So, give me da comments you lovely people you!

Haha, I feel like everytime I get close to answering a question that you might have about the story, all I really do is leave more unanswered questions. But you know, hopefully you can start to see things really pulling together now.

Enjoy.

I didn't wait around, I charged forwards, my shoes crunching over the glass and out the main entrance, pushing my way through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered outside the entrance, and past the police cars that were only now pulling up in front of the museum, their confused occupants tumbling out and racing toward the museum without a second glance at me or the crowd.

My lungs screamed at me from exertion, and my legs felt wooden as if they weren't really my own. I pelted down the streets of the three city blocks, recklessly across roads with busy traffic and finally bounded into the emergency room of the hospital. Only thoughts of Harry filling my mind.

I panted out to the nurse at the front desk as swiftly as I could my situation, and nodded numbly when she told me that Harry had been taken to the emergency operating room, and that she'd give me updates as soon as more information was available. Then she ushered me into one of the admitting rooms, and cut open the part of my pants that were stained with blood.

She looked at me with kindness in her eyes, and began talking to me as she started to pull out flecks of glass that were embedded in my skin, and dab ointment onto my legs, before putting large white bandages over my abrasions. She even washed my hands for me, so that they were no longer covered with Harry's blood. Somehow, I felt that was symbolic; my hands being covered in Harry's blood.

Then I moved as if in a trance to one of the waiting room seats, and instead of sitting down, I stood in front of it, just starring at the chair. My mind couldn't believe what had just happened. All I could see in front of me, were the non-too distant memories of Harry's blood. Colouring the glass a startling, ruby red.

A little while passed, and I just stood there, slowly swaying back and forwards. Thoughts, that this was all my fault, running over and over again. If I hadn't provoked those two men, maybe this wouldn't have happened. If Harry hadn't tried to protect me, this wouldn't have happened. If Superman had not decided to protect me, instead of Harry, this wouldn't have happened.

I didn't want to think about what would happen if Harry died. My mind would begin to travel down that path, and then I would skitter away, not wanting to even allow myself to think of that possibility. Superman's words, "the damage is already done" came in and out of focus. I didn't want to believe that.

Belinda came at some point, and we clung to each other, tears and snot inducing sobs escaping the both of us, oblivious to anyone else in the Emergency room. We were informed by a new nurse, hours later, that Harry was alive; he'd lost a lot of blood, but the bullet had been removed, and they were still in surgery. Even more hours later, as Belinda and I waited numbly, we were told that Harry had left surgery and was in the recovery room, waiting to be moved to the critical care unit.

We slept fitfully in our waiting seats during the night, and at some point in the early hours of the next day, we were told that the surgeon wanted to speak to us. The Surgeon met us at the ICU, and walked us towards Harry's bed. The Surgeon, a tall man still in his scrubs, calmly explained to us that Harry was currently sedated and on a machine to help him breathe, and all things considered, Harry had been very lucky to be flown into surgery as quickly as he had.

The Doctor took a deep breath, and warned Belinda and I, "You should know, Harry has sustained considerable bruising to his spinal cord, and we're almost certain that from now on, Harry's life is going to look very different. We don't believe that he'll be able to use his legs. At this stage, we're still not sure how far up the damage to his nerves extends; only time will tell for sure."

He said a lot of other things before he left us alone with Harry; like how long they expected to keep him on the breathing machine, when they might be able to fully assess the damage, how many months they expected Harry to be in the hospital, and that social services would be able to assist Harry with adjusting to his new life in a wheelchair. As I had listened, my heart dropped.

Belinda and I stepped around the curtain, and I stared at Harry's unconscious body. Tubes and wires protruded out from underneath the bed covers, monitors above his head flashing and beeping. His face half obscured by the large green mask connected to the breathing machine. The room felt too bright and the hospital smelt overwhelmingly of disinfectant.

