#dc elseworlds

Going off of the idea that each of the ‘robins’ have their own reasons to, at the very least, distrust magic, Cass was raised by David Cain as an experiment to give someone magic who was not born with it, which ended up cursing her instead. She was granted Sight, to see spirits and lies and people, and trained to manipulate and kill, which she has only done once. Witnessing a soul leave their body to haunt you, and I cannot stress this enough, sucks.

Before her deployment to keep an eye on the Amazons, she had gone on a quest to break her curse, which she only did partially, (granting her the ability to speak when before she was physically unable to utter a word). She prefers to stay away from violent conflict, from places dense with lingering dead. But she can’t avoid it forever, she can’t stay idle for very long, knowing she could be fighting to save people.

Anyway, I stole the background from one of my own previous drawings in the same universe but I did fuck with the colors a little. Most of her design is just based on her appearances in the comic, with added color and a couple inches of hair. Her cloaks clasp is a mix of the El shield and the bat symbol, inspired by the Mora superbat fusion which I feel like would be a thing between the El’s reign and Bruce’s acceptance of the throne as his birthright. Kind of a transitional period.

A stout, red-haired policeman with an almost absurdly friendly face was trying to shoo away a small swarm of reporters from the precinct. Among them was Clara Josephine Kent, an assistant reporter for Major Louis J. Lane at the Daily Planet—on probation, of course. She had only been at the paper for two weeks. Gone was the nurse’s uniform; she’d invested in a few smart suits and shirts, landed a decent little apartment—old, cramped, but with a hatch in the ceiling that would certainly come in handy—and picked up a new pair of glasses, elegant but thick, designed to obscure her gaze a little more.

The journalists groaned at the officer’s dismissal. Most of them were men, but there were also two strikingly well-dressed blonde women, polished to perfection. Clara felt a little plain, a little unkempt in comparison. She pulled out a cheap lipstick—money was tight—and began touching up her reflection in the glass door.

She needed a story if she didn’t want Major Lane assigning her only to translations and typing up dull reports, but the idea of writing about herself felt dishonest. She hadn’t made any real friends yet, though the Planet staff were polite, if too busy to chat for more than five minutes—except Major Lane, who left her with an odd mix of frustration and admiration.

Then, the precinct door creaked open. Out slipped a short, dark-haired man, middle-aged and slightly disheveled, carrying two cameras—a small one dangling from his neck and a larger one in his hand. He regarded Clara with sharp curiosity.

"Well, well! Hello there!" The little man winked.

"Uh… Hello?" Clara answered, hesitant.

"You’re new, aren’t you? Haven’t seen you around." He struck a match and lit a cigarette.

" Yes, yes - I'm afraid I'm new”. Clara offered a small smile.

"Pleasure’s mine. Leo Bernzy, photographer. And where the devil did you come from, sweetheart? Who do you work for?"

Clara shook his hand. "Clara Kent. Daily Planet. Just started a few days ago."

"Ah! But you're not a local, right?"

"No, I’m from Kansas. Smallville."

"Oh, Smallville!"

"You know it?"

"Not in the slightest, but I’m always in favor of bright-eyed Midwestern girls making their way to the big city."

Clara bristled at the remark but decided to let it slide. It was typical Metropolis banter—half playful, half intrusive, sometimes crude, sometimes snobbish. She was still adjusting.

Bernzy pressed on. "So, who’s your boss?"

"Oh, I’m assisting Major Louis Lane."

"Louis Lane’s a Major now? That chutzpahdik! Didn’t know he was back in town. Say, I know everyone from your paper. Catherine Grant’s a friend, and I grew up misbehaving in the same neighborhood as Bob Mailer. Been published plenty of times there. Just ask around for the Great Bernzyni. You’ve got the best director in the city—Perry Weiss—and the finest chief editor, George Taylor. You know ‘em, don’t you?"

"Yes, sir…" Clara wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation. Chutzpahdik? What did that mean? Metropolis was so different from Kansas. So many people from so many places… The Planet newsroom was a symphony of accents, peppered with Yiddish and Italian. She had also noticed with sorrow that the city was a bit segregated compared to Smallville. But she had expected that. She had seen it firsthand in the Navy.

Bernzy leaned in, lowering his voice. "So, Miss Kent… You and Major Lane—what do you make of these rumors?"

"Oh, Mr. Lane doesn’t think much of them. Me? I think there’s something there."

“Let’s share information, I like you. I like your newspaper.”

 Clara cleared her throat and flipped open a small pink notebook. In a softer voice, she listed the facts: "Sixteen anonymous detentions since August 27th. A hit-and-run prevented by what witnesses described as a ‘fast-moving shadow’—maybe two. A liquor store holdup thwarted by a woman dressed like an aviator. Three fires extinguished before the fire department even arrived…"

Bernzy gave a low whistle. "You’ve done your homework, huh? And they expect us to believe nothing’s going on? Ridiculous. Now, what’s really happening? That’s the question."

"Oh, maybe it's something like Gotham’s Bat."

"Bah!" Bernzy scrunched up his face in disgust. "That’s a joke. A cop or a thug in a bat-shaped tin suit, cracking skulls in back alleys? Gotham’s a madhouse. Everyone’s nuts over there. With enough money and a screw loose, sure, you can run around dressed like a flying rat. But this? This is something else. Stranger. I figured it was just the usual pile-up of absurd coincidences—classic Metropolis. Or maybe a case of mass hysteria… You know, the bomb? People lost their marbles over that. The war ending, the whole damn world changing overnight."

"Yes, yes… It’s awful." Clara’s naivety was sincere.

Bernzy leaned in. "But hell, this is different. Something big is happening here—something unnatural. FBI’s swooping in on this case, which means they’re getting ready to feed us a load of bunk. But a pal of mine let me snap a photo of something incredible…"

"Oh? The FBI?"

"A gun. Bent. Crushed. Like it had been twisted by a force no man alive could muster—not a hundred men, not a thousand. Found right beside the detainees. And that’s not the work of some lunatic in a bat suit."

"You’re serious?"

"Dead serious. And doll, if you’re looking to get ahead with this story, this photo should be yours. I can send you a copy—bit grainy, but clear enough to get you thinking. A goddamn gun, twisted like taffy. Special price, just for you—twenty bucks. A welcome gift for the new girl, and a little something to build a beautiful friendship."

***

Louis Lane peered through a magnifying glass at the small photograph Leo Bernzy had sent free to the Daily Planet, struggling not to laugh.

“Good Lord. Welcome to Metropolis, Miss Kent.”

“What do you think? I believe we might be onto something serious here…”

“Are you joking, Kent? You’ve just met the great schlepper Leo Bernzy—the best photographer in the city and also a first-class swindler, a born vagabond despite the fact that everyone admires him and bought his book. This is nonsense. That gun was put through a press or some kind of machinery to play a prank on us, to make us believe something that isn’t real.”

Clara huffed, knowing full well that she herself had bent the gun in the blink of an eye with her superhuman strength. “Well, he seemed sincere.”

