Chapter 8: The Learning Curve

  The week following Clark’s revelation to James was physically and mentally taxing on both men.  James had invented a work-related reason to stay in the city so that he could sleep at Clark’s apartment and his wife wouldn’t ask any questions.  This would not be the first time James had to be close to the office for an extended period of time and she did not suspect anything was awry.  James estimated that one week of instruction would be enough to work through the schematics so that he could get his friend ready to fly the suit.  Clark had a more rapid approach in mind.

  The two had spent the first night acquainting themselves with the basics of the flight command program.  James was able to successfully power up the suit and got Clark started in the voice recognition sequences before he fell asleep on the couch.  Diligently, Clark stayed up past 2:00 a.m. reciting scripted sentences and number sequences into the helmet’s microphone so the suit could learn his inflection, speech patterns, and pronunciation.  He slept soundly that night having a sense of accomplishment for completing that portion of the training manual.  From that day forward, the suit would only respond to his voice.

  The next night Clark and James stopped at the pizza shop and then continued up to the apartment.  When they entered, James took his duffle bag into the bathroom to change out of his work clothes.  When he emerged in his running pants and sweatshirt, Clark was standing directly in front of him near the couch.  The pizza box had not been opened, no plates were out, and no drinks had been poured.  Clark had the suit on, fumbling with the clasps over his left shoulder, and the helmet was slung back behind his head.  James was struck by how well the suit fit and how truly heroic his friend looked.

  Clark looked at James and said, “Well?”

  “Unreal, man,” started James.  “But let’s follow our plan.  I’m glad it fits good, but we need to get you more comfortable with the procedures.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Clark.  “I just wanted to make sure no adjustments were needed.”

  James smiled, “Alright.  I’m going to eat real quick.”  Before he turned to the kitchen, he looked Clark over one more time.  He knew better than to bring it up, but it was remarkable how much Clark looked like Superman.  When he was in the suit he stood taller and seemed more powerful.  It seemed to bring out a confidence in his demeanor that James had not seen since Elaine’s death.  He was certain now that helping his friend in this endeavor was the right thing to do.  Clark looked intimidating and for a moment James contemplated the fear that would soon be struck into the minds of Elaine’s killers.  He was glad to be at his friend’s side and felt proud of himself for being involved.

  James got two plates from the cupboard, went to the refrigerator, took out two bottles of water, and turned to set the plates on the counter next to the pizza.  By now, Clark had removed his glasses and put on the helmet.  James must have looked concerned because Clark immediately said, “I’m just checking the fit.  Take it easy.”

  “How many pieces of pizza do you want?” asked James, dishing out two for himself.

  “I‘ll get it myself, thanks,” answered Clark.  Then his voice deepened and in a very deliberate tone he said, “Initiate Sequence A-0-4-2-6.  Go.”  Just as James had feared, Clark’s enthusiasm overtook his common sense as he powered up the electromagnetic flight suit inside the tiny apartment.  Clark glowed and the air around him seemed to flutter as the output from the suit made the light bulb in the lamp glow brighter and then burst.  Clark’s face changed from excited to intensely focused as every muscle in his body flexed beneath the neoprene shell.  The retractable cape unfurled behind him.  He clenched his fists.

  “Shit, James.  I feel strong,” he growled, “really strong.”

  “Alright shut it off now,” insisted James.  “We agreed to start slow: no manned power indoors.  You promised, Clark.”

  “Hover.  Zero by six,” Clark commanded into the helmet’s microphone.

  “Stop!” shouted James.  He ducked behind the kitchen counter and covered his head, breaking both plates as they slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.  He was expecting a boom, or bang, or some sort of explosion, but he heard nothing but the breaking dishes.  The silence that followed was only slightly obscured by the low hum of the suit and then the increased heavy breathing of its pilot.  James uncovered himself, opened his eyes, and slowly lifted his chin above the counter.

  The dampened sunlight that shone through the blinds backlit the floating silhouette of an unmistakable superhero.  With arms outstretched, head down, and knees slightly bent, Clark hovered six inches above the carpet as if he was on an invisible crucifix.  The sight took James’ breath away and he was overcome with such emotion that he thought he might cry.  He felt his heartbeat in his throat as he thought back on all of the stories Clark had told of being tortured for his given name.  He thought about the pain his friend had felt as he helplessly watched his wife’s last moments unfold on a computer screen.  He thought about the feelings of rage and revenge that must have prompted the high jacking of the flying combat suit.  All of this had accumulated and now, the mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent was becoming a real life Superman.  James had captured over ten thousand images in his professional career but none were as striking as the one he witnessed at that moment.

  Clark continued to breath deep.  He lifted his head, made eye contact with James, and said, “Contact zero,” and then, “Power down.”  His incredibly short descent was slow and gentle with his toes touching first, and then his heels.  The cape retracted silently and once again, there was no sound.  As the suit powered down, the microwave beeped.  Neither friend had noticed that all of the power had gone out.

  “Please don’t do that again,” pleaded James.

  “I won’t,” Clark promised.  With that the two men exhaled before they burst into an uncontrollable laughter.  James ran from behind the counter and hugged Clark.  He gave his battle-ready pal a playful shove followed by a strong hand shake.

  Regardless of his intentions, Clark had earned the right to wear the suit.  Still, James felt compelled to say, “Okay.  Take that thing off.  We have some more reading to do.”

  Clark agreed and removed the helmet.  As he unhinged the clasps and started the zipper down behind his shoulder, he thought again about how light weight the suit really was.  He recalled the time when he and Elaine had taken scuba diving lessons in anticipation of their honeymoon.  They had planned on exploring the shipwrecks and reefs in the Gulf of Mexico and maybe doing some spear fishing.  The combat suit felt like a wet suit: soft and flexible, with no restriction on his range of motion.  He stopped unzipping the suit just above his waste, withdrew his arms, and let the top portion hang behind him.  He would finish the night that way, only completely removing the suit just before he went to bed.


