The House of the Earth part 4 (7/8): Clark
Title: Chapter Seven: Clark
Pairing/Characters: Kal/Bruce, Lex Luthor, Selina Kyle, the Kents and more
Notes: " The House of the Earth" is an AU in which a few thousand Kryptonians escaped the destruction of Krypton to flee to Earth and conquer its people.
Warnings: None needed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2700
Summary: Clark searches for his place in the new world.
"The new world seems to have some things in common with the old world," Kal grumbled as he watched the monitor in the infirmary. On the screen, Lex Luthor was directing rebuilding efforts in Metropolis, speaking earnestly into the camera.
"...Under my leadership, Metropolis will become a shining city on a hill, a haven of safety and prosperity for all willing to abide by my rules. The best and most promising of humankind are welcome to join us in shaping a new future free of the alien yoke..."
"It sounds rather nice," Tora Olafsdotter said almost wistfully from her infirmary bed, her silvery hair fanned out across her pillow.
"Sure it, sounds nice," snorted Ted Kord, starting to wave one cast-bound arm and giving up with a wince. "But what they don't show you is that he's kicking out any 'undesirables' who are too old or broken to be in his utopia. They don't show you the cameras on every street corner, monitoring people for disloyalty. Peace and order--but with a price."
Kal closed his eyes, remembering the people he had met in Metropolis, their bravery. John Henry Irons and his air of command. Lois Lane's quiet fire. "They deserve better than that," he heard himself murmur. "They deserve to be truly free."
"It never really ends," said Bruce's voice from his shoulder, causing him to jump a bit. His powers were starting to come back slowly with judicious time spent under the sun lamps, but they weren't at full. "The fight for freedom." Kal met his gaze and Bruce smiled at him wryly, his eyes affectionate.
"Have you heard from Guy?" Tora said from her bed, her voice small and wistful.
"I'm afraid not. But he'll be okay," Bruce said.
"I know." Tora turned her head away from them, gazing at the wall. "He knew it was going to happen. He told me before we left, that he'd be leaving. He knew they'd come to get him."
"Yes," Bruce agreed. "And they timed it just right so the Corps would show up just in time to keep the bloodshed to a minimum." He chuckled, so low Kal could barely hear it. "It was brilliant strategy. Jordan or Stewart must have cooked that one up, it certainly wasn't Gardner."
Tora's eyes flashed and she looked like she was about to defend Guy, but then she laughed. "Well," she said ruefully, "That's probably true."
"It required some restraint," Ted Kord noted from across the room, "Which is a good indication Guy went along only under serious duress."
Tora's light giggle faded off into a sigh. "I hope he'll come home soon."
"Trust me," Bruce said, "If I know Guy the Guardians are probably getting the tongue-lashing of their immortal lifetimes. They'll let him go just to be free of him." His eyes turned from Tora to Kal, and his smile warmed in a way Kal couldn't quite describe, a way that left Kal feeling a bit dizzy. "Kara wants to speak to you," he said. "She asked me to come get you. Can you walk?" He held out his hand and Kal took it, cautiously getting out of bed. Bruce slung an arm around him as they entered the corridors.
"I'm almost healed. I can walk on my own," Kal said.
"That's good to hear," said Bruce.
He didn't remove his arm.
Kara looked up as they entered her room. She was sealing up a small bag; the room was bare. "Cousin," she said, coming to Kal and embracing him. Her eyes were still sad, but there was a light in them Kal hadn't seen before, and a kind of peace. "I'll be leaving soon. I wanted to say goodbye."
"Leaving? But--"
"--The Green Lanterns have asked me to serve as a liaison between New Krypton and Oa. I've accepted. Not all of the Kryptonians supported this regime," she went on at Kal's horrified look. "Some of them are eager to rebuild someplace that's truly our own. The conditions are hard and cruel on our new planet, but it's a chance for a kind of redemption for those who are willing to learn once more how to be free of our own crippling system."
"But so many will hate you," Kal protested.
"My mother needs me," Kara said. "Her spirit was broken at my father's death. I can't leave her alone, even if she never forgives me."
"And what about your spirit? You'll be so alone," Kal said, but she shook her head with a small smile.
"My spirit wandered in darkness for a time," she said. "But I had forgotten something I never should have forgotten."
"Something you..." Kal let the sentence trail off into a question.
His cousin touched her heart lightly. "I told you once that even galaxies could not separate J'onn from me. In the darkness, I learned how true that was." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry, Kal. I will not be alone." She turned to Bruce, held out her hands; he took them in his and lifted them briefly to his lips. "Take care of my cousin, General Bat," she smiled.
