THE WOMAN OF STEEL. PART III

December 5, 1949

Ogasawara Islands.

Superwoman flew around the scorched and cracked round volcanic island. She stood upright, levitating, and took a deep breath. Mist surrounded her, and a long red bright cape floated on her back. The island was a two-thousand-feet-high dark volcanic mountain nestled in the sea. It was called Kurokame, or Black Turtle Island. A thousand miles south of Tokyo, atomic bombs theoretically prevented it from becoming the site of a bloody battle between Americans and the Japanese Army…But just a few weeks earlier, the volcano had awakened. Superwoman had combined her super strength, super speed, cooling breath, and ability to create whirlwinds in the air by spinning like a top to prevent the eruption from spewing millions of tons of ash into the atmosphere with who knows what consequences. Japan was a rebuilding country with millions of people homeless, and the last thing it needed was a rain of ash ruining crops. Thanks to Superwoman's intervention, the eruption's cloud peaked at just over two miles high, with all debris confined to the island and its adjacent waters, preventing widespread dispersal. Japanese and American cameras had captured it, and the images went around the world. But Kurokame had one last challenge for the Last Daughter of Krypton.

A few days earlier, the U.S. military, working with a tousle-haired Japanese scientist, had discovered that the magma chamber had emptied after the eruption. Its weak walls were now piled high with the millions of tons of ash and rock that Superwoman had prevented from entering the atmosphere. It was only a matter of time before the volcano island collapsed, creating a gigantic tsunami that would sweep not only the coasts of Japan, but those of the Philippines and Australia, and perhaps even cross the ocean to California and Mexico. Hundreds of thousands of lives were at stake.

In a collaborative command center staffed in a nearby island by Japanese civilians and U.S. military personnel, Superwoman had just been briefed on her mission. The instructions came from a kindly Japanese scientist, with tousled grey hair, with his urgent message conveyed through the translation of an anxious American officer. Surrounded by maps, mathematical equations, and diagrams of volcanoes and tsunamis, the gravity of the situation was clear.

"Lady Kala-El, the southern slope of Kurokame will give way," the scientist explained while bowing his head, "We're looking at a land mass close to thirty square miles in size, amounting to countless millions of tons, set to plummet. The ensuing landslide will be swift and catastrophic, generating a tsunami that will radiate swiftly across the water. At all costs, this tsunami must be neutralized, forced to collapse and dissipate, just as you achieved in Hilo back in 1946, leveraging the kinetic energy you can generate with your super-powers. However, the scale of this tsunami dwarfs that of the 1946 event. The tidal wave could reach two hundred feet high upon Tokyo…and maybe the half in San Francisco or Hawaii. We implore you to circle the wave at your highest speed, employing your heat vision and cooling breath intermittently. Your objective is to induce rapid whirlwinds and thermal shocks, a technique you've applied to hurricanes, typhoons, and even volcanic ash clouds previously. Your goal this time is to create concentric circles at a velocity surpassing the tsunami's own, generated by the landslide's millions of tons of rock. Failure to do so could result in the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives. Additionally, we ask you to employ your immense strength to mitigate the sediment waves that might arise."

The words echoed in the Woman of Steel's head and made her heart shrink with fear, but she had done it before in Hilo in 1946, and she had done it with hurricanes. The island had been shaking for hours, its black cliffs were falling into the sea, but the great landslide had not yet begun. She waited, and soon after, with a strange rumbling, it seemed as if the southern half of Kurokame simply turned into a kind of black sand wave that quickly fell over the sea, creating waves a thousand feet high. Now! Clara, you can do it!

Superwoman plunged into the sea, swiftly encircling the island and the initial tsunami waves at an astonishing speed of nearly two thousand miles per minute, spinning rapidly around herself. She managed to encircle the sixty-mile boundary of the island and the landslide area in barely one second. Her task was to repeat this process a hundred times utilizing her heat vision beneath the water's surface, followed by another hundred cycles with her cooling breath. The task pushed her to her limits, yet Clara had spent days in preparation, resting and even absorbing solar energy from space for several hours to enhance her strength to unprecedented levels. She sustained this intense pace for eight to nine minutes, emitting blasts of intense heat from her eyes and freezing blows from her mouth, striving to disperse the mingling sediment and water waves, until she finally succumbed to exhaustion. Clara lost consciousness and was submerged beneath tons of volcanic debris in what had become a tranquil sea.

Those who watched the scene with bated breath from a nearby battleship, saw for nearly ten minutes how the collapse of the island produced tremendous clouds of rocks, dust, and water, which were then covered by massive walls of water that suddenly collapsed amidst vapors, while a strange whitish curtain surrounded the island. A heavy swell lashed the ship, but not the terrible waves it might have been. Then, strange mists of black, gray, white, and blue layers appeared, covering what had been Kurokame as if it were the shell of a turtle. For hours they searched for Superwoman, and suddenly, at dusk, a red and blue blur emerged from the sea and disappeared into the sky. There were waves all over the Pacific and a few victims on some beaches, not even a dozen. The Japanese government and the U.S. government decided to hide Superwoman's second appearance in Kurokame and her success in avoiding the mega-tsunami. There were already too many shocks in the world, and the Woman of Steel's feat was too extraordinary.

6 December 1949

Moscow

Colonel Konstantin Nikolaievich Melkov, born Viktor Mihailovich Grezinsky, could not sleep. Not because of the constant threats from his superiors after his failure with Lex Luthor, nor because of Stalin's obsession with Superwoman that could provoke a world war. It was one of those nights when he remembered his original name and his skin change. 1921, during the retreat of the White Army from Siberia, in which he had served as a soldier in spite of himself. To facilitate the escape of his family to America, he had ended up stealing the identity of a Red Army officer to whom he bore a striking physical resemblance. The White army had executed that officer in Vladivostok in the last hours of White control of the city. Private Grezinsky, who hated the Whites as much as the Reds and had suffered the anti-Semitism of Kolchak's army, suddenly became Second Lieutenant Melkov. He chained himself and endured hunger and thirst until the Reds arrived. After several interrogations and beatings, and a good story, everyone was convinced that Grezinsky was Melkov. Despite his doubts and loneliness, he joined the Red Army. Supposedly Melkov was an engineering student, so at night the man who had been Grezinsky was stranded in civil engineering books. His adoption of a new name, frequent engagement with engineering and strategy literature, and extensive understanding of the White Army transformed him into a proficient intelligence operative, initially for the Cheka and subsequently for the GPU. The new Melkov did not visit the old Melkov's family and felt a great sense of sad relief when he discovered that they had starved to death during the war. He was a new man now. He knew that the family of the man who had been Grezinsky was in the United States…his parents, his brothers, he loved them, but he also felt that Grezinsky was dead. Sometimes he doubted his wager. He never heard any more about the Grezinsky family nor made any attempt to contact them.

