“3…2…1…Happy New Year!” the announcers cried out as the Times Square Ball reached its final destination and confetti started snowing down on the freezing souls packed together in the heart of New York City.
Auld Lang Syne played over Lois’ television as the camera cut away to happy couples kissing in the street, even one or two who were slipping their diamond rings onto the fingers of their brand-new fiancées. Happy revelers jumped up and down in excitement, many of them wearing plastic 2014 glasses – some of them plain and others outfitted with glow sticks – not that the glow would be obvious in the eternal daylight-like brightness of the city’s theater district. Lois leaned over and kissed Clark on the cheek. He was staring at the television, but no expression showed on his face.
“Happy New Year, Clark,” she told him, whispering it softly near his ear.
He didn’t so much as flinch, but Lois took it as a good sign. When Martha had returned to Kansas that morning to deal with a few problems that had cropped up around the farm that required her presence in Smallville, Lois had been apprehensive that the sudden change in not having Clark’s mother around might throw Clark off or worry him, the same way he’d been fearful when Martha had first arrived. But he was taking the change in stride.
And, Lois noted to herself with cautious satisfaction, it had been a full three days since Clark had stopped reacting fearfully to his name. Perhaps there was some part of him that was still able to process the world around him and make the connection that, outside of the asylum, his name wasn’t connected to physical torture, the way Lois assumed it had been inside those dank, dark, creepy walls. Now, whenever anyone used his name within earshot of him, Clark didn’t react at all. Perhaps she shouldn’t have considered it a victory, but given how terrified he’d been of his name at first, Lois was chalking it up as a definite win. And what was more, she could also touch him now without him recoiling in fear. It made things easier when she had to guide him places – even just to other rooms – and when she – often – forgot herself and reached out to take his hand or pat his knee or even just to give him an innocent peck on the cheek to celebrate the start of a brand-new year.
She picked up the remote as she sat back and switched the television off with a yawn.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat,” she offered, expecting no response from him. “Let’s get some sleep, shall we?”
She stood and took his hand loosely in hers. He stood without a sound and obediently followed her upstairs. She left him at the door to his room, where he lurched and shambled his way inside, and she silently prayed that Dr. Klein would deem him ready for surgery when he saw Clark again. Watching Clark barely navigating the world around him was truly awful. She wanted him to be well again, even if “well” meant in body only. Then she padded down the hallway to her own room, shut the door, and disrobed for a quick, hot shower. By the time she finally fell asleep, the new year was nearly two hours old.
Dark, heavy, dreamless sleep descended upon her as soon as her eyes closed. She stayed in that void for close to three hours before a sudden loud crash woke her with a jolt. Heart racing, she thrust her bare feet into her pink fuzzy slippers and grabbed the closest heavy object – to her dismay, it was nothing more than hefty flashlight she’d used a few nights before when the power had briefly gone out after the circuit breaker had tripped. Still, it would put a sizeable dent in the skull of whoever she hit with it, so it gave her a small measure of comfort. Cautiously, she made her way to the door and opened it, just barely sticking her head out into the hallway to listen. She checked both ways – left and then right as though she was about to cross the street – but saw nothing out of the ordinary on that floor of the house.
Clark had, apparently, been awakened by the sound too. He shuffled out of his room but no expression showed on his face. Not fear, not curiosity, not determination to fight. Just a blank nothingness. Not even a shred of confusion was written in his still too thin features. Lois gripped the flashlight tighter as sounds of a struggle rose up the stairs to meet them. Someone – or more than one someones – was in the house, she was certain of it. She waved Clark back, frantically trying to get him to return to the relative safety of his room.
“Clark!” she hissed in a scared whisper. “Go back to your room!” She gestured once more for emphasis.
But Clark wasn’t paying attention to her. His attention was on the stairs. Lois wasn’t entirely sure if the sounds coming from the first floor were drawing him in or if he was simply unaware of the danger and just looking for a middle of the night snack, as she’d caught him doing twice in the past week. He started down the steps. Lois ran down the hallway, easily catching up to his limping stride as he wobbled his way on his destroyed ankles. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pulled him back.