"As well as I can," he said simply.
And then she was gone.
Bruce was looking at him. "I have to go too," he said, almost reluctantly. "I have to get back to Gotham. Find Alfred. Start rebuilding."
"Of course."
Bruce slipped something out of his pocket, held it out to Kal. "Come with me." Not a command. An invitation. Almost a plea.
Kal opened the glasses, ran his finger along the temple. "I can't. Not yet," he added as Bruce started to say something. "I'll come to you when the time is right. You know where you belong, Bruce. You know what you're supposed to be doing. Kal-El's job in this world is done. Clark Kent...he still needs to find his place."
Bruce nodded slowly, as if it pained him to agree. He leaned forward and brushed his lips gently across Kal's. "I'll be waiting for you."
: : :
There were lacy patterns of frost on the window, pale golden sunlight streaming into his attic bedroom and kissing his knuckles as Clark Kent sat in front of the computer. Soon he would head off to help with the processing of the refugees that trickled into Smallville daily--a steady stream of people moving east or west in search of family they had lost, or simply a new beginning. Soon he would help Jonathan Kent with feeding the livestock, or Martha Kent with the washing, or Barbara Gordon with her data entry. Soon.
But first there was his morning ritual.
He put his hands to the keyboard.
Dispatches from Smallville, #17: Nov. 20, Year 1 A.L. When the skies turned red, he didn't waste any time with looting or burning. Instead, he started walking west. He walked until the ancient leather on his shoes gave way, and then he wrapped his feet in strips of cloth against the cold. He walked through the frozen days, across stony fields and icy rivers. He walked without hope, searching through his despair, asking people if they had seen a young woman with red hair. He walked until he came to Smallville.
When James Gordon came into Smallville, his feet bloody, his back still marked with the stripes his owner had given him after his daughter's escape, Barbara Gordon ran to meet him and they lay down on the frosted ground together and wept.
This is their story.
Clark heard the teakettle starting to whistle downstairs and stopped typing, hitting "save" reluctantly. Maybe tonight he could finish it and send it out along the wires, like the other stories before it, stories that needed to be told. Every day there was a new one, overheard while working, or over dinner, a new tale that demanded to be written down, recorded, shared. Clark had written the first one in a feverish pitch, the words seeming to flow from his fingertips as he described the way Jonathan Kent held the precious stores of grain and seed so tenderly, how he spoke of his dream of green and golden fields replacing the scarlet seas of iao and the suffering they stood for. Martha had read the story with a hand pressed to her mouth, blinking hard, and hugged him fiercely after. Then she had sent it to a friend on their fragile new network, and a friend had passed it on to a few others, and they had asked for more...
And ten days later Clark was still writing, one or two stories a day out of the innumerable tragedies and triumphs that walked into Smallville, passing through. He found that he loved writing, loved capturing the faces and hands and voices of people in words, cataloguing the range of the human spirit.
The stories were inexhaustible, and Clark rejoiced in that.
People had started to call him "that writer," some jibing, some with affection. The few people in Smallville who knew Clark wasn't human--the Kents, Pete Ross, Barbara Gordon--treated him exactly as they always had. To most he was just "Clark Kent," back from Metropolis where he'd been apprenticed for more than a decade, who now spent his days pounding on a keyboard, writing stories. He gathered histories and was humbled anew each day by them, humbled and elated by the chance to bring them to life in words, discovering a gift that had nothing to do with the yellow sun or his tainted heritage.
And if at night he wished he could capture a certain pair of dark blue eyes in words, if he wished he could spill out a million words of praise for beauty and bravery and passionate fierce freedom contained in one cherished form--well, he would have time for that later, he hoped.
As he descended the stairs, he heard some kind of commotion outdoors. Martha caught his arm as he reached the bottom. "It's Luthor," she whispered. "He's here. With soldiers."
Clark pushed his glasses up on his nose, scrunched his shoulders under the heavy sweater, and stepped out onto the porch.
In the middle of the street, Lex Luthor was talking with Jonathan Kent. Luthor had an affable smile on his face, but his entourage included a variety of formally-dressed soldiers with guns casually and openly holstered at their hips. Besides the soldiers, there were some civilians--with a start Clark recognized Selina, standing near Luthor. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, she seemed out of place among the regalia surrounding the Lord of Metropolis.
