#kat cavanaugh

Six months, three weeks and four days after the email was sent, the TV ad spot flashed up at prime time viewing slots in the United States, nestled in with the Sunday evening baseball games, hockey, and basketball playoffs. At the same time a social media and internet campaign was launched too, designed to catch the attention of the rest of the world as they woke up or before they went to bed. 

'Kat Cavanaugh here with a special bulletin. 

Nearly three years ago, the commander of International Rescue and CEO of Tracy Industries Scott Tracy and his brother Gordon completely vanished from the public eye. This occurred shortly after they and their brothers John, Virgil, Alan, and International Rescue’s chief engineer ‘Brains’ rescued Jeff Tracy from his stranding in deep space after the Zero-X disaster. Repeated requests to both organisations about their abrupt disappearances have only resulted in statements that they are 'pursuing other interests'. A recent discovery of reports of child neglect and abuse dating from the '30s, combined with the now missing brothers and new faces at International Rescue made this reporter suspicious: exactly where were Scott and Gordon Tracy and why was their father being so coy about their actual whereabouts? 

After a private meeting with Scott Tracy, who is currently residing in an undisclosed location for his own safety, this reporter decided to move forward with this report- not as a full documentary, but in a series as facts are confirmed. My first instalment will be tomorrow night, on the Kat Cavanaugh Show.'

0o0o0

Thirty three minutes after the first ad hit the internet, Alan stood on the dock behind the house in New Haven, a duffle bag at his feet as he watched the sunset while waiting for his ride. 

This plan had been put together ages ago. Out of all of them, he was the most vulnerable and the most exposed, so this plan had been set up for three reasons.

The first reason was reporters: there’d already been some snooping around at college, trying to catch him in the library or the labs. He’d managed to slip past them without getting spotted and Scott had had the foresight to hide the ownership of the house behind a trust, so unless a friend or neighbour blabbed, he felt pretty safe waiting outside for the short time until he’d be picked up. 

The second reason was a group suspicion that S.D. might send people to ‘collect’ him so he could be ‘asked’ to play the part of a dutiful son and deny all of Kat’s report. 

Alan hated the idea of running and hiding. Backing down galled him and he’d have loved to have a chance to tell the world some of the things he’d seen S.D. do, but this time common sense overruled bravado. If he stayed out in the open he could be used as leverage against the others - that was the third reason - and that wasn’t acceptable. 

The ink-dark waters of the river parted and FAB 1 surfaced beside the dock, the window canopy opening. “Hello, Alan,” Lady Penelope’s voice floated out, accompanied by an excited yap from Sherbert. 

“Hi Lady P, thanks for coming to get me.” Alan gave her a smile as he carefully heaved the duffle bag in first, then climbed in after it and buckled up. 

“You’re very welcome,” was her warm response as she let Sherbert scamper over to him for some attention.

“H-any sign h'of reporters, Master Alan, sir?” Parker asked as the canopy sealed and the car submerged. 

“Just a couple on campus, but they didn’t see me,” was the response, accompanied by a half shrug as he absently petted Sherbert. “So…it begins, huh?” he asked, looking at the other occupants of the car. The day had finally arrived for S.D. crash to earth, but now that it was here, he really wasn’t sure how he was feeling about it. 

The vague thought of ‘be careful what you wish for because you just might get it’ was set aside for later contemplation, he had too much to think about right now.

That phrase often amused Scott. The universe rarely ever proved itself to be a fairytale. Every day the world threatened to crack his carefully crafted opinion of it, but, by some miracle, Scott managed to keep the optimism that had blinded his youth. Nothing is ever bad forever. There was always a reason to hold onto hope.

“Earth to Scott Tracy?”

The clicking fingers in front of his face snapped him out of his current daydream. He blinked as the familiar scent of amber invaded his space. Kathleen Cavanaugh, the Tribune’s most intrepid reporter, was stood in front of his seat, her back to his desk, with her legs crossed over at the ankles. Her press pass was dangling from around her neck as she leaned over him, as inquisitive as ever.

Her lips curved into a beguiling smile. “Where were you this time, flyboy?”

Scott had never liked that nickname. He’d never disliked it so much as to ask Kat politely to cease using it — though that could have been to avoid the question of why, which often found itself leaving Kat’s lips — but it had always made him uncomfortable.