“It’s not safe, Clark,” she murmured in his ear. “Stay here.”
Hefting her flashlight, she crept down the steps as quietly as possible. With each step, the sound of fighting grew louder and more serious. She heard grunts and sharp curses now, as well as what she knew only too well to be punches hitting their targets. Gulping hard and trying to swallow down some of her fear, Lois pressed on, her grip on her makeshift weapon so tight that her knuckles were white.
A blur of motion and activity greeted her when she reached the bottom step. It was hard to see in the darkness – the only light being that which snuck in around the blinds from the streetlight on the corner of the block. Instinct took over and she brought her flashlight down with two hands, bringing as much muscle and force as she could muster down on the head of the first intruder she could reach. To her dismay, whoever it was didn’t crumple into a heap as anticipated. He kept on fighting the other intruder, though a colorful string of words erupted from his mouth as a direct result of Lois’ attempt to subdue him. He delivered a spectacularly placed punch to the other’s jaw and the other went down like a wet noodle. The one Lois had hit turned to her.
“What are you doing?” he demanded as he switched on the overhead lights, flooding the once dimly lit room with a brightness that made Lois’ sleepy eyes squint and ache against the sudden harsh intrusion.
“Batman?” she gasped in horror, careful to use the correct name, since it was the hero, not the billionaire who stood in her home. Even with the other intruder down for the immediate future, she wasn’t going to risk things. She immediately dropped the offending flashlight like a scolded schoolgirl trying to get rid of evidence she’d been caught red-handed with. “I, uh…sorry about that. I heard fighting. I thought you were an intruder,” she explained simply and quickly, toeing the flashlight away from her foot a bit. “Which, you kind of are, in a way,” she pointed out in self-defense. “Not that I mind seeing you but…what are you doing in my house…in the middle of the night…unannounced?” she prodded, though she kept any accusations out of her voice.
Bruce rubbed his sore head. “Aside from getting my head nearly caved in?” he quipped.
“I said I was sorry,” Lois shot back teasingly.
Bruce shrugged and gestured to the man laid out on the floor. In the light, Lois could see the intruder’s features better. Or, she tried to. The man’s face was a network of scars and tattoos, some clearly old and badly faded, some torn apart by scar tissue – many of which hadn’t healed properly so that the image was distorted. Lois saw one naked lady on his neck that had a breast up by her smiling face. A bunch of them were newer, the ink dark and colorful, standing out against the older ones. All in all, even with the man right before her eyes, Lois couldn’t accurately describe him at all, other than his scars, tattoos, and the fact that he was almost as gaunt looking as Clark. But, even with him knocked out for the moment, Lois could see the hate and readiness to kill in the man’s face.
“Him,” Bruce explained. “He’s the reason I’m here.”
“Who is he? And, dare I ask, why is he in my living room?” Lois asked, her sleepiness giving way to irritation – not at Bruce, but at the man sprawled on the floor at Bruce’s feet.
“The Reaver,” Bruce spat, making the introduction.
“Never heard of him. Must be one of your Gotham variety bad guys,” Lois said, looking down with disgust at the man.
Bruce nodded. “One of worst right now,” he confirmed. “He’s been around for years but has always slipped away before I could catch him. I got word that he was on his way here to kill you, Clark, and anyone else who might be in the house.”
“Word?” Lois asked as her mind worked to process what he was saying.
“A former…associate…of his squealed to Diana. She told me just before she returned to Themyscira to deal with a political dispute,” Bruce replied with another casual shrug. “Is anyone else here with you?”
Lois shook her head slowly. “No. Clark’s mother is in Kansas. Is she…do you think she’s safe?” she asked, alarmed now.
Bruce nodded. “Probably. The hit was specifically for you two. Anyone else would have been a bonus.”
“Who hired him?” Lois asked, knowing the Reaver wouldn’t have been acting on his own accord. Neither she nor Clark had ever, to the best of her knowledge, done any wrong to the assassin.
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Bruce told her. He knelt down next to the Reaver’s head.
The assassin was just starting to come to. His eyes widened a little when he saw that he’d lost the advantage and that he wasn’t, in fact, going to be able to carry out his plans. He ground his teeth and a second later went limp as a white foam frothed out of his mouth.
