The Mirror

The Mirror (part 2 - dumped)

Brilliant white light invades the dark interior of the Beetle-jet as the rear ramp lowers.
The bluish tinted hologram of their face shields darkens automatically as summer's sunlight assault them
Without even a pair of cheap sunglasses, I can only squint as blinding overexposure envelops General Zod as he leads the way, disappearing before his path down the ramp can lower him out of sight 
The Big-Guy and Rifleman follow Zod with weapons at the ready
Having been told nothing outside of being woken up by Dex's 'Ready?' 
Curiosity mixes with uncertainty as I watch them leave
Faora solving my uncertainty with a finger nudge to my shoulder as she passes in a clear signal to follow her
Having lived in a gloomy-hole for what feels like a year-long-week, the overhead sunlight is worse than the glare of a setting sun reflecting off a lake
That I will trip, or bump into someone, keeps my attention divided between the ground of my next step and the distance to her back as we pass where Zod's soldiers have posted themselves on each side of the Beetle-jet's ramp
A few steps out into the heat are all I need for my squinting stare to expand pupils in incredulity at the size of the trap we have just walked into...
I stop.
Stop a stop that is the same moment of terror as if I had stepped in front of a speeding bus:
Sure,
All it is quiet, now
No one is shooting, yet
But there is no mistaking this heavily armored firing-squad for being the celebratory parade America is throwing for Zod's return to Earth 
Because
All of the guns are pointed at us
And this time, the military force which has shown-up is not the highly mobile reconnaissance unit that was America's fast-jab at General Zod in Smallville
No... This time America had time to get ready at a location of its choosing. 
It is as if the entire semi-circle of U.S. Military firepower is simply waiting on someone to yell:
Fire!
That everyone lined up against can start shooting without a single worry about hitting what is behind us is all anyone needs to see to know their plan is to start firing.
Heart stops as I consider the skirmish-line of soldiers centering the line some thirty yards distant...
Men who are standing behind a line of concrete highway crash barriers
Behind them
Further back in the End-Zone of this dry Salt Lake, turned shooting-range, a line of tanks and infantry fighting vehicles stand with all of their barrels pointed at us.
A greater distance away, behind the tanks, and all the way back, in the cheap seats of death's coliseum, grim silhouettes of Apache attack helicopters hover low on the horizon.
Thoughts do not need an iota of imagination to guess that, high above the helicopters, real warplanes are waiting to be called in; while, much, much further back, men in deep bunkers wait with their fingers on the launch buttons for the call to send unthinkably deadly things in our direction...
That ALL of it will start firing in just a few seconds leads thoughts to one screaming conclusion:
We are so fucking toast!
Anger looks for the idiot who led us into this slaughter...
And so, I see:
Zod doesn't care!
His fast military walking pace continues onward, unfazed by the size of the problem confronting him.
Panic in search of sanity looks for Faora
Seeing she has also not slowed her pace
Whereas Zod had turned left to make his straight line to the American lineup; Faora is still walking a straight line
I look away from what her cape is blocking to take a second look at Zod
Letting out the terrorized breath I was holding as soon as I see the difference in the group he approaching:
To Zod's front stands a mix of dark business-suits and uniforms with lots of shiny brass.
Relief exhales tension as I start to see this meeting is a negotiation.
A good idea until I think about why Zod does not have a rifle:
Maybe he is going to surrender?
Quick glance checks my theory with a second look at Faora who also does not have a rifle
Thoughts waiver as conflicting evidence arrives:
They sure are not walking like someone who feels defeated... Or even scared!
Panic turns to embarrassment as I think about who looks scared:
Me.
An embarrassing need to hide my panicked-face looks down as I resume walking
Going until the idea of not paying attention causes me to look up from cowardly feet just in time to catch sight of Faora's silhouette as she points a sharp finger down at the ground before changing her course in a crisply sharp pivot to turn in a seventy-degree angle turn so she may head for the far right of the US military formation.
I watch her walk as I go straight
Noticing the loose formation of soldiers have ignored Zod, and are keeping their focused on her
Which seems stupid because it is the guys behind me who brought their guns
Uneasy with being abandoned by Faora's maneuver, I slow down and watch helmeted soldiers shift their stances as she moves to take up a position near the end of their line; seeing instantly it a flanking maneuver designed to divide their attention; the usefulness of which is undone by the obvious fact she forgot her rifle.
I want to shout:
Fuck! 
At the stupidity Zod has led us into
I want to run over and tell her to go get a rifle
Because:
Although the chance of rain out on this dry salt lake may be: Zero
The chance of shooting is clearly: One Hundred Percent
The sight of her bulky armor reminds me of my own vulnerability
Suddenly I am conscious of my own weakness
I feel naked.
The same caught off-guard sense of public nudity one gets with the nightmare of showing up to class naked
But instead of pointing-fingers and howling laughter, today, in my nightmare, all of the cool-kids are pointing guns.
Tension makes fists in pockets as consciousness tries to remind self that I am not naked
I am wearing blue jeans.
A pair of work boots.
A belt!
Well dipshit, is that t-shirt of yours bulletproof? 
I mutter my thoughts on the situation as I remember that I was supposed to walk to a specific point:
'Damn it.'
Curse brings him into near-distance focus:
Seeing him, first, as the U.S. Military's sacrificial lamb
A dunce whose job is to stand out in front of everyone, just so the others will have time to act when they see him get killed, first.
Sunlight's glare off of the white bed of a dried salt lake, and a sense of doom's inevitability, push my gaze away from examining the guy who drew team-America's short-straw
With no where to run, panic is over overcome by the hopelessness of our situation
Hands stay in pockets as I shuffle onward.
Looking down.
Until I can feel myself getting close to a guy who I expect to see is my doppelgänger
As his boots arrive in my dejected downward gaze, I look up to see, who from my old-team, was unlucky enough to be out here with me...
I expect to see myself:
A loser who no one cares about because they are not actually useful to the team.
Instead...
I see the military rank insignia of a full-bird colonel.
A man who has advanced up the ranks to reach a point where the Brigade of soldiers behind him, are his  
Seeing his colonel-rank and commanding stature tells me instantly that he is not a pawn, but a hard-ass Patton-wannabe who thinks of himself as not just embodying America's first line of defense, but being America's first line of defense.
A part of me remembers my time in the Army
A part of me tries to remind self, that I should: walk briskly towards him; salute stiffly; speak a sharply spoken, report, by giving him a hearty:  "Good Day, Sir!"
But not only am I not in the Army anymore, I did not like being in the Army when I was in the Army
And not just because I was forced to trade three-years of military service to avoid going to jail for ninety days and losing my driver's license for three years.
That I now have to play soldier once again is an idea crushed by the fact that I have other things on my mind than our dumbass-army.
Luckily the conflicting emotions are quelled before the sternly resolute colonel turns his attention to me
In the instant our eyes make contact, his expression makes his verdict clear:
He doesn't like what he sees.
Not at all
Unwilling to step within handshake range, I come to a stop.
Not wanting to make small-talk, I look down into the empty space between us to collect my thoughts
As I do, I begin to feel the heat of summer's Sun thaw pain
Pain from aches I remember
Pains from aches I do not remember
It is as if I have woken up in a cheap motel with stolen kidneys
That I cannot remember how it happened is a sensation suddenly interrupted by an awareness of my overarching incompetence
A theme central to my character, now brought into sharp focus by the realization of the insolence occurring as I keep my hands in my pockets while standing in front of a senior military officer
An internal rebuke I feel, not because I give a shit about this guy, but because of how General Zod will see it, as me, disrespecting a fellow officer
What else will Zod not tolerate? 
Hands are pulled quickly out of pockets.
That I once wore a watch causes an old habit of distraction to fire:
I look at my left wrist
A left wrist on a left forearm that is now a permanent rash of unnatural divots
Pockmarks left by an alien-bug's quills
An ugly rash of still open sores, now covered in bruises
At first glance the bruising on my forearms could be the ringed bruising from the grip of an abusive parent
But the bruising is too wide to be just a single incident of abuse
That the bruises are also matched on legs as well as torso makes the event a mystery
A mystery, which will not go unnoticed...
Someone will call child services!
The deep scar on my face pulls skin tight as the inside joke triggers a chuckle.
Humor is swatted away as I catch the Air Force Colonel's alarmed look.
His own alarm signaled by a tense posture amplified by his pressing the inside of his arm against the holster of his pistol; as if he knows he needs to be quick on the draw, but also knows he doesn't dare reach for the pistol's handle
For:
In old Western movies, to touch your pistol, during a Mexican Stand-off, is to say you are making your move
Therefore,
If you are drawing your gun, then the other gunslinger gets to draw his gun
Shooting your opponent becomes an act of self-defense.
Murder becomes an acceptable reaction.
I think of the two guys behind me:
Two alien soldiers, in alien armor, holding alien rifles.
See the reason colonel has brought his personal toy:
Not his regular military 9mm pistol
But
Dirty-Harry's .44-Magnum
A toy he knew he needed because he did not come out here to shoot humans
He did not need more bullets
He needed BIGGER bullets
Instantly I also know who it was that gave him the idea on his hip
It is a revelation telling me I was one wrong move from him drawing to shoot the punk who pulled unlucky hands out of empty pockets...
And what would child services have said about that, Inspector Callahan?
The unexpected joke strikes a funny bone at the wrong time
Not wanting Faora to hear me laughing, I turn to throw the laugh into the wind
The wind coming from Zod's direction
And see an instantly sobering sight as I do:
For all the way, on what is my left of the American line, General Zod stands stiffly against a semi-circle of VIPs who seem to want to surround him
And out of all of them
One VIP stands apart from all the others: 
Even from here I can recognize the uniform
But his uniform is not colored in matte Kryptonian gray, but richly hued red and blue
Not bright, like the American flag, but close enough for the fact to be clear to everyone who sees him:
He is a guy who wants to be thought of as being on team-America
Not really taller than Zod, but much broader in the shoulders
He is a man who is, in stature, between Zod and Zod's giant soldier; a soldier I refer to as Big-Guy, because no one, but Jax and Faora will talk to me
Instinctively I know who Mr. Red-n-Blue is: 
He is the criminal Zod crossed an ocean of stars to capture...
Kal-El is his name.
His cape waves slightly as the wind pushes on my face
They look serious.
But not so serious that a fist-fight is about to start!
The good news allows me to take a second look at his colors
I let a second, mirthless, chuckle depart my mouth as I think about how vulnerable he must feel
After all
I am no one.
But that guy is a wanted man.
An outlaw who showed up to the party wearing only his pajamas
Even outnumbered and without a gun, Zod and everyone else on his side is wearing armor
I project my own feeling of being caught in only a t-shirt and jeans onto Kal-El...
My thought is as clear as the blue sky above us:
I bet he feels naked standing there, in his underwear, without a suit of armor or a rifle! 
Wind waves his cape like the flag as the wind picks up.
Pity for the bandit who is about to be arrested is pushed away as a gust of wind buffets my eardrums
The dull whistle of air traveling across the dry lakebed is nature's cone of silence
A buffeting noise covering-up whatever is being said 30 feet from where I stand.
The muffling sound carries away the thought of trying to pay attention:
This is not about you.
It is an idea that makes me feel like an eavesdropper
A useless gawker
A farm hand wearing a t-shirt and jeans.
Comparison is the final insult, which turns me back into the colonel's glaring contempt:
Caught during a measuring examination of me, the colonel's eyes leap from the bruised divots on my arm, stopping for an instant on the big scar on my face, before re-centering to throw his unexplainable, but obvious, dislike for me, directly into my face.
The frown he gets is for the soreness I feel as I think of what I should do...
You should say, Hi
But he hasn't said, Hi
Hell, he hasn't even asked me if I am okay
Or, if they treated me well
Which obviously they haven't...
So, you know, "fuck you" for not asking!
Surprised blink strikes as I wonder if I actually said anything...
Realizing as I accept the fact, I have kept silent, that I don't want to talk to Colonel Dirty Harry who brought his big-pistol out here to shoot at Faora.
And so, not wanting to deal with Colonel Magnum-Force's contempt makes the solution to him a simple one:
I turn away from the man whose lineage may trace a direct line all the way back to some forever-nameless Roman Legionnaire
Spinning as I do to face the eyes I felt on my back:
Back to where the Big-Guy and Rifleman are staring their own confrontation right back at me   
Or past me...
I guess.
To the colonel and his pack of heavily armed soldiers who form a skirmish formation as well as the tanks behind them
Desire for confrontation avoidance keeps me turning
Until
With my back to the colonel
Stare stops at the beauty that is an empty horizon
The perfectly flat cone of vision between where the Beetle-jet is parked and where Faora is standing
Vision pulls my mind into the wedge of serenity
The serenity of a dry lakebed of flat salt as it expands into a blank expanse of white until it disappears into a shimmering horizon
Dark mountains point peaks out of that same shimmer to stand boldly under the desert sun
From a distance, the lakebed looks perfectly flat
But at my feet, the salt lakebed is extra-course grit sandpaper in bleached white
TV memories recalls videos of racers who set world speed records on lakebeds like this
Pained body easily imagines the greater pain of racers crashing a long skidding wreck on a surface I now know is a lot more abrasive than it appears on TV
I look up and away from the imagination of speed's pain
Clear blue sky lets the sun's heat land unfiltered
Sun's heat begins to feel strong as I face it
Staring into the sun until it swirls in my vision
Bathing in its warmth, a disjointed memory drops into my thoughts:
Her eyes don't follow the knife as she drags it down my neck; they remain locked into mine; her smile is that of a toying cat as she withdraws the razor right before it cuts the tiny mole at the base of my neck as if she has already mapped every inch of me...
I jolt back from the memory with a gasp.
Air pants in and out of me as it fades away
Hot desert air dries my throat
I swallow dryness as I look down from the sun
Faora has approached to within a step of me
Her helmet's darkened visor almost hiding her smile
A knowing smile telling me, that maybe, she can imagine where my mind has gone.
Congratulatory voices are indistinct as they try to make headway against the wind's quiet whistling
I pivot to follow the nod of her nose as she shifts her gaze to focus on the VIPs
See the historical moment as it happens:
Zod is shaking hands with Kal-El! 
The significance of the moment is underscored with bold ink as all of the other VIPs are warned away from trying to grab their own handshake by Zod's curtly formal nod:
One at a time Zod fires his nod to the suits and polished brass who appear intent of shaking his hand
It is a gesture cautioning the suits and brass to keep a respectful distance.
With the glad-handlers fought to a stalemate, Zod turns slowly to impassively scan the phalanx of soldiers and military equipment that is here to ensure the conversation remained polite
His scan completed, Zod turns and walks a line straight back towards his Beetle-Jet
Saying it as he crosses the point at which his straight line arrives as close as it will to the point Faora and I are standing
Zod's voice is reserved satisfaction:
'Commander, the field is yours.'
She's looking at me as I return my attention to her
Her expression is absent as she says it:
'Kneel.'
Without any apparent connection to either side I had started to feel invisible
Irrelevant
Perhaps so irrelevant that the military may even forget I was here when they left.
Which is fine with me...
Because I have other plans
Needs
Like the need to ask Faora for her phone number
Or
Make dinner plans.
But now, even though I doubt the air has carried her voice past my ear, an unexpected problem as occurred...
In a previous life, I could have sought safety in the thought her command was actually said quietly, because, nobody would think the request was reasonable enough to speak
Much less obey it
But
That was a different life
And so, I have already lowered to one knee even before I can wonder, why she is asking
Not that she would answer you!
With me down on one knee, she squares her shoulders as she stares at the colonel:
The darkened hologram of her helmet drops away leaving her face uncovered
She closes her eyes and grits as an unseen force smashes into her
Her fists clench and the strength of her legs seem to want to give out
She could be Atlas holding up an invisible world.
Fists rise as her biceps flex under the armor's plates
Alarm arrives with the realization that she is fighting something
I am about to call a warning to her when she opens her eyes with a deep exhale
A fast breath follows within her
The tension building in her flexing arms drops away and she steadies herself with a second deeper breath
Her smile says the unseen enemy is no more.
None of the victory leaves her as she looks down on me:
'Take off your shirt!'
Where 'kneel' was a whisper, the force in her voice now suggests she may be telling everyone to take off their shirts
I feel their uncertainty without feeling it within me
Swaying slowly to up to one knee I raise both hands to lift the cleaned, but increasingly threadbare t-shirt off by its crewneck
Head and back bend as I pull it over my head and let it fall down with only a solitary hand holding it
With my back to them I know the purpose of her instruction no longer needs an explanation for the pattern of her armor's breastplate is scarred into my back at the angle of a fireman's carry.
I look up to her, careful to keep my back straight
She seems particularly interested in the Air Force Colonel right behind me:
'Do you understand?'
The increased force of her voice shocks me into looking down before she finishes:
'Whose Human this is?'
She wants me!
My heart pounds at the idea
Colonel Dirty Harry takes up the gauntlet she has thrown down with a confidence only Gothamites seem to know:
'This is the land of the free.'
She steps past me.
Feeling the fight about to start I let go of the shirt and stand as she passes
The ranks of the soldiers stiffen
Weapons are raised, but not to the point of being aimed
Their regular infantry rifles replaced by heavier rifles that I do not recognize as being American; a few even sport guns that look like they fire grenades
This is about Smallville!
It is though the female politician that fires first.
I recognize the bluntness of her Texas accent from a campaign stop she made during the Kansas primary:
'We have an agreement!'
She is a former Governor who came close to winning at the start of the primaries only to run out of steam in the middle of the race and be forced to accept the number two slot on the winning presidential ticket
With her opponent's white hair accenting a smoker's scratchy illusion of harshness, it is clear Faora dislikes Zod's agreement just as much as she dislikes the idea of what America calls a leader
Faora's retort is to show how harsh is really done:
'Guard your agreement closely!'
Faora's attention drifts to the commandingly tall general who has worn his field uniform to ensure the troops know he is not some Pentagon-Brass bureaucrat, but a soldier, first and foremost.
A fact he has demonstrated by showing a pair of brass-balls big enough to dare to come-up and close-ranks with his fight-picking second-in-command, even though he isn't even packing a pistol.
Faora says she will show no mercy to the unarmed as she fires at him in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear her intentions:
'For I shall search diligently for violations within not only the letter of it, but also the spirit!'
Her stare leaves the general and passes over the Vice President so she may deliver her threat to the real audience
She fires at Kal-El with the simmering voice of a bloodlust unrequited: 
'And if I find even the thought of betrayal, I will return with something more useful than an instrument of creation.'
Kal-El tenses but refuses to let himself drawn-out by her threats.
Seeing his stoicism, she turns her back on them all, glancing down at the fist I have made with my right hand with an amused smile.
It is a smile which triggers the fight raging inside my mind:
What happened last night?
Fists relax
Her smile widens as my eyes dart back and forth across her face
The idea just spills out of me:
'I don't remember...'
Her smile reveals teeth
Her chin dips as she says it:
'Good'
An alarm bell rings
Panic fires a stammering bullet:
'No, no, not good!'
Her coy smile disappears under a clenching jaw
Head stays tilted as she raises a warning eyebrow
Her chin dips more slowly as her voice tries to warn me to not make a scene:
'Good.'
Panic hammers my heart lain on a cold anvil, I step closer to release it point-blank:
'You're not coming back, are you?'
Her shoulders square to what appears to be the start of an attack; yet, the uptick in the corner of her mouth says the question may please her
Her voice is amused caution:
'Is this your wish?'
I start saying it before she can finish:
'Damn right it is!'
Emphasis produces a knowing smile as she offers me an out:
'Are you sure?'
A hand reaches for hers then halts, but the truth fires conviction:
'Yes!'
Her smile beams as bright as her eyes flash their electric blue
My mind screams it:
Now or never!
I lean in to kiss her
Teeth flash as she springs trap of her smile
The shield of her helmet raises. 
Raised eyebrow and a side toss of her chin tell me she is a cat playing with a mouse:
'Good.'
Her smile is a taunt as she walks past
An incongruent memory strikes from nowhere:
Cough clears the airway; shotgun blast of blood catches her at close range... 
She is already ten feet away before the memory flash ends 
Her stride more forceful than her stature should allow
I shout my verdict as the determined movement of her cape carries her away:
'Not fair!'
She does not look back.
Not fair? 
A mean-spirited chuckle resonates within me:
Can you fucking hear yourself?
Zod's two soldiers have already gone back inside the ship.
Wanting to see her turn around and look back keeps my eyes glued on her back
I watch breathlessly as her stride finishes conquering the distance.
Not even blinking until the ramp lifts behind her
Eyes stay shut as the beetle-jet blows the hot dust of the lakebed on me as a goodbye-kiss.
The heat of the sun reminds me I am half-naked, right before thoughts point out my next problem:
You about to learn, what else is not fair!
That my business is mine is the thought that reaches down to snatch up the gray pocket-T with a fluid motion
Throwing an arm through vacant sleeves, experienced wiggle puts thin frame in, so the t-shirt may slide down on its own
Re-clothed, I turn to look back at the person closest to me:
The colonel's smirking smile on top of what was obviously his personal hostility for Faora, presses my own nuclear-launch button:
I draw and fire a smartass-bullet, buried deep in dismissive Southern drawl, directly into his face:
'I'm gonna need a ride back into town.'
His face braces as the verbal slap lands.
And
Right then
In the surrounding silence of unrequited death
I feel the fatality of my mistake land on me as hard as the train landed on my truck.
The silence becomes deafening. 
A deafening silence manifesting as the scream of wrath wanting to come out of the Colonel's seething face of rage
A face that says there is much, much more that needs to be said before I go anywhere
And so
With my back to the proverbial wall, I do what I always do when there is no other option but:
Fight!
Fight as a smartass who has no other weapon but his mouth
I re-cock and fire as we stare each other down:
'And I'd rather it not be with you.'
He looks at my nose as he thinks of smashing it in 
Knowing there is no going back from my mistake, I smile a smile that is really a dare for him to do all he is thinking
It is though the general who decides he gets first crack at the smart-ass-punk who is picking a fight with the US Military 
That his South Metropolis voice is laced with a big dose of deep-South patience, lets me know that he is also a man who did not come here to take shit from anybody
Especially not a nobody like me
Having been raised in the South, I am not fooled by his parentally smooth:  
'It is not going to be that simple, son.'
The song of his certainty allows me to see America's three-star general as a man, who, if he were white, would have, a generation ago, been happy to chase me with coon hounds, if I escaped his jail.
He is also a man who must be nearing mandatory retirement age
Weathered by years of out maneuvering less qualified officers with the strategic patience marking the most successful men of his age and race; he has delivered his threat with calm self-assuredness
But as he assesses me, I can see General Swanwick begin to see something, in me, his life experiences have sheltered him from 
He is visibly disturbed by my unrepentant attitude as well as the fresh markings that have been inflicted upon me
He hesitates as he tries to calculate how, I got to be, me
In the gap of our silence:
A lanky buffalo-soldier, who decided a .50 caliber sniper rifle without the scope was the best thing he could bring to the party, fires his voice in a way to suggest it is also how he will fire his rifle...
His sniper bullet lands with the accuracy of a perfectly mimicked accent
An accent familiar to anyone who has ever watched late night cable TV:
'Lucy, you got some splanin to do.'
His comedic timing hits me right between the eyes.
I want to let myself laugh
I want to go over there and introduce myself
But I cannot even afford to let myself look twice at the unexpectedly skilled adversary
An adversary who appears willing to throw all of his future promotions away just so he may seize the day and strike at his enemy in the exact same manner in which his enemy is striking at his team 
Only the fact that I am able to hear his joke, as a threat, allows me to keep a straight face
A straight face made straighter by the idea that it may simply be his Call-Sign
A death card spoken to the terror-suspects world-wide
That the Colonel isn't laughing tells me I was right not to laugh
Maybe the colonel has already heard it too many times, himself?  
With his General so close, the Colonel does not delay as he grabs the reins of his men as our stare re-locks:
'At-Ease!'
He steps forward to hand-deliver the threat his eyes have been alluding to
And in so doing, finds himself rebuked by none other than Albert Einstein's son:
'Colonel Hardy!'
The old man's voice is dire enough to stop the Colonel in his tracts
He also gets my attention, not with the tone of his voice but with the worried stare he is directing at the red divots my t-shirt is failing to conceal:
'Do not get too close!'
The Colonel looks at him as if to point out the obvious discrepancy in our fighting capabilities, but then stops as he too catches the reason of the old man's concern.
Einstein tries to explain his fear first by pointing as he ignores his own advice and approaches
Maybe to get a better look at what needs diagnosing:
'He appears to be infected with something'
He pulls his pointing hand back; and has the colonel hesitates, I realize I need to talk to this guy:
'Hey, you a doctor?'
Rifles point at me as I reach, too quickly for my wallet.
I close my eyes with an almost silent:
'Jeez...'
Then open the wallet and slowly pull out a credit card:
'Their guy said to give a doctor this.'
The look on his face says he won't take it from me.
And I cannot tell if it because he thinks the credit card has germs, or if he just knows an over the limit account when he sees one...
With doubt as to which it is, I take matters into my own hands by pointing the corner of the credit card to the divots in my arm as I hold it between two fingers:
'These were like poison darts from a bug that attacked me'
The old man's eyes meet mine as he tries to follow me:
'Neurotoxin or...'
He looks at the card
'Something... I don't know, but that was two days ago'
His eyes flash back up to me with a question forming as I decide I am not sure of the actual timeframe:
'Maybe...'  
The professor's head is already shaking an alarmed, no
'Colonel, we need to quarantine him, right now!'
That's the last thing I want to happen!
'Hey now...'
I ignore the Colonel's worried stare and look to him as I point to my right arm:
'Their machine healed this broken arm, yesterday.'
The admission raises the Colonel's eyebrows but I can see the doctor thinks it irrelevant as I try to finish my point:
'So, you should know those guys ain't one let things stay broken'
Finally, I can see the idea break into the doctor's train of thought
So, I give him a little push in what I think is the right direction:
'And I don't they would let me hang out with them if I had a cold.'
I have never been more wrong about measuring my progress in convincing someone
His voice as only grown more alarmed as he looks at the colonel:
'Colonel, we must also treat the chip in that card as a new Trojan horse.'
The Colonel steps back as he starts to see me as a biological and cyber-weapon delivery system.
I decide to give-up in style by throwing up an exaggerated shrug of surrender:
'Can we at least hit a McDonalds on the way back?'
It is an idea that crosses the General's threshold for stupidity:
'You need to start taking this seriously!'
They all take the voice behind me very seriously:
'Professor Hamilton.'
He is not walking.
He's just floating as he moves closer
I flinch a surprised step back at the sight
He ignores me to speak to the Professor:
'In addition to the traumas, a nano-fiber network has been inserted into his brain.'
This is a question I want an answer to.
I unconsciously reclaim my step as I ask it:
'General Zod tell ya about it?'
Saying the name brings the caped-guy's attention to me
His head shakes a brief, no, before he speaks with a familiar voice; a voice so familiar you might think he is a guy you could bump into at the grocery store 
But to look at him, is to see an NFL quarterback with a move-star's good looks
Instantly I realize why she laughed at the idea of a good-by kiss:
She thinks he's hot!
And that bullshit threat she made was just her way of letting this asshole know, she is interested in him!  
An unfamiliar heat of instant-mix hate tightens in my chest
Kal-El doesn't know what to make of my expression, because he can't feel the jealousy being fertilized within me
He hesitates as I stare through him as I think of Faora; and so he catches me off-guard as he speaks with genuine concern:
'Are you okay?'
It is real compassion.
And I am completely unprepared for it
Conflicting thoughts crash together
Divergent ideas in a collision that brings my attention back to him as I try to reconcile what Zod implied with the first impression he is making...
Then, as I stare at him, I see it:
His eyes
Not his perfectly coifed hair
Not his strong chin
Nor his perfectly sculpted body
But his eyes are what tell his truth
Purely distilled intensity that remain coiled even as his posture projects calm.
In high school I knew guys who wrestled
Any other time of the year, they were normal guys, but when wrestling season came around
They changed
And they kept changing
And if any one of them were on the way to making state finals, you knew to stay away
Not even crossing their path in the school's hallway
But even those guys would be afraid to enter ring with this guy
I take a step back without thinking about why I need to
For
To stand before Zod was to be filled with the need to show respect.
To stand around one his soldiers was to look down until the potential bully passed.
But Kal-El's eyes press a very different button...
A button no man has ever pressed this hard:
For this fear is of someone who does not know their own strength, and so may kill you in a small error of judgement
His eyes narrow as I unconsciously hold my breath as I weigh the idea of just running away
As fast as I can.
It is the colonel who stops me from taking another step:
'What's it for?'
The colonel's blandly spoken question is reality's wake-up slap to see what cannot be seen
I turn to the colonel to see if he is afraid to be this close to the criminal Zod was hunting
Like the colonel should be! 
The Colonel's stern face is laser focused on me
The angle of my problem forms instantly:
These two guys are already friends!
A third idea crashes into my thoughts
An idea I voiced to Dex:
'Am I doing the wrong thing?'
Caught by it, I answer honestly as a way of throwing the colonel a bone to see if I have guessed wrong:
'It hits like a Taser.'
Concern and the need to read me better than he has, brings the colonel a step closer
His face grimaces as he asks a clarifying question:  
'They use it?'
I start nodding
'More than once'
My hand is unconsciously searching for it in my head
Looking down I pay more attention to how Kal-El's feet remain a few inches off the ground
The doctor speaks meekly to everyone's indecision:
'What else does it do?'
But I am back to thinking about General Zod's original message to the world and look up to his overly muscled frame
Realizing that even if he was not wrapped in America's brightest colors, he would still stand out from all of us 
His eyes meet mine has disbelief becomes bravery's substitute:  
'So, you're the same as them?'
I call bullshit on the entire idea of
Them
As soon as he nods his, yes
'You're telling me she can fly?!'
The helicopters starting in the near distance says madam vice president has chosen to do just that.
My question kick-starts his own question
Kal-El voices it with a mix of disgust and curious interest:
'Do you think of her as your...'
His voice just trails off as he tries to wrap his mind around an idea he cannot accept.
Jealousy pangs my heart as I realize I am meeting the guy who is an even worse version of the same good-looking jock who makes it a point to show up at the Homecoming Dance, Stag, just so he can have fun cutting in on your dance
The conclusion for Faora's aloof departure is succinct:
You have literally just been dumped, and this guy is the reason why!
It is an idea side-swiping me harder than Candice's little VW tried to do in Smallville
The expression comes out as a heartfelt plea to the universe to get one more chance at Faora before she meets anyone else
Especially this Kal-El douche!
'Why can't a guy have hope?'
He reacts as if I was a frail woman who has slapped him with her purse as she screamed 'mugger' just because he was a black-guy who got too close.
He forces himself to show nothing more than a twitch in his jaw muscle
And so, I see only one explanation for why the blow landed with such strength:
This asshole wants her, too! 
A gun cocks and fires into my own heart as emotion rages out from a dark pit, I thought was sealed shut...
His eyes dart down to my heart as raging jealousy cries out like a hungry newborn baby, then back up to meet my stare, then down to the hard scar tissue hidden under my t-shirt; as inside of me, the same memory from school fires again as I see his strong chin as an anchor for his masculine perfection
In that memory, I see him as he is:
The pinnacle of an old problem
A guy so good looking that I know there is only one conclusion about what has just happened to me:
I am nothing more than the nerd a cheerleader will make-out with just so she can get the attention of the football team's captain! 
And so, Kal-El becomes the same guy who beat up my friends just for trying to kiss a pretty girl.
He looks at me as my fist forms
Alarmed by emotion spiraling out of control, but not understanding it, Kal-El is quick on the draw; firing the unexpectedly soft bullet of compassion: 
'Did she inflict these wounds?'
A horrible idea becomes a growing counterweight:
He is horrified by the idea of this cruelty
The idea puts a damper on the flame wanting to boil my anger
Mind falls back into neutral.
Uncertain of my own thoughts, I look at his chest:
See the clever trick he is playing by wearing America's colors and not Zod's
Knowing instantly, he is simply playing nice, because he needs Earth's help in keeping Zod from trying again to arrest him, again
I look up
Thinking it as I stare into his eyes:
Zod should have kicked your ass today just for not acting right in Smallville!
It is a wish that immediately discounts his compassion by dismissing it for what his compassion really is:
An attempt to use me to find out about her...
So, he can slide into the ice I may have broken!
Denial tries to kick-start a reflex:
'N...'
It stops hard in my throat, as another voice lets loose an internal contrarian:  
Why the fuck are you going to lie to this guy?
Trouble is:
Desire has already hired a legion of lawyers:
So, are you just going to talk about her behind her back?
Huh?
What's next?
You gonna tell him she likes to have her feet rubbed so he knows to do it when they have their first date?
Huh?
Is that what you are going to fucking do?
After several kicks, it fires:
A lie so ridiculous it's not only the official slogan of domestic abuse victims who do not want to make the next assault worse by sending the abuser to jail for just a few days; but also the dismissive wave-off used by everyone who has gotten beat up while making a new friend, the price of which is, sometimes, needing to see a doctor.
That he is not a doctor fires the reflex of slapping the hand of his faux friendship away so loud that everyone who can hear it, hears it for the fuck-off that it is:
'Nah, I just fell down some stairs.'
Right then
In our moment of establishing mutual dislike
I feel his own heat being born within him as I see the dismissive insult hit his spirit in the exact spot I needed to hit him in, if what I wanted to do, was make him my enemy.
His face is freezes as our eyes lock in mutual realization that this instant is a point of no-return
My stare is fixed.
His eyes move like a humming bird's wings:
Looking into mine at the same time they move over me, stopping at heart, fists, the tightness of my jaw muscles as they pull on an ugly scar... All of it letting him know:
I got close to someone up there
Nose to nose, close
And I am still standing on their side
So how about you be the one who takes a fucking step back!
His eyes leave mine as they shift left
Left over to the colonel who is ignoring the professor's warning against getting closer
As his eyes dart back
Seeing me unconcerned movement to my right
Our eyes lock again as our thoughts merge as one:
Good guy or not, I will fight you!
It is our moment of clarity.
A moment lasting no longer than the time a hummingbird needs to pump its wings
He clenches his jaw for me as the Colonel's smashing right-hook lands
The lights go out.
In darkness, I fall like a cut down tree.
Wallet and credit card fall straight down as the unconscious hand lets-go.
The lakebed's dust is kicked in my face as I try to recover
The air booms high above us
Lying on the course sandpaper of salt, I look up with a spinning head
He's moving upwards like a launched rocket
Dust in my eyes grits the vision of the cone of air trailing behind him
High in the sky
Marking his progress as it leaves a clear thought in my mind:
There's nothing you can do to stop that guy from taking whatever he wants.
My summation is succinct:
'Shit.'
The general's resolve is firmer:
'Stand down, Colonel!'
The colonel is left with only a glare to throw at me
The pain in my jaw stops me from telling him where he can go as well
He starts to smile as voices shout:
'Make way!'
Without the ability to stand-up quickly, I look over
The Hazmat suits are bright blue sealed tightly around white gasmasks and gloves
The stretcher they surround is plain stainless steel
The Colonel's smile grows bigger as the look of concern arrives in my expression
His smile drops it as I point-out his problem
'What are you laughing about?  You ain't wearing a mask!'