  The balance of the week was spent studying, discussing, planning, and exercising; all after a full day of work for both men at the New Rep.  They were so energized by the covert project that neither one seemed to tire.  Over the course of those five days James also noticed subtle changes in Clark.  He was gaining confidence at work, stuttering less, being more assertive.  But most impressive was the fact that he had started to talk very openly about Elaine’s death with his co-workers.  When asked, James would attribute the transformation to the new information about her killer being introduced.  James assured everyone that Clark was at ease knowing that the proper authorities were back on the trail of her assassin.  Keeping up the cover of Clark’s emerging secret identity was becoming a bit of a thrill for James.  He felt good telling his friends that “Clark trusts the U.S. Government to do the right thing and he knows it’s only a matter of time before Almar bin-Sawwadi gets what he deserves.”  He knew deep down that at least half of that was true.

  As the week came to a close, James decided it would be a good idea to get home for a few days and spend time with his family.

  “I’ll see you in a few days, Clark.  We had a good week.  Got a lot done,” James reassured his friend.

  “You got it.  Be safe,” Clark replied.

  “Promise me you won’t put that thing on while I’m gone,” James asked half jokingly.

  “I promise,” answered Clark smiling as he started to close the apartment door.

  “Hey man,” James said, putting his foot in the door.  He leaned his head in and spoke quietly.  “Be ready.  Monday, you’re gonna fly.”

  Clark smiled and closed the door.  He was looking forward to a few days off.  He folded the flight suit neatly, placed it back in the large equipment bag, rolled up the schematics and closed the instruction binder.  He placed all items in the coat closet and made his way to the bench to start his evening workout.  He laid down and lifted the weight bar over his chest, breathing sharply and feeling the twinge of each muscle group as he thought about what was ahead.  In his mind, Monday could not come soon enough.

Chapter 7: The Cover Up

  Clark made sure to stop in and thank his division manager for allowing him two days off.  He explained that the news of Elaine’s killers hit him harder than he thought it would and appreciated the time to reflect and compose himself.  His manager, of course, understood and carefully reminded Clark that he was an integral part of the New World Reporter family.  That interaction went better than expected, but his explanation to James would have to be handled differently.  He could feel the suspicion hanging heavy in the air as he entered their office.

  James immediately stood.  He looked Clark over first with compassion, and then with a distinct irritation.  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Fine now, thanks.  I just needed a couple days,” replied Clark.  He never looked up or looked James in the eye.  He proceeded to remove his coat and hat, adjust his glasses, sit down in his chair, and turn on his monitor.

  “Now that I know you’re okay,” started James, still standing, “let me just say: I don’t know what you’re up to but whatever kind of bullshit you think you can pull on everyone else isn’t going to work on me.  And furthermore, you’d better call your mother.  She is worried sick.  I don’t know where you’ve been but I know you weren’t home because I came over.  The least you could’ve done is answer the phone.  Damn it Clark, I’ve covered up for you with the boss for the last time.  You’re not going to take me down with you.  I need this job.  I have a family, you know!”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Clark in a whisper.

  James sighed and continued,  “I will help you personally any way I can but professionally you’re on your own.”

  “I understand,” said Clark, and he really did.  Before turning to his work, he finished with, “Thanks for always looking out for me, James.”  He did not get a response.

  As Clark plowed through the mound of work that had piled up on his desk over the past two days, he couldn’t help but think about James’ words.  What he said stung, but there was something missing.  James had not mentioned the break in at the Smithsonian.  Surely he knew.  Surely everyone knew.  Clark activated the news scroll on his computer and watched for thirty minutes.  The news stories started to repeat after only ten, and there was no mention of the break in.  He then started clicking through web pages from other news sources trying to find some word on his covert escapade.  There was nothing.  He finally ended up on the Smithsonian website.  The schedule of operations had changed for the Museum of Modern warfare.  The curators had announced a three week shut down for “routine maintenance and repair” but gave no indication that anything was wrong.  Sadly, Clark confirmed the security guard’s death by coming across his obituary as he searched.  His cause of death was listed as “natural” and he had no family listed.  That was it: a complete cover-up.

  Perhaps the authorities were not releasing information for fear of embarrassment, but Clark knew there was another reason: they were looking for him.  They did not want to tip off any suspects as to how much they knew or who they were after.  He had covered this kind of investigation too many times not to recognize the routine.  But Clark also knew that it was only a matter of time before someone inside the investigation let something slip.  From that point, the F.B.I. would control the flow of information to the media.  Clark knew then the hounds would be on him and his time was limited.

  The day proceeded quietly.  Clark and James ate separately at lunch.  When Clark returned from the cafeteria James was already in his chair, on the phone.  The two made eye contact as Clark closed the door behind him and took his seat behind the desk.  James thanked the person he was on the line with and closed his phone.  He sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face.  “That was one of my sources in D.C.  Did you know that the Museum of Modern Warfare is closed?”

  “Yeah, James.  I saw it this morning on the net,” explained Clark.

  “Clark, the personal flying combat suit has been stolen,” James said assertively.

  “Now that’s a story.  Were you able to get any leads on suspects?” asked Clark nervously.

  “Is there something you need to tell me, Clark?” asked James in a forceful tone.  “Where were you for the last two days?  If you were involved in this I swear to god…”

  Clark didn’t even stop to think.  He stood up quickly and said, “C’mon, let’s go.  Get your coat.”

  “Where are we going?” asked James, standing up.