“Damn it!” Bruce swore, and even Lois recognized that the man had chosen suicide rather than be caught. Still, Bruce checked the assassin’s vital signs. Finding none, he shook his head. “I’m not surprised…but I was hoping we might be able to get some information out of him.”
“I’ll call the police,” Lois said with a nod to herself.
“In a bit,” Bruce said. “I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes.” He pulled off his cowl and rubbed the place where Lois had nearly brained him. He checked his fingertips for blood. “Thank God Alfred insisted I armor the entire uniform,” he mumbled to himself. “Otherwise I’d have a crater in my skull.” He looked at Lois, but amusement, rather than anger, was in his eyes. “Nice aim, by the way.”
Lois smirked and crossed her arms over her chest. “Thanks.”
By then, Clark had apparently forgotten Lois’ command to stay in his room and he jostled his awkward way down the steps. Bruce’s face grew grim when he saw the vacant expression on Clark’s face and the absolute lack of any kind of spark in his eyes. Lois took Clark’s hand and helped him to the couch. He seemed not to even notice the dead body on the floor as he walked within inches of the assassin’s boots. Bruce followed and they all sat.
“I was going to ask how he was,” Bruce said in a contemplative tone. “But I see he hasn’t really…” He paused, as if unsure of how to finish that statement.
“There’s been no change. Yet,” Lois said, some insane spark of hope still lit within her heart that she could cure her best friend.
Bruce sighed and shook his head. “I’m truly sorry, Lois. All those years of looking and he was practically under my nose.”
Lois put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Of all the places he could have been…none of us ever imagined he’d be in an asylum.”
“I should have checked earlier,” Bruce protested. Then he shook his head again. “I heard about the doctor who…did this to him.”
“I think he was murdered,” Lois said quietly. Then, as the thought came to her, her voice took on even more conviction. “And I’d bet my last dollar his death and the hit on us are connected.”
Bruce frowned as he thought it over. “I don’t know. If Dr. Fulton was murdered, it wasn’t the Reaver.”
Lois looked at him askance. “How can you be so sure?”
Bruce spread his palms on his thighs. “Dr. Fulton’s death was too clean. The Reaver is a bit more…well…messy. If he’d succeeded tonight, pieces of you and Clark would have been spread all over the house and halfway to Miami.”
Lois grimaced. “Gross,” she muttered.
Bruce nodded. “Torture and dismemberment have always been his MO. There’s no chance he would have forced a bunch of pills and booze down an old man’s throat and left him to a peaceful repose in a bathtub.”
“Which begs the questions; who killed Dr. Fulton and hired the Reaver? And why the difference in how the killings were carried out? Who wants to cover up what happened to Clark?”
“I don’t know,” Bruce admitted with a shake of his head. “But I’ll do whatever I can to help you find out.”
***
Lex Luthor was enjoying a comfortable, quiet evening for once. All of the recent negotiations, late-night reading of stacks upon stacks of executive orders, red-eye flights, jet lag, and other presidential duties were, for once, not in the picture and he could relax in the well-earned comfort of the White House library. Out beyond the darkened windows, an angry wind gusted and howled, whipping what would have been a light snow into nearly whiteout conditions. Lex smiled to himself, grateful to be indoors on such a cold, blustery night. He wandered closer to the windows, peering out at the storm. The sky had that familiar, ominous tinge of orange to it as the clouds trapped and reflected back the sheen of streetlights, giving him just enough light by which to see the swirls of snowflakes as they danced past the glass. Of course, some of it struck the windows, pelting it with a continuous stream of tiny pings! that told Lex the flakes were just as much ice as they were snow.
He sipped the hot toddy he’d ordered made for himself. With all the traveling and mostly sleepless nights, he was concerned that the slight scratchiness to his throat might develop into a full-blown cold. He couldn’t afford for that to happen. He was due to give a State of the Union address in just two days’ time. He needed his voice. He wasn’t about to let his worthless Vice President do the talking for him. That knuckle-dragging, primordial swamp-dwelling Neanderthal would get things all wrong, despite the clearly written out script Lex had painstakingly constructed. Truth be told, there were times when Lex was tempted to have the old man smothered in his sleep.
