Clark tore at the door again, heedless of the monitor blaring out an alarm behind him or the pinpricks of pain stabbing all over his body as nerve endings complained at their rude awakening. He tried to cry out, to call for help, but his throat was hoarse and his voice emerged dry and quiet--and on second thought, that was probably a good thing. Clark could call for help, but he was in the Superman Suit, and the hero didn’t call for help. He *answered* calls for help.
But he was weak. He was Superman, and it didn’t matter, because the door was unbreachable. He could tear at it, he could pound his fists against it, he could twist the handle as much and as often as he liked, but it wouldn’t open. It simply stood there.
Yay!!! 'Bout time the lunkhead realized that. "Only Superman left" my fat… er, my foot.
The entire room, tensed at his abrupt question, relaxed when his attention moved back to her, curious onlookers trusting to the lion-tamer to keep them safe.
Oh, Lois.
“I made them keep the Suit on, though, as much as possible. I thought if you woke up without it, you’d…you’d wonder what they knew. And I wasn’t sure if seeing Superman in a hospital gown would make you look too much like Clark.”
Aha. Okay, I'll stop blaming the absent-minded scientists now.
He was the one named a hero, the one who had articles written on him and cameras turned in his direction every time he made an appearance, the one made into a symbol of hope for the world--but he didn’t know why. Didn’t know why one brightly attired man with more-than-average strength was considered the hero when there were men like Dr. Klein, and Perry and Jimmy and Henderson and Jack, women like Lois and his mom. They called him hero, but Superman looked at the human in front of him and wished he could name his own heroes.
Love this! And while it may still be rather self-dismissive, at least his thoughts are heading in a more positive direction.
Really amazed by all the imagery in this, and looking forward to the next part!