Disciplined and studious, and unwilling to flee the USSR, Melkov climbed inside the new Soviet state. He proved to be a diligent student and a man of tremendous intuition and long-term thinking. But he was not a repressor. Melkov learned to recognize the duplicity in people, the fanaticism, the desire to do one's duty, and the doubts that weigh on every human being. He infested Western countries with spies disguised as white emigrants and exiles. Olga Chekhova, the actress who dined with Hitler, was one of his works that he considered almost more artistic and sophisticated, although as a spy her work was modest. Probably one of his greatest triumphs was Ballerina, a beautiful and melancholic Jewish girl who lived badly in Paris. Her parents had been killed in Ukraine by bandits of the dissident leader Petliura while trying to flee to Romana during the civil war. The girl was not politicized, but she hated the murderers of her parents. She wrote quite well. So, they dressed her up, bought her jewelry and helped her infiltrate Simon Petliura's circle. It was she who discreetly led the murderer to Petliura. Her secret revenge completed, the beautiful and intelligent girl ended up working for right-wing newspapers, sleeping with politicians, actors, and diplomats. And in time she became politicized, becoming a loyal communist while disguising herself as a conservative journalist. But Melkov knew of her fickle nature and idealism, so he never allowed Ballerina to set foot in the Soviet Union and forbade all her requests to return. Ballerina also learned to be cruel and murderous. She was sent to Spain during the Civil War to spy on the Nationalists, but then Melkov fell from grace.

Melkov was happy to train and harvest double agents in European capitals, even if they produced ridiculous information, but he had always refused to carry out internal persecution tasks to suppress dissidents. He had been able to do it without being noticed, but during the purges of 1938 his bosses decided to put him in the "freezer". They sent Melkov to the Gulag. His bosses did not order him shot because they knew Melkov was a brilliant spy and because the late Sergei Kirov, one of the great leaders of the Communist Party, had a deep affection for him. He was un-frozen, so to speak, in 1941, with the outbreak of war. He was sent to Istanbul and Lisbon to reactivate all the spy networks inside Germany and France. And Melkov did it brilliantly. It was he who shakily informed the Soviet government of the Nazi discovery of mysterious prehistoric ruins and alien technology. It was he who informed them of the Nazi advances in the nuclear bomb. His successes were such that in 1944, after the death of Colonel Melitz, he was given the most important mission in Soviet espionage: to monitor the American millionaire and scientist Lex Luthor, who was cooperating fully with Soviet espionage. Meanwhile, Ballerina organized the assassination of Admiral Darlan, one of the most important French leaders who had flirted with the Nazis.

After the war concluded, another conflict emerged, one that Melkov (or possibly Grezinsky) was determined to prevent at all costs. An astonishing extraterrestrial being had emerged, a flying woman known as Superwoman, who dedicated herself to saving civilians regardless of their nationality or the dangers they faced. Melkov kept a close watch on her activities. The superheroine posed no threat; in fact, she occasionally, albeit unintentionally, worked against American interests. However, Melkov's desire was for peace. He had witnessed an alien invasion in 1946, an event that seemed to leave humanity unfazed. Superwoman had been the key to thwarting the invaders and saving Earth. He know his family, who believed him to be deceased-since Grezinsky died in Siberia in 1921-resided in the USA. It was a critical moment for humanity to come together and collaborate. Superwoman appeared to share this sentiment. Yet, this perspective did not seem to align with the views of either his government or the U.S. government.

Melkov had watched Luthor take control of extremely dangerous alien technology. Melkov had initially given orders to eliminate Superwoman, and then gave counter-orders to Luthor not to do anything crazy. His fingers had trembled, and he had imagined a world war. Then Luthor lost control or lost his head. That monster loose in Metropolis… Again, Superwoman saving the day. Again, retribution and fear. And a name. A name that Luthor had leaked, Louis Lane. An American journalist whom Luthor had pointed out as Superwoman's weakness. And now Ballerina was in New York, working close to Louis Lane, searching for Superwoman's true identity, while Soviet scientists worked on a way to eliminate the Kryptonian that wouldn't be as chaotic and violent as Luthor's delusional attempt. No one around Melkov believed it, but if Superwoman was obstinate in living as a normal woman, with a secret identity, as Luthor had implied without giving any further details...maybe that woman was truly human and caring and would never be a danger. Maybe Melkov sympathized with her because she had a double identity, like him and so many others around the world. Regarding his job, very deep inside, Melkov remained skeptical. Luthor had spied out of ideological fanaticism (albeit a confused and not strictly Marxist ideology), out of fear and megalomania. Ballerina spied first out of hatred and pain, and then because that was her purpose in life. And Melkov, why did he spy? He considered himself a patriot and a socialist but only against the Nazis did he feel real passion.

And Melkov trembled, trembled with frustration because the world was moving away from peace and accord. Trembled because he was supervising Ballerina. Trembled because Stalin was now persecuting the Jews, and yet Grezinsky, though dead, was a Jew-even Melkov was no longer at all sure what it meant to be a Jew and watched the creation of the State of Israel with great distrust. And he trembled because, despite everything, he sympathized with Superwoman and wished her success. Melkov considered Grezinsky a real madman and a person whose life was a mess. But he had been instrumental in bringing down the Nazis, and he would find a way to be instrumental in preventing a war and avoiding follies like the one Luthor had perpetrated with that monster the Western press called "Doomsday".