“Oh, he’s sincere, all right. And he’s also a master of pulling legs. And an artist. And a man with deals on both sides of the law—the police and the mafia. For all we know, someone put him up to this, spreading the photo to stir up fear or send the city into a frenzy. He saw you as a rookie and went in for the bite. If you see him again, tell him he’s a momzer.”

“And you don’t think there might be something behind all this, Major Lane? The rumors are piling up.”

“Miss Kent, there is no ‘fast-moving shadow’ putting out fires or stopping runaway cars. There is no woman dressed like a pilot, wearing aviator goggles, arresting criminals and bending metal guns. It’s end-of-war madness. People are exhausted, ecstatic. They’re pulling your leg, Miss Kent. At best, they don’t even know what they’re seeing.”

“Then let me write a piece on that—covering it as rumors and hysteria, a chronicle of the city’s nerves…”

Louis regarded her for a long moment, then allowed himself a small smile. “It's a nice idea. Human interest. Kind of like what you wrote during the war that Perry liked so much. Let's see if the rumor picks up steam. Cat would have our heads if we published that people believe there's a mysterious figure moving at super speed, even if it's just to make fun of them.”

Clara couldn’t quite hide her frustration. “I understand.”

“Don’t get obsessed with this story, Kent. Keep pounding the pavement. They gave you a generous probation period—three months. You don’t need to bring me an exclusive just yet.”

***

Clara adjusted the aviator jacket—two sizes too big—along with the helmet and goggles. She was completely unrecognizable. She had found them at a clearance sale and thought they made for the perfect disguise, even though she moved at super-speed to ensure no one saw her. She still hadn’t decided when to reveal herself to the public in a deliberate, controlled way. The war was too recent. The bomb was too recent. She didn’t want to cause too great a disturbance—not yet. But sooner or later, she would.

Her Kryptonian suit was still there, carefully folded in the dresser of her new apartment. She had felt secure, resolute when she wore it—so why did she hesitate now? She wanted to wear it again, but the right moment never seemed to come. Soon, she kept telling herself. She had been telling herself that for a month now.

Soon, the rumors in Metropolis would spiral out of control, whether Major Lane wanted them to or not. And Clara wasn’t just operating in Metropolis. Though she moved like a shadow at super-speed, she was already acting across the world. It was only a matter of time before someone started piecing together the pattern behind these impossible, miraculous rescues. And that could lead to even greater fear and chaos. She needed to show her face—to let the world see her, to trust her.

Clara soared through the sky at great speed, then descended onto a deserted rooftop. That evening, she would patrol Metropolis. Then, the skies of the world. In Alaska, Kelex and the projections of her Kryptonian parents had trained her to sharpen her hearing to near-impossible extremes—and, just as importantly, to filter out the background noise. She had learned to listen only for cries for help, for distress signals. It was a Herculean task. Could she truly handle it?

Then she heard it—a cry for help. A child was falling. In less than a fraction of a second, she was there. Twelve floors above the street, the boy plummeted toward the pavement. Clara caught him in her arms just before he hit the ground, hovering in midair for a few seconds. The child’s eyes were wide as saucers. On the street below, people saw her. In broad daylight.

She moved fast. In the blink of an eye, she carried the boy to the safety of a rooftop corner. “How did you manage to fall?” she asked, her voice sharp with worry, the tone of a mother scolding a reckless child. “You nearly killed yourself! Do you realize you could have died?” The boy stammered something about reaching for a ball. Clara pressed her goggles tighter against her face. Below, her super-hearing picked up the excited shouts of a dozen curious onlookers. They had seen her. A woman flying through the air to save a child.

She exhaled. Then, in an instant, she vanished like a whirlwind.

*** 

The projector flickered, its final frames dissolved into white static on the small screen. The lights came on, revealing an elegant hotel room. Fifty, maybe sixty people sat in hastily arranged chairs.

At the back of the room, Clara stood frozen, gripping her handbag so tightly that she had nearly torn it apart in a fit of anger and shock. Half an hour ago, she had felt radiant. She had gone to the hairdresser to have her hair styled into an elegant bun, her makeup carefully applied—something she had never been good at. She had rented a navy-blue dress and a string of pearls, wanting to look her best. Now, her entire face was streaked with tears. Her makeup had run, her glasses were fogged over.

In the audience, many people looked disheveled, as if they had run their fingers through their own hair in distress. Some rose heavily from their seats, sighing. Others sat with their faces buried in their hands. At the front of the room, standing near the screen, Louis Lane remained motionless. Dressed in a black tuxedo, he did not look pleased, yet silently lit a cigarette. A few people attempted to applaud, but the gesture felt inappropriate. They hesitated, uncertain.

Clara stared at Louis, her gaze unyielding. He met her eyes, his expression weary and sorrowful, absently smoothing his mustache.

The small audience, mostly journalists close to Louis and a handful of well-known figures, slowly approached him, offering their congratulations with difficulty.

Clara had been invited the day before, after a heated argument with Louis about the credibility of witness accounts describing a flying woman saving a child. She had been excited to receive the invitation, despite knowing that the event was bound to be dark, heavy, suffocating.

Finally, she made her way toward Louis.

“Are you alright, Clara?”

“Yes… Excuse me, it was just… a little overwhelming.”

She felt foolish, but Louis smiled at her.

“I perfectly understand Clara, thank you very much for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me, I’m very grateful.”

“I think it’s important that we all see these things.”

“Yes… Are all these yours?”

“The Dachau footage? Yes. The Nordhausen reels were shot by a friend of mine. I couldn’t visit any of the extermination camps in the East—I was not allowed due to…bureaucracy. But this… this gives us an idea of the scale.”

Clara lowered her gaze, murmuring a quiet thank you.

No one had the heart for the cocktail reception that was supposed to follow. She declined Louis’s offer to call her a taxi. She walked for a while, then, when she was certain she was alone, soared into the sky. Above the clouds, Clara curled into herself, floating weightlessly.

Tomorrow, she would wear the cape.

Tomorrow, she would reveal herself to the world.

She needed to act freely.

October 1, 1945

Metropolis, Afternoon

Clara stood uncertainly in front of the mirror, undoing her shirt again and opening it slowly, gazing with lingering disbelief at the red-and-gold crest of the House of El and the vivid blue tights beneath. Her fingers gently traced along her back, feeling the neatly folded red cape that lay inconspicuously flat under her shirt. Wearing the ceremonial Kryptonian garment beneath her everyday clothes felt oddly surreal. It wasn't uncomfortable; in fact, the fabric was remarkably pleasant against her skin, and surprisingly easy to conceal. But knowing that millions of people would soon recognize it made her dizzy.

To openly wield her abilities and justify their origin, she knew she had no choice but to wear it publicly. Despite her reservations, she admired the suit’s elegance, and deep inside she felt a profound sense of pride whenever her eyes caught the striking colors. Still, its boldness—its vivid hues, unique texture, and striking contours—sometimes made it feel extravagant, even scandalous, despite covering her fully. She had briefly considered layering a red skirt over it but quickly dismissed the idea. There simply wasn't a fabric strong enough that wouldn’t shred to pieces as soon as she took flight or moved at super-speed.