No-one in the big city, with the exception of a brother who was rarely home, were aware of Scott’s special gifts. It was a secret he’d been keeping for almost three decades with only his family and a few exceptions also sharing the burden. So, the first time Kat used the nickname, Scott had almost had a heart attack. He’d been so careful when he’d moved to the city, so much so that he rarely used his gifts in public spaces, at least not when he was playing the role of civilian. It was safer that way. But Kat Cavanaugh had always had the talent of picking up the scent of something unusual. If anyone in the city were to discover his secret, Kat was at the top of the bill.

Fortunately for him, however, she had not devised the nickname because she’d found out that Scott was the Man of Tomorrow, but rather in response to learning of his teenage dreams of becoming a real life Maverick and joining the Air Force. The relief he had felt when he’d realised it was not because she knew he could actually fly was immense. He had laughed so hard from that relief that Kat had believed her nickname was a great success and proceeded to use it as often as she could, entirely ignorant to Scott’s actual aversion to it.

“Hello?” She was clicking her fingers again. “I asked you a question, Tracy.”

“Sorry.” Scott mumbled, offering up an apologetic smile. He shuffled himself in his seat, sitting himself more upright and less slouched. “I was, uh, just thinking about my brother’s birthday. It’s next month and I’m still figuring out what to get him.”

Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar, Scott Tracy.”

Her comment hurt him far less than it should have done, purely down to the fact that Scott knew he was a very good liar actually. If Kat was unaware of that then it was only testament to how good he truly was.

… Though, on second thought, maybe being an expert liar wasn’t something he should have been overly proud about.

Her finger prodded his shoulder hard but he barely felt it. “What were you really thinking about?”

Scott shrugged his shoulders and tried to brush off her continued questioning by turning back to his desk. “Nothing.”

She remained in place for a moment longer, scrutinising his expression. Scott felt as though he was under a microscope and found himself pitying the poor souls who were ever interrogated by Cavanaugh during an interview. She was nothing if not thorough.

“Fine!” With a sigh, Kat leaned herself back into a standing position, her palms lay flat against his desk behind her. “Keep your secrets. I’ll find them out one day.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Hm. Are you still going home this weekend?”

Scott glanced up from his computer screen with an arched brow. “… Yes? How did you know about that?”

“I’m an investigative reporter, Scott. It’s my job.” Kat paused, her shoes suddenly appearing more interesting than him, before further admitting: “I also saw the vacation calendar earlier, where your name is scribbled in for the next few days. You never go away anywhere special so I just assumed, clearly correctly, that you’ll be visiting Kansas again.”

If there was ever a time for Kat to give him reason to doubt her talents, now wasn’t it. Scott beamed at her, impressed by her deduction skills, and let out a laugh. “You’re on the money, Detective Cavanaugh.”

Kat swiped at his arm. “Shut up! I was just curious, that’s all.”

The silence that filled Scott’s cubicle was deafening and he knew that reason wasn’t the entirety of why Kat was snooping.

He sighed, letting his head loll backwards until the base of his head hit the top of his spine. “Kat. No.”

“I promise I won’t gatecrash the Tracy family reunion! I just want to investigate around your fields a little.”

“You know that there was no link between GaatCorp and that chemical leak. My dad was thorough in his investigation and the police—”

“—were bought off by the company, yes.”

From behind his glasses, that were completely unnecessary for his sight, Scott narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t what I was going to say, Kat, and you know it.”

Pushing herself up from his desk to stand straight on her feet again, Kat’s fingers fidgeted with each other. It wasn’t a nervous tick so much as it was an impatient one. Scott noticed the gesture within the first week of working with her; when Kathleen Cavanaugh set her mind on something, she’d see it through, no matter what. It was what made her such a formidable journalist, and it was what scared Scott the most.

“I know that they’re hiding something, Scott. I know it! All I need is to find proof. Just one scrap of evidence!”

Scott spun his seat around to face her. Leaning forward, so his elbows rested upon his knees, he glanced up at her. “Kat, there is no evidence. There is no proof. My dad searched those fields for weeks and came up short. The authorities couldn’t find anything either. GaatCorp, for all that they are, were not the guilty party this time.”

He could see how the questions surrounding the Tracy Farm incident were eating away at her. It was painful to witness, but Scott had watched Kat worry over far more pressing stories over the last couple of years and he’d learned how to tune himself out of it.