December 7, 1949,

Metropolis

Clara tossed and turned in bed in her pajamas as she heard the doorbell ring repeatedly. She felt exhausted and in terrible pain in her back and arms since the collapse of Kurokame Island. Nearly nobody was aware of what had happened in the Pacific, and she was grateful for it. Informing millions of people that they had been close to death from an averted natural disaster would only serve to distress and increase anguish. The only time she'd gotten out of bed in the last two days was to go help others as Superwoman, but she felt clumsy and slow. With her x-ray vision, she could see that it was Roberta Lee, her apprentice, impatiently ringing the doorbell.

She put on her robe and glasses and went to open the door. Krypto, her dog, threw himself lovingly over the teenager. Roberta tried to disentangle herself from the dog in embarrassment and Clara brought her a wet towel to wipe the licks off.

"Sorry Roberta honey, he's a very good and loving dog. I'll clean you up now."

"How are you, Miss Kent? I'm so sorry about your accident! I brought you some candy, the tea my mother drinks, some painkillers my father prescribed for you..."

"You needn't have bothered, honey, please," Clara looked hiding a little bit her deep appreciation at the teenage girl, a little sister of sorts.

"Such a bad luck to fall down the stairs, Miss Kent."

"I can't rush everywhere, honey, I fell down the same stairs you went up," Clara lied lightly.

"You need to see a doctor, Miss Kent!"

"Roberta, I grew up on a farm and was in the war, and I'm also a trained nurse! I've fallen down many times and I know when to go to the doctor. I just need to rest." Clara tried to sound funny and friendly.

The young girl sat on the only couch in the small apartment as Krypto jumped on her while she pulled out some notebooks, Clara brought a box with about ten small black notebooks with Louis' notes on the Toyman's related people. Then she pulled out her Olivetti typewriter, which she had paid for in 20 installments.

"Roberta, can you type for me?"

"Of course, Miss Kent!" The young woman was not yet proficient with the typewriter, nor did she have super speed, but she was learning well.

"Well Roberta, Mrs. Zelag didn't give me much information and reacted rather unfriendly...but she burst into tears. She is still traumatized by what the Toyman did and claims to have no idea who can help him. She seemed sincere to me. Louis doesn't make a big deal of this woman in his notes..." Clara quickly turned the pages in Louis' notebooks, reciting names, dates, and notes that led nowhere, and asked the teenager for her opinion, which she speculated about a bit.

"I find this Mr. Balsham interesting, Miss Kent...chief accountant and resigned right before the board betrayed the Toyman. He negotiated with the banks for liquidation. Mr. Lane's notes say this Mr. Balsham was friendly with Schott before he lost his mind..."

"I already checked him, honey, he died of a heart attack in 1944."

They both sighed as they sifted through the flood of information. Clara also pulled out some notes she had taken from the court records and recited the list of explosives smugglers who had helped Winslow Schott. The ones who were not dead or in jail were being pursued by the police. Perhaps there was a middleman who had never appeared on the first investigations who was now helping the Toyman or being blackmailed by him.

"What about his wife and son, Miss Kent?"

"The police have ruled them out. They changed their first and last names and live on the West Coast under police protection. The son must be thirty by now. The mother was threatened by the Toyman."

"Wouldn't it make sense that the Toyman would be looking for them?"

"Louis' notes say that after his mental breakdown that led to his murder spree, he showed little interest in them, except for a death threat to the mother..."

"That may have changed during those years in prison..."

Clara hesitated, maybe it was true... How to find them? The police treated Superwoman coldly and they certainly wouldn't give the Toyman's family information to a reporter. Roberta smiled and typed slowly on her Olivetti. Clara sat down beside her.

"Forgive me for greeting you in my pajamas, I'm really very ill."

"I insist you see a doctor, Miss Kent."

"It's nothing, it's just a muscle ache!"

"Then don't say you're very ill. If you're not better in two days, you should go to the doctor."

Clara looked at the young woman lovingly and wistfully, too many things about Roberta reminded her of herself when she was a teenager.

"How are you doing in school, Roberta?"

"Oh, very well, I'm doing great with the exams!"

"I know about that, honey... How are you getting along with your classmates, with your friends?"

"Oh, very well...I'm making lots of new friends...the truth is that ever since the Klan attacked us and Superwoman rescued me, they've been treating me very well. They all say I've been very brave. The truth is, I'm doing much better in school, but between study time and the Daily Planet, I don't have much time for friends. My brother has more fun."

"Roberta! You should spend more time with your friends and have fun. You will never be 16 or 17 again in your life! I wish I had done more things... It's fine for you to come to the Daily Planet or to learn about the job with me, but that can't take you away from your study time. Then you'll spend all your free time studying and you'll miss out on a lot!"

Roberta snorted sympathetically and winked at Clara.

"This is much more interesting, believe me... Did you devoted a lot of time to studying when you were young, Miss Kent?"

"More or less, my dear...and I lived a bit far from town. I had few friends, but I think I made good use of the time. If it's easier for you to make friends now and people are nicer, you should take advantage of it!"

"You're right, well, this Saturday we're going to the movies and skating...but I wanted to come here with you to follow up on Mr. Lane's notes."

"None of that, I don't want to see you on Saturday. Go with your friends!"

The girl grinned and went back to typing.

"Wouldn't it be logical, Miss Kent, and following your intuition, that the Toyman would be with Dr. Quinzel?"

"That's what I think. But we need to get this done before we get to the investigation of Dr. Quinzel, which looks like it's going to be a pretty complicated thing..."

The life and victims of Winslow Schott, the Toyman, paraded before her eyes in notebooks. Born into a wealthy family of German and Scottish descent. A suicidal mother, an unhappy marriage, a family business that he almost turned into an empire thanks to small automatons, overpriced toys, debts, alcoholism and obesity, a tendency to depression and rage, abuse of his employees, paranoia... then the bankruptcy of the company, the betrayal of the board of directors, his expulsion, the heart attack, probably followed by a nervous breakdown... and finally 1933, the bombs and the letters. 16 dead in a restaurant in Queens, including three children. An explosion in a toy store in Westchester, 6 dead including two children. An explosion in the Grenville Bank, which now owned the Toyman's company, 3 dead including the bank's president. Four board members torn to pieces by Schott's bombs, two lawyers, a one-armed woman after picking up a teddy bear with explosives inside...the list exhausted Clara… Please don't let it happen again! I don't know how to prevent it!