Last night and throughout the morning, she performed her heroics still secretly disguised in her aviator outfit. But now, the decision was irrevocable. Clara would step into the light, act freely without hiding, and strive to bring hope. Yet a nagging doubt lingered… Could she maintain her life as Clara Kent, or would someone inevitably recognize her?

The phone rang abruptly, jolting her from her thoughts. Her mother’s voice called cheerfully from Smallville, announcing she had adopted a puppy. Her mother had chosen to name it Krypto and hoped Clara would take the little dog back with her to Metropolis for company. Clara nervously agreed to everything, keeping silent about her recent decision.

With a deep breath, she gathered her belongings and headed back to the Daily Planet, her mind racing as she prepared to deliver an article proposal to Major Lane.

***

“Death, destruction, total chaos,” Louis Lane’s voice, simultaneously melodious and solemn, drifted distantly as he paced around the office. Clara hardly heard him; she was lost in her own thoughts, knowing that in just a few short minutes she would reveal herself to the world.

“Excuse me, Major Lane?”

“It was a joke, Smallville. Your article is actually very good. Wouldn't you prefer writing this kind of story rather than that fantastical tale about some flying woman dressed like a pilot?”

“Oh yes, absolutely… Ordinary people’s troubles. Honestly, I really want to write about this,” Clara responded earnestly.

Louis shrugged dismissively. "Meanwhile, they've got me going to a party on a damned, supposedly indestructible zeppelin - just another one of Lex Luthor's brilliant ideas - so I can report on how optimistic we should all be about the future of transportation and the end of the war. I'll be forced to spend hours drinking and chatting with terribly dull people, and Luthor himself won't even be there.”

“I understand.”

“You seem distracted.”

“I'm just very tired, Major Lane, I…”

“Go home. You've done enough for today. The article is decent, perfectly usable.”

Clara nodded distractedly, offering Louis a faint smile as she noted his white tuxedo.

“You look very elegant, Major.”

“I look like a bloody waiter. Haven’t worn one of these since Christmas of '41,” Louis grumbled.

Clara’s lips curled slightly into another faint smile, though her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Go home, Miss Kent. I’ve never seen you look this exhausted.”

I’m not tired…

***

A couple of hours later, night had already begun to fall, and Clara Kent had yet to take flight with her cape. She was about to leave the Daily Planet, uncertain of where to go next. Meanwhile, high above Metropolis, the small helium-powered airship Gilded Swan, built by TELCORP, glided through the sky.

Inside the zeppelin, a young, cheerful man, accompanied by a product engineer, presented a model of the very machine they were traveling in to nearly a hundred guests.

"As you can see, thanks to the combination of helium and antidermis, along with the use of alternative metals and plastics, we've created an airship half the size and weight of the previous generation—far more resistant to electrical storms and, of course, much faster. The fusion of helium and antidermis not only eliminates the risk of fire but also allows for a gondola and cabins twice the size. The Gilded Swan and this new series of mini airships aren’t designed for long, treacherous journeys spanning days but rather as modern and efficient short-range transport. Being smaller and lighter makes launching and landing much easier—and quicker. If converted into a passenger cabin, this model could transport up to 300 seated individuals. It’s an alternative to trains and airplanes—faster, safer, even if it may seem cumbersome at first..."

Louis stifled a yawn. He was a vaguely snobbish yet well-educated man, born into a family of modest origins that had already clawed its way into high society. His father had even served as an auxiliary admiral. Yet, despite all that, he felt completely out of place at that gathering. It had been nearly four years since he had attended anything similar, and he still couldn’t believe people insisted on those damned zeppelins after the bloody Hindenburg.

The mayor—an insufferable man in Louis' opinion—applauded enthusiastically. He moved toward the panoramic windows of the gondola and pulled back the curtain. Lighting a cigarette, he recalled TELCORP’s cheeky advertisements: "On these airships, you can smoke!" Meanwhile, the shrill, relentless voice of Metropolis' most notorious reporter, Tess Harding, grated on his nerves.  The whole scene irritated him. The Daily Planet irritated him. Clara Kent and her wild tales about a flying woman irritated him—though he tried to be polite. The young woman was a talented writer, an excellent typist, and deserved a fair chance.

With a sigh of resignation, he leaned slightly out the window. The air was brisk at this altitude. Below, the skyscrapers of the city sprawled out, barely a few hundred meters from his reach.

"We're going to descend a little, carefully now—you'll get a stunning view of the city. We're also considering a prototype with a reinforced glass floor, though only for those without a fear of heights."

Polite laughter filled the zeppelin’s gondola.

Louis flicked his cigarette into the air. He had only been in the city for two months. Happy to reunite with his daughter—whose first four years of life he had mostly missed—as well as with his parents, siblings and old friends. Beyond that, he felt disconnected, out of place.

His pact with Pat remained intact—her coldness wounded him, but he repaid her in kind. Separate bedrooms. They only sat together to discuss their daughter. Louis didn’t miss the war. Maybe some of his fellow soldiers, but not the battles. He had done too many things he wasn’t proud of. And he had no intention of ever picking up a weapon again.

"Now we’re going to descend so you can enjoy an extraordinary view of the skyscrapers of our beautiful city."

Applause. The crowd surged toward the windows, and Louis positioned himself at the edge of the last viewing pane. The dirigible descended swiftly, yet gracefully, hovering just two or three hundred feet above the spires and domes of Metropolis’s tallest towers. Among them stood the towering Empire Estate, the elegant Crysler, the TELCORP tower, the twin-spired St. Cloud—whose sibling loomed in Gotham—and the stately American International.

Murmurs of admiration—though directed at a view all too familiar to the locals—filled the gondola. The publicist explained, in a voice both rehearsed and upbeat, that within two years, there would be a dedicated docking station for these small urban airships atop both the TELCORP and St. Cloud towers.

While the crowd marveled, Louis ducked behind a curtain to sneak a swig from his flask. Meanwhile, the airship crew—nervous from the trial run and thrown off by the ever-changing instructions of the publicists—initiated an ascent to avoid passing to close to the Crysler building but such ascent was far too abrupt. The lightness of the gases and the delicate materials of the zeppelin made ballast management deceptive. To make matters worse, the winds were stronger than forecast.

Without warning, as the airship rose, it suddenly tilted at a sharp angle. Nearly all the passengers tumbled across the floor, sliding among tables, chairs, and shattered champagne bottles, their screams of panic ricocheting off the walls. Louis instinctively grabbed the curtain, his heart clenching in terror. “NO, NO, NO—NOT ANOTHER HINDENBURG, FOR GOD’S SAKE.”