She is just standing by the bed
Looking at me with disappointment
The airlock does not cycle as she walks away.

Faora leaving, is a guilt I feel for no longer fighting back.
No longer fighting back because fighting has run its course
Now they hit me with what should not be weapons
I look up to catch the something I know is watching
Catch them timing their act of revenge for my refusal to cooperate 
But there is nothing...
Always nothing.
Dreams
Ideas
Memories...
All of it spilling out into consciousness because I am neither awake nor asleep
Sensory deprivation via sensory overload
The suspended florescent lights high above my cube took forever to stop being an enraging irritant
An equal dose of apathy greets the bank of floodlights that have just switched on
A bright, blinding light, angled to keep me from watching them enter
That I no longer care should be obvious
Nor do I have an interest in looking around to see what the light may be illuminating
For I already know what everything looks like
Labyrinth of prefabricated offices forms a wall
A wall surrounding a double-bubble of industrial glass, which is, itself surrounded by a moat of empty concrete floor
The clear tube of plastic connecting my cube with a vestibule entering the labyrinth would make a hamster feel at home
When all the offices were occupied, the light was strong enough to illuminate the high trellised ceiling
Coils of freshly laid cables
New air-filtration ducts
Now only the circular array of florescent lights directly above my cube reminds me of what business hours are.
My life is a glass box:
A box with a bed, table, chair, shower, sink and toilet
There is a TV mounted on the outside of the glass wall that forms my cube
A TV that only shows reruns of the shows I never wanted to watch when they originally aired
Only once did I turn on the mixture of soap operas, game shows, and TV comedies
Canned laugh-tracks haunt my mind whenever I think of turning it back on
Now I just try to look inwards
See my past
Try to remember what it is that they are so interested in
Not so I can tell them
So I can find the moment that I may have kissed Her
I know it is in there
Somewhere inside of me
A memory
But unlike the walls of my transparent cell, my mind remains its own labyrinth
In here though, there is no hiding
Everyone walking past my cube has their view restricted only by a waist level band of fogged glass near the toilet and shower partitions
The opaque stripe is the extent of my right to privacy 
One day they may forget to feed the fish in this bowl.
But right now
In the blinding glare of floodlights
Hunger is not my fear
Today my fear is losing a fight with an old nemesis:
Chicken Cordon Bleu 
The crust of which collided into the pile of mashed potatoes as a pie shaped wedge was cut out of it with a knife and fork that are more rubber than plastic 
Ugly neon-yellow cheese has run out, then slowed to a thick stop, as I chewed and chewed and chewed, on the first, and only bite
An hour will never be enough.
The air circulates with a sudden rush.
The movement of air affirming a replay of their game of removing the food tray with a five-man restraint-team
I used to barricade myself as the team formed up in the tunnel
Looking at their faces
Telling them I would remember them when Zod broke me out jail
The blinding floodlights were a response to that threat
Baseball sized beanbags fired point blank into my chest was their first attempt at discouraging me from fighting
Up next was the clear plastic shield with an electronic zapper attached to the front
Tired of being electrocuted, I finally gave up on playtime
Now, I cannot remember, exactly, when was the last time I fought back
Memory says it has been too long since we played a round of roughhouse
I look at my knuckles:
See the scabs have healed
Hear a muffled voice of defeat inside me head:
Maybe this is just about the food tray?
Has it been in here for more than an hour?
I give the plastic tray a long stare, thinking about how, in the time I have had it, I have not even cut a second wedge out of the lump
Thoughts become clearer:
You need to eat.
I look at the food tray anew:
Seeing the margarine that has given up on its attempt sink into the lump of mashed potatoes as being a cold lake of yellow icing; deciding it is the best bite available, if I only can have one more bite
Indecision hedges the safe bet:
That bite will need washing down.
Unfortunately the plastic of the dull brown cup is just thick enough to hide how much iced tea I have left
A cautious voice speaks as I think about reaching for it to see how much tea is left inside of the cup:
They are shouting.
Confined anger argues back:
So?
Logic intervenes:
Maybe you should pay attention?
I look down at the napkin that is still under the tray's clear plastic lid
The voice of authority becomes distinct:
'Stand up slowly!'
The disappointment of losing track of time should be an old friend by now
'Walk to the wall'
But here I am again
'And place your hands in the circles.'
The food tray stares back at me
I know what Dr. Chen will want them to do if I don't start eating
They're going to tie me down to a bed and feed me through a tube shoved down my throat.
Again.
The voice gets louder:
'Stand up!'
Maybe that's what they are here to do now?
'Walk to the wall.'
Well, that is what the guy said the last time they did it.
'Place your hands in the circles.'
Mind goes down the list of possible test answers:
Throw the tray at them!
Throw the tray against the wall!
Maybe just ask them for more time with the tray?
Apathy's choice is to close the lid to the plastic tray making sure it is on tight before standing
Shuffling to the far wall on rubbery feet
Grateful it is only a few steps
Dropping down on knees while keeping my hands in the blue circle circles painted on the glass
I look at the smudge my hands leave as two guards sandwich me with a hold on each forearm in order to lift me up, and walk me back to the wheelchair to be moved under their control; knowing someone will have cleaned the smudges from the glass by the time I come back.
The wheelchair's wrist straps are fastened before the ones at my ankles are.
I freaked-out the first time the hood was put over my head, because I was sure they were going to sucker punch me as soon as I couldn't see who was doing it
Now I accept the idea that they just don't want me to see where I am going
My response is always the same:
'Fine, be like that.'
The Man's response is finally different:
'You have a visitor.'
For a second my heart wants to leap at the idea of hope
There is though no need to imagine her filling out a Government form to know it is not Faora
You still have a sister.
Knowing who my sister is, I scratch her from the list just as quickly.
Options are exhausted before the airlock finishes recycling  
The lights dim as we travel in a straight line
The front wheel of the chair begins to rattle as my driver exceeds the speed limit
The vibration says even the floor wants me to wake up
The synchronized thump of tactical boots echo in the long hall 
It feels like a football field has passed before the elevator dings
The door opens with a heavy sliding is clunk
Cold air pours out from it
I wonder how far underground I am
The elevator tells me I am wrong as it drops a few floors before we exit
The sound of boots and a squeaky wheel, echoes until we come to harsh buzzing that is followed by a loud pop of an electric door as it unlocks
The heavy metal door is slammed shut behind us
The chair jerks into a sharp turn as another door pops loudly
A rush of cool air arrives
A diffuse white light shines brighter against the hood covering my face
We repeat the locked door process and start a labyrinth of sharp turns
It is I game I have played before:
The idea of playing hide and seek in a department store arrives from the expanse of my childhood memories
I'm smiling at the idea being small enough to hide inside a rack of clothes when the hood is pulled off:
She looks like a hawk.
Pretty, in an unpretentious way
Her smooth face dusted with a few tiny freckles
Big eyes framed by shoulder length, dirty blonde hair spilling over the shoulders of her tan and blue windowpane suit of a female lawyer who knows her client is broke and so feels no need to wear the power-suit, today
And like my first DUI attorney she has already finished assessing me before my smile wilts under her judgment
The door to the matte white room closes behind me with a deep thump of steel as the guards leave.
Brown leather portfolio is already opened
Mechanical pencil at the ready
A large moleskin notebook waits for her to record her thoughts
Smaller version of the same notepad is tucked into the portfolio pocket that most people would use for a phone or scientific calculator
You knew the show-trial would begin eventually.
Low expectations allow me to speak with the apathy of a true southern accent:
'You my lawyer?'    
She was ready to pounce.
Then she sees the question is a serious one
The shadow of worry passes across her expression
The hawkish stare returns as she makes her introduction:
'Lois Lane'
I shrug against the idea it should mean something to me
She says it like it was a question:
'I am with the Daily Planet.'
Now there is a name I know!
I even have the ability to hear Pop voice it contemptuously from memory:
Daily Planet
Pop refused to even touch a copy because he thought it was a liberal disease
A cancer growing unchecked
Malignant growth undermining the United States constitution while hiding behind its First Amendment
Communist-sympathizers was his summary assessment of the paper's journalists
Well, it does explain the interview notebook
I giggle at the idea her pretty face is the mask of a communist saboteur:
'A reporter?'
She ignores my dismissive laugh as she waits for me to finish
The haughty tone of her voice says she considers my label as libel:
'Investigative Journalist.'     
As she, once again, kills the humor trying to grow within me, I tilt my head down so my hands can rub the disappointment off of my face
Broad plastic straps, firmly holding my wrists flat on the wheelchair's arms
Similar ones hold my legs to the wheelchair around my ankles
The restraints tell me there is no need to restrain my emotions
Disappointment is the emotion I un-restrain, first
Disappointment for failing to be even at the start of my official imprisonment
I let it out the most basic question as it falls out of my mind:
'And how does that do me any good?'
I look up in time to catch it:
A small sneer broadcasting her judgment
A sneer to say self-interest is exactly what she was expecting
The idea plays into my judgment of her as a lawyer
Not the overworked and underpaid lawyer the government will eventually appoint me, but an ideologue, who believes the system is just a few steps away from being able to obtain self-sustaining perfection.
Even her voice is the smug reflection of confidence spoken has an unassailable need to continue the advancement of the globalist's cocktail-party belief system 
She even smiles a believer's smile as she lectures me with propaganda:
'The truth benefits everyone.'
It immediately lights a fire in my mind:
Bullshit!
A knowing smile comes with idea of smearing of another overly righteously sound-bite  
This time the poverty of my southern accent works in my favor:
'Yeah, just like how that rising tide is gonna lift my little boat too, huh?'
It is an unexpected awareness of how truths are used to sell lies that catches her good side
She smiles with appreciation even though it is not the response she expected
The thought of her appreciating the banter undercuts my desire to fight
My self-congratulatory smile falls as I calculate my new problem:
Dad was right to fear the Daily Planet. 
As I think of her, she takes advantage of my metal pause to capitalize on the moment of common ground she feels may have just been established:
'I am here to hear your thoughts on the Kryptonians.' 
That is when I notice it inside of me
The effect of the warmth underlying her combative wit
Her smile
Not the condescending smile Dr. Chen delivers when I tell him he can, go to hell, but the smile produced by the appreciation of a joke I have told
A smile that is the sign of a similarly shared sense of humor
Camaraderie's most recent opportunity being one that last flew past as fast as a sniper's bullet
This time, though, opportunity is seated across from me.
My mind prepares to provide the truth on autopilot
A mental process short-circuiting as an itch on my nose reminds me of the wheelchair I am restrained to
A fact that leads to one man.
Nice thoughts for Lois stumble on Dr. Chen and his henchmen and women...
The man in the white lab coat is making adjustments to what could be a movie set's film camera in white plastic as another man makes adjustments to a computer tablet attached to the machine; that I will wake up in bed after being freshly showered is all I need to know to know it was bad...
It is enough of a pause to sense the control I always kept for them, is slipping...
Come on, it will be nice, like really nice, to talk to a nice person!
That I may reveal truth simply as a reward for her treating me as a person is a problem
A problem bigger than the fact I have never been read my Miranda Rights
A right reminding me of what is this moment's biggest problem:
You don't know who the hell this person is!
Off guard, I scramble to develop a more cautious approach to the person I suddenly want to embrace as a friend
Dr. Chen's refusal to answer any of my questions becomes a boil in need of lancing
I look away from her distracting warmth
And in the outline of the metal door she entered, I try to think...
Well smart-guy, what bit of information could possibly make a difference to your situation? 
With no place to start, the question is born out of the curiosity of not knowing what is beyond that door:
'What's today's date?'
It lands on her nose like jab.
I see her reaction for what it is...
She did not expect me to turn the tables this quickly. 
Her teeth grind.
Hesitancy affirms all suspicions since time immemorial 
The warning of all attorneys:  Say nothing without your own attorney being present...
You are right not to trust her!
She sees the concern rising in my expression as she starts speaking
It is as if she were reading the fine print of a legal-agreement she brought in for me to sign
Sign in the hope I wouldn't even bother reading it; much less try to understand it.
I even hear her try to cover her real intent by speaking legalese in a smooth voice
It is a move that backfires as I hear the slow cadence of her voice as being the insult of attempted deception of someone who she thinks is stupid:
'The settlement established by the court with the Daily Express prohibits me from providing information beyond the events of the Battle of Smallville or past the point where you were returned to Earth as part of Zod's ceasefire agreement.'
You should ask about the details of the ceasefire agreement. 
Instinct barks a different idea has anger blows lethargy's cobwebs out my mind:
'Then fuck off!'
Her eyes shoot daggers at me as I continue my allegation that I was right not to talk to her
'Because I have already had enough one-way conversations for this lifetime!'
She loses a little bit of her cool as she jabs her mechanical pencil over her shoulder and in the direction of the door behind her:
'Do you know how many billable hours in attorney fees it took the Daily Planet to get me through that door?'
Her hand holds the pencil so that it is sticking out of both ends of her fist like a foot long hotdog in a small bun
Or a knife in a stabbing hand...
'As far as the United States Government is concerned, you are a member of a galactic terrorist organization'
She smiles as if to say she agrees with that assessment as she decides to unload her other barrel by leaning over and pointing her accusation right at my face as she fires:
'Whose members planned the destruction of Earth, before unexpectedly changing their minds.'
The tone of her voice is rising
Success at bringing her down to my level feels like victory
I feel my own hands making a fist as I think of how I will hit her again; until an unexpected blow lands on my psyche:
Faora is the one who left you here, not her!
As I reel from the accusation against my belief system, I can see she knows...
See that she knows, I helped them
Helped aliens who were preparing to kill her and her family
And all their families and friends
She pauses.
Senses the effect of her backhand of a preamble
A real lawyer would go for the kill.
Instead, she pulls her next punch as she searches for the part of her accusation that landed on me so hard.
I see it for what it is:
Mercy 
My own inner lawyer objects to the idea on principle:
Mercy?  How about you wake the fuck-up and smell the contempt she has for you!
Blink drags-out as I pause to think about it
She blinks her own refocusing of me as I look back at her unable to hide the conflict raging within me:
There are two sides to every story...
She looks worried for you...
The voice in my head has landed a one-two punch that knocks me off balance
I fire the first thought that comes into my mind to gain some fighting space:
'Yeah, so what was that fight about?'
The question lifts my spirit as I hear myself say it without malice
It is also a question that catches her off guard
That she has to answer it, troubles her in a way that says the answer she is about to give is common knowledge
Knowledge so common that news segments do not even mention it with the story anymore because it is something everyone already knows:
'The future of their race.'
But I find her answer has no context, whatsoever
Yet the information I receive from her voice is all bad news:
She is going to kick your ass with kindness 
Kindness measured with awareness
Not an overdose of kindness that hides deception 
Just enough kindness to say she is not here to hurt you
The kind of kindness a kind person gives naturally
When was the last time you fought someone like this? 
Maybe the best thing you can do is stop fighting?
Or, dipshit, maybe now is the time to start paying attention to what it is you two are talking about!
As if to prove which side she is on, her hand reaches forward
A universal gesture saying, I am here for you.  
Terrified by the idea my emotions are so easily read, I look down at my own un-calloused hands
See her visit's timing as being intentional
They sent her in as soon as they saw you became weak minded!
Disconnected correction continues to fight for thinking room
I ask for a clarification without looking up:
'No, in Smallville'
See she has been blindsided by disbelief as I look up 
Her hand pulls back to its writing position 
She doesn't recover before I can repeat the question to build momentum on what I can feel was a small advancement in my need to knock her off balance:
'What was the fight in Smallville about?'
The repeated question visibly disappoints her
Fingers twist her pencil as she places it down in the valley between the pages of the open notebook
She does not look up until she has decided on her next move:
'You were with them for almost two weeks and you really know nothing?'
Two weeks?
I thought it was one...
The attempt to shrug my shoulders pulls my wrists against the wheelchair's soft, ambulatory-style restraints
Better yet, how long have you been here?
It is an original question that won me my first real victory on who she may be
And so, with her definition taking shape; the natural next move is to show her, she does not know who she is talking to, much less what I have been dealing with in here
That they have tried to make me as ugly as possible before our interview is a mistake her kindness will recognize as being cruel
If she is actually kind
I aim at her heart as I stare into her eyes:
'I think yesterday I had long hair.'
The declaration of uncertainty hits her hard
Real, uncontainable worry strikes her expression
It is an undreamed-of moment to have finally found a person who is willing to show worry
For me
The emptiness in my voice is fueled by the worry that I have lost track of more than time
I have lost sense of who I am because I cannot remember time in a straight line
I pull the trigger again as soon as her worried expression finishes roving my baldness
'Miss Reporter, time here... it just passes...'
Her jaw sets against an emotion she was not expecting to have unleashed upon her
My hands want to fidget as I keep mumbling as I speak a vague certainty:
'I got no idea where it goes...'
I can feel my chin quiver as I think of the time that I know has passed
I try to hide my weakness by looking down at the base of the stainless-steel table:
A table fixed to a concrete floor by a thick center leg which is buried in a lighter colored square of concrete
This is a new addition to an old building
My new home for my new life...
It does not compare well with the life I wanted
The disparity of reality and dead hopes, brings my anger back around
I look up with certainty building momentum:
'I'm not even sure what year it is...'
Her eyes lift up from the sadness of my condition to my returning hostility as it hits the wall of what she is able to say
As her mind wavers as she decides how to bridge the gap between us; I push just a little harder, by trying to pull her closer to me:
'Do you know what that's like?' 
Her answer is hope
Authentic sounding hope, delivered with the warmth of a friendship we do not share:
'I can't tell you what day it is'
She leans in as she says it earnestly:
'But what I can tell is that your story will be heard by those who need to hear it.'
I want to believe her
I need to believe her
But I also know hope is curse on everyone who is locked up
Because hope is the reason time passes slowly
My dismissal is a snide remark to the idea she knows who it is that needs to hear what is happening to me:
'I don't think she's a subscriber.'
What I thought was simple gallows humor comes down harder on Lois than I could imagine
Her smile for the progress she thought she was making fades as she reconsiders me.
Balanced on the idea, she weighs it, then goes all in on the idea, that maybe, I have been in here long enough for me to see the mistake I have made; and so, all the bond needs, is a hard slap from her in order to break it:
'There is more to your story than that monster'
She stops as soon as she sees it land on the dark side of my heart
I lock my stare into hers
Her rephrasing is quick backtrack:
'General Zod is in charge.' 
That she is a nimble fighter causes me pull the punch she has just triggered:
'Yep.'
She leans back as the air between us begins to die
Her mechanical pencil has made it back into her hand
Unconsciously she telegraphs her consideration of how she will re-approach the issue, by touching the silver cap over the eraser of her mechanical pencil to her face as she traces a long line down from eye to chin
She chews on the idea
Decides the bond deserves another blow
But not a direct one
A worried one
An accusation as a ploy to show she is on my side
Heartfelt consolation is an approach no one, since Kal-El, has dared to take:
'She tortured you?'
Having already been hit by the same soft-bullet of empathy, I just hold my jaw tight to encourage her to look closer
It works 
She accepts the invitation and lets herself feel comfortable staring at it
I can see her trying to imagine how they all happened
But it is the long, bone deep scar running vertical from cheekbone to jawbone that holds her attention 
That I still have my eye gives the scar only one explanation:
Intentional disfiguration   
She catches herself too late
Looking up too soon to hide the mixture of horror and incomprehension occurring within her
My body jerks as I think of it
The tight restraints resist the movement
What are you going to do?
You are tied down
Might as well be a paraplegic
The tendons in my neck tighten
The weapon you have is your mind, so stop being a gimp and use it!
Nervous giggle delays the start of an old joke:
'Yeah, I uh...'
She slaps the idea out of my mouth before I can say it:
'Cut the bull, I know you didn't fall down some stairs.'
Her verbal slap stings.
But it is the idea of the unknown that backhands me as I think  it:
How does she know what I was going to say?
Smartass reply jumps out before I can stop it
'Well if you know so much, why are you here asking questions?' 
Her chin tightens with my mockery
She strikes quickly to put my sarcasm in check:
'Maybe there's no solid explanation for those...'
She points a line to my arm
'Weird holes all over your body'
Her eyes look up to mine:
'But I have good guess as to who is responsible for...'
She is trying to organize the list
Chronological order is my preferred strategy 
Maybe Lois will arrange it as triage nurse would? 
Then again maybe she ask about it like Dr.Chen wants to do: Top to bottom
Summarization, though, is her approach:
'The brutality of broken bones, cuts that are the work of a fencer and...'
He thoughts wander as she tries to guess chronological order
Her voice falls as she looks at the spot in my chest
She shakes her head as she tries to imagine it:
'A wound that would have been fatal...'
She looks up into my eyes to make sure I comprehend:
'Even if it had been inflicted in an emergency room.'
Faora moves like a dancer, knife pointing down, her sidestep a feline slink
I can feel desire rush through me as a memory flash is remembered clearly
Lois' increasing horror lifts my smile
I say it, as if I was trying to describe Faora's movements:   
'So, you're saying, I got lucky?'
I know I didn't get lucky, but Lois as made the mistake they all have made
The mistake of seeing a gap in my loyalty that does not exist
A perception gap I keep open by always fighting the conditions of my confinement
Fighting it as I do now, without ever complaining about how the Kryptonians treated me
The difference they cannot seem to comprehend is that I asked to be there
Whereas this is a prison I was thrown into
That I may have accepted being Her murder victim is blow they will never understand
Even if I wanted to explain it to them
Which I don't!
Filled with unease for the unexplainable thoughts racing across my expression, Lois approaches the end of her horror story cautiously:
'Not to mention the...'
She does not believe what she is seeing as she states what she thought would be the worst accusation she could make against my captors:
'Sexual trauma'
The nurse is bending over the wheelchair; holding the pamphlet open; going over the emotional stages I can expect to go through; Dr Chen is just waiting for his turn to ask for detailed recounting of how the assault occurred; his empty clipboard covering his lap...      
I hit her
Not like I wanted to hit him
But as a way of saying I am mocking every rape victim, ever, just so I can stab her heart by stabbing one of her girlfriends who may be one:
'Yeah, I shouldn't have worn that dress.'
Her pencil holding hand slaps down
Her voice snaps with frustration:
'What is wrong with you?!'
My body jerks as the restraints pull tight to stop me physically punching her
She leans back in fear of what she sees.
She is not Dr.Chen!
She is not Dr.Chen!
She is not Dr.Chen!
Well, dumbass, how about you consider the fact that she is with him? 
Yeah, and maybe she isn't...
I find I am looking down as the argument within me reaches a stalemate
A stalemate that is the same frustration of not being able to remember my time up there is a continuous line
A stalemate made frustrating by being unable to fit the prison's accusations and innuendo into the memories I do remember
Stymied by the dead-end of my own thoughts, I say it as off-hand remark as I think about how Faora held a knife to my throat for even suggesting it:
'Maybe the word kiss just has a different meaning on Krypton?'
It is the straw that breaks the kind camel's back
Angers flashes along with real disgust 
She cannot even un-wrinkle her nose as she lashes out with a harsh rebuke:
'They know what the word means!'
How can she be so certain about everything?
For once all the voices are in sync
With us fighting for different things
I try knocking her back with an old trick:
'Lois, how are you so sure about everything?'
She ignores the sudden first name basis as she lands a rapid one-two counterpunch
'Did you not hear their broadcast?'
I close my eyes to the fact I have been caught, not just asking a stupid question, but acting stupidly
This time, with me on the ropes, she finishes with vengeance:
'They are fluent in every language'
With my eyes closed, she even gets in a snarky, quick jab against idea of us being on a first-name basis:
'Tyler.'
I start saying my apology before I open my eyes:
'Look'
Next week's pamphlet is on sexual transmitted diseases; graphic photos show the results of poor choices; Dr Chen is just waiting for his turn to ask me about the suspected assailants' preferences as an empty clipboard covers his lap...
She too is waiting.
Waiting for the apology she knows she is due
Can you just not be an asshole all the time?
You're smarter than this!
The calming breath I am releasing reaches my lungs' nadir
I say it after a slow inhale:
'I don't talk about them'
Her slight shake of, no, is the dismissal of another idea she doesn't like, but she is not quick enough to undercut my main argument:
'Because those questions are just a sneaky way of sniffing around for a weakness.'
The desire to talk with my hands is a twitch against the restraints around my wrists and ankles
You don't need to apologize to her.
I look up ready to resume the fight
The desire for hostility fades as I see her accept my belief with the faintest of nods; but her sudden infusion of empathy says this agreement is really just a changing of tactics:
'You were with them and you survived...'
The overexposure of a flash-blub lingers; expelled droplets of blood hang in the air as the flash subsides; Her hand is already cocked back for a second strike
But this time I am not looking at the knife
Or the droplets of blood suspended in air
This time
What I see is her mouth is open in an expression of sensual pleasure...
The wheelchair rocks as core muscles jerk a spasm as the memory unlocks 
The wheelchair balances for an instant
I shift right to stop it from tipping
The lifted wheel of the chair lands with a jolt
My head down to lower my center of gravity to ensure the chair does not tip over
I exhale relief when it doesn't
Lois voices her concern as nervousness:
'What's wrong?'
When did that happen?
When did that happen?
Not knowing the answer, I move down to order of importance before I lose the memory:
Where did that happen?
Where did that happen?
I look at the floor between my legs
I try to recall the order
Hangar to medical room, mine to medical room, bridge to medical room, then...
Try to attach the puzzle piece to a location only to realize I do not remember the last location
Or the first time I...  
It comes out as a muttering:
'Medical room'
She whispers it
'Are you asking me to get help?'
The memory slips through my fingers as I consider the sad fact that there may never be a full memory as to what happened up there
Especially not under the heavy doses of psychotropics polluting my mind in here
It is, though, more of the memory than I knew existed
The sensation of progress brings renewed anger at how harmful, to me, being here is
Lois standing up as worry engulfs her snaps me back to the present
I reach for her:
'Lois.'
I feel her stop and look back down as I think about my inability to leave:
'Don't'
Speaking erases the tiny joy seeing her gave me
I fall deeper into depression
'Don't you ever...'
She looks alarmed as the pain of being murdered turns into a desire to commit murder:
'Call these assholes for help.'
She leans back forward
Alarm dropping into concern as she explains:
'Did you not ask for medical?'
I say it to buy time to calm thoughts:
'A memory'
Then regret not being able to savor the moment:
Damn it! 
Look up to accuse her of making it worse by distracting me with her reaction
See her concern is real
Look down to bury the hostility she did not earn
Knowing also that she deserves something:
'These people are...'
Assholes, seems like too weak a word... What word did she used?
Right then, I can see my problem:
Lois thinks the two sides are as different as the colors of their uniforms.
So, I let her know, I see people for who they are no matter who they are with:
'Monsters.'
An uncomfortable comparison begins to form in her mind as I look back out from my thoughts 
She goes with what she thinks could mean the difference:
'If you didn't fight everyone...'
My mouth falls open as a moment of clarity arrives:
She is kind
She is also on their side
She may not even know
She may be completely blinded by the belief that a group is as uniform as its uniforms
The idea puts a different light on her
She sees the challenge taking shape behind a hardening of my expression
Makes the mistake of doubling-down on her uninformed empathy as she compounds her error by using the words of man who always wears a plain, but very expensive, dark suit...
A suit that would go unnoticed except for the ever-present lapel-pin of a waving American flag
Her voice is his words:
'Maybe if you would just cooperate?'
Hearing her say it is a very different stab wound:
Maybe?
Did that bitch just, maybe, us?
That she chose a word with no value as her offer can mean only one thing:
She came in here with nothing to offer because they are offering nothing  
Not now
Not from Dr. Chen
Not from that smug federal agent
No one offers anything!
Because no one has anything to offer! 
We stare at each other as the internal diatribe ends
But Lois has made her entreaty with real empathy
Which is something no one else can say
My test is a simple one
I say it slow because I am unprepared for any answer other than:
Nothing 
'What are you offering with your, maybe?
She hits fast as she works my missing sense of hope as if it were a boxer's speed-bag:
'Less violence, Tyler... You...'
She leans forward
Pleading as she does
'Look at you...'
Sits back as she feels herself becoming confrontational:
'You've been brutalized'
Her voice says her convictions were set in stone a long time ago
And so I know her offer will only be a repackaging of what I already know to be worthless
Yet
She keeps going
Because she is a believer:
'Yes, maybe here too, but this facility does have doctors that can...'
My silence has encouraged her to make a grievous error
I want to scream
I want to pull out a gun and shoot her in the face just for being so smart and so stupid at the same time
In my own desire to see the world burn, I see the fire of hate illuminate a crack in opportunity's door:
She is projecting herself onto me and so she cannot see me
She may even have a professional who she thinks is helping her
Because she feels better after talking
And so
There is only one solution to her problem 
We must trade places
Just for a day
Then she could see the world as it is
My mind keeps drifting to happy thoughts...
Thoughts about how her mind would scream with frustration as the doctors call her in to talk about the progress she is not making, because their conversations, as well as everything else about this facility, is designed to inhibit progress, because, right here, is where they want to keep you.
I back out of my conscious day-dream
She is nodding as she mistakes my silence as listening to what she was saying
Her expression of empathy is the opening
The plan it offers is simple:
You have to hit her as soft as you can.
I start nodding
She keeps nodding as she encourages the idea that I should agree with her
Then stops as she sees disagreement form in my eyes
I give her the answer I gave the polygraph operator as he attached his machine to me:
'I do not consent.'
He never listened...
No one will she listen unless you get your head back in the game!
I try to recount the names of the medications Dr. Chen has told me about
The chemically induced disinterest for life spreads to my voice
A tug on my restraints shows Lois what I do not consent to
The rest of it is muttered as I look around the empty room:
'I don't consent to any of this.'
Worry spreads across her face
Her mouth droops into a frown as she says it like it was bad news for me, but good news for everyone else:
'You were declared a ward of the state'
Her face steels itself against an outburst of violence she sees lurking behind my eyes as she finishes reading the verdict:
'A danger to yourself and others.'
The jab from my inner tormentor lands squarely:
Well, aren't you?
She cannot hear the calming effect of self-depreciating humor that is my eternal internal argument:
I mean come-on, we're all friends in here, right?
The smile is for my own ideas as I ask for the condensed version of her lecture:
'Insane?'
Lois does not know what to make of my smile and so delivers her agreement with ease because she thinks it is one I already accept as being obvious:
'Yes.'
Seeing it on her face is like having a brighter light turn on in the room
Eyes roam the soft curls of her highlighted hair
I follow a loosely curled ringlet down to her shoulder
Then up the soft skin of her neck
Leaping over her jawline in a single bound to reach her eyes
I hear Faora say it:
'This is the face of my enemy.'
Blink to place the quote into its unknown context
Open my eyes to see Lois patiently waiting for my thought to address reality
Hear Faora again:
'Then I will make him less dangerous'
Eyes find what they need after leaving her return stare...
On Lois' cheek a faint brushing of make-up brings reality into sharp focus
The voice seeing it is not one I like to let speak:
She is part of the system
And you want to kill the system, don't cha?
I nod as I look back into Lois' eyes
Well then, if you can't kill her, then kill the part of her that believes in it! 
Clarity is born.
'Well, isn't that a convenient diagnosis?'
I have said it perfectly...
No anger.
No personal offense.
Rational mind simply building an argument.
A cornerstone that will hold the next building block in place:
'You know accusing dissenters of insanity is an old totalitarian trick.'
Her lips purse as her head shakes in a desire to deny what cannot be denied by anyone who knows history
With rationality established
I begin to delegitimize her sense of self-worth:
'So maybe you're just here to write propaganda for these Nazis'
Red flushes up her neck as her eyes flash combatively as the allegation lands a bullseye.
Her umbrage is real:
'Nazis?'
Thinking she has led with a strong left, she tries her righteousness
'Zod and his band of war criminals were about to destroy the entire planet just so they could make themselves a new home.'
Anger does not have the same effect on her beauty.
She does not know what to make of my smiling consideration of her
Uncertainty wavers her vindictive spirit but not the course of her diatribe:
'So maybe you should see that you are the one who has taken up with Nazis.'
With her throwing haymakers, I pull her in to let her own momentum become the force with which I will toss her into the mud:
'Well, Cupcake'
Her eyes flash hostility at my chauvinism as I land a low blow on the idea that she may not even have good intentions:
'Sounds like you had your story written before you even came in here.'
The blow feels like one that will cause her to get up and leave