Or so he’d thought.

“I suppose… Superman didn’t find anything either.”

Scott’s spine straightened. Her statement had the hint of a question in it, and he noticed it instantly. “How would I know?” He almost stuttered, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

“Because it was your family farm? Didn’t he tell you? Honestly, Tracy, maybe you just don’t trust the guy.”

The question over whether Scott trusted himself was an interesting one, though it wasn’t something he was going to answer in the present moment. He tried to laugh off his swift change of tune but he knew Kat would see through it. “It’s not that. I’m just, y’know, not privy to the mind of Superman.”

“That’s probably a good thing. I doubt any of us mere mortals would be able to cope with the burdens that guy carries around. Having the weight of the world on your shoulders like that? Jeez, being a reporter is hard enough.”

“Tracy, Cavanaugh! I didn’t realise I paid you both to stand around, chatting all day!” Ned Cook’s nasally voice was yelled as he crossed the bullpen to reach the pair.

Like a schoolchild caught out, Scott hastily span his chair around to face his computer again and began frantically typing. Unfortunately this left him with his back to his editor, who didn’t appreciate the sentiment one bit. His chair was soon whirled back around to face Cook who was looking at the pair more curious than he was cross.

“Sorry, Ned. I was just running a story past old Smallville over here.”

“Oh?” He glanced between the two of them. “And what might this story be?”

Scott could feel Kat go rigid at his side. If she told their editor the truth of what story she was still chasing he’d crush it before she even had the chance to prove to him it was worth following.

But Kat didn’t have a choice.

“The chemical spill at the Tracy Farm last month.”

Ned Cook sighed. His eyes rolled as he geared himself up to put her story to bed once and for all.

Kat, however, didn’t give him the chance. “Ned, I know the two are connected, alright? Give me time and I can prove it! It’ll be the exposé of the year!”

“No, what it would be is a heavy legal battle between GaatCorp and the Tribune, Cavanaugh, and we all know which one would be crushed by the financials. Do not chase this story, d’you hear me? It’s dead! Done! Over! Now, get back to work, preferably on stories that won’t bring the lawyers after us again, please!”

Their boss turned on his heels to leave but Kat wasn’t through with her fight. She jumped in front of him, blocking his path back to his office.

“So you’re censoring me? Is that it?”

The conversation was not a new one to Kat or Ned, nor to their fellow colleagues at the Tribune. They’d both played this game a thousand times. Sometimes Ned would pull rank and Kat would eventually heel to his demands. Sometimes it would be Ned who would relent and Kat would see the story through. It was a popular show, one that always had the attention of the office. Occasionally there was a betting pool. Scott rarely participated, but when he did, his money was always on Kat.

“This story is different to the others, Kat.” Ned Cook looked exhausted. Despite the regularity of the arguments, that wasn’t something Scott was used to seeing.

Ned slid past his reporter and proceeded on his way.

Kat continued to march after him, arms folding across her waistcoated torso. “How? How is it different? You let me run the exposé on the city mayor last year!”

“Yes, because you had the proof to go with it! You keep going after this story and Gaat will personally seek to take you down.”

“He can’t threaten the press!”

“He can if you’re trying to defame him!”

Kat opened her mouth to offer Ned’s claim a rebuttal but he cut her off before a word was said.

“Enough, Kat! Back to work! Find another story to write, one that is less controversial and won’t leave us with hefty legal fees, or I'll put you on the high school intern programme again.”

The argument was over.

Ned Cook, Editor in Chief of the Tribune, had won, and Kat Cavanaugh slunk back to her desk.

With the show over, everyone else in the office returned to their work but Scott watched as Kat took her seat across from him.

She may have added to the performance by appearing defeated but Scott knew his colleague.

And, just as he’d expected, Kat began to pull up her research on GaatCorp with a newfound sense of determination.

Scott knew it wasn’t his place to get involved and so he refrained from wheeling his chair over to her desk. When Kat Cavanaugh was on a mission, there was no deterring her from it. If the opportunity came for him to talk to her he might opt to take it.

didn’t need to be at her desk to hear her muttered words.

“The truth will always out, Ned. The truth will always out.”

---------------------

The phrase lingered in Scott’s mind for the rest of his day.

The truth will always out.