The dirigible jolted again, veering violently in an attempt to stabilize. Had the swerve been any more forceful, dozens of passengers might have been hurled out the windows. But only one was. Clinging to the curtain, Louis was wrenched out through the glass, finding himself dangling from the very same drape—only now outside the gondola, suspended above the vast cityscape nearly fifteen hundred feet in the air.

***

Few pedestrians paid much attention to the dirigible overhead, and even fewer noticed the two violent lurches it made within the span of ten seconds. A few pointed skyward, sensing something was off. But it was the chorus of cries for help that reached the ears of a woman capable of hearing from many, many miles away.

Clara Kent was walking down a quiet side street. She’d stayed late at the Daily Planet, hoping to get ahead on tomorrow’s work so Louis would find everything prepared, and to make another effort—albeit mostly fruitless—to connect with her colleagues. The only one she’d managed any real rapport with was the young photographer Jimmy Olsen, who seemed as out of place in the chaotic, abrasive newsroom as she was.

Now, Clara was slowly making her way home, waiting for the moment—any excuse, any flicker of urgency—that would finally let her shed her clothes and soar, cape unfurled, with that peculiar indifference that sometimes grips the heart just before a great leap.

But the cries—dozens of them—and the groaning metal of the zeppelin shattered her stillness. Her heart seized. She straightened sharply, instinct taking over. Spinning on her heels, she looked skyward, eyes narrowing. With her telescopic vision, she saw the airship tilting, rocking now with less violence, its gondola full of partygoers tumbling about in formal wear...

And then her breath caught. Her heart dropped.

There, clinging to a curtain billowing out into empty air, was a figure she knew too well. A face she would never mistake.

“Louis! Oh my God!”

Clara gritted her teeth, resolve flashing through her. Without hesitation, she sprinted into the nearest alley.

***

Louis didn’t last more than thirty or forty seconds. They felt both eternal and fleeting.

At first, there was a strange calm, and with it, the quiet certainty that he was going to die. A gentle, fatalistic voice within him whispered that he should let go, that he should surrender to the fall. But then, the nearness of death became unbearable—too real, too close. A blurry image of his daughter flashed in his mind, and something inside him rebelled.

With a desperate surge of will, he clung tightly to the curtain, now tearing in the wind. Just beside him hung one of the dirigible’s many support ropes. It looked thicker, sturdier than the fragile fabric beneath his fingers. Instinctively, he believed he could climb it—if he could just hold on, if he could just try.

He reached for it with defiance. He didn’t dare let go of the curtain. Inch by inch, he brought the rope closer and finally managed to grip it with both hands. For a fleeting moment, there was hope. Then he looked up. He followed the line of the rope with his eyes, saw where it anchored, and understood: there was no way to climb back toward the windows. Not now. Not from here.

But once again, disbelief overrode reason. And then—the rope gave.

Louis plunged into the void.

A sudden, shattering awareness of what was happening, the cold, the wind, and a clumsy attempt by his brain to begin a prayer blurred his senses as he dropped, heavy as a stone and vertical, into the open air.

***

No human eye could have seen it clearly—the shadow of a well-dressed woman, wearing a beige office suit beneath an autumn coat and hat, her face half-hidden behind thick, round glasses, slipping hastily into an alley. Nor could they have seen how that shadow blurred, how it shifted color, transforming into a brilliant streak of red and blue as clothes, glasses, shoes, and stockings flew off in every direction.

Then the red-and-blue blur shot into the sky like a meteor.

A few bystanders, who had just gasped in horror as they watched a man fall from the dirigible, let out a deeper, more breathless sound as they glimpsed that strange, radiant shadow tearing through the heavens.

*** 

The fall lasted ten seconds.

A fleeting jolt of pain pierced Louis as he plummeted. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes. Instead, he thought of his daughter. Of his younger brother, with whom he didn’t talk to often enough. His mind scrambled for the words of the Lord’s Prayer,  but stalled at the first line. He saw nothing around him, the wind and the velocity turned everything into shadowy streaks, blinding him, battering his senses.

And then… something changed.

It was as if the fall slowed. As if something—someone—had wrapped around him. Firm, yet gentle arms caught him, held him. The descent shifted, no longer vertical but gliding, diagonal, as though he were being cradled by the air itself. A luminous red-and-blue shadow enveloped him, shielding him from the night.

"Death," his mind concluded.

But the motion stopped. He was no longer falling. He was floating—suspended nearly three hundred feet above the ground. The shapes of buildings restored around him. The deafening rush gave way to the sound of fabric rippling like torn silk. The blur resolved into a floating red cape, a sculpted blue form, and the strong, steady arms of someone holding him.

His mind still lagged behind. Was he dead? Louis turned his head, instinctively—and saw her.

A face unreal in its kindness. Striking blue or turquoise eyes. Tousled, dark curls. The soft, fierce features of a woman who did not seem possible.

"I’ve got you. Don’t worry, sir. You’re safe."

Her voice was clear, sweet, commanding—almost regal.

Louis, still dazed, still convinced this might be the afterlife, choked out a question.

"What the hell is going on? Who’s holding you?"

She smiled. And kept floating with him, descending gently through the night.

"Please calm down, sir. I’m grounding you now. Everything is under control."

Clara’s chest brimmed with relief, with joy. Louis was alive. His eyes were wide, stunned, but it wasn’t fear she saw—it was something like wonder, disorientation, and overwhelming disbelief.

Below them, a wave of gasps and cries pointed skyward.

Clara touched down carefully on the sidewalk, surrounded by a frozen, half-hysterical crowd. She helped Louis to his feet—he was barely reacting, still in shock. With a quick pass of her X-ray vision, she scanned him for fractures. Nothing broken.

Louis seemed to finally register that he was alive. On solid ground. A crowd was gathering fast.

He looked at her and croaked:

“Who... who are you?”

“You didn’t recognize me! What a relief!”

Clara smiled, ignoring the shouts and flashes of curious onlookers.

“A friend.”

Then, with a graceful nod, she turned and soared skyward once more. The crowd erupted into cries of awe and disbelief as she vanished into the night, transformed again into that blazing blur of red and blue.

And Louis, trembling, reached into his coat in search of his flask.

The liberation was absolute, exhilarating. The feeling of freedom—of being able to show herself to the world at last, to act without concealment, to smile and greet the very people she helped—was like shedding a weight that had pressed upon her for years. During what was, for Metropolis, a single night—but for her, a sequence of night and day across the globe—hundreds, perhaps thousands of people responded with a strange blend of astonishment, wonder, joy, and disbelief to the sight of a flying woman in a strange costume and crimson cape. A woman who arrested criminals, prevented accidents, untangled bizarre dilemmas, and shielded the weak.

Telegraphs chattered, telephones rang off the hook, and radios buzzed with conflicting reports. People abandoned their suppers, their evening shifts, their quiet routines, to peer out of windows or gaze skyward, searching for a glimpse of that mysterious figure soaring above. There would be many nights like this.

The flying woman in the red cape delivered thieves to precinct doors, extinguished fires, pulled ships from storms, warmed the freezing, carried the injured to hospitals. To all, she gave the same radiant smile—no longer tinged with melancholy. And when asked who she was, she declined to say.

