Author's Note: hello again. This story takes its influences and liberties from across the board; there are ideas, themes, flights of fancy cherry-picked from the movies, the DCAU, SV and, of course, the comics. It's all in there. It's a little pulpy and a little dark, and it was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it too. This is chapter one of five.

Disclaimer: I hereby disclaim any ownership of the characters, all related rights and, sadly, the now defunct red underpants.

Number 821

-Chapter One-

World Eight-two-one. The present day.

Only three months separated them, so responsibility was shared. The girl was in charge of the album and the camera. Although the camera was safe, wrapped and cushioned and stowed away in the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and she could feel its weight pulling there, she patted at it every few minutes anyway and was reassured each time to re-find its precious bulk through the fabric.

The boy was in charge of their props, the slip of paper, and their ride home. With the tablets under one arm he held up the slip of paper so they could both check the address again. "I guess this is the place?"

They were gazing across the street at a four-story high brownstone. With its carved window lintels and deep sills and an ornate balustrade running flat along the roofline, it was an elegant-looking building, well-kept and in keeping with this part of the city. Behind them, behind a set of cast iron railings and a line of trees, was a small square where local residents could walk and lounge on the grass and enjoy the weather. They could hear the laughter and hoot of children running and playing in there now.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. Across the street, a little further down the block, a young woman with headphones was walking a dog. The other way, a coffee shop had tables and chairs outside. People were sat out on the sun-dappled sidewalk reading papers and sipping from wide white cups.

To the boy, it all looked the same. If it was different, the differences were slim. She had told them many times it could be like that. If calculations were correct, if everything had gone right- and there was no reason to believe it hadn't- there was no reason to suspect they were not exactly where they were supposed to be. Still, they looked and peered, and neither felt sure. A wisp of long brown hair escaped from behind her ear and the girl, the boy's cousin, tucked it back, "I guess so."

The boy was frowning, dark eyes darting left and right. "It's going to look weird if we wait out here any longer."

The girl nodded. "Let's do this."

They climbed the wide shaded steps of the stoop and tried the door. It was heavy but it opened into the cool and quiet of a small checkerboard-floored lobby. Above them three flights of stairs wound round in a spiral of concentric squares. One wall of the lobby was taken up by a cork bulletin board and the dark wooden shelves of a set of mailbox compartments. Each opening was labeled with a thin strip of punched tape, names and door numbers raised and embossed in white. A rising prickle of panic was dealt with when, for a few seconds, they couldn't, but then did, find the name. The compartment was empty, there was no mail, but it was confirmation enough, at this delicate stage, to renew their confidence.

The single brass door of an old-fashioned elevator was set into a shaft beside the stairwell. Wordlessly they punched the button and stepped inside. A little out of practice the girl remembered to pull the cage across then turned to find the boy sizing up the control panel. "You just-"

He blustered, "I know," before thumbing the correct arrow.

In the confined space of the car the boy handed the girl one of the two touchtablets. Then they arrived at the top floor. The door slid across and they stepped out and found themselves at one end of a narrow landing. Floorboards creaked as they walked. About halfway along there was a door. The number on the door matched the number on the paper. They were here. They had done it. A silent look of triumph and of support passed between them, the girl patted at the camera and the boy reached out and pressed the buzzer.

They heard the buzzer sound inside and waited. And there was nothing. He pressed it again, and they waited. And nothing.

Inwardly, the boy was despairing. But the girl was turning her head in the silence, and listening. The boy could hear only a distant hum of air-conditioning but the girl said, "There's definitely someone there."

"Maybe they're asleep?" Now they both concentrated. The boy's brown eyes stared straight ahead, at the door. He whispered, "Wait. Someone's coming." In preparation they held up the touchtablets in both hands.

On the other side a catch was lifted and then the door opened. "Yes?"

The man standing in the doorway with the expectant expression was small-shouldered and a little hunched. He had a neat side-parting of wiry gray hair, gray eyebrows, and quick green eyes. Over a button-up he was wearing a pale green sweater vest and, at the collar, a dark red bowtie. He looked dapper. As far as they could tell, he looked identical.

The girl bounced on her feet, "Good afternoon, sir. We hope we haven't disturbed you." She bobbed her tablet. "We're students from the local high school."

The green eyes narrowed.

The boy said, "We're researching for a project on old media. Classic media," he corrected, rubbing at the outside of his arm where he'd just been elbowed. "We were wondering if we could ask you some questions?"