It wasn’t Kat’s fault. She could hardly read his mind and see why it was such an uncomfortable phrase for him (and he was incredibly thankful that Kathleen Cavanaugh wasn’t a mind-reader for that very reason). The phrase was an unofficial motto for any journalist and Scott had heard it time and time again, but he couldn’t help but take it as a threat.

Not from Kat, by any means, but from the universe.

The truth will always out.

His secret sat on a ticking time bomb. Scott knew it was childish and naive to have hope in it staying that way forever. Secrets were only ever truly safe with dead men, and Scott Tracy planned on staying alive for as long as humanly possible… or alieny possible in his case. He also planned on his family living their lives to the full as well, thus the weight of that impossibly large skeleton in the closet remained looming over him.

One day the truth would come to light —Superman’s true identity would be revealed and Scott’s life would become even more chaotic than it currently was — and when that day inevitably arrived Scott hoped that he’d be the one able to control the story. It was part of the reason why he had accepted the job offer at the Tribune — becoming the news, in more ways than one, meant he had more control over what was being said about him, over how much of a story was being released. It hadn’t been easy as an intern but his way with words and his farm-boy charm had carried him a long way. He’d been lucky Ned Cook was just as susceptible to the blue eyes and dimples as everyone else seemed to be.

For once Scott finished on time. The clock struck five and he was grabbing his satchel and his jacket, waving his goodbyes to Gallagher and Coulby before heading straight for the elevator.

He’d had to run to catch it, outstretching his arm to stop the doors from closing. Luck seemed to be on his side this evening. The doors slid back open with a welcoming woosh. Scott kept his eyes on the ground as he entered, partly from the embarrassment of being the one halting the elevator, even if by a few seconds, though he shot an apologetic smile towards the occupant. His eyes lifted and that smile of his turned into one of amusement, dimples on full show.

“Stalking me now, Smallville?” Kat Cavanaugh, fully entertained by his arrival herself, had her own teasing grin playing on her lips.

“Who, me?” Scott clasped his hands tightly in front of his body once he’d pushed the button for the reception. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The gentle hum of the elevator descending filled the small space, making Scott acutely aware of how small the elevators were in the Tribune. His hands fidgeted, his feet shuffled; most of the time Scott’s awkwardness was a conscious effort but, after a lifetime of hiding his gifts, it meant his mask was sometimes less controllable. Gallagher once called Scott a liability, a “calamity on legs”. He’d said he had no balance, no grace and was “an accident waiting to happen”.

What were friends for if not to point out the flaws?

At least Gallagher would never be suspect Scott was Superman. Every loss had it’s own win.

Kat Cavanaugh was an entirely different story, however. It wasn’t that Scott disliked being in Kat’s company. On the contrary, he found her often infuriating need for answers about any given matter somewhat endearing, if a little reckless. In her own way she brightened up the Tribune offices with her sailor mouth and her impatient manner. Without Kat, the Tribune wouldn’t have been the Tribune, and whilst Scott was sure that some days passed where Ned regretted hiring her, those days were far and few between.

He chanced a glance at her. She, like him, stared straight ahead, mesmerised by the steel grey of the elevator doors. Scott lowered his gaze to the papers in her hands.

ENVIROMENTAL REPORT .

GAATCORP END OF YEAR BUDGET .

SMALLVILLE PEDOLOGY .

Inwardly he sighed. Though Scott hadn’t held much hope of her dropping the story, actively seeing her still going through with it surprised him.

It really shouldn’t have. This was Kathleen Cavanaugh.

Perhaps he was more frustrated than surprised. She could never know the reason why investigating his family’s farm annoyed him which only made it worse.

“Nothing is going to stop you, is it, Cavanaugh?” Scott almost laughed.

Kat’s head twirled sharply. “There is a story here, Scott. I’ve just got to dig deep enough to find it.”

He’d heard that tone before. Sharp, barbed, defensive. Kat liked to prove her disbelievers wrong and had done so on multiple occasions. Scott could recall the multitude of times Kat had enjoyed telling the naysayers, ‘I told you so’, but she had never liked having to deal with the tribulations she had to overcome before that stage: the nagging, the denial of intel, the lack of faith.

Scott might have been biased but he had always felt that Kat’s blunt remarks were more vicious when it was him expressing his worries. He was aware of her opinion of him and that she saw him as the rival she needed to constantly top in order to impress Ned (or so she believed), but it didn’t mean Scott appreciated the  prickly responses. He was only ever trying to look out for her.

