Deep seated panic warred with body-trembling relief as he slowly turned to face his partner. Frantically he scoured his brain for something, anything, that would make for a good excuse. “Um, gee, faulty craftsmanship and fear-induced adrenaline. Can’t beat that, huh?”

"I told you I know how Superman kisses."

“Um, gee, faulty craftsmanship and fear-induced adrenaline. Can’t beat that, huh?”

Unfortunately for Clark’s rattled nerves, the safe was not airtight. In fact, there seemed to be some sort of air vent that circulated stale oxygen, which was perhaps a security measure.

Darn security measures.

Or maybe it had been the attractive, albeit slightly creepy, stewardess who kept stopping by his seat every two minutes and flashing him a smile that was far too wide and toothy. The predatory gleam in her eyes, as she grinned wolfishly while showering him with more peanut packets and ginger ale than any one person could possibly consume in a two-hour period, made him think that she would devour him whole if he let his guard down.

“I said deep breaths, Clark. Nothing about hyperventilating.”

“You know,” he began, not entirely aware that he was speaking out loud. “At any other time, Superman would have been able to save the day. But can he now? No. Why? Because some little hooligan decided that, hey, it would be ‘so totally rad’ to mess with the Man of Steel, to try and take him out to build up his ‘street cred’ amongst the real criminals of Metropolis. And so now, thanks to some hapless punk, we’re stuck in here and we’re probably going to suffocate long before anyone finds us, or starve to death, or get eaten alive by these damn walls!”

For long, agonizing moments, Lois just looked at him with an unreadable expression. However, as he was planning a packing list of things he would take with him as he left, after allowing her to beat the snot out of him with noodles cooked in Kryptonite juice, she suddenly smirked before sauntering out of the demolished vault, hips swaying in a predatorily pleased gait.