In the vast of the night, as a meeting of utmost urgency convened within the White House, the mysterious woman appeared seemingly out of thin air. With impeccable manners, she requested a brief audience with the President. The conversation lasted no more than twenty minutes, but it left Harry S. Truman somewhere between dazed and reassured.

Millions were roused from sleep or gripped by sudden alarm as reports spread—warped, distorted, amplified—by the slow-moving machinery of communication. Many refused to believe it: A woman? Flying? Impossible.

But within hours, or days at most, they accepted it. Not without confusion. Not without questions. But they accepted it.

*** 

Clara scooped up the frightened cat with a soft smile, cradling it gently in her arms as she floated down to the ground. There, she handed it to the little girl, who looked up at her beaming, her school lunch bag swinging excitedly at her side.

How do you fly?” the girl asked, eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s... complicated,” Clara said, chuckling softly. “But it took me a long time to learn.”

“Why do you wear those clothes?”

“Do you like them?”

“The cape is wonderful. You look like a princess.”

“It’s from my planet,” Clara replied, with a playful twinkle in her eye.

“You’re from another planet?”

October 2, 1945

Metropolis, Morning.

Clara landed dressed in her Kryptonian supersuit behind a stack of beams at a construction site near the Daily Planet. A second later, she emerged dressed as Clara Kent. She smoothed out her skirt, adjusted her hat. It felt strange to wear her Kryptonian suit underneath, but it was comfortable—like slipping into a snug silk pajama beneath her everyday clothes. She patted her back several times, still incredulous that the cape didn’t create a noticeable bulge. She had an irrational fear that, somehow, her red cape would peek through, revealing itself to the world. But no—it fit tightly, and her daily attire concealed it perfectly.

It was only the second day of her life wearing the cape.

She glanced around. No one had noticed her. People hurried past, engrossed in their newspapers, chattering excitedly, or moving with urgent purpose. The construction workers had gathered inside a large tent, listening to the radio, which was breathlessly reporting on sightings of the mysterious flying woman. American-occupied Korea. Brazil. Seventeen states across the U.S. Belgium. Spain. Ethiopia. The open seas of two different oceans. All within the last twelve hours.

All true, Clara thought nervously.

With her super-hearing, she could catch hundreds of conversations at once. The world was stunned—but enchanted. There was tension, nervous excitement, countless questions—but, above all, there was wonder. The voices of awe and joy outweighed those of fear or alarm.

She bought five or six newspapers, her hands trembling slightly. The Daily Planet’s headline read: "CAPED WONDER STUNS CITY". It was the same title from last night’s special edition, though the subtitle, accompanied by a blurry photograph, now added: "SIGHTINGS AROUND THE WORLD IN THE LAST HOURS—FLYING WOMAN PERFORMS INCREDIBLE RESCUES AND STOPS CRIMINALS". "Caped Wonder." She liked the sound of that. Still, she planned to publicly announce her Kryptonian name: Kala-El. The Metropolis Times had chosen a different name: "SUPERWOMAN". That one unsettled her a little more. Their cover featured a profile shot of her mid-flight, her face nearly blurred beyond recognition. Another newspaper called her: "MIRACLE WOMAN."

Clara sat down at a café, tuning in to dozens of nearby conversations with her super-hearing while scribbling a thousand-word article about Metropolis’ reaction to the events. The piece would read as if Clara Kent had spent the night interviewing citizens on the streets, not soaring across the world. It felt slightly dishonest—disrespectful, even. But she needed the job. She needed an explanation for why she had been unreachable until ten in the morning. A father and his small children gushed excitedly about her, as if a comic book had come to life. A solemn-looking couple debated whether she was a war machine or some kind of demonic trick. A young officer passionately argued with the bartender, convinced that the flying woman was the result of an atomic experiment gone wrong.

Clara smiled to herself, timidly. "Most of them aren’t afraid of me. They’re not terrified. They… they like me. Or at least, they like what I do. I just hope they never come to fear me”. She paid for her coffee and hurried off to the Daily Planet, skipping lightly with a quiet joy—though she had to focus hard on not floating off the ground, something that had happened far too often in moments of happiness lately.

Stopping before the newspaper’s towering headquarters, she took a deep breath.

"Here we go."

The newsroom was a frenzy of voices, movement, and barely controlled chaos. People rushed back and forth, shouting for testimonies, demanding photos. Artists sketched; editors pored over maps. In the center of the main newsroom, a massive world map had been pinned up. George Taylor and a group of journalists were busy sticking bright red flags onto every location that had reported a sighting of the flying woman. And in the middle of the storm, lounging with an air of studied nonchalance, sat Cat Grant—wearing sunglasses, sipping a glass of whiskey, and seemingly paying attention to nothing at all.

Jimmy Olsen, a new intern photographer, nearly collided with her.

“Miss Kent! Where have you been? Mr. Lane has been looking for you everywhere!”

“Oh, Jimmy! How are you? Crazy, right? Can you believe it?” Clara waved the freshly scribbled pages of her notes. “I’ve been working. The city is absolutely excited.”

“Come with me to see Mr. Lane. Yes! It looks like she’s the real deal! We’ve recorded up to sixty sightings worldwide—ten of them right here in Metropolis. And still, not a single clear photo of her face! She’s too fast! People say she’s beautiful, that she’s like an angel. Most think she has something to do with the atomic bomb. Can you believe that? The government hasn’t said a word! Did you know the FBI detained Mr. Lane for four hours? They wanted to know exactly what he had seen! Have you read it? He’s lucky to be alive!”

Clara hadn’t yet read Louis’ article. In truth, she hadn’t even thought about him since she had set him safely on the ground after saving his life. How would he be?

She followed Jimmy toward the office she shared with Louis while the young photographer chattered on nervously.

“I’m going to grab my camera and stay awake for the next 24 hours. She’s bound to show up in Metropolis again, and I have to capture her. Can you imagine, Miss Kent? What it would mean to get that shot?”

Clara responded with a small smile, adjusting her glasses. Sooner or later, full, clear photos of her face would be plastered across the world. Would anyone recognize Clara Kent in Superwoman?

They stepped into the office. Louis Lane was still wearing the white tuxedo from the night before when she had rescued him—only now, the jacket was unbuttoned, his shirt unkempt. He looked utterly exhausted, deeply troubled. And, of course, he had a drink in hand. He glanced at them with weary eyes.

“Major Lane! How are you? I just heard! Are you all right?”

“Where the hell were you, Kent? Never mind… Congratulations. You were right.”

Louis said it almost begrudgingly.

“I was doing my job, sir. I spent the night and morning all over the city, interviewing people. I think I’ve got a solid article.”

Louis took her notes and read them in silence, his expression dark. “It’s very good, Miss Kent. Very good. I think it captures the mood of the city well. Take it to George Taylor—tell him I think it should go in the midday edition. Title it ‘Metropolis Faces the Unthinkable: How the City Responds to the Emergence of the Caped Wonder’.”