"Why does pain degrade some people and not others, Miss Kent? Sometimes I wish I was a psychiatrist to study that."

Clara ignored the question, not quite knowing why, and saw two pages that Louis had scribbled on, which she couldn't make out, distinguishing the words "genius," "handicapped," "policeman," "nervous depression," "hired in 1931." She held the notebook out to Roberta.

"My dear, you don't understand this handwriting, do you? Louis must have gone into a state of grace sometimes and written really indecipherable scribbles!"

"Oh, I'm very good at reading ugly or confusing letters...let me see.... It says the following: Robert Sebastian. Mechanical and toy design genius since childhood. Mental problems and physical problems. Handiccaped, bad leg and back mobility. Mentality of a child. Harmless. Kind-hearted. Orphan. Winslow Schott paid to get him out of an insane asylum and into toy making. Hired in 1931. Remarkably novel automatons, but too expensive for the toy business. Schott copied his designs for his infamous bomb-toys. He had a nervous breakdown after Schott's first bomb and was committed to a mental hospital, from which he was released a year and a half later after Schott was captured. The police and Silvya Zelag ask that he should not be contacted, lest he be hurt or reminded of Schott's crimes. He lives in seclusion, designing homemade prototypes for other toy companies and refusing visitors. No contact. Irrelevant to the story and better not to hurt people like him with painful memories. Wow, Miss Kent, such an intriguing story and character! This really captures my attention, wouldn't you agree? Considering the Toyman was a malicious individual, exploiting Mr. Sebastian's creations for his criminal activities, and wielded such a significant impact, causing him considerable harm... It's conceivable...Mr. Sebastian might also be suffering under some kind of manipulation, don't you think? What if the Toyman has located him and is exploiting his helplessness and good will?

Clara looked at the notes doubtfully.

"What a forward and eloquent young woman you are! I'll refresh Louis on this story. I'll see if he remembers anything...and I'll talk to Syvia Zelag again. You're right, this poor Mr. Sebastian does seem interesting."

December 10, 1949

 Metropolis

Clara looked anxiously across the street to the restaurant where Louis was waiting for her. She had asked him to have a little chat about the mysterious Mr. Sebastian, and without knowing the reason why, she had also asked to have lunch together. Louis had coolly accepted and suggested a restaurant where they had often gone when they were together, the Rules, an imitation of the restaurant of the same name in London.

Now Clara, dressed in a brown suit jacket and a thick fur coat, freshly changed after a mission as Superwoman, watched grimly with her x-ray vision as Louis was already seated at a table near the door. Plucking up courage, she walked over and entered Rules. Louis greeted her politely but with palpable coldness, took off her coat and handed it to the waiter.

"How are you, Clara?"

"Fine, thank you."

They sat down, Louis didn't look at the menu and ordered a fish, Clara ordered the same out of laziness.

"Are you still coming this place?" Clara asked absent-mindedly.

"Uh... yes, quite often, I'm used to their cooking." Louis tried to smile.

Clara smiled back. A waiter, recognizing them, came over to greet the couple.

"It's been a long time since you've been here, it's so good to see you again Mr. Lane...and Miss?"

"Kent," Clara replied dryly.

Louis gave her an uncomfortable look, "It's easy to lose track of time and space."

"Certainly."

Why had she asked him to lunch? Why had he accepted and proposed that restaurant? Her heart was racing, but she didn't want to leave. She wished the conversation with Louis would veer away from the Toyman affair.

"Well…Are my notes useful at all, Clara?" Louis got straight to the point without any small talk.

"They are very helpful indeed, Louis..."

"I'm glad about it. I understand there is a matter you want to ask me about."

"Yes. Do you remember Mr. Sebastian? A person who worked with Schott as a toy designer, who had some kind of disability..."

Louis gave a sad look. "Yes, I remember him...but not quite much."

"You didn't check him out during your investigations..."

"No, what for... If I remember correctly, he was a decent, frail person who Schott made suffer a lot. Schott's terrorist attacks put him in the psychiatric ward for a while. He was still working in the toy business...kind of a genius. There was no need to torture him with the past. I preferred to leave him alone."

"I talked to Sylvia Zelag; she reacted quite badly and refused to answer any questions."

"As far as I remember she doesn't really like to talk about it, well, no one who met Schott does. But it was precisely Zelag the one who insisted to me that I should leave Mr. Sebastian alone... Do you think it's interesting to find him?"

"Maybe...Schott got him out of the mental hospital, got him designing toys that were supposed to be his dream, then Schott fell from grace and became a murderer, and he had a nervous breakdown. In your notes you said that Schott had a lot of influence over Mr. Sebastian and mistreated him. Maybe, well, Schott knows where he lives and is blackmailing him emotionally."

"It's a long shot, but it could be..."

"It's Roberta's idea."

"It's far-fetched, but clever..."

"Do you know who can help me find him? I promise to be nice...maybe if I introduce myself, well, as Superwoman, he'll trust me. My other theory, the most likely, is Dr. Quinzel, but I don't know where to start," Clara lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper, but Louis seemed to understand.

"I don't remember where Mr. Sebastian was working in 1940. Sylvia Zelag knew for sure. She won't tell you. Maybe you should visit Zelag... in your other 'characterization'. Probably she would be more talkative to you if you wear your cape." Louis was nearly whispering.

The word "characterization" and Louis' sarcasm in saying it hurt Clara.

"As for Dr. Quinzel...I don't know what to say. When you told me she was missing, I felt like calling my university. After all, she did study medicine at Arkham." Louis continued.

"Yes, I know."

"I don't know if the police have any knowledge of this story. It's probably nothing, and it's just an example of Dr. Quinzel interest on crime, or some personal paranoia of mine. But look, in 1937, the body of an eleven-year-old Arkham boy who had gone missing turned up in the woods, surrounded by small rocks that formed seven pyramidal piles. He had been killed with a wooden mallet, a gruesome business...the body was found by Dr. Quinzel, who was a student at the time, and she took a keen interest in the investigation. Of course, she was not considered a suspect. They blamed a crazy drifter named Whitelee or something like that who committed suicide in jail. Dr. Quinzel asked to talk to him when he was arrested "as a medical student specializing in psychiatry" and was refused. She got quite angry and made a fuss."