"...And of course, my people need food to survive. Wheat, corn." Luthor's stance was relaxed and non-threatening; a conversation between friends. Behind him, his emerald-clad soldiers rested their hands on the butts of their guns. "I wouldn't want it said that you let people starve." He gestured and one of his soldiers handed Jonathan a piece of paper. "We'll need what's on the list."
A crowd was gathering. Jonathan Kent smiled back at Luthor and folded up the piece of paper, not looking at it. "We'd be happy to help the people of Metropolis, of course; there's no need for a show of force. We've set aside your share of the stores, the same share we're giving to Gotham, Star City, Central City, every place that needs it."
"Oh." Luthor seemed to find Jonathan's agreement both annoying and anticlimactic. "Well, then." He gestured toward a few of the civilians. "Go check the quality of the seed. We wouldn't want--"
As he turned back, his eyes fell on Clark Kent, standing on the porch, and he stopped speaking, his face contorted with rage. "You!" he snarled. "I knew you wouldn't leave, you arrogant megalomaniac!" The soldiers behind him unholstered their guns with a barrage of safeties being released as he strode forward to confront Clark. "You monster, you--"
He almost collided with Martha Kent as she stepped in between them. "How dare you speak that way to my son?" she snapped.
Luthor stopped, glaring at her. "Your son? Are you mad? This is--"
"--My best friend from way back," announced Pete Ross, stepping forward from the crowd. "I grew up with Clark. We played baseball together as kids. You know any Kryptonians who play baseball? If he's an alien, I'm a--a unicorn."
"Clark helped me when I ran away," Barbara Gordon said quietly from beside him as a ripple of laughter went through the gathered people at Pete's words. "He saved my life at the risk of his own. I don't know anyone more human."
"I'd advise you to be careful what you say about my son in Smallville," Jonathan Kent said as others in the crowd murmured and nodded.
Luthor glared, baffled, at Clark's supporters. Then something like triumph lit his green eyes, and he whirled and grabbed Selina's arm. "I tell you, the man is a Kryptonian slaver. He owned this woman--Selina, tell them. Tell them who he is."
Selina disengaged her arm from Luthor's grip and stepped forward to stand in front of Clark. For a long, long moment, she studied his face. She reached out and took his chin in her hand, turning his head back and forth to examine his face from every angle. Then with a sudden motion she bared her teeth and snapped at the air in front of his nose. Clark recoiled involuntarily, and she burst into a peal of mocking laughter, turning back to Luthor.
"Lex, dear," she said, shaking her head and smiling, "I swear you see Kryptonians everywhere now. You've imagined you've seen Kal-El three times this week, but this is the most ridiculous." She tossed a glance back over her shoulder at Clark. "That meek little man, a Kryptonian?" She took Luthor's arm with a smirk. "I can assure you, Lex, that man never owned me for a moment."
Luthor shook his head, unconvinced, but the belligerence had gone out of his stance. "Very well, Kent," he said to Jonathan, "You may take me to the seed stores so my scientists can examine them. But I'll be keeping an eye on you," he shot at Clark as he walked away.
Selina was still holding his arm. She didn't look back at Clark once, but there was just a hint of a satisfied swagger in her walk.
"You're Kent?" Clark turned to see one of Luthor's civilian entourage, a burly, graying man, staring at him. "Have to say, I thought you'd be more impressive."
"I...beg your pardon?" The crowd was drifting away; Pete Ross threw him a quick thumbs-up as he loped off. "Have we met?"
"Not in the flesh. Read your dispatches. Good stuff. Came here to meet you." The man held out a hand and Clark took it, bemused. "Perry White. Editor of the Daily Planet." He laughed, a rueful chuckle. "Well, editor, beat reporter, sports reporter, typesetter and gopher, at the moment. We're a bit short-staffed. I could use a good reporter. I think you're the man for the job."
Clark frowned. "That propaganda rag of Luthor's? You don't know me very well if you think I'd ever work for that."
Perry White chuckled and slapped Clark's shoulder with his free hand; Clark winced. "You don't mince words, do you, Kent? I like that, I like that. Yes, Luthor owns the Planet, just like he owns everything in Metropolis. But he doesn't own the minds of the people who work at it, if you follow me. Have to start somewhere, Kent. Have to start somewhere. Make a difference where you can." He met Clark's eyes and nodded. "I've read your stories. I think you can make a difference."
"I want to," Clark said.
"Come to Metropolis," said White. "There'll be work there waiting for you."
With a last pound on Clark's shoulder, he strode off after Luthor.
