Post by Clark Kent on May 31, 2011 21:31:28 GMT -5
It was six in the morning when Clark awoke suddenly, his eyes fluttering open, darting back and forth as a deep breath passed his lips. As his eyes swam into focus, he blinked sleep away, inadvertantly swapping between different vision levels- through the ceiling, then the paint's molecular structure, then through the entire upper portion of the building- and took a deep breath, rolling onto his side to shut off the alarm. He didn't actually have to be out the door until nine today- even considering he was taking the subway rather than 'alternative methods,'- but he had some things he wanted to work on beforehand. Despite having fallen asleep at one in the morning, he felt perfectly rested, neck craning upwards to scan the room before he sat up.
Rolling out of bed, he sat on the very edge, hands lifting to one shoulder after another to try and rub some semblance of feeling back into them; strange how a speeding car collision couldn't scratch him, but a lumpy mattress left his spine in knots. A brief chuckle passed his lips as he finally climbed to his feet, stretching wide and letting out a deep, cleansing yawn. Dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, he walked a small circuit around his tiny apartment bedroom, eyes closed as he gradually relaxed his self-made barriers; the sounds of the city began to wash over him then, a steady, unbroken stream of conversations, engines, horns, the rumble of the underground subway, even the subtle hum of power lines. Gradually, he began to sift through it, making sense of it, separating every element as he idly searched for...
Sirens. Eyes opening, they flickered towards the back corner of his room, and then right through it, layer after layer of brick, plaster, and people peeling away before his eyes, until finally the source of the trouble was opened to him, eleven blocks away.
Apartment fire. Nobody trapped inside, but it had been a dry week, and there was always a chance the fire might spread to one of the adjoining buildings. Despite his determination to wait until he was ready, Clark moved ever so slightly towards a nondescript black suitcase in the corner of his bedroom. That suitcase had been flown across the border in an entirely different fashion, in the dead of the night, because its contents... well, they would have raised a few eyebrows. Even as the young man began to reach for the case, however, he stopped, frowning as his fingers opened and closed restlessly.
No. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
It was very hard to push the sounds of the sirens aside, but Clark managed it. He didn't abandon the scene entirely, though, as he continued to glance towards the blaze occasionally, monitoring it even as he poured a bowl of cereal in his small kitchenette. If it spread much further, or endangered someone, then one way or another he'd have to act. Fortunately, within ten minutes the fire department had the blaze under control, and he let himself relax, finishing his quick breakfast and leaving the bowl in the sink for later.
Crossing to the closet, he pulled it open and considered the contents, arms crossed over his bare chest as his eyes flitted back and forth. White shirts, a variety of plain ties, three suit jackets, pants and two long brown coats; at the bottom was a collection of folded up sweaters, a couple of vests for his suit, and two identical pairs of black shoes. Some of it he had picked up himself, in a British clothes shop prior to the flight back home; the rest, the sweaters in particular, had been sent to Metropolis by his mother. She had been initially disbelieving at her son's plan- more at whether it would work than if it was a good idea- but when she had realized her son was bound and determined to see it through, she had reacted with an enthusiasm and (dare he say) glee that he'd found surprising. Clark suspected the idea of deliberately turning her son into a 'Good Boy' had appealed to her sense of humor far more than she would admit, and the young man had actually groaned when he'd seen some of the sweaters she had sent.
But they suited his purposes. There was not a t-shirt or pair of jeans in sight, and his wardrobe better suited a man four times his age.
He dressed slowly, leisurely, shrugging into one of the shirts and jacket and adjusting the sleeves as he trod barefoot into the washroom to brush his teeth, more clothes clutched under his arm. By the time he emerged, he was minty fresh and fully dressed, hair slicked back, all soft and pampered. Crossing to his dressed, he picked up the final piece of the puzzle; the large, horn-rimmed glasses he had picked up just down the street from that British clothes store.
The glasses were real, a very strong prescription to boot, but for a man capable of seeing through solid objects, it only took the slightest concentration to adjust his eyes to compensate. Considering himself in the mirror, he reached up to push the bridge of his glasses further up his nose, slackening his features and widening his eyes slightly; whereas before he had looked stern, almost intense, now he was friendly and more than a little nerdy. As he relaxed his muscles, all but shrinking before his very eyes, the transformation was complete; he looked every bit the man he wanted to.
"Yes, sir," he said aloud then, in a slightly higher pitch, "Yes, sir." A bit faster. "Yes sir."
