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Anchor: Part I – Clark Kent

By Bek

Summary: A tragedy in another universe threatens all life on that universe’s Earth. Can Clark Kent AKA Superman save the world and set things back on the right path while finding a place for himself at the same time? An alternate universe story. Part 1 of 3.

*Author’s note: This story has been in the works for a (very) long time. It was originally planned as a single story; however, when I was about half way through this first part, I got the crazy idea to write parts 2 and 3 as well. As I begin posting this story, I’m currently still finishing part 3. I originally had not planned to post any of the story until after all three parts were finished. However, in memory of my father, who is ultimately responsible for my love of L&C/Superman, I’ve made the (irrational and spontaneous) decision to go ahead and get started posting this epic tale.

Comments are appreciated, especially since my spontaneity means that I’ve skipped the very important step of having the story BR’ed.

The story has 51 chapters, and my plan is to post 2 or 3 chapters per day, depending on the chapter length and content.

Rating: PG-13 for some descriptions of violence




Our reality is created by the continuous stream of pictures and sounds that pass in front of our eyes and enter our ears. I see and hear more than most. However, my reality is a lonely, limited place. I live alone, work alone, walk alone… Fly alone.

Today, like every day, I’m also running alone. I suppose it’s odd that I try to find time to go running each day. After all, I’m Superman—I don’t need to exercise, and my schedule is understandably quite busy. But I find the activity relaxing. I don’t use my powers, and I remain grounded, anchored. Most mornings, I run a 5-mile loop that takes me around Centennial Park. And the paparazzi have learned to leave me alone. Most of the time.

I pull on an old baseball cap and my running shoes—Nikes that have seen quite a few too many miles—and exit my apartment. The light rain falling has chased away all but the most persistent of the paparazzi, and I wave cordially, like always, as I jog down the steps and move into a brisker pace, heading out toward the park.

Everyone I pass stares and gawks, still, even after all this time. Sure, they pretend not to. But, as I said, I see and hear more than most. A sharp intake of breath as I jog by, or an abrupt increase in heart rate as they notice me, or a shift slightly off the path to give me a wider berth. Yep, they all know who and what I am. They know I can fly and deflect bullets and start fires with my eyes. Do they fear me? I’m not sure. But they are aware that I’m different. And they treat me as such.

And so, I run, alone, along the edges of the vast park. I veer off the sidewalk onto a thin dirt track leading through the middle of the park, and I adjust my pace a bit as the path winds around trees and skirts the edge of a small pond. The morning is chilly, and a thin layer of mist floats just above the pond. The view is calming to me, and I stop for a moment to watch a duck float lazily in the middle of the pond, ripples of water cascading out around it. I step off the path as two other runners pass by, and I ignore the whispers that they seem to forget I can hear.

“That was him, I’m sure of it.”

“Superman, really?”

The duck flaps its wings and resettles itself into the water. It is not alone. Two other ducks descend out of the mist and skim the top of the water briefly before landing gracefully next to their comrade. Together, they float silently along. I feel my jaw twitch involuntarily, and I turn back to the path, which is now clear.

Moments later, I accelerate again as I exit the forested path and merge back onto the sidewalk. Unexpectedly, the light rain turns into a downpour, and I welcome the cacophony of sounds the raindrops create. I love the sound of rain; it temporarily mutes the other sounds that always intrude into my consciousness. I jump over a puddle and continue along the sidewalk, again following the outer edge of the park. I briefly consider taking a longer route, but decide against it. The rain is likely to create more work for my other persona, and I instead pick up my pace again to get home quickly so I can take to the skies for my morning scanning of the city.

My thoughts wander, as they usually do at this point in my loop, and I find myself thinking of her. I picture her beautiful deep brown eyes and kind smile that saw me like no one else ever had. I find myself wondering what she is doing. She’s with him, I’m sure. And they are happy. And definitely not alone. I’m happy for them, really. I just wish…

No. Stop it, I tell myself. I often have to remind myself that she was only in my life for a very short time. I only knew her when she briefly visited my world—turning everything I’d known upside-down—and then for a few more days when I visited her world just a few months ago. Yes, I mean that. She is not from my world—not from my universe. She has her own Clark Kent. Her own Superman. And he has her. Lucky man. I hope he knows how truly lucky he is. Like the ducks, he’s not alone. Not like me.

