Metropolis University - Fall 2002
The campus of Metropolis University sprawled across several city blocks, its mix of Gothic architecture and modern buildings reflecting the city's blend of tradition and innovation. Clark stood at the entrance to the School of Journalism, his acceptance letter still fresh in his mind. The admissions board had been particularly impressed by his portfolio of international coverage, though they'd questioned why someone with his experience would want to start as an undergraduate.
His first week of classes introduced Clark to the frenetic pace of city life. Unlike Smallville, where everyone moved with the natural rhythm of farm schedules, Metropolis seemed to operate at perpetual high speed. Even with his enhanced abilities, Clark found himself adjusting to the constant flow of people, traffic, and information. The city never truly slept - there was always someone awake, always something happening, always another story waiting to be told.
The university library became his sanctuary in those early days. Late at night, when the crowds thinned out, he could use his enhanced speed to read through entire sections without drawing attention. It was during one of these late-night study sessions that he first encountered Lex Luthor.
Clark was deep in research about the history of investigative journalism when he noticed someone else in the stacks, methodically pulling books about technological innovation and corporate responsibility. The man was young but carried himself with remarkable confidence, his expensive clothes and shaved head making him stand out among the usual graduate students.
"You might want to add Bernstein's 'All the President's Men' to that stack," Clark suggested, noting the other books on corporate accountability. "The techniques they used to follow the money in Watergate still apply today."
The bald man turned, studying Clark with sharp intelligence. "Interesting suggestion. Most people would have recommended Woodward first." He extended his hand. "Lex Luthor. Working on my master's thesis about the intersection of corporate innovation and public accountability."
"Clark Kent. Freshman journalism major." They shook hands, and Clark noticed Lex's slight surprise at his firm grip.
"Kent?" Lex's eyes lit with recognition. "I've read your work. The environmental pieces from Brazil, the cultural studies from Tibet. Fascinating stuff." He pulled up a chair. "Though I have to ask - why start as an undergraduate when you've already published internationally?"
"Everyone has something to learn," Clark replied carefully. "And formal training can help refine natural instincts."
"True enough," Lex nodded approvingly. "Though most would let ego override that wisdom. I'm actually auditing Professor Harrison's Ethics in Modern Media class - my thesis touches on how journalism influences technological development. Perhaps we could continue this discussion there?"
That was how Clark found himself regularly debating ethics and innovation with one of the brightest minds of their generation. Lex, at twenty-two, had already graduated from Princeton at nineteen and was simultaneously pursuing master's degrees in both Business Administration and Applied Sciences. His brilliant mind was matched only by his intense curiosity about everything around him.
Their discussions often continued after class at the campus café, where Lex's obvious intellect was matched by a surprising warmth. "The problem," Lex explained one afternoon, gesturing with his coffee cup, "is that most journalists lack the scientific literacy to effectively cover technological developments. They focus on sensational headlines without understanding the underlying principles."
"Maybe that's why we need journalists who come from diverse backgrounds," Clark countered. "People who can bridge different worlds, translate complex ideas into stories everyone can understand."
Lex studied him thoughtfully. "Is that why you chose journalism? To be a bridge?" He leaned forward. "Because I've read your work, Clark. Your understanding of environmental systems, traditional medicine, cultural dynamics - you could be doing groundbreaking research instead of just writing about it."
Clark considered his answer carefully. "I believe stories have power. The right words at the right time can change minds, open hearts, maybe even change the world."
"Admirable," Lex nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "But isn't that a bit... limiting? The sciences offer the chance to solve problems directly. Take my current research in sustainable energy - we could eliminate dependency on fossil fuels within a decade with the right breakthroughs."
"Maybe we need both," Clark suggested. "The breakthroughs and the stories that help people understand them." He smiled. "Not everyone can be a genius like Lex Luthor."
Lex laughed, a genuine sound that softened his intense demeanor. "Fair point. Though I suspect you're selling yourself short, Kent. Have you seen my father's research facility here in Metropolis? You might find some of our current projects interesting."
Their friendship developed naturally over the following weeks, built on mutual respect and engaging debates. Lex's brilliant mind constantly challenged Clark's perspectives, while Clark's ethical insights often made Lex reconsider his more pragmatic approaches.
