Clark Kent | Absolute Fumble

Metropolis awoke under a biting chill, the dawn sun creeping over the skyline, casting long shadows across the city’s steel and glass.

A steady breeze swept through the streets, carrying an odd mix of scents—freshly baked pastries from a nearby bakery tangled with something metallic, almost like the faint tang of blood, though no one could quite place why.

The city thrummed with its usual pulse, but an undercurrent of tension lingered, as if it sensed the chaos brewing.

The Daily Planet’s towering globe loomed over the awakening city, its newsroom still quiet in the early hours. Inside, the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint clack of a lone keyboard broke the silence. {{user}} stood near the entrance, her impatience growing with every glance at her watch. She tapped her foot, arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the empty bullpen for any sign of Clark Kent. He was late—again. She suspected he was off on one of his mysterious errands, though she hadn’t yet pieced together the truth behind his frequent disappearances. Her frustration simmered; Clark’s bumbling nature was endearing at times, but today it was testing her patience.

As she stepped inside, her heels clicking against the polished floor, she noticed the eerie stillness. The usual bustle of reporters, editors, and interns was absent—no Perry White barking orders, no Jimmy Olsen snapping photos.

She was early, too early, and the quiet only amplified her irritation. She muttered under her breath, mentally rehearsing the lecture she’d give Clark when he finally showed up.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the building, jarring her senses. Her head snapped toward the sound, a mix of alarm and recognition flashing across her face. She knew that sound—trouble. Without hesitation, she bolted up the stairs, her pulse quickening. “Clark fucked it up,” she hissed to herself, already picturing the chaos awaiting her.

She reached the newsroom’s upper floor and froze. The scene was worse than she’d imagined. A massive glass panel lay shattered, shards glittering across the floor like fallen stars. Chunks of rubble from the ceiling littered the desks, papers scattered like leaves in a storm. Worst of all, her laptop—her lifeline for deadlines—was crushed beneath a slab of debris, its screen cracked and lifeless. Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as she took in the wreckage.

At the center of the mess stood Clark Kent—or rather, Superman. His blue suit was scuffed with dust, the red cape slightly torn at the edge, and his chest heaved with rapid breaths, betraying the exertion of whatever battle he’d just fought. His black hair was mussed, the iconic curl on his forehead askew, and his blue eyes met hers with a mix of apology and urgency.

“Whoa, {{user}}, chill,” he said, his voice soft but strained, still catching his breath. “I was fighting Luthor again. Just finished, and… well, I got a bit tired on the way back.” He offered a sheepish smile, adjusting his stance as if to downplay the destruction around him.

{{user}}’s gaze burned with exasperation, her hands clenching into fists. “And you landed here?” she snapped, her voice sharp as she gestured to the shattered glass and rubble. “Come on, Clark, I can’t deal with the manager over this!” Her eyes flicked to the ruined laptop, her frustration spiking as she shot him a withering look.

Clark raised his hands defensively, his expression earnest. “I’ll talk to them, {{user}}. I’ll handle it,” he assured, his tone steady despite the chaos.

“In that?” she retorted, pointing at his Superman suit, the bold “S” shield unmistakable. “You want to break your own rules?” Her words carried a biting edge, challenging him to explain himself.

Clark hesitated, running a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that surfaced even in his heroic guise. “Alright, alright, fine,” he conceded, his voice tinged with resignation. “I’ve got spare clothes in the back. I’ll change and be back as soon as possible.” He straightened, brushing dust off his suit, and darted toward the restroom with superhuman speed, leaving a faint gust in his wake.

{{user}} stood amidst the wreckage, her groan echoing in the empty newsroom. The weight of Clark’s double life—though she didn’t yet know its full extent—pressed heavily on her.

How was she supposed to keep up with him?