"Work there waiting for me," Clark repeated, his voice low. "Yes. I think there might be."
Pairing/Characters: Kal/Bruce, Lex Luthor, Selina Kyle, the Kents and more
Notes: " The House of the Earth" is an AU in which a few thousand Kryptonians escaped the destruction of Krypton to flee to Earth and conquer its people.
Warnings: None needed
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2700
Summary: Clark searches for his place in the new world.
"The new world seems to have some things in common with the old world," Kal grumbled as he watched the monitor in the infirmary. On the screen, Lex Luthor was directing rebuilding efforts in Metropolis, speaking earnestly into the camera.
"...Under my leadership, Metropolis will become a shining city on a hill, a haven of safety and prosperity for all willing to abide by my rules. The best and most promising of humankind are welcome to join us in shaping a new future free of the alien yoke..."
"It sounds rather nice," Tora Olafsdotter said almost wistfully from her infirmary bed, her silvery hair fanned out across her pillow.
"Sure it, sounds nice," snorted Ted Kord, starting to wave one cast-bound arm and giving up with a wince. "But what they don't show you is that he's kicking out any 'undesirables' who are too old or broken to be in his utopia. They don't show you the cameras on every street corner, monitoring people for disloyalty. Peace and order--but with a price."
Kal closed his eyes, remembering the people he had met in Metropolis, their bravery. John Henry Irons and his air of command. Lois Lane's quiet fire. "They deserve better than that," he heard himself murmur. "They deserve to be truly free."
"It never really ends," said Bruce's voice from his shoulder, causing him to jump a bit. His powers were starting to come back slowly with judicious time spent under the sun lamps, but they weren't at full. "The fight for freedom." Kal met his gaze and Bruce smiled at him wryly, his eyes affectionate.
"Have you heard from Guy?" Tora said from her bed, her voice small and wistful.
"I'm afraid not. But he'll be okay," Bruce said.
"I know." Tora turned her head away from them, gazing at the wall. "He knew it was going to happen. He told me before we left, that he'd be leaving. He knew they'd come to get him."
"Yes," Bruce agreed. "And they timed it just right so the Corps would show up just in time to keep the bloodshed to a minimum." He chuckled, so low Kal could barely hear it. "It was brilliant strategy. Jordan or Stewart must have cooked that one up, it certainly wasn't Gardner."
Tora's eyes flashed and she looked like she was about to defend Guy, but then she laughed. "Well," she said ruefully, "That's probably true."
"It required some restraint," Ted Kord noted from across the room, "Which is a good indication Guy went along only under serious duress."
Tora's light giggle faded off into a sigh. "I hope he'll come home soon."
"Trust me," Bruce said, "If I know Guy the Guardians are probably getting the tongue-lashing of their immortal lifetimes. They'll let him go just to be free of him." His eyes turned from Tora to Kal, and his smile warmed in a way Kal couldn't quite describe, a way that left Kal feeling a bit dizzy. "Kara wants to speak to you," he said. "She asked me to come get you. Can you walk?" He held out his hand and Kal took it, cautiously getting out of bed. Bruce slung an arm around him as they entered the corridors.
"I'm almost healed. I can walk on my own," Kal said.
"That's good to hear," said Bruce.
He didn't remove his arm.
Kara looked up as they entered her room. She was sealing up a small bag; the room was bare. "Cousin," she said, coming to Kal and embracing him. Her eyes were still sad, but there was a light in them Kal hadn't seen before, and a kind of peace. "I'll be leaving soon. I wanted to say goodbye."
"Leaving? But--"
"--The Green Lanterns have asked me to serve as a liaison between New Krypton and Oa. I've accepted. Not all of the Kryptonians supported this regime," she went on at Kal's horrified look. "Some of them are eager to rebuild someplace that's truly our own. The conditions are hard and cruel on our new planet, but it's a chance for a kind of redemption for those who are willing to learn once more how to be free of our own crippling system."
"But so many will hate you," Kal protested.
"My mother needs me," Kara said. "Her spirit was broken at my father's death. I can't leave her alone, even if she never forgives me."
"And what about your spirit? You'll be so alone," Kal said, but she shook her head with a small smile.
"My spirit wandered in darkness for a time," she said. "But I had forgotten something I never should have forgotten."
"Something you..." Kal let the sentence trail off into a question.
His cousin touched her heart lightly. "I told you once that even galaxies could not separate J'onn from me. In the darkness, I learned how true that was." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry, Kal. I will not be alone." She turned to Bruce, held out her hands; he took them in his and lifted them briefly to his lips. "Take care of my cousin, General Bat," she smiled.