He buried his face in his hands.

"Well, I saved his life, and thanks to me, he’s got an exclusive story. He was the first person I publicly rescued, and yet… He looks absolutely defeated. What a strange man," Clara thought.

“Are you leaving the paper?” Louis suddenly asked, straight to the point.

“Oh? Why would I? Mr. Lane, first of all, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re safe…”

“We just cost you a massive exclusive. You were the only one at the Planet who took those early rumors seriously—stories of a woman dressed like a pilot, rescuing people and catching criminals. And you wanted to write about it.”

“Well, it’s fine. No newspaper in the world would have published that story back then. Besides…” Clara grinned playfully. “She doesn’t seem to dress like a pilot anymore.”

Louis let out the faintest of smiles. “Well, your trial period is over. You’re officially hired as an assistant reporter. I’ll try to get your piece on her first rescues published in the Sunday edition.”

“Thank you so much, Major Lane! Was that what you were worried about?” Clara asked gently.

Louis frowned. “Don’t be childish. Aren’t you worried? Don’t you think this is a radical, absolute upheaval? A flying woman with super strength, appearing all over the world? There are even rumors she can shoot fire or beams from her eyes.”

"Oh, I can do a few more things than that," Clara thought with amusement.

Then, putting on her most convincingly naïve voice, she sighed.

“Of course I’m worried. I mean… Who is she? Where did she come from? She’s incredible… You saw her, didn’t you? What was she like?”

Louis made a strange face.

“She’s… I don’t know how to put it. She wasn’t human. It all happened so fast. She seemed calm, composed—heroic, even divine—but not human. She was like a statue come to life. I don’t entirely understand what she was wearing… a red cape, some kind of emblem—a stylized ‘S’? Why an ‘S’? And the worst part… I didn’t notice it myself, but people say she wears some kind of briefs over her tights—like a circus performer. It’s odd. Even scandalous. But those details don’t matter. What matters is… She wasn’t human, Miss Kent. She was something else. She saved my life, and so far, she only seems interested in rescuing people, helping them… But only God knows what comes next.”

Clara bit her lip, slightly disappointed, as she sat down to type her article.

Louis kept talking. “Almost everyone thinks she’s connected to the atomic bomb. A government experiment or something of the sort. It makes sense. The bomb drops, and a month later—this. God, I hope she’s a robot. If she is, then sure, her costume is a bizarre choice, but whatever—a robot. That would be simple. That would be fine. But if she’s an alien? Or worse, if she claims to be some self-proclaimed angel or goddess… Imagine if she says she’s here to bring Judgment Day. Or that she’s Athena, come down from Olympus.”

Clara adopted a deliberately somber expression. “What would be so bad if she weren’t a robot? Or if she were an alien?”

“For God’s sake, you must be exhausted. I haven’t slept either, Miss Kent, but think. What are we supposed to do with someone that powerful?”

“Maybe… Maybe she just wants to help.”

“That’s not the point.”

Louis sighed again, deeper this time. “I should have grabbed onto her leg or her cape—something—and demanded she tell me who the hell she was. But all she said was… ‘a friend.’ A friend. What kind of bloody answer is that? Disastrous. I was too shaken.”

“You’ll have more chances, Major Lane,” Clara said with a small, knowing smile.

A knock at the door—then, without waiting for a response, several people burst into the room. Perry Weiss, the newspaper’s director. George Taylor, the editor-in-chief. Hank Ibsen, the best portrait artist in the city. And, leaning casually against the doorframe, Steve Lombard—the paper’s most popular sports reporter, and someone Clara found deeply unpleasant.

Only Weiss greeted her. “Well, well, Miss Kent! Quite the morning, huh? Have you ever seen anything like the madness in this newsroom?”

Louis gestured toward her with uncharacteristic deference. “Miss Kent spent the entire night and morning pounding the pavement. She’s put together a solid article on the city’s reaction—it’s going into the midday edition.”

“Yes, yes, very good, whatever,” Weiss waved dismissively. Then he turned to Louis.

“Lane, we need you to put some real effort into this. Give us a thorough, detailed description of the woman. We’ve brought some of the blurry photos people managed to take. We want a proper portrait of her for the back page of the midday edition. Ibsen here is the best portrait artist in this damned city.”

Louis sighed, resigned. Ibsen sat down between Clara’s desk and Louis’, pulling out his sketching materials while Taylor tossed the grainy photos in front of an exhausted and thoroughly annoyed Louis.

“Come on, Lane,” Taylor urged. “Just get through this, then go home. Your wife and daughter will want to see you.”

Lombard smirked from his perch at the doorway, clearly amused by the scene. Then, turning to Clara, he drawled in a mocking tone: “Clarybelle… Wild stuff, huh? A flying woman. I really hope she’s a robot. Because if she’s not… Well, then we’re screwed. You ladies will start demanding pay raises next.”

Clara forced a smile, thin and sharp as a blade.

Lombard grinned wider. “Come on, Clarybelle—place a bet. We’re all doing it. What do you think she is? Robot? A real woman, a product of atomic experimentation? Alien? Fairy? Angel? Ancient goddess? Divine messenger?”

Clara’s voice was dry as dust, “I’ll bet on fairy, thanks.”

Meanwhile, Louis was laboriously describing the flying woman to Ibsen, “Yes, like Gene Tierney, but with a stronger jaw and larger eyes. No—Hedy Lamarr’s face is too long. Something in between. Give her thicker eyebrows. Not plucked, but not too bushy—just natural-looking. And her eyes—piercing turquoise. I don’t know if they were blue or green, but they were… striking. And the expression… more like a statue. Divine. Her hair—thick, jet black, a little wild. Almost curly.”

Ibsen worked quickly. A few minutes later, he lifted the finished portrait for everyone to see.

Clara’s face burned. It was her.

Exactly as she had seen herself in the mirror that morning dressed in her Kryptonian supersuit.

Everyone nodded in agreement - except Louis and Clara. Then, suddenly, Taylor's usually gentle face took on a strange expression. He stared at the drawing, then turned sharply to Clara.

“Ibsen… You’ve basically drawn Miss Kent with messy hair and no glasses.”

A pause.

Then—laughter. Loud and raucous. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Clara, whose face was now the color of a ripe tomato.

Louis, mercifully, stepped in, “Ibsen—no. That’s not right. Make her less human. Less… normal. That face is too warm, too familiar. She—or it—was regal. Composed. Divine. But not human. Not friendly. Think… I don’t know… Alma-Tadema, something decadent, something distant.”

Ibsen huffed but adjusted the sketch. He held up the revised portrait. Clara no longer recognized herself.

“That’s it,” Louis said at last, sounding utterly exhausted. “It’s close. Still… something’s missing. I don’t know what. But it was something like that.”

“Perfect, thank you, Louis. Goodbye, Miss Kent.” Weiss said quickly before vanishing into the chaos.

“The story of the year,” Clara murmured hesitantly.