Belinda came around to kiss Harry's forehead gently, slipping down into a single couch beside his bed, murmuring to him that he was "going to be ok now". While I stood close to his bedside, holding his hand, silent tears slipping down my cheeks.

We received phone call after phone call over the course of that day, Belinda explaining and reassuring relatives that Harry was alive, and that the operation was successful, unsure yet how to break the news to them that Harry was never going to walk again.

I ate, slept very little, talked to my Uncle and Aunt, and greeted my other relatives, as the next few days passed, having to relive everything that happened at the museum every time I had to tell the story again.

His vital signs became stable as the days went by, which was reassuring, and after three days they removed the breathing machine. Belinda, our Uncle and Aunt, and myself taking turns to watch over Harry as he slept.

I'd been staring at Harry's face, peaceful and pale, his bright hair and freckles all the more obvious for the lack of colour in his cheeks. When his mother gently patted my shoulder, and with a reserved smile said, "I think it's my turn now dear."

I nodded, stiffly standing up from the couch. "Perhaps you should go home dear. Get a proper night's sleep."

I nodded again, feeling guiltily relieved by the idea of sleeping in my own bed. I caught the taxi home, somehow found my way upstairs, and rolled into bed. Where I tossed around for an hours or so, sleep eluding me, despite how exhausted I felt.

Just as tired as before, I pulled myself out of bed, dragging my doona with me, as I took the steps again, and went to Harry and my spot up on the roof. Another tear slipping down my cheek, as I realised that Harry would never be able to come up here again.

I slumped down on my sunchair, looking vacantly out at the evening sky, scuffing my foot back and forth along the concrete floor. I simply didn't know what to do with myself now.

I whispered to myself, "I never think of the consequences." Thinking back, yet again to the argument Harry and I had at the museum. It was like Harry's words had cut themselves, like a bleeding wound, onto my mind. Their truth never more apparent than having to watch Harry lying unconscious in the hospital. I felt like choking, reflecting on the bitter words I'd said to him, knowing that despite them, he'd essentially still taken a bullet for me. I didn't deserve that kind of loving loyalty.

Something made a metallic rasp as I moved my foot, and disinterested I bent over to look. Lifting my foot up, I found the original coin the Professor had given me, and realised that, as I had fallen asleep up here on the rooftop the evening of his disappearance, it must have slipped out of my hand. Intrigued now I picked it up, a mixture of fascination and anger bubbling up inside me. Afterall, everything at that museum had somehow been connected to these coins.

As precious as they were to architects like the professor and myself, I just couldn't imagine why two thugs, clearly possessing no real understanding of their historic value, would be willing to shoot a person over something, that when compared to all the other valuable items in that museum, was practically worthless. Even in this instance, the only reason the coin meant anything to me, other than the fact that it was rather old, was that it had clearly been important to the Professor.

Something, an idea, or several ideas started to niggle at the back of my mind. Like the individual strands of an intricate web were being tugged on, and I felt, more than I could put into words, that I was drawing back further from seemingly disconnected events, so that a bigger picture was just out of sight. I now understood, but not exactly, that the wave that had taken the professor, the trident symbol, and a literal web made out of red string, were all tied together, connected in a much larger way than what I had first suspected.

I rolled the coin over in my palms, intensely staring at the trident on the front, and the carvings etched around the rim. A cold shiver swept across me, and filled with the energy of all these ideas whirling in my mind I stood up, about to bound downstairs to my room, when a now familiar sensation overcame me.

I felt as if I was being tossed around by a force much more powerful than myself, and my surroundings rippled into a distorted blur, sounds becoming muffled, exhaustion pushing on me like a weight across my entire body, before everything refocused and became sharply clear.

It was like I had been transported, back to the museum. The smell and sight of Patel's office flooding my senses. Again, I was able to see the other me, dream-me, from an outside perspective, her legs excitedly bouncing up and down, as she sat on a crate bent forwards over a journal entry, dated 1885. I walked around, still finding the experience of seeing myself like this unsettling, trying to see the diary entry better, even now my curiosity for history being spiked.