Clara grimaced in horror and then sighed.

"Do you think maybe she...?"

"I don't know, it's strange to say the least."

"Do you think she's crazy?"

"Maybe."

"I've confirmed with the police that she's not a communist and has nothing to do with communists. I don't think she disappeared to avoid political persecution."

"Better...well, worse, this brings her closer to the Toyman."

"It's possible."

Clara ran her hand over her forehead and started to eat. Louis did the same. They ate in silence for a long time. Neither dared to speak. Clara felt a sudden anger and asked vehemently, "How is everything going, your daughter, your family?"

"Everything is fine, thank you."

"And the annulment?"

Louis looked at her in surprise.

"It's running its course by mutual agreement, thank you. Perhaps after Christmas would be a good time for you to visit Emily, if you want to, of course." Louis answered indifferently.

"Why wouldn't I want to?" Clara raised her voice without realizing it.

"Lower your voice," Louis ordered her coolly in a whisper.

"Why do you despise me so?" Clara countered in disgust.

"I don't despise you, Clara. Stop it. I don't want any scenes. Our situation is settled."

Clara wanted to shout at him, but she didn't want to leave.

"The only thing I would thank you for, Louis, is to be more sincere with me."

"You mentioned discussing the Toyman, and I was on board. A simple meal, a touch of the everyday—I didn't show up to start a conflict. And I'm sorry, I don't mean to offend you, but sincerity as a virtue in you is conspicuous by its absence. You're the last person in the world who can lecture about sincerity."

"Had you truly desired a sense of normality, you wouldn't have approached me with such detachment and disdain. It's clear I'm merely an inconvenience to you."

"Keep your voice down, please. Yes, you're currently a nuisance, Clara. I'm at a loss about who you really are or your intentions. My experiences with you leave me puzzled. I wish I had the luxury of time to ponder over this. Can't we at least extend the basic courtesy we owe to anyone who has played a significant role in our lives... despite the myriad lies?"

"You're treating me incredibly harshly, continuing to hold this against me. You haven't forgiven me."

"Enough, Clara. We've already gone over this. It's not productive to rehash the same arguments in every discussion." Their exchange was fierce yet hushed.

"Why do you first say you need time to think about us and then claim we've already discussed everything... Don't my feelings matter to you?"

Louis looked at her with suppressed anger. She knew that glance fairly well.

"You have informed me properly about your feelings."

"I don't think you're a suitable partner for me either." Clara answered sharply with a defiant look.

"I agree. We row in the same direction, Clara."

Clara was taken aback by the harshness of her own words, questioning the genuineness of what she had just expressed. Yet, her resentment towards Louis remained undiminished. She perceived Louis' response as spiteful. Gathering her composure, she steadied herself.

"My sincerest apologies, Louis. The matter is still quite recent, and as you're well aware, my plate is overflowing with duties. I'm truly grateful for the moments you've spared and your assistance with the Toyman affair. For my part, I am sorry."

Louis' features softened, a hint of understanding in his eyes, "Think nothing of it. I too offer my apologies should my words have crossed the line. It's beneficial for us to converse...in doing so, we pave the way to mend fences and restore some semblance of normalcy."

Clara's thoughts screamed rebellion. Oh, how she loathed him in that moment.

Rising from her seat, she announced, "I must take my leave, forgive me. As you might guess, my presence is required elsewhere."

"Take it easy and do keep me in the loop with any relevant findings from your investigation," Louis responded with a casual wave, signaling the waiter to fetch Clara's coat.

 I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. No, I'm stupid. I don't hate you. You're stupid too. It's so unfair.

Clara rushed out without another word.

Louis let out a sigh and ordered dessert, his gaze lingering on the empty seat Clara had vacated. Indeed, Clara was quintessentially Clara. He had witnessed her in her most authentic form, as vivid and genuine as he remembered. Yet, in the same breath, she seemed like a stranger. She had become something else, something far more complex and vaster than he could ever hope to grasp. He ached for her presence. Love, he realized, could not conquer all. He also wished for her absence, feeling wounded and skeptical of her truthfulness. Nonetheless, he yearned for her. Memories of the letters Clara had penned over the years, never sent but shared upon their separation, haunted him, sowing seeds of doubt. Perhaps he was mistaken, yet Louis found himself incapable of altering his stance. For reasons unknown, he hadn't returned those letters nor destroyed them. He once laid them all out, reading them in one sitting, before hiding them in a secret compartment of a wooden drawer. Those letters held secrets potent enough to dismantle both their lives. Despite this, he couldn't bring himself to discard them, even though he vowed never to read them again.

(...) September [crossed out] October 1947

My dearest Louis, It's nearing two years since...I've penned countless letters you've yet to discover...since I embraced what I believe to be my duty. I'm writing now, unsure if these words will ever find you, compelled by a need to sort through my thoughts. It's a quest for self-understanding, hoping that, in time, you might grasp the essence of me. There are moments when I scarcely recognize the woman in photographs, or the heroic murals painted in the streets. At times, a profound melancholy engulfs me, alongside a yearning to simply be Clara Kent. Yet, I am acutely aware of the sacrifices my duty entails, uncertain of when I may fulfill it. To ignore the talents bestowed upon me by God, or to withhold the aid I can offer to others, would be unjust. By the love I bear for you and my parents, I do not consider myself superior to anyone. However, I am convinced that my abilities can be of service. Just that. There was a period when I viewed these powers as a curse, but it would be dishonest to claim I don't revel in the role of Superwoman, despite my aversion to the moniker they've assigned to me.