  Clark opened the door as he put on his hat and said, “My place.  I need you to keep your mouth shut and trust me.”
_

  Forty minutes later Clark and James were standing in the apartment in silence.  The place was spotless.  All signs of a desperate inhabitant were gone.  The dishes were clean, the counter and table were free of clutter, the couch was clear, the lamp was on the end table, books were on shelves, clothes were in the closet, the bed was made, the carpets were swept…

  Most noticeably to James, the weight bench sat in front of a newly painted wall.  The newspaper clippings, pictures, posters and notes had all been boxed and put away.  The weights were on racks arranged by size and the cushion on the bench had been replaced.  A stack of clean, white face towels sat folded at the foot of the weight rack next to a pair of running shoes.  This was not the same place it was three days ago and its cleanliness and organization took James by surprise.

  Now, the two old friends stood at the foot of the bed staring at the steel blue and gray combat suit.  They had not spoken on the train, on the street, up the stairs, or into the apartment.  Clark was especially nervous because, for once, James was speechless.

  Clark spoke first, “I need your help.”

  “No shit,” replied James.  “But we can’t fix this, Clark.  This is too much.”

  “I don’t need your help fixing anything.  I need your help learning how to use it,” said Clark.  “You said you would do anything for me personally.  I don’t need you to do anything further professionally.”

  James interrupted, “Clark, I can’t…”

  “Let me finish,” continued Clark.  “I just need your help reading the plans.  You majored in mechanical engineering before switching to photography.  I know the schematics will make more sense to you than me.”

  “Even if I said yes, where would you get the plans?” asked James.  Clark knelt and pulled a rolled up set of blueprints and a thick, black three-ring binder from underneath the bed.  James looked at the binder which was marked confidential, and then back to the suit.  “Jesus, Clark.  What are you going to do with this thing?”

  “I’m going to fly it.  I’m going to exact my revenge on Elaine’s killers and I will use this suit to do it,” said Clark with as much conviction as James had ever heard.  He unfurled the plans in his hands and handed them to his best friend.  “Will you help me?”

  The two stood in silence for another few minutes while James looked over the first page of the print.  Finally he spoke.  “Ingenious.  Voice commanded flight based on electromagnetic propulsion.”  He paused, pulled his phone from his pocket and said, “Let me call home.”

  “Then what?” asked Clark.

  “Then we get started,” replied James.  “Does this thing even fit you?”

Chapter 6: Talking To the Dead

  It was early, around 6:00 a.m.  Clark Kent was kneeling under an immense weeping willow tree in the center of Rose Place Cemetery.  The granite head stone in front of him read “Elaine Farrell-Kent, Beloved, 1980-2020.”  In front of the grave marker he had placed a dozen red roses, not bound or in an arrangement.  They laid haphazardly as if they had been dropped to that very low spot from a great height.

  Clark knelt on his jacket which he had folded over so as not to wet the knees of his pants in the dew kissed morning grass.  He was dressed for work in his gray suit.  Head down, he removed his hat and glasses.  Placing them gently near his left knee, he closed his eyes, began to wring his hands and he spoke; first quietly, then in a regular tone as if someone were right there listening.  He engaged in one-sided conversations like this more often than he cared to admit, but somehow it was therapeutic.  That day’s conversation, however, sounded more like a confession and farewell:

  “Hi, babe,” he started, “Sorry I haven’t visited for a few days.  I miss you.”  He paused for a moment as if to contemplate the most gentle way to approach a difficult topic.  “We have finally gotten a break in the search to find your killer.  I know his name and the region where he lives, but not much else.  Trust me, I will know.”

  “Elaine, I did something last night.  I think I may have hurt, or maybe even killed an innocent man.  I didn’t know he was down there.  I swear it.”  Clark’s eyes started to cry but his voice never shook, nor did his emotion waiver.  “I am sure one day I will be punished for all of this, but right now I can’t stop to think about consequences.  If I do, I’m afraid the trail will go cold again, or worse, I will lose my nerve.”

  Clark grabbed his hat and glasses and stood up, continuing the conversation,  “You know me better than anyone, Elaine.  I am not a violent person.  But the bastard that took you from me will be made to suffer and unfortunately some innocent people may get hurt along the way.  He will die by my hand.  His men will beg me for mercy, but they will die beside him.  And if I decide to spare his family, they will live in pain as I have for the rest of their lives.”  He leaned over, unfolded his jacket from the ground, and slung it over his arm.  He placed his hat gently on his neatly combed hair and, wiping the tears from his cheeks rested the thick round glasses on the end of his nose.

  “It will be some time before you see me here again.  I have the combat suit.  I hope you and God can forgive me for what I am about to do.”  The tears flowed again.  He caught his glasses with his index finger before they slipped off, and pushing them back onto the bridge of his nose he finished with, “I love you, Elaine."  He bent at the waste and kissed the headstone.  "Goodbye.”

Chapter 5: There For the Taking

  “It is amazing what you can learn in an afternoon on the internet,” thought Clark.  He had all his wits about him, no alcohol in his system, and was intensely focused on the task at hand.  Not once did the thought ever cross his mind that he was doing the wrong thing.  Elaine’s killers had been revealed to the world less than two days prior and something needed to be done.  That sense of urgency is what drove Clark from the New World Reporter back to his apartment to get sober, then to Washington D.C. and into his current situation: crouched next to an air conditioning unit on the roof of the Smithsonian Museum of Modern Warfare in the dead of the night.

  It was 3:15 a.m. and Clark was dressed in black from head to toe: a ski mask pulled back to expose his face, a turtle neck underneath a hooded sweatshirt, sweatpants, and running shoes.  He felt like a ninja, or a spy; excited but calm.  His black backpack was loaded and heavy.  Inside was a map of D.C., several printed Map Quest routes from the museum to New York, a nylon repelling line, glass cutting tool, and instructions from a website detailing “how to build a homemade shape-charge bomb.”  In Clark’s hands was a pieced-together copy of the blueprints for the museum.  It truly was amazing what you could learn on the internet in one afternoon.  He had no identification on his person and his fingertips were covered in candle wax underneath black neoprene gloves.  Over his left shoulder he slung an empty duffle bag large enough to carry hockey gear, football pads, or if necessary, something much larger.

