Lois Lane leaned against the door frame, a glass of wine in hand, mind running two hundred miles a minute. Sunsets in Smallville were always a delight to see, but she could not enjoy the light streaming through the window of Martha's kitchen. In the distance, that hussie Grant reported for GBS nothing of consequence, her words merely human interest bullshit. Something about a paraplegic child competing in the Special Olympics – a worthwhile story, but she thought Cat was above all of that.
Going corporate tended to do that.
"How wonderful. And brave!"
Lois's eyes met Martha's, the woman smiling as she poured her own glass of wine and then gestured with her head toward the television.
"Brave, yeah."
Cat wasn't brave.
If Cat Grant were brave, she'd be breaking the story Lois had percolating in her mind. If Cat Grant had a journalist bone left in her body, she'd break from her overlords at GBS to deliver the news she doubtless knew, even if unconfirmed.
"Clark once assisted with that in high school, right here at home," Martha added with a smile, a sip of Merlot passing her wizened lips. "You should have seen him, Lois. It was like he knew what he might be doing one day, long before he really did. Helping people."
Proud mothers.
Lois smiled and drank a gulp of wine, deciding to do more than pay this conversation lip service. Ma Kent did not deserve to have her so distant. "I can imagine him now. He must have been adorable."
"I might have pictures!" Martha started to move, angling toward the attic, but Lois shook her head.
"Don't worry about that, I can see 'em later."
"I insist!"
Martha practically dragged Lois into the too-hot attic, the late spring air doing wonders at trapping heat. Nearly thirty minutes passed before they found the right album, and it might have been faster if Lois could do anything but think about the story brewing elsewhere in the world.
"Martha," she tried, thinking back to the earlier conversation she'd had with Clark on the phone, "how do you get people who are so damned stubborn to listen to you?" Another gulp of wine, and she needed a new glass.
"By being more stubborn," she answered, mirth on her face. "My friend Alice says I should have run for office, that I can get just about anyone to do what I want. Not sure I believe her, but there's nothing a promise and a homemade apple pie can't do."
President Martha Kent ran across her mind, and Lois admired the fantasy for a moment. Martha'd likely have more sense for how to deal with the elements of this story than she'd expected. She'd have an incredible campaign speech, maybe energize voters who don't normally vote under the guise of 'too cute to be ignored' and 'salt of the earth.'
…
Huh. Would that actually work?
"When Jonathan and Clark get back, we can pull out a pie I made the other day. I've got some vanilla ice cream in the freezer, too!" Martha giggled like she'd done something wrong, and Lois couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, that's it!"
A photo album fell into her lap. Several sheets filled with Polaroids later, and Lois came face-to-face with a photograph of a very fifteen-year-old Clark Kent. Dark hair, blue eyes, no glasses, and a thin and lanky build. He had a winning smile that day, alongside other student volunteers for the state of Kansas' Special Olympics. Glued to his side were some friends Clark had mentioned before, some in more detail than others, like Pete Ross, Chloe Sullivan, and Lana Lang.
"I'm not sure I realized he didn't use to wear the glasses," she said with a frown.
"Lois, there are more pictures of him without glasses than I can count, throughout the house."
"Beneath all the 'live, laugh, love' slogans?"
Martha blushed, then playfully shoved Lois' arm. "Hey, how would I know 'This Is Our Happy Place' without a reminder above the stove?"
Lois beamed, exasperated.
The two of them carried the box of photo albums down from the attic and threw them across the kitchen table. Martha showed off more pics of Clark's childhood than she could maybe count, and Lois couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration.
Grateful frustration, because it put things into perspective.
"… oh, and if you look real closely, you can see the flowers Jonathan got him, to give to Lana on his first date!"
"Martha, can we hold this for a minute? I need to make a call."
The woman nodded without question, diving even further into the album. Happy tears filled her face, but Lois couldn't focus on her.
Phone in hand, she stepped through the kitchen door to the back of the wrap-around porch. The quaint Kent Farm surrounded her, feeling like home away from home. She'd grown up on a farm like this one for a little while, until the divorce uprooted she and her sister to follow her father around the world.
"You always pick up on the third ring. I could set my clock by it."
The chuckle of her father on the other side. "I take it that this isn't a house call?"
"No. Are you available to meet tomorrow evening?"
"That, uh, place on Kirby Street. Bibbo's?"
"I'll be there."