Hopefully, he'd be able to pull the change off much more quickly with some practise, but for now he had to be very careful. The next few weeks would be crucial in establishing who he 'really' was, and if he let himself slip, he could find himself facing some very uncomfortable questions. He had been wearing the disguise for longer and longer periods of time lately, even when he knew he was alone; if this was going to work at all, it was going to have to be pitch perfect every step of the way. Especially since he was going to be working in a den of people whose entire living was spent making connections and tracking even the slimmest of leads. There couldn't be any room for doubt... even though he might be facing some of those same people both with and without the glasses.
"Hello, Mister White, I'm Clark Kent, we spoke over the phone yesterday?" he recited, watching himself carefully to make sure his harmlessly friendly expression held.
****
"Hello, Mister White, I'm Clark Kent, we spoke over the phone yesterday?"
"Ahhh, Kent!" Taking the offered hand, Perry White nodded, giving it a firm shake before leaning back in his chair. "Glad you could make it. I've just been going over the work you sent us when you were overseas, refreshing my memory. Been, what, a year since you e-mailed me your last story?"
"Y-yes, sir, sorry about that," Clark replied, nodding as he shifted a bit uncomfortably, transfering his briefcase from his left hand back to his right; White hadn't offered him a seat, so the young man simply stood, shifting from foot to foot. "Things got a little busy in Tibet, I didn't have as much time to write new articles as I would have liked."
"No need to apologize!" Perry shook his head, chuckling. "That's the beauty of freelance work, my boy! Send it in when you can, don't worry when you can't. You gave the Planet coverage in areas we normally can't reach, expense budgets what they are these days, and I appreciate that."
"Well, I'm glad you think that, Mister White," Clark replied, smiling wide. "So, about maybe being able to get a job...?"
White winced slightly, leaning back in his chair as he examined his newest supplicant, a finger tapping his desk restlessly. Clark, for his point, fidgited openly as he waited for an answer, some of it fabricated but, admittedly, some of it genuine. He had always admired this paper, as it had even been delivered as far as Smallville; the moment he had decided a position in the news industry would get him closest to any brewing problems, this paper had been the first one to come to mind. Though he was ready to look elsewhere if need be, he found himself hoping that he wouldn't have to; he wanted to be here.
"Look, Kent, the writing's good," White finally replied, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. "Good form and structure, and you've definately been in the right places to get some good stories. That you're still standing here after being through it all tells me you've got a good instinct on when to duck, which'll serve a reporter well. Now, I wouldn't have put your freelance stuff in my paper if it was garbage, don't you doubt that. But freelancing's a different thing from being a member of staff; you need that edge, that extra quality that turns you from a good writer to a good reporter. And I'm not sure you've got that quality."
"Oh." Clark paused for a long moment, eyes darting back and forth. "...what quality?"
"Fire!" Leaping to his feet, startling Clark a little, White circled his desk towards the young man, gesturing towards the bay windows and the city beyond. "Look out there, Kent. A million people, all've em getting propositioned by more competition than you'dve found in the Colliseum. Other newspapers're only a small part of it. TV news, the Internet- God, the Internet. 'Bloggers' who think that just because they can open their own little corner beside ten million other little corners, they're suddenly smart enough and informed enough to talk about what happens all over the country. Hell, all over the planet. And the reason these idiots get so many people to read them and 'tweet' them and whatever the hell it is people do these days... fire. They're passionate about what they're talking about, even if they know next to nothing about it.
"The Daily Planet gives the best of both sides," White continued, coming around to face Clark and jabbing a finger in the young man's chest; Clark all but flopped against the poke, entire upper body pushed sideways. "We've got some of the best writers in the world here, reporters of a quality you just don't see very often any more. But most important is that each and every single one of our employees Has. That. Fire." Poke. Poke. Poke. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Kent?"
"I-I think I do, yes, Chief," Clark replied, rubbing the spot he'd been poked a little self-consciously as he stared, slightly confused, out the window.
"You think you do?" Chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, White stared at Clark for a long moment before lifting a finger towards him. "I like you, Kent. You're a well-dressed, polite young man, and you remind me of a much more timid version of myself at your age. And, like I said, you're a good writer. So I'm going to do you a favor; not only am I going to give you a chance to prove that you've got the guts and the gusto to impress me, I'm going to give you a golden egg of an assignment... and a partner to give you a hand."
"A partner?" By the time Clark turned from the window, White was already striding away, apparently growing more and more enthusiastic with the idea by the minute.
"She's a fine reporter," he called over his shoulder as he moved towards his office door. "Got enough fire to torch a small forest, and she has a knack for ending up in places she shouldn't at just the right time. 'Course, unfortunately that fire's been leaving more'n a few people burnt. She's only twenty four and it seems half the companies in this city're filing restraining orders to keep her away." Pausing, his hand on the doorknob, White chuckled to himself, casting a satisfied glance back at Clark. "Yeah, this is going to work just fine. She'll hopefully give you a little bit of the torch she's burning, and with any luck you'll help keep her from getting this newspaper sued. Again."