The girl read the man's hesitation. "Just a few? We'll be very quick. No time at all." There was a matching brandishing of the tablets in their hands, followed by two toothy smiles.

"For school?"

Two open faces nodded and that seemed to tip the scale. The man backed up, watching his slippered feet, grumbling, "Classic media. Even worse. Makes it sound as though we used hieroglyphs on papyrus for goodness sake's," he stepped aside to open the door wider and unfurled a slow-burning grin, "when everyone knows we made it all the way to quills and scrolls. School project, huh?"

"Yes sir," they said together.

It made him stop and consider them again, these two kids on his doorstep with their dark looks and brightness and shining eyes. "Do I know you two?" Cheeks were puffed and blown out while the man squinted, as if trying to place them. "Not been around here selling cookies?"

A simultaneous blink, and a chimed, definitive, "No."

He invited them into the apartment, shuffling after them with an instruction to help themselves to a seat. The boy and girl walked through past the entrance to a kitchen and straight into the open space of a living room. There was a couch and an armchair and an easy chair that had seen better days with a pair of reading glasses hanging over one arm. The man was knocking around in the kitchen and he called to them to forgive the mess, but the place wasn't messy. At the foot of the easy chair a pile of books was stacked rather than filed away and a hard copy of the morning's paper and all its sections was strewn over the coffee table but the room had the straightforward homeliness and tidiness of a widower.

They perched themselves next to each other on the couch where the girl nestled the canvas bag between her shoes. At once, their attention was taken by a collection of photographs that spanned the wall opposite. An arresting set of framed images, some shot in black and white, some in color, were arranged in chronological order. The boy and girl knew this, because the boy and girl recognized the pictures. They were some of the most famous pictures in the world. The mantelpiece below was lined with more photographs, smaller photographs, in handmade frames and thick silver frames and frames shaped like hearts, of little kids and weddings and people in graduation caps. Some of these images were newer because the boy and girl could see where you flicked the switch to activate the hologram.

On a tray that rattled in time with his limp, the man carried in a small stainless steel coffee pot and three cups on saucers. "I hope creamer is okay? I wasn't expecting company." He set the tray down on the table and straightened and saw where they were looking.

The girl said, "Your family, sir?"

He beamed at the mantelpiece, "Four grandkids at last count. Eldest probably a shade younger than your age, I'd say."

The boy had seen one photograph, of some kind of street parade, his eyes scrunched to read a banner being held up by the crowd. He pointed, "Lookit, the Monarchs won, here!" He gave an unguarded, delighted, "Cool."

A little late, he became aware of his cousin's wide-eyed death glare.

But the man's concentration was elsewhere. "That's a nice watch you got there, son. Nifty."

The boy glanced up and said thank you and tried not to make a show of pulling his sweater sleeve further down his wrist.

When the girl started, "Oh," they both followed her gaze.

The man smiled. Almost obscured amongst the mantelpiece pictures, there was another, larger, framed black and white print. He said, "That's my other family." Fondness left his tone, was replaced by something more bittersweet, "The last time we were together." He hitched his trousers at the knee and gripped the end of each armrest to lower himself into the easy chair. On an exhale, he said, "Now there's a tale for your project."

The boy and girl swapped glances and the outcome was that the boy looked pained. This time no attempt was made to disguise the eye contact and the man watched the exchange with interest.

"Actually," the girl admitted, "that's kind of why we're here today."

"I see." The man didn't seem angry. More contented, or even amused, that his suspicions, however nebulous, had been confirmed.

"We wanted to ask you a few questions."

"What is it that you want to know?" the man asked the girl, suddenly not his seventy-six years anymore. His eyes flicked, sharp and keen, between his young guests.

"Everything." A further glance from the girl to the boy suggested that she was perhaps not towing the party line. "The full story."

The boy checked his nifty watch. It was made out of metal and little lights on it flashed to no discernible pattern. But he said, "The abridged version." And another pointed stare.

They could see that the man was not sure. He took his time. Picked up the glasses from the armrest, put them on. Leaned forward and poured some coffee, lifted his saucer and cup, settled back. When he looked up again, he looked at them both, good and long, into their eyes.

If he was satisfied, he didn't say. He began, "It's a story with a lot of mystery." He reached for a spoon, stirred his coffee. "Mystique. It's almost a fairy tale, now. Some folks don't like that. Find it hard to accept, still." He stopped, sounded faraway and wistful, "It always made my wife nervous." His spoon tapped against the rim of the cup, making a thin sound, bringing him back. "May I ask what your interest is?" The eyes twinkled mischief- "Besides school."