NEW YORK CITY
MAY 06, 20:38 UTC -4
TEAM YEAR ZERO
"How are we supposed to do anythin', boss?"
Ray's question had rankled many of their nights over the past several weeks and ruined many a dinner. A veritable feast stretched across the table, but the assembled 'family' had little appetite. Except Bobby – Bobby could eat anything, and like they'd all expected, he stuffed his face with mashed potatoes before anyone had even taken a sip of water, much less an appetizer.
"This is our last meal."
The nonsequitur confused everyone around the table, even Bobby, and their backer phrasing it that way had to be intentional. Rojo wished their nominal manager was not the most dramatic asshat on this side of the Hudson, but who was she to complain?
Her gang were only the damn muscle that made all of this possible.
"It will be the last time all of us are together."
The man at the head of the table stood without fanfare and strode to the wide windows overlooking the rest of Queens. The building had a great view of the borough, but not the best – Rojo thought that might be on purpose, because if their benefactor wanted it, he could easily take the tallest building in the district.
"Please, enjoy while you still can."
Rojo studied the man's wide back. A well-maintained, pristine business suit belied a physique that would impress anyone. The white-haired man walked with a confidence that screamed sexy from across the room, though if he tried to hit on her, she'd have to laugh in his face. He had at least a decade on her, maybe more, but she wasn't planning to invade any man's pants.
Not even one with the charisma of Slade Wilson.
A hand gripped her thigh, and she imagined Azul's concern even without having to look toward her.
Rojo knew where her bread was buttered.
"What does he mean?" the dark-skinned woman whispered, that funny thing she does with her jaw only making her cuter. A tension in the muscles, a nervousness beneath the surface, belied Azul's curiosity.
Rojo did not know how to answer her, because she was just as confused as everyone else.
"Eat."
Any of those too nervous to take part began to follow in Bobby's footsteps, and Rojo had to admit that the steak was exquisite. She normally'd complain of tenderness, but the chefs had outdone themselves. Why a man like Wilson had chefs on staff like this was what confused her – every connection he had was a weapon the authorities could use to finally take him down. And yet, here he was, confidently standing in full view of any snipers who might have pegged this window.
She scanned the room for any red dots, found none, and ate another bite of her steak. It frustrated her more than a bit that it was so good.
"I can understand your ignorance," Slade continued as he turned away, back to all of them. The eyepatch covering his eye begged the question of how he'd lost it. "Rest assured, when the week is done, you'll be on separate paths."
"Stop with the cryptic nonsense!" Jimmy, a man she'd worked with only once before, shouted at Slade. He had the physique of a college ball player that let himself go, and he was probably a few meals like Bobby away from a coronary.
Shouting at Slade Wilson, infamous mercenary assassin, was a death sentence. Wouldn't need a heart attack to take him down.
Rojo almost stood, to prove her own loyalty, but Slade easily sidestepped the tension with a rising of his brow. Jimmy caught the motion, his words sputtering as they died in his throat.
"I owe you more than that, certainly."
On a cue she hadn't expected, something beeped beneath each of their seats. Rojo and the others reached down to discover a small briefcase, an electronic lock counting down to open. For the briefest of seconds, Rojo thought this may be a bomb, and that uncertainty actually forced her to her feet. Her closest confidants, Azul and Amarillo, joined her in their shock.
But when the time ended, they did not explode but instead popped open simultaneously.
Rojo peered at Slade, who only had a smirk across his face.
"Within, you'll find information about the latest thorn in the side of the criminal element of this fine city. The source of your latest ills."
Photographs taken from CCTV camera footage, body camera footage, and even cell phone snapshots. A blond kid – maybe fourteen at best - at the scene of several crimes that had been interrupted over the last several weeks. Muggings, carjackings, ATM robberies, assaults – he could be anywhere, at any time, from the looks of these, all taken at different neighborhoods within each of the boroughs.
He even patrolled Long Island.
In a few pictures, he was metal – covered in metal? – while in others, he was wood or stone. From the angle taken, and the details that were not grainy, some might not assume that this was the same young kid, but the evidence was fairly clear laid out like this.
Accompanying it were snippets from media reports – usually not front page news – about what eyewitnesses had seen. Important key phrases were underlined and compiled into a one pager, about the new cape's capabilities.
Amarillo squinted at the one page brief. "Reports indicate he can fly, has superstrength, is bullet proof, and can fire lasers from his eyes."
"Superman," Azul muttered under her breath. "Is he…?"