I stumble, blinking several times as I pull myself back to the present and focus my eyes on the path ahead. I pass a bench, where an old man huddles under his only possession—a thin orange quilt, now soaked from the downpour. I frown but keep running. One mile left. The rain continues to pound down. From across the city, I hear tires screeching and metal crunching. I close my eyes for a brief millisecond, wondering if maybe I’m not needed. However, as screams penetrate through the rainfall, I no longer hesitate. This is my job. I don’t live for myself. I live for them. For those whom I help. I launch myself into the sky and toward the sound, spinning into the iconic blue, red, and yellow suit as I ascend.

This is my reality. Some days I can accept it for what it is. Some days, my work is deeply fulfilling, even. Other days…I struggle. I wish to be anonymous. And yet, I wish to be seen, wanted, and loved for who I am, not just for what I can do. It is only 7 a.m.; however, I can tell that today is not going to be an easy day.

I see her face again.

I wish…

I shake off my feelings and speed through the sky. No wishing or hoping. Just action. Save lives now, mope around later.

Yep. This is my reality.




The morning passes slowly as I move from one accident to the next. The downpour continues, and I am glad I don’t feel the cold. But I am drenched. And dirty. My boots will need to be polished again, I realize, as I land in the mud on the side of the highway and lift a silver Toyota Camry out of a ditch. The family inside is safe. Two adults and a young child. The child stares at me in awe, her beautiful, innocent blue eyes wide. “Mommy, it’s Superman! He saved us!” I smile at her, nod at her parents, and take off again down the road.

Hours later, when the rain finally begins to subside and the morning traffic thins, I can take a break. I should be happy. I should feel proud. I prevented several fatalities, after all. But I just feel numb. I fly home, my cape clinging to my back rather than billowing out regally. Does he have this same problem when flying in the rain? Probably. Physics should work the same in their universe, I expect.

I land on my balcony and spin out of the suit as I enter the dimly lit apartment. The suit, now balled up in my hands, drips mucky rainwater onto the floor, and I sigh as I survey the mess. I toss the suit into the washing machine, clean up the floor, and then speed through a quick shower. It’s now 10:30 a.m.; I’m late to the morning staff meeting, as usual. I’m surprised I still have a job, really. A paying job, that is. They certainly don’t keep me on because I’m a productive writer. No, they just haven’t fired me yet because I sell papers. Well, Superman sells papers, and I get to write most of the stories about myself. They expect it of me. And because of that, they allow me some leniency with regard to attendance. Not exactly what I imagined when I decided on a career in journalism. Then again, nothing about my life is what I’d imagined.

I hurry to work, managing to fly fast enough through the light rain to avoid becoming drenched again. The Daily Planet building buzzes with activity, and with practiced ease, I focus my superhearing as I trot down the stairs in the stairwell to the newsroom on the third floor. The staff meeting is nearly over. My entrance at this point would only cause a distraction. Instead, I exit the stairwell and head for my desk. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees as my colleagues realize I’ve arrived. I ignore this, and the murmurs, and the sideways glances. After all, I have work to do, a story to write. I can see the headline now: Freak Alien In Brightly Colored Tights Saves Family From Having To Call A Tow Truck, by Clark Kent. Boy, I’m fully embracing my self-pity today, aren’t I?

I sit and switch on my computer. As it boots up, I consider heading to grab a cup of coffee. I raise my eyes and study the newsroom. From my desk in the far corner—closest to the stairwell, so I don’t bother anyone with my frequent comings and goings—I can see the whole room, bustling with activity. The staff meeting has just adjourned, and a crowd has gathered around the coffee station. So I decide to wait. James Olsen—Daily Planet owner and Editor-in-Chief—exits the conference room and nods a quick hello to me from across the room. I nod back, and he turns and heads into his office. No one else so much as looks in my direction. Almost like it’s forbidden. Careful, the alien might fry you with his eyes if you make him mad. Don’t look at him and he won’t notice you.