“Just remember: you dig too deep and you’ll run into magma. No story is worth getting burned over.”

The elevator doors dinged open and Scott, without another word, marched out into the lobby and then out onto the Metropolis streets beyond, leaving Kat and her story behind him.

---------------------

Metropolis was different to Smallville in so many ways. Scott wasn’t sure he’d ever truly get used to the city lights, the skyscrapers, the hustle and bustle, the cars and taxis, the clusters of people, the vibrancy of city life. It made him feel alive. In the midst of all the city noise, Scott could hide away. Growing up in the shadow of his gifts, for fear of being discovered, had meant Scott disliked being seen. He didn’t take too well to the spotlight. A small town was harder to hide in than the big city.

But he still found himself yearning for the simplicity that Smallville had given him. It was quieter in the country, not to mention that most of his family was still there. In Smallville there was no mass exodus of tourists every year, no large, blinding billboards, and far less crime. For want of a better phrase, it was a easier life, though Scott was sure his father would disagree.

21:40pm

Scott could have easily ordered the delivery to his apartment. Big Belly Burger only charged a few dollars extra for the convenience and Scott had used the service before, but with it being his last night in Metropolis for a few days, and after the stress of the working day, he had decided to walk the few blocks to pick up his order instead.

His mind kept replaying his memory of Kat in the elevator, so determined to prove to everyone that the story she was chasing was worth the risks the investigation posed. Scott wanted to admire her tenacity but the investigation wasn’t just dangerous for her to pursue; it was also dangerous for him.

The Tracy Farm held many secrets, Scott’s famed apple pie recipe being only one of them, but the biggest secret of all was literally embedded into the land. It had been a hard enough job for Jeff to keep the authorities from digging around too much when the chemical leak had occurred initially, but for Kat to start dredging up the past again? It was a risk far greater than she’d ever be able to know.

The heavens had opened up during Scott’s brief walk of two blocks. Puddles had begun to form on the pavement, reflecting back the bright street lamp lights. Huddled in his jacket, with his hair soggy and dripping, he picked up his pace. The sooner he could get to Big Belly Burger, the sooner he could make his way back to his warm, dry apartment…

CRASH—!!

“I swear to God, I didn’t… I didn’t mean nothing by it! Langley, honestly! I swear!”

With the help of his super hearing, Scott heard the pleas with ease. An alleyway a few strides ahead. He stopped in his tracks, expert ears listening in from the distance.

“I’ve had enough of your lies!”

“No! God, Langley, no!”

The wet crack of a punch. The heavy click of a gun. The slow and steady intake of a breath.

Scott moved through the rain at such a speed that he’d have been a blur to anyone who was passing by. But Scott was usually careful. There was no-one else on the street except for himself and the two men he was running toward. In the heat of the moment, he dove straight into the unfolding scene without changing out of his civilian clothing.

In a flash he arrived at the mouth of the alley and assessed the situation before him. Scott had less than five seconds. The attacker, a man almost the same height as Scott, with a slightly thinner build and clean shaven, was dressed in black. He blended into the darkness of the narrow passage as though he were just another shadow. Even for Scott’s eyes, he was hard to make out.

What wasn’t difficult for him to see was the glint of the glock that was aimed at the other man. Red blood oozed out from his temple, dripping down into his beard. He was barely standing, leaning awkwardly against the alley wall. From what Scott could make out, it appeared the man was being held up by an obscure railing that had been manipulated to keep him in place. He was unconscious now, as far as Scott could tell, and unmoving, completely unaware of the tragedy that was about to befall him.

Three seconds…

Scott hurried into action. He sped forward, the world around him moving in a haze. All he was focused on was the man, the gun and the trigger he’d just pulled.

Shit.

One second…

The sound of the bullet being shot sounded like a canon. In real time, to the human eye, the bullet wouldn’t have been seen until it was too late and was lodged in the unfortunate victim’s sternum. In Scott’s eyes he could see it fly through the air.

The attacker fired again.

Another bullet, then another, and another.

Scott jumped between the two men without a hesitation. He stood as still as a rock as the bullets tore through his shirt but recoiled as they hit his skin. He barely felt the impact. The bullets fell, clattering to the floor of the alley with a tinkle.