"We have no confirmed source as to the upper limits of his strength," Slade Wilson confirmed. "Despite his ability to fly at surprisingly fast speeds, he has yet to create much of a presence outside of New York, but the month is still young. If he has a relationship to Superman, no one knows its nature yet."
New York City did not need its own Superman.
"What's the solution, then?" Rojo finally asked.
"Find where he sleeps, slit his throat, no issue remaining," Amarillo suggested.
Rojo had no idea how to take that. Cold. Ruthless. Necessary?
"I don't think he's interrupted any of our operations," Rojo reminded.
"Yet," Azul added. "Only a matter of time by the looks of it."
"We should just keep going like we normally do," Ray suggested, earning a nod from Bobby and Jimmy. Rojo glanced toward her lieutenants, Azul and Amarillo, and it was clear the women at the table were of a similar mind.
"We hit any major target," she started, "we'll have this cape on our asses."
Wilson nodded. "Your planned activities should be reconsidered. If you wanna keep having meals where you're all together, not locked behind bars."
"Hey, wait. We can't just-"
"We can," Rojo countered, cutting off Bobby. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you." The man shut up quickly.
She did not like that Wilson had such a heavy hand in her gang. They'd gotten into bed together a few months ago on a job involving a hit and run on a state congressional aide, and since then, they'd had more resources, more avenues, more opportunities. It had accelerated their operations into more than just toughs for low-level crime. Rojo was not sure what the man really saw in a jumped-up biker gang, but she had to admit that they did good work with or without him.
Long-term, she suspected this could put them on the map as a real organization, a criminal enterprise worth undertaking. Protection racketeering, territory expansion, drug peddling, weapons dealing. There was money to be made, and they'd largely avoided the attention of any capes for now.
Anyone who might have been investigating them would assume they were not worth the hassle.
"I have a… suggestion."
Slade Wilson smiled like a fox as the last word left his lips.
METROPOLIS
MAY 07, 21:10 UTC -4
TEAM YEAR ZERO
Bibbo's Diner was where she and Clark had their first date. It had been an off-the-cuff moment for the both of them, as the man was old-fashioned enough to take her to a really fancy restaurant. He likely considered that trip as their first, but Lois remembered the greasy burger and fries after a long day of journalism.
Bibbo himself was behind the counter, a simple man with advanced skills in the kitchen. She sometimes watched him while she sipped coffee, flipping patties and mixing omelets with expert craftsmanship.
"Lois."
The voice brought her back to reality, and she turned her attention to the other booth. Her father sat across from her, not dressed in fatigues but instead in far more casual clothes. Lois herself had dressed down, still recovering from her earlier flight that morning. She'd spent the entire flight typing up her copy for Perry, all while thinking about the implications of this story.
"I know you didn't come here today to catch up."
Lois affably shrugged. "We can do both."
Her father leaned back, face amused. "Of course."
"Hey, we can do business first, family after. Knock out the hard stuff first."
He rolled his eyes. "It's always like this with you."
"Lucy too. Wonder where the common denominator is."
Her father narrowed his eyes.
"I heard from a source or two that something big brewed off the coast of Mumbai."
He tried to keep a straight face, but she had known him her entire life. Sam Lane did not know how to lie to her. It took her a long time to figure out all his ticks, but once she had, it was so predictable.
"Your name doesn't have to be attached, nor do we-"
"Lois," he warned sharply. "You and I both know that you can't publish anything I tell you."
"And you shouldn't tell me anything either," she countered. "You wouldn't be telling me anything."
"If you publish diplomatic intelligence, the daughter of a four-star general, it's my ass in the fire."
Her eyes sparkled. "So you do know something."
"No."
This time, she rolled her eyes. "I've won a Pulitzer, Dad. I have contacts all over – I regularly talk to aides at the White House, the Pentagon, on the record. This could have come from anyone."
Her father did not budge. "I won't jeopardize my career."
"That's fine," she said simply, pasting a smile on her face. "I'll catch you for fireworks on the Fourth?"
As she stood, the general reached out to touch her arm. "Don't wait so long to call."
"Takes two to tango."
Lois left the diner, giving Bibbo a big tip for having to deal with her stress. She walked from block to block, outwardly confidently, but a can of pepper spray rested in her palm, hidden in her coat pocket. Did she expect trouble in this neighborhood? No, but she'd once spent the afternoon locked up with Intergang criminals and did not want to risk the chance that Clark might not get there in time this time.