The girl licked her lips and swallowed. "It's a family matter for us, too."

"How much do you know?"

"Bits and pieces."

"The stuff everyone knows," the boy added, and the girl clarified, "The end more than the beginning."

"In that case, I guess I should begin at the beginning?"

The man raised the coffee cup a fraction off the saucer but made no further move to take a drink. The girl and the boy watched him.

"It was a long time ago now, of course. When I was a young man. It was a strange time, a special time. I don't think anyone realized how special." He swirled the cup, his eyes following the movement. "Time allows you to reflect and appreciate your life in a way you don't, you can't, while you're living it." The man looked up. "It's funny. They never did then, but now, they call it 'the Golden age.'"

...

Fifty Years Before.

He was sat back, his weight leaned on one elbow, flashing that smile, holding court. Relaxed, confident, in complete control. The world's favorite son, the nation's sweetheart, the prince of Metropolis with the city illuminated behind him.

She was waiting, looking on from the couch he kept against the back wall of his office. Long legs crossed in front of her, she straightened the hem of her dress on her knee and pivoted her foot on the impossibly high stiletto heel of a black skintight boot. It was so easy to watch him when he was like this, he was so watchable. Thick hair pushed back off his face, the shadows of his jaw darkened by day-old stubble. His voice, rich and full of authority, sometimes commanding, sometimes wry- right now low, and broken by a chuckle. In his well-cut suit and shirt, and tie, stylishly and raffishly loosened at the collar, even she had to admit it. He was sexy.

He began to wind up the meeting. She could hear the voices of the others, but she couldn't see them- only the back of three large flatscreen monitors arranged in front of him a little like a vanity-table mirror. Linked by satellite, conversation was exchanged with the kind of light, good-natured bonhomie of a bunch of old friends rather than hard-faced delegates. The remarkable thing was that it wasn't remarkable.

A heavily-accented voice from one screen said, "We're all looking forward to Sydney, Mr Kent. We'll see you all there."

A series of dismembered goodnights followed in a jumble of cross talk as respective representatives and officials all troubled to bid goodbye to each other in the appropriate language. Likewise, she watched as, in turn, deliberately, he addressed each screen, "Thank you, Senator. We'll catch a game next time I'm in DC," he put his hands together, "Zai jian. Your Excellencies? No gare wa i lawa." From the final screen, from the minister from Mali, there was a cheery, and filthy, 'Bonsoir, mon petit chou!' He grinned. Clearly used to it, like a gentleman, he dipped his head and replied, "Bonsoir, Vivienne."

He pressed a button on the desk and the screens automatically folded shut. Now that he could see her properly, he swiveled and gazed over across the office at her with his full attention.

She was resting her head on her hand. She bounced the foot of her crossed leg. "Now say it in Amazonian and I'll be really impressed."

He smiled again, keyed another button and leaned to that corner of his desk; "Miss Manguel, are the project drafts ready? I'll sign them off now."

"I'll bring them in right away, Mr Kent."

From Diana's left, a young woman entered the office. Diana tracked her progress across the room to where she went to stand by his side and hand over a thick file of clipped-together papers. While Miss Manguel reminded him that although HQ would liaise with the Australasian offices on the day he better program his cell to keep him on schedule for Hong Kong, Diana noticed the way the other woman's eyes lingered on his face. Well, she thought, she was only human.

He said thank you and with a polite nod both at him and then at Diana the woman turned to leave. All coiffured updo and business chic, the woman was beautiful in her way and when she walked out of the office it was with the suggestion of a sashay.

Diana looked back. He, of course, was oblivious and already busy, leafing through the papers, reading them as he was leafing, signing them intermittently at the bottom. He licked the tip of his thumb when the pages stuck. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I want to ask a favor."

"Same here!"

Diana lifted her thumbs from where her hands were folded on her lap. "You go first."

"I need a plus one."

Surprised, she brightened at the request. "For what?"

He engaged her eyes. "I don't want to tell you."

Amused, she gazed back. "Why not?"

"I think that if I tell you, you'll say no." The corners of his eyes creased. "Can it be a surprise?"

She gave a simple, stonewalled, "No."

His head quirked in a tiny gesture suggesting her answer was nothing less than expected. "I've been invited to attend a coronation ceremony."