The attacker, with his gun now trained on Scott instead of the man who was behind him, faltered. To him, Scott had appeared out of nowhere, in the literal blink of an eye. His expression was one of pure confusion as he glanced down at the spent bullets, flattened and useless, before eyeing Scott wearily.

“What the hell are you?” He snarled, gripping his glock more tightly. It didn’t take him long to pluck up the courage to start shooting again.

Only Scott was faster.

With that same speed he’d utilised before, he reached out and caught the barrel in one hand with ease, twisting the attacker’s hand to point the weapon upwards. The bullets the man fired shoot off into the sky, far away from any other living person in that alley. Then, with his free hand, Scott’s palm forcefully pushed the attacker away.

The man went flying. He could have gone further had the dumpster not got in his path. With an almighty crash, the attacker careened into it and collapsed onto the floor, leaving a human-sized dent in the green metal. There he lay, as unmoving and unconscious as his victim had been moments ago.

Scott turned his attention to said victim who was groggily groaning and waking up from his impromptu nap. He lifted a hand to his aching temple, wincing as he felt the cut. In his effort to unhook himself from the manipulated fencing, the man slipped and fell to his knees.

“Don’t move too fast. You’re going to be alright.” Scott reassured him, quickly crouching down to the man’s eye-line. He assessed the man quickly for any further, visible injures but it appeared the man had been fortunate; from what Scott could see he had only suffered a knock to the head. “You’re safe now.”

“What happened?”

“It looks like you took quite a hit.”

Sirens squealed, crawling closer and closer — someone must have heard the gunshots and called the police. In a way, Scott was relieved. At least now he didn’t need to worry about cleaning up on his own.

Police cars swarmed the entrance to the alley in seconds, the blue lights illuminating the darkened space. Officers exited their vehicles with guns and torches raised, a precaution against any further dangers that remained.

Not wanting to be shot at again, Scott lifted his hands in the air slowly as he stood. Two officers moved forward to assess both the men on the floor.

Another officer, a deputy by the look of his badge, kept his gun trained on Scott.

“Keep your hands where I can see them and don’t move!”

Scott did as he was instructed.

“We’ve had reports of gunshots in the area. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“I don’t know, officer. I was walking by when I heard the gunshots. I came running as fast as I could to find that man barely conscious,” he gestured towards the man he had saved before pointing towards the attacker, still out cold by the dumpster, “and that man entirely unconscious. I was trying to help the wounded man when you arrived.”

After a lifetime of concealing the truth about his abilities and who he really was, lying was easy. It really should have worried Scott. He believed in the truth, fought tooth and nail everyday to present a clear reality to the readers of his articles, and yet he lied almost everyday to those closest to him with such practiced ease.

The deputy exchanged glances with a few other officers, all of them seeming to come to the same conclusion.

Superman.

He was usually the go-to answer when the ‘unexplained’ happened and Scott could hear a few of the officers whispering his name now. Little did they know they were pointing their guns straight at him.

“It was him!” The victim was now up on his feet, with the aid of the police officers, and was pointing directly towards Scott.

Scott blinked, a sudden panic rising inside. The deputy clutched his gun a little tighter, daring Scott to try something. It was madness, to be accused of injuring the man he had gone out of his way to help, but Scott wasn’t in a position to let the police know that. The only proof he had of being the saviour was the attacker who was still lying unconscious, and that would have create more questions than he’d like. If he had to, he supposed he could take down the officers as passively as possible and make his escape but the fallout from such an act wasn’t something he particularly favoured either…

It was to his relief, then, when the man continued with, “He’s the one who helped me. Stop pointing that weapon at him!”

Though the deputy was reluctant he lowered his gun and holstered it back into his belt. Then he turned back to converse with the officers of the vehicles behind his.

Scott smiled gratefully at the man. “Thank you for clearing that up.”

“Thank you for saving me.”

The panic set in again. “Oh! No… No, that wasn’t me! You were… You were already out cold when I arrived, and that guy was… pretty knocked about too. I didn’t, uh… What I mean to say is that I wasn’t the one who saved you.”

The man half-smiled. “Superman did.”

Scott nodded. He wasn’t entirely wrong. “Yeah, apparently.”