But Tom Perch was loyal to Lex and just stupid enough to be occasionally useful. He certainly didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions and merely agreed to what Lex asked of him. It also hadn’t hurt that the former Judge had political experience that had netted them both a huge portion of votes from some of the more important demographics. So Lex kept him around and made it appear as though Perch actually had some power. It was the perfect set up.
Lex turned away from the wintery mess outside of the window and strode across the room to sit in the armchair by the fireplace. It was toasty warm here and Lex felt the heat seep deep into his bones, relaxing him further. He thought back on the events of the day, all of it done, thankfully, from the comfort of the Oval Office. He felt not one ounce of guilt over the cuts he’d approved to the Department of Education, nor did he think about the troops he was sending into the Middle East, despite the former President’s efforts to decrease American troops in the slowly stabilizing, former warzone. He was at peace with his decisions, because each and every one of them had been carefully selected and crafted to benefit him in some way.
A sharp chirp broke the contemplative silence of the room. Instinctively, Lex shot a glance at the two Secret Service agents flanking the door into the room. One of them, Rick, if Lex remembered correctly, answered his radio as it chirped again. Too long, Lex thought as he frowned into the depths of his drink. Maybe hiring such imbeciles for his security detail hadn’t been the best move. At the time, it had felt like the strategically smart thing to do – to hire dimwits who were more muscle than brains. Sure, his agents could be trusted to keep him safe, Lex had no reservations about that. And it was also true that the morons never asked questions, even when Lex broke protocol. But sometimes he wondered if hiring agents with an IQ higher than that of a piece of granite wouldn’t have been the wiser choice.
Water under the bridge now, Lex thought with a mental sigh. If they continue to displease me, I can always fire them.
Rick fumbled for a moment with the radio as it chirped again. A deep, rumbling voice – even over the radio’s slight distortion - informed the agents that the Director of the Secret Service was on his way.
“Copy that, Motherbird,” Rick replied.
The other man, Antwan, rolled his eyes. “Wrong name,” he hissed, irritated. He tapped the button on his earpiece. “Apologies, Rogue. We copy.” He let go of the button and inclined his head respectfully toward Lex. “My sincere apologies, Mr. President.”
Lex nodded absently, barely even hearing the exchange, too absorbed in his own thoughts to be bothered with the blithering idiots tasked with keeping his esteemed self safe. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate such stupid mistakes and would have fired Rick on the spot. But he was tired and distracted as he went over his State of the Union speech over in his mind.
The agents said nothing, only straightening their already stiff, attentive bodies all the more as they awaited their Director. Lex continued to stare moodily into his drink as the minutes ticked by. But less than five minutes after the alert, a knock sounded at the door, pulling Lex from his inner speech rehearsal.
“Who is it?” Lex barked harshly, reflexively. He cleared his throat and mentally winced. After so many years of running LexCorp on his own terms, he sometimes forgot that he needed to restrain himself as President. There were rules and procedures that he – grudgingly – had to abide by. “I mean, can one of you see to the door?” he asked, mustering up as much politeness as he could. He gestured with one hand to Antwan. At least he was more seasoned and a bit quicker on the uptake.
“Perhaps that might be the Director, hmm?” he muttered in a soft tone that was just barely loud enough to be heard, but as disapproving as a disappointed father chastising a wayward son.
”Jack Frost has arrived,” came a different voice over the radio – one that Lex couldn’t put a name to. Not that it mattered much. All he had to do was point to an agent and command them. Names were of little importance.
“Forgive me, Director St. John,” Antwan murmured with abject humility as he opened the door and began the procedure of verifying the identity of the man out in the hallway. Lex could see nothing as Antwan’s body blocked the slight opening. But only for a moment. Then the burly man stepped back and pulled the door open wide.