She scanned her keycard into the employee entrance to the Daily Planet, ready to put in a long night. This was one of her favorite past times, when she wasn't expected at the office but could stay as late as she wanted to get her work finished.
The office floor was dark, but not ominous. In fact, it was altogether quite cozy to her. She lit a cinnamon candle at her desk, turned on music as loud as she wanted, and passed a muffin to her favorite late-night custodian.
Word processor open at her computer, she began to type the story that she planned to break first before anyone else could.
"New Hero On the Scene Stops Nuclear Armageddon For India."
She scratched that.
"M.A.D. Almost True?"
No.
"New York Teen Cape Stops War."
No….
"Superman's Son Stops-"
No! Untrue and click bait in print form. She was better than that.
A cup of coffee slid into her reach, and she almost jumped. Only almost.
"I thought your dark friend needed a bell, not you."
Her boyfriend chuckled. His bright eyes drew her in, the slightly untucked dress shirt, the slacks still pressed. A tie rested comfortably between pecs she was still so surprised no one at work had noticed were impossible on mortal men. Clark Kent was the epitome of a sleeper build.
"Thought I'd find you here."
"How was the humanitarian crisis in Qurac?"
Clark sighed. "Not well. Khandaq won't send aid to deal with its drought, and asking Bialya is a last resort. Allies in the region are assisting, but there's only so much I can do to convince people to help one another."
"Did you try to strong arm?"
Clark's eyes widened. "You know I can't do that."
Lois grinned. "I know, that's just what Ol' Sam would say to do. 'Clark, be an asset to the American military agenda. Strong arm the Muslims into listening to their Christian overlords.'"
Clark frowned. "Meeting didn't go well, huh?"
"Nope, I learned nothing. Hey, anything on India I can report on? A Superman-exclusive would do wonders to squash the rumors of an illegitimate son in New York City."
"What?"
"Did you knock someone up in senior year of high school?"
"… What?!"
Lois kicked Clark's empty desk chair toward her and offered it to him. "I've got my work cut out for me then. You're gonna wanna sit. Probably."
METROPOLIS
MAY 08, 15:09 UTC -6
TEAM YEAR ZERO
Rojo drifted off the interstate highway and angled for the address, following not by GPS but by memory so that nothing could track her accidentally. If there were any damn feds on her case, she wanted to give 'em no intelligence they could act on.
She'd come alone, with nothing but her bike and her equipment to keep her company. That was more than enough for a meeting like this, because she had no reason to expect it would go sour. A classic exchange of silver briefcases with unknown contents.
Rojo knew what was inside - she'd peeked - but it was wads and wads of cash. Nothing she hadn't expected, but it had been a quick glance. Untraceable back to her, back to the gang, back to Slade Wilson. That was how she preferred it.
Another woman awaited her, red hair a similar shade. Whisper A'Daire sat outside on the portico of a hotel lounge, wearing a low-cut dress that successfully distracted Rojo for the better part of four or five seconds.
Maybe six.
Rojo parked the bike and approached cautiously but confidently. She was packing enough heat that, if this turned sour, she was sure she could get out. She had the briefcase in hand, while a similar case sat on the ground beside Whisper's lounge chair.
"I expected Wilsson. Or Wintegreen."
"You have me instead. The name is -"
"Rojo," Whisper supplied. "I'm familiar with your workss." She held the last sound for several seconds, and Rojo's eyes narrowed slightly at the end of Whisper's tongue.
Forked.
"Let's just trade," Rojo answered. "Everything you asked for is inside. I trust you have what we requested?"
Whisper smiled slightly. "Truthfully, I expect ssubterfuge. You have a bosss with little honor."
"See for yourself."
Rojo put one hand behind her back, in quick reach of a pair of small handguns in the waistband of her dark jeans. The other hand remained on the handle of the briefcase.
Whisper, with pageantry, checked the contents. She didn't count the cash, but they were laid out in even stacks of bills that would hint at the required amount.
"I believe all that iss promissed iss there."
Whisper, without taking her eyes from Rojo, lifted the other briefcase and opened it, revealing a trio of sleek metallic drones of metal - one crimson, one sapphire, and one gold. Inactive currently, but they were far better than state of the art technology on Earth.
Intergang had its numerous connections.
"These mechadroids will be well worth your purchase."
Rojo could only smile. If that asshole teenager decided to break into their business, she'd show him who's boss.