“The damn story of our lives,” Louis replied, thoroughly exasperated.

Clara glanced at him sideways. Great. Just my luck—I get stuck with Louis, the Grand Master of Skepticism. She sighed in frustration and finished typing up her article.

“Let’s take it to George,” Louis muttered, rubbing his temples. “He might suggest some changes… Now that I think about it, the tone might be too optimistic. A little too cheerful. Then again, no need to scare people. There’s probably plenty of time for that.”

Idiot. Clara bit her tongue to keep from rolling her eyes.

The two of them walked toward the newsroom as Louis shrugged his jacket back on. Taylor reviewed the article and gave it an immediate nod of approval without further comment.

The newsroom was a whirlwind of movement, voices clashing in the frenzy of breaking news. Perry Weiss, short but commanding, dashed from desk to desk, barking out chaotic orders. Cat Grant was nowhere to be seen—until suddenly, she reappeared, her ever-present sunglasses and whiskey glass in hand.

Clara wasn’t particularly fond of Cat—she found her brash, arrogant—but she also had to admit the woman was brave, a gifted writer, and still men found her strikingly attractive, her resemblance to Barbara Stanwyck only adding to her undeniable presence.

Without preamble, Cat leaped onto a chair in the center of the room and, without clearing her throat or greeting anyone, bellowed: “I just got off the phone with Senator Taft. The White House is releasing a statement in one hour, but we need to start working on it now.”

The newsroom fell silent.

“The flying woman met with the President last night.”

A wave of murmurs, gasps, and even a few stunned whimpers spread through the room like a shockwave.

Louis looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

“She’s an alien,” Cat continued, her voice sharp and theatrical, milking every ounce of drama. “From another planet.”

Clara barely heard the words over the rush of blood in her ears.

"I forgot!"

So much had happened in the last few hours that she had barely thought about her brief meeting with the President at the White House in the dead of night, reassuring him, calming his fears. She hadn’t wanted to hold a press conference. She still didn’t know what to say. She wanted to stay anonymous. Maybe she should reveal her Kryptonian name—but even that felt too intimate, too personal.

“She comes in peace,” Cat continued, her voice cutting through the newsroom. “She claims to be an American citizen, raised here since childhood. She just wants to help. She’s offering her service to the government and the United Nations. The President will stand beside her at six o’clock this evening to give further details. They don’t think she’ll speak.”

Perry Weiss took over, his voice booming over the noise. “You know the drill—every man for himself! Call everyone—scientists, politicians, philosophers, cops. Hit the streets. Grab your cameras. If anyone wants to go to Washington, they can—but on their own dime. We’re chartering a small plane, but management decides who gets a seat.”

Cat sauntered over to them, her sharp gaze landing on Louis. “Louis, darling, you were the first to see her last night. If you want a seat, you’ve got one. We leave in an hour. It’s me, Mailer, probably Perry. I’m trying to convince that diva Leon Bernzy to come as our photographer—I want real photos of the press conference. Dark, raw, natural. But you know how expensive he is…”

Louis sighed and shrugged.

“The first person to hear about her was Clara Kent,” he said flatly. “Apparently, this woman was performing small civic actions while disguised as a pilot these past few weeks. It was an open secret among the police. I refused to publish her article.”

Cat turned to Clara with a mixture of arrogance and reluctant admiration. “I don’t blame you, Louis. Miss Kent, congratulations on your instincts, but let’s be real—no one would have believed it back then. You’re too young, too green to come to Washington this time, but I’ll be keeping my eye on you. Welcome aboard.”

Clara suppressed a small, proud smile. “Well, I’ll be in Washington anyway,” she said to herself.

Louis turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Clara, I’m going to church. Then I’m going home to my wife and daughter—I haven’t seen them in almost 24 hours. We’ll talk tomorrow. If you want to walk around Metropolis tonight and report on how people react to the alien’s press conference, fine. I don’t want you stuck in that kind of journalism forever, but for today, it’s the most useful thing you can do.”

Clara nodded, though her super-hearing had already picked up something urgent. She was needed again. Superwoman had work to do.

“Of course, Mr. Lane. I’ll head out now, get some rest, and start right away.”

“Do whatever you want,” Louis muttered, already making his way out the door.

The newsroom roared with frantic energy. No one noticed Clara quietly slipping into her office.

In a fraction of a second, she shrugged off her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt, pulled out the pins in her bun, and placed her glasses carefully in the desk drawer. The red cape, folded neatly beneath her clothes, unfurled as she kicked off her skirt and stockings, revealing the unmistakable blue and red of her Kryptonian suit.

She took half a second to glance in the mirror.

She felt strong.

She felt ready.

"Here we go… Up, up, and away!”

A red and blue blur streaked across the sky, weaving between the skyscrapers of Metropolis.

Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people pointed, gasped, and cheered as they watched the impossible come to life before their very eyes.

***

Superwoman soared at full speed over the Metropolis skyline, fresh from battling floods in Anglo-Egyptian Sudan. She had spent the night and most of the morning there—redirecting torrents of water, pulling people from drowning currents, constructing dikes at super-speed. The only break she had taken was a brief stop at the Daily Planet, just long enough to be seen as Clara Kent.

She entered the building unseen, a red-and-blue blur vanishing into an empty corridor, and, in the stairwell, she changed back into Clara Kent. For the first time in nearly two weeks, she felt a flicker of exhaustion. Two incredibly intense weeks. The most intense of her life. And yet, she was happy. Energized. Eager to keep helping.

Still, the sheer attention she was generating made her uncomfortable. Since her first public appearance, she had become the single most talked-about subject in newspapers, on the radio, in casual conversation—even in diplomatic relations. Just that morning, the Soviet Union had issued a scathing statement, demanding that their supposed ally, the United States, clarify whether the so-called “Superwoman” was truly an extraterrestrial or some elaborate propaganda campaign for a military android. Most people, however, were in awe.

And that made her happy. She loved helping them, using her powers openly, flying—it was freedom. The moment she transformed from Clara Kent into Superwoman was liberating. When she unfurled her cape and took to the skies, she felt filled with hope, with purpose, with an unshakable determination to work for others.

Despite her doubts. Despite the cruel voices of a handful of detractors. Despite the memory of her father. Even with all of that… she was happy.

Her mother, Martha, was ecstatic. She had been buying every newspaper and magazine that made it to Smallville, clipping and saving every mention of her daughter, despite Clara’s repeated pleas for discretion. Martha had framed the best photos of Superwoman, images of a face now recognized around the entire world. Clara just had asked her to keep them stored away in case of visitors. The Daily Planet’s Sunday edition from the first week after her debut had been Martha’s pride and joy. The front page featured a stunning full-color photograph by Leo Bernzy—Superwoman levitating above a stunned crowd. The headline read:

"YOU’LL BELIEVE A WOMAN CAN FLY."