I shake my head. Quit it, I tell myself. And I start typing. The real headline—my actual good deeds for the morning—Superman Prevents Traffic Fatalities During Rainstorm, by Clark Kent. Even after all this time—and what has it been, about two years now?—it is still hard for me to write about myself in the third person. Superman did this. Superman did that. But Mr. Olsen insists that is what readers prefer. So, I write about myself in the third person. It doesn’t change how people look at me. Or how they don’t look at me.

I type at normal speed. Don’t want to attract any more attention than I already do. It’s a short write up though, and within a few minutes, I finish. Just in time, too. My superhearing kicks in right as I hit the ‘Send’ button to email the story to Mr. Olsen.

“Flight 315 from Los Angeles to Metropolis. This is co-pilot Daniel Benson. We are experiencing a major engine failure. Crash imminent.”

I’m already halfway up the stairwell, and as I finish spinning into the suit and jump into the sky, I focus ahead, extending my senses. Screams fill my sensitive ears, and I turn sharply to the right and pick up speed as I find the airplane. It is fifty miles west and losing altitude rapidly. Within seconds, I am there. I mute the screams from inside the plane so I can focus. However, I already know everything I need to know. There are 178 passengers and flight crew aboard the aircraft. Twelve children, including one infant. The mother is terrified. One older passenger is having a heart attack and will need to be transported to the hospital as soon as we land. I position myself under the strongest part of the frame about mid-plane, and I reach out to take control. I exert appropriate pressure, and the plane levels out. I then slow the plane as we approach Metropolis International Airport, and I concentrate my hearing on the pilot, co-pilot, and air traffic control tower. They know I’m there and that I have control of the plane. I hear their hope, relief, and gratitude. They give me instructions for landing the plane, and I focus ahead through the heavy cloud layer and see the emergency crews waiting for us on the runway. I descend with the plane through the clouds and slow carefully as we approach the ground. The passengers in the plane erupt with cries of joy as I set the plane down, and I listen briefly, allowing myself a small smile.

There is no fear of the freak alien when I’ve just saved their lives. Only appreciation and awe.

I direct the emergency crews to help the older gentleman and check in with the mother of the young infant. The pilots thank me. I linger a moment longer, until everyone is safely off the plane. Then I wave and take off back to my lonely desk in the corner of the newsroom, hiding in plain sight. I’ll be a bit more generous to myself with this headline, I decide. Superman Saves 178 Passengers And Crew After Airplane Engine Failure, by Clark Kent. I land on the roof of the Daily Planet, spin out of the suit as I fly down the stairwell, and exit onto the third floor again. Televisions around the room are showing the story, and I feel the collective gaze of the newsroom shift to me briefly before remembering it’s forbidden to look at the alien. Hushed whispers. Nothing changes.

The coffee station is crowded again, but I’m feeling bold. Keeping my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the ground ahead of me, I walk toward the group of reporters and stand patiently at the back of the line. The idle chat stops, and in front of me, travel correspondent Jake Mercer turns and moves out of the line, motioning me ahead of him. I shake my head. I don’t want or expect any special treatment.

“Thank you, but I can wait,” I say. The first words I’ve spoken to any of my colleagues all day. Maybe all week. I reach up and adjust my glasses. Jake nods and steps back into line. The silence slowly fades, but conversation is muted. Within a few minutes, it is my turn, and I quickly pour myself a cup of coffee, plain black, and head back to my desk.

I sit and, for the second time that day, write a short story about myself in the third person. At least this time, I’m sipping coffee.

I type at normal speed. Don’t want to attract any more attention than I already do.

Rinse and repeat.




I end up spending most of the rest of the day in Japan. It’s not as great as it sounds though. I’m there on business. Super business, of course. And the work is hard—mitigating mass flooding from a tsunami caused by a huge offshore earthquake. I pull people from the roofs of their houses and cars and move them to higher ground. I redirect the water flow when possible. I stop homes and buildings from being washed away. And I pull lifeless bodies from the raging waters. Hours of work again, and this time in the dark of night, which saps my energy faster. The death count rises. I numb my mind to it so I can keep going.