She tries to play it cool by looking down at the point of her tapping mechanical pencil as I let her stew in the idea that should be clear to both of us:
She needs me, more than I need her. 
Small black dots start to collect as she collects her thoughts
She looks up as she chooses to hit me with the soft voice of familiarity
Familiarity spoken in the same soothing concern of a friend who is trying to get you to see the girl you have your heart set on, is not the right girl for you:
'Tyler...'
The smoothness of her voice is a move I tried, but failed, to deliver as effectively as she just did
I feel the twitch of appreciation for how hard her soft approach lands
Her smile says she noticed it too
Her voice, playing to her strength, becomes almost motherly:
'Somehow...'
She stops tapping her pencil after quelling her self-congratulatory self-awareness
'Somehow you played a pivotal role in preventing the invasion of Earth'
She starts tapping again as she holds her breath before completing her transition:
'So, let's talk about that, okay?'
Zod's eyes are as cold as the steel of the knife he is offering me...
I am shaking my head, no, at the idea he will ever offer that test again...
Stay rational
Stay focused
And if she wants to keep playing...
Wait for her to stick her chin out
So, you can break her fucking neck...
'My story isn't news anyone can use.'
She doubles down on friendly personalization as being the best tactic:
'Tyler, the world is still in danger of being attacked, please talk to me.'
Please?
Fuck, this girl does know how to fight!
I look down at the table to stop her from seeing how effective that word is
The reflected dull glare is a solid white florescent light directly above the stainless steel
Not the blinking flash of an impending erasure of memory
But a solid light
Unlike my memory
A memory that is in pieces
For no apparent reason
Hell, I don't even know what she knows and she wasn't there!
I look up
See she is nowhere close to meeting me halfway
And so, try to pull her closer so I can hit her harder:
'How do you know, what you know?'
She says it as if she was telling me something obvious, like, the fact that this table is made out of stainless steel, or that the walls of this room are white:
'I have an inside source.'
I look down to hide the thought wanting to jump out:
You were right to call her a Nazi!
My head droops lower in alarm that I have said anything to her
Anger begins to rise as I think how she is not just part of the rigged-societal system, but part of this fucking system!
Be cool!
Be cool!
I take a breath
Be cool!
Make sure you heard it right!
The accusation slides out in the same way people say, gesundheit, after you sneeze:
'So, your friends with them?'
Her hand comes out to touch the table near me
She waits until I look at it before she withdraws it
'Tyler, please look at me.'
The gesture swats the brewing rage back down my throat
Suspicion simmers an accusation
She's playing you, by playing nice; don't be fooled by it!
I look up to confirm my suspicions and see only an expression of heartfelt concern
'We need to know what happened, and why it happened; so, we can understand their intentions'
But the admission has already formed a hard knot in my gut
A knot that is on its way into metastasizing into truly malignant thoughts
I am shaking my head, no, as she pleads for my sanity:
'Please.'
Hearing it a second time tells me the first time was no accident
She knows it is a word that hurts to hear
Or
She is truly begging because she is worried
And so, I am forced to say it without conviction as I begin trying to give her my cancer:
'I ain't gonna help you'
Even said without malice, it deflates her
And hearing the conviction said out loud emboldens conviction to keep moving towards that simple goal
I look at her delicate chin and think about breaking her jaw
'You come in here, insult Her without even knowing how I am connected to her'
Her head snaps back as she feels the thought cocking back so it can be thrown harder
I look into her eyes as I begin raising my voice 
'Tell me with a straight face that I am the bad-guy'
That I have a right to be angry allows the anger to become real
I jerk against the restraints as a way of adding force to my voice
Then fire the added frustration of not being able to move because I am strapped down to a wheelchair:
'And now you say you got a fucking friend in here?'
The last one knocks her back
I smile as I see the hostility land right where I want it to
On our potential friendship 
So, with her on the ropes, I go for the knockout punch with a smile:
'Well fuck you...'
Her expression drops to disappointment as I give it to her as if we were standing in a parking lot where a real fight could begin
'And fuck your friend, too, Lois!'
She is holding up her hands to stop me
Her voice is a plea for calm disguised as a frustrated rebuke:
'He's not one of these people, Tyler!'
Our eyes lock.
She softens her voice has I stay silent:
'He's not with them in anyway, okay?'
Why is that I now feel like the asshole?
I look down to try to see where I went wrong:
I don't feel wrong!
And she did just say she had an inside source...
Didn't she?
I nod a silent, yes, to my own question
Well then, who is her fucking friend?
I look away with the idea Lois will lie to me if I ask directly.
She tries to restore the balance between us:
'Okay?'
But she has nodded her head too vigorously
Her curls have bounced flippantly
The joke that could be Lois Lane's alter-ego tells itself automatically
I smile as I think about how the joke should be told
Start nodding yes as I feel it form
She tries to go her own direction:
'Now, I...'
But the joke is already ready
I start with my own head toss
An act undone by my baldness
So, I add a smack of imagined chewing gum
She sees it coming, but she cannot believe that it is about to happen
Even my smile is playful as I fire my best Valley Girl imitation at the only Valley Girl I have seen in a long, long time:
'Well, I sure would like to know the name of my secret admirer.'
She huffs a quick laugh at the sound of it being distorted by my southern accent
Shakes her head in an astonished, oh-no-you-didn't, as she gives me the bad news:
'Wow, you really just tried...'
She can't hold in her smile:
'And, like-totally, failed to go there.'
Her mockery of my attempted mockery is a backhand I was not expecting
Bitterness transforms into warmth
I end up laughing at myself as she tries not to laugh at me
My reaction causes her to consider a new tactic
The approach of personal challenge.
She rubs her hand through her hair
She is still looking into her thoughts as she says it with the perfect head-snap:
'Well, first of all...'
She can see my smile growing in anticipation
It is an idea that kills her mood.
Playfulness leaves her like air from a popped balloon
Her pause isn't dramatic
It is a sudden abandonment of the idea she will play along
The blow is crushing.
My smile falls hard as unfulfilled anticipation adds weight to disappointment
The passing shadow of sadness over her face tells me, her problem, is somehow, not only a problem we share, but one she does not see as being her problem.
She looks back from her thoughts with a seriousness broadcasting her renewed intention to keep me at a professional distance.
As I hear her abrupt let-down, I know what, her problem is before she can finish hinting at it:
'He is definitely not an admirer of yours.'
Adrenaline fires as I hear, the sound of attachment, in her voice
I got you!
Her cautious smile drops as she catches sight of my intensity
An intensity filling my voice
A smile that is more of a gloat for the idea that she is nowhere near as clever as she thinks she is
A smile that says I was damn right to say Her side is the wrong side. 
Vindictiveness overloads my voice:
'I know who it is, Lois.'
That she has somehow been caught in a trap of a deranged person is an alarm-bell ringing behind her, obvious relief, that I am in restraints
Knowing she is safe from me, she tries to dismiss it too quickly:
'You don't know him.'
Yes, I do!
And now, I am going to pay that asshole back by letting his girl know what a shit-bird he really is!
I gloat raw victory as begin revealing her source
Valley girl is dead and gone, as I go full redneck on Lois Lane:
'Oh, and he's a low-down dirty-dog for sending you in here to do his work for him'
Alarm turns into curiosity as she sees the connection, without understanding how I am seeing it the way I am 
She plays it cool by trying to get me to show my cards first:
'And just who do you think my friend is?'
His name wasn't Lane... What was it?
I look up from my failure to remember his name without feeling like it is possible for me to be on the wrong track
I decide to go with a detailed description:
'That big bully.'
Her face wrinkles at the unpleasant idea our conversation is going to be reduced to ad hominem attacks.   
I already know more detail is needed:
'You know...'
She shakes her head no as a way of saying, you first
I go all in on my bet
Choosing speed to add surety to my conviction
Saying it as if she had just stepped in a bear-trap:
'That Gothamite of a Colonel, who's not above sucker punching you while you're talking to Captain America, is who, Lois!'
She drops her pencil as she throws her hands up in the air as she exclaims it:
'Are you serious?'
Her hand rubs through her hair again
I start to realize I may be totally wrong...
Dude, did you just make a jackass out of yourself?
She looks back in astonishment at my accusation and realizes her questions needed an earlier starting point
She tries to start at the beginning of the story:
'Please tell me how you were able to survive in even a town as small as Smallville being as clueless as you are?'  
Despite the chagrin spreading across my face, I reach for the idea that it is her, who is bluffing, simply because she hasn't said, no
'Don't try to skip out on giving me a, yes or a no'
Her eye roll is perfectly timed to knock the remaining anger from my mind
Her mouth hangs open as she chooses how to address the issue so she can keep moving in the direction she wants the questions to go
And in doing so, she decides to show me how it is done
Flipping her hair, a loud smacking of simulated gum:
'Are you talking about Kernel...'
The piece de resistance is her dragged out pronunciation of his last name as she snaps her head vigorously:
'Haaardy?'
It is the first time I have laughed in a long time
I nod approval as the burst of laughter fades
Now you owe her a big one!
I tell myself it was worth it:
'Yeah, that's his name all right.'
She lets out a huff of disappointment as she brings us both back to reality:
'No, Tyler, it is not Colonel Hardy, or anyone else that's ever worked here or for the government.'
She holds out her hand as her thought stops
She waves her hand in a sweeping motion across the table as she dismisses whatever second-guess I may have:
'I promise.'
The stupidity of being so wrong causes me to reach for what I am right about
'Well good for you, Lois, cuz that guy's a jerk.'
She shakes her head as reconsiders her approach
In the gap of her thoughts, I try to explain the origin of my mistake:
'But you sure did run in here waving the red, white and...'
The word 'blue' gets stuck in my mouth
My mouth drops open as her smile widens as she tries not to laugh at how slow I am at putting two and two, together
The only problem is
The idea of him is an even bitterer memory
I say it without a single hint of humor in my voice:
'Like you were his cheerleader.'
Her smile is as much for my stupidity as it is a reflection of the warmth she feels for the guy she is thinking about
She says it like she wants me to know how wrong I am about everything:
'Captain America is a comic book hero, Tyler'
I feel her warmth for him pull on a familiar cord in my chest
The feeling means she should share my fear
My fear tries to speak to her:
No Lois!
The warmth spilling into her expression says it is too late to stop her from saying his name out loud:
'Superman is a real hero.'
My look of concern slows, but does not stop the cadence of her voice:
'He's Earth greatest hope...'
My attempt to cut her off is too hushed and too late:
'Lois'
She doesn't hear it for the warning it is, and so keeps going:
'He's like us, not them'
I say it with hushed rudeness:
'Shut-up, Lois.'
It knocks away the warmth that was trying to build up between us
It hurts me to see it crushed
I look down to the table and mutter it:
'Jesus girl, you can't take a hint, can you?'
She tries to restore the rapport she had just established with the soft voice of heartfelt empathy
'What's wrong?'
I pull on my restraints as I look down
Trying to hide my voice in the table:
'I think this room is bugged.'
Her voice is too nonchalant:
'The agreement was supposed to entitle us to an attorney client privilege, but you're probably right.'
I don't look up to warn her:
'Well then maybe you should keep some of your business to yourself'
Her voice is warm, almost affectionate:
'Tyler, look at me.'
I cannot hide my panic as I look up
Seeing her concern is for me and not herself, alarms me more
Her voice is motherly
Not my mom's perpetually dismayed motherly, but a loving version of motherly
It hurts deep to finally hear it:
'Why are you acting like this?' 
I can feel tears of frustration start to well up:
'Lois you should leave'
She shakes her head no
'Tyler calm down.'
Calm is the last thing that is needed
I beg:
'Please, Lois, like, right now.'
She's worried:
'Tyler, talk to me.'
It comes out of me in an urgent rush:
'Lois do know why I'm here?'
She holds her hands out to calm me:
'To keep you from being hurt or hurting yourself.'
I lash out to break into her free from her patronizing thoughts:
'Fuck you, Lois!'
It shocks her
With her thoughts knocked loose I push mine in:
'I'm a fuckin guinea pig that's also bait in the trap they've set just in case she comes looking!'
She takes a long inhale to shape her thought
Her voice an attempt to discredit my conspiracy theory:
'So, you think, they may attack while I am here?'
She shakes her head like I am child that is cranky from staying up too late as she continues:
'That's not...'
I interrupt her condescension:
'No Lois, they're not dumb.'
Her frown says she has a worse adjective in mind for what Faora is
I let her know that I too know she deserves worse adjectives:
'Nor does she fucking care enough to stick her neck out for me!'
That I have said it bluntly knocks a reconsidering blink out of her
I use the pause to trample her thoughts:
'But these assholes are still willing to use me just because they got nothing else to use.'
She closes her eyes as she accepts it
But she does not accept it with the alarm I need to her to show
I rattle the cage that obviously needs more rattling:
'How many weaknesses does Kal-El have?'
Her eyes flash open at sound of his name
Her mouth forms an 'O' before she says it:
'Oh'
She smiles:
'You're actually trying to be sweet.'
I slump over as Lois' mockery cuts my spirit
Don't give up!
'Lois, please tell me that you don't trust these people.'
Her voice says she does:
'It's okay, Tyler'
I look up to tell her it is not okay as she tells me why it is
'It's not a well-kept secret.'
I interrupt to mutter my conclusion:
'Because you talk so much.' 
Her voice is patronizingly warm as she explains how it happened:
'We had to come together to stop them, Tyler.'
Her head tilts as I mutter my own rambling idea about how badly she is ruining it:
'Probably got a Facebook account'
She lets out an exasperated sigh before she says it:
'And my name was news, right before the invasion'
She shakes her head against the blank stare I have for her being on the front page:
'Do you not watch Metropolis news?'
She keeps going as I shake my head as I force myself to accept the fact, Lois is an adult, and if she cannot take care of herself, then that is her problem
Only her next question is heard:
'Listen to the radio?'
Trying to dismiss my concern for her is how I arrive at what was just one of my many concerns right before the invasion
The concern of everyone who owns a very used truck and drives an even older tractor 
I say it as a way of dismissing her:
'I pay attention to what the motor's doing to make sure it don't quit.'
Her hand scratches the back of her head as she tries to think of how her next question should build on the rapport we seem so close to establishing
She smiles the start of a playful taunt:
'Well, your truck was last seen under a train inside Sears.'
It is something that I no longer care about
I dismiss easily the sight that shocked me severely when it happened as a way of saying:  I don't like your boyfriend.
'Now there was something you don't see every day.'
She nods acceptance of my lack of concern, before pressing on:
'What else did you see of the battle?'
I let out a breath as I stare at her, trying hard to see her again, not as a lawyer, but as a reporter
Maybe even one that has seen combat close enough to film it
That I am starting to see her has a friend allows me to tell her a truth she may have contempt for:
'When the fight started, I tried to get to my truck, but ended up hiding behind a dumpster in the alley between sixth and seventh when the helicopters started firing...'
The shakes her head in disbelief at how freely I am admitting my cowardice
'Then ran down to down to eighth and hid at the end of the block until the shooting died down'
Her laugh is made nervous by her desire to not be caught laughing at me, but I can read it on her face:
Coward
I dismiss the idea to ask a question that is really a way of assigning blame to why my truck was destroyed:
'Lois, since when are American planes allowed to attack a town full of people?'
The change in direction is an unexpected shock
Her eyes narrow as if the answer was obvious:
'It was an alien invasion, Tyler'
Anger at what appears to be an intentional misdirection on my part rises within her:
'What else were they to do?'
She glares as she fires a kill-shot against the idea, her-side is to blame:
'Hide?'
I want to change the subject
Run away from her sneer, like I ran away from those bullets
But in my shame, I see who also doesn't have shame
Nor is she one of the ones who died
I say it as I think of the plane crashing down on fire:
'Did those planes make a difference?'
We lock eyes for only an instant
She gloats a twist of the knife that is her reflex striking back at me for the casualties other humans suffered:
'Ask your girl.'
The solitary figure has not fled the conflagration engulfing it; standing stiffly, the figure holds a hand high as if to block the Sun's glare then disappears in an angry burst of fire holding tight to its black heart...
My voice is breathless:
'I thought I watched her die'
I look down as her sense of vengeance crashes
Get control of yourself!
I look back up with rage for the idea that any amount of strangers should be worth more, to me, than Faora is.
Only to see Lois can actually understand my pain
Rage slips away with a sigh:
'It hurt me and I didn't even know her.'
She takes her own turn looking down as she hears my compassion was automatic
Watched her hand doodle a circle on the empty page of her notepad
She knows this conversation is also going in a circle
She slashes a line through the circle as she working her way back to the battle as obliquely as I approached it:
'Yes, your phone was found in a crater on Main Street.'
There is no need to rethink of pulling the bandana out of the pocket to accept the fate of my phone
My response is an attempt to show my mind is back in the game:
'So, you know my inactive data plan preempted your 15-minutes of fame?'
Her smile is contagious when it shouldn't be:
'Then the scar on your back, really is from carrying her to safety?'
I nod easily
She presses:
'And because you helped her, they just took you in?'
I shrug my shoulders as I give her the only answer I have been able to form as to why I am still alive:
'I think it was part of some warrior code they got'
She shakes her head to show she is not following my train of thought
I dig deeper for a shared cultural reference:
'You ever watch a Kurosawa movie?'
Her nose wrinkles as she says it:
'Who?'
I say it like she should know:
'He's only the director of the best Samurai movies ever made.'
She nods, yes, as she plays me:
'No, I'm a girl.'
That she was able to pull off the contradiction is its own joke
I smile warmly with her accomplishment as I explain:
'Well, they're like the Samurai in those old movies'
I interrupt her forming, what
'You just watch a couple and you'll get it.'
She taps the point of her pencil inside the center of her drawn circle
The lead breaks off as she gets it
She says it like an insult:
'Oh... Okay... Obedience.'
My answer is a simple fact spoken even more simply:
'Well there ain't no use in fighting them.'
She leans in her chair as the ah-ha moment settles in
She points her pencil at my right arm:
'So then why did she beat you so badly?'
The arm jerks uselessly I try to lift my right arm to show it
'Zod was the one who kicked me.'     
She sits upright at the unexpected news
Her voice is one of astonishment:
'He did that and still let you live?'
I can feel her questions closing in on where I do not want them to go
I dodge the issue:
'Like the Samurai, it's a guy thing.'
She clicks fresh lead out of the tip of her mechanical pencil as she taunts me with a playground taunt:
'Ty-Ler'
She tries to duck under my downward gaze as she keeps going:
'You're trying to hide something good from me, aren't you?'
Her playfulness is too much
I give in to the need for friendship:
'Hey...'
She smiles as she sees a grin I cannot hide as I steal a chance to brag:
'You don't just go to a strange town, walk into their bar and try walking-out with the prettiest girl in the place without having to fight someone in the parking lot.'
My braggadocio summation disappoints her:
'Tyler, look at you...'
It is her who is looking
Looking at me to find how she will make her point that playing with her is not going to be without consequences:
'Even with those scars...'
She wrinkles her nose as she shakes her head, no, in dismissive disagreement
Then smiles as she lets me know, I should never try to pull-off the Mr.Clean look ever again:
'And that lumpy dome of yours'
Her twinkling eyes are for the brutal, but playfully delivered, jab she has just landed
And mine beam as well for the simple fact she feels comfortable enough to have taken a cheap-shot
But even in the middle of our game of high-school torment, she feels the difference between us, and finishes on a down note:
'You're no fighter.'
It only hits her after she reaches her conclusion
Her mouth drops open then moves as she mouths it:
'Hold up...'
She taps her pencil hard enough to make dash marks on her note pad:
'Tyler, are you...'
She stops, looks away, then rubs her hand over her head as she considers the question
Her head tilts as she reconsiders and idea she has already discounted:
'Are you part of an underground anarchist group?'
Not this again.
My response is automatic:
'No.'
She eases the pencil down and opens up the little moleskin notebook that was tucked into the pocket of her portfolio
She flips through some pages then stares at the page
The question hangs in her open mouth as she rereads her notes:
'There are multiple warrants for Tyler Durden in the National Crime Information Center database relating to the bombings of the credit reporting bureaus' data centers, some seven years ago.'
In the hall a large fan roars its noise over the awkward tension filling the waiting room to the battalion commander's office; two men in identical suits look at me with disappointment as I enter with an equally awkward hand waving "Hi" 
'Seriously Lois, are you for real?'
She nods with it:
'Oh yes, it's your name, even if all of the possible descriptions are different.'
I am already doing my own nodding:
'I know, they came to see me about that when I was in the army, but even they laughed.'
She smiles agreement, but does not give up as she looks back to the open notebook to continue her accusation:
'And the malware attack that locked up NSA's data center in Nevada three years ago?'
One of the suits is going through the stack of books; another is making the stairs creak as he walks down from the old farm house's empty second floor; the third is letting the screen door to the back porch slam closed behind him as he reenters; the pixie haircut blonde is standing over me as I sit on the sofa with my hands cuffed behind my back; her voice is demanding:  
'Where is it?' 
My answer is still the same:
'I haven't owned a computer since my year in community college.'
Lois bites on her lower lip as she eyes me, trying to see it inside of me
She does not want to give up:
'And this group that uses your name as the alias of every member?'
I shrug my shoulders:
'Who the hell knows what people think anymore?'
My non-answer causes her to lean forward in the renewed interest of a reporter's instinct:
'So, you are aware of this crime syndicate?'
'Lois'
The disdain in my voice warns
'Look at me.'
But the warning is not needed as I put my cards on the table as I call her bluff:
'Who do you really think I am?'
She takes in a deep breath
Her nod quickens as she expels her own verdict:
'A nobody.'
I smile as I say it:
'Oww-ch.'
Her own smile is warm as she looks away
Then troubled as she looks back:
'But that's just it, isn't it?'
I can see her calculate it
'Tyler, you must see how the circumstances surrounding you were suspicious even before you took up with General Zod.'
I smile as I throw her a curveball:
'Does this...'
I roll my eyes to exaggerate looking around the room:
'Does this look like I have taken up with important people?'
She taps a fingernail hard on the steel table to emphasize her point
'Not just this, Tyler, but before even those things happened, other things happened.'
I shrug my shoulders as I say it:
'Well here comes a load of tin-foil-hat conspiracy'
Her eyes flash an argument's start:
'Conspiracy? You and your sister's birth records were destroyed when the county courthouse burned down in a fire that was ruled as arson while you were living within a few miles of the location.'
I try to stop her before she gets rolling:
'Lois what can a guy who works on a farm be up to besides working on a farm?'
She lets out a huff of air as she mutters it:
'You'd be surprised, actually.'
She makes a forced effort to hold my stare as she deadpans it:
'Or maybe you wouldn't?'
I interrupt her joke with an additional layer of doubt
'And if I remember right, they suspected that fire was about property deeds'
She looks to the side and nods a reluctant agreement of having found the same news article
With her teetering on microfiche memories, I push harder:
'And even if you can't find my birth certificate in the ashes of all those other records, you can still go all the way back to my elementary school and see where I was.'
She tries to cut me off but I am already finished:
'Oh, I did...'
Flipping back a few pages in her little notebook as she does so:
'Got out of high school with a C is for close-to-failing, grade point average, and then made academic suspension within two semesters at Gainesville Community College'
I smile as I say it:
'Better be careful...'
She gets serious as I finish my faux warning:
'Sounds like you're closing in on a dangerous criminal master-mind'
That I am almost laughing allows her to start her sentence as soon as mine ends:
'Your high school records listed you as being active in football, baseball, and the theatre group every year'
She pauses for dramatic effect
'But the only team photo you made it into was for your junior year of varsity baseball'
My response is easy:
'That's because making into the state finals was a big deal... we never got close those other years'
She looks at me curiously as she tries to match my high school participation with my physical abilities:
'Most of the trophies in the school athletic display were for football.'
I force a smile as I say it:
'Once a benchwarmer always a bench warmer.'
She asks it, already knowing it:
'And theatre?'
'Once a stagehand always a stagehand.'
She flips a page, then another before she looks up:
'Not one of your classmates that I tracked down could remember you even when I showed them your senior photo.'
That her investigative skills have failed completely triggers my smile
It is a smile she doesn't like
She suggests her investigation's failures are mine:
'You didn't have a single friend.'
I say it with a head snap, just like as a high school smartass would say it:
'Not in my grade.'
Her eyes do a double take:
'Who then?'
I grin at the idea of listing them as references on even a fast-food application:
'Well, most of them are probably still working at Ernesto's Pizzeria'
I think about it some more...
'Although a few drifted over to work at the Quick-Mart, to get insurance right before I graduated.'
She pulls her head back in surprise:
'Adults?'
'That's using the word lightly, but...'
It shocks her
'Tyler, why were you hanging around adults?'
I say it with a forced sense of umbrage:
'They were in high school when I was in elementary.'
Adult worry snaps within her:
'How...'
I pick up when her thought just trails off:
'No one skated in my grade, Lois; and so once, when I was out by myself, they just pulled up in that wreck of a van they slummed around in, and said they were going to skate down from the cell towers at the top of county line road.'
She cringes as she asks it:
'You just got into a van with strangers?'
Don't try this at home kids.
'They were stoked about seeing me with my own long-board'
She is shaking her head in disbelief, so I tell her how I knew it was okay:
'And they all had long boards too, so...'
She tries to double back
She asks it with uncertainty as to the meaning:
'Stoked?'
I shrug my shoulders:
'Well, I didn't know what high was at the time.'
'Unbelievable, Tyler... What did your parents think?'
Pop is yelling, Mom is impatiently waiting her turn to confront me about skipping school for days on end...
'Mom and Pop made such a big deal about it, that I learned to not talk about skate-club.'
She huffs a laugh:
'Skate club?'
'Yeah, at the base of country line road, is a garage that closed decades ago, but the old man who lived in the double-wide behind it, didn't care that we hung out there as long we brought him beer occasionally.'
She mouths it more than she says it:
'Not okay'      
I try to reorient her investigative prowess:
'And I bet it's still there, if you go back.'
She shakes her head, no
Reexamines her notepad
Thinks about it
Decides she's heard enough
And jumps onward, like a grasshopper that doesn't care where it lands:
'Speaking of your parents, why did you always sign in as a visitor to a church where your Dad was an anointed deacon and Mom was a full-time secretary as well as a Sunday school teacher?'
The answer is simple:
'Like football, Lois, quitting wasn't never an option.'     
She scratches her chin as she thinks about it:
'No one remembers you'
She seems to be weighting how to say it politely
She gives up and goes with blunt:
'But they all remembered your sister'
It builds as the corners of my mouth are pulled down as she starts her list
'Varsity cheerleader, National Honor Society'
I say it meekly:
'Stop'
She talks over me to say what she finds most impressive:
'Class Valedictorian'
I look down as I say it:
'Please stop'
Lois keeps going:
'Won the Junior Miss Rome pageant, as well as receiving a full scholarship from MIT'
I say it with urgency:
'Lois, please.'
'And every one I spoke with remembered her, like she was their sister.'
She sees it in me as we make eye contact
The seriousness is perfectly timed:
'No one knew my sister.'
Her eyes flash as she hears the return of worry in my voice:
'In the end, not even her parents.'
She tries her own bluff:
'I tried to catch up with your sister in San Diego'
I know automatically how it went, but I taunt her with a leading question:
'Is that so?' 
She grits her teeth as looks to the side as she says it:
'Her address of record was like anti-fa frat house'
I laugh to her dismay as she expounds:
'And when I went to the restaurant where she was supposed to be working, they told me she was working her warehouse job...'
She does not like the growing smile on my face  
'And when I got there, her coworkers said I could find her at the bowling alley in Hillcrest, but when I got there...
She looks worried that I already know the answer
'They told me she called in sick that night.'
'Yeah...'
She looks at me with anticipation of a real answer:
'She liked to get around'
Her face recoils at the idea I am calling my sister a slut
That my sister isn't here to hear it, is the only reason I correct the idea:
'No, not like that, she just likes people, so goes and hangs-out wherever she's invited.'
She looks down at her notepad and draws a triangle
Lois cannot decide if it is another dead end, or has arrived at a new point
As she stares at the sharp point, I give her a push:
'Why don't you just let that go?'   
She taps the corner of the triangle with her mechanical pencil:
'What did you...'
Deep breath drops out of her as she tries to force it into focus
Her instinct is to retrace her steps so she may find her misstep
Pauses
Then lets an empty voice recite the steps of her walking the idea forward
'She was accepted into MIT then ran off and joined the Air Force the day she turned eighteen to become an aircraft mechanic'
My voice is low to match hers as I try to quietly knock her off course:
'Whatever you find out about her, Lois, that's her business and no one else's'
Her look is one of concern as I continue:
'In fact, I don't even like hearing you talking about her; especially not in here; so don't you dare print nothing about her.'
Her pencil drops as I make my request a soft threat:
'Nothing Lois'
Both hands rub through her hair
She is speaking to her own empty notepad:
'She runs away as soon as she is legally an adult and you self-destruct the moment your parents die in a car wreck'
Her hair cascades closely down to hide her face as she stops to think
She says it breathlessly as she sees the triangle's other point: 
'Your parents...'
She looks up:
'What did your parents do to you two?'
I can feel myself tense against the restraints
The tension within me is blown towards her as a poison dart:
'Lois'
She is filled with the dread I wanted her to have earlier, but for the wrong reasons
But with her chin out
I go for her neck:
'I don't remember much'
She tries to save me from recounting it:
'You don't have to talk about it'
I talk over her:
'From my time up there'
Her eyes lock into mine to judge my attempt to buy my way out of everyone knowing my sister's business:
'Because they got a machine that can get into your mind.'
Lois is nodding her head, yes, like she knows; and I am about to question it as she preempts me:
'I know.'
I shake my head as I slap the stupidity of her idea out of her mouth:
'Lois, I didn't see you up there.'
Her body heaves with the dryness of the joke
She closes her eyes
Quells her smile
Leans in to quietly and confidently reveal her other inside source:
'They used it to interrogate me'
I lean back and call it like I see it:
'Did you not hear me just call, bullshit on your bullshit claim?'
That the memory is not only real, but deadly serious, kills her humor
She leans closer staring at me to forcefully plead her story:
'Like hypnosis, it makes you feel like you are reliving a memory in front of an old friend, when it's really your enemy who is asking the questions'
I can hear DEX's voice:
'I am in control.'
She hits me with it as I nod:
'Tyler, I escaped and fell back to Earth in a field outside of Smallville right before the before they attacked.'
I freeze
Then say it with alarm:
'That explains it.'
She nods empathetically as she tries to finish my sentence:
'The battle of Smallville'
I do not want to imagine lightning striking my head, but there it is
My teeth grit angrily as I deliver my correction:
'No Lois!  That explains why they're were so pissed at me.'
It catches her off guard
'Lois, they put a Taser in my head and used it'
Her frown becomes a show of horror
'Once they cooked me for so long, I threw up.'
I look down and try to remember if it was two or three and decide it wasn't fully three days
'I went two full days up there without eating because I vomited the one meal they give ya at the start of a work day, and that was after a guy snatched the meal out of my hand as payment for showing me where the toilet was on the first day'
She interrupts my rant with a softly spoken plea:
'Tyler'
I look up
She reaches over and taps the table close to me as she says it:
'Then why are you so loyal to them?'
It jumps out of me:
'I love her.'
Her mouth falls open.
'From the first moment she opened her eyes'
She considers it
Takes a long blink before rephrasing her question:
'More importantly, how did they come to trust you?'
I shake my head, no
'Lois, does this look like they trust me?'
Her response is the beginning of anger born from frustration
'Dammit Tyler, you made it out alive, so you must have done, something, right!'
My response is hushed interruption:
'I won't tell ya, what happened'
She is trying to develop a threat to use against me
I already know the one she is left with
I cut her thoughts short with something better than what I did:
'But when he was done, Zod looked at me and said, I understand Kal-El.'
She jolts upright as she demands it:
'What did you do?'
It frustrates me that she can't see my fingers raised to slow her down because the restraints won't let me raise them
'No, Lois, first you have to see the problem with your question'
She looks confused as why I am whispering
'I think Zod drew the wrong conclusions about who humans are from what I did'
It slaps her quiet
Her mouth falls open as I give it to her straight
'Please just believe me when I say that if your boy fucks-up his side of the handshake, all bets are off'
She leans in and pushes me with earnest:
'Tell me what you did.'
I lean forward to confront her with how Faustian the deals are:
'I also promise you, that even if your boy does everything right, but he hasn't done everything for the right reasons...'
The tension in her is about to explode as I whisper it:
'Then all bets are also off.'
She leans-in as her voice grows frantic:
'Tyler, what did you do?'
My body gives up before my mind does
I slump back
Then hit her as she leans in with her desperation showing:
'Lois, you won't even tell me what day it is.'
Her head falls
The back of her hand comes up to her mouth:
'Eight months.'
I've imagined it
Then I dreamed of it
The certainty of divine justice that is rapidly accumulating interest
In a soft voice I tell Lois what is at stake:
'She's gonna kill everyone.'
Lois shakes her head in disagreement as she disagrees with my certainty:
'They know where you are.'
The sound is drowned out by the noise of electrical doors popping open as tactical offers rush in
I look down to say it low and out of sight of the camera:
'I'm a two-way trap, Lois.'  
Alarm has already crushed her confidence as I look up
She ignores the tactical officers rushing in from both directions to exclaim her question:
'What?'
I look back down as the lead guard shouts:
'Ms. Lane!'
To let the hood be yanked down over my face without it hitting my nose
He finishes reading the eviction notice as the curtain falls: 
'The interview is over.'