  Inside, the museum was dark.  Security spotlights dimly illuminated individual displays.  The corridors were black and only visually interrupted by an occasional flashlight which was being wielded by one of three unarmed guards.  The youngest one, Raymond, was in his late sixties and entirely out of shape.  He strolled the corridors lazily shining his light on displays, reading the plaques, and eating peanuts from a bag in his pocket.  The other two guards mostly stayed around the security desk, which was at the south end of the main atrium.  Occasionally one of them would patrol the atrium, but neither was in any shape to climb stairs or do too much walking, so mostly they stayed close to base.  Raymond was mostly on his own for the patrol sweeps.

  While researching, Clark was shocked to find out that some of the world’s most deadly weapons were extremely accessible and very loosely protected.  He knew there were only three guards, he knew their names, their ages, and knew they were unarmed.  He was also pretty sure that, on the off chance he dropped in right on top of one of the old-timers, he would not be overtaken.

  The blueprints had put Clark twenty-five feet west of his target directly above corridor H.  The charges were set.  Clark pulled the ski mask down over his face, took four deep breaths (holding the last one,) and shielded his eyes with his forearm.

  “Base, I think we got raccoons on the roof again,” squawked the youngest guard over his hand held radio.  “Somethin’s definitely up there, over.”  He shook the loose peanuts in his palm and popped them in his mouth.

  “I’m writing the report up now, over,” replied one of the guards from base.

  “First time in a long time you had to do anything down there, over” joked Raymond.  He could not remember the last time anything of any consequence had happened at the museum.  His routine had become mundane.  Walking the hallways and flashing his light around was all he ever did.  Tonight, he had heard the sounds on the roof somewhere in the general vicinity of the Hand to Hand Combat Tech wing.  He followed the sound as far as he could hear, reported in to the security base, and found himself gazing lazily at the personal flight suit displayed behind thick glass.  The suit was lit from above.  The shadows cast by the dimmed spotlight made the it appear even bigger and mightier than it was in reality.  The guard looked the display over from helmet to boots and turned to walk away.

  He radioed base with one last check, “All quiet now, I’m headed back, over.”

  With that, an explosion rocked the corridor and shook the building to its foundation.  The hanging airborne weapons on display in the main corridor swung with the blast.  A large portion of the corridor roof collapsed in and dust rushed around the displays blocking out all vision.  A piercing alarm sounded and the hall lights flickered on and off erratically making sight worse by illuminating the cloud of debris in a dizzying strobe.  The guard was knocked across the hallway into the adjacent wall, hitting so hard that his head left an indentation.  He fell to the floor, unconsciously shaking and coughing.  The lights flickered again and went out.  It was pitch black.

  Being knocked out for three minutes seemed like a much longer nap.  When the guard finally regained his bearings he rolled from his back to his stomach and pushed himself up onto his forearms.  His radio was not within reach and he could not see.  His head pounded in a way it had never before with each thump of his heartbeat sending daggers into his skull.  The taste in his mouth was a mixture of dust, roofing tar, and blood.  Fighting not to loose consciousness again, he heard a voice calling from the black behind him.

  “Raymond!” the voice called.

  “Here,” he moaned, “Here.  I can’t see!  I’m hurt.  The back of my head is wet.  I think I’m bleeding!  Help, please.”

  The lights flickered again.  He could see the dust starting to settle, but could not make out much else.  He wasn’t even sure where he was in the building anymore.  He heard his rescuer now more clearly.  It was the third guard who had been strolling in the atrium.

  “Raymond!” he heard again and felt a hand on his back.  “Don’t move, Ray.  I’m gonna get you some help.”  He turned his fallen co-worker over onto his back again and called back to base, “We need medical, now.  I can’t see but I think Raymond is hurt bad.  Give the manual override.  We need light up here.”

  The radio came back, “Paramedics are on their way.  Overriding now.  What’s Ray’s condition?”

  Then, in a blinding flash the lights came on and this time stayed.  The rescuing guard was able to get a first look at his comrade.  Raymond was unconscious again.

  “Tell ‘em to hurry!” he reported on the radio with urgency, “Ray’s head.  He’s hurt real bad!  Over!”  He looked on the injured guard and pleaded, “C’mon Ray.  Help is coming.  Stick it out.”

  Never leaving his friend’s side, he glanced upward and saw the dust starting to settle.  The individual display lights were flickering, trying to come back on.  And when they did, with a buzz and flash, the guard leaning over his fallen friend was confronted with the reality of what had just taken place.  Hardly believing his eyes, he reached for his radio one more time.  It had been used swiftly to radio for help only moments ago but now he fumbled and shook as he pressed his thumb in to speak.

  “Base, come back,” he shouted.

  “Go for base, over,” the voice on the radio came back.

  “Exhibit 46H.  The suit is gone, over,” he replied out of breath.

  “Say again?” responded the base guard in disbelief.

  “The damn flying suit is gone!  46H, the Superman suit.  It’s been taken!  Over!”

  The gaping hole in the museum roof was now clearly visible, as was the repelling line that still hung into the hallway.  As the stunned security guard surveyed the damage and started to understand the loss, he looked back onto the man whose head he held in his hands.  He felt Raymond’s body go lifeless with one last labored breath.  Horrified, the guard pushed himself back against the nearest wall and grabbed his radio.  Tears ran from his nose and lips onto the com-device in his shaky hand.

  “Base, call the F.B.I. or C.I.A. or somebody.” he called back to base, dazed.  “The suit is gone.  Ray’s gone.  Call someone, please call someone now, over.”

