly amazing isn’t it?” His face relaxed and his boyish grin had returned.
“It is, sir,” she agreed.
“Listen, you were fantastic today. Very informative.” He seemed suddenly invigorated. Refreshed.
“Well thank you. I hope you got the information you needed for your article,” she answered with an appreciative smile.
“I did, indeed. What is your name so I can include you in the story?”
“Campbell….. Uh, Shannon Campbell. C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l.” she recited with some excitement. The gentleman entered her name in his handheld device, thanked her again, and turned to walk away. He took his overcoat from where it was folded at his forearm and began to put it on. The thought crossed her mind that her name would be in an editorial that could be read by hundreds, or millions, and how proud her parents were going to be. “Wait,” she called. “I want to get a copy of the story, when it’s finished.”
“Sure,” he came back. “I write for the New World Reporter in New York. It’s an internet news source that reaches all parts of the globe via the web. The piece will be up in a few days. You can search it by the subject. It should be pretty easy to find.”
“Great. What is your name?” she asked digging in her pocket for her pen.
“Kent.” He moved in close and came almost to a whisper. “ It’s, um, Clark Kent.” She didn’t respond. Even more quietly he said, “Uh, that’s K-e-n-t.”
“I know how to spell Kent,” she laughed. She noticed that he wasn‘t laughing though, and his innocent smile had quickly turned to a look of embarrassment. “Wait, are you serious? You are a reporter for an international news source in New York and your name is Clark Kent? Like, the Superman guy Clark Kent?”
He answered her in the way he had answered that same question so many times before. “Unfortunately. Goodbye, miss.” She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed again to herself. Dumbfounded and amused, she watched him disappear into the crowd that was heading for the exit of the main atrium.
That was the first time she had ever met anyone named Clark Kent. It was the first time she would have her name in a news article that would be published internationally. But that article would be overshadowed by a much larger story: three days later would also be the first time anything had ever been stolen from a Smithsonian museum.
The Museum of Modern Warfare, now the most visited tourist destination in Washington D.C., was packed to capacity, but no more crowded than any day since its opening. The entry was a grand atrium with a glass ceiling one hundred feet high, a width twice that, and a depth that made the back wall hard to see from the twelve foot revolving front doors. The structure was a work of art that belonged in a museum of architecture itself.
Carbon-based ultra light tanks, plasma cannons, EMP emitters, and radar-silent missiles highlighted the large pieces of technological weaponry spread across the floor of the immense lobby. Winged and disk-like flying masterpieces of air-to-ground assault hung from steel cables secured to the iron beams that supported the ceiling. From this great display hall expanded four two-story corridors that housed exhibits of smaller scale but equal interest. Individuals gathered in clusters and outstretching their necks to read the lighted placards that accompanied each item. Still others, grouped into herds of fifteen or twenty, paid the extra thirty-six dollars for a two hour guided tour. The sheer size and scope of the building and its contents made it nearly impossible to see everything offered in one day. In fact, the last exhibit on the tour was so far from the front doors that self-guided observers hardly ever made it far enough to take it in.
“I know you probably all recognize this. The U.S. and British Allied Air Forces used this particular model during the third Gulf War,” explained one of the guides.
She was tall, slender, and she spoke precisely with an easy smile as she led her group through the Smithsonian’s newest attraction entitled “Hand to Hand Combat Tech.” She was college aged, in school, and her patrons could tell she enjoyed her job. Well versed on more than just the basics, she could answer any question thrown her way, and did so enthusiastically. Her group this day was like any other: a family of four, a family of six, a retired couple, three WWIII vets, five or six students, and a reporter.
She loved the opportunity to guide a member of the press, and she had this one pegged even before he flashed his credentials. He looked like a reporter; like something out of a television show or a movie. He was tall, about six foot four, with dark hair, except for the streaks of gray in the temples. Despite the oversized, round-framed glasses and the sheepish, fumbling way he asked his questions (he had a million of them,) she thought he was handsome and found his demeanor charming. He was old enough to be her father, but she couldn‘t stop brushing her hair back from her face when she spoke to him.
Like the others in her group, his eyes were fixed on the final exhibit. But his stare was more intense than it had been; like it could burn a hole through the thick glass in which it was encased. Realizing his concentration would not be broken unless by words about the now object of his intense gaze, the tour guide continued, “This personal flying combat suit was used to get soldier-pilots behind enemy lines, into and out of situations and missions that were otherwise not possible on foot.”
She went on to explain the technology behind this marvel of modern science and engineering. It was made of mostly a light-weight lycra based material and had millions of individual fibers woven throughout that emitted an electro magnetic field powerful enough to influence and react to objects in its atmosphere. This was its basis for flight and propulsion; directing and redirecting electromagnetic fields. The sky-blue and steel gray suit had a retractable cape that was a free flowing fabric until an electrical charge was introduced to make it rigid so that it could act as a rudder. Additionally, molded carbon-fiber and kevlar panels added light weight protection from assault, although in action the pilots were famously hard to target, much less hit.