Running and jumping into the crater I find something else is waiting for me...

Already awake I see the dream as being what it was
Just a dream within a daydream
Light brightens as the computer monitor flickers in activation
Like it always does
All through the night
Every night
At irregular intervals
Venetian blinds are open enough to only slice the light with diagonal cuts
Hand rubs the hard line on my face
Trying to ignore the light, I swish my bang across my eyebrows with a slight shake of my head
Maybe they will let it grow long enough so it will become a curtain of hair that is long enough to block the light?
You could also ask the guard to close the blind...
There is, though, no point in talking to the guards
They don't talk back
They only issue instructions
Even Dr. Chen has learned to play the silent game
His computer monitor goes dark.
Auto-timeout telling me another 15-minutes has passed
I still don't know what he wants to know
But I do know I have already said too much about General Zod to a girl whose job title is synonymous with gossiper
From my seat on the edge of the bed I look down to the pillow knowing that lying down is a guaranteed way to activate Dr. Chen's monitor
Maybe there is a motion sensor in the room that sends an email to his computer triggering the notification prompt?
I think about how it always feels like I am being watched
Dr. Chen says I am suffering from paranoid delusions  
How long as it been since I've slept?
Hands slide off knees as I hunch over
Feet feel rubbery on the concrete floor
White crew socks tucked into beige shower slippers 
I think of Her as I look at my ugly plastic shoes:
Faora's eyes open in shock as I run my fingers through her hair...
I snort awake as elbows slip unexpectedly off knees
Right foot jolts out to stop me from tumbling off the bed
Leaning back to get the weight off my rubbery foot I look to the pillow and plan a better fall
Where was she sleeping?
I swallow the dryness in my mouth and look up from my seated position on the side the bed
Now I remember...
You are going to go to the bathroom, remember?
Both dreams vanish as I realize it is not Dr. Chen's computer monitor that has woken me up this time
The overhead light has brightened
Slightly
Just enough to see where you are walking
Without being bright enough to expose the details
The air in the Cube recycles with a heavy and sustained whoosh
Are they coming in?
I stare at the pillow
Wipe the drool from my chin with a slow-moving hand
The voice sings the refrain of a 90s rock song:
'I wish I could have met her.'
The pillow is still evenly fluffed.
I say it to myself as I realize it for a second time:
'Just a dream.'
Fingers touching chin push my mouth closed as I think about what is real:
The man standing over you is real
No, he is not, because they never come in alone
Then I dare you to look at him!
I turn my head to look at the apparition that refuses to dissolve
Khakis and a clean, but un-ironed, white oxford shirt under an open white lab coat
I look up the length of the lab coat
Light brown hair, shaggy, like mine, but long enough to hang down over his eyes
I am already envious of him
He can hide is eyes with long hair
He peeks out from underneath his hair
Gaunt, blue eyes stare back
Emotionless
Empty
His wide smile could be a clown's make-up...
The thought tumbles me onto the floor as the jolt of reality tried to get me to stand without planning it first
Even lying on the floor my legs refuse to straighten out
I push up with my right hand and look back to see if he has disappeared
He bends at the waist to let his joy loose on his expression
His smile grows bigger with his obvious advantage
If you were an ant, he would burn you with a magnifying glass.
I can feel my mouth start to move but it is not me that speaks:
'You are going to help me.'
He looks at me from the inversed V formed by his center part
His expression is eerily unconcerned with the poor match of his dangling photo ID
My pondering silence causes him some concern
His voice is condescending:
'Hello, is anyone home?' 
A dreadful thought arrives:
Maybe he's just the new guy?
A new guy with a new routine but the same unreachable goal of learning what is of no use...
He tilts his head as I continue think about it
I look away to free my thoughts
The bold red, black and turquoise squares of his shoes pull my eyes down to his feet
Limited edition Shawn Stussy signature Vans
The additional signature on the side is that of a real ballpoint pen 
These sold out more than ten years ago!
His pair appear to have come out of the box for the first time
Today is a special day for him.
I look back up knowing he does not work for the government
His blue eyes, eye mine coldly as I take a second look at the ID badge hanging from his lab coat
I point slowly at an ID badge that is not his, but the facility's chief medical officer: Doctor Chen
I say it as I think of the guy, I have real hate for:
'Of all the people you could be'
That I am coherent allows his smile to return too soon:
'You choose to be him?'
I thought he would be mad
He is the opposite
He tilts, at his waist, from side to side in apparent joy that I have no love for Dr. Chen
The joy in his voice though sounds like a fake voice that has become real after using it for too long
'Oh, don't worry he'll be fine!'
Now I really don't like this guy. 
Legs slide under the bed as I force them to straighten-out
The grunt of effort enters my voice as my voice makes a wish to the uncaring cosmos: 
'That's too bad.'
He swings the clipboard down like he's going to hit me flat on top of my head with it then jerks it back in mid-swing
The look on his face says it was just a joyful reflex
A smile forms on my face as the two divergent paths come together in the same conclusion:
It is as if, Dr. Chen was just the warm-up-act for the real master of ceremony
The idea is as solid as if Moses brought it down to me on a stone tablet:
I have to kill this guy before he kills me.
He takes the smile as being for him:
'Yes, yes, you will help me'
The sensation of being watched by someone else filters down like the cold air from the vent above us
Knees draw back in as I reach for the opaque partition hiding the toilet
His stance straightens as I pull up slowly
Ankles threaten to roll on rubbery feet as knees straighten
I hold on to the partition as I climb up
I am holding it with both hands looking at the toilet
Seeing my life as being in it
A life that even I want to flush down
I say it to buy time:
'I don't remember'   
A wave of dizziness passes over me as I look back to the bed as I think of what direction I should fall
Thoughts focus on fighting the urge to let myself fall
He waits until he is sure that I will not fall again before he tells me he doesn't care about what I choose to remember or forget:
'You are going to be released'
I hear it, but do not believe it.
'Then once released you will be able to make introductions.'
The air moves dryly down my throat as I think of it:
Introductions?  
I wipe my mouth closed as I begin to realize how big my problem is:
This guy is a very dangerous version of insane.
I take a second look at my left hand:
Steady
The shakes strike my left foot
I focus on wiggling the sensation back into my toes
He adds an addendum to see if I was paying attention:
'I must say though you look rather worrisome.'
I look down as I consider the idea that I could be expected to even know where to start looking for them
In doing so I find a bigger problem:
How did this nut even get in here?
His shoes are the answer:
He doesn't work for the government; the government works for him...
I think of how even my banker knew better than to walk around town in expensive shoes
Thinking of my banker, after thinking about Dr. Chen, is too much to bear
The joke is an old one
But it is all I got
I turn to the lunatic and fire a voice as steady as my hand:
'Are you parked out front?'
His forming thought wavers as he tries to consider my question at face-value, but the idea forms too random of an angle for his adult mind to calculate the point of impact
He appears to be weighing the possibility it is outright stupidity and not the psychotropic medication that is going to make this conversation difficult
He is trying to find a way to say, no, politely as the joke's backhand lands:
'Because I'm not sure I want to be seen walking out with you.'
The drugs have allowed me to deliver it without a smile
The insult triggers his smile to flash to new heights
He presses himself up onto his toes with real excitement before settling back down onto the balls of his feet:
'So, my name precedes me?'
I should hear it as him offering me an olive-branch of peace
But I am thinking of how this hell-hole ever came into existence, as I lead with a Left while he is looking right at me:
'Well, I did ask to subscribe to the Metropolis Business Chronicle'
His eyes flare at the start of a dismissive insult as my other source of anger fires a Right hook:
'But your alter ego said no.'
It only makes him smile wider.
His tone is a gleeful one as he lies:
'I like this, I like this!'
This time he reaches out to strike my shoulder with the blade formed by the clipboard's edge
Numb, I can only watch as he does it
The nerves at the tip of my pinky vibrates as his strike lands.
I look at my hand as I think of his assault as I am standing next to a toilet
The connection is instant:
Manslaughter  
It was a charge I knew was coming my way as I waited, bail-less, in County Jail
Not because I finally killed someone driving drunk
But because for the 48 hours of that weekend there was another guy in that dirty-tan and green eight-man cell who stared at me like he knew me
And he knew he hated me in a way that wasn't just hate
Every time I reached for a food tray or turned my back to take a piss, he was watching, waiting for a chance to make his move
For 48-hours I waited for it, knowing that if I wasn't trying to kill him as I fought then I was just letting the whole jail know how easy it was to get me to rollover
I was only facing a month on a work farm then
I have an indefinite problem now
Time is not on my side
I push harder on his nerves to force the issue while he is in here, alone:
'So, you got a brochure or something?'
The smile on his face falls as he sees it as the moment to get serious:
'Do you not remember the interview?' 
I look at the TV behind him and state what should be obvious to him since he is wearing Dr Chen's name badge:
'It don't get the news'
I cannot muster more of a reaction than a blink as he brings the clipboard down flat on top of my head as he says it
'Wake-up, sleepyhead, they are down here with us'
It lands with a dull thump that punctuates his sentence:
'Blending in like Superman does.'
I think about trying to look at Her
Like I look now
The idea is one I throw on him as if it were mud:
'Are you just here to tell me I have a visitor?'
He gleeful smile is just a small step from menace as he throws his own backhand:
'Did I not already say, you will be out soon?'
That he is insisting it on being so, causes me to think about it
He pounces on the moment of weakness to make his point
His voice tries to reach for cheery, but lands on office-place bullying: 
'And out there you will remember my name.'
I lift my foot off the ground and press it back down
Soft candle wax is my footing
I try to knock him off his:
'Please tell me your big idea isn't Team Zod sportswear.'
His voice finally drops his cheery routine as he lets his frustration finally show itself:
'Look at me.'
But his own attention is on the face of his watch
His fake smile lifts as the screen on his watch grows bright red
And as I wait for him to tell me what time it is
Lightning strikes my head
Knees buckle to drop me straight down
That the bed-frame is plastic is all that save me from a hard landing as the pain of Charlie horses galloping up on my legs is a stomping of grapes of wrath on top of the fire dancing on the tip of every nerve in my body
The horse keeps running even as he stops shocking me as soon as I hit the floor
On the ground my legs are curled up painfully
I punch the hard knot of muscle in my calf
Then the other Charlie horse in my thigh as I wiggle on the floor
It seems someone misplaced the remote to my skull
Happiness fills his voice as he gloats:
'The device is inert'
A light glowing on the face of his watch says his watch is not a watch
I guess there's an app for this too
'Unless you know the frequency, Kenneth.'
I can't press on one leg long enough to keep the other leg muscles from pulling tight
Finally both legs straighten out with a grunt as I rotate my feet
My left leg refuses to stay straight for long
Another grunt comes with my synopsis as I look up to show him the impotent anger in my expression:
'Buddy, trust me when I say first impressions are lasting ones.' 
Victory has returned his cheeriness to new heights as his:
'Ha!'
Blasts out
He leans down to land the blade of the clipboard on the top of my head
It lands with a sharp crack that reverberates the start of a headache
His gleeful victory pronouncement tells me he thinks he is telling me an insider's joke:
'Well from what I hear, deep impressions are what impresses you most!'
As he pulls back the clipboard, I can see there is no paperwork on it
I ignore the ringing 'ping' bouncing between my temples and fire back:
'Shouldn't you be taking meeting minutes?'
The clipboard goes limp with his hand
His cheerful expression drops as he feels the demotion to secretary that I have just given him
Yeah, fuck you too, Pal!
He squats down with bended knees to inspect me closely
He uses the voice of a parent trying to talk to an unruly child as he delivers his ultimatum:
'Either I meet Zod, or I test a bullet on her'
His smile reveals real cruelty as he finishes the threat:
'Your choice.'
But I know when it comes to pulling the trigger, he just a guy who wants a trophy on his mantle to talk about
He will obviously leave the testing firing to someone else
Knowing a second shock is on its way, I treat his threat as the entreaty he wants it to be:
'So, what you're really sayin is you want something besides money to throw at your problems?' 
He smiles at we arrive at the start of the negotiation
His voice flattens into seriousness:
'I want in on the ground floor.'
The vacancy of his stare says there is no talking him out of it
Trouble is, I love a good I-told-you-so, too much:
'And if you stay there?'
The challenge of it brightens his mood
He stands erect to gloat his victory:
'You should come up to my place!'
He sees his idea as going better than I think it will:
'From there you can be part of the news'
His gloating smile broadens as he continues to look down on me:
'Or just sit back and enjoy a front row seat.'
I think about how I asked the government folks to put me up in an old prairie house and drop off groceries with a drone just so I could see the sunrise and the sunset
And how I thought I would be happy waiting in a place like that for her to return
Now all I can think about is the clip on his brown clipboard and how I hope I can rip off and stab him in the eye with it
The thought of doing so creeps into my voice:
'It's been good talkin' to ya'
He doesn't care where I stand on the issue.
His vacant expression spreads to his uncaring voice:
'Ask for Lex Luthor'
That he has no concern for how badly this may turn out is made obvious by his confidence:
'And be able to say, Zod sent you.' 
His smile becomes a little too knowing:
'See you soon!'
I am still trying to pull myself up with the bed as he cycles out of the last airlock
I expect a hornet's nest to get stirred up as he departs
But nothing happens
Nothing at all.
I close my eyes and question the reality of what just happened
Thinking about it until the two regulars show up with my breakfast tray
A cinnamon roll with milk and a freshly cut apple wedge
The cinnamon roll still looks warm
I think about how the choice is always a stale English muffin, soggy pancakes or a dry biscuit
Never a cinnamon roll
It's delicious
The milk is even cold.

There on wall a few feet above what would normally be my helmet's cone of light, a large rotten pumpkin is protruding from the dirt covering the wall; six symmetrical roots hold it as it stares is cluster of black quarter sized eyes; in the far, right eye, a blue light begins to strobe rapidly...