Pulling open the door, White's voice lifted to a sharp bellow, filling the entire news room and causing every head to spin towards his office like a family of raccoons.
"Lane!"
Rolling out of bed, he sat on the very edge, hands lifting to one shoulder after another to try and rub some semblance of feeling back into them; strange how a speeding car collision couldn't scratch him, but a lumpy mattress left his spine in knots. A brief chuckle passed his lips as he finally climbed to his feet, stretching wide and letting out a deep, cleansing yawn. Dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, he walked a small circuit around his tiny apartment bedroom, eyes closed as he gradually relaxed his self-made barriers; the sounds of the city began to wash over him then, a steady, unbroken stream of conversations, engines, horns, the rumble of the underground subway, even the subtle hum of power lines. Gradually, he began to sift through it, making sense of it, separating every element as he idly searched for...
Sirens. Eyes opening, they flickered towards the back corner of his room, and then right through it, layer after layer of brick, plaster, and people peeling away before his eyes, until finally the source of the trouble was opened to him, eleven blocks away.
Apartment fire. Nobody trapped inside, but it had been a dry week, and there was always a chance the fire might spread to one of the adjoining buildings. Despite his determination to wait until he was ready, Clark moved ever so slightly towards a nondescript black suitcase in the corner of his bedroom. That suitcase had been flown across the border in an entirely different fashion, in the dead of the night, because its contents... well, they would have raised a few eyebrows. Even as the young man began to reach for the case, however, he stopped, frowning as his fingers opened and closed restlessly.
No. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
It was very hard to push the sounds of the sirens aside, but Clark managed it. He didn't abandon the scene entirely, though, as he continued to glance towards the blaze occasionally, monitoring it even as he poured a bowl of cereal in his small kitchenette. If it spread much further, or endangered someone, then one way or another he'd have to act. Fortunately, within ten minutes the fire department had the blaze under control, and he let himself relax, finishing his quick breakfast and leaving the bowl in the sink for later.
Crossing to the closet, he pulled it open and considered the contents, arms crossed over his bare chest as his eyes flitted back and forth. White shirts, a variety of plain ties, three suit jackets, pants and two long brown coats; at the bottom was a collection of folded up sweaters, a couple of vests for his suit, and two identical pairs of black shoes. Some of it he had picked up himself, in a British clothes shop prior to the flight back home; the rest, the sweaters in particular, had been sent to Metropolis by his mother. She had been initially disbelieving at her son's plan- more at whether it would work than if it was a good idea- but when she had realized her son was bound and determined to see it through, she had reacted with an enthusiasm and (dare he say) glee that he'd found surprising. Clark suspected the idea of deliberately turning her son into a 'Good Boy' had appealed to her sense of humor far more than she would admit, and the young man had actually groaned when he'd seen some of the sweaters she had sent.
But they suited his purposes. There was not a t-shirt or pair of jeans in sight, and his wardrobe better suited a man four times his age.
He dressed slowly, leisurely, shrugging into one of the shirts and jacket and adjusting the sleeves as he trod barefoot into the washroom to brush his teeth, more clothes clutched under his arm. By the time he emerged, he was minty fresh and fully dressed, hair slicked back, all soft and pampered. Crossing to his dressed, he picked up the final piece of the puzzle; the large, horn-rimmed glasses he had picked up just down the street from that British clothes store.
The glasses were real, a very strong prescription to boot, but for a man capable of seeing through solid objects, it only took the slightest concentration to adjust his eyes to compensate. Considering himself in the mirror, he reached up to push the bridge of his glasses further up his nose, slackening his features and widening his eyes slightly; whereas before he had looked stern, almost intense, now he was friendly and more than a little nerdy. As he relaxed his muscles, all but shrinking before his very eyes, the transformation was complete; he looked every bit the man he wanted to.
"Yes, sir," he said aloud then, in a slightly higher pitch, "Yes, sir." A bit faster. "Yes sir."
Hopefully, he'd be able to pull the change off much more quickly with some practise, but for now he had to be very careful. The next few weeks would be crucial in establishing who he 'really' was, and if he let himself slip, he could find himself facing some very uncomfortable questions. He had been wearing the disguise for longer and longer periods of time lately, even when he knew he was alone; if this was going to work at all, it was going to have to be pitch perfect every step of the way. Especially since he was going to be working in a den of people whose entire living was spent making connections and tracking even the slimmest of leads. There couldn't be any room for doubt... even though he might be facing some of those same people both with and without the glasses.