"As well as I can," he said simply.
And then she was gone.
Bruce was looking at him. "I have to go too," he said, almost reluctantly. "I have to get back to Gotham. Find Alfred. Start rebuilding."
"Of course."
Bruce slipped something out of his pocket, held it out to Kal. "Come with me." Not a command. An invitation. Almost a plea.
Kal opened the glasses, ran his finger along the temple. "I can't. Not yet," he added as Bruce started to say something. "I'll come to you when the time is right. You know where you belong, Bruce. You know what you're supposed to be doing. Kal-El's job in this world is done. Clark Kent...he still needs to find his place."
Bruce nodded slowly, as if it pained him to agree. He leaned forward and brushed his lips gently across Kal's. "I'll be waiting for you."
: : :
There were lacy patterns of frost on the window, pale golden sunlight streaming into his attic bedroom and kissing his knuckles as Clark Kent sat in front of the computer. Soon he would head off to help with the processing of the refugees that trickled into Smallville daily--a steady stream of people moving east or west in search of family they had lost, or simply a new beginning. Soon he would help Jonathan Kent with feeding the livestock, or Martha Kent with the washing, or Barbara Gordon with her data entry. Soon.
But first there was his morning ritual.
He put his hands to the keyboard.
Dispatches from Smallville, #17: Nov. 20, Year 1 A.L. When the skies turned red, he didn't waste any time with looting or burning. Instead, he started walking west. He walked until the ancient leather on his shoes gave way, and then he wrapped his feet in strips of cloth against the cold. He walked through the frozen days, across stony fields and icy rivers. He walked without hope, searching through his despair, asking people if they had seen a young woman with red hair. He walked until he came to Smallville.
When James Gordon came into Smallville, his feet bloody, his back still marked with the stripes his owner had given him after his daughter's escape, Barbara Gordon ran to meet him and they lay down on the frosted ground together and wept.
This is their story.
Clark heard the teakettle starting to whistle downstairs and stopped typing, hitting "save" reluctantly. Maybe tonight he could finish it and send it out along the wires, like the other stories before it, stories that needed to be told. Every day there was a new one, overheard while working, or over dinner, a new tale that demanded to be written down, recorded, shared. Clark had written the first one in a feverish pitch, the words seeming to flow from his fingertips as he described the way Jonathan Kent held the precious stores of grain and seed so tenderly, how he spoke of his dream of green and golden fields replacing the scarlet seas of iao and the suffering they stood for. Martha had read the story with a hand pressed to her mouth, blinking hard, and hugged him fiercely after. Then she had sent it to a friend on their fragile new network, and a friend had passed it on to a few others, and they had asked for more...
And ten days later Clark was still writing, one or two stories a day out of the innumerable tragedies and triumphs that walked into Smallville, passing through. He found that he loved writing, loved capturing the faces and hands and voices of people in words, cataloguing the range of the human spirit.
The stories were inexhaustible, and Clark rejoiced in that.
People had started to call him "that writer," some jibing, some with affection. The few people in Smallville who knew Clark wasn't human--the Kents, Pete Ross, Barbara Gordon--treated him exactly as they always had. To most he was just "Clark Kent," back from Metropolis where he'd been apprenticed for more than a decade, who now spent his days pounding on a keyboard, writing stories. He gathered histories and was humbled anew each day by them, humbled and elated by the chance to bring them to life in words, discovering a gift that had nothing to do with the yellow sun or his tainted heritage.
And if at night he wished he could capture a certain pair of dark blue eyes in words, if he wished he could spill out a million words of praise for beauty and bravery and passionate fierce freedom contained in one cherished form--well, he would have time for that later, he hoped.
As he descended the stairs, he heard some kind of commotion outdoors. Martha caught his arm as he reached the bottom. "It's Luthor," she whispered. "He's here. With soldiers."
Clark pushed his glasses up on his nose, scrunched his shoulders under the heavy sweater, and stepped out onto the porch.
In the middle of the street, Lex Luthor was talking with Jonathan Kent. Luthor had an affable smile on his face, but his entourage included a variety of formally-dressed soldiers with guns casually and openly holstered at their hips. Besides the soldiers, there were some civilians--with a start Clark recognized Selina, standing near Luthor. Dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, she seemed out of place among the regalia surrounding the Lord of Metropolis.