The bus lurches to a stop.
Yellowed light from the old outdoor light fixtures form repeating chevrons shapes marching the attentive eye down the covered walkway and back into the bus station's waiting area.
His voice tells me this isn't a dream:
'Wake-up Lucy.'
But I am still thinking about where I am
And where I am, is on a bus
But
Unlike real buses, this bus does not smell like upholstery cleaner trying to cover up body odor
This bus smells new.
Knowing who is across the aisle, I look ahead at the broad-shouldered silhouette standing at the end of the bus's walkway as it blocks the idea of a quick exit
Sensing they want to fight, I look back to the late-night TV voice of Ricky Ricardo, and let him that I have not forgotten him:
'Hey man, you got fifty bucks you can spot me?'
He twists to look at me better from within the row of seats beside me
He drops the TV accent:
'I'll give it you Lucy, you stay cool under fire.'
The collapsible stock of his machinegun sticks out from his armpit as he leans in closer
It becomes time to let him know how I really feel
So, I let emotion imply it:
'No, I'm serious, I got like forty to my name, y'all can't just dump me here.'
He's got nothing for me but the ghost of a smile as his late-night TV accent stays gone:
'This is your stop Lucy, not mine.'
I look down on my arm and try to focus on the Goosebumps pulling at the divots as I remember her savoring the source of his animosity for me...
Decide to share the impression his friends made on her:
'You still sore about that spanking she gave you?'
Light catches the hardened knuckles of his tactical gloves as he makes a fist
I think I may get punched before I can show him that I, for one, have no hard feelings
'I tell you what...'
The toothpick tips upwards as he clenches his teeth down on it
If this was a Western he would draw and shoot right now...
'I met a guy who can help you out.'
The toothpick twitches as he hears me get mean
'So maybe next time you won't be left holding your limp dick when you pull that trigger'
The hand arrives at the pistol grip as the flat black shoulder stock of his machine pistol pivots with his turn
Make your point or lose your teeth!
'You just ask for Dr. Chen and make sure to say that you are there to shoot Zod.'
He sees that I am serious, but does not know what to make of what I just told him
He also does not know what to make of the smile on my face:
'Or maybe he said his name was Lex Luthor...'
I look behind me and out the window knowing I have to stand up
The empty bus station platform outside the window lends credence to my confusion:
'Because I really can't remember shit these days.'
My knees wobble, but succeed in pressing me upwards
His hand tightens around the grip of his machinegun as I look back at him
The hostility in his voice says I cannot barter my way out this problem:
'And if she is the one, I want to kill?'
He leans back to look up as I shuffle out of the row of bus seats
His insistency begins to work a nerve that I thought had died; and so, I tell him that, like him, she is part of an army:
'The menu ain't ala carte, Ricky.'   
I take a tentative step forward feeling pleased at how steady I am
The toothpick stands erect with his smile as he hears my voice become ruffled and so his voice lets me know he enjoys reminding me, I will not be forgotten, either:
'Lucy, does that mean you should be next on my list?'
I stop and steady myself by holding onto a headrest as I look at him talking a second to calm my voice:
'Ricky if you remember that name, I think you'll start seeing how we're both friends.'
His toothpick changes sides as I step away.
The outline of his flight jacket makes way for the regulation military pistol strapped to his side, but there is still enough of him to block the aisle as I approach
I decide it is my turn to throw a punch:
'I met your wife'
His right leg shifts forward into a fighting stance as I continue:
'Hawk-eyed bird working for the Planet'
His posture eases up as he hears the joke forming
'Just like you boys in blue.'
Oblique light is trying to enter the bus from where the passengers should leave
He tries to point out how I am wrong:
'You are mistaken...'
His posture has eased but the force in his voice lets me know how dearly he wants to show me the error of my ways:
'I, for one, am truly sorry to see you go.'
I just wait for him to finish his empty threat before throwing my real punch:
'Speaking of sorry'
Now he waits for it wondering what direction my apology will travel 
'I think Ricky's gonna leave the nest sooner than you planned'
His head tilts as my thoughts go in an unexpected direction
'But I'm sure Zod is also gonna be looking for others who can follow orders just as eagerly'
His posture stiffens as the insult rolls out of me
'So, I'll see if my guy can drop off a swag-bag of Team Zod gear to help you make up your mind.'
The pole that is there to help you pull yourself up the stairs hits harder than he thought it would
He guides my fall into the row of seats behind the bus driver
The blow rings a hollow sound inside my head
It feels like the arrival of the bug's poison did inside my skull
His loses his certainty as the bus driver with a stack of chevrons on his sleeve looks back to follow the unexpected action
His voice says he knows he has exceeded his authority even though he does not admit it:
'This isn't over.'
I think about how I hope it is not over as he continues his threat:
'You're not going to just walk away from this.'
How far will I get on forty dollars?
I speak with my eyes closed:
'Yeah, I heard the bad news'
His fist is gone when I open my eyes
'How your wife left you for that other fella'
His posture lightens as he gets the second part of the first joke
Fingers press in around my skull to encourage it to stop vibrating
His thin gold wedding band gleams dully in the low light tells me where to hit him next:
'So hopefully you found someone else to come home to.'
His thumb spins it around before he clenches his fist around it
Maybe he thinks I am threatening his wife?
But all I am really doing is reminding him that no man is an island
I let go of my head
The ringing has subsided
He steps away from blocking the exit as I continue to sit quietly 
The step down from the bus jars the remaining vibration loose 
I keep my back to the door of the bus as it closes
The bus pulls away unhurried.
It feels like early morning
The warmth to the morning air says it is June at the latest
The little waiting room is closed.
A brightly lit self-service kiosk says I should try to buy a ticket to somewhere else
But even if there was room left on the card after a year of late fees, the credit card is no longer in my possession
The secret twenty is still tucked in behind the expired medical insurance card
I am wondering what medical information Jax put on my missing credit card as the eastern sky lets itself get lighter
A semi-truck with another trailer in tandem squeaks its airbrakes as it rattles to a rolling stop then turns without further hesitation onto the two-lane highway and picks up speed as it heads out of town.
I decide to walk across town to be at my bank when it opens
In a few blocks, stripes of neon circling the roof of a chromed diner draws me in as I approach
The place is empty, there's not even a waitress, only a cook
Maybe the Sheriff will stop by and I can turn myself in for being...
What was it that Lois called me?
A galactic terrorist?
There has got to be a monetary reward for that guy.
The cook looks up from a phone that seems to have been his disguise for sleeping on the job
I think about how much this is going to cost me
And if I am even hungry...
'You open?'
He nods
His apron is greasy and his no-longer-white t-shirt is older than mine, but his voice is still filled with pride:
'24-Hours.'
I order from memory as I take a seat:
'Double hash browns scattered, with cheese and onions'
We both agree black coffee is the only way to go
Outside the traffic is picking up, as the sky grows brighter with dawn's approach
The hash browns come out un-scattered and soggy
I always liked them crispy but now find soggy is easier to chew
People come and go
He looks at the plate several times
So does the waitress who shows up an hour later than she was scheduled
She stops filling my coffee as the sun starts to climb
I've still only eaten half as a cheery greeting interrupts wandering thoughts:
'Hey Sandy!'
The voice jolts me into realizing I was just staring at my plate
But Sandy is on the phone taking a call-in order and so the cook is the one who shouts from his place behind the grill:
'Morning Martha... The usual?'
I don't need to see the logo on her shirt to realize I recognize this woman
The question comes out after she answers the cook:
'So, the Sears back open?'
She is about to say a clever version of 'yes' until revulsion washes over her face
Her voice is a matching sneer:
'I know you.'
I think about how I need a to-go box
I stall for time:
'From Sears?'
I think she may rather spit on me than speak to me:
'There too.'
I nod
'Yeah, I know my account's overdue.'
My admission broadens her mean smile
She gloats her response:
'I personally made sure your account got turned over to collections.'
Now the waitress is looking at me like her tip is mortal danger
I try to smart-ass my way away from the confrontation:
'Well, thanks for shorten my walk.'
She squares her shoulders as she lets me know why she will not let me escape:
'A lot of other folks paid dearly on account of your group of crazies.'
The cook arrives with a to-go box and a blunt message:
'Time for you to leave.'
I decide I am not ready to go:
'What's today's date?'
The waitress answers:
'May 23rd'
She needs to be more specific:
'What year?'
The cook answers.
I think about what it means and start to see the hole I am standing in:
'Almost a year, huh?'
She doesn't want to share her piece of me with the diner's staff:
'You mean you don't know?'
It catches me the wrong way
Bitterness is my answer to her:
'There weren't any clocks in the room they had me locked in'
The cook steps back from the sound of it
It only triggers her snarl:
'Serves you right for helping them.' 
I think the waitress is about to dial 911 as I shout my frustration: 
'Helping them?'
Her attitude suggests she is not aware of the fragility her small stature has given her
I feel like a bully for letting my temper flare against her, but cannot stop it:
'I picked one up one as I was running away.'
I know I shouldn't yell at a woman but I still go for the jugular I suspect she has:
'But I suppose you raised your kids to step over a woman to save themselves, didn't ya?' 
Her chin quivers
And it feels good to have landed a solid one on her
The cook has had enough and tries his own bully routine:
'Leave now or I'm calling the cops.'
I decide the leftover hash browns will give me heartburn
He waves my twenty away with some good advice:
'Just go.'
I decide to take one last jab at my accuser
My voice is full of sarcasm:
'Maybe yours will do something good to make up for all the bad I've done.'
I should have just let it go
Her voice jumps out of control with anger:
'Don't you dare compare them to my son!'
She sidesteps to keep me from walking past and I feel like a jerk for towering over her
I look at the cook to make sure he knows I'm still trying to leave
She screams into the side of my turned head:
'He's nothing like that witch!'
I look back astonished
She hates that she said it
Her eyes start to dart back and forth in panic
I now have the real answer to why Zod went to Smallville
The cook hasn't picked up on it; he's just staring me down
Surrender is my only escape from having a conversation with the police
I lower my voice and hope she accepts the fact I no longer have a quarrel with her son:
'Well, I hope things work out better for him.'
Her eyes lock into mine as her mouth falls open in disbelief that her secret is of no use to me
I decide to make my exit a logical proposition:
'Now since I don't have business with Sears anymore, you shouldn't mind if I leave.'  
She covers her open mouth and steps back
Her 'no' has lost its verve
I let the door swing shut behind me
The sun has risen up past the line of trees that try to keep the highway noise from reaching the residential area that starts at the end of the block
I am wondering if the bank teller will want to hit me too as I step out onto the sidewalk
A semi-truck passes close and I let myself drift to the middle of the sidewalk as I walk into town
'Hey you!'
She's back to harangue me from the rolled down window to her car
I stop to look at her expecting to have hot coffee thrown at me
A passing car gives her a long honk for blocking the lane as it passes
I think she may be about to give the other driver her middle-finger as she asks it
'You need a ride?'
I nod a relieved yes as I peer into her big American station wagon
I suspect its brown paint looked dirty even when it was new
The rear passenger door is missing a section of plastic trim
'I think I should start at the credit union.'
I think she may actually save me the entire walk
Conviction returns to her voice:
'Well get in!'
I open the door as she continues
'Before one of these speeders doesn't look up from his phone in time.'
Her foot is lead as she accelerates away
I decide to see if they are all special:
'So, you can fly?'
She almost turns onto the sidewalk as she laughs:
'Heavens no!'
I wonder if maybe we were talking about different people in the diner
'Well, he sure can....'
The marvel of it is in my voice as I say it:
'You should see him go.'
Interest in her voice peaks on what must be her favorite subject:
'Did you meet him?'
She barely slows down as she turns off the old state highway
Only the seat belt keeps me from sliding on the vinyl seat
'Out in the desert where they dropped me off'
I think about it
Decide to lie by telling the truth:
'He didn't say much.'
She brakes forcefully because all she's done is get to a red light quickly
Her voice is dismissive:
'That's Clark for you.'
Her fingers grip the steering wheel as if she's waiting for the checkered flag to drop
I decide to gamble:
'Is he still dating Lois?'
She is still looking at me with disbelief, as the light turns green
I keep going like she should:
'She seems really nice.'
Her mouth drops
The patience of the driver behinds wears thin with a short beep
Angry eyes flash a look back as she drives forward
She masks it with a friendly wave that seems to ask for forgiveness
Her response is also a brusque attempt at a dismissal:
'I think so, too.'
She looking to change lanes but now guy who honked wants to hang out in her blind spot
Her voice grows a hint of melancholy:
'He's got a whole new life in Metropolis now'
She dispatches the sadness with a flash of anger for the driver who won't move out of her car's blind-spot:
'Or so I hear.'
She decides the situation has escalated to the point where the use of her blinker is warranted
I decide to explain how I know her:
'She came to visit me in jail.'
I realize I don't have another name for where they kept me:
'Wanted to know about the others.'
She gives up and slows down to get behind the other car so she can make a righthand turn
'But her visit got cut-short.'
Tires squeak a chirp in protest to how sharp the turn is
Her voice picks up right where the squealing tires left off:
'They're bunch of bad apples and that's all there is to say!'
She must be thinking about the teenager who was in a hurry to get in front of her, but now is in no hurry to keep going.
'You wanna know evil?'
She doesn't take her eyes off the teenager's rear bumper as she tailgates so I just guess that she does:
'They kept me locked in a glass box for almost a year'
She slows down and lets some space develop between the two cars:
'Then they dropped me off at the bus stop this morning like I wasn't even late for dinner.'
Her eyes dart to me then back to the car that seems to be deciding where the next turn is going to be
'So, I have a pretty good idea on who ain't gonna see inside the pearly gates.'
She hits the brakes a lot harder than she needs to when the car decides the 7-Eleven is where it wants to turn
She doesn't look at me until their bumper is gone from her view
'That witch you picked up won't be able to tell you about those gates, either.'
There's ragged crack spreading across her dash
Yellow sound-deadening material underneath the vinyl has dried up and is trying to crumble away
I don't have to think about it to know she's right
My response is a simple admission:
'Nor will she miss it.'
The bank comes into view
'Clark doesn't trust them.'
I think about him shaking hands with Zod as I try to convince her about what I think I know:
'Zod's a straight shooter'
She looks at me, trying to detect the lie she thinks I am telling her as I continue:
'He'll stand behind his handshake as long as your son does.'
She whips into the bank parking lot just as the teller is unlocking the door
Her voice is a sneering whip:
'Is that what you are?'
She has come to a halt in a way that will block everyone else from being able to park in the bank's small parking lot
Her voice is full of contempt:
'You a straight shooter, too?'
I look at the bank then back at her as the teller disappears after sliding the sign to OPEN. 
I know exactly what I have become:
'No, I'm a rabbit'
The ridiculousness of my statement kicks her smile wide open as I explain it:
'I run in circle when the shooting starts so I can get back to my hole without anyone seeing where it is.'
Her smile beams for an instant as she begins to see me as, not just as a human, but as real country-folk, then lets the smile lower to a point where she hangs-on to a dimmer version of it as she issues her apology:
'Thanks for not saying anything.'
I look at her as she gives me the confirmation I didn't need:
'You sure you can't fly?'
Her returning smile is for a fond memory:
'We found him when he was a baby.'
She had stared into the past with her eyes
Her warm smile drops when she looks back to me:
'We hid him in plain sight and no one noticed.'
I laugh with my hand on her door latch
Confess with a huff of air:
'I didn't make more than a few hours before that plan failed.'
I look at the bank and wonder what else is waiting for me inside
'Well thanks for the lift'
She nods as I finish
'And tell your son that I got no hard feelings for him or his girl.' 
I open the door
She waits until I have a leg out to make her peace with me:
'I won't wish you good-luck.'
She's pressing her thumb into a crack that wants to split her steering wheel apart
I wonder if things have gotten worse for her as well:
'Yeah'
She stares at me as I speak:
'I guess you need all you can get, too.'
She pulls her thumb out from the self-inflicted pinch of pressing her thumb between the cracked plastic
She agrees simply:
'Yep.'
I look back with both feet out as I say it:
'Thanks again'
She already driving away before I can close the door.

I am not thinking about aliens when I walk out
Or a woman who can't park her big station wagon
But there she is
Holding down her awful parking job once again
She shouts out of the passenger window
'Looks like bad news!'
She's a little too happy at the idea.
I shrug my shoulders as I try to get my mind around it
'They say I've never been a customer.'
I look at the sign
The same sign I've looked at since I was eighteen and Pop said I needed to start understanding the value of money
Which was his way of saying he was tired of accepting responsibility
A thought that returns my mind back to what was my responsibility:
'But I know I owed these guys more than eight-thousand dollars.'
She looks worried for my sanity
'And that's counting the one eighty-five and change I had in my checking account.'
She hasn't offered me a ride and I hesitate asking for one because I now see I have finished my errands much quicker than I thought possible and so I am not sure where I should go.
She tries to cut through my confusion:
'You got family?'
I think of showing up at my sister's house after hitchhiking to San Diego
'A sister in California who doesn't ever want to see me again'
She doesn't hesitate:
'Get in.'
I look at her to see where this is going as I close the door
'I let them know I needed to be late.'
She starts to pull away as I search for a starting point
'I guess I should file for unemployment and see if they have any jobs posted'
She nods her approval to my plan, then disagrees with it:
'I can take you to the labor office in Winchester, but not until Tuesday.'
I realize knowing that today is May 23rd doesn't mean I know what day it is:
'What day of the week is it?'
Her front tire crosses the double yellow lines as she looks at me before she yanks the steering wheel back in line:
'It's Friday!'
I'm just thankful no one was coming and ignore the easy fact that my forty bucks isn't going to stretch that far
We headed out of town on a rural county road I don't know
My mind tries to fill in the details of my plan as I talk:
'The bus runs through Winchester'
She picks up speed as the road straightens
Her voice is harsh stop-sign signaling me to stop thinking:
'Nonsense.'
She doesn't slow until she up to seventy miles per hour
The farms grow further and further apart as we head out of town
Then it is all brake to make the driveway that is just past a low crest in the rolling farm country road
It's a big old house with a big barn
The new roof on the house and barn are at odd with how old the rest of the farm looks
The new front porch doesn't match the house either
The car jerks to a halt
Her voice is an equally harsh stop:
'I have to go to work'
I look across her lawn and wonder if I am to swing on the old tire swing until she returns
She interrupts my thoughts:
'Feel free to make yourself useful.'
I look again at the grass that has grown high and uneven since spring arrived and notice the trees' twigs that have collected in the lawn since last summer, but I have something else on my mind:
'You got an outhouse?'
She doesn't hesitate:
'You're a boy go out back.'
It knocks a laugh out of me
She keeps going:
'There's cot up in the barn you can use if you feel like more laying around is what you need to do.'
I get out
She doesn't look back as she drives off
I decide to pick up the dying tree's debris, before I run the lawn mower over it.

I don't know which is worse
The pain of the sunburn on the back of my neck or the smell of myself when I sit still 
Of course, she pulls up as I am sitting down.
She got a bucket of chicken with her
'I see you got the lawn mower working!'
Her car door squeaks closed as I answer her:
'Yeah, but it will need some oil if you want it to stay running all summer.'
She holding the bucket like it was a football:
'There's oil in the barn... I'm sure of it.'
I feel like I need to get up and take care of it in order to avoid forgetting about it
Then I think of all the other things that need to be done
Needing her buy-in on my idea of being more useful:
'That barn is full of stuff that needs to be at the landfill.'  
She smiles at a joke that only she gets:
'Your new friends and the Government sure did make a mess of it'
Her eyes narrow as she looks at me
'And your General threw my truck into the house'
She lowers her voice as she sees me wince as I learn the reason for her new roof and porch
'So, I can't get things to the dump like I used to.'
But I know someone else who can take care of it for her
I nod to the road:
'The county picks up trash.'
She raises her eyebrow at the length of her driveway as she issues her challenge:
'They come by on Monday.'
I nod at her challenge:
'Any of that old junk you want to keep?'
She shifts the bucket of chicken in her hands
Her voice is hostile to the fact I am telling her that she is one who is living life wrong:
'My gardening tools aren't trash.'
I think about how my mom would not tolerate any kind of clutter:
'Yeah, but how 'bout that fridge from the set of Leave it to Beaver?'
She waves the idea away with a laugh:
'I hope you like chicken.'
I think about telling her I don't, as she heads for the door
Not surprised to see her open it without unlocking it
She turns back to me holding the screen door open
Her voice is naturally sharp:
'Well?'
Déjà vu
I nod as I start walking but the growing unease is not the growling of an empty stomach
The living room is a museum to a family that is down to one resident
And in the center of it
On a wooden coffee table
There she is, in an 8 by 10 that has lost its luster in the last 15 years
Two men at her sides, one could be my dad if Pop hadn't let himself start getting fat the moment he got married; but it is the other person who catches my attention... For that person is really an explosive trying to hide as a teenaged boy.
I do not even want to know how no one noticed
I just know that I do not want to be in this house without his permission
I decide to use the name on the mailbox:
'Hey Mrs. Kent?'
She peeks out from the kitchen that is just a little further back as if to say I should call her Martha
'It feels wrong for me to be in here.'
Her look says she feels it too, but she has painted herself into a corner by being nice
Her agreement is full of sympathy:
'It's Friday night and your broke, what are you going to do?'
I realize his smile is there to hide the awareness of his unblinking stare
'Well, I'm going to start by making sure I am not mistaken for a burglar.'
She laughs, but her laugh has lost its merriment:
'There's no use hiding anything from Clark'
She approaches and looks down at the photo I am looking at:
'He has always known right where to look.'
As she talks and I look at the photo, what I see is that parents never see who their kids are, because of the, who, they want their kids to be...
'But I can fix you a plate if you want to sleep in the barn.'

The barn creaks without reason.
Field mice scamper in curiosity at the smell of fried chicken bones and gnawed clean cobs of corn   
The light hanging over the front entrance to the barn stays on all night
I sleep like a dead person until her car starts in the morning.
The shoulder of her blue shirt is enough to see that she is off to work 
My feet swing off the cot and I stand easily on feet that feel as solid as the idea that I should finish cleaning out her barn
And then leave without looking back.
The going goes well until one of the rubber wheel peels off from the hand-truck's tires
The bare rim digs into the gravel as I try to pull the refrigerator down her driveway
A pickup truck has stopped to look at the new offering of junk lining the stretch of road
The wheelbarrow with rusted bed and a dry rotted tire has found a new home
He speeds off like he stole it.
I give up trying to wheel the refrigerator and walk it across the grass using its corners and momentum only to lose my footing on the slope of the shallow drainage ditch that runs along the country road
I am barely able to stop it from falling on me as a car pulls up right behind me:
The black, two-door Cadillac is a big one that GM stopped making only a few years ago  
'Put your back into it!'
I know this voice!
My arms want to lose their strength right at the moment I need it most
The shake of weakening arms encourages him to shout louder:
'Heave!'
I scream to do it:
'Uhh!'
Holding my hands on it I look down to let the panting breath of exertion settle
His voice calms as he asks a basic question: 
'Is this still the Kent residence?'
Exhausted and finally sure the fridge will not tip over I drop my hands and turn to face my assailant
Standing in the shallow ditch I don't have to stoop far to see he is the car's only occupant:
'Hey General!'
My enthusiasm infects him:
He smiles as he commands it
'Report!'
I smile at how he's the one who needs to explain himself, but simply give him the condensed version of how I just got out of jail.
He stops me with a question:
'You have not met the Kents previously?'
She pulls up behind him and honks her horn against the fact some guy from Virginia is blocking her driveway
I smile at fate's intervention:
'Coincidence.'
He frowns:
'Indeed.'
With his suaveness unsettled, he turns into her driveway
She pulls up and looks at me with concern:
'Why didn't you just tell him it doesn't work?'
I just look at her for a minute
Fail at guessing what their conversation is going to be about
Then decide to keep my part simple:
'It's General Zod.'
Her expression drops into the gap between anger and shock
I think about how he is just wearing an expensive business suit without a tie:
'Maybe he just wants to say something?'
Her anger wins
Her voice is a rattler's warning to tread lightly:
'Like what?'
She thinks I'm in on it.
I feel light headed from a day of exertion and just shrug my shoulders to silently tell her, I don't know
Her eyes dart to the car traveling slowly down her long driveway
She grits her teeth as she makes the turn
Driving down her gravel driveway like she is about to confront a robber with a baseball bat
I push the refrigerator back a little from the ditch's shallow slope to make sure it won't tip over on someone else then realize I need to take the doors off just in case a kid comes along and finds this 1950's monolith to consumerism to be an irresistible playhouse.  
He's following her into her house when I look back
I can feel Kal-El's coiled spring being pushed down even further
And find myself hoping him and his reporter girlfriend are out having a good time somewhere...
Somewhere far, far away.
But there is always a problem to distract you from the problem you should be thinking about.
Right now, the problem is the old motor oil and transmission fluid quarts I have collected for recycling that has me perplexed
He interrupts my inability to come up for a solution on how to dispose of it:
'What is your plan for going forward?'
Martha is watching from the safe distance of her porch
But it is not Martha that I want to hide the fact that I will apply for unemployment benefits
My dodge is an easy one:
'I've already exhausted her charity'
I watch him to see how he is taking the news of me even being here
Not seeing that he cares, I press on about what I do not care to let become a bigger problem:
'And now it is obvious that I could be putting her at risk by even being here.'
He doesn't disagree, but it is still not what he is looking to hear:
'Your plan is then?'
With no real reason, but pride, to hide it from him, I give it to him directly:
'Look for work, maybe file for unemployment until I can find it.'
His disappointment is obvious.
It is what is behind his disappointment that begins to bother me as he stares
So, thinking it is me, being here, that he has a problem with, I try soothe the issue:
'I plan on leaving first thing tomorrow morning.'
His eyebrows furrow as he asks it:
'To go where?'
I shrug my shoulders:
'The unemployment office is in...'
His disappointment overcomes him:
'Do you not have something you need to tell me?'
Introductions
I swallow the idea
Find I cannot hold his stare
Eyes fall first to the overly rich texture of his faintly pinstriped charcoal gray suit
Then over to the Cadillac
Shiny black paint with sides heavily dusted with highway grime kicked up by rainstorms
He is halfway between traveling salesman and politician 
And he already knows why you have been released
I am nodding as I look up:
'There's a guy who wants to meet ya.'
His focus intensifies as he encourages me:
'Go on.'
My head shakes a, no, in a subconscious way of saying it is a bad idea:
'Claimed to be making a bullet that could kill ya'
He begins to nod, yes, against my silent, no
I give up trying to scare him as I tell him all I really know:
'Said his name was Lex Luthor.'
His eyes flash at the arrival of recognized proper noun
This is the very reason why people name-drop
He almost doesn't believe it:
'Lex Luthor, the very CEO of LexCorp?'
I push on the old microwave that is stacked on top of a box that was full of old clothes until mice made a home in it, and rock it back and forth to help make my point:
'You know I actually don't like to look up from my station in life.' 
He ignores my alibi:
'What does he want in exchange?'
'He wants in.'
I decide to head-off his next question:
'On the ground floor, was how he put it'
Zod's nod of, yes, says the expression is not lost on him
Zod though assumed this and wants me to get to the real point with increasing impatience:
'And?'
I shrug my shoulders at why it should also have been obvious:
'And I should come find him if you agree.'
It bothers me that the idea makes him smile
A smile that ignores the alarm rising within me:
'Very good then Tyler, what is your time table for arriving in Metropolis?'
Getting to Winchester by hitchhiking is one thing, getting to Metropolis by hitchhiking is a much bigger challenge...
I struggle to calculate the journey:
'A full day, if I am really lucky... But heck it could take...'
I actually regret shrugging my shoulders a second time to him, but he ignores my inability to plan:
'Why were you trying to hide this information?'
My mind pulls away from the difficulty of planning a road trip without a car
The answer is too abrupt and too honest for either salesman or a politician to appreciate:
'Because I don't want to give that asshole the satisfaction of even knowing the time of day.'
His face braces as red flushes up from his neck
I hold my hands up to say, I am sorry for cursing
I look down to avoid the confrontation rising in his expression
'And I really didn't think I'd see ya again'
I look over at Martha
He says it like I should hear it as a threat:
'Do you think me being here is a coincidence?'
It snaps my thoughts back to him
He is leaning in as he explains it:
'The device relayed the signal it received'
I feel it rise within me 
'And now I can pinpoint the source of this genius.' 
The blast of anger I feel at being used as both groups' guinea pig, releases with a hopeful wish:
'So, you're gonna kill him?'
He shakes his head dismissively
'I will begin surveillance of his headquarters in anticipation of your arrival.' 
I cannot hide my anger:
'For what?'
The muscles in his face pull tight
He says it with clenched teeth:
'Even you should be able to see how important the resources of Lex Corp will be to Mankind's future.'
He is gonna talk to that asshole!
It comes out before I can translate it into terms he can understand:
'No General, that guy's a snake'
Zod raises his eyebrows.
In the pause I explain it:
'Even if he gets what he wants, he'll still try to bite ya.'
He grins at hearing something unexpected, but not unappreciated:
'I understood the analogy.'
It feels like he is close to changing his mind
I try to push him in the right direction:
'Then don't meet with that guy, General.'
His smile worries me even before he says it:
'There is no place on this planet you can hide from what is inside your head.'
His pupils are constricted black circles wishing me ill
An alarm sounds inside of me; with the light now focused on it, the upper set of roots draw in on center hinges and straightening to a slow ballerina arc over the round body to perform what is a graceful roll down to where one set of roots are on the rail while the others stay planted on the wall...
I stagger back.
His hand grabs my arm to prevent the fall
I look back from the shock 
He thinks I was about to faint at the threat
His voice is a quiet request:
'Steady'
My reply is breathless as I pull against his grip:
'No'
His grip squeezes as his voice firms:
'You will do this.'
Just a dream
He lets go as I keep pulling my arm away with an agreement:
'Okay...'
I look down to take a breath
A dream is all it was
The pant of air in and out of me is a quick one
I look up to say it to get my mind back in the game:
'Okay.'
His stare is boring into me
I look away from it
The diagonal lines of yesterday's mowing are already fading
I see them and see I still have some bargaining power
I look back to say it:
'But I want something from you in return.'
He is already shaking his head, no, before I can finish:
'I need to see Dex.'
It is an idea that catches him off guard
His head snaps back as his eyes furrow as he tries to fathom the reason
His head tilts as he says it
'What do want from the Diagnostic-Examiner?'
I should smile at the realization Dex is spelled DEX like an acronym should be
Instead, I feel the shame of saying my problem out loud
It spills into my voice:
'My mind is falling apart'
He contorts his face at the idea
'I don't know the difference'
He is already trying to restart his, no
Until he hears it:
'Between memories and what may be more of that bug's toxic dream.' 
He tries to dismiss the issue even though it clearly alarming his sense of concern:
'You are no longer suffering the toxin's effects.'
Right hand reflexively rubs a stroke over the divots on my left arm
'No, General, my memories are all mashed up, but now there's new stuff showing up'
I look up from the divots in my forearm
'And not just while I am sleeping.'
The idea disturbs him
And knowing I have shocked him, allows me to try to encourage him:
'I can't say for sure, but I think there's something else going on'
His hand comes up to touch his mouth with a knuckle to show he is actually considering it
I try to close the deal:
'And Dex has a way pulling things out of you, that normal questioning doesn't do.'
His thought-hiding knuckle pulls away
'You were questioned directly by the diagnostic examiner?'
I nod easily:
'After you kicked me.'
He leans in
His voice says it is something he is not happy about learning only now:
'Tell me the nature of the questions'
I shrug my shoulders as a way of expressing, my incomplete memory, by telling him about Dex's suspicions:  
'Like the same things you asked me'
He looks like he doesn't remember
Or even see a connection
I shake my head as I look for the best example from what I can remember
Then say it slowly in the hopes his memory will come to my rescue, but I say it with too much mockery:
'What's your purpose...'
His expression of continued bafflement leads me to try to summarize my impression of his and Dex's suspicions
'You know, General, the same, hey, we know you're really a spy trying to steal our stuff, kind of questions that you had for me since day one.'  
The joke falls flat.
The idea of me becoming familiar with him is not something he will tolerate 
He holds his hand up to stop me from continuing as he does
He tries to reassess his thoughts of me as he says it:
'Well played.' 
His closes his eyes as he keeps going
Anger escapes in voice as he tries to hide the anger in his eyes:
'You do as I ask'
He opens his eyes with his calm restored
'And I will have you examined more thoroughly.'
I should feel gratitude
Instead, I feel like I have just made a deal that will turn out badly for both of us
I try to escape the offer I have just asked for:
'Or you could say, no, and we'll both just go about our business like this didn't happen.'
He smiles as he lists the price of backing out:
'And what will you do when one of us decides to leave the signal in the on position?'
He doesn't know what to make of my smile as I say it:
'Well don't say I didn't warn ya.'
His grimace highlights his returning glare
A truce is needed!
'So do you have, like, a phone number I should give him?'
His smile says it is an escape attempt he will allow: 
'Show up at his headquarters and I will handle it from there.' 
I nod at the simplicity of my part
He nods a cautious smile as he makes his exit.