When the waters finally recede, and I have done all I can, I fly straight up into the dark sky. The atmosphere thins, allowing me to move faster. In the blink of an eye, I’m on the Moon. I land on the dusty surface and sit heavily, holding my knees against my chest and resting my head down. Three hundred fifteen lives lost. I don’t cry. I have no tears anymore.

I wrap the red cape of the suit around me. It feels comforting. And, though I try not to, I think of her again. If she were here, she’d remind me of the hundreds, if not thousands, I was able to save. She’d say, “Whatever you can do—it’s enough.” And I’d believe her. But here, by myself, alone, I feel nothing but misery.

I stand and turn back toward Earth. It is beautiful from here. I launch off the Moon and head back to Metropolis. I need a shower and a change of clothes. And maybe to just shut off my hearing for the rest of the day. Although I shouldn’t, I feel physically tired, but I know Mr. Olsen will expect the story on the tsunami turned in before deadline. When is that? I look at the sun beginning to drop lower in the sky as I fly over Metropolis toward my apartment. I don’t have long.

I descend rapidly, and in under a minute, I shower and change. It’s not until I’m on my way back out the door that I sense him. I turn abruptly toward the kitchen. The short, older gentleman stands facing me, a troubled look on his face. His characteristic bowler hat and spectacles are slightly askew, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“Ah, Mr. Kent, so sorry to barge in like this,” he apologizes. He moves a step closer to me and clasps his hands in front of him as he regards me for a moment.

I push my glasses up onto my nose and shove my hands into my pockets. Every time he shows up, things get weird. I don’t know if I have the energy for it today. In fact, I almost turn back around and take off. Let him catch up with me at the Planet after I’ve finished my story. Not ambush me inside my home. And he doesn’t particularly look like he has good news for me. I sigh.

“Mr. Wells,” I say simply. I can’t say “Good to see you,” or “No problem, you’re welcome at my home anytime,” because, well, I try not to lie. He seems to sense my hesitation, and he looks down and mumbles something under his breath that even I can’t understand.

Last time he’d shown up at my door—at least then he’d had the courtesy to knock—he’d taken me to an alternate dimension—to her dimension. I had pretended to be her Clark and her Superman for a couple days while we saved the world from the evil criminal Tempus, who had banished the other Clark to a nanosecond in time by tricking him into a time window and then causing it to explode. Yeah, sounds crazy, I know. So I’m understandably a bit skeptical about why H.G. Wells is now standing in my kitchen. And yep, he’s H.G. Wells, the dead fiction writer. Only he’s not really dead. And his stories on time travel are not entirely fictional.

I rub the back of my neck.

“Right, yes, Mr. Kent, I need to speak with you, and it is urgent, I’m afraid.”

“It always is,” I reply defeatedly. I immediately feel guilty. He must have a good reason to be here. And I do owe him a lot. After all, if not for Wells, I would have never met her. And I would never have become Superman; I would still be hiding my true self from the world. And I would probably be married to Lana—I shudder and shake my head to push away the thought. I remember my manners and start toward the kitchen. “Sorry, Mr. Wells. It’s been a long day. Please sit. Would you like some tea?”

“Tea, yes, quite. Thank you, my boy.”

He shifts around the kitchen a bit while I prepare the tea. I use my heat vision to boil the water—it is faster than using the stove, and Wells seems like he’s as uncomfortable as I am. As the tea steeps, I motion for him to have a seat at the table. He fidgets for a moment, again muttering to himself, but finally acquiesces. Even for him, this behavior is odd. I find myself clenching my jaw. When the tea is ready, I hand him his cup, offer him milk and honey, and take my own seat across from him at the table. He sips the tea cautiously, staring off somewhere into the distance.

“Mr. Wells, I don’t want to be rude, but you said it’s urgent. Why are you here?”

He starts at the sound of my voice.

“Right, yes. Well,” he says noncommittally. He sets down his cup and gets that sort of mysterious look in his eye, like he knows I will have trouble believing what he’s going to say. But the troubled look from earlier still clouds his face. “Mr. Kent, I have two things to tell you. The first, well, it’s unfortunately very sad news, and, well, I…”

His hesitation is enough for me to know that his news must be about her. Maybe not her her. Maybe my her. I tighten my hands on my cup to keep them from trembling.