“Do you have any contact details?” One of the officers helping the injured man asked him. “In case we need to ask you any more questions about what you saw tonight?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Scott shuffled around in his pockets, retrieving his wallet. He flicked it open, fingers passing over out-of-date coupons and old photos of his family to find a crisp, white business card. “I’m out of town for the weekend but I should still be able to receive a call on my cell if you need to get in contact.”

The officer took the card from Scott with a curt ‘thanks’ before escorting the man to one of the cruisers. The victim waved a hand towards Scott, who obliged in returning the gesture.

With one last look at the attacker, who was finally coming back to the land of consciousness as the police handcuffed him, Scott slid past the police cars and continued on his journey to Big Belly Burger. His hunger hadn’t sated and, after the excitement of all that, he was looking forward to his meal.

---------------------

As the police led the attacker passed his victim, the bearded man did not flinch away in fear as one might have suspected. He eyed him critically, examining the man who had held him at gunpoint. Their eyes met, the victim still holding his gaze as his attacker was led away. He only took his eyes off the arrested man when he had been put inside the back of the furthest police car and was subsequently driven away.

The officer who had helped him to his feet pocketed his notebook and gently gestured for him to enter the cruiser they were standing beside. “We’ll get you to the hospital now, Mister… Uh…”

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Kat Cavanaugh sat idly in the chair at her desk. Chopsticks were twirled between her fingers whilst her untouched Kung Pao Chicken she had ordered for lunch became increasingly cold in the oyster pail.

She knew she was staring into space, knew her mind was thinking too hard, but she allowed herself to get absorbed in those thoughts because she was running out of time. The report she had been compiling for next week’s hard-hitting edition of EXPOSED! was looking more and more like a dead-end.

There was nothing Kat hated more than a dead-end.

After a fraught meeting with her editor that morning, who had insisted she drop the article and instead focused on the rehabilitation and redevelopment of the Bay area, Kat had been left with a sour taste in her mouth. She wasn’t going to be ordered around, editor or not. She hadn’t got this far into her career to start taking the ‘easier’ path now. That wasn’t how she had made her name, nor was it how she was going to allow her legacy to end.

Instead of dropping the piece, Kat began to focus on different angles she could take. They had all fallen flat because she still lacked that one, vital component that made a story like this credible: evidence. She had no leads, no quotes, no names, no places… The only way she could think of getting any information now would be to try the police again, which hadn’t ended well last time.

Kat had gone out to buy her lunch, uninspired but not fully without hope, and had returned to a gift she had very much not been expecting.

3pm. Hudson Building. Fifth floor. Details of the Serpents revealed. Tell no-one.

The cyber-crime gang known formally as the Serpent Soldiers, less formally as just Serpents, had been a thorn in everybody’s sides, including Kat’s. All sorts of gangs had steadily been increasing over the last few months, all intent on, in Kat’s opinion, the same outcome. The Serpents were the biggest group in this part of the States, and were the only known gang to cross state borders with their membership.

Of course Kat had chosen to write the exposé on them, foolishly thinking it wouldn’t be as difficult (or as dangerous) as it had inevitably become.

The email she had received seemed too good to be true, but when had Kat Cavanaugh ever listened to rational thinking? So, she decided to keep it to herself as instructed. Her editor, who had been so vehemently against her continuing this story this morning, didn’t need to be aware of it.

All she had to do was think of a suitable reason to leave the office in a couple of hours and—

“Kat? Katherine?”

Her colleague, Nessa, had arrived at her desk at… some point. A look of concern dominated her features. “You alright, Cavanaugh?”

Kat flashed her a quick, reassuring smile, and straightened herself up in her seat. Amid all the daydreaming, she hadn’t realised she’d ended up so slouched. Very professional there, Kat.

“Ness! Hi. Yes, I’m fine. Just.. thinking.”

Nessa’s gloriously painted nails tapped on the takeout box, brow arching. “You shouldn’t eat at your desk, you know? Statistics show that your more likely to do work than take a break.”

“I’m fine, Nes. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now, that’s all.”

Another nudge of the full box. “Damn right you do! Have you even eaten anything yet?”

Kat swatted her hand away with an amused grin. “Not that plate! You know what I meant.”

“Oh. The Serpent article?”

Naturally, her work on the piece had become a source of office gossip.

“Always aiming too high, that Kat. Never going to get a story out of it.”

“Does she think that because she’s interview International Rescue once that she’s some hot-shot journal now?”