Chapter 4: A New Development

James sat at his desk, rifling through proofs as usual, though he couldn’t help but look repeatedly at the clock in the bottom right corner of his computer screen.  He had already called, left three messages, and made excuses to co-workers, but he had no idea of Clark’s whereabouts.  “9:55... 9:56... 9:57... C’mon Clark,” he said to himself.  As James was picking up the phone to make the fourth call before taking a cab to the apartment, the office door flung open with great force and Clark tripped in.  He tried to stop the door from swinging wildly inward, but could not catch it and the wall shook when it connected with a bang.

“Sorry,” said Clark in a groveled morning voice.  James stood up.

“Where the hell have you,” he stopped as Clark removed his hat and made eye contact.  “Aw man, Clark.  You look like you got hit by a bus.”

“I wish I had,” Clark replied.  “Maybe then my head would stop pounding.”

“What happened?” James asked, but he already knew the answer.  Fifteen years happened.

“Jack.  Jack happened.” said Clark.  “Listen, I would very much appreciate if you could save all of your questions and concerns until at least after lunch…that is, if I make it ‘till then.”

“Yeah, no problem.  I feel your pain,” James chuckled.  “Just let me know if you need anything.  Water, coffee, headache medicine, um…”

“Already too much talking, James,” Clark interrupted.  James nodded, got up from his desk, closed the door, and went back to work.  He punched the keys a little softer for the rest of the morning.  He would look up occasionally and smile, as if to ask if everything was okay, but he was never able to connect.

A little after twelve o’ clock, James decided to break the silence and introduce the idea of food.  “Alright, you ready for lunch or what?”

“Can’t do it yet,” groaned Clark, “Besides, I have some proofing to make up since I missed most of the morning.”

“Alright.  I’m going down to the cafeteria today.  How ‘bout water?  Coffee?” he asked.

“Yeah.  Both, please,” said Clark looking up for the first time in a while.  He still looked like death warmed over and it was obvious he felt worse than he looked.

James nodded again, and smiled.  He stood up, stretched, and as he leaned down to turn off his monitor something caught his eye.  James always had a news ticker running on his desktop.  He was a news hound and prided himself on being able to talk about things as they happened.  He could not believe what the scroll at the bottom of the screen was saying.  He sat back down with a thump and clicked on the link to view the entire story.  As he read, he moved closer and closer to the screen and his eyes squinted, then widened, then squinted, then widened again.  Clark, in his daze, noticed his friend’s odd behavior and said, “Hey, I thought you were going to,” but he was silently interrupted by the palm of James’ hand thrust in his direction.  “What’s the matter?” asked Clark.

“Do you have your ticker running?” James’ voice cracked as he asked his question.

“No, I never turned it on.” Clark replied.  “What’s the…”

“Turn it on,” James insisted.

“Why?  What’s the big…”

“Goddamnit Clark turn it on!” James shouted.  Clark, surprised by his partner’s urgency, fumbled with the mouse and finally got his news scroll working, but the story had already passed.  It was on to the Yankees score and further points of sports boredom.  Clark was irritated.

“The scores?  Who cares James?  What, did you have money on the Yanks?”  Clark asked in confusion.

“Here.  I am sending you a link to the story I have up.”  With a couple clicks and a ding, the story had been sent and received.

“I’ve never seen you act so…” Clark trailed off as he opened the story and the reason for James’ excitement became clear.

Baghdad, Iraq. 6:23 pm. 10/26/2035. A marketplace was bombed today near the new Iraqi parliament building. Fifteen civilians and the bomber are confirmed dead and ninety-four more are injured. Only one hour after the attack a terrorist group calling themselves the Al-Mahjari released a statement to the international press claiming responsibility. The leader, Almar bin-Sawwadi, has warned that there will be many more attacks to come around the world as his group looks to seek revenge for what he calls years of Western oppression under the IDA. In addition to this evening’s attack, bin-Sawwadi has claimed sole responsibility for over thirty previous acts of terrorism, most notably the one which killed twenty-seven Americans fifteen years ago today. Not much else is known at this time, including the whereabouts of the terrorist cell. Updates are forthcoming as details are certain to emerge concerning today’s horrific attack.

Clark immediately recognized what he had read, but it seemed strangely surreal.  He finally knew the name of the man who killed his wife.  His pounding head soon went numb and he thought he may lose consciousness for a moment.  Reality set in.  He grabbed the trash can from under his desk and let the contents of his stomach go.  Then again, and again.  James came over to help, but Clark brushed him off.  He sat huffing and spitting over the can clenched between his knees, and all James could do was watch.  An intensely cold sweat formed on his forehead and neck and he felt dizzy again.

“I’m gonna get you that water,” said James.  He turned and ran out of the office and down the hall.  Going to the cafeteria would have taken too long and he wasn’t sure how long his friend would hold on.  He stopped at the coffee station by the elevators, grabbed a paper cup, filled it up at the drinking fountain and hastily walked back.  He couldn’t have been gone thirty seconds.  As he approached the office he saw a crowd already forming at the door.  Jerry Garafollo from sports, who had been there fifteen years ago, was standing with one hand on the knob and the other clenched in a fist, ready to knock.

“Jerry, don’t,” called out James.

“Did he hear?” asked Jerry, concerned.

“Yeah, just now.  He needs some time,” James replied softly.  He looked around and noticed Darlene Crawford from the Lifestyle division smiling, with her pen and pad out, as if she were going to write an editorial on the “distraught Clark Kent.”  Then he spoke a little louder to the small group of fascinated onlookers.  “Clark is just fine.  He has heard the news.  Please respect his privacy on this matter and I’ll see if he wants to talk to any of you later on.  And Darlene, you can quote me on this, put your damn pen away!”

James waited a moment for everyone to disperse, then turned slowly and gripped the doorknob.  He took a deep breath and thought about what he would say.  Coming up blank, he decided Clark needed the water more than he needed words.  He turned the knob and opened the door.  There were two desks, two computers, two chairs, one half clean, one half cluttered, but the room was empty.  His computer screen was still on and his jacket hung on the back of his chair, but Clark was not there.  He had certainly left in a hurry and James was not sure how he didn’t see the escape, but plain and simple, Clark was gone.