“Did you find her?” I ask simply. I know the answer already. But he confirms it.

“I did.” His tone is sorrowful now, and I feel my stomach lurch. He continues. “As we knew, the Lois Lane of your world disappeared on assignment in the Congo in 1993. Even with my time machine, it was difficult to follow her.” He pauses and takes another sip of his tea. I study the wood grain of the table, unable to look at him. I force myself to take deep breaths as he continues. “She arrived at her destination and began her work with gusto, as one would expect from any iteration of Lois Lane. But she soon became quite ill, and she took refuge at a mission outside of Bolobo. I met and spoke with her, Clark. And it was not an acute illness. You see, she had been diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer months before she left for the Congo. She kept this diagnosis a secret from everyone. When she became ill, she chose to stay there at the mission rather than return home. She thought it would be easier on her friends and family. She passed away on November 15, 1993.”

I feel as though someone punched me in the gut with a kryptonite-coated battering ram, and the world spins around me.

She is dead.

My Lois Lane is dead.

It is strange that I feel this way because I’ve never actually met her. The Lois Lane from my world that is. My chest constricts, and I stand suddenly, needing to move.

“I’m so sorry, my boy. I wish I had better news for you.”

His voice sounds far away, though I’m still standing only a few feet from him. I exhale carefully. No need to knock my apartment building down with an uncontrolled breath. I nod and sit back down.

“Th-thank you for finding her,” I manage. My voice sounds hoarse. I’m not sure if I can breathe. And I don’t know what else to say.

“Well, my boy, that’s not all. I have news from another dimension as well.”

I look up at him sharply. “Please don’t tell me—”

“No, not that dimension,” he interrupts, probably seeing the panic in my eyes. “Another different dimension. You see, I’ve been visiting other worlds to study how minor events can cause major fluctuations in outcomes hundreds of years in the future.”

My gaze shifts back to the table. There is a small scratch in the wood just under my thumb. I rub it absently. He takes another sip of his tea and continues.

“Most dimensions I’ve visited are versions very similar to the other Lois and Clark’s world. There is Superman, and Lois and Clark are married and generally living a happy life. And Utopia exists just as I have experienced it at its best—a world free of crime, poverty, and war, a truly ideal world.”

I hold back a sneer. I’m always the outlier. An abomination, even in the multiverse of infinite possibilities.

“But I encountered something very peculiar, you see, when I visited one of these worlds. The timeline for the whole world was shifted back maybe a year or so. And the Clark of that universe, well, he had been gone from Earth for three months to help the Kryptonians on New Krypton. However, Zara and Ching returned alone.”

I look up from the table. “Uh, I’m sorry, what? Zara and Ching? More Kryptonians? I thought I was the last one.”

“Oh, dear, you’re right. Yet another difference with this world of yours, my boy. You see, in the other Lois and Clark’s universe, and most other ones I have visited, before the planet Krypton exploded, a fleet of several thousand or so Kryptonians was sent to colonize a different planet, which they called New Krypton. They grew and thrived there, despite the harsh landscape. However, when an evil lord named Nor attempted a coup, two of the Kryptonian nobility, Zara and Ching, sought out Kal-El—Clark—for his help because he—you—were the rightful ruler of the Kryptonian people.”

I feel a headache coming on. Thankfully, Wells doesn’t give me much time to process all of this.

“So, on this alternate Earth I visited,” he continues, “Zara and Ching had just returned to Lois with dreadful news that Kal-El had been killed in the final battle against Lord Nor.”

I definitely have a headache now. I remove my glasses and rub my eyes.

“You’re saying my doppelganger in another dimension is dead, and he died fighting an evil Kryptonian lord on a planet called New Krypton, which doesn’t even exist here, in my universe. Did I get that right?”

“Quite, yes.”