The door of the office was shoved open, and both of me looked up to see the Professor come into the room, an amused look on his face. "Ah, so you are in here." He commented, moving over to his desk, and bending down to open up one of his drawers.

Dream-me's face lit up, her cheeks flushed and her voice sounding excited as she exclaimed, "It's her. It's definitely her! It has to be. I know, it seems impossible, but it's definitely her!"

The Professor smiled good naturedly, still rummaging through his draw, and asked in his signature accent "What seems impossible?"

"The photo I found ages ago of that female warrior, well I couldn't figure out who she was then, but this week I found another picture of her taken by this explorer, most famous for becoming insane after his return from his last expedition, a little sad when you think about it. But anyways I went and asked for his journals to be sent over from Gotham's archives, and found the corresponding journal entry for the day he took the picture."

The professor's head had slowly come up to look at dream-me, a look of amazement on his weathered features.

Dream-me stood up, reaching behind her to triumphantly hold up today's newspaper, all the while saying "And this is the really insane part, I woke up this morning only to find, that today's Daily Planet has the very same woman on the front cover! I mean, it's unbelievable, except that she looks like she hasn't aged a day, has the same armor, trident, even the neck-pendant! The reports of her appearance are far too similar to be dismissed. Both of them report that she just rose up from the water, a few hundred miles from the beach, somehow rode a wave to the shore, and started trying to talk to everyone in some strange language no one's ever heard of. I mean, how's that for an entrance!"

The Professor quietly moved around to my side, and took the paper from my hands, solemnly, without even seeming to really look at the picture or read the report, he shook his head. "Jamie, you need to stop. You're right, it's not possible."

Perplexed at his gentle rebuffs, dream-me asked somewhat offended, "What do you mean, it's all right there in that article."

Patel shook his head, an obvious tinge of pleading in his voice, "Jamie, we've talked about this. You can't go around believing things like that. It's just not possible. You're relying on the account of a journal entry, that you already admitted was written by a madman, and if you think she's the same woman, she'd have to be almost 200 years old, even though she looks the picture of health and hasn't aged a day. These are the facts Jamie."

"Well ok then, but how do explain today's news report, about her riding in on a wave, and how she looks exactly the same." Dream-me challenged.

"Comparing a photo taken from the 1800's with a picture taken from someone's cell-phone is hardly indisputable evidence. And as for their report, it's probably some drunk fisherman's story, which has made the headlines because everyone's getting a little tired of stories stating how Superman saved Lois Lane, yet again."

"Why is it so hard to believe that some kind of ocean warrior is real, when everyone finds it so easy to believe that an alien from space lives in Metropolis?" Drea-me asked exasperated; a point I remembered having made only a few days ago myself.

"Because one is an alien, and the other is, what exactly? An Atlantean? You've been chasing after a fable for the last year now, and it's time to let it go. Trying to connect anything back to this theory that you have about Atlantis, even if you aren't calling it that, is only going to get you labelled a lunatic by the academic community." His mouth was set in a stubborn line, and I knew that meant that this conversation was finished; there would be no arguing the issue further.

His bushy eyebrows rose, as he changed the subject none too subtly, "There's a man out there waiting for you by the name of Clark Kent. He sounded upset. I offered him some cheese, but it didn't seem to calm him down. He wanted to talk to you."

"What? Oh." Dream-me seemed flustered and surprised, "You mean he's been waiting out there the whole time?" The professor only nodded, folding up the newspaper and pointedly dropping it in the bin beside his desk.

Dream-me raced over to one of the crates, picking up a polished helmet, apparently trying to look at her reflection, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, made a face and left the office. I followed, a part of me undeniably wanting just to be near Superman again; his company always restoring a certain level of calmness back to me.