It was in Professor Martin's "History of American Journalism" class that Clark's understanding of heroism expanded significantly. The lecture topic was war correspondents, with a special focus on World War II coverage.
"Today," Professor Martin announced, "we have a very special guest. Please welcome Alan Scott, former war correspondent for the Gotham Gazette during World War II."
The elderly man who walked to the podium carried himself with remarkable dignity despite his years. His shock of white hair and weathered face couldn't disguise the vitality in his green eyes. Clark's enhanced vision caught a subtle green glint from a ring on Scott's left hand - something about it seemed to pulse with an energy his superhuman senses couldn't quite categorize.
"Most of you know the broad strokes of World War II journalism," Scott began, his voice strong and clear. "The censorship, the propaganda, the challenge of getting truth to the public while maintaining military security. But there were stories within stories, layers of complexity that never made it into the history books."
He moved away from the podium, preferring to speak directly to the students. "I was embedded with various units throughout the war, including some time with the Howling Commandos. Captain Rogers - Captain America, as you know him - understood the importance of having journalists document what was happening, even if some details had to wait decades to be declassified."
Scott's hand unconsciously touched his ring as he continued. "HYDRA wasn't just another Nazi science division. They were pursuing powers and technologies that defied conventional understanding. Some of what I witnessed..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "well, let's just say there are still files that won't be declassified in my lifetime."
The class was silent, completely captivated. Clark found himself leaning forward, his perfect memory recording every word. There was something in Scott's careful phrasing that suggested layers of meaning, stories behind stories.
"The war effort required all kinds of heroes," Scott continued. "Not just the soldiers on the front lines, but scientists, engineers, and yes, journalists. Everyone had their part to play, their own way of fighting darkness with light."
A student raised her hand. "Mr. Scott, there are rumors that Captain America worked with other enhanced individuals during the war. Is there any truth to that?"
Scott's expression remained carefully neutral, though Clark noticed his ring finger twitch slightly. "The full roster of who worked with the Howling Commandos remains classified. What I can tell you is that HYDRA's threats were diverse, and they required equally diverse responses. Sometimes that meant conventional military action, sometimes... other approaches."
"How did you go from war correspondent to becoming one of America's leading broadcast journalists?" another student asked.
"The war taught me the power of truth," Scott replied. "Not just in exposing evil, but in inspiring hope. After seeing both the worst and best of humanity, I knew I had to keep telling stories that mattered." His eyes swept the classroom, lingering briefly on Clark. "Sometimes the most important stories are the ones that remind people that light can overcome any darkness."
After class, Clark approached Scott, hoping to ask some follow-up questions for an article he planned to write for the university paper. He noticed the ring more clearly now - its green stone seemed to shimmer with an inner light that defied normal physics.
"Ah, Mr. Kent," Scott's eyes twinkled with unexpected recognition. "I was hoping to speak with you. I've read your international coverage. Remarkable work for someone so young."
"Thank you, sir. Though I'm curious how you came across those articles - some were published under pseudonyms."
"I've been in journalism a long time, son." Scott's voice lowered slightly. "You learn to recognize certain patterns. Stories that seem to have... unusual access. Perspectives that suggest a unique way of seeing the world." His ring glinted as he gestured. "Sometimes the best stories are the ones told quietly, from the shadows."
Before Clark could respond, another voice joined their conversation. "Mr. Scott," Lex approached, his manner respectfully eager. "Fascinating lecture. I've actually been researching some declassified HYDRA files for my thesis. My father's company acquired several artifacts after the war."
Scott's expression cooled slightly. "Ah yes, LuthorCorp. I remember your father's... interest in wartime technologies." He turned back to Clark. "Keep writing, Mr. Kent. The world needs storytellers who understand the responsibility that comes with knowledge." His ring seemed to pulse once more before he turned to leave, leaving Clark with the distinct impression that far more had been communicated than mere words could convey.