Inside, among countless articles, was a piece Clara herself had written weeks ago—back when she was just following rumors of a flying woman dressed as a pilot. The very article Louis had dismissed as nonsense. Now, it was republished with a preface acknowledging that the so-called pilot had, in fact, been Superwoman, acting in secret.

But Clara had decided she would never write about Superwoman again. It felt dishonest. There were far more important stories to tell—about Metropolis, about the world. And besides, her father, Joe, would never have approved of her using her own heroism to advance her career at the Daily Planet. She had the job now. She had to be honest. Responsible.

She was beginning to feel the first signs of real fatigue, and she was worried about how much scrutiny she was under. The fact that the public had settled on Superwoman as her name, out of all the possible monikers, unsettled her.

And yet… these were happy days. Clara believed—truly believed—that what she was doing mattered. Crime in Metropolis had plummeted. No one wanted to face a flying woman in whom bullets simply bounced off. In cities across the U.S.—even beyond the U.S.—criminals were growing wary, knowing that the Woman of Steel could show up at any moment. But the further from Metropolis, the better their chances of acting before she could arrive. She couldn’t be everywhere.

And then there were the refugees. The world was full of them. Millions upon millions. Displaced by war. Homeless. Wandering. Suffering in the cold, in the heat. The victors. The defeated. As Superwoman, Clara had seen the camps. And she had begun to feel the crushing weight of the fact that, during the war, she had done nothing. Not because she didn’t want to. But because she didn’t know how. Most of her time now was spent protecting refugees, delivering humanitarian aid—hauling tons of food, blankets, and medicine across continents. But none of it weighed as heavily on her as the guilt of having waited.

She had heard the whispers—both with her super-hearing and without it.

"Why didn’t she appear sooner?"

"Why didn’t she stop it?"

"Why didn’t she help then?"

And they were right. It was the shadow that crossed her heart.

Sighing, Clara Kent stepped into her office and, at super-speed, typed up the translations Louis had requested. Louis hardly spent time at the office. She barely saw him. He gave her free rein to chase stories across the city, completely unaware that, in reality, she was taking flight—racing to help those in need. Occasionally, Major Lane would assign her tedious administrative work—filing reports, translating articles—blissfully ignorant that she could finish in minutes, sometimes seconds, and spend the rest of the day on her true mission.

Like everyone else, Louis was growing increasingly fixated on Superwoman. But unlike many of his colleagues, he hadn’t thrown himself off a building window just to force a rescue and try securing an exclusive interview. He seemed to respect her more as a journalist these days—though, at times, Clara got the distinct impression that he found her… dull. He rarely invited her along to investigations or meetings, and when he did, it felt like an afterthought. But she played the fool, insisted on tagging along. Other times, Louis was incredibly considerate, even charming. It all depended on the day. At times, Clara found him infuriating. At others, oddly pleasant.

“Smallville, if you’re done with the translations, you can go. If you need me, I’ll be on the roof—I need some air.”

Louis leaned in through the doorway, his voice dismissive, and disappeared just as quickly as he had arrived.

Clara smirked to herself. Louis doesn’t work too hard sometimes…

He no longer carried a cane or wore his military uniform, though, technically, he was still enlisted. Then, suddenly, an idea struck her. She liked the way Louis wrote. He was a good interviewer—he had a way of making people feel at ease, making them talk more than they intended. He was a gentleman. And when he wanted to be, he was a relentless bulldog. A respected journalist. Her newspaper’s journalist. And, after all, he had been the first man she had ever saved publicly—without hiding her face, without vanishing at super-speed. They worked at the same paper. Maybe it was time. Maybe Superwoman should give an interview. Maybe the world deserved to know more about her. It was time to tell her story.

Clara pushed the thought away. No. Louis was arrogant. They argued too much. Tess Harding was the best interviewer in the world—if anyone should get the first exclusive, it should be her. Clara admired Tess, almost as much as she admired Miss Roosevelt. And yet, the thought lingered. She needed to start telling her story. And she liked Louis as a journalist. Sure, he was a snob. Arrogant at times. Dismissive. He seemed skeptical of Superwoman—though, in recent days, he had spoken of her almost admiringly. But he was a good writer. A gentleman. He had hired her. He respected her work, even if he found her presence annoying. He was a war hero.

And once again, Clara couldn’t resist her own impulses. In a swift spin, she became Superwoman. She shot out of the window at super-speed, a blur of red and blue streaking across the sky and landed gracefully atop the golden globe crowning the Daily Planet building.

Below her, Louis Lane—jacket off, sleeves rolled up—stood at the rooftop’s edge, cigarette in hand, staring absentmindedly at the city. It was one of the few things they had in common. Both of them had an uncanny ability to lose themselves in thought.

Louis was at her feet. She cleared her throat, adjusting her voice—neutral, aristocratic, commanding. She erased every trace of her Kansas accent.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lane.”

Louis jolted as if struck by lightning. Whirling around too quickly, he slipped. Before he could hit the ground, Superwoman caught him effortlessly and lowered him gently onto the rooftop.

He lay there, wide-eyed, staring up at her in stunned silence. She hovered above him, her cape billowing in the wind.

“Superwoman…” He breathed, barely a whisper.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Lane?” Her voice was steady, calm—but warm, almost playful. “I apologize for startling you. That was never my intention. I saw you while flying past and recognized you from the other night. I hope you’re doing well—that was quite a fall…”

“Thank you… Thank you so much… You saved my life.”

“It was nothing. A small leap.” She gave him a polite, measured smile, “I hope you don’t find my greeting too forward. I didn’t know who you were when I rescued you. But I’ve read your work, and I’ve heard you on the radio. I simply wanted to introduce myself properly and make sure you were well.”

Louis still looked dazed, overwhelmed. Clara tried not to enjoy it too much.

Then, suddenly, he pulled himself up, regaining his composure. His voice, too, shifted—more controlled, more professional.

“Once again—thank you, Miss Superwoman. I’m honored.” He hesitated. “May I ask you a question?”

“I’d prefer not to be called Superwoman, Mr. Lane.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But of course. Go ahead.”

“My apologies,” Louis said smoothly. “How should I address you?”

She didn’t answer.

He continued, “I wanted to ask… Are you planning to hold a press conference soon? The world is full of questions. You barely said anything alongside the President.”

For a brief moment, Clara recalled her own hesitant words when she had stood beside President Truman, addressing the world for the first time.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you for your kind greetings and warm words. I only wish to say that, as the President has indicated, I was born on a distant planet that no longer exists. As a very young child, I was sent here, where I developed these abilities during my journey. I am an American citizen, raised in the United States of America. I only want to help and to use my abilities in service of all of you. I deeply appreciate your kindness and ask that you pray for me.”

She exhaled slowly and looked Louis straight in the eye while planting her hands on her hips. The wind sent her long red cape rippling behind her. “Mr. Lane,” she said, voice firm. “I’ve been told you’re the best interviewer on the East Coast.” She let the words hang in the air. “Perhaps,” she continued, “I could tell my story, explain my origins, my true name… in a private interview at another time.” She arched a brow. “What do you think?”