Hi Amanda!
Injured and on the run in the Congo, Lois finds help from an unexpected source.
Hmm… it’s not the Alt-U, unless Clark leaves her again? So, a different alt beginning?
Despite all appearances, this is not an alt-Clark universe story. Rather, it is an alternate beginning
Warning for character injury and wound description.
Contact fic, Lois: and then, then he
ripped out my heart and showed it to me, all bloody and desperately pumping before he stomped on it!
(figurative injury description) What? No, I’m not being literal here. I’m a reporter, I write for a living. I know the difference between literally and figuratively. Where was I? Oh yes, and then he literally flew out the window and left me alone.
Umm… I guess I got sidetracked…
Don’t stop. Keep going. If I stop, they’ll find me.
Eeeep! Poor Lois!
How much is blood? Did the bullet go clean through or is it still in there?
Eeeep! Eeeeeeeep!
What was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid? To think that I, Lois Lane, Junior Reporter at the Daily Planet, have what it takes to take down gunrunners on my own.
It’s called hubris. Possibly mixed with anger and resentment in case Claude just tried to make off with her research notes.
LOIS: Stupid French Claude. Should have let him take the notes. Then he’d be here, deciding whether he wants to get shot or fed to crocodiles.
I should have passed the story to a more seasoned reporter—to Claude maybe.
convinced Perry to send me to the Congo on some story about the destruction of the rainforest—not my usual kind of story and I’m not sure he bought it completely. He sent me anyway.
PERRY: Most reporters argue for doing a piece on the impending destruction of the Bahamas reefs, but who am I to judge.
The gangs were easy enough to find and follow. From Brazzaville, I tracked them to a warehouse hidden in the jungle. After dark, I broke in.
/Eyes orange ‘danger’ light with fascination as it strobes on and off/
Who could ever believe that Metropolis’ greatest philanthropist is secretly running guns out of the Congo?
CANON LOIS: Oh shush it, will you? At least I’m still alive and dating Superman.
I can’t hear the men behind me anymore. Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe they know I’m going the wrong way and will never make it out alive.
Maybe they know she’s now entering the realm of Grodd and his band of man-eating gorillas.
LOIS: I already mentioned the not-alive part. No need to get so specific. Let’s keep a bit of mystery going so I can keep my relationship with Death fresh.
Fat chance of that happening. Like I’m just going to stumble upon a nicely furnished house out here in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be lucky to find a cave or a big hollow tree.
[…]
A house.
Oh, the gangs weren’t afraid of gorillas, they were afraid of the vengeance demon living in that part of the forest.
What about the vengeance demon who will take her unconscious body into his hut and care for her?
LOIS: How did he bandage my wound without removing my shirt?
Okay, so it’s more of a cot, but it’s still a bed. The door shuts behind me as I limp towards the bed. I’ll just lie down for a minute, then I’ll check my wound. Surely there is something I can use to bandage it. This pillow is so soft. Some antiseptic would be nice, an infection would be bad. I’m so cold.
I just need to rest a little longer.
Aww… it’s a Goldilocks situation
A little time at home with his folks would do him a lot of good.
Or a detour to Metropolis to deliver a reporter to her place of work. Her editor might even offer him a job, if he manages to return a clean and relatively undamaged model.
It wasn’t worth the risk to his secret when he could probably find another way to help her.
LOIS: Bet if I had invested in some peroxide, things would look different now.
Sitting down, so as to appear less threatening, he carefully reached out to shake her shoulder.
I wonder if he has a full beard.
Squinting, I make out the shape of a man framed by log walls and a thatched roof.
Where am I?
Wouldn’t it be awkward if she claimed he’d kidnapped her?
My side throbs as I recall the gunshot, the forest, the hut, and then… nothing.
But there is someone here now—a stranger. Friend or foe? In a place like this, most likely the latter.
What if he’s Death, come to meet her at the appointed hour?
“Don’t touch me!” The words slip out before I’ve realized I’m going to say them. Panic grips my chest. “Leave me alone! Who are you?”
To be fair, she was the one who entered an occupied hut and laid down in a stranger’s bed.
“You tracked me here,” I point out. “You’re with them.”
/points at earlier remark/ Awkward!
“With whom?”
His use of the word ‘whom’ gives me pause. What sort of gunrunner thug makes a point of being grammatically correct?
Next, he uses ‘I’ and ‘me’ correctly.
But they could have easily sent in their nicest looking, most well-spoken thug to set me at ease, to try to find out what I know.
They call him ‘carrot’.
Or I could trust this guy enough to at least tend my wound. If he was going to kill me, he probably would have done so already. He wouldn’t have woken me. It would have been easy to kill me in my sleep.
What if he plans on letting her heal so they can interrogate her more easily and then turn a profit by selling her in the town market? Foreigners are renowned for their housekeeping and cooking skills and always turn a tidy profit.
just looking for a place to call my own.”