That evening, Clark sat in the library's rare documents section, researching what he could about Alan Scott's war coverage. The articles were masterfully written, describing military operations in ways that conveyed truth while carefully obscuring certain details. Reading between the lines, Clark began to notice patterns - mysterious equipment failures in HYDRA bases, unexplained green lights during night operations, moments where victory came against impossible odds.
The official history mentioned Scott primarily as a journalist who had been embedded with various Allied units, including some time with the Howling Commandos. But there were gaps in the record, missions that were mentioned only in passing, operations that remained classified even now. Whatever role Scott had played beyond his journalism, he had kept that story carefully hidden while ensuring that other important truths reached the public.
Clark found himself thinking about his own future role in journalism. Like Scott, he had abilities that set him apart, powers that could help people. But perhaps also like Scott, his greatest contribution might come not from direct action, but from helping people understand the truth about their world. The ring's green glow had suggested powers beyond normal human ability, yet Scott had chosen to make his primary mark through words rather than force.
—
The remaining years at Metropolis University passed in a blur of classes, articles for the university paper, and careful nighttime interventions when his help was needed. Clark's reputation as a talented journalist grew steadily - he won the collegiate journalism award for investigative reporting in his junior year, and his senior thesis on environmental journalism earned him highest honors.
It was during his junior year that things with Lana finally reached their resolution. She'd been interning at the Star City Gazette, her own journalism career taking shape, when she came to visit one weekend. They'd sat in the campus coffee shop, both aware that something needed to be said.
"I saw your article about the factory workers in Coast City," Lana had said, stirring her latte. "The way you captured their stories... you've found your voice, Clark."
"Your series on urban development was incredible too," he'd replied. "Star City's lucky to have you."
They'd shared a look then, years of history passing between them. First loves, shared secrets, all those moments in Smallville that had seemed so important at the time.
"We chose different paths, didn't we?" Lana asked softly. "Even when we were kids... you were always looking toward Metropolis, toward bigger stories. I thought I wanted that too, but..."
"But you found your own way," Clark finished. "Your own city, your own stories to tell."
"Star City needs different kinds of heroes," she'd said, and something in her tone made Clark wonder if she suspected more than she let on. "Different kinds of truth-tellers. And Metropolis... well, it needs you."
They'd agreed to remain friends, both knowing it was the right choice even if part of them would always wonder "what if." But time had proven them right – Lana's investigative work in Star City was making real changes, while Clark's path led him inexorably toward Metropolis and its gleaming globe.
Mike proved to be an ideal roommate throughout their university years. His intense focus on marine biology meant he was often in the lab late at night, giving Clark the privacy he needed for his occasional heroic activities. They remained close friends, though Clark was careful to maintain the everyday, slightly clumsy persona he'd developed to deflect attention from his abilities.
By his senior year, Clark had become editor of the University Daily News, the campus paper. His editorial stance on corporate responsibility had occasionally put him at odds with Lex, though their friendship remained strong. Lex had completed both his master's degrees and was now working on revolutionary energy projects at LuthorCorp, though he still made time for their philosophical debates over coffee.
"The Planet's going to snap you up the moment you graduate," Lex predicted during one of their last campus meetings. "Though my offer to head LuthorCorp's media relations department still stands. The salary would be considerably better."
Clark smiled, adjusting his glasses - a habit he'd developed to seem more ordinary. "Thanks, Lex, but you know me. I need to chase the stories myself, not just manage how they're told."
Graduation day arrived with appropriate fanfare. Martha and Jonathan sat proudly in the audience, Krypto back home in Smallville probably sensing the excitement through his unique connection with Clark. Pete had driven up from Kansas to attend, and even Lana made time between her assignments as a junior reporter for the Star City Gazette to be there.
"Look at us," Pete said during the after-party, gesturing between himself, Clark, and Lana. "Lawyer, journalist, journalist. Not bad for three kids from Smallville."
"Speaking of journalism," Lana said, her eyes twinkling, "heard anything from the Daily Planet yet?"
Clark adjusted his tie nervously. "I have an interview with Perry White next week. Though I hear he's pretty tough on new reporters."
"Perry's a legend," Lana nodded. "But he's fair. Just be honest with him - he has a nose for people trying to oversell themselves."