"Hello, Mister White, I'm Clark Kent, we spoke over the phone yesterday?" he recited, watching himself carefully to make sure his harmlessly friendly expression held.
****
"Hello, Mister White, I'm Clark Kent, we spoke over the phone yesterday?"
"Ahhh, Kent!" Taking the offered hand, Perry White nodded, giving it a firm shake before leaning back in his chair. "Glad you could make it. I've just been going over the work you sent us when you were overseas, refreshing my memory. Been, what, a year since you e-mailed me your last story?"
"Y-yes, sir, sorry about that," Clark replied, nodding as he shifted a bit uncomfortably, transfering his briefcase from his left hand back to his right; White hadn't offered him a seat, so the young man simply stood, shifting from foot to foot. "Things got a little busy in Tibet, I didn't have as much time to write new articles as I would have liked."
"No need to apologize!" Perry shook his head, chuckling. "That's the beauty of freelance work, my boy! Send it in when you can, don't worry when you can't. You gave the Planet coverage in areas we normally can't reach, expense budgets what they are these days, and I appreciate that."
"Well, I'm glad you think that, Mister White," Clark replied, smiling wide. "So, about maybe being able to get a job...?"
White winced slightly, leaning back in his chair as he examined his newest supplicant, a finger tapping his desk restlessly. Clark, for his point, fidgited openly as he waited for an answer, some of it fabricated but, admittedly, some of it genuine. He had always admired this paper, as it had even been delivered as far as Smallville; the moment he had decided a position in the news industry would get him closest to any brewing problems, this paper had been the first one to come to mind. Though he was ready to look elsewhere if need be, he found himself hoping that he wouldn't have to; he wanted to be here.
"Look, Kent, the writing's good," White finally replied, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated shrug. "Good form and structure, and you've definately been in the right places to get some good stories. That you're still standing here after being through it all tells me you've got a good instinct on when to duck, which'll serve a reporter well. Now, I wouldn't have put your freelance stuff in my paper if it was garbage, don't you doubt that. But freelancing's a different thing from being a member of staff; you need that edge, that extra quality that turns you from a good writer to a good reporter. And I'm not sure you've got that quality."
"Oh." Clark paused for a long moment, eyes darting back and forth. "...what quality?"
"Fire!" Leaping to his feet, startling Clark a little, White circled his desk towards the young man, gesturing towards the bay windows and the city beyond. "Look out there, Kent. A million people, all've em getting propositioned by more competition than you'dve found in the Colliseum. Other newspapers're only a small part of it. TV news, the Internet- God, the Internet. 'Bloggers' who think that just because they can open their own little corner beside ten million other little corners, they're suddenly smart enough and informed enough to talk about what happens all over the country. Hell, all over the planet. And the reason these idiots get so many people to read them and 'tweet' them and whatever the hell it is people do these days... fire. They're passionate about what they're talking about, even if they know next to nothing about it.
"The Daily Planet gives the best of both sides," White continued, coming around to face Clark and jabbing a finger in the young man's chest; Clark all but flopped against the poke, entire upper body pushed sideways. "We've got some of the best writers in the world here, reporters of a quality you just don't see very often any more. But most important is that each and every single one of our employees Has. That. Fire." Poke. Poke. Poke. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Kent?"
"I-I think I do, yes, Chief," Clark replied, rubbing the spot he'd been poked a little self-consciously as he stared, slightly confused, out the window.
"You think you do?" Chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, White stared at Clark for a long moment before lifting a finger towards him. "I like you, Kent. You're a well-dressed, polite young man, and you remind me of a much more timid version of myself at your age. And, like I said, you're a good writer. So I'm going to do you a favor; not only am I going to give you a chance to prove that you've got the guts and the gusto to impress me, I'm going to give you a golden egg of an assignment... and a partner to give you a hand."
"A partner?" By the time Clark turned from the window, White was already striding away, apparently growing more and more enthusiastic with the idea by the minute.
"She's a fine reporter," he called over his shoulder as he moved towards his office door. "Got enough fire to torch a small forest, and she has a knack for ending up in places she shouldn't at just the right time. 'Course, unfortunately that fire's been leaving more'n a few people burnt. She's only twenty four and it seems half the companies in this city're filing restraining orders to keep her away." Pausing, his hand on the doorknob, White chuckled to himself, casting a satisfied glance back at Clark. "Yeah, this is going to work just fine. She'll hopefully give you a little bit of the torch she's burning, and with any luck you'll help keep her from getting this newspaper sued. Again."
Pulling open the door, White's voice lifted to a sharp bellow, filling the entire news room and causing every head to spin towards his office like a family of raccoons.
"Lane!"