I cherish the opportunity to aid others, the thrill of flight, and even the power of super-strength. Yet, there are moments when I find it burdensome. Sometimes, I feel like a child harboring a delightful secret that must remain hidden, and I find myself blushing whenever the topic of Superwoman arises in conversations. There are times when pain seeps in as I listen to you on the radio or read your words in the newspaper, picturing me as a non-human entity, unpredictable and unworthy of trust. Your perspective is not lost on me; I might share the same view if our roles were reversed. Indeed, there was a time when I viewed myself through a similar lens. However, it's unfair for you to see me that way. Every day, you're sitting right in front of me. I'm honest with you about everything, presenting myself exactly as I am, with two exceptions: my role as Superwoman and my deep love for you. I fear the misconception that I might be someone I'm not. Finding the right moment to reveal the truth seems impossible, and sometimes, I wonder if it's better left unsaid. It's a challenging balance. I manage merely an hour of sleep daily, Louis, and spend much of my time soaring back and forth across the sky. It's a kind of madness, perhaps a beautiful one. I don't want to give it up, yet part of me wishes for a life without such burdens. This contradiction is mine to bear, hoping someday you'll grasp it. And maybe, one day, you'll open up to me too. We women sense these things, perhaps I even more so. I notice your glances, the way your smile lingers after our disagreements. Your inventive excuses just to spend an afternoon together or share a meal. I see through you. In many ways. I understand the complexities of your marriage, your values, and your daughter. Your marriage exists in name only, a fact we're both aware of, just as your wife lives her life independently.

Occasionally, it seems there isn't much of a way out of your dilemma, just as there isn't much of a way out of mine, despite the vast differences between them. And I appreciate that you are honest in your own way. Other men wouldn't have a problem with a double life, they would take me as a lover without hesitating. While I could come to terms with that, I find joy and an even greater love for you in your decision not to pursue such a path, adhering instead to a set of morals that I might not fully subscribe to, especially when so many others vocally committed to these ideals fall short in their daily lives. I'm clinging to the hope for a miracle, a miracle of understanding between us. Perhaps such a miracle is elusive, and we're destined to remain forever intertwined as dear friends and confidants, which seems a bitter twist of fate. Maybe my thoughts are naïve. The world teeters on the edge of destruction, with looming threats of war, dangers from Luthor and others, and the recent brush with obliteration at the hands of Zod just eighteen months prior. When I reflect on the global turmoil and my own responsibilities, our adventures, yours and mine, chaste adventures confined to the spaces between office desks and a restaurant's corner, feel all too fleeting, and it strikes me as profoundly unjust. How can I expect you to understand me when I'm still grappling with my own identity? Yet, you grasp the concept of duty to others, of our purpose here to "love thy neighbor as thyself." Perhaps that shared comprehension is the foundation upon which you might come to understand the purpose behind my choice to don the red cape.

***

"So, Cherie, my little heavenly eyes... You were born on a farm, don't you?" Alina Baristova-Baker opened her big, feline green eyes with a sympathetic expression as she sipped champagne in front of Clara, who was struggling to swallow a heavily laden cocktail Alina had ordered for her.

"Yes, I was born on a farm in the middle of a blizzard! A winter girl I am!"

"That's a nice place to be born, Cherie, I was born next to a piano," Alina smiled maternally at Clara.

The two had finished dinner at the Meridian Hotel, in front of a glass window that showed all the skyscrapers of Metropolis under the night stars. Clara was wearing a burgundy evening jacket and a pearl necklace, but Alina was in a stunning cocktail black dress. Clara shuddered at the thought of how much that dress would cost. Dinner was already expensive. Dinner for two at the Meridian was a week's salary for Clara, but Alina had insisted that she would pay the bill.

"And look at you now, how tall and pretty you are here in the Meridian. One of the few female senior reporters in town. A long way from Kansas, my Cherie, don't you think?" Alina drained the champagne elegantly and pointed to Clara's nearly full glass, "Drink that, my Cherie, it won't bite you."

Clara blushed and took another sip. Alina was charming with her, but she felt intimidated and threatened by the French-Russian flamboyant journalist, she couldn't really explain why.

"And your parents?" Clara asked shyly.

"My father was one of the most famous jewelers in Odessa and my mother was a piano teacher. Not in the ghetto, they had made a modest fortune outside. They were killed by communist bandits near Romania's border. I was not present, I was already on the other side of the border with my uncles," Alina said with a nearly indifferent tone, petrifying Clara, who felt sorry for her question. Unavoidably, she thought of Bruce Wayne.

"I'm so sorry," Clara mumbled.

"My Cherie don't worry, heavenly eyes. I've told this story so many times...I think Captain Baker married me because he was touched by my orphan story. Oh, there are men like that."

Clara tried not to make a face at Alina's harsh comment.

"Well, my dear... We've talked about a lot of things: Perry, Cat, that disgusting Toyman, the World magazine, your dog, my clothes, that you should let your hair down... but we haven't talked about two very interesting points for a new neighbor in Metropolis like me," Alina put on a mischievous tone.

"Pardon?" Clara countered with a certain aplomb.

"Superwoman and Louis Lane!"

Clara felt a sudden exhaustion.

"To be honest, they're two subjects I haven't had much to do with, lately," Clara tried to sound funny.

"I've got Louis in the office like a soul in pain, my Cherie."

Clara blushed, what right did that gossipy cockatoo have to pry into her private life?

"Louis and I have a relationship based on friendship and respect."

Alina winked at her. "Heavenly eyes, I understand you. He is a very handsome and very cultured gentleman. He is also a quite rigid and very stupid man. He got me into trouble in Spain."

Clara tried to strike a tone of indifference, "You and he...?"

"Oh no, when I met him, he was already in love with his little wife. You know her…the mother of his beautiful little girl. He had gone to Spain as a correspondent because she had left him again."

Clara looked fiercely at Alina, but Alina put on a friendly expression and took her hand.

"You are a beautiful young woman with a fantastic career ahead of you, don't hold on to the past. Mr. Lane will be fine."

Clara held Alina's gaze angrily.

"I don't have any problem."

"And Superwoman, what do you think about her? My friends in Paris and London only write to ask me if I've already seen her flying over my head, if I've been introduced to her, if she's as impressive as everyone say…".

Clara put on a silly expression, "It is certainly impressive, yes, but you get used to everything. It's a subject I've never dealt with myself."

"What do you think of her?"

"That she does what she can and should, or so it seems."

"Do you trust her?"

"I prefer to rely on other things and other people."

"Louis hated the red-caped lady and wrote a lot against her. But since that horrible monster appeared, Le Doomsday, he hasn't said a word."

"People change their minds...I'm little worried about everything surrounding Superwoman. I'd rather see her as part of the landscape. There are people who make greater efforts and sacrifices."

