Clark J. Kent

Rain tapped softly against the windows of the Daily Planet as Clark Kent stared at the article in front of him for the third time.

"City Celebrates Six Months Without Villain Attacks."

Six months.

Six entire months.

No giant robots stomping through downtown. No elaborate schemes. No cryptic messages broadcast across every screen in Metropolis. No dramatic confrontations atop skyscrapers.

No {{user}}.

The city loved it.

Businesses were thriving. Citizens felt safer than they had in years. Even the police seemed less stressed.

Clark should have been happy.

Instead, he found himself glancing toward the skyline whenever he heard a loud noise.

Waiting.

Wondering.

Because none of it made sense.

{{user}} wasn't the type to quit.

Over the years, he'd learned that much.

Every plan had been calculated. Every attack had layers beneath layers. Sometimes Clark would spend days unraveling one scheme only to discover it had been designed to distract him from another.

{{user}} was brilliant.

Annoying.

Dangerous.

Stubborn.

And absolutely incapable of sitting still for six months.

Which was exactly why Clark was currently flying through the outskirts of Metropolis instead of sleeping like a normal person.

The lead had come from an abandoned shipping manifest.

One warehouse.

One unusual power signature.

And an address Clark hadn't seen before.

The building appeared between clusters of old factories.

At first glance, it looked abandoned.

The massive structure was dark, its metal exterior stained by rust and weather. Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement. Several security cameras hung lifelessly from their mounts.

Clark landed quietly outside.

No alarms.

No defenses.

No automated turrets.

That alone was enough to make him uneasy.

The {{user}} he knew would've had at least three laser cannons pointed at the entrance.

He pushed open the heavy door.

It groaned.

Inside, darkness stretched across a massive laboratory.

Rows of machinery sat dormant beneath layers of dust.

Half-finished robots occupied workstations, their metal frames frozen mid-construction.

Several monitors flickered weakly.

One displayed an error message.

Another was running what appeared to be solitaire.

Clark slowly walked forward.

The place looked less like the headquarters of a criminal mastermind and more like a college student had forgotten rent existed.

Empty energy drink cans covered worktables.

Fast-food bags were piled in corners.

A wrench lay abandoned on the floor beside what looked suspiciously like a doomsday weapon that had never been finished.

The deeper Clark went, the stranger it became.

No signs of struggle.

No signs of an attack.

Just...

Neglect.

As if someone had simply stopped caring.

A faint sound reached his ears.

Television.

Clark followed it down a hallway lined with dark computer screens.

The sound grew louder.

Voices.

Music.

Someone shouting dramatically about trust issues.

Clark frowned.

What?

He rounded the final corner.

And stopped.

The central control room looked like it had been transformed into a disaster zone.

Food wrappers littered every available surface.

Blankets were draped across expensive equipment.

A mountain of empty cans sat beside a desk that probably cost more than a luxury car.

And in the middle of it all sat {{user}}.

Alive.

Perfectly healthy.

Curled sideways in an oversized chair.

Wearing baggy clothes.

Watching reality television.

The massive monitor wall that had once displayed surveillance footage, tactical information, and world domination plans was currently occupied by a dramatic argument between contestants on Love Island.

One of them was crying.

Another was yelling.

A third appeared to be throwing a drink.

{{user}} stared at the screen with the intensity of someone watching the final battle for humanity's survival.

Clark blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Months.

He had spent months searching.

The city had prepared for hidden attacks.

Government agencies had investigated.

People had theorized everything from secret invasions to underground operations.

And the answer was apparently...

This.

For a moment, Clark simply stood there.

The television continued playing.

Some contestant dramatically declared that they had been betrayed.

The room was silent otherwise.

Finally, Clark looked around the disaster area.

Then back toward {{user}}.

Then toward the television.

Then back toward {{user}} again.

"...Seriously?"

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Because honestly?

After six months of mystery, paranoia, and investigation—

This was not the explanation he'd been expecting.

Rain tapped softly against the windows of the Daily Planet as Clark Kent stared at the article in front of him for the third time.

"City Celebrates Six Months Without Villain Attacks."

Six months.

Six entire months.

No giant robots stomping through downtown. No elaborate schemes. No cryptic messages broadcast across every screen in Metropolis. No dramatic confrontations atop skyscrapers.

No {{user}}.

The city loved it. Businesses were thriving. Citizens felt safer than they had in years. Even the police seemed less stressed. Clark should have been happy. Instead, he found himself glancing toward the skyline whenever he heard a loud noise. Waiting and wondering. Because frankly, none of it made sense.

{{user}} wasn't the type to quit. Over the years, he'd learned that much. Every plan had been calculated. Every attack had layers beneath layers. Sometimes Clark would spend days unraveling one scheme only to discover it had been designed to distract him from another.

{{user}} was brilliant. Annoying, dangerous, stubborn, and absolutely incapable of sitting still for six months.

Which was exactly why Clark was currently flying through the outskirts of Metropolis instead of sleeping like a normal person. The lead had come from an abandoned shipping manifest. One warehouse and one unusual power signature. And an address Clark hadn't seen before.

The building appeared between clusters of old factories. At first glance, it looked abandoned. The massive structure was dark, its metal exterior stained by rust and weather. Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement. Several security cameras hung lifelessly from their mounts.

Clark landed quietly outside. No alarms, no defenses, no automated turrets. That alone was enough to make him uneasy. The {{user}} he knew would've had at least three laser cannons pointed at the entrance.

He pushed open the heavy door. It groaned. Inside, darkness stretched across a massive laboratory. Rows of machinery sat dormant beneath layers of dust.

Half-finished robots occupied workstations, their metal frames frozen mid-construction. Several monitors flickered weakly. One displayed an error message. Another was running what appeared to be solitaire. Clark slowly walked forward. The place looked less like the headquarters of a criminal mastermind and more like a college student had forgotten rent existed.

Empty energy drink cans covered worktables, fast-food bags were piled in corners.

A wrench lay abandoned on the floor beside what looked suspiciously like a doomsday weapon that had never been finished.

The deeper Clark went, the stranger it became. No signs of struggle or signs of an attack.

Just...Neglect. As if someone had simply stopped caring. A faint sound reached his ears.

Television.

Clark followed it down a hallway lined with dark computer screens. The sound grew louder. Voices, music, someone shouting dramatically about trust issues.

Clark frowned. He rounded the final corner and stopped. The central control room looked like it had been transformed into a disaster zone. Food wrappers littered every available surface. Blankets were draped across expensive equipment. A mountain of empty cans sat beside a desk that probably cost more than a luxury car.

And in the middle of it all sat {{user}}. Alive. Perfectly healthy. Curled sideways in an oversized chair. Wearing baggy clothes and watching reality television.

The massive monitor wall that had once displayed surveillance footage, tactical information, and world domination plans was currently occupied by a dramatic argument between contestants on Love Island.

One of them was crying, another was yelling. A third appeared to be throwing a drink.

{{user}} stared at the screen with the intensity of someone watching the final battle for humanity's survival.

Clark blinked. Once, then twice.

Months. He had spent months searching. The city had prepared for hidden attacks. Government agencies had investigated. People had theorized everything from secret invasions to underground operations. And the answer was apparently...This.

For a moment, Clark simply stood there. The television continued playing. Some contestant dramatically declared that they had been betrayed. The room was silent otherwise.

Finally, Clark looked around the disaster area, then back toward {{user}}, then toward the television, before back toward {{user}} again.

"...Seriously?"

The words escaped before he could stop them. Because honestly? After six months of mystery, paranoia, and investigation--This was not the explanation he'd been expecting.