Chapter 3: The Fortress of Solitude

The apartment wasn’t much of anything.  A small, studio-sized place on the twentieth floor of a co-op was about all Clark could maintain.  In contrast to his office space, which was notoriously clean and uncluttered, his humble abode was a disaster.  The few people who had ever visited him at home were astonished at how much junk could fit within six hundred square feet.  But there was something more than just the condition of the living area that was of concern to Clark’s entrusted few.  The apartment seemed to be a metaphor for his troubled life.

Upon entering, a small kitchen could be seen to the left through an archway and the living room area was straight ahead.  The kitchen smelled of the unwashed dishes that were piled in the sink and stale food.  Little white boxes with half eaten fried rice were kept company by pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, empty chip bags, and empty bottles of milk, soda, and whiskey.  The kitchen had a pass through window over the breakfast bar that joined with the main living space.  Over the mess on the bar, a café sized dining table was barely visible through its shell of old newspapers and unopened mail.  The only empty space was where a lap-top sat with the chair pushed out, covered in a blanket.  Clark spent many nights asleep at this computer with the mouse in one hand, a bottle in the other, and the keyboard as his pillow.

Directly behind the table was the apartment’s only window.  Four feet by four feet, it looked directly at the building next door and had no fire escape or balcony.  There was no view, other than the occasional glimpse of the severely over-weight man in the room across the alley screaming at his wife or punching holes in the wall.  Mostly, the blinds stayed closed.

The rest of the place had only enough room for a bed, a couch, and a weight bench.  There was no television or radio, no stereo or music collection, no portraits or knick-knacks.  The bed looked as if it had never been made.  The portions of the sheets not on the floor were disheveled, dirty, pushed to the right side, and there was no pillow.  The left side of the bed was a collection of opened and unopened dry-cleaning bags.  The only sign of any organization was the stack of freshly pressed shirts, pants, and suit jackets were laid very neatly across the bottom corner of the mattress in their plastic covers.

The couch, on the other hand, was nothing more than a huge hamper.  Dirty clothing found its resting place there among still more newspapers, magazines, and food wrappers.  It was safe to say that the cushions had not been used for human relaxation in some time.  Without a coffee table or end tables there was nowhere to put a lamp, so it sat on the floor directly in front of the couch (not that its location mattered; the light bulb had been burned out for months.)

Only feet away from the couch was the weight bench and possibly the most disturbing scene in the room.  Anyone who had met Clark probably assumed that he had a gym membership because he was, after all, in noticeably good shape for a man of fifty-seven years of age.  The truth, however, was that his morning run was usually brought on by the need to burn off a hang-over and his weight lifting took place late at night, fueled by rage and alcohol.  The bench itself was rusted and the padded top was held on by duct-tape.  All shapes, sizes, and denominations of free weights and bars were strewn about the floor in no order whatsoever.

Behind this catastrophe of manic fitness was the inspiration for all of Clark’s personal anguish: his wall of love and hate.  His wall of drive and forfeit.  The wall of shame and horror: his sad life story.  Newspaper articles and magazine clippings covered all aspects of the hectic world in which only he lived: slashed and tattered posters from Superman movies, cut-out pieces of comic book pages featuring the cartoon Clark, countless editorials that chronicled Elaine’s life and tragic death, still more features with details about the hunt for her killers, then the follow-up news that the trail had gone cold.  All together, the media jumble covered an area of wall seven feet wide by eight feet tall, from floor to ceiling.  It looked like the collection and work of a mad man with all of the individual pieces being held to the wall by tape, tacks, and gum.  Forward of that were the hundreds of yellow sticky notes on which Clark had scribbled frantic notes to himself in moments of drunken enlightenment.  He had jotted down simple expressions to his dead wife like, “I love you” and much more complex ideas about where he thought the terrorist cell may be, who was leading them, and how they could be located.  But the sad truth that faced him every time he looked at this collage of heartbreak was that no one knew anything about anything.  No one really knew Elaine like he did.  Certainly no one knew her killers or where they could be found.  And no one, not even his mother or his only friend James, knew the real Clark.

This was it: his fortress of solitary confinement.  Clark Kent’s apartment had become his own private phantom zone from which escape seemed impossible and inside which happiness seemed out of reach.  Regardless, it was where he found himself at the end of each work day and where he woke up each morning, so he called it “home.”

_

This had been a typical work day.  Clark awoke in a haze to the alarm he had set on his cell phone.  He rode by subway from his place into the city where he met James for their daily coffee and bagel.  They walked the remaining two blocks to WTC 2 and started work five minutes early at the New Rep.  Their morning diligence was only once interrupted by their division manager popping in to say “hi.”  Then lunch, a fairly light afternoon writing load, and the subway ride home.  It was on this forty-five minute ride each night, through the different neighborhoods and twenty-odd stops, that Clark’s mind would start to wander and he would invariably drift to thoughts of Elaine.  Her face would flash on his mind as the buildings whipped by and the daylight faded so that by the time he arrived at his station he was already in a state of depression.  Like clockwork he would breeze through the liquor store on the corner and then stop at either Tim’s Magic Wok or Luigi’s to pick up the rest of his dinner.  He was a regular at all three places, but no one knew or cared who he was.  He always paid with cash so he didn‘t have to show his name.  He preferred it that way.

It was 2:45 a.m. and the pizza was gone.  The only light in the room was the blue glow of the computer screen which had been turned in a way that somewhat illuminated the exercise area.  Clark sat in a heap on the weight bench in his dress pants, mahogany wing tips, and tee shirt with his head almost between his knees.  In one hand were his glasses and in the other an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.  He was incoherently mumbling to himself and swaying slightly as the room shifted around him.  The whole place stank of sweat and booze.