Sure enough, after Dream-me had walked down the corridor, I saw Clark leaning against the wall, today's issue of The Daily Planet clutched in his hands. He looked anything but relaxed, his jaw tensed, his brows furrowed, his hands moving from his hair, to the paper, to pushing his glasses up his nose even though they didn't need it.

Clark stepped forwards to meet me, his gaze tense and probing, "You think she's the same woman, an Atlantean?" He asked urgently.

"Uhm, well I presume you mean the woman from the picture, and I don't really believe she's an Atlantean, at least I think I don't, well maybe. Uhm, how did you know that?" Dream-me stuttered out.

Clark looked down the corridor in the direction of the office and distractedly stated, "I overheard your conversation."

Dream-me frowned unsure how Clark had managed to hear the distance from the hall to the office, but listened to Clark as he continued, "Lois wrote this story." He stated, as if that should explain why he seemed upset.

"And what, you're jealous that her story got on the front page and yours didn't?" Dream-me teased.

"No, you don't understand. After Lois heard the stories, she wrote the report, and last night she told my boss that she was going to the facility that the woman was being held at to have a follow up interview, and today I can't find her. I can't find her anywhere, and I can't find the woman either."

I felt unease begin to build in me, I'd never seen Superman this uncomposed. Dream-me put a hand out to rest on Clark's shoulder, "She can't have been missing for too long Clark, she's probably just out of reception or something. I actually met with Lois last night, and she seemed fine."

Clark looked surprised, "What, what do you mean you met with Lois? Why? What about?"

I stood watching Clark and the other version of me interact, wrapping my arms around myself for some kind of comfort. Unsure of where all this was going.

Dream-me hesitated, shrugging a little sheepishly, "Apparently my reputation in the academic world already preceded me, because she new about my theory about Cape Sounion, and for some reason she was asking me all about it."

Both Clark's hands came to rest on her shoulders, the paper dropping to the floor with a quiet thud, "What did you tell her Jamie?"

Dream-me seemed a little uncomfortable, either from Clark's urgency or his close proximity, and wouldn't meet his gaze as she said, blushing, "Only what I've told you."

Clark seemed to sway on his feet, and Dream-me questioned, "Why Clark? Why does that matter? Do you think that Lois believes the woman's an Atlantean too?"

Clark drew back from Dream-me, and closed his eyes wearily, as if she'd given him the worst possible news. I could see his adam's apple moving, as he sort for the right words. "The science facility dedicated to researching abnormal events and extraordinary beings, where the Atlantean was being held, is owned by Lex Luthor."

Dream-me stated confused, "I don't see why that's important."

"Jamie!" I heard Clark say, as I felt two arms shaking my shoulders, "Jamie!" Clark said again, his voice growing clear and then muffled, as nausea sweat-over me, and I felt like Ice cold water was dumped over me.

With a gasp, my surroundings wavered and collapsed, Clark and Dream-me disappeared from my sight, and I felt like I was immersed totally in freezing water, everything black and cold. This was different from before, usually my body felt buoyant, and almost floated out of the end of my dream, pulled by a noise or sound from the real world, back into reality.

Now I felt a crushing pressure from every direction, and I couldn't move. I remembered the way it sounded, as I child playing in the pool, hearing the warped sounds of my friend's laughter, watching my dog swimming slowly across a flowing stream, his slow but steady paddle impeded by the flow of the water. I heard a sound through the water, a voice, firm and yet desperate.

"To the female who has fallen of the tall building, the other one, she tells me that you know the one who is not dumb, who is a scholar of old things. Tell him to use his medallion, he will be able to warn my kin of the danger. For the Luther is coming."

The woman's message began to repeat, and the pressure grew firmer still, until I was sure that something inside me was about to break, the pain almost unbearable. Then, another voice filled my senses, his voice began washing away the crushing weight from my body, lifting me again to the shimmering surface of reality.

With a gasp my eyes flew open, my body racked with uncontrollable shivers. "Jamie, are you alright?" Superman had crouched down, my back resting against his knees, his voice concerned, and his hands warm on my shoulders. I could barely see him in the darkness of the night, but I could feel his reassuring presence.