"May I ask for whom?"

"Princess Layla Hamid is going to be crowned queen of her clan and de facto head of the Beni Ghamid tribe."

At the unasked question, he rolled his hand in the air, "A small sub-tribe of Rashaida lineage, based in the north near the Bi'r Hammah region of the Sinai."

There was an appreciative nod and pulling of Diana's lips. "Welcome to the sisterhood."

"I've been invited over there as a guest of honor, and for reasons of diplomacy I don't think I can get out of it."

Diana was vaguely offended. She upbraided him, "It sounds like an auspicious occasion."

He picked up an opened envelope and an unfolded piece of paper to show her, "It's in the desert, I don't know anyone that's going to be there, and the ceremony is nine hours long." He gazed at her, levelly, "Straight."

"Nine hours?"

He shrugged, "They have a lot of stuff to get through." He frowned, reading down the invite, "for an inaugural non-denominational tribal rite of passage, it seems surprisingly liturgical. Then there's the post-ceremony," one hand flapped, "festivities."

"When is it?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Diana's face pinched, "Watchtower." As unconvincing as it was unhelpful, she added, "Maybe if I'd had some advance notice?"

He had a resigned air, "I was going to go solo. Then the order of service came through." His expression turned genuinely concerned as he held up the invitation, "What am I going to do for nine hours?"

"Try your best to resist cramp, apparently."

"I thought it would be nice to have someone there with me." His head swayed, "Moral support or something."

She was not biting. She beamed, "What you need is a date."

He didn't bite either. In the same tone, he told her, "What I need is a stooge." Ignoring the familiar chewed up look of exasperation she was sending him, he continued, "Anyway. What's your thing?"

She refolded her hands over her knee. "I was in the neighborhood. I wanted some help."

When he looked, she said, "You know it's Bruce's birthday coming up. I thought I'd ask your advice."

He went back to reading his paperwork. "What to get the man who doesn't want anything?"

"Exactly."

"What Bruce would really like off you," he met her eyes, "I don't think they sell in stores."

She answered the smirk with a smirk.

"You know." He unclipped and shuffled the file back together to make it neat. "Your flimsy pretexts aren't usually so paper-thin."

On the couch she straightened and shifted. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

He pressed the button on the desk and leaned again, "Miss Manguel, I'm done with the drafts, thank you."

Miss Manguel came in right away. He was up from the desk to meet her. He flattened his tie and pointed the nib of his pen at Diana. "You're checking up on me." Again, Miss Manguel left the room.

"I'm not checking up. I'm checking in. As a courtesy. It just so happens that Bruce and I are in the area..." Diana nodded a few times, "Your charming city."

"Today. Of all days." He twitched his bottom lip, "It just so happens-"

She chose to skate over the skepticism of his tone. "Yes."

He held her with his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You look a little tired."

He went back to his desk. "Thanks."

"Why don't you take Miss Manguel as your plus one?"

Where she was light, his expression and tone darkened. "Miss Manguel is a professional doing important work for this organization-"

Diana simply shrugged, "Make her day. Make her year."

"- and I have no desire to belittle that."

"Doesn't mean she doesn't have a little crush."

He was annoyed, and with the rising strain in his voice, it showed, "They all have a little crush, Diana. The whole world has a little crush." He lifted his arms, gesturing to the office, and to everything beyond. "That's how this works."

He kept it covered so well, Diana thought, with his manners and warmth and charisma and success. But he had developed a clarity of thought, a detachment, a pragmatic streak that was honed and cold and sharp-edged; that's what her absence had done to him.

She stood. "Come on. I'm under orders. I'm taking you to dinner."

"I have another appointment."

"Now?" Diana checked her watch. It was after nine.

"Yes."

"Cancel- it's a new Cantonese fusion place." She picked up her coat, "It's supposed to be amazing. Bruce pulled strings to get a table."

He was busy at his desk, packing his briefcase, "What'd he do? Buy it?"

She nodded, "Of course."

He smiled, as if it figured. "Sounds great. But I can't. I'm sorry." And he sounded sincere.

"The appointment's that important?"

He considered it. He closed the case, locked it with his thumbs, "Yes."

She smiled but she couldn't stifle the note of frustration, "It's so late."

Unbothered, he collected his coat from the stand in the corner behind him.

Diana looked away, hesitating and clenching her jaw. She did not fully trust her instincts, which was not like her. When she looked back she said, "She won't mind, Kal-El."