The Daily Planet building stood like a monument to journalism in the heart of Metropolis, its famous globe rotating slowly against the summer sky. Clark arrived early for his interview, taking a moment to absorb the energy of the place with his enhanced senses. He could hear the hum of printing presses in the basement, the rapid-fire clicking of keyboards throughout the building, dozens of conversations about deadlines and stories and leads.
The elevator ride to the editorial floor was an exercise in control - several people got on and off, forcing Clark to maintain his slightly awkward persona while containing his excitement. When the doors opened to the newsroom, he was hit with a wave of controlled chaos that made his university paper look like a church social.
"White! These photos from the harbor development protest are too dark!" someone shouted across the room.
"That's because they were taken at night, Jenkins!" came the gruff reply. "Use the ones from this morning's follow-up!"
Clark made his way to Perry White's office, carefully navigating through the maze of desks and rushing reporters. Through the glass walls, he could see the legendary editor arguing with someone on the phone while simultaneously marking up a draft with a red pen.
"Come in, Kent!" Perry barked before Clark could even knock. "And close the door - this circus out there is giving me a headache."
Clark entered, taking the seat Perry gestured to while the editor finished his call. It gave him a chance to study the man who might become his boss - late fifties, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened, walls covered in framed front pages marking major stories throughout his career.
"So," Perry said finally, hanging up the phone and picking up Clark's resume. "Full scholarship to Metropolis University, editor of the school paper, highest honors thesis, and..." his eyebrows rose slightly, "quite a collection of international publications before college. Impressive stuff, Kent."
"Thank you, sir. I believe in learning by doing."
Perry's eyes narrowed slightly. "Most of these international pieces were published under pseudonyms. Why?"
"The stories were more important than getting credit for them, sir. Some of my sources needed protection, and staying anonymous helped me get better access."
Perry nodded approvingly. "Good answer. Too many young reporters are more interested in their byline than their story." He leaned back, studying Clark intently. "But here's what I really want to know - why the Planet? Star City offered you a job, I hear. Gotham too. What makes you think you belong here?"
Clark met his gaze steadily. "Because the Daily Planet stands for truth, Mr. White. Not just reporting facts, but helping people understand what those facts mean for their lives. This paper has a history of standing up to corruption, giving voice to the voiceless, and never backing down from a story that needs to be told."
"Pretty words, Kent. But this isn't a college paper. We work hard here. Long hours, tough assignments, constant deadlines. Everyone in this building - from me down to the copy boys - we're the most dependable friends the people of Metropolis have. Think you can handle that responsibility?"
"Yes, sir. I'd like the chance to prove it."
Perry studied him for another long moment, then suddenly grinned. "Tell you what, Kent. I need someone to pick up my shirts from the dry cleaner on 7th Street. Get them here by five, and you've got yourself a job."
Clark blinked, surprised by the unusual request. "Your... shirts, sir?"
"Problem with that, Kent?"
"No, sir! I'll have them here by five."
"Good man. Now get out there and find Lane. She'll show you the ropes once you're back."
Clark left the office slightly dazed, his superhuman mind trying to process the unexpected turn of events. He was so distracted that he nearly collided with someone rushing past with an armload of folders.
"Who told you to wear a tie?" a voice asked.
Clark turned and felt his world shift slightly on its axis. The woman standing before him was in her mid-twenties, long dark hair, sharp blue eyes that seemed to see right through him. She radiated an energy that even his enhanced senses found overwhelming not to mention that she was most definitely the most stunning woman he had ever seen.
"Let me guess, Mencken? Ignore him, he's old school." She grabbed a few more folders from a nearby desk, already moving again. "No interns at the Planet, or reporters for that matter, wear ties anymore."
Clark found himself following her through the newsroom, oddly tongue-tied despite all his experience interviewing people around the world. She gestured at various reporters as they passed.
"See what I mean? This is Lombard, Sports. Box tickets, Meteors. Get on his good side. You like baseball?"
"Who doesn't like America's pastime, Miss Lane," Clark managed to say, his usual confidence somehow deserting him.
"It's Lois. What'd you say your name was again?"
"Clark. Kent."