The pilots were elite; the best of the best. Their accounts of the suits usability were surprising even to the designers. This was quite simply the easiest suit to maneuver out of any they had tested, and they had tested hundreds. The direction of flight was determined by sensors in the pilot’s helmet: look up, down, left, right and fly in that direction with ease and precision. Actions like launch, landing, acceleration, and decceleration were all based on voice command. In short, the suit was entirely reactive to the pilot and in combat it was almost as if they were one.
This was an accomplishment of science, engineering, aerodynamics, and most of all human capability. But that is not why this suit was so well known. Despite the hard work and genius that went into its design and flight, this suit was made famous because of a nearly century old comic book legend that lent the military project its name.
“That’s right folks. The CIA called this the Superman Project during its developmental phases, and the name stuck. Once photos leaked of pilots taking these personal flying suits into battle, the Superman legend was reborn, spurring three new movies, two television series, and an entirely new universe of comic book characters.” The group laughed. “Now, all soldiers that served during this time were heroic in one way or another, but for obvious reasons, these guys were dubbed the Superman Soldiers of the Third Gulf War.” Almost everyone was smiling with amazement and a childlike giddiness. The guide had looked over and made eye contact with each of her patrons as she finished her talk. Her eyes settled on the reporter. He had not budged or broken his stare. “Any questions before we move toward the main atrium and conclude?” she said with a pause. The reporter was silent and still. She tried, “Sir?”
He did not redirect his attention. In an entirely different manner and in a deeper, more deliberate tone than before, he asked, “Was this particular suit ever functional?”
Surprised as his stoic demeanor she replied with the wording she had been taught, “Yes sir, absolutely functional. All exhibits in the Smithsonian Museum of Modern Warfare were at one time in use on the battlefield. This type of weaponry, however, is no longer in use. Like so many of the other items on display at our museum, the Superman Project was decommissioned in 2025 with the signing of the International Disarmament Act.” Her words elicited no emotion nor did they break his hold. Then addressing the group, she continued, “Okay, if you’ll all follow me we will work out way back to the main entrance.” The group ambled clumsily and slowly away, except one. While they all chattered about the wonders they had seen the reporter kept his intense stare on the suit. The guide approached, “sir?” No response. Again, “sir?” She placed her hand on the arm of his suit jacket. He blinked and snapped his head around as if he had just been awaken from some hallucination.
“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry,” he started. “I guess I just got caught up in the fantasy of it all. It is truly amazing isn’t it?” His face relaxed and his boyish grin had returned.
“It is, sir,” she agreed.
“Listen, you were fantastic today. Very informative.” He seemed suddenly invigorated. Refreshed.
“Well thank you. I hope you got the information you needed for your article,” she answered with an appreciative smile.
“I did, indeed. What is your name so I can include you in the story?”
“Campbell….. Uh, Shannon Campbell. C-a-m-p-b-e-l-l.” she recited with some excitement. The gentleman entered her name in his handheld device, thanked her again, and turned to walk away. He took his overcoat from where it was folded at his forearm and began to put it on. The thought crossed her mind that her name would be in an editorial that could be read by hundreds, or millions, and how proud her parents were going to be. “Wait,” she called. “I want to get a copy of the story, when it’s finished.”
“Sure,” he came back. “I write for the New World Reporter in New York. It’s an internet news source that reaches all parts of the globe via the web. The piece will be up in a few days. You can search it by the subject. It should be pretty easy to find.”
“Great. What is your name?” she asked digging in her pocket for her pen.
“Kent.” He moved in close and came almost to a whisper. “ It’s, um, Clark Kent.” She didn’t respond. Even more quietly he said, “Uh, that’s K-e-n-t.”
“I know how to spell Kent,” she laughed. She noticed that he wasn‘t laughing though, and his innocent smile had quickly turned to a look of embarrassment. “Wait, are you serious? You are a reporter for an international news source in New York and your name is Clark Kent? Like, the Superman guy Clark Kent?”
He answered her in the way he had answered that same question so many times before. “Unfortunately. Goodbye, miss.” She shook her head in disbelief, then laughed again to herself. Dumbfounded and amused, she watched him disappear into the crowd that was heading for the exit of the main atrium.
That was the first time she had ever met anyone named Clark Kent. It was the first time she would have her name in a news article that would be published internationally. But that article would be overshadowed by a much larger story: three days later would also be the first time anything had ever been stolen from a Smithsonian museum.
What is this about?
This is not about Superman. This is about a man whose parents named him Clark Kent. It's that simple. The story is set slightly in the future. The year is 2035. Enjoy.....
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