We both watch him leave from right where he left us
Neither of us moving until his car turns on to the road 
She doesn't look worried when I look back
I decide to talk about something other than what could be Zod's ideas for mankind's future:
'I should have asked him to help.'
It brings her back out of her own thoughts:
'Got you some clothes'
I look down at layer of barn dust that is broken only by rings of sweat as she continues
'So, you can talk to people without chasing them away.'
I guess her news from Zod was better:
'You guys friends now?'
Her answer is a reflex:
'No.'
She crosses her arms as she brings herself to admit it:
'He said he wanted to say he was sorry'
She chews on the inside of her cheek before she lets it fall out without being able to define the implications:
'And that he would do all he could to make sure I lived in peace.'
I think about how he's headed in the opposite direction of peace then look back into the barn as I try to avoid letting her know what I know:
'The county won't pick up used oil'
Her look says she knows the environment is still not the immediate problem
Her face is uncaring as I punt to a later date:
'And I'm pretty sure the landfill still closes early on Saturday.'
She just keeps nodding absentmindedly as I finish, before she reveals her thoughts on what just went wrong for me:
'And you if smell too bad to get in his car then you are definitely not getting into mine.'

Freshly showered I bend my knees against the stiff new pair of jeans to show my approval:
'Thank you.'
She's pulling the leftover chicken out of the oven and doesn't look up as she speaks
'Your old pair is in the wash.'
I look at the surviving chicken wing as she lets me know what she is thinking
'He knows he isn't supposed to be here.'
What I know is that hesitation leads to failure:
'I'll take that wing, Ms. Kent.'
She doesn't look disappointed to drop the breast piece on her plate
Seeing it not on my plate suddenly makes it feel like whatever happens to the world shouldn't matter because dinner is going to go well.
She continues without taking note of my happiness for not having to eat the chicken breast:
'They're supposed to be working on Mars.'
I wanted so badly to ask Zod about Her, but I have already seen in his eyes that she is a topic he will not discuss with me; so with Martha having already expressed her opinion of Faora, I stay silent as Martha slowly approaches the subject on her own:
'Clark says they're going to build a new planet out of it' 
The two plates land a little too hard on the table.
'Like they think of themselves has gods.'
I think about her son breaking the sound barrier high up in the sky as he left me in the government's hands and finding no pleasant truths, give her a pleasant fact:
'They sure do fly like angels.'
The silverware lands with an unsettled clatter:
'We knew he was special'
Emotion wells up on her face and I think she is seeing Kal-El as she looks down at her plate
'But the things the newspapers say he can do... It's just...'
Her voice trials-off as she sit down, but picks back up after she settles in:
'I don't know what the world will be like if he's just one of many.'
She puts her hands in her lap and watches as I pour the iced tea into her glass
A small tremor runs through my hand unexpectedly as her voices lowers with worry
'Will we survive if they continue to grow?' 
I see the disparities as I pour my glass:
'Maybe our time has passed?'
The flash of anger at my acceptance of defeat reminds me of growing number of subtle similarities between her and Faora, before I can get to the part of how Martha and I are also similar: 
'And then again maybe we're too far down to even notice a change in leadership.'
She pulls the crispy skin off her breast piece in one long slow pull
I think of the t-shirt being pulled off my burned back.
'Either way Misses Kent, the sun will keep rising'
She stabs her fork into the breast meat to pull it away from the bone
'Until the day it doesn't.'

It is just hanging there, waiting, like I am, for the rain to stop; me sitting on a section of plywood bums before me have laid to stay above the rainwater flowing through the drainage culvert, as it clings to the curved section of concrete pipe that runs under the interstate; unsure as to whether or not I am asleep, I just watch it as it reaches out to touch me...

'Close as I can get you, amigo.'
The cab of his truck shakes violently until a depressed clutch lets the engine return to an idle
'Hey thanks for picking me up!' 
The inside of his truck is dirtier than the bulldozer chained to the lowboy trailer he's towing
'Amigo, you sure you really want to be dropped off in the worst part of Metropolis?'
I have no idea why a fifty-something teamster in a dirty red and brown plaid shirt and an even dirtier John Deer cap is calling me amigo, but that's been my name for hours
I let him in on a secret:
'I can run faster in these boots than it looks.'
His friendly nature drops even though his grin grows to say that he appreciates the joke:
'And if you get cornered?'
I shrug my shoulders and think of what else I have tried:
'I'll offer a handshake?'
He points his finger at me, the worn-down gold of his Freemason ring gleams as his laughter booms with encouragement as I start to swing the door closed:
'Good luck with that!'

His skyscraper is set back from the city street:
Whoever Lex Luthor is, he is wealthy enough to have scooped up an entire block to make his mark on Metropolis' skyline.
I recognize the quality of the glass forming the face of the building's atrium
Big sheets of it tower up to showcase another Spartan interior
The reception desk is set deep in the building atrium
A white obelisk rising out of the empty floor space turns red as I approach it
The security guard reveals he was just pretending to be bored.
Belt off and held in front of me to show his worry is only a buckle allows the light to turn-off as I re-approach
The desk itself is long enough to be a restaurant's bar and is staffed with three Asian girls dressed similarly and with similarly cut haircuts; so much so that, with their thick layer of make-up, I begin to think they are only robots as I get closer
The practiced smile of the girl in front of me only increases the illusion:
'Welcome to LexCorp, may I assist you?'
Reversing Lex's ploy to use it against him is too good of an idea to pass up:
'I'm here to see Dr. Chen.'
The robotic receptionist keeps the illusion going with the pouty face of feigned disappointment to the fact I do not know the secret password:
'Sorry I do not recognize the name.'
Her dismissive voice tips into, do-not-bother-me-any-more territory as she gets to the part where the security guard begins to pay attention:
'And this person is not in our directory'
You didn't even look.
'Are you sure?'
The guard steps forward as he hears me toying with her:
'Because I'm sure he wanted me to find him here.'
Her face tightens as she holds on to maintain the composure, she does not think I deserve
Her shoulders twitch the stiffening tic of irritation
An irritation I feel as I think of how the hair touching my eyebrows is still not long enough to block out the light from Dr. Chen's computer monitor.
Her voice tries to stifle the annoyance my memories are trying to infect her with:
'Yes.'
But now her smile is forced to the point of being strained as she finishes on a high-note:
'I am sure.'
The receptionist in the center is starting to pay attention to me.
Maybe because of how unevenly my hair has grown out
Maybe because of a different reason.
But I have gotten my, no
And a firm, no, at that.
It is all the excuse I need to leave, but my hostility for all things Lex Luthor encourages me to imitate their bought-and-paid-for happy faces as I announce my surrender with false glee:
'Okay then, I guess I'll tell Zod he sent me to the wrong place.'
I look at the guard as he starts walking closer
The guard stops as he thinks about what I just said
The imitation cheeriness drops as we make wary eye contact:
'Thanks anyways.'
The guard accepts that he misheard me and so says nothing as I turn to make my exit
Wondering if Zod will accept my version of events as I walk back to the towering glass entrance
High heels work furiously to catch up to me so she does not have to yell with the urgency she is feeling:
'Sir?'
I stop and look back as she closes in
'Sir, Mr. Luthor is in a meeting and would like you to wait for him'
She's almost bowing as she finishes:
'Is this acceptable?'
His hiring qualification is an obvious one:
Beautiful subservience.
She looks worried that I may say, no
But I already know hers is an offer I cannot refuse
And
Having beaten-up his hired help up more than they deserved
I give in easily:
'Sure.'
The security guard doesn't look happy with my change in direction
And the people coming off the elevator don't look happy with me breathing their air
Her legs slide past each other with the precision of sharp scissors
I am taller than this woman by more than a foot and yet I already know I will not be able to keep up with her stride
She walks straight past the double row of elevators to stand in front of a door that is barely visible in the plain white wall
She looks up and the elevator door opens
There are no buttons or numbers
Nor is there any small talk as the elevator goes up and up and up
Silently communicating with the sweeping hand gesture of, after you, when the door opens
The stabbing me in the back with a curt:
'Mr. Luthor will arrive shortly.'
As soon as I step out
The door closes with her inside.
Feeling free to look around, I do:
The entire half of the building is an open expanse showcasing the top of Metropolis' sky-line
Inside
White furniture, white fixtures and muted art with no color darker than pale gray
It feels like the inside of a cloud that is floating over the tops of the other skyscrapers
His penthouse version of glass box is way better than mine
But it is still only a glass box.
I swallow and think of the rusty brown clay that somehow collected in the truck driver's passenger seat and how not all of it came off on the metro ride into the downtown area
Forcing myself to not pull the dick-move of sitting on his white sofa
Choosing instead to move away from the sectional sofas to begin a cautious approach to the window
The view is fantastic.
Until the granola bar breakfast wants to come up as I try to looking down...
'Afraid of heights?'
That I almost fall in my hurry to get away from the window has amused him
I swallow the retch back down as I regain my footing:
'Helluva view though.'
The tall and runway-model thin Asian at his side peels off towards the bar running along the interior wall that must form the building's core
Lex's attention has already lowered to consider my Sears bag
He starts talking as his consideration of it continues:
'Do you know why the Devil brought Jesus up onto a mountain to tempt him?'
Doubting that Jesus was scared of heights, I can only barely keep my sarcasm silent as he continues:
'Because it is only when one has reached a commanding height that you may see everything the world has to offer.'
His growing sense of impending magnanimity falters as he looks back down at the crumpled plastic shopping bag held in my handshaking hand
Perhaps even reading on my expression how I am recalling Zod telling me that he wasn't here in the spirit of friendship, just so I can pay-it-forward to Lex.
The thought in his mind seems to lose its direction
He blinks as his thoughts shift
Like a good boxer can do, Lex throws a solid thought even when off balance:
'But since you already have everything, you ever wanted, maybe you have something to tempt me with?'
Obviously, the time is right for me to get right to the point:
'Actually, my throat is dry, can I get a glass of water?'
Lex's manufactured joy huffs-out with a wince at how badly even this little bit of his time is being wasted
His assistant's smile is a cold one as she fills a cocktail glass with tap water as I head towards the bar
Her smile suggests she is tempted to wink as I take the glass from her
And as I take a drink, I know why...
She even used hot water, how nice!
That I am getting exactly what I asked for is the grin exceeding the sides of the glass as I down the water in a series of noisy gulps; not minding, at all, that a little of the water runs down from the side of my mouth
Wiping hand covers the smile as I find myself respecting the idea, she feels free to attack me, because she has earned her place at Lex Luthor's side.
Feeling she deserves a similarly childish response, I set the glass down where she will have to reach over to retrieve it.
The impish countermove, plucks a nerve connected to her entire right side of her face
The look she gives me is one I have grown used to seeing:
Contempt under a thick layer of irritation. 
It is an expression most recently experienced at reception desk
With the memory fresh, I go low to keep the initiative on my side:
'I bet your sisters downstairs are happy for you.'
Accusing her of being just a receptionist who has slept her way to the top is like throwing a match on gasoline, and it releases her real displeasure at how I just presumed to know the length of her leash.
She fires a retort that would be an instant social media cancellation:
'Was that a racist joke?'
But I am not socially connected
And my only doubt about her is weighing my desire for another glass of water against the idea of how difficult it will be to find public bathroom in downtown Metropolis
An internal pause I use to throw a blank look over at Lex as I decide against asking him for anything else:
'Sexist.'
His fake smile flat-lines before I can turn back to her to make sure we are all clear as to what is occurring in the lobby:
'I thought sexism was the joke being played in here'
That she has lost ground with her accusation is a bitter pill she struggles to swallow
With his cat having lost its tongue, I turn back to Lex so the verbal backhand can land on his nose:
'Maybe this view isn't as high as you think it is, Dr. Chen.'
His smile is so fake it actually lifts a little higher as the end of his patience arrives
But in his voice, exasperation creeps-in to push the last of his patience out as a warning that this is my last chance:
'Did Zod really send you?'
I also find it hard to believe...
That I do not like it, is an idea I bury with under the fact I have lowered him as far as I dare, and so side-step provoking his anger more:
'He did.'
He flashes a real smile as I keep delivering good news:  
'And it was clear he was impressed with you before I said your name.'
His face beams with the fulfillment of a long-awaited desire
The happiness it produces encourages him to reach for the door-prize too quickly:
'Yes, yes, go on!'
But I am already to the end of the story
My shrug of shoulders is a warning his smile ignores as it grows bigger in anticipation
He is physically off balance as I slug him in his spiritual gut:
'So, I guess he'll reach out now that he knows where to find you.'
That I have shown him a treasure chest without a key, becomes a bitter-pill for him to swallow
His disappointment is palpable as the happiness drops from his face:
'That's it?'
He may ask for his water back.
The joke prompts an unexplained smile.
Her phone rings.
He turns at the waist to throw a glaring stare at her
A glare powered by his frustration for me, as well as at her, for not having silenced her phone
Her 'yes' cracks a high-pitched squeak she looks over to him while covering her phone:
'It's Him!'
She looks worried that her phone will explode before she can hand it to him as they hurry towards each other.
His voice is that of a salesman taking a call from his most important client
His voice brimming with enthusiasm for the profit he expects:
'General Zod, you have no idea how badly I have wanted to speak with you!'
His groveling is almost enough for me to feel embarrassed for him
The turn away from being forced to watch him angle for a way in, is the reflex of anyone who hates to be embarrassed themselves 
Unfortunately, there is nowhere to go
And with nowhere to go
I challenge my mind to try again with what I know will be worth the effort
If I can make it work.
Cautious steps start another approach to the window
Fluffy clouds and the tips of other skyscrapers make the view an alpinist's dream
I step closer to the edge of Lex Luthor's private summit
Letting eyes roam the expanse of an urban mountain range
I know I am high up, but I cannot tell how high
Curiosity slowly pulls me closer
Until
The horizon spins as I try to look down
An old habit causes me to put my hands on the glass as if there were circles painted on it.
Eyes refuse to open as dizziness threatens to topple me over
In darkness I pay attention to my equilibrium until balance is restored
It is all I can do, not to fall down, as I turn away from the abyss of a sunny day
Noticing, as I do, Lex has just closed the deal of a lifetime:
'Excellent General, I look forward to seeing you then!'
A queasy burp escapes as we catch sight of each other
He celebrates:
'Yes!'
As he pockets her phone:
'Excellent, excellent, excellent!'
Then claps his hands together and rubs them together vigorously
Lex is not just happy
He is jubilant.
And so, forgets who I am as he throws his joy on me:
'That was a surprisingly good, good start!'
His focus on me narrows as I regain my balance
Hitting me as I stare:
'Is it possible you are not the imbecile you appear to be?' 
He walks closer trying to see past the t-shirt and jeans
Trying to connect the timing of my smile and Zod's phone call
Looks down at the Sears shopping bag
Tries to see it as part of a very clever disguise
A trick he tries to get me to reveal by offering first dibs at the treasure chest I have just helped him open:
'And perhaps you do not have everything you want?'
We just stare:
Him, waiting for me to ask for something
Me, having already decided against asking for even another glass of water
Our Mexican standoff ends abruptly as he draws and fires a slow bullet:
'So...'
He lets the sound of it hang in the air as if it were the pop-up fly-ball of an easy-out he wants me to get credit for
I stare the knowing smile of how my position was catcher and so I rarely needed to run for the ball.
Lex keeps going as I take a pass on saving him from his error:
'What would...'
In his voice I start to hear him as a game-show host:
Free gift going twice!
He drags out the saying of 'you'
Free gift going three-times!
I grip the Sears bag as he holds his hands out as if what he really wanted for me was to go for the big-prize because he knows what the audience always wants to see is some sucker trade cash in-hand for an opportunity to lose:
'Sell your soul for?'
As he lifts the curtain to reveal how big of a prize I should ask for, I finally see him for who he is
Not the psychopath who may have tortured insects as a kid
But something much, much, much worse...
Trouble is:
Everyone has a price.
A long unrequited desire causes me to accept his challenge:
'Peach cobbler.'
He physically recoils from the asking price
And I hate it that I have even spoken it so quickly, but knowing there is no going back, I double down on the price of my buy-in:
'Not gooey peach pie or a little spoonful of cobbler some places give ya that won't even cover the center of that saucer-plate fancy people set tea cups on, but the full spatula-scoop a fat cafeteria woman will give you if you're skinny.'
He blinks.
Dismayed, at first, at depth, and seriousness of my answer, he hesitates.
How can I be his, first? 
Lex Luthor's hesitation ends with a clapping clasp of bring his hands together for a quick rub before he looks to his watch for the solution
His disappointment with his watch grows to the point where he fishes her phone back out of his pocket and hands it back to her
She starts looking
He decides it is okay to stop looking at his watch and express satisfaction
He gloats an expected victory
He even says it as if he actually expects to actually have sex with me:
'I so love a cheap date.'
She looks back up
Interrupts his gloating with an answer that is also a concern:
'Kenosha.'
There is fear on her face.
'The only restaurant within three-hundred miles with peach cobbler on the menu is in Kenosha'
This close to the prize, and with a skyscraper underneath him as well as a world-renowned family name behind him, Lex Luthor refuses to be undone by distance, and so exaggerates his:
'Well...'
As he clasps his hands condescendingly together
'I'm sure there is a helicopter around here somewhere!'
She lowers her phone:
'They're closed for remodeling.'     
He lowers his head so his hair covers his eyes to hide his defeat:
'Unbelievable.'
Time to go!
Having endured the game in good faith, I am once again free to be me:
'That's okay Dr. Chen, it would have just spoiled lunch.' 
He looks up with a face that says electrocution is still on the menu
But he has just scored a real score
And he also knows, this time, he needs to take a pass on putting me in my place
With victory back on his mind, excitement returns to his voice as he tries to peek inside what he suspects is a conspiracy:
'Is he out there, watching us, right now?'
I know Zod said that was exactly what he was going to do
But the opportunity to pay him back just a little bit more for all he has done is just too great:
'Are we still talking about your devil?'
It is a slap that knocks the returning joy out of his expression
He is about to shock me.
The frustration of being stymied by me, of all people, becomes a fact he cannot accept at face value
His controlled demeanor cracks:
'Is this an act?'
Intensity, bordering on a sneak preview of his mania, slips out a little further as he steps his menace closer:   
'Should I think you are the devil?'
I so want to replay his: So, my reputation proceeds me?
But I know I have already overstayed my welcome
And this conversation will quickly go past the point I want it to go, if I don't leave
My error is trying to quit while I am ahead:
'I'm just a guy.'
He tilts his head to the side as if the horizontal view of me will be different than the vertical view of me
Letting me take a close look at what is hidden away inside of him as he injects an idea that maybe his mirror is whispering to him:
'Devil!'
As he walks his expensive suit closer to me, I can see even his shirt is probably more than my previous job paid me for a week's worth of work
Its expense becomes a very basic conclusion:  the distance between my life and his is simply too wide a gulf for him to be able to even fathom who I am...
I try to point out the yawing chasm by pointing to the step separating us:
'Look, if we hadn't bumped into each other'
His sudden puzzlement says he thinks I am talking about him before I can finish explaining how I am talking about Zod:
'I wouldn't have been able to say anything to him, because he doesn't care about me.'
Instantly he sees the t-shirt and jeans as just being a t-shirt and jeans
His desire to fit me into his conspiracy vanishes as his mind puts me back in my place right as I wrap up my explanation:
'So maybe this is all just your good luck?'
He covers his mouth with his fingers and taps out his consideration in Morse-code
He leads with the return of his own fake smile:
'Very well then, off you go!'
His condescending dismissal lands hard on my ego
The elevator ding faintly as it opens behind me
It is the sound of an opportunity opening
And an opportunity closing
I try to hold it in
Forget about it
Move on
Let justice work its own course
Then I hear it inside of me:
What will she say when she hears you just rolled over for this jerk?
I say it without regards to the consequences because I need to hit him
With something
Anything
I look up from the short step separating us
Fire a sly bullet:
'Hey, by the way...'
His approaching assistant is more than unhappy for delay announcing itself with the open elevator door being so close to removing me 
His eyes meet mine as she begins to tap her foot to signal impatience
His voice says his mind is not really listening:
'Do tell.'
I hate it that my smile always gives the start of my jokes away:
'I should tell you about Ricky'
The small shake of his head says, not only does he not care, he does not even have a sense of curiosity as to where my story may go
It is only the whiff of revenge in my voice that keeps him from telling me, my time is up.
'Ricky's the dark shadow of an air force officer now, but if you are actually looking for a guy who wants to pull the trigger on your new bullet, then Ricky is definitely your guy.'
That I am selling him something grabs his attention 
His voice sounds like he is announcing the start of a boxing match:
'And what is so special about Rick-y?'
That he can pull off a boxing announcer's imitation out of him just makes me want to make this meeting happen even more:
'Ricky, on a very personal level, needs to settle the Smallville score.'  
He is trying to weigh Ricky's unseen value to me
He finds none and begins to dismisses my sales pitch: 
'I have plenty of guys like Ricky.'
It is an attitude that I can agree wholeheartedly but for one exception:
'Yeah, but how many of those Rickies really, really want to be Ricky?'
He is baffled by the problem I am giving him
Asks it as a way of finding my angle:
'Am I to assume you believe in this... Ricky?'
The idea that America's last true gunslinger is a black kid from nowhere, who just so happens to watch the same late-night TV that I did, pleases me greatly because it allows me to have faith in knowing exactly where Ricky's mind has been turning since I last saw him...
My smile grows as I try to measure the head-start I have given Ricky:
'Nowhere near as much as Ricky does.'
My smile triggers him to drop a hard face that is his grim mask of happiness, which he applies in the face of a felt, but unseen disadvantage
Lex's voice is disbelieving as he calls down my cards:
'And so why, do you, of all people, want me to know about Ricky?'
My smile finally drops as I think of Ricky's desire for violence:
'Because Ricky is the kind of guy who may stop by on his own initiative'
My smile is uncontainable
'And if you are anything like me, then I know you do not like unexpected company.'
His smile drops as he makes the connection
The bad news does not affect him like I thought it would
He simply wags his finger like a schoolteacher before tapping the face of his watch
The menace in his voice comes out as playfulness:
'Tick-tock, tick-tock.'
His refusal to even show concern, much less, fear, is a defeat I was not expecting
I wait for the shock to arrive the entire ride down
Then simply accept as the elevator door opens:
Zod will do it himself.

The lobby of her 70s era skyscraper is different:
The once black office building is now trying to go gray as sunlight fades the metal's finish
The entrance is just a wide sidewalk distance from the asphalt island formed by a series of bus stops pushing the lanes of car traffic further away than the street actually is 
The building's penny-pinching architect wasting only an additional story of office space to top his atrium
An atrium made hectic by a lunch crowd trying to get through a security checkpoint that keeps people from just walking up to rows of elevators
That people have to empty their pockets and clear a metal detector creates a crowd
A crowd made worse by the slow-moving line trying to get to the counter that has "VISITOR" posted above it.
The woman working it looks disheartened by the never-ending line, but does her best not take my addition to it personally:
'I'm here to see Lois Lane'
Her sigh is just the exhaustion for never getting to the end, until the end of her day
'What's her extension?'
I shrug my shoulders.
Her voice is the disappointment of someone who is paid to sit in a chair for a set number of hours each day but still hates it when her time is wasted: 
'Is she expecting you?'
I let her know I am throwing myself at the mercy of her court:
'I doubt it.'
She taps her extended fingernails on the touch screen in front of her as she holds in the exasperating grind that is me, and all those behind me
Her voice says the small surprise was unexpected:
'I do see a listing for her.'
She looks down at the screen
I lean over her desk and try to see the number for myself
The:
'YEAH!?!?'
That answers her call is a shouted bark that almost makes her press the touch screen's red disconnect button
The receptionist recovers her politeness with amazing speed:
'I have Tyler Durden here to see Lois Lane.'
The man on the other end of the phone explodes in rage as he hears he is being interrupted on someone else's account:
'This isn't Lois' desk!'
It is all the receptionist needed to hear
But her finger is still approaching the disconnect button as the voice on the phone shouts back so even the people behind me can hear what he is saying:
'WAIT!  Who?!'
She grinds her teeth but still finds it in her to be pleasant:
'Tyler Durden?'
'Well let HIM in!'
She wants to blame me for him slamming down the phone on her
I try to make up for the fact she has just endured more than her job description should require of her:
'Sorry about that.'
She swipes a numbered visitor badge like credit card
And just like how it was with my old credit card, I am surprised to see the transaction is authorized...