She stopped walking and turned to study him, her expression curious. The way she looked at him reminded Clark of a detective at a crime scene, cataloging every detail. "Huh, I've never met a Clark before."
"I've never met a Lois before..." he said, then immediately felt foolish. "Well, actually now that I think about it there was my first grade teacher Lois Hannigan. So really you'd be the second Lois."
A small smile tugged at her lips, as if she found his awkwardness amusing rather than annoying. "That accent - Kansas, right? Let me guess... somewhere in the western part of the state? The way you pronounce certain words..."
"Smallville," Clark admitted, impressed by her perception. "Though I didn't realize my accent was that noticeable."
"Smallville?" Her eyebrows rose with amused incredulity. "There's actually a town called Smallville? Wait, don't tell me - corn capital of the world?"
"Actually, that's Liberal, Kansas. Smallville's the creamed corn capital." He smiled, finding his footing in the conversation. "Though I should warn you, we take our corn very seriously in Kansas."
"Of course you do, farmboy." She studied him more closely, her sharp reporter's instincts clearly at work. "Metropolis University, right? I remember seeing your byline in the campus paper. The piece about corporate pollution in the river was impressive."
"You read that?" Clark felt a warmth in his chest at her recognition of his work.
"I read everything," she replied matter-of-factly. "Especially when it's good. You're Perry's new hire?"
"Assuming I get his shirts back by five, yes."
"Ah, the dry cleaning test. He does that to all the promising candidates - wants to see if they can handle mundane tasks with the same dedication as big stories." She checked her watch. "Better hurry - Wong's Cleaners closes at four-thirty on Wednesdays."
Clark's eyes widened. It was already past four. "Thanks for the tip, Miss - I mean, Lois. I should probably..."
"Go, Smallville," she said, the nickname falling naturally from her lips, as if she'd been waiting to use it. "And lose the tie before you come back! No one but Perry wears ties anymore, and he only does it to annoy the board members."
He hurried toward the elevator, still feeling the warmth of her gaze. As he waited for the doors to open, he heard her turn to another reporter nearby.
"There's something about that one, Steve. Can't put my finger on it, but he's... different."
The dry cleaning adventure turned into an unexpected test of Clark's ability to solve problems without using his powers too obviously. Wong's Cleaners was indeed closed when he arrived, but a careful peek through the walls with his x-ray vision located Perry's shirts. Some polite conversation with Mrs. Wong, who was cleaning up for the day, combined with a promise to help her son with his college applications, got him access to the precious garments.
He made it back to the Planet with ten minutes to spare, carefully hanging the shirts on the coat rack in Perry's office while the editor pretended to be too absorbed in editing to notice.
"Not bad, Kent," Perry said finally, checking his watch. "Mrs. Wong usually doesn't let anyone in after closing."
"She's very nice once you take the time to talk with her, sir."
"Hmm." Perry studied him thoughtfully. "First lesson of journalism, Kent - everyone has a story. The trick is taking the time to listen." He gestured toward the newsroom. "Desk by the window is yours. Lane will get you started on the city beat."
"Thank you, Mr. White. I won't let you down."
"See that you don't. And Kent?" Perry called as Clark reached the door. "Welcome to the Daily Planet."
Clark stepped back into the organized chaos of the newsroom, feeling like he'd finally found his place in the world. At a desk near his assigned spot, Lois Lane was already deep in work on something, her fingers flying over her keyboard while she simultaneously argued with someone on the phone.
"No, Councilman, I do not accept that explanation... Because your campaign finance records show differently... Would you like me to be more specific about those deposits?"
Clark sat down at his desk, taking in the energy of the room, the dedication of everyone around him to finding and telling the truth. Here, he realized, he could help people in ways that went beyond his physical abilities. Here, he could shine light into dark places, give voice to those who needed to be heard, and maybe even change the world - one story at a time.
The famous Daily Planet globe cast its shadow across his desk as the afternoon sun began to set. Tomorrow he would begin his real work as a reporter. But for now, he simply savored the moment, listening to the heartbeat of the great newspaper - the clicking keyboards, the urgent conversations, the humming presses below, and most notably, the rapid-fire typing of Lois Lane as she pursued whatever story had captured her attention.
He was home.