Nigel stepped inside, dressed in the crisp, pitch-black suit of the Secret Service – a “promotion” given to him on Lex’s first day as President, which, of course, had the added benefit of giving Nigel unrestricted access to Lex, no matter where he might be. Nigel inclined his head respectfully at Lex before and Lex raised his glass mug in a silent answer. Then he turned his cold, unflinching, stern gaze at the agents in the room, staring them down as though they were nothing but misbehaving children. The well-trained agents squirmed under his withering look and Lex held back a grin. Nigel was truly remarkable, Lex reflected, as he watched his old friend turn two well-train agents who had somehow managed to pass every mental and physical test to claim their positions, into nearly whimpering whelps.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Nigel asked in a deadly tone when several long seconds had passed without so much as a peep from either agent.
“Oh…right,” fumbled Rick, his face scarlet in a flush. “Nigel St. John to see you, Mr. President,” he announced with such boot-licking formality that Lex cracked a small smile. “Head of the Secret Service,” he added pointlessly, as if Lex was stupid enough to forget such an important piece of information.
“Ah, Nigel, do come in,” “Lex called, feeling his voice strain a little as he spoke loudly enough to be heard.
Nigel gave his underlings a fleeting glance over his shoulder and a dismissive sweep of his hand. “Leave us,” he ordered them.
The two men hesitated for only a fraction of a second before Lex repeated the order with a dangerous, impatient growl, adding in “You’re dismissed,” for good measure. Then they both stiffly nodded and filed out of the room. They knew better than to question their President. Lex had made it abundantly clear to all of them that Nigel was one member of their ranks that he preferred to speak with alone. Those who’d questioned it early on had found themselves promptly fired.
“Sir,” Nigel greeted, inclining his head slightly in deference.
“What is it?” Lex asked, not wanting to beat around the bush. His throat was hurting more, not less, even with the hot toddy.
“The attempt on Clark Kent failed,” Nigel replied evenly, remaining ever stoic, after turning off and removing his earpiece.
Lex found his anger bubbling inside. “How?” he demanded in a deadly cold voice.
“The Reaver got caught,” Nigel said with a shrug. “Even the best assassins eventually fail, I suppose.”
Lex shook his head. “No,” he answered defiantly. “Not ones as seasoned as the Reaver.”
“Well, seasoned or not, from what I’ve been told, the Batman knew of the plot against Clark Kent. He stopped the assassination from being carried out, and the Reaver chose cyanide over exposing his employer.” Nigel was calm, cool, collected, and Lex found himself irritated over his friend’s seemingly cavalier attitude.
“So, the Bat is protecting the Kryptonian nuisance, is he?” Lex growled.
“Apparently.”
Lex could have reached out and slapped the dispassionate look off Nigel’s face. “Why?”
Nigel shrugged again. “I don’t know,” he said, brushing off the question. “My focus since you were sworn into office has been in keeping you safe. It’s not like the old days, when I had my eyes and ears on…shall we say, more frivolous matters than keeping the President alive.”
Sometimes, it annoyed Lex how casually Nigel spoke to him. But, mostly, Lex encouraged his old friend to speak plainly to him. Sometimes, the bluntness and honestly was like a breath of fresh air that helped Lex remain focused and clear-headed.
Lex turned this new information over in his mind. “He must know that Kent is more than what he appears to be. Or, should I say, he used to be.” He chuckled a little to himself as a small, malevolent smile touched his lips but not his eyes. “From what I’ve gathered about his condition, his mind is nothing more than a blank slate, more fried and burned up than a charcoal briquette. He’ll never be Clark and he’ll never be Superman ever again. He’s a ghost with no past and certainly no future.”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “We’ll have to find someone better suited to the task of wiping that alien intruder off the face of this planet,” he decided. “But not yet. We’ll have to let things die down a little. Lois Lane may be a stupid woman when it comes to her personal life,” he said bitterly, still rankled by being jilted at the altar, “but she, unfortunately, has strong reporter’s instincts. She’ll try to connect the attempt on Kent to Dr. Fulton’s demise.”
“Her guard will be up,” Nigel agreed.
Lex nodded. “She’ll be expecting another attack, and soon. We have to wait until she thinks it’s safe again, that the attempt was just a random, isolated incident.”