The guard occasionally looks back at me as I wait for whoever is coming to escort me as per the visitor badge's requirements
An old pair of jeans, an opened pack of gray t-shirts and another one of white socks has somehow identified me as a heightened security risk.
He pushes his way out of an emptying elevator with a loud:
'Tyler Durden!'
I want to tell him to be nice to the reception staff, but see he has lost that trait a long time ago.
'We've been looking for you!'
Another guard looks back and stares.
But it the shouting man who fires his accusation as if his next sentence will be a question as to why the guards haven't shot me already:
'You're supposed to be in a maximum-security prison!'
Now everyone is paying attention.
I look away from the guards' growing alarm and notice the people coming out of the elevator are walking fast
Some of the people waiting for the elevator decide to follow the others who are now leaving
Others step back to clear the shooting range that has just opened with me in the middle between armed security men and a man who could easily have been the best defensive end on any high school's football team
A man who is shouting like he is not worried that the guards will open fire because he is bulletproof:
'How did you pull-off that escape?'
I cringe as all the guards stare as if to see if they should have been able to recognize my face from the news, before they let me in
Everyone who was moving freezes and stares at the incongruity of me and the ex-football player's narrative
I shrug my shoulders without trying to match his volume
Telling the truth, the wrong way makes it worse:
'It's not a good story.'
The crowd seems tipping towards the idea of running in panic
The guards shift their footing
One has a hand on his revolver
Another holds his radio as he tries to measure the need to call real cops
My assailant decides a better icebreaker is needed:
'Get over here!'
He steps into the elevator as I start walking
The crowd follows us but only looks in as the door closes on their attempt to see what must be, a soon to be, famous criminal
His:
'Good!'
Bellows as the door clunks shut.
He looks away from the freshly lighted number 26 as he slaps the curve of his stomach
Even in the quiet enclosure of the elevator his voice still booms without any apparent effort on his part:
'I hate crowded elevators!'
He is simply pleased with his ruse to keep everyone else off of the elevator
It allows me to see him for who he is, by looking past his; rumpled shirt, rumpled suit pants and a tie loosened because his neck as grown fatter since he bought the shirt and see the two Blackberry phones in his hip, as if he were a two-gun gunslinger
It completes his explanation.
He is:
A supremely confident master of his own universe.
A man who is willing to go to extremes in his endless battle to get everything he wants even if all he wants is an empty elevator-ride.
He is a man I can admire, because I know I cannot be him, for more than a few minutes
It allows me to see him as the bad-cop to Lois' good-cop routine.
I put them together as partners, automatically:
'So, you're a reporter too?' 
He looks at me right as the elevator shakes as if it had just run over something and mutters to himself:
'This old building... Huh?'
Then he resumes his normal volume as his brain processes what I have asked:
'No, I'm the senior editor!'
I feel as if he has just warned me against trying to act friendly with him
The elevator dings its opening right as I am thinking about what his answer actually means
I catch him as he is looking out into the chaos awaiting our arrival on his floor:
'So... You just make sure all the words are spelled right?'
He should be out of a job just like I am.
He looks back at me with a disbelief that borders on heartfelt disappointment
Decides to try putting me in my place a second time as he points a thumb to his chest:
'No, I decide which direction the world turns!'
As he puts me in checkmate, he decides it is past time for him, to show me, who, is in charge of this universe:
He reaches out and with a hand big enough to palm a football securely through a defensive line, pulls me off the elevator, as if I was his new employee
Looking across the busy office space as he does so
The entire floor is a beehive of intermingled chaos
An ocean of cubicles and small offices, people on phones, talking, typing, walking around, making copies...
Every one of the cubicles is stacked with paper in various stages of sliding out into the narrow isles separating the clutter
A Xerox machine flashes light as the person making copies does not bother with closing the lid
On a far fall TV monitors follow several news channels silently  
After a quick scan of the possible targets my guide locks in on one and fires his cannon voice:  
'Steve!'
Steve is clearly not happy to hear his name being shouted across rows of cubicles
But, being used to it, he just looks as he waits for the broadside that will surely follow
And, sure enough, with Steve caught in the crosshairs the Editor fires all barrels: 
'Isn't the new guy working the Smallville story with Lois?'
Steve's smile says he is truly happy to have someone to throw under the bus:
'Yeah!'
It isn't what my guide is looking to hear
He barks his retort that says he has already asked more than once:
'Well find him!'
With a sweep of his hand as he lets go, he motions me to follow
Steve's protest seems like a practiced excuse:
'You know you can never find him when you want to!'
My guide mutters to himself:
'What is it with kids these days?' 
And like the running back he could have been, the Editor begins to deftly dodge the chaos between him and his corner office
Knowing he may just drag me if I fall behind, I walk as fast as I can to stay in the gap he leaves in his wake
The fogged glass walls rattle as the door slams behind us
He is a man who has to know how far his loud voice carries, but with him obviously having no clue, I try to show him how speaking in a conspiratorial tone is done:
'Do you know why they let me out?'
It is not my example, but my question, which knocks off a large chunk of his certainty
His voice drops into thoughtfulness:
'No, I was hoping to...'
He stops and seems to be calculating a thought
For my part, I am noticing the empty space in front of his desk
No one is welcome to come in his office and sit down.
In our mutual mental pause, there is a timid knock on the door 
It snaps him back to reality:
'Clark that better be you!'
The arrival pokes his head in
The adjustment of his glasses appears to be a nervous tic
My own nerves fire a jitter as I wonder how could I have missed something so obvious
Clark is not happy to see me either
The Editor shouts what he thinks should be obvious to everyone as he gestures to me with both hands as if I was his new car:
'Look who just showed up!'
Clark steps in with his head down and meekly closes the door as his editor keeps shouting:
'Out of the blue just like Superman himself!'
It knocks a nervous laugh out of me
I think his eyes may explode like a set of cartoon cannonballs as he looks up at me with alarm
But this time
I feel different
Because
This time I feel the advantage of catching him off guard
That we are staring, something hidden, at each other is something the Editor catches immediately
But he just doesn't know what it is and so looking at me, the Editor tries to decipher his instinct with a base-line question:
'Have you two met?'
It is a question, I am grateful for the chance to clarify
If only I could stop my smile the answer would be perfect:
'I really have no idea who he is...'
That I am acting guilty, allows me to re-see who else, in this room, is also guilty...
Guilty of bullying a receptionist who could have denied my attempt to cross this threshold because:
You!  Insist on yelling at everyone!
I square off against the editor's growing doubt and fire my own broadside at him as I channel a release of the receptionist's pent-up irritation:
'Or YOU for that matter!'
It is a gesture, which brings true happiness out of him
As if he wished all of his employees would approach the world as he does
His hand engulfs mine in a handshake and smile that are reserved for the recognition of kindred spirits:
'Perry White!'
He looks to Clark as he lets the handshake go
Then back to me without concern of what he may have seen in Clark's eyes
His tone suddenly changes as he adapts the mannerisms he may use on a student intern from a wealthy family:
'Clark knows the Smallville story well.'
Clark holds his hand out to play along with the introduction Perry is making
I take the offer without hesitation
Trying not to treat his handshake differently than Perry's smooth grip, I find my hand squeezed by steel
But my hand has already been squeezed by cruel steel
His grip barely reaches displeasure on my scale
The muscle in his jaw twitches in a way that is not reflected in his voice's awkwardly high pitch
A voice that is just another thin layer of his disguise:
'What brings you to us?'
I want to laugh at his new voice as he keeps squeezing
Only Martha's memory keeps me from restarting the fight right where we left it:
'That's my question.'
He lets go as he hears that, once again, I am not going to run
I get us back on track as soon as I feel his silently offered truce:
'Lois came to see me; so, I thought I would repay the favor'
I look away from his barely diminished alarm to help keep the truce going by talking to Perry
'She said y'all used a lot of those billable hours trying to meet me'
It is an idea that causes him to frown; so, I look back to Clark with a wiggle of the Sears bag as a way of letting him know: this doesn't have to go the way he thinks it is going to go; as I keep the gratitude flowing:
'And it's always good to say thanks to the people who help ya.'
The Editor interrupts me as he sees me missing the most important question:
'But it wasn't us who secured your release.'
I nod at the diminishing power of the press:
'Well, I think Lois had some more questions she wanted to ask before they threw her out'
I back look at Clark trying to calculate how much tension is hiding within him:
'And I really would like to tell my side of the story.'
The Editor looks at me as if the car he paid for is now one he has just won
His hand-slapping shout is the same people give the TV when the home team scores a run:
'Fantastic!'
He looks to Clark as he remembers who is who:
'Well, what are you waiting on Clark?  Find an interview room!' 

The small rectangle room is mostly filled by a simulated wood rectangle table covered in what must be years-worth of hand smudges from quickly eaten lunches; three office chairs, one of which one is missing a wheel, and a stack of file-boxes that someone has stuffed in here probably to make room in their own cubicle.  
He doesn't speak until the door closes
It feels good to hear him release some of the tension he was holding in with his fake voice as he uses his real voice:
'You went to my house?'
It is something he may rightfully punch me for and he's not even finished getting to what he is really mad about:
'And now you're here looking for Lois?'
His tight jaw says he close to getting in touch with his impulsive side, but he keeps his voice down to that of a whispered threat:
'What are you really up to?'
I had not expected this opportunity and throw the bag onto the table as a way of reminding the both of us there is another person in the room with us
It slides with the Sears logo facing up
With my hands free, I point to it with an equally angry finger:
'You think I like having to hold out my hand for charity?'
He recoils from the verbal punch
And as he does, I see it form in his eyes
I fire my finger at the bag as I complain:
'I'm down to that and twelve dollars!'
As soon as I finish, it is clear, Clark's weakness is seeing the weakness of others
I keep talking about my weakness while letting the anger out of my voice because I have already hit him hard:
'Someone even erased my banking history'
The hole I am in is dispiriting enough to keep me swinging at him even if he left before they sent me to jail:
'Now McDonalds won't even hire me because I can't sign up for direct deposit.'
I look away from him and try to grab a hold of my shame before it spirals out of control
I stare at the wall scuffed from years of use without a re-paint:
'And even if I wanted to spend every last cent I have, to open an account, no one will hire me after they hear about the last year of my life!'
As I look back, I see his weakness only goes so deep
And his hostility is for me crossing that line:
'You leave Martha and Lois out of this.'
It is the blow I needed to get back in the game
The game of remembering Clark Kent and Martha Kent are not related.
As I stare into the divide, I can feel him see me as a dangerous unknown that now knows his mother
The static between us becomes electric 
A burning desire to pick up where we left off out on the dry lakebed is only interrupted by the Sears bag in the corner of my eye
It is a reminder that no matter how much I want to hit him, I can't do it without hurting, Martha
And so, it is Martha I think about as I look at the bag
A bag that is already full of the compounding interest of chance encounters
Encounters that now connect us all
I say it to say, I am not fully responsible for the role chance plays in a game
I start talking as I look at the bag: 
'You know I am sorry for the way this could turn out...'
'Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock'  
I look up from alarm occurring in my mind and think of what else we need to clear up, before I can take a pass of paying him back for leaving me in the government's hands
I fire the idea my problem is also his problem as I turn to face him:
'But I am not the only bad news in town.'
The coiled spring of his inner tension wants to pop out of his eyes as he brings me up to speed on current events:
'Martha called me.'
That he is struggling to contain his voice is all I need to hear to know
Know that
Now
Is the time to settle the score
First by clearing the air
Air I expel by expressing deep gratitude to fate for allowing me to be there to witness Zod and Martha myself:
'She said, she thought he was sincere.'
It is not answer he cares to hear
A muscle pulls on his chin
His voice pushes past clenched teeth as he lets me know, he has not forgotten whose side I am on
And that means he knows he cannot trust me
His question is his last chance for me to make a confession:
'Did you know?'
What I do not know is why people keep overestimating me...
That I have the other, most powerful man in Metropolis threatening me, is too much for me to continue to just shrug off my desire to get them to start fighting each other.
I lean-in, unafraid of his strength, to confront him with what he should already know, since he, once, also had his own spaceship, before surrendering it to Zod as part of the cease-fire bargain:
'How the hell could I know that thing in my head is...'
It is like he is looking right though me as I say it:
'A signal like the one they got for that Gotham vigilante?'
I look at him closer.
Wanting to dismiss it, but knowing he is, not only capable of violence, but capable of maintaining a secret identity
That he may also be capable of what the other vigilante does to criminals puts real worry in my voice as I fire an unsure accusation:
'Hey, are you that guy, too?'
His jaw releases a little of the tension.
It is though seeing how the implied association brings a sense of shame to his expression that I take as news that he will not take me up to the roof and throw me off.
I look away from Clark as I let go of the idea that a guy from Smallville, is both Superman and Batman:
'Yeah, I can't see it either.'
The thought of a signal slaps me into looking back and completing my original point: 
'But you know this thing in my head is real, right?'
He looks back from his own thoughts on Gotham's nightmare 
I don't wait for him to admit he remembers:
'Well, there's a guy on the other side of town who's got his own button to it, now!'
He wants to ask who, then suddenly his expression says he doesn't need to
I put it together for him:
'That's why the government let me out, isn't it?'
His eyes narrow at the question morphs into an accusation: 
'Because they know if I'm fried chicken in their hen house, they're gonna get the blame for it.'
I'm certain of it.
His voice says he disagrees:
'Did you ever stop to think they let you out to see where you would go?'
It is something I hadn't thought of for a very specific reason:
'I told the Colonel's shadow who the real traitor was on the day they threw me off the bus in Smallville.'
His jaw clenches as he sees me pull a knife of an idea out of its sheath in my thoughts:  
'Because after being in that fucking prison, there's nothing more than I want than to see all of you guys to get together...'
His chin tilts down like a bull about to charge
'So, she can Jackson-Pollock the entire city with y'all in it!' 
In less than a blink of an eye he's pulling tight on a wad of my t-shirt and push me against wall with slam that I know people outside the room can hear:
'Martha trusted you!'
His eyes light up red
I shout out my victory:
'There he is!'
Hearing this moment, as being what I want, knocks the charge out of his eyes without alleviating the rage he is still feeling
That he is close to being who he really is, encourages me to press his launch button with a sledgehammer:
'Maybe everyone else is so dazzled by your front-page smile they can't see what's in your eyes, but it was the first thing I saw in you'
He lets go of me, and steps back.
His eyes uncertain as I move to put him in checkmate with venom in my voice:
'Because I have seen that look of rage before'
He looks at the deep scar on my face
Not liking the implication that I see no real difference.
'Have you looked in her eyes?'
He thoughts jump to meet mine head-on 
With him tense, I let him know that even if he is stronger, he is nowhere near close to being meaner than she is:
'Because she's not interested in hiding from who she is!'
The implication that this has only gotten worse knocks him a step back
He cannot believe it
His eyes plead for me to answer his question correctly:
'You want to start a war?'
I jump at the chance to shout the rage I have dreamed since the government dragged me out of the desert:
'What I want most of all out of life is to wipe the smile off of every motherfucker who thinks they can do as they please!'
He sees our differences are irreconcilable
As his feet begin to drift up, I see time to fight-dirty is fully ripe
I lean in and stick a knife in his heart as if I was giving him a kiss:
'You tell me Kal...'
The use of his name is a slap that fires red anger in his eyes:
'You gonna sit on your hands when I tell you I got a bullet with Lois' name on it?'
An invisible force lifts me up and throws me against the wall
The wall flexes and cracks with my impact before it holds
Bouncing off
Landing on the table
Sears bag is pushed off the other end as my landing rocks the table
It is as if he has done it without moving
His clenched fists betray the stealth of his speed
With only some sense knocked into me, I push myself back off the table
We stare
In our stare, I know Clark knows I am past the point where I can get ever get close to Lois or Martha ever again
But they are subjects he will take no chances with
His warning isn't a warning
It is a threat:
'Stay away from Lois and Martha.'
I blink my eyes to the headache that is trying to kick-start itself in my head
The sound of it comes out at the start of my reply
'Oh! You know I hate it, that there are now three people I like in this Universe!'
He unclenches a fist he knows he cannot use.
'But I may just throw myself off the top of this building with a note that says, you did it, just to make sure the one I love doesn't get shot in the back as she's shaking some asshole's hand!'
Someone tries the doorknob as I accuse him of being the asshole whose hand she may shake
He locked it behind him.
The knocker bangs another knock before letting loose a voice firm enough alarm those close by:
'Clark are you in there?'    
My voice is quick but hushed gift to Martha's secret:
'We hide him in plain sight'
'Lie down.'
Perry fires a sharp cry as he kicks the bottom of the door to make a loud knock
'Clark!'
Kal-El has trapped himself in a room with desperate man who knows uncomfortable truths
His face says he can find no options to prevent the fight we are having from spilling out into the floor of the newsroom
Where it will spill into the news.
That Perry White second-guesses his attempt to throw his weight against the door is all that keeps it from breaking open
Knowing this moment has ended, I say it again with an urgency that is also a silent request to finish this somewhere else:
'Lie down.'
Clark looks away from the door to judge where my mind is going
My plea continues almost without sound:
'Come on, quick.'
He does is the instant before the door is forced open as Perry White gives the door a real effort
I shout with a pointing finger as it bursts open:
'And if you fucking think...'
In trying to fit his enormous frame through the door, Perry White is unable to throw the block-knocking haymaker he wants to, and is forced to bring his fist down as if it was a club
His ham sized fist lands solidly on the side of my head, swatting me back across table
Reality spins a quick glance at the Sears bag on the floor, but I can do nothing about it before I am grabbed, pulled out, then tossed down the aisle of cubicles as if I were a bale of hay
The fall is a slide along the dirty industrial carpet paving the way down a row of cubicles
Rug burn abrasion scratches off a patch of skin across the divots in my left arm
The editor does not cry for me:
'Clark, are you okay?'
Dazed, I watch as rug-burn's fire draws blood out so it may fill up the little holes from the deepest part of its scratching 
Perry doesn't wait for an answer from Clark before he turns back to me:
'Get up and fight!'
I roll over and look at him, but listen to the ringing in my head and stay down
Not being willing to kick a guy who is already down, Perry lets fury become a verbal assault:
'Clark wouldn't hurt a fly!'
He steps closer with both hands clenched into fists as he continues to shout
'So, stand up and face someone who is not afraid of you!'
I wave weakly to signal my desire to pass on another clubbing from his ham-fist 
The gesture is enough to let him know there in no fight left in me
He can see I have given up and turns back to watch Clark pull himself up slowly
Clark plays his role with barely hidden astonishment  
A woman rushes up and adds to the chorus of concern:
'Clark did he hurt you?'
Clark doesn't know what to make of it, but he does not break character
His show of weakness enrages the Editor:
'Jenny stay back, security is on their way!'
Perry steps forward
The headline he wants me to read is how his haymaker will feel with a full swing.
Security officers round the corner as I watch Perry consider the idea of pulling me up, so he can knock me back down.
Breathless, 
Two worried guys in poorly fitted uniforms, clenching the short bills of peaked hats and holstered nightsticks run up and then halt as they attempt to measure what is happening
I know the size difference between us doesn't look good for Perry
Yet, I also know which one of us is wearing nice clothes and has a real haircut
Perry knows his chance has passed but still does his best to land a verbal kick as the security officers hesitate:
'You're not so tough when someone fights back are you, you back-stabbing traitor?!'
He looks to the security guards who are still trying to figure out who needs to be arrested
Perry turns his fury on them:
'Why are you two just standing there?!?'
Both guards flinch as if his shout was a physical blow
Perry point to me:
'Get this bum out of here!'
Perry's white shirt and gold tie affirm the authority in his voice
I just roll over so they can handcuff me
Perry walks with us
Making sure the guards keep people off the elevator.
I begin to think maybe yelling at people is his hobby just as collecting hand painted duck decoys was Pop's 
Not until we reach sight of the length of the security line reentering does Perry White decides he has reached field-goal range
He punts as they are sandwiching me past the security barrier:
'You know those billable hours?'
He doesn't wait for an acknowledgement to finish 
'Now, I am going to enjoy paying those lawyers!' 

The still confused security guards don't take the handcuffs off until I am outside.
One snatches the visitor badge off my shirt while the other warns me in the voice of a guy who is not paid nearly enough to deal with problems like me:
'Buddy, don't ever try to enter this building again.'
His partner, who had the back luck of holding my left arm, looks at the blood on his hands then at the ragged pattern of divots in my arm with increasing dismay
Instinct tells me the fun is just beginning:
'You should wash your hands'
He looks at me but has not registered the full potential of it in his brain so I continue:
'With a lot of soap'
In the corner of my eye, I see his partner rest his hand on his nightstick even though my tone remains that of friendly advice:
'Then wash 'em again when you're done.'
Unease pushes them both a step back at the same time 
With them no longer blocking my view, I can see the tinted glass that has enough sunlight making its way through for me to see the blue and white Sears bag that is my luggage.
Even in the limited light, Clark's fake reading glasses still do not hide his identity from me
He looks to his right
Right before tires screech the arrival of several SUVs
One of the Suburbans jumps the curb as two others swerve to take the buses' space
The two guards jump back as if the vehicles are there to ram them
Clark is looking at me with alarm as I shake my head, no, to keep him right where he is.
I have done it to say, if you join them, Lois is fair game
But something about telling him to stay out of my problem, horrifies him more than the worry I tried to trigger in him earlier
I am trying to decipher his reaction as multiple voices shout an uneven chorus as boots pile out of SUVs and pound a running chorus closer:
'Federal Agents!'
'Down on the ground!'
The two guards throw their hands up and drop to their knees
That these two think the joke is on them, is the best joke since Lois' Valley Girl imitation
Hearty laughter rolls out of me as I watch look at me with a new fear as a squad of federal agents in tactical gear tackle me from behind
Arms are bound first
Legs are next
Just like how it was in Dr. Chen's funhouse.
One of the tactical officers seems to take extra care to press his hardened kneepad into my temple while the others bind my limbs
It is nowhere near enough to keep me from smiling at Clark who is ignoring the war being ignited right in front of him so that he may revisit what must be a more painful memory
He looks back from his past and at me
Even from here I can see that his fears have increased exponentially
A needle-sharp jab to my left arm only widens my smile as I try to understand the cause of the unexpected homerun I hit inside of his mind
The guard watching it happen, looks at the blood on his hand with a new level of horror. 
I can gloat no longer.
The diming light brings back the memory of a warm cinnamon roll with cold milk.

The TV screen pops static electricity as it turns off; the old convex screen of the console unit reflects my grandmother's kitchen; she is patiently waiting for me to stop pouting and go upstairs to take a bath, Her dress, fashioned in an alien version of Victorian English, is in stark contrast with the lime green appliances of grandmother's '70s era kitchen...  