"...And of course, my people need food to survive. Wheat, corn." Luthor's stance was relaxed and non-threatening; a conversation between friends. Behind him, his emerald-clad soldiers rested their hands on the butts of their guns. "I wouldn't want it said that you let people starve." He gestured and one of his soldiers handed Jonathan a piece of paper. "We'll need what's on the list."
A crowd was gathering. Jonathan Kent smiled back at Luthor and folded up the piece of paper, not looking at it. "We'd be happy to help the people of Metropolis, of course; there's no need for a show of force. We've set aside your share of the stores, the same share we're giving to Gotham, Star City, Central City, every place that needs it."
"Oh." Luthor seemed to find Jonathan's agreement both annoying and anticlimactic. "Well, then." He gestured toward a few of the civilians. "Go check the quality of the seed. We wouldn't want--"
As he turned back, his eyes fell on Clark Kent, standing on the porch, and he stopped speaking, his face contorted with rage. "You!" he snarled. "I knew you wouldn't leave, you arrogant megalomaniac!" The soldiers behind him unholstered their guns with a barrage of safeties being released as he strode forward to confront Clark. "You monster, you--"
He almost collided with Martha Kent as she stepped in between them. "How dare you speak that way to my son?" she snapped.
Luthor stopped, glaring at her. "Your son? Are you mad? This is--"
"--My best friend from way back," announced Pete Ross, stepping forward from the crowd. "I grew up with Clark. We played baseball together as kids. You know any Kryptonians who play baseball? If he's an alien, I'm a--a unicorn."
"Clark helped me when I ran away," Barbara Gordon said quietly from beside him as a ripple of laughter went through the gathered people at Pete's words. "He saved my life at the risk of his own. I don't know anyone more human."
"I'd advise you to be careful what you say about my son in Smallville," Jonathan Kent said as others in the crowd murmured and nodded.
Luthor glared, baffled, at Clark's supporters. Then something like triumph lit his green eyes, and he whirled and grabbed Selina's arm. "I tell you, the man is a Kryptonian slaver. He owned this woman--Selina, tell them. Tell them who he is."
Selina disengaged her arm from Luthor's grip and stepped forward to stand in front of Clark. For a long, long moment, she studied his face. She reached out and took his chin in her hand, turning his head back and forth to examine his face from every angle. Then with a sudden motion she bared her teeth and snapped at the air in front of his nose. Clark recoiled involuntarily, and she burst into a peal of mocking laughter, turning back to Luthor.
"Lex, dear," she said, shaking her head and smiling, "I swear you see Kryptonians everywhere now. You've imagined you've seen Kal-El three times this week, but this is the most ridiculous." She tossed a glance back over her shoulder at Clark. "That meek little man, a Kryptonian?" She took Luthor's arm with a smirk. "I can assure you, Lex, that man never owned me for a moment."
Luthor shook his head, unconvinced, but the belligerence had gone out of his stance. "Very well, Kent," he said to Jonathan, "You may take me to the seed stores so my scientists can examine them. But I'll be keeping an eye on you," he shot at Clark as he walked away.
Selina was still holding his arm. She didn't look back at Clark once, but there was just a hint of a satisfied swagger in her walk.
"You're Kent?" Clark turned to see one of Luthor's civilian entourage, a burly, graying man, staring at him. "Have to say, I thought you'd be more impressive."
"I...beg your pardon?" The crowd was drifting away; Pete Ross threw him a quick thumbs-up as he loped off. "Have we met?"
"Not in the flesh. Read your dispatches. Good stuff. Came here to meet you." The man held out a hand and Clark took it, bemused. "Perry White. Editor of the Daily Planet." He laughed, a rueful chuckle. "Well, editor, beat reporter, sports reporter, typesetter and gopher, at the moment. We're a bit short-staffed. I could use a good reporter. I think you're the man for the job."
Clark frowned. "That propaganda rag of Luthor's? You don't know me very well if you think I'd ever work for that."
Perry White chuckled and slapped Clark's shoulder with his free hand; Clark winced. "You don't mince words, do you, Kent? I like that, I like that. Yes, Luthor owns the Planet, just like he owns everything in Metropolis. But he doesn't own the minds of the people who work at it, if you follow me. Have to start somewhere, Kent. Have to start somewhere. Make a difference where you can." He met Clark's eyes and nodded. "I've read your stories. I think you can make a difference."
"I want to," Clark said.
"Come to Metropolis," said White. "There'll be work there waiting for you."
With a last pound on Clark's shoulder, he strode off after Luthor.
"Work there waiting for me," Clark repeated, his voice low. "Yes. I think there might be."