“It may be a long time in coming,” Nigel informed him. “The Batman isn’t the only one watching out for Kent, from what my spies have gathered.”
Lex scowled. “How many others?”
“Too many,” Nigel said simply.
Lex growled like a wounded beast. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He could be patient if he had to be.
“Tell your spies to keep their eyes and ears open. The moment we get an opportunity to do so, we’ll strike and finish what I should have done a long time ago…erasing that miserable alien freak from the world and the world’s memory.”
“Your word is my command. But I have to wonder…is that really wise?” Nigel’s eyebrow arched before the question was even complete.
Lex took another sip of his drink before answering. “Nigel, my old friend, I have no choice.” He spread his hands out as though helpless in his situation. “I’m a politician now. I must make good on my promises. And I did promise Kent that he would be wiped out of memory.”
***
By the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, Clark had made no further progress in regaining his lost self. But he looked nearly the same as the day he’d gone missing, thanks to the diligent efforts of Lois and Martha to keep him well-fed. They gave him whatever they could think of that had been old favorites of his, and in great supply. Lois constantly joked that the tristate area was in serious danger of facing The Great Twinkie Drought by the way she and Martha snapped up boxes of the sugary treats each time they went food shopping.
Lois talked to Clark constantly when she was home – and Jimmy was good enough to allow her to work from home as much as possible so she could be with Clark. She recounted story after story to him, and Martha did the same when Lois couldn’t. The one thing neither woman spoke about was Superman. They wanted Clark to remember who he was, not the hero he’d created. If and when Clark’s powers and memory returned, they would gently ease him into the idea that Superman had once been his creation. But, as it stood, Clark was no closer to being “super” than he had on the day he’d been rescued from the bowels of the Arkham Asylum.
She found herself doubting, from time to time, that Clark would ever recover from his ordeal.
Still, Dr. Klein was enthusiastic and encouraged by how well Clark was doing in terms of putting on weight and overall getting healthier, so Lois had to be grateful for that much at least. But as much as she appreciated how much better Clark was looking, it was somehow an even more painful reminder of all that had been lost to them both. During the weeks and months of Clark resembling a walking skeleton, his body condition had been a visual reminder of his mistreatment and of the fact that he wasn’t really himself. Now he looked like his old self in his physical appearance, and it made Lois long all the harder for his mind to return. Now, it was easy to look at him and forget, for an instant, that, while his body was nearly whole, his mind was still missing.
“I wonder if Dr. Klein will think you’re ready for surgery yet,” Lois chattered away to Clark as they sat at the dinner table together. She took his hand in hers and rubbed her thumb over his inflamed and gnarled knuckles. “I wonder if he can even fix how much damage was done to you,” she mused sadly.
Clark stared ahead mutely.
Lois sighed. “I wish you could tell me what happened to you. I’d make sure that whoever hurt you would never see life outside of prison walls ever again.” She fell silent a moment as she studied his misshapen fingers. “But maybe it’s a blessing that you don’t remember,” she said finally. “After all, who wants to remember such trauma?”
Clark looked up at the clock as it struck seven pm, drawn by the sound rather than any curiosity or understanding of the time. It drew Lois’ attention too and she blinked in surprise over how long she and Clark had been sitting there.
“Let’s get cleaned up here,” she said, nodding at their mostly empty plates. “Your mother will be home from that play any time now.” She smiled a little. “I’m glad I could convince her to go. I know she’s been wanting to see it, and she needs a little break to get out and enjoy herself.”
She would never admit it out loud, but caring for Clark had been a full-time job ever since he’d been found alive and been released into her care. It wasn’t a burden – Lois would gladly see to his needs until her dying day – but it could sometimes be overwhelming. It was good for both Martha and herself to get out to do things they enjoyed once in a while, so they could relax and recharge a little bit.
Clark obediently stood and started to help her to clear the table. They were nearly done packing the leftovers when Clark reached out to the lit candle in the center of the table. Lois was preoccupied with putting the mashed potatoes in a Tupperware container and didn’t notice what he was doing at first, until his fingertips were in the flame in a slow attempt to pinch the wick to extinguish the blaze.