"Yeah. I'm all right I think." I huffed out between pants. "What happened?" I asked confused and tired.

I suspected but couldn't see that Superman shook his head, "I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me. I found you lying on the ground. Nothing's broken, although I think you had a blood nose. Did you trip over?"

I half laughed, "Maybe. But I don't think so... I… I had the strangest dream again, I…dreamed that..." I thought of Clark from my dream, the ease with which the Dream version of me and him could talk to each other, and the hesitation I felt now to even confide in Superman about my strange dreams. The ache to know him like that again, with the memories of that friendship so fresh, suddenly felt almost as painful as being stuck between my dream and reality. Which was saying a lot, because that wasn't fun.

I wished that I could see his face, "Superman, what's your name? I mean I don't know anything about you, not really anyway…. And I just… I just want to call you something that's…. Real."

"Here, let me help you sit up." Superman offered, and with unsteady feet and his help, I managed to maneuver my way back to my sunchair. Superman picked up my doona from the floor and wrapped it around my back and shoulders, but he didn't sit down next to me. Standing a little distance from me, his expression still hidden by the starless night, only the 'S' Symbol was semi-lit by the faint glow of the neon lights of the city.

"My name is Kal El." He said softly.

My hopes rose and fell when I heard his name. At first I thought that he was going to say "Clark Kent", confirming that my dream wasn't just a strange hallucination. But he didn't; although, with growing suspicion I thought that in every way that counted, he really was the Clark Kent from my dreams.

"Kal El." I whispered, trying out the name. It was strong, and even though it wasn't Clark Kent, it still felt real. I smiled. "Thank you for telling me your name, Kal."

"You're welcome Jamie." I imagined he smiled back.

There was a long moment of silence, both of us falling into our own thoughts. "You sure you're ok?" Kal asked.

"I think, maybe I'm just tired." I lied, believing more than ever, that my dreams were somehow connected to, maybe even caused by the coin.

"How is he?" Kal asked, referring to Harry.

I took in a shaky breath, and tried to answer, but there was only a quiet sob in place of my words.

Kal was by my side without hesitation, sitting with me on the sunchair, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, and pulling me in close to his side. The other came to rest on my hair, as my body shook with soundless sobs. He sat with me a long time, as I slowly managed to explain that he had been right; Harry would never walk again.

Eventually I could hold the self-loathing in no more. In the dark it was easy to talk, and so much harder to keep quiet, words welling up from my heart and slipping out over my lips. Confessing what I had said to Harry, all the thoughtless decisions I had made that now left Harry unable to walk, still unconscious in a hospital bed. And he listened, without interrupting. I felt connected to Kal in that moment, his breath hitching as I told him about the day at the museum, his fingers clenching and unclenching in my hair.

"It's all my fault." I whispered, thankful that at last my tears had stopped. I must look a mess, but I felt no embarrassment or need to cover up in front of Kal. I absentmindedly wiped my eyes and nose on my doona, which he either didn't mind or didn't comment on.

A pained noise, a mixture between a pent-up breath, and a heartfelt sigh issued from Kal, and in a husky voice he said, "No Jamie, it's not. What happened to Harry is not your fault. Everything that's happened to you, you need to know it's not your fault."

There was earnestness to his words, but also something else. Something I was unaccustomed to hearing from him. I tilted my head around, so that I stared, inches away, at the side of his face. Watching as open emotions flickered across his features, his brows lowered, his forehead creasing, and the curl on his forehead being gently ruffled by the wind. A calmness began to settle over me, as I waited for him to continue speaking.

In a voice, filled with what I realised was grief, Superman confessed, much as I had moments before to him, his guilt. "It's not your fault Jamie. It's mine. You can't be blamed for any of this. You couldn't know what was going to happen….. But I did. Even though it's all different now, I still knew."

