She had once been told long ago when she had been naïve and willing to listen to the wisdom of elders, that the human body-or rather human beings-in times of great stress were capable of superhuman feats of strength and speed. Witnesses to such feats could never explain the phenomenon, nor could the parties involved. Some might call it divine intervention. Others would simply chalk it up to an adrenaline rush; still others would say it was primitive survival instincts long forgotten by civilized man, brought out by extreme duress. Whatever it was, told her to move-as fast as she could- away from the stoop upon which she stood.

The first click was distant barely audible above the sounds of the street, the second however made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. By the time the third click landed on her ears, she was halfway down the block, and seeking shelter.

When asked later in life, how she knew what was coming, she would simply shrug. The likelihood of anyone surviving something like that was a billion to one. Of course she wasn’t just anyone, she was Lois Lane.

“Miss Lane?”

Lois looked up, her head protesting the sudden movement. Standing at her shoulder stood the Fire Marshal, Quentin Summers. His eyes held sympathy, but Lois could tell that rage was simmering somewhere beneath the surface.

“Well Miss Lane…I don’t know how well you and your partner know each other-“

“Clark is my best friend”: she said, a bit too acidly; though she meant every word.

“Well whoever did this is no friend of Mr. Kent’s. The evidence strongly suggests that Mr. Kent was the target of a failed assassination attempt.”