It was almost imperceptible. The hardening in those clear blue eyes. But she saw it there. "Maybe next time."

He made sure she could see her self out, asked her to give Bruce his best, and, in a rush and blast of cold air, he was gone, out of the window.

...

He walked between wrought iron railings and neat privet hedgerows, his path paved and flanked by spotlit angels and thoughtful saints. The cemetery was the oldest in the city, and the most handsome, Clark was sure. Full of neo-Gothic statues and columned pediments and soft white stonework that was beautiful in the moonlight. The odd car horn could be heard in the distance, the occasional Doppler-effected siren, but it was a quiet place, a settled place, as if noise itself was polite enough not to impinge too much here.

He found his spot and sat down. Because of tomorrow there was a motley assortment of bouquets and new wreaths. From the bench he read some of the cards. They were from old colleagues and friends. In the corner of one there was an MPD badge. Another card bore the logo of the department of corrections. It was attached to a spray of pale lilies bound with tight swirls of ribbon and signed only, Lucio. Don Lucio; he remembered, every year. Clark had to smile at that. Even as she was putting mob bosses in jail, she was charming them.

He would've chatted, updated her about work, the weather, the Planet's front page, like usual. The mundanities that filled up a day. But it was too private a thing. Too close and too intimate when he was not alone. Long before the echo of footsteps, Clark heard the other man's approach.

He came to sit down by him and Clark said, "Hey Jimmy."

"Hey Clark."

Clark made room on the bench while the other man bent to lay a small posy of flowers. He took his seat and they shook hands and Jimmy upturned his collar. "Been a while."

...

By nature she was not an effusive woman, or prone to exaggeration. So at times like these, he understood it was best to let her get it out.

The electric violets and neon blues, and the black lattice panels and shoji screens of the decor seemed to match her mood. With a table right up against a window and a view overlooking the street, they were the only two diners in the restaurant.

Diana stabbed at her noodles with her chopsticks. "I was there for a half hour, forty minutes, at most. And I sat back and watched him chair a board meeting about that new nu-energy initiative he's been all over the papers with, seal a deal with Beijing ensuring tax exemptions for aid organizations, video-conference with three other governments about some eco summit the Australians are hosting and sign off on the paperwork that was drawn up in the meantime from the first board meeting." Her indicting tone and the imploring look she was now giving him strongly indicated that it would not only be right but prudent to share in her worry.

"You know Clark. He could charm the pants off Helga, my ex-KGB gym masseuse," Bruce lifted his shoulders like it was hardly news, "and he works fast."

The chopsticks balanced idly in her hand where it rested by her bowl. "I don't think he ever lets up."

"No, I don't think he does."

She sighed at Bruce's lack of concern, "Is it healthy, though?"

He looked at her. "I'm not sure I can offer anything useful in a discussion about healthy outlets for grief."

A smile won out. She said no, she guessed not.

Bruce tasted a sip of his Cos d'Estournel, the '88 vintage. "You said he seemed okay?"

"He did. He does. He seemed perfectly fine." She raised the rim of her own wine glass to her lips, "That's what worries me."

"It's Clark, Diana. It's his way. He's always been like this."

She said nothing but it was clear by her expression that she did not totally agree. Bruce responded, "He just channels his energies in a different way now." Her lips were still pursed. He offered, "Whether it's healthy for him or not, you can't say he's not constructive."

As if that was the crucial thing she bobbed her head mutely and snipped, "Oh, well, I would never accuse him of that."

"We have a robust global economy. Carbon emissions that are flatlining. He's basically single-handedly achieved world peace."

"So what's next on the list?"

"You mean when his work here is done? Leave the place altogether. Take off for the stars." Bruce reached for his drink.

"I'm serious."

He set the wine glass back down. "So am I."

She released a sigh. "I'm just saying. The last person he ever considers is himself." Her bottom lip rolled back and she touched it with her teeth. Almost to herself she said, "I don't think he thinks about the future."

"And I'm just saying. I don't think he thinks of anything else. Look at the legacy he's creating. It'll go down the generations. There couldn't be a more impressive tribute."

A heavily bangled fist disturbed the table settings, "It's not right, Bruce. His legacy shouldn't be something you can measure on GDP charts." She threw a dismissive hand, "Shmoozing foreign ambassadors to make nice with each other. It should be a family, a dynasty- that's what should go down the generations."