He looked out at the city buildings, wrestling with his thoughts, as I struggled to understand what he meant by them, "I thought, if I just left her alone, kept my distance from her this time, she'd be safe. That my judgment wouldn't be affected by my feelings for her." He sighed, "That much at least, worked out." I thought of Clark from my dreams, and how worried he had been about Lois, and wonder if it was possible that Kal was talking about this woman I had never met.

"But now…" He tilted his head to the side, so that we held gazes, and I wished that this moment, a mixture of vulnerability and intimacy, could last forever. "It's not her that I'm worried about."

With a hint of laughter vibrating through his chest, his rich voice listed off, "You and your love for languages, your cardigans, caramel coffee, and your laughter… that laughter…" His voice deepened all the more, "At the museum, that was all I could see, all I could think about...and because of that… I didn't see Harry. I was caught off guard, because I was so focused on…." He looked away from me now, and just like that, I could begin to feel Kal emotionally pulling away from me, even if he hadn't physically pulled away yet.

His voice was full of scorn directed at himself, "I never expected…. I made the same mistake as last time, and it almost cost Harry his life, just like it cost…." He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. His arms pulled away from me, and he cleared his voice, "I never expected that after L…" He stopped short again, before he finished the woman's name. "I made myself stay away from her this time around. But I never expected…"

Kal stood up hurridely, as if wanting to distance himself as much from me as possible in the small space of the roof, "No one else is going to get hurt because of me. I'll find this Atlantean, and I'll get there before he does…."

Now I stood up, "What? What did you say about an Atlantean?" A jolt of excitement at his words, the doona slipping forgotten around my knees.

Kal's eyes widened momentarily, and then they went very still; still like a statue; still like the very distant persona of a Superhero; a being that was detached from the world, from their feelings.

"Jamie. You need to forget what I said. It's not important."

I scoffed, "Of course it's important, she's what ties all of this together, I'm not sure how yet, but I know that if I can just find her, talk to her, then…"

Superman's voice was a ruff bark, "No."

I blinked in surprise, staring at Superman, silhouetted by the back glow from the light pollution. "What do you mean, no?" I asked bewildered by his commanding response.

"Stay out of this Jamie. Just leave it alone. Forget about Atlantis, forget about what I said." His voice was uncharastically stern, as if he needed to discipline me.

I shook my head back at him, "You know I can't do that. If you're going to find an Atlantean and talk to them, then I need to come with you. I just know that if I can ask …."

Superman cut me off again, "I said no, Jamie. You're not coming with me, and I won't help you with this."

Now there was anger in my voice, "Kal, you don't understand…" Superman shook his head, and turned his back to me, "I've been having these dreams, and I believe that the coins the Professor gave me…" Superman began to float upwards, the fact that he could so casually defy all rules of gravity still awed me, but I quickly recovered, "What are you doing? I'm not finished talking yet." I said in a heated tone, my hands coming to rest on my hips in a disapproving stance.

Superman still wouldn't look at me. "I'm warning you, for your own safety, stay out of this Jamie." His voice was measured and without menace or humour. I was so confused by his unusual behaviour. It wasn't like him to be controlling like this, just to tell people what they could and couldn't do, without giving any explanation. All intimacy from moments ago replaced by his distant, cool demeanor, and my agitated confusion.

He floated higher and further out, so that he no longer levitated above my building roof, "Kal", I yelled indignantly. "You can't just fly away when someone's talking to you!" Now he did turn to face me, and I could see the shadowed, but still distinct smile on his face, "Yes Jamie, I can."

Then he turned and shot off, "Kal! Kal!" I yelled in anger, "You can't just fly away from your problems like this! You...you… stinker!" I took in an angered breath of air, still yelling into the empty night sky, "And now he's gone and I'm yelling at nothing!", turning and kicking at my doona, because I didn't want to hurt my foot kicking at the chair. 'Cause that's just how tough I am.