“Clark! No!” Lois commanded fearfully as she launched herself at him.
The Tupperware teetered near the edge of the table and fell with a heavy splat on the floor, fluffy white lumps of goo splattering everywhere. She didn’t care as she yanked his hand away from the candle and inspected his hands, expecting to find a mild to moderate burn on his fingers. But as she carefully manipulated his hands this way and that, she could find no damage.
“Clark?” she asked, barely containing her excitement. “You’re not hurt! Do you know what this means?”
She let his hands go and, instead, cupped his cheeks so that he was forced to look into her eyes. She searched those familiar brown orbs but found no trace of understanding. Some of her excitement died then, crumbling away into dust. But not all of it. The majority of her excitement stayed and made a bubble of laughter come bouncing out of her mouth. She kissed Clark’s freshly shaved cheek. Once, a long time ago, she would have seen a goofy, elated grin spread slowly over her best friend’s face from such a gesture. But not now. Now Clark simply stared ahead without reacting.
“Dr. Klein can’t possibly refuse the surgery now,” Lois explained, letting Clark’s face go and taking him by the hand. “Come on. He’s usually still in his office now. I’ll call him from the car and make sure he’ll be there to see you.”
***
“Well?” Lois asked, impatiently tapping her foot as Dr. Klein hummed to himself as he checked and rechecked what seemed like every square inch of Clark’s exposed flesh. When he didn’t immediately answer, she tried again. “What do you think?”
Dr. Klein didn’t even so much as throw a fleeting glance over his shoulder at where she and Martha sat, just across the room. “I think you’re distracting me,” he said, his voice backing up his claim of disturbance.
Lois rolled her eyes so hard her mother would have told her that she was in danger of having her eyes freeze that way. “Is he ready for the surgery?” she practically demanded.
At last, Dr. Klein looked up and patted Clark’s shoulder gently, to which Clark made no indication he’d noticed. He turned and faced Lois. “He’s in excellent physical health, thanks to the both of you. His healing aura seems to be returning. I think we can move ahead. I’ll schedule it for next week. His hands first. We’ll tackle his feet another time. I don’t want to do too much at one time. As it is, doing both hands in one surgery might be pushing it. But I believe he can tolerate it.”
“Next week?” Lois could hear the disappointment in Martha’s voice.
Dr. Klein shrugged helplessly. “I have a conference coming up that I can’t get out of. Next week is literally the earliest I can do the surgery. Plus, I need time to pull together a discreet team that won’t question things like his quick discharge from the hospital once everything is over and done with.”
“How quickly are we talking?” Lois ventured to ask.
“Probably a day or two. If his aura truly comes back in full, I won’t be able to keep IV lines in his body and questions will start to circulate.”
“And the surgery itself?” Lois asked. “If his aura…”
Dr. Klein gently interrupted her. “S.T.A.R. Labs has a small collection of Kryptonite samples. I’ll find an excuse to go into the vault, take a tiny piece that won’t be missed, believe me, and let it weaken Clark’s body long enough for me to make the incisions I need, break and reset any bones that need it, and to make sure that the anesthesia keeps him completely knocked out. Once I’m done, I’ll return the sample to the vault, and no one will be the wiser. I’ll repeat the process once we’re ready to correct the malunions in his toes and ankles.” As he spoke, his hands flew in all directions, as though he were illustrating his points with objects only he could see.
Lois cast a worried glance at Martha, who returned the look. Martha subtly cleared her throat.
“Is he strong enough to survive exposure to that?” Martha asked, voicing Lois’ exact question.
Dr. Klein’s serious expression softened as he nodded and gave them a small, but reassuring, smile. “Thanks to the both of you, and plenty of exposure to sunlight, yes. Aside from his malunions and ongoing mental state, he’s as healthy as he can get.”
Lois shrugged as Martha looked to her once more. “If Dr. Klein says Clark can handle it, then…there’s no one else’s word I would trust. I think we should do it.”
Martha nodded, then she turned her gaze to Dr. Klein, her eyes pleading with him. “Please fix my son so that he can live pain-free.”
“I promise,” he quietly swore.
To Be Continued…