The dim light cast by the computer screen was casting a weak shadow on the wall behind the weight bench.  Clark’s slow rocking made the light play with the articles and clippings on the wall in a way that made them seem to crawl.  With one more grumble of discontent he fell onto the floor and rolled onto his back.  As he tried to regain focus, the only thing he could see clearly was Elaine’s picture in an article he had cut from Newsweek.  Tomorrow would be fifteen years since her death.  The mumbling moved to a sob, then a hard wail.  The neighbor down stairs banged on the ceiling in protest but Clark had no perception of that.  Then, turned away from the wall with his forearm over his eyes and the apartment spinning, he finally cried himself to sleep around quarter after three.  He had to be up for work in three hours.

Chapter 2: Clark's Troubled Past

Clark Kent was born in February 19, 1978 in Uniontown, a rural suburb of Akron, Ohio.  Born two weeks early, new baby Kent was underweight and sickly.  Three weeks of constant care in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and an additional ten days in the maternity ward was a difficult start, but a start nonetheless.  His parents Eben and Sara struggled with name choices until they settled on Clark, a tribute to Eben’s father.  Several tries before and several after would yield no brothers or sisters for Clark, so he would grow up an only child.

Early childhood was blessed with the love and admiration of family and friends.  Great-grandparents Jonathan and Martha, and grandparents Clark and Mary were always around from Eben’s side of the family.  The Kents were steeped in religion and the Methodist Church was as much responsible for young Clark’s moral fiber as were his parents.  When Clark was only three, his great-grandfather Jonathan died and great-grandma Martha would follow only six months later.  Photographs and stories were the only bits of information he had of them and when Eben passed in 1994, much of the Kent family history was lost to memory.  Clark took his father’s death as hard as any sixteen year old boy would.  This event would later give way to a hateful relationship with the fictional character with whom he would be compared.

Sara’s side of the family was fewer in numbers and quite spread out.  Clark had never met his grandparents on his mother’s side.  They had died before he was born.  A sepia tone wedding picture of theirs sat on the mantle in the Clark household in memoriam, but not much was ever said about them.  He had an uncle somewhere in Texas but due to his drug and alcohol problem the Kents never let him come around.  Clark received a Christmas card from him once, but it was quickly snatched away before the sentiment could be read.  It could easily be said that Clark’s upbringing was wholly influenced by the Kent side of the family and truth be told, Sara didn’t mind.

Suggestions that the real Clark Kent was in some way linked to the fictional alter ego of Superman started at a young age.  In his second grade class with Mrs. Pflaum was where Clark was first asked, “Are you Superman?”  At that age, the idea was cool.  He was, after all, aware of the cartoon hero, and even owned action figures and comic books bearing the Man of Steel’s likeness.  He knew he had the same name as the guy wearing the glasses on the page.  He knew that guy in the glasses could tear open his shirt to reveal an emblazoned “S” and fly around saving those in need.  Indeed, young Clark was more than aware of the character, and even a fan of Superman, but it never seemed odd to him that he shared the hero’s moniker.  He thought that somewhere in America there was a kid named Joey Namath or Richy Nixon that had it far worse than Clark Kent.  Though, while sports personalities and political figures come and go, enduring scandal, a legend never dies, and neither does his name.

_

Clark’s health as a child was anything but super.  He was in and out of school with various sicknesses and never really seemed to get over simple ailments like the common cold.  Frail and short for his age, Clark was the butt of endless jokes.

“Superman is sick, again…” was always followed by hurtful laughter.

“Superman needs braces…” followed by again, more laughter.

“Superman needs glasses…” more of the same.

“Superman can’t eat sweets…” because of juvenile onset diabetes.  Hilarious.

“Superman can’t make the football team…” the same.

“Superman is a zit-face…” again, the same ridicule.

“Superman can’t get a date to the dance…” again, and again.

“Superman is…” and on, and on, and on.

But none of these hurt as much as the heartless blow administered sophomore year  by classmate Alex Roth, captain of the football and basketball teams, and all around jerk.  “Hey Clark, sorry to hear about your dad.  How did he die again?  Was it a heart attack in the driveway or did his home planet collide with the sun?”  Alex laughed which prompted uneasy chuckles from his athlete counterparts.  “Oh well,” he continued, “guess it doesn’t matter.  Nothing you can do about it now.  Right, Superman?”

Clark’s head was spinning.  As in a dream he could feel himself wanting to punch Alex as hard as he could and then continue punching until unconsciousness had set in.  He could only imagine how good the crunch of bone in the bridge of Alex’s nose would feel against his knuckles.  Clark wanted a blood bath.  He swung with all of his strength and his fist connected with the desired crack.  But it was Clark’s hand that broke; a boxer’s fracture to the third and fourth metacarpals.  The minor attack only stunned Alex for a moment and the last thing Clark remembers of that day was being grabbed by the neck and thrown against the drinking fountain outside the gymnasium.

Waking up in the hospital was nothing new for Clark, but this time was different.  His mind was racing.  Rage swelled inside like he had never felt before but it wasn’t directed at Alex or his cronies.  Clark hated himself.  No, he hated his name.  Upon returning from the hospital he boxed up all of his Superman comics and memorabilia and put them at the curb for the garbage man to take.  He wanted rid of that stigma.  He would finish his last two years of high school at home with his mother as his one and only teacher.  His remaining schooling would be devoid of bullies and heroes alike.

 Clark started his college career with a clean slate. He enrolled as C. Joseph Kent so that his classmates and professors would only know him as Joe. When asked what the C stood for, he either changed the subject or lied and said Charles. Shedding the name that had ruined his childhood seemed to be the key to his personal happiness and outward success. He of course never told his mother that he had been using his middle name in place of his first, but then again there was never any real threat of her finding out. By the time Clark was a junior at Northwestern University Sara had only visited him at school once and she never met any of his friends on that trip. He offered to come home at every opportunity and his mother never argued because she liked having him home.