“In the Congo?”
Interesting wildlife. Lots of sun. Little press coverage. And many opportunities to rescue unsuspecting brunette reporter cubs.
“Okay. Well, at least let me introduce myself. I’m—”
“No! It goes both ways. If they catch me, they’ll want to know who helped me. No names. No personal information.”
Although, it would be awkward if the gun runners went after Kal-El’s friends and family. I mean, attacking the colony of New Kryptonians two rivers east would probably solve that problem.
“Charlie, right.” Is there a Mrs. Charlie back home?
Whoa, she does feel better!
What is wrong with me? I’m alone in the jungle with a bullet wound and a little chance of ever getting home, but all I can think about is how good looking a complete stranger is? I’ve clearly lost too much blood.
Yes, her blood certainly isn’t feeding her brain.
It’s dry and not as sweet as the things which pass for nutrition bars in the States—more like hardtack really—but it’s probably better for me than any of that junk.
Root leaf. He baked himself. Eat. Eat.
“So how did you get hurt?” Charlie asks casually.
Lead poisoning.
”Are you a doctor?”
He raises one eyebrow. “I thought you said no personal information.”
Cute
This is the part I’m afraid of. Lying down, I’ll have no way to defend myself.
Yes, but sitting up she’d defend herself for one kick and then faint anyway.
Then again, trusting my gut is how I ended up here in the first place.
She’s still alive. Had she stayed in Metropolis, she could be dead by now from a cab accident.
She seemed as jumpy as a rabbit and had clearly been through something awful, but her eyes spoke of the fierceness of a tiger.
So, ‘kitten’?
“I’m sorry,” Clark offered, although the words felt lame on his tongue. He wished he didn’t have to cause her any more pain,
So much for his career option as an enhanced interrogation specialist in the gun runner gang.
It was a deep gash, about four inches long. At its deepest point, he could see both fat and muscle, although it didn’t seem to have reached any organs.
Oh boy. But at least she’s still airtight. Could have been much worse!
LOIS: Fat? What does the author mean by saying ‘that he can see fat’?
“What did this?” He voiced his thought out loud.
It’s not a claw of an animal. There would be more cuts. It’s wider than a slash with a knife. Probably cleaner than had she gotten caught on a jagged rock or a tree branch. High energy beam weapons usually cauterize the wound.
“I need to clean this out. I’ll have to flush it with saline. It’ll probably sting. I don’t want to cause you any more pain but…”
On the plus side, if she blacks out from the pain, he can fly her to Brazzaville.
You’re a much better patient. Prettier too.”
At least still prettier than male cattle. What a compliment.
“Well, I should hope I’m prettier than a cow.”
/points up/
“Steer,” he corrected absently. At her confused look he added, “Cows are female.”
He should be careful if he doesn’t want to get turned into an ox.
No one in Metropolis is like this.
/points at earlier remark about well-nourished foreigners fetching better prices at auction time/
Good people like this don’t really exist, do they?
Go on! /stokes little ember of paranoia/
“Investigating? So, you’re a cop or something?”
Or something. Back home, she often wears colorful costumes reminiscent of fowl.
“Were you able to find anything?”
Do bullets count?
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly eager to learn more about this mysterious angel in the Congo.
Awwww, title reference!
“Even those with more power than an average man can’t do much to change things here. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.”
Because he hears. And listens. And he can pick up a nice hobby that way.
So why do I feel the sudden urge to kiss him?
Blood loss. Something related to Stockholm Syndrome. Hormones.
Hope. Could it really be that simple?
Awwww, she brought A New Hope with her
The U.S. Embassy would help her the rest of the way.
Unless it’s been infiltrated by Lex Luthor’s agents of chaos?
Then she would go home, and he would go wherever he felt like going next.
Weeeeell, he could feel like going to Metropolis.
Then she started tossing lightly and whimpering. At first Clark thought maybe she was dreaming, but her heart rate was too fast. She was in pain.
Eeeep? Wound fever?
With a sharp nod, Clark made up his mind. He would fly her to Brazzaville, it would take him less than a minute. It was worth the risk; if she woke up and saw him…
She’d think she’s delirious.
Something’s changed. Someone is holding me—someone strong and warm. I lean into the warmth.
Nicely done section, the whole fever/travel repeated from her experience.
He looks down at me. His eyebrows pinch together and he sighs.
For some reason he looks very sad before he focuses his gaze, once again, on the city lights.
Poor guy!
No one could tell me how I’d gotten to the hospital—only that a man brought me in then left.
Maybe one of the gun runners. What if she sees him again in Metropolis?
I pick up my suitcase from the carousel, careful not to pull anything on my right side, and march towards the taxi stand, already planning my next move. Lex Luthor isn’t going to know what hit him.
/taps foot/
You do realize you’ve just started another series? Perhaps a trilogy?
Very nicely done. Very evocative! You also got a talent for first aid description
Michael