“The Serpents speak to no-one. She’s lucky she isn’t already dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Office gossip was something she was, unfortunately, accustomed to, but it didn’t mean it made hearing her peers talk about her in hushed voices as she passed any less painful to endure. Kat always managed to brush it aside and tell herself that she didn’t care when, truthfully, she felt the opposite.

“It will get done by next week, Nes. I’ve just got to get one, solid, credible lead.”

“Good luck with that.” Nessa patted her shoulder. “I don’t envy your task, Kat.”

----------------------------

The Hudson Building was a half-hour walk away from her office, but Kat gave herself more time, just in case. So far this was her only lead and she couldn’t afford to blow it.

The area looked run-down. Many businesses had moved out of the area years ago, leading to graffitied walls and smashed windows in their wake. As mentioned by her editor that morning, the district had been green-lit a renovation project by the Mayor’s office, but Kat was sceptical of that every becoming a reality. The Bay area had been overlooked for years. She didn’t see why it would be any different this time. In her many years of experience travelling the country for her work, Kat had come to the conclusion that cities like this one needed the run-down areas in order for the ‘prettier’ areas to remain profitable.

She pondered her scepticism as she continued her brisk walk, politely offering a dollar or two to a couple of homeless people as she passed them. The thought of the implications of this area of the city being the meeting spot from a very dubious note had not crossed her mind once.

The Hudson Building had been one of the last to become derelict in the area and thus, from the outside, it had fared better than the rest of the street. However as Kat stepped into the building there was immediate evidence of squatter activity in the lobby. Tattered sleeping bags alongside old pizza boxes, drink cans and the occasional discarded needle.

Kat ignored the faint urge in her that screamed to get out. On tip-toes, she carefully trod over the discarded items, an elbow rising to cover her nose from the smell of the damp and filth, to make it over to the elevators which she prayed still worked.

She was in luck.

The fifth floor was cleaner in terms of the lack of squatter activity but thick dust covered the carpeted flooring. Mould grew from damp walls. This was not a place she wanted to stay in for long.

Kat checked her watch. Five to three. The note hadn’t specified where on the fifth floor to meet. She tried all the doors on the floor. She’d almost given up when none of them had opened for her… until she reached the last one. Offices 545-559. This door was unlocked and, unlike the other handles, was not covered in grime.

Flickering lights met her when she entered. Windows had been blacked out, meaning no light from the outside filtered through. Kat switched on the torch on her phone and used it to guide herself through the empty space.

It was a relatively small reception, with doors that led off to different office spaces, she presumed. Again, as before, Kat tried all the doors. This time, it was the door marked 556 that opened. She made a note of the number, in case it became important for her exposé at a later date.

Office 556 was nothing out of the ordinary. It had a desk in the centre, a couple of broken digital screens on top along with a broken holo-projector. The seats were filthy and, like the reception, the single window in the room had been boarded up.

Kat took a few more steps forward, to see if the screens were working, when she heard the door behind her slam and lock.

Shit.

Immediately, Kat made for the door, wrangling with the handle in an attempt to get it to open.

Of course, it didn’t.

“Hey! Whoever’s out there, let me out! This isn’t funny—”

She heard the hiss of the gas first, unable to see or smell it from the colourless and odourless quality. That didn’t matter. Gas was gas and… this wasn’t looking good.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing? Open this door NOW!”

The more she spoke, the more she breathed. The more she breathed, the more gas she inhaled.

Kat began to cough as the gas tickled her throat. Her heart-rate spiked. Fear began to creep in because fuck! She hadn’t told anyone where she had been going. Nobody knew she was here.

She gave up on the door and ignored the gas that was still being vented in from the gap at the bottom, stumbling over to the desk where she’d left her phone. If she was quick, maybe she would be able to call someone before she passed out or… worse.

“God, don’t think about that, Kat.” She mumbled to herself, arms rising to try and get a signal to her phone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Kat didn’t feel the floor as she hit it, but she knew she had; harsh bristles from the carpet dug into her cheek. Her vision had blurred and she tried so desperately hard to fight the urge to just pass out. On the floor, the gas inhalation was greater.

The last thing she remembered was a pair of familiar looking, blue boots come into focus in front of her.

She knew those boots.

She could have wept happy tears. They’d somehow found her.

International Rescue.

She was safe.