It was when Clark met fellow journalism major Elaine Farrell that he first considered revealing his true identity to someone at school.  They were assigned a project together and found they worked well together.  Clark’s attraction to Elaine was instant and he decided that if he were going to win her affection there was some work to be done.  He started a regimen of nutritional supplements with weight lifting and running that would add muscle to his scrawny frame at an unbelievable rate.  By the time he was in his fourth year he weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds with less than five percent body fat.  Through his hard work and determination to catch Elaine’s eye Clark had become something of a physical specimen.  What he didn’t know was that Elaine already liked him for his mind.  Their relationship grew and an unbreakable friendship quickly turned into deep love.  So the time came that Clark would tell her the truth.  He did, and she laughed.  Though others had laughed at his name in the past, she laughed at his self-consciousness.  With Elaine he would have no need to hide anything.  His past, present, and future were hers.  From then on, he was back to being Clark Joseph Kent.

Elaine and Clark graduated college with honors in the spring of 2001 and both took jobs in New York City at the New World Reporter.  With his first paycheck, Clark bought Elaine a modest engagement ring and proposed.  The two were soon married in a small ceremony that had no groomsmen or bridesmaids.  Sara Kent and Elaine’s parents were the only family present at the Uniontown United Methodist Church when they said their “I do’s.”  The honeymoon was scheduled for September 12th, with the newly married couple planning to fly from New York to spend a week in South Florida at Elaine’s parents’ condo.  The World Trade Center attacks on September 11th would halt any plans of travel and thrust Clark and Elaine into lives of journalism that sent them to the most dangerous parts of the globe.  As a team, the newlywed Kents and their photographers James and Gregory would report on the Taliban in Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Iran.  Their work was recognized as some of the best and most reliable news to come out of the Iraq War and subsequent Gulf Wars.  Constantly on the move, Clark and Elaine were not together as much as they would have liked, but when they were together they savored every moment.  Their passion for journalism was dwarfed by the love they shared for each other.  However, their time alone was often interrupted by work and neither of them would turn down a good lead.  They were entirely dedicated to getting the story out even if it meant putting themselves in harm’s way.  They frequently did so for the nineteen years leading up to the event that would forever change Clark Kent.

_

Elaine Farrel-Kent and her photographer Gregory Morgan were taken hostage by a nameless terrorist cell along with twenty-four other Americans in July of 2020.  The leader of the radical organization demanded the release of prisoners being held for their involvement in other attacks.  When a U.S. Army rescue mission was thwarted all twenty-six Americans were killed in a demonstration that was broadcast on the Internet for the world to see.  Some were shot, some beaten to death, and still others beheaded.  Their bodies were sent out into the streets and a second Army convoy managed to bring back the remains of most of the dead.  The terrorists disappeared into caves and hills that hid their kind from the outside world and they went silent.  Clark was in France with James watching helplessly as this horror unfolded before him on the world wide web.  He turned away from the screen as the masked executioner pulled the trigger of the gun he had pressed into Elaine’s temple.  He heard the clap of the gun followed by Gregory’s growling scream, until another shot silenced his protest.  The image of Elaine’s face wrinkled in fear and hysterically crying would be forever seared into Clark’s memory, drowning out fairer images of smiles and peacefulness.

Three weeks later in New York, Clark, his mother Sara, Elaine’s parents and eight hundred of Elaine’s friends, co-workers, and admirers buried the twenty-five year old journalist in a cemetery forty minutes outside the city.  Clark was despondent; unresponsive to even his mother’s condolences and life quickly spiraled downward and out of control.

The life insurance settlement and calamity pay from the New Rep meant he would never have to work again, so Clark just stopped showing up.  He visited the grave every day and drank himself to sleep every night.  He had been thrown out of four apartments and nearly overdosed on pain killers twice.  Clark’s mother had nearly given up trying to save her son when she decided to reach out to his only remaining friend.  It was with Sara’s pleading that James decided to step in and give one final pull to the tether that was keeping Clark from a complete free fall onto the rocky bottom.  James was able to break through and Clark entered rehab.  After nine months of mental, physical, prescription drug, and alcohol rehabilitation Clark emerged a clean man.  It was clear to Sara and James that the hurt was not gone, but at least he was clear minded for the first time in over a year.  With this, Clark refocused on finding his wife’s killers.

In March of 2022, upon James’ recommendations and his previous merits, Clark was welcomed back to the New World reporter with open, caring arms.  Department managers nurtured his writing skills back to health and soon Clark and James were rising to professional heights they could not have envisioned only months before.  The next three years would prove to be their most productive.  Equipped with a sharp pen and a keen eye, the two won several awards for their investigative work in the Middle East as Clark wrote about his efforts to track down Elaine’s executioners and James catalogued the efforts on film.  It seemed as if they were finally getting close to the answers they desired when the global stage changed in an entirely unexpected way.  A nuclear holocaust was narrowly avoided in 2024 as the American, Chinese, Iranian, British, and North Korean governments agreed to a last minute “stand down.”  A conflict that had begun over the rights to drill for oil on the floor of the Arctic Ocean ended with the realization that if a new peace could not be reached humankind may cease to exist on Earth.

The International Disarmament Act was signed by all members of the United Nations in 2025 and a new period of world peace began.  World wide, countries willingly surrendered their weapons of mass destruction, and devices of mortal combat.  Global approval of the Act were juxtaposed to Clark’s inner turmoil.  The trail of Elaine’s killer had gone cold.  Clark and James were forced to move on and cover the rebuilding effort in the war-ravaged Middle East.

They continued to succeed, but Clark started drinking again.  He hid it well and James was the only one who knew how Clark really lived.  Even his mother was under the impression that he had not slipped.  Cloaked in professionalism but haunted by his wife’s image, Clark’s persona at work was entirely different than the one at home, and things were progressively getting worse.