"Landscape! Well, the last thing you said, my Cherie, is true. I think she is presumptuous. False humility, don't you think? There are no saints."

Clara hid her displeasure by nodding with a silly grin.

"We should go to the Plaza Hotel or the Waldorf-Astoria and dance a Cugat's mambo with some interesting gentleman." Alina changed the subject indifferently.

"I dance quite horribly and I'm tired, Alina. Maybe one drink more and I'll go home."

A nearby distress call, which she didn't know whether it came from a robbery or an accident, startled Clara.

"Alina, I'm going to the bathroom to powder my nose."

"Go ahead, heavenly eyes."

Clara rose like a spring and fled discreetly to the nearest window. Alina watched her go. Then she pulled out a folded magazine clipping with Superwoman's face and a pen, drew a pair of glasses over the superheroine's face and smiled to herself. "Crazy fox Luthor, I'm sure you knew but didn't want to tell us, what a tremendous truism...It's amazing that the whole paper doesn't know." Then she sighed heavily because she would have to spend at least two hours during the night transcribing a letter she had to write into code.

Alina stood up with the glass of champagne and looked out the window. She could just make out Superwoman flying relatively close, dimly lit by the night lights of the skyscrapers. "You're extraordinary but anodyne, I wonder what you would be like if you had grown up on the Volga instead of in Kansas."

Sentinell Hill

Sebastian watched, frozen in fear, as the woman garbed in the extravagant red-black attire of a Venetian harlequin danced around the living room. Her face was painted entirely white, save for her eyes, which bore a stark red hue, and her lips, which were coated in black. She moved with a blend of grace and eeriness, singing while clutching a wooden mallet. Winslow observed her with a mixture of earnest fascination and sheer bewilderment, Sebastian gaze locked on her in a blend of terror and astonishment. It was four or five in the morning. Sebastian couldn't recall how he had ended in his living room; he only remembered being abruptly woken up and coerced into following them by the woman and Winslow. She had initially appeared with a series of light hops, but now she was performing a dance with the mallet, donned in that ghastly costume and makeup. She was presumably the notorious Dr. Quinzel Winslow had mentioned. The feeling of utter powerlessness brought Sebastian to the brink of tears.

As she neared him, her dance slowed, adopting a softer, more deliberate pace.

"Why are you crying, little Sebastian?" she inquired. Her voice laced with a teasing scorn as she continued her dance.

Sebastian longed to confront her, to meet her gaze defiantly, but instead, he shielded his face. The woman gently caressed his head with the mallet.

"Did my tribute dance to Arwassa not please you?" she mocked.

"I don't know who Arwassa is," Sebastian admitted.

"Naturally, you wouldn't know Arwassa, nor Basatan, nor the great Ctthaat, nor Dzewa, nor Gloon... You've been quite uncooperative with Winslow, not offering the support he needs. Why should we entrust our secrets to you?" she taunted.

Sebastian remained silent, the woman persisted in her gentle prodding with the mallet. Stealing a glance at Winslow, he noticed his quiet demeanor, his gaze diverted elsewhere.

"This mallet... Did you know I used it to end the life of a foolish little boy at Mormor's request? I was filled with nervousness and sorrow, haunted with nightmares. To escape the torment, I buried myself in my studies, trying to resist the urge to open my head with a pair of scissors. Then, I met some friends, they led me to Mormor and the little boy. I felt fully relieved. They encouraged me to seek out other friends, individuals like Winslow. And Arthur, the most remarkable man I've ever met, whom I had the privilege of caring for until he was tragically taken from us by human stupid laws. I introduced him to the beings Xcthol, Arwassa, and Mormor. He, too, had an 'open mind' much like mine. Winslow is on the brink of achieving this state, needing only to make one final, chaotic gesture to break free from the misguided masses that cling to false idols. Once he does, his mind will truly be open. If you assist him, you too can achieve this liberation, feeling empowered and unfettered...fail to do so, and I might have to resort to using this mallet on you, just as I did with that little boy. Do you comprehend?"

Sebastian was utterly baffled and gripped by an intense fear, his body shaking.

"Don't show such cowardice, Sebastian. You're grown now, even had a girlfriend once. What are you, thirty-five? You're an adult. Yet, you lack genuine companions, with only Winslow as your sole friend. And you've wronged him, neglecting to offer your help or allowing him to 'open his mind.'"

"I don't understand what 'opening my mind' means."

"I've explained it already—it means to awaken to a state of freedom and strength, to recognize true friends and to be prepared to mock the masses and its vile deceptions before departing for superior realms."

"Uh...uh...you owe him some clarity," Winslow interjected timidly.

"Be quiet, you insufferable oaf. He'll grasp it when I deem him ready... as of now, he doesn't seem worthy," Dr. Quinzel snapped back harshly, her features contorted into a grotesque and malevolent expression beneath her makeup before breaking into a smile. "Sebastian, did you know there are realms beyond Earth far superior to what we know? I'm not referring to heaven or hell, nor to distant planets. I speak of dimensions that exist both here amidst us and in realms far beyond our reach. In these places dwell entities far more liberated and intelligent than humans, devoid of societal constraints, free from the necessity of clothing, movement, or physical travel, wandering instead through the vast expanses of their minds, even choosing their physical forms at will…doing whatever they want. To put it simply for you, these beings are ancient visitors to our world, flitting in and out of perception, unseen by most. They do not need any rocket or spaceship to travel. Their concern for us is minimal; their goal is to expand their circle of enlightened friends. They dominated this planet before humanity's dawn and before other, rule-bound extraterrestrial races arrived. They've dismissed and ridiculed the most advanced travelers across the cosmos. For instance, are you familiar with the planet of Superwoman? According to Arwassa, they considered themselves highly intelligent yet were so hindered by their regulations and reliance on technology that none could achieve enlightenment over millennia. Despite Superwoman's strength and ability to fly, to them, she's a figure of mockery. And to me, she's equally ludicrous. Winslow, you, and I will throw a grand celebration in Metropolis to achieve enlightenment and to mock Superwoman. By doing so, I believe we'll inspire many others to 'open their minds.' Just recently, Selena, a close ally of mine, achieved this awakening and transitioned to another dimension, not without orchestrating a grand spectacle in Gotham."

