This story was written in french, and I wouldn't have been able to post it without datasprite12's great job with the translation. Thank her if you like it, and if you don't, put the blame on me. I thank too my beat reader VirginiaR, who made miracles with the shaping. Anyway, I'm a newbie on the board, and it seems that you guys are a real community, so I hope you'll forgive me if I'm clumsy in a way or another. Of course, nothing is mine, etc.
Daily Planet
The newsroom was in a festive mood. Most journalists were gathered around the desk of a handsome man sporting a large grin on his face and brandishing the prestigious award he had just won. The article that had earned him this reward, a powerful denunciation of the mayor’s shady activities, had been on the front page of the newspaper the month before. Perhaps some more experienced colleagues were silently jealous of the man, but the competitiveness amongst the Daily Planet reporters remained friendly.
“Teamwork, TEAMwork,” repeated Perry White, the editor in chief. Teamwork would allow them to reach the summit.
Thus the congratulations rained upon the hero of the day in the form of warm handshakes, pats on the back and enthusiastic exclamations. A young man however stayed away from the general euphoria and, quickly crossing the bullpen, almost ran into one of his colleagues.
The latter, a certain Ralph, thrust over his head the mug of hot coffee he had saved from an imminent disaster and smiled at him. “So, Kent, running away? Not partying with the others?”
“I have an article to finish.”
Ralph sniggered a bit. “You’re a bit of a teacher’s pet, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he nodded towards the impromptu festivities. “An awesome fellow this Claude guy, don’t you think? I’d give a lot to be in his shoes. He’s getting all the ladies’ attention since he got his trophy. Glory makes a man more attractive. Our Cat literally threw herself at him this morning. And…” He lowered his voice, and added with the giddy pride of someone delivering a particularly juicy piece of gossip, “Apparently he slept with Lois Lane.”
Kent – first name Clark – emitted a strangled noise that said it all and, shoving a pencil with a broken lead just under the nose of his interlocutor to justify his excuse, spluttered, “I have …” He made a beeline for the storage room and closed the door behind him with a relieved sigh. Encouraging this kind of gossip was not his idea of a pleasant integration into the team.
The storage room already had an occupant. A young, silently sniffling woman sat on the floor and ferociously devoured a chocolate bar – her third by the looks of the creased wrapping papers littering the floor. Clark associated this to the last phase of a major crying session. The woman started when she heard him enter and glanced at him with reddened eyes that confirmed his diagnosis.
“What the heck are you doing here?” she snapped.
“I didn’t know that the storage room was private,” answered Clark prudently.
He tentatively smiled at her but, by the dark stare she gave him in return, deducted that this wasn’t the best approach. Assuming, of course, that a method existed to approach a reporter hiding in a small, badly lit room, like a small girl teased by the neighborhood bullies. His expression softened into a genuine sympathetic look which caused her stare to harden further. Even then, he got lost in the dark irises of the young woman for an instant.
Already, with a resilience he admired, she got back to her senses, swept away the chocolate evidence behind her, combed a hand through her brown hair and dusted her skirt. She didn't stand up right away however, and Clark suspected that she wasn't quite as in control of her emotions as she wanted with a hasty, yet disarming candor to project. He supposed that she had wept with force, with this childlike fury born of frustration, of spite, and with a real grief, a grief that injures violently.
“And who are you anyway?” she demanded.
He chose to ignore the childish and aggressive tone of her query, as well as the fact that she didn’t remember having been introduced to him when he got hired two weeks before. Clark however, knew perfectly well who she was. Lois Lane. Watching her walk around in her elegant suits and, ashamed, strain to prevent his stare from drifting to her legs, he thought her older. But now that he observed her, pouting lip, half-eaten chocolate bar in hand, makeup all but erased, he realized that she was really young; perhaps even younger than him. He guessed not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years.
“Clark, Clark Kent. I am…”
“Yes, right,” she cut him off with evident disinterest. “The hack from Nowheresville.”
“I come from Smallville,” he corrected politely.
“A pencil, a pen, a pencil sharpener? An eraser?”
“Excuse me?” She had lost him.
“You came in here to get something, no? A stapler?” Lois reminded him.
“I…”
“For goodness’ sake, Kent, don’t just stand there! If it’s a damn paperclip you need, just take it!”
[Just adding in a blue arrow so that no one misses a new story post - LabRat]