The side of my face is slimy.
Handcuffs pull tight as I try to rub the drool from my cheek
A squat padlock has been welded to the table with the keyhole facing away
Metallic blue and brunt yellow is the weld's encircling rainbow of scorched metal
The padlock speaks to me in the colonel's voice: 
'You are not going to walk away from this.' 
I look up from the lock
Expecting to see the colonel staring his, I told you so, back at me
A narrow florescent light behind the observation-room's two-way mirror is on; causing the image in the mirror to be a mix of the lighted observation room and the darkened interrogation room.
I should not be able to see through the two-way mirror.
I look at the fresh weld surrounding the lock in a new light:
Someone fucked up and that someone is still in charge.
Then back up to the rectangle of light at the back of the observation room and predict the future without the bug's toxic help:
You will get a chance to see just who fucked-up in a few minutes.
Toes wiggle at the ends of numb feet.
They took your shoes.
I consider the implication:
The colonel was telling two truths in one sentence:
'You are not going to walk.'
Instantly I know how this Q&A session will end:
The next time I wake up, I will be back in the glass cube.
Sedated.
Looking at my pillow.
Telling myself, it is only a dream.
Maybe it was?
I know it is more
And the desire for my life not to be only a dream of forgotten dreams becomes a temptation
Head drops to the table
A fact whispers back from the darkness of closed eyes:
I am at the crossroads...
Abandon hope
Surrender to captivity
Or
Keep going
Keep pushing
Make them all make choices.
My answer is the patriotic theme:
Freedom isn't free.
That something so benign is a dog-whistle for warmongers becomes a dry joke
The chuckle starts in my chest
The chair squeaks as it slides.
The unexpected movement swats the humor from my mind
The chair moves backwards an inch, then stops
Breath stays held in by a tight chest as I look at the handcuffs held firmly to the table by the padlock
What if I slid off the chair before the tranquilizer wore off? 
I would hang from my hands.
I press down on rubbery feet to test the idea of standing-up:
Ankles press into feet that are numb with the loss of circulation
It would be like trying to stand on narrow stumps
I would have to shout for help
Like a victim  
The cold air blowing on my back, stops.
The sound of the industrial air-conditioning unit stops with it.
Silence.
In the dark silence I feel it:
You
Are
Not
Alone
General Zod said it to the world in every language a year ago
I didn't even have a data plan for my phone and I still heard it
My phone buzzing its activating glow from my left jeans pocket like a poltergeist 
A twitch from the memory of reaching for it turns my head to the shadow
Shadow within the shadow caused by the light cut by the end of the mirror as it stops a less than two feet short of the wall:
He's just standing there.
Desert camouflage BDUs serving their purpose by mixing shadow and off-white wall in the corner of an office building
Big-game rifle draped across his chest
Right hand resting on the rifle's pistol grip
Left hand slack across the top of the thick barrel
I already know I do not need to consider another alternative
The insult I throw is unconsciously softened by the relief of not waking up in the arms of a stranger:
'Ricky, you asshole.'
He drops his shoulder to pivot the rifle slowly
Hand slides down the lower receiver as he slowly pivots with it
The tip of the rifle lifts up
Catching the light from behind the two-way mirror as it does
The big bore of its muzzle points menacingly at the empty space a foot in front of the table 
The fluted square attached to the end of the barrel says the weapon's recoil is too strong fire without the counterbalance of a muzzle-brake
His plan is to shoot her in the back as she tries to unlock my handcuffs
Maybe even in the same moment she asks me if I am, okay    
The idea she will even show up, much less ask if I am, okay, causes a giggle to burst out.
I skip the part of telling him she doesn't care and attack the biggest flaw in his plan:
'Do you not fucking remember the ass-kicking you got in Smallville?'   
I make fists to try to get the tingling vibration to leave my hands
He stance straightens so he may continue twisting at the hip
The barrel moves slowly to point at me to let me know he will get to fire his rifle twice if he gets to fire once
His silent threat only increases my need to fight
I can only smile at the other problem I know Lex Luthor is trying to give him:
'Yeah... Big talk for a guy, who's already had his silver bullet sold to a higher bidder.'
The dark barrel lowers out of the light and hides back into the shadow 
A small light is added to the one behind the two-way mirror
The old man in the lab coat doesn't like that I am able to look at right at him as he stands there
He quickly shuts off the light
The light coming from the hallway behind him shows him leaving quickly.
That's right old-man, you don't want no part of this.
Our room becomes pitch black as the door closes behind the professor.
Silence reigns for only a minute before Ricky lets me in on his secret:
'Lucy, I want you to pay attention when the light comes on.'
I can only think of what Ricky's real secret is:
Where the hell are you from?
I search my mind once again and still hear only that there is no obvious influence to his accent
Pop called this the Walter Cronkite effect
The banality of syndicated TV is where Ricky is from.
In the silent darkness of the interrogation room, I can hear the toothpick roll across teeth
His voice says he has something to smile about and so it becomes a joy Ricky cannot hold in
So much so, that he doesn't even try:
'There's a new player in the game.'
The double row of florescent light fixtures above us, clicks on, the instant the electric door-lock open with a harshly metallic, 'thunk'
The loud buzzing of the remote-controlled lock keeps going even as the door is pushed wide open
Ricky's shoulder is resting easy on the wall
Barrel pointing back down to the floor at the same angle of his slouch
With the light on, Ricky's rifle appears to be the same enormous .50 caliber rifle he held out in the desert, but now, the long sniper barrel has been cut down so far so that the weapon looks like oversized submachine gun.
It also looks brand-new.
His posture telling me he was willing to rely solely on his reflexes if the moment had arrived while he was catnapping
A firm fact is established in my mind:
You can count on Ricky to cancel your daydreaming 
He smiles at the idea I am thinking of his gun
He pushes his rifle a little closer to make sure I notice the source of his confidence
The fine print of his legal agreement is a name spoken with the same confidence of his wraparound sunglasses:
'Wayne fucking Enterprises, bitch.'
The briefcase being set down hard, tries to interrupts our moment
A glance at the traveling salesman tells me he is familiar with the familiarity he is joining.
Briefcase latches open with a dull, 'clunk'
Pale in his dark blue in his suit, he begins unspooling different cords from their stations
A switch flips.
Lighted dials glow as a soft electric whirring begins
He does not look at me until he is done pulling the cords from their hidden reels
His voice is fine example of Ivy League disdain for all things not Ivy League:   
'Are you going to cooperate?'
I turn away from his sour voice to work Ricky:
'Ricky, please tell me that you're not holding a rifle made by the king of spoiled brats, Bruce, I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-anybody-but-myself, Wayne?'
His toothpick droops with his slack jaw as the path of my insult becomes obvious: 
'Like what the fuck is that thing going to do, shoot champagne corks?'
Unable to fight the joke, he looks up at the ceiling and lets himself smile as I keep going
'Seriously, there's like no way, that party-favor is going to do anything more than unfurl a little flag that reads: Bang.'
His smile turns into a silent laugh as he keeps looking up to avoid letting me know he actually thinks I am funny:
'Lucy, you are the stupidest bitch ever.'
That he has seen the same cartoons as me is a comforting reinforcement of what I have already guessed about him.
I look back to the agent as he asks it with more force:
'Are you going to cooperate?'
Ignoring his expression of anticipated disappointment, I give him a look that says he is interrupting
As I do, I recognize immediately his attire is trying to downplay how expensive it is; for neutrality does hide the richly textured silk his brown tie is made of
A shiny spot on the lapel of his Brooks Brothers navy blue suit catches my attention
An American flag lapel pin shines brightly as a permanently waving trapezoid
You know this guy, too!
I look up from my superficial judgment to stare into the returning stare of his bright hazel eyes in order to search for his answer, and find only my imagination...
End of an outrageously expensive bar; holding court with a trio of girls, he allows his pedigree to complete his introduction; the girls laugh a competing desire to enjoy his parent's money as he argues the superiority of his Alma mater with a martini glass held by a pinky-finger extended hand...
I huff a laugh at the idea we would have ever been friends, much less met anywhere else, but here:
'Hey.'
His expression falls further as his anticipation of disappointment is confirmed
Left wrist twists against the handcuff bracelet so I can point a thumb to Ricky:
'Can't you see we're talking?' 
His mouth cracks open as he hears an oblique, I am already cooperating
He pounces on it.
Pulling the node's adhesive cover off before he thumbs it onto my right temple
He voice is a rehearsed routine:
'I am going to establish a baseline.'
He presses a thumb heavily on the side of my temple
The force feels excessive for what the adhesive needed
I lean back as the next one is peeled free
Tilting my head back to make way for his leaning reach into my t-shirt so he can attach one to my chest
I wait until his hand is under my t-shirt before whispering it into his ear:
'This isn't our first date, is it?'  
He stiffens before pasting the next one on the scar burned into inside of my right elbow
I press my accusation harder as he attaches the last node on the inside of my right wrist
'You slipped me a Rufi, last time, didn't ya?'  
He does not look up or reply until he is seated:
'State your full name.'
I turn away:
'Ricky...'
He just looks at the agent trying to measure the effect of the needling I have just given him
'You wouldn't believe how shitty alien TV is.'
Ricky looks back to me:
'Lucy, it's time to get serious'
I let him know why it's not:
'Look, mister perfect voice of Ricky Ricardo, I know you used to watch a lot of TV; so, trust me, you're gonna love this...'
The agent's backhand is just a light, knuckle rapping cuff to go with his sharp voice:
'Pay attention!'
My retort fires fast as I spin to face my assailant:
'You fucking pay attention, I'm telling a story about a documentary I watched on alien TV!'
There is worry in his bright hazel eyes
Worry, not only to the fact he should not have felt so comfortable hitting me, but also to the fact that I do not care
I look back to Ricky who also seems surprised that I don't care.
'Ricky, are you really telling me that you don't want to hear about how the Kryptonians suited up everyone who could fight and fired their entire race like it was a bullet at an alien king hiding in an enormous ball of bug soldiers?'
Curiosity gets the better of him:
'No shit?'
It is like telling a story on the playground:
'Dude, in the graphic, the scale of bugs versus Kryptonians looked like us sending the navy out to attack Jupiter.'
His toothpick goes slack as he considers it:
'How did they win that one?'
The agent intervenes:
'Operator!'
Ricky looks pissed that he won't get to hear the story, but nods his agreement at the agent and stiffens his posture to show me he is now on duty.
The agent says it to the back of my head as I stare at Ricky:
'Let us begin.'
I show the agent how it is done:
'Ricky, have you ever tortured somebody?
Toothpick firms its point outward as Ricky's face stiffens 
Normally he would swagger with the chance to play intimidator, but this time he feels uncomfortable
Maybe because we are on American soil...
The agent tries again:
'State your full name.'
Ignoring the agent, I press on my impression:
'No, not just arrest foreplay'
Ricky's eyes focus on mine
I smile as I see his concern leap ahead to where I am going:
'But dirty stuff, like those games you ain't supposed to play no more?'
His eyes drop to dead serious as he realizes that, like it or not, he is here to play
Just as I am
He moves to put me in-check; so, the Agent can begin his game: 
'You saying it's your time to level-up?'
I smile as I see his, yes
'See Ricky...'
The agent fires his backhand a little harder
The blow glances a pointed knuckle off the back of my head
Knocking it downward
Causing me to blink
Ricky is watching me take it
Interested only in how I am reacting
The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile as I pick up where I left off:
'See that why it's always him in the room with me.'
Ricky smile grows a little more knowing
'Same reason you keep coming around.'
A little gleam in his eyes begins to shine
The agent tries putting more force in his voice:
'State your full name'
His bright hazel eyes try to match the determination in mine as I turn to face him
For an instant I think he looks like Lois Lane's older brother
High forehead and squared chin do not mask the delicateness of his face
Bright hazel eyes and perfectly coiffed blonde hair broadcast an air of intelligence
Clean shave and freshly dry-cleaned suit round out his professional demeanor   
Of all people, why is he an interrogator? 
He lets me fire first:
'You know my name.'  
Hearing me to be without complaint, his response is an attempt to reach for the cooperation he wants by giving me an answer I already know:
'I will establish a baseline using questions I know the answers of.'
Time for him to hear how Q&A really works
'See the narrow slice high on my cheek?'
He looks at it:
'And the one on my ear?'
He looks back in my eyes:
'That's how she asks questions.'
His determined gaze falters
I lean in and stick out my chin as far as the anchored set of handcuffs will let me
His hands move to adjust a dial on his polygraph machine
'This long one she gave me just to keep other men from wanting to look at me.'
His hands pull off the machine as he looks up to measure the threat he has heard by looking into my eyes
Ricky tries to deflect my attack, on his ally, with humor:
'Damn Lucy, you'd be better off with a desert trailer meth whore than that psycho alien bitch.'
I say it to the agent who has let his thoughts get lost measuring the disfiguring scar:
'Desert trailer...'
He is not seeing it coming
He is only thinking about having his face cut open for being pretty
A different voice injects encouragement:
Well, he is pretty.
I look at the lines starting form on his forehead then to the hair that is starting to thin
But he is also middle-aged
A look down catches what he has tried to hide:
The paler shadow of a thick wedding band he removed before he came in the room gives him away
Operational security.
I look away to Ricky to see what else is being hidden
See immediately his name and service-branch patches as missing from his BDU shirt 
Ricky's expression is still stuck on the same version of serious friends give you when they are trying to tell you it is time to stop using drugs.
His friendly concern drops as I smile knowingly at the idea, he may actually care about me
Like we both really know each other.
But from where? 
How?
I take a gamble on desert-trailer:
'Brah, are you just some snowbird's grand-baby outta Arizona?'
He almost spits his toothpick out for giving him the over familiarity of a locker-room insult
His swaggering-smile tries to tell me he thinks, locker-room fight, is a game he is good at:
'Did you just try to, Bro, me, cracker?'
That his instinct is to let him, be himself, is a green-light to the idea that he intended his insult to be more humorous than injurious
I lean back with a real smile as I return his volley:
'Yeah... You too poor and too black to be from Phoenix.'
That I have not judged him as being a soft-suburban kid is a relief that further softens his counter punch:
'Lucy, what does a redneck bitch like you know about poor and black?'
The agent tries to get control with a hand slamming down on the table as he exclaims growing frustration:
'Operator!'
That he is ruining my fun pulls a sharp rebuke from me as I turn and fire:
'Fuck you, Ivy League!'
His jaw sets.
'It's not my problem that you can't tell if a man's lying by looking in his eyes.'
His expression settles into calm as he sees the high road he must take
He speaks as if he was the one teaching the class:
'There will be others in the observation room who will look to me for certainty in ascertaining the veracity of your responses.' 
Ascertain Veracity?
'Man, sell that shit somewhere else'
His frown is one of irritation.
'Because you already know, I don't talk if I don't want to.'
He looks up to Ricky as he tries to measure what is different about today
He leans back in his chair as he looks back to measure me again
Says it as if he knows something:
'You want to cooperate.'
I shrug my shoulders
Feel the pull of the handcuffs fastened to a padlock
Know instantly that cooperation will not equal freedom
Decide today is all the fun I will get to have:
'Tell, you what... Before this party gets started, how about you fire the one question you want an answer to?'
His hands hover by the side of his machine as he stares at me
First to my smile
Then to my eyes
He leans in as our gaze holds:
'What do the Kryptonians want?'
His answer is a disappointed huff of air blown in his direction
I slump without looking away
'Come on, man, does it look like I know anything?'  
His posture deflates as he sees what he already suspects
'Hey'
He looks up with renewed attention
'Save that shit for the dummies behind the glass.'
His eyes lock mine as he hears opportunity knocking
'Give me the question you want.'
His head tilts to the side as his tongue goes under his upper lip as he weighs it
His mouth cracks open as he asks what should be a simple question:
'Why didn't they just kill you?' 
Good question!
'They got this fancy medical machine'
He looks down at his own machine
'That can heal a burn or a stab wound'
He looks up the point on my chest then up to my eyes
'As easily as it can scramble your memories'
He looks back down to his machine without a hint of irony to confirm he knows his machine sucks in comparison
'The device in my head'
His attention is on the illuminated dials of his machine
'Is linked to the computer running that machine.' 
The agent pushes back from his machine
Pulls out his phone
Unspools a cord from the polygraph machine then starts thumbing furiously on it as soon as the two are connected
I let his thumbs work
Watch his eyes dart back and forth across the sentences he is typing
Pulling his leash tight as I see him reading:
'I've been booby trapped by a ruthless computer who considers me its son'
He stops typing and looks up
His look is that of a person who has been pushed onto the subway train-tracks by a stranger.
'And when it finds out what you assholes have been up to...'
Panic strikes him.
His grimace is real before I can even say it:
'Tyler Durden'
He flinches as he looks at his machine
I repeat it for effect:
'Tyler Durden.'
His frown is the result of his trying to control the emotions of his face
He goes back to typing
I look back to Ricky
Notice the grip on his rifle has tightened
Look up to take a long look at a face partially hidden behind sunglasses
Longish face, high forehead, high cheek-bones, low broad nose, and a block of a chin
Ask myself a repeating question:
Where do I know you from?
He steels his face as my fingers starts tapping the stainless-steel table
My finger stops tapping as I consider how that is...
Hard enough to be from Gotham
But somehow isn't 
Nor has he picked up an accent from the place he moved to
Light-blub comes on:
His parents moved
Maybe for opportunity
Maybe for survival
I smile as I count my cards
Poor and black with only one-way out:
Crime
And there is only one place where crime is legal enough to still score a job with the government.
I go all in on my bet:
'Las Vegas.'
The toothpick goes slack as his mouth falls open.
We should be brothers.
I feel the need to let him to know I think we are:
'See don't you dare go looking down on me, because now I know you trash, just like me.'
His silence response is a stare hating the idea that I am going to get in his mind
Not the other way around
He tries to push me away:
'Playtime is over, Lucy'
I smile temptation's offering:
'Come on, Ricky, now's the time to ask your question.'
He frowns silently as he considers his options
Tries to avoid the trap 
'Lucy, you talk all the time and say nothing'
His boots scuff the floor as he shifts his stance
His voice is a threat delivered with granite hard certainty:
'Maybe I should just put an end to all your useless trash talk by beating some teeth out of your mouth?'
I hear it in his voice:
Ricky will kick your ass
There is, though, something else...
My foot twitches at the ankle
Toes wiggle
Bare feet begin to feel the cold of the floor
To get the party started, I throw some cold water him:
'Was that really a question?'
He knows that me giving him the smartass routine is a dare for him to do as he offered
He stiffens as he considers my taunt then tries to loosen up like a physical fight is about to begin
His head tilts to snap a pop from the bones in his neck
The toothpick sticks out straight from the corner of his smirking mouth as he leads with his left because his right hand is still on his gun:
'How's that alien pussy, Lucy?'
Fuck you, Ricky
'I wouldn't know.'
That I have not given him the macho answer catches him off guard
His toothpick hangs loose in his surprise
I lean back
Confess to what I cannot remember:
'Never even kissed her.'
The toothpick droops down to the point of almost falling out
It points to the side as he tries to imagine it:
'Then what the fuck happened up there?'
'The computer...'
He shakes his head to say he knows better than to believe me
'Fuck that Lucy, that shit that happened to you wasn't from a...'
I cut him off
'Yeah, sure, they play rough.'
The idea of it makes him uncomfortable
No, Lucy, you know that's not what I'm talking about.'
I can only smile as I ask:
'What's the gossip, Ricky?'
The agent interrupts:
'I need to complete my baseline questions.'
I turn away when Ricky can't bring himself to repeat what he has heard:
'1187 Hunterbuster...'
He looking at his machine as I finish his question:
'Smallville, Kansas'
His is studying the dial as I hit him:
'You got a child?'
His flinch says he does.
I lean in and laugh at how easily he is thrown off balance
His eyes just glare a snap of anger as his pupils flitter fast between my knowing grin and the hate I am letting out of my eyes
I gamble
A gamble based on his prettiness:
'Daughter.'
His jaw sets
Bingo!
'Is she has pretty as you?'
He can only think about pulling his right-hook as he sees me turn into it
Neck jerks back as the blow connects
Handcuffs snap tight
Sideways slide ejects the metal chair out from underneath me
Teeth click as chin hits the edge of the table on the way down
For an instant I hang by the handcuffs
Nose stings
Mouth tastes cooper as it runs flows out
I pull my feet underneath me to alleviate the real pain of the edge of the table pressing into my chest
Ricky waits until he sees me sit up before he talks into the small mike on his left shoulder:
'Stand down, Breach Team.'
By the time I can push up, the salesman is standing with his back to me
His hands are raised above his head
He pumps the air with raised hands as Ricky agrees with what just happened by saying it as if it were a simple matter of fact:
'You had that coming.'
I look down to let the drops dribble down my shirt
I look at him with a bloody smile
He chews his toothpick as he tells me his worry:
'So don't you turn crying-bitch on us now, Lucy.'
The giggle jumps out of me as I feel the drops land on my t-shirt
'Come on Ricky, you know every girl likes a little foreplay.'
He does not like my lack of concern:
'Lucy, you are one sick fuck.'
I roll my tongue out to taste it
He shakes his head, but does not look away from my tongue
I smile as I see him looking
'You know the sellouts running this dying country may give me back to Zod just to say, sorry, for their Ivy League son hitting me right then'
He shaking his head no, but now there is new alarm showing in his expression 
'So, if you want to get yourself some, it's, now or never, Ricky.'
Worry undermines his retort:
'You are going straight back to the nuthouse after this.'
A little bloody spittle spays out as I giggle nervously:
'Nah, brah...'
His expression hardens further as he hears confidence in my voice
'I know you can smell a rat, Ricky, so I think we both know they gonna sell me, just like they sold me to Lex... This time though, maybe that company will have already been bought by Zod.'
His gritting teeth tells me he is already full of his own suspicions:   
'Then I'm gone'
His eyes flash up to mine
I taunt him with the speed in which it will happen:
'Poof, gone, just like Keyser Soze got fucking gone...'
His hands squeeze a rifle he dares not use
'Look at me, Ricky, because I dare you to tell me that I'm lying'
His jaw clenches as he sees me just staring
The agent walks behind
Picks up the chair and shoves it in behind me
I say it as I take a seat:
'So where were we?'
His glare says he is not above giving me another one
From the inside of his open suit coat the holster of a pistol waves, hello, from his armpit
A door at the rear of the observation room opens
The light coming from behind the mirror shows a sturdy figure filling the doorway, followed by a diminutive outline of the same old man who came in then left, plus the smaller frame of a woman entering behind them.
Their outlines disappear as the woman shuts the door
The mirror's image re-sharpens as the backroom light goes out
The Colonel Hardy's voice reveals him as soon as soon as he notices it
His voice a barking command that is also a rebuke:
'Team Leader!'
I smile as Ricky says it:
'Tactical control, Sir; suspect just lost his balance.'
The awkward silence makes me smile
Then as I see my smile in the mirror, I can no longer see Ricky or the agent
Just,
Me
Not the scars
Not the bruising
Not the blood
Not the greasy hair
Only my smile
A smile that is not mine
The smile I only see when I look in a mirror for too long...
How have you survived this long in front of a mirror this big without noticing it?
I look for Ricky
The corner of the room is empty.
I look for the agent
His machine sits abandoned
Wires still attached to me lead to it
Phone lays face down, on the far side of the machine, soft amber lights tell me it is still working
I let out a sigh
This is the reason why you live alone.
Work alone. 
Why you understand why she will never love you back...
The shout brings me back:
'Lucy!'
Ricky's leaning over me:
He looks pissed.
I can only laugh as I take a guess at how I have pissed him off:
'Sup?'
His snap is immediate:
'Focus!'
I lean back.
Longish face, high forehead, high cheek-bones, low broad nose, and a block of a chin...
Whisper the thought as it arrives with the force of conviction:
'I know you from somewhere.'
He just shakes his head, no, as he tells me what I missed:
'The Colonel asked you a question!'
It breaks up my thought
I look to the mirror
See my reflection is gone.
Lost in the reflection of the plastic chrome squares dividing the panel of the florescent light, as I look to Ricky's immediate left and find a spot where I imagine the Colonel is hiding:
'What's up?'
His voice has lost his usual confrontational verve:
'Are you injured?'
I look to the agent
He is looking down at his machine as I think about the lie, I should tell
Then adjust the normal lie to match Ricky's lie:
'I just lost my balance.'
The agent goes to shake his head, no
Then freezes still.
Smiles as he looks up
I catch his eyes as he does
'Do you like what your machine has to say?'
His grin says confidence is restored
He feels free to begin his salesman routine once again.
I close my eyes as we talk about 'who' I officially am, until we arrive at the question of my mother's maiden name
I find myself unwilling to speak it.
Open my eyes to Ricky
It comes out of nowhere:
'Ricky, what's your mother's maiden name?'
Every muscle in his body tightens
Tactical gloves compress over his rifle
Behind his dark yellow shooter's sunglasses his eyes try to bore a furious hole in me
I scan a look across the mirror as I give Ricky a pass on the same question I was unwilling to answer:
'Hey, who's all back there?'
The Colonel says it for everyone:
'Agent, I think it is time to proceed'
The agent nods.
The Colonel's fires a quick one:
'What is Zod planning?'
I can only smile as I look at the agent:
'See, I told you, you could leave the dumbass questions to the people behind the glass.' 
From his nose down posture his eyes roll upwards to throw his displeasure at being dragged into my insult 
His retort is a polite one:
'Please answer the question.'
I look back the Colonel's spot in the mirror
It was only Sunday that Zod said it, and considering what he actually said, I feel free to repeat it:
'Zod said he was gonna do all he can to make sure we lived in peace.'
Colonel Hardy does not wait to learn the machine operator's opinion before expressing his immediate frustration:  
'I thought you were cooperating?'
That Zod has given me great material to work with by lying to Martha is the best prank I have been able to play in a long time
I cannot help feeling the agent's integrity dangling in breeze as I continue answering the question:
'And Zod said he was disappointed to hear that I was too stupid not to understand how valuable the resources of Lex Corp were to the future of mankind.' 
I can feel the polygraph operator looking at me as I can only find more humor in repeating Zod's falsely positive statement  
The salesman is shaking his head, no, but he cannot bring himself to disagree
His perfectly coiffed blonde hair slashes away the moment's irony as it reminds me of often my was shaved without my permission.
My voice flattens as I speak to him since he has no mirror to hide his expression behind:
'Those are almost verbatim quotes, right there.'
The salesman's face freezes before I can look back to the mirror to release the hostility:
'So now, Colonel, why don't you tell me what your real problem with Zod is?' 
His verbal uppercut says his patience is already waning:
'You and I both know Zod does not have America's interest at heart.'
I take the Fifth Amendment with a shrug of my shoulders.
A softer voice tests my apparent conflict of interest:
'Considering the injuries you sustained as a prisoner; I am interested in learning why you remain loyal to the aliens?'
Since it feels like a personal question, I try again to remember his name:
'Hey, who are you again?'
The Colonel answers for him:
'We are the ones asking the questions'
I lean back in the chair
I can feel the salesman stare at the side of my head as I watch Ricky's fingers tap the trigger guard of his new rifle
I look to the agent:
'You need to tell them how this works.'
Ricky intervenes:
'Lucy, I want an answer to that one, too.'
Grew up in Las Vegas, but is hard enough to be from Gotham...
I put a poker chip down on Black:
'You were born in Gotham, weren't you, Ricky?'
The barrel tilts upward an inch as he warns:
'Dangerous game you're playing.'
I point to where, in the mirror, I think the colonel is hiding:
'Come on, being from Gotham is obvious, like how that Colonel is from Gotham, but not from Gotham...'
I look to the mirror
Think of my time in the Army
Time that gave me opportunity to talk to people from all over the country
The fake chrome squares of the reflected plastic light fixture cover say it for me:
'Like steel mill, working class, outskirts of Gotham.'
The Colonel has also had enough of me zeroing in on them, and weighs-in with a more important observation:
'Why did you tell us about Lex Luthor?'
Because that guy is an asshole! 
'Because Lex came into that jail you put me in and shocked by triggering that thing in my head.'
The Colonel gives me Lex's alibi:
'There is no record of him entering the facility.'
I look to find a shred of my reflection in the distortion caused by the overhead light fixture
Finding a piece of me in the light fixture's distortion, contort my face to see if any more blood is going to come out
Wrinkle it and feel the pain buried as soreness
He moves on:
'How did you make contact with Zod?'
My frustration is instant because the question is one he should know the answer to:
'I didn't make contact with him, Lex did when he figured out how to trigger that thing in my head... Oh no, wait, that didn't happen... My bad!'
I look to the salesman to see if he is going to disagree
The Colonel barks his question as soon as he nods his agreement:
'What did you and Zod talk about?'
That he is getting pushy is becoming a problem
So, I fight back with increasing passive-aggression:
'Filing for unemployment'
The salesman looks up after he nods
Hardy doubles-down on the idea a better truth is approaching:
'What else?'
I stare at the agent who should be a salesman
Like pharmaceutical sales
His is looking at me with impatience as he prods:
'Answer the colonel'
I smile as I lie:
'I don't remember.'
He looks to the mirror with a shake of, no
I say it as if he was a dog:
'Who's a good boy?'
His fist he makes is the real joke
I roll with a laugh so the mirror can see it
Look for the Colonel's spot behind the mirror and fire open hostility:
'What was your useless question, Colonel Custer?'
His snap releases an equal measure:
'Your conversation with Zod?
I can only smile
'Are you sure it happened, I mean, I thought the one with Lex and I happened, but...'
I look to Ricky
He's leaning forward
Seeing new in me that something he doesn't like:
'Maybe I just imagined that, too?'
The agent steps in without a hint of anger in his voice:
'From memory, how did your conversation with General Zod go?'
When I look back, I can see the agent is also irritated with the Colonel's questions
I nod my acceptance of his partnership
He looks down at his machine as I answer:
'Zod said I was to do as Lex Luthor asked me to do, by going to his place in Metropolis.' 
He nods as he studies his dials:
'Anything else?'
'Zod said there was no place on this planet I could escape from the device in my head, so I had better do as I was told'
He nods as he studies his dials:
'Anything else?'
'For doing as he asked, Zod said he would plug me back into the computer.'
His face pops up in alarm
I taunt him with a giggle as I whisper it:
'Checkmate.'
His fear becomes palpable as I let the laugh roll
The Colonel tries to retake the reigns
'What does Zod think he will get from Lex Luthor?'
I shout it:
'Hey fucker, were you in Smallville?'
I look to Ricky who is on the edge of violence himself:
'Seriously Ricky, did you follow this hothead into that slaughter?'
Ricky's toothpick points straight out as his lips purse shut
I point my finger from hold handcuffs hold:
'You fuckers fired first, didn't you?'
His head shake of, no, is too non-committal
I pounce on his confession:
'Oh, fuck you Ricky, don't tell me you're sore from losing a fight that asshole started.'
He snarls as if to say, shut-up, but says nothing
I express my disappoint in his anger towards Her:
'Yeah... You gotta lot of nerve.'
His toothpick switches corners in his mouth
He says it to slap the idea away from his conscience:
'They are alien invaders, Lucy, so don't you forget whose home this is.'
I start wagging my finger:
'Ricky, that's old news... Now they're just trying to be part of the machine that's already running things; so, brother please listen to me when I say that if you stay under Colonel Sucker-Punch's wings, you gonna miss your chance to join the winning team.'
The colonel tries to cut me off:
'We're past the point of diminishing returns.'
In my mind I hear the Colonel say something else:
'This is the land of the free.'
It hits the launch button on the anger at being jailed for no reason, on the orders of people, who, if they knew the score, would have already killed Lex Luthor
I look to the far right, thinking there is someone else behind the mirror; someone who may have a sense of decency
What I see is an unrecognizable reflection of myself
A reflection that winks even though I do not wink.
It is like a light is turned on inside of me
The joke was there all along
After all
I was in the Army
Stationed at a base in a dirty town full of dirty nobodies who were willing to do dirty things for money
That they could also get a husband who had a good government job, just made them that much more eager to be eager
So ready or not Colonel, here I come:
'What, you got missiles incoming, or is it just ladies-night at the officer's club?'
Ricky and the agent snap upright.
The colonel shouts:
'Tell us what you know!'
That Dex may soon have nuclear missiles to fire is the best joke ever
I look over at the agent
Lean in laughing at his panicked face
Stick out my chin
Daring him to do it:
'Know what, about what?'
With a jumping lean forward, he fires a one-two leading with his right
Right lands on the side of my nose
Left lands on the side of my ear
Jaw hits the edge of the table as I go down
Handcuffs snap tight as the chair slides away
Head spins as feet push up to relieve the pain of hanging from my writs
Standing up, but forced to lean over the table is when I see it
On the cap stuffed into the pocket of Ricky's cargo pocket an embroidered name patch
OORE
The connection is automatic:
Moore
I look up
Seeing it as it is:
Longish face, high forehead, high cheek-bones, low broad nose, and a block of a chin
Oh, you fucking asshole, if she ever finds out you were in this room with me...
The unknowable face he is seeing on me begins to worry him
In my mental pause he tries to tell me that it is I who has fucked up:
'When I say you're going away, Lucy, I mean you are going away forever this time.'
I drop my head, nose down, to the table
I can feel it collect on my upper lip
Then dribble into my mouth
I bend over to smear it out across my face
The words come out with vengeance at the jam he has helped put me in:
'Ricky I am going to look up your mother when I get out'
I smear it out from the other flowing nostril, wishing I could see myself in the smudged table
Or that I has a chance to look in the mirror to see what it looks like before Gotham Ricky see it
I am still looking down as he unleashes his last warning:
'Run down that dead-end and you find me waiting in a dark alley for you, Lucy.'
I look up and fire my face into the mirror of Ricky's eyes:
'No Ricky!'
Shouting my rage as I do:
'That's how I found my real Father!' 
He falls back against the wall
Grip on his rifle loosens as he slides back into the arms of the room's corner
The professor tries to interrupt:
'Colonel get him out of there.'
But his voice is too absentminded, too lacking in urgency for anyone to hear it
I see myself as I turn to the salesman...
The blood is just a smeared blob on each side of my face
Let's see what the agent thinks of my clown-face!
He is glaring a stern resolve as I turn to him
That he thinks he is ready, is the joke the kicks my smile higher:
'So, fucker you better know, that I will not forget about you'
His stern resolve breaks even before I can finish with rage:
'Or your fucking family!'
It shatters his will
I lean in and laugh a sound that triggers his manhood
He runs up from his place away from table and slugs me
A solid one on the cheek
Head snaps back but my stance holds
Tug of handcuffs keeps me from falling
Eyes lock into Ricky's as I right myself
The right side of my upper lip and nose feel like the dentist chair
I lunge before I can straighten
Handcuff bracelets bite deep as I push with my legs to get my shout as close to him as I can:
'Wrong side of the war, Ricky!'
He doesn't know she returned
His error does nothing to knock the anger out of me
'And if I get to your mother first!'
You won't
But he can see it
See I know where she is
Panic strikes him
I jump another shout at him
Skin tears as the handcuffs bite
Spittle flies as I scream:
'She's gonna fucking kill you herself!'
The colonel screams it:
'Team Leader!'
In the mirror I can see it:
The agent's pistol is being pulled out of his armpit holster
The arm straightening is an attempt to point the pistol at the back of my head  
Ricky twists like a dog shaking off water.
His rifle lifting in a fluid motion
Firing is an act of reflex
I jump back from the sound of Ricky's rifle as it fires   
In the confine of the small room it is a crater causing explosion
Handcuffs snap tight to stop my jump backwards
Ears ring
I can sense the thump of the salesman hitting the wall
Head down, I look up to Ricky
The rifle is held slackly
His mouth open
I can't hear him say it
But I can read his shock as his mouth moves with bitterness:
'Fuck.'
Only the radio squawks loud enough to be heard over the ringing in my ears
'Breach Team Leader is down!'
I look over to the door, expecting it to burst open
The door to the room is still closed
The salesman is a crumpled pile of blue suit under a stain of that red that has dragged itself down the wall
The dark center in the red stain showing where the bullet kept traveling through the cinderblock wall  
Eyes return to Ricky
He is still eyeing the body of the salesman with disbelief  
I can hear it come out me
Something I have always kept locked within me
The voice of the man who raised me:
'Dumbass!'
Ricky blinks as the voice begins to trigger his subconscious like it would mine:
'You just fucked up the easiest out of the game!'
His face already hardening as it registers the impact of what the game's loss means to him
'Him killing me would have freed you to go get Lex Luthor, you fucking idiot!'
In his stunned expression he begins to see the opportunity he actually had
But with everything undone, my rant ends the same way Pop's always did...
With a threat:
'Now we're both fucked you, dipshit, dumbass, son of Linda!'
He steps forward
Just as they taught him to do
Shouting his war cry as he does:
'God damn you, Lucy!'
Raising the rifle to smash my face with the broad end of it
Downward butt-stroke was what the Army called it in basic training.
A cannonball is fired into the room: 
Ceiling tiles are smashed downward
Alien soldier in dark armor slams down on top of him
Knocked loose rifle slapping against my leg
The two-way mirror cracks as the floor underneath us buckles with a wave of disrupted floor tiles
The alien soldier's rifle fires the same pulsing blue bolt of energy as the beetle-jet's plasma engine as it raced over Smallville
Blue plasma shots hammer holes into the concrete wall
The Rifleman keeps turning
Firing his rifle once again into the metal door; then lifting his aim to send a blue lightshow burst of full automatic firing in an arc of plasma that blows out the glass of the interrogation room; as his shout booms a desire not to start a war by killing everyone:
'Stay down!'   
My ears keep ringing as if from being inside struck cymbals
I just look at the Rifleman with disbelief
The dangling light fixture throws harsh light wildly around the room as it swings...
You cannot escape the future you cause.
The Rifleman looks back from the shattered opening into the observation room
A florescent light fixture dangling down from the ceiling swings its unsheltered white light into my eyes
Blinding me until a second crash swats the light fixture down to the floor mid-swing
The smoke detector in the observation room goes off with an incessant chirping
The emergency exit light comes on at the rear of the observation room
An oversized hand wearing alien armor grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me backwards until the anchored handcuffs stop me
Arms snap painfully tight as my wrists try to squeeze through
The flash of light is red flash bulb
Having closed my eyes to late red spots swirl behind closed eyelids  
Sparks drop on my wrists
Hands jerk free as the chain is cut in two
I fall backwards, trying to jump away from the heat splashing onto my forearms
The hand pulling me now presses me to the ground
I look up at the Big-Guy breathless
He is looking at the blood on my face
The deep voice is even unhappier than he usually is:
'Injured?'
I know what I need
The why of why I need it, is intuitive 
I shout it as he looks up from the blood slowly oozing out of my nose:
'Get that rifle!'
He lets go of me to pull, what looks like the start of a camouflage parachute from a pouch on his utility-belt
I watch the fabric lengthen as he pulls
Thinking of it as some special device to float me up and out of the ceiling they just smashed in
The length of fabric stops short
Barely long enough to be a sleeping bag
Maybe it is a body-bag?
He opens it up and captures me, like he was a child and I was a frog that was about to hop away
A red light tries to shine through the gray-black splinter camouflage pattern of the sack's fabric as he covers me from head to toe
More of the ceiling seems to collapse around us
He jumps upward
The sack slaps hard like my body was a fastball thrown into a catcher's glove
The jolt smooths out then loses momentum before falling in the sensation of a long arc
I want out.
He drops me
Closes the lid above me
I exhale my fear of being dropped from high up
Tension falls away as I push my feet and hands out find start of the interior walls of the trunk
Engine torque tries to drag me to the rear of the trunk as the car accelerates in a long pull that is only interrupted in the pause of smoothly changing gears
I know whose car this is.
The acceleration torque of Zod's big two-door Cadillac is the same as Pop's V8 Lincoln 
I don't think of the advice every one insists they would follow if they got thrown in the trunk of a car, because I want to be where Zod is going
Slowly, I wiggle my way out of the bag trying not to bump against the trunk
Feet stretch out until they touch opposing wheel well
Laying on my side
Knees bent
I gather the heavy fabric with my hands and think of a guy who should have been my brother:
Ricky, you fuck-up, I told you who you needed to kill.
Missed opportunity becomes accepted as I shape the fabric, wiping my face on it as I form a pillow
In minutes, the muffled road vibration works its magic on my conscience. 

End of part 2