"We're nearly ready. We've secured twenty balloons modeled after Superwoman, each as tall as a door, incorporating a little mechanism I've crafted with an aluminum pouch. All that's left is for you to supply the nitroglycerin to place inside these pouches within the balloons. Plus, we have 11 exciting toys awaiting the dynamite you'll bring, and the Hedgehog is primed," Winslow mentioned, his voice tinged with hesitation.

"Fantastic, this Christmas is shaping up to be unforgettable. Those who are meant to, will grasp its significance," Dr. Quinzel chuckled with a sinister glee.

"NO!" Sebastian, finding his resolve, stood up defiantly. "THIS WON'T HAPPEN, I WON'T LET IT!"

Dr. Quinzel offered him a smile, then, lifting her mallet, delivered a swift, forceful strike to his head, sending him crashing to the floor.

"Indeed, you will let it happen…Winslow! Fetch me that little soldier," Dr. Quinzel commanded tersely.

Sebastian wept. Winslow presented a big stuffed toy, a nutcracker soldier with a spring mechanism that allowed it to walk and utter "Hello Sebastian" in a mechanical tone. It was a cherished invention of Sebastian's.

"See, Sebastian, this is what I did with the little boy I told you about," Dr. Quinzel said as she hoisted the mallet. With a single strike, she crushed the toy soldier's head, leaving Sebastian in cries.

12 December 1949, 11.45 AM

American Museum of Natural History

Metropolis

Security guard Charlie Davis had been watching the strange man for a long time. He was an ordinary man, dressed in a gray suit. He had met him face to face and had trembled with fear at his sight. Charlie was not sure of the reason the man was so scary. Maybe because he did not seem to blink, or because his skin looked like wax, or because his suit seemed to be made of plastic rather than cloth. In short, strange people. But the man had stared at the Tyrannosaurus-Rex for too long. He kept circling it. Charlie asked his companions if they knew him. Yes, the man had spent the previous three days, long hours, in the museum library. He said his name was Jonah Jones, his papers were in order, though he barely spoke, and he was just wandering around the library checking out books.

Charlie was about to decide to leave him alone when he saw some kind of metal rod coming out of the man's sleeve. It was like a flash, a thin rod. The man seemed to hurl it quickly at one of the Tyrannosaurus' claws, tear off a piece of bone, and then pick up the thin metal rod again in his sleeve. It had all happened in less than two seconds. Charlie was stunned. But what the hell, what kind of thief was this? In those seconds that Charlie was petrified, the thief had already fled to the toilets. Charlie quickly followed him, readied his baton, and entered the bathroom. No one was there. The man had locked himself in the stall at the end, which had a small window overlooking the street. Crazy bastards, what a misfortune.

Charlie banged on the door, "Get out of there...get out immediately...I saw what you did...hand over the piece of bone immediately. We have called the police." He heard a strange buzzing sound. He banged on the door again, it gave way.

For a second, he was petrified by what he saw. On the floor, like rubber or melted plastic, lay a gray office suit, skin that looked human, and an empty, deformed face that seemed to be melting into some kind of gray liquid. Standing there was some kind of metallic humanoid, black in color, almost skeletal, with an eerie skull filled with a pink light. In the palm of the robot's hand rested a piece of Tyranosaurus Rex claw, and from the robot's six eyes came a light that seemed to create a kind of hologram of a living Tyranosaurus Rex in front of it. Charlie couldn't think about the delusional and fantastic image he was seeing for another second. The robot turned to him and from its metallic and bony hand it threw a thin metal rod that pierced Charlie's skull through his forehead.

*** 

"Kent! Four-eyed Bolshevik!" Clara heard Bob Mailer yell as he approached her office. She understood the reason perfectly and smiled to herself. She stopped typing at superspeed and waited for Mailer to enter angrily, opening the door violently.

"Good morning, dear Bob, how can I help you?" Clara responded, almost mockingly, as she adjusted her glasses. Mailer, fuming, waved two typewritten pages in her face.

"Why did you write this?" he growled.

"Because it's the truth," Clara replied flatly.

"No, you cross-eyed lunatic! It's not the damn truth—it's not! We sent you to investigate the dockworkers' strike, to figure out who's involved and who's pulling the strings, and you bring me the strikers' wish list to Santa."

Clara didn't flinch. "I believe when we cover a strike, the first thing we do is talk to the strikers, get to the heart of what's happening. Relax, Bob. This isn't the 1920s or '30s anymore. The communists and the mafia aren't running the unions. It's young people and parents demanding their rights."

"Bullshit. This is fifteen-year-old propaganda. You've done jack squat. You asked five strikers their opinion and then waltzed on to something else. This piece isn't just red, it's a lazy woman's work. You're riding high on the fact that Baron Von Trotta, the bishop-loving soft touch, isn't your boss anymore. He's off snoozing at World magazine, and you think that gives you a free pass to churn out whatever you please. If I were Louis Lane, this story wouldn't have even crossed my desk. When we send you to cover a strike, it's to cover the damn strike, not hand me some rehashed IWW pamphlet. Webbs is dead, for crying out loud!"

"His demands are moderate, have you talked to Perry?"

"Stop hiding under Perry's skirts, four eyes..."

A horrible screaming from relatively close by, from the Museum of Natural History, startled Clara and caught Mailer's attention. He could hear it too. In addition to the screams, she heard rumbling and a very strange roar. Mailer turned to her in horror.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Bob, I need to make a phone call right now..."

Bob was still dumbfounded, leaning out the window trying to make out the screams as Clara ran down the service stairs at super speed. She took off her glasses, shirt, jacket, shoes, skirt, and stockings as she unfolded her cape. Superwoman to the rescue!

Superwoman arrived at the source of the screaming and clattering in a couple of seconds. The red-capped lady was stunned by what she saw. Outside the Museum of Natural History, a live Tyranosaurus Rex, twelve to fifteen feet tall, with flashing eyes, brown to greenish skin and sharp teeth, was roaring with rage as it charged at cars and people fleeing in panic.

But how is this possible? What the hell is this? For the love of God!

Without letting her confusion and disbelief get the better of her, Superwoman threw herself at the dinosaur with both fists outstretched in front of her.