"A couple of kids and leaving them great-uncle Jessop's wristwatch?" Bruce's look was black. "That's for ordinary people. That's not how it works for people like us."

She was unimpressed. "I don't believe that. And I don't think you do, either."

They both allowed the edge of the moment to pass. "Fine. But settling down, putting down roots. Even if it was a good idea," Bruce was shaking his head- no longer defiant, but realistic, "that's not on the table for Clark anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because she was it for him."

They held each other's gaze. The worst part was that she knew as well as he did. "It's been seven years, Bruce. It scares me." She found she was unable to resist the pall of sadness that overcame her. "Something went away when she died. I don't think it's ever coming back."

...

At the same time, World Zero.

A white strobe-light flash and then the clean pop of re-entry, the sound of a fingerclick. She waited the few seconds for her eyes to adjust and the black afterimage spots to clear. First to reappear was the circular stage of the activation zone and her feet on it, then the rest of the room crystallized back into clarity; the overhanging wires and cables that ran up and down the walls; the control desk looming directly before her; the spectral green glow emanating off the instrument dials on the desk. The way, like a kid with a flashlight on Halloween, they uplit her colleague's glowering face.

"Oh, hey," she squinted. But she was totally busted. "Uh, I thought you took off?"

"I forgot my laptop," he said, evenly.

She hopped down. "How long have you been waiting?"

His eyes followed her. "Nearly the whole time."

"Oh."

With vehemence, he swore under his breath which was as close as he ever got to violence. "Goddamn it, Lois."

She raised her hands and tried for a preemptive, "Emil. I'm here. I'm fine."

"What would I have said to the others? What would I have said to your father?"

"My father would've understood."

"You need to stop sneaking in the extra trips. It's dangerous and one day you'll run out of luck."

They were both tired. They were always both tired. And it made them peevish. She busied herself, checking her equipment. "I was in the mood for one more today, okay?"

Emil relented, as she knew he would. Mainly because he was used to being infuriated with her and was wise to the pointlessness of it, but also because he had a kind heart and was aware of what day it was tomorrow. The huffiness gone, he removed his glasses to drag his fingers down over his eyes and nose and the scruff of his beard. "So how'd it go?"

Lois said nothing, but the look on her face was enough.

Emil nodded and reached to tap a button on the panel in front of him. On the oversize analogue counter they had mounted onto the wall to keep track, the end digit rolled up one, replacing a large white 'seven' with an 'eight'.

"Close?"

"Not really." Lois pulled out the semi-automatic she wore on her hip, released the magazine, inspected it, locked it back into place and reholstered the gun. She fussed at her back pocket. "Five kids."

"Five?"

From the pocket she fished out a bunch of passport-sized photographs to show him, stepping up to the control deck to lay them out like she was dealing a hand of cards. "Two girls, three boys, a dog, a rabbit, a joint Pulitzer, four NPF awards and a Peabody." Emil stared at her and she shared his look; a wondering mixture of respect, disbelief and a healthy dose of professional jealousy. Lois explained, "She has a regular radio spot."

Emil's cheek slid to a rest on his fist. Against his knuckles he echoed, "So not really, then."

Her eyebrows raised in agreement.

As if he was judging it, carefully, Emil said, "What was he like?"

Lois said only, "Like Clark." She performed a final inventory of her equipment; resetting the controls on her wristband before returning to her utility belt and making sure the DNA vial was secure, and then removing and putting back the matchbox-sized briefing cache. She was expert at ignoring the pain. Or rather, she had become accustomed and was expert at burying it. She sighed once. "You want to go again?"

Emil made a 'why not' face. "It's so late, it's early."

"One more. Then home, I promise."

"You want something to eat?" He picked up a cold slice of pizza from a soggy cardboard box. "It's stuffed crust?"

They both watched it droop in his hands. Lois gave him a tight polite smile and assured him, thanks, but she was good, and stepped up back on to the podium that marked out the activation zone.

Emil discarded the pizza and rubbed his hands and began the process of running through the necessary formalities like a pre-flight check. He called out, "Prepping, for jump number eight-one-niner."

"Let's do this." And behind her back, like she always did, Lois crossed her fingers. She wished she could be as indifferent and as unaffected as she tried to portray. She wished that she was impervious. She wished that almost above everything else. It would be so much easier. But there it was, every time, clinging, steadfast and stubborn, to the edges of her heart- more debilitating and dangerous than anything.

Hope.

She closed her eyes.