I feel light-headed, and a sudden rush of pain to my gut leaves me breathless. I close my eyes, but they are quickly open again. A dark red sun gleams in the distance, setting over a tall, barren mountain range. Wind blows dust into my eyes, and I reach up to shield them. My hand is dark and wet. Is that blood? I keel over as pain courses through me. I am on my knees, I notice, and my hands fall to the hard rock beneath me. I cough and taste blood in my mouth. A tall, thin man in all black armor stands in front of me. He laughs, I think; it is difficult to hear over the roar of the wind. He pulls me to my feet and holds me upright as I sway nauseously. I look down momentarily. My left hand grips my side, where a dark red stain grows on my tunic. A black blade slick with blood presses against my chest, and I raise my eyes to the man’s defiantly, ignoring the numbness spreading into my chest from my left arm. I hear his voice over the wind now, dripping with hate and revulsion. “Nice try, Kal, but now, you die.” As his blade pushes into my chest, my right hand flies to my belt, and I unsheathe a short dagger from a hidden scabbard. It momentarily glows with a blinding white light and pulses with a sort of supernatural power, and I use the last of my energy to thrust the blade deep into his neck. We fall to the ground together, his sword lodging into my chest. I feel no pain anymore. Everything is numb. My vision blurs. A thought embeds itself in my head. “Take care of her for me.” It is my voice, but not my voice. Everything goes dark.

My eyes fly open. I am back in my apartment, and I jump up from my seat at the table, sending my chair crashing into the wall behind me.

“What—what was that? What d-did you do to me?” I hear the fear in my own voice. I grab my chest with shaking hands, but my shirt is clean and dry, and there is no blood on my hands. I swallow hard, and my heart pounds in my chest. On the other side of the table, Wells looks as taken aback and confused as I am. “I—I had a vision,” I explain quickly. I hold his gaze for a moment before turning away from him and running my hand through my hair. “I think I just saw his death.”

“Oh, my.”

I start pacing. “Take care of her for me.” The message echoes in my head. The final request of a man who knows he is dying and whose only concern is that the love of his life is protected. I feel the words now more than hear them. And with certainty, I know he is speaking directly to me. Somehow. I stop and turn back toward Wells. He sits, sipping his tea, his eyes wide and thoughtful.

“I did—see his death. Just now, I mean.” My voice is quiet. I bite my lip uneasily and blink several times. My breathing is steadier now, but I can still feel the point of the lethal black blade pressing into my chest. “I—uh… His Lois—is she okay? He was…um, his last thought was of her.”

Wells furrows his brow for a moment and drums his fingers on the table. He seems to be studying me intently.

An image of a beautiful face—hers, but not as I’ve ever known it—flashes in my mind. Her smile is bright and carefree, and her long dark hair drapes down around her shoulders, curling softly at the ends. Her deep brown eyes meet mine, and my heart stops. I feel his love for her, stronger than any emotion I’ve ever felt before. The air is sucked out of my lungs again.

“Wells, please tell me she is okay,” I beg.

“Oh, sorry, yes, my boy.” He nods quickly. “When I met with her, she was in good health and unharmed, although quite distraught, understandably.”

Relief washes over me, and I cross my arms over my chest and close my eyes.

“However,” he says hesitantly, the word sticking to his tongue, “this brings me to the real reason I am here, Clark. You see, this Lois—her world is on the brink of destruction.” I open my eyes and meet his gaze. He is troubled again, worry lines appearing on his forehead and in the wrinkles around his eyes. “When Superman left three months ago, the world quickly fell into chaos. Hope was lost around the globe. Alliances that had been steady and strong for decades began to fall apart. I fear nuclear war may be imminent. And Utopia—it has disappeared from the future.”

He raises his chin slightly toward me, and I understand what he wants. I absently wonder if he has any other Clarks like me, whom he transports around the multiverse whenever a problem needs fixing. But the image of her face, filled with life and promise, flickers in my mind again, and with a sigh, I resign myself to being Wells’s personal multidimensional handyman.

“How long will I need to be gone this time?” I ask. My arms fall down to my sides, and I feel my shoulders tense. This doesn’t seem like a short-term commitment. Wells frowns, confirming my suspicion.

“My boy, what would you say